#the brain worms made my brain smooth

[misctf]

Change Your Tune: Rick

The companion story to Occamstfs post! Had fun working on it with them!

“Damn it...” Eric grunted as he pushed through the crowd, “Calvin...”

Stick together. It wasn’t complicated. All Calvin had to do was stick with him and things would’ve worked out fine. But now? Eric was pushing through the crowd as best he could- trying desperately to find his friend amongst a sea of giggling and cheering men.

“Sorry... sorry...” Eric mumbled, as he squeezed between a bunch of scantly dressed men, “Ugh... sorry...”

The attendees were too enthralled in the trashy pop music of whoever was up on stage to really pay him much mind. Their bodies moving to the beat, clapping their hands. Eric couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two guys in the audience as he brushed past them.

“Oh Em Gee I like, totes love this song!”

“But like...I was totally not into this kind of music before.”

"Same sis! But like... live a little!"

Eric pushed past them as they made out. And as he did, he felt overwhelmed. The cheering... dancing... kissing... the music... Eric paused and took a few deep breaths. It was so hot. The summer heat, the sweaty bodies...

“I... I don’t feel good.” His vision was getting cloudy, “Someone... I don’t...” Eric swayed, his head spinning...

"Like are you okay, cutie?"

"No... I..." Eric looked up at the twink and then down at his own hands, "What?"

They were smaller, daintier. His arms smooth and hairless- the muscle he did have now more diminished. He shook his head and pulled away, lurching towards the edge of the crowd. The music beckoning to him, worming into his brain.

“Wait... no...” He could've sworn his voice was an octave higher, “Calvin... I...”

Eric stumbled and fell to the ground at the edge of the crowd. The music growing less intense. The vertigo now improved. Yet part of Eric felt a sense of longing. To go back into the crowd. To get lost in the music. He shook his head

"I need to find Calvin..." He reconfirmed to himself. He looked down at his arm- it was his arm. His voice- it was his voice, "Must've been imagining things..."

“Oh looky here! You ain’t lookin’ too hot!”

Eric looked up, his gaze met by a group of strangers. They were all smiling, all similarly dressed. One of them stepped forward and extended an arm.

“You look like you could use a hand. Musta overheated out there."

Before Eric could reply, he was hoisted up by the man, while another shoved a beer into Eric's chest.

"It ain't water but it'll help."

"I'm good." Eric replied, handing him the beer. Since when was beer considered a good way to stay hydrated? "Well, maybe it is to these rednecks." Eric thought, before clearing his throat, "I gotta find my friend. We were trying to find where North Side is playing at." He looked around, hoping he'd see Calvin so he'd be able to get away from these guys, "But I lost him and..."

"North Side! We can show ya the way." One of the men slapped him on the back, "Jus' follow us. I promise we'll get ya there."

"Oh no, I'll be fine..."

"What kinda men would we be if we didn't help a fella out." The one chimed in, "Besides, you nearly fainted on yer ass back there. Can't be too safe now."

"Yeah! And North Side passes right by ol' Blue Sky Dreamers." Another added, "God, they're great. Never been much of a country fan 'till I heard them." The others nodded in agreement.

Eric raised an eyebrow. These men hadn't been country fans? They looked like they'd been plucked out of a cornfield and dropped here.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt." Eric sighed, "Lead the way."

He followed the men, listening in on their conversation. How they droned on about guns, trucks, and beer. How Blue Sky Dreamers talked to them- resonated deep within them. Their southern accents deep and carefree, their breaths smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. Eric felt out of place- uncomfortable even. He had no interest in getting to know these kinds of people... these...

"Ain't that just lovely." The men stopped, causing Eric to pause, "Ya hear that boys?"

Eric's ears perked up. The sound of a banjo, a fiddle, and harmonica whispered in his ears. Distant but ever present. It was... nice... calming... Eric shook his head and looked over to a crowd of men in cowboy hats, all swaying to the beat of Blue Sky Dreamers.

"I reckon that's the most beautiful thing I ever did hear." He watched as his guides walked towards the crowd.

"Hey, wait!" Eric called out, following behind them, "I still need... huh?" A cool breeze tickled Eric's exposed chest and he recoiled at the sensation, "What in the..."

He hadn't been wearing that. Had he? Since when was he wearing jeans? Since when did his shirt get so dirty? He looked up to see the men from earlier blending in with the crowd, disappearing into the sea of cowboys. He bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair, only to knock his cap to the ground.

"Ain't no way..." He stared at the cap lying in front of him, "I could'a... could have..." He corrected himself, "Sworn I was wearing a bandana." He reached down and picked the cap up, securing it back on his head, "Okay... North Sky... No that's not..."

Eric shuddered. Since when was it so hot? The summer sun beat down on him and the crowd of people certainly didn't help. The shirt he was wearing was soaked, covered in sweat. And with a grunt, he pulled it off and threw it to the dirt ground below.

"Fuck, what the hell?" Eric's eyes widened as he looked down at his lean pecs and toned abs, "I ain't usually..." His voice cracked as he ran a hand through the sparse, new chest hairs that appeared on his increasingly more tanned chest, "What in tarnation..."

And then he heard it. More clearly now. The music. It was filling his ears... filling him... It felt so freeing- each strum of the banjo, each word accented by a southern twang. Eric stepped forward, the crowd opening up around him to let him in.

"Well, ain't this the best dang music ya ever did hear?"

"I never reckoned I'd fall in love with country music."

"I ain't never felt a song hit me this hard."

eRic's mind was swimming with each step deeper into the crowd. His mind's eye filling with new images... an old farmhouse.... swaying corn... sweating after a long day's work... flickering fireflies... a bonfire.... beer... laughter... his truck...

"No stop... I gotta..." eRic swayed, bumping into the other men around him. Their bodies, made sturdy from working on their farms, prevented Eric from escaping, "Please... Calvin... help..."

eRic gasped... he could taste whisky on his breath... feel his muscles contracting and relaxing... He realized how closely packed to the other men he was. But not because they had gotten closer. No... he realized with increasing dread that he was bigger. His body thickening with firm muscle. His chest swelling into a pair of mighty pecs. Hairs sprouting from his crotch, across his abs, and over his chest like a blanket.

"Let me out... I gotta..."

But the men wouldn't budge- captivated by the music. And the song. Oh god the song was so loud... Reverberating in his head, worming into his brain. eRic could feel the sweat dripping from his increasingly rougher skin... an itchiness as stubble sprouted into a short beard. His arms thickened with muscle, blanketed by manly fur. But his attention shifted, even as his body continued to shift and change. His eyes focused on the stage, where Blue Side Dreamers continued to play.

"Well, I'll be! I could sit here an’ listen to these fellas ‘til the cows come home." Ric grinned, his foot tapping along to the beat, "What in tarnation was I thinkin’ not likin’ country music before?" He spoke, unbothered by the twang of his new southern accent.

He didn't know how long they kept playing. His body swayed to the beat... his mind elsewhere...

"Well, that’s a wrap, y’all! Mighty appreciate ya joinin’ us today, and we’ll be seein’ ya next year. Y’all be sure to grab our new album, now—don’t go missin’ out!"

Reality slammed into Rick and he shuddered as he returned to a state of full awareness. He looked around at the other men- men like him... proud country guys.... like himself.... born and raised...

"Hey Rick, didn’t you say you was wantin’ to go see that other band?"

A voice cut through the crowd and Rick grinned when he saw the men from earlier. He placed a hand to his cowboy hat and shrugged.

"I reckon I’m alright now—can’t even imagine wantin’ to hear nothin’ else after this!" A grin formed on his face, "But I could go for a nice cold one fellas!"

The group walked off, laughing and patting each other on the back. Rick ignoring a sign for North Side as he headed off towards the exit with his new friends to his new life.

EPILOGUE

Rick sighed as he walked up to the bar, quickly ordering another shot of whisky and a beer. He glanced over at the group of good ol’ boys he’d been shooting the shit with all night - Jeb, Cletus, and Earl. They were all decked out in checkered shirts, faded jeans, and ball caps. Just like him now. It still felt so natural, even if some part of him couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly seemed…off about the whole situation.

“Why do I feel like I’m just actin’ a part?“ he wondered to himself, frowning slightly, "Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin." 

Shaking his head, he tried to push the strange thoughts aside. Where were these thoughts coming from? Where else would he want to be? He was just a good ol’ boy enjoying a cold one with the boys after a kick-ass country concert. His thoughts were interrupted as a new song started playing in the bar. Rick knew this song… knew this band… a small smile gracing his lips.

"North Side.” He muttered, his foot tapping to the beat of the music, “Well I’ll be…”

He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him- a yearning for something he couldn’t quite understand in his slower mind. And as the music continued to strum at some past memory, the redneck couldn’t help but notice the striking Latino man with soulful eyes and a captivating smile, clearly enjoying the song as much as he was. 

“Well, would ya look at that.” Rick muttered under his breath, “Seems like that fella’s got good taste in tunes, at least.”

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Rick walked over to the man. His thoughts, once focused on music, instead shifted as he drank in the sight of the handsome Latino. The way he smiled, the way his dark hair was styled, the way his shirt hugged his muscles. Rick felt his dick stir.

“Howdy there, friend,” Rick drawled, tipping his hat politely, “Name’s Rick. Can’t help but notice you seem mighty fond of this here tune, same as me.”

Alvaro looks up at the man, “Buenas noches. The name’s Alvaro.”

Rick’s eyes flash with recognition, “You mean the Alvaro? Like Alvaro Altuve? I reckon I recognized you from somewhere!”

Alvaro grinned, “Always happy to meet a fan.”

Rick paused for a second, captivated by the singer’s smile. The two stared at one another before Alvaro beckoned him to take a seat at the bar. Rick happily accepted the two chatting it up, their conversation flowing naturally- like two old friends. Their knowledge about North Side and their interest in the band not fitting with their outward appearance.

“I would’ve never expected you to like North Side.” Alvaro laughed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckled, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder. They both blushed at the mere touch, and Rick pulled his arm away, “Well, I reckon I was always a fan, I think.” Rick shrugged and Alvaro grinned.

“Makes sense! You were the one who introduced me to them after all.” Those words hung in the air, the two became silent and stared at one another- their expressions shifting, their eyes conveying a faint recognition.

Rick, Alvaro knows Rick. He doesn’t know how he does but something deep within him pangs with familiarity or deja vu. Judging by the expression on the cowboy’s face it seems as if there’s some pang of memory behind his eyes as well. Alvaro stares at the fan wondering if he just saw the man at his concert or something but knows that dressed like he is, that cannot be the case, and then he sees his lips struggle to say, “C- Calv- Calvin?”

At once both men flash back. They were having lunch together, as they have done countless times throughout the years. Eric sees his friend who could scarcely put two Spanish words together, Calvin sees his bestie that would never be caught dead in a cowboy hat. They’re just talking shit as friends do when Eric gasps at a notification on his phone, “Dude- North Side is back!”

Before they left the table, the pair had bought tickets to the CYT festival and had begun planning what they were going to wear. Not for a moment wondering what else they’d care to see at the festival, why should they? They were going to see their favorite band of all time and they were going to do so together. 

Together. 

Back in the present as they look at each other in their new forms. Alvaro sees the sweaty, hairy chest of the good old southern man in front of him. Rick sees the effortlessly alluring manicured body of a latin rock star staring back at him. Together has a different spot in both their minds as they hear a grindr notification go off somewhere in the distance. Might as well see what their new bodies can do.

As quick as their feet can travel they’re in Alvaro’s trailer. Attempts to trawl out memories from who they were are fruitless or painful, so instead they delight in the present. The artist cannot believe how enticed he is by the smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer on the man’s breath. Rick is less discerning as he hungrily delights in the sweaty musk of the man who was on stage not all that long ago. 

Rick’s rough beard scratches against Alvaro’s neck as he takes a deep breath, he hears a deep whisper from the performer, “volve loco, vaquero.” He growls and his arms shake as he sees no reason to not obey man. Music playing in the background rapidly shifts from Alvaro’s own album, to the b-sides of the Blue Sky Dreamers, to the music that brought them into these new lives, North Side. Before fading altogether and leaving them alone with the sound of their bodies.

With each passing moment in the heady enjoyment of their new selves they feel their identities cemented. Rick’s clean-pressed closet wiped away for life on a farm, his pen-pushing 9-to-5 is nothing compared to the outdoor lifestyle he far prefers. Alvaro’s whole country of origin irrevocably changed, while he loves the life he’s found in the states they will never be where he’s from.

With each thrust they bury their past lives. Rick is and always has been a rough and tumble, rugged man. The rockstar life may be new to Alvaro, but he has always been a musician, even when he was just a small-town artist playing in cantinas. Despite their pasts being erased and their new lives becoming the only reality they know, they remain together. 

Sweatily making out in a trailer as Alvaro struggles to stop the cowboy from leaving cum stains on his stage outfit, when they are together something just feels right. While everything in the world around them may point otherwise, when they are in each other’s arms, everything just seems to make more sense. Even after they’re done having their fun, something remains between them, pulling them together. 

Sheepishly eying the cowboy as he pulls up his Levi’s, Alvaro doesn’t want to let him go, “Oi, vaquero?” The cowboy looks up thankfully, he’d never say as much but even life on the ranch doesn’t hold a match to the past hour with Alvaro, “Queiro- Do you wanna have lunch?” 

“Thought chu’d never ask-”

Neither would’ve guessed what their relationship would evolve into. Initially, it was the talk of the town. The Latin heartthrob and the rough-and-tumble country boy seemed like a totally unlikely couple. Some called it a publicity stunt, others whispered that it would never last. But through it all, Alvaro and Rick stood strong, their bond growing deeper with each passing day.

Alvaro strummed a guitar softly, while Rick leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. The radio playing softly in the background- the familiar beat of North Side’s music playing.

“Ya know,” Rick said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I still can’t believe we went from two strangers at a bar to…”

“To this,” Alvaro finished, setting down his guitar and taking Rick’s hand in his own, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, mi amor.”

The two held each other closely, while North Side continued to play in the background.

[strangerstilinski]

sharing a stiles thought i keep thinking bc brainrot and sharing bc you’d appreciate it

he would beg you to do the spiderman kiss and immediately fall as soon as it actually happens

i know this wasn't technically a request of any sort but oh boy did it tickle at the nearly nonexistent inspiration in my brain, so.. here we are. just a very short fluffy little thing that made me feel all warm inside. x

You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt in an attempt to cover your cold knuckles as you take an overly-cautious step out onto your front porch, hugging one arm around your ribs as a shiver wracks your body all while your grip tightens around your cell phone.

“Stiles, if this is one of your jokes-” A sigh escapes you, a wispy cloud of fog pushing past your lips as you look around for your boyfriend. There's a familiar blue jeep parked at the edge of your driveway, but the owner doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. You tut softly into the phone, “I think your pranks are cute, baby. Really, I do, but I need to study-”

Your socked feet carry you that much farther outside, shuffling slow across the smooth planks of wood underfoot while you cautiously scour the yard for his familiar figure.

“I'm right-” There's a scratchy crackle against the speaker just as you hear a scuffle from somewhere to your left. Stiles' yelp meets your ears twice, once from the dark emptiness at the edge of the porch, and then again half a second later through the phone.

It's just as you're just stepping up to the edge of the porch, hand falling to grip the railing as you squint into the darkness, when something drops down from above and makes you flinch back with a small scream.

“Here!” Stiles grins, the momentum of his body still making him sway forward and backward for a moment as he hangs upside down in front of you. He's dangling from the roof overhanging the porch, his torso curled around the edge in a way that can't possibly be comfortable, but he's grinning like he couldn't be more pleased with his current position.

“Stiles!” You scold, reining in the urge to punch his shoulder and instead redirecting the motion to simply grip at his biceps when he reaches out for you. The slow motion of his swinging slows under your steady hold, “Are you insane? You're banned from climbing on the roof! We- We have talked about this-”

“Neh, eh, eh,” He interrupts with a goofy grin, “The rule was that I can't climb on Scott's roof-”

While you don't remember the specifics, you have no doubt that your boyfriend would have been clever enough to worm some sort of loophole into his previous promise. Your nose scrunches up in annoyance while your heart continues thumping wildly in your chest, both from the scare and from the panic pooling in your gut as you watch your boyfriend shuffle and slip another inch or so over the edge of the roof.

“Sti, babe, please,” You whine anxiously, fingers digging into his arms a little meanly, “Stop moving around, alright? You're going to fall!”

“I'm not gonna fall,” Stiles rolls his eyes and he reaches a hand out to brush against your cheek, his pinky brushing the apple your cheek as his thumb presses lightly into your jaw, “Come on, don't you wanna know why I'm up here?”

You sigh softly, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips while you release him with just one hand so that you can run your fingers through his floppy hair where it hangs loosely beneath his head. Your hand scrapes lightly though the soft strands, your cheek pushing imperceptibly into the warmth of his palm.

“Why are you on the roof, Sti?” You ask begrudgingly.

“Spiderman.”

“Spiderman?” You repeat slowly.

“Spiderman!” Stiles grins, “You know, the first one. The Raimi one-”

“Like.. Andrew Garfield?” You clarify with furrowed brows.

“What?” Stiles scoffs, “No! Toby Maguire! Baby, we watched them together-”

He looks appalled, mouth gaping just slightly in incredulity.

“Well, we watched the Andrew Garfield ones together too-” You defend with a small laugh, amusement filling your chest at just how worked up he seems to be getting by your mistake.

“The first one!” Stiles repeats in a huff, “Because that's the one where it's raining and he saves MJ and he's hanging upside-down in the alley and she pulls his mask down to kiss him as a thank you-”

“Ooh, a wet, New York City alleyway,” You tease, “How romantic.”

Stiles groans woefully, “This was supposed to be romantic. You are totally ruining this for me, right now, you know-”

His words do make you feel a little bad. He'd clearly put some thought into the idea. He'd climbed all the way up onto the roof of your porch, though you're still not quite sure how — there's no ladder in sight.

You plaster a sweet smile on your lips, slipping your feet up onto the rung at the bottom of the railing to boost you up another few inches, until your nose is level with Stiles' chin.

“I'm sorry, Stiles,” You murmur softly, chin tipping toward your chest so you can look into his eyes, “You wanted a big, superhero movie kiss?”

His adam's apple bobs when he swallows, his body reacting naturally to the familiar teasing lilt in your voice, “Uh huh.” He nods.

“Well gee,” You sigh wistfully as you drag a finger up the side of his cheek in a slow trail toward his mole-speckled neck, “You are awfully brave for climbing up there. And you did do it with the intention of wooing me..” Your teeth pull lightly at your lower lip and his eyes track the movement, “Maybe I could show you just how brave and sweet I think you are. Maybe.. I could show you how grateful I am, that you were willing to risk getting hurt for me.”

Stiles is nodding along, eyes wide with anticipation and cheeks flushed dark from a combination of your words and the blood rushing to his head in his current position, “Yeah.” He rasps weakly.

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, your lips catching against his in just a light brush of skin, teasing. His lips part beneath your own and your warm breath mingles in the narrow space, the scent of spearmint overtaking your senses for a moment.

The hand on your cheek drags you closer in a gentle nudge as he grows impatient, and your mouths meet in a slightly awkward press of lips. Something about the new angle with such a familiar action scratches at the back of your brain, and you tilt your head just slightly when your mouths separate and rejoin only a second later.

Stiles presses his thumb softly into the hinge of your jaw in a silent request for you to open your mouth, his tongue catching on your lower lip before pressing inside and meeting your own.

Your tangle your fingers in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Another wet peck to his lips has him shuffling forward to chase your mouth the moment you ease back, and he seems to slip just a little further over the edge of the roof.

“Careful.” You warn softly.

“'m always careful.” Stiles whispers, his upturned nose pushing into your jaw as he kisses you again.

You lean back after allowing him another moment of indulgence. Stiles seems to follow the movement again, pitching forward as you go back like you're two magnets, but this time around he slips just a bit too far to allow for recovery. You can only watch on with wide eyes while he comes tumbling down from the roof and crashes into the bushes below with a small scream.

“Oh my god!” You gasp, leaning over the railing to watch your boyfriend roll into the grass with a groan, “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” Stiles manages weakly, voice hoarse.

“You sure about that, Spiderman?” You tease hopefully as you watch him drag himself to his feet, brushing himself off to free the small bits of branches and leaves and dirt that are now clinging to his clothes.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “Yeah, 'm good.”

“Good,” You grin, beckoning him closer when he finishes ridding himself of yard debris and meets your eye, “You should get yourself a mask though. I hear masked superheroes tend get more than just kisses and I have to admit, I think it's kinda hot-”

“Noted,” Stiles agrees with wide eyes, tripping over his own feet and the porch stairs as he rushes toward you, “Fucking- Shit, I am so on it.”

[solxamber]

Heartslabyul, 1, Fluff

As a side note (This isn’t a second request I just got sudden brain worms!) all I can think about is Riddle with number six (I think?) with “Say that again” but like… As my mother with her violent hatred of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas. She despises the song, and every year we reach a point where she band it until next Christmas. She prefers the Werewolf Boyfriend song. And now I’m imagining Riddle with ADuece playing it and him moments away from collaring them- I’m sorry if this was weird but now I’m trying not to die laughing while in a public place.

help?? that's so funny??? also your mom prefers the werewolf boyfriend song???? that's somehow funnier

A Kiss for Luck || Deuce Spade

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "Is that mistletoe?" ; Genre: Fluff

Deuce was, by all accounts, a terrible actor.

You’d noticed his plan from the moment the holiday party began. He’d linger by the mistletoe every chance he got, looking over at you and then away so quickly it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash.

“Hey, um… I think the punch tastes better over here.” He tugged at his tie nervously, gesturing toward a suspiciously decorated corner.

You squinted at the punch bowl. “Deuce, that’s eggnog.”

He froze. “Oh. Uh… yeah. My bad.” He quickly turned on his heel, nearly tripping over Cater, who laughed as he breezed past with a knowing grin.

You decided to let him sweat a little. Watching Deuce stumble over himself trying to orchestrate the perfect holiday moment was endearing in a way only he could manage.

As the evening wore on, you kept catching him in your periphery—standing near mistletoe, adjusting his sleeves, glancing your way, and failing miserably to look casual. You’d purposefully steer yourself in the opposite direction, enjoying his increasingly flustered expressions.

Finally, though, you decided to put him out of his misery.

Deuce was leaning awkwardly against the wall beneath one particularly prominent sprig of mistletoe, trying his best to look like he wasn’t standing there on purpose. He lit up when he saw you approaching, standing straighter and smoothing down his jacket.

“Oh! Hey!” he said, a little too loudly. “I didn’t see you there.”

You tilted your head up, feigning surprise. “Is that mistletoe?”

Deuce’s face turned a shade of red so deep it rivaled Riddle’s hair. “Uh, yeah. I mean, it’s tradition, right? You don’t have to, uh, if you don’t want to, of course! I just thought—”

Before he could ramble himself into oblivion, you leaned up and kissed him. It was soft and sweet, and when you pulled back, Deuce’s eyes were wide as saucers.

“I wanted to,” you said simply, unable to hide your smile.

Deuce’s shoulders relaxed, his expression shifting from shocked to relieved, then to something softer—something that made your stomach flip in a way nothing else could.

“I’ve been trying all night to make this happen,” he admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

“I know.” You laughed, reaching up to fix his tie. “You’re not exactly subtle, Spade.”

His ears turned red, but he smiled—a boyish, bashful grin that made you feel warm despite the winter chill. “Guess I don’t have to be anymore.”

He took your hand then, holding it with the kind of care that made you feel like the most important person in the room.

And as the party bustled on around you, Deuce looked down at you, his shy confidence growing with every passing second. “So… can I kiss you again?”

This time, you didn’t make him work for it.

Masterlist

[moonselune]

Could I please request headcanons or a Drabble for postgame Tailor!Astarion x reader? The worms are eating my brain I can’t stop thinking about him pinning dresses on his s/o with a measuring tape round his neck

The brain worms entered my head as well upon reading this

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tailor!Astarion xf!reader | The Most Beautiful Mannequin

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion worked with a meticulous grace, his hands sure and steady as they roamed over your body, pinning fabric here and there. It was strange, to see him in this domestic light. Gone was the battle-hardened vampire spawn with his daggers and shortswords in hand, now replaced by a man who had found peace in the art of tailoring, his fingers just as deft with needle and thread as they’d been with blades.

The light of the afternoon sun spilled through the window of your shared home, bathing the room in a warm glow. You stood in front of the mirror, dressed in little more than the fabric he’d carefully draped over you, while Astarion worked around you like an artist with his masterpiece.

He was muttering something to himself, eyes narrowed in concentration as he adjusted the hem of the dress. A length of measuring tape hung around his neck, and a handful of pins were tucked between his lips, their metallic gleam catching the light. Every now and then, he’d pluck one from his mouth and secure a fold of fabric, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.

“You know,” he said around the pins, his voice slightly muffled but still carrying that familiar, teasing lilt, “this would go much faster if you could stay still for even half a minute.”

“I’m trying,” you protested, though the soft laugh that followed betrayed your amusement. “It’s not easy when you keep poking me with pins.”

“Well, if you didn’t wriggle so much, my dear, I wouldn’t have to poke you,” he countered, raising an eyebrow as he removed the pins from his mouth and placed them on a nearby table. “Honestly, you’d think you’d never been fitted for a dress before.”

“Not by someone like you,” you murmured, letting your eyes linger on him for a moment. He wore a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the pale, smooth skin of his forearms, and there was a casual elegance to him that made your heart skip a beat.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he replied with a smirk, though you could see the faint flush that crept up his neck. “Now, arms up. I need to see how this falls.”

You obliged, lifting your arms as he instructed, and he stepped closer, his body brushing against yours as he adjusted the fabric over your shoulders. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the gentle press of his fingers as they smoothed out a crease. His touch was so light, so careful, as if he was afraid that one wrong move might tear the delicate material—or perhaps tear you.

He took a step back, scrutinizing his work with a critical eye, before making another adjustment, his fingers brushing against your waist.

“Much better,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You know, I must say, you do make for quite the lovely mannequin.”

“Mannequin?” you repeated, giving him a mock glare. “I didn’t realize I’d been reduced to nothing more than a glorified coat hanger.”

“Well, if you could refrain from moving every other second, perhaps I could start seeing you as something more,” he teased, his lips quirking into that familiar, devilish grin. “But alas, you’re not making it easy, darling.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable,” he shot back without missing a beat, stepping closer once more.

This time, his hands rested on your hips, his touch lingering, and you felt your heart skip a beat as he leaned in, his breath ghosting against your ear.

“Besides,” he murmured, “it’s not every day I get to play dress-up with the most beautiful person in all the realms.”

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks at his words, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely.

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered.

“And yet, you adore me,” he replied smugly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck before he pulled away to continue his work.

For a while, you stood there in comfortable silence, letting him work his magic. Every so often, you’d catch him stealing glances at you in the mirror, a soft, almost tender expression crossing his face before he quickly masked it with that practiced smirk. It was those moments that made your heart ache with affection, that reminded you just how much he’d changed, how far you’d both come since the days of endless battles and bloodshed.

“There,” he said finally, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “What do you think?”

You turned to look at yourself in the mirror, your breath catching in your throat. The dress was exquisite, the fabric hugging your body in all the right places, the cut and stitching flawless. It was a work of art, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how perfectly it suited you, as if it had been made for you—and in a way, it had.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed, turning to face him, your eyes shining with gratitude. “You’re amazing, Astarion.”

He shrugged, though you could see the pride in his eyes, the way his chest puffed out just a little.

“Well, I do try,” he said, though his voice was softer now, more genuine. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” you corrected, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “And I love you.”

He blinked, his eyes widening slightly before he let out a soft laugh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Always so sentimental,” he teased, though there was no bite to his words, only warmth. “But for once, I suppose I’ll allow it.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “For everything.”

He hummed, a pleased sound rumbling in his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

“Anything for you, darling,” he murmured against your lips, his eyes shining with a love that made your heart feel like it might burst. “Anything at all.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh I actually adore Tailor!Astarion so much, and I hope you guys adore him too! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Revolver Riot-Don Quixote X Reader

I'm going to be honest, this Fic has completely taken over my life over the last week or so and I really just want my life back.

With that said, I must pay my dues and thank the absolutely wonderful Simply Vivian who, without the help of, I probably would've ended up putting my skull into a blender before coming close to finishing this. I am so sorry that you had to deal with my ramblings and borderline insane behaviors, but I am also glad to call you a friend. The same goes out to my dear friend @tragedy-of-commons whom is always a joy to plot and scheme mad ideas with even if they never leave the drawing board. With all of that said, it is time for the fic at large to take center stage. Be sure to grab some popcorn and a drink, this will take a bit for you to get through.

You found it sticking out from under a dumpster.

It smelled like death, the metal was pitted and corroded, the wood was chipped, scratched, and covered in a substance you really didn’t want to know the origin of.

And yet, it called to you. It felt natural in your hand. Cold steel, a cylinder that holds six bullets, a hammer that locks back with a resolute click, a trigger that moves with only a little bit of pressure… it felt like a part of you. Like you just realized you had an extra limb.

So you took it to your home. You painstakingly scraped off the rust, polished the metal, replaced the wooden handle, cleaned the cylinder, repaired the ejector, the trigger mechanism, and replaced the springs, fixing it up and polishing it until it almost looked like new, until even the Identification Markings became legible again.

You did all of this, and you didn’t even have a single bullet to fire.

At least, you didn’t until now.

The distortion growled, its maw filled with white foam and its red eyes boring into you as its twisted arm crushed the skull of its latest victim. A Full-Stop Office Fixer.

And yet… you couldn’t truly focus on that. The only thing that held your eye right now was the round that rolled into your shoe after the Fixer’s weapon was sliced in half.

“.44 Magnum F/S Issue” was stamped into the bottom of the brass casing.

The round was the same caliber that the revolver took, and just like the revolver, it was calling you. Urging you to load it, to fire it, to let death fly through the air.

Before you had even realized it, the revolver was already in your hand and the cylinder opened. All that was left was to choose the path. Load the gun, fire, and then probably die or try to run, get caught by the monster, and then die.

Placing the bullet into the chamber was the easiest thing you ever did.

You slowly raised the barrel of the old, scarred gun with the single bullet you found loaded into it, its weight in your hand feeling both alien and familiar as the monster rushed towards you. The barrel was aimed squarely at the head of the beast as you raised your thumb to the hammer and pulled it back with a heavy, solid click that seemed to reverberate throughout your entire body and to the depths of your soul.

Then, the world turned still as a smooth, amused chuckle reverberated from the base of your skull, its voice worming its way into your brain like a cancer and yet… they were like honey to your mind, drawing you into the deep.

“Do you know what that is? It's something made to kill. Don’t you know that's the only thing it can do? If you pull that trigger, you and that gun will be one in the same. Only good for filling gutters with bodies.”

The voice continued to speak, the sound echoing and reverberating throughout your body as the voices began to overlap and crush each other, doing their best to drown out your thoughts.

However, you managed to force your own voice above the noise, to answer its jabs, questions, and barbs.

“Maybe, but sometimes the only path requires violence to be met with violence. Besides, you don’t pull a trigger, you squeeze it.

This made the voice quiet and the writhing in your brain disappear as something else made itself known, its own voice saying nothing but its presence making something shift in your heart as the world began to move, the monster resuming its charge.

Now however, the apprehension and fear in your heart was no longer there as you closed your eyes and wrapped your finger around the trigger, the shift in your heart beginning to spread across your body and into the gun.

Then you opened your eyes and you squeezed the trigger, making the gun fire with a sound like thunder and the monster being torn to bloody shreds of meat from the power of the bullet fired.

It was now, as the meat and blood rained down with squelches and splats, that the name of the gun flittered into your mind.

“Prepare A Coffin: Django”. You muttered to yourself, speaking the name of this power as you gazed at the gun in your hand.

No longer was it the beat up and scarred weapon you had found and slowly, painstakingly repaired.

Its metal was as black as sin, the wooden handle’s you had replaced were now bone, the entire weapon was decorated with silver baroque-esque engravings, and for each chamber in the cylinder a word was engraved on it.

“Strike True, Strike Powerfully, Strike Mercilessly, Strike Relentlessly, Strike Justly, Strike Endlessly”

Silently, you flicked open the cylinder, revealing that each of the six chambers were now filled with what could only be described as pure energy.

Then, just as silently, you closed it before spinning the revolver on your finger backwards, grabbing it by the frame and then flinging it into the holster on your side as you walked away from the carnage as, for the first time in several days, the sun began to rise and shine through the smog choked sky.

The very next day, you applied for your Fixer License.

By the end of the month, you were a Grade 9 fixer.

Two months later, you jumped up to 7.

Then 6.

Then 5.

It was at this time that you first encountered them.

The LCB. Limbus Company Bus Division.

Specifically, “The Valorous Fixer, Don Quixote” when she tried to run you through in the middle of the transit point between the Backstreets and K Corp’s Nest after you were sent here to see what in the world was making such a racket on the K-Corp Security Channel.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As soon as you stepped onto the scene, a K-Corp Security Guard was sent flying right at you.

In response, you simply stepped to the side before grabbing the guard by the collar and, by using your body as a turntable in tandem with the guard’s momentum, flung them to the side and away from the main battle.

After that was dealt with, you turned your attention to the main event.

What was before you could only be described in one way.

A clusterfuck of ungodly proportions.

One man was swinging a bat, cracking skulls with glancing blows and crushing limbs with barely a sweat.

Another was simply hurling guards through the air and into the walls, ceilings, windows, and other guards with ease despite the metal gauntlets on his hands.

A woman was cutting guards to ribbons, seemingly delighting in the way her victims would fall to pieces before an HP Bullet was administered.

At the same time, an older lady was guarding a being with a clock where their head should be that was making loud whistling noises alongside ticks and tocks.

Alongside the woman guarding the Clock headed person, there was a blonde young man that looked as if he was about to collapse from stress, a man with a what looked to be the leg of a bug in place of his arm that seemed to be trying to calm the Clock person down, a tall and strongly built woman with an axe that was chopping down anyone who got too close with a smile, and a dark haired man who looked like death warmed over.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the battle, there was a red headed woman with a shield and a mace that was absolutely tearing through the guards, batting some to the side with her shield before sending several of them flying with a powerful swing of her mace.

And right in the middle of it all was her.

She was an exceptionally short blonde woman, but the presence and energy she exuded with her ear rattling laugh and the ease with which she swung and impaled with her lance more than made up for it. Her coat was glinting in the light from all of the well polished pins on the poor piece of clothing, at one point her shoes might have been a color between tan and yellow however the accumulated grime, muck, blood, and viscera gave it a rather diluted hue akin to the one you would occasionally find on barrels alongside labels like “HAZARDOUS MATERIAL” or “DANGEROUS SUBSTANCE”.

In hindsight, you probably should’ve listened to that connection and saved yourself the headache of what was to happen over your working relationship with this crew of madmen.

In the moment however, you simply let out a muttered curse before looking to the sky as if something was going to save you from this mess and then when nothing did you began your march into the mosh pit before you.

The tile floor was growing slick with blood and every step you took towards the battle was accompanied by a squelch and a splash as you drew your revolver, reflexively spinning the weapon on your finger until you grabbed it by the frame, allowing you to use the handle of the gun to crack the skull of anyone who came to close if needs be.

As soon as the action was completed, you began to muscle through the crowd, narrowly avoiding wild baton swings from the Guards, bodies being flung through the air by powerful blows, and just managing to barely slip past the swing of the bat that, if it had hit you solidly, would’ve most definitely sent your head and body on separate vacations.

However, before you could count your lucky stars, you were forced to stumble back lest you were crushed by the Mace that just pulverized the tile floor where you stood a split second before.

“I don’t get paid enough for this!” you grumbled as you stomped on the head of the mace before its wielder could pull the weapon back to a ready position.

It was here that you then swung the handle of the gun upwards like a club and into the red haired woman’s chin with the unpleasant sound of bone breaking, stunning her. Capitalizing on this, you grabbed the woman by the collar and then slammed your forehead into her nose, breaking it and sending blood streaming down her face as she stumbled back and you spun the gun on your finger, catching the hammer with your thumb and then swinging the weight of the gun down, cocking it and then firing it twice, both bullets landing cleanly in the woman's gut and making her falter for a split second before she raised her shield to block the blow of another Guard and then crushed his rib cage with her mace, seemingly unbothered by the fact she had two new holes in her gut and her attention now focused on the guards instead of you.

Briefly, you were put off by this as most people tend to be shocked when they have new holes bored into them.

However, you didn’t have much time to focus on this as an ear ringing cry echoed through the building from the center of the crowd.

“COME FOUL VILLAINS!!! THE VALOROUS FIXER, DON QUIXOTE, SHALL VANQUISH THEE!!!”

“Well, that makes my job much easier…” you mumbled to yourself before shoving and pushing guards out of the way, reaching the center of the battle where it was surprisingly calm despite the fact that more than a dozen guards were being dragged away from the woman in the center of it all.

You didn’t have much time to observe her before she noticed you and promptly leveled her lance directly at your center mass.

Realizing her plan you raised your gun and fired twice, forcing her to raise her lance to block the shots or have her brain matter exposed to the open air. Using this to your advantage, you rushed forwards and then dropped to the ground in a slide, aiming your gun at her exposed midsection and firing twice once more. One of the bullets bounced harmlessly off the lance, the other landed cleanly and shot through her causing a cry to escape her as she attempted to crush you with the heft of her weapon by swinging downwards but missing, which left you in a position behind her that you used to scramble to your feet and then kick her in the back, sending her stumbling forward.

You attempted to fire off three more shots at the woman, however she used the momentum you imparted on her to thrust her lance into the ground and use its haft to sling her upwards and away from your shots. However, she didn’t let go of the weapon, quite the opposite in fact as she used her own weight and momentum to bend the haft of the weapon the opposite way she came from.

By the time you realized what she was doing, it was a split second too late as the tile floor and the concrete under it gave way around her lance, launching the shards towards you as you raised your arm to cover your head.

The feeling of the shards piercing your flesh was not one you would ever be keen to repeat, especially seeing as before you could even acclimate to the sudden feeling of large swathes of your flesh being cut open, you had to jump to the side in order to avoid being impaled.

With that said however, you still managed to get two more shots off, both of them landing. One in the calf and the other in her side.

Quickly rolling to your feet, you aimed your gun at the woman and she wheeled around towards you, her lance aimed at you in the same way.

You needed to put an end to this before she got any actual hits off on you, and so you focused, letting the power in your chest flow through to the gun.

This was your EGO. This was your soul made manifest. This was what would decide this fight.

“Prepare A Coffin: Django” you muttered to yourself as you pulled back the hammer with a deafening click, a bandolier of spectral bullets wrapping around your arm and floating over your shoulder, as your eyes focused in on the head and heart of the target before you.

Unfortunately, it seems that your target had the same idea, her clothes shifting and morphing to a red and white uniform with a cuirass and cape over the shirt and her lance changing form to that of one made from blood in a twisted form.

It was going to come down to this, your gun against the target’s lance. Your aim against her speed.

Or, that's what you thought at least.

For better or for worse, it was now that Siegfried made his presence known.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You sat on the curb outside the transit point, your wounds slowly closing with the help of an HP Ampule that the commanding officer of the guard gave you as thanks for keeping her from being flung out into the streets when you first walked in.

Unfortunately, it seems that the Ampule’s didn’t regenerate clothes.

“Oh well, I guess that's why people from other agencies say to buy outfits in bulk.” you muttered to yourself, sure that this was not going to be the last time you said that as you leaned back and looked skywards to the scant few stars that poked through the clouds and the smog.

Unfortunately, your peace was soon shattered by the very woman who was responsible for destroying your clothes.

“HARK GOOD FIXER!!!” the woman shouted as she approached you alongside the rest of the group that Siegfried had just eviscerated, including the person with the Clock Head.

Before you could even stand up, the woman was upon you, her face a few inches from yours and her excited eyes seemingly glowing with energy as she took in a deep breath that, alongside her predilection for shouting, made you realize that you really shouldn't have taken out your ear plugs.

Thankfully, before she could start shouting loud enough to wake the dead, she was pulled back by the man with the bat.

“OI! You ain’t s'posed to run up on folks like that! And don’t be yellin’ like a daft idiot!” the man hissed at the woman, annoyance clear on his face.

“Ah! Right! My apologies good sir Heathcliff!” the woman, finally quieting down, apologised.

This exchange gave you enough time to stand up and, although it was probably rather rude, place your hand on your gun in case things came to blows once more.

“You don’t need to worry about us starting something. That clown in the body suit gave us enough of a trouncing for today.” the red headed woman stated before pointing to her face and saying “Also, you’ve got a mean headbutt.”

“Thanks.” you responded to the compliment blankly, your focus still on the blonde woman who seemed like she was ready to speak once more.

“Good Fixer! My name is Don Quixote and I would like to apologize for my actions! I would also like to apologize for the wounds I inflicted on you during our duel!” The woman named Don Quixote exclaimed, her cheery tone slightly muted in what seemed to be her attempt at a serious apology.

“Meh, no one died or, in your group’s case, stayed dead so I say all's well that ends well. Besides, I got my fair share of shots off on you as well so… let's call it even, yeah?” was your response to the apology as you removed your hand from your gun and held it out in a gesture of goodwill.

Needless to say, Don Quixote reciprocated that gesture, shaking your arm with enough force that you felt like it was going to pop out of your socket.

Following this, the rest of the LCB introduced themselves, or in the case of Dante, was introduced seeing as they could not communicate their own words to you without an intermediary.

However, despite the colorful cast in their little band of misfits, your eyes continued to fall on Don Quixote and her rather charming nature.

That and she was continuously asking questions about your being a Fixer and requested that you signed a page in her book despite your protests of you only being a Grade 5 Fixer that she seemed determined to ignore, leading to you signing your name right as their ride pulled up

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Don Quixote was happily swinging her feet as the bus rattled off to its next destination, her gaze firmly placed on the newest signatures in her book.

To think, not only would she get to meet The Red Gaze on this journey, but Siegfried as well! Not to mention the interesting person she exchanged blows with in the terminal!

Fixers really were amazing!

At the same time, Dante’s voice rang out.

“All right everyone! That’s enough for today. I hope you all sleep well tonight!”

Instantly, Don hopped to her feet, still full of energy despite the battle that just occurred.

“Oh how excited I am for the next leg of our journey!” Don happily thought to herself.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

It was quite a long while before Don met you again.

It was also in a place that a valorous fixer like herself should NEVER be held in.

A prison. Complete with iron bars and chain handcuffs that, inexplicably, had bite marks on them.

They most definitely did not come from her, and she most definitely did not chip a tooth by trying to chew the chain off.

She was a valorous fixer. She was above such actions.

“They’re just over here.” The voice of a guard grumbled out as he and another person approached the cell but stopped in front of the door with the face of the other person just out of sight.

“I can see that.” a familiar voice stated with an obvious strain in their tone as the familiar sound of a hand being placed on the weapon at their hip reached the sinner’s ears.

“What I CAN’T see is WHY they are in this damn cell!” the voice hissed to the guard, making him take a few steps back.

“T-their division of Limbus Company owes a total of 10,040,000,000 Ahn to T Corp.” the guard explained quickly, obviously looking uncomfortable with the situation he is now in.

In response, the other voice simply let out a deep, frustrated sigh before speaking.

“Of course they do. It wouldn’t be a day in the life of these guys if they didn’t have some sort of mischief going on!”

It was then that the person stepped around the guard.

“Oi! You're that person that broke the bird’s face!” was the first thing Heathcliff exclaimed, earning a swift punch to the gut from Ishmael.

“Oh! Heroic Fixer! You must help us! We are being held here unjustly! They refuse my pleas of release! My pleas of being allowed to join our wonderful and valorous Manager in their escapades of seeking justice upon a foul evildoer! Oh the inhumanity!” Don cried, the back of her hand on her forehead in a dramatic gesture.

“Now that’s a face we haven’t seen in awhile. Any chance you can bust us out of here old buddy old pal?” Gregor asked with a grin while sitting down and leaning against the wall.

A smile graced your face at Don’s dramatics as you moved to lean against the bars but was stopped when the guard put his hand on your shoulder. That was quickly solved when you shot him a look over your shoulder and started drumming your fingers on the handle of your gun.

Now, freely leaning against the bars, you began to speak.

“While I’d love to help you all out, I pulled all the strings a Grade 3 Fixer like myself could to just get down here since I was in the area and heard about a “Group of crazies” that “Lives in a big red bus”. Do you guys have any clue on who THAT could be?” you asked, shooting a glance into the group behind the bars.

Heathcliff made a face before looking away, Outis bit the inside of her cheek, Gregor all of the sudden became very interested in the ground, Yi Sang hadn’t even noticed your arrival and was having a conversation with a mouse, Sinclair had the presence of mind to look embarrassed, Meursault was completely unbothered, and Don Quixote was-

“WHEN DID THOU BECOME A WONDROUS GRADE 3? I THOUGHT THOU WAS A VALOROUS GRADE FIVE!!!”

-Don Quixote.

“Well, times change and promotions get handed out. Especially to people who have enough skill to keep themselves from being killed and specialize in containing distortions like yours truly. That and apparently Siegfried gave me a glowing review of my “Heroics” during that scrap we had back in K-Corp”. You answered with a wince, your ears ringing from Don’s sheer volume.

And yet… you couldn’t find it in you to be irritated with her. Could what they say be true? Does absence actually make the heart fonder?

You quickly batted the thought down, focusing on the issue at hand as opposed to the fact that every time you heard about the exploits of this little group you always kept your ear out for anything about the absolutely wonderful Don Quixote.

“Really? Congrats!” Gregor exclaimed as he started to stand up, a yawn escaping him in the process before he began walking towards the bars, briefly stopping to tap Yi Sang on the head, alerting him to the fact that they had a visitor.

“With all that said though, I think it's time we get down to business. Sorry bout that.” the brown haired man said with a lopsided smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I assume your main concern is how Dante and their investigation team is doing?” you asked, casting your gaze to the group at large.

“At the moment, yeah. I don’t think I was meant for prison life…” Gregor joked rather horribly but still elicited a chuckle from a few of the sinners and yourself.

“Well, last I heard they just talked with someone from the Yurodiviye and that they’ve narrowed down their suspect pool quite a bit, but…” you began to explain before drifting off mid sentence, your fingers tapping on the handle of your gun, this time because you were thinking.

“But? But what! Curse thine vague statements!” Don Quixote wailed in frustration.

“But… something isn’t lining up quite right to me. For example, none of the victims were actually murdered, only their time. If it was about vengeance it would be bloodbath after bloodbath but this… it feels like a statement.” You clarified, your fingers still drumming away on the handle of your gun.

However, before the Sinners could question you or you could further explain your line of thinking, the sound of boots crashing against the floor in a sprint reached your ears.

A split second later, you were surrounded by Dante, and three people dressed in almost comically stereotypical detective outfits that you had a sneaking suspicion Don Quixote was responsible for.

It took you a moment to realize that the three other people with Dante were Ryoshu with a fake moustache, Hong Lu holding a Magnifying Glass, and Rodya without her trademark grin.

Unfortunately, that is where your understanding of the situation ended as each and every one of them were speaking (or whistling in Dante’s case) absolute gibberish.

Thirty seconds of madness later, the sinners were out of their cage and most of them were already running down the hall.

The one exception being the ever unique and energetic Don Quixote.

“Hark! Typically one sends a knight off with some wish of good luck!” the short fixer exclaimed, a sparkle in her eyes.

“I- uh… good luck?” you managed to stammer out, your mind still not quite caught up to the whirlwind of information and craziness that just occurred.

This, apparently, was not the wish for good luck Don Quixote wanted as she immediately began to pout and the sparkle in her eyes switched to a look of mischief that put you ill at ease.

However, before you could act on this, Don grabbed you by the collar, pulled you down towards her, and kissed you.

By the time you realized what just happened, the blonde woman was already running off, and she had the gall to be blushing as well.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

It wasn’t until Dante and Co. were walking back to the bus that Don realized what she did.

Really, it's a miracle she figured it out this quickly.

Though, the fact she dropped her lance and promptly curled up into a ball on the street as she covered her face with her hands definitely earned her a few strange looks from both the citizens and the Sinners.

And so, here she was, being hauled around under Heathcliff’s arm as Meursault carried her lance as he was the only one actually capable of picking it up.

“Good grief lass, what’s got you in such a state?” Heathcliff muttered as he adjusted the extra deadweight he was carrying.

“I hath done a horrible thing!” the blonde woman wailed, her face still red from embarrassment.

“Eh, I doubt that lass. You might be a right headache sometimes, but you ain’t the type to do somethin mean or bad on purpose.” Heathcliff mused, twisting his head to the side, forcing several cracks out from his neck.

“Thine compliments are appreciated good Sir Heathcliff! Alas, mine sin is one of not adhering to the correct procedure!” Don Quixote exclaimed, sorrow and an uncharacteristic shame clear in her voice.

Heathcliff raised his eyebrow, turmoil and apprehension clear in his eyes as he thought over his next words very carefully.

“Well, I know I’ll probably regret offering, but how bout’ this. If you start walkin on your own all the way back to the Bus, I’ll listen to your problems for a tick.” Heathcliff offered despite the voice in the back of his head that was telling him this was NOT a good idea.

“Oh? I… No, the offer is appreciated, good Sir Heathcliff! but I cannot add my own troubles to yours!” Don Quixote declared her desire to speak of her own woes being overtaken by the care she has for her dear comrades.

“You’d be doin me a favor, Don Quixote. Really. I need to take my mind off things for a bit to get my thoughts in order and helping you sounds like a good distraction.” Heathcliff quietly whispered to Don, his own tone becoming ever so slightly haggard as the events that led up to now continued to take their toll.

Don briefly looked like she wished to argue before shaking her head in agreement.

A few moments later, Don had weaseled out of Heathcliff’s grasp and took her lance from Meursault’s care with a heartfelt thanks.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Within the hour, Don and Heathcliff were sitting on the floor in the blonde fixer’s room, a thermos of tea in Heathcliff’s hand and two cups in the other alongside a collection of sugar packets and a stirring straw..

“Sorry to intrude on your flat, but my spot isn’t… pleasant for visitors at the moment.” Heathcliff muttered as he placed the thermos and cups on the floor.

“Worry not! Mine own accommodations are rather messy as well! Fear no judgement from me!” Don happily exclaimed, gesturing to her eclectic collection of objects around the room.

“That’s not-” Heathcliff began before letting out a chuckle and speaking once more to say “Thanks lass, that means a good deal more than you think.”

“Thou art welcome!” Don said with a smile as she popped open the lid of the thermos to pour the tea into both cups with a level of care and concentration that was rarely found on her face before she grabbed the sugar packets and dumped them into her cup and then used the straw to dissolve the sugar.

“Now then, time to get down to business. What in the world had you so down in the dumps earlier?” the scarred man asked as he picked up his own cup.

At the same time Don held her cup with both hands as she mulled over her thoughts before speaking.

“There is someone I wished to court. However, I… was rather forward when I saw them last and kissed them unprompted…”

Heathcliff had to fight down the chuckle that formed in his throat before he spoke.

“That’s all? A snog? To me it sounds like you didn't do anything too wrong.”

“I… perhaps. Still, one typically sends poems and flowers before a kiss do they not?” the blonde woman asked, her voice a great deal more timid and unsure than usual.

“Well, yeah but… sometimes it's better to do away with stuff like that and just come out and say how you feel. Sides, courtin is for folk with not a whole lot goin on between the ears. Trust me, I would know better than most bout’ that.” Heathcliff mused before taking a sip of his tea and letting out a hum.

Don went quiet for a long moment as she thought of Heathcliff's words, looking down into her half finished cup of tea.

And in response, Heathcliff simply waited and drank his tea, refilling his cup as needed.

Then, Don Quixote came to a decision.

“I think you are right, good Sir Heathcliff! Come the morrow I shall ask our valorous manager for the day off and seek out the one my heart is set on!” she exclaimed, her energy and joy returning.

And, though he would suffer the pain of death thousands of times over before admitting it, seeing this brought a smile to Heathcliff’s face.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“In light of recent events with T Corp and the Time Killer alongside the fact that Vergillius is in a good mood, we have the rest of today off!” Dante declared joyously

At the same time, Charon looked back at the bus and said “Be quiet Tick-Tock. Verg is in a big bad mood.”

“In light of recent events with T Corp and the Time Killer, alongside the fact that Vergillius is in a bad mood, we have the rest of today off.” Dante quietly corrected themself.

However, by the time the words left Dante’s clock, a certain member of their crew was already out the door and running towards the heart of the color drained piece of the city.

“Ha! Looks like the lass is keepin true to her word.” Heathcliff of all people said with a chuckle.

“Love is a truly beautiful thing. Fleet of foot it may be, those who grasp its form and hold tight are blessed eternally.” Yi Sang mused as he looked towards the slowly disappearing form of Don Quixote.

“What?” Dante muttered, confused not by Don’s sudden flight, but by the fact this seemed to be something Heathcliff was expecting.

“Nothin. Oi! Bird! I’m guessin you're gonna be headin’ off to the hair salon?” Heathcliff jabbed at Ishmael, ignoring the Manager of their little group.

“Fuck you Heathcliff! At least I didn’t put us all in the Middle’s shit list by stealing coupons.” was all Ishmael said in response.

Briefly, Gregor looked as if he was going to correct Ishmael by pointing out their scrap with the Twinhook Pirates but was stopped with a glare from the red headed woman.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Don soared through the streets, her feet finding themselves more in the air than upon the ground as she sought you out.

In the process she… may or may not have had to run across the roof’s of a few cars, nearly trampled some poor citizens, and almost ran face first into a pole…

Still, it was all in service of a good cause!

She just… needed to find a certain Fixer!

Don rounded a corner, her noble steed skidding on the sidewalk from her haste.

Then she was off, slipping through the crowd and towards the place she saw you last.

Had she thought about what she was going to say?

Not a single letter.

Had she considered your confusion at her actions?

Briefly.

Had she mused over Heathcliff’s advice?

Most definitely.

Had she wondered if what she was going to do was right?

She had agonized over it.

But now was not the time for second guessing or hesitation.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Why am I letting you lay on my nice office carpet?” the collector asked, his eyes peeking over the file in his hand.

“Because you're a good person?” you mumbled, your arm over your eyes as you lounged on the floor.

“That is most certainly not it.” the collector said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, it sounded wrong as soon as I said it out loud.” you sighed before reaching up to the desk and pulling yourself up.

You then promptly flopped into the chair opposite of the collector.

A quiet moment passed before either of you spoke.

“So… any chance T Corp has figured out how to rewind time?” you asked as you massaged your left temple, exhaustion clear on your face.

“That is above my pay grade. If you wish to make an inquiry about such subjects I recommend speaking to R&D.” the collector answered simply and succinctly.

“Meh, I probably shouldn’t. If I went through that again I might actually become a vegetable.” you muttered in response.

“Hmm. I agree. You have taken up my office floor for the past ten hours.” The Collector stated, a slightly irritated edge clear in his voice.

“Yeah… thanks for that.” you grumbled before standing, your joints popping and cracking as you did.

“Thank me by getting out of my office and not wandering the prison blocks like a concussed lemming.” was all the mechanical man said in response.

In turn you simply said “Fair enough.” before walking towards the door and leaving the rather irritated collector to his devices.

Still, it wasn’t the worst place you had spent a night in. A solid 7 out of 10. The carpets were surprisingly soft.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Ugh, I could murder a plate of breakfast right now, some Orange juice would be nice as well.” you grumbled with a yawn as you stepped out from the artificially purified air of the T-Corp office to the exceedingly polluted air of The City.

Stretching your arm over your head as you walked down the steps of the office, you began to consider where you should stop for a bite.

“I remember hearing that there was a good diner somewhere around here. There’s also that bakery I passed on my way over, mix that with a quick run to the market and I should be able to cobble something together that could pass for food. Then again, I could probably find a HamHamPangPang with a bit of looking…” you muttered to yourself as you stepped off of the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

However, before you could further deliberate on your choice of meal, you heard a shout.

“HARK GOOD FIXER!!! I REQUIRE THINE EARS!!!”

You turned to look at where the noise came from just in time to see a blur of yellow before being knocked off your feet when something crashed into you.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Don, for her part, had the decency to at least look a tad embarrassed in the booth across from you as she held the ice pack over her bruised eye.

“You and I really need to stop meeting like this.” you said with a chuckle that you immediately regretted when the bruise you received from Don crashing right into your chest was jostled by the movement.

“W-what dost thou mean?” Don asked, confusion and a little bit of apprehension in her gaze.

“Every time we meet one or both of us always seems to get a little banged up after the fact.” you responded, the grimace on your face turning to a grin.

“Oh! I see.” Don muttered, going quiet once more and just in time for the waitress to walk up to the table.

“Anything I can get you two? We’re doing our breakfast special today, a breakfast crescent ring with syrup.” the waitress asked, raising her notepad and pen.

“Oh! That sounds pretty good! I’ll have the breakfast special with OJ, some extra hashbrowns, a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, a few muffins, french toast, and some breakfast burritos with chorizo on the side. Thanks.” you responded, earning an eyebrow raise from the waitress.

“You… are… welcome!” the waitress said as she speedily noted down your order before turning her attention to Don and asking “What about you miss?”

“I-i will have the same as my compatriot here! but please change the Orange Juice for milk and you need not worry about an accompanying dish of chorizo for me!” Don exclaimed, her mind being slingshotted down from the stormy clouds she had it stuck in and right back into her still nervous form.

“You got it. Also… if two of you don’t mind me asking… are the two of you Fixers?” the waitress asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Yes ma’am. I’m curious, what gave it away?” you responded with a smile.

“Well, you are walking around with a gun and not many folk do that. That and typically it's only Fixer’s and highly augmented people that make big orders like this.” the waitress responded truthfully, a smile forming on her face before saying “With that said, I better hand your order off to the kitchen.” and walking away from the booth.

Unfortunately for Don, this also meant that your attention was now solely focused on her poor blonde head.

“So then, I… think you and I need to have a talk while we’re waiting on the food.” you told the blonde haired woman before you as you shifted around in your seat, trying and failing to get comfortable.

“I… concur. However, before we begin, I would like to speak my reasoning for seeking thou out so early in the morn. Is that agreeable with thee?” Don asked, nervously fiddling with the pins on her coat.

You nodded, allowing Don to have the lead in this conversation neither of you were truly prepared to have.

Don began to speak, or attempted to at least, as instead of words it came out in the form of stuttering gibberish that she stopped right in the middle of before taking a deep breath and trying once again.

“I do not regret the action I took last night. What I do regret is that I was unable to spend the time after with you to explain why I did it. So, using the time I have with thee now, I shall begin to do so.” Don began before sitting up straight and looking you in the eyes for the first time since last night; taking on a far more elegant and composed appearance than you had ever seen from her.

“If I may be so bold, I would like to say this. I think quite highly of thee, not just as a Fixer, but as a person. You have been exceptionally understanding of not just my fellows, but my own self as well and that has felt… nice. Nay, not just nice, it has felt wonderful. Many people find me to be far too much of… everything. They try to hide it as best they can, alas, I can always tell. Yet, of the times we have met, not once have I seen the look that most others have when they meet me. Quite the opposite in fact, you seem to welcome my presence and that is something I am truly astonished by. That astonishment has, over time, transformed into admiration, and then… into the thing that made me kiss thee last night. Something I believe to be genuine attraction.” Don explained, a nervous smile forming on her face as she spoke.

In response, you had to ask yourself a question before you could speak to the woman before you, one you had labeled as a force of nature.

The question was this.

“Do I feel the same?”

Near instantly, your mind supplied dozens and dozens of instances where you’ve caught yourself thinking about her, or listening for any scrap of news about her, or seeing something that made you go “That reminds me of Don Quixote”.

You had your answer.

And saying it would be far easier than loading that bullet was.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As you walked out the door of the Diner, Don right next to you, you realized something.

You had no fucking clue to do next.

Should you try and hold her hand? Should you play it cool? Should you ignore that strange feeling in the pit of your stomach?

Thankfully, before you continued to spiral into choice paralysis, Don swooped in to save the day by wrapping her arm around yours with a massive smile.

And so, with Don Quixote’s arm wrapped around your own and your wallet a fair bit lighter, the two of you were off to nowhere in particular, simply allowing your feet to carry you along the path Don was dragging you.

“Y’know, if you smile any bigger your head will probably fall off.” you joked with a small chuckle in your voice.

“Truly? Tis would be a pleasant death in my eyes!” Don exclaimed, entirely serious despite the joy in her voice which only served to elicit a laugh from deep within you.

After that, the two of you began to chitter and chatter about everything and nothing.

Don seeing shapes in Ishmael’s hair, you wondering if Dante’s flames could be considered hair, Don mentioning the time Yi Sang tried to eat a poisonous potato, you telling Don about how you ended up as a fixer and dozens of other things.

However, in the middle of it all, Don stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked right into a store window before bolting into it, leaving you stunned and confused.

A minute later, the living whirlwind returned, a bag in hand that she handed to you.

Inside of it?

A pair of iron spurs.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Your every step was now paired with a metallic clink, courtesy of the spurs Don had gifted you.

“It seems mine eyes were true! You do look quite dashing with those spurs!” the blonde fixer declared, her arm still wrapped around your own.

You could feel your face grow a little bit hotter at Don’s words.

“I… thank you for the compliment Don.” was your response to her words while you fought against the urge to wear a proud smile on your face.

“No need for thanks, I am simply speaking the truth!” Don exclaimed as Mephistopheles appeared on the path, the rest of the Sinners either returning to the bus such as Rodya and Gregor who she seemed to have dragged along to carry bags at the same time as Heathcliff and Dante who were returning from the mansion or sitting out in front of the bus such as Yi Sang and Sinclair who were playing chess while Hong Lu read a book, Ishmael played solitaire, and Outis and Meursault were silently guarding the door as Ryoshu brushed up on her more traditional art skills with paint and canvas as Faust tinkered with random pieces of Mephistopheles. At the same time, Vergiillius was sitting in the front passenger seat next to Charon who was quietly snoozing as the Red Gaze looked at the slowly setting sun.

It was a… peaceful sight and most definitely not something you could ever associate with the band of mad bastards in the LCB unless you saw it for yourself.

It was also at this time that Don stopped walking, a pensive expression replacing her massive smile.

“It seems… that our day must come to an end…” Don muttered sadly, the arm that she had wrapped around you all day moving down so she could hold your hand.

“Yeah… welp, I guess we’ll just have to have twice as much fun on the next day we get together.” You responded, gently squeezing her hand.

This returned the smile to Don’s face and movement to her feet as, once more, you were being dragged along by the living tornado that was the small blonde Fixer before you.

And… you couldn’t say that you disliked the feeling.

“HARK!!! HARK MY DEAR FRIENDS AND COMRADES!!! I HATH RETURNED!!! WE SHALL HAVE A MOST HONORED GUEST AT DINNER TONIGHT!!!” Don shouted, waving her free hand in the air as her walk became a run that you had to keep up with unless you wanted to actually be dragged across the ground.

“EVENING EVERYONE!!!” You shouted alongside her, doing your best to keep in tune with Don’s pace.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Aww… Little Chiquita looks so happy.” Rodya whispered with a dramatic sniffle as she looked out through the window and at you and Don saying your goodbyes.

“You're probably not supposed to spyin on em, Rodya.” Gregor stated, punctuating his words with a nudge.

“The lass’s got someone she fancies, y’all don’t gotta be all shocked about it.” Heathcliff muttered with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile on his face.

“You say that but you were the one to look the happiest about her partner in crime.” Ishmael jabbed, making Heathcliff stutter and stumble over his words.

“Hmm… G.J.D.Q.” Ryoshu whispered to herself, a slightly less sadistic smirk on her face than usual.

Sinclair, of course, heard this but decided it was in his best interest to not translate.

At the same time, Rodya suddenly dropped from her position at the window, startling poor Gregor.

A few short moments later, Don walked back on the bus and she was practically glowing.

“That was sickening. But… congratulations, Don Quixote.” Vergillius muttered as she passed his seat, earning a few shocked looks from the sinners.

“gasp Is there actually a heart underneath that prickly shell?” Rodya exclaimed, earning a dirty look from Gregor that seemed to say “Don’t be a smartass to the guy who can turn us into meaty jello”.

“Oi! Bird! Is the world comin to an end?” Heathcliff shouted at Ishmael and received a shrug in response.

“One who wraps a heart in stone often-” Yi Sang began before receiving a glare from their guide that made him become exceedingly interested in the seams of the seat he was sitting on.

“I… Thank you! Sir Vergillius!” Don exclaimed with a wide smile.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

After that wonderful day, You and Don come up with a schedule.

Every day at the same time, come rain or shine, you would receive a call from Don or she would receive a call from you.

Neither of you had much free time due to your jobs, but you both carved out a little bit for each other.

The two of you would talk about the little things, about the interesting things seen, about the minor annoyances that alway seemed to pile up on the worst days.

It went on like this for a while, and every so often you would hear the others give a greeting, or cause some sort of chaos.

It was needless to say which one you heard most often.

But then, one day, after one of those shifts where nothing seemed to go right and the City itself was out to make you slam your head into a wall out of frustration, you received a call a fair bit earlier than usual.

Assuming that Don had gotten off early, your heart soared and you could feel the stress begin to fall off of you.

However, when you picked the phone up, the stress was nearly instantly replaced by fear and concern as, before a single word could escape your mouth, Don spoke.

"Allow me to ask… if I became a monster that eats others… could you find it in your heart to still love me?" Was the first thing you heard from Don’s voice over the phone.

"I… of course I would still love you, but I would also have to try and stop you and… that would break my heart." you answered truthfully, the pit in your stomach only growing.

"I see. Thank you, that was the answer I was hoping for." was all that Don said before the call disconnected, making your unease grow into fear.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As Ishmael’s head was separated from her neck by Sancho’s arrow and Yi Sang was split and half by her sword, Dante was contemplating taking a brick and smashing their clock face into it.

The urge to use all of the nasty and unpleasant words they had learned from Ishmael, Heathcliff, and Ryoshu was becoming stronger and stronger with each passing second and with each sinner that was dismembered.

It was obvious that they had no hope of managing to fight her off, especially considering how she shredded through even the strongest of the Identities with ease.

Dante returned their gaze to the battlefield and wanted to sob at what they saw.

Only two sinners remained, Hong Lu and Heathcliff, both of whom were one strong breeze away from keeling over.

Heathcliff’s left arm was a mangled mess of bone and his entrails were being kept from falling out by what Dante assumed to be sheer force of will.

At the same time, the right side of Hong Lu’s face looked as if it had been next to an explosion and considering the fact that shard’s of Gregor’s spine was lodged into it, that might as well have been true. Thankfully, his arms and legs were still functional, but the hole through his torso that was roughly the size of a Billiard Ball and the labored breathing that was slowly turning to a gurgle told Dante that Hong Lu was currently drowning in his own blood.

If they managed to survive this, Dante would be sure to do something nice for him.

However, with every passing second that If was becoming bigger and bigger.

Especially when Heathcliff charged in and was promptly sliced into four pieces, leaving Hong Lu alone.

A split second later, Sancho had ripped Hong Lu’s spear arm off before tearing his head off with the same ease typically reserved for opening a cabinet or grabbing some leftovers out of the fridge.

And then, only Dante was left.

Needless to say, they were doing their best to come up with some form of last words that weren’t some variation of “Fuck My Life”.

Then Sancho raised her lance and pointed it at the crimson clad manager of Limbus Company.

In response, all Dante said was “Oh! It gets worse. Yay.”

At the same time, Dante could swear they heard some form of metal clinking from behind them, however, more pressing events were holding their attention such as the lance that was about to run them through in a few seconds.

And so, Dante closed what they called their eyes to make their peace.

But then, a sound that could only be described as screaming reached their ears.

“Sorry Dante, your show isn’t over just yet. You and your clowns got a few stops left on tour.” you told the clock headed being as you held back Sancho’s lance with your gun, sparks flying as she tried to pierce through your weapon.

Dante was, understandably, shocked by this.

“I- wha- how!?” Dante screeched and ticked and whistled.

“Sorry. Don’t speak clock. Get out of here while you can. Bring back up if possible.” You grunted as you continued to try and hold Sancho back, but being pushed back in the process.

A split second later, Dante was running as fast as their legs could carry them.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Now, it was time… time to try and fight D-

No.

Not her.

This isn’t anyone you know right now, this is a target and you are on a job.

Primary Objective: Keep the target from killing Dante.

Secondary Objective: Live to tell the tale.

The target placed its second hand on the lance, further increasing the pressure you were holding back and, although you knew Dante had yet to fully get out of the target zone, you were being pushed back and were about to be overwhelmed.

“Desperate times, desperate measures.” you muttered to yourself before enacting your half baked plan that would have any Fixer moderately concerned about their well being taking a mental facepalm in shock of your stupidity.

However, before you could realize how absolutely mentally deficient your next action was, you slipped to the side and under the target’s lance and, at the same time, you raised your gun over your shoulder and towards the head of your opponent before firing twice, not truly expecting the bullets to find their targets but hoping that it would return control of the longer range towards yourself for a moment in an attempt to get your bearings. Not to mention you were hoping that it would keep the target focused on you instead of Dante.

At the same time, the bullets you fired at your target only managed to slip through its hair and so, in response, it swung its lance in a wide arc towards you that you only just barely managed to avoid having your eyes carved out by but, unfortunately, not the tip of the weapon slicing open the area from under your left eye and to under the right being sliced open down to the bone.

You barely even felt the wound open, your skin just gave way like paper before a sharp pair of scissors.

“It would be best to avoid getting hit unless I wanted to give my entrails some heavily polluted air.” you briefly thought to yourself as the familiar but unpleasant taste of iron reached your tongue.

However, for better or for worse, your target was now focused on you due to your retaliation.

Strangely though, it did not press the attack. It simply looked… not at you but past you.

Then, it spoke.

“I… do not wish to fight you.”

You let out a sigh before responding, your gun lowered to your side.

“Neither do I but… someone quite dear to me asked me a question a few hours ago. She asked me “If I became a monster that ate others, would you still love me?” and in response I told her that I would, but I would have to stop her and that it would break my heart to do so.”

Then, with a speed one would only typically find in lightning, you raised your gun and fired three shots.

Surprised, the target raised its lance, deflecting two of the shots but taking the third straight into her gut and forcing it to stagger back in shock at your sudden assault.

Pressing this advantage, you rushed forward, your free hand grabbing a handful of dirt, rocks, and other pieces of debris that you then threw into its eyes, blinding her for a moment that you used to fire your knee into the fresh wound before blasting three more shots into it all of which connected and sent it further backwards until it stabbed its lance into the ground, stopping the momentum you had forced onto it.

Then, it spoke once more.

“I see. It seems neither of us will be swayed.”

The target then raised its lance and stood up straight, the wounds you had inflicted slowly closing before your very eyes.

This was all the warning you received before, in the blink of an eye, the head of its lance was a split second from piercing your skull.

With less than no time to spare, you managed to avoid the blow. Receiving a new gash on your cheek in the process.

However, this was exactly what the target wanted as blood flowed into its empty hand, forming a sword before swinging it upwards, cutting a deep gash from your hip to your shoulder that immediately spouted blood onto the face of your attacker.

However, the look in its eyes told you all that you needed to know.

It had meant to slice you in two, but for some reason it couldn’t follow through.

Intending to rectify this mistake, it swung the blade down onto where your neck was a microsecond before.

Unfortunately for it, you had already leapt back and aimed your revolver, firing off several shots in quick sucsession. All of which it simply sliced out of the air with its sword.

Landing on your back and rolling back into a crouch, you raised your revolver as you placed your free hand over the deep wound you had just been gifted.

“Damn it all. Things are already going blurry.” you thought to yourself as you removed your hand from the wound and briefly hazarded a glance at your hand which, to your perspective, seemed to be multiplying.

Blood loss is a real bitch.

However, before you had much time to contemplate your next move, you heard the target speak.

“La Aventura Ha Terminado…”

You could feel the world change and the blood seeping from your wound being drawn away from you. Not to mention that the already dwindling and limited supply of blood in your body was being pulled in as well.

You forced your eyes to look up despite the fact that things had stopped going blurry and were now actively fading into black.

However, you still retained enough of your sight to see what was occurring before you.

What could only be described as a tornado of blood was forming in D- the target’s hand. Blood was being drawn from the earth, from the corpses of the sinners strewn about the battlefield, and from your own body into the singularity.

And so, despite the fact thoughts themselves were becoming difficult, you forced yourself to speak.

“Prepare a grave: Django…”

The spectral bandolier of bullets wrapped around your arm and over your shoulder once more for what you were sure to be the final time as you lined up the barrel of the gun with the heart of the target.

Every single fiber of your being was shutting down now.

You could feel your heart attempt to pump what was not there. You could feel your lungs try and oxygenate blood that, quite simply, didn’t exist in your body.

And yet, you still had strength for one more action.

One more pull of the trigger.

No hesitation could be had, no mistakes can be made.

“Farewell, my dearest love.” the target stated as the tornado took its form, a lance more than double her-

Damn it all.

“Adios, my most beloved knight.” was all you had left in you to say.

She leveled her lance at you, and charged.

You allowed your eyes to close, and pulled the trigger.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Things were dark for a long, long while.

You could catch snippets of words and conversations every now and then.

Half were technical gibberish you couldn’t understand, the others were so divorced from the context behind them they might as well be in a different language.

Eventually though, you managed to find the strength to open your eyes.

And the first thing you saw… were a pair of blood red eyes.

“So then, the dead have finally awakened.” Vergilius grumbled, doing his utmost best to mask the miniscule amount of relief he felt with a massive amount of irritation.

“Where-” You attempted to sit up but a wave of dizziness that made you feel like the entire world was on spin cycle put a stop to that.

“Where’s Don?” you asked after the world stabilized.

“She’s more than likely still locked up in her room. She hasn’t left since the mess in La Manchaland was put to a stop.” Vergillius answered before standing up from his chair.

“Rest for a moment. I’ll send one of the others to guide you to her later on.” the Color Fixer ordered, leaving no room for argument or retort before walking out of the room.

And so, seeing as the slightest movement currently made your whole world spin and shake, you did exactly what you were ordered to.

Lay down, and rest.

Sure, your mind was moving a million miles a minute, and you really wanted to have the comforting weight of your Gun right now, but there was nothing you could do.

It took all of five minutes for you to try and stand up again despite the world feeling like it was in a fucking blender.

Briefly, you mused that Don’s nature rubbed off on you.

However, before you had much time to think on that, you felt your legs give out from under you and you mentally prepared yourself to eat a nice helping of the floor.

Instead, you fell into someone that smelled faintly of sea, smoke, and iron.

“Outis?” you mumbled drearily as she guided you to sit on the edge of the bed you had woken up in.

“It seems it was a good thing the Manager asked me to check up on you. Yi Sang and Faust would be unhappy if all the hard work they did to keep you stable long enough for more extreme measures to arrive were tossed to the wayside.” the older woman told you as she pulled up the seat Vergilius was previously sitting in and reaching into her jacket, eventually pulling out a gun and offering it to you.

Your gun.

“Thank you for keeping an eye on it.” you said in thanks as you took it from her hand.

“Thanks are not needed. In the Smoke War those firearms were issued to officers but you seem a bit young to have served. I assume you found it somewhere?” Outis explained as she straightened her uniform.

“Yeah… under a dumpster about a year ago. Then the White Days And Dark Nights happened and… boom, an EGO by the name of Django for me. All thanks to this gun, and a single bullet.” you briefly recounted as you turned the gun over in your hands, earning a hum from Outis.

However, before the conversation continued any further, you heard a knock at the door.

“Come in!” you shouted, much to the aggravation of your still recovering body.

A moment later, Yi Sang stepped through the door.

“Good evening. Vergillius asked me to be your guide to Don Quixote’s room. He also told me to not make any puns lest I wish to suffer the pain of a thousand deaths.” Yi Sang declared with a stone face before smiling slightly and saying “Kidding.” which earned him a nasty look from Outis.

“I appreciate the thought, Yi Sang but…” you began before trailing off.

“A strong wind would be the death of you, much less supporting someone else’s weight.” Outis finished the thought, making Yi Sang’s shoulder’s droop slightly.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Three minutes and much headache later, you were being guided by Outis as Yi Sang struggled to help you along, his already pale face growing paler with every step.

You were pretty sure that by the time he got to Don’s room he would be about ready to keel over.

This prediction turned out to be true as, the second he had you propped up against the wall, he collapsed into a heap, taking in deep and ragged breaths.

Outis knocked on the door and received no response before trying the door, only to fail in the process of opening as it was locked.

Outis then gestured at the door, inviting you to attempt opening it.

A few moments later, you stood in front of the door and fired your gun before pounding on the door and shouting “Hey! You’ve got a visitor!”.

A split second later, as you were part way through pounding on the door, it opened and you fell into the room, chased by the shout of Outis and the wheezing screech of Yi Sang before they were blocked by the door slamming shut.

“Ugh, hello there Don.” you groaned as you rolled onto your back to face the woman who had put you in the infirmary, and the woman you had a great deal of affection for.

“W-why are sniff you here!?” Don attempted to shout, but her voice was far too hoarse from crying to attempt that.

“Well, someone exceedingly dear to me was in immense trouble and-” you began before being interrupted.

“NO! Why are you HERE!? Why did you come looking for me!? I nearly KILLED you!” Don screamed, tears now continuously streaming down her face.

You summoned all the strength you had left in you and forced yourself to your feet with a smile on your face before answering.

“Like I said, someone dear to me was in trouble. Besides, I promised her that she and I would have a nice day out when we got the chance.”

Don balled up her fists and looked down at her feet as she let out another body shuddering sob.

And then, in the blink of an eye, you were tackled to the ground, all of the air in you knocked out as Don screamed and sobbed into your chest.

And in response? You did the only thing you could.

You held her close, and you let her scream, and sob, and cry, until she couldn’t anymore.

And when she’s ready, you’ll help her up as many times as it takes because…

You know that she’d do the same for you.

Hell, she probably will one day.

And when that day inevitably comes, you know that she’ll be infinitely better at this than you are.

Why?

Because she’s The Valorous Fixer, Don Quixote.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

Pretty like poetry ◦ l.f

-felix always tended to hate the freckles that adorned his face, believing they were blemishes that deserved to be hidden under layers of foundation, but what will he do when you convince him that his freckles were pretty—pretty like poetry?

Paring◦ Lee Felix x Fem!Reader

Words◦ 2681

Genre ◦ Fluff with i think some hurt and comfort low on the hurt heavy on the comfort

Warnings ◦ Felix being kinda dramatic, he's also really insecure(felt), Weird dialogue (I wrote this half alseep please bare with me, babes), honestly there's nothing in here but some cute hurt and comfort where you spend the night at his house and you catch him barefaced🤷, spelling errors and shitty punctuation (you're on my page what's new).

A/N ◦ to all the people that say felix's freckles are like stars I promise I'm not targeting you guys I'm just yapping and that's what my brain came up with please don't like come at me 😭🙏 this is just a silly little fic I wrote to try to practice my "poetry" skills idk what half of this is but hey what can you do 🤷 also I really fuck with the mood board on this REMBER IF YOU LIKE IT PLEASE TELL ME I GET REALLY INSECURE ABOUT MY WRITING okay enough yapping for one night hope you enjoy pretty <3

Your relationship with Felix was still budding like a freshly planted flower, waiting for the petals to unfurl. You liked Felix. You really, really liked Felix, but there were still a few things you hadn't done with him yet, like bake brownies, sit under the stars while you secretly stared at him instead of the sky, shared an ice cream cone under the hot summer sun, but spending the night at his house was long past due, especially after the 4-hour movie night filled with giggles, kisses, and popcorn being thrown all over the place, your throat was still sore from the amount of laughing you two were partaking in. He made you feel safe, happy, loved, and that's all that matters right now, that, and when he shyly offered for you to spend the night, how could you refuse, with his red ears and fidgeting fingers making you just want to fold him up and stuff him in your pocket, never letting the gross evil world dull his sparkle.

You rub the towel over your hair before hanging it back up on the rack and walking out into the bedroom, fresh from your shower. You smirk, noticing the way his eyes widen, scraping over your body, adorned with the baggy clothes he lent you.

He isn't getting these back.

You flop onto the bed, bouncing into his arms.

"Hi darling," he beams, looking down at you with sparkling eyes and, well, sparkling cheeks too. You squint, wondering if what you were suspecting was true. As he tilts his face away from yours, you notice it in the glint of the light.

He still has his makeup on.

You furrow your brows. "Are you going to take your makeup off?" You ask, words feeling heavy on your tongue.

"Oh," his eyes linger away from yours. "No, I'm too tired," he smiles, but it's weak, fitting weird on his mouth. Concern worms its way into your bones.

“You shouldn't leave makeup on your face overnight, Felix; it can hurt your skin,” you say, carefully grazing a finger over his smooth cheek. He grabs your wrist gingerly, watching you with wide, glittering eyes.

“I just want to hold you right now. Can I do that?" You stare at him cautiously, debating whether you should press the issue further. “Please,” he whispers. You can tell in the soft hues of his irises; he's begging you to drop it, so you do, reluctantly, of course.

“Fine,” you sigh, your eyelids drooping as you pull the covers over your shoulders, shimming into the mattress to get comfortable. His muscular arm wraps around your waist, dragging you into his warm chest.

“Don't be mad, please,” he mumbles, leaving soft kisses on the top of your head. You turn over to face him, your brows turned in worry.

"I'm not mad, I promise Lix, I just don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

“Trust me, darling, I'm anything but uncomfortable, especially with my beautiful girlfriend lying in the same bed as me.” He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His deep voice makes your cheeks flare with heat, flustered beyond what should be scientifically possible.

“Will you stop trying to rizz me up and go to bed?" You shriek into his shirt, he chuckles, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest.

"Rizz is an interesting word to use; I like that, actually."

"Turn the light off." You whine, pulling the cloth over your eyes.

"Flustered, baby?" He teases.

Oh, it's on.

He wants to battle; he's getting the whole war.

You don't know what came over you as you snaked your hand under the hem of his tee shirt, running your fingers across the hard ridges of his abs. His breath hitches in his throat. You tilt your chin up, resting it on his chest.

“Flustered, baby?” Your tone is smooth and sultry, his eyes are screwed up, lip curled into his teeth.

“Baby,” he chokes as you slip your hand higher.

"You sure you don't wanna turn off that light?"

"Yep, yes, on that r-right now," he stutters, scrambling to turn off the lights, especially as heat crawls up his ears, flushing across his cheeks. You giggle as the room spills into darkness, butterflies filling your stomach when he pulls your head back on his chest.

"You know, I'm surprised I still have a neck with the amount of whiplash you just gave me. I mean, there you were, all red cheeks and all of a sudden boom! Fingers, abs, and me, red cheeks," he rambles, squeezing you closer. "Your duality is truly insane."

You chuckle, loving the way his body engulfs you, pulling you under the waves of warmth and slumber. Silence creeps between the two of you until-

“Thank you for staying,” He whispers.

"Always.” You manage to utter right before-

You

D r o w n.

You don't remember when you woke up or what got you to the bathroom; you just know you're there, and with the need to pee becoming pretty overwhelming without thinking, you go to turn the knob.

"Wait," Felix screeches, slamming his body against the door.

 “Fuck Felix” You jump back, your heart practically hopping out of your chest. You gasp, holding yourself onto the door frame. If you were even a little bit sleepy then, you are wide the fuck awake now, your heart still thumping wildly in your ribcage.

“I need to pee. Can I come in?”

“No! Don't come in here, please!” He begs.

“Why? Felix, you only have one bathroom; if we aren’t close enough to use the bathroom in front of each other, that's fine. I just really need to pee. Now, can I please come in?”

He stops, waits for a few moments.

“You can’t turn on the light, and you have to shut your eyes."

“Felix, what?” You ask, exasperated, almost ready to just open the door and make him explain why he's tripping balls over something so trivial as using the bathroom. “What's really going on?” You're met with silence before a small whisper lingers from behind the wood. You could almost see it, his insecure frame curled into itself.

"I'm barefaced." Your gaze softens

"Felix,” you chuckle, “do you really think I care about something like that, especially at this time of night I can barely see my toes, let alone you, please?” You beg, your voice airy and light trying to dull is anxiety for the sake of your bladder and his dignity. “I'm coming in.” You turn the knob, but its quickly met with the door locking.

"No, stop it, y/n, I'm serious."

"What's the matter with you?" You huff, annoyance creeping into your veins, no matter how hard you push it back.

"I'm not ready to show you what I look like without makeup yet, okay!" He snaps, aggravated over something that seems so trivial to you. He should know you would never care about something as shallow as his bareface. He's gorgeous, with or without makeup. You know that, apparently, he doesn't.

"Felix," You sigh, your voice Is laced with sympathy, hoping to coax him out of this insecure rut he has himself in.

"Please," You lean your head on the door. Sometimes you wish you could serve him your heart on a silver platter—show him that it will only ever beat for him. Then, maybe, it would be enough to prove that no matter what he looks like under all those layers of foundation, it will never be enough to cut the little red string that ties your souls together.

The gears of the lock click under your hand.

"Okay, ground rules, before you can come in-"

You groan, banging your forehead on the frame.

"Felix," you whine, "I'm not kidding, I really need to pee."

"Y/n please," he whimpers, a desperate tilt in his voice, you can almost taste the anxiety in his tone, you cave, your heart cracking in two.

"Okay… You can't laugh at me-" You scoff, folding your arms in front of your chest defensively.

"You know I would never do that I-"

"See that's the thing! No, I don't, okay, I don't, so it's taking everything in me to open this door, so, please," his voice cracks slightly, "just let me say my piece... no laughing, no comments," he stops for a second as though he's thinking up another bullet to add to the list. "O-Okay, I think that's all," he says, words tumbling out in a nervous rush. You hear footsteps moving away from the door.

"Is it safe to come in?" You ask.

"Yeah," he clears his throat, anxiously. You pull the door open carefully, easing your way into the threshold, acting like you're walking into an active warzone. As soon as you reach the edge of the door, a hand covers your eyes.

He doesn't know why he did it; in a nervous fit of insecurity, he slapped his palm over your face.

"Felix," you yelp, "what the hell!"

"I-Im sorry, I-I just-" He feels so stupid—so pathetic—wondering why hes acting so childish about something as simple his bare face.

"Felix, can you take your hand off my eyes." He knows you don't mean it mockingly, but the way you tilt your words like you're talking to a rabid dog or an anxious toddler, makes embarrassment rip in the pit of his stomach.

"Fine," he mumbles taking his hand off your face, "J-Just remember! No laughing and no comments, o-okay, promise me!"

"I promise." You mutter as your lashes flutter open.

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, eyes darting to the floor. The last fraying string of courage he's desperately grasping at is enough for his feet to stick to the floor, but definitely not enough for him to look into your eyes. Heat crawls up his cheeks under your gaze, curling into himself—he feels so foolish like this—anxiety flooding his stomach, making his hands shake behind his back, something so minuscule, and yet he's having such a physical reaction.

You assess him, taking him all in, and as your lingering gaze stays on his face for a few seconds too long, he wants to die, fold himself up a million times. Just enough so you wouldn't look at him like that, just so he could ease the burning sense of vulnerability that rages underneath his skin.

Why are you looking at him like that?

Why aren't you saying anything?

He really wishes he didn't make that no-comment rule because now you're here, and you're looking at him, and you're perfect, and you're not saying anything.

You raise a finger to graze the freckle, which just rests underneath the fragile skin of his eye. His breath hitches, flinching away from your touch.

"Your beautiful, Felix." you gasp, voice filled with sincerity.

what?

 The earth tilts on its axis as he stares at you like you're the biggest dummy on the whole planet.

"Really?" his voice trembles with the weight of his vulnerability. It shouldn't be this big of a deal; one simple Google search and you'd be flooded with images of a barefaced Felix, but seeing it in person seemed more real, more raw. It's easy to be vulnerable behind a screen of faceless, screaming fans, but when it's you, it's different. No matter how much your eyes fill with admiration, his thick skull can't seem to sink it in, the weight of his insecurity blocking all contact with the truth. 

For years, he was told that his freckles were blemishes—that his skin needed to be flawless, a pristine, perfect white; Grade school, trainie camp, JYP studios, every fan-sign, photoshoot, concert, and music video. It felt like everywhere he looked, he was being judged, but getting it from you would feel like a paper cut turned bullet wound. 

"Your pretty Felix, but, b-but-" You search for the words, but they can't seem to come to you, an unfathomable emotion sinking into your soul.

"B-But, but what?" he stammers, nervously wrapping trembling fingers around your wrist to pull your hand away.

"I don't know how to describe it" you whisper, brows scrunched in such a deep concentration it makes him sink into himself, wishing you weren't looking at him so hard, like he was a puzzle you were trying to solve. Time seems to blur between the two of you; nothing else mattering, but the beating of your heart and the words you are trying to weave together in an attempt to make a metaphor viable enough to suit what you are trying to express, but you always came up short—sentences seeming superficial, inept, under your careful consideration.

You always knew he had freckles, the way they would shine underneath thick layers of foundation when the sun hit his face just right; they had always reminded you of stars, but stars felt overused, worn out.

Stars died.

Stars faded.

Stars were a million miles away.

Stars were something physical, but what he made you feel wasn't physical, it was spiritual, it touched you unto the deepest depths of your soul, only a feeling some form of art could invoke. His freckles were unique, his freckles were little promises on the skin, little angel kisses.

He was pretty like poetry, cause poetry wasn't supposed to be perfect; it was supppsed to make you feel something.

"W-What?" he whispers, eyes shining with a deep form of admiration—pure joy dancing on his features like a weight had been lifted from his chest, and he could finally breathe again.

"Did I say that out loud?" you chuckle, your cheeks turning a light shade of pink, bashful about your cheesy insights. Your lips must have loosened when you searched too deep in your head, "S-Sorry," you stutter, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid for making such a statement.

You're pretty like poetry, what the hell does that even mean? You turn your head to dig it into his shoulder, groaning into his skin and wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Thank you for that." He whimpers, voice crackling with emotion as his lips linger on the top of your head. You don't realize he's crying until you feel water dripping on your hair, you reel your head back surprised.

"Oh my gosh, Felix!" you cup his face to wipe his tears; it was as though a button was switched in your brain to go into full comfort mode.

"I'm so sorry if what I said hurt you, I didn't mean-" you begin, your heart crumbling into a million little pieces in your chest, knowing that the words you threw around so carelessly hurt him. He interrupts you, softly holding your wrists in his hands.

"They're happy tears, I promise." He sniffles, wiping his cheeks with the back of his arm, "T-Thats just the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me" he hiccups.

"Maybe that's because everybody was too enamored with your beauty to know what to say?" He lightheartedly shoves your face away, pulling a giggle out of you. "If you don't shut up, you might just make me fall for you." You snake your arms around his neck, ghosting your lips over his, "and what if I want you too?" you whisper, sparks crackling between the two of you, "what if I already have?" you beam, finally pressing your lips to his.

Fiction always used to tell you that a true loves first kiss was all fireworks and electricity, but even fairy tales forgot to mention, when your lips lock for the first time it isn't just the fire that ignites your soul, no, it's the overwhelming feeling that you could be separated by raging seas, roaring oceans, stretches of time, lumps of land, you could be placed on different planets divided by spills of stars surrounding the milky way galaxy, and he would still find a way to love you. It was cheesy, yes, but it was Felix, and with Felix, everything felt like poetry, because poetry wasn't supposed to be perfect it was supposed to make you feel something.

[belit0]

hello 😇 your posts save my days and every time i read it i'm happy 😂, you could write madara and s/n on a mission and they have to pretend they are brothers but madara is very jealous (he almost ruins the mission)

Hi!! Thank you so much!!! Little spoiler: "-I am a master of deception.-" my ass.

Madara Uchiha was a lot of things—a warrior, a strategist, a leader of men.

But what he wasn’t was someone who could tolerate another man looking at (Y/N) like that.

And yet, there she was, draped over their target, laughing sweetly, fingers trailing down the bastard’s arm, a perfect performance of flirtation. The warlord, a smug, overfed pig of a man, gazed at her like a prize he was about to claim.

The tavern they were in—the safe haven their target used every night—shook with the sound of voices and shouts, warriors and ladies of the night moving all around.

The air, thick with smoke, fragrances, and alcohol, felt almost suffocating. And not just because of that— but because of the aura Madara himself exuded.

His fingers twitched over the hilt of the concealed dagger at his waist.

(Y/N) had warned him before the mission. -Don’t be weird about this.-

-Weird?- he had scoffed. -I am a master of deception.-

Lies.

The instant that man leaned in closer, that his filthy, undeserving fingers brushed the bare skin of (Y/N)'s shoulder, Madara stood up so fast his chair scraped across the floor like a battlefield war cry.

-DON’T TOUCH MY SISTER.-

Silence.

(Y/N) froze.

The warlord froze.

The entire place froze.

Every person in the tavern turned to stare.

(Y/N) could feel her soul leave her body.

The warlord raised a slow brow. -Your sister?-

Madara’s jaw was iron. -YES. She is far too pure for the likes of you.-

(Y/N) clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palm.

"Brother...," she hissed under her breath.

He was not listening.

-She is a delicate flower, my sister.- Madara ranted, voice a storm of territorial rage. -A gentle, soft-hearted girl. She would never—never—His fists slammed forcefully against the table, making the glasses jump and the liquid spill.

Loud.

Too fucking loud.

—entertain the idea of being courted by someone like you.-

(Y/N) wanted to scream.

The warlord hummed, amused. -This one doesn't act like your brother at all.-

(Y/N) gave her best-outraged sister gasp. -Excuse me?-

The man continued -Well yes, in fact, he looks more like a jealous lover than an overprotective brother... but, if you’re siblings,- he smirked, -then you must fight all the time. Siblings always fight.-

Their target glanced around at everyone in the tavern, his people eagerly watching the inappropriate spectacle Madara was putting on.

-I fight with my brothers all the time, almost to the death! Don’t you all do too?- he asked the crowd around him.

-YEAH!!!- they all shouted in unison, their cheers and howls making the walls of the place tremble.

Madara froze.

(Y/N)’s brain worked at the speed of light. Before he could sabotage the entire mission, she took the next best route.

She stood up.

She punched him.

Right in the gut.

Hard.

Madara choked on his next breath. He staggered back, doubling over for a split second, completely unprepared for the sheer force of her attack.

(Y/N) flexed her fingers, shaking them out. That was satisfying.

-You mean like that?- she chirped at the warlord, who threw his head back and laughed.

-Hah! Now that is more like it!- he bellowed, delighted. -A true sibling quarrel!- The whole room shouted and laughed, imitating the man's reaction.

(Y/N) beamed, desperately suppressing her rampant irritation. -Exactly!- She smiled, nudging a still-winded Madara. -Isn’t that right, big brother?-

Madara… was silent.

Because Madara… was seething.

Not at her.

No.

At the fact that she had hit him in front of this worm and he couldn’t retaliate.

His teeth ground together.

His rage simmered, barely contained behind an expression so still, so eerily blank, it made the air itself feel heavier.

-Yes,- he gritted out, voice smooth as a dagger drawn from its sheath. -Of course, little sister.-

(Y/N) gave a bright, sweet smile. -See? All settled, then.-

The warlord laughed again, dismissing his previous suspicions entirely.

(Y/N) pulled Madara aside under the pretense of refilling their drinks, whispering under her breath.

-What the hell was that?!

Madara’s lips curled. -You punched me.-

-You deserved it.

His eyes gleamed, furious. -You enjoyed it.-

(Y/N) smirked. -Maybe a little.-

Madara exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had never wanted to drag someone out of a mission so fucking badly, remind her who she was outside of that assignment, outside of that farce.

His. Utterly his.

Instead, he forced a breath.

This was far from over.

[kenjo-arts]

Your AweSamDream art has given me so many brain worms how do you make your lines so thin and smooth??? Any time I try ultra thin lineart it always looks very... first time digital artist.

For me it was first i found a brush i liked and then I slowly just kept making it smaller or the canvas bigger. It's a gradual thing and I honestly don't really know what I do or don't do to make the lineart look good. I think maybe part of it is me doing alot of detailing?

I'll put some examples under the cut!

I don't know if these examples will help because I have no idea what im actually doing and can only guess based on what i think i might be doing æsldkjfælksd I colour my lineart which kinda hides(?) the mess a bit sometimes, smooths it out.

I think its important to note that my lineart isn't actually that smooth, it's kinda messy and sketchy alot because i don't put alot of details on my sketches (comparatively) and i dont follow the sketch perfectly when i line. my lineart would probably count as a detailed sketch for many. (the colouring helps alot!)

For an example c!dreams leather armour! in sketches or older arts its more flat where i draw more dimension to it now which also lets me add damage to the leather which i like doing because otherwise i end up feeling the lineart is "empty?" if theres too much space with no lines

I also paint on top of lineart when i don't like how it looked! (link to timelapse of this art)

In the second example i used a round brush for a new way i like with drawing hair! which is why as i wanted to use my favourite brush in this art, i made the lines so small so i could have more lines in the hair! as my favourite bush is fixed in a flat 20 degrees!

My sketches are generally pretty thick lined compared to what i end up lining so many times one line in the sketch becomes two lines in the lineart! i also draw pretty quickly which I'm happy with for the loser energy it gives the lineart (even tho colouring in the lineart can be a pain when i cant just select it all because of so many goddamn holes) But ultimately when you zoom in you can tell its not that smooth, its just smooth-sketchy but throughout it all which makes it conhesive! (i think) (maybe)

the fact c!dream is my own design i know basically on the back of my hand also helps! it means i can just slap it out without really thinking that hard about it because im so practiced ! (which is why i draw him alot lmaoooo) when i dont know a character as well i stuggle more with thinner lineart because i keep refrencing back instead of just doing what i want. when i draw new characters i usually start thicker and then slowly get thinner lines as i figure out how i want them to be drawn.

[c0la-queen]

Whispered Words | Red Leader x Reader | MDNI

Uhh, so I got the brain worms for this at midnight last night and finished it this morning when I woke up! I love soft Red Leader <3 I'm gonna try to go through my inbox later today, after I hang out with my sister this morning! Thank you all so much for your patience with me!

Words: 1.8k

Warnings: Soft spice, P in V, not super descriptive, wife!Reader, soft Red Leader, MDNI!!!!!

--

The cries of a baby pulled you out of the deep sleep you were in. Despite it being muffled by the wall, those instinctual parental feelings had you waking up anyway. You groaned softly as you stretched your legs out against the mattress, the expensive sheets smooth under your skin. The coldness of the bed made you sigh, eyes fluttering open to take in the empty side of the bed.

Red Leader had been away on a mission all weekend. It wasn't a normal occurrence, most of the time he left the field work to his trusted soldiers. But there were the rare occasions where something came up that was important enough for him to be directly involved.

You understood that it was his duty, but you couldn't help but miss him. It was easier before, earlier in your relationship. When you could hang out with other soldiers throughout the day, fulfill various duties around the base to keep your mind off him. But now that you were married and had a baby? You couldn't run away from the anxiety that plagued you. Rubbing the heel of your hand over your eye to dismiss the last ropes of sleep, you silently wished to the universe for his safety.

The sudden quiet made you pause. The baby had stopped crying. Why had she stopped crying? A spike of panic split your chest, making your heart hammer against your ribcage. Had someone broken in? Was there any way that one of the Red Army's enemies had managed to slip past the many security systems installed in your bedroom door alone?

Your hand creeped under the pile of pillows, finding the handle of the combat knife hidden there. For emergencies, Red had insisted. Seems like he was right.

Slowly, silently, you crept to the open doorway leading to the nursery. You hid the knife behind your thigh, tightening your grip on the handle. You held your breath as you approached the doorway, slowly peeking in.

A figure was standing in front of the cradle.

You raised the knife, prepared to protect your baby. Your muscles tensed as you got ready to lunge forward....

...only to freeze when you heard the whispered Norwegian words that slipped from the figures lips.

It was your husband standing there. Still dressed in his mission uniform.

All the tension poured out of your body at the sight. There was no intruder. You leaned against the doorway as the adrenaline faded away.

"Darling?”

Red Leader swiveled in surprise. He blinked at the sight of you, half asleep and disheveled in your maroon silk nightgown. His expression softened.

"I was hoping not to wake you."

You sighed and set the combat knife aside on the bookshelf next to the door. Red's eyebrows raised at the sight of it, sending you a questioning look.

"I got worried when Hilde stopped crying. I didn't realize you were home."

Red smiled softly, holding your daughter against his shoulder, patting her back gently to soothe her.

"Clever girl. I got back not too long ago. We decided to push the debriefing back until the morning."

As Red continued to coo in his native language to the fussy baby, you walked closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind. The sight was so sweet to you, seeing the big, strong army leader cradle his little daughter in his arms. You laid your head against his back.

"Are you hurt?"

That was almost always the first question you asked him when he got back from missions.

"I'm fine, min dronning."

You hummed, enjoying having him there in your arms. A smile slipped onto your face when you noticed Hilde falling back asleep, eyelids fluttering closed. Since she was up on her father's shoulder, you had to stand up on your toes to reach her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight, Hilde."

Red Leader chuckled softly, setting her back in her cradle. Once she was settled, he stepped away, turning back to you. His silver eyes drifted over you, taking in the full state of you. Despite the amusement glimmering in his silver eyes, you could see that he was tired. Dark circles sat under his eyes, and his shoulders hunched.

"You should change out of that uniform."

"I couldn't agree more, love."

Once back in the bedroom, you climbed back into the bed, settling back into your spot. Red kicked off his boots, tossing his jacket and belt onto the work desk pressed against the wall. He sat down on the edge of the bed before peeling the turtleneck off his torso.

Your breath hitched at the sight of his torso. Fresh, dark bruises littered his abdomen, splotches of burst blood vessels standing out from his beautifully pale skin.

"Who did this to you..?"

Red 'tsk'd, tossing the shirt into the hamper nearby.

"Just a little disagreement during the mission. I was hoping to hide it from you a little longer."

You crawled closer, a frown forming on your lips as you looked over the bruises. Tentatively, you reached forward, brushing your fingers feather light across the darkened skin. Red groaned softly.

"Poor thing..."

He chuckled breathlessly, setting his hands on your thighs as he pulled you to sit in his lap.

"I've had worse, min dronning. There is nothing to be concerned about, I assure you."

He leaned down, pressing his lips softly against yours. You sighed, mumbling against his lips.

"I still don't like it..."

Red's shoulders shook with laughter. He mumbled back, matching your low tone.

"I know how to take care of myself."

You deepened the kiss to shut him up, which he happily accepted. Your fingers slid into the back of his hair, fingernails gently scratching his scalp to soothe him. His fingers splayed over the skin of your thighs where the nightgown rode up, one warm flesh and the other chilled metal. Teeth nipped your bottom lip, wanting more of you, of your existence, of your warmth and softness.

You rolled your hips against his, causing him to pull his lips away from yours. A groan sounded from his throat, his silver eyes clouded with desire.

Gently, being careful of his bruises, you pushed him back, coaxing the Leader to lay on his back. He did so eagerly, looking up at you with what you could only describe as utter adoration. It made your heart skip a beat.

"Let me help you relax, min konge."

You leaned down, pressing your lips to his chest, tracing the various scars that you found. Red smiled, carefully squeezing your thighs.

"After a mission like that? I need it. Plus, how could I say no to my sweet girl~?"

A giggle bubbled out of your lips, sitting up to pull his trousers and boxers away. Too lazy (and too cold) to take your nightgown off, you simply slid your panties off and tossed them aside. Red's eyes glimmered as he took you in - though, they quickly fluttered shut at the feeling of your hips rolling, sliding your wetness along the length of him. He sighed, sliding his fingers up and down your thighs lovingly.

You reached down, slipping your hands underneath his and intertwining your fingers together. A soft whine escaped you as you moved, taking him inside of you slowly and leisurely, no rush whatsoever. The whine mixed with Red's hissed exhale, which turned into a groan from the feeling of your wet heat. His back arched off the bed slightly, comforted by the familiar feeling of you tight around him. This was safety. This was peace. This was home.

"Ffuck... min kjærlighet..."

Soft pants fell from your lips as you found an easy, sensual pace as you bounced your hips. The moonlight filtering in through the windows is your only light, bathing you both in the silvery blue glow of the Norwegian winters.

Red leaned his head back, giving soft, shaky groans. Not once did his eyes leave you, drinking in the sight before him. In his mind, he was going through a list of every deity he could think of, silently thanking them for the gift of his wife, so ethereal in the light of the moon. His hips rocked gently to meet yours, causing soft whimpers to spill from you.

"Du er så vakker min kjære...Min perfekte manglende brikke..."

It wasn't long before your pace began to falter. Three days of being apart was built up inside you both. Three days of waking up alone, three days of longing for each other, three days of yearning. A light sheen of sweat covered your skin from the effort of riding him, cooled by the cold air in your bedroom. The fire had long faded out in the fireplace, nothing but glowing embers and charred remains.

Red's breathing was ragged, body quivering from the mounting tension that was building up within his body. His hips continued to meet yours, making warmth pool below your stomach. Red's back arched again, gently squeezing your hands between his.

"Come on, min kjærlighet... come on, baby..."

Soon, that tension snapped within you both. Your hips stuttered to a stop, soft moans muffled into your intertwined hands as waves of pleasure flowed through you. Red hissed at the way you clenched around him, finding his own release.

When you collapsed against his chest, tired and panting, Red immediately wrapped his arms around you. His fingers slid soothingly along your spine. He peppered kisses all across your face, his heart filled with nothing but love and adoration.

Praises were whispered into the quiet night air, breaths mixing together as you both came down. You dragged your lips against his lips lightly.

"Feeling relaxed?

Red's shoulders shook in laughter. He pressed his lips against your forehead, smoothing the damp strands of hair away from your skin.

"Consider me completely boneless."

You both laughed softly, enjoying each other's presence. After a few minutes, you sat up, humming in content as you carefully slid off him. Red's eyes fluttered, but he remained where he was.

He hummed softly as he watched you fish your panties off the floor. His eyes traced over every curve, admiring and memorizing every acne scar, stretch mark, and sun spot.

"Vakker..."

You pursed your lips at him, tossing a pair of fresh boxers over his face.

"You need to sleep."

Red chuckled, pulling the black fabric off his face. He sat up with a groan, pulling the boxers on.

"Probably."

He moved, laying back against his pillows, before extending his arms to you like a lazy cat. You smiled, climbing into bed and cuddling up to him, allowing him to wrap his arms around you.

"Hi."

Red ran his fingers through your hair, brushing out any knots.

"Hi yourself."

"Sweet dreams, min dronning."

He rolled you both into a more comfortable position. Your back to his chest, one of his arms over your shoulder with the other underneath your pillow. His hand splayed over your stomach - a habit he developed when you were still pregnant. His legs curled up, tucked underneath yours, almost like you were sitting on his lap while laying down.

His voice was soft, lowered to a whisper.

"Sweet dreams, darling."

[sterling-starlight]

Flying Scotsman and The Sudrian Engines

Ah snap I'm back again. This is a direct sequel to Brother Mine because the worms are still in my brain and I'm in a discord server with a bunch of enablers.

In today's episode Scotsman is Totally Fine. Yup.

The air on Sodor was so crisp. Clear and fresh with the faintest touch of the sea. Scotsman loved his line back on the mainland -truly he did!- But the smog of modernization and the constant clamour of men and engines and diesels sometimes made it difficult to enjoy the joys of running on dry, smooth rails.  The Main Line on Sodor wasn't nearly as long as the ones Scotsman was used to (he didn't even need both his tenders; how delightfully quaint!) but there was so much to see! A charming little dock, a bountiful quarry and clay pit, he had even seen Stephenson’s Rocket puffing about, pulling an open coach of passengers who all ooohed and aahed as Scotsman thundered past. 

(Scotsman managed to speak to him one day while they were both at Tidmouth Station. He questioned how Stephenson’s Rocket could be happily trundling along on Sodor if he was supposed to be in the Science Museum. 

“Oho! So, you’ve met my replica? Ah, he’s a lovely lad, and those Manchester folks have taken good care of him. But I can assure you that I am the genuine article, my boy!”) 

It was no wonder Gordon loved this island so, despite all his grumblings to the contrary. Everywhere you looked there were fields of green and sandy yellow beaches. Rivers and streams and so many trees. Did they grow too close to the rails in some places? Perhaps so, but that was an easily solvable issue.  

“Perhaps I’ll follow my brother’s lead and move here rather than to a Heritage Railway once I’m retired from my Line.” Scotsman thought as he darted into a tunnel. He still had a good few years until that time came, more than enough to convince the old stuffed shirts back home. He emerged from the tunnel into the sparkling Sudrian sunlight, and his expression brightened when he saw Gordon on the rails beside him, up just a little way. It was odd that he was all the way out here with no train, but he was probably sulking because Scotsman had taken his express for the day. Such a silly engine, his brother was. 

‘Fuuuu-weeeee-tweeet!’ Scotsman whistled cheerfully. “Little brother~!” He trilled as he approached.  Gordon didn't respond. Ah. So, the cold smokebox saddle then, was it?  Scotsman tsk’ed and rolled his eyes fondly. “Honestly, Gordon, there's no reason to be this upset at me. It’s only-”

 Buh-whooom! 

Scotsman’s entire frame shook from the force of the explosion. His boiler dented inward with a deep, stained groan. He let out a strangled yelp as he was knocked off balance, one side scraping roughly across the ballast, smoke deflector screeching horrendously against the rails.  His smokebox rang like someone had struck the inside of it with a mallet. 

His crew-his passengers-

Gordon. 

Gordon!!

Scotsman blinked rapidly, vision swimming as panic bubbled in his cylinders.  He had skid diagnoally across the rails, coming to a screeching halt a few meters further up the line than he had last seen his brother.  He had fallen in a way that allowed him to see what exactly had become of him. 

No.

His boiler had bloomed like a horrifying, gruesome flower, sheets of metal curling back to reveal a writhing clump of tubes spilling out in every direction. His front end -what remained of it, had come off the rails. 

Nonono..!

His smokebox door has been blown open, hanging on by bent and destroyed hinges. An empty, gaping void stared Scotsman directly in the face, black smoke belching out from it.

PLEASE NO!

“-NO!”  Scotsman's eyes flew open with the strangled cry. A yelp came from his cab, but that was tertiary.  His eyes darted this way and that. A large shed with eight berth doors. A turntable. A line further up beyond the sheds. 

Sodor. This was Sodor. Tidmouth Sheds to be precise. Right. He had come to Sodor on loan while Gordon was being repaired. 

“Um,” a voice called out from his cab, leaning out. A young man with dirty blonde hair. “Sorry, did I do something wrong? I need to get your fire going for the day, but I’ve never been inside the cab of an A3 before, so…”

“No, no, lad. It's not anything you did. It’s just-” Scotsman breathed in deeply, focusing on the soothing warmth slowly spreading throughout his boiler. He donned his charismatic showman’s mask as easily as blinking. “Thank you for your service. I’ll be fine.” He gave a dazzling smile, even if the boy couldn't see it. The boy beamed before hopping down from Scotsman’s cab and heading towards the sheds.  The engine let out a breath once he was out of earshot. Nightmares had become an all-too-common occurrence in the week following The Great Railway Show. 

 Scotsman had been… carefully optimistic when he awoke to the sound of Gordon still breathing beside him. The engineers buzzed around him, assessing the damage.  The diagnosis left Scotsman feeling like someone had doused his fire with water from the Arctic. The damage was bad.  Gordon’s cab and firebox were beyond saving. Pulling the streamlining casing away revealed that some tubes had pierced through his boiler. The sight made Scotsman feel like he was going to be violently sick. Poor little Thomas let out an agonized howl at the sight.The Fat Controller listened stone-faced as the engineer listed off the extensive lists of repairs. Finally, the controller spoke.

“What if we overhauled him-”

Scotsman snorted, “Because that worked out so well the first time.”

“-into an A3?” The Fat Controller continued on as if Scotsman hadn’t spoken at all. “My father had meant to have it done ages ago, but unfortunately he was never able to get around to it. The engineer pondered, called over the work crew, and they discussed it amongst themselves for a while. 

“I’ could work.” The engineer said carefully. “‘S gonna be expensive, dough.”

“However much it takes. I’ll even call on some family friends in Doncaster, if that will help.” The Fat Controller said it with such conviction; Scotsman almost reconsidered his opinion of the man. Almost.   

“... Alrigh’.” The engineer said. “In de interim dough, y’don’ mind if my boys poke around, do ya Flyin’ Scotsman? T’get measuremen’s an’ drawin’s ‘fore de Doncaster lads ge’ here?”

“If it will help Gordon, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The Fat Controller had stepped away while the engineers were taking their measurements, poking and prodding and tapping and staring the hours away.  Thomas gently prodded him with questions for lack of any other distraction (What was America like? ‘Their railway laws are absurd.  He had to have a bell, and cowcatchers, and a headlamp- they all looked silly on him. But there was so much variety, even between cities less than a day away from each other, and states were like little counties into themselves.’  What was it like travelling across the ocean? ‘Long. Salt clogged his nose and dug into his joints and the smell of the ocean was only enjoyable for so long. He wouldn’t recommend it.’ Gordon has always said he was the first of Gresley’s pacifics; why did Scotsman call him ‘Little Brother’? ‘Ah. Well that, Thomas, was a story for another day. Preferably one where Gordon was awake so he could comment.’)

After a few hours The Fat Controller walked back in, looking drained but triumphant. “I realize I might not have any right to ask for a favor, Flying Scotsman,” he said carefully. “But I’ve just gotten off the phone with your owners, and they’ve agreed to loan you out to pull our express while Gordon is being repaired. You are welcome to decline, of course.” 

Scotsman blinked owlishly. “You're asking me if I want to take a job?” Even Thomas looked surprised, so this was something out of the ordinary indeed. 

The Fat Controller looked mournfully at Gordon and sighed. “I won't lie to you; Gordon's rebuild will be… costly. Having you pulling the express is all but guaranteed to increase revenue. However, I don't want you to think I’m holding your brother’s well-being over your head. I have a contingency plan in mind, and I will dip into my family’s personal bank account if I must, but … “ 

“I’ll do it.” Scotsman said firmly. He leveled a hard look down at the Fat Controller. “You keep your word and repair my brother, and I’ll pull whatever train you want.” 

And that was, in short, how the “Flying Scotsman Special” began. Gordon’s usual express line that, for an extra fee, would continue onto St. Pancras (a stipulation from his owners, apparently). A long, hard run to be sure, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.  His dream had been right about one thing: Sodor was growing on him. He closed his eyes and focused on the warmth slowly spreading through his boiler. Not too long after Henry puffed onto the turntable with a muted yawn. He looked over at Scotsman, brow furrowing.

“You slept outside again?” He questioned, keeping his voice down (although Scotsman doubted his voice could get that much louder). “You’re welcome to sleep in the sheds, you know..” 

“It’s not my spot to take.” Scotsman said simply, gaze lingering on the empty berth between Henry and James. He had attempted to sleep there on his first night, but the feeling of being haunted settled so deeply into his frames he could practically feel it clawing at him. More to the point, it seemed like every other night people would hand over ‘Get Well Soon’ gifts for the night crew to give to Gordon when he returned, flowers and cards and at least a dozen vinyl records. It would have felt wrong to intrude.  Scotsman quickly looked up to the sky and added, “I’m no stranger to sleeping in odd places. And besides, you can't see the stars on the mainland nearly as clearly as you can here. I quite enjoy sleeping under them.”  It reminded him of Great Northern and how she would stare longingly at the night sky, pointing out familiar constellations. Of Solario, whose enthusiasm put the warmth of the sun to shame.

Scotsman found himself thinking about his siblings more than he (to his shame) had in years, guilt and regret clawing the inside of his smokebox like a rabid beast.  But there was work to be done, and he couldn't be at his best if he constantly thought about the dead and dyi- no. Stop right there. Gordon was being repaired. Everything was going to be fine.  After this short reprieve, he gave Henry a winning smile. “I appreciate it, but you don't need to worry about me, chap.”  Henry’s mouth twisted into a frown, somewhere between unconvinced and concerned. Scotsman didn't like anyone being able to see through him so easily. Mercifully, Henry let the matter drop as he eased back into his berth and bid his crew goodnight. 

A few hours later Scotsman’s own crew came to collect him. He shook off the last dredges of mental fatigue as Fireman shoveled coal into his firebox.  As he puffed down to Tidmouth Station, he could smell coffee and eggs from inside his cab, and he chuckled. Fireman must have forgotten breakfast again and was making something quick on a coal shovel. He could hear Driver scold him, but Scotsman knew that he'd accept a tin mug of coffee sooner or later.  

He pulled into The Big Station to raucous applause, railfans from all across Britain squeezed onto the platform, armed with cameras and posters. He even spotted a few diecast models being held out for him to appraise. He smiled as wide as he could for the cameras, sliding his smoke deflectors back so the photographers could get a good shot of his smokebox. “Alright, Alright, everyone,” Scotsman chuckled, “Let's not dawdle now. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.” Despite his request for order, it had taken quite a while for his train to be boarded. At least a third of the people on his platform weren't even there for his train, lingering as they got in those last few shots of him idle before the guardsman blew his whistle.

Knapford was slightly less overly stuffed, but only by a small margin. Percy the saddle tank sat on the second platform, all but fidgeting on his wheels as Phillip gleefully shunted coaches for him.  Percy had taken over Thomas’s line while the latter was away for repairs, and even after a week he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Scotsman whistled at him encouragingly as he rolled to a stop at the platform. Percy yelped anxiously, but squeaked out a whistle in return.  He had wanted to say something encouraging, but the opportunity was quickly snatched away from the flock of railfans on the platform, demanding pictures and shoving postcards into his cab for his crew to sign on his behalf. 

He passed Stephenson's Rocket as he raced towards Crosby Tunnel. The older engine, pulling a rack of open-topped tourists coaches tooted cheerfully at him. Scotsman felt his breath lodge itself somewhere between his smokebox and cylinders. This was almost… no. No, that had just been a dream. A preposterous one at that. He thundered towards the portal of Crosby Tunnel,  unable to stop himself from biting the inside of his bottom lip. It was just a dream. Gordon was at Crewe being worked on by some of the best people in the business.  Sudrian sunlight burned his eyes as he pulled out of the gloom of the tunnel, and he blinked. The line before him was clear on all sides, not a flash of blue to be seen.  He sighed in relief.

 “You good, Scotsman?” Fireman asked, leaning out from the cab window.  

“Perfectly fine, Fireman!” The engine chirped back. “Just… The sun was in my eyes. Nothing to worry yourself over.” Fireman hummed in contemplation before pulling himself back inside, giving Scotsman’s cabside a reassuring pat as he went.  He liked his Fireman well enough, but sometimes Scotsman wished he wasn't so… empathetic. Driver at least knew to keep their relationship professional. Fireman was like Henry and Edward, he could see through Scotsman's facade far too easily. 

Scotsman endeavored to make the rest of the run as flawless as possible, smiling for pictures until his cheeks hurt and withstanding camera flashes until spots lingered in his vision. His crew must have gone through six pens from all the autographs they signed, and Scotsman had seen diecast models of himself from every era of his life. Everywhere he went on Sodor he was met with adoring fans and raucous cheers, but…. But it felt so hollow.  He loved the people of England, and the people of England loved him back (enough to save him from the cutter’s torch no less than two times and fund this lovely new rebuild), but that endless output of love didn't give him peace. How could it, when every quiet moment he was allowed circled back to Gordon, sitting half dead in Crewe? 

I want to see my brother.

The thought shot through his smoke box like a bullet as he puffed across the Vicarstown bridge on his last run of the day.  His vision blurred -which was odd, it was a perfectly clear night- and he felt that thick, heavy clog in his tubes like he had at the Railway Show -odder still. He had a quick diagnostic run on him before he left Crewe, and he was completely fine. He blinked rapidly. Just focus on the job. Focus on getting these people home. That's what he was made for, after all. 

I didn't get to say goodbye to any of my other siblings. What if I miss my chance with Gordon? 

What if the Gordon who comes back from Crewe isn't Gordon, but an entirely new A3? 

What if? What if? What if?

He trembled to a stop to let his passengers out and endured the last few agonizing rounds of pictures and compliments and adoration that tasted like ash in his mouth.  He limped back to Tidmouth, vision still blurred. 

“Driver, Fireman, please stop. I think there’s something wrong.” Scotsman pleaded. His voice was so… weak. Quivering in a way that no Gresley Engine’s voice ever should.  Thank God-Or-Lady-Or-Whoever  this had happened when he had no passengers to entertain.  He was pulled off into a siding alongside a water tower.

“Everything looks fine in here,” Driver commented. He tapped a gauge lightly. “Your water level’s dropped a little, but-” 

“You must be reading it wrong!” Scotsman snapped. His voice cracked and something warm and wet slid down his cheek. There, see? He was leaking. Something was wrong. Fireman hopped out of his cab and walked towards the front of him. 

“Scotsman, you’re crying.” He said it so casually, like the suggestion wasn't so utterly absurd to even consider. 

“Balderdash,” Scotsman returned sharply. His vision blurred more. That foolish little man! Why wasn’t he listening to him? There was something wrong! Driver approached him as well, a reasonable person at long last. “Driver, tell him how ridiculous he’s being. You’ve worked with me longer than he has.” 

“No… no he’s right, Scotsman,” Driver said, an utter betrayal of Scotsman’s faith in him. “You are crying.” 

Betrayed and embarrassed by his own crew, as if this past week hadn't already been a living nightmare. “I’m The Flying Scotsman.” He said sharply (or, as sharp as he could, given that infuriating tremble in his voice). “I don't cry.” 

“Well, clearly you are now.” Driver said, undeterred.

 Fireman put a hand against his buffer beam. “You’ve gone through a lot,” he began softly. “Your brother is hundreds of miles away, and he’s hurt. Badly hurt.”

“And he’s getting repaired,” Scotsman shot back. “Repaired and getting the rebuild he should have gotten years ago. There’s no reason for me to-” His voice tapered off to a whimper.

Fireman looked up at him, sympathy raw on his face. Driver patted him on the shoulder, “Leave him be for a minute, Mike.” With great reluctance, Fireman obeyed, pantomiming giving him a drink and checking his side rods to dissuade any passersby who might have been suspicious.  He rolled back to Tidmouth at what was, to him, a snail’s pace. A hush fell over the engines already in their berths as Scotsman was reversed into “his” siding.

“Flying Scotsman,” Edward’s voice spoke up, dripping with concern. “Is everything alright? You look…” The old K2 paused, considering his next statement carefully. “Haggard.”

“Still adjusting to the new run is all,” Scotsman brushed off easily. As bold a lie as any he had ever told in his life.  Edward simply looked at him. His gaze wasn’t unkind, but it felt like it was literally and metaphorically peeling away all of Scotsman’s layers, leaving nothing but the raw aching core that wanted to scream and wail and demand that he be taken to Gordon, consequences of abandoning his job and passengers be damned.

“We're a' worried aboot Gordon, ye ken.” Emily said delicately. “Na yin wull blame ye fur showing yer, tae.” 

Flying Scotsman scoffed dismissively, his meticulously crafted facade starting to crack. “What I am worried about, Little Stirling, is getting enough rest for the run tomorrow. Good night.”  His voice echoed across the turntable with the severity of a judge’s gavel and brokered no further conversation.  The red mogul muttered something about “Now understanding where Gordon gets it from” but was quickly hushed by his shed mates.  Scotsman's crew smothered his fire and wished him goodnight. He ignored them, pretending to already be asleep. 

Sleep would not come easily for him. Guilt crept through his boiler like frost. But what else could he do? If he lingered too much on Gordon, his thoughts would spiral. If his thoughts spiraled, he’d be unable to concentrate on his work. If he was unable to concentrate on his work, he’d make mistakes and be late. If he made mistakes and was late, The Fat Controller might withdraw him, or Scotsman’s carelessness might cause yet another enterprising gentleman to go bankrupt. And then Gordon would be left to die slowly and it would be all his fault.  

He would apologize for his rudeness once Gordon was safe and sound. Until then, these… hindrances would have to remain in the dark part of his smokebox where they belonged. 

—-----

And so the weeks limped on, each day blurring into the next in a nauseating swirl of smiling for cameras, being courteous to railfans and running his trains; on and on and on it went.  The work hours seemed to get longer and the time for Scotsman to rest only got shorter. The railfans had grown bolder, sneaking onto the sidings he rested in for closer looks and pictures and even a few quick words. Scotsman shooed them away for their own safety each time, but that was hardly a deterrent at all. 

Scotsman yawned as he chuffed into Tidmouth Station. He greeted his passengers as warmly as he could as he backed up to his coaches, although each blink felt heavier than… the…

“Scotsman. Scotsman! Scotsman, stop!” 

His eyes jolted open at his Driver’s call, but more so by the jolt of a collision bursting through his tenders, the shocked and pained yelps of the coaches themselves, and the dolorous crash of several glass bottles smashing against the floor of the kitchen car.  Driver all but yanked on the brakes and his wheels screeched ear-splittingly against the rails as he grinded to a stop. 

“Is everyone alright?” He called out over the ringing in his ears. The guard hurried inside one of the coaches. Driver heaved a sigh and stepped out of the cab onto the platform. 

“We're not running today, Scotsman,” he said. It might as well have been a sledgehammer to the boiler for how devastating it felt. 

“You can't be serious!” Scotsman gaped, “It’s Saturday, one of our busiest days! We can't just cancel!” 

“You know what we also can't do? Do a long run all the way to the mainland and back when you can barely stay awake.” Driver countered, stern and undeterred. He looked up at his engine with a withering gaze. “We’re lucky this happened in the station. If this happened out on the line, with you at speed, what do you think would have happened?” Scotsman didn't need to imagine it. While it hadn't happened to him, it had happened to Merry Hampton in 1947. She had never been the same after that crash in Goswick, the tragedy haunting her like a vengeful wraith until the day she rolled into Doncaster works for the very last time.  Needless to say, Scotsman didn't have an answer. Driver turned crisply on his heel and walked to The Fat Controller’s office.  “And you!” He addressed the crowd of railfans who had flocked to the accident like flies on rubbish. “Away and boil your heads, show’s over!” 

Two people were escorted out of the coaches by the on-site medical team, deepening the dread that had burrowed its way in Scotsman’s cylinders. The PA system crackled to life, announcing that The Flying Scotsman would not be pulling the express, apologizing for the confusion and delay and promising refunds to those who wanted it.  The Fat Controller came out of his office, looking firm but not wholly unkind.  He looked Scotsman up and down, crease in his brow deepening. 

“You will be returning to the sheds to get some sleep, in a berth, and will be suspended until Monday."

The temperature in The Flying Scotsman’s firebox was over 1000 degrees Celsius on any given day, but at that moment it felt like it had dropped below zero. 

“Sir, with all due respect, suspending me for the whole weekend is a little ridiculous, don't you think?” 

The Fat Controller did not look like he’d be swayed anytime soon, hands firmly on his hips as if he was scolding a small child and not a machine three times his height and several times his weight; the countenance of a man who had generational experience dealing with Gresley Engines.  Unwilling to make the situation worse than it already was, Scotsman lowered his eyes to his buffer beam. “Yes, sir.” 

The poor, damaged coaches were pulled away, and in short order two diesels were called in to help him out of the station: a Class 08 named Paxton -a genial sort Scotsman had seen puttering about- to push and, to Scotsman's surprise, a class 28 to pull. 

“I didn't think any of you were still running,” Scotsman said bluntly, immediately regretting his crassness. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” 

“It’s quite alright,” the Class 28 replied calmly. “I don't think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting face to face, or buffer to buffer, as the case may be.” He chuckled, and with a roar of his engine pulled out of the station. “My name is BoCo, it's a pleasure to meet you.” 

“They called a Co-Bo ….BoCo,” Driver commented in disbelief.

“It was either that or D5702,” BoCo replied. “BoCo rolls off the tongue much easier, I think.” 

“Fair point.” 

The three trundled along at a slow, careful clip. It really was a gorgeous day, railfans and tourists would be out in droves. Scotsman once again felt his eyelids drooping.

“Your fire was dropped, yes? Feel free to rest, we have a ways to go until we make it to the loop.” BoCo said, seemingly able to sense the A3’s fatigue. “I will wake you once we have arrived.” 

Scotsman rumbled something that could have been a protest, but between his cooling firebox and the wave of fatigue that hit him with the force of a torrential storm, he was completely unable to form anything resembling a cognitive sentence. 

—-------

“You are much too rough with your coaches, 1472. They are not trucks full of stone, they are meant to carry our passengers.” 

“Although If You Want To Do Goods Work, I’m Sure The Tank Engines Would Not Mind The Help…”

“And be laughed off the whole of the railway? No thank you.  I’ll get it right this time, just you watch!”

 “Is that right? He said that the last rest run, did he not, Gordon?” 

“Indeed He Did, But Let’s Not Discourage Him, Great Northern, He Will Get it… Eventually.” 

“Such encouraging siblings I have.” 

“Oh, come now, little brother, we are only teasing. Now then, bring your coaches back to the starting point. Gently.” 

—------

*Pats Scotsman cabside* This A3 can hold so much fucking anxiety, trauma and survivor's guilt. But it'll get better, I promise. In any case, Scot's little accident with the coaches is based on the minor crash that happened at Aviemore Station in 2024. You can read the BBC article about it here Merry Hampton's traumatic experience is The Goswick Rail Crash. The engine didn't slow down at a diversion and derailed, killing 28. It didn't happen to The Flying Scotsman, but it did happen on the line he was named for. The Flying Scotsman didn't actually get the name until 1924, so I imagine he just went by his GNR number in his very early years. Great Northern's wiki page doesn't say when she got her name, so I'm able to play fast and lose. And come on, Gordon is Gordon.

Anyway byyyyyeeeeee

[cimucina]

-An idea of ​​something I was writing, my version of the Ossuary from Lucanis' point of view...-

[ mature/violence - 1/?]

next ->

The Ossuary

A penetrating smell of damp...

A hint of salt and a metallic taste in his mouth...

Blood?

He opens his eyes, he tries:

Everything is blurry, undefined, he can barely see any colors; a retching.

He closes his eyes again and forces himself to breathe deeply, he finds himself very out of breath.

It's dark, or maybe he can't focus; in any case the light is poor.

Everything comes to him disconnected, a black hole every time he blinks.

Does he hear noises? He doesn't understand...

People...?

He blinks a couple more times, but his eyes burn too much and he feels hot tears running down his face.

He would like to try to get up; he's lying down?

There is a pressing sensation in his ears, as if he were deep in the earth.

He can't feel his hands, his legs are numb and when he tries to move a foot, a cramp forces him to contract.

He opens his eyes again, there is light filtering from above, waving gently, and shadow, so much shadow...

The voices are further away.

He tries to get to his knees, but everything spins and rumbles, he struggles to see the outlines of things and feels, even on all fours, that his balance is precarious. A violent blow to his back knocks him face down again; sand and blood mix in his mouth.

Cold and wet.

A vacuum of air, he feels his lungs empty.

He finds himself shaking, his clothes are damp and he feels slimy on the ground.

He opens his eyes wide:

Darkness, damp stone beneath him, his clothes are wet, he is in a small empty room; the ship?

Cramps.

He feels all shaken by cramps. Poison?

He tries to pull himself to his knees, but everything is spinning terribly. He closes his eyes and even though he is on the ground he loses his balance; they've drugged him? He stretches out a leg to stay stable, he realizes he is not wearing his clothes.

A moment of agitation where he loses lucidity: he does not have the knives, the poisons, his equipment? He's dressed in rags of canvas, what happened?!

A sharp pain in his head, the air suddenly fails him and he does not understand why, he feels cold but is sweating, before he understands he finds himself bent over vomiting his soul.

A cough, a strong dizziness, he can't stand up straight and falls on his back.

Everything throbs: his head, his ears, the room...

He is jerked roughly, his eyes widen: there is a man in front of him, he recognizes him as Venatori by his clothes.

He shrugs his shoulders and tries to free himself, but he finds caught in the grip of a second element that forces him to remain still on his knees.

He has no strength, why?? His head is dangling, he struggles to keep it up...

The individual in front of him says something that his brain, however, cannot process.

A blow, a slap straight to the face makes him fall back on the other side; why he can't react!?

Footsteps.

He sees someone approaching, but only after emerging from the shadows does he identify her as a woman: dressed like the others but better made, more adorned, probably the person in charge -well...- wherever they were at that moment.

She bends down to look at him as, like a worm -and his pride is dying-, he tries to get back on his knees.

He can't see her face, but he distantly recognizes a dark grin in the shadow of the hood.

Her lips move, she's saying something... A hand rests under his chin, forcing him to finally raise his head.

She looks up at the two men who are yanking him back to his knees.

<<... glad you survive...>> <<... a gift for you...>>

She speaks, but he can't understand what she's saying, while she remains with one hand still in mid-air as if waiting something.

Something that comes after shortly.

Another man advances toward her: he holds a basin of smooth gray stone in his hand, he offers it to the woman who dips two fingers in it, in a seductive gesture of the hand.

She whispers something that he doesn't hear, while that movement becomes almost hypnotic. Until she extracts the hand and her fingers drip with red liquid that runs down her bare forearm.

It's blood.

She places it right in front of him as she kneels down in turn; there's something moving inside...

Muffled by that thought, the woman shakes him by placing her dirty hand on his face, marking it. She turns her face away, a gesture that costs him a moment of emptiness.

She sneers <<You don't want it, sweetheart? But it's not your first time>>

Wha...?

When?

He frowns as he looks at her without understanding; he feels his heartbeat increase. No no, it's not good, he must not show it.

<<It seems to me you weren't so reluctant last time. Well, we will see if they'll want you>>.

The smile distorts into a chilling grimace as one of the two men hits him first in the stomach, knocking out his air and the other pulls him back roughly by the hair.

The woman has put both hands in the basin and has pulled out what looks like a small pulsating viscera.

He feels sick just watching her lick it, when one of the two henchmen cover his nose and force him to open his mouth.

No...

The hand that presses to his face is as violent as a slap, as he tries to free himself in vain.

The woman stands up, maintaining that grin with that sadistic shadow in her eyes.

No.

If the head doesn't cooperate, then the body will.

Survival: it's no longer a matter of thinking about acting, but of simply doing it.

He points one foot well enough to slide the other leg forward and it flies like a whiplash upwards; he wanted to hit the woman, but instead he barely manages to knock over the stone bowl.

She screams, as the men push him to the ground; without putting up any resistance, this time, he wriggles free from the grip of the one holding him by the shoulders.

He feels heavy, he struggles to keep his eyes open, he knows he's about to pass out...

He shivers when he realizes that the floor where they are is covered with geometric shapes and symbols deliberately drawn by hand. Blood? There are some that shine with an unnatural light.

Something white and grainy on the outer edges, to delimit the area where they were. The smell he felt before somehow makes him connect it to salt.

What the hell...?

A guy from behind tugs at his shirt, which tears; he suddenly stands up, bumping him with his shoulder right under the chin, making him fall back down.

He doesn't have time for satisfaction, his leg gives out, a dizziness and he finds himself on his knees again, a violent kick in the middle of his sternum makes him fall badly on his back.

He hits his head, he can't see anything for the umpteenth time.

He can't breathe, but when he feels the hands of the two men behind him again, he prefers to bite his tongue rather than give in.

The woman's heel hits his throat overbearingly, forcing him to open his mouth wide to gasp for air; she slaps that slimy, creepy little thing in there, shoving it all the way down his throat with those cold, well-groomed fingers he feels in the spasms of his throat.

Air!

He starts to cough reflexively, while she gets on top of him on all fours, covers his mouth and nose, cursing something. It's all spinning too hard and he feels that disgusting thing in his throat moving, causing him to retch yet again.

The urge to throw up is pushed back by the fact that he is finally forced to swallow.

Tears begin to fall uncontrollably as the air returns violently to his lungs.

He gasps, she gets up and, muttering something, kicks him in the stomach, folding him in half.

What was that??

What disgusting thing did he swallow?!

He coughs, turning around and finds himself crawling in his own saliva; it burns...

A scream comes out of him interrupted by violent coughing fits, cramps, he can't see anything anymore, he can't hear anything anymore, the air doesn't come in anymore...

[inkykeiji]

character: todoroki touya | dabi x fem!reader

genre: smut | dark academia au

notes: this was technically supposed to be for the ‘ravens and crows’ prompt but it grew and it grew and it grew and so!!! here it is! set in my dark academia au!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, toxic relationship, rough and messy facefucking, semi-public, dubcon, dacryphilia, cum swallowing

words: 2.7k

The air in the library is sticky, humid and heavy with the heat of late summer. The casement windows, made of crystal and wire, are opened wide, letting streams of setting sunlight paint the aisles unhindered. It turns the library a hazy gold, highlighting the dust motes wandering aimlessly between the shelves, dislodged from their cozy homes of old paper and rotting canvas by curious hands. 

The wind howls gently, gathering stray leaves in its gusts and hurling them in swirls at the bricks, disturbing the tap of the ravens and the caw of the crows; a warning. 

Summer will be dead soon.  

A breeze meanders through the window, cool on your damp neck, and you hum softly, fingertips trailing along the spines, looking for the gaping space to wedge this recently returned book back where it belongs. 

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice him; don’t hear his Balenciaga boots or his soft breath, don’t see his shadow creeping up behind you, slow and steady as it engulfs you, don’t realize anything until it’s too late, until one arm is wrapping around your hips and the other is slapping a hand over your mouth. 

The sudden action startles you, a jolt of surprise coursing through your entire body and yanking a yelp from your throat, only to be muffled by the palm clasped tightly over your lips. 

He’s laughing in your ear, low and smooth, dark and decadent, a sound that pours over your body like a slow, thick syrup, leaving trails of chills in its wake.

Bigger than you, stronger than you, smarter, faster, better than you, he spins you around with ease, trapping your body between his and the bookshelves, the sharp wooden edges cutting into your back. 

“Surprise,” his breath wafts across your face, stained with cedarwood and smoke, word drifting through a lopsided smirk. 

“Jesus, Touya,” you’re nearly panting out, chest heaving against his. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Why not?” he asks, a slight pout to his voice. “You’re so cute when you’re scared.” 

“Very funny,” you roll your eyes, attempting to push past him and back to your book trolley. 

“Hey, where you going?” his hips shove forward, forcing your legs to part, the jutting bones  carving into your inner thighs, effectively keeping you pinned. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

And although his voice is amicable enough, the glint in his eye is sharp, shimmering as it catches on the setting sun, the ghost of a shiver climbing the notches of your spine, leaving each vertebra icy with dread.

“I don’t care whether you’re finished with me or not, I have to get back to work.”

“Aw, come on, you can hang out with me for a little longer.”

“Touya, I need this job. My father doesn’t own a tech company like yours does. If I’m caught—”

“Then I will pay for whatever you need, simple as that.”

“Yeah, right,” you snort. “And con me into being indebted to you for eternity? I don’t think so.” 

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Sounds like hell.”  

“I can think of worse.” 

“I don’t think I want to know what goes on in that head of yours.” 

That gets him to crack a smile; genuine, terrifying. Sapphire sweeps your face, slow and scrutinizing, gears of his brilliant brain beginning to shift in thought. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again.

“Gimme a kiss and I’ll let you go.”

“God, could you be any more cliche?” you struggle against him again, trying to worm your way free, and he pushes back hard, forcing a short, high pitched cry from your throat.

“I didn’t say on my lips.” 

“Oh, fuck off—”

“You’re brave, talking to me like that.” 

“Touya,” you say, and although it’s supposed to be a warning, firm and sharp, the name trembles on your tongue, wavering with fear. “If we get caught—”

“Look around you,” he says, eyes gleaming as he raises his brows in question. “Do you see anyone else?” 

No. You don’t. 

You don’t, because you’re in one of the furthest, deepest corners of the library; secluded, hidden, and utterly trapped. 

He’s been waiting for this. 

It dawns on you then, that he must’ve been following you, tracking you, stalking his prey and biding his time until the opportune moment to strike—when you were alone, unassuming, and entirely unarmed. 

His smirk has grown into a grin, stretched unnaturally wide across his handsome face, tinged with a deranged sort of glee. His eyes are soaking it all up, every little micro-expression that morphs your features as you realize the full weight of the situation.

“C’mon,” he breathes, hips rutting against your inner thigh in barely there gyrations. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“You have?”

And you hate the sheer desperation in your voice, the question breathed out in a single breath, quick and airy on your tongue. 

“Of course I have,” he knocks his forehead against yours, malicious smile still in place, the words said like a slap to the face, like you’re so fucking stupid to think otherwise, but it’s so fucking precious how eager you are for the confirmation. “Don’t you want to be good for me and give my cock just a teensy tiny little kiss? It misses you, you know, can’t you feel how much?” 

And he sounds so fucking genuine as he shifts his hips between your thighs and presses his cock, now hot and hard, into your core, grinding up against your clit. It forces a moan from your chest, soft and pitchy, lips pressing together firmly in a pathetic attempt to silence it. 

“Don’t let me down now, sweetheart.” No, not after all the trouble he’s been through, all the watching and waiting. 

Oh, you would never, could never, even if you wanted to—no matter how badly you wanted to.

Glowing sapphire watches as you slide down his body and sink to the floor, kneecaps on his toes, delicate fingers making quick work of his belt, picking at the heavy chrome buckle and tugging at the strap. It clinks together as you undo the zipper of his jeans, the weight of the buckle pulling his pants open further, denim folding over. 

And God, his cock is so fucking pretty, dusty pink and smooth as velvet, save for that one big, thick vein that runs, almost perfectly straight, along the bottom of his shaft. 

Your mind is already beginning to evaporate into a dense fog of lust, starved for his praise and eager to please, torrents of saliva beginning to collect in the cavities of your cheeks and pool beneath your tongue.

A thick bout of shame surges through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough to dispel the hedonistic haze Touya casts over your brain.

He holds it steady for you, a slender hand wrapped around the base, pupils gaping and unhindered as he watches you inch forward, puckered lips pressing a sweet, sloppy kiss to the tip of his cock. 

It’s open-mouthed, tongue swiping over the slit in a swift caress and collecting a weeping bead of precum, bitter and salty as it seeps into your tastebuds. 

Pulling back, you stare up at him with desperate desire slapped across your face, lips parted with panting little breaths, a glimmering thread of precum keeping your mouth connected to him, and holy Christ, he’s breathing as he smears the sticky substance across your chin and your jaw with the steadily leaking head of his cock, painting you in stringy webs of him, that’s so fucking hot.

It’s being shoved past your lips and down your throat without warning—there never is any, not with Touya—and you sputter around the unexpected intrusion, a film of reflexive tears shielding your eyes. 

“Good girl,” Touya breathes, and your jaw automatically stretches wider, peering up at him with a sort of insatiable devoutness. “Take it all for me.”

And so, you do.

Because he’s hypnotic, his presence an instant, addictive, irresistible pull, his praise and respect even more so. They’re drugs you gorge yourself on, drugs you vie and scratch and scream and claw for, drugs that make you feel pathetic, but drugs you can’t stop using nonetheless. 

Because praise from Touya makes you feel like you’re on top of the fucking world. Praise from Touya is a hard, precious, valuable resource to come by, rare and not easily doled out. You have to earn it, he had once told you. You have to really deserve it. 

“Yeah, yeah, s’it,” he encourages as you endeavour to swallow him more, to suck him down further. “S’a good girl for me. Go on, make me proud.”

It’s always speckled with a hefty dose of sugared degradation, cooed yet condescending. But the praise that falls from his mouth, cracking with sincerity as his head tilts back, strong jaw on display, the lines and ridges of his neck moving with his voice, soothes any sting his insults could bring. They make it all so worth it. 

Because Touya has what you wish you had, what you want to have, what you will have, according to him, if you stay his good little girl. Touya has executive access to that exclusive, elusive upper class world; a place you’ve always been able to worm your way into with pretty smiles and batting eyelashes, but a place you’re consistently pushed out of. 

Touya can make it permanent. Touya can find a spot where you belong, where you snap perfectly into place, cozy and comfortable as if you were always meant to be there—easy, effortless, effaced.

And, really, that’s all you want. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

Acceptance, belonging, community. 

So you take him down your throat with ardency, wretch your jaw open further, hinges straining with a dull, dense ache, doing anything and everything he says in an effort to make him proud, just like he asked you to.

You’re barely able to get a few good pumps in before lithe fingers are curling around your skull, palms pressed to your temples and thumbs digging bruises into your cheekbones as he grips your head tightly, holding you in place and wedging his cock down your throat.

The pace is brutal right from the start, the pounding of his hips so powerful that it has the tip of your nose repeatedly slamming against his pubic bone, swollen lips leaving crude kisses of saliva streaked across his skin.

The slap of your face against his groin is grotesque, paired with the sick squelching each thrust procures and the pathetic, embarrassing sounds oozing from the corners of your lips—choked off gags and snuffed out whimpers and those pitiful little sniffles, hiccuped with each hitch of your chest. 

But they all feel so good around him, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good, so you don’t try to stifle them, borderline weeping around him, unbridled and unreserved. 

Your fingers curl in the waistband of his jeans and briefs—a small comfort to hold onto as he fucks your mouth raw, hips snapping rough and fast and downright ruthless.

A condescending coo slips from between his lips, as if it’s precious that you need something to ground you while he ravages your throat, knuckles pressed firmly against flexing thighs as you cling to him, and he takes it as an invitation to speed up, movements turned vicious.

Your head thwacks off the edge of the shelf behind you, sending thorns of pain searing through your skull. A loud whine vibrates around Touya’s cock, the sound rammed back down your throat by the head, and he groans, deep and guttural, Adams apple quivering with the sound.

The sharp agony radiates, a deep ache that burrows into your neck, and you can feel the sore spot beginning to swell. It knocks against the wood again, your eyes snapping shut with a wince, tight enough to crinkle your lids, the motion dislodging tears from the corners, cascading down your face in fat, sticky streams.

“No, no, no,” he’s panting. “Keep those pretty eyes open for me.” 

Your lids spring open again, an involuntary reflex, a zealous attempt to appease their master, lashes heavy and weighted with tears, sparkling crystal drops clinging perilously to clumped spikes. 

Anything, anything, anything for him. 

And, oh, how those eyes shine for him. Such pathetic, pious dedication.

“Fu-Fuck,” he nearly whines, the curse hoarse as it splinters in his throat, eyes voracious as they drink you in, soak you up, swallow you down. “Yeah, yeah, jus’like that.”

It hurts, but it’s over quick; only three more pistons of his hips before he’s holding you flush to his gut, his whole cock jammed down your throat as it spurts hot, thick cum, that one vein throbbing on your tongue.

You’re absolutely sobbing around him, strings of snot infused drool dribbling from your lips as you suffocate on his flesh, lungs beginning to burn, shriveling to ash in your chest. Instinctively, your head wrenches, desperate for oxygen, but he growls, the sound so deep, so dark you swear it rattles his ribcage. 

“Hold it, hold it,” he keens, hips twitching a little as his fingers strengthen their grip, stamping bruises into the already puffy contusion, blunt nails carving deep crescent indents into the back of your scalp. Your struggling stops almost instantly, coughing harshly around his cock, and his hips jerk, a moan shattering on his tongue. 

You can do nothing but take it, take it all for him, just like you were told to. What a good little girl he’s caught himself. 

It’s only after he’s emptied his balls into your stomach, forced all his cum into your tummy, full and bloated, that his grasp finally lets up, tugging you off of him with knuckles rooted in your hair, groaning a little at the thick ropes of milky saliva tethering your mouth to his cock.

You’re sputtering the very moment he lets up, whole body shuddering as you gulp down razored air.

“You look so fucking perfect on your knees for me, baby,” he’s rasping out, collarbone shimmering with perspiration as it heaves. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier sight.” 

A whine slips from your lips, and he takes a moment to admire you, sapphire sweeping across your face in slow, deliberate motions, almost as if he’s cataloguing your expression, outlining it all—the tear-stained cheeks and the spit-slicked chin and the sheer devotion spilling from your lashes—and searing it into the fabric of his memory.

“You’re a piece of art all on your own, aren’t you?” 

Maybe you are, with streaks of glittering salt soiling your bruised cheeks and crystal dewdrops suspended in your spiky lashes and his cum, ivory and pearlescent, oozing from the corner of your lips to roll down your chin in thick dollops of cream. 

His pupils are cavernous, carnivorous, ragged little pants exhaled through parted lips, stare unblinking as he watches drops of his cum drip off the line of your jaw in sticky, viscous cords, mixed with your saliva, drizzling onto your bosom and soaking the unbuttoned collar of your shirt. 

“What a fucking mess you are,” he breathes, thumb and forefinger grasping your chin and yanking, forcing you to look up at him. “What a fucking mess I’ve made of you.”

All you can do is whimper and nod, fingers clinging to his waistband as you paw at him, a pitiful attempt to get closer.

A masterpiece. His masterpiece.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Did I fuck the brains from your skull?” he tuts his tongue, mouth fashioned in a mocking pout, eyes shining with amusement. “Where’s that smart, snarky little girl now?” 

“Wanna be good for you,” you drool out, looking up at him with lidded, bleary eyes, glistening with admiration, with awe, as if he’s the most magnificent sight you’ve ever seen, as if he’s a fucking god. “S’all, Touya, s’all.”

“Oh, precious,” he murmurs, thumb caressing a rapidly developing bruise, gaze following his movement for a moment before connecting with your own again. “I know. And you will be.” 

He promises, you will be.

Outside, as the light dims, sun devoured by the rapidly encroaching darkness, the ravens and crows pick at carcasses and caw into the night.   

[soft-sounds-of-our-mortal-love]

Burn, Don't Freeze!

Premise, meeting Van at a Sleater- Kinney concert and getting her number! I imagined this in the Midwest somewhere, take your pick though. The year is 1999, so they’re touring for ‘The Hot Rock’. Also, collage made on Shuffles by moi ! Enjoy :)

You were hanging back by the bar while the openers played, nursing your third drink of the night. You felt sufficiently warmed up enough to start worming your way through the crowd to get as close to the front as you could. Tonight was a concert you had been waiting for for months. Originally intending to go with a friend who had told you earlier that day she was bailing. While you were anxious to go alone, you decided you couldn't miss Sleater-Kinney while they were in town, along with some encouragement from your friend. 

You downed the rest of the drink, and stood up just a little too fast off the stool, wobbling, and tried to grab the bar for support. You missed of course and went down, tripping in your boots. You braced for contact on the sticky floor, but it didn’t come. A strong pair of arms grabbing you by the waist and steadying you. “Hey, you alright?” You looked up to a redheaded stranger. 

They had on this worn in an oversized flannel that was soft under your hands. Their hair hung long down their back reflecting light somehow even in the darkness. An old scar ran across one cheek extenuating the cut of their cheekbones and jaw. You blinked dumbly, suddenly mute. Your overactive brain is working overtime to scrabble the words together. “You alright?” They repeated with a kind smile. “Shit, thank you, yeah.” You stood up using them to balance on your unsteady feet. You untangled yourself from them, “Don’t worry about it.” They said walking away and disappearing into the crowd. You kicked yourself for not saying something. They were entirely too cute for their own good. The way their hair swayed, the cut of their jeans, their smooth voice. You let out a sigh internally, ‘fuck.’ If felt like your brain was spiraling and the alcohol was definitely making you feel braver than usual. You steddied yourself before setting off into the crowd for a good spot, and a particular redhead. 

The opening act was done and the crowd started packing in as the stage got set up for Sleater-Kinney. It was starting to get a bit tight and you had to force yourself through and around people. “Sorry.” You slid by a group of butches and searched their faces for the stranger, with no luck. You moved on and passed a couple of university students but nothing there either. You cut left as you moved up further and were almost to the front when a guy you were trying to step around blocked you, almost hitting you in the process. “Excuse me.” You said and moved around him again, “I’m sorry, excuse me.”  He proceeded to block you again saying nothing, not even acknowledging you. You huffed and set your jaw tight about to pick a fight in your tipsy state but then out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of red. “Hey, come on man,” there was that same cool, smooth voice. The stranger held out their hand. “I’m over here.” You froze and watched as they nodded their head in confirmation with a smirk on their face. 

Your brain was having a hard time catching up, but you snapped back to reality, hardly believing your luck, and grabbed their hand. You only looked back to glare at the asshole behind you as you got pulled over by this knight in shining flannel. 

 “Do you usually need this much rescuing?” They grinned over at you. “Well, usually I’d say no, but tonight doesn’t seem to be my night.” You stepped a little closer, bumping your arms slightly, “Though, it seems like my luck is turning around.” They blushed and smiled but didn’t break eye contact with you. “Thank you, again by the way.” You added. “Least I could for a pretty girl in need.” Now you were blushing, your cheeks burning up. “What’s your name flirt?” Though you were nervous talking to someone you were so attracted to, the liquor damped some of those usual nerves, making you bolder. “Van, what’s yours?” They said, leaning down slightly, you could just barely feel their breath on the shell of your ear. “Y/N.” They gave a genuine smile, and it lit up their whole face. 

The band absolutely obliterated their set. You had a total rush. The music, the crowd, the lingering alcohol still in your system, the encroaching proximity of you and Van closing slowly. By the last song, you could feel their pinky just softly grazing your thigh as your shoulders bumped every couple of seconds. And the looks you would catch them in flustered the both of you. A magnetic pull drawing you both in. The lights flashed multicolored overhead, hundreds of people screaming, whooping, and hollering. 

The band said goodnight and the crowd slowly started dispersing, the sound of chatter filling the venue now. “That was fucking incredible, do you feel changed, I feel like a new woman.” You said turning to them, rambling in your excitement. They laughed. “I was transported to the astral plane.” “Don’t make fun,” you tapped them on the arm, “I just had a religious experience.” 

You were walking out the doors following the natural flow of people outside and down the street. You had covered your favorite album, favorite band other than S-K, and favorite member of the band. When you made it down the end of Mainstreet and stopped. 

“Shit, I gotta get home.” You looked down at the pavement, tracing the cracks, wishing for the night not to end. “Could I-” You both started in unison then stopped to laugh at yourselves. “Go ahead.” They said, “Well, I was just wondering if I could get your number?” The tips of their ears and cheeks bloomed red, “Funny you should say that, I’m kind of traveling around right now in my car, so I was going to ask for your number, so I could call you.” Your heart flipped and you giggled at them. “Yeah, yeah… um, you got a pen?” They fished one out from a random pocket, handing it over. Their fingers linger as they look over at you with cute expressions that make you feel slightly weak in the knees. You gently took their hand, pushed up the sleeve of their shirt, and wrote down your number, rubbing your thumb along the palm of their hand as you held it up. You felt their fingers flex and close around your hand. 

You looked up after finishing and capped the pen placing it in a front pocket on their flannel. “Don’t wash it off, call me tomorrow, Van.” “I will.” Their lips quirked up and their eyes shone under the city lights. Then, right before you went to pull away, you noticed the slight inching of their face to yours, their eyes locked downward at your lips. You closed the gap between you and heard the slight hitch of their breath. Their lips were cold and plush, their skin smooth and as your hand came up and looped itself in their soft hair you felt their hand smooth over your back pulling you closer. Everything around you falls away for just a moment as you kiss softly. You pulled away, unable to push down the huge smile on your face. 

“Fuck.” Van muttered your giddiness reflected back in their face. “Call me.” You kissed them one last time, unable to help yourself, and pulled away walking away to your apartment, looking back over your shoulder, praying you’d see them again.

[pickyourpoisonandevolve]

Stars in Her Eyes, Part 2

Part 1 here

*reads old decrepit spell book* “if you write the trauma in the fic, maybe it will fix it in post” hmm yes of course of course.

More of whatever the hell this is turning out to be. I looooove Price and I waaaaaannnttt him to fix me and you and all of us together. The worms in my brain won’t leave until it happens!

—

“Well, you’re cleared for field duty.”

“Hooray.” A listless response.

A huff from the nurse. As she cleaned up, she paused. “I know I’m generally pissing in the wind when I say this, but maybe a woman will believe me this time. Take care of… whatever’s on your mind. The head trauma, the noise, the explosions, it wears you down. You don’t need old demons eating away at what’s left.”

As you got up from the chair you paused. “What do you mean? I’m fine, I’m clear, right?”

“The, wait, shit hold on maybe I’m wrong. You’re the one with the concussion, reports of hallucinations in the field.” She said, flipping through your chart. “Yeah, reported by your captain. May want to ask him about it before you—“ A click of the door closing. “—go back out there. I don’t know why I thought this would go any different.” She muttered to herself, getting ready for the next patient.

—

You thought that was a dream. You were SURE that was a dream. Shit shit shit. No fucking wonder they came to see you so often. Gaz brought flowers from all of them. Soap brought cookies and his loud mouth. Ghost brought complaints from the nurses, saying he “lingered too much” and “wanted reports that didn’t belong to him”. Price however brought nothing. Radio silence there.

You made it back to barracks a little before dinner. A shower and refresh from everything. Sneaking into the shared break room, angling to see if anyone was mad, worried, feeling… wrong about you. You’ll fix it. The last thing you wanted was them thinking you weren’t anything less than capable. Surely you weren’t perfect after this. But capable. That was achievable.

“Oi, look who’s back amongst the livin’!” Soap jumped up first and came to check you out. As rough and tumble as he was, he put the breaks on, opting for grabbing you by the shoulders instead of picking you up. “Thought we scrambled you somethin’ fierce this time.” He said, grabbing your chin and giving you a once over.

Huffing, you slapped arms away and composed yourself. You did offer a smile as you smoothed out your shirt. “Morphine cures all wounds, cognitive and otherwise.”

“So I heard.” Gaz’s voice behind you, alongside Ghost as they entered. His smile could stop traffic you thought to yourself. “Thanks for the flowers.” You said quietly. “Anytime.” He replied, gently rubbing a thumb across your knuckles.

Ghost took a big, typical stoic stance against the counter, arms crossed. Eyes big and soft for you. Oh. He’s worried? That never happens, you thought, a needle of panic through your chest. A big, warm hand on your shoulder. “Price wants you in his office when you can. Glad you’re back.” The tail end was more of a rumble than words.

The panic bloomed as three sets of eyes stayed on you. Too much, you thought. Too much care, too much consideration. You were the one who was supposed to worry, not them. You fussed with your nails, looking down. “Thanks for the help, guys. I’m, I’m sorry.”

“We’re a team, it’s what we do. Now go, he’s waiting.” Ghost demanded.

—

You shook your ankle absentmindedly. Sitting on the couch in his office. The same sick feeling in your throat and nerves as the principals office. He waved you in, cigar in hand, on a phone call with papers and documents strewn around. Life didn’t stop for him, you thought. You took to staring at the back of a framed photo, disassociating about who could be on the other side, listening to the drone of his voice. A loved one? A sibling? No, he never talked about brothers or sisters. It’s warm in here. Smells like him. Maybe you would too when you left. Maybe he—

“Sergeant.”

A gasp left your chest as your eyes refocused. Just silence, now. A cigar now crushed in the ashtray, the last hurrah of smoke and scent and spice wafted in the air. Relatable, you thought.

You cleared your throat. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

His eyes roamed over you. Again. And again. Like he was lost in his own thoughts. “You back with us?” He finally grunted.

“More or less.”

He stood up, a little too quickly. Made your heart beat a little too loudly in your ears. Made you feel like you were in the dark room again. The fear and the unknown smothering everything. “I’m sorry about the mission, it was my fault, I wasn’t there, I wasn’t—“

A raised hand. The rambling died in your throat as he made his way over to you. Two bourbons poured, one placed in your hands. A seat taken next to you. The crystal tumbler cool in your hand. A gift for his 10th year in the SAS. Back to the silence.

You two had always navigated the silence together. Normally it was more comforting than this. A quiet nod of understanding in a debrief. A roll of the eyes in a meeting. Notifying that there were enemies in the area on missions. He always knew you better than you knew yourself it seemed. That’s why he was the captain. He did this for everyone. Didn’t he?

The hassle of talking about it, this, whatever this was, never reared its head. Rules, optics, whatever the excuse was. But he knew. What you were. What he was. A lit candle in your dark room. One you held with both hands when the dark was too much. Whispering and praying it would stay this time. A prayer to a deaf god, you thought.

Maybe not so deaf after all. He swirled his glass in his hands, staring straight ahead. “I didn’t throw you away. I need you to know that. More were coming, I needed you elsewhere.”

A grip in your chest. A swallow of your drink. “I know. I was distracted on the mission, I know that, but I had it handled, I should have been there to have your back.” You rushed out.

You feel a hand in your hairline, and for a moment, you’re back in that room. Half a room. Humming, praying to your deaf God. “I’m sorry about your head.” He rumbled out. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not as much as you leaving.”

A broken sound comes from him as you close your eyes and finish your drink.

A flurry of motion. Your glass taken from your hand, his arms bringing you in, fighting, grunting, till stillness as he pins you on your back, holding your cheek in his palm. It’s been too long since he’s seen your stars.

“Tell me about the song.”

“No.”

“It can be an order if you want.”

“No.”

“… please.” His resolve breaks and you see desperation in his face. “Jesus, let me fucking take care of you like you deserve, tell me about the bloody song.”

“It was someone else’s mom.” You say, returning his gaze, tears flowing freely now. “You read my fucking report. Home was shit. So were the parents. It was another girl, she, she hurt herself playing. Her mom came over and sang the song to her. If, if I hurt myself, I just got another be—“ a hiccup shakes your chest. “I sing it to myself since… no one did it for me.”

Price expected something like this, but his heartbreak took him by surprise. The tear that rolled off of his nose onto your face broke the spell, his hands now wiping away the tears and the pain. And for the first time, you let him. You let him see it all. His candle now a fire in your dark room. With any luck he’ll burn it all fucking down, you hope.

[avastrasposts]

Big Sky Country - ch. 9**

Hi!

I'm sorry this chapter took so long! I totally blame Marcus Acacius, I was taken in by that rugged general and had to write the brain worm that had been in my head since last summer. Hopefully chapter 10 won't take as long but I can't promise anything.

Anyway, four weeks ago we left Frankie and Aisling in the truck after talking it out and spending a day on the ranch and we're going jump straight into some much awaited smut as they go at it again for the first time since their hook up in Brooklyn.

Almost 7k and spicy.

He was painfully hard by the time they got out of the truck. Aching. Yet he couldn’t stop kissing her and move them faster across the yard. Grabbing her hips, pulling her as close as possible, he was losing himself in her as they stumbled towards the cabin. She managed to get the door open behind them while he pushed her against the door frame, kissing the sweet smelling skin just under her ear. She moaned under him and his cock twitched, the sound shooting through his body like a live wire. When her hand slipped down and palmed his throbbing length, he growled, pushing himself into her hand. 

“Please, Ash,” he begged, “if you touch me, I’m not gonna last.” The last words came out as a low whine as she stroked him, cupping her hand around him. He had his eyes screwed shut, and he could hear her soft giggle as she ran her nails across the zipper of his jeans. 

“Poor, Fish, so tightly wound. Maybe I should take care of you first before I let you go down on me again?” 

Frankie could only shake his head as she continued to tease him, low gasps escaping when she popped open the button of his jeans and slid her hand straight into his boxers. 

“You feel so good, Frankie,” Aisling mumbled into his ear, wrapping her fingers around the smooth, warm skin of his hard cock. He was being incoherent, head tipped back as he spluttered something in Spanish, his teeth catching on his wet bottom lip at the last word. 

“So good, Frankie,” she whispered, gently squeezing his solid length and pulling another groan from him. 

“Please, hermosa,” he mumbled, “I’m gonna come in my pants, I wanna…” he trailed off as she pulled her hand from his paining cock, hissing at the loss of contact. 

“I wanna take care of you first, in bed, properly,” he mumbled, pulling her mouth to his as he wrapped her arms around his neck, control coming back to him when she was no longer stroking him. 

“Will you let me ride you again, I’ve been practicing all day,” she smiled and he huffed a laugh. 

“Anything you want, Ash, just let me make you feel good first.” 

“Take me to bed then,” she replied, making him open his mouth to her tongue as he guided them towards his bedroom. 

He was as good as she remembered, and then some. She’d been wondering if she’d exaggerated in her head how good he’d been before, if she’d built it up in her mind as something more than it had been. But then he settled himself between her legs, after pulling off his shirt, and groaned loudly as he dipped his tongue into her slick folds. He had her arching her back off the bed, his mouth closing around her clit with a low hum that reverberated through her nerves. When he slipped two thick fingers into her liquid heat, she tangled her hands in his hair and gasped at the stretch as he curled his fingers up. 

“Fuck…Frankie,” she muttered, fighting to keep her eyes open so that she could see his dark eyes looking back at her with a pleased expression. He doubled down, flicking his tongue over her clit as he increased the pace of his fingers, his eyes burning up her body as he watched her responses to the way he touched her. Her soft thighs were around his ears and he used his free hand to hold her open for him, he could feel her muscles tremble and shake as he teased her nerves. An extra firm stroke made her cry out, her fingers tightening around his curls, and he did it again, spurred on by her increasingly breathless moans. 

When she came, he watched her mouth fall open as she squeezed her eyes shut, a violent shudder running through her body. He had to hold on to her hips to keep her down while he worked her through every shred of the orgasm, he could hear her pant his name while she slowly came down. 

He lapped gently at her folds, skirting around her sensitive nerves, before he kissed the inside of her thighs, moving up her body, pausing at the pale freckles on her breast, kissing them softly while he played with the nipple on the other. Her fingers were carding through his curls and she let a deep sigh escape with a small chuckle. 

“At the risk of inflating your ego, you’re really good at that, Frankie,” she said and he moved up, smiling down at her as he held himself over her on his forearms. 

“I like doing it, especially when you let me know how good it makes you feel,” he replied, leaning down for a soft kiss. She slipped her tongue between his lips and tasted the salty tang on his tongue, the thought of where it came from made a tendril of heat curl through her core again, even though she was still coming down, her body relaxing. 

“Can I repay the favor?” she mumbled against his lips, feeling the very hard outline of him against her hip. He was not too discreetly grinding his erection against her. 

“Yes please,” he mumbled back, still trying to keep his composure as his aching cock begged for attention, “Let me just get th….fuck…no….” he suddenly sighed, slapping his hand on his forehead in an almost comical gesture. “I don’t have any condoms,” he said, “I-I haven’t exactly had much use for them since New York…” Frankie gave her a crooked smile as a pink hue crept up his neck that had nothing to do with his arousal. 

“Did you get a check-up?” Aisling asked, stroking her fingertips over the sweet blush of his skin, “I have an IUD and I got myself tested after you.” 

A brief look of pain flashed across Frankie’s face, he winced at the idea of Aisling feeling that he was such a pig that she needed to get tested even though they’d used a condom last time. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, rolling off her and onto his side, rubbing a hand over his face, “that you had to get tested because of me.” 

“Meh…” Aisling shrugged, rolling over so that she was facing him on the bed, “It wasn’t how I expected our hook up to go, but better safe than sorry you know.” 

“Yeah, I get that. And I got tested after I came back here, after Eva, I wanted a clean slate,” Frankie said and Aisling gave him a soft smile. 

“Was this a total mood killer conversation?” she asked and he chuckled in that warm low voice she loved. 

“Nah, necessary conversation, now we know,” he replied and she shifted herself closer, pushing him onto his back. 

“Ok, good, because I can see the outline of that pretty cock of yours in your jeans and I’m dying to get my hands on it,” she grinned as she began unzipping him, “Lift those hips, Fishy.” 

“Ok, ‘Fishy’ is off the table,” he snorted as he did as she said and she laughed. 

“Noted. How about ‘Fish sticks’?” 

“Only in private company,” he smiled, “it’s cute when you say it.” 

“So ‘Fuck me, Fish sticks,’ works?” Aisling looked down at him, noting how his eyes were darting between her face and where her hands were brushing against his cock still inside his pants. 

Frankie lost his train of thought as she pulled down his jeans, hooking her fingers into his boxers and sliding them down at the same time. His cock bobbed free from its confines and he groaned as it bounced back on to his belly. 

“N-no, no ‘fish sticks’ in the bedroom,” he huffed out, laughing in between hisses as her fingers closed around his painfully hard erection. 

“How about ‘Francisco’?” she asked, swinging a leg over his hips and settling down just over the flushed red tip of his cock, shiny with precum. 

Frankie bit his lip and nodded, his eyes fixed on her hand wrapped around him as she held him just by her entrance. 

“Anything, hermosa,” he muttered. He would’ve said yes to anything as she slowly sank down over him, the heat of her slick folds enveloping him as she sighed in pleasure at the stretch. 

Aisling grabbed his shoulders, steadying herself as he filled her, and he tipped his head back, eyes screwed shut, as she began to rock her hips. He slid in and out, his hard cock slick and hot and she tilted her hips, letting him hit that spot deep inside that made sparks shoot through her body. It made her let out a low whimper and she dug her fingers into his shoulders to stop herself from collapsing over him, resting her forehead against his, the familiar tingle of ecstasy already beginning to make itself known. 

His large hand cupped the back of her neck and pulled her lips to his as they rocked together. Tongues slipped in and out and he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. His cock was aching, buried deep inside her, and with a groan he thrust up into her, she arched her back as he panted into her mouth. She could hear him mumbling under his breath, his hands finding her hips and matching her rhythm. 

“F-fuuck…t-t-win t-tu-urboshaft,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, taking a deep breath, “fuck, Ash, too good���M-m t-two thirty…” 

“Frankie,” Aisling asked, panting as she slowed her movements, and he gritted his teeth, “w-what…what are you saying?” 

A strangled laugh, half moan, half chuckle, escaped him as he seemed to bite back a louder moan. 

“Parts of the Apache helicopter, I-I list the parts in my head when I don’t wanna come too fast,” he said, smiling at her as she began to giggle, “I didn’t realize I was saying it out loud.”

She let the laughter bubble up through her even as he took a new hold of her hips and began thrusting his hips up into her, forcing her laughter into a moan with the feel of it. Heavy, thick, stretching her out, every nerve ending in her core was begging for more as he drove up into her.  

One hand left her hip and he slipped it between them, the rough pad of his finger deftly finding her clit and circling it, teasing as she gasped. 

“Please, Ash, come for me again, I’m so fucking close,” Frankie mumbled, his fingers sliding over her sensitive bundle of nerves, “I need to feel you come on my cock, give me one more.”

He pulled back and looked at her, meeting her hooded eyes, half closed, as he drove her pleasure higher. A whimper escaped as it suddenly crashed over her, the force of it making her cry out for him and her muscles froze under the onslaught of pleasure radiating from where their bodies joined. Frankie felt his insides tighten as Aisling’s body arched and clamped down around him, with a gasp he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and jerking his hips, pumping his spend as buried his face against the hot skin of her neck. He could feel his own heart thumping as his cock twitched and pulsated deep inside her. Her pulse was thrumming just under his mouth as he tried to contain his need to suck a mark into her skin. He could hear her whimper his name as her body relaxed in his grip, and he whispered her name back to her, finding her warm mouth, and breathing her name against it. 

He held her tight, arms wrapped around her, as their heart rates slowed down and she caressed the damp curls at the back of his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. Frankie hummed under her touch, the slow drag of her fingers soothing, but he also realized he didn’t need soothing. There was no anxiety, no itch in his body and his mind was quiet, just filled with a feeling of contentment. He was no fool, he knew it would come back, both the itch and all the other shit that his mind threw at him after all the years of abuse. But for once, it was silent, and he relaxed into the feeling of Aisling's hands, her presence keeping him calm. 

Aisling shifted her weight, letting Frankie slip out of her as she pulled him down with her, stretching out on the bed. Unlike the last time, he scooped her up, his arms winding around her and she put her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the room. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, he knew what she meant. 

“I’m good, I feel good, it’s very different this time,” he replied, “Different situation, different place.” 

“Different you?” 

“A little bit, yeah,” he said, “but mostly it’s a better situation. Being honest with you, about it all, makes it easier.” 

She tilted her head up so that she could meet his soft brown eyes looking down at her, his hand slowly trailing up and down her back. 

“I’m glad you told me, I knew we had a lot to talk about but I never would’ve guessed all the stuff you’ve been through. It couldn’t have been easy, Frankie.” 

“I was nervous telling you, but it felt good afterward, lighter. And Herb said something when I came back, about making sure I learned the lesson so that I didn’t make the same mistake again, with you, if I was lucky enough to see you again. And I’ve tried to live by that these past few months. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but the least I could do was to learn something about my mistake this time.” 

“You feel very different, Frankie, different in a good way,” Aisling said, pushing herself up so that she was level with him, “You’re calm here, and you feel more in control, balanced. Whatever you’ve been trying to do these past few months, it’s working, I can see that.” 

“Thank you,” Frankie replied, reaching up and cupping her cheek with his warm palm, and it struck her how even his simple thank you was different. His look didn’t waver, his gaze was steady on her, and he accepted her assessment of him, not downplaying it or brushing it off. 

“We’re gonna be ok, Frankie,” Aisling said, putting her hand on top of his, “I know we’ll be fine, I trust you.” 

A small smile pulled at his lips at her words, “Thank you,” he said again and she returned his smile, meeting his kiss as he pulled her closer. 

Aisling woke the next morning with the unfamiliar feeling of Frankie splayed on his belly next to her. His arm was flung over her middle, pinning her to the bed, and when she tried to wriggle free, he huffed and pulled her closer. 

“No sneaking off,” he muttered, his eyes still closed and his face buried in the pillow. His voice was rough with sleep, but she could hear the smile in it. 

Aisling chuckled and rolled over, pushing her nose into the unruly curls by his neck, and kissed the warm skin. 

“I need to pee,” she mumbled into his hair as he hummed under her. 

“Me too, but I’m too comfortable like this.” 

“What if we go pee and I promise to cuddle you just like this when we get back?” She nuzzled closer to him and kissed more of him, reaching his scruffy jaw and feeling the gray beard tickle her lips. 

“You wanna watch me pee?” Frankie mumbled under her, “Is there something you’re not telling me?” 

“Ok, smart ass,” she protested, mock anger in her voice as she pushed herself away and Frankie started laughing, holding on to her waist and pulling her down again. He was smiling widely at her as he rolled her over and got on top. His heavy weight pushed her into the mattress as he caged her in, smiling down at her with those warm brown eyes and messy curls creating a halo around his head. 

“I’m just trying to figure out if this is a thing that turns you on,” he laughed, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose as she smiled up at him. 

“This,” Aisling said, pointing between them in the small space created by their bodies, “turns me on. But I also really need to pee.” 

“Me on top like this turns you on?” Frankie asked, his eyes taking on a darker shade as he dropped down on his forearms, his mouth only just hovering over hers and she whined in protest. 

“Yes, it does, you’re too fucking strong the way you just roll me over and push me down and it’s so fucking sexy but I really need to pee!” 

She wriggled under him and with a satisfied smirk Frankie let her go, rolling over on to his side as she hurried to the bathroom. 

“Such a menace, Francisco,” she threw over her shoulder at him and she could hear his laughter as she closed the bathroom door. 

Frankie made good on his promise to take them out on the trail up to one of his favorite spots after breakfast. He got Clover and Dolly saddled up down at the ranch as Aisling watched him move around the stable with ease. Again she was struck by how much at home he looked here, calm around the horses, comfortably chatting with them in a low voice as he tightened straps and checked the equipment. He really was a very different version of the man she’d met in Brooklyn. The same Frankie, but more confident, collected and stable. 

As she watched him, Aisling wondered how long it would’ve taken before the issues that plagued him in New York would’ve become too much to handle if he’d stayed, even if he’d stayed with her. Would’ve she had started seeing him the way Eva did? Start distrusting him and resenting him? It was hard to imagine, he’d seemed uncertain of himself, divided and troubled by something back there, but she’d still been drawn to him, attracted to him from the start. But how much hadn’t Eva been through before she gave up? 

Aisling ran her hand through her hair and watched how the muscles of Frankie’s broad back moved and flexed as he picked up Clover’s heavy saddle and lifted it onto her back. How would she have reacted if this seemingly so stable man came home high one day? How many chances would she have given him if she was in love with him back then? She sighed as she realized she probably would’ve given him as many chances as Eva, it was hard watching someone you love, lie and cheat. Picking up and leaving the first time it happened only seemed easy to those on the outside. 

“You ok, Ash?” Frankie asked as he noticed her far away look when he came up to her. He gently put his hand on her cheek and she smiled up at him. 

“I was miles away, thinking about Eva, actually.” 

“About Eva? Why?” Frankie said, feeling the familiar jolt of fear shooting through him at the thought that he’d somehow fucked up already. 

“I can see your panic, Frankie,” Aisling smiled, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, “it’s nothing bad. I was just thinking that when I see you here, how different you are, I understand how hard it must’ve been for her to see you struggle in New York. It couldn’t have been easy for her to have to choose between living here with you or in Brooklyn without you.” 

“It wasn’t,” Frankie shook his head, “I asked too much of her, but I didn’t realize it.” He absentmindedly stroked Dolly’s neck, “I’m really trying to not repeat that mistake with you,” he said and Aisling stepped closer to him. His eyes had shifted into something more worried, a flash of the man she’d met in Brooklyn, “I’m still scared I’ll fuck things up with you.” 

“I’ll tell you, Frankie,” Aisling soothed him, her hands wrapping around his middle, “I promise I’ll tell you if anything shifts or changes, we’ll work on it together before it gets out of hand. But you’re so different now, that’s what made me think of Eva. I can see how different you are now compared to back in Brooklyn, but maybe she never saw that, I don’t know who you were when you first moved out here.” 

“A fucking mess…” Frankie sighed, “A real fucking mess, barely hanging on to my sobriety, pushing everyone away except her and Herb. I thought I got better pretty fast but that was an illusion, it took months for me to get a grip on things for real. I thought she was happy until it was too late and she left, but I don’t blame her. I didn’t see what she was going through properly, I was too focused on myself.” 

Frankie sighed and leaned his forehead against Aisling's as she moved her hands into his hair, “I promise I’ll do anything to not repeat that with you.” 

“I know you will, and I’m willing to help you, Francisco, as much as I can.” 

She gave him a kiss, her soft lips molding against his and he smiled into it, relaxing as her fingers ran through his hair, caressing his neck. 

“Thanks, Ash,” he mumbled as Dolly gave an impatient huff next to them, shaking her head and breaking the moment. 

“Let’s get this lady out on the trail before she loses her cool,” Frankie chuckled as he patted her neck and Aisling giggled at Dolly’s impatient look. 

The early hours of the day were cool even though the sun was out, early fall was starting to make itself known, and Aisling was grateful for the sweater Frankie had lent her. She was swimming in it but he’d rolled the sleeves up before he’d helped her up on Clover’s back, making sure she was secure before he swung himself into Dolly’s saddle. The sight of him so effortlessly pulling himself up made her smile and bite her lip to hide it. His strong legs gripping Dolly’s sides was enticing and he made it look so easy as he firmly guided her around to face Aisling before they set off. 

“All good?” he asked, making Dolly halt next to Clover and putting his hand on hers. 

“I think so, as long as Clover follows you and doesn’t take off with me on her own adventure,” she replied, patting Clover’s chestnut neck. 

“She’ll follow me, don’t worry. And we’ll just walk today, take it nice and slow.” Frankie smiled at Aisling, he was excited in a way he hadn’t been in a long time, he’d nursed an impossible dream about taking Aisling up into the mountains, showing her what he loved the most about this place. Now it was finally happening, two days ago he’d thought he’d never even see her again, but now she was here. 

The trail heading up into the foothills of the Rockies was wide enough for them to ride side by side at first. Aisling tried to copy Frankie’s relaxed riding style, sitting deep in the saddle with his hand hanging loose by his side. Dolly seemed to know what he wanted her to do without him doing anything, just a small movement of his hand and she adjusted her course. Clover on the other hand just followed Dolly, keeping her gait smooth and steady as Aisling gripped Clover’s sides with her legs and held on to the pommel. Frankie glanced over at Aisling and smiled, she looked more confident in the saddle with every passing minute and he reached out and squeezed her thigh, feeling it move under his fingers. 

“You’re doing great, hermosa, you’ll be ready for a lope soon,” he said and her bright smile lit a fire inside him. She looked happy when she smiled at him and he almost pinched himself to check that this was real. 

As the trail narrowed Clover dropped back and followed behind. The landscape changed, the trail passed between high cliffs and then through fir tree forests as the horses climbed higher. Eventually the trees dropped away too, and as they emerged out into a high mountain valley Aisling gasped, taking in the wide view. 

Frankie turned in the saddle and checked that Aisling was still ok. 

“All good back there?” 

“Yeah, this is amazing, Frankie,” Aisling sighed, “It’s so beautiful, I can’t believe this is real…” 

Frankie smiled and looked at the landscape through her eyes for the first time. He’d been awed when Herb took him up here the first time, and he still saw the beauty of the place. But to see Aisling's wide eyed reaction made him appreciate it even more. The narrow valley was covered with tall grass and scattered with the last of the late summer flowers, creating a mat of gold dotted with reds and blues that gently sloped up towards the truly tall, snow capped, mountain peaks to the west. On either side, the foothills climbed up, covered in thick conifer trees, framing and protecting the valley. 

“I thought you might like it,” Frankie replied, slowing Dolly down so that she was level with Clover as they slowly rode into the tall grass, leaving the trail behind. 

“I feel like I’m in an old western or something, minus the outlaws and guns, getting ready to go panning for gold.” 

“You look like a real cowboy, Ash,” Frankie chuckled. He’d picked out a hat for her before they left, tilting it down to protect her eyes, and now she gave him a two fingered Clint Eastwood tap to the brim of the hat. 

“Partner,” she chuckled and Frankie did the same with a grin. 

“Ma’am.” 

He pointed to a small clump of trees about halfway up the valley, “We’re heading there, the stream curves around the trees and it’s a good spot to water the horses and have lunch. How’s your muscles feeling?” 

“Stiff, but nothing compared to what I think they’ll be tomorrow,” Aisling replied, following the direction of Frankie’s finger. 

“They did actually pan for gold up here,” Frankie said, “There's a small cabin further up the valley where someone staked claims back in the 1860’s. Herb has a whole lecture he gives the guests about the gold rush era.” 

“Did they find gold?” 

“Yeah, most of western Montana was settled because of gold, silver and copper, and there was definitely gold in these mountains.” 

“I’ll keep an eye out at the creek,” Aisling smiled, “that’d be so cool, to find an actual nugget.” 

“You might find something, I’ve got two tiny nuggets at home that I found up here. And Herb’s got a bunch too. But we’ve all found them in the spring so we think the spring floods bring them down from higher up when the snow melts.” 

“I’ll come back in the spring then,” Aisling replied as Frankie pulled on Dolly’s reins and made her come to a halt. With a smooth movement he dismounted and grabbed Clover’s reins, putting his other hand up to Aisling. 

“I really hope you do, Ash,” he said, and the look he gave her made her smile widely as he helped her down. 

“I want to come back, I’m having an amazing time here, with you,” she said and Frankie caressed her cheek. 

“Honestly, Ash, I don’t want you to leave at all, I just want you to stay.” 

“You really want me to stay, cramp your style, get between you and Dolly?” Aisling asked and Frankie snorted as she put her arms around his waist. 

“How many times do I have to tell you? Stay for as long as you want, you can stay permanently and I’ll be the luckiest guy ever, just stay with me and Dolly, Ash.” 

Dolly gave a low whinny as if to agree, and Aisling giggled as Frankie nudged his nose against her cheek before he kissed her. Humming into her mouth he pulled her closer and nipped at her bottom lip. 

“Dolly wants you to stay too, and I’m sure Clover agrees and you can’t say no to them.”

Aisling pushed her hands into Frankie's curls and scratched the back of his head while he kissed her again. 

“Are you using Dolly and Clover as emotional black mail,” she laughed against his lips. 

“Is it working?” 

“You don’t need to black mail me, I’ve already agreed to stay.” 

“Thank you.” 

Frankie stroked his thumb over her cheek and pressed a soft kiss to her lips again before he straightened up.

“Go explore, I’ll get the ladies sorted,” he smiled. 

Frankie tethered the horses and made sure they had water and some snacks, before he followed Aisling down to the creek. She was sitting on a flat rock by the water’s edge, peeling her socks off as he sat down next to her. 

“Going for a swim?” he asked, letting his arm rest along her shoulders, when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple. 

“I didn’t bring a bikini, will you be scandalized if I skinny dip?” she asked, wiggling her now free toes.

“If you skinny dip I’m not responsible for what happens next,” Frankie replied with a serious tone, giving her a mischievous wink when she looked over at him, “but you’d better test that water before you commit to swimming in it.” He nodded at the crystal clear stream that bubbled past them just beyond the edge of the rock. 

“It’s not safe for swimming?” Aisling asked but Frankie just chuckled and nodded to the water again. 

“Oh it’s safe alright, just put your feet in it first.” 

Aisling frowned at the expression on his face and then scooted to the edge of the rock and dangled her feet over the edge. The water level wasn’t very high and she gingerly put the toes of her right foot into the water. 

“Oh fuck!” she shrieked and rapidly yanked her foot up again, “That’s ice, Frankie!” 

Frankie laughed behind her as she carefully dipped her foot into the water again, squealing as the icy cold water rushed over her toes. 

“Oh shit that’s cold, so cold, so cold, so cold,” she gasped, putting her other foot into the water. 

“So pull them up again,” Frankie laughed, but Aisling shook her head. 

“No, I just…shit…need to get used to it. It’s k-kinda nice,” she stuttered, both feet in the water now. 

Frankie scooted forward and yanked his boots off, tossing them behind them together with his socks. 

“If I lose a toe to frostbite, I’m blaming you, Ash,” he chuckled, taking hold of her hand and dipping his feet into the water next to hers with a loud gasp. 

“Fuck me that’s c-cold,” he gasped as Aisling giggled and grabbed hold his arm, kicking her feet in the water to keep her toes moving. 

“W-why is it so cold, it’s the end of the summer?” she asked as Frankie tried to keep his composure and not pull up his feet straight away. 

“This creek comes down from the mountains up there,” he said and pointed towards the highest peaks in the distance, “They are snow capped all year around and I’m pretty sure some of the glaciers feed straight into this creek. It’s never warm, not even in the middle of summer.” 

“I’ve never felt glacial water before, but this feels about right, I can’t feel my toes,” Aisling replied and shook his head.  

“Ok, that’s enough,” he said and pulled his feet up, shaking the water from them as Aisling caved and pulled up her feet too, “Give me those ice block toes,” he said and motioned for her to put her feet in his lap. She swung her feet to him with a smile as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and started rubbing her toes between his warm hands. 

“Five star service at this ranch,” she smiled and cupped her hand around the back of his head and caressed his soft curls. 

“Only for you, Ash. And the horses, the three of you are my favorite girls,” Frankie replied, tweaking her pinky toe with a grin that made Aisling feel warmth rise up in her chest for entirely different reasons. 

“I’m flattered,” she said and scooted closer so that she could kiss his cheek while he smiled under her lips, “If you can also provide lunch, I will leave a five star review on Yelp.” 

“I can provide sandwiches and hot coffee,” he replied, still rubbing her feet. 

“Deal! That sounds great.” 

“Next time I’ll plan a bit more and we can cook some food up here, light a fire and make some ‘smores,” Frankie said while Aisling got to her feet and gave him her hand to stand up. 

“Can we come out here and camp overnight? I’ve never done that,” she said. 

“Yeah, for sure! That would be awesome,” Frankie gave her a big grin while they went back to the horses and his pack. “We take guests on overnight camping trips all the time. I’ll plan something before it gets too cold at night.” 

“But if it’s really cold, maybe we need to share a sleeping bag?” Aisling winked at him and Frankie chuckled. 

“Hermosa, it can be a heatwave, we’re still sharing a sleeping bag.” 

Lunch was peaceful, the serene valley a perfect backdrop to just sitting on a blanket with Frankie. Aisling scooted close to him, leaned against his side as he put his arm around her, coffee mug in the other hand. 

There really wasn’t any need to talk right now, all the big things had been said, all cards on the table. Frankie felt light but grounded in a way he hadn’t in many years. His mind was quiet and calm, he found he could even think back on how he’d ended up here without too much pain. It was like he could finally pick up the pieces of the different choices he’d made in his life and see how they all fit together, one decision jacking into the next to create a path that led him here. He’d made bad decision, terrible ones even, but at least they’d all led him here; sitting on a blanket, sipping coffee, with his arm around a person who made him feel complete and nothing to do but to go home, spend the night with her and then wake up tomorrow and work with the horses. 

He briefly closed his eyes and reminded himself to commit this moment to memory, to keep as a token when things weren’t as easy, to have as a mental talisman. The sun was warm on his back, the breeze mild, he could hear birds nearby, the soft sounds of the horses feeding and next to him, pressed to his side, Aisling and her sweet scent. He could even feel how a few loose strands of her hair were ticking against his neck and he leaned into it, seeking out her hair with his nose and inhaling. 

Aisling leaned her head against Frankie’s shoulder as he buried his nose in her hair, and reached up to scratch his scruffy beard, trailing her fingertips over the bare patches, tracing the outlines. Frankie put his coffee mug down and pulled her down with him as he laid back, her head on his arm as a pillow.

“Nap time,” he said, “it’s tradition.” 

“If you say so,” she smiled and tucked herself into his side with her arm over his soft belly, he curled his around her shoulders. She glanced up at him and his eyes were already closed, his face relaxed. She shifted up a little bit and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, it made him smile without opening his eyes, and she settled back down and closed her own eyes. 

The sun had moved in the sky when Frankie stirred, about an hour had passed, he calculated. Ash was still curled into his side and his arm had fallen asleep. He glanced over at the two horses who were standing in the shade of the trees, Dolly was affectionately nibbling on Clover’s withers while their tails swished to keep the flies at bay. Frankie looked down at Aisling and gently stroked her cheek. 

“C’mon sleepy girl, time to get a move on,” he mumbled softly, watching her stir and blink awake, looking confused for a moment. 

“Sleep well?” he smiled at her as she yawned and nodded. 

“Went out like a light, best nap ever,” she smiled, “You’re a very comfy pillow.” 

“You’re a very comfy blanket,” Frankie chuckled and she pushed herself up so that she could kiss him. His mouth was soft, warm from the sun, and she could feel him deepen the kiss as he cupped his hand around the back of her head, his tongue slipping between her lips. She softly hummed into him, relishing the sleepy feeling of the kiss until he slowly pulled away. 

“C’mon, we have a bit of a ride back too, but next time we’ll stay up here overnight,” he smiled. 

He pushed up to his feet and gave her a hand, soon they were in the saddle again and heading back down the trail. 

“I can already feel my muscles starting to protest,” Aisling laughed as she adjusted her seat in the saddle, “My thighs are stiff and my butt hurts.” 

“You can have a hot bath when we get back, that’ll help,” Frankie said, turning in his saddle to look at her. “How do you feel about trying to lope? There’s a nice flat stretch coming up.” 

“Ok, just don’t laugh when I fall off!”

“You won’t fall, just grip with your legs and hold onto the pommel, Clover will do the rest. She’ll follow Dolly,” Frankie slowed down so that he was next to Aisling as the trail widened, “Ready?” 

Aisling nodded, looking a bit nervous, and Frankie smiled at her, putting his hand on her thigh and giving it a squeeze. 

“Just remember to squeeze her sides and follow her motion with your hips, ok?” 

“Ok.” 

“Ok then, c’mon Dolly, nice and easy, just a slow lope.” 

He smacked his lips and Dolly picked up her pace, breaking into a rolling lope as he moved his hips. 

“Oh shit,” Aisling gasped as Clover followed, gripping the pommel tight.

“You ok, Ash?” Frankie called back, turning in the saddle while Dolly loped on, his body moving effortlessly with her gait. 

“Y-yeah…j-just a little wobbly,” Aisling stuttered and tightened her grip with her legs. 

“Relax a little, just like when she walks, follow her movement.” 

Frankie let Dolly lope for another minute, then he slowed her down, coming to a walk while Clover did the same and Dolly walked next to the buckskin mare. 

“You did great, Ash!” Frankie exclaimed, beaming at her as she puffed a laugh and exhaled. 

“I feel shaken, but it was fun!”

“Wanna do it again, maybe a little bit longer this time?” 

“Yeah, sure!” Aisling beamed back at him, her eyes bright from the thrill and Frankie wanted nothing else but to kiss her as he grinned. 

“Let’s go then,” he laughed, and once again signaled Dolly to break into a slow lope. 

The ride back was faster as they alternated between loping and walking the horses. Aisling felt more and more confident as Clover kept a steady pace and she got used to following her movements. But it was hard work, by the time Frankie slowed down as they neared the ranch, sweat was running down her back and her muscles were aching. But she beamed at Frankie as he came alongside her and gave her leg a squeeze. 

“That was amazing, I wanna be a cowboy when I grow up,” she laughed, “but I won’t be able to walk tomorrow!” 

Frankie laughed too and halted Dolly, “Let’s walk the rest of the way, it’ll help your legs to recover.” 

With the horses ambling behind them, they walked the last stretch down to the ranch and Frankie couldn’t help grinning when Aisling put her hand in his. The two dogs, Whiskey and Benny, came sprinting down the trail when they spotted the horses and happily bounded around them the rest of the way. Once back, the horses were taken care of and put in their stalls, the dogs were given final scratches, and then Frankie helped her into the truck for the drive back to the cabin.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as they started nearing home. The sun was dipping behind the mountains, painting the sky in brilliant pinks and oranges as the shadows grew. 

“Yeah, absolutely, wanna DoorDash?” Aisling asked and stuck out her tongue at Frankie when he raised his eyebrows, “I’m joking, no DoorDash out here.” 

“City slicker,” he teased, “I’ve got burger meat in the freezer, how about I fire up the grill?” 

“Sounds perfect, but I think you might have guests?” Aisling nodded at the rental truck that was parked outside the cabin. 

“What the…?” Frankie mumbled, his eyebrows pulling into a frown as he slowed the car to a halt and killed the engine. 

In the gathering darkness they could see three men stand up and walk to the edge of the porch.

Chapter 10

Tag list: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @amyispxnk @thewiigers @lady-bess @missladym1981@peppermintfury @typewriter83 @anoverwhelmingdin @vabeachazn

[ragnarockz]

OK WELL!

I had this sitting in my docs and never got back around to it, didn't know where to move in direction so I just left it (and then wrote 2 more things after this so, obviously this one didn't strike me BUT), it's 'complete' enough to share and so...

@lilithschosen to feed those brain worms 🧠🪱

The prompt was You look good on your knees like this

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“You look good on your knees like this,”

Agent Vidal quipped as she took off her sunglasses and planted them neatly on the top of her head. She tossed Agnes a flashy smile, crossing her arms over her chest. Both Vidal and Agnes heard Herb coughing behind her that eventually drew out a semi-awkward silence from the rest of the team; one that rattled around the crime scene. Agent Vidal made sure she had spoken her words loud enough for everyone to hear, especially Agnes.

Agnes shook her head; still down on her knees as she scooped up a scrap of torn fabric with her tweezers off of the forest floor. Possible evidence; she concluded not too long ago. But now, either Agent Vidal was getting restless or she had other plans on her mind that were dead-set on pushing Agnes’ buttons. At a crime scene. In front of her other colleagues. During billable work hours.

“Thanks, Agent. Can’t promise you I’ll be able to get back up off of them though; these knees aren’t what they used to be,”

That drew out a few laughs; calming everyone back down, smoothing those ruffled feathers of what was daring to be a heated, almost intimate moment between the two women. Agnes glanced up at Vidal who was a little ways away from her, shaking her head and silently mouthing ‘fuck you’ in jest. Agent Vidal smiled a little bigger, silently mouthing back to Agnes, ‘soon’. That made Agnes clear her throat as she quickly sealed up the evidence bag and got up from her knees in one quick movement, turning her back to Vidal so she could mentally and physically collect herself. Agent Vidal, Agnes noticed, was more interested in finding new ways to get her hot and bothered in public. At the station, at a crime scene, even the few times they went out to grab a quick lunch or a coffee. It was getting more and more risky; the things she would say in front of other people would make them stop and stare; run the words through their brain and always come away with a look on their face that screamed it wasn’t cutesy teasing words but words of lust. Words of want. Agent Vidal was hungry and stalking her prey and Agnes, whether she asked for it or not, was caught in the crosshairs; targeted out in front of everyone else to see and hear. Agent Vidal wasn’t scared of leaving witnesses to her admiration towards the Detective.

Agnes regrouped with her team, handing off her evidence to the lab girl; her collection kit back to Herb. Everyone knew what they had to do and they got to it, filing out of the woods back to their cars they had all parked on the side of the road. Agnes and Vidal lingered back until everyone else had cleared out; leaving the two of them in the beautiful forest.

“We should get a hit on that fabric later this evening, maybe? Just before our shift ends?”

“Maybe…hey, what do you say to grabbing an early lunch and then swinging back to the motel to eat it?”

“Hopefully there's some blood or DNA we can use, something to tie whoever was out here…”

“Or, we can pick up something and go back to your office; you've been really liking it in there lately.”

Agnes turned her head to look at Vidal, searching her face,

“Like ‘it’ in there? Like what in there, Agent?”

“Me, Detective. You like me in there…sitting at your desk, on the couch…under your desk…”

Agnes’ eyebrows shot up, recalling that moment from last week. They had almost gotten caught. Again. Agnes barely had time to zip up her jeans; the dull ache between her legs called her back to her desk but there had been an abrupt and familiar knock on her office door and she knew it was the Chief. She had scrambled to get to the door, face flushed and hair messier than usual. She hoped the Chief didn't notice as he passed along a new result of some evidence they had collected earlier in the week. Agnes mumbled a few thank yous before closing the door behind him. She had let out a loud sigh, her eyes darting back to her desk where Agent Vidal was waiting obediently underneath it.

And now, here was Agent Vidal a week later asking her the same thing. Agnes eyed the Agent curiously, trying to crack whatever it was that propelled her to want things this way. She couldn't put her finger on it.

“Agent Vidal, if you want to go back to the station just so you can fuck me in my office-”

“I do, actually, that's what I was asking.”

Vidal loved, craved to see Agnes all hot and bothered. It was working again. Her words twisted the Detectives face into want, need. She was playing it all out in her head. Vidal flashed her a quick smile before she started walking past her,

“I’ll drive us back, come on.”

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