#sling tv sign in

[likeblogger]

Sling TV Sign in Errors & Issues & How To Fix Them

If you are getting an error while trying to sign into your Sling TV account, then you will have to check out the following troubleshooting steps:

Verify that the email address and password are correct. You can also try signing into sling tv my account with a different device or browser.

Check whether there are any firewall issues or other third-party software installed on your computer that may be causing this problem.

Ensure that your router is not blocking access to Sling TV servers. If you are using a laptop, switch to another Wi-Fi network and try connecting again. If this does not work, then try connecting from another location like a friend’s house instead of your own home.

If none of these solutions work, then you need to contact Sling TV support team who will help you troubleshoot the issue further and fix it as soon as possible.

[vixensp1ce]

them as japanese p rn tropes

fem!reader / pt. 2 (jing yuan and aventurine)

childe

he's the sleazy coworker, the one who ogles your boobs whenever you bend over and thinks pencil skirts are a gift to humanity (his dick).

of course, accepting his invitation to hang out and drink at his place is a sure sign that you're not as innocent as you look.

and when he has you on the carpet, legs folded up to your chest, looking so sweet and breedable just for him, he realises you're not wearing underwear. just stockings. and a gasket blows in his mind.

there's an adult movie playing on the tv, but he's muted it. he wants to hear your voice and your voice only, after all.

he fucks you slowly at first, relishing the way your boobs ripple with the movement in your tight office blouse. you might be wearing a smaller one today, because the buttons are straining and he can see a peek of your lacey bra underneath.

your walls squeeze and flutter around him, betraying your need, but childe ignores it for now.

"so pretty, so, so pretty, all for me..." he mutters, still rocking his hips, grinding gently into you. the buttons come open with ease, revealing a scrap of red lace, transparent so he can see your hardened nipples.

he pauses. you seem to know what's coming next and squeeze around his dick in anticipation.

"you little slut," he growls in delight, slamming into your g-spot with such accuracy that you cry his name.

he sets a frightening pace, his dick scraping against every inch of your ribbed walls you've never been able to reach on your own, and you wonder, did he just get bigger?

"gonna cum inside, fill you up, inside inside inside," he chants, lost in his pleasure and tugging down your bra. your boobs spring free, now rippling freely like a wave. he ducks his head, suckling on one nipple, a hand coming up to tease the other one.

"ajax! oh, please, please, i'm so close," you moan, the pressure in your lower tummy building.

"with me," he mumbles, switching to your other nipple. "cum with me, baby, together..."

your rapidly contracting walls betray how close you are, and his dick twitches and twitches inside of you. childe grabs your leg, slinging it over his shoulder so his dick reaches even deeper into you, and the new position is just what you need for the dam to break.

you scream his name. you clamp down on him, hard, your back arching taut, pushing your breast further into his mouth. he cums at the same time, ropes of thick, hot cum filling you up in a place you hadn't even known was empty.

he's still pistoning into you at a violent pace, fucking you both through your first orgasm of the night.

blade

funny guy has funny tastes. if you'd known that one of his favourite things to do was to have you tied up and restrained, you would have... well, nothing, seeing as you enjoyed it just as much as he.

you were under the dining table, draped over the support crossbars and trying to clear out a particularly stubborn cobweb. blade eyes you hungrily, feeling his cock just begin to strain at his pants. he can see the outline of your panties through your clothes, the lucious curve of your ass tempting him to do something only in his fantasies.

then you pull back and stop.

"um, blade? a little help?"

his patience snaps. striding up to you, he lands a glancing blow on your behind. you yelp, your back arching. "hey, what was that for?"

he doesn't care. blade gives himself a moment to fix the image of your ass in his mind, then pulls down your clothes and underwear in one smooth movement.

"you little bitch," he snarls. a string of your arousal stretches from your pussy to your underwear. "fucking slut."

he slides his dick back and forth in your inner lips, coating it in slick and the tip rubbing aginst your clit. you moan, your back arching, grinding against him to try and get more friction.

blade reaches under the table and tugs you free, hoisting you up into his arms and carrying you to the couch.

another slap. you whimper, trying to turn back to get a look at him, but he grabs your head and forces it down.

"a slut like you shouldn't even be looking at me," he growls.

he spreads your asscheeks with his thumbs. the movement has your pussy weeping a few drops of cum onto his slick, wet dick.

"slut," he mutters again, half to himself, and slams himself into you.

you gasp, back arching, the fabric of the couch crinkling under your grip. "bla~ade," you moan angelically.

"shut up," he commands, pulling you roughly into him again. your shut up obediently. the flesh of your ass ripples up your body, and he can just see your boobs swaying to his rhythm.

he leans over you to whisper into your ear. "does my naughty little slut wanna cum?" he whispers, his gravelly voice sending sparks into your lower tummy.

you can feel his dick, thick and rock-hard, weighing down inside of you, and you can almost imagine the outline of it showing through your tummy. you nod.

he pistons his hips into yours, humping like an animal in heat, aiming right for the most sensitive gummy spot within you. you whimper and moan, your back arching in pleasure, and then you feel his hand clasp your boob to stimulate your nipple roughly.

"no-!" you squirm against his hold, but blade has you completely pinned. his other hand snakes down to where the two of you are connected, flesh smacking together and ringing through the room.

"if you want to cum, then cum." you can hear the smile in his voice as his hand finds your sensitive little nub and rubs it fiercely.

the pressure in your lower tummy spikes, and you claw at the couch as you cum, looking for something to hold onto. "bladebladeblade, ah, harder, please~"

[hyuckwrlds]

could i request s/o telling jaehyun they love him and him being like yes i knowwww but s/o is adamant and kisses him and cuddles him just to remind him? i’m such a sucker for him rn :((

>> only

can we stay like this forever? wc: 609

"so who's that?" jaehyun asks, glancing over your shoulder as you send a text on your laptop. when you don't immediately reply, he gives you a nudge.

"some guy from my psych class," you answer eventually, but only after you'd sent one last message. "he's asking me for the project notes since he missed lecture this morning."

jaehyun pauses, brows creasing. "and does this guy have a name?"

"yuta," you answer, simply. your head lolls to where your boyfriend sits beside you on the couch and he frowns slightly. you notice this, tacking on for good measure, "he's nice. he's the one who signs me in for attendance when i skip class to be with you."

"he's nice," jaehyun parrots. he turns his gaze back to the tv in attempt to look nonchalant but the hint of annoyance in his voice gives him away nonetheless. "how nice?"

there's a roll of your eyes. "hey, don't be like that."

"like what?"

"like jealous," you grin in amusement, setting your laptop down to settle against his side. an arm wraps around his waist as your chin rests atop his shoulder. he resists the urge to hold you back.

"i'm not jealous," he sighs. "i'm just worried about his intentions with you."

"his intentions are fine," a stifled laugh leaves you then, hold around him tightening. he lets you though, leaning into the warmth of your touch like he's done millions of times before. "i talk about you all the time and besides, i'm pretty sure he's in a relationship anyway."

jaehyun bites the inside of his cheek. it's not that he doesn't trust you—clearly, he trusts you more than anything—it's just, as he said, he can't as easily trust other guys. he huffs, another indication of his irritation that causes you to break him from his thoughts with a shake, slinging your leg across his body too.

"hey," you begin with a squeeze. "you know i love you right?"

he doesn't say anything but nods nonetheless, heart stuttering from the sudden affirmation. you press a kiss to his shoulder.

"i love you and everything about you. from your little dimples to the way you hold my hand; the way your face looks when you spot me across the room and the way you text me selfies every time you can't give me a call..."

jaehyun pauses, feeling his cheeks start to warm with every addition you add to your list.

"...the way you leave your chapstick in my car then blame me for stealing it a week later...."

"okay," he breaks, turning to look at you. he's sure his face is a flushed red by now. "i get it."

you hum. "so you know i'll never leave you, right?"

"yeah, i know."

"and you know that i'm no one else's but yours, too?"

"babe," he whines lamely. his brows scrunch into a cringe despite the way his heart soars in his chest. "that's so cheesy."

"it's true though," you laugh, pressing another kiss to his shoulder. the way you look at him afterwards sends his stomach fluttering and it tells him all he needs to know. you add, "i'm all yours, babe. i hope you know that."

"i do," he finally turns his body to face you now. between the way you're holding him and the way your gaze settles on his, he knows he's sure of it all, sure of you. he presses a kiss to your forehead. "and i'm no one else's but yours."

"i love you," you repeat.

"good," he nods, not bothering to fight the smile playing at his lips. "let's keep it that way."

[thestoryofella]

hi ellaaaa !!! :] im here requesting another steve harrington (or fred weasley if u want variety !!) drabble type thing again lol ! i was wondering if u could write smth abt the reader going to visit him at work and they're in an arm sling and he's just generally shocked ? u don't have to of course, i was just curious cause i fractured my elbow yesterday after trying to skateboard and i fell really hard on the concrete 😭 i got an arm sling today and i don't need help but people keep offering it (i appreciate it but i can do things fairly normally !!)

tysm !! -☄️

thank you for requesting; I hope your arm feels better now! <3

warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, swearing

steve harrington x reader ✿ 1025 words

You had tried not to fall; you really had. After seeing Max skateboard across town on a beat-up skateboard that never left her side, you decided it would be of utmost convenience to be able to glide in between houses and stores on a similar board. It was only a bonus that you might look cool doing it. 

Thus, you find yourself practicing riding a skateboard on a hill entirely too large for your skill level. You had meant to stop at the stop sign, which usually signaled the end of your block, but you found yourself rapidly gaining speed, flying past the stop sign, and then flying down a hill that resembled a mountain–or a children's slide if you were being realistic. 

Given your speed, you rapidly hurtled down the hill, and any efforts to stop were futile. You crashed into a storm drain and were quickly thrown backward. Your elbow, unfortunately, took the brunt of the impact. After a tearful phone call to your best friend and a doctor's visit, you found yourself in an arm sling that was entirely too embarrassing to mention to your boyfriend.

Steve was cool, aside from his seeming default dad-like poses, and you couldn't bring yourself to tell him about your accident or show him, for that matter. You were committed to doing everything yourself and not having to recount your fall. 

With your busy college schedule & Steve's job at Family Video, this was easy for a while. You resorted to texting him during the week, praying that your injury would be healed before the weekend came, and you both would undoubtedly want to spend lazy afternoons together to make up for the lost time. 

During the week, you buried your head in books, took acetaminophen to reduce the pain, and faithfully elevated your arm to reduce the swelling–which previously made it resemble a turkey leg, the flesh around your elbow ballooning to uncomfortable levels. 

It was Thursday when you got a text from Steve that read: You better come into Family Video. The movie we rented on Friday is due for return! At that moment, you knew that your antics had ended. Plus, given your student budget, you couldn't afford late fees. 

When you read the message, you sent a silent glare to the VHS that sat woefully unaware, tucked underneath the TV in your college house. If you just had a few more days to heal, you could've been out of the arm sling before Saturday. But no, the VHS return you procrastinated upon injuring yourself the day after your movie night had come to bite you in the ass. 

Even worse, morning classes had made it impossible to avoid Steve at Family Video–though deep down, you knew the news would've spread to him through the source of his chatty coworkers. Begrudgingly, you walked to Family Video, mirroring the form of a wounded animal, the VHS tucked into a spare tote bag that sat loosely on your undamaged arm, head hung slightly in defeat. 

By the time you reach the store, the only thing keeping you calm is the gentle tweets of birds that flutter in and out of your hearing. You also feel increasingly guilty for keeping this from Steve. It probably wouldn't have done much damage to your reputation in his eyes. However, the thought of his doting getting more excessive made heat creep up your neck and into your ears–which may constitute one reason for your antics. 

Walking inside the store, you fight the urge to curse as the bell above your head dings, immediately alerting the workers to your presence. Usually, this was helpful for quick service. But now? You want to crawl into a hole and stay there. 

Looking upwards as you walk towards the counter, you meet Steve's face with a sheepish grin. Taking in your form like he usually does before seeing you makes you think all is well until his eyes fall on your arm. Upon seeing your sling, his eyebrows lift incredulously to his forehead, and he develops wrinkles that better suit a man twice his age. 

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to sputter out, "What happened to you?" It's a tone laced with shock, not anger, but perhaps a twinge of amusement. Although he doesn't find your misfortune funny, he thinks it's characteristic that you have managed to hurt yourself since the last time you saw him. 

You laugh at his tone before rubbing your face with your good hand. "Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't laugh because it's really embarrassing." You decide that making a bargain is your best bet and scan his eyes for trust before continuing. 

He offers his pinky as if to say: I promise I won't. But, he truthfully doesn't know. 

You breathe in before unleashing your story. "So, last weekend–"

He cuts you off, "Last weekend?! You've had your arm in a sling since last weekend?" 

You give him a pointed look, a warning to stop interrupting you before telling the rest of your story, including your ambitions to look as cool as Max riding her skateboard–which probably could have been excluded. 

Surprisingly, Steve keeps his word and doesn't laugh once as you recall the events. Although a glint of amusement shines in his honeyed eyes, he feels more sad than anything he didn't know sooner. When you've finished, he walks around the counter to pull you into his chest. 

"I wish you would've told me sooner; I would've come to your place to care for you." He emphasizes his point by pressing a kiss on your hair and a frown on his lips. 

"It was just so embarrassing to have to say out loud," you mutter into his shirt, the cotton material pressing against your cheek. 

He pulls away to grab around your shoulders, offering you a stern but kind look. "I would never judge you, even if you didn't successfully learn how to skateboard." 

He's so sincere it almost makes you laugh. You smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I know," you respond, and you're telling the truth.

[truly-a-snitch]

Hi! Hi! I just discovered your blog and I have a request. So can I request Ranpo, Sigma and Dazai with a s/o who is like really calm and reserved in public but when they're alone together you can't separate them. Like a clingy, touchy, overprotective s/o who is reserved in public or at work. BUT if anyone hurts their partner they will go to war!! THEN afterwards come home and cuddle with them.

🍬 - Idk if you do the emoji things but I'm signing off with this one.

(You can just ignore this if you want, NO PRESSURE)

this is actually so cute. me and who

this sorta turned into just ways they show affection sorry i got carried away. jn my defense i love these three

warnings: none !! this is fluff but only sort of partially answers the prompt oopsies

---

Ranpo, Sigma, and Dazai with a reserved but affectionate S/O

Ranpo

ranpo is very affectionate no matter where you go so you two could not be more different in that regard

like. at home ? hes never not in your lap. shopping ? your arms Will be linked together (so he doesnt lose you, in his own words). at work ? he sidles up next to you and slings his legs over yours while he begrudgingly does his paperwork

he doesnt mind that youre more reserved when it comes to pda !! he knows how to tone it down when he gets to be too much

he just has a lot of love to give ok :-(

ranpo is 100% the type to just like. after a long day he will very dramatically splay himself across your lap and be like "ughhh im dying of boredom..... blehhhhh........."

his favorite activity is laying on top of you and demanding that you entertain him (any means possible) (especially reading to him)

he BITES !! leaves hickies on accident sometimes (he says hes sorry but like. is he really) and he encourages you to bite him right back fr. hes so silly i love him

admittedly he is a little upset he cant be as affectionate w you in public but he loves u enough that its ok and he makes up for it by not letting go of you from the moment you get home to the moment you go to bed

has fallen asleep in your lap before. also has fallen asleep on top of you on the couch before. haha good luck getting up you cant youd disturb him

congrats on the cat boyfriend btw

Sigma

silly... as somebody who runs a casino (yes he still runs the casino in my head. canon can get bent) he is very very busy, so he understands that there simply may not be time or energy to dedicate to him during working hours

affection shared between him is often that tired sort if only because after a full day the last thing he wants is something high energy

seeing as he spent a lot of time around fyodor, public physical contact of any kind is probably still a taboo hes deconstructing, so hes very much grateful that you arent really big on pda yourself (if only because he doesnt feel ready for all that at this point in time)

he likes to just lay against you, or hold your hand while he does his paperwork :3

big on forehead kisses. he loves them okay. the inherent tenderness of it makes him forget how to speak for a little bit he gets So flustered its actually the cutest thing ever

sigmas also a big big fan of massages (he runs on energy drinks, stress, and pure unfettered anxiety okay. i bet his muscles are Stiff)

and if you give him coffee...? doesnt matter if u made it or not. you are Getting Kissed

sleeping next to each other,, sleepy kissing,,, naps together,,,, top tier

sigma likes to just sit on the couch and watch tv with you. lay on him right now do it. diy weighted blanket

he treats you with fancy schmancy meals from the casino kitchens. you guys get to have date night where its just you watching tv and eating good food and drinking wine (hes a white wine guy you cant tell me otherwise)

Dazai

dazai isnt super affectionate in public, hes sorta similar to you in that regard, but he still has to be touching you almost all the time

HES SO ANNOYING ABOUT IT TOO his love language is annoying you so he will find the most inconvenient ways to Just Barely Touch You so that you have to talk to him and tell him to stop

getting home tho you get to literally watch the mask melt away. you sit down on the couch and he immediately just relaxes into you, he is ALL over u

(pspsps play with his hair. and like gently run ur nails over his scalp a lil bit. he gets so so sleepy when you do that)

dazai is so NEEDY w affection but he knows how to act like he doesnt want/need it in front of other ppl

if ur in private and ur not actively giving him attention. he will stare at u for a bit before practically tackling you. bro sprawls

hes not like AGAINST pda btw i forgot to touch on that its just that he prefers to be more private with his genuine romantic endeavors :3 like hell annoy you on purpose in public but behind closed doors hes a softie fr

dazai also bites as a love language like ranpo does but dazai is always careful not to accidentally bite too hard (ranpo may not give a fuck but dazai certainly does)

he rly likes laying on top of you. fair tbh laying on ur s/o is better than therapy

anyway overall hes very much like. purposely annoying or embarrassing in public but hes much more romantic behind closed doors

[beggingforxavier]

A Weekend in NYC // Xavier Thorpe

This is an alt! Follow my main blog: @beggingforxavierthorpe

About: Xavier finally comes to visit you in New York City for the holidays.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Oral (m & f recieving), P in V unprotected sex, breeding kink, dirty talk, spitting, talk of cum eating.

“Hey, I’m here!” You hear your boyfriend through the speaker of your phone and start to look around for him.

Grand Central Station is absolutely bustling this time of year, with the large Christmas tree in the center of the lobby.

“I’m by the main entrance. Just follow the signs and find the big tree.” You stay on the phone with him though, so enthused to finally have Xavier in your city for the first time.

It takes about ten minutes and a lot of explaining, but eventually you feel a tap on your shoulder. Whirling around, you look up into your boyfriend’s soft, green eyes.

“Hi there.” He murmurs, grinning wide at you. You let out a squeal and wrap your arms around his neck. Xavier chuckles lowly and lifts you up for a moment, abandoning his duffel bag to twirl you around. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

Pulling back, you kiss him sweetly, before beaming up at him, your smile dazzling.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here!” You exclaim, tugging on his arm with excitement. “There’s so much I want to show you!”

He kisses your forehead, breathing you in for another second before slinging his arm around your shoulders and picking up his bag.

“Where do we begin?” He asks as you lead him out to the busy street.

“Well, I’m going to take you to the apartment so we can drop off your bag. And then I thought we could see the tree in Rockefeller Center, and also see the New Year’s ball in Times Square…” You mumble on, trying to lead him through the throngs of people rushing to their next destination.

Luckily for him, Xavier’s long legs make matching your quick pace easy.

You quickly go to your apartment, tossing his duffel inside the front door, barely giving Xavier a chance to look around before you’re pulling him out again. His cheeks are reddened in the cool New York winter breeze, and he tightens his scarf around his neck. Walking the streets at such a quick pace was quite the workout, and when you finally make it to Rockefeller Center, he’s breathing heavily. You grin up at him, used to the pace at this point, and you wrap your arm around his waist, leaning into him.

“You gonna survive?” You tease him, and he chuckles.

“I think I need one kiss, or I’ll die.” He leans down and steals one quickly, and you squeeze his waist.

“Well, we don’t want that, do we? You’ll miss this.”

The crowd parts and the tree comes into view, large, full, and so incredibly tall. Xavier lets out a little gasp and moves closer to the colorful tree. He walks right up to the barrier and gazes up in astonishment.

“How the fuck is it so big? Is it real?” He asks, gazing down at you.

“Yes, it’s real. I think they get it imported from Sweden. Norway? I can’t remember.” You shake your head and your breath clouds around your mouth.

“It’s beautiful.”

You two stand there for a few more minutes before you give him a tour, showing him Radio City Music Hall, and walking the couple blocks to Times Square.

“So that big glass ball up there is the same one on your TV that drops on New Year’s Eve.” You point up to where it is, looping your arm with his.

Xavier is overwhelmed with the number of billboards and buildings, gazing up to where you’re pointing.

“How many people live here again?” He asks, gazing around at the massive crowds.

“Like 8 million, but most of these people are tourists. We get a LOT of tourists. Like 50 million or something. It’s crazy.” You explain, walking past the shops and stopping for a minute. “Do you want to get a souvenir? We could get you a classic I heart NY shirt.”

“Maybe we should come back tomorrow? I don’t know what I’d-holy shit.” He drops your hand and moves towards the art gallery next door.

Xavier peers in the window and bites his lip, wanting to go in but he can tell its closed.

“We could come back later tonight when it’s open. We could also visit the Museum of Modern Art? I know you’d like it.” You offer, and he turns to you.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course I would, loser. I’d do anything for your dumb ass.” You lean up and kiss him sweetly, and he grins into the kiss, his hands finding your hips and squeezing gently.

The smell of fresh pizza fills the air, and you pull away, pecking his lips once more before gazing up into his eyes.

“How about authentic New York pizza?” You ask, grabbing your wallet from your purse. “My treat.”

Xavier huffs at the last part but allows you to drag him into the pizza shop.

When you finally get back to the apartment, it’s dark outside. You both flop onto the couch, feet sore and bellies full.

“So, d’you love it?” You look over at him, reaching out your hand for his and squeezing it once he places his palm against yours.

“I love you.” Xavier rests his head back against his arm and gazes lovingly at you. When you pout at the non-answer, he smirks. “Yes, baby. I love it here. There’s so much to do, so much to see. I’m so excited for the museum tomorrow and the shows.”

“What was your favorite part?” You ask, turning to face him.

“Seeing you again.” He answers smoothly, and you roll your eyes at him, though a grin spreads across your face. His eyes are filled with adoration as he repeats himself. “I love you.”

“I love you too, you big dork.”

You slide down so your head is in his lap, looking up at him. He smiles down at you, pushing his hair back away from his face with his hand. Meanwhile, his other moves into yours, playing with the strands and massaging your scalp. You moan softly at the attention, and you can feel his cock twitch against your cheek at your sounds.

A smirk plays on your lips, and you carefully sit up, moving from the couch and sliding to your knees in front of him.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart?” Xavier asks, raising his eyebrow but making no move to push you away.

You look up innocently from your spot between his legs and shrug.

“I don’t know.” You lean closer, reaching forward and starting to palm him through his pants.

“Oh yeah? Are you sure?”

“I want to make you feel good.” You say offhandedly, your focus on unwrapping your favorite toy from its confines.

He almost groans at your words alone, his cock already hardening from the attention your hand is giving him. The zipper of his jeans is loud in the quiet room as you unbutton his pants and free him. Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and he hisses as you begin to stroke him a couple of times dry.

“Babe-“ He grabs your wrist and stops you. “Get it nice and wet first for me.”

You smile and lean forward, flattening your tongue and licking up the side of his shaft. Xavier curses and lets his head fall back a little, his hands moving to grip the edge of the couch. Your tongue swipes over the tip of his cock, collecting the precum that has begun to dribble out from his slit. Your tongue teases the tip gently, lapping at it for a few moments, knowing how wild that drives him. That earns you a louder groan, and you lean back, spitting onto his cock and then taking it fully into your mouth. Sucking gently, you begin to bob your head, taking more of him with each bob.

Xavier’s large hand finds the back of your head, forcing himself further down your throat and holding you there. Your nose presses into his skin and you choke around his cock, tears starting to leak from the corners of your eyes. You stay pressed down as long as you can, your throat spasming around him and causing the grunting sounds you currently hear. When it becomes too much, you tap on his thigh, and he immediately lets you up with a groan.

“That’s my good girl. Do you want me to pump you full? Claim you as mine?” Xavier croons, pushing your hair away from your face. When you nod, Xavier smiles and leans forward, pulling you up and into his lap. “Can you show me how badly you want it, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes.” You manage, and Xavier’s large hands grip your hips, forcing them to roll over his cock, spreading your wetness against his hard-on.

His tip pulls at your entrance while grinding a couple of times before he grips himself and starts to smack himself against your clit. You whimper and hold onto his shoulder tightly, looking down between you both. You both watch as his cock disappears into your cunt, and then you make eye contact, groaning as your mouths latch together again.

You kiss him deeply, his tongue teasing yours, and he chases your mouth when you pull away to focus on rocking your hips against his. Xavier’s hands move to grip your ass, squeezing it roughly as you lift your hips and drop them back down again. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room between your mixed groans and moans. His hand pulls back and comes down on your cheek, the sting radiating across as it jiggles. He smooths his hand over it to soothe the pain, and then does it again, wanting to see his large, red handprint marked there.

“Fuck, just like that.” He moans, his hands guiding your movements. Your walls flutter around his length as it plunges inside you over and over, squeezing him just right like always. His eyes watch the way your chest bounces with each drop of your hips, and he leans forward, about to take one of your nipples into his mouth when he grunts again. “You’re a fucking goddess.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat at that comment, and you reach forward to stroke his cheek as he pulls your nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly. Your head falls back, hips stuttering at the added stimuli. Xavier’s tongue flicks it gently before he moves to the other one, getting each nice and perked. When he removes his mouth completely, his fingers come to tug on both gently.

After a few more moments, Xavier lifts you off him and kisses your shoulder before sliding out from beneath you. His tall frame stands up behind you, pushing you onto your hands and knees on the couch. Your cheek presses into the cushion as he drives his cock back inside you.

“Oh, shit.” You whimper, your toes curling as he presses even deeper inside of you, burying himself to the hilt before pulling back and snapping his hips roughly into yours.

Xavier sets a brutal pace, leaning forward over you, one of his hands pressing on your shoulders to ensure your face is digging into the cushion below you, the other moving around to slap at your clit. You moan louder, trying to meet his thrusts but the pace is too quick for you. One particularly rough slap to your clit shoots tingles of mixed pain and pleasure through your body. You can almost feel the blood in your body move to your lower extremities, making your cunt throb around him.

“Such a pretty little slut. ‘M gonna give you all my cum.” He grunts out, hips ramming harder now.

His tip nudges against your sweet spot with every thrust now, and your legs begin to shake. He moves a hand to your hair, yanking you flush against his chest before tilting your head towards his.

“Open.” He says firmly, and you let your mouth drop open immediately.

Xavier proceeds to spit in your mouth, and you savor it, moaning greedily and opening again for him. He obliges and does it again for you. His assault on your clit never stops, and it only takes a couple more minutes before your walls are tightening around his cock, and you’re falling apart.

Your cries are loud, and he moves his hand up to your throat, silencing you with a kiss. He thrusts through your orgasm, before bottoming out completely, as deep as he can get, and cumming hard for you. Xavier lets out an extended groan low in his throat as he stays buried inside you. After a few moments, he lowers you back onto your hands and knees, pulling out.

His release drips out of you, and he dips his fingers in your messy cunt and pushes it right back inside.

“You look so pretty with a full cunt.” He murmurs to you, and you flush, wiggling your hips a little for him. “Who gets to fill this delicious pussy? Who does it belong to?”

“You.” Your voice is hoarse from all the moaning, but you respond automatically.

“That’s right. I own this pussy. It’s mine. And you’re my little breedable slut, aren’t you?” His eyes are trained on your leaking hole, but he smooths his hand over your cheeks lovingly.

“Yes, baby. I’m all yours.” You slowly move so you can kiss him.

Xavier kisses you back briefly, before his stomach rumbles and he pulls away.

“Good. Now, how about we finish that pizza we brought home? I’m suddenly starved. No idea why.” He teases, and you giggle.

“I can’t think of anything either.” You grin, shaking your head. “But maybe I’m just fucked dumb.”

Xavier groans at your words and pulls you in for another kiss. He almost growls into it before grabbing your legs and tugging on them, making you lay on your back.

“Actually, the pizza can wait. I have my meal right here.”

When his tongue laps at your hole, collecting your mixed releases, you both groan at the same time.

It’s official. Xavier loves New York. But he loves one thing more. You.

[maltmealo]

Chapter 16: Trouble

"Should he be so little?"

"Don't worry, he'll grow up big and strong just like ----"

"Huh... they grow."

“You got all this for me?” The room you had been staying in had been spruced up to look more or less like a small one-room apartment, complete with a kitchen and all that had been stocked with canned goods and none perishables, as well as some bags of fruits on the counters. You’re blankets and pillows had been organized to make a somewhat good nest, complete with a small tv pushed against the wall.

“Yeah, with all the moping you’ve been doing around we thought it would be nice for you to have a room instead of sleeping next to Ratchet all the time.” Cliffjumper says, a proud expression on his face as he pokes his head through the doorway to get a good look, “We did all the hard work, Doctor Sowa got the food.”

“I appreciate the gesture but… won’t I die without being near one of you guys?” you ask, looking towards Cliffjumper with a concerned expression.

“Eh, don’t worry about it, my room is right next to yours, plus, it's my job to take care of you, so I have to make sure our residential human is comfortable.” He grins, pulling his head out of the door. You follow him out and see that he had pulled his head upon command on none other than the quiet doctor, who was now promptly staring at Cliffjumper blankly.

‘Check up.’ he signed, grabbing you by your elbow and all but dragging you into the room, closing the door behind him, and leaving a very confused Cliffjumper outside.

“Doctor Sowa? Are you okay?” You ask as he pulls out a chair and makes you sit on it, he seemed tenser than his usual relaxed and emotionless self, his movements stiffer.

‘Don't trust them.’ he signs as he pulls out a stethoscope from his old-timey doctor bag.

“What? Why?” You ask, a confused look on your face as the doctor lifts your shirt up and presses the cold metal against your back.

He doesn’t respond, unstrapping your sling and taking your arm into both of his hands.

It felt wrong, or looked wrong, something about his hands had dipped into an uncanny valley, maybe it was the fact that they were long and spindly, or maybe that they were a little too smooth, but maybe that was just because he took care of himself-

CRACK

You froze, your breath catching in your chest as you squeezed your eyes shut tight, expecting the loud crack to be one or multiple of your bones breaking but you felt no pain. A hand touches your cheek, pulling you out of your shocked state as you open your eyes.

A faint melody reaches your ear, not one you recognized, not made by man or nature, a calm steady mix of almost autotuned dinging and a humming that sounded nothing like the tense humming of Optimus.

‘I would never hurt you.’ he signs as he lets go of your dumbstruck face, taking out a pair of scissors and carefully snipping away the fabric that held the down broken plaster together. Your arm was healed, it had just been two weeks and your broken arm no longer ached or screamed whenever you even thought of using your muscles. He takes a rag out of his bag and pours some water on it, slowly but gently cleaning up your arm from all the dirt that had congealed under your cast.

You stare at him- or rather listen to him, it was so much more soothing to hear this, it wasn’t forced or overwhelming, it wasn’t something that invaded your brain and gave you a headache, it was calm, communication in the purest form.

“I can hear you,” You whisper, a smile growing on your face as you push what he had said earlier to the back of your mind and what he had just done, “it's beautiful.”

He sets the damp rag down, tilting his head as he looks down at you, his unchanging eyes staring into the depths of your soul.

‘It's nothing,’ he signs finally, putting away the stethoscope, before looking up at you again.

“It’s not nothing, it's you,” You smile, listening intently to the music, “I didn’t realize humans could do that, it sounds so much sweeter than the ‘bots.”

He gives you a strange look before reaching up and setting his hands on either side of your face, gently tilting it around as his fingers press into your pulse.

He was testing to make sure your neck didn’t hurt, of course, any other reason would be unthinkable, he had a job to do, and he couldn’t get feeling for a patient of all people in the universe.

You wince when he digs his cold fingers in just a little too hard like he was trying to dig his fingers into your veins to feel the rush of blood that kept you alive. He pulls away quickly at your reaction, resting his hands above his lap.

‘Apologies,’ he signs when he raises his hands again, taking a step away from you and looking around the room.

“No worries, I’ve been through enough to handle a little pain,” you tease, standing up off the chair as you rub your wrist, flexing each finger individually to test them. You follow his gaze in looking around the room, “nice isn’t it?”

‘It is unique,’ he turns back to you, looking you up and down, ‘are you still in pain?’

“No my arm feels fine,” you roll your wrist in demonstration, twisting your arm in circles and bending it.

‘Not that,’ he grabs your hand and places it against your chest and you wince, it felt like all the air had been forced out of your lungs, it was confusing and dazing, painful and not at the same time. You didn’t even realize it but your legs had given out on you and Doctor Sowa was now supporting you, ‘this.’

You stare up at him, what was this? It was like all the memories you needed to answer his question had been locked away. You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out, it felt like your body had shut down everything in order to focus on the feeling of his hand pressed against yours. Your ears were ringing, your senses were in overdrive to find something to grab onto.

He takes his hand away and everything feels like it restarted, you take a gasp of air that you didn’t realize you needed, your legs finally support your body and everything comes rushing back.

He gingerly places a hand on your back, taking one of your arms and guiding you to sit down on the bed. He sits down beside you, patiently waiting for you to catch your breath as he rubs your back gently.

The music came back into the forefront of your mind, pulling you out of the sensory overload you had just experienced. It reminded you, that you weren’t alone, he was here with you, a man who sounded so much sweeter than anything you had ever heard before. You were safe here, in the tiny nook made by giants and now owned by you.

“I'm gonna say no,” You finally get out, blinking a couple of times as tears drip down your face. You reach up and touch them, maybe it was from pain, maybe it was because of the overwhelming feelings you just felt, or maybe it was from a host of other reasons that you didn’t want to know. All you knew was that you were crying and the tears weren’t stopping.

It hurt and you couldn’t help the sob that left your mouth, you covered your mouth, the pain just bringing everything to the surface as you tried to stay calm and stop crying.

That was what you were trying to do this whole time, you weren’t going home, you weren’t going to see Meryl or find out if he ever survived or not, you weren’t going to see your family, you were going to die in this universe probably crushed underfoot like everyone else, weren’t you?

They promised though, the aliens who had swooped in and saved you from falling and becoming a stain on the hard ground of a place that wasn’t home. Optimus had promised you that after everything you were going home. You were going home after this.

You take a few more seconds to calm your breath, tears still falling down your cheeks even though you weren’t sobbing. He pulls his hand away from your back, allowing you some space to reset your body manually.

“Yeah, definitely not okay,” you laugh, wiping your tears away with your sleeve as you sniffle. the ache was still there, hollow and hurting.

‘It isn’t getting better,’ he signs, watching you with the same expression he always had, still and sound, like a rock or an anchor.

“But Ratchet said if I-”

He slaps a hand over your mouth, his eyes drilling into yours as he slowly releases your lips.

‘They did this,’ he signs, his hand pressing against your chest gently, it was not nearly enough to hurt you this time, ‘they don’t want to be responsible.’

“Why wouldn’t they want that? They seem like good people stuck in a bad situation,” you reply back, frowning at his answer. They did want was best for you, they wouldn’t have saved you otherwise, they would have thrown you out to the dogs if they didn’t.

‘They killed my children.’

What should have been silence was filled with the somber melody of his soul, you felt it. You felt his pain and anguish, you could almost see it through his eyes, feel the wetness of death on your fingers, but the memories pull away, leaving you on the precipice of sadness and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, unable to think of anything else to say than to apologize on the Autobots' behalf, what would you say? Would you defend the death of children? Say that it wasn’t the Autobots' fault that his kids were stupid enough to get underfoot or get stuck in the crossfire? Or would you say that the Autobots had changed? That they may have meant to do it but they’re different now.

You swallow down your thoughts and clear your throat, “how old were they?”

‘Too young.’ he responds, staring you down like he knew what you were thinking.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, your voice stuck in your throat as you avert your gaze, “there’s nothing I can say to justify your loss.”

He stays silent, not moving his hands anymore, just staring at you. You look down at your lap biting your tongue as you stay silent. You didn’t know where to go from here, sure you’ve had this conversation with Meryl before, but now it was different, something inside of you was preventing you from saying anything.

Suddenly, he clasps your hand in both of his, guiding it into this lap and pulling you out of your thoughts as he gives it a squeeze. You look back up at him, his gaze no longer intense but now… sad.

“What were they like?” you find the words, it was easy now, he was human like you, he mourned and grieved, if he was angry at you it wasn’t because of anything you did.

‘They were… troublemakers,’ he signs letting go of your hand but letting it rest in his lap as he speaks in hands, ‘fighters to the very end, a… dynamic duo if you will.’

“Early in the hospital, you said there were three, what was that one like?”

‘He was smart, a fighter, he protected his brothers,’ his hand movements getting slower as he stares off into space, ‘he went first.’

“They sound like handfuls,” you laugh softly, smiling at the descriptions, “what were their names?”

He pauses, focusing back on your face. He shakes his head, grabbing your hand again and squeezing it.

He didn’t want to talk about it, seeing his children get shot down and crushed by the Autobots who claimed to be for peace. To be forced to see those who had mercilessly slaughtered them for the sake of someone who could die without them.

You were just like him in a sense, smart but naive, you trusted that the people who were liars to keep you safe and heal you. They didn’t know they were liars and that was going to get you killed in the most agonizing way possible.

“Do you want a hug?”

A question so simple it made him stop. He slowly nodded, releasing your hand to let you hug him.

You lean in, wrapping your arms around him and hugging him, it was awkward at first. so much so that you almost pulled away, but slowly he hugged back, his arms resting around your back and adding a pleasant pressure to your back.

“You remind me of someone,” you mutter, resting your head on his chest, the song is louder now, but it still held the quiet grieving tone, “his name was Meryl, he taught me a lot.”

His hand lays flat on your back, rubbing circles into it, it was comforting to feel a genuine human touch after two months of only being picked up and held by giant robots. Hell, the last time you were held like this was when you left for college, and now after all the stress, it was more than nice.

You stay like that, wrapped in each other's limbs for what seems like hours before he pulls away, lifting up his hands and cupping your cheeks.

“What are you doing?” you asked as he touched your eyes where they were still red and puffy. He stares at the red rings, his fingers stained with the salty liquid that covered your own face.

He stands up quickly, going to the full-sized fridge and rifling through it before returning with a water bottle. He pops off the cap in a single upward movement, handing you the incorrectly opened water bottle.

“Um… thank you,” you say as you take a sip of the water, the cold water washed down your throat as you tilt your head back, staring at the ceiling as you chug about half of the bottle.

‘You were beginning to get dehydrated, that is dangerous,’ he explains, taking the bottle from your hand and setting it down on the table as he sets back down.

It was silent for a few moments as you stared at each other, it wasn’t awkward, more like a mutual understanding of… not knowing what more to say.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a harsh knocking.

“Doctor Sowa! It’s time to go.” Agent Fowler’s voice breaks through the silence as both of you turn your heads to look at the door.

He looks back at you, a silent question being transmitted between the two of you, are you okay?

You nod, giving him a meek smile as you stand up. He suddenly grabs your hand and pulls you back down, bringing you into a tight hug. He had been hesitant when you hugged him, but now he was confident, smooth, and strong. It was confusing for sure, he had been so untouchy from the moment you met him, only touching you when absolutely necessary.

His hand touches the back of your head, pressing you further into his body. He forces your face into his shoulder, almost like he was trying to shield your vision from something terrible.

Citrus.

He smelt like citrus, which one you couldn’t tell but it was distinct, like a freshly pealed orange or a squeezed lemon. It almost smelt like those cleaners your mother kept under the counter to clean with from time to time.

It was silent but so loud at the same time, his very life force grasping at yours to tell you something, the melody didn’t hurt like the bashing singular sound of Ratchet and it didn’t feel like you were getting forced to calm down.

It was simple, the message he was giving you was so incredibly simple and so hard to understand at the same time.

‘Thank you.’

[leclerced]

okay I know we had talked about bunny’s reaction to Lando getting injured but… what about the other way around? Like maybe something happens and she wakes up in the hospital and Oscar’s there but Lando was away so he wasn’t able to get there as quickly, so he’s all worried and Oscar’s trying to comfort her on his own? And bc I’ve been in such a max mood lately maybe max is there but he’s in the waiting room trying not to intrude until Oscar’s like ‘no pls I could really use ur help’ or something like that

i cant think of any sicknesses but lando’s out of town and bunny goes to the store to get something while oscar’s napping and gets into a car accident. someone runs a red light and she’s taken to the hospital, oscar’s the first person called and he calls max on the way to the hospital, before he’s even called lando because he’s freaking out and blaming himself because bunny should have just woken him so he could have gone instead of her, but max calms him down and tells him he’ll call lando and talk to him and let him know oscar will give him updates when he can. then he goes to the hospital too because he doesn’t know what else to do. oscar had just calmed bunny down after she woke and they spoke to the doctor, she was okay, relatively speaking. she had a concussion and broken arm and had to go into surgery to have some nerve fixed in her arm but she’d be okay after some physical therapy. oscar is apologizing for nothing when the nurse notifies them they have a visitor waiting and oscar leaves to see who it is and finds max. he apologizes for intruding but oscar just rushes into his arms because he needs a hug more than anything right then and he couldn’t hug bunny as hard as he wants because she’s broken and he’s scared of hurting her even more. oscar asking him to come to her room and max asks if he’s sure and he says he could use the support, that sentence makes max think bunny’s in horrible condition. but then they enter her room and she’s okay. her arm is in a sling and she’s a little bruised up, she has tear stained cheeks from when she woke up confused and alone, before she noticed oscar in the chair next to her. but she’s okay. and looped out on morphine so she’s just happy to see max and immediately asks him to sign her cast so she can brag to everyone that the world champion signed her cast. max realized he’s there for oscar, not for bunny who is all too happy to have the two men dote on her, but oscar looks like he’s scared she’s going to die after any moment as he delicately traces patterns on the back of her hand while they watch old reruns on the tiny hospital tv.

also can def see them talking to some kid in the cafeteria and getting a ton of mclaren and redbull merch and bringing it back to the hospital to give out to the pediatric unit!! like all of the teddy bears and max’s jimmy lions 🥺 ill cry

[beautiful-and-terrible]

“falling into place”: chapter 2

mike schmidt x reader

summary: “You meet Mike Schmidt under rather unfortunate circumstances. Luckily, he's a decent guy, and tries to make it up to you. Besides, who could say no to those big brown puppy-dog eyes?”

tags: Slow-burn, domestic, hurt/comfort, gradual friends-to-lovers, whatever the opposite of a meet-cute is, because mike is a disaster, sub!mike, dom!reader, eventual smut

also available to read on my Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51690952/chapters/130675165

Mike pulled into the parking lot of the Urgent Care. He asked if you wanted him to come in with you, which you declined. Mike said he would wait until you got out, and then drive you home.

You got checked out by the doctor, who told you your wrist was only sprained. She wrapped it in an ace bandage and a sling and told you to keep ice on it over the next few days. She also gave you some pain killers, which you were extremely grateful for because your wrist was steadily throbbing with a bright, aching pain.

You returned to Mike’s car in the parking lot, already feeling the effects of the half a pain killer you had taken. The world felt softer around the edges, and distracted you from the pain more than reduced the feeling, but it still felt much better.

“Hey, listen, since I can’t really help with, y’know, medical bills or anything, can I make you dinner as an apology?” Mike asked as you slipped into the passenger seat. Normally, you would think that was a terrible idea. No one in their right mind would go over to a strangers house, especially after they had hit them with their car. But you weren’t in your right state of mind. You were tired and hungry and cold and loopy from half a Percocet. Plus, he had a kid sister. It’s not like he would murder you in front of her.

“Mmm, yeah, that sounds nice,” you sighed, sliding down slightly in your seat as he began driving again.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you awoke to a warm hand on your shoulder, shaking you slightly.

“We’re at my place,” Mike said softly before exiting the car. He opened the trunk, got his groceries out and started walking up the path to his house, Abby trailing behind him. You followed suit, getting out of the car and shivering at the frigid November air. At least the rain had stopped.

You entered the house after Mike, taking in your surroundings slowly. It was… a house. Pretty bland - beige walls, cream carpet, a brown couch, and a TV that still had an antenna. It smelled clean, though, which you took as a good sign. A child’s drawings littered the wall near the TV at about hip level, so you figured they were Abby’s. You smiled at one that caught your eye, depicting a man with curly hair in a black shirt who was getting pelted with cupcakes by a girl with brown hair and a gang of anthropomorphic figures - a purple bunny, a yellow bird, a red fox, and a brown bear, who wore a top hat. You could only assume the unlucky victim of this attack was Mike.

“Uh, take a seat at the table, if you want. Make yourself at home. I know it’s a little messy, sorry…” Mike rubs the back of his neck and moves to the kitchen, starting to put groceries away.

“Not messy at all. It’s nice,” you say, trying to be polite. Mike gives you a look like he can see right through you. You blush, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, looking down at the dingy tile floor. You clear your throat.

“Are you from here? From this town, I mean.”

“No, I’m from Nebraska. Abby was born and raised here though. We, my parents and I, moved when I was twelve. Um… something bad happened in our family, and we wanted to get far away from it. I guess.” Mike’s expression was guarded as he says this, so you don’t press the subject. You watch as he puts a frozen lasagna in the oven and starts tearing open a bag of premade salad, haphazardly dumping it into a big bowl. You can’t help but smile - he seems to really be making an effort for his little sister.

“What about you?”

“No, I’m from a little ways south of here. I went to college, tried to get a job, but it fell through, so I moved here. It’s cheaper than the city, and it has pretty places, if you look hard enough.”

“You might have to help me find those pretty places. Seems like everywhere I look is ugly concrete and asphalt and garbage.”

You shrug. “Yeah, there’s definitely a lot of that. That’s why you have to focus on the in-between places. The places where people forget to look for beautiful things.”

Mike looks at you, regarding you momentarily. You feel weighed down by his gaze, but not intimidated. Just oddly seen , for the first time in a while. Then he breaks eye contact, going back to dressing the salad. You rack your brain for some other topic to discuss.

“Where do you work?”

Mike sighs. “I work as a security guard for this old, run-down kid’s entertainment restaurant. It’s not in business anymore, but the owner keeps it running for nostalgia’s sake. God knows why - the place is falling apart. But he pays me to watch the cameras and keep people out, so. I can’t complain.”

You frown. “Why not go somewhere better if the place is such a dump?”

Mike’s face closes off again, and you bite your lip anxiously. “It’s complicated,” is all he says in reply.

You sigh. Trying to get any answers out of Mike that weren’t just surface level was like pulling teeth. You decided to try a different tactic.

“Can I do anything to help with dinner?”

Mike looks at you, then at your wrist. “No, don’t worry about that. I’m making dinner as an apology. You should sit down and rest.”

You nod, feeling a little dismissed, but you shake it off. Behind you, you hear the TV chattering in high pitched voices - Abby must be watching something on TV. You slip out of the doorway of the kitchen and join her in the living room. On the TV, brightly colored young girls with wings and ridiculously high heels strut around casting magic and kicking ass.

“What is this show?” you ask, sitting down on the couch. Abby looks up at you - she seems less pissed off than before, just a little shy.

“Winx club,” she says simply, playing with one of her pigtails.

“Which one is your favorite?”

Abby doesn’t respond for a moment. Then she points to the TV, “That one. Her name is Tecna.” The character has a purple and green futuristic looking body suit on, and short pink hair.

“Oh yeah, she looks cool. Do you want pink hair like her?”

Abby looks at you, smiling slightly. “Yeah. But Mike would never let me,” she pouts.

“I bet you could convince him when you’re a little older. You know, I used to have pink hair.”

Abby looks at you with a mixture of jealousy and admiration. “That’s so cool. Were your parents mad?”

You laugh slightly. “Oh yeah, they were mad. I was sixteen, and I dyed my hair the week before my older sister’s wedding. I was one of her bridesmaids. So in all of the pictures from her wedding I’m wearing this god-awful wig that makes me look like Dolly Parton got caught in a rainstorm. It would’ve been better if they had just let me keep my pink hair.”

Abby giggles, and from the kitchen you can hear Mike laughing too. It makes your stomach feel funny. Mike pokes his head out from the kitchen to tell you and Abby that dinner was ready.

As you sit down to dinner and fill your plate, you notice Mike’s eyes drifting to you more and more often. The couple of times that your eyes meet he looks away, his ears turning slightly pink. But you’re too hungry to read into that, so you dig into your meal.

At the end of the night, Mike offers to drive you home, which you accept. You’re too sleepy from the warm food and residual effects from the painkiller to refuse, and you certainly don’t have the brain power to call a cab. You feel yourself sort of disappointed that your time with Mike and Abby has come to an end. They’re both nice company. You could do with more of that in your life.

As you pull up to your apartment, Mike takes out a napkin from the glovebox and scribbles something on it and gives it to you. As he reaches over to your side of the car, you can smell the cologne he uses - something warm and fresh at the same time. It reminds you of what boys used to wear in high school, but not as obnoxiously over-sprayed. It makes your stomach flip.

You look at the proffered napkin and realize he’s written his number down. You look up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Just in case you need anything. Seriously, anything. I feel terrible about your wrist. Get some rest, okay?”

“Yeah, thank you... Have a good night,” you say, and your eyes lock for a split second before you open the car door. You could’ve sworn his eyes glanced down to your lips, but you were probably imagining things. You give him a smile and get out of the car.

You’re practically dead on your feet as you walk up to the second floor of your unit and unlock your apartment. You throw your dirty clothes in the laundry basket in your closet and don’t even bother putting on pajamas. You crawl under the covers and you’re asleep within seconds.

Mike sat outside your apartment in his car for a long time after you’d already gone upstairs and fallen asleep. He didn’t know why his heart was beating so fast, or why his face felt so hot, or why he kept over-analyzing everything he’d said since he’d met you. To be fair, your first impression hadn’t been ideal.

But listening to you interact with Abby, and the ease with which you interacted with her, made Mike feel incredibly safe with you. If he could trust you with Abby, he could trust you with himself, as well.

Mike drove into the frigid November night, deep in thought. His car’s janky heater wasn’t the only thing keeping him warm.

[princelylove]

Homemade CDs.

Synopsis: Leone loves youuu so muuuucchhh. A wip that I desperately want to get rid of, intended as a tiny drabble to build some character for Leone.

Warnings: general yandere content, stalking 

There’s too many CDs under the television in Leone’s living room.

It’s Guido’s living room too, but Guido doesn’t really collect CDs. He has a couple- The Carpenters, The Cranberries, maybe even a Lesley Gore CD he swears up and down he got from a girl that just happened to leave it. (And hasn’t called him in three years to get it back.)

But other than that, it’s all Leone’s. There’s what you’d expect- Monteverdi, Tchaikovsky, maybe some Depeche Mode, and Bauhaus. Why does one man need three different versions of Swan Lake? The fucking nutcracker is in here?? They make CDs for that???

Some have had their insides replaced with black paper. If you ask him about it, he’ll tell you he burned the CD himself, and that’s why the side is blank. You just stick a piece of paper in where the art normally goes.

He never really wants to play it. If you ask him to, or God forbid take the liberty of opening it and putting it into the player yourself, he’s quick to take it from you and put it somewhere high up until you leave. Even if you’re tall, are you ‘top of the kitchen cabinets’ tall? Go ahead, try. Without looking stupid and leaning on his countertop. Yeah, that’s what he thought.

There’s also a ridiculous amount of films. Pretty Woman and The Bridges of Madison County sit nicely next to Leone’s hoard. Sling Blade, a recording of a ballet company’s Swan Lake, The Silence of the Lambs, the tv special version of The Phantom of The Opera (as well as the black and white one), are all pressed tightly together to fit in the shelves. 

It’s hard to imagine Leone genuinely enjoying all of this, especially considering you’ve never really seen him smile in the first place. You imagine he just exhales instead of properly laughing at the ‘funny’ parts.

His humor is a bit morbid, from your point of view. He probably laughs at the serious parts- sends himself into a laughing fit at the phantom going underwater with a stick to breathe. Or maybe he’s an elitist, and doesn’t watch films to amuse himself. 

‘I watch them for the experience.’ You imagine him saying.

He’s lucky you haven’t caught him watching you. 

You’re so precious like this. It’s the closest thing Leone’s had to domesticity with you. Going through his things while he fixes his makeup in the bathroom, where he can still monitor you but pretend he doesn’t care what you’re doing… He’ll replay this later to see which films caught your eye, so he can rewatch them, or put them on the next time you come over. Ohh, heey, silence of the lambs just happened to be on, you’re welcome to sit and watch while he leaves to go do anything other than sit next to you- despite suggesting that you amuse yourself with his things. It’s kind of rude to go through someone’s things, especially when they’re organized like this, but you’re not about to tell Leone a hard ‘no.’

You may have thought he was being sarcastic, ‘Yeah, come over to my house and dig through my shit, perfect.’ but he meant it. Getting to watch you browse in the confines of his apartment is the most fun he’s had in a while. 

When Guido gets home and breaks the precious silence Leone was thrilled about, he’s quick to comment on you digging through their collection.

“Hey, what’s- dude??? Your little guest can dig through our shit but I can’t leave a movie I’m CURRENTLY WATCHING out on the table? That’s SO unfair.” 

“You won’t put it back where you found it.” 

… You take that as a sign that you need to clean up, and put everything back the way you vaguely remember. You’re successful- a few are out of order, but it’s mainly neat. You’re not really interested in hearing Leone bitch about how ‘perfect’ he had it.

What you don’t know, and Leone will never tell you, is that he will never change the order you put it back in. That’s how they will stay, forever. A subtle piece of you in his home… he could just melt, but he won’t. Not until he has the absolute privacy of his room, where he can shove his face into his pillow, and then spend the evening hand washing his makeup off of it.

Leone still hasn’t come out of the bathroom. He’s not about to shut the love of his life out- not when that handsy bastard is home and eager to touch what isn’t his, but he’s also not ready to be so bold and actually be near you. Leone has dibs, Guido should respect that, nevermind the fact that Leone has never verbally or physically expressed his attraction to you. 

He’s probably the luckiest man alive to live somewhere convenient to you. His apartment is on your way to where Bucciarati tells you to meet him for jobs- it’s easier to crash at Leone’s when the weather isn’t very well intentioned. You normally leave once Bruno calls you, but it’s been an hour since the agreed meeting time. Normally Leone would be worried, but… making sure you’re fine is more of a priority to him, at the moment. He cares about Bruno- obviously, of course he does, he’s beyond grateful… but one of you is his obsession and the other makes him feel a great deal of guilt. Well. You both make him feel guilty, but one is an “I am indebted to you eternally” and the other is “If you ever find out I lick your calves when I replay you I am fucked” kind of guilt. Very different.

He snaps out of the thought when he notices you’re not where he left you. Leone’s not about to panic- if you’re still here, it makes him look like an overbearing host who needs to see you constantly and oh god what if you don’t like clingy guys. What if you dislike him and are secretly waiting around for Guido? Is that why you’re fine with the silence? Is that why you’re so content with him not really talking to you during your visits and just letting you sit around? 

Leone finds his way into his kitchen, and scoffs at the display. You were being entertained by Guido. You’re playing his current favorite game: see how high he can pick you up before Leone kills the mood. Looks like today’s game isn’t going to be a record holder. 

“Can you not do that in front of the food?” 

“Whaaat? We’re just playing. Don’t be so bitter.” 

“I’d rather your ‘playing’ not break the only real glass we have left.”

“Jeez. What’s up your ass today.” Guido puts you down, and moves on to pour himself a drink from the refrigerator. 

Leone’s eyes flick towards your face, to check your expression. Any ounce of reassurance will hold him over for weeks. Look at me. Approve of me. Love me.

When you avoid his gaze, he glances at the clock on the wall, and leaves to go back to what he was doing.

To Leone, pretending not to look his way is just as good as fully paying attention to him. 

He has a routine whenever he replays you. Firstly, he needs to make sure Guido isn’t going to be back for a while, so he sends him on some tedious errand he puts off with the intention of passing it off to poor, unknowing Guido. Secondly, he has to check what you were doing before you arrived, just in case. If you looked in any stores, if you tried to look in his window, what expression you were making just before you rang the doorbell. If you looked tense, he always tries to find out why. 

That gorgeous face of yours seems content today, so he speeds the replay up…

When he opened the door for you the other day, you looked at him for a second longer than normal. A whole, unobstructed second. What did he ever do to deserve such a look? 

He hates the way you look at anyone else. Nothing infuriates him more than his darling giving their precious attention to someone who entirely doesn’t deserve it. Not that he thinks he does, but… it’s better than anyone else having it.

It doesn’t matter, since this look was for him, not Guido, not Bruno, and nobody else. It doesn’t matter if it’s disdain, complete neutrality, or even pity. That gorgeous expression you’re making is intended for him, and he missed it, because he was pretending to not care about you being here. 

He’ll get you one day. Maybe not today, or soon, but one day. One day, he’ll get to play husband for you, and won’t even have to think about his stand, but for now… this’ll hold him over. 

One day, he’ll get to sit at your feet and give you the attention you deserve, but he’s trapped himself in this stupid “I hate you get away from me” act he’s putting up. A man can dream.

[appledotcodotuk]

vertigo: an aminori drabble

yet another little drabble courtesy of the yuri shipping olympics! the prompt this time was 'I can't believe you talked me into this'. I'm bringing back an old favourite to appease my 16 year old self, and basically nobody else. aminori enjoyers if you are out there...

summary: minori is certain that she can finally see a crack in ami's cool facade; and all it'll take is a ride on whimsiville's supersonic rollercoaster: Vertigo! a flawless scheme which will certainly not backfire. not at all...

banner: screencap from Toradora ep. 6 "True Self"

pairing: minori kushieda / ami kawashima

no warnings required!

1,423 words!

'I cannot believe you talked me into this' Ami Kawashima, model student, model model, and model melodramaist huffs.

It does not surprise Minori - at least not a great deal - that the way in which her face scrunches with distaste is still beautiful; the sort of righteous disdain you'd see in a fancy book of fancy artpieces that cost an arm and a leg and weighed about as much too, and all without running the risk of a lasting wrinkle.

There's a hint of the unimpeachable to her which promised any attempt to test this stoic unrufflability would yield nothing but frustration.

Perhaps, were she one of those rational types, Minori would recognise this as the omen of futility that it was. It would be better, really, for everyone if she did.

But Minori was dedicated, and all she could see in those finely crafted features was a provocation. Ami was a challenge, or she was issuing a challenge, and Minori didn't stop to mull over the distinctions between the two. She was a bit more preoccupied with attempting to pry loose an expression which hadn't been made for TV from Ami's habitual smirk.

'What's wrong Amin? Scared of a bit of height?' She asks, opting to accentuate the extent to which she too, was entirely cool-headed and unbothered by the other's presence by slinging an arm over her shoulder.

Ami had opted for a breezy summer dress that day, with thin straps, and thus no fabric to shield her from Minori's totally casual arm-slinging. There was nothing to prevent her from feeling the way her exposed shoulder hardened into a taut tension under the skin.

Woah. Had she developed inadvertant powers of petrification in the last minute? Before she could inspect Ami's shoulder for any stray pieces of stone, however, her arm was smacking limply into her side; a consequence of its unceremonious dislodgement from its resting place. 'Ow!' She says, as if it had hurt, 'What gives?'

'I am not Taiga, I don't need to be encumbered with any extra limbs.' She says, and there's a familiar flash in her eyes and ah geez, she's totally about to- 'Whilst I'm sure that little terror could benefit from the additional weapon when she inevitably has another tantrum, I prefer words to brute force.' There it was.

Why did she always turn to Taiga? More importantly, how come she knew, with a precision that frankly unsettled Minori, just what to say to send an indignant blush a-blazing in her cheeks, and as an adendum to that, what malicious God had perfected her in the art of setting Minori's heart pumping anyway?

On second thought, perhaps a God was too pure a boon-granter for someone like her. A deal with the devil for quick wit, unshakeable smarminess, and perfect hair was decidedly not off the table. She wouldn't put anything past Ami.

Instead of responding with something that would have been, no doubt, utterly devastating, Minori opts to take the moral high ground and pictures the way that smug self-assurance would melt away soon - in approximately 3-5 minutes time, if the sign posted outside the start of the queue was anything to go by.

Ooh, maybe she'd even scream! Perfect, beautiful Ami Kawashima, shrieking as she hurtled across the track at world-record-creating speeds.

'What's the stupid smile for?'

'Hmm...?'

'Hey, snap out of it fluff-for-brains, we're nearly at the front.'

Curses! She'd been so caught up in envisioning her victory over Ami's snide professionalism that she'd almost forgotten to be present for the main event! Get your head in the game Kushieda - you're playing for keeps here!

'Aw, oopsie! I must've gotten distracted.'

They were nearly at the front now, which meant a first-class view of terrified fairgoers being lowered into Vertigo, screaming as they were whipped past at speeds that made Minori dizzy, just from looking, and sickly aftermaths: the victims of Whimisiville's finest, fastest rollercoaster.

Taiga had flatly refused. Takasu had muttered something about 'winning Inko-chan' from a stall that contained a bunch of slightly squashed looking bird plushies and disappeared. Kitamura was long-lost. It was just the two of them. Minori, Ami, and the terrifying rollercoaster. She had to make the most of it.

Especially when it had been so easy to convince Ami to come along with her for the ride. Who knew when this sudden fit of good-will would strike Her Imperious Majesty next? All it had taken was a few insinuations of cowardice here, a sprinkle of guilt tripping there…!

She was almost disappointed that she hadn’t been called upon to deploy her patented ‘Please-I-Have-Never-Wanted-Something-More-in-My-Life-and-if-You-Say-No-I-Will-Hold-You-Personally-Responsible-for-the-Lack-of-Fulfillment-that-Will-Plague-My-Every-Waking-Hour’ eyes! Although, perhaps that was for the best. She didn’t know if her heart could take her special-est of special moves quailing under Ami’s cold disapproval.

Better to just be thankful for the chance to absolutely squander whatever warm feeling had prompted this agreement as quickly as possible, right? She almost felt bad, meeting what could well be an olive branch with this. Almost.

‘Heeeey Ami.’ She turns to her victim, attempting to stifle a giggle. Really, it was all her fault: she should never have let slip to Minori that this was her first time in Whimsiville when they’d run into her by the shooting gallery.

Taiga had been less than pleased by the chance encounter but Minori was nothing if not optimistic. Or was that opportunistic? The possibility of getting a reaction out of a brick wall in the body of a high school student was just too tempting! ‘Did I mention that this thing can go 200 km/h and has three loop-de-loops?’

‘You did not.’ Ami says, glaring. Having made it past the barrier now, they're scoping out a free cart in tandem with the portion of the crowd who have finally escaped the drudge of the queue. They settle unanimously for a carriage towards the back. It’s neon yellow, with flaking flames painted on the side and there isn’t enough space for them to sit entirely apart from each other.

Instead, their knees keep grazing each other, and Minori jumps each time it happens, sending their legs flying away from each other like two magnets stuck facing identical poles. ‘But don’t worry, I’m used to compensating for your particularly severe case of scatterbrain.’

‘Hey!’ Minori leaps to her own defense, and it seems her knee also has something to say because it leaps too - settling firmly next to Ami’s who continues on, apparently unaffected.

‘For instance, I do know that you tend to get motion-sick.’

Huh? Since when had Ami been keeping such close tabs on her? That was confidential information, which required a Taiga-level clearance, and she referenced it as easily as if she had been there on that lazy afternoon when she’d been regailing Taiga with the misadventures of her family trip to Kyoto! Well, she supposed that technically she had been there, it had taken place in the classroom, but that was even more shocking!

Had she, Ami Kawashima, been eavesdropping? Surely not! The only eaves that were supposed to be dropped around here were by Minori, the super-sleuth!

Really, was there no integrity to be found in the subtle art of getting one over on someone? At least Minori, in her schemes, was willing to put her own body on the line - she was sacrificing her stomach so she could see Ami’s smug expression get turned inside out by this high-speed death trap!

‘And,’ Ami whispers - whispers! - as she draws closer to Minori, her breath warming the outside of her ear - what was that bit called again, the shell? Minori finds in that moment that she doesn’t really like the comparison. Shells were so hollow, a pale imitation of the setting which formed them, a memory of something distant, and displaced. Ears were much less nostalgic, surely. They didn’t hear only what they wanted to hear, right? - Ami was being very quiet all of a sudden. Minori bites down the urge to yell at her. What, what?!

‘Did you know that before we’d met, I had ridden Vertigo five times over? I’m a big fan of the part with the 50 meter drop!’

Click.

The bar that would keep their bodies from slamming into the ground below as they were shot along at really, very high speeds (and Minori, in all her arch genius knew that this speed was 200km/h precisely) snapped into place with the finality of a death sentence.

Oh.

She was totally screwed.

[scenecipriano]

Time Stands Still (2)

Chapter One: Stayed Gone

TW: None that I can think of other than swearing

----------

Vox stares at his screen in disbelief, the no signal sign with Alastor’s face mocks him, it’s taunting him. How, just how did that asshole live from a holy bullet to the fucking heart? He digs his claws into his chair, taking a shaky breath as he does, this could be in his favor. Maybe Alastor can be talked to, be civil…

“Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? He’s fucking pissed and I’m the only one who knows why he’s pissed,” Vox mumbles as he drags his hands down his screen. 

He tenses when a knock comes from his door. 

“Voxxie, I get that you’re pissed the radio bitch is back but could you not plunge the city into total darkness? I have a film I have to produce soon and power is kind of needed for that.” 

It was Val, he felt himself relax knowing that it was only him. Not like Alastor would dare step into the V tower, even he wasn’t that stupid. 

“I-It’ll be back up in a second, I just overheated,” he replies. 

‘I’m going to make you wish I’d stayed gone.’ 

Vox grits his teeth, he has to get the upper hand on Alastor. The bastard already had a one up on him, by teaming up with the princess of fucking Hell. How would he even top that? He couldn’t go to Lucifer himself, he doubts the man would turn on the Radio Demon, not when it means he’d be turning against his own daughter. 

“If only that bitch had never come here this shit wouldn’t be happening,” Vox hisses. 

He pauses, his screen lighting up with a lightbulb as an idea occurs to him. If Alastor had never come to hell then he wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. He stands from his chair and strides over to the door, throwing them open he hears Valentino hiss out a curse as he barely dodges out of the way. 

“What the fuck!?” 

“Sorry–I just had an idea to rid us of that fucking prick once and for all, do you know how to get ahold of Zestiel?” Vox asks as he continues his stride down the hallway. 

The sound of Val’s heels clicking behind him is the only answer he gets, Vox growls and glances back. 

“VaL-.” He hisses. 

“I don’t fucking know, Carmilla would be the best to ask about the old freak. Why do you even want to meet with him in the first place? I gave you a way to get rid of the radio bitch, why do you need to see them?” 

Vox swings around, a part of him hates the way Valentino flinches away from the sudden movement, but he can’t afford to worry about that right now. 

“I used what you gave me seven fucking years ago! He’s back and fucking pissed that I nearly killed him! Why the fuck do you think he’s been gone for seven years!?” 

Valentino blinks in surprise, “Then how–.” 

“I don’t fucking know!” Vox explodes, “I don’t f-fucking know. I thought for sure the shot to the damn heart would end him! I don’t know if the fucker made some type of deal, but if he did I need to get the upper hand. You saw what happened, even after seven years the motherfucker still has some form of damn clout over these idiot sinners.” 

He can’t let Alastor gain the upper hand he just can’t, damn it this was the new status quo, this was going to be the V’s era in Hell! There wasn’t going to be a goddamn reboot where the Radio Demon rules the airwaves and streets!

“Voxxie, just breathe. Before you go doing something stupid and possibly reckless, let's try to handle the bitch ourselves.” 

Vox frowns, “How do you propose we handle it then? Hm? Use your little whore as a spy? I know Alastor better than anyone and he won’t let someone like Angel get near him.” 

A grumble leaves the TV demon’s mouth when the overgrown moth slings his arm around his neck. 

“I was thinking of someone with a bit more sssstyle~.” 

Vox blinks and looks up at Val, the pimps gold tooth twinkling in the light of his screen. He mimics the pimps smirk as he lets out a laugh. 

“Ya know what? I think you’re right.” 

“Sssir Pentious reporting for duty!” 

Vox struggles to hold back his laughter, the snake demon was a pain in the V’s ass, but maybe he can be useful just this once. 

“At ease Sir Loser,” Velvette starts, “We just need you to snoop a little on Voxxie’s old pal, Alastor.” 

At the mention of the Radio Demon, Sir Pentious loses his confident edge. His hood deflates as he avoids eye-contact with the V’s. 

“I don’t know if that will be a good idea.” 

“And why is that, hm? Don’t you want to impress us? Finally be acknowledged by us,” Valentino says as he blows a puff of smoke in the snake's face. 

Pentious coughs and waves the smoke away, hissing slightly as he glares at the three overlords. 

“Of course! I just recently had a mishap with Alastor.” 

He shows them the little piece of fabric he managed to snag from the tails of his suit jacket. This time Vox can’t help but laugh at the snake demon, does he really think that just because he tore Alastor’s suit that that means anything? 

“O-Oh boy, and here I thought you actually got a real piece of him! Wow, you must be really proud of this little trophy of yours,” Vox teases as he plucks the piece of fabric from Pentious’s hand. 

“I-I am!” Sir Pentious exclaims as he takes the fabric back, “He made a fool of me lasst week! So getting even just the little snag of him shows that I have ssome potential!” 

“Oh! It definitely does snake babe, but if you really want to show us your potential you’ll infiltrate that pathetic hotel and find out just what the deer is up to,” Valentino purrs as he takes a drag from his cigarette. 

Sir Pentious bites his lip, he’s finally getting recognized by the three overlords, something he’s craved for years, but after his second encounter with Alastor he isn’t sure he wants to cross the radio again so soon. 

“You’re overthinking it, Pen! Look, it’ll be easy! You just get in there, the princess if naive enough to believe your quest for redemption and none of those morons will go against her,” Vox explains as he straps a video watch to the snakes wrist and placing a camera in his other hand, “You just need to take this camera in there and set it up where no one will find it. You accomplish that and maybe just maybe I’ll advertise your inventions on the next Vox Tech announcement!” 

Pen looks down at the watch and back up at the TV overlord. 

“Really?” 

“R-Really! Think about it, with your inventions on my screens nobody would ever try to step up to you again!” 

Vox watches patiently as the snake mulls the idea over in his head, he can already tell he’s won with the “promise” of promoting the idiot's inventions on Vox Tech. 

“Okay, I’ll do it. I swear on the life of my egg boys that I shall not fail you three!” 

“That’s the spirit!” Velvette exclaims, “Now, get outta here and get us into that hotel!” 

The three V’s watch as Sir Pentious slithers his way out of the tower, they wait for the door to fully shut before bursting out in laughter. 

“Do you really think he’s going to achieve this, Vox?” 

“My dear, if he manages it then I just might actually advertise his shitty inventions on Vox Tech just to show him a form of gratitude.” 

An hour passed and Vox honestly has hope that the idiot snake will actually pull this gig off. He takes a sip from his mug relishing in the taste of his coffee before the sound of Pentious’ voice causes him to do a noteworthy spit take. 

“Ah abort!! Abort S.O.S!! Agent Pentious in need of an immediate evacuation!!” 

Vox could feel himself trying to short circuit, of course this idiot couldn’t do one simple job. 

“Pentious? Wait you were, caught?” Vox lets out an incredulous laugh, “It hasn’t even been a day!” 

“Please!” Sir Pentious pleads, “you’ve got to get me out of here!” 

Is he really that stupid? 

“I can’t believe we thought you could handle even something  this simple! Hey, do us a favor,” Vox gets closer to the screen, “If they don’t kill you, go ahead and do it yourself, you miserable FAILURE!” 

He ends the transmission, slinging his mug into the wall as he does with a frustrated scream. How could he have been so stupid to think that an imbecile would even be able to do one simple job! 

The sound of static fills the room as the screen comes back to life. Vox swings around to face it, his teeth bared. 

“What!?” 

“You’ll have to try harder than that next time, old pal.” 

Vox screams his frustration as Alastor’s laughter echoes around him. He digs his claws into the metal of his control panel, the feeling of a power outage nags at the back of his head but he doesn’t care right now. 

“There has to be another way,” Vox growls as he drags his claws down. 

There has to be another way and he was going to find it even if it kills him. 

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

TAGLIST: @justakidicarus

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Four

By Losyark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic Universe canon) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished (tentatively 9 chapters) PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

*

Hob spends the next month finalizing deal memos outlining compensation and percentages, which Lucienne helps him parse, and then quibbling with the legal department of the BBC on the actual phrasing of the longform contract to ensure he’s not accidentally signing away his soul. Morpheus does him a solid and sets up a dream with an entertainment lawyer, and the poor woman has the most boring night of her life, explaining each of the clauses to Hob.

She has good taste, at least. Her fancy New York corner office overlooking Central Park is filled with abstract paintings that swirl and roll on each of the walls, and riotous bunches of vividly orange goldren rod bloom against the watermelon-blue of the Manhattan skyline.

Hob gets the go-ahead from the university, and gives a head’s up to the students who don’t want to potentially appear on TV to attend online, and then teaches his final day of classes before the summer break with a camera crew following him. This is for something called "b-roll", which they’ll intercut during the sit-down “talking head” interview that Hob has yet to give, and will appear in the first episode when they introduce him.

Morpheus has very firm ideas of what Hob should be wearing in this footage, and pulls together a look from the fantasies of students who clearly fetishize their profs. Hob rather likes the nebbish cream-colored cardigan with the dark-brown elbow patches, but he spends the whole lecture trying not to squirm as skinny jeans in the same shade of brown try to cut him in half at the waist. The waistcoat, in a deep hunter green, comes with a matching tie, which Hob thinks is excessive. He’s never worn a tie to his job here a day in his life, not even when he was first interviewing for the position. But Morpheus had said that he is the master of his domain and ought to look it.

“Prince of under-caffeinated students and precariously balanced stacks of unfinished marking, am I?” Hob had laughed. “Where’s my crown, then?”

Morpheus whisks a circlet of ivy into existence, leaving a small pile of sand on Hob’s bedroom rug, and drops it crookedly on Hob’s head.

"Ha ha. Thanks for ruining my hair,” Hob complains with a chuckle.

“Your hair is fine,” Morpheus assures him. “Enjoy your final class.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Hob says, slinging the ivy over his arm and snatching up his briefcase on his way out. He hangs the circlet jauntily on the edge of his laptop, out of the way of the camera for the students at home. He likes the idea of his friend’s gift being immortalized in a TV show.

Summer term starts. Hobs' already offloaded the one intro course he'd originally been meant to teach onto a poor newly-tenured baby prof (powerpoints, syllabus, pre-written quizzes and all, Hob’s not a monster). He walks Dennis through payroll and grocery ordering one last time, but he isn't worried—Dennis literally knows where Hob lives, if he gets in the weeds.

And with that, Hob has nothing to do but focus on his eight-week stint as a television presenter.

*

Matthew joins Hob on his walk to Broadcasting House on his first official day on the job. They share a pain au chocolat, and Matthew works through a bit of what he remembers of his human life. It’s not that he’s entirely forgotten, he knows his full name and that he’d been married, that he’d died in a coma brought on by an accident, that he was in law enforcement like his father. But the details are muddled, and he suspects that in the manner of dreams, he’s misremembering a lot of things.

Hob’s offered, more than once, to search for his obituary. Matthew isn’t interested. 

“Got my closure, I’m good,” the bird reassures Hob from his shoulder. “And I dunno if it’s ‘cause I got this little raven brain now, but yeah, I don’t much care? Living for the present, and all that.”

“Must be nice,” Hob says, offering up a buttery corner of pastry. Matthew nips it from his fingers.

They’re walking along the smaller roads, in front of sleepy brick terrace houses with potted trees and empty sidewalks, away from the heavy pedestrian traffic and tourist areas. Neither of them are too concerned that they’ll get strange looks. Just a regular man with a giant talking raven on his shoulder, nothing to see here folks.

“Hey, nothing’s saying you gotta spend all your time in the grief, you know. Like, I know it’s all churned up right now,” Matthew allows, “what with all the papers and stuff. But you’re doing this to remember the good times. To…. I dunno, finally say goodbye.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” Hob wonders. He hasn’t been sleeping well, plagued with nightmares about the miserable nothing-years between the night Hob had died with Robyn, and the night in the White Horse when the sight of his Stranger had brought him back to life.

Morpheus has not banished the Nightmares when the visit. Instead he sits with Hob each time his sleeping mind conjurs up the front door of the tavern, the proprietor barring Hob’s way, the desperation he felt to just get in, to just see his Stranger, to just finally put an end to this awful century–until the terror subsided and Hob remembered where he was, what year it was, and why he was reliving this. Then he shifted himself into lucid dreaming, politely thanked the Nightmare for doing it’s job, and let Morpheus complain about his siblings or political headaches until he’d felt ready to go explore some more peaceful part of the Dreaming with its king.

“Man, I dunno,” Matthew says, pulling affectionately at a piece of fly-away hair beside Hob’s ear. Where Morephus offered his hand when Hob felt unsettled, Matthew’s version seemed to be preening him.  “But I know everything went to shit for you so fast, there can’t have been time to, you know, process it.”

“I had ten years to grieve Eleanor and wee John. And I sat in that forsaken house alone, wretched and longing for Robyn for another thirty before they–they…”

Matthew pulls out a few hairs sharply. “Getting drunk as fuck on a century’s worth of hoarded wine and passing out every night for three decades is not a coping mechanism.”

“Ow,” Hob mutters, rubbing his scalp.

“You gonna finish the last of the coi-sant?”

“Have it, you feathered menace.”

*

Hob is given an ID badge, a gaudily branded tote bag with an equally gaudily branded metal water bottle, and escorted back to the same cramped room filled with wobbly cubicles and the overcrowded inspiration board.

The room bursts into applause as he enters, startling him so bad that muscle memory has him reaching for a sword he doesn’t carry any more.

“God’s bones,” he gasps, as Harriet scurries through the dozen or so folks lingering around the entrance, looking to shake his hand or pat his back. “You really know how to make a guy regret all his life choices.”

The assembled crowd laughs, and Hob goodnaturedly lets himself be hustled inside. Closest to the inspiration board, someone’s crammed in an uneven, dinged up metal desk that looks like something stolen from the set of Doctor Who. 

"This is you," Harriet says brightly. "Sorry for the squeeze."

"Cozy," Hob counters with a friendly pat on her arm. "Trust me, I've had worse."

Like fox holes, third class steerage, and my own grave that one time I didn't duck an arrow fast enough.

Hob sets the hunter-green satchel on the chair. Morpheus had pushed on him to match his last-day-of-class outfit, and Hob doesn't want to know which high-end fashion designer's dreams Morpheus snatched it out of. Hob’s got another squashed pain au chocolat in there, his wallet and phone, some pens, a fresh notebook that he picked from the ‘too-pretty-to-write-in’ hoard which he’s accumulated over years worth of end-of-term gifts, and Eleanor’s diary, carefully wrapped in archival quality tissue and bubble-wrap for transport.

Glenn gives him enough time to make himself up a fresh mug of tea at the snack station in the back corner, before he’s being dragged cheerfully around the room to be introduced. 

First are there’s wardrobe researchers and costuming assistants. They're keen to take his measurements, and one of them, with blonde hair and amber-brown eyes also looks like they want to eat him alive.

Then there are food experts pouring over Francatelli’s chicken-scratch handwriting and planning the five or six main dishes to feature on the program. Hob begs for as little posset and as much hypocras as possible, and it’s met with an evil grin from the woman in charge of authenticity.

Next come researchers pouring over contemporary descriptions of the house and furniture. He’s told the restorationists working on a few pieces at an off-site workshop including, to his awe and delight, Hob’s favorite reading chair from his study. 

And lastly, of course, there are the ever-present researchers and writers that this sort of endeavor requires. They are all salivating over transcripts of the documents Hob handed over to the V&A.

Hob is delighted to see that he’s one of the few old white men on the crew. He looks forward to the perspectives other people are going to bring to the table, especially since he might accidentally get himself entrenched in his old patterns of behavior once he’s reenacting them. 

The last person they introduce him to is their most recent hire, wielding the most interesting piece of equipment of the lot.

“What’s that?” Hob asks breathlessly, as he and Glenn approach a wide table with some sort of futuristic overhead projector-looking thing on it.

“This is Shami,” Glenn says. “They’re a specialist in digitizing especially fragile historic documents and texts. They were brought on board to handle the digitizing of the Gadlen Fell Crate Papers."

(Jesu maria, are they really calling it that? It makes him sound like he tripped into the duck pond).

"Nice to meet you," Hob says, and isn't offended when they don't answer. They're concentrating very hard right now. "And what's that you're working with?"

"A 3D scanner," Glenn answers.

“What will humans think of next,” Hob laughs, with all the childlike delight that bubbles up under his skin. 

Shami doesn’t stop to shake his hand, as they’re wearing archivists’ gloves and are in the middle of a page. They're smoothly and slowly pulling what looks to Hob’s undrained eye like a grow-lamp on a stand mounted on a wheeled track. They hover it above a curled and age-browned page weighted down in the corners with soft little sandbags.

“Sorry, hi,” Shami says when they've finished. “And yo, thanks for showing up with enough stuff that they had to give me a job, yeah?”

“Oh, my pleasure,” Hob says. “How does it work?”

“The wand is a scanner–I’ll go over the same document a few times, with different styles of lights and grades of lenses. Then the computer compiles the images into a single, interactive document… there, see?” They point at the huge monitor on the table next to the scanner set up. “Look, you see in this layer here, if I–” they snap off a glove and poke at the keyboard.

Suddenly the words written in ink on the page (part of the Shakespeare Cardenio folio) vanish, and what Hob only sees as faded marks on the actual paper are enhanced in the image. Hob realizes it’s marginalia, originally written in pencil. He can’t read the handwriting itself, and doesn’t recognize it, but the fact that he can see it at all, clear as day on the screen, is incredible.

"Then what do you do with it?"

“It’ll all be online, every scrap of paper in the Crate, not just the motherfucking Shakespeare holy grail.”

Oh, Hob likes them.

“And when the scanning’s done, I get to make sure the resulting files are all accessible too."

"Accessible?"

"You know, alt texts and screenreader prompts, clean transcripts without a minefield of hard returns, things like that. The V&A marketing team’s cooked up this whole plan for an interactive website to bring the Crate Papers to life. You know like… so you go to Gadlen House, right? And you see a recipe behind glass. But then scan it with your phone and it brings up an ingredients list and a cooking demonstration video so you can make it at home, and a link with a social media feed where you can upload pictures of your own attempt to a community.”

They pick up one of the gravy-stained sheafs of paper, and turn it so Hob can read the heading:  Receipt for Marchepane Byrds ayn Snow. 

Hob has a sudden sense-memory of a tooth-suckingly sweet dish that Robyn had begged for each of the twelve nights of Christmastide, the year he was eight. Snow was a bowl of whipped egg whites, butter, cream, rosewater, and enough sugar to choke a cat, served with a little sprig of rosemary decorated with the springy fluff as if it were a pine tree in a winter forest. Francatelli had made a trio of little red-breasted robins out of marzipan to sit beside the tree, much to Rob’s delight.

"And you're doing this for everything?" Hob asks, breathless again, but for a different reason. He's stunned. He's moved. "You're bringing everything to life this way?"

Hob wonders how much he'd have to pay Shami to add Eleanor's diary and Robyn's sketchbook into their work. He wants to keep the originals, but he's not adverse to letting the scans out into the world.

He's lived a long time, he's not ashamed of his centuries-old sexploits being splashed across the internet. Not if it means that people might sing Eleanor's little compositions, or fall in love with Robyn through his drawing master's eyes.

"Everything," Shami confirms.

Amazing. He can't wait to see what humanity comes up with next. 

He has so much to live for.

*

Hob’s visit to the Dreaming is brief that night, too exhausted from the day to want to do much more than to sink into the deep oblivion of true non-REM sleep.

While it's summer in London, it must be springtime in The Dreaming, because everywhere Hob looks there seem to be flowers, and fungi, and vegetation galore. He doesn't know the names of most of them, aside from the ones that he knows will kill you if you try to eat them, but it sure smells nice.

Morpheus lets Hob’s dream-self nap on a luxurious chaise longue in the corner of his office, under a blanket woven of the light that shines between logs in a bonfire, the first taste of whiskey pulled from flask shared between friends, and the deep green fronds of ferns that grow in old forests. Hob was surprised to learn that Morpheus has an office, but it seems that even the King of Dreams and Nightmares, Shaper of Forms, Prince of Stories, and God of Sleep has to deal with the frustrating mundanities of correspondence.

“We should get you a computer,” Hob mutters dozily. “Make the fair folk send emails. I’ll set up your Outlook for you.”

But he’s vanished into the dark, deeper warmth of dreamless slumber before he can parse Morpheus’s rumbling reply.

*

The next day sees Hob, Glenn, Harriet, and the scripting team locked in a meeting room with a plate of sandwiches, a carafe of tea, a box of markers, a whiteboard, a pack of cue cards and instructions that they would not be let out until they’ve broken the series outline.

"Obviously we're keeping mum on the Shakespeare thing," the showrunner, a robust no-nonsense black woman named Ponle says, before Hob's barely settled in his seat. "We're still waiting on authentication, and if we get to feature it on the show, we're saving it for the final scene of the penultimate episode."

Hob learns that penultimate means second-to-last, which he knew but he'd forgotten he knew. Sometimes he loses words in the dusty, unused corners of his memory, and it takes reminding to realize that they're still there, he just hasn't needed them in a decade or so. Makes him wonder if one day in 2123 someone will shout "yeet!" or "yolo!" at him, and it'll take him a moment to remember what that means.

There are two other writers locked in with them: an adorably earnest young nonbinary kid fresh out of drama school named Jae, and a middle-aged dyke who's the punkest woman Hob's seen since since punk was new, named Nastunye (both of them as straight as an overcooked noodle, as far as Hob can tell). 

"Jae, Doc Bob hasn't done this before, so why don't you explain how we structure these shows while I get the whiteboard set up?"

Doc Bob? Hob mouths at Harriet, perplexed. She just shrugs and whispers: "Too many PhDs in one room." She points at herself, then Glenn. "Doc Hari, Doc Gee"

Bright-eyed and bushy tailed, Jae scootches their seat close to Hob's and lays down the clipboard they've been clutching this whole time. "So, uh, you've seen the Historics before?"

"Some, yeah," Hob says. "I've got a friend who's seen them all, though. He has great things to say."

Jae nods firmly, not to be sidetracked with praise. "So normally they frame the narrative of the show with the calendar. They create twelve episodes, one for each month of the year, plus a holiday special explaining the feasts and revelry, if the era celebrates one. Each episode gets four 'events' —a Meal, an Outdoor, a Domestic, and an Economics. So, for example, an episode set in, say, April, would be gathering things like peas and carrots and fennel, and making a sallet. Outdoor stuff could be some lambing and calving, the Domestic is always—"

"Spring clean!" Glenn and Harriet groan together on cue.

"And Economic is inevitably the first of the milk and cheese production. Do you see?"

"Got it," Hob says, not sure what this has to do with why they're here trying to figure out the pace of episodes. Seems like the seasons dictate the narrative, not the writers.

"Elizabethan Manor was originally meant to follow the same pattern," Jae says. "But then…" they gesture politely at Hob.

"Me?"

"You," Nastunye says with a smirk. "You really threw a wrench in things."

"I tend to do that a lot, yeah," Hob reposts back, unrepentant. That makes Nastunye grin widely at him, and yeah, okay, he can get into the rhythm of this. These are good people, and they were all in here together to figure it out, not one-up and dick measure.

"So!" Ponle says, smacking the whiteboard to pull everyone's attention to it.

She's divided it up into ten columns, and along the top it reads (to Hob's spiking anxiety):

The Rise and Fall of the House of Gadlen

"That's just ten episodes," Hob says. "Am I missing something?"

"Production cut two episodes to be able to pay for you," Nastunye explains, unrepentantly blunt.

"Oh," Hob says. "Um, sorry?"

"Nah, don't be. It'll be nice to do something new."

Hob looks around the room, and everyone seems to agree with her, so he doesn't let the concern faze him.

"Plus, you know, all the assets you've already brought to the table," Glenn says. "Quite literally."

"So I'm thinking…" Ponle starts, and turns her back on the room to write. "Instead of going by seasons, we go by themes. Something like…" She adds to to the top of the first column:

Rise to the Top Printer -> Shipyard -> Court

"Makes sense," Nastunye offers. "For episode one, we follow the Gadlens for what bits of history we have primary sources for, finish on the building of Gadlen house?"

"So, mode?" Jae asks, pen at the ready over their clipboard. It's not until Harriet and Glenn start brainstorming ideas that he realizes it's not mode, it's M.O.D.E.

"Meal could be pasties," Harriet offers. "Make four different versions with different ingredients and pasty coffins to demonstrate the economic status of the different ancestors, and the advancement in cuisine. Focus on the fast food of the ears, what you packed in your lunch box, as it were." 

"And we can roll Outdoors and Economics in together, if we look at each of the jobs —printer's assistant, shipwright, master of an estate," Glenn tosses out. "Domestics, we can do, uh, maybe serving staff?"

"Or maybe the architecture of the eras?"

Jae and Nastunye both throw out ideas, the gists  lost in their overlapping voices, and Ponle cuts in with a snort and a "No, we did that last series."

"Beds," Hob says softly. Everyone turns to look at him, and he tugs on his ear, disquieted by their intense focus and the sudden silence. "Uh. Three different beds." He sketches out the idea with hand gestures, describing the size of each with the width of his arms. "Or, sorry, no, is that not good?"

"Go on," Harriet urges him.

"I just mean… imagine it," Hob sits forward, getting into his descriptions. "A rough, narrow rope-strung cot by the fire in Caxton's, so his apprentice was right there to stoke it in the middle of the night, to make sure the bottles of ink didn't freeze in winter. Then, a bunk in a loud and rough boarding house by the water, little more than a moldy straw tic on a rough-hewen board, soaked through with other men's sweat but as comfortable as the freshest bed of moss when you're too exhausted with labor to care. And then the double wide four poster, with the cabinet doors to keep out the vermin, and the light, and the eyes of servants when the Master and Mistress were at their pleasure. Eiderdown stuffing, warming pans between the sheets, and the faint whiff of piss when someone lifts the lid of the Night Water jar to have a squat." Hob looks down at his hands, which had pulled the blankets over his own shoulders in each of those beds he's described. And more, besides. "Uhhhh, or maybe four beds, if you want to count the one made specifically for the queen when she came to stay."

"Damn," Glenn says after a long moment, sitting back. "You can sure paint a picture with your words, Doc Bob."

Hob clears his throat. "Thanks, Doc Gee."

Ponle adds to the bottom of the column:

Toil and Rest.

Jae, who is writing furiously, begs for a moment to finish their notes before they move onto the next episode. Everyone helps themselves to more tea, and Nastunye passes around a tin of her wife's Makivnyk poppyseed roll cake.

Harriet reminds Nastunye that she was promised a recipe to take home for her son to try, and then Glenn is saying something about his own wife and teenagers, and naturally enough, their curiosity and conversation turns to Hob.

"Do you have anyone waiting for you at home, Doc Bob?" Ponle asks, forthright instead of dancing more politely around the question.

Hob laughs. "I live above the bar that I own. I have hundreds of people in place every night."

Harriet finds his answer delightful. "But no one special?"

"Only in my dreams," Hob huffs.

"Okay, done," Jae says. The move onto episode two.

Everything is coming together swimmingly, until at in the column above episode nine, Ponle writes:

The Witch Knight

“Do we have to call him that?” Hob groans, tugging at his ear.

*

When they're finally allowed to pack it in, several long hours after sunset, the episode list reads like this:

1: Toil and Rest

2: Decadence and Decoration

3: Court and Courting

4: Music and Dance

5: Fun and Game Hunts

6: Marriage and Maternity

7: Childhood and Schooling

8: Tragedy and Tears

9: Witchcraft and Wreckage

10: Hope and Dreams

PREVIOUS | NEXT

[liamlawsonlesbian]

thank you for the tag @albonoooo @oscarpiastriwdc <333

star sign: gemini

favourite holiday: probably christmas? sucker for coziness/family time, and I love buying gifts for people I love

last meal: instant oatmeal (this is sad. I am 26 years old, I need to stop eating like a college student)

current favourite musician: hmmmm I am unfortunately a forever swiftie, and also a boygenius gay. but I just got off my sufjan christmas kick, so I'm going to say sufjan stevens, I love him so much.

last music listened to: Phoebe Bridgers, punisher

last movie watched: Maestro! I liked it! although it made me think that bradley cooper is an egomaniac

last tv show watched: ...batman the animated series

last book/fic finished: book - Ink Blood, Sister Scribe! I liked it a lot! fic- salt skin, the twinklaren siren fic, which was great

last book/fic abandoned: book abandoned - Haven, Emma Donaghue - she's such a good writer but it turns out I am never in the mood for medieval monks starving to death

currently reading: the song of the cell by Siddhartha Mukherjee (still) (I know), and how far the light reaches: a life in ten sea creatures by Sabrina Imler(almost done it's so good)

last thing researched for writing/art/hyperfixation: hmmmmm I think googling basketball things to make sure I wasn't giving ro false information for their fic counts

favourite online fandom memory: finding 1D fandom when I was 18 and grieving and lonely <3

favourite old fandom you wish would drag you back in/have a resurgence: honestly maybe I should get back into asoiaf/house of the dragon, everyone seems to be having a great time. (but also 1D reunion. it would be so bad and problematic and I would be so happy)

favourite thing you enjoy that never had an active or big fandom, but you wish it did: wonderfalls or slings and arrows, two incredible tv shows that I can never find anyone to talk about with me

tempting project you're trying to rein in/don't have time for: I really want to get better at knowing my way around the technical side of f1, but I also know that if I start researching I will get sucked in and I don't have time for that

zero pressure tags: @eyes-likepilotlights @argentinagp @formulahuh @eightyones @piastrology @ocontraire

[tatooinequeeen]

Wherever I May Roam

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Ao3

Spotify Playlist

Triggers: consensual kissing, touching

Chapter One: Like a Prayer

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish has always been a brother to you, growing up with a Navy SEAL father and friends that joined the military as soon as they could legally sign, hell it was practically fate that you met. He immediately took a shine to you and kept you close and safe while you navigated the relationships of your early twenties like a newborn deer on unsteady legs. He held you when he was stateside and your heart was broken again, threatening to make them disappear when you were particularly hurt.

You went through the ringer, growing up and finding yourself. While he was with Task Force 141, you were becoming a young woman with goals and aspirations for the future. A woman who longed for a stable relationship, a partner, a best friend and enough love to last her a lifetime. You had friends of course, you went on dates but there was always something missing - a spark that you chased and never caught.

~

Before he can knock you have the door open and you’re in his arms, your surrogate big brother. “Whoa, I guess someone missed me!” You squeeze your arms around his neck a little tighter. “Duh, you idiot of course I did! I haven’t seen you in almost two years.” He laughs against your hair and squeezes you back before setting you down and taking your shoulders in his hands. “Looks like someone’s getting old, what are you thirty yet?” Your eyes roll to the sky before you step back through the threshold and shoot back, “Hey, twenty nine is not thirty!” He walks past you muttering “not yet” and you let out a huff of loving frustration. You were too busy greeting Soap that you completely missed his companion standing to the side of him, with no one between you, you get your first look at Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

Toffee brown eyes regard you through an intricate skull mask, all six foot two inches of him standing relaxed in front of you. You don’t realize your mouth is slightly ajar until he huffs out a laugh. “Soap said you wouldn't mind company, but I suppose you don’t meet many people who wear masks, yeah?” You close your mouth and croak out, “Oh no, plenty of people I meet wear full face masks in public - it’s all the rage you know.” He holds his hand out and you take it, sparks dancing along your fingertips. “I’m Simon but everyone calls me Ghost.” You smile up at him, still holding his hand. “Hey Ghost, please come in - we’re having pizza.” You finally release his hand and gesture for him to come inside. He steps past you, crowding you into the entryway and you realize just how big he is. “Hey Ghost, get in here I’m anxious to eat!” Soap calls from the other room, prompting your guest to grumble and follow the hallway to the living room. You close the front door and lean your forehead against it.

He’s British. He has a deep British accent and a skull mask. Why is that so fucking hot? You blow out a breath and try to get yourself together.

“I haven't had pizza this good in a long time, just what I needed, kid.” You grin over at Soap who is patting his flat stomach. “I wanted to cook but I also didn’t want to poison you so…pizza it was!” Ghost laughs and once again you’re having trouble not staring at him. The entire time you were eating, your eyes kept finding their way back to him. The mask doesn’t scare you a bit, its intriguing and mysterious. His banter with Soap made you like him even more, their easy going attitudes making you feel comfortable and happy. You dust off your hands and grab the Apple TV remote to toss at Soap who catches it effortlessly. You take his empty plate and yours, your gaze back on Ghost. “Here, let me help you.” He says before you can offer to take his plate too. He follows you into the kitchen and snatches a dish towel to sling over his shoulder.

“I normally would throw these in the dishwasher but I’m waiting on a new one - this one gave up the…” You catch his eyes before you can say ‘Ghost’ and you both let out a laugh.

You begin washing the dishes and he dries them before stacking them neatly on the counter. There aren’t many and you find yourself wishing there were, just to soak up more of his presence. When you’re finished you grasp the stack of dishes to put in the cupboard, leaning against the counter reaching up - your Metallica tee shirt riding up to expose your lower back. You’re just pushing the plates back into their home when you feel callused hands lightly grip against the bare skin of your sides. You let out a small gasp at the contact and step back into a solid mass of man behind you. His voice is low and close to your ear, “You looked unsteady.” Your heart hammers against your rib cage at the way his voice rasps but you manage to nod. You have put the plates away like that a million times but you did feel unsteady - maybe it was him - maybe you wanted him to be the one to steady you. His hands are still on your waist, you can feel his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing against your back and you’re struck with how badly you want his moment to stretch on forever. You slowly turn around, emboldened by his touch until you’re staring up at his mask, his hands now resting in the small of your back under your shirt.

“You don’t let many people see your face do you?” You already suspect the answer but want to hear him say it. “Only people I trust, there are few that I do.” You nod again, wishing in that moment you were one of those few. You barely know this man but something about him is drawing you like a moth to a flame.

What would his lips feel like on your skin? What would his hair feel like against your fingers? Would your bodies mold perfectly together?

Caught in the limbo of your thoughts you almost miss the way his fingers dig into your skin, bringing you closer to him until your bodies are flush. He leans down, his toffee eyes captivating you, “Close your eyes, love.” You obey immediately. A minute stretches into two and the anticipation of this experience is absolutely destroying you. Just when you think nothing will happen you feel an exhale of breath dance across your cheek and you have to grasp his arms to stop your knees from buckling. You’ve never been so affected by someone, the absence of sight is such a potent aphrodisiac that it's a living electric thing. His lips brush against the corner of your mouth and it takes every ounce of restraint to let him go at his own pace. Your hands move of their own volition, tracing a path from his biceps to his chest where you rest them, his heartbeat a thundering rhythm under your palms. The words are out of your mouth before you have a second to catch yourself, “Kiss me, Simon.” His hands heat the skin of your back as his lips seal over yours, your entire world tilting on its axis. Your hands fist the material of his shirt and you pull him impossibly closer, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours and stealing whatever breath you had left. He shifts a hand to grip the back of your neck, and you feel so small against him that a dark thrill shoots through your body. You never want this to end, the way a hint of stubble rubs against your skin, the expert way he stokes a rhythm in your kiss as if you had done this a thousand times before, the way his muscles feel lined up against every inch of you.

A throat clears from somewhere in space behind you both and it takes you a few seconds to come down from the high of kissing Ghost. In the time it takes you to realize Soap just walked in on you making out with his friend, Ghost has his mask back on and is standing slightly apart from you. Your eyes flutter open and you reach a hand to your swollen lips, before he turns around he tips you a wink which sends a blush creeping over your cheeks. You have no idea what to say but Soap pipes up before you can come up with a reasonable explanation as to this situation.

“Pierce called, we need to get to base to go over a brief before we turn in for the night.”

You look between the two men, their eyes locked on one another. Soap turns his gaze to you and you blush again. “Come here lass, give me a hug and walk us out.” You move to step past Ghost and you feel his hand brush against yours in the barest of touches. When you get to the door, Soap pulls you into a bear hug and he says “be good” in a teasing voice that says he isn’t mad at you. He heads down the walkway to the truck and you’re alone with Ghost again. You open your mouth to say something but he reaches up a hand to your jaw and runs his thumb across your lips, silencing you.

“Thank you for dinner, love.” He follows after Soap, leaving you standing there feeling lighter than air, a phantom touch on your lips.

Note from Tatooinequeen: I’ve been getting SO much love over on Ao3 for this fic and it’s making me so happy. I love Ghost so much and I just want to show what a gooey baby love he is. Xoxo

[askthesmoltitans]

*The Large Sawman gave a nod. He then looked behind him, making a low rumble that seemed to echo into silence. . . Only for a few more rumbles to respond back followed by a pair of glowing eyes in the seemingly enternal darkness of the night. It seemed he was not alone, there had been others watching the whole time.*

*The Sawman then looked to the large tvman once more, tilting his head to the side as he rumbled in a low and deep rev. He made many hand signs, signing almost in a way that would seem cryptic to some*

[Do you wish to leave now? The others will guide you through the smoke. Close your eyes and listen to their rumbling, soon a safe place you'll be. Open your eyes and you soon be lost in the sea]

Monitors glance at the sleeping group and quietly wakes Crew and Woofer up, making sure that they are holding Film, Cinema and DJ as he doesn't want anyone to be separated from each other. "Hold onto my hand Crew and Woofer hold onto Crew's hand. Are the Titans' securely snugged in the... slings?" Monitors ask quietly as he dims his TV unit lights to near total blackouts. "They are snugged and on my front, I have them and they're still asleep... I'm ready to follow" Woofer purrs softly as he closes off his visual viewing. "So am I" Crew shuts his visuals off and changes the recording process to audio only.