#she knows this is fucked up but Babs has such a gentle touch and kind words.

[necrotic-nephilim]

Do you have any fucked up babscass headcanons? This is vaguely for the ask game but I’m curious. I’ve also had a vision of dick being drawn into their dubiously consensual mommy kink thing, probably unwillingly. I just love the idea of babs being her teacher for everything normal, like yes on some level it is grooming but cass knows everyone’s intentions automatically, could babs really make her do anything she didn’t want to do?

for the ask game!

GOD YES. i love BabsCass. just. so dearly. they're so fucked up. and adding Dick to the mix is *also* so so fun. the concepts of how consent plays into it all when Cass knows everyone's intentions and feelings (sometimes before they themselves do) but Babs still holding clear power over Cass and how vulnerable Cass is emotionally it's just. good soup i tell you.

so, i think it's fun, if in a way, Babs has always been slightly jealous of Bruce. after becoming Oracle by means out of her control, she works with other heroes sure, but she doesn't have a protege. she watched with Dick and Bruce, how close of a bond Batman and Robin is. how Bruce got to shape and mold Dick into the hero he's become and the reverence Dick has for Bruce. there's such a nuance to that relationship, and Babs wants it for herself. the first person to carry on the Batgirl torch is Helena, something she violently disapproves of. so for her to give Batgirl to Cass, that's significant. it's both a sign of acceptance, and a sign of ownership. it's basically her way of saying to Bruce "this one's mine." and thus, their relationship reflects it. because it's easy to seak out a close bond with Cass, who's never had anyone show her love and affection with no strings. Babs' love is unconditional. and Cass wants to bury herself in it. she knows it's romantic and possibly sexual, but Babs doesn't sexualize Cass the way men do. there's no leering comments or objectification. Babs is kind and respectful, so Cass doesn't mind. she even leans into it. there's something nice in being appreciate for something other than how good of a weapon she makes. and Babs' touch is just. something Cass craves. Babs wants to respect boundaries, but Cass is practically crawling into her lap after certain rough missions, just for the companionship.

i think it's fun if the mommy kink starts with Cass. sure, Babs has been carefully guiding Cass toward being comfortable with sexual things. Cass is regularly naked around Babs with no problem, she lets Babs touch her anywhere. but it's when Babs is holding Cass that Cass talks about how she doesn't know who her mother is and she wishes she knew what having a mother felt like. and sure, Cass knows that Babs isn't entirely motherly. not when her hand is resting inside of Cass' pants at that very moment. but this is the closest thing she has. i enjoy the idea of Cass knowing that this isn't normal. sure, she doesn't fully understand relationships, but she knows mother/daughter and dating are different. but it's a two birds one stone kind of thing. she's so convinced she's not going to find enough people to love her to fill all the "roles" in her life, why not combine the two. after all, Dick and Bruce are doing it. so when Cass brings it up, Babs lets Cass call her mommy. it's a soothing thing, more than a kink thing. and it delightfully plays into Babs' hand for how she wants to groom Cass, giving her more control and trust over Cass. it's easy to get Cass to side with her instead of Bruce when she just has to stroke Cass' hair and praise her whenever she does what Babs want. Cass is so used to negative reinforcement that she'll take any kind of positive reinforcement, even if she knows it's slightly manipulative. sometimes, what matters to her the most is just that someone wants to protect and take care of her in the first place.

i love the idea of Dick getting dragged in unwillingly so much. Cass has very high standards for what a mentor/partner/mother figure should look like because of how reverently Babs treats her. and Cass is known for being critical of Bruce's methods. so when Bruce is particularly cruel to Dick, or that have a nasty argument that Cass witnesses and Bruce possibly even hits Dick, that's when Dick gets dragged in. it starts with Babs inviting him to just eat dinner and chill out with Babs and Cass in the Clocktower. then he's being invited to stay the night more and more often so he doesn't have to crash at Wayne Manor when he's in Gotham. the first time he wakes up with Cass sleeping next to him, he doesn't comment on it. he knows what it's like to be so tired you just crash on the nearest bed. it's when he notices that he's being more and more separated from Bruce, that Dick starts to notice something is off. he's never commented on what's going on between Babs and Cass bc well, he's one to talk. but now he's caught between them. Cass and Babs don't even have to talk, they just wordlessly know they're on the same page about bringing Dick into the fold. for Cass, it's genuinely to protect him. she's happy with Babs, and she wants Dick to feel happy in that way too, with someone who's not as emotionally closed off as Bruce. and Cass just wants as many close relationships as she can get. and for Babs, there is genuine attraction there. she and Dick almost flirted with dating before, and nows her chance to have him and finally beat Bruce. and as unwilling as Dick is, it's hard to say no when they're being so gentle with him. he keeps telling himself he's going to set hard boundaries and tell them no, eventually. but Babs has the manipulation down pat, and Cass is so gentle and loving, Dick just gets swept in too deep. they both know he's unwillingly, but to Cass, that's just how love works. you have to be talked into it sometimes because you don't realize you deserve it.

Babs teaching Cass about sex my *beloved*. first, it's just Cass and Babs. Babs showing Cass how she can feel good, how she can make Babs feel good. but now with Dick, they have a whole new person for Babs to see to teach Cass about sex. Dick has to be talked into it by Babs, who paints it as a learning opportunity for Cass. I just. I love throuple dynamics where one person is basically being used as a toy for the dom to tell the third person to use, and that fits them so well. Dick is just a toy, a prop basically. and Babs is guiding Cass through it, teaching her how to make Dick feel good, how to ride him. I like the idea of Babs edging both of them until she feels like Cass has "learned" enough. which is clearly just part of the kink, corrupting Cass. and they all know it, but it's an unspoken thing. even more fun if Babs gives Cass some token form of control, letting Cass control when Dick can come. and to Cass, edging is a natural part of sex, so she also tortures Dick like that, bringing him to the edge and holding him there no matter how much he begs. sometimes, Dick just watches Cass and Babs have sex and learns what they like through that. he learns Babs is a sadist, but she has to be careful with it. Cass views pain strictly as a very negative punishment and the last thing Babs wants to do is lose the trust she has built up with Cass. so she avoids pain for the longest time. it's Dick who notices Babs itching to hurt someone, so to make sure it's not Cass, Dick offers himself. and Cass watches as Babs hurts Dick, and Dick *likes* it. maybe impact play, maybe some CBT, that sort of stuff, just testing the waters of how far Babs can take it with Dick. it makes Cass curious enough to try it, both sadism and masochism. she finds it takes a lot for her to enjoy masochism, but in the right applications, it's nice. there's something about letting herself feel pain, which she was never allowed before. pain is something to be compartmentalized and worked through. so there's something nice about turning her brain off and just feeling. especially if she's being hurt while she's in Babs or Dick's arms, bc she knows she's safe. both of them have become her safe space to explore new things during sex.

eventually, Dick comes to mostly accept being part of the relationship. he realizes he's in too deep when Cass casually calls him her boyfriend in front of Bruce just to make Bruce stutter. they're all adults, so it's not something Bruce can fight too hard. and Dick does have to admit, Cass has a point. there's far less arguing and fighting in this relationship. the grooming practically works better on Dick than it did Cass, bc now he's just accepted it and is going along with everything. he starts initiating sex, with either of them separately or together, just bc he likes giving up control to them. he likes the way Cass is gentle when she's domming, taking control from him without even asking and just taking care of him. and when Babs is in control, she's a little meaner, a bit rougher, but sometimes, he needs that too. sometimes he just likes to watch the two of them, see Cass call Babs mommy while she's crying and begging for anything. it's carnal and just fascinating to watch, even if he doesn't get off to it. seeing how much they love each other and how much they love him makes his head spin, because being with Bruce was nothing like this. Bruce rarely talks about his feelings, rarely said he loved Dick. meanwhile Cass and Babs will say it about a dozen times a day. maybe it's manipulative, but they make it sound so genuine, he can't bring himself to care. and Cass is pleased Dick is finally giving him, letting himself be loved. Babs is pleased to have control of both Dick and Cass. all of them are getting something out of it so really, what's there to complain about?

[meetmymouth]

out in the heartland : harry styles

summary: it’s harry’s birthday and you have a very special gift for him word count: 6k warnings: daddy kink, pegging, anal fingering & rimming

“Love, can you get us more crisps,” Harry calls from where he’s seated on the floor, a Playstation console in hand.

It’s another lockdown Monday where they turn Mitch and Sarah’s spacious living room into a gaming room slash studio– according to Mitch, bowls of crisps, cheese platters, wine glasses and other snacks decorating every surface as they play anything and everything from FIFA to Fortnite until their brains are too foggy and they can’t move their fingers properly due to alcohol in their systems.

Sarah and Mitch were kind enough to let them both quarantine at theirs for a while, and it’d been so much fun, spending time with Mitch and Sarah, cooking together, watching films and going on walks, and overall having a great time with their friends. As much as it was just another Monday in lockdown, it was a special one with today being Harry’s 27th. They’ve already cut his cake, one she’d made herself -and Sarah helping with the piping– decorated with maraschino cherries and sprinkles, and they’ve been spending the night drinking posh wine and screaming at each other while Harry and Mitch played FIFA.

With two bowls filled with more crisps, she makes her way back to the living room with a smile on her face as Mitch and Harry keep going on and on about the game, and Sarah teasing them both, asking whether they’d get a divorce soon since they’ve been arguing back and forth like an old, married couple.

They pause the game as Mitch says her name, “did you see the card Jeff sent Harry for his birthday?” He’s smirking as he takes another sip of his wine, and Harry throws a piece of cheese at him, earning a glare from the long-haired man.

“Not yet, what is it?”

“Jeff being a dickhead as per. He sent me a card, it’s between my book, there,” he gestures at his book on the sofa with his head.

She grabs the thick book, turns the pages until she finds the card with ease, and she feels her heart drop for some reason, eyebrows furrowing and palms starting to sweat as she turns to Harry. He’s watching her with a grin on his face, the others already laughing at what’s in front of the card as she takes it in her hands to inspect the shiny birthday card.

“’Happy pegging birthday’” she reads out loud with a monotonous voice. “Uh… okay. That’s– very funny.”

“He’s just being stupid,” Harry laughs, running a finger thorugh his hair. He sits up, mouth full of crisps, and extends his hand for her to hold. “Come here, let me feed you cheese.”

“Okay… uh, nice card.”

“I mean, I love you, Sarah, but–” Mitch starts, mouth full, and Sarah cuts him off with a glare.

“Do not finish that sentence,” she points the wine glass at him as the sounds of cackling follow behind.

They all laugh… except her.

It’s funny. It is. And she loves them, loves laughing with them. But now, with the card Harry labelled as ‘stupid’ in hand and a fancy, pink box with Harry’s name on it waiting for them, waiting for him upstairs, on the bed they’d been sharing since the beginning of lockdown, she can’t help but feel stupid, too.

Was that a bold move? Was she being too brave, or… stupid? Whatever it was, she couldn’t help but let a pang of shame and sadness engulf her for a moment, before Harry’s silky voice pulls her away from her thoughts. She accepts the hand extended and sits next to him on the floor, card now forgotten on the sofa, and she tries to occupy both her mind and hands with Sarah’s fluffy cat, giving his little head tiny pets as Harry rubs her back as if it would get rid of the tension she was feeling.  

“You okay,” he brings his mouth close to her gear and whispers, then presses the gentlest, softest kiss on her ear. “D’you need anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, H.”

It’s not until 2AM that everyone decides to go up to their rooms, not even batting an eye at the mess they made as they make their way upstairs with promises to clean everything in the morning. Now that she knows the box is there, on the bed where Harry can easily detect as soon as they open the door, her stomach begins growling but not because she’s hungry, but because she’s feeling anxious, and ashamed.

She has to do something.

“Hey, um…” she begins, stopping them both in front of the guest room they’d been occupying. “Could you– could you bring me water, I forgot to take my meds today.”

“Baby…” Harry says, hand going up to her cheeks to stroke there for a moment. “I thought you had an alarm… I filled your water bottle this morning and put it on the bedside table, come on.”

“No– Harry…”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I am, I just want fresh water.”

“Are you– are you serious?”

“Yes,” it comes out as a question rather than an answer and she bites her bottom lip, feeling uneasy under Harry’s curious gaze.

“You’re being kinda weird.”

“I’m not being weird!”

“Is there something you’re hiding from me?” He says with eyebrows furrowed and hand on his hip. “In the bedroom, in particular?”

“Don’t be silly.”

And as soon as he turns away, she knows she’s done for. It’s too late. She’s fucked. Everything’s fucked, she thinks, and he will hate her. Will never want to see her face again and probably ask her to leave as soon as possible since he won’t be able to look at her ever again without being reminded of her disgusting “gift”.

He goes in, of course he does, and she can’t help but close her eyes for a few moments before she joins him, hands sweaty and heart beating like there’s no tomorrow. She finds him near the bed, eyes focused on the box sitting in the middle of the bed, and she looks up when he does, finding him giving her a bright, heart-clenching smile as the dimple gets wider.

“Well, what’s this then, bab?”

His socked-feet makes a comforting noise on the carpeted floor, and he stops when he reaches where she’s standing, hands immediately finding her hips to bring them closer.

“Harry, please don’t open it,” it’s pathetic, she thinks, how desperate and anxious she sounds. Though, she can’t help but close her eyes when Harry’s hand finds the back of her neck as he strokes there with his thumb. “Don’t open it. It’s just silly. It’s a joke.”

“Baby, breathe. What are you even talking about, hm? Why are you– oh my god, darling, you look like you’re having a panic attack. You’re sweating, are you…” he squeezes her flesh gently, then guides her to the bed. “Hey, look at me– look. I’m not going to open it unless you want me to. Do you really not know me? I would never do anything you don’t want me to. Who do you take me for, hm?” It’s so gentle, his voice, it’s like honey is dripping down his mouth and she can’t help but watch the way his pink lips move. “Baby. Look at me. I love you. You’re so special to me, you’re my whole world. I won’t open it– I won’t, I promise. C’mere, babs.”

“I love you too,” she sniffs once, twice, then rubs her eyes.

“Wanna go to sleep... hm? Come on, bab, let’s go to sleep.”

Nights chase each other away, Tuesday kisses Wednesday and Thursday is spent with laughter and too much smoke and Friday finally arrives and it’s like a breath of fresh air, but she also thinks it’s due to the open windows and fresh flowers in the spacious kitchen. The box, containing the cursed gift of hers is forgotten, placed under their bed besides their suitcases, and everything feels normal. Almost too normal. So, she does what most people would do: look for ‘trouble’.

When Harry’s in the shower, she gets the box out and sits on the bed as she thinks about what to do with it. But, apparently, the stillness of the room was too good to be true as Harry emerges from the ensuite, hair still dripping-wet as he adjusts the robe, eyes immediately finding what she’s got in front of her, and the box that is now open, and a black leather piece hanging from the not-so-tall box.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he’s testing the waters, she knows. His eyebrows are furrowed, only slightly, and mouth slightly parted. “What are you doing, darling?”

It’s not a threat, nor asked with the intention of intimidating her. Alas, she feels threatened.

“I…”

“What is it?”

She sighs, feeling the cold sweat dripping down her back, and finally gives up. “See for yourself,” the box is thrust into his hands, and she leaves the room, leaving behind a confused, semi-naked man and a very expensive looking strap-on.

It’s not another fifteen minutes until Harry comes downstairs dressed in only a pair of joggers, and finds her on the sofa as she chews on her thumb –a bad habit really– while reading one of Harry’s books. He walks up to her with a tiny smile on his face, and curls into her side, resting his head in the crook of her neck as he breathes in the sweet smell and the now all too familiar fabric softener.

He waits for her to speak first, not wanting to upset her further, but all she does is sit there, and pretend to read until Harry lets out a sigh, and presses a brief, gentle kiss to her jaw.

“Can we talk?” He says, hands now resting on her thigh as his thumb strokes the skin there.

She sighs too, and fidgets under his gaze. “Not really.”

“Why not, though? We’ve been together for years. Why are you so scared of me, hm? Have I ever done something to make you feel like you can’t be honest with me?”

“No, it’s just embarrassing to me, Harry. And… seeing that card. And you calling it… stupid. I just feel like an idiot, please stop.”

Harry sighs, his breath hitting the side of her face. “Look at me. Look–” he reaches and touches her jaw. “I love you. I’m madly in love with you. The kind that keeps me up at night. The kind that makes my heart hurt in the best possible way. I’m so gone, baby, so fucking gone for you. You got me. I can’t leave, now, I’d never want to,” he presses his forehead to the side of her jaw, the damp skin feeling cold against her flesh. “Jeff on the other hand… can we not talk about him when I have these– these images in my head. Of you. Wearing that.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to feel bad but too bad, I feel like shite and am so fucking embarassed, you don’t get it.”

“I do, I fucking do and I’m trying to tell you how much I’d love it if you fucked me in the ass. Now, you either come upstairs and finish what you started, or–”

They’re both startled when Mitch enters the living room and drops the book in his hand.

He looks up at them, clearly not phased, and they both notice the AirPods in his ears as he kneels down and grabs his book, giving them one last look before disappearing outside to join Sarah in the garden. Harry though, he lets out a chuckle and turns to her, dimple tugging at his cheek, and extends his arm to caress her cheek.

“Come upstairs, baby.”

He says it easily, words rolling off his tongue, just like that, and she does. Of course she does because what else was she to do? She lets him take her hand in his, interlocking their fingers as he guides them up the stairs. Once inside the room, the door is closed, locked, and Harry takes the time to walk towards the window to close the curtain, and she can’t help but stare at his long, beautiful fingers over the soft cotton. Other than the thick, silver band on his middle finger, his fingers are ring-free, and despite adoring his soft, pretty fingers with his equally pretty rings, there’s just something so soft, cosy and familiar about Harry without rings.

He catches her staring because, of course he does. He sees her. Every movement of her eyes, trembling lips, shaky fingers, scrunch of her nose; he sees it all. And now, he walks towards her, a big grin tugging at his lips as he stops right in front of her, both of them aware of the box sitting on the bed but neither of them say anything as they hold each other’s gaze.

And just like that, she feels like she can finally breathe properly when she’s being pulled into his chest, hands finding their place on each side of her head as he starts peppering kisses to her face, first her forehead, then nose, and at last, his plump lips find their way to the place they know by heart, her lips.

It’s not rushed, not at all, Harry thinks they have all the time in the world so he takes his time with her. He knows it’s impossible, foolish even, but he swears he can see the marks his tiny but lustful kisses are leaving behind when he briefly opens his eyes. They’re everywhere on her beautiful face, from her lips to the corner of her mouth, chin, the side of her jaw.

“How do you want me,” he mumbles and it’s an uttered promise, somehow submissive though not completely, but also one that is full of love, trust.

She freezes for a moment, hands still on his neck, holding each other’s gaze and she watches as Harry walks to the bed, and he grabs the box. The shape of the object in his hands feels unfamiliar to the eye, the dazzling, hot pink dildo at the front makes them both swallow in anticipation and she knows Harry is clueless about what his next move should be.

It certainly wasn’t their first time trying out things in the bedroom. They were both ‘kinky’, as some would call it, they liked rough sex, the kind that left bruises and marks behind, but never anything like this. Sure, she did give him a rim job a few times, his darker, puckered hole made her mouth water and she wanted nothing more than to get on her knees and kiss and lick the flesh until Harry was a mess, coming in long spurts. He loved having his ass licked, he loved sitting on her face, with his big cock stuffing her warm, tiny mouth as he forced her to take everything in, moving his ass back and forth across her mouth as she tried to lick every inch of the bitter flesh, wanting to please him, make him fall apart above her.

But, despite Harry letting her lick his ass could be considered as a vulnerability or submission to some, she was always his submissive. She loved it; they both loved it. She also knew today wasn’t the day she would give up on that submission. No, today was all about Harry, and what he wanted, how he wanted it, and it was about her giving it to him. So she gives him a tiny smile, hands reaching to grab the strap-on from his hands, and he watches with great intent, pupils dilated and mouth parted.

She swallows, and looks up at him with apprehension. “I want you to use me,” she lets out, a shaky breath following behind. “I want you to… I want you to do whatever you want with me. I know this,” her gaze falls to the pink dildo surrounded by black leather of the harness. “It’s something we haven’t done before, at least… fully–”

Harry giggles, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers. “Fully.”

“Shh. I’m just saying that… we haven’t done this before but I still want you to be in charge, at least… at least–”

“You want me to be the Daddy, hm? You still want Daddy to tell you what to do, how to fuck him? Y’gonna be my little fuck toy? Is that what you want, darling?”

“Yes,” her breath hitches at her throat. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl. You’re so good to Daddy, darling. Always spoiling me, always looking after me, taking care of Daddy… how’d I get so lucky?”

“Daddy deserves it,” she looks up, waiting for his command to get naked and she can see it in his eyes, the hesitant gaze as if he wants to make sure she’s okay still even though he’s the one who’s about to get fucked.

“Go on then,” he mutters, hands going to his own joggers as he lets them pool around his ankles. He reaches up, brushing the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. “Get naked for Daddy and put it on.”

And she does, oh, she does.

It doesn’t take long, considering she only has a ratty t-shirt on and a pair of joggers, and nothing underneath. It doesn’t come as a surprise to him, her forgoing underwear, but they both can’t help but hold each other’s gaze a minute longer. She notices the fiery look in his eyes, pupils now looking like a pair of black buttons as his bottom lip gets trapped between his teeth.

She lets her eyes wander, gaze travelling from each puffy nipple that are now beginning to harden, to the hair on his chest, then the hair that’s following his happy trail, all the way down to his cock. She feels her heart clench in lust at the sight of his hard cock, slightly curved with a vein following underneath, and she just wants to get down on her knees and put it in her mouth. She remembers him asking her whether to shave or not a couple of weeks ago, and the thick pubic hair surrounding his perfect cock makes her mouth water, feeling content that she’d told him not to touch any razors.

She looks up at him again, to see the expression on his face and he smiles, hand reaching for her.

“Come.”

She walks towards him, the strap-on in hand, and a tiny whimper leaves her mouth when her hand finds her boob, long fingers trapping her pebbled nipple between them as he twists the darker nub, once, twice, and he lets it go only to slap it, causing her to gasp as she quickly tries to suppress the noise with her palm pressing against her mouth. It stings, but doesn’t hurt. Not at all. In fact, it frustrates her despite the tingling, stinging feeling between her legs. She needs more. She wants more.

“Get this on and get on your knees,” he mutters, hand now on her neck as he squeezes briefly, watching as she gets the strap-on on and tightens the straps. “You’re gonna get Daddy’s cock nice and wet before you can fuck his ass. Understand?”

She pairs her quiet ‘yes’ with a nod, mind too hazy to actually look into Harry’s eyes as her shaky fingers fiddle with the harness. The clasps make a clicking sound, very satisfying to their ears, and she swallows, getting on her knees in front of him. Clean, soapy smell of his skin chafes the tip of her nose very gently and Harry begins playing with her hair, hands stroking the side of her face before one finds the back of her neck, bringing her towards his hard cock.

“Take it in your mouth,” his thumb presses hard on her bottom lip, as if to remind her who’s in control despite the foreign object she’s been supporting.

Her gaze wanders, taking in his thick, leaking cock, and with one hand steady on his meaty thigh, she brings the other to his balls, humming when she feels them tight already. The wrinkly skin of it is soft and not at all unfamiliar to her. So, she leans in to press a flat tongue against his balls, not missing the way Harry’s thighs jerk in response, and she then takes them into her mouth. She hums at the feeling in her mouth as she alternates between sucking and licking them and Harry lets out a quivering sigh above her, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of her mouth around him.

He lets out a his when her teeth grazes over the area lightly. “Fuck, babe. You like my balls?”

Of course, there’s no time to respond, nor the possibility of her forming coherent words since he’s literally balls deep in her mouth, so she proceeds to hum around him, a few hairs there tickling her nose and lips as she sucks. With a pop, she lets them go and darts out her tongue again, travelling the warm, wet muscle from underneath his cock, to the tip. It’s a deep, pink colour, shiny and smooth, so she can’t help but wrap her mouth around the tip, earning a quick jolt of his hips from Harry as the action takes him by surprise.

She looks up, and sucks the tip as if it’s an ice lolly, and the salty taste of his pre-cum fills the insides of her mouth, fingernails pressing harder into his meaty thighs, and she wishes she could see the mark her nails left behind on his tiger tattoo.

Series of ‘fuck’s and ‘shit’s leave his mouth as he guides her head down his cock, and as always, she obeys while taking him deeper and deeper, her warm saliva coating his thickness and she moans around his warm cock as she brings her hands to his ass. While still sucking, she squeezes there, fingernails digging into the perfect skin of his ass and he lets out a hiss first, then pulls her hair harshly before pressing her face down his cock, a shaky moan following as she takes him deeper, her throat welcoming the warmth and thickness of his cock like it always does.

“You’re such a cock slut for me, aren’t you? Can’t keep that mouth away from Daddy,” he pulls her away from his cock, hands immediately going to her mouth to smear the pre-cum and spit all over her mouth and chin. "You wanted to treat Daddy for his birthday, hm?”

“Yes.”

“You’re such a good girl, darling. Always spoiling me, making me feel so, so fucking good,” he squeezes one of her boobs, twisting the nipple between his fingers before his gaze falls to the strap-on and the dildo secured tightly to the harness. He gets on his knees. “Make me suck that cock.”

The words, they just sound so hot, so filthy coming out of his mouth, making her weak in the knees as she swallows, and she places her hand on his shoulder, squeezing there once before it travels to the back of his head. She feels in control, having him on his knees, at her command even though he’s still somehow in charge, and it drives her crazy, having this gorgeous man all to herself. 

She watches him as Harry’s curious gaze takes the pink dildo in. She knew it wasn’t his first time sucking a cock, despite the one now in his face being silicone. So when he goes in easily with her hands pulling him closer, she can’t help but whine at the expression on his face, eyes glittering and plump lips parted as he takes the cock into his mouth.

He coats the pink silicone with his saliva, eyes shut as if he’s trying to concentrate on an important task, pink lips looking like they belong there, around a cock. They look so sinful, yet so perfect as he bobs his head up and down, talking the cock further into his mouth and she tries to guide him but she knows he doesn’t need it. He knows what he’s doing.

“You look so hot,” she manages to let out, words coming out as a hum, low and quiet, and he opens his eyes, eyelashes fluttering at the whispered compliment. “You look so good, Harry.”

He takes it out of his mouth briefly, a string of saliva making a bridge between his bottom lip and the dildo, and she reaches there, smearing it all over his bottom lip just like he did to her earlier as she loved seeing him dirty.

His pink tongue darts out and he wraps his lips around the finger on his bottom lip. “Gonna get me wet now?” He hums around her finger and she feels her pussy clench around nothing.

“Get on the bed.”

As Harry gets on all fours, ass in the air, her eyes wander to their lube on the nightstand. Ignoring the heat in her stomach, she sits on her knees behind Harry and touches his ass, fingers caressing the soft skin, touching the tiny mole there before she leans forward and presses a kiss there. It’s a peck, a sweet kiss that turns into more as her mouth opens, tongue flat against the warm skin as she sucks the flesh, causing him to let out a happy grunt.

He whispers her name, the excitement making her nipples tighten once again, but she moves her lips towards the crack, not wanting to stop.

“That’s it,” Harry groans, “Get Daddy wet before you put that cock in him.”

It’s a godly sight. Him on all fours, at her mercy, it was exquisite, intense, dirty. But she wanted to get him dirtier. With her hand parting one cheek, she bites her lip, noticing his rim, puckered and surrounded by little hairs, and all of a sudden, she can’t wait to get her mouth on him, to see the hairs get darker with her spit as he squirms under her touch.

She gets closer, a grin appearing on her face when he lets out quiet whines and whimpers, and she exhales a sigh into Harry’s milky flesh. Her tongue, hungry and hot, darts out to lick his rim briefly, just to get him wet before she uses her fingers. His cock, now a deeper shade of pink, hard and thick, is peeking between his legs, moving left and right from time to time whenever Harry or she moves, and she can’t help but reach there.

Harry sucks in a breath as her warm hand meets his hard cock, and she lets out a moan when she feels the thickness of it in her palm. It’s hot, so fucking hot, and the smooth skin of his cock is still damp, so she brings her thumb to his tip and smears the leaking pre-cum all over it, then drags her finger down to his balls and squeezes once.

His perfect mouth lets out a pained whimper when she lets go and focuses on the beautiful rim in front of her. She leans forward, both hands now parting his cheeks, and spits on his rim before flattening her tongue and lapping across Harry’s puckered hole. It’s not sweet, far from it actually, but the salty, bitter taste makes her even wetter as she keeps licking and sucking around his hole, satisfied when she hears him whimper and moan. Once it’s wet and the hairs around his rim get darker, she pulls away and licks a finger into her mouth, then grabs the lube from the bedside table and places it somewhere by Harry’s feet.

It’s fire, when she presses her middle finger into his hole, and Harry lets out a groan, her finger sliding in with ease with the help of her spit. “So tight,” she mumbles when Harry pushes his ass backwards only a little bit to match the tiny movements of her finger.

“Move faster,” Harry says, voice low. “Add another one.”

The lube is now in her hand as she brings it to where her finger is, takes it out, and allows a generous amount to coat the puckered area where her finger has been. Harry groans at the feeling, hole clenching around nothing, and she rubs the area with the same finger she’s been using, and presses it in before taking it out. This time, her middle finger is joined by her index as she fucks into his ass slowly, taking her sweet time while admiring the way he’s been taking her fingers. The skin makes wet noises, and she knows if they weren’t so worked up, they would have a giggle about it, just like they often do whenever one of them makes a questionable noise while having sex.

This time, though, the sounds of her fingers pumping in and out of his ass makes her go crazy, and she knows Harry feels the same when he lets out a loud grunt, pushing his ass back in sharp movements, in hopes of getting her to fuck him harder and deeper.

It goes on like that for a while, and they stop when he’s opened up enough, Harry’s rim now looking sore and pink. Once the dildo at her front is lubed up generously, she taps his ass once, making him turn his head back to look at her, eyebrows furrowed in question and mouth still parted due to the tingling feeling at the tip of his cock.

“Go ahead, baby,” he murmurs, gaze lowering. “Fuck Daddy’s ass. I’m ready,” his voice, hoarse and low, rings in her ears as she lifts the dildo up to his ass, his now-pink hole.

One hand holding the pink dildo from the base and the other resting on Harry’s back, she starts pushing it in, whines and hisses leaving his throat as soon as he feels the silicone tip. She watches as the tip digs into his ass, slowly and with effort despite all the lube, and she can’t help but bring her other hand to her boobs, squeezing once before she places it back on Harry’s ass. He’s a mess, sweat dripping down his back, and she knows he’s trying to keep quiet as neither of them would want to get caught by the other couple despite having the door locked.

“Fuck,” he grunts, head lowering.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” he whimpers, ass trying to clench around the dildo but it fails due to how big it is. “Keep going, I want you to fuck me. Hard.”

She holds him by his love handles, fingernails digging into his milky, smooth skin as she moves her hips, the dildo now halfway in. With Harry moaning, she takes her time to admire how fucking hot he looks underneath her, with his ass filled with the pink dildo, and she sighs, continuing to fuck into his ass with the shiny dildo. It’s incredible how well he’s taking it, taking her, his puckered hole now a sore-pink, wet, and she feels like crying, not knowing how to handle what’s going on. She loves him. She loves him so fucking much, and she knows he does, too. She feels overwhelmed with love and hunger as she speeds up her hips, the dildo now fully inside him as she fucks his ass.

He gasps and jolts when the dildo presses right up to his prostate. “Fuckin’ hell. Please keep going, fuck Daddy hard. Fuck me, baby– god, I’m gonna cum soon. Keep going, keep fucking me,” he rasps.

“You’re taking it so well. You look so fucking good.”

“Oh fuck– it feels so good. Fuck me harder, come on, fuck me.”

Feeling brave, she presses her fingernails into his ass cheek, then lifts her hand, a loud smack landing on his left cheek and Harry hisses, fingers curling into the sheets as he lets out whimper after whimper. She watches as the dildo disappears into Harry’s ass, the pink mark on his ass becoming redder and angrier by the second and she decides to press her front against his back, laying down on him as she fucks into him deeper, nipples getting ridiculously hard as soon as they make contact with Harry’s sweaty back.

She finds it easier to fuck him in this position, and she likes that they’re much closer now, mouths searching for each other as he reaches behind and grabs her ass, squeezing hard as she keeps thrusting hard and deep. With kisses placed against his sweaty neck, Harry tries to turn his head to where hers is, and they meet in a rushed, teeth-clashing kiss, Harry’s tongue darting out to lick into her mouth, but missing in the end, and licking the corner of her mouth instead as she lets out a whine, hand searching for his cock that’s now trapped between his body and the sheets.

He helps her, lifts up his lower body and she starts moving her hand up and down on his hard cock, head resting on the crook of his neck as her hips move lazily. He’s so hard, and she knows he’s close by the sounds he’s making, his hips jerking forward from time to time as little ‘uh’s leave his mouth, and she wants to help him. She wants him to cum so bad. She wants to be the one making him cum so fucking hard.

“Are you gonna cum,” she whispers into his neck. “Please, baby. Cum for me. Show me how much you liked getting fucked.”

“God,” with cock still in her palm, he tries thrusting his hips forward to meet the strokes of her hand. “Please– I’m g’na cum so fuckin’ hard. You’re so fucking hot, so fucking good to me. Oh my god, baby, it hurts.”

“Yeah? It hurts?” She squeezes the base of his cock, then touches his balls briefly before continuing her strokes. “You’re taking it so well. Come on, Daddy. I need you to cum.”

“God, I’m– oh fuck. I’m gonna… Make me cum. Come on, make Daddy cum.” 

She squeezes his cock once again, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight to his cock. When he lets out a choked breath, she knows he’s coming. It’s hot, sticky, and so fucking dirty, the cum coating her palm, creating more lubrication as she keeps stroking him lazily, dildo still filling up his ass, and with a groan, Harry reaches behind to smack her ass.

They stay like that for a while, with her still inside him as he tries to catch his breath, and she proceeds to match their breaths to the clock on the wall, feeling completely spent but still frustrated since the pool of wetness between her folds seems to be intensifying every passing moment.

After a while, Harry clears his throat. “Are you a dream?” It’s soft, only a whisper, and sickeningly sweet.

“Hm?”

“You’re a dream. You’re unbelievable– I love love love you,” he sighs, voice breaking. It takes him a few seconds to complete his sentence.

“No, thank you. I hope… I hope you liked it?”

“Fucking loved it. What about you?”

“I did. You did so good,” she touches his sweaty hair. “But,” she starts, legs starting to feel sore. “I’m still so fucking wet.”

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, sweet girl–” Harry reaches behind and strokes her hip. “Can I fuck you now?”

“Yes, please.”

The strap-on now on the floor, Harry takes his time to admire her soft features, the sweat on her forehead and messy strands of hair sticking to her face. She rubs her eyes, and lets out a yawn, but her other hand reaches blindly for Harry, and he smiles, the gesture leaving his chest, his heart heavy and hot and full of love. He lets her hold on to him as she keeps rubbing her eyes, then he links their fingers as she opens her eyes to find him staring.

She gives him a lazy smile. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“All right, Shakespeare… mhm, come here,” she pulls him closer by his love handles. “I love you. Happy birthday. Again.”

“I love you so much. How is it possible to want you this much, hm?” He mumbles against her sweaty neck, not caring about the bitter taste of her skin. He watches as her smile widens, eyes tired and sleepy. “There’s a halo in your mouth.”

pls reblog if you enjoyed it! it only takes a second but it helps me tons <3 inbox is always open for your feedback!!!!! <3 lu

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

When the Weight Comes Down - 6

Warnings: non-consent sex (series); fingering, foreplay, hand job.

This is dark! (biker) Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Your father’s a drunk, your mother a recluse, and you’re just another small town girl in Birch.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown

Note: Hope you guys are keeping well. I don’t have much to say today but love you guys.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter Six: Scared

He said, I can make you scared, it's kind of what I do

💀💀💀💀💀💀

You stared at the message. You really weren’t sure about this phone thing. It was awkward and you typed so slow, even though you had no idea how to respond. But, as always, Steve was persistent. He wanted a picture and after a lengthy struggle with the camera, you managed to take one and send it. Just a smile, but he wanted more. You insisted you needed to go to bed and his acceptance, even via font, was terse.

You hated the phone. It was like he was with you all the time. You dressed in the early morning dim and set off for your opening shift. It would be just you until noon that morning. You muted your phone and left it in your bag as you went about loading pans into the ovens and turning on all the lights. 

You took the chairs down in the small lounge area and straightened the tables. You sorted the loaves by expiration, hoping the older ones would sell that day so they didn’t end up in the trash. The time passed quickly and you were soon selling breads and buns to the locals.

When Babs arrived, she sent you on your break and you had your usual homemade sandwich in the corner with a small tea. Your bag vibrated on the chair and you pulled it out. The battery icon flashed as you opened the deluge of messages.

‘You there?’ was the most recent from your only contact.

You pondered over the screen and sent a quick response. ‘Just working. Phone battery low.’

He sent a winky face before the phone beeped and shut down entirely. You shrugged and dropped it in your bag. A happy coincidence or deliberate negligence. You’d worry about when you got home. Plug it in then and face the music.

Babs sent you off with a box of stale, or soon-to-be stale, muffins and you cut through the back streets which ran parallel to the main stretch. An extra five minutes on your walk but it kept you from any unexpected meetings. 

As you stepped through the front door, the house was quiet. Your father was snoring on the couch but your mother was nowhere to be found. Not even in the kitchen. You set down the muffins and your bag slumped to your elbow. You headed down the hall and found your door slightly ajar.

You nudged it open to find your mother at your bed. The bag of clothes Steve had bought you spread across your mattress as she held up a sparkly thong. Your heart dropped as you tossed your bag on the floor. She spun to face you, her expression a mix of disgust and shock.

“Your father was right,” She hissed and threw the panties at you. “What are you doing with that-- that criminal?!”

“Ma,” You caught the panties and flung them on the bed as you came closer. “You saw what he did to Pa; what he would’ve done.”

“And you just stood there,” She snapped.

“And you!” You retorted. “Just like you let Pa beat you. I should’ve just said nothing at all and let him have it.”

“We’re your family,” Your mother sneered. “Do you understand what you’re doing? People will talk!”

“People already talk about us!” You spat. “They say you’re some crazy lady and that Pa is a lush and you know, I think they’re right.”

“Has he touched you? Did you let that man touch you?” 

“All I’ve done is defend you. Both you and Pa, and why?” You narrowed your eyes. “I spend my days in a fucking bakery just to keep this shit hole in your name and you call me a slut?”

“Don’t swear.” She lowered her voice. “And I never said that.”

“Get out of my room,” You demanded. “Now.”

“Don’t speak to me like that in my house--”

“That I pay for as you give every cent to that slob to go drink away,” You huffed. “So just leave me alone. Like you always did.”

You went to the door and waited. Horrified, she crossed the room and you made to close the door as she stepped into the hall. She turned back.

“Sweet pea--”

You slammed the door in her face. There was no lock, she had made sure of that. You stormed over to your bed and grabbed the large plastic bag. You stuffed them all inside and dropped it at the end of the bed. You fell onto the mattress and buried your head under the pillow and yelled.

You’d never felt so completely trapped.

💀

You stayed like that until it was dark out. You just stewed in your self-pity and helplessness. You didn’t move until you heard a gentle tapping. You rolled over and opened your eyes. You sat up and rubbed your forehead as it sounded again. It took you another set of rhythmic taps to realise it was at the window.

You rose, the blouse you wore wrinkled and untucked from your work pants. You flicked on the light and neared the window. A shadow stood outside and you barely held back a frightened shout. 

Steve smiled in at you as he bent slightly to look in. He motioned to the lock on the top of the lower pane and you reached out to unlatch it. You slid the window open, confused and surprised. He grabbed the window sill and poked his head through.

“I’ve been messaging,” His smile fell. “But you haven’t been answering.”

“I… It was a long day…” You peered past him. “How did you-- Why are you here?”

“Should I come through the front door?” He lifted a brow. “I’m sure your ma will welcome me right in.”

“No, no,” You gestured for him to lower his voice. “Steve… I was napping and I’m-- I’m very tired.”

Before you could argue further, he was pulling himself through the window. You backed up and watched in shock as he easily swung his other leg over the sill. He stood and pushed the window closed without looking. He licked his lips as he looked around your room.

“Steve, you really shouldn’t--”

“You should answer me when I message you,” He put his hands on his hips. “Next time, I won’t be so understanding.”

“My… My phone’s dead,” You blinked and glanced over at your purse.

“Then plug it in,” He ordered.

You took a breath and went over to the door and retrieved your purse from beside it. You took out your phone and crossed the room to grab the plastic bag from the end of the bed. You fished out the charger at the bottom of the mess and fumbled as you plugged it in next to your bed. You set down the phone on your dresser as Steve’s boots made the floorboards groan beneath the worn blush rug.

The plastic crinkled as you turned back and he huffed as he looked inside. He shoved his arm in and pulled out the same sparkly panties your mother had been so offended by. He popped the tags of and held them up with his index.

“I’ve been dying to see these on,” He said as he stepped closer. 

You stared at him. He wiggled his finger and you snatched them from him. He smirked and sat on your bed. The frame gave a whine at his weight. The twin was barely big enough for you but had held up through the years. You sucked in your lip and looked down at the thong.

“Surprise me,” He closed his eyes as he leaned back on his hands. 

“I… I can’t,” You kept your voice soft. “My parents--”

“If they wanna get nosy, I’ll deal with them,” He opened one eye and nodded. “You’ve got one minute, doll.”

He closed his eyes and a shiver crawled up your spine. You got as far from him as you could. You went to the antique vanity you’d inherited from your grandmother as a child. The mirror was loose in its frame and the painted wood was chipped. 

You faced away from Steve as you placed the thong on the desk. You unbuttoned your blouse enough to pull it over your head and sat to remove your shoes and socks, forgotten in your inhospitable homecoming. You shimmied out of your pants and hesitated as you hooked your fingers in your underwear.

You nearly tripped out of them as you built your courage to pull them down. It took tries to get your legs in the right holes of the thong and you tugged it into place. You glanced in the mirror as the sparkles caught your eye in the reflection. You turned away quickly and folded your hands over your pelvis.

“Okay,” You squeaked.

Steve opened his eyes and looked you over. His lip twitched as his brows shot up.

“Come here,” He pointed in front of him. 

You were shaking. You’d never been around a man, anyone really, with so little clothes. Your steps were small, reluctant. He reached out to draw you closer.

“Hot,” He pulled your hands apart as he admired the panties. “But…” He looked up and cupped the plain cups of your bra. “This needs to go.”

“I…” You inhaled and felt as if your legs would crumple beneath you. “Steve, please, I never-- I can’t--”

“It’s okay to be scared,” He purred and kissed your stomach. “I can help you. You just have to listen.”

“You should go,” You breathed.

He scoffed and pushed his shoulders back. He slipped his leather coat off and let it fall around his body. He tapped his toe, his eyes never left you.

“Get that bra off.” His voice was stern. “Now.”

You swallowed and slowly reached back. You struggled to unhook your bra as Steve stood to fold his jacket over your dresser then fell back onto the bed. He stretched across the small mattress, his boots hanging off the foot. As you let your bra sag and it slid down your arms, he watched intently. He spread his arm out and gestured you to the bed.

You neared and he caught your wrist. He drew you down so that his arm was beneath your neck and his other hand tickled your thigh. He carefully but deliberately explored your body. He lingered on the panties and played with the thin strap and traced the vee of fabric.

His hand continued upward and he cupped your tit. You trembled as he nuzzled your temple, his breath hot on your cheek.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, doll,” He coaxed. “I only want to make you feel good.”

“Steve,” You tensed against him as he toyed with your nipples. They were hard and sensitive to his touch. “It’s…” You stopped his hand. “It’s too much.”

“Shhh,” He kissed your cheek. “You don’t want your ma or pa to hear us.”

“Please,” You pleaded and he pushed your hand away from your chest.

“Tell me, did you ever touch yourself? In this bed?” He hummed. “All alone in this room, night after night, you must have.”

“Touch myself?” You stuttered. “I… never…”

“Never?” His hand crawled up to your neck and he grasped your chin. He turned your head and kissed you. He was hungry but patient. He drew away slowly. “What a pity.”

His hand brushed back down your chest and over your stomach. He rubbed the fabric of the panties and you squeezed your legs together. He pinched your thigh then forced his fingers between them.

“I don’t want to hurt you, doll.” His threat was softened by his dusky tone.

You let him part your legs and gasped as his finger brushed lower. He shoved the panties aside and you tried to push your thighs back together. He gave a tut in warning. You went limp and he pressed his fingers along your folds. You shuttered and let out a pathetic squeak. He moved his fingers slowly and you felt an odd tingle.

“Doesn’t that feel good, doll?’ He cooed. “Hmm?”

You gritted your teeth against a whine. His fingers swirled around your clit and sent ripples through you. You clapped your hand over his and he pressed his lips to yours. He kissed you as if to devour you and his hand never wavered. He parted and his hot breath tickled your skin.

“Shhh,” He whispered. “We don’t want anyone to hear, do we?”

He kissed you again and you tilted your pelvis against his hand. You were set off-kilter by the ripples sent through you as the fear trickled along your spine. It felt so good but so wrong. His hand moved faster and he pressed harder. 

You grasped his bicep as the waves overwhelmed you and your cry was stifled by his mouth. He kept on until you were whimpering and weak. Tugging on his arm as your cunt was overwrought and tender. As he pulled away, you peered up into his eyes. Stunned and embarrassed.

“Wasn’t that nice, doll?” He put his slick fingers to his tongue and licked them. “You taste sweet.”

You closed your eyes and turned your face from him; mortified. He shifted on the bed beside you and you heard the soft glide of a zipper. The bed creaked, your bodies flush on the small mattress. You on your back, Steve on his side as his arm snaked around you.

He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around something thick and firm.; warm flesh that twitched as you held it. He guided your hand along his cock and you gasped. He led a steady motion and groaned.

“Just like that,” He let go and grabbed your chin. “Keep going.” You kept your strokes even as his muscles tensed. “Open your eyes.”

Your eyes snapped open and you looked into his fearfully. Your gaze slipped down and you saw yourself playing with him. He turned his hand and shoved two fingers past your lips. He pressed down on your tongue and breathed against your cheek.

“Faster,” He hissed and you obeyed. “That’s it, doll.”

He hummed as he gripped your jaw tighter and your lips closed around his fingers. He chuckled and dragged his lips along your temple.

“You’re gonna make me cum, doll,” He purred. “That’s all you. You’re... so fucking sweet. You don’t even know--”

He inhaled sharply and spasmed against you. You felt a heat seep over your hand and Steve pulled his fingers from your mouth. He slowed your strokes until you were still, his cum strung along your hand and thigh. You could feel his heartbeat as your own hammered in your ears.

Your hand fell to your side. You were paralysed. Steve kissed you again, this time softer. He fell onto his back, crushed between you and the wall.

“I’m gonna pick you up after work tomorrow,” He said breathily. “I want you to wear the red dress… no panties.”

You were quiet as you stared at the ceiling. You felt dirty and used. And yet you felt good. Your core still pulsed as your thighs brushed together.

“Got it?” He asked.

“Yes,” You whispered. “The red dress.”

[ghost-in-the-hella]

If you are still taking prompts, and were so inclined, 47 for Gideon the Ninth!

I am always so inclined. Enjoy this... this thing. Gets a bit rude because, well, Gideon.

47. “You look like hell.”

---

“You look like hell.”

Gideon startles at the sound of Coronabeth Tridentarius actually speaking to her. She sounds more intrigued than judgemental, as if hell were an exotic travel destination she’s not yet been to but is eager to learn more about. Gideon is, not for the first time, grateful for her affected vow of silence as all possibility of coherent thought abandons her tongue. She would surely be a stuttering gay mess if she tried to speak to a woman as beautiful as this particular princess of Ida. With her feigned vow, she can still pull off the “strong but silent” affect and at least somewhat salvage the impression of being a suave badass who’s great with the ladies.

Or she could if she weren’t currently a panting, heaving, sweat drenched, bone dust coated, blood smeared, tattered mess.

It figures that Harrow doesn’t even have to be in the same room with Gideon to have completely ruined her game. Gideon draws herself up to her full height and squares her shoulders - fighting the urge to slump into an exhausted heap on the floor - and straightens her crooked aviators. She hopes that her face paint is still a badass skull and not a runny mess of gray; they’re not big on mirrors down in the facility. Her spine stiffens as Coronabeth steps toward her, smiling like they’re sharing a secret, and brushes one perfect hand lightly at each of Gideon’s shoulders, scattering fine chips of bone onto the floor.

“Poor thing,” Coronabeth purrs, locking Gideon in place with intense eye contact even through her shades. “Your necro’s really running you ragged, isn’t she?”

The last thing Gideon wants to talk about while a beautiful woman is touching her - actually touching her! Okay, touching the shoulders of her robes, but still! - is her screeching ferret of a necromancer. Her distaste must show in her expression even through the caked on layers of sweaty paint because Coronabeth chuckles prettily and squeezes her shoulder - Gideon tenses her sick delts reflexively, desperate to please - and gives her a conspiratorial smirk. “That’s alright. I won’t ask you to divulge any forbidden secrets about the Ninth House or the trials.” She runs clever fingers around the hem of Gideon’s hood - a rumpled heap around her neck, having fallen down as she heaved herself up the ladder from the facility in a hurry to get herself to a sonic - and winks suggestively enough that Gideon swallows hard. “She really must be putting you through the ringer. You know, I feel quite sorry for you cavs sometimes. So much is asked of you, and you get so little in return…”

Gideon has passed out. Surely, this must be what has happened. She’ll wake up in her nest of black blankets with a dirty magazine glued to her face by skull paint and drool, completely covered in sticky notes blackened with Harrowhark’s vitriol. Because it sure as hell feels like Coronabeth - Coronabeth Tridentarius, crown Princess of Ida, hottest necromancer this side of the funny books - is flirting with her. With her. Gideon Nav, indentured servant of the Ninth, perpetually demeaned cavalier primary to her lifelong nemesis, hottest cavalier in history to never touch a boob that wasn’t her own. With her stupid, itchy black robes that still smell faintly of Ortus Nigenad’s flop sweat no matter how many times they’re laundered, with her overgrown and uncombed hair all full of cobwebs and bone dust, with her half-melted face paint of a creepy fucking skull not quite concealing her latest acne outbreak. So there’s no fucking way that this isn’t some delightful dream inspired by too many titty mags before bedtime.

Coronabeth’s hand slides down from Gideon’s shoulder, gliding down the length of her arm - trailing over the firm roundness of her deltoid, the jaw-dropping perfection of her biceps, the corded extensor muscles of her forearms - down to seize her calloused hand with her own surprisingly strong one. “I think you deserve something in return. Don’t you?” 

Okay. New thought. Maybe Gideon hasn’t passed out, but she’s probably going to if Coronabeth keeps touching her like this.

Gideon nods very carefully, trying not to let any drool drop from her mouth.

Coronabeth’s smile is as bright as Dominicus. She tugs Gideon’s hand and leads her down an unfamiliar hallway. Gideon follows obediently despite her necromancer’s warnings ringing in her head, shrieking at her to trust no one. Well, Gideon figures, if she’s a lamb being led to the slaughter, at least she’ll die happy. A girl’s holding her hand! Flirting with her! Smiling at her! Touching her muscles! 

Much to Gideon’s surprise, she is not promptly jumped and flesh magicked to death upon entry to the Third’s quarters. In fact, as far as she can tell, she’s alone in them with Coronabeth. Sure, she had to offer up a bit of blood to the gross ward on the door, but she’s already bleeding a little bit from her adventures in the facility anyway so that’s no biggie. 

She’s relieved to note that there are two big, ostentatious beds in addition to the smaller (but no less ostentatious) cavalier bed at the foot of one. If by some miracle she does get laid today, she’d really rather it not be in a bed that Ianthe Tridentarius has also slept or - God forbid - boned in. Coronabeth hustles her past the beds (dang) toward a large and opulent bathroom. “Here, get washed up.”

A fluffy purple towel is thrust into Gideon’s hands, there’s a gentle shove at her shoulders and the click of a door shutting, and suddenly Gideon is alone in the fanciest bathroom she’s ever seen. It’s even more ridiculous than the one in the Ninth’s quarters. She catches her own reflection in the mirror and finds that she looks every inch as confused as she is. “What the fuck?” she mouths to herself.

“I don’t hear washing happening!” comes Coronabeth’s mellifluous voice sing-songing through the door.

Gideon Nav fancies herself a remarkably strong person, the kind of person who could move mountains barehanded if she set her mind to it. Apparently, she has one fatal weakness: a beautiful woman telling her to do, well, literally anything. So Gideon obligingly scours the paint off her face - Harrow’ll be furious, but Harrow’s always furious and her paint’s a mess anyway - and inspects herself once more in the mirror. Sexy. Hot. Gorgeous. Little bit of acne at the hairline and around the left nostril, bit ruddy-cheeked from over-scrubbing, but still a flawless masterpiece of hotness. 

She sniffs her armpits. Pretty sweaty. Are chicks into that? If they’re going to bone (please, please, please) then won’t she get sweaty again anyway?

Wait, are they going to bone? They are, right? They’re alone in Corona’s quarters, her terrifying sister and their insufferable cav have clearly been sent away, and Corona’s super hot and bossing her around and dragging her into her bedroom (well, through her bedroom to her bathroom, but still). If this were one of Gideon’s magazines she'd already be up to her wrist, or at least majorly winning at tonsil hockey. This is literally a textbook scenario for boning.

Okay, then. It’s on. So now what? Should she brush her teeth or something? Her breath’s probably pretty rank after the morning she’s had. Should she, like… shave stuff? 

“You may draw a bath, if you like,” Corona calls through the door again. “Ianthe and Babs will be gone for hours. And something tells me that you have never been pampered.”

And so Gideon ends up taking the first ever bath of her life in the gilded bathtub of the Third. She can’t bring herself to fill the tub more than a couple of inches, even though from her skin mags and her comics she knows a bath is usually filled until the person in it is all but drowning, or at least until the bubbles are tastefully covering the good bits (comics) or just barely not covering them (skin mags). She does throw in several of the weird perfumy things hanging out around the tub at Corona’s urging. By the end of it, she’s pretty sure she’s dirtier than when she stepped in except that now she’s filthy with scented soaps and salts and glittery “bath bombs” (surprisingly not that violent but also surprisingly messy) instead of sweat and blood. She scrapes and scrubs at herself and then gives her body and her clothes a good shake out in the sonic for good measure. She borrows some toothpaste and uses her finger as a toothbrush, then rinses with borrowed mouthwash. 

There’s a fluffy purple and gold robe that smells a bit like Corona’s perfume and seems the right size, so even though it’s a million miles off from her usual aesthetic she consents to shrug it on. It’s impossibly soft and warm and smooth. Stops a bit short on her thighs, but presumably that won’t get any complaints.

When she steps back out into the Third’s quarters, Gideon feels strangely vulnerable without her protective layer of filth. She smells like a stranger, and her fingertips and toes are wrinkled in a weird way that she assumes has to do with the bath bombs or maybe with how hard she was scrubbing. That, or she’s picked up some freaky skin disease from the Third’s bathtub. She hopes she’s not about to die or something.

Corona looks beyond delighted to see her emerge, ruddy and steaming, from the bathing chamber in her ludicrous little bathrobe. It’s a shame that it’s short on the leg coverage and heavy on the arm coverage, since Gideon’s legs are fucking awesome but not nearly as impressive as her guns. She wants to ask what Corona has planned for her now, but her stupid oath to Harrow stays her tongue. If all goes well, Coronabeth might have a better use for her tongue than words, anyway. So instead she stands there trying to look impressive rather than panicky and overstimulated.

“Come here,” Corona beckons with an elegant finger, her eyes glittering like shards of polished amethyst. Gideon’s pretty sure that Corona’s not using any necromantic tricks on her - she knows what that shit feels like by now, and it’s vastly unpleasant - but she follows her gesture as inexorably as if Corona were looping a leash of thanergy around her throat and dragging her closer. 

And then Coronabeth Tridentarius is touching her. Like, pretty much everywhere. “Hmmm, let’s see,” she murmurs thoughtfully as she palpates what feels like every trembling inch of Gideon’s being (apart from the good bits, but maybe this is what foreplay is? she’s heard of it, but her magazines usually skip straight to the main event). Instead of trying to think, Gideon focuses on feeling, which is much more in her wheelhouse.

Corona’s nimble fingers carding through her damp red locks (they could stand a trim), fingernails sending tingles through her scalp as they scratch gently against skin that’s never been touched in kindness before. Fingertips trailing down the strong line of her jaw, gently seizing her square chin and turning her face to every possible angle, her gaze as palpable as her fingers. Strong hands (how does the Princess of Ida have actual calluses on her fingers?) testing her muscles, examining her hands and paying particular attention to her fingernails (they could also stand a trim).

“You look good in my robe,” Corona announces, taking a step back and allowing Gideon to breathe for what feels like the first time since she set foot in her quarters. “Gold suits you.” She locks eyes with Gideon and quirks her lips into a subtle smirk. “Gold suits you very well.”

Gideon swallows hard, trying not to gulp audibly and concentrating on not sweating through her borrowed robe.

“Much better than black. Not that you look bad in black, mind you, but there are other colors that would be much more flattering for your lovely complexion.”

She takes Gideon by the hand and leads her over to an over-decorated table that Gideon observes is overflowing with cosmetics. “For example… Hmmm… Plum?” Corona holds up a tube of something that’s a deep, bruised purple, examining its contrast with Gideon’s skin. “Or perhaps mauve…”

Coronabeth is insatiable. Gideon is left exhausted. When she finally emerges from the Third House’s quarters (very much not laid), hours have passed and she feels as if she has run a marathon. Not from any outward exertion, but from the effort of holding still and keeping silent throughout the whole ordeal.

She is perhaps the most sexually frustrated she has ever been in her life, having never been touched by a woman (and what a woman!) so much before, or really at all before unless she counts herself or the shriveled crones of the Ninth.

She is also… well. Made over. Her hair has been combed and styled, and it reeks of hair gel almost as badly as Naberius Tern’s does on an average day. Her nails have been trimmed, filed, and buffed smooth before being painted a soft lilac and accented with shimmering gold. Her face has been rendered utterly unrecognizable; Harrowhark would likely envy the sheer amount of makeup on it if only it were in the design of a skull rather than whatever peacocky nonsense Coronabeth’s done to it. She is, at least, in her own black robes despite Coronabeth’s best efforts to get her to borrow some of Babs’s gaudy frippery.

She suspects she has, in fact, been fucked by the Third after all.

She slinks down the hall as stealthily as she can manage, thanking her lucky stars that her necro is probably half-dead in a bone or buried up to her pointy little goblin ears in ancient books or possibly both rather than being a normal, decent human being who might give a fuck where her cavalier has vanished off to for hours on end with one of her greatest rivals. She’s hoping that everyone else in Canaan House will be equally preoccupied and that she’ll be able to return to the safety of her chambers with her dignity at least partially intact when she rounds a corner and nearly faceplants directly into the solid mass of Camilla the Sixth.

Gideon draws herself up to her fullest and most imposing posture and tries to mask her humiliation as best she can. Camilla observes her cooly, but Gideon swears her fellow cav is just barely holding back a laugh. 

After a small but excruciating eternity in limbo, Camilla steps aside to let Gideon dart gratefully past. Camilla casts a few words over her shoulder as Gideon passes, and they follow her burning ears all the way down the hall and back to her quarters: “You look like hell, Nav.”

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

i caught the writing bug again, but all it's allowing me to do is write chapters of my long, overly emotional nsft beetlelands fic. so well... here's that, I guess. you can start HERE, for clarity's sake, or just jump in and have fun.

Waking up in bed with BJ has its perks. For one, she’s always wrapped up in a hug, which makes her feel loved, and special, and for another, he’s soft, and warm. Cuddling with him can be a cozy trap, however, because it does have the added effect of making it difficult for her to actually leave his bed. Once or twice, she manages, only to be gently caught around the stomach by an extra arm he’s sprouted from the mattress, and pulled back into laying against him, so he can kiss her good morning, before they both finally manage to extract themselves from the comfort of each other.

One morning, five months pregnant, she wakes up to her thighs clenching around something, and blinking sleep from her eyes, it takes her a moment to understand it’s his head, and that the fantastic sex dream she’d been having had some very real world causation behind it. She feels his long, inhuman tongue twirl around her clit, and then gently tug it, jerking her nub like a dick, and she responds with a low moan, before reaching down, below the sheets, and playing with his hair. She hears BJ growl, and then his voice in her ear. He’s explained that trick- he’s throwing his voice, to still be heard, as he continues lavishing her. “Too hard?” he asks, and she gives a sleepy, lustful sigh, and takes her time responding, just enjoying the attention. “Just right,” she tells him. She feels her body clench around nothing, in anticipation, and lets out a little whine. “I want…” Despite being a woman who has sex and is pregnant, asking for what she wants still flusters her. But both her partners know, by now. He lifts his head, lifting the sheet with it, and while she can’t see his smile, she hears it. She also knows him well enough to know he’s using his inhuman tongue to lick her slick from his chin. “I gotcha, Babs.” He comes crawling up, from under the sheet, until his sweet, unglamoured chubby face appears, and he kisses at her swollen stomach, and then up, to her chest, her neck, her shoulders, and then to her mouth. She can taste herself on his lips, which she finds disgusting in a way she likes. He’s rubbing off on her, apparently. “Good morning, mommy,” he grins, pulling away, and she grimaces, and pinches his left nipple, hard, which only makes him close his eyes and give a girlish moan of pleasure. “Ahh, babes, ya tease me so good.”

She wraps her arms around his shoulders as he kisses her again, and she runs her tongue along his sharp teeth, appreciating that he’s showing himself to her. He’s still nervous to do it, most of the time, but waking up to him like this is becoming more common. He reaches down, slicks himself in her, and pushes in. The stretch, by now, is familiar. He’d learned sex while pregnant is apparently helpful for the delivery, and that’s been his excuse for jumping her like a dog in heat, even though she’s done the reading, and knows it’s helpful the closer to the actual delivery date, which is still months away. But she can’t argue with how much she enjoys it. He pushes, further and further, until their hips are touching, her legs spread, his soft, fat stomach resting on top of her’s, and she moves her hands from around his shoulders, to rub at his gut. “My cuddle bug,” she sighs, softly, as he breaks away from their kiss to nibble at her neck, kissing over still fresh love bites, and making more. “I love your tummy. Just wanna squish it all the time.” When BJ lifts his head, she can see from his expression that she’s flustered him- not an easy feat. He can dirty talk like no one’s business, but she and Adam have caught on that it’s emotional sincerity that makes his pale face go a pretty shade of purple. They stay like that, him inside of her, her arms wrapped around him, a sweet little moment between them. She’s whispering words of love in his ears, and he’s going pink from the tips of his hair all the way down to his bush, presumably. Watching him flush like this is adorable, and it always makes her smile. Odd as it is to say, it feels romantic, to be connected like this, and be in no rush to do anything. She’s just enjoying his weight on her. He’s enjoying being as close to her as is physically possible. He rubs his cheek against her’s, which makes her giggle, a little, before he starts to move. It’s slow, and lazy, shallow little thrusts that make her huff and sigh. No big dramatic hip slamming, no headboards banging against the wall, it’s more like a sweet little good morning fuck. They don’t tend to be that loud in the Deetz house, anyway… There’s nothing more mortifying to her than the idea of being “caught” by his family, even though they’re all clearly aware that the three of them are physically together. BJ’s hand gently rubs at her visibly pregnant stomach. Yes, everyone is very aware.

“Babs,” BJ groans, softly, in her ear, and she responds by kissing the pointed tip of his ear back, turning her head to do so. “Beetlejuice,” she says, breathy, dreamy, so in love nothing else seems to make sense, and he groans again. His pace picks up a bit, and her hips rise to meet his, as best she can. His slow, gentle adoration of her is so romantic, something he’s not, usually, because he’s normally such a chaotic goofball, and she’s reveling in it, enjoying his unfiltered attention, and the little noises he’s making.

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the room.

BJ jumps like he’s been tased, and pulls out of her, spinning to look around, amber eyes darting from corner to corner of his bedroom. Barbara huffs, face red, peak that had been approaching left annoyingly unresolved. “Hey, get back in here,” she teases, pressing her foot to his chest, and he turns to look back at her. She doesn’t miss the way the pink at the tips of his hair has gone purple, but she doesn’t know what the color means. Pink is love, red is angry, and green is default. She’s not seen purple on him, before. “BJ?” she asks, concerned. He grabs her ankle and kisses at her foot. She squeals and involuntarily kicks, both at the feeling of scruff at her feet, and how gross that is. “Sorry, mommy,” he smiles, with those big shark teeth on display, and she reaches out her arms to him. He falls into them, and they resume, but he seems distracted in a way he wasn’t, before. At least she reaches her peak, whimpering into his shoulder as she clenches around him, and he responds in kind, emptying into her in a way that makes her feel dirty and satisfied. read in full right here

[liamloveslarry]

Baker! Harry & Primary School Teacher! Louis

so, a couple of weeks ago i made a little post about how i’d love for people to send me prompts/writing ideas and the lovely @louistsbravery sent me one based off her moodboard she so kindly made, here!

my brain kind of ran away with me and so i hope you like this, i tried to stick to the theme as best i could, enjoy! :)

Harry eyes the man from behind the counter. 

He watches him as his eyes scan the board above from where he’s standing, sleepy blue orbs blinking tiredly behind the square glasses perched upon his nose. 

His heart thumps something fierce when he notices the tufts of brown hair sticking out slightly from behind his ear, a noticeable trait he assumes from lack of sleep and too many early mornings.

It’s 6 o’clock in the morning and the sun is barely edging over cobbled streets and tall buildings, its shimmering waves casting a pale glow over puddles on the pavement and bouncing off lampposts. 

‘Babs Bakery’ is nestled between a small row of shops along the Northern Quarter. Its quaint, rustic exterior leads itself into a small tea room and peaceful eating area. Potted plants line the windowsill outside while the smell of fresh baked scones and coffee beans pulse and weave through the air, an atmosphere Harry’s prone to taking naps in.

He’s been here for about a year now, taking over from his Nana when she’d gotten too old to carry on the business, but he hadn’t changed a thing. It might be slightly old fashioned but it reminds him of his grandparents and how he used to sit at the table in the corner by the window with his colouring book and jumbo crayons, while being served hot vimto and iced fingers.

A small cough nudges Harry from his stupor and he blinks, realising he’s been staring. The man is smiling slightly, the last traces of sleep pull at his lips as he lifts his hand to cover his mouth while he lets out a yawn.

“Morning.” He says, his Northern twang is raspy and gentle, a higher pitched lilt whispering through words.

Harry wipes his clammy hands on his apron and steps forward, fingertips drumming along the counters edge. He can see the man’s wearing a light blue button up underneath a soft, grey jumper. Pale pink tie burrowed in between. A shoulder bag is situated over his left arm and there are textbooks, papers and pens bursting through the zip.

“Hey. G’morning.” He replies, fingers aching to touch him. “Find anything you like?”

The man squints one more time at the blackboard, eyes moving over loopy words and today’s specials.

“I think,” he says, dragging out the ‘I’. Harry finds it that endearing he has to grip the countertop and remind himself to keep breathing. “I think I’m gonna go for a latte and a cheese and ham toastie, please. Is that alright?” 

Harry nods and reaches for a paper cup. “Is that to go or stay in?” He asks.

“To go, please. Need to make sure I get to work before the little monsters. If I time it right, the caffeine rush lasts all day.” The man responds, smirking a little. “I swear I love my job, but sometimes they can be a handful.”

Harry nods and spins on the spot, turning the face the coffee machine and placing the cup underneath the metal nozzle. There’s a spurt and a groan before hot milk starts to pour into the cup.

“Am I right in assuming you’re talking about children, not animals, right?”

The man laughs and Harry blinks up towards the ceiling, whispering a quiet ‘fuck’ as his knees buckle. 

“Yep! Early years. I work at the Primary School just down the road. The only animal I have is Eden here, and she’s still asleep the lucky buggar.”

“Eden?” Harry asks, as he places the cheese and meat on top of the bread baked only this morning, crumbing bits of pepper on top and drizzling balsamic vinegar over the sharp cheddar. 

He places it into the small oven and turns the timer on.

“Yeah, heh. Sorry. She’s my pet rabbit and the kids go crazy when I bring her in. I hope you don’t mind me bringing her in here? She’s in her carrier so she can’t escape.” Louis looks sheepish, and he rubs the back of his neck while he flicks his eyes up to meet Harry’s; but the look is quickly dissolved when Harry dashes around the counter and asks if he can see her.

Louis nods and steps aside, giving view to the medium sized carrier sat next to his feet.

Harry crouches and sees through the bars, a small golden rabbit, tufts of white fur peeking through the strands. Her nose twitches in sleep and her soft whiskers brush Harry’s fingertips lightly where he’s resting against the metal bars. 

“Oh my, she’s so cute.” He whispers, not wanting to wake the sleeping animal. 

He peers up at the man from where he’s situated on the floor and realises he’s eye level with the fly of his work pants. He flushes and bends his knees, standing up. 

This only makes things worse as he’s now directly facing him, no counter in between their bodies. If Harry were to inch his fingers out, he’d feel just how soft his jumper is. He flexes his knuckles and reminds himself not to think about if his skin is as soft as his voice.

He coughs into his fist and steps back.

“Sorry – uh. I just love animals. And I don’t mind them in the shop,” he nods his head to where a small tank rests next to the till. “I have one of my own to keep me company, too.”

A plump goldfish swims happily from rock to rock, bobbing his tiny mouth as he scoops up the remaining pieces of fish food Harry had sprinkled in earlier.

Louis spins to face the tiny morsel, but only after his eyes drop down to where Harry’s biting his lip, a small bridge of pink scattered over his nose and cheeks.

“Nice.” He says, smiling at Harry once more. “What’s its name?” 

Harry walks back around the counter and scoops the cup from underneath the machine and presses the button on the timer, stopping the chirps that are signalling the food is ready. 

He places the items down in front of the man and bends to rest his elbows on the counter, reaching one finger out to follow the fish through the glass.

“Phillip.” He huffs, the sound sculpting into an embarrassed laugh. 

Louis looks at him with his eyebrows raised, a small grin quirking his lips.

Harry groans quietly and rolls his eyes.

“Please don’t ask – my niece named him and I couldn’t say no.”

Louis laughs and reaches a hand into his pants pocket, pulling out his wallet and sliding his card out of the slot. 

“Mate, you don’t need to explain anything to me.” He says. “I deal with 15 of them on a daily basis, why d’ya think I bought a bloody bunny?” 

He smirks as he places the card into the reader and enters his pin, and Harry stares at the way the sun is peeking its way in through the windows, causing the man’s hair to shine, highlighting his cheekbones and lightly freckled skin.

He stands there for another couple of seconds before the reader beeps and he pulls his card out. 

“Cool, well - I think that’s me.” The man says, slipping his wallet back into his pocket and gathering the items in his hands. “I guess I’ll see you around, uh?” he looks a little expectantly at Harry and smiles, a tiny quirk of his top lip.

“Harry.”

“Louis,” he replies. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around then, Harry.” 

Harry manages a wave before the man is out the door, smiling at him through the window one last time before he disappears down the street.

-

It isn’t until Harry’s shutting up shop and wiping down the counters that he spots a small folded piece of paper, wedged in underneath the till.

He frowns and drops the cloth, peeling open the sharp edges until scrawled black writing looks back at him, reading:

“Nice Buns!” 

Harry stares at the letters and the scribbly, rushed image of two iced buns smiling and feels a flush work its way from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes.

The thing is, is that Harry doesn’t know who could’ve done this. 

The bakery’s been busy non-stop all day and plenty of customers have been in and out over the last eight or so hours, and so he’s confused as to who left him the note.

He pockets the piece of paper and picks up his cloth, continuing to clean.

This time with a small smile etched onto his face.

-

The notes keep appearing after that. 

Once a day, in the same spot as before. 

Usually, Harry only notices them at the end of his shift, treating them as little surprises after his busy schedule.

Some days there are short sentences, wishing him a good day, and other days there are lyrics from songs that make him smile, every now and then there’s a cheeky one liner that makes him blush.

There’s a small glass jar that sits beside the toaster where he keeps them, day in, day out, the glass gets fuller. Sometimes Harry, after a bad day, will twist the top off and read through them one by one, curling up on the chair by the window and instantly feeling the stress of the day melt from his shoulders, sated happiness washing over him.

He hasn’t yet managed to find the person on the other end of the notes, always too busy to stop and look. And anyway, what would he say if he found out? Yes? Maybe? ‘No Jonathan, if this is you, I’m not into threesomes so stop asking me?’

He kind of likes there being an air of mysteriousness to them. 

But he guesses, it wouldn’t be so bad if it turned out to be a certain someone, now would it?

-

It’s after an unusually busy day that has Harry rushing around on his feet and trying to serve a long line of customers that seems never ending, flour dusted through his hair and balancing both dishing out food and cleaning up after people, that come 5 o’clock, he’s exhausted and practically dead on his feet.

He slumps against the counter and rests his head down between his shoulder blades, having a minute to himself and heaving a big sigh, when he hears the telltale sign of footsteps approaching him, shuffling he thinks, a little slowly.

“Hey.”

He whips his head up and sees Louis. 

His hair is a mess and there’s a line of purple felt tip staining his cheek. His tie is skewed and the top button of his shirt is undone, Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallows, lightly dusted with midnight scruff. 

“Sorry, I know you’re uh-technically closing soon,” he says, “I just wanted to pop in really quick for one of those chocolate chip muffins? My sister’s coming up for a few days and I need something sweet to get me through, long day ‘n all. Which I’m sure you can relate to.”

Harry huffs a laugh and nods his head, turning to face the cabinet full of pastries and frowns when he realises there aren’t any in there. He closes his eyes and sighs.

“Ah, sorry. It looks like we’re out, I have a fresh batch of blueberry in the back if that’s okay?”

Louis nods and smiles and Harry wanders into the back, letting the smell of bread and cookies sprinkle over him as he pulls out one of the trays and picks a particularly plump muffin, bouncy slightly in texture.

He finds Louis in the same spot as he was before, only this time he’s rubbing his eye with his fist, looking even more tired than when he first padded in. 

He waves the muffin at Louis who grins in response, arm falling back to his side and walking closer to the counter.

“Let me just wrap this up for you.” Harry says, and places the muffin in a small decorative box, closing the lid and taping it with a sticker.

When Louis’ walking towards the door a couple of minutes later, he looks over his shoulder and says,

“You might wanna check something over there,” nodding his head to a small counter display full of flapjacks, where a piece of paper looks to be slotted in between, sticking up as if waiting to be plucked, “looks like you missed something.”

And then with one last smile that’s bordering on slightly nervous, he’s gone.

-

Ten seconds later when Harry unpicks the paper, the words ‘you bake me crazy, wanna grab a drink sometime?’ look back at him.

He thinks back to the other day and presses his lips together, suppressing a smile and biting his lip.

He knows just what to say.

-

And then, three years later when he stares down at the ring and card with two pieces of bread on the front and reads, ‘I loaf you very much, shall we grow mould together?’

And he looks into teary blue eyes.

He knows just what to say then too.

[writing-of-a-british-bitch]

Home

Fandom: Queen/ Bohemian Rhapsody

Specified gender: Female

Pairing: John Deacon X reader ( can be read as Joe Mazzello! John Deacon)

TW: Swearing. I think that's it???

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.2K

Requests: Closed

Three long gruelling years had passed since you'd last seen your husband. Being away from him for so long had partially broken you both, and with few permitted phone calls, there had been many tears. Deaky had written countless letters and a large majority of them contained wet blotches. A few letters had been sent from your friends, AKA, Deaky's bandmates. They constantly ranted about how much they missed you and how much of a bitch your husband had been in your absence. So when your overseas service came to an end and you had to return home, the boys were overjoyed, already planning on a way to surprise the bassist.

And there you were, waiting outside the airport, hands placed behind your back neatly. It was automatic, after three years plus an extra year of training. Eyes peered at you from every angle. Some were disproving, others shone with admiration and a few shot glares at you. A woman in the military wasn't insanely common but was heavily frowned upon. That's why you were so grateful for your kind, loving, accepting and supporting the husband. He never judged you. He only wanted you to be happy. Deaky had stressed this over and over in every letter along with his concern for your safety. You couldn't wait to see him.

"Why are you being such a dick, Deaky?" Roger huffed, carding a hand into his blonde locks. Deaky shot Roger an infuriated glare, shoving his bass to its stand.

"Because Freddie's stormed off, meaning we're not going to get anything done, you're constantly messing around, Paul keeps messing with our equipment and it's my fucking anniversary with my wife and I don't even get to see her!" Deaky snapped harshly, looking to the ceiling to stop frustrated tears from leaking from his eyes.

"And that's my fault?" Roger bellowed, anger feeding on his previous annoyance.

"Roger, calm down. Deaks, I know you miss (Y/N), we all do, but you can't lash out every time something goes wrong. Here, come help me with this riff. It'll distract you from Roger." Brian sighed, bored of the constant friction from the otherwise calm bassist. Deaky growled under his breath before stomping over to Brian, who was sitting on the drum risers. Paul stood against the wall, a smug smile on his lips. Seeing the band falling apart without Freddie was a joy to him. He just didn't know that Freddie hadn't truly stormed out.

"(Y/N), darling!" Freddie was running at you, arms outstretched widely, the door to his car left flung open. Before you could even react, two arms had enveloped you, strapping your arms to your sides, knocking your uniform askew.

"It's good to see you, Fred. I missed you so much." You giggled, worming your arms out of his vice-like grip to wrap your own around him

"I missed you so terribly, dear! It's been so boring without you! Deaky has been such an ass. And don't even start me on Roger. Bri is so indecisive with lyrics and shit, it's unbelievable. They're-" Freddie ranted and you pressed a finger to his lips.

"Hush, you've got forever to talk about your bandmates, let me at least see my husband before you begin your bitching." You teased, pulling back from the singer to readjust your uniform, quickly running a sleeve over the medal adorning the pocket of your uniform jacket.

"Sorry, darling. Christ, you look amazing. I could never have done what you have. I'm so incredibly proud of you." Freddie's eyes turned soft as he truly took in your outfit and features. A gentle smile grew on your face as you placed a quick kiss to his cheek before you tapped his nose.

"C'mon let's get to the studio. I'm dying to see my boys."

"Deaks, I know you're upset about (Y/N) but-"

"Oh really? You know I'm upset about (Y/N)? You have no idea what it's like, having her away from me, especially because of what she's doing right now! You have no idea what it's like to go to bed, having no idea when or if your wife is ever coming home!  You don't know what it's like to be scared every day that you'll get a letter saying your wife is fucking dead!"Deaky had thrown himself onto the couch, bass gripped in his fingers, aggressively playing a riff.

"Deaky..." Roger muttered sadly, resulting in Paul rolling his eyes as he put out his cigarette.

"If it makes you feel any better, (Y/N) said she sent you something for your anniversary" Brian offered awkwardly but the bassist to stand up so abruptly that Brian had to take a few steps backwards.

"When did she tell you?" Deaky asked, his anger dissipating entirely.

"In her last letter a few days. She said it should hopefully be here sometime today." Brian could hardly surpass a grin, that swiftly faded upon the next line said in the room.

"Don't get your hopes up. Most packages from over there are either lost or stolen." Paul remarked, finding amusement in the way Roger's head snapped in his direction.

"It'll come. I have no doubt." Roger shot back with narrowed eyes.

"How many girls have you said that to, Roger?" Paul commented and jumped back as Roger shot from his seat, only to get held back by Brian and Deaky.

"Roger, cut it out!" Brian hissed, tugging his friend back so he fell back into his and Deaky's grip.

"Paul, this might be a good time for you to take your leave," Deaky warned, glaring daggers at Freddie's pet.

"Don't feel like it," Paul smirked, watching with a smile as Deaky's faced twitch before he got distracted by Roger who tried to lunge again.

"Darlings I have- What on Earth is going on now?" Freddie raised an eyebrow as he waltzed into the room, his jacket folded over his shoulder. The three boys had their backs to the door, so none of them saw you trailing behind the flamboyant man, though two of them knew you'd be there. Paul didn't care enough to pay attention to your presence.

"Your drummer needs to be placed on a leash, Freddie." Paul declared. Brian, Roger and Deaky all narrowed their eyes, and Brian and Deaky were so tempted to set Roger free.

"If you say so, dear. Deaks, I have a gift for you!" Freddie quickly brushed Paul off, grinning widely. Deaky raised an eyebrow, glancing at his other two bandmates, who mimicked Freddie's grin, before hesitantly letting go of the drummer.

Tears immediately sprung to his eyes as he saw you, partially hidden behind Freddie.

"Hey, Deaks." You choked up, your own eyes glazing over, but before you could say anything else, Deaky had already rushed over to you, smashing his lips onto yours. It was hungry, needy and desperate all at once, his hands holding your face, running his fingers over your cheeks as if you would disappear at any moment. You couldn't hear teasing comments and the fake cheering from the boys. All you could focus on was Deaky. The way his lips moulded perfectly with yours. How warm he was. How carefully he touched you. How much he smelt like home.

This was home.

Tags: @writingfortoomanyfandoms @queens-n-roses@yourealegendfred @fierce-bab @dusthas-beenbitten@silvver-rose @benhardyjones @bensroger

[ladykakata]

I go off on GOT

[NOTE: I keep trying to add the Jon-Sansa hug GIFS but Tumblr REFUSES to let me save or post with them. It’s fucking annoying]

*Rubs face*

Auntie LK is annoyed and she is going to take it out on y’all. I’m gunna go ahead and go off on Sansa hate, Jonsa, Dark Sansa and all that shit so hang onto your assholes.

SO. The new promos. There’s been the idea for a long time, since S6 really, of the idea of Sansa plain murdering Jon or Jonsa becoming canon since, well, Jon and Sansa are now maternal cousins rather than agnate siblings (as in, siblings with the same father but different mother).

S6 had Sansa and Jon reunite for the first time since S1. A lot of heavy shit has happened, some of it they share (like losing their father and brother Robb, Winterfell getting a bad squid infection via Theon being a little bitch) but also stuff they didn’t share (an absolute battering and rape for Sansa, literally being stabbed to literal death for Jon). For Jon, who just came back from the motherfuckin’ dead 10 minutes ago and decided he had enough of this shit he’s out, this is pure shock.

For Sansa? This is pure RELIEF. Remember, Jon is the FIRST family member she has seen since the death of Ned. She hasn’t seen her mother (who is dead GOOD LAWL god I hate her), her eldest brother, her brat little sister, or her two littlest brothers since either leaving Winterfell or since Ned’s beheading. Not only that, he’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch as far as she knows, so he’s in a position of power that is untouched by machinations of the South. Who is in power? Who cares. The Night’s Watch doesn’t deal with that shit and Cersei can’t follow her up here. And if Ramsey decides to give chase, it’s more than Jon to fight back.

Look at the hug. She almost cries, listen to the shuddery inhale of breath as she fights that back, she practically falls into him, and once they hug she looks for comfort and support. For Sansa, this is absolute relief. Her ordeal, for the moment, is over. She escaped Ramsey, the rape, the torture. She survived the snow, the river, the chase and being hunted. And now she is safe in the arms of her older brother.

For Jon, he is absolutely stunned to see her. For as much as they didn’t really get along, she’s still his sister, and he said goodbye to his family in Winterfell years ago. Only Benjen went to the Wall, and he disappeared, so Sansa is the first he’s seen in a long time. Hell, Jon almost ran to join Robb in his rebellion, and only just resisted and came back.

Family came for Jon after his resurrection.

After this comes a really important talk. Sansa and Jon’s relationship was never really touched on; Jon and Robb hugged and treated each other as peer-brothers (and it’s fucking CUTE I would CUT SOMEONE to see more bro Jon and Robb!!), Jon and Arya were cute-as-buttons older brother/pint-sized sister, and Jon cared so much about Bran that he bore Catlyn’s cunty comments in order to say goodbye. The only two not explored were Sansa and Rickon. It’s really important to note that Sansa took after Cat. And that meant absorbing her loathing of Jon, something that is talked about. Sansa gets to brass tacks about it:

Sansa : I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could change everything. Jon: We were children. Sansa : I was awful, just admit it. Jon : ( chuckles ) You were occasionally awful. I'm sure I can't have been great fun. Always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played. Sansa : Can you forgive me? Jon : There's nothing to forgive. Sansa : Forgive me. Jon : All right. All right, I forgive you.

Sansa knows she was wrong, wants to make it right, and does not allow Jon to sweep it away. She is determined to make sure he knows she knows she was wrong. It can be interpreted that she wants to secure his forgiveness and is in fact ordering it out of him, but I don’t see it that way. She knows she fucked up, and she wants to make it right. The following conversation re-enforces the fact they’re family. Jon even says ‘ If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me’ (I’d pay good money to see Ned come back and give Jon a bollocking actually). Sansa brings up Winterfell, enforces it’s THEIR home and it’s for their family. She wants the Boltons out, but Jon came back from the dead 10 minutes ago and has Had Enough Of This Shit And Is Very Tired. Sansa lets it go temporarily.

Throughout the ep, and into the next, the idea is enforced that Jon and Sansa are brother and sister, and that Jon is Ned's son. Sure, currently that's kinda funny considering he isn't by blood, but the sentiment is true; Jon is every inch Ned's boy, and Sansa clearly feels safe with him, she even says so to Brienne:

Sansa : Jon isn't Davos, the Red Woman or Stannis for that matter.Jon is Jon.He's my brother.He'll keep me safe. I trust him.

Here is a thing I think a lot of people are missing. Yes, Sansa trusts Jon. She says it herself. But why, as Brienne countered, did she not tell Jon about the Knights of the Vale? Why did she outright counter Jon publicly? Why not wait?

The thing is, Jon is Ned's son. AND NED STARK IS FUCKING SHIT AT KEEPING SECRETS. Ned Stark is honourable to a FAULT, it's what got him Mcfreakin' killed. Jon is the Starkiest Stark that ever Starked, and Sansa KNOWS that letting him in on critical plans is a bad fucking idea. She's already learned from Pety 'I would honestly tongue a cat's asshole for fun' Baelish that one never shows all one's cards. But sharing a card with someone as upright and see-through as Jon? Might as well cut your own throat and be done with it.

Why publicly confront him? I never believed for a second that Sansa was displeased at Jon's sudden elevation to King in the North. When it was announced, he was stunned, and to me it looked like he was looking to Sansa to see if a) it was real, and b) wtf Sansa what do I do.

He's been suddenly promoted before, but the Night's Watch was different, and perhaps he's having flashbacks as to how THAT went. Hell, everyone was pissed before Lyanna Mormont straightened her big girl knickers and said 'Listen up you lil shits Jon is good King Jon 303AC 4lyf'. This is all good for Sansa. She has Winterfell back, Ramsey Bolton is more than dead, Jon has the support of the Northern lords firmly when they told them to eat a dick not too long ago. Everything feels great. Plus, in the North, she doesn’t have to deal with backstabbing political shit.

And then she remembers Littlefinger is there.

Oh fuckbastards.

What to do? While it looks like Littlefinger is getting to her, it’s VERY important to note that, despite being King In Da Norf, Jon is still as humble as ever. Before that, when Winterfell was first reclaimed, Jon noted that Ned and Cat’s room was prepared for Sansa.

Jon : I’m having the lord’s chamber prepared for you. Sansa : Mother and Father’s room? You should take it. Jon : I’m not a Stark. Sansa : You are to me.

Damn right he is, Sansa. Jon mentions they need to trust each other more and kisses her forehead. I think this, after the conversation about Littlefinger, really planted it in Sansa’s mind she’s got to protect Jon from this bastard. Jon can fight the physical and commend men no problem, but psychological shit he has issues with. Hell, Sansa told him outright not to fall for Ramsey’s shit in BOTB and he did anyway. There’s a gulf in Sansa’s Southern-trained psychological way of things and Jon’s straightforward hit-it-until-it-stops Northern mind. Both have had their ways beaten into them, so they can’t unlearn, but also can’t see the other’s view.

Okay okay okay. where is Auntie LK going with this? From what I see, Sansa was publicly denouncing Jon’s plans BUT doing so to keep him safe. The plan to give the Last Hearth and Karhold to loyal Lords? That’s a Southern tactic AND good sense. HOWEVER ... in this instance, Jon was right. The important think to note that both holds HAVE a new Lord and Lady waiting for them. And they are children.

These babs!

If anyone knows about a child having to bear the supposed sins of their parents, it’s Jon. He felt the weight of Ned’s supposed infidelity, even if it was absolutely no fault of their own. These children are terrified, Alys visibly swallows and tries to breathe properly. Hell, it’s scary when Sansa was all for taking their homes and Jon mentioned executing people, they probably worried they were next. However, Jon simply asks for allegiance. And that was a wise call; the idea of redistributing at first got a high then got a mixed to low response, given the chatter in the room and Davos looking down.

Don't for a second think I'm shitting on Sansa. From her point of view, this absolutely makes sense; if people stab you in the back, GITFO bitch. But that Southern way of thinking just will not work as well in the more traditional North. In this instance, Jon was in the right, and it's understandable how he is frustrated with Sansa openly challenging him. I think Sansa was trying to shore up any potential future betrayal, and simply didn't make the right calculation. She looks at Littlefinger in this scene, who likes the argument.

In this instance, Jon is right. These are children, and he rules like a good King; with a firm but gentle hand. He makes these kids feel like important grown-ups, spares them, and gives them this sense of awe and majesty. If Daenerys rules with terror and awe with her dragons, and a kind heart for the underdog, Jon wants to rule with practical kindness. They thought they were going to lose their homes, or even their heads, given that Sansa mentioned taking away their Holds and Jon mentioned executing people. Instead, King Jon asked for their word, and they gave it.

Look at what happens after; Jon tells Sansa to stop openly undermining him, Sansa points out that she should give advice and compliments his leadership skills. She tries to get him to see she has advice worth listening to, and he is clearly frustrated and tries to walk away, but she will not let him. To the point of GRABBING him.

She will not let Jon walk away from this. He tries to walk, but she physically makes him stop, and emphasises what she is trying to get through to him:

Sansa : You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I loved them, I miss them, but they made stupid mistakes, and they both lost their heads for it.

To me, this clearly says one thing; Jon, for the love of fucking Old Gods and New Improved Ones, I am trying to keep you safe. She can’t outright say ‘Littlefinger wants to park his thirsty asshole on the Iron Throne and wants me on his lap because I remind him of my mother and he is willing to slaughter you like a sheep to get it’, Jon can’t be trusted with that sort of info. She wants to publicly make it look like she’s plotting against Jon in Littlefinger’s eyes ... but at the same time, make sure that her public outbursts aren’t ACTUALLY damaging her relationship with him. He is too precious. She needs him, and his abilities, but also needs to string Littlefinger along to ensure he doesn’t do something without sharing it with her first. She was dead set against Jon going South. That’s where Cersei can get her mitts on him, that’s walking into the mouth of the dragon and hoping it doesn’t eat him. The only positive for this was suddenly getting Bran and Arya back; she outright hugs Bran, her little brother who was in a coma when she left Winterfell, and even Arya gets a hug despite the pair being the most antagonistic towards each other.

Now. Arya and Sansa had issues. They had issues before Littlefinger littlefingered all over the place. Arya, despite her Southern training, is pretty much a hardcore Northerner, and seeing Sansa’s betrayal letters would have set her off and Littlefinger was banking on that. But when you have a family that TALKS, that has a legit psychic on staff to divine the truth (and Arya literally heard Bran recite the truth), that plan falls up the asshole. Did Sansa truly plan to ever murder Arya, and vice-versa? Honestly, who hasn’t entertained thoughts of murdering their annoying sibling, especially if one thinks the other has fallen to the Dark Side. However, Sansa and in a way Arya’s arcs have been about family. Only family can be trusted. Family will be there when you need them. Family will keep their word and protect you. For Sansa, this is in Stark (heh) contrast to the Lannisters and Baratheons, whom she was so eager to join as true Lords and Ladies. The Lannisters are at each other’s throats when not fucking each other, and the Baratheons tore themselves apart with infighting and backstabbing (and vagina shadowmonsters). The Starks bicker, but they have each other.

If Sansa wanted Jon dead or out of the picture, she wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of making him a cloak that is very similar to Ned Starks’ own. The man she literally saw beheaded in front of her.

Sansa : I made it like the one Father used to wear. As near as I can remember.

Sansa near panics when Jon decides to ride for Dragonstone, she keeps glancing to her right, either in Littlefinger’s direction or directly at him. All the Lords don’t want Jon to go, even his most hardcore supporter Lady Mormont, and Sansa is dead against it. Even when Jon names her Wardeness of the North in his absence, she is still wearing a face of panic.

Me? In charge? Oh. Uh.

Does Sansa enjoy being in power? Who doesn’t. Do I anticipate trouble when Jon returns? If he returned himself, I think the transition would have been smooth. Jon will be impressed by how well Sansa is preparing the north, and she will pretty much still be Wardeness while he is King; think of Sansa as the Prime Minister that gets shit done while Jon is the figurehead and commands the armies and does power deals. The addition of Daenerys is a biiiiiiig complication, especially with Jon boatsexin’ her all the way.

Which brings us to the hug. While I do believe Sansa is relieved to see him back alive, the arrival of Dany is a complication and now she has someone she needs to suss out and see if this person is a threat to her or the newly reunited Starks.

Do I think a Starkbowl is coming? Hell to the fucking no. The ENTIRE POINT of Sansa’s arc is that FAMILY CAN BE TRUSTED, FAMILY IS THERE TO PROTECT YOU. The biggest point for her is that Daenerys is not family. She’s Jon’s girlfriend for the moment, sure, but not family. She’s Essosi-minded, she’s not a Northerner for fucking sure. At this point, the issue will be the outing of Jon’s heritage.

But what does that really mean? Sure, Ned isn’t his blood father. But Ned raised him, he was raised with all the Starks as a sibling. Cunty Cat made him feel lesser, but everyone still treated him like a brother. Even Sansa. Everyone is zero’ing in on the father aspect, but A STARK IS HIS MOTHER. HE STILL HAS STARK HERITAGE. As Lady Mormont rightfully pointed out, ‘He has Ned Stark’s blood in his veins’. And he does; Ned and Lyanna are full-blooded siblings, and share the same wolf blood.

I hoep to hope, and I think it will happen, that Sansa will silently recalculate what the news will mean when others react, but as far as she and most certainly Bran and Arya are concerned, Jon is still their big brother. The big brother that said goodbye before Winterfell despite the coma, the brother that came to take back Winterfell despite the Bolton’s vile threats, the brother that choke-slammed a snake for wanting to bang them because they reminded them of their mother, the brother that rode out to save his little Rickon despite the odds, the brother that gifted them Needle, the brother that was willing to overlook past nastiness.

Jon Snow, the King in the North, the blood of Ned, the White Wolf ... he is their brother, and always will be. The gold/silver of Targaryen yielded to the coal of Stark, and Jon is the fucking Starkiest Stark that ever Starked.

Sansa is not going to backstab her brother. Fuck outta here with that shit.

LK out.

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

also on ff.net and ao3

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin and whoever else asks me.

Killian

Killian had the entire bus ride out to the wilds of Musselburgh to get a grip on his anger. A whole forty minutes to compose his thoughts, an hour if you factored in having to stop home to change. A leather jacket wasn’t going to cut it with this crowd.

It was Ladies Day at the races.

The one day a year when the movers and shakers of South Eastern Scotland congregated to blag their way through a succession of conversations about horse racing as if they had any clue. Anything to impress the boss, or seal that deal. The place was fit to bursting with moneyed types and semi-famous faces. People he’d shaken hands with at various luncheons and dinners, and other pretentious press events masquerading as dining opportunities.

He never grew used to it. It didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d welcomed Elsa and her not-inconsiderable trust fund into the family, or lived in that veritable mansion on East Castle Road. When it came to mingling with the blue bloods, Killian always came out of the encounter feeling like some kind of Dickensian orphan, who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong part of town.

There was a clear distinction in this crowd, between the girls in their frocks and fascinators sipping champagne on the grass, and the shifty-eyed types sitting in the stands, betting slips clutched tight in grubby fists.

Killian knew the type well. The kind who still thought his losses could be recovered, if only he chose the right horse. The right name. Wore the right socks, and said the right prayers. They were the usual faces, who’d shown up despite the pomp and inflated prices at the gate. That might divert the usual punter to a betting shop on Clerk Street, but not these diehards. They wouldn’t let a small thing like that stand between them and the ponies. They were also probably the only ones in attendance who’d actually bothered to read the form guide beforehand.

For now, the weather was holding, but Killian predicted there might be something of something of an exodus, sooner or later. Dark clouds were unfurling on the horizon, and he didn’t think those women in their strappy high heels stood much of a chance when the deluge arrived. It would be a quagmire.

He was almost tempted to stick around long enough to enjoy the spectacle, but that wasn’t his primary goal. He had another, less entertaining focus for his attentions.

Malcolm Weaver.

He was, as Killian suspected he would be, right in the thick of things. It was his laugh that first gave him away, the oily artifice of it audible from twenty paces. The face, when it came into view, merely drove that impression home. This was not a man content to age gracefully. Instead, Weaver seemed to be doing everything in his power to keep the years at bay, his hair plugs and unmoving forehead a testament to his vanity.

Killian caught the moment Weaver clapped eyes on him, his dentist white smile dimming mid-anecdote before he had a chance to recover himself.

Killian swiped a champagne flute from a passing tray and took a sip as he watched Weaver excuse himself from his conversation. But before he could speak, a third party appeared from Killian’s left, two meaty fists grabbing him roughly by the lapels of his borrowed suit jacket.

Of course. A lackey. Every wannabe gangster’s favourite spring accessory.

“You might’ve bought me a dinner first,” Killian cracked, as the man relieved him of his champagne, and started in on a none-too-gentle pat down. When he got to the prosthetic he hesitated, but Weaver just waved him away.

“Even Killian Jones isn’t stupid enough to impale me on his own hook in front of twelve MSPs and the Chief Constable. Leave us.”

The goon did as instructed, slipping into the crowd scarily easily for a man approximately the size and weight of a mountain gorilla.

“Friendly chap,” Killian commented idly, smoothing down his jacket from where it had been crumpled in the man’s grasp. He was missing a button, he noticed. There’d be hell to pay for that later.

“Felix? He’s a good lad. Very… effective,” Weaver finished, drinking down the last of his own champagne. “I take it this is about the money.”

“Aye, it’s about the fucking money.”

“I’ve been expecting you to come beating down my door for months now, or has the elder brother Jones become better at hiding his dirty laundry than he used to be?” Weaver mused, indicating to a passing waitress for a refill.

“You should’ve turned him away,” Killian ground out, with something approaching a snarl. “You should’ve left him alone.”

“Left him alone? Dear boy, he’s the one that came to me. All I did was help out an old friend.”

“Help?” Killian practically spat the word. “By charging him, what? Forty percent interest? Fifty?”

“Well, I am a businessman,” Weaver replied, accepting his refreshed beverage with a sly grin and a wink in the server’s direction.

“You’re a snake,” Killian corrected. “A slimy, nouveau-riche bastard so terrified of your own mortality you’ve turned yourself into a human Ken doll.”

Weaver’s answering smile was venomous, white teeth flashing as his lips strained against his frozen facial muscles. “Well,” he said, making eye contact with someone behind Killian’s shoulder, “so much for pleasantries. At least I’m not a one-handed man with a drinking problem.”

The blow came out of nowhere, a fat fist square to the eye socket.

“Bloody hell!” Killian staggered backwards, hand clutched to his face as it exploded with pain.

Somewhere from outside of his haze of his agony, he could hear the sound of Weaver’s voice close by, cold and menacing. “Try to interfere in my business again, and you’ll lose that other hand. And do tell your brother I said hello.”

It can’t be that bad. ES

-KJ has sent you an image file-

I stand corrected. He got you good. And he’s what? A source? ES

Something like that. KJ

Might be time to re-evaluate that relationship… ES

I concur. KJ

Pint? ES

Please. KJ

“So?”

Emma took a few steps back to survey her work, a deep crinkle settling between her eyebrows.

Killian sighed, reaching for his pint glass. “I knew it. He knocked the handsome out of me.”

Emma snorted, twisting the cap back onto her concealer with an involuntary smile. “The concealer helps,” she admitted. “But there’s not a lot I can do about the swelling. My advice? Frozen peas. And if you have to show your face in public? Aviators.”

Killian thought of the pair she’d worn the week before, as they’d sat out in the Meadows after her latest 5k torture session, and wondered how much of this advice might stem from experience. How many of those light, precise touches she’d used to disguise the worst of his injury she’d already perfected in the mirror.

He wasn’t oblivious to the reputation of the foster system where Emma had grown up. She certainly didn’t seem to have too many positive things to say about the experience. He’d only had to endure being in care for a few years. She’d been raised by a revolving door of strangers from infancy.  

The way her hand had shaken as she grazed the worst of his bruises-

Clearing his throat, Killian turned his attention to the front of the bar, where the storm he’d predicted earlier now lashed against the windows with a steady ferocity. It hurt to raise an eyebrow, but still, he managed it.

“Or maybe a cool cover story?” Emma suggested smoothly. “Apprehended a purse thief? Foiled a kidnapping? Insulted Mike Tyson?”

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

Emma grinned, downing the last contents of her glass. “You are welcome. You can keep those. And the concealer,” she said, placing the little tube onto the bar in front of him.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, noticing her reach for her jacket. It was the same one she’d worn when they’d first met, soft red leather, and hardly weather appropriate considering the downpour outside.

“Maybe I am,” she said airily, pulling her arms through the sleeves. “But if you think I’m going to tell you about it so you can gossip to all of your subscribers…” She gave him a level look.

“Ah.” Perhaps, in hindsight, he could’ve been a tad more circumspect when it came to the Grant issue in his last column.

“Yes, ah. You should’ve seen the amount of notifications I got after Mary Margaret read your piece. Not to mention the sidelong glances I’ve been getting at work. Those have been super fun. You’re kind of a son of a bitch, you know that?”

He did. He did know that. And one day, he might even make it up to her. Perhaps. In the meantime though…

“Indeed. And that’s why I pay you the big bucks,” he said sarcastically, reaching into his satchel to extract the agreed fee, £100 of pound coins, wrapped in a calico bank bag. Rather than pressing it into her hands, he settled for leaving the bag at her feet, as if this were a far more clandestine exchange.

“Why do you always have to make this out like it’s sordid as hell?” she wondered aloud, frowning as she stuffed the contents away into her messenger bag.

“I must have a knack,” Killian shrugged. “Those are new coins, by the way. I do hope your landlord has changed that barbaric coin meter of yours, because the bank has stopped giving out the old ones.”

Emma made a face. A face that said her landlord had probably done nothing of the sort. “Yeah, I’ll get on that. Thanks.”

She stood up to go, but was surprised when Killian’s prosthetic tapped her on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “Jones?”

He held out an umbrella. His umbrella, hurriedly retrieved from his bag. “Probably too soon in the relationship for Graham to meet Drowned Rat Emma, don’t you think?”

She rolled her eyes, but she took the umbrella.

“You forgot to mention how dashing I look in this suit!” he called after her.

She turned her face away, but he still caught the smile stretching wide across her features as she pulled open the door. “No, I didn’t!” she called back, her shout barely audible above the roar of the rain.

Are you icing that eye? ES

Are you texting me while Graham is in the loo? KJ

You mean the bathroom? Maybe. Possibly. Yes. Don’t change the subject. There had better be some frozen vegetables in close proximity to your face right now. ES

Waitrose branded sweetcorn. Are you satisfied? KJ

I never knew corn could be elitist until right this minute. ES

Believe it. And that’s not forgetting the time I zoned out reading the ingredients on the box of Waitrose brand cereal and came to five hours later in a voting booth, pen poised to vote Tory. Every day in this house is a struggle. KJ

Ha. Graham’s coming back. Look after that eye. And try not to give in to any sudden conservative tendencies. ES

But who else offers Strong and Stable Leadership? KJ

Thin fucking ice. ES

He’d debated how to approach the conversation, but in the end he decided to just rip off that plaster once and for all. He was tired of the secrets. Of the lies. Of pretending everything was normal when everything was so very far from normal.

This was probably how his mother had felt, he realised, when finally confronted with the truth of her husband’s addictions, of the spiralling debts and tangled web of half-truths and broken promises.

He was there to greet Liam as he came in the door, house keys still clutched in his hand, tie askew after another long day cooped up in his office, reading over the latest copy edits.

“Is that my suit?” he asked, shrugging his laptop case from his shoulders with a frown. Which Killian took as all the invitation he needed to properly step into the light, letting his brother see his face.

Even with Emma’s best work, there was no hiding the worst of it. And it must’ve still looked pretty bloody awful because Liam stopped dead where he stood, house keys falling from his hand and clattering onto the floorboards.

“Kil?” It was the same tone he’d used in the hospital, the day Killian’s life had fallen apart. The same one he’d used that morning twenty three years ago when they’d woken up and found their father’s car gone, his wardrobe stripped bare. By their mother’s graveside, as they’d buried her in the cold earth.

“Malcolm Weaver sends his regards. And it’s about time you and I had an honest conversation for once, don’t you think?”

Emma

It had been a while since Emma had played the dating game. The getting-to-know-you game. The how-many-siblings game. The where-did-you-get-that-scar game. Like subjecting someone to a chronology of your more embarrassing teenage anecdotes made tumbling into bed together after three martinis and an awkward handjob in the back of an Uber less sleazy somehow.

For some people, the little things were just that, little. But for Emma, even the most innocuous first date questions turned into stumbling blocks.

“So, what do your parents do?” Ha.

“Where’d you grow up?” Ugh.

“What does the tattoo mean?” Geez.

Sometimes, she wished she could just skip all of the tedious minutiae, and proceed with the naked bedroom aerobics. Did that make her a tramp? Probably. So sue her. Graham Humbert, Professor of International Relations was cute, he was interested, and he was available. But how long would that last, when he learned the truth? Spilling your guts about your shitty childhood and non-existent family was not exactly a precursor to hot, sweaty good times.

God, she really needed to get laid.

But if Graham knew where Emma’s thoughts lay, he was playing it coy. It was their third official date, and so far, there had been zero hints he had any wild seduction plans for later. Just a nice dinner, and drinks at a trendy cocktail bar in the New Town she’d only ever read about.

“You okay?” he asked, setting down her third daiquiri on the bar in front of her. “Is it evaluations?”

Oh, right. Evaluations. As in, all of the student feedback that would be collated over the next week or so, frankly assessing her merit as a teacher. As in, the single largest obstacle which would stand between her and a renewal of her contract. As in, what she probably should have been focusing on, instead of counting the days since her last orgasm.

Still, she took the easy out, releasing a relieved breath. “That obvious, huh?”

He shrugged, a grin forming. “You do seem a little wound up.”

Maybe Graham was gay. That would explain it. How else could a man be so, so oblivious? Killian would’ve seen right through her by now, would’ve already made at least three double entendres and a sly offer to “relieve the pressure”, just to torture her.

God, why was she even thinking about him? Graham was right in front of her. With the biceps and the accent and the research grant. Maybe it was time to take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

“You know,” she began, twirling her straw suggestively between her fingers, “I’m sure there’s plenty you could do to take my mind off of it.”

Okay, so it was a cheap line. But judging by the flare of interest in Graham’s eye, the way his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, it hit its mark. So maybe not so gay after all.

“Yeah?” he said, leaning closer, gaze definitely falling to her lips.

“Yeah.”

She was within a hair’s breadth of making contact when the shrill insistence of a strange ringtone pierced the air, causing them to both jump in their seats, their foreheads cracking together with all of the grace of a slapstick comedy duo.

“Ow. Sorry.”

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Still rubbing at the spot where they’d collided, he reached inside his jeans pocket. His phone. Of course it fucking was. He answered it on the third ring.

Emma didn’t catch much of his half of the conversation, what with the lump rapidly forming on her forehead, but she caught enough of it to know this evening was not going to end the way she’d been imagining when she’d picked out her underwear this morning.

Not that the conk to the head had been that great of an omen.

His face was regretful, and that alone would have to be enough to sustain her. “I’m really sorry, Emma,” he began, but she cut him off before he could continue with the sorry spiel.

“Rain check?” she offered.

His smile was a relieved one. “Definitely,” he said, letting a parting kiss graze her cheek. “I’ll text you.”

Once he was gone, Emma let her fingers trace the all-too-brief path his lips had tracked across her skin, considering the untouched whisky he’d left behind. She took a sip, letting it burn its way down into her chest. Added some water. Then let the rest follow, warming her from the inside out.

So I see your shiner, and raise you one bruised forehead. I didn’t antagonize anyone though, my life is just a comedy of errors. We probably shouldn’t be seen together for a while, or people will assume we’ve joined an underground Fight Club or something. ES

Really? Nothing? ES

Did you seriously fall asleep before 10 on a Saturday? I’m almost disappointed. ES

You are asleep, aren’t you? Because if you somehow sustained a concussion, and fell into a coma I’ll feel really bad. ES

Please text me tomorrow and tell me that isn’t the case. ES

On the other hand, if through some miracle you still managed to “pull a bird” even with that grotesque black eye, and are currently warming her bed, I’d rather not hear the details. As you were. ES

Just… don’t be in a coma. ES

Good morning. Not in a coma. I promise. KJ

With the semester over, and a couple of weeks left until she had to teach any summer school modules, Emma Swan found herself with a serious problem. Free time. A lot of it.

Huge swathes of empty hours when she had nothing to focus on except her lack of a social life, her lack of a sex life, and how her academic future lay in the hands of a bunch of 18 year olds who could only be convinced to fill out their evaluation forms with the inducement of a prize draw to win a free iPad.

If only she hadn’t just dropped a large chunk of change on her flight home for Christmas, she could’ve gone somewhere. The Continent. London. Instead she settled for an off-peak train to Glasgow, sheltering from yet another torrential downpour in the baroque confines of the Kelvingrove Museum.

Ever since she was a young, Emma had always loved museums. Very few places let a skinny kid with hand-me-down clothes and a permanent scowl linger for hours at a time in the middle of a blizzard. It felt like everywhere she went, she was being shadowed by security guards and shopkeepers, just waiting for her to make a wrong move.

Museum attendants, though? They were always looking to indoctrinate the next generation.  And growing up in the North East, there’d been no shortage of monuments and exhibitions devoted to freedom-loving America’s heroic triumph over Britain.

Back then, it had seemed like a Cinderella story to her. Better than a Cinderella story, even, because instead of balls and dresses and true love, there’d been something worth fighting for. There’d been the scrappy underdog winning against the guy with all the money and fancy uniforms.

She was old enough now to know she’d been projecting, but it didn’t seem to matter anyhow. The course had been set, the die cast. Emma was a history nerd, and she liked museums. The faint whiff of epoxy, the lingering scent of cosmoline. Mothballs and musty books. It was home, in a way a single place had never been.

Even the crowds of dripping tourists couldn’t ruin this for her, as she narrowly ducked out of the way of a visiting tour group, crowded around a canvas Emma had once written a paper on in Art History 101.

“Suck it in!” the tour operator declared, in aberrant English. “Now there are some who might say this painting is ‘kitschy’ but I let you make up your own mind. But it is, without doubt, the most enduring vision of the crucifixion painted in the 20th century. Notice the triangle? A clear reference to the Holy Trinity. And do you see the circle?”

The crowd leaned in, chattering excitedly between themselves as each layer of meaning was revealed, as the origins of the work were discussed and debated.

This. Emma had missed this. She’d spent so much time lately repeating the same tired lectures to the same uninspired freshmen, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to really just enjoy the art. The history. The mysteries that lingered inside half-forgotten volumes and coded diaries, still waiting to be discovered.

And with that, Emma thought she might just have an idea. Her best one in a while.

I’m dying, Swan. Dying. KJ

Before our year is up? You wouldn’t give me the satisfaction. ES

True. KJ

Still feel bloody awful though. KJ

I’ll never forgive Lachie for bringing this plague upon this house. KJ

Aren’t you his godfather? ES

Details, love. KJ

Emma didn’t make a habit of turning up unannounced in well-heeled neighborhoods, her bag crammed with every over-the-counter cold medicine available in Boots. On the whole, she preferred her own more derelict side of town, her bag drug free. But Killian had just sounded so pathetic in his texts she’d somehow convinced herself it would be a good idea to check up on him.

It was stupid. She was stupid. And as she heard the approaching slap of bare feet against the hardwood floors from within Killian’s ridiculous mansion, she quickly debated the merits of just making a run for it.

No, she wasn’t a kid anymore. She didn’t just knock on people’s doors and run away as fast as she could. She was an adult. Bearing medicine. It wasn’t that weird.

Fortunately, before she had to talk herself down again the door swung open.

Emma was aware of Elsa Jones. She’d clocked the wedding portrait sitting on the mantelpiece last time. The Nordic beauty with more money than God, and no bad angles. The owner of the bluest of blue eyes, that put even Killian’s to shame. She sat on the periphery of Killian’s tales of his crazy family, always a benevolent presence, a peacemaker. An ally.

But if Emma had the good sense to be intimidated by her two-dimensional mental rendering of Elsa Jones, it was nothing compared to the reality that stood in the Jones’ front foyer, giving Emma the skeptical once-over.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. Or the way she wore her designer loungewear, with just the right amount of casual elegance. Not even the way she held herself, with posture right out of a Swiss finishing school. It was that first, frosty look.

The one that caught Emma in its wake and rendered her mute, as her carefully opening lines died on the vine. The woman waited, silent but expectant.

“Hi, I’m-” Emma cleared her throat, and tried again. “Sorry, hi. I’m Emma. Is Killian up for receiving visitors?”

She would ordinarily have stuck out a hand at this juncture, anything to punctuate the grotesque silence. But both of her hands were occupied with bags, and even reaching for the knocker had been painful enough.

“Emma,” Elsa repeated, letting the word settle on her tongue like a new vocabulary word. And then her entire aspect seemed to thaw, as the name registered. “You mean #FindEmmaSwanAFriend Emma?”

Clearly Killian’s column had at least one reader who wasn’t an octogenarian.

“Uh, yup.” At a loss for what else to say, Emma held up the bags she’d lugged all the way from the high street. “I uh, I was just bringing some stuff over for Killian, but if he’s not up for visitors I could just leave it with-”

But before Emma could make with the hasty retreat, there came the sound of frantic footsteps behind her and she turned to see none other than the patient in question, barefoot and limping from contact with the gravel driveway.

“Swan?”

Sick Killian was a study in contrasts. On one hand, the sweatpants, bed-head thing was a good look on him. But there was definitely a sheen, a pallid tinge to his complexion that hinted of a drawn-out conflict against foreign antibodies. But it was the T-Shirt that really stole the show. The one with the cartoon Tyrannosaurus Rex on the front catching some Z’s, with the caption: Dino-Snore.

Emma resisted the urge to dig out her phone and take a picture, for posterity’s sake. But she couldn’t quite stop the grin spreading across her face.

“Dino-snore?”

He scowled, but whatever snide comeback he had forming on his lips died a swift death when he caught the look in his sister-in-law’s eye. With a roll of his eyes, Killian propped the door open, and motioned for Emma to come inside.

“Swan, my sister-in-law, Elsa Jones,” he said, with a weary wave of his hand. “Elsa, this is the eponymous Emma Swan.”

Now things were official, Emma dumped her bags down onto the area rug, and held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the blonde replied, a perfectly manicured hand finding Emma’s own. “I’ve been reading Killian’s columns, of course, but it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Elsa’s grip was firm, confident, even if her hands were a little cold. Poor circulation, maybe.

Killian gave a pointed cough, a hand coming up to scratch up behind his ear. “Well, this is all very civilized. So, what brings you to our plague den, lass?”

Emma looked from Elsa, back to Killian. “Speaking of which, why were you outside? I thought you were practically at death’s door?”

Killian hesitated, and that was when Elsa stepped in, a sardonic smile in place. “Killian’s room has its own entrance. He probably thought he could intercept you before we ever came into contact.” She turned to her brother-in-law with a shrug. “Too slow.”

Emma liked her immediately.

“Would you like something to drink, Emma?” Elsa asked suddenly. “Tea? Coffee? A glass of water?”

Yeah, someone had definitely been drilled in the finer points of etiquette as a child. But before Emma could decline the offer, Killian took a step forward, interrupting her. “She’ll take a water, love. And any chance you’d fix me up another Lemsip?”

Elsa’s eyes narrowed, but after shooting Killian a meaningful glance, she plastered on a smile. “I’ll be right back,” she assured Emma, before disappearing down the hall in the direction of the kitchen.

“So…” Emma began, lamely.

“So…” Killian finished, no better. “Been shopping?” he asked at last, pointing out the bags she’d abandoned earlier.

“Oh, those. They’re, uh, they’re for you.”

“Me?” He knelt down to peek inside one of the bags. “Did you just bring me industrial-sized quantities of phenylephrine, love?”

Well, when he put it like that it sounded weird.

“Erm, I guess? And some tea. Mary Margaret swears by it when you’re sick, and I just had it laying around and-”

“Swan?” he interrupted, before she could make any more excuses.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to upset you, but I think we might be friends.”

[nierly-amazing]

yo talk to me abt 2b and 9s. i need friends 😭

You want me to talk about 2B and 9S? YOU WANT ME TO TALK ABOUT 2B AND 9S????? ARE YOU SURE?!?

OKAY FRIEND

THEY ARE BOTH SO GOOD I LOVE THEM.

THEY ARE SAD BROKEN IMPERFECT CHILDREN WHO NEED LOTS OF TLC.

And there are people out there who are too hard on one or the other and it makes me S A L T Y because they’re shoving their moral purity bullshit on two deeply broken characters and expect them to make the right decisions all the time.

Of course they’re gonna make mistakes, of course they’re going to choose the wrong options. They may be androids, but they are pretty damn human.

2B’s trapped in a cycle of killing the one she loves over and over and erasing his memories of her and everything.

Defecting isn’t really an option in her mind. She’s an E unit so she knows how successful they are; she probably wouldn’t think they’d last very long out there with no way to maintain and repair themselves. She doesn’t know of any successful defectors; command never tells them about A2 when she kills them, obviously, because they wouldn’t want to give anyone any ideas if they found out there was someone who’s survived years on her own out there (albeit falling apart and only surviving out of spite).

Plus, A2′s much less of a threat than an E-model and their best scanner model who is powerful enough to hack into the Bunkers defenses to dig out classified information. A2′s just some prototype who found out she was sent down to die yet continued to survive out of spite. 2B and 9S had the potential to cause a LOT of problems for YoRHa, since 9S found out one of the biggest secrets kept from all androids and other info that could possibly be very dangerous if the enemy got their hands on them. So it’s pretty likely they’d put a lot more effort into killing them than they did with A2.

A2′s circumstances are different than 2B and 9S’ anyway. Her only order was to die at the end of her mission. So for her it’s either let yorha kill her, or go on the run until she eventually gets killed by them or a machine. There are no other options for her. She has no one left to protect or worry about losing, nothing to tie her back.

And she was in a similar situation to 2B; they all did find out they were programmed to die after the mission but chose to see it through anyway instead of defecting.

So if command ordered her to kill 9S again and said they wouldn't reinstate a new one, who says she wouldn't take him and gtfo?

2B hates her job so much that she once chose death over killing him again, and the only reason she survived because he killed himself instead and made her promise to keep killing him. He wouldn't let her take the 'easy' way out because he knew that wouldn't solve anything.

That promise kinda complicates things too. Since it kinda invalidates what the next 9Ss might be feeling so now she’s even more stuck since she has orders from command AND orders from the 2+ 9S that made her promise.

Like, her job hurts her to the point where her own data corrupts in a way that’s ‘physically’ painful to the ‘touch’ (aka memory thorns).

She’s tried what she could to try to stop 9S from coming to the same conclusions as last time. She’s even tried to get command to retract their orders before but to no avail.

She’s cold and strict with him, but never outright cruel and mean. And, heck, maybe she could have been gentler on him, maybe she could have been herself more to make life easier on him. But like at what expense to her? The closer she gets to each of them the harder it is on her to kill him. Remember the whole “as close as possible yet eternally distant” thing?

So like, she could have made some better choices, but she was pretty stuck in what she was doing. She was stuck walking down a path where any decision she made could have bad consequences, so geez, give her a break for choosing the ones that had less terrible consequences (at least in her mind).

AND NOW FOR THE BOY

I already gushed about the poor boy at length [Here]

BUT I can still gush a bit more anyway. 

Some people are too hard on him too. Like do yall really expect someone who was:

A: Thrown into an endless war from the day he was born with no ability to quit. 

B: Given all the emotions and wants and needs of a human and then prohibited from expressing or trying to get those needs met.

C: Paired up with someone who’s emotionally distant to him and he doesn’t know why, falls in love with her anyway, only to find out she has to kill him over and over and is falling apart at the seams because of it. 

D: Has his memories wiped but some remaining something still draws him to her to the point where he’s willing to sacrifice himself for her after only ‘knowing’ her for an hour or so.

E: Programed to be incredibly curious then punished when directing that curiosity in a way YoRHa didn’t like.

F: Tortured and violated by some creepy humanoid machine and forced to face his complicated feelings about her and the world in a definitely not healthy way.

G: Thrown into traumatic battle after battle the moment after she starts reciprocating feelings for him.

H: Watched almost everyone he knows and cares about die in the span of an hour, many of whom he had to kill himself.

I: Watches the most important person to him get stabbed right in front of him, just when they were finally free of their cycle.

J: Wakes up thinking she was murdered in cold blood and fucking nobody thinks to tell him it was a mercy kill. Anemone knew, the pods knew, the weapons dude knew, A2 obviously knew and had multiple ways to take 5 minutes of her day and safely let him know 2B was infected, but didn’t. 

K: Intentionally tortured by the machine network because the Red Girls had some weird fascination with him. 

L: Had no real support network because androids in the middle of a 6000 year war likely dont have any grief counselors. 

M: The only time he’s had contact with A2 she said some cryptic bullshit that could be easily interpreted as taunting or something by him.

N: I could probably think of more to get all the way to Z but I want to do something else now.

Like yall really think someone who has gone through that much trauma with little to no support would be expected to behave like some morally pure uwu angel and make all the right decisions? Could he have acted better and made better decisions? Probably. But give the poor guy a break. He’s an endlessly fascinating character to study and relate to despite his flaws and mistakes.

Anyway I love them both so much despite their flaws and mistakes and they are an amazing pair because of the potential to grow and heal with each other after they wake up after [E]. They’re finally free to be as emotional and supportive of each other as they want and finally get t-shirts. 

And i just love who they are too. 2B is a gentle and kind person when she’s not forced to be cold and strict. 9S is just a curious ball of energy and is super sweet and respectful to 2B. He can be kinda snarky but he always backs off and respects her boundaries.

And just, I love the role reversal in this pairing. 2B’s the strong stoic one, where 9S is the bubbly support. It wouldn’t have half it’s charm if the genders were reversed.

There’s just SO MUCH POTENTIAL with these two. Like before I had no real intention of reading or writing fanfiction but then I played nier and I probably have written nierly (heh) 200k words over all my fics but now like, I just want to explore so much with them and their complex and unique relationship and uguh just

I

JUST

LOVE

THESE

LOUSY

GOTH

ANDROID

BABS

[blackmagistertd]

First Christmas

Summary:  Negan gifts Rick with a comfy sweater that he secretly knitted.

Rating: Teen+

Word Count: 2500

Pairing: Rick/Negan

Characters: Rick, Negan, a very tired Simon

Warnings: Negan’s mouth

Author’s Note: my part of the Regan Secret Santa 2017!!! hope whoever requested this enjoys :o

also on ao3

If there’s one thing Rick’s sure of, it’s that the cold must be the goddamn Devil himself.

He’d never liked winter in Georgia to begin with – but here, in Virginia? He’s only questioned about four times a day since the weather started cooling down if it was really worth it.

Still; he supposes it’s not all bad. Provided their calendar is correct (and there’s no guarantee – but still) Christmas is in the next couple of weeks. Besides, he’s got to admit that seeing the trees coming up in Alexandria is heart-warming. It feels a little unreal that they’re even able to do this; that they’re stable enough to think about Christmas, about gift-giving and trees and dinners.

The only issue he can see is-

“Rick!”

He bites hard on his lower lip to stifle a groan. He’s come to accept the Saviors presence in his town; it had taken more than a few altercations, but eventually they’d been able to reach an agreement. Now – now Negan is still a giant pain in his ass, but instead of being terrifying, he’s just kind of annoying, in a sweet kind of way.

“Negan,” He says coolly, turning to face the older man. “Time again already?”

“Fuck yeah.” Negan grins, clapping a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “Got your shit ready?”

“Mm.”

Rick hums as Negan’s arm slides around his shoulders. Lately he’s been getting used to Negan’s little touches. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t; but then, it’s not like it’s hurting anybody. He feels Negan’s fingers squeeze his shoulder, a friendly little gesture that shouldn’t embarrass Rick as much as it does.

“Place looks nice,” Negan comments, steering Rick down the street to Rick’s house. “All Christmas-y. Forgot how nice that shit feels.”

“Yeah. We thought it might be nice to start settling the kids back into something normal like Christmas, and honestly, it’s..” Rick flushes for a moment, looking almost embarrassed. “Well, you know. It’s really helped cheer everyone up.”

“Yeah?” Negan hums thoughtfully, glancing around. “Even you?”

“Eh.. some.”

Truthfully, it’s not necessarily that he’s embarrassed that he’s happy; it’s moreso the fact that something as small as getting back on schedule has managed to make him happier than he’s been in a very long time. Negan shoots him a curious look but says nothing. He finds his cheeks warming up. Negan’s been oddly concerned about him lately, and even though their as of yet unnamed relationship is going well, he’s always surprised when Negan shows any affection outside of the bedroom.

“So,” Negan says instead of questioning Rick, “you got a special somebody to spend Christmas with?”

Rick snorts a little, kicking at a rock in the path. “No. I can’t really.. you know, focus on more than one person at once.”

Negan at least has the decency to look abashed. His wives have always been the subject of their arguments – but so far, he hasn’t left them, and Rick hasn’t left him, and so they’ve only been going in circles about it.

“Anyway. Which one are you gonna spend it with?” Rick remarks, before Negan can respond, as they enter his house. Negan scuffs his boot against the floor.

“Ah.. well. Figured I’d let ‘m all go back to their families for the holiday.”

His curiosity piqued, Rick glances over, stepping into the kitchen. “Oh?” He inquires, one eyebrow lifting, “Thought you’d at least have one. Actually, in that case, uh.. well, um, you know..” He pauses for a moment, long enough for Negan to approach him – leaning on the counter, looking interested.

“Yeah?”

Rick coughs. “I was just thinking.. uh.. maybe you’d.. want to come spend it with us.”

Negan stares at him for a long minute. He doesn’t usually blush – it’s usually Rick doing all the blushing, being flustered – but now there’s a pinkness in his cheeks as he stares blankly at the slighter man.

“It was just an idea,” Rick adds hastily, turning away to grab a glass from the cabinet. “You don’t have to-“

“You,” Negan begins, cutting him off, “you want me here? For Christmas?”

“Well. Yeah.” Rick swallows, carefully filling the glass and taking a drink before turning back to Negan. “I do like having you around, dumbass. Sometimes.”

“Rick, I..” Negan hesitates. “I don’t know.. what to say.”

“Like I said. You don’t have to. Just. Uh. Thought you might.. want to.”

“No, no, I didn’t say that. I’m just.. surprised, is all.. but – I mean – i-if you want me to, I will.”

Rick’s never seen Negan so embarrassed. He’s very pointedly staring at a spot just over Rick’s head, the flush in his face even more pronounced now. Rick smiles a little shyly, slipping up in front of him and touching his cheek.

“You’re not going to have a heart attack in my kitchen, are you?” Rick teases gently, and Negan’s gaze falls to his.

“Ah – no.” Negan grins sheepishly, hand falling to Rick’s jaw. “I’m alright, sorry. Gimmie a kiss?”

Rick obliges, reaching up to press a sweet kiss to Negan’s lips. He can feel Negan chuckling into it, one hand carding through his curls, and after a moment of enjoyment Negan pulls back.

“I’m gonna piss, and then I’ll get out of your hair,” He says lightly, and Rick nods.

“Okay.”

Once out of Rick’s sight, Negan quickly ascends the stairs, two at a time. He’s got to do this fast, before Rick gets suspicious. He ducks into Rick’s bedroom and shuffles through the drawers of the dresser. He could probably come up with an assortment of reasons he’s in here, but – he’d rather it not come to that.

He snags one of the t-shirts, one that Rick won’t miss, and tucks it in his jacket pocket. For a long moment, he considers taking another – just to be sure he’s sizing right – but he decides it would be a little much, and he quickly closes the drawer and leaves. As he descends the staircase he catches Rick humming, carefully making a sandwich, and he leans on the doorframe for a moment to watch.

“Babe,” He says idly, when Rick doesn’t notice him for several moments. Rick turns, blue eyes going round with surprise.

“Oh! Sorry, I – I didn’t realize-“

“No, no, don’t apologize. It was cute.” Negan grins, catching his tongue between his teeth, at Rick’s embarrassed flush. “I’m just on my way out.”

“Ah.. okay.” Rick clears his throat, fingers reaching up to comb through the curls at the base of his neck. “Okay.”

He steps up and presses a quick kiss to Negan’s mouth. Negan hums contentedly. Rick’s pink when he pulls back, but his blue eyes are gentle, and there’s a little smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Go,” He murmurs affectionately. “I’ll see you at Christmas. Two weeks from today.”

“Yeah.” Negan finds his throat is sticky, and he swallows hard. “Christmas.”

When he gets outside the cold air stings his skin – but honestly, he welcomes it. It helps to clear his head. As he approaches the truck, he breathes in the frost and tries to convince himself this is a good idea. Everything will be fine.

“Why do you look so.. you know, like you just sucked on a lemon?” Simon says, as he hops into the cab of the truck. He scowls.

“It’s nothin’. Just..” He huffs, pulling Rick’s shirt out of his jacket pocket. Simon’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously.

“You stole – the hell, man?”

“It’s not as creepy as it seems, promise. Just, ah.. I.. I have an idea.. something I want to give Rick for Christmas. Listen, just. Fuckin’ trust me on this one. Okay?”

Simon is still frowning skeptically, but after a pause he shrugs. “Whatever. Just.. don’t get me involved. Please.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Negan kicks his feet up on the dash, procures a cigarette from somewhere within his jacket, and lights up. “And turn on some fucking music, will you? It’s too damn quiet, I can hear myself think.”

When they reach the Sanctuary, he hops out of the cab and all but jogs toward the building. He hears Simon call after him – but, eh, Simon knows how to unload, he’s sure, and he only waves over his shoulder.

He takes the staircase two steps at a time until he reaches his floor. He wrenches open the door to the lounge room, earning the attention of the women inside.

He takes a moment to catch his breath. Then he straightens, peering around at them, and says, “Any of you girls know how to knit?”

It takes a while, but eventually he gets the hang of it. The first few tries his fingers really do not like the needles. However – he is goddamn determined to do this, even if he has to give up some sleep. Even if it’s not perfect. And his girl – she’s a saint, she’s so patient with him.

He works himself to the bone over the next two weeks, but fuck if he’s not proud at the end. He thinks, with the time he had, he’s done the best he can. He adds the final touches on the ride over to Alexandria; his hands are shaking a little, and although the fabric is soft and tightly woven under his fingertips, he can’t help but be afraid it’s not good enough.

He’s never wanted to impress someone so badly. With Lucille, it had been easy. They hadn’t been big on gifts – each other’s company was enough. Rick, though.. their relationship has been tumultuous at best, and really, he can’t tell if Rick genuinely likes him or just.. pities him.

He’s all but blind, striding through the streets of Alexandria, until he reaches Rick’s house. He hesitates, fist inches from the door. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He lets his knuckles fall against the wood, then stands back.

It’s only a moment before Rick’s opening the door. There’s a smudge of what appears to be flour just above his left eyebrow, but he looks excited all the same, dragging Negan in by the hand. Negan laughs low in his chest.

“Hey there, cowboy. Didn’t think you’d be so happy to see me.”

“I’m not,” Rick says, so clearly lying Negan almost chides him on it. “I need your help cooking.”

Negan chuckles, catching a hand around Rick’s waist. “Woah there, baby. Got a fucking gift for you first.”

Rick looks bemused for a hot second before Negan’s dragging him upstairs. When they reach Rick’s bedroom, Negan withdraws the t-shirt first – Rick lets out a little “hey!” – then, hesitantly, hands shaking, he withdraws the sweater.

It’s a light blue that’s the same color as Rick’s eyes – and finding the yarn had been a pain in the ass. Rick’s eyes go round, pretty mouth falling open in surprise.

“I, uh. Saw you shivering last time I was here. And..” Negan breaks off, scratching the back of his neck. Rick carefully takes the sweater, turning it over in his hands and running his fingers along the fabric.

Slowly – and with all the grace of a newborn deer – Rick tugs it on over his head. He looks even more stunning than Negan had imagined; and for a moment, Negan feels as though all air has escaped the room.

He turns in a careful circle, stretching and twisting to test drive it. Then he turns back to Negan, a shy, delicate smile tugging the corners of his lips.

“It’s wonderful, Negan,” He says softly, and Negan all but melts with relief. “Thank you. Did you.. make it?”

“Ah – well – you know.” Negan scuffs the floor with his boot, biting back his own sheepish grin. “I, um.. had a little help. Knitting isn’t really my thing.. but, you know, close enough, right?”

Rick crosses the room, and for a moment Negan panics – at least until Rick’s mouth is closing over his own, sweet and coaxing. He lets his arms drop around Rick’s waist, tugging the slighter man in.

“So you gonna model it for me, or what?” He mumbles into the kiss, and Rick withdraws a little, one eyebrow raised.

“Thought I already was.”

“Just the sweater.” Negan corrects, grinning slyly, and Rick gives him an affectionate shove.

“Jeez, Negan,” Rick drawls, pulling further away and beginning to cross the room again. “Gonna make me think you only want me for my body or somethin’.”

Only want-

The thought sinks into Negan’s stomach like a stone. He knows Rick’s joking, of course he does, but it strikes a nerve deep in him that nearly makes him cringe. The thought of losing Rick – of using him for something as stupid as sex – is almost crushing.

“Rick,” He says hollowly, and though he doesn’t remember telling himself to, he strides forward and grabs Rick around the arm, spins the man around and puts him against the wall. “Tell me you don’t – you don’t believe that.”

Rick looks alarmed at his sudden mood change, blue eyes wide. “Negan? What do you-“

“Rick,” Negan repeats, and although his voice is firmer this time, he can’t help the note of desperation that slips out. Rick holds both hands up.

“Of course I don’t believe that. Every time I’m around you look like a lovesick puppy. Negan – are you okay?”

“I – I’m fine.” Negan steps back, allowing Rick to move away. “Sorry.”

Rick gives him a look, full of pity – but also something else. Something akin to.. adoration, maybe? Negan’s voice sticks in his throat as Rick starts to head to the stairs, and he can’t stop thinking about his lover’s swaying hips, and those damningly blue eyes, always looking at him so sweet, and the way Rick caresses his face sometimes – and he comes to a split second decision that he’s sure will bite him in the ass in the end, but he doesn’t care, it’s fucking Christmas.

“I’m going to leave my wives,” He says to Rick’s back, his voice sounding thin and sad even to himself. Rick stops, turns slowly on his heel.

“What?”

“Just. I know it upsets you that I’m still with them, and I don’t – I don’t want to upset you anymore. So.”

Negan clears his throat. Rick is staring at him with something that looks a little like awe, and he barely has time to register the slighter man moving before he’s given an armful of Rick. Rick’s got his face buried in Negan’s shoulder, clutching at his leather jacket, and for a moment Negan worries he’s crying.

“Thank you,” Rick mumbles, and his voice is as strong and clear as ever. “Negan, I can’t.. thank you.”

“Well, I mean. You know. Rick, you – I mean – you make me want to be better. My girls.. they’re sweethearts, but you make me happier than all of them. So it’s.. it’s just. What needs to happen. Fuck, Rick, I-“

“I know,” Rick mumbles. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

“Merry Christmas, Rick.” He lets out a long breath, squeezes Rick tighter. “Yeah. Merry fucking Christmas.”

[arthurwilde]

a bad combination in the dark

(Part 7 of a series, wherein Alex tortures Alistair in “On the Head of a Pin” instead of Dean. I watched that fucking episode twice in like 3 days)

(This one gets dark. Death and torture and shit.)

@saferincages thanks for listening to me and I won’t blame you if you don’t read this one

“I’ll do it.”

It’s those three words that set off a jolt in everyone in the room.

Dean’s incredulous “are you insane” and Castiel’s resolute refusal and Uriel’s amusement and Alex’s face, resolute, unflinching.

“You can’t.” Castiel’s got his Big Time Angel voice on, obviously meant to shut her down, but she isn’t flinching away.

“Let me do it.” She strides up into his space. “I can do this.”

Dean’s still sputtering, “have you lost your mind - “

Uriel’s chuckling, shaking his head. “Little girl,” he says, “your bravery is admirable, but your arrogance - “

Alex doesn’t move her eyes from Castiel’s face. “You really don’t want Dean doing this? Then let me do it.”

“It would be useless. There’s no way you can possibly get what we need from him - “

“You really want to catch him off balance? Throw him off, show him some rage from a source he doesn’t expect? Use me.”

“Alex,” Dean says, fear buried under anger, “you can’t do this. I can’t let you do this.”

“No, Dean, I can’t let you do this.” Her gaze hasn’t wavered from Castiel’s face. She takes another step closer. “You think I don’t have it in me? You have no idea what you haven’t tapped into yet.”

“Cas,” Dean says, pleading now, worrying at Castiel’s silence. “Come on. I’ll do it, I’ll go in there, I’ll do whatever you want me to, just - “

“Use him as a last resort, if you have to,” Alex says. “But until then, if you want him to be good for whatever the hell kinds of plans you have in store for him, you keep him in here and you throw me in there with him. You don’t want him going down this road? You don’t want him turning into a monster? So be it, but I can go down it just fine.” She grins at him, humorless, baring her teeth. “Come on. You know you don’t give a shit about me, Cas.”

“You can’t be serious,” Uriel scoffs, and he doesn’t sound amused anymore. “Castiel, you can’t possibly think that this ridiculous little human could successfully torture a demon where angels have failed - “

“We use her first,” Castiel says, and the room goes shudderingly still.

“You can’t let her in a room with that monster!” Dean shouts. “Cas!”

“Our trap cannot be broken, Dean. No harm will come to her.”

“He doesn’t have to touch her to hurt her!” Dean howls. “She’s not a part of this, Cas, come on - “

“You have an hour,” Castiel says in an undertone, for Alex alone. “Then we’re sending him in.”

He opens the door and throws her in.

It doesn’t give her much time to prepare, but she’s as ready as she’s ever going to be. Alistair is there, pinned to the wall, and she squashes down the fear, the doubt, and focuses on the monster that hurt Dean.

Revenge is as good a motivator as any.

“So, this is the angels’ backup plan.” She hasn’t forgotten the terrible hiss of Alistair’s voice, but she’s never been this close to it before, and she has to hold back the urge to shiver. “To say this smacks of desperation would be putting it mildly.”

Alex doesn’t say anything. She looks at the tools that have been laid out before her, and takes a deep, slow breath.

“The little girl who tags along with the Winchesters,” he continues, conversational, sounding for all the world like he isn’t strung up and bleeding. “I suppose they couldn’t find any orphaned schoolchildren and had to settle for the next best thing.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he purrs. “You want revenge on me for what I did to your boyfriend? Nothing you do to me can possibly compare to what I watched him do to those souls in Hell.”

Alex is still quiet. Runs her hands over the blades. Measures them, sizes them up. Wonders which one would make him scream the loudest.

“I suppose they wanted to send him, and you took his place instead? Noble of you.” She doesn’t look at him, but she can hear the way his grin curves around his words. “Poor little thing. If you’d seen the look on his face when he tortured girls just like you, the way he got off on it, oh, you’d run the other way.”

Alex’s steps are steady and quiet when she walks toward him at last, holding the blade she’s carefully chosen, doused in holy water. She knows how to move quietly, even in heavy boots, how to be inconspicuous and keep to the shadows. Keep herself small. The delicate roll of her foot that she learned through years of ballet, incorporated later when she snuck through the hospital corridors on socked feet. Later still, when she learned to sneak up on monsters. Even Sam and Dean’s keen instincts didn’t always warn them when she was close.

She’s gotten so good at being overlooked.

She has to raise herself on the tips of her toes to press the blade against his cheek, slow, almost gentle. Watches the way it presses into his skin, the slight, prickling burn it leaves behind.

She meets his eyes for the first time. Sees the eyes of the thing that ripped her parents nearly in two, the wide-open, frozen eyes of her brother. Sees every nightmare she’s ever woken Dean from, every haunted look in Sam’s eyes and every innocent they couldn’t save.

“He was scared of becoming a monster,” she says. “I don’t really have that problem.”

Alistair smiles, and the spark of surprise in his eyes is almost gratifying. “The little Winchester whore,” he says, admiring. “Maybe I underestimated you after all.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” She turns the blade of the knife in against his cheekbone, a quick, sudden grind that scrapes nearly into bone, and for the second time she gets to see his surprise, just for a moment.

“I’m good at compartmentalizing,” she says, mimicking his conversational tone. “Better than most. I know how to hide it all away and call on it when I need it.” She twirls the blade between her fingers, then drags it along his temple. “There are layers of it, going deep. I shuffle it like a deck of cards, so I can control what’s on the surface.”

“Control,” Alistair says, turning it over in his mouth. He licks his lips, and she pushes back the quiver of revulsion. “You’re going to have to let go of some of that if you want to play in the big leagues, honey.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, and drives the knife deep into his eye, and twists.

It’s disgusting, the blood and fluid and the way he howls, and she shivers. She’s done the same and worse to monsters before, but to see it on a human face -

Not a human, she thinks, and buries it. Shuffles it under layers of cold, calm rage.

“Good girl,” he says when he’s got his breath back, and she retreats, looking for another weapon, ready to shift gears. She can’t keep this slow-then-quick pattern going, he’s going to start to expect it if he hasn’t already. He already knows she’s making it up as she goes. “Shame I didn’t get my hands on you sooner, if this is how good you make it the very first time.”

“What would he think, if he saw you here like this?” he presses. “You think he’d realize just how little he satisfies you, that he can’t give you what you crave?” He chuckles, low and deep, and she feels nausea crawling in her gut. “Because you do crave it, don’t you? Dirty little monster girl, just dying to cut and be cut open? Things that weak little monster in training of mine could never give to you? Oh, the things I could give you, if you’d just let yourself, give up that precious control - “

With hands that are desperately trying not to shake, she pours the holy water down his throat, holds his nose, watching him choke. She’d like to drown him in it.

“Answer their questions,” she says. Her voice doesn’t shiver. That rage is simmering, buried down deep.

“Unlike Dean,” he says, and the way he says his name is unquestionably the most loathsome thing so far, with pride and a twisted sort of tenderness, “I don’t give it up that easily.”

“No,” she says. “Neither do I.”

She doesn’t know how long it goes on, how many times she hears Alistair scream or how many times she pushes back the nausea in her gut. She keeps going on until her hands shake and her arms are weak, until she’s covered in Alistair’s blood and she can distantly hear Dean shouting her name on the other side of the door.

She pushes that back, too, and wonders distantly why they don’t let him in. She’s nearly forgotten why she’s here.

Definitely more than an hour.

“He broke the first seal, don’t you know,” he says later, when he is swaying, half-conscious and glazed with pain. His voice still trills with self-satisfaction. “The righteous man, shedding first blood in Hell. The man you would make yourself a monster to protect is going to end the world.”

She does shudder that time, because she believes him, and that’s the most enraging thing of all.

When he does, finally, get loose, and she knows that she’s failed, he barely gives her a second to scream before she’s being beaten half to death, the worst, most terrifying pain she’s ever felt in her life. He’s so strong, so fast; she can’t hide anymore. He’s still covered in blood, and now I’m covered in his, she thinks and wonders if this is how Dean had felt, if they’ll be tied together forever now.

Somewhere Dean is shouting her name again.

And even as she thinks I’m going to die here, I’m really going to fucking die, she doesn’t feel an ounce of regret.

She wakes to find Dean holding her hand, woozy with pain, and she smiles at him.

“Baby,” he says, voice is scared and relieved all at once. “Hey. Jesus. Alex.” His hand squeezes hers. There are tears still in his eyes, but he doesn’t look like he’s been hurt.

“I saw him,” she murmurs. “I looked right at him. I didn’t look away.”

“Alex,” he says again, frowning in confusion, “I don’t - “

“I got him back,” she says, dreamy. “Kicked his ass.” She tries to squeeze his hand back, but it’s weak. “Sorry I got hurt, baby.”

“It’s okay,” he says. There are tears coming to his eyes again. “It’s okay, baby, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m not sorry,” she says. Everything’s fading again, but that’s still so clear. “Not sorry.”

She’s going under, and she smiles.

[pacman-tattoo]

Okay so we got the boys as big brothers but I'm curious,,, what about the BMC girls as big sisters???? :0

omg yes yes yes i’ve been thinking about this but i’ve been avoiding doing it since i’ve had requests aka im using this as an excuse to do it

i just put everyone under the cut since i did all of them so

thank u nonny

Christine

best. older sister. ever.

if you’re into musical theatre, it’s a huuuuge bonding experience!!!! i headcanon christine started when she was a kid and always loved it so just

imagine getting into it when ur in middle school/high school????

christine helps you with stage makeup and teaches you how to do it properly and what the right amount of stuff is!!!!

if ur not into acting n stuff, you work crew or lights maybe

or you just come to every show and cheer her on!!!!

internally you’re just like “THATS!!! MY SISTER!!!!”

although the play she did junior year was kinda weird

all her theatre friends know you

like?? you could have never done theatre and everyones like “IS THAT [y/n]???”

christine will jam out to showtunes in her car and she gets INTO IT and its rly fun and sometimes the two of you have duets 

also the two of you will sing like 50 different parts for one song

can i be honest and say christine probably has sO MANY PICS OF U TWO LIKE

CLOSEST SIBLINGS EVER

also sometimes people are like “do u two fight” and ur like “no???? why would we” “ur siblings” “i mean yeah but have u seen her?? does she seem like the person who would fight over dumb things? like the closest thing we’ve gotten to a fight is when i said one of her musicals was ‘okay’ and thats because i didnt even listen to half the soundtrack”

… u two… watch bootlegs together….

“JUST LOOK AT HIM HE’S AN ANGEL” “CHRISTINE U NEVER STOP TALKING ABOUT HIM I KNOW HE’S AN ANGEL”

ok not theatre-related stuff

christine!!! is just!!! really positive a lot!!!

but like, you kinda get to see her being unsure sometimes

if anyone talks shit about her yOU ARE R EA D Y TO F I GH T

christine takes meds for ADD and often you’ll remind her in the mornings just in case she forgets (which is rare unless she’s had a late rehearsal the night before! but she still appreciates it!!)

christine knows exactly how to cheer you up! like, you like sitting back and watching movies? she’s got u. you like petting dogs? well, the best she can do is pictures at the moment but she will sent u all!! the dog pics!!!!

i hc that she’s really into romcoms so sometimes she takes u to the movies with her and its fun

ok but like

midnight chats with christine where the two of you just kinda aimlessly ramble together and its a very nonjudgmental time and you two talk through things

also helping christine by running through lines with her. thats all

u and christine have a lot of videos of u two doing stuff like ur own lil skits and ur own “cooking show” together as kids and it’s really cute

i just rly love christine and its rly obvious

Chloe

i mentioned how with jake as ur big bro you get a lot of ppl like “oh, ur jake’s lil sibling” and it’s the exact way with chloe

except you get a lot more fuckboys. its gross. you’ve told off a few of them.

alright i’ve had this headcanon but like

fuck gender roles completely. chloe does ur makeup and you feel like a god damn boss

like, ur eyeliner could cut a man.

brooke is around a lot and shes nice to u (sometimes nicer than chloe is)

honestly chloe is rly confident and she strikes me as the kind of person where like, you could be having a bad day and she’d just compliment u but in a way that ur like “is… is that a compliment or are u mad that im sad”

its both.

can i say that chloe is kinda terrible? to other people? like she can be kinda crass toward you a lot but she has these little moments where she’s actually a decent big sister (like her doing ur makeup???)

but even then you two fight and its not rly a good time but one of u will apologize if its Really Really Bad

i like to imagine chloe’s parents have moments like “take [y/n] with you” and shes just “ughh fine”

her friends dont rly mind since ur mostly quiet

“anyway she’s kind of a slut-” “chloe don’t fucking call other girls sluts”

the two of u argue. some of her friends are recording u two fukn fighting

softly theres just someone going fight fight fight fight

it probably ends up on social media

so people know..

you have a couple people like “YO!!! U FOUGHT WITH CHLOE????”

“yeah i mean she’s my older sister so… i can call her our on her shit i guess?” “WHAT T HE  FUCK SHES UR SISTER????”

“wait she signed up for the play?? wtf who else is in it” “jake dillinger-” “god damn it chloe.”

im not even gonna touch on anything that happened at the halloween party other than just you were glad she got out unscathed in the end. 

but after some rumors fly u dont rly trust her??? as much???

anyway. moving on.

Brooke

actual Good

“why do you hang out with chloe?” “w-what do you mean?” “no offense but……she seems…..kiiinda bitchy……..”

brooke doesn’t talk to u until u apologize

which honestly is understandable bc chloe’s kind of her bestie and u just insulted her so

anyway

very gentle big sister

shes in play??? u will be there like!!! “thats cool i didnt know u were into theatre”

i feel like i talk about the play in every headcanon i do but its such a big part so

wait is she dating this guy

she seems to??? kinda like him??? he sounds nice

whats his name

jerry or something

ur ready to fight him tho like, remember brooke’s ex who cheated on her??? u may or may not have called him out.

and possibly punched him.

and possibly gotten beat up

dont fuck with football players

brooke comes home from jake’s halloween party kinda early and shes rly upset and ur just like “wHO HURT U”

ur gonna fight chloe and jeremy.

maybe.

anyway u kinda sit around with her trying to cheer her up

the next day the two of u go to the mall or pinkberry or somewhere to cheer her up

then chloe calls

“brooke please dont pick it up”

she doesn’t.

and then she does after chloe texts her and ur like “brooke n o o o”

ok so uh

brooke is a sweet big sister even if she’s not there 24/7

imagine being asked on a date by someone cute and ur like ‘fUCK BROOKE H E L P HOW THE FUCK’ and she helps u look cute and calms u down

a sweet bab

i love her

Jenna

im just gonna go ahead and get it out of the way: you know a loooot of shit since jenna knows everything

jenna is protective and no one dares to say shit about u because like

rumors fly? she’ll debunk them AND find the fucking source and tell them off

someone insults u and she hears it? she will F I G H T

someone insults and makes u feel bad and she always finds out because she’s rly good at noticing things??? she will either cheer u up or approach the person herself

or both

i dont care where u guys go but ur family will go on summer road trips and you and jenna take selfies everywhere like

close siblings. the good shit.

honestly jenna is probably the kind of person who watches tv with u and sometimes she ends up not sleeping a lil so she just keeps watching whatever show and then shes like

wait shit i cant spoil this for them

jenna sits next to u and ur like “you already know whats gonna happen dont u” “yeah” “gdi”

jenna strikes me as the kind of person who would be a vlogger imo

being her sibling u get pulled into her vlogs sometimes

theres no warning shes just recording u at 12 am in the kitchen like

“hey [y/n] what are u doing” and u just staring at the oven “baking cookies what does it look like-” and u look up and shes recording and ur like “ayy”

late night snapchat story consists of her and u watching stuff together bc neither of u can sleep

sometimes she just gets a “jenna go to bed”

it never happens

i wish

i had more headcanons for her but i d on t

thats all babes 

[fightingcchance]

! | welp any of da kids together.

Married Life | Accepting

Hold onto your hat, I randomised like 3 ships.

@carpenvctem​

Drew/Celine

Who was the one to propose: Probably Drew, he tried to make it super romantic but ended up blurting it out on the car ride there. 

Who stressed more over wedding planning: Celine I expect, but if she was stressed then so was he probably. He hates to see her anxious so tries to take the burden on too.

Who decorated the house: The both of them most likely, can you imagine the pair of them? Like Celine trying to put or paint something up high and then Drew just coming along and hoisting her up higher.

Who is more organized: Drew maybe, but then he probably has to be so he doesn’t miss important events for the company.

Who initiates bedroom fun: I’d like to think it would be Drew, dude isn’t shy at all about that kinda stuff.

Who suggested kids first: Look, they’d probably both want kids. But not straight away, can you imagine them w/ little Scottish babs?

Who’s more dominant: Drew is a caveman a lot of the time but he’d be hard pressed to actually say that he’s in charge.

Who’s the cuddler: Celine, I mean you can hardly blame her. He’s a bit cuddly dude, of course she wants to cuddle him all the time.

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity: 24 hour diners and bagging on all Drew’s opponents. They love pointing out and making up ridiculous stuff about them.

Who kills the spiders: I don’t think either of them have the heart to actually kill them, maybe they just set them free.

Who falls asleep first: Celine, most of the time but that’s because he likes to stay up reading like a total damn weirdo.

Who is louder?: I’ll be damned if it ain’t Drew, he likes to the whole damn neighbourhood to know. 

Who is more experimental?: Surprisingly, most likely Celine. It’s not that Drew isn’t impulsive it’s just he likes often to take his time?

Do they fuck or make love?: Make love of course, they’re so gentle ok.

Who is more likely to be caught masturbating?: Drew, he’s just horny please forgive him??

Who comes first?: Um, very strange question but maybe Drew. But then like I said he likes to take his time with Celine soo.

Who is better at oral and who prefers it?: Neither of them are bad at it, don’t expose them like this. I expect Celine probably prefers it though, and Drew don’t mind giving it.

Who usually initiates things?: Drew maybe, but then Celine will often be the one who initiates the more experimental stuff.

Who is more sensitive?: I’d say Drew purely because he likes being touched a lot.

Who has the most patience?: Celine for sure okay.

Dean/Charlotte

Who was the one to propose: I pictured this kind of similar to proposal I know happened. Dean’s getting stressy thanks to a few drinks and just chucks the ring in the car ashtray and goes ‘Marry Me if you want’ or something like that and storms out.

Who stressed more over wedding planning: Neither of them, Charlotte may be high maintenance but she has that shit locked down.

Who decorated the house: Why would either of them? Dean probably would be bothered and Charlotte wouldn’t do it purely out of stubbornness no doubt. They’d just hire someone to sort most of it out.

Who is more organized: Charlotte without a doubt, you cannot ever expect Dean to be organised with anything ever.

Who initiates bedroom fun: I’d like to think Dean, but they’re both equally likely.

Who suggested kids first: If these two had kids, I think there may be an apocalypse.

Who’s more dominant: Both, there isn’t one or the other of them who is wholly dominant. There is constant wrestling for power.

Who’s the cuddler: Dean is weirdly affectionate when he wants to be, when he’s having a shit day he’ll wanna cuddle.

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity: Watching the worst reality television possible.

Who kills the spiders: Dean, he literally doesn’t give a fuck. He’ll kill them within a heartbeat of seeing them.

Who falls asleep first: Without a second thought it’s Charlotte, purely because Dean struggles to sleep at the best of times.

Who is louder?: Maybe Charlotte, but neither of them are that quiet.

Who is more experimental?: Dean likes to push to see if he can reach Charlotte’s limits, so far he hasn’t found much.

Do they fuck or make love?: Rather crudly, they fuck. Without a doubt, it’s all or nothing.

Who is more likely to be caught masturbating?: I feel like Dean because he doesn’t give a fuck about being caught but then I can see it happening to Charlotte once or twice too. They have no shame.

Who comes first?: Charlotte most likely, but not by much.

Who is better at oral and who prefers it?: Oh by miles Charlotte is better at it and the both of them agree on that. They both get a lot more satisfaction out of it that way.

Who usually initiates things?: I feel like I answered this, but probably both of them maybe Dean at a push.

Who is more sensitive?: Charlotte most likely because Dean knows exactly how to push her every button.

Who has the most patience?: Neither of them, they’re awful.

Tye/Nikki

Who was the one to propose: If it wasn’t Nikki, y’all are playing.

Who stressed more over wedding planning: Poor little muffin, it was most like Tye purely because he doesn’t want to fuck any of it up.

Who decorated the house: They probably did it together, but Nikki most likely took the lead.

Who is more organized: I’d say Nikki maybe a tiny bit more than Tye but neither of them are at all unorganised.

Who initiates bedroom fun: They’re a more kind of go with the flow couple, so it changes up a lot of the time without them really realising who initiates what.

Who suggested kids first: Nikki without a doubt, but Tye would so want kids with her. He’d love for her to be mum.

Who’s more dominant: I feel like Nikki, if there’s something she wants she’s going to go for it.

Who’s the cuddler: Tye is a gross person who adores cuddling with Nikki, the physical affection is his favourite thing.

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity: Probably working out together, they’re gym buddies now after all!!

Who kills the spiders: Um, Tye is a big baby and hates spiders. So yeah I don’t know if that answers your question.

Who falls asleep first: They probably fall asleep around the same time, because they stay up late talking a lot of the time.

Who is louder?: Hoo boy, that’s got to be Nikki.

Who is more experimental?: Again, Nikki I’d like to think would be in charge of all that kind of stuff. 

Do they fuck or make love?: Mostly they make love I imagine, sometimes when they’re already amped up they’ll fuck.

Who is more likely to be caught masturbating?: Neither of them, if they’re masturbating the other with either know about it or will never find out.

Who comes first?: It’s never the same person consistently. 

Who is better at oral and who prefers it?: They’re both pretty good at oral, and they both really like it if they can’t have sex.

Who usually initiates things?: Nikki, this chick knows what she wants.

Who is more sensitive?: I feel like this would most likely be Tye but let’s be real it’s not like he doesn’t know her most sensitive spots.

Who has the most patience?: They’re both pretty patient people.