#spiteful goose more like

[thief-of-eggs]

“Silly goose” is such a funny phrase because like. Have you ever actually met a goose? Those bastards are anything but silly.

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

Part I: The Prophecy — June 25, 2011

Part I: On her daily morning run, Y/N wonders if she’ll ever have someone who wants her simply company. Spencer promises her just that, the only catch: she has to wait seven years.

Rating: Eventual smut, fluff and longing

Word Count: 3.5K

Series Masterlist | Tell Me What You Think!

My Mind Turns You Into Folklore: The Prophecy — June 25, 2011

Running, somehow, still made her feel like a child. Perhaps there was something unadulterated and carefree about losing yourself in the pounding of pavement. When Y/N felt the wind rush in her ears and the familiar burn throughout her body, she truly felt alive.

Her entire body ached— no, screamed— as she approached her fifth mile for the day’s session. For Y/N running wasn’t about getting to the destination fastest, but about finishing the race altogether.

She wished she could apply such wisdom to very particular aspects of her life. Namely, her love life. For Y/N, relationships with men were unpleasantly predictable. From terrible blind dates with friends who she honestly can’t tell if they meant well to men with habits so strange Y/N could only plead insanity by a drunken state as to why she entertained even a second glance. Unfortunately, for her the sea of men seemed to solely be comprised of rather the unfortunate sort of men that made her skin crawl.

Her knees burned as her mind ran through the five weddings and babies that were impending. Between cousins, college friends, and even her own sister all either, Y/N never more lonely than when she was surrounded by her people. There was something particularly voyeuristic about watching those you love move along the carousel while you’re left in the dust. She was a casual observer, marooned to the sidelines. And someone where along the way she forgot to even care.

Her chest burned as she wondered where her aunt, a woman born and forged from pure spite and hefty lack of tolerance for anything progressive, would sit her at her cousin’s wedding. Y/N heaved forward imagining what would be worse; the discarded old widow’s table with wives whose husbands’ expiration date had come and passed. Or with her unruly nephews who would have to be wrestled into a tiny tuxedo and bribed with fried food and the majesty of Red40 to maintain the semblance of civility.

Being 27, husbandless, boyfriendless, and childless didn’t usually bother Y/N. She loved her peace. But somehow it put her into this plane of existence where she straddled youth and adulthood. She had one foot jammed deep into the rich, sodden earth of childhood and one toe dipping too all too calm to be safe waters of adulthood. Yet being uncoupled was as if she purchased overnight shipping to the elephant graveyard.

It was antiquated. It was downright sexist, yet there was a small part of her heart and her entire being that craved to be taken care of by a man. She wanted someone to bring her flowers just because, to hug her from behind while she stirred soup for dinner on a chilly day, to brush her hair from her face as he brought her to the brink of pleasure time and time again.

There was only so much her vibrator could do.

But a heart that ached to be loved, that problem didn’t come with a WebMD link. There wasn’t a quick and easy fix to change something that defined her on a molecular level.

She savored the sweet breeze that reminded her of summer and childhood. The houses, various shades of blue, gray, and beige blurred past as she maintained her steady pace.

Y/N rounded the corner and pounded the pavement that led to Betsy’s Cape Cod. She was the Head Librarian and took Y/N under her rather Mother Goose-like wing three years ago when she took the position at the small, sleepy library. A suburb of Quantico, many of the patrons were families in public service.

She even stumbled across someone who quickly became her best friend, Spencer. He was some sort of former child prodigy turned adult wunderkid. After racking up more diplomas than most extended families collect, Spencer worked as a special agent for the FBI. But looking at him, you would never have guessed. He was timid and shy in a boyish way that made him seem much younger than 32. He was tall and lanky, yet despite his slender frame he seemed to completely light up every single room he walked into.

Both Betsy and Spencer buried themselves into the fabric of her life. Betsy sat on the front porch, slowly swaying on the large, wooden swing. A crocheted blanket lay over her lap, keeping her warm under the brisk morning’s chill.

“Y/N!” Betsy called, as she ascended the stairs with a bright smile, “Dearie, it’s far too cold for you to run out here.”

“I could say the same about you, Bets,”

Betsy dismissed Y/N with a coy smile and a wave of her hand. “It’s good for my old bones to get a little chill. Make sure everything is in working order.”

Betsy scooted over on the porch swing, making more than enough room for Y/N to sit.

“That tall kid? Hmm, Spencer? Yes. Spencer. Was in there looking for you yesterday. Poor kid’s entire day was ruined when I told him you were on a date. Now, is there a reason why you didn’t tell me you didn’t tell your best friend?” Betsy asked, not hesitating to ask a question that went straight for the jugular.

Y/N offered Betsy a weak smile. “There wasn’t anything to tell him. He’s not interested in my love life. We talk about books. And work. And… I don’t know…”

Betsy nodded, but her pointed look pressed Y/N to continue. There wasn’t anything romantic between her and Spencer, but that wasn’t to say the connection wasn’t the most important thing in her life. When she met him three years ago he simply waltzed into her life; a tall, gangly man with a large appetite for baked goods and an excellent taste in literature.

“Besides, he has a thing for his coworker. Even though she hardly acknowledges his existence.”

From the time she met Spencer, he constantly was talking about his teammates. Growing up, Spencer didn’t have a stable family life. His mother tried her best, while his father never tried at all. He grown up not knowing what it was like to belong anywhere and now he finally found something resembling a family.

JJ was blonde and skinny and perfect and Spencer was completely enamored with her. Y/N met her only a couple of times, the first after a football game. She shared a plate of cheese fries and gravy with Spencer’s other coworker, Penelope as Spencer attempted to spout an almanac’s worth of facts about football to JJ.

“Hmm,” Betsy murmured, swinging back and forth. “Well, he said he has to talk to you about something. Maybe he’s getting to his senses, finally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, sipped some of the ice cold lemonade Betsy handed her, and gave her a pointed smile.

“This isn’t a romance novel, Bets. You’ve been sneaking too many of those bodice rippers.”

She stood up and felt some relief as her weary muscles stretched. Betsy waved another annoyed hand.

“Quiet down, Missy. I’ve had my chance at love. And I fully intend on you and Spencer being an item. My Arnold, may that old bastard rest in peace, never gave me children, so you and that boy are my only chance to fill this house with grandkids.”

“Oh my God, Betsy,” Y/N groaned, her head tossed back, “It’s not like that between us. And I promise you, it never will be.”

Y/N took off before Betsy had the chance to respond. But she couldn’t shake the funny feeling tugging at her heartstrings. She thought that maybe if she just focused her mind on feeling the wind blow her hair and her body burn as the third mile turned into a fifth, she could wash away the thoughts of one or two little children sitting on Betsy’s porch, sandwiched in between her and Spencer.

***

Gary, as it turned out, wasn’t a nice guy. First of all, he showed up precisely 23 and a half minutes late and hardly bothered to greet her as he sat down at their two seater table. He barked a drink order to the waitress, who graciously threw Y/N a sympathetic smile.

“So you work at Walter Reed?” Y/N asked, attempting to make conversation with the man seated in front of her. He was a couple years her senior and an Attending Emergency Room Doctor. On paper Gary seemed wonderful. He had a nice family; older sisters were always a green flag in Y/N’s book and seemed to have a basic grasp of personal hygiene practices.

Gary mumbled as the waitress brought him his drink: whisky on rocks. He downed it in about three minutes and signaled for the waitress to return.

“Sorry,” Gary apologized, his voice so close to resembling being embarrassed, but it, somewhere along the line, made a beeline in the opposite direction, “There was some bitch in the ER today complaining about how her boyfriend didn’t believe her when she told him she was pregnant. Took me a god damn hour to shut her up. Jesus, reminds me why I don’t date.”

Y/N felt her face freeze. It was like his harsh words poured ice water over her shoulders. Her skin practically crawled as Gary’s carelessness settled in. Wasn’t this a date? Or was this simply the means for Gary to get into her pants.

“Hold up,” Y/N said, gesturing with her hand held up to stop Gary’s rant, “I was under the impression this was a date. Is it not?”

Gary shrugged. “As long as there’s a happy ending with you, babe I don’t give a fuck.”

He was crass. Y/N was far from a prude. She enjoyed her time in college and didn’t mind the occasional quick one night stand when the opportunity presented itself, but there would be something completely debasing and revolting about sleeping with the man sitting before her.

“I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression.” Y/N said, her words clipped and stern: there wasn’t room for Gary to mix up any bit of her message. “I’m not looking for a fuck-buddy. And even if I was, it certainly wouldn’t be you. We’ve been sitting here for all of twelve minutes and you’ve already drank two whiskys, been rude to the waitress, insulted a patient, and offended me.”

Gary, in a lackadaisical way that could only be described as a fuckboy with the worst case of Peter Pan syndrome, shrugged his shoulders. He downed the rest of his second whisky, “You’re a frigid bitch anyway.”

He left.

And Y/N laughed. Then she ordered two slices of double chocolate cheesecake and asked the waitress where the closest liquor store was.

***

Silently, she cursed Spencer’s charming love of buildings with character. She bounded up the steps to his apartment, the plastic bag with the two slices of cheesecake banged against her leg. Her other hand clutched the neck of a cheap, screw top rose.

Her date, disastrous, was nearly comical, and she couldn’t wait to recount the details to Spencer.

They share a sort of sadistic penchant for relaying moments for their occasional first dates. Typically, Y/N had more than Spencer. On the rare occasion Spencer did have a date, Y/N found herself trying to explain that any girl in her right mind would attempt to flirt with Spencer, but he refused to see her points.

Not bothering to knock, Y/N opted to use the spare key Spencer gave her. She figured he’d either still be working at the office or would be too engrossed in his latest fantasy novel to bother answering the door.

Spencer’s apartment was painted a dusty, sage green. The farthest wall was lined with built-in bookshelves. A prewar relic, Spencer’s style mixed perfectly with the vintage quality embedded within the walls.

Up until recently, Spencer’s kitchen was hardly used. But Y/N had taken it upon herself to teach Spencer the basics in prepping meals. He was a quick study, as with almost everything he tried. And it gave her some peace knowing he would be able to provide himself something more satiating than granola bars and frozen lasagna.

“Spencer! Spence!” Y/N called out, dipping her head into Spencer’s second bedroom. There was a queen bed in there with a cream colored quilt splashed out on the bed.

On late nights spent watching old, black and white movies or binging episodes of The Twilight Zone and The X-Files, she would crash there. It was a fight for her to even concede to allow Spencer to purchase the queen bed. Y/N claimed that she was fine just sleeping on the couch, but Spencer insisted that she sleep in a bed.

And if Y/N had been born into a braver soul, she would’ve suggested they share his bed three years ago.

Spencer shuffled out of his bathroom, eyes red and weary. He wore a tattered Cal-Tech shirt and plaid pajama pants. He wore his glasses. They rested on the bridge of his nose and made him lose at least four or five years on his already young looking face.

“She’s pregnant.”

“I brought wine. And chocolate cheesecake.” Y/N replied, kicking her shoes off. “And you better have done laundry already because I am not sleeping in this dress. I feel ridiculous in it.”

Spencer’s eyes raked over Y/N’s frame, as if he was internally debating his thoughts on her outfit. His brow furrowed. “You’re date?”

“Asshole.” Y/N said, walking into the kitchen. She plucked two wine glasses from Spencer’s cabinet and two plates. “Arrogant and only wanted a quick fuck.”

His voice disappeared as he went into his room for a change of pajamas. They were freshly washed. She continued to listen to Spencer as she shut the bathroom door and changed behind. His voice was no longer muffled when she came out of the bathroom, but she did notice how Spencer’s eyes still were heavy with something unfamiliar when he looked over her baggy, old pajama-clad frame.

“You’re not the girl for that.” Spencer commented, reaching for the corkscrew. His large hands twisted around the device and the bottle of wine made a satisfying pop.

“You don’t know that.” Y/N countered, her defiance made a crop of red appear on Spencer’s cheeks. “Besides, that’s not the point. JJ’s pregnant. With that New Orleans guy’s baby?”

He nodded. It was as if grief washed over Spencer as Y/N changed the conversation. She knew that Spencer was harboring feelings for JJ. Jennifer was nearly perfect in every way. The only imperfect thing about her was that she didn’t realize how perfect Spencer was. He would’ve adored JJ if he got the chance. He nearly did.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Spencer groaned, pouring himself a healthy cup of rosé. “Unsure. It’s not like I’m going to confront her about this. She’s practically engaged to Will. And now there’s a baby in the picture? A baby who’s very well going to grow up seeing me as Uncle Spencer.”

He sounded exhausted. Y/N touched his hand and squeezed. She understood the pained loneliness that plagued Spencer’s voice. “I don’t love JJ anymore. It’s just, my whole life I felt like I was so far beyond my peers. And now? They all finally have caught up, this time the tables have turned. God, I’m excited when a girl smiles at me, let alone goes on a date with me.”

Weakly, Y/N smiled. She sipped her rose, “So it’s more of feeling like you’re far beyond in life? Despite having two PhDs and like three undergrad degrees? You’re one of the most accomplished men I know, Spencer. And we all move along at our own pace. Don’t compare JJ’s story to yours.”

He nodded, spooning a bite of the double chocolate cheesecake. “It’s just…I’m nearly 32. And now I’m watching JJ and Hotch and Morgan talk about babies and husbands and wives and houses. And I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to get that one day. Sometimes… I think I’m too me for anyone to fall in love with me.”

Y/N felt her heart shatter into a million little pieces as Spencer’s honest confession striked her entire system. She wanted to reach out and push away the stray curl that hooked itself in front of his eyebrow. She wanted to reach out and wipe away his tears. She wanted to tell her friend that if no one married him, she would.

She stalked off the to couch, needing a stable place to sit. Her chocolate cheesecake stuck to the roof of her mouth and the bitter rosé did nothing to remove it.

“Holy shit, Spencer. Do you not realize that you’d make any girl happy? You’ll find her one day, I know it. And if you don’t, we can just say fuck it and get married. I mean, I know it wouldn’t be romantic love, but we could at least live together. Through a big fancy party and get dressed up nice and getting drunk on mojitos with my best friend. My person? Sounds fun.”

“You mean that?” Spencer asked, half in disbelief and half in wonderment. “You mean that we’ll get married if neither of us have someone…say seven years from now?”

She must’ve drank more than she thought as she waited for Gary to ruin their date. “I meant it. But why seven?”

A smile toyed on Spencer lips. She noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“It’s my lucky number.”

Her lips were so loose that it threatened to crack open her heart. She had a nasty habit of wearing that on her sleeve.

She gave Spencer a sheepish look as his eyes met hers. He looked half between incredulous and hopeful. His fingers ran across the rim of his wine glass as the wine sloshed around. It mirrored Y/N’s stomach.

“Is this idea like bad shit crazy?” Y/N asked. “I mean it. I mean, why not. It’s not so different from what we do now. Just all the time. And I’d be thrilled to be spiritually required to spend more time with you.”

“Should we….shake hands or something. I’m not the biggest fan of that, but I think my wife would serve as an exception to the rule. To every rule I’ve got?”

Y/N laughed. She felt the wine creep up a nice, warm flush against her skin. It matched the light and easy way her limbs felt. It might have very well been the wine, but there wasn’t much of anything that could trump laughing with your best friend. Especially when that best friend slipped and called you his wife.

Her feet somehow ended up in Spencer’s lap. His thumb rubbed gently against her ankle, barely touching her bare skin. Yet it sent shockwaves that she didn’t quite understand.

The corners of Spencer’s eyes crinkled as he reciprocated that laugh. They shared it and Y/N had the strangest desire to bottle it up. She wanted to store this moment in her mind and come back to it. One day. Some day.

“We’ll get married,” Spencer started speaking as if it was a prophecy that he could set in stone, “if neither of us has anyone, we’ll enter this rather odd, rather complex, yet completely entirely normal and simple marriage in seven years?” His sweet, yet coy smile was boyish, it only reminded Y/N just how far away 35 was for her.

“Should we draft up a contract?”

“Have your lawyers contact my lawyers. I never sign documents without the proper legal support. In the meantime, could we settle on our first stipulation: never watching a new episode of our current favorite show without the other?”

“I agree to the terms and conditions you’ve set out.” Y/N said. She grabbed the blanket that rested on the back of the couch as Spencer turned off the lamp light.

“Oh and I washed the sheets in your room. I used the detergent you like. And your pajamas. The lavender vanilla one with the scent beads?” He flipped on an episode of The Twilight Zone.

She smiled from the way Spencer naturally called the guest room her bedroom. There was something very domestic and peaceful about him using her favorite detergent to wash the sheets in her room in his apartment. It resembled the exact something that she was craving: being taken care of.

She sipped her rose again, watching as her friend smiled at the gray scale painted on the screen. It was too bad she only had to weight over half a decade to feel it and not feel guilty and like she was lying to herself.

—

Taglist:

@reidsbookclub @boldlyvoid @mrs-dr-reid @reid-ingandweeping @candlesandsoftrain @foxy-eva @queermaxwooo

[joannechocolat]

Burn the library, or walk inside. Either way, it's your choice.

Unless you've been living under a rock, you can't have missed the escalating riots all around the country - riots which the media keep referring to as "protests", in spite of the fact that no-one involved seems to agree on just what they are protesting against.

Dragging strangers out of cars, burning down public buildings, throwing stones at ambulancemen, setting fire to hotels in a deliberate attempt to burn the people inside alive - and maybe scoring a new phone or pair of trainers on the way home - has nothing to do with "protest."

It certainly has nothing to do with the brutal murder of three little girls, although that was used as a springboard by online agitators, claiming that the murderer was an immigrant (he wasn't, and even if he were, attacking other immigrants because of what he did makes about as much sense as torching a Wetherspoons in Manchester in protest against Myra Hindley.) Nor does it have anything to do with Asian grooming gangs in Rotherham, although that's the most recent excuse I've heard: those grooming gangs were dreadful, but these criminals do not represent the Asian community any more than do the white leaders of grooming gangs (which by far outnumber them).

So, what the fuck is this about?

Well, it's the illegal immigrants, they say. Coming into our country, taking our jobs, raping our girls, yadda, yadda, yadda. Except that it isn't. Brexit has made it increasingly difficult for foreigners to work here, which is why so many European doctors and nurses have already left the country, putting still yet more pressure onto our dying NHS. And refugees - let's call them that, given they're neither immigrants, nor here illegally - aren't allowed to work while their application is being processed. As for "immigrant crime", a phrase that these people have borrowed from Trump - it represents a tiny proportion of crime in the UK, which by the way has risen sharply as the riots have escalated, because the police just don't have the manpower to fight on two fronts at the same time.

And add to this the fact that the principal agitators - people like Yaxley-Lennon and Farage - don't even live in this country, I think it's pretty clear that whatever motivation these burners of libraries, looters of shops, and goose-stepping Nazi cosplayers claim, it has nothing to do with "British values" or "taking back the country", and everything to do with doing whatever the fuck they want and blaming it on someone else.

Why do I care? Because I was born in one of these communities. I still have family in Rotherham, in Barnsley. I live less than fifteen miles away from the heart of these riots. I've done events in the libraries and universities that have been attacked. And by the way, isn't it weird how thugs always target libraries and places of learning on their way to robbing their local Lush, or Greggs, or Shoezone?

It's almost as if the agitators know that education is the key. That reading brings us together; teaches us to question what we read on the internet; crosses cultural boundaries; reminds us we're all human. And in disaffected communities like Rotherham, with a high degree of poverty, access to these ideas is very dangerous in the eyes of a far-right movement that wants to take power.

Already, 14 years of austerity, cuts and corruption has brought the country to its knees. By cutting education and the arts, Tories have reduced the access of these underprivileged communities to critical thinking and new ideas. Brexit has done further damage, as well as cutting us off from our allies. After the event, it is now clear how much Russian misinformation played its part in that process, just as it's playing a part right now in spreading its racist rhetoric via supporters like Farage and the fake accounts that amplify him. Now they're no longer in power, the far-right is doing its best to do as much further damage as possible to our society, urging people to "take control" by destroying anything else that can help them out of poverty.

Why? Because poor people are easier for the far-right to control. Poverty and crime are linked; just as illiteracy and crime are linked. And both of those things are linked to hate; to racism and mistrust of anyone who seems different.

But here's the thing. There's always a choice. Not everyone who grows up poor becomes a criminal. Not everyone who missed out on a good education becomes a racist. I grew up in a poor neighbourhood. There were some racists there, and some thugs, but most people were decent and honest. Most people were happy to co-exist with people of different cultures. I was one of those people; my family was different. Sometimes people even told us to go back home where we belonged. Most didn't. But of course, were were white. We looked like them. There's an obvious reason why brown and Black people in particular are being dehumanized and blamed for what's wrong with the country now.

And it's ironic, how people react when someone calls them racist? "But we're just ordinary people, with ordinary concerns."

"I'm not racist, I'm just (insert your bullshit reason here)."

And yet, here we are. Racism is ordinary. And if you do racist things, if you blame all brown people for what one brown person did, if you judge people by the way they look, if you make assumptions about whole groups of people, then you're a racist. And if you spout Nazi slogans, do Nazi salutes, walk with Nazis, repeat Nazi propaganda, then you're a fucking Nazi, mate. Live with it, or change. Your choice.

Because the choices we make today affect what comes tomorrow. And although poverty isn't a choice, being a decent person is. Your choices can help your children break the cycle of despair. Or they can keep your kids stuck in the same rut. To put it another way, you can take your kids to the library and let them learn to think for themselves. Or you can burn the libraries down and take them to watch you and your mates trying to set fire to some terrified refugees in a hotel instead.

Either way, your kids get to live with the choices you make today.

Right now, you're deciding their future.

Your choice.

[kazanskys-mitchell]

jj do you have an icemav headcanons???

thank u for asking cal i have so many (this isn’t even all of them i dont think)

- ice fell first, mav fell harder

- mav likes coffee, ice likes tea better but will drink coffee occasionally

- mav loves when ice pulls rank on him, it’s definitely a turn on for him

- ice was pining after mav SO HARD in the first movie and you can’t change my mind

- in the locker room after goose dies, i fully believe ice wanted to give mav a comforting hug but couldn’t bring himself to do it

- they both think that the other person is the better pilot but they’ll never say it out loud

- being the little spoon is ice’s favorite thing but he’ll never admit it

- mav will absolutely climb on the counters to get stuff out of kitchen cabinets. ice puts stuff on the top shelf just to spite him

- ice can cook, mav can bake

- ice will work through any sickness no matter how shitty he feels. mav will also, but then he’ll get so sick from overworking himself and make ice take care of him (and complain the whole time)

- mav has ridiculous pet names for ice, meanwhile ice sticks with the classic pet names for mav

- ice is always really gentle with mav (sexually and not) and mav loves it but also loves to be manhandled

- mav loves pda, he gets ice to love it too (it takes a while but he’s successful)

- i firmly believe that mav is a house husband and loves to do things around the house for ice

- mav is a horrible driver, therefore ice drives them everywhere

- as they get older, ice is silently insecure about himself once the grey hair starts to show, and mav is always reminding him how much he loves him (in more ways than one if yall know what i mean)

- mav calls ice “tommy” just for laughs because he knows it annoys ice

- they can’t sleep without each other

- mav wears his ring on his dog tags, and ice wears his on his finger

- ice loves to splurge and buy mav gifts whenever he can

i definitely have more but this is all i could think of rn

[gotham-daydreams]

Honestly, if I was reader I would weaponize the fact they literally know next to nothing about me. Hear me out

Bruce and fam show up and are like: it's so irresponsible for you to just disappear and not tell anyone, did you drop out of school just to get away

Me, knowing they never paid attention anyways: no one wanted to talk that night so I left a note. And no I didn't drop out, I graduated with honors. I went to/am going to college for___ degree. I took my diplomas with me because it's MY accomplishment

Or

Bruce letting his high tech medical machine do a series of tests because he's lost it and wants to know every detail down to your white cell count: you've had a significant damage to your pelvis in recent months

Me : oh yeah, My husband is going through a phase

Bruce : you're married???

Me : was it my ring or extraordinarily good sex life that gave it away??

Like seriously, I'd not pull any punches when it comes to hurting them back for what they did to me. Such as mentioning lasting injuries or traumatic events that happened while they were pretending I didn't exist. If anything I'd bring it up just to hammer in the fact that I.don't.need.them. And let them all have mental breakdowns. It gives me joy. And the best part is, they really wouldn't know what's fact or fiction. Let them go hunting for a husband that doesn't exist. Send them on wild goose chases for anything and everything they don't know.

Again, I love all of these spite posts and y'all are a RIOT and I love y'all for that, oh my god.

Icing on the cake? Of course the reader has gotten hurt in the past. They've overworked each and every last atom in their bodies just to have an inch of a connect with the Batfam, but still got nothing for their efforts. Which may or may not be mentioned in part 3 when stuff starts tumbling down even more.

Honestly, why not just make shit like that worse? How are they going to know?

You broke your wrist? Say it was your arm.

An ankle? Say it was both your legs and you were maybe even bedridden for a while. Or just on crutches (which may or may not be canon).

Hell, with the whole husband thing — why not lowkey turn it into a whole ass drama for the hell of it? You've had pervious partners in the past, and honestly some of them were kind of shit but there was this one person who you're actually kind of chill with. Maybe you still have a drink with them every now and again. You're married but have already been through your first divorce and have maybe been thinking of having children, or maybe you already do! (Which, of course, they can be pets but how is the Batfam going to know that right away?)

Basically, go off. They honestly deserve it, and especially because after years they still don't know the smallest thing about the reader. Well- besides that they're into music, and even then that's only about half of them? I believe?

The only one that would see through your bs is Alfred but he isn't going to say anything. Not without being sassy himself and heavily sarcastic. Even if he'll only play along for so long, your the favorite so it's okay. Besides it wouldn't be the first mind games he's played.

It may take everyone a little longer, but you can guess why. Hell, maybe some lies they'll never even find out about, since some of the best lies are told with a little bit of truth to them.

Regardless, it all spunds very fun ♡♡

[senqv]

HOUSE OF KINGS.

blue lock ! royal / fantasy au series featuring : michael kaiser x fem! reader

warning(s) : 1k , none this one is quite cute , lmk if there are any !!

prev. next.

TWO. THE WRATH SING, O GODDESS

the next time you see him, you are seated in the windowed alcove of the palace library, hidden behind the imposing shelves of mahogany wood. you could feel the thick knitted blankets and fox furs beneath your thighs, a fluffy cushion left of your waist.

you leaned against the window, ornate and elegant, cut in frames to let in squares of golden sun. the smooth cover of the book is familiar under your fingerpads, a beloved relic from your father. even with your gaze cast towards the window, you could envision the wine-dark cover in your hands, embossed with a deep gold; the methodical lettering forming words that you could recite like water spilling down the rumbling falls.

faintly, suddenly, like a whisper in the wind, the air changed. the soft hum of divinity, maybe, but you could not have known what that was. it only felt stronger as golden hair came into vision, reflecting off the glass planes of the windows. you blinked, straightening your back. you had thought it to be a trick of the light, but it was apparent how real he was with each languid step he took, steady and sure.

kaiser was not a god, but you can scarcely imagine anything more perfect than him. wherever he went, he drew everything to him like a great flame. and although your spitefulness refused to let you look at him, it could not be helped how your gaze traced his features reflected on the window, the brightness of his hair so lustrous it was lit from within, the steady curve of his face, and the arc of his rose-coloured lips.

you hear his feet stop before you, and his mouth opens, poised and self-assured. "this place belongs to me."

he was referring to this cosy little alcove, and you chide yourself for not noticing how personalised this place was, blanketed in wools and the highest quality of furs and goose-feathered pillows.

only then you look back at him, features screwed with slight displeasure. under his pointed stare, you swing your legs down from the wood carved into the window to face him properly, freeing up half the space. "this is a library. it doesn't belong to anyone," you say with narrowed eyes.

he looks almost like he can't believe the words coming out of your mouth. his arms move to cross over his chest. "the gods have decreed me to be emperor of kings. everything that treads the ground will belong to me one day." he does not say it boastfully, or arrogantly. it is fact to him as much as the stars circle the sky each night.

your lips twitch in search of a response, "not yet," you say weakly, and you stare into the endless blue of his eyes. your tone is stronger; "you are no emperor yet. you have no right to ask me to leave."

that surprised him. he tilts his head at you curiously, like a little sparrow. you may be the daughter of nobility, but he is the prince. he probably had all the rights in the world and more. like a tamed beast, he sits down next to you. he smells of roses and white jasmine, and you dare not to turn your head, glancing at him nervously from the corner of your eye. his gaze darts to your hand.

he shifts again, pressing his head on your shoulder as you fight down a flinch. a strand of hair falls over his eyes, and he blows it away with a huff. cerulean eyes stare up at you intently. like this, he reminds you of those sleek felines in the estate.

"read to me." it was a command, but the way he said it did not feel like one. to you, it was soft but distinct, easy as how one would utter their own name.

your mouth feels parched, but still, you crack the book open, the pages yellowed from their age. the familiar words ease you slightly, and your voice hangs in the air like the willows over a curving pond.

'the wrath sing, o goddess, of peleus' son

achilles'

his eyelashes flutter like the wings of a butterfly, fanning against his cheeks. he blinks slowly, relaxed. your gaze darts from the book to him like a school of fish in the water, but you hardly need to reference the pages, the words carved into your heart like a searing iron.

his golden hair curls around his head, the longer strands pooling at the dips of his collarbone and down the edge of your own shoulder. it drew your eye, glimmering like starlight, so bright against the sun the locks glowed white. carelessly, your fingers smooth over a strand of hair covering the side of his face, flipping the ends up to marvel at the way they lit up in the light. you had no sooner realised your mistake than when his jewelled eyes darted towards you, causing you to release his hair with a jerk of your hand. "i'm sorry, i didn't -"

he silences you with a yawn, pink tongue flashing against white teeth. his lashes flutter again, shifting his head closer to you. then, his eyes close with sleep. it's almost cute, in a way. you know that he is not actually asleep, but you also realise this is his way of permitting you to continue.

hesitantly, your fingers twitch in longing, at his unavoidable beauty, written by the poets. you wipe your hands harshly on your skirt, fearful that the beading sweat might stick to his glorious hair. with trembling hands, your fingers card through the streaming gold strands, smoothing over the top of his head. he makes a soft sound of pleasure, which makes you smile slightly.

you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, and you can't help but think that his beauty is fine as a girl's. his lashes open again, jade white skin parting to reveal the hanging jewels of his eyes, a shifting, dazzling blue.

his eyes crinkle a secretive smile. under the light of the sun, you smile back.

[kings-hand-31]

sleep like the (un)dead

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in which Gaz sucks at sharing a bed, and Soap gets stuck sharing with him every single time. finally, he can’t take it anymore, so he does something about it

just tooth-rotting, sweet and a little silly fluff

~1900 words

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Gaz is by no means a small man.

He’s tall- standing a few inches taller than Soap- and muscular, too- easily holding his own against his teammates when they spar- but whereas the rest of them are built stocky, Gaz’s frame is much leaner. There’s still a healthy layer of fat over his muscles, just enough to have him damn-near glowing with health, but he just hasn’t got the same bulk as the rest of them.

Somehow, though, in spite of him taking up the least amount of space, he’s surprisingly the worst at sharing a bed.

Soap should know because he’s the unlucky bastard that’s stuck with him.

In any other situation, he would jump at the chance to be close to him- probably more than he ought to. He hangs around him at base and sticks close to his side whenever possible on missions, but the second it comes to crawling into bed with the man to sleep, he’d rather be on the floor than next to him.

It’s not fair, really.

Ghost and Price sleep like wooden boards, unmoving and stiff and waking up in the same position they fell asleep in. They don’t flail about or steal blankets or shove the other off the bed in the middle of the night- which sounds like a bloody fucking dream to Soap- but their crime is more heinous than anything Gaz has ever done to him.

Every single time the need arises and beds are shared, those sleekit sons of bitches pull rank to end up in the same bed, leaving Soap with Gaz.

Now, Soap is plenty guilty of shifting in his sleep- maybe even a little nonsense rambling on his worse nights- and there was that one time he sleep-walked to Ghost’s side of the bed and stared at him for the better half of an hour- but that’s nothing compared to Gaz. The man sleeps like the fucking undead, grunting and shifting and tossing uncoordinated limbs here and there. And, yeah, Soap may be a little more fond of him than he should be, but there’s only so much more sleep Soap can lose and only so many more questionably obtained bruises he can take, fondness or no.

Besides, after this particular mission, he needs as much sleep as he can get, and he’s already got too many bruises to add any more to his collection.

Which leads to his problem.

Gaz.

He’s already had to steal his blanket back half a dozen times and even duck another elbow aimed for his head. Only a few minutes earlier, he took a hit to the skull hard enough to rattle his teeth but luckily not hard enough to concuss, but he’s not looking for another goose egg to join the one slowly swelling up on his temple.

And it’s reasonable to want his blanket to stay on his body.

He blinks blearily and squints across the space of their hotel room, eyeing Price and Ghost as best he can in the darkness. Both of them are done up like corpses, Price with his arms perfectly straight and unmoving at his sides and the only thing Ghost is missing is the coffin, arms crossed over his chest.

It takes everything he has to not sneak out of his bed and worm his way between them like a child crawling into their parents’ bed after a nightmare.

A splayed-out hand comes into contact with his chest, no doubt leaving a red handprint through his thin sleep-shirt, and he can’t help the bitten off curse that follows. “Hell’s fucken bells, Ky,” he whispers like the other man might somehow hear him in his sleep. “Keep yer goddamn arms tae yerself oer ahm gonna tie them tae yer body.”

Gaz, of course, does no such thing.

It isn’t until another hit lands, this one on his bad knee, that he snaps.

Gaz was already well across the halfway point of the bed, leaving Soap damn-near hanging off the edge, so it doesn’t take much to close the distance between them and weave their legs together. With the precision expected of a demolition’s expert, he snaps his arms around Kyle’s body, pinning his arms to his sides and diffusing all of his future attacks.

“Stay feckin’ still,” he hisses under his breath, but he doesn’t remove his limbs lest he give him the chance to get a hit on him again.

But surprisingly, Kyle doesn’t fight the hold.

If anything, he shifts closer, close enough to press their chests together.

Johnny’s breath catches in his throat. His chest refuses to expand as Kyle’s rises and falls against his in an even and slow dance. It takes almost a full minute before his body decides the risk of passing out far outweighs the risk of waking Kyle up, and he draws in as slow of a breath as he can manage, lungs screaming for more.

Kyle smells clean, a mix of the generic hotel soap and the honey-scented lotion he refuses to leave base without, and the scent invades Johnny’s nose without his permission.

But even worse is the way he captivates Johnny’s eyes; it’s impossible for him to drag his eyes off of Kyle’s face, much less close them and get some much needed sleep.

His face is more relaxed than Johnny has ever seen it, and he can’t help but greedily drink in the sight, cursing both the low light of the room and the fact that he can’t release Kyle to search out his sketchbook. He can’t risk being attacked once more or, much worse, waking Kyle up.

So, he lets his eyes wander. He tries to memorize every inch of his peaceful expression with the hope that he can recreate it with even half as much beauty as Kyle has in the morning.

And if his eyes linger the longest on Kyle’s lips, wondering how they’d feel pressed against his, how they’d taste, it’s hardly his fault. Kyle has the most beautiful lips he’s seen of anyone, man or woman, and they deserve to be admired.

Kyle sighs contentedly. He wriggles his arms free from Johnny’s, but instead of trying to shove Johnny away, he drapes one of them over his waist and worms the other one between his body and the mattress. He pulls Johnny even closer, trapping the warmth their bodies create between the two of them.

Then, he curls forward to burrow his face into Johnny’s neck, nosing against his skin.

If Johnny couldn’t breathe before, it’s impossible now.

He can’t stop himself from bringing a hand up to cradle Kyle’s head against his neck.

Ever so gently, he lets his fingers brush up and down the nape of his neck, the calloused pads of his fingers running over the smooth skin there. He lets his eyes fall closed, so he can focus on memorizing the feeling of his skin against his, the weight of his head resting on him, and the warmth of his soft breaths fanning across his shoulder.

Eventually, he drifts off, lulled to sleep by the soft sensations.

—

“Tav?”

The sleepy whisper draws him from his light sleep.

He hums, peeling his heavy eyelids open. It takes a moment for his mouth to push out a soft answering, “Yeah?”

“Why’re we cuddling?” Kyle mumbles against his skin, yet he makes no move to remove his face from Johnny’s neck or to put distance between their bodies.

“Hmm? Oh, ye hit me in tha face,” Johnny answers like that explains how they ended up curled into each other, encompassed by each other’s warmth, limbs tangled together.

“Oh.”

It takes a moment for Kyle’s sleep-hazed mind to make sense of Johnny’s words, his voice gravelly with sleep and his accent thicker than usual, but eventually, he mumbles out a quiet, “Sorry, love.”

He shifts, lifting his head up just far enough to press a kiss to the bruised bump he left on Johnny’s forehead before dropping back against his chest. He burrows his face into Johnny’s neck once more, and he’s gone again, snoring softly and leaving Johnny bewildered and blushing.

Johnny turns to bury his burning face into his pillow, mind running faster than he can follow. He can still feel the ghost of Kyle’s lips against his skin, and he hopes the feeling never fades.

He tells himself Kyle was just asleep, that he wouldn’t have done that if he was more awake, but it does little to quell the racing of his heart or the hope burning in his chest.

“Tav?” comes Kyle’s quiet whisper once more.

Johnny’s cheeks burn hotter at the realization that Kyle is awake again. It feels like he’s been caught, like Kyle might somehow be able to read his mind and know what he’s thinking.

“Yeah?” he croaks back.

“Your heart…” Kyle shifts in his arms, moving his head to rest on Johnny’s chest and pressing an ear to the place just above where Johnny’s heart is hammering against his ribs. He listens for a moment, brows slowly knitting together the longer he listens and the more he wakes up. “S’beating kinda fast, love.”

“It’s nothing,” he answers all too quickly. His mind is painfully blank as he tries to come up with some reason that would make sense, but the panic lancing through his body makes it hard to think.

Something must finally click in Kyle’s brain because those beautiful lips of his quirk into a sleepy smirk, eyes half-lidded and blinking slowly, and he lifts his head just far enough to press his lips to his thin sleep-shirt in the spot his head was resting against only moments ago.

Johnny’s heart jumps in his chest like it’s trying to free itself of the layers between it and Kyle’s lips. His mind goes even more blank; he can do nothing but blink at Kyle.

“Ah love ye,” he blurts out, barely remembering to whisper, lest Ghost and Price hear him from across the room.

Kyle’s smirk dips into a soft smile, and he lifts his head once more, this time pressing this kiss to Johnny’s lips.

His lips are just as soft as Johnny thought, if not more, as they move against his, and they taste of toothpaste more than anything, fresh and minty.

Already, Johnny can’t wait to kiss him again and again, so he can figure out what they taste of once the toothpaste flavor has faded. There’s a hint of something almost sweet buried under the mint. Johnny can’t wait to taste that flavor in full; he can’t wait for the day he gets to lick that taste out of Kyle’s mouth.

Kyle breaks the kiss much sooner than Johnny would like. He brings a hand up to cradle Johnny’s face to keep him from pressing their lips together again.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, smiling. “Now, sleep, Tav.”

Johnny grins back stupidly wide.

Rolling onto his back, he pulls Kyle on top of him and tangles their bodies together once more. He guides Kyle to bury his face back into the crook of his neck and presses one last kiss to Kyle’s temple.

Maybe sharing a bed with Kyle isn’t so bad after all.

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thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed :)

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[strlingsav]

you are a god among us peasants. your writing skills so sublime, you make tears fall from my eyes (and from between my legs); thank you for your service. 🫡

if you’re keen, may i request pain? just angst and maybe death too—if doable. of course, we cannot forget smut; because we’re still thirsty degenerates despite (or is it in spite) the masochism. but if that’s not your cup of tea, then no worries, you feed us well anyway. 🥰

anyway, just wanna say thank you very much for existing and that i look forward to reading more of your amazing fics. may both sides of your pillow be cool whenever you lay on them. 🙏

lastly, im the one who requested for the ‘read more’ bar and tbh, i was not really expecting anything from it. i was expecting it to be ignored and i was fine with it. coz let’s be honest, that was just nitpicking from freeloaders like me and scrolling a few more seconds is the least we can do to thank you for sharing your awesome brainchilds with us. i was just shooting my shot but honestly didn’t expect anything from it. so for you to implement it as soon as you got the ask is just 🤌. thank you. i appreciate you. i hope you immediately find your lost things as soon as you start looking for them. ❤️😘😘😘

LOL, stop it now I'm crying 😭 I can definitely come up with something real angst-y and slutty just for you!!!

You're so kind, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you, and the validation 🫶🏻🥹❤️

Of course!! It's my pleasure 🤍 Thank you (and a million more thank yous) for the kind words, I hope you enjoy!!

Endings

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— A sweet goodbye turns sour.

Two

Explicit/gory content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

The sun had just barely peaked, a glowing orange hue sneaking out from behind your linen curtains. It must've been early, early enough to catch Simon before he headed out.

You stretched out, rolling onto your side, still beneath the warmth of your heavy duvet. A soft pillow cradled your head, goose down, plush and inviting. You didn't want to wake up- you wanted to give in to the overwhelming contentment. Your hands reached out, your eyes shut as you relished in the comfort of your bed.

Your hand tucked under your cheek as you opened one eye, focusing on the man next to you, his chest rising and falling slowly, peacefully. His skin lit up in the sun-tinged room, glowing softly, an image of pure serenity, nearly God-like.

You sighed softly, your eyes scanning his face. You didn't want to wake him. He needed every minute of sleep. You carefully pulled the covers back, goosebumps erupting at the flood of cold air hitting your skin.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back with a strong tug. Simon enveloped you in his arms, cradling your body against his chest. You giggled softly when his lips nuzzled against your neck, pressing a lazy kiss against your skin.

"You sneakin' out on me?" He mumbled, muffled by your hair.

"Trying to," You smiled. "But you caught me."

He hummed, "Just need a few more minutes."

"I can do that," You said, your legs interlocking with his.

His hands followed the natural curve of your waist, meeting your hips, down your thighs. He pressed a palm against your leg, before running his fingers back through the carved path.

"You're barely awake and already feeling me up," You teased, your head turning to look at him.

His eyes were still shut, though his brows furrowed.

"Always in the mood to feel you up, sweetheart." His hand grabbed at one of your breasts, making you laugh- boisterous and genuine.

"You're insatiable." You shook your head.

"Can't blame me."

He pressed his hips into your backside, his erection pressing into you.

"Good dream?"

He shifted upward, his hand on your waist as he looked over you. Half-covered with the comforter, eyes still blinking slowly as you adjusted to the morning light, a mischievous smile across your face. He loved these mornings, slow and playful, where he could appreciate you in your purest form.

He would miss it- miss you. The first woman to force her way into his life and stay there. He'd grown fond of you. More than fond, if he was honest, but honesty scared the fuck out of him. As did vulnerability. He often worried he'd grow too close to you, open up a bit too much and you'd run the other way.

He rarely spoke of his childhood or innermost thoughts, but you made it bearable. He didn't have to hide it from you, didn't have to pretend he was put-together when he was really tearing at the seams. You'd kissed every wound, loved him regardless.

He loved you. He'd only said it once, maybe twice, too shamefully afraid, but you knew. He'd never known anything like the feeling that made him think of you, all the damn time. Made him want to make you happy, do the nervous boyfriend routine when he met your parents. Become a pathetic sop when he was wrapped in your arms.

He devoured every bit of yourself that you showed to him. Every secret, every terrible thing you'd ever done. He wasn't alone, not when you were there.

His hand reached down your pelvis, inching slowly to press the pad of his finger against your clit.

"Must've been good," You held back a smile, your eyes shutting as you basked in the pleasure of his fingers rubbing circles over the delicate organ.

He shook his head against the hard line of your jaw. "'S'all for you," He said quietly, his lips honing in on yours with a delicate kiss.

You moaned softly, your hand reaching for the side of his face. His tongue slid into your mouth gingerly, gliding against yours.

Your mouths moved in sync, a perfected routine. He quieted your moans with his mouth, shushing you with the use of his tongue.

He moved away, leaving you to chase after his lips, open your eyes to see him.

"You're too good to me," You smiled, your lips parting when he applied a bit more pressure with his fingers.

"I know," He replied. "Y'deserve every bit."

He hummed with approval as he looked over your blissful expression, leaning down to leave a trail of kisses across your neck and chest. His teeth nipped at your flesh, tongue sliding out to soothe the inflicted area.

"Just needed to feel you again," He mumbled. "Gonna be gone for a while."

You tried not to frown, tried not to show your utter disappointment upon remembering these would be your last moments together for months.

Your back arched inadvertently when he sunk two fingers inside you, quickly coated with your liquid arousal. A guttural moan left your lips, his thumb still circling your clit.

Your hand reached to stop his movements, your brows cresting, a pleading expression in your eyes. "I want you inside me."

His lips separated, your words creating a searing heat in his groin. The desperation in your voice tugged at a primal instinct inside him, to make you feel good, and it surely would've brought him to his knees had he been standing.

He readjusted himself, his eyes on yours as he massaged his cock with his hand. He moved slowly, angling your thigh to allow him better access. You curved your back, opening your thighs a bit wider as he searched for your entrance.

You felt the slick head of his cock press against you, easing in gently, your hymen stretching to accommodate his size. Your eyes squeezed shut, lip quivering as you bit down.

He was finally buried inside you, giving a low groan in your ear when he felt just how wet you were.

Your back against his chest, his hand slid around your waist, fingers splayed out over the expanse of your curves.

His hips rocked into you, his hand holding you tightly against him, your head fell into his chest. His other hand found yours beneath the pillow, squeezing tightly, reassuringly.

Your eyes opened, finding his amidst the crescendo of pleasure, watching his nostrils flare as he sucked in deep breaths, utterly dumbfounded by the way your pussy felt like it was made just for him.

You leaned in closer, nuzzling your face against his, soft whimpers leaving your lips when his cock hit your G-spot.

"Baby," You whispered, your hand reaching back to glide into his hair. "God, Simon."

"That's it, love," He cooed, through broken breaths and strained vocal cords. "S'alright."

Your heart stammered in your chest, before pounding harshly against your ribs, threatening to climb out your throat. His grip on your body was unrelenting, a solid reminder that it was him who made you feel that way, that had your hips grinding back against him, silently begging for more.

"'M gonna miss you," You breathed, "So much."

His hand slid down your waist, circling your neglected clit, matching the pace of his wonderfully slow thrusts.

"Miss you too," He sighed. "Always miss you, love."

You were restless against him, finding no solace in the idea that you were close to orgasm, and so was he. It would be over, and you'd have to start your day; leave the shelter of your bed, the place where you could hide from everything and everyone, together.

Your fingers replaced his on your clit, and he took advantage of the freedom, cupping your breasts with his large hand. His fingers ghosted over your perked nipples, listening to your soft moans, savouring the fruit of his labour.

"Simon-" You whispered, broken and breathless, hardly there but loud enough for him to hear.

He could feel your pussy fluttering around him, making him shut his eyes as he resisted the urge to cum. "I'm close."

He continued at his successful pace, trying not to watch the way you unraveled, how your back arched even further into him, your spine curving, how your skin flushed with the rush of endorphins. Your voice breaking out in a long, desperate moan, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

He was even closer now- your undoing had lead him right to his climax. His hips paused against your backside, a gust of his warm breath washed over your back as he exhaled harshly. He kept himself firmly planted inside you, still enjoying the addictive walls of your pussy.

He was apprehensive when he pulled away, shifting now to slide you even closer. He wrapped you in his arms again, his lips pressing against the salty skin of your temple.

"Gotta get goin'," He grumbled.

You nodded. "I know."

He'd been packed for a few days now, ready and waiting for the day he had to catch a flight out. You joined him at the front entrance of the apartment building, in your sweats, watching with red eyes and a forced smile as he shoved his bag into the seat of his SUV.

He moved back to you, enveloping you in a warm hug, his hands wrapping around your waist to hold you.

"I'll miss you," You whispered in his ear.

"Be back 'fore you know it, love," He said back, his lips kissing the sliver of skin showing on your shoulder.

"Better be- and in one piece," You tried to laugh, tried to make it easy.

"Behave yourself while I'm away," He warned, his hand sneaking down to take a handful of your backside.

You did laugh that time, genuine and unapologetic while passersby stared.

"Always," You pulled away. "I love you."

His eyes locked with yours, a soft smile forming over his lips- one of admiration and total devotion.

"Love you too."

Your insides warmed, cheeks glowing with pure adoration.

—

Simon's hearing had gone in his left ear- high-pitched ringing in the other. His eyes focused on the smoke, the still-spinning blades of the helo.

That was when he realized he could only see from one eye- blunt force trauma causing a blown pupil and detachment of his retina.

He tried to twist onto his front, at least have a chance at dragging himself to safety.

A searing pain ripped through his thigh as he lifted himself, and he peered down to find his femur poking through the skin, his torn fatigues covered with blood.

He inhaled, shaky and shallow, hardly enough to sustain his racing heart. Low groans of agony rumbled in his chest, his muscles twitching as he held the surrounding flesh of his broken bone. His head ached, throbbing and stinging, not yet realizing he'd cracked his skull, the flesh of his scalp held together by his helmet. Blood pooled on the ground beneath him.

His deafened ear leaked red, severe swelling of the brain pushing against the intact remainder of his skull.

He tried to sit up again, though couldn't find the strength. He was exhausted- dizzy with blood loss and no longer able to move his limbs quite right.

You, he thought, you'd be alone. You'd wonder where he was, what happened. Would they let you see his body? Or would they tell you he was M.I.A? He couldn't decide which would be worse; leaving you with unanswered questions or knowing he was never coming back. Would they tell you how hard he fought to stay alive for you, even if his entire body was begging to let go?

He was shivering, now. His body had started to focus all energy on his fatal injuries, desperately hanging on to any viable organs. It wouldn't work- it couldn't. Not even a goldstar field medic could piece him back together, not enough to call him human again. He wasn't sure if he'd want you to see him that way, either.

Fitting, he thought. Nothing good ever lasted for Simon Riley.

At least he'd told you he loved you. You'd know it was real, that he wasn't afraid anymore. You'd know he gave everything he had, including his trust, his feelings. The thought gave him a moment of comfort- or maybe it was the endorphins putting an end to his suffering. Either way, his chest warmed when he pictured that playful smile, your eyes. He yearned to have you there, holding his hand instead of digging his fingers into the wet earth. He'd made his grave inside you already, resigned to dying with you than without. You'd tell him it was alright, tell him to let go while he couldn't feel an ounce of pain. You were selfless like that.

All he could picture, as the last of his breath left his lungs, as his heart gave up on sustaining a worthless fight, was you. That morning in bed, before deployment, where you'd given another piece of yourself to him, selflessly. As always.

Thank God he'd told you he loved you.

[alicesmindpalace]

I've decided that I'm gonna take the excuse of Anthony's birthday 🎂 as a chance to make a quick post to explain why I love and respect this guy so much.

For context, I have been a Smosh fan since 2013 and as you can imagine, it's been a real rollercoaster 😆, but I am glad I stuck around because in the end it was really worth it.

I think the main reason why I am still around and I'm still here in my late 20's (yeah, I'm old lol) is that Ian and Anthony as people more than as creators, always kinda hit a little different for me.

Ian and Anthony are so precious to me, and I will never shut up about how Anthony deserve a lot more praise and understanding.

Because sure, being good looking in our society is a big advantage but being known as "the hot one" in a comedy duo isn't that easy. Anthony's contributions get overlooked often because of this dumb old mindset and I think it's really unfair tbh.

Anthony has a great sense of humor, even if he doesn't make jokes 24/7 he can immediately recognize what makes something funny, hone in on it and use it to make the situation funnier. He built a media empire doing that if you really think about it! He really found a golden goose and immediately knew what to make of it. Anthony and Ian BOTH (that's right both) have a great sense of humor and it's very compatible, which is why Smosh became a thing imo.

Of course, the best part of this is that you can't have a sense of humor and be stupid, it's impossible, you can be funny and be an idiot yeah, but having a sense of humor needs quick thinking, an ability to recognize subtle patterns, the contradictions, making unexpected connections all of that good stuff, which means that these two guys are also really intelligent.

Which makes sense because Anthony was already building websites when most of the people his age were clicking around on Newgrounds. He created two successful buissness form scratch, boy is smart! 🙌

He came from nothing and got to where is now which is very impressive.

That's also why another thing that I respect about him, is that he almost never mentions how hard it's been for him during his childhood or uses it to gain sympathy even though it would be really easy to do it. He only mentioned the difficult situation at home and his mother's problems a few times in all these years on camera. He still is mentally struggling these days because he didn’t have an easy life but he doesn't use it to get pity or attention, like a lot of people on the internet do.

He really is one of the only remaining unproblematic internet creators that there are left and he managed to be one of them for decades.

There is no dirt on him. He is a nice person and that's probably the most important thing for me tbh and the reason why I could never just forget of Ian and Anthony or get over them or just swap them for some else. Finding Smosh to me felt as mind blowing as finding two four leaves clovers right next to each other.

Even when things went south and they separated, they were never spiteful or malicious, like (a lot of) other people are in these situations, and both handled it with so much respect. They could have made up stuff and thrown shade or dirt to make themselves appear in the right but they didn't. We maybe not know all the details but even just the way they still love and think of each other now after the worst went down tells you who they really were and are as people behind close doors.

I have so much more to say but it would get too long, so, yeah, this is (part lol) of the reason I love and respect Anthony Padilla so much.

These are only my thoughts of course, I'm talking for me, but I hope you enjoyed (will probably do one for Ian's birthday as well and talk about more of the reason Ianthony are my all time favorites 🤞).

[tunafishy333]

It's 2am and I was struck by inspiration

MBJ X og SQH, anyone?

~~

Shang Qinghua was young and stupid, when he met Mobei Jun. At that time, his parents couldn't care less about him. Sure, they were well off, coming from a merchant family, and they did more or less pay for his education, but they never actually cared.

His older brother was the genius inventer, the golden goose, the one that actually brought in the money with his creative mind. Compared to him, Shang Qinghua was always a disappointment. Never mind the logistics and calculations necessary to even bring those ideas to fruition. Never mind all of the hard work that he put in to make sure his brother remains the top merchant in their city, to make sure his family is always drowning in indulgence.

All they saw, was an obstacle, someone constantly shooting down ideas, poking holes, and yapping about budgets. He lacked filial piety to boot.

So, of course, as soon as he was of age, they had kicked him out of the house with this or that excuse - the youngest son wishing to strike out on his own, with grandours and dreams that he too would become a renowned merchant.

He spits.

Pei! What bullshit.

Everybody knows that it was nearly impossible to strike out as a lone merchant. What can I even do, without a family or a name to back me up? I might as well go and try to become an immortal at this point!

Shang Qinghua knows that to make money, you first have to have money; and they definetly did not throw him out with enough money to last a month, never mind establishing a business.

So, betrayed and spiteful, Shang Qinghua did something incredibly stupid when he came across the ice demon. He almost tripped over him, too busy cursing his brother's name under his breath.

Dishonor on your cow!

Turning to see what was under the brush, he saw the prone form of the ice demon, young looking, but bleeding with an ice spear sticking out of it's stomach.

He crouches down next to it, nothing to lose, except maybe for his life. Which, at least his life would've been worth something to someone if the demon kills him, even if it was simply prey for a predator.

Well, you don't look much like a predator like this huh? Betrayed and left to die.

"Huh. Just like me," he muses.

The demon does not stir. Cautiously, he reaches a hand out and closes around the wrist of the hand he just tripped over, checking for a pulse.

Still alive, but probably not for long, considering this heat.

It was mid-day on a summer's day, cicadas chirping loudly as the sun beams down brutally. To Shang Qinghua, it was an incredibly hot morning that was only going to get hotter as the day goes on. Surely, for what looks like an ice demon, swaddled in furs and blue leather, it would be lethal.

I wonder, If I helped you...

Sucking in a breath, Shang Qinghua, reaches out, a stupid idea forming in his head, and hauls the demon over his shoulder, half piggy backing him, half dragging him. He can't go to the city, but he remembered passing an abandoned temple down the road that could serve as a shelter.

...how would you repay me?

~~

Notes:

inspired by that one scene from pennydaniels' fic "we should stick together" where og SQH goes to greet the newly engaged SJ and upon noticing the servants and cushy life that marriage to a himbo granted SJ, goes: hmmm, this could be me...

but obviously I didn't write that because I didn't know how to do that yet, so you get og moshang meeting instead

I've read so many fanfics that it all kinda blends together at this point but SQH backstory and family dynamic is head cannon that is mostly inspired by Feynite

[half-dead-writer]

I I'm sorry to be that guy but this man needs to be humiliated he's too cocky for his own good like no way this man ain't into some freaky shit

Bad Dog

Being a CEO is stressful. You're happy to let him blow off some steam, even if it's something... experimental.

character: Gideon Graves / Gordon Goose (Scott Pilgrim Takes Off)

words: ~3k

reader: gender-neutral / AFAB reader (with a strap-on)

warnings: bottom Gideon, pet-play, humiliation, basically putting Gideon in his place (with some moments of praise and fluff at the end)

𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰 + 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 / 𝔖𝔠𝔬𝔱𝔱 𝔓𝔦𝔩𝔤𝔯𝔦𝔪 𝔗𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔒𝔣𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

The creak of your bedroom doors opening wasn't a surprise for Gideon. Your figure emerged, covered only by your underwear and a t-shirt that you probably stole from his closet. He liked seeing you wearing his stuff, it filled him with pride to see both of the things he owned at the same time. Calm smirk formed on your lips, he was waiting for you just as you expected - on the floor, no fabric present to cover his bare body, aside from the pretty, red collar adorning his neck. It was custom-made, with the text "Gideon" engrained on the dog-tag hanging near his collar-bone. He spared no expense on something that was supposed to be just for him, why would he?

His eyes followed as you approached, taking a good look at his pathetic position. The hard, wooden floor lightly pained his knees. He should buy a carpet for his bedroom, he thought. A nice, fluffy one, that's easy to clean. Not like it was a worry of his, he probably had a maid to keep the house tidy, you never seen him clean it himself.

"Look at you," you gently played with his black locks while going right past him to sit on the shared, king-sized bed. "Such a pathetic sight to see. At least the collar looks good on you."

"Heel." You commanded, patting your thigh mockingly. Gideon was quick to open his mouth, presumably to hit you with one of his smartass quips, but you were quick to stop him by hardly pulling on the leash, that up until this point was loosely laying on the ground. He would have lost balance and fell right onto the floor if he hadn't quickly supported himself with his hands.

"Nu-uh," you warned, shooting him a glare, "dogs, don't speak." His expression changed, from furrowed eyebrows to almost a challenging stare. He was testing you more than you were testing him.

On the daily, obviously he was the big man that "wore the pants" in the relationship, spoiling you with all kinds of gifts to your heart's desire. You were not about to give back the control you had over him now. Annoyance was not the only thing radiating from him though, as you knew behind those eyes also hid a wave of excitement from the current situation.

"Bark, bark." He decided to play along, sarcastically crossing his arms in defiance. It amused you, but you let it slide.

"See, it ain't so hard, hm?" You taunted, secretly enjoying the effect you had on him. What would others think seeing him like that? On all fours, acting like a mutt. Even though his actions showed resistance, it was all for show. When was Gideon ever easy to deal with?

Your grip on the matching, red leash tightened, just in case he wanted to pull any other tricks on you. You adjusted yourself more comfortably, crossing one leg over the other to pose even more of a dominance presence.

"Lick." Gideon looked as your hand inched closer towards his mouth. Surprisingly, he obeyed. You felt the warm and wet sensation on your fingers, his tongue sent shivers down your spine. It was a slightly ticklish experience, not much different from a real puppy. His cold stare observed as you tried to keep your composure, the threat of a smile invading your lips was not hard to notice. You'd think being in such a compromising position would make it harder for Gideon to act like his usual self, but on the contrary, he was living just to spite you, relishing in the way he could still retain bits of control. Without the need of any words, he was silently taunting you.

You pushed your digits further down his throat, making him choke. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, but he resisted the urge to gag. You backed off your finger, leaving a small string of saliva connected to his lips. Not commenting on the humiliating display you forced him to go though, he silently brushed the leftover spit on his mouth with the back of his hand. You adjusted the glasses that fell on his nose, pushing them in their original place. It caused a small smile to appear on his face for a second, deep down enjoying the break in your acting just to show some affection. Of course, it didn't last long, and the expression was changed to his usual resting bitch-face.

"Good boy," you praised, yet still continued with the game of dominance, wiping your drool-coated fingers onto his cheek. He huffed and squinted in dismay, although did nothing to stop you. You uncrossed your legs, this time shuffling them wide open. He watched you with curiosity, cocking his brow to the sudden change of view. You let the leash rest on the bed, moving your hands down to your underwear. Painstakingly slow, you teased him with each centimeter of your exposed skin. His gaze, intent and lustful, betrayed his impatience with your leisurely pace. After what felt like an hour - which was probably just a minute - you finally got of your undergarment. You felt a pang of embarrassment course thru you after being stared down by Gideon like a hungry wolf. Guess he really did get into the role.

"Lick." Your command made his smirk reappear again, clearly enjoying making you flustered. He knew even though he was the one on the leash, he had the upper hand on you now. Your legs shivered as you felt his eager laps on your most sensitive nerves. Turns out his tongue was not only great for coaxing his potential business-partners. Your grip on his leash loosened, overwhelmed by this man's surprising ability to find your sweet spot so quickly. His hands were gently placed on your thighs and he looked... almost bored. His experience showed clearly with how easy it was for him to make you pant like a dog.

Your peak was almost near it's end, which turned out to be the perfect moment for him to start toying with you. His licks slowed down exponentially, only lightly teasing you with the brushes of his tongue. You groaned, "Gid-Gideon."

He stopped completely, letting you finally exhale the breath you didn't know you were holding. With the cocked eyebrow and a taunting look, he didn't dare to speak, responding only with a brief, "Mm?"

"Use your stupid tongue better," you huffed out in annoyance. He sniggered, his smug expression only widened. Even though he liked seeing you lose your patience, he provided, this time with even more vigor. The sudden intensity of the feeling made you clasp your legs behind his back, drowning him in between your groin. He didn't stop until you were properly seeing stars, and you didn't have time to wonder how did he manage to go without the oxygen during this experience. Your chest moved rapidly as your upper body fell limp on the soft mattress. After a minute of regaining your strength, you supported yourself with your elbows, only to witness Gideon licking his lips with a smirk, calmly adjusting his glasses. The contact with your bare skin left small stains on them, but it didn't compare to the glistening mess that painted his face. Fortunately, he didn't mind.

He awaited for your further instructions patiently while you finally gathered yourself up to the previous sitting position. His shit-eating grin pushed you to utter your words intertwined with taunt. "Well, you did good. Guess it's time for your reward." His curiosity showed in the way he observed you stretch out your leg.

"You may hump my leg. Show what a desperate mutt you are."

Your permission made him stop dead in his tracks for a moment, not expecting you to come up with such a... creative prompt. He merely scoffed, or maybe huffed out, judging by precum beading at his tip due to your suggestion. His former confidence got clouded, only daring to glance at you briefly before wrapping his arms around your thigh. You felt the warmth brush over your shin, again, and again. The act not only made you feel depraved, but you noticed yourself getting fired up again. The long lasting foreplay (that he did not get to experience) before his allowed pleasure made his movements desperate and sloppy. The sight of your boyfriend, the powerful CEO, humping your leg like a parched man urging for water did wonders for your confidence.

Soon enough, the humiliating performance got you disinterested, right when his breaths got even more labored, tightly squeezing your leg, nearing his release. You swiftly tugged on his leash again, forcing him to stare at you with a tired look.

"Enough," you remarked, seeing the ache behind his eyes left you pleased. He discontentedly let go off your leg, now covered in the thin layer of his essence. He didn't even try to hide the disapproval of your command, his panting subsided with an annoyed groan. He was not about to beg, but his eyes betrayed the deep desperation bubbling in him. You leaned over and took his chin into your hand, pointing him look at you. His furrowed brows softened as you placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"Such a good boy. You know how to listen, hm?" Your praise was laced with a hint of mockery, and you backed away to ruffle his hair. He rolled his eyes, although didn't bother hiding a small smirk that invaded his lips after, indicating his will to continue with the play.

"Come on," you emphasized by patting the mattress, "get on the bed." He listened, crawling over to the exact spot you chose for him. It felt good being in charge for once, with someone obeying your exact orders. Almost as if he had heard your thoughts, he suddenly leaned over to whisper in your ear.

"Getting pretty comfortable with bossing me around, are we?" You wanted to wipe off the smug smile off his face, but you bided your time.

You responded with calmness, a smidge of cheekiness shined through your words, "Of course. It's pretty fun." You grabbed him by the collar, gifting him yet another quick peck, this time on the lips. "But I'm gonna make it even more fun."

You swiftly scooted over to the drawer across the end of the room, making Gideon turn his head at the mysterious object you pulled out from it. He watched as you strapped on, the rubber dildo rested neatly between your thighs. He was surprised, how did you manage to smuggle something like that without his knowledge?

"When did you get it?" He stared at you, dumbfounded.

"Surprise," you flashed him your teeth in satisfaction as you got back into your spot, "you can handle it, right?"

"Pf, of course," he scoffed, whipping his head, but not before glancing at the challenging object one more time. Just because he didn't expect it, didn't mean he wasn't up for something new. Or at least, that's what he wanted you to believe. "There's a reason they call me fearless."

His silly high-school nickname served with a prideful look made you roll your eyes, but you couldn't deny his attempt at keeping composure got you endeared.

"I'll be gentle at first, alright?" You still took a moment to make sure you both were on the same page, you watched as his cheeks heated up with a scowl.

"I can handle it," he reiterated.

"Good." You smooched his cheek one last time, grabbing a bottle of lube that awaited you at the bedside table. You were kind enough to grab a pillow, preparing a comfortable place for him to lay down his upper body. "Now, raise your butt."

He did as you requested, falling onto the soft fabric after putting down his glasses somewhere safe. He wasn't used to such open positions, but he didn't object, choosing to mask his lack of familiarity with a facade of an impatient annoyance. "Hurry up."

A surprised whimper fell out of his lips after you gave his bottom a light, reprimanding smack. It was too good of an opportunity to tease him. "Did I allow you to speak?"

He growled in dismay, but with the bed becoming increasingly more messier, you knew he liked the rough treatment. You should have put a towel beforehand, but it was too late for it now.

A generous amount of the lubricant slowly spilled down, making him shudder at the hit of coldness. You heard the groans failing to be muffled by the pillow he laid on. Not wanting to wait any longer, your finger slipped right into him with ease, his shoulders rising at the sudden contact.

"Relax," you gently rubbed his back, keeping your movements relatively slow, "you're doing very good." He wouldn't admit it, but your reassuring tone did let him swat away the leftover tension in him. As he adjusted to the feeling, a calm sigh let you know to speed up the pace. You added a second finger, your knuckles disappearing with each thrust. In a quick moment, a high whine hit your ears. You found his sweet spot. Seemingly, it confused Gideon more than you - did this man really just experience it for the first time in his life? Poor thing.

"...Fuck-" He huffed out, pushing his face into the pillow. You were merciful enough to spare him the reprimand of speaking up.

"Enjoying yourself, hm?" You teased, your hand held a steady rhythm. His only response was a groan in return, causing a smirk to appear on your face. You loved seeing him like that, all of his power given for you to play with. The sounds of his enjoyment filled the whole room. You were glad there weren't any neighbors around to hear them, but you assumed Gideon was even more relieved by that fact, not holding back any of his pathetic whimpers.

After a few minutes, Gideon was already a mess. You felt a bit pitiful seeing the twitches of his untouched dick, but you were not about to give it to him just yet. His disapproval showed with a complaining grunt, feeling empty after you retreated your fingers. He glanced at you, finally opening his eyes and coming back from the pleasant daze.

You placed your hands on his behind, poking the rubber toy against his entrance. Gideon's body shivered with anticipation - at first, he was on the fence whether he actually wanted to try it, or was it his need of always being in charge. Now that you introduced him the great possibilities, he was more than ready, not hesitating to show you that by lightly pushing his hips into yours. He didn't dare to speak, instead signaling you to hurry up with the impatient groan. It amused you.

The previously applied lubricant let you thrust smoothly into him, grabbing the leash at the same time. His choked moan filled you with satisfaction, and you went back on your previous words of being gentle - since he had shown his eagerness to you, you decided to stop toying with him anymore, fully pressing your whole length inside.

Usually, he would be the one making you writhe in pleasure, forcing embarrassing whimpers that you didn't even know you had in you. Of course, he did let you know about his enjoyment with a few quiet and manly grunts, groans, or light panting, decorated neatly with an array of praises or highly descriptive insults, whenever you two got it on. Due to this, his newly found vocal range had you stunned and yearning to hear them more often.

The slaps against the skin became even louder, on par with his moans that were lightly halted with the collar tightening on his neck with each pull of your hand. Sweat ran down your cheek, your pelvis began to feel pretty exhausted by the fast-pace that remained during the entire duration of the act. Gideon was losing his grip on keeping his composure, letting out even more noises that would probably embarrass him after he got to the post clarity - but for now, he was fully immersed in pure enjoyment, not caring about the humiliating whimpers invading the otherwise quiet walls of your house.

Seeing your boyfriend let loose around you filled you with a certain pleasantness, he always acted so aloof, so composed, high and mighty. You decided to reward this behavior, wrapping your palm around his length, finally giving him the strokes he so craved for. A choked moan informed you he was getting close. Your bodies moved in a rhythm that slowly became uneven, even though your wrist started to cramp, you continued with the steady jerks of your hand.

Not being able to take it much longer, Gideon let out a prolonged whine as you let him ride his high, calming down your thrusts until they eventually stopped. He was too busy regaining his breath to notice you licking off the tips of your fingers, covered in the results of his climax. Another huff fell out of his lips when you swiftly pulled out your strap out, ridding yourself of the contraption and putting it somewhere else. Gideon laid flat on the bed, eyes closed. Looks like you properly exhausted him. You leaned closer, laying yourself on your side to face him, moving the bangs that fell on his face out of the way. He opened up his eyes, looking at you in a tired daze.

"You okay, hun?" You asked, calmly rising the corners of your lips in a sympathetic expression.

"...Yeah." He muttered, almost hesitant, although there was no ill will behind his words. You gathered he sounded kinda... flustered?

Softly, you began to unclip the collar attached to his neck, he brushed over the spot with his hand, now free of the tight feeling around it. Gideon watched as you put it down on the nightstand. "So what did you think about it?"

He exhaled, amusement lightly hanging in the air. "Well, I can't let something I bought go to waste, can I?"

"How about we get you dog ears next time??"

- - -

"Eh... do I really have to wear it?" He asked, looking discontentedly at the collar resting in your palms.

"It was your idea, love," you smirked lightheartedly, gently putting it around his neck. "Now, be a good boy and wait for me in the bedroom, hm?"

[everettswritings]

https://www.tumblr.com/everettswritings/741071500875071488/hey-would-shadow-milk-be-the-type-to-blow?source=share

Got two ideas for this idea of suspense...because I can see both shadow milk and royal margarine buuuut I'll just ask for the royal margarine version later...

Imagine shadow milk with a Lee who can't handle suspense....like would they do the slow descending tickly hands to drive their Lee insane? Like their little Lee wiggling around as they helplessly watch the hands slowly get closer and closer...and closer. And to make matters worse, they are air sensitive so the closer the hands are, the louder they giggle lol!

Order up! Get y’all’s food!

Shadow Milk Cookie, what is there that you couldn’t say? He’s a twisted, blue jester that feeds off of others; whether that’s through their laughter or their suffering. In your case it was, unfortunately, both.

“EEEEKKK! NO! NO, PLEASE NO!” You squealed, trying to squirm out of the restraints they placed you in; Shadow Milk Cookie shook his head and chuckled in response, “Goodness, Y/N Cookie! I’m not even touching you!”, he wiggled his fingers just above you to prove his point. He always did this, he just had to constantly tease you to keep the suspense as thick as heavy cream. “Stop it! Stop doing that!” You shouted, still desperate to get away, “Doing what?” They asked with a smirk on their face as their hands inched closer and closer, their fingers wiggling like serpents. You screamed at the top of your lungs, already laughing in spite of not being touched quite yet. Your face was completely scarlet and beads of sweat formed everywhere on your body, meanwhile the Beast laughed at you. Shadow Milk Cookie continued his air-strike, his hands moving vigorously while staying just above the skin; goosebumps formed everywhere as you squirmed and squealed like a child, your pleads for mercy becoming nothing but gibberish that not even you yourself understood.

“Hehehe! Not touching you, not touching you!” They taunted, keeping their hands and wriggling fingers mere inches away from your stomach. You could do nothing but squirm in the hopes of escaping, laughing so much that you were about to run out of breath. Eventually, after what felt like hours, his hands finally rose back up and he stopped toying with you; you breathed heavily as you looked up at him.

“Why? Why would you do that?” You asked, blinking some tears of laughter out of your eyes. “Do what?” Replied the jester, his grin started to grow wider, “I didn’t even touch you, you silly goose!” He chuckled. His heterochromatic eyes flicked up and down for a second, he chuckled to himself as he started the process again, his hands would slowly descend but never touch you. It drive you insane, and they knew that, and boy did they love that. The rest of that day was a complete blur, almost all of what you can remember is that horrible voice constantly going “Not touching you! Not touching you!”.

End of fic

Sorry if this is a bit short, but either way I hope y’all enjoyed this. I’m starting to get more comfortable writing tickle fics, so I’m hoping that I can start to improve! Have a good one 🫶

[the-ace-with-spades]

Silly fic idea incoming again... Sorry...

Kinda Spider-Man/MCU/Superhero AU

Bradley as kind of Spider-Man, Jake as the Human Torch?? Plus identity porn because I'm a sucker for it

Bradley was raised by Mav and Ice after his mom passed away when he was around 12 — Maverick and Iceman are part of a group ala Avengers, Goose was more or less Mav's Bucky (minus the whole born in 1940s thing obviously) and died in action when Bradley was two.

There are very few people who know about Mav and Ice and Bradley's relationship, most of whom are the people from the superhero business that are close friends with the Avengers.

And like, Bradley doesn't have any superpowers so he knows he can't really go in his parents steps, but he can join SHIELD which Avengers are kind of part of, and kind of be a part of family tradition (especially that Goose was an agent too, originally).

Of course, this is when shit hits the fan. Mav interferes with Bradley's recruitment, instead stirring him so he goes to uni and tries again after getting a degree, which absolutely backfires on everyone when Bradley finds out why he got rejected for training.

Bradley moves out to share an apartment in Queens with other Columbia students — Natasha, Javy, Bob, and Jake — and goes low contact with Mav and Ice. He gets an internship at Oscorp (mostly to spite Ice, who hates the company) and the whole incident with the radioactive spider happens.

Before he knows it, he stops a mugging (without the costume still) and thus Spider-Man is born. It takes him about a year to establish some sort of superhero brand, even if he is a vigilante with an identity unknown to anyone — not the Avengers, not the SHIELD — he's pretty much a common and welcome by the New Yorkers sight.

Jake is the youngest from the Seresin-Machado family (yes, his and Javy's sister/brother are married), who despite getting superpowers in freak space accident, was forced to go to university by his older sister before actually starting a superhero career in full. He's been named Human Torch by the public but aside from the very beginning of the Seresin-Machado family fighting some Doom-like villain, he hasn't been active.

Bradley used to have kind of a crush on Jake — he was very charming, and very hot (in more than one meaning of the word), and an upcoming superhero with a strong moral compass, and seemed like someone who Bradley could easily fall in love with.

Jake, however, seemed to hate him at first sight. He'd only talk to Bradley if their friend group was all together at first, and he'd always try to get a raise from Bradley in one way or another and the charm would be never ever directed at Bradley. Even after close to two years living together, Jake is usually meaner and more snarky with him than he is with anyone else.

Then Spider-Man gets into a fight with some supervillain close to their group's common study place — and Spider-Man gets an unauthorised assist from the Human Torch. They fight well together, their banter and jokes are pleasant and they have a really good teamwork going on. Jake gives Bradley (or Spider-Man) a compliment for the first time and it's nice, it's what Bradley wished for the whole goddamn time.

It's less nice when he's Bradley again and all Jake can talk about is Spider-Man. It's even less nice when Nat, fed up, asks Jake if he's got a crush on Spidey and his whole face turns bright red.

Since that time, Jake also makes his personal mission to get to know Spider-Man and figure out his identity — he randomly flies up to Spider-Man during patrols, turns on the charm to a 120% and flirts with Spidey like crazy. He seems to be adamant that he and Spider-Man are made for each other, which Bradley knows is a bull of crap because Jake hates Bradley The Roommate.

So now Bradley listens to Jake blubbering about how great Spidey is as Bradley while being despised by Jake in the very same conversations and constantly tries to avoid Human Torch's flirting attempts as Spider-Man, knowing very well that Jake hates the actual him.

On top of everything, Maverick and Iceman have finally decided that they have enough of watching away from their Tower and are trying to find out Spider-Man's identity, afraid that he might be some kind of a threat to NYC. So Bradley not only has to fight crime while being flirted with by his crush who doesn't even know it's him, but also constantly needs to ditch different drones and agents that try to follow him around.

[halestrom]

🎲 + any Top Gun triad. Give me Jake/Javy/Bradley or Javy/Nat/Bob or Ice/Mav/Penny or even Mav/Goose/Carole (or any couple and a platonic life partner, I'm not picky). I just wanna see kiss roulette triad style.

how about all four?????

25. A kiss that’s an accident – ice/mav/penny

It was late, and Tom could feel the bone deep exhaustion he was used to these days from dealing with the Pacific fleet weighing him down, making him want to take Mav and Penny up on their offer to crash for the night. It would be nice, to be surrounded by people again. Ever since the divorce with Sarah and the kids going off to college it had been too quiet in the house he had to keep for appearances sake, even though he would be completely fine in a much smaller house these days. Amelia was out with friends, and Bradley was off in his own place, so it was just Mav and Penny rattling around in a house Penny had spite-bought using her ex-husbands money, too large for just her and her daughter, but getting better now that Mav lived there as well.

But he could hear his Father’s voice in his head, as clear as day despite years of trying to drown him out.

A Kazansky never overstays his welcome.

Frankly, these days, Tom just assumed his Father had done that because he knew most people were glad to see him walk away. But, unfortunately, some parts of him had took it to heart and it was hard to ignore. Even if all he wanted to do was sit in the house with Penny and Mav and just relax, enjoy the moment with them because he always felt more relaxed around them. He groaned, pushing his glasses up and stood, gathering his glass and plate to take them to the dishwasher, long used to the habit these days. Mav liked to joke the armchair was molding to his ass with how much he sat there, which inevitably had Penny smacking the back of Mav’s shoulder and reassuring Tom it as fine that he was there as much as he was.

“You heading out?” Penny asked when Tom stood.

“About that time, yeah,” Tom replied, yawning and rubbing a hand over his face as he shuffled back to the living room to begin to gather his things. He could feel the exhaustion beginning to lick at his senses and he knew he needed to get back home before it was unsafe to drive.

“You good to drive?” Mav asked, popping up like he wasn’t closer to sixty than fifty and had more than a half dozen ejections in his life.

“You’re one to talk,” Tom replied, grabbing his things as he blinked, forcing his eyes open by sheer will alone. He had been able to go without sleep when he was younger. But he was constantly reminded he was getting older every time he looked in the mirror.

He finished grabbing his things and pulled his coat on, unsurprised to see Penny and Mav already at the door to see him off. He double checked he had anything, pausing to yawn and shake his head as he blinked a few times before walking over to the door. “Thanks for having me. Talk to you later,” he said, addressing both of them.

He leaned down and kissed Penny, and then Mav before he stumbled out, sliding into his car and putting his seatbelt on before he paused, his mind catching up to what he had done and he stilled, breathing harshly through his nose as he stared, unseeing at the carseat as his mind whirled in circles and nothing made sense. Why had he done that?

Well he knew why, but the why was the small part of himself he ignored because it wasn’t possible and he knew it. He ignored the why and focused instead of a plan to try and recover from this as if he wasn’t two seconds away from the second panic attack of his life.

A knock at the window had him jumping and he turned, staring up at Mav who was watching him, that soft knowing smile that infuriated everyone except for Tom because he had always found it funny. Mav knocked again and Ice rolled down the window, watching as Mav crossed both arms and rested them on the window frame and watched Tom.

“You should come inside, sleep and we can figure this out in the morning,” Mav said.

“I need—”

“Tom.”

Mav didn’t often call him Tom, and it was odd enough Tom shut up. “What?”

“It wasn’t a suggestion. Come on,” Mav said, knocking on the frame before he smiled at Tom. “It’s okay. Trust me. Let’s go.”

Tom had spent the better part of his life trusting Mav. He didn’t see a point in changing that now.

23. A kiss influenced by alcohol/other substances – jake/javy/bradley

Jake handed over one of the shots to Javy who took it without question, even as Jake dropped an arm around his shoulders, his eyes tracking where Bradley was talking to Phoenix and Bob, all three of them smiling and Jake could tell Bradley was one shot away from losing another layer of clothing and starting to sing.

“You fucked Bradshaw, didn’t you?” Jake murmured so only Javy could hear him.

“You know I did,” Javy replied, leaning against his side and turning his head so he could bring his mouth closer to Jake, keeping the conversation between them. “You fucked him, we fucked, I fucked him, you fucked him, I fucked him again, we hooked up again. It’s been a free for all for the past decade.”

“Mmhmm,” Jake agreed, thinking of the dance the three of them had been doing, and a very enlightening conversation with a Lt who was in the middle of an open relationship with two other people he had had recently after they had hooked up. It had been at the back of his mind for the past few weeks, especially since the Mission had finished and tensions had dropped.

“Why?” Javy asked, an arm hooked around Jake’s waist now.

“Like you said, I’ve fucked him, you’ve fucked him, we’ve fucked each other, but…,” Jake trailed off as Bradley turned, catching sight of them and tilting his head for a split second before he looked away too quickly to be casual. He smirked.

“But,” Javy prompted.

“But, I need you to go over there and wile him away from our dear Natasha and Robert and take him out back,” Jake said, turning to meet Javy’s eyes, seeing the brightness in his eyes and the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol, the same reaction Jake was sure Javy could see in him. Just enough alcohol to get rid of the last reservations he had about this plan. “If you’re up for it.”

“You’ve got your scheming face on,” Javy replied, even as he stood up a little bit, eyes darting back across the bar. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan, my dear Javy, is to tuck dear old Bradley in between us and make him forget anything but our names,” Jake said, leaning in and pressing his forehead against Javy’s. “If you want.”

This close, he heard Javy’s sharp inhale and saw the quicksilver smile crossing his face. “Oh, I want.” Javy turned his head, letting Jake nuzzle at Javy’s jaw where he knew it was sensitive. “I want it bad.”

“Dibs on fucking him first,” Jake said, kissing the sensitive spot and feeling Javy shiver. “Since it was my idea.”

“Fine, I get this second,” Javy replied, his hand sliding down and grabbing Jake’s ass hard before he pulled away and was across the room a split second later.

Jake watched for a moment before he pushed away to go and deal with the tab, trusting Javy to be able to get Bradley outside with a lot less drama that Jake would be able to. Especially since he knew Phoenix still hadn’t forgiven him for the Dad comment, but, despite what the majority of people thought, jake did have a heart when it came to a few people, and Bradley was one of those few people.

He tipped well, winking at the bartender before he made his way out front, walking casually as if he didn’t have a care in the world because for all people didn’t look twice when he kissed another man, he doubted most people would understandkissing two different men. Shame. Jake had a feeling most people didn’t know what they were missing out on, something he included himself in but he was in the mood to rectify that mistake.

Ducking around to the back of the Hard Deck was easy, and it was easy enough to spot Bradley and Javy making out, Javy backed up to a wall, the brilliant man. Jake paused, watching for a moment, taking in how soft it was, so different than how he and Bradley kissed, but there was still an edge to it. He watched as Javy’s hands slid underneath Bradley’s shirt and tugged it up, showing off the man’s lower back and the two dimples Jake knew his thumbs fit into perfectly.

It was enough to get him moving, walking across on silent feet until he was close enough to press up against Bradley’s back and wrap arms around him, feeling him stiffen and pull back with a surprised noise.

“Careful, someone might see you,” Jake said, hooking his shoulder over Bradley’s shoulder and grinning at Javy who grinned back.

“You’d like that,” Javy said, already on board and leaning forward to kiss Jake while Bradley stood stock still.

Even slightly drunk, he was quick on the update and Bradley inhaled. “This is happening, is this happening? Yes. Happening?”

Jake pulled back from where he had been sucking on Javy’s tongue and turned, pressing his mouth against Bradley’s jaw even as Javy leaned forward to bite a kiss into his throat. “Yeah, darlin, this is happening, if you want it to happen that is?”

He could see Bradley’s throat working a few times before he nodded, dropping his head back against Jake’s shoulder and turning to kiss him, which Jake did happily even as Javy continued to bite at Bradley’s neck. Jake’s phone pinged, and he pulled back.

“Uber’s here. Let’s go, Bradshaw,” Jake said, stepping back and snagging Bradley’s hand, pulling him along even as Javy crowded up behind him to kiss the back of his neck again, pushing Bradley forward. “We’ve got plans for you.”

24. a sleepy kiss - Javy/nat/bob

It had been the sort of sleep where Bob wasn’t sure what time of day it was when he finally started to wake up, light streaming in with a brightness that told him it was later than normal, but without his glasses he couldn’t see the clock and they had nowhere to be so he stayed where he was, one arm thrown over Javy’s waist even with Nat pressed up behind him, always the big spoon because she hated someone being at her back, even in sleep.

“You awake?” Javy asked, voice rough with sleep.

“No,” Bob replied, turning his face into the man’s bare chest, inhaling and exhaling slowly, waiting for tension to fill his shoulders like it normally did, but for once it stayed gone.

A hand dropped to his head and began to stroke through his hair and Bob finally looked up, meeting Javy’s eyes and smiling at him, still growing used to the new reality but it had ended up being a lot easier than he thought it had been. Javy smiled back, hooking a finger under Bob’s chin and tugging him up and he went, leaning up to kiss Javy softly, feeling Nat stir against his back.

“Y’all better not be startin’ somethin’ without me,” she muttered, the southern drawl she hid with a vengeance coming out in the early morning as she pressed in closer to Bob’s back, her fingers curling into his sleep shirt as if to keep him there.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, baby,” Javy replied, pulling back and rolling his eyes where only Bob could see it. Bob kept his head turned away to hide the smile.

“Too early for this,” Nat said, poking Bob in the side and they shifted, letting Bob roll to the back so Nat could press up against one side, but he was still tucked into the cradle of Javy’s arm.

He watched as Javy leaned down to kiss Nat good morning, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. It wasn’t that he felt uncomfortable with this, sex was a natural part of life and Bob knew that, but finding two people who had pursued him and were making it work despite everything in their lives still surprised him. But it worked, and he loved them both and loved these moments where he got to see the soft edges of both of them.

“Morning,” Nat said to Javy when they split and she turned toward him.

With the pillow marks on her face, the tangled mass of hair at the base of her neck that she would swear at for five minutes while she untangled it and the soft smile on her face, few people would recognize her at Lt. Commander Natasha Trace, callsign Phoenix. But as she leaned up and kissed him hello, all Bob could do was kiss her back because here, she was just Nat. And Bob was a big fan of just Nat, and Javy. And he was an even bigger fan of mornings like this.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

4. A kiss to the top of the head – carole/mav/goose

“You know my favorite thing about heels?” Carole asked Mav as they stood to the side, waiting for Goose to come back with their drinks.

She was a vision in a dark blue dress off the shoulder dress, sparkly enough it stood out even among everyone else dressed up to the nines for some event Mav had been told about, but he forgot it as soon as he learned it. It wasn’t important information. “That it usually means Bradley’s being babysat by your Mom and we don’t have to be home soon?” Mav asked, keeping his hands out of his pockets by habit alone.

“Well, that,” Carole said, before she rested a hand and leaned over, kissing the top of Mav’s head, carefully. “That I can do that.”

Mav shot her a glare. “Hey!” he said, not really mad but he figured he should pretend since there were some Admirals around.

She grinned at him and leaned down to do it again. “It’s because we love you.”

“Ooo, are we making fun of Mav?” Goose asked, appearing out of the crowd, looking a lot more like he belonged in the dress whites than Mav felt. His looked like they fit him, Mav often felt like he was still ten years old, dressing up in his Dad’s old uniform. “Hey, honey.”

“Only slightly,” Carole said before Mav could say anything, taking her drink with a smile. “Thanks, stud.”

She leaned up for a kiss that Goose returned before handing Mav his own drink, and before Mav could do anything, dropped a kiss on top of Mav’s head as well. “Hi, dear.”

“Fuck you,” Mav said, unable to stop the smile from tugging at his mouth as Goose chuckled, moving to curl a hand around Carole’s waist, the two of them looking like they were made to stand like that. He suddenly felt more alone and he looked out across the crowd, at the couples talking to each other and he wished he could reach out and tough.

Carole reached out and squeezed his arm, getting his attention. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, shooting him a sweet smile that always got her out of all the trouble she caused. “We’ll kiss the other head later, baby.” She dropped her voice, letting the crowd hide her words but Mav heard them, loud and clear and he swallowed, eyes darting over the crowd, wondering if the flush on his face was obvious as she pulled back, already talking to Goose about something as he fought to keep his mind away from that familiar image.

“Assholes,” Mav muttered, glancing to the side to see them both fight back smirks as he shook his head, downed his drink and made his way into the crowd, figuring the two of them were about to make his night interesting, and he definitely needed another drink before they did.

[yeehawbvby]

When the Moon Fell in Love With the Sun | Ch. 4

March x F!Farmer

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventual smut)

Chapter Summary: First kiss first kiss!!!

Author’s Note: N/A

Table of Contents + Work Summary

Check it out on ao3!

Prev | Next

Was he in love?

March wondered this as his long, heart-to-heart conversation with December fizzled out, the crackle of the fireplace and occasional jingle of Goose’s collar taking precedence over their voices. 

He’d come to terms with liking her. A lot. But as they pulled apart from their almost-snuggling, December needing to stretch for the sake of her nerves and joints, he craved her immediate proximity again and wondered if his feelings were beyond what he could comprehend.

He briefly tried to imagine what it was like to do such physical work whilst enduring so much pain. December wasn’t visibly unwell whatsoever, aside from her skin being paler than average; so now he just felt like so much more of an ass for ever judging her on slower days — or at times where it seemed like she wasn’t doing much — early on in her residency here. She’d always taken his scrutiny like a champ, often deflecting with dry humor or by simply ignoring it, but March now knew it was probably the only way she knew how to cope. 

Every day was an uphill battle for December. It was just as impressive as it was concerning.

Wanting to shift his thoughts from that, his next move was to simply admire her. He mapped out the way her back curved as she clasped her hands and reached for the sky. The way that her chest rose and fell with each deep breath while she twisted her back and shoulders to pop them. When she sat down at the edge of the cushion, he analyzed how her lean trapezius flexed and her soft, pin-straight hair swayed with each roll of her neck. 

He’d held her hands, he’d draped his arms around her shoulders, and they’d just finished leaning on each other, closer than ever. But he wanted more. He wanted to feel all of her beneath his fingertips, to wrap his arms around her midsection and hug her, to play with her hair, to massage the tension away from her back, hips and legs.

December felt eyes on her and peered over her shoulder at the blacksmith, a startled blush coating the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks when her suspicion was confirmed. She curled against the back of the couch — offering a little more space than they had before — and faced her body towards March, keeping her curious gaze on his. 

Having no idea what had been going through March’s pretty head, she feared he was judging her.

She knew it was stupid to assume that he thought of her as less-than just because of her chronic pain. If anything, perhaps he was impressed by how much she did in spite of it all. Or, maybe he was peeved that she was running herself ragged for the same reason — pure spite — and setting herself on track to be bed bound by her middle ages at best, mid-thirties at worst. What did she know?

Well. She knew more about him than most people did, apparently.

She knew how he liked his coffee, his favorite colors, his favorite music genre and song, his favorite metal to work with. Some of his worst fears and greatest achievements, smithing and otherwise. His favorite time of day and his least favorite time of year. In gradually opening up about various points in her own life, she managed to unlock memories in March that he hadn’t thought of in ages, and had the privilege to listen to his reminiscence as if it was a bedtime story.

She knew he was hiding a lot of sadness and kindness, fear and joy, and so much more behind a brick wall. She knew that she was extremely lucky to be allowed a peep through the cracks in its mortar.

So, that was something.

“You look like you have something to say,” she observed. 

And he did. March felt himself freeze as he took in her sharp features, more comfortable than ever to just study her, knowing fully that she was watching him do it. She waited patiently for him to say something, happy to do the same right back to him — to trace his curves and edges with her eyes, to just exist in silence with him — and that gentle nature was exactly what made his stomach both flutter and churn.

He knew what he felt for her was beyond a crush, beyond just “liking” her. But he wondered again, was this love? He sure as hell felt like it was… whatever that meant. He’d never been in love before. 

Even if he did love her, could he just say that? 

She just opened up about past trauma to him, showed him every nook and cranny of her mind while allowing him a safe space to do the same. Just as he had offered her almost atypically gentle support, she did the same for him — albeit, she almost always supported him.

March concluded that this was either the perfect time to tell her, or it was wildly inappropriate to do so after they’d both just been so raw with one another. He couldn’t decide. He was speechless, his mind racing for a few beats; each attempt at a word caught in his throat, not making it past his lips. 

His next instinct — his next incredibly cowardly instinct, that made his own skin crawl — was to insult her. To tell her he was just realizing how buggy her big, shiny eyes looked; how her dimples were so cute that it absolutely nauseated him; that he would never feel anything other than disgust every time he made her smile with her dumb plump lips, every time her weird pointy nose crinkled with laughter, every time blood rushed to her stupid contoured cheeks.

He couldn’t say any of it though. Why would he lie to someone who had grown so surprisingly dear to him?

So instead of pouring out his complicated feelings or spewing all that nonsense he didn’t really believe in, March settled, “I…” he trailed off, paused, let his dark eyes scan hers. Hesitating before he spoke again, his voice came out low and airy, “…really want to kiss you.”

December felt her heart stammer and her stomach drop, her limbs electric with excitement as she breathed in a short gasp underneath widening eyes. 

That was the absolute last thing she expected him to say. 

For a short few seconds that felt like a lifetime, the blacksmith worried that he’d fucked up. He mistook her wordlessness as fear, her lip twitch as disgust, and he barely even noticed that December’s irises were practically sparkling as she tried to figure out what to say or do because he was so lost in beating himself up, and trying to find a way to right his wrongs, and— 

She nodded, whispering, “Okay.”

Oh. 

“Are— are you sure?”

Oh?

”Wh—“ March laughed breathily, “What?”

December laughed too, hers coming out more subtly; she knew how silly that question probably was, but felt self-conscious regardless. 

“I— I don’t know,” she looked down, picking at the calluses on her hands. “I just— I dunno.” 

December knew March didn’t dislike her anymore. He clearly saw her as a friend now. But there was still a gnawing ache in the back of her mind that told her he was just saying shit, that she wasn’t actually worth it. That he still had some of those fruity, boozy drinks in his system, and they were doing all the talking. That he somehow cracked her code — that he knew how much she cared for him, and between that and everything else they’d discussed, perhaps he wanted to kiss her out of pity.

She knew that was absurd, but she couldn’t stop herself from second guessing him either.

March didn’t know what was swimming through December’s head, but he’d become nearly fluent in her barely-there expressions over time, so he could tell it wasn’t great. Her initial consent gave him the confidence to keep going, though, damn the potential hit to his ego if she backed out.

He drew nearer and saved her hand from her own prying fingers, linking his pinky and ring with hers. ”Are you sure, December?”

More than anything.

She lifted her view to his and nodded, worried that those words would be too dramatic.

Leaning in and cupping her jawline in his free palm, March murmured almost uncharacteristically soft, “Then I’m sure.” 

Their noses lightly brushed before their mouths followed, and after a short lull to breathe each other’s air, their lips shyly clasped together. 

Neither party was inexperienced, but both had only rarely shared romantic intimacy with others, and long ago at that; as a result, the first passing moments were a bit clumsy. But after they’d gathered their bearings, they found comfort in stoking each other’s fires with experimental changes in pressure and rhythm, in innocent touches to each other’s faces and necks, shoulders and backs.

Both of them drank in the way their lips and tongues tasted like chocolate and coffee, the smell of each other’s body sprays and shampoos. December got to live out her silly dream of playing with March’s hair, thrilled to feel the silky red strands and dark roots between her fingers. March was just happy to hold her face again; to thumb at her dimples and trace the side of her neck the same way he did while patching up her cuts and gashes from the mines a few months ago.

December chanced a quick peek down at their dancing lips and felt her face burn, the reality of this sinking in. All of these feelings she’d had for so long, whether she could decipher the intensity of them or not, were coming to a head, and it warmed her heart just as much as it made her feel restless.

In response to the rising temperature in the farmer’s cheeks, March clutched them a little tighter, then shifted his palms back so his thumbs would stay on her face while the rest of his hands were settled on the corners of her jaw and the bottom half of her taut hair. He felt no remorse in messing up her ponytail a little, allowing himself to clutch the strands in his fingertips. December paid no mind to it — in fact, she accidentally encouraged him, with a shaky exhale leaving through her nose at his first tug.

An undeniable neediness bloomed within them after that. March eased December back to lay down, and while their limbs tangled together, the smith mumbled “I hate you” against her lips. He didn’t even give her time to respond before stealing his next kiss.

She wanted to tease him about it. She wanted so badly to point and laugh and tell him that he was a hypocrite for making out with someone he hates. His lips took precedence, though. “Hm?” she hummed in lieu of words.

March could barely find it in himself to pull back for his explanation, not wanting to break apart again.

What he wanted to say was that he was just as annoyed by December as he was infatuated. That she was a great kisser, just as she was great at so many other things, and that this was everything he wanted their first kiss to be like — not that he’d thought about it, or anything. That she was incredible inside and out in every single way, and it was driving him up a wall. 

Instead, when he eventually managed to let her lips go for more than half a second, his words were a gravelly, “You’re just—“ he kissed her again, “so fucking good.”

December gasped into their next kiss, her fists gripping his hair harder while her thighs tightening around him, all subconsciously. As a sucker for praise, to hear March tell her that she was good — so fucking good — with such raw frustration and hunger in his tone shook her to her core.

March took a mental note of her reaction for later.

With each heavy sigh into each other’s mouths, each miniscule movement of their hips to cope with the growing heat between them, it became evident that they both wanted more — so much more — but they both knew deep down that they didn’t want to rush whatever this was. It was unspoken, but understood nonetheless.

So they were content for the time being, with March’s center pressed to December’s and her inner thighs gripping his waist; to roam each other’s mouths, cheeks, jaws and necks with experimental kisses and nibbles until the blacksmith needed to head home.

[sunlightmurdock]

Okay, but in all my fics, Bradley has at least one tattoo.

I feel like he definitely has a bicep piece (and his girl loves to bite it, I know I would.)

But I can also see him with a rib piece, something kn his back and something on his leg/ calf.

Also, he'd have a rooster on his ass that he got when he was drunk on a dare

I agree, I almost always include two non-canon things about rooster in my fics and that’s him having Miles’ bicep tattoo and him having Goose’s gold cross necklace

The necklace is purely bc we know Mav tossed a pair of Goose’s dog tags and I like to think bradley kept a lot more of his dad’s stuff than just the raybans

And the tattoo is purely bc I like the idea of bradley having a bicep tattoo (and heck yea I’d like to bite it)

But omfff you’re so right I can definitely see him having something serious and symbolic on his ribs, and maybe something a little sentimental on his calf. I think he’s mostly the type of guy to get meaningful tattoos

And in spite of that… I can 100000% see him having a gimmick tattoo on his ass, like a rooster or a plane or something!