#the only hip hop kings

[yuexias]

spell out your url using song titles. then, tag as many people as there are letters in your url:

s - super - seventeen u - us against the world - epik high c - castles crumbling - taylor swift ft hayley williams h - heaven - ailee a - ah puh - iu e - evermore - taylor swift ft bon iver h - homesick (prod by. primary) - benzamin w - what kind of future - woozi (ps: uji pls release this song im begging) a - and july - heize ft dean s - shut up - ailee ft simon d tagged by : @vvfied <3 (thanks bb ilu) tagging : @moonrvier @fawncrest @lucidrims @fadinglights @dysnomiias @cuteziez @cinnamcroll @thedevilssaid @thervnaways @2minus and whoever wants to do it .. !! (only if u want to!)

[gorespawn]

listen to this soft beat with me

[trapangeles]

Lil Durk Arrested on Federal “Murder-for-Hire” Charge in Connection to Death of Quando Rondo’s Cousin Lul Pab

Broward County, FL— In a dramatic turn of events, Grammy-nominated rapper Lil Durk, born Durk Derrick Banks, has been taken into custody by U.S. Marshals and is being held at Broward County Correctional Facility in Florida. He faces extradition to California, where federal authorities have leveled a serious charge of "murder for hire" against him. The high-profile case is linked to the death of Lul Pab, cousin to fellow rapper Quando Rondo, in what prosecutors describe as a violent, retaliatory act related to the 2020 death of Chicago rapper King Von.

The Allegations: A Retaliation Plot for King Von's Death

Federal prosecutors in California announced the indictment on Thursday, revealing that the charge stems from an August 2022 incident in Los Angeles in which Quando Rondo’s cousin, known as Lul Pab, was fatally shot. Prosecutors claim the motive is rooted in the November 2020 altercation in Atlanta, where King Von, a close associate of Lil Durk and an influential figure in Chicago’s drill music scene, was shot and killed by Lul Timm, a known associate of Quando Rondo, after a brawl broke out.

Authorities allege that Lil Durk’s group, known as OTF (Only The Family), orchestrated a plot to exact revenge for King Von's death. The indictment suggests that OTF members sought retribution by placing a bounty on Quando Rondo’s head, an alleged conspiracy to commit murder for hire aimed at avenging their fallen friend.

Federal Indictment and the OTF Connection

Five men reportedly affiliated with Lil Durk's OTF label have also been indicted on conspiracy charges for their involvement in the alleged murder-for-hire plot. Those named in the grand jury indictment include:

Kavon London Grant (aka "Vonnie")

Deandre Dontrell Wilson (aka "DeDe")

Keith Jones (aka "Flacka")

David Brian Lindsey (aka "Browneyez")

Asa Houston (aka "Boogie")

According to prosecutors, these individuals used a credit card associated with the OTF label to fund their travels from Chicago to California. Court documents allege they booked flights to Los Angeles after discovering Quando Rondo's whereabouts, intent on carrying out a targeted attack on him. The group reportedly coordinated with precision to locate and ultimately eliminate their target, prosecutors claim.

A Long Shadow Cast by King Von’s Death

The 2020 murder of King Von had a profound impact on Chicago’s music scene and the personal lives of those closest to him. In the wake of his death, tensions between affiliated groups in Atlanta and Chicago escalated, setting off a chain of violent encounters. Authorities suggest that the August 2022 shooting was fueled by those same tensions, framing it as a calculated and highly organized act of retribution by individuals still deeply affected by Von's passing.

The timing of this indictment and Lil Durk’s arrest has already sparked significant discussion and debate across social media, particularly within the hip-hop community. The legal repercussions and public scrutiny surrounding this case highlight the ongoing violence that has affected many artists and the far-reaching impacts of these rivalries.

Awaiting Extradition and Legal Proceedings

Lil Durk now awaits extradition from Broward County to California, where he will face federal charges in connection to the case. The indictment against him, coupled with his ties to the alleged OTF conspirators, marks a pivotal moment in his career and may have significant legal implications for the influential Chicago-based rapper. If convicted on the murder-for-hire charge, the penalties could be severe, with potential sentences ranging up to life in prison.

The Ongoing Impact on Hip-Hop and Street Culture

This high-stakes legal case is another reminder of the intersection between the music industry and street culture, with both fans and artists deeply invested in the unfolding narrative. Lil Durk’s arrest underscores the cyclical violence that continues to plague the hip-hop community, especially within the competitive drill scene. This case serves as a stark example of how past incidents can continue to influence and shape the lives and careers of those involved, often with tragic outcomes.

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[sickgraymeat]

Ok but fr did they cast childish gambino around Bad Little Boy or did they write Bad Little Boy around childish gambino

[gamblersdoll]

whenever sukuna has a rough day, he has you ride him.

two pairs of arms forcing your legs down, only allowing your hips to move and it was so difficult taking all of his girth. i mean, he’s the king of curses, what would you expect? anyways.

he wont do anything else, sitting there watching you attentively and these times are where he’s vocal. not moaning, more of string of curses or groans. definitely growls.

“fuck—keep fucking going.” he says, you see his abdomen flex, and his other set of arms resting behind his head. “just like that, make me proud.”

yet, he knew you were struggling to take all of him in. hell, it was a struggle saddling him. hes fucking huge.

“im not fucking helping you tonight.” he growls, staring blankly up at you. “yer fuckin’ lucky im even looking up at you, so hop to it or fifty spanks. and i wont be dropping my fucking hand.”

thats all it took to get you moving.

hes all groany, biting his lip when he’s feeling you clench down because of the size. yet, hes rolling his eyes back, gripping at your ass. his nails make crescent moons in them, forcing your body up and down on him.

“cant even take curse dick, how pathetic.” he snarls, slamming himself into you as your knocked the wind out of you. “gunna have to retrain this pussy.”

anything but that again.

“wait! pleas— i just needed lubrica—“

“shouldve gotten some when you had the fuckin’ chance!”

oh, did i mention he always has bad days in may because of the heat? yeah.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ How they hold you in bed when sleeping

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia (separate) 

When the stars are perched in the night sky, and the world becomes wrapped in a still blanket of darkness - there is no better action than departing to your safe space, the coziness of your bedroom, and the safety of your beloved’s body next to you. The lights are dimmed and after a warm shower and a change into comfy pajamas, your beloved is met with a tender sight of your sleepy figure. It is time for rest, and with his arms open, beckoning you to hop into his embrace - you join him in bed at last. 

✧ A single glance from Pierro and his eyes would instantly soften upon seeing your sleepy expression. The Director of the Fatui doesn’t require any questions or even verbal communication to know that something is troubling you. Your solemn gaze and slumped shoulders tell him more than enough - and his heart aches in response. Silently but gently, he pulls you closer, his star-shaped pupils seeking answers from your own. 

��My divine one... A long day?” - he whispers, his hand lifting your chin to make you look at him. You don’t directly respond, but nod and press your lips into a thin line. Pierro sighs, yearning to vanquish all your worries and pain. But sometimes, words are superfluous.

“Do not fret your little heart. No harm shall come, for I am here, my divine. Shall I take you to bed, instead?” 

With a small nod and a timid glance from you, Pierro spoke no further. He knew what you required on such solemn nights as these, and instead, allowed his arms to pick you up, carrying your fatigued figure in his bigger embrace. He pulled you closer, his cheek gently grazing your face as he whispered soothing words and brought you to bed. 

He tucked you in, the king-sized bed bringing the familiar sensation of silky sheets and warm covers. He kisses your forehead with careful and slow deliberation before accompanying you to sleep.    

When Pierro sleeps beside you, he is often silent, but his gaze never leaves your figure. He’d lay on his side, gazing at your face as if it were the stars and the moon itself. Even within the dimness of the room, he has memorized the outline of your face, the soothing rhythm of your breathing, the contour of your figure. With one hand around you, you two slept peacefully, the troubles of the world left behind. Even the Fatui’s Director required solace, and this solace he would locate only in your tender arms; his sanctuary. 

✧ Il Capitano has memorized your routine. Take a shower, get ready for bed, and most importantly, sleep on top of him as if his body were a sturdy mattress. It’s not your fault your cherished is so much taller and bigger, right? Well luckily for you, he absolutely adores it when you climb on top of him, resting your head on top of his chest and legs around his hips. Your smaller figure clad tight around him like a loving weighted blanket while he slept on his back. His hands would gladly squeeze you, loving your softness against his toned physique. 

“You don’t mind my weight on top of you, Cappy?” - you’d often ask every night before bed, peeking at him with that tender worry that made the Harbinger melt in an instant. Capitano would continue to hold you, his sharp fingers tracing circles gently on your hips or your back.

“Dearest, I have carried heavier weights that quadruple you in size. If you were to bother me, would I be pulling you back to my arms whenever you toss and turn?” 

And thus, with the seal of approval from the honorable Captain, you’d smile triumphantly and sleep on him. That’s just how the two of you were: Capitano was a beast in size, slept still, and barely moved when on his back. Conversely, you were smaller in size, slept very lightly, and often turned or wrestled with the covers. Even when you had the spacious bed to your leisure, you always chose to sleep tightly clinging to him. And Capitano revered every second of it as if it was the biggest honor in his duty as your protector. Truly, an honorable knight protecting your dreams. 

✧ Sharing a bed with Il Dottore is a toil. If you managed to miraculously drag him out of his lab, he’d groan and argue that he has important research to do, that your concern for his sleep schedule is ‘childish’. Yet the moment he settles in bed, he becomes a menace to your sanity: 

“Are you coming to bed or not?” 

“Come here, closer.” 

“No, you are pushing around.”

And the cherry on top of it all? He’d stare at you during the entire night, maskless. You know he doesn’t easily fall asleep, even on days when he overexhausted himself in his experiments. So naturally, his method to relax is to press the side of his head tightly against your chest and just remain glued to you with the sound of your heartbeat being his salvation. You’d assume it is an adorable sight… until you’d open your eyes in the middle of the night, only to notice a piercing, red lens just gawking at you. Motionless and still, he just wore that neutral expression while being pressed to your chest.

“...Uh, are you going to just stare at me in the dark?” - you whispered in the dark, to which he won’t even move or change his expression.

“43 beats per minute.” 

You blinked sleepily - “... wha-” 

“Your heart beats approximately 43 to 50 beats per minute when you sleep. That’s anywhere between 20640 to 24000 beats for 8 hours of sleep.” 

It was your turn to gawk at him, albeit in confusion. His nonchalant yet stoic reply told you that he was, indeed, very focused on counting each and every beat of your heart while you slept. He remained pressing his ear to the middle of your chest, arms wrapped around your waist tightly. 

“Dottore, have you not slept this entire time…?” 

“Shush, stop speaking,” - he whispered more gently, pressing his face into you in a rather touchy manner as if you wouldn’t notice. “I am still counting. Your heart rate is increasing to 81 bpm.” 

“If you won’t go to sleep this instance I won’t make any Ajilenakh Cake tomorrow.”

As such, silence dominated the dark bedroom once more. The doctor said no more and settled on hiding his face against your body, not daring to admit that he loved your desserts. And even more, not daring to acknowledge that your heartbeat lulled him to sleep. To deny his infatuation with every beat of your pulse would be a lie, and to deny his longing to physically hold you close would be ignorance. So he settled to silently counting your heartbeat until succumbing to dreamless slumber. 

✧ Scaramouche didn’t require sleep. Everyone knew that. Regardless, your persuasion with the 6th knew no bounds as you begged and nagged at him relentlessly to remain beside your bedding. He would audibly scoff and cross his arms at your ridiculous request. 

“My body does not need rest for 8-something hours. Why should I even waste such precious time with you while you’re the one unconscious?” 

However, no matter how much Scaramouche put up the cold front and rolled his eyes, he wasn’t immune to your ingratiating puppy eyes or gentle tugging whenever you asked something of him. You’d always embrace him from the side, asking him softly to stay a little longer as you depart for the night. He, of course, would refuse and cut your answers short, but his actions told a different story. He was already tucking you in; making sure the futon was neatly laid and the covers warmly wrapped around you while he sat kneeling beside you. He just had to make a fuss first:

“To even insinuate such foolish proposition… You must be truly bored out of your mind.”

You’d only chuckle in response, smiling whenever he made sure your room was tidy and secure for your nightly rest. But even then, you’d reach for his hand, and whisper: 

“... Just stay for a while longer. At least until I fall asleep, okay?” 

Same scoff. Same attitude. But The Puppeteer never left. He always stayed beside you, despite his arrogant rebuttals that you quickly learned were nothing about. He’d either sit leaning beside you, keeping a silent company, or telling you obscure stories he heard from Inazuma or the Abyss. And at times, Scaramouche would remain kneeling by your futon even after you had fallen asleep. 

Your breathing was slow and steady, but he was almost afraid to lean any closer. All bickerings he displayed before were gone, and like a porcelain puppet, Scaramouche would find himself frozen in place, hypnotized by your soothing breathing. He just gazed at you, as if you were a distant star within the dark sky, the palliative breaths emitting from you told him that you were safe. You are here. 

And it was from you he learned how gentle breaths are emitted by those deemed “alive”. How your breathing fluctuates in different moments of your life: energetic when happy, hitched when disturbed, and peaceful when asleep. Strangely, this mundane motion of your chest falling and rising worked like a lullaby to Scaramouche. 

Alas, he now condemns himself for not caressing your face all these times he watched you sleep. A lonesome Wanderer sat alone, an empty futon beside him. Your familiar presence lacking, and he won’t hear your tranquil breaths. You are not here.  

✧ Your dear Pantalone had a fundamental habit before bed. He’d set his glasses aside, hair tied up, and go through his skincare routine right before bed. His hands diligently yet delicately wash all the apprehension and professionalism from his face. But the most important part? Trash talk with you about what happened at his work, while he focused on his reflection in the mirror.

“Could you believe that dear?” - the 9th called out to you from the bathroom, his brows frowning in displeasure. The man continued to cleanse his face. “Those insolent aristocrats offered another bribe under the table, thinking that would change my final statement.” 

You responded with a faint “Mhm,” back at him. 

“And then! The tasteless bastard dared to ask that some of their reports be delayed because he will pay twice, as long as no one checks for quality control. I mean, the audacity of some of those high-society morons!” 

“Right, right” - you murmured faintly from the bedroom. 

Pantalone massaged his cheekbones, making sure his face was as affluent as his taste and status. He adjusted his robe, still rambling with the same frustrated passion. “They think that just because they’re doing business with me, negotiating with a high sum of bribes would lead to a guaranteed deal with the Fatui. Ugh.” 

This time, there was no response from you. The bedroom was awfully silent, despite the night lamp still shining. 

“Honey?” - Pantalone called gently. 

Silence. The Regrator stepped out of the bathroom, a curious look on his face, until his eyes spotted you in bed, asleep. His expression immediately softens, all quarrels and gossip forgotten. It seems that his late-night rambles about work have thrilled you so much that you, obviously, dozed off. You didn’t even turn off the lights or get under the covers yet.  

Pantalone couldn’t help but smile softly. You two had a long day, anyway. He quietly finished his preparations for bed, changed into comfortable nightwear, and stepped closer to your side. With a delicate touch, he made sure you were tucked in properly, giving you the usual good night kiss on the forehead and tucking your hair away from your face. The man dimmed the lights before he two took his rightful place in bed beside you. 

Whatever quarrels troubled his mind now - didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had your comforting presence beside him in bed. As he slowly spooned your sleeping figure, Pantalone let out a sigh of relief, letting his head rest by the crook of your nape. Only then, did the Regrator feel his body go into ease, feeling the tranquil silence settle upon the room. Thus, the two of you slept warmly; Something that Pantalone would never trade for any riches or gold. 

✧ Ah yes, Tartaglia, his sweetheart, and their 50,000 Mora five-foot tall Morax plushie. Childe remained lying on his back, his expression far from pleased. Ever since he returned from his mission in Liyue, he gifted you this massive dragon plushie. A plushie that became his mortal enemy. His tormentor. His replacer. 

The 11th frequently brought souvenirs back home in Snezhnaya. Liyuan tea sets, Inazuman dresses, or Fontainian gadgets. All for your spoiling, and the joyous smiles from his siblings. One of such missions, he returned home with several cute toys and plushies, just for you and Teucer. He is not beating the “Greatest Toy Seller” allegation anytime soon, but he was certain that the gigantic Morax would be a lovely choice for you. 

How naive he was. 

The plushie was almost your entire height, yet you held onto it with utter delight when he gave it to you. You hugged and squeezed it with love, finding the fluffy geo archon the cutest thing ever. And thus, here you were. In bed, not hugging your boyfriend, but hugging the massive Morax plushie. 

It became a common occurrence. At first, Childe chuckled at your adorable antics whenever you brought his gift with you in bed. But then it became more apparent that you would rather turn your back to him, and just fall asleep while embracing the plushie. Childe swallowed his pride. It’s just a plushie, he bargained with himself. But then he would stare daggers that that innocent, fluffy-looking Morax. How dare it be the one receiving your love, while you adorably squeezed or fell asleep on it.

It should’ve been him! 

Therefore, one night, he took matters into his own hands. Tartaglia sat up silently in bed, and by mustering all his skills in stealth, he sneakily pulled the Morax plushie away from your grasp while you slept soundly. He was slow, and careful so as not to wake you up; and boy, tugging that five-foot plush was no easy task. Once it was away from your arms, Childe grinned in triumph… and threw the toy aside. The enemy has been neutralized.  

Next step - carefully pulling you closer to him. You were already in deep sleep, so of course, you didn’t feel when your beloved naturally embraced you in bed. Shh, no one will know he was jealous of a silly toy. He was just a concerned boyfriend, who needed to bury his face onto the crown of your head and relish your warmth. 

The next morning, you woke up feeling warm and pressed to your dear Ajax, who was particularly cuddly that morning. 

“Oh no, how did my Morax plushie fall to the floor?” 

“Hm? Oh, you must’ve accidentally tossed it away while you slept, dear.” 

[wyvernest]

soft s3x and grey sweats

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!gf!reader

warnings: smut, tooth rotting fluff, miguel wears grey sweatpants, soft and loving sex, domesticity, unprotected piv

summary: miguel ft. grey sweatpants

A gentle drizzle splatters on the windows of your bedroom, tapping its soft, irregular crystal drops onto the glass only to wake you from your blissful nap.

You had fallen asleep with your head on his chest, invaded by the warmth of his body next to yours, the fascinating feeling of being home with him. You couldn't ever dare to ask for more than that.

With a spine-bending stretch, you step out of the cosiness of the king-sized bed following the realisation of his absence. Leaping down the stairs, you seek the comfort of him being near you like a throat-gripping vice.

You hear the water running, occasionally overlapped by clattering, dishes clanking and drawers being pushed shut.

You step out into the hall of your open-concept kitchen, linen stockings preventing even the subtlest noises of your movements from reaching him through the ambiance.

Your weight on the wooden floor is merely a gust of wind as you sit yourself into the corner of the sofa in order to watch him from up close.

You hug your legs to your chest in an attempt to adapt to the temperature change of the room, your flimsy top and panties doing little in covering your middle.

He hasn't turned to you since you hopped off the stairway. Arrogance tugs at the furthest corner of your mind after having sneaked behind his hyper vigilance, completely unnoticed. You seize the opportunity to study him in the absence of his piercing gaze fixed upon you.

Your eyes linger over the expanse of his broad back, the navy blue, short-sleeved shirt creasing in thin, cascading lines over his shoulder blades as he shifts his weight to his right, bicep bulging when he stretches his hand up into a cupboard.

You're more than delighted to note the easiness with which he attains things normally out of your reach.

Not only once did you call for his help to get you something from any place higher above you, having him stand behind you when doing so, and without fail him making sure to push his groin up against your ass in the process, prompting you to bend just slightly forward onto the board or sink in front of you before the simplest request for aid turned into you, taking him against any surface around the house.

It became quite the signal after a while. Whenever he heard you, 'Miguel! Come here for a second, baby’, his cock would fatten in advance at the sound of the command.

"Should've stayed upstairs, muñeca. I was making something for you." he snaps you out of your reverie, the sleepy raspiness in his voice deliciously running late over the last syllables of his remorseful disfavour.

While still not facing you, it turns out he was well-aware of your presence.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just watch." you excuse yourself, draping your midriff over the armrest, hands supporting your head on the soft cushions as you thaw at the sight of him cooking for you.

He returns to the kitchen island, his index finger mindlessly following the instructions he was mentally revising, before his eyes find you on the couch, scanning every patch of skin you have on display, as if sizing you up for his dessert.

He allows his vision to wash over your silky smooth thighs, your waistline that moulds into the hill of the pillows, the exact same way it moulds so erotically against him when he pistons his hips into yours.

With your pleading gaze inviting, thighs squeezed together in frustration, he is unsure of what to finish next, the pancakes, or you.

Your attention drops to the chubbed, prominent curve of his stiffening cock in his sweatpants, the shade of it nearly obscenely large, evident on the grey fabric. His hand slips down his crotch, lazily palming his dick through the material. You feel the heat pooling between your thighs, yearning growing unbearable.

"I have to let it rest. I'm all yours now." he suggests smugly, and part of you suspects that he had been needing to take you since you decided to flutter your eyes shut on the bed, arms coiled around his waist.

You shamelessly keep your eyes on target as he sets the dough bowl aside, approaching you with a heaviness in his pace that you know oh so well.

His dick twitches ever so slightly in his pants, hardening until its outline becomes lewdly evident, straining upwards into his pants in all its length and girth that ruptures you unforgivingly whenever he stuffs himself inside you.

Before he can even reach the sofa, your eager hands clutch his waist, feeling the rigid muscles underneath his shirt as you start planting gentle kisses down his abdomen, having him shudder at the contact even through the cotton fibre.

Your soft breasts meet his bulge in the process, offering nothing more than a few mere brushes that only rile him up more than he had hoped.

He drops his weight next to you on the cushions as the only way to avoid the urge to pull his cock out and shove it down your throat through your pretty, plush lips. He opts to rest his head back on the pillows, legs spread wide in front of him, taking up nearly all the space next to you.

Not a single moment is wasted before you take his cheeks in your hands, fingertips grazing his rough, barely visible stubble, pressing rushed, obsessive kisses all over his face.

You slide one leg over his, seeking the pressure of his broad, firm thigh to your clothed cunt.

His own hands are quick to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him, your chest flattened on his. His lips find yours through your loving pecks, deepening the kiss he caught you with, swiftly interrupted by a soft gasp of yours the second your ass meets his boner.

You teasingly lower yourself onto him gently, revelling in the feeling of the tip pressing harshly into the thin fabric of your panties.

Letting your hand travel down his firm chest, down his abdomen and over the sizable bulge in his sweatpants, you cup him through the material, applying just enough pressure to coax a groan out of his throat.

His wide thighs involuntarily flex on your sides and he twitches in your hand, a reminder of his force, his size in comparison to you, his ability to have you any time he wanted despite the position, despite your teasing.

His head leans back on the couch exposing his throat, eyes dazed out and fixed on the view of your breasts peeking from under your crop, visibly satisfied with the angle he found. Your boobs, round and soft, ever so inviting for him to knead in his large hands, he thinks.

Warm palms leave your hips to slide up your waist, disappearing under the cotton shirt, idly groping your chest.

You reel at the feeling of his rough, calloused hands on your smooth skin, touching and fondling in all the right places.

His knuckles protrude every now and then through the thin textile as he keeps massaging your breasts, feeling your pulse quicken with each deep breath you take.

Before you can even decide on your next move, you feel the blistering warmth of a splayed out hand on your back, propping you gently as he tilts you to the side, a familiar bow of such a dirty dance that has your thoughts melting out of your brain, your whole existential purpose being resumed to him alone in a matter of seconds.

He lays you down over the length of the couch with such care, such strength that has you submitting mindlessly, wrapping your frail arms around his neck. Legs up in the air, he has you just like he always does. Your blood boils through you, the ignition of nerves only he could ever cause.

He descends upon you, veiling your entire body in his, hands eagerly running over your body, playing you like an instrument that only sings for him, that only he can hold.

You sigh, taking in the scent of him, letting it invade your lungs like inhalants. The visceral musky cologne, with shades of a pine forest that had your thoughts run wild and senses sharpened.

Half lidded eyes accentuate his savagely, crimson irises and dilated pupils, the sheer sight of you under him never ceasing to rile him up bad enough to make him beg for your touch.

You squirm weakly; quickly enough he takes the hint and hooks his thumb around your panties, dragging them down your soft skin, impatience evident in his movements.

You feel the weight of his hard cock on your thigh, head going dizzy at the thought of its girth stretching you open, the thought of the pained groans that crawl out of his throat when he comes, his dick pulsating inside you.

He stills above you, eyes darting over your face, as if searching for something he had just remembered he was missing, a gaze condimented with adoration, curiosity, and a hesitancy you may only interpret as astonishment.

"No puedo creer que seas mía" (”Can't believe you're mine.”) he mutters, barely above a halted whisper, following the realisation of your rather perplexed demeanour when confronted with such antics. ”Makes me think that maybe", he pauses, "pushing through all the shit in my life made me worthy of you.”, he confesses, vulnerable and wounded.

You've caught smudges of this view of his before, only not this categorical. In a way, you find it quite the most heartwarming yet peculiar thing there is to know about him. He seeks the comfort of believing that all the suffering he endured meant something, a sacrificial lamb for him to ultimately earn the limitless love of your embrace, your affections and unwavering devotion.

It wasn’t pride that clawed at his memories of having conquered and survived when so many others didn’t in the same circumstances he faced. It was relief, the relief of a man that swam the ocean to find paradise.

And there you were, silk-smooth, gentle hands cupping his face with such infatuation he did not think possible, looking up at him like there wasn’t anything more beautiful in existence you would rather see.

His heart had inevitably melted into yours; now soldered together against all odds fate could bestow.

”I love you, Miguel. With or without your scars.”, you pull him into a reassuring, promise-sealing kiss, which he softly reciprocates, regaining his confidence and unyielding want.

His lips ghost over your jugular, relishing in the way your exhales halt in your throat, pausing in expectancy as his hot breath excites goosebumps over the satin skin of your exposed neck.

”I love you more.” he teases, lips latching onto your pulse point, lightly sucking hungry kisses down to the valley where your throat meets your shoulder.

Despite knowing how adamant you were about your own love being immeasurable, let alone any lesser than his, he took great joy in dramatically rivalling you on the matter, beclouding your fondness only to start a competition of who manages to sway the other with their words of pure worship and fidelity.

Whether there was another underlying reason for his racing I love you more’s, you do not know. Maybe a reminiscence of his mistrustful, defensive nature, reflecting its last slither of bewilderment into a seemingly innocent insistence that he, indeed, loved you more than you loved him.

How could he not? You had no knowledge of the things he had to do for his job, what it truly meant to risk everything for someone, to risk your life for another.

And he prefers it this way, to have you shielded away from the horror of finding yourself in that situation, from the heartbreak of even imagining the circumstances in which you may decide to give your life for him in all your passion, let alone pondering upon the choice and place the verdict upon your declaration of love, weighing it down in all gravity and seriousness of the pledge. In the depths of his mind, he dreads it, hearing you say, ‘I love you, I would give my life for you’, although he would do so for you without thinking twice.

He dreads knowing that his presence in your life could scar you so that you may have to die for him, that his soul alone could be stained in your blood, even only in hypothesis.

Therefore, he feels far more content thinking that you don’t quite love him as much, thinking that you, as perfect as you are, would not suffer should anything happen to him. That your attachment to him will only ever bring you nothing but joy.

And oh how he brought you joy. Pure bliss and paradisiacal rapture. Even more so when he held you so dearly against him, painting you in doting kisses, marks of which linger on your skin long after he’s departed.

His warm, broad hand sails down over the plushy mound of your breast, indulging in a layover just to squeeze lightly. To drift below; its tender, round shape fitting in the junction between his thumb and index finger; his palm seemingly continuing its travel down your waist before returning unexpectedly, massaging your soft tit after a run down and up your waist, making the butterflies in your belly grow agitatedly.

The meagre shudders of your body underneath his unpredictable and exciting touch, the silent whines that die in your throat as he kisses down the crook of your neck have his cock twitching in his pants, beads of precum gathering on the flushed tip, staining the material. You feel the unmistakable length of it poke your thigh, hard and thick.

"Eres tan buena conmigo" (”You’re so good to me.”) he breathes deeply, voice hoarse with restraint, lacing his words with a poised thread that wraps around your neck, earning him a fractured moan. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

Grabbing onto his massive shoulders for support, delighted with the way his muscles ripple under your soft hands as he continues his attack on your most sensitive spots he knows so well, you press your leg tentatively into his hard-on, an unspoken, considerate request for him to cease the teasing and chase his own pleasure.

“I want you”, you whisper breathily, finding your voice on the last word, accentuating the singularity of your need, the force with which you crave him, only him. “I love you, Miguel, I wanna make you happy.” you declare desperately, planting another suffocating kiss on his slightly agape lips, having him gasp softly into your mouth, a killer whale surfacing above the waterline for a superficial breath before diving back into the depths of the ocean.

He kisses you with such ardour, savouring the addictive taste of your delicate lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth like you hadn’t seen each other for months, like one of those desperate days in which he has his way with you right after he returns from a bone-chilling mission throughout the multiverse.

After ending the kiss with an unnecessarily harsh smooch, he draws back, making you giggle through unrelenting panting. He scans your face, absorbing the image of you, in your most defenceless self, so full of what can only be adoration for him.

He takes in your half-lidded, love-struck eyes, the look he thinks not even the bestest of painters of the world could capture on canvas. The look he thinks would be perverted in blasphemy should it be, even in attempt, recreated on any portrait, any sculpture, any photograph.

He follows the line of your jaw that cascades sharply into the crook of your neck, the only safe place for him to lay his head at night, the place he reveres to place the sweetest of kisses upon, having you either laugh or melt in his arms.

His vision then lands on your sore lips, exhaling the very air he breathes, uttering the same words that echoed in his head out in the field; ‘I love you, truly, entirely and through my whole being. With my body, heart and soul, oh, I love you.’

He dips his head down your waist in reverence, leaving gentle pecks down the line of your stomach. In any other instance, you would giddily chuckle at his ministrations, a chuckle that would soon turn into a hearty burst of laughter, as he knew just the spots to touch and tickle and make you reel in retaliation when play-fighting on a particularly lazy Sunday evening.

However, now, there was no impulse to laugh. You watch him closely as he reaches the crease of your pelvic bone, looking up to meet your gaze.

You feel your face heat up at the sight of him, a strong hand wrapped around your thigh, the other holding your middle.

Satisfied with the moans he successfully drove out of you, breaths getting heavy at the thought of how wet you have to be by now, he sits up on his knees to hurriedly haul his shirt over his head.

His dick grows harder at the familiar picture of you, laid back on the sofa, eyes glazed with drunken want and the remembrance of his feverish touch on you.

Letting your hands roam his chest and firm abdomen while he disposes of the shirt, you curl your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, carefully dragging them down his bulky thighs, eyes widening as his cock springs upwards from the grey fabric, hitting his stomach before ever-so-slightly bending to the right under its generous weight.

You let yourself fall back into the cosy corner of the couch, parting your legs with lascivious speed while watching him stroke his now glistening cock, eyes trained on yours.

A vigorous, bulging forearm anchors next to your head, the other guiding himself inside you. His mountainous shoulders block any view of the room aside from him, and you obey the impulse to run your hands over his biceps, his pecs, his jaw.

You draw in a sharp breath at the contact of his fat tip on your wet folds, rubbing into the dampness at the entrance before breaching you.

You whimper softly, trying to adjust. No matter how many times you have sex, it always takes you time to adapt to his size, to fit him inside you to the hilt.

His forehead rests against yours as he pushes further in, a gentle hand coming to collect a few unruly strands of hair from your face. It stops to cup your fiery, rosy cheek, his thumb grazing your dainty skin protectively, soothingly, before his arm docks symmetrically to the other, beside your head to balance his weight on top of you.

Your tear-welled eyes flutter shut, the dip between your brows deepening and rising into an unspoken plea for a one-second pause. He stops, knowing of your struggles despite your fervent insistences that he may always bottom out regardless of your aches.

He cannot bring himself to cause you discomfort in any way, even under the greenlight of your sincere consent.

“I know, love, I’m sorry.”, he pacifies you, and you’re overwhelmed by his attentive care, starting to rain messy, fatigued kisses over each patch of skin on his face within reach. He returns the gesture in earnest, covering your features in slow smooches.

It calms you, allowing him to push all the way inside your tight cunt, grunting into your temple as you tense around his shaft the moment his tip presses against your cervix.

A loud sigh that swiftly leaves your agape mouth tells him to proceed. His hips start gyrating languidly, his dick exits you only halfway, coated in your juices, before driving back in with a quiet squelch. You throw your head back on the pillows, legs coiled securely around his waist as he makes love to you, laying you onto a cloud of pleasure.

"Ugh, oh-," he groans, his voice deep and rugged, mirroring his own mind-numbing bliss, “you feel so good”. With his head now leaned into your chest, his heavy breaths are hot on your skin, timed with the drive of his hips into yours.

He starts going faster, yet the force of his thrusts still soft. The second he finds the puffy nub of nerves that snaps firecrackers in your lower belly, you grab at the mattress, gasping and moaning weakly. Muted whines are put out in your throat as you close your mouth to swallow a kiss your body had craved to give him.

His shoulders flex under his weight as he picks up more speed, nearing his high and finding the rhythm you know only leads to those desperate grunts that have you coming only from their sound alone.

He pushes into his thrusts, rubbing the coarse hair above the base of his cock on your clit. Your back contorts and arches in response, gifting him an even more delicious angle for the precise rolls of his hips.

You choke on a pained scream that dissolves into your limbs as you come hard, your orgasm washing over you in drumming tidal waves, crashing onto you with every drive of his fat cock into your soft, drenched cunt.

"Oh-- ugh, yeah- so good," he groans into your rose, kiss-marked neck, seemingly taken aback by the force of his own euphoria, as if he had been expecting a gentle current of ecstasy as result of his intendedly soft and gentle session of lovemaking, instead being met a fierce jolt of elation. He stills, holding a breath from erupting out of his throat into a shaky moan.

The bridge of his nose is pressed perfectly into your neck, a sculpture-worthy puzzle of two souls sewn together. His hot palm seeks the feeling of your smooth skin, landing shy of your waist, holding you against him with the firmness of a man who heeds every longing you had ever voiced, who heeds the closeness you had always coveted as you rode the rapids of your orgasm.

The pressure hammers into you in aftershocks, hauling you back down in fading flutters, pulsing into your lower belly as he tenses, pushing his hips flush against your ass with one final blow, releasing into the warmth of your cunt.

You clench faintly at the feeling of his fat cock spasming and twitching inside you, catching on to the last gust of your high.

He groans in oversensitivity, pulling out before carefully placing his broad hand in between your thighs, tenderly cupping your dripping pussy to prevent his come from staining the peppered grey couch. You flinch at the contact, not having fully recovered from the stimulation.

He leans into you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You turn to him instinctively, unable to find your voice or enough strength in your arms to do anything but gaze up at him with the face he knew so well; the euphoria-painted face you grace him with when his love overflows your body, teeming into your watery eyes.

Sitting up, he unpacks a thin, white blanket from the opposite edge of the sofa, cocooning you into the clean, fresh fabric. You hum in comfort, struggling to chase the warmth of his arms as he tucks the edges of the material underneath the contour of your body.

”Just stay here for a bit.”, he whispers into your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. “ I‘m almost done with your surprise.”

“You want me to help?” you resort to a last-chance inquiry in hopes of finding an excuse to sit beside him for longer, even in the kitchen.

He knows you’re well-intended, but decides to better value the total credit of his courteous offering.

You will most certainly keep the stakes up and stubbornly get dinner ready for him on the very next occasion you find, so he might as well echo your stubbornness and finish his task alone, meeting great satisfaction in spoiling you with the opportunity your body has given him.

“No te preocupes, (Don't worry.) I’ll manage.”

You dramatically reach for him with your extended arms as he heads towards the kitchen. He throws you a sympathetic smile before resuming his cooking, fully aware that a considerable part of him would have wanted nothing more than to rush back into your arms and spend the rest of the evening smothering you into his warm embrace, play fighting you into submitting to his self-indulgent caresses and kisses.

divider by @cafekitsune

spanish translations by @bookished 🤍(tysm!!)

50% requested by @badbitchhour (ik u wanted a wedding night but my brain short-circuited when i tried to write it, it's still coming tho!!! meanwhile made the very soft and emotional lovemaking part til i get around it and start feeling it)

a/n: don't pick on me for the extremely creative! title i wanted to make shit clear from the start. (clickbaiting)

also smut authors try not to use the same words and phrases for every sex scene without using things like 'wand' and 'shaft' (challenge impossible)

[virgobingo]

more insight on miles’ puerto rican heritage for your fics or fanart

- traditional quinceañeras (or as they are often called by puerto ricans quinceañeros) are really not that common anymore, most girls nowadays have pool parties or go on a cruise. if miles were to go to one of his cousins’ 15 birthday party, chances are it would be casual— no big poofy dress (his mom probably had one like that though)

edit: some people disagree on this. depends on how traditional your family and friend group is I guess, as well as which part of the island you’re from. on average, it seems to be a far bigger deal amongst some other latines. in my class in pr only 3 out of approx 30 girls had a big event like that. not a single one of my cousins had a traditional quince either so you could say I’m partly biased bc of my own experiences. i personally just had a big pool party

- plantains are a big part of our diet. also, pr being an island in the caribbean, coconut is in a lot of our desserts. if miles had to pick a favorite fruit I hc he’d pick either one of the two lol also please google our food, our food isn’t actually spicy so much as savory

- we “celebrate” thanksgiving like other americans. it’s about the only time we eat oven roasted turkey. for winter holidays (christmas eve/day, new years eve/day, three kings day/eve) oven roasted pork. chicken might be offered as a second option for people who don’t consume pork for whatever reason

- you’re pretty much taught how to dance as soon as you can walk. most of us have basic rhythms down. chances of miles dancing with his mom or friends at parties? astronomically high.

- the reason why our flag is everywhere, besides pride, is ‘cause it was illegal to own it. look up the gag law that prohibited us from even displaying it at our homes. so it’s actually an awesome detail in these movies

- this is my opinion/a fun fact but I feel like miles is basically an homage to black and puerto rican (specifically nuyorican) solidarity around the 70s-80s during the creation of hip-hop and rise of graffiti as a form of expression (you can easily read up on this or watch shows like the get down to learn more about this if you’re curious)

- whether you’re “nuyorican” or “from the island” spanglish is common so miles’ mixing english and spanish isn’t odd bc even rio does this as miles points out in the party scene. he isn’t a “no sabo” kid so much as someone with a strong accent. he understands his mom perfectly

- race ≠ ethnicity. there are plenty of black people in and from Puerto Rico, and miles’ pr family in the spiderverse films are designed to be for the most part afro-latine. so I wouldn’t really call him biracial

- the puerto rican day parade wouldn’t be a thing he skips, he’s gifted a special suit for it in a comic run. his puerto rican heritage is important to him!

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Hear Me Out, Keep Me Guessing

Steddie || wc: 2.5k || rating: T || tags: alternate first meeting, pre-S4, Eddie is a rollercoaster of emotions, Steve is over it, fluff and flirting || ao3

Inspired by my own post

☆☆☆

“Okay, Munson. What’s your fucking problem?”

Eddie hops on top of the wooden picnic bench to gain a slight height advantage over whoever’s decided to fuck up his day, when he spots none other than Steve Harrington headed towards him through the trees, fighting his way through brush and bramble.

“Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. Crawling through the dirt just to visit his former court jester.” Eddie smirks, hears Harrington mutter something under his breath that sounds a lot like jesus christ before he finally makes his way over.

Harrington’s looking up at him, squinting into the sunlight, and Eddie’s slightly repelled by his sudden desire to run a hand through King Steve’s hair. It shines in the sunlight, matching the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

Eddie takes a step to the left, casting him back into shadow again where he’s just his normal, asshole self and not the angelic image Eddie conjured from his horny, queer little brain.

He can’t remember if it’s his turn to talk or Harrington’s, but it seems the King’s lost the plot as well. Completely zoned out, he’s just standing there staring up at Eddie, mouth dropped open and eyes wide in a way Eddie will certainly not be thinking about later tonight. Absolutely not.

Eddie coughs. Loud and obnoxious enough to break whatever trance they’ve found themselves in. Harrington awkwardly chuckles, running a hand through his hair. An image of Steve leaning against lockers, towering over a girl with heat in his eyes and a hand in his hair floods Eddie’s brain before he can shake it out like an Etch A Sketch. What the fuck is even happening to him?

“Yeah, Munson. Like, what the hell is your problem?” It lacks punch and drama the second time around, but it gets them back on track. Harrington props his hands on his hips, his lip juts out into a tiny pout, and Eddie wonders if he thinks standing like a disappointed mom is effective in getting what he wants, or if being adorable just comes naturally to the former King.

“You’ll have to be more specific, my liege.” He watches as Harrington brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration and he makes a mental note to develop a better, more refined taste in men.

“The kids, man. Why aren’t you friends with the kids?”

“Kids? What the hell– what kids?” He hops down from the table. If this is going to be a legitimate conversation and not a shake down, he figures it’ll be easier on even footing. Harrington takes the seat opposite him, his shoe accidentally knocking Eddie’s ankle.

Steve doesn’t move his foot. Neither does Eddie.

“My kids, man. They said they tried talking to you all week and you wouldn’t even hear them out!”

Eddie watches his fingers tap absently on the table top. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s shocking that Eddie is just now realizing that Steve’s actually anxious. Normally Eddie considers himself better at reading people, when he’s not distracted with puffy, pink lips and a confusing line of conversation.

He looks down, rewinding the past week. He’d made it through his first week of his third senior year without anyone getting in his face. Maybe he’s old enough now that even asshole seniors like Jason Carver have decided to leave him alone. Thankfully it seems the offer also extends to Gareth, Kenny, and Jeff, who’ve only reported minor name calling and a light shove.

That’s where he spots them, stops the tape midway through lunch on Wednesday when a group of three freshmen approached the table. He’d spotted the curly-haired kid earlier in the week, bravely decked out in a Weird Al shirt and a hat from some science camp. The kid was enough of a freak to earn free admission to Hellfire, but the other two required a bit more thought.

Eddie clocked Little Wheeler through the station wagon window Monday morning when he’d cut Nancy off in the parking lot. The kid seemed alright, but with a priss like Nancy as a sister, it was a tough call. The other kid seemed a bit too sporty, and a little too interested in basketball tryouts.

When the three amigos started talking DnD, the guys invited them with open arms. It was a relatively peaceful lunch. Exciting even, at the prospect of adding new members to their campaign. They’d mentioned trying to convince a few of their friends to play. A girl named Max Mayfield, who turns out lives a few trailers down from Eddie.

But when the curly-haired kid mentioned Steve Harrington, the Hellfire boys clammed up tighter than nun’s ass. His named dripped from their mouths like it was covered in gold, the hero-worship rotting them from the inside and Eddie wouldn’t stand for it. No true freaks would stand to be friends with an asshole bully like King Steve.

Of course the freshies tried to argue, saying he’d changed. It didn’t matter to the Hellfire boys. Clearly the freshmen were corrupted, and they couldn’t be trusted. So he’d sent them on their way, and the three of them posted up in the corner of the lunchroom every day since. Far away from jocks and freaks alike.

Now, Eddie looks across the table and sees false bravado slathered over the anxiety etched into the former King’s face. He doesn’t know how three freshmen freaks found themselves under the wing of Steve Harrington, but it seems the feeling is mutual. Steve cares about these kids.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I remember them. What’s it to you, Harrington? Aren’t they a little too old for a babysitter.” The joke falls flat when Steve sighs, heavy and exhausted, like somehow a rich boy from the Loch carries the entire world on his shoulders.

But he plays it off, trying to meet Eddie’s quip halfway. “Babysitters get paid, dude. I do it from the goodness of my heart or some shit.” Steve leans back, scrubs his hands over his face like he can erase whatever’s behind his eyes.

Eddie stares at him, hoping to catch a glimpse. The only consolation is Steve puts his other foot on the opposite side of Eddie’s, his ankle now fully cradled between Steve’s.

“They’re nerds, man.” Harrington states it like it’s a fact and not an insult he’s hurled at Eddie a hundred times over the years. “They’re freaks, you know– like you.”

Moment officially broken, Eddie scoffs, pushing away from the table wondering why he ever entertained talking with Harrington in the first place. As he grabs his lunchbox off the forest floor, he hears shuffling behind him.

“Wait,” Harrington shouts. “Just, fuck man, can you just let me finish?”

“Finish what, exactly?” Eddie snaps, whirling around to crowd into his space. He wears big and scary like how the King wears his crown and how assassins wield their blades. With enough power and confidence to scare off any enemy. “Finish listening to you shit on the little guy? Listen to you harp on the freaks of the world, or how you corrupted your little pions?”

“What?” Steve asks, lips pursed and eyebrows scrunched. Eddie’s not surprised his jock-rattled brain couldn’t find that word in its very limited dictionary, but what does surprise him is that Steve doesn’t back down. They’re practically nose to nose, so close Eddie can spot a small freckle on his lash-line, and Steve’s standing here like he doesn't have a care in the world while Eddie screams in his face.

It’s quiet again. He can hear the rustle of tall grass and birds overhead. He can feel Steve’s breath on his lips and Eddie can’t remember what they were talking about. Again.

Steve grabs his shoulders, and in his daze, Eddie lets himself be maneuvered back to sitting at the picnic table, while Steve stands in front of him.

“Are you always big and loud and obnoxious? Can you just cut the shit for like, five minutes so we can have a normal fucking conversation. Jesus christ, you’re practically perfect for them.” The last part is quieter, seems more like an unfiltered afterthought.

“Ok,” Eddie says. If Steve’s willing to take the crown off long enough to talk with Eddie, then maybe he can shed his own metaphorical battle vest. “Say what you have to say, then.”

Steve clears his throat, shuffles slightly as he gains his footing. He looks at Eddie with a determined set to his shoulders.

“Henderson, Sinclair, and even Wheeler– they’re my kids. I’ve spent the last nine months watching out for those little shits because all they’re good at is getting into the worst kinds of trouble.” Eddie tracks him as Steve paces the forest floor, rambling and raking a hand through his hair like it helps him think. “But I remembered you didn’t graduate, right? And you run that Dungeons and Dragons club–”

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie interrupts. Steve stops, turns to face him, and shoots him the bitchiest glare Eddie’s ever seen, but before he can say anything, Eddie pushes on. “You, Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, leader of meatheads and bimbos alike, know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”

Steve sighs, hands back on his hips as he rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, Munson. Don’t worry it’s all against my will, okay? I’m not coming to steal your freaks and weirdos so I can lead them too.” He smirks, and it pulls a laugh out of Eddie, shocked that Steve’s willing to joke around with Eddie at all, let alone when it’s at his own expense.

“Now, quit interrupting me, you’re as bad as Henderson.”

Eddie mimes zipping his lips closed, only to open his mouth to swallow the imaginary key. Butterflies explode in his chest at the sound of Steve laughter, and Eddie wonders if bashing his head into a tree would be a decent excuse to explain the red flush erupting on his face.

“Anyways,” Steve chuckles. “They’re smart as shit but don’t know when to give something up just to get out of a fight. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten their asses handed to them already, and everyday I pick them up all I'm thinking about is which one of them I’m gonna have to stitch up. Sure, some of the guys in the grade below were alright, like Andy. But guys like Hargrove, like Carver.” Eddie can practically see the dark cloud form over Steve’s brow.

He remembers as well as anyone the fallout of Harrington v Hargrove, Fall 1985. There’d been endless rumors about what happened, each one more ridiculous than the last. Now he’s left wondering if it’s not really about Nancy, or drugs, or Billy fucking Steve’s mom, but about these kids. The timing checks out, nine months on babysitting duties lines up pretty well with when Steve showed up to school beaten and broken.

Maybe Steve isn’t all he seems to be.

“Guys like Carver won’t mess with you. They’re too scared you’re using DnD to worship the devil and get kids into sodomy and drugs and shit like that. I told them that you’d be cool. That you’re big and loud, that you play DnD like them. You're smart and you read the same nerdy books. I told them they’d be safe with you, man.” Steve rubs his face again, until his hands fall to the sides and he tilts his head up towards the sky. “I just need to know someone’s looking out for them. Please, Eddie, just–”

“Okay.”

Steve’s attention snaps back to him, relief written plain as day in the wide set of his smile. “You’re serious?”

Eddie can’t help but smile back. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Steve smile so unguarded, and never aimed his way. The sheer brightness of it fills him with warmth he wants to wrap himself up in.

All on top of the fact Eddie's never gotten this many compliments from anyone before, let alone from a guy as gorgeous as Steve Harrington. His ears are practically on fire.

“Yeah, Harrington. I’ll share custody of your little nuggets.” Before he knows what’s coming, Steve sweeps him up into a hug, lifts him fully off the ground and can feel the tinkling of his laughter on the shell of his ear.

“Thanks, Munson. Damn, you have no idea how freaked out I’ve–”

“What about the other stuff?” Eddie can’t stop himself from asking. He has to know, deep in his bones, that Steve is thinking this through. That Steve won’t change his mind in a few days or months and decide it’s time for Eddie Munson to eat dirt.

He lets Eddie go, but holds his shoulders at arms length to look him in the eye. Any lingering mirth has been replaced with intent curiosity. “What stuff, Munson?”

He can tell by Steve’s tone they’re both talking about the same thing. Rumors that’ve haunted Eddie since eighth grade after Davey Richardson beat him up under the bleachers. It didn’t matter that Davey kissed him first, all that mattered was he was popular and Eddie was weird.

He’d grown numb to the slurs over the years, but how could he forget hearing the reason why Byers beat the shit out of King Steve. The only surprise from that fight was it sounded like he never even tried to fight back.

“Harrington, if I don’t get to act loud and obnoxious, then you don’t get to play dumb.” The intensity of Steve’s stare reminds him of the few conversations he’d had with Chief Hopper before he’d died. The man could tear Eddie down to the bones with one glare, and he’s sure it’s the only reason the Chief brought him back to the trailer instead of a jail cell.

“Eddie,” Steve says, tone firm, “I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t care about the shit people say, especially self-righteous assholes like Carver. The only thing I give a shit about is you watching over the little gremlins and not selling them drugs, so I can breathe easier when I don't have eyes on them.”

Steve shakes him lightly, like it’ll sift this world-changing view into his brain, then pats his shoulder as he passes by him.

“Wait,” Eddie shouts, always a glutton for punishment. He spins around to catch Steve walking backwards away from him, hands in his pockets, effortlessly cool. The sun’s catching his hair again and there’s a smirk on his lips. “You really don’t care?”

Steve laughs, taking a step back. He chews on his bottom lip, and he smiles when he catches Eddie looking. Because he knows. Steve knows now, before Jeff or Wayne or anyone else.

“Eddie, whoever you decide to love or fuck– or not– is none of my business.” He turns to leave, and as Eddie relaxes he hears Steve call out, “unless you want it to be.”

Steve’s light laughter follows him out of the woods, and Eddie plops himself down in the same spot on the same wooden bench in the exact same forest as he always does every Friday after school. Except a twenty minute conversation with Steve Harrington leaves Eddie feeling like his world's been turned upside down.

Maybe ‘86 will be his year, after all.

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

Exposed

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x reader summary: You come back from a mission with a tear in your suit. Miguel's reaction to what he sees underneath surprises you in the best way. tags / warnings: smut (minors do not interact!), p in v, fem reader, sassy spider-reader word count: 2.3k

You were coming back from a successful mission. Anomaly eliminated. No casualties. Well, except your spider-suit. An annoyingly claw-y bad guy had swiped at you from behind, and even though you’d just managed to dodge his attack, he’d nicked your suit and sliced a long strip of it down your side, from your back all the way down to the top of your thigh. Half your ass cheek was exposed, but you were so exhausted it was beyond you to care. You’d be suit-free and in bed soon enough. You just had to report in to Miguel first. He’d ordered you to because this had been a “potentially significant anomaly.” There seemed to be more and more of those recently. And he seemed to be assigning them mostly to you. You didn’t know of any other spiders that had to report to him personally after missions so often. 

You could feel the cold on your lower back as you walked up to his HQ platform, it slowly descending in front of you. You hop up as soon as it’s low enough, wasting no time. Miguel’s back is to you as he watches what seems like a million screens at once.

“Mission successful, spider-boss.” “Don’t call me that.” You knew he hated that nickname. That’s why you kept using it. 

“You prefer spider-captain? Spider-chief? Oooh maybe spider-king? No, that doesn’t sound right. Aren’t spiders more matriarchal anyway? You could be spider-queen if you want. Has a bit of a bite to it.” “Y/N,” he deadpans. “Hm?” “Shut up.” “Yes, sir, spider-queen!” 

He finally turns around to look at you, exasperation all over his chiseled features. You catch the end of his eye roll. Knowing engaging will only get more out of you, he opts to go straight to business. “You eliminated the anomaly?” “Yup.”

“Cleaned up the contamination afterward?” “Like the top-class interdimensional janitor that I am.”

“Anything unusual?” “Well, there was this big scary dude with giant claws that was only ever black and white when the rest of the world was especially colorful. Soo that was weird.” “I mean other than the exact reason I sent you there in the first place.” He runs his hand over his face, the other on his hip, looking sassier than he probably intended. “Oh! Then no.” 

You come over to his desk, leaning on it.

“And you’re alright? No injuries or anything?” In the back of your mind, you notice his voice softening as he asks you this. 

“I’m good. More than I can say for my suit though,” you laugh. You lift from the desk, turning slightly, twisting to look at the tear, exposing it to Miguel. “Why’s it called ‘tearing someone a new one,’ huh? Doesn’t make any sense. I need a new one specifically because this one’s torn.” 

You don’t expect him to respond to your stupid question, but when you look up at Miguel, the look on his face is more than unexpected. His eyebrows are shot up, his mouth the slightest bit ajar, his eyes fixed intently on your exposed ass. 

For once, you have no idea what to say. Why was he looking at you like that? Were you in trouble? Just because this was a bit inappropriate? I mean, c’mon, you were all spider-people; you’d all had your fair share of injuries that needed patching up and the like. It felt like a big sports team: bodies rendered just bodies by the heat of battle. Of course, you’d never admit to anyone out loud that while that was true for all the other spiders in your eyes, Miguel was the sole exception. His body could never be just a body. It was too imposing… too striking… too beautiful. You caught yourself staring at him much more often than you liked. Always talked incessantly when he was around to keep yourself distracted and from looking like an idiot. Well, you still looked like an idiot after everything you said, but you were an idiot on your own terms, usually getting some laughs while you were at it. 

“Miguel?” You come up with nothing else. 

Your voice snaps him out of his trance. His eyes shoot up to your face, and he looks — what is that? you’d never seen that look on Miguel O’Hara… was it… flustered?

“Um, yes, uh, right. Your suit,” he’s looking around at his screens again, trying to look busy but you can tell his gaze isn’t actually taking in any of the images. “We’ll get you a new one.” 

The tension lessened and, more importantly, his eyes no longer on you give you back a bit of your confidence. 

“You in charge of tailoring too? You really gotta learn to delegate, spider-boss.” He doesn’t say anything. Not even with you specifically trying to push his buttons with the nickname. “Okayy…” you elongate. “So, can I go now?”

He just grunts, not sparing another look toward you.

You start walking back across the platform but remember a detail of the mission you had wanted to tell him before making it too far. 

“Oh, there was this thing with my watch —“ you start, but all words get caught in your throat when you see Miguel as you turn back toward him. He’s staring at you like a viscous predator just about to pounce. His chin is down but his eyes are on you, even darker than usual and penetrating. You can tell by the rise and fall of his ridiculously broad chest that his breathing is a bit labored. He’d clearly been looking lower than your face level, as his eyes shoot up to yours when you look at him.

Neither of you say anything for what feels like the longest, heaviest moment of your life so far. Then, in what feels like the quickest, he’s closed the distance between you, coming to a stop just in front of you, closer than he’s ever been to you before.

He’s towering over you. Any movement forward at all and you’d be touching. You’re sure he can feel your heavy breathing as you look up at him. You can feel his.  

He looks like he wants to murder you. But Miguel O’Hara has a way of encoding all emotions into shades of anger and aggression. And you’ve watched him closely enough for long enough to sometimes think you have an idea of what lies beneath. You haven’t cracked it completely, but you certainly see shades of gray where others see black and white. 

The stakes have never been quite this high for your getting it wrong, but hoping beyond hope that you know what he actually wants, you push your face the fraction of a distance to his, crashing your lips together. 

From the moment they graze, his hands are on you, groping your exposed ass with one, pulling you into him with the other. He devours your mouth, so feral you even worry for a split second about his fangs coming out. You’re so consumed by him you probably wouldn’t mind if they did.

Not breaking apart from you, Miguel takes the few steps back to his desk, dragging you with him. When the backs of his thighs come up to the desk, he flips you around so that you’re pushed up against it. You’re caged between it and his broad body as his hands continue exploring your body, his tongue continues exploring your mouth. 

At this point you can feel the huge bulge between his legs pressing against you, his spider-suit doing nothing to hide it, doing little to separate you from it. 

When his mouth leaves yours, dragging hungrily down to your jaw and neck, you whine his name. He groans in response, and you feel the vibrations where your chests are flush.

Taking the opportunity to do something you’d often dreamed of, you lift your hand and run it through his thick hair. His moans get louder, and you take it as a sign scratch and tug harder. 

You know you didn’t pull strongly enough to move him if he didn’t want to be moved, but he pops off from where he’s sucking on your neck and looks into your eyes. He gives you a harsh kiss then says simply, “Turn around.” You do. He bends you over his desk.

You feel his hands on your hips first then they squeeze your ass hard. He slaps your exposed cheek, and you jump at the sudden sensation. 

“Tell me if I’m too rough,” he says, voice low. 

You nod and confess, “I want it rough, Miguel. Please.” “Fuuck, chula. You drive me crazy.” You just whimper in response. 

He spanks you again then tears your suit further, exposing your entire ass and your by now soaked cunt. “You walk in here with half your ass out like it’s nothing. Like you can show me what I spend my nights imagining and expect me not to do anything about it.” He slaps your other ass cheek. “You’re soaked, mami. You wanted this as badly as I did?” You nod desperately. “Tell me what you wanted.” “Fuck, Miguel. You. I wanted you.” 

“You want me to fuck you?” You can already feel him messing with his suit. 

“Yes, fuck, please; please fuck me.” When the head of his cock touches your cunt, your entire body shudders with anticipation. He pushes in forcefully, your wetness enough for him to start sliding in. But he’s big. Really big. As he keeps pushing, you feel a bit of a sting. When he hears you hiss, he slows his entrance but doesn’t stop entirely. “Relax, nena,” he coos. His hands massage your hips. “Breathe, baby.” You take a long inhale, and by the time you’re exhaling, you feel him finally bottom out. “Eso, mi amor. Just like that. Fuck, you feel incredible.” “Migueel,” you whine. “Yeah, baby, I got you.” His hands tighten on your hips as he slowly drags his cock back out until only his tip is inside. You’d never felt so empty. Then he pushes back in, faster than the first time. And again. And again. 

Miguel’s pace quickens probably a bit faster than you’re ready for, but you love the intensity of the sensations. You love the feeling of him deep inside you, of him desperate to be deeper. You start rocking back in time with his thrusts, slamming your ass onto him. 

“Fuuuck.” His voice is gravel. One of his powerful hands comes to your shoulder to help pull and push you at his now brutal rhythm. He fucks you with a stamina only possible for a superhuman. You’re sure you wouldn’t be able to take it if you weren’t one yourself.

The large room echoes your slapping skin, your yells and moans as he spears into you repeatedly.

Your thighs tighten as you start nearing your climax. Your cunt starts squeezing tighter. “Fuck, fuck, eso, nena, eso,” he chants, getting even rougher. His praises start sounding strangled, and you know he’s close too. 

“Cum with me, Miguel,” you beg desperately. He groans animalistically at your words, giving you a strangled affirmative moan and pushing his pace to what you imagine is his limit. 

“C’mon, baby, cum for me, cum for me,” he urges. It’s easy to let go with how hard he’s fucking you. You can’t really feel the rest of your body except for a hot heaviness. All you feel is where you’re connected and how every thrust sends pure pleasure coursing through you. 

You’re orgasming a second later, and to the feeling of your clenching cunt and the sound of your euphoric screams, Miguel comes right after. 

You’re unable to keep up your movements, too spent and too blissed out, but he keeps thrusting, albeit slower, until you’ve both rode out the hardest orgasms of your life. Then and only then does he still, still inside you, and collapse onto your back. His broad torso covers you completely, warming you despite how sweaty you are now.

His labored breathing on the back of your neck tickles, sending a shiver down your body. He chuckles and peppers kisses on your neck and shoulder, pulling your suit down to kiss at more skin. 

He eventually lifts himself up; you were never going to push him off, that’s certain. You could spend forever under him, wrapped up in him. 

His strong hands lift your especially malleable body, turning you to face him and helping support you as you lean back on the desk. 

When your eyes meet, Miguel smiles at you. It stops your rapidly beating heart. 

One arm around you, his other hand pushes sweaty hair off your face then lingers there, caressing. 

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. You just nod. He laughs. “What?” you giggle. “So that’s what it takes to make you stop talking, huh?” “Shut up!” you tsk, shoving his wall of a chest. He doesn’t budge at all, just catches your hand in his, bringing it to his face and kissing it. His lips linger over the skin of your fingers, the back of your hand. You trace them lightly, and they shift into a subtle grin. 

As you look into his big brown eyes, you’re pretty sure you know what this ever-thinning shade of serious is covering.

“Miguel?” 

“Hm?” He pecks your hand again. 

“All those missions… they weren’t ‘potentially significant’ were they?” 

He lowers your hand but keeps it in his. His gaze follows your hands down, looking away briefly, but he’s looking into your eyes again when he shakes his head ever so subtly. You hum in understanding. He just needed to make sure you were okay after.

After a beat, you whisper, “Can we stop pretending?” “That the missions are special?” “That what we feel for each other isn’t…” 

“Ah.” He looks torn. You know he thinks it’s dangerous, know he feels the weight of literally the entire universe on his very broad shoulders. You lean up and kiss him gently. 

“We can figure it out,” you whisper against his lips. His nose brushes yours as he nods then kisses you again. 

[tender-rosiey]

Hii! Could you write another part of husband Sukuna? I really liked Rhymes and I just can’t stop rereading it (atp I have unhealthy obsession with sukuna fluff). If it’s bothering you no need to write it 💗

Wishing you amazing day/night 💗

that of flowers — sukuna x f!reader

a/n: it makes me so happy that you liked rhymes, luv <33 hope you like this as well and have a wonderful day/night too 💕

“sukuna, look!”

he sighs, “when I said we could go to the garden, I didn’t say you can trample over my stuff, woman.”

you stop in your track and sassily turn to him, “don’t act like you care about the flowers, mister.”

he grumbles, “I don’t,” and you notice his glance gravitate towards you, “I tend to be possessive over what’s mine, you know that.”

heat rises into your cheek as you look away.

his gaze never fails to fluster you; it’s so intense.

“a-anyways,” you quip before running to the flower field.

he merely watches you: he was never one for to participate in such active activities, save for fighting, of course.

he sees you kneel down and start to gently stroke the flowers’ petals with a soft smile on your face. you start thinking about something and he sees the way you brighten up at whatever idea you came up with.

you’re so obvious, he thinks, such an open book. but perhaps it’s just because he spent so much of his time with you, he even learned every single one of your mannerisms.

he knows when you’re sad, mad, excited, happy, and everything else.

it surprises you every single time, especially since he seems like the type to not care much about anything but his own desires.

so when you think back to all the moments he was able to tell your mood in a glance, you can’t help but laugh at how perceptive your husband is.

maybe it’s because of how observant he generally is, but, of course, it peaks during battles and matters related to you.

on the other hand, he thinks, til now, it’s all because of the amount of time he spent with you.

obviously, he would remember every detail about you, right?

both of you failed to realize in the beginning that one of his desires, that soon came to be, was one to protect and love you—a love befitting of the king of curses, not overly affectionate, but it’s there.

he claims he is not obvious with what’s on his mind, but when you run to him, smiling with a flower crown and hopping from happiness, he can’t help but sigh contently.

though no ears hear it.

“sukuna! what do you think of the flower crown?” you beam and he grunts while eyeing said flower crown.

“it doesn’t matter to me.”

“well, it should,” you smile mischievously, “especially since I made it only for you.”

his eyes twitch, “I am not wearing that ridiculous thing; I am a feared king.”

you grab your chest dramatically and fall to the ground, “you would deny your wife of such a simple request?!”

“all I want is of you to wear this crown I wholeheartedly made for you, my king!”

another thing you noticed that you’ve come to learn that the fastest way to make sukuna do something you want is to either compliment him or act dramatic.

so it’s not surprise to you when he sighs before sticking his hand out.

“oh? what is it that you want, my dear husband?”

“don’t antagonize me, woman; give me the damn crown!”

you chuckle and rest a hand on your hip while you wave the flower crown in your other hand, “you mean this?”

sukuna is a man who does not need to do much to get what he wants.

accordingly, he simply crosses his arms and glares at you.

eventually you start giggling and finally give him the flower crown.

he wears it, albeit reluctantly, and he says nothing more. his gaze still never leaves you.

you cup his face, “you look lovely.”

he quirks an eyebrow, a frown ‘adorning’ his face, “I am the king of curses; I am not ‘lovely’.”

you press a kiss to his cheek, “to me you’re and it’s nothing bad.”

he smirks, “oh? why’s that?”

you then hug him tightly, “because I am your wife!”

he grunts.

“you’re trouble,” he grumbles before pulling you close gently—as a man like him could— and kissing the top of your head, “and nothing more.”

a giggle escapes your lips, “still, you keep me around.”

“against my will; trust me.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss @pompompurin1028 @scul-pted @dazaisdeathwish @requiem626k @nameless-shrimp @shinys-bsd-world-1 @sonder-paradise @ravenina14 @jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies @pianopuppygirl @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will face the wrath of the rock

[turcott3]

goes without saying

matt rempe x fem! reader

warnings?: cursing, fluff, talks of anxiety, kissing

masterlist

-

“thanks mom.” you say hopping out of the car.

“now let’s hope he shows up huh?” she teases, waving to you as you walked to your ballet studio. it was being your boyfriend to class day, except you didn’t have a boyfriend. so you invited the next best thing, your highschool best guy friend. whom you’d also had a major crush on for the last few years.

you asked him to come, which he agreed, but said he’d have to come straight after his post practice shower and who knows how long that could be. and he was your ride home.

you stood awkwardly in class as everyone chatted with their boyfriends, one of your class friends included. you checked your apple watch a few times hoping for a text or something and your anxiety only grew as you got nothing. a few minutes later class had begun and you sighed. knowing you’d have to be standing in the back practicing something else, since this week was all about lifts for big performances, being in class was almost something you dreaded these days. ballet being something you love while also tearing you apart. you began warm ups at the barre as normal, still holding out hope that he would come. you continued your warm up, making it all the way through barre and out into center, eventually accepting that he wasn’t gonna show, before the door creeped open, matt peering in to make sure he was in the right place, smiling once his eyes landed on you.

“so sorry i’m late ma’am, lot of traffic.” he smiles at your teacher as he joins you by your side.

“i heard you play hockey? and you were coming here after practice.”

“yes maam.”

“well good, means you’re still nice and warm. when did you two get together, i feel like i’ve never seen you together.” she teases, him taking it extremely well as he dropped an arm over your shoulder.

“well, i don’t really think there’s a date, we were friends and then suddenly we just knew we were more than that. and now here we are.” he replies and your heart jolts in your chest.

he made up that lie on the spot, to spare you the embarrassment. you shook it off knowing you were never actually more than that, even if you maybe have thought at some points you were.

“thank you for coming, i was so nervous to be the only person without a partner.”

“come on y/n, i told you i’d be here. i’ll always show up.” he giggles.

“alright now that we have everyone we can begin our simple lifts.” your teacher states. you were nervous because you had never done partner lifts before, and matt is 6 foot 7.

“oooooh i’m lifting you.” he teases.

“i’ve never done lifts before, im scared.”

“you know i’d never drop you.”

“i know, i know.” you said grabbing comfortably on his arm.

this class was not going to help your feelings toward him at all. you’ve had a crush on him for quite sometime and now he’s gonna have his hands planted on you for at least the next hour. the two of you stood and listened, soaking in the instructions of a simple lift. simply picking you up and holding your chest in line with his forehead, to get a feel for how the rest of class will go.

with ease, he picks you up, chest to eye level.

“don’t be looking.” you smile.

“i am respectfully looking because your black leotard is all i can see.” he says, practically feeling the vibrations of his voice on your ribcage.

“now if you’re feeling frisky, hold her up higher.” you teacher suggests, matt instantly boosting you up above his head like simba in the lion king.

“holy shit.” you yelp, grabbing harshly onto his arms.

“relax, everything is gonna be fine.” he giggles, bringing you to him as he brought you back down, standing flush against his chest.

“alright now let’s try holding her above your head like you’ve just done, but with her in arabesque. your one hand will grab hold of her thigh and the other on the hip somewhere between the bottom of her ribcage and her hip bone.” your teacher says.

“which leg do you like?” he asks, asking great questions.

“right.” you said, lifting your right leg off the ground, his hand softly cupping underneath.

“this feel okay?” he asks, referring to the hand holding your inner thigh.

“yes, it feels good.” you nod as he places his other hand on your hip.

“okay, are you ready?” he asks and you agree, him steadily lifting you off the ground. you found yourself in the position high above his head, adjusting your position to be more comfortable. you began to shake in discomfort, him dropping you slightly but instantly catching you, a giggle leaving his lips as the teachers voice rose again, his arm placing delicately around your waist, his hand rested gently on your hip. in response, you rested your hand on top of his, giving his hand a light squeeze.

by the time class was nearly over, you became more comfortable with him picking you up. the last lift you tried being the riskiest, you still trusted him, catching you every time you began to fall.

this class was not helping your case.

“now let’s come center for reverence.” your teacher says, matt placing you carefully back on the floor.

“i am not graceful at all.” he mumbles as you both followed her curtsy.

“this is why you don’t do ballet matt.” you giggle, concluding your class. matt began to walk away before you grabbed his hand, pulling you up close to the teacher and thanking her.

“oh uh, thank you for having me maam, i had a lot of fun.”

“well thank you for coming! i don’t think i’ve ever seen y/n smile this much during class. keep it up matt, you seem to be good for her.” she smiles, thank you both for attending before you exit the building out to matt’s car.

“im sorry again for being late.” he says, taking your bag from you and tossing it in his back seat.”

“it’s okay, i’m just glad you came.” you replied as you both sat in his car.

“i had a lot of fun.” he smiles.

“you know, you didn’t have to lie to her about us being together. you didn’t have to spare my embarrassment.”

“well i said it because i wanted to, not just to spare you.” he says pulling out of the parking lot.

“what do you- what do you mean?” you ask, spiraling.

“i guess that was me trying to make it known that i really fucking like you, and i was excited when you asked me to come do this with you.” he replies. you reach for his hand that rested on his thigh and moved it to your lap, intertwining your fingers as you smiled to yourself, his thumb brushing softly back and forth on the back of your hand.

“i like you a lot too matt.” you say, looking at his perfect side profile.

“glad we’re in the same page.” he giggles, bringing your conjoined hands to his lips, pressing a sweet kiss to the back of your hand. a blush burned on your face as he returned your hands to yourself lap.

“what a relief.” you giggle, giving his hand a little squeeze which he returned.

“do you really not ever smile that much in class?” he asks genuinely.

“well not really, i don’t really feel as close to my classmates and stuff. i don’t know, it’s stupid.”

“no no y/n, it’s not stupid. i get it. well if you want, and if you can, how about i come pick you up after your class every week and i take us out to eat? yeah? anything to keep you smiling.” he offers kindly.

“i mean, that would definitely be okay with me.” you reply.

everything he was doing made your heart leap in your chest, knowing now how much he really cared for you.

“do you wanna come over?” you ask abruptly.

“like tonight?” he asks, pulling to a stop at the restaurant you’d agreed to eat at the day prior, it being both of your favorite restaurant.

“yeah, like do you wanna stay over? listen i’m trying to be bold, i don’t really know if it’s working.” you giggle nervously. smoothly, he closes the gap between you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“it’s working.” he smiles, pecking your lips one more time before you both get out of the car.

you spent the dinner gushing over each other, adoring how much he spoke lovingly of his family. the closer you got, the more your feelings grew for the boy.

“matt you don’t have to pay for me.” you say lowly, the server asking how to do the check.

“i’m paying for it, sorry for the confusion maam.” he says to the server, turning his head back to you as he walked away.

“why are you paying for me?” you ask sternly.

“because this is a date isn’t it? it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to not pay.” he giggles, signaling for you to take his hands in the table, much to your dismay, you found your hands rested in his large ones.

“let me take care of you. i know you aren’t doing the best right now y/n. i may be a man, but i’m not blind, especially when i see a girl i really fucking care about struggling, okay?” he says firmly, sighing with contentment as he finished his sentence.

“okay.” you reply softly, letting go of his hands as the server returned with the check.

-

“you really are letting this thing get to you huh?” he asks as you lay on his chest, tracing circles on his skin as you cuddled innocently, both in your pajamas ready to sleep for the night.

“yeah i guess i am.” you reply, telling him about how torn you were about ballet.

“well how about this, you tell me when your next performance is, i will be there front row to watch you. i want you to keep going pretty girl, i just know you’re incredible. i wanna help you.” he says, running his gentle fingers up and down your back.

“thank you matt. i think just from class today that’s a big stride.” you giggle.

“i hope so.”

“anyways, why don’t we talk about something other than me before we go to sleep.”

“well why would i want to, i could listen to it all day.” he teases, a hint of genuineness behind his teasing tone.

“no, it’s selfish.” you giggle. the two of you spent the rest of the night talking about hockey, giggling over your favorite movies and shows and him listening to your college gossip. all stuff he didn’t know about but loved to hear anyway.

“i think it’s about time we go to sleep y/n.” he giggles after hours of chatting lovingly with you.

“yeah i guess your right.”

“but i can’t let you go to sleep like this.” he replies and you cock your eyebrow. he pulls himself away from you, laying on his side to face you.

“i have a question.” he says and your stomach drops.

“okay?”

“would you wanna maybe fall asleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, and like maybe spend forever and more as my girlfriend?” he smiles slowly as the words left his lips.

“yes matt, i would love to.” you giggle, your hands cupping his cheeks.

“sorry if that was tacky, i didn’t wanna be basic.” he giggles, pulling you toward him.

“it was perfect, thank you m’love.” you say pulling his lips to yours anxiously.

“anytime. now you better keep a smile on your face from now on, and i mean it. if you have any problems just come to me, you know i would never in a million years judge you, and also, i would love to come to ballet class again, it was a lot of fun.” he says resting his head on top of yours.

“i will matt, i promise you. and i will definitely let you know, who knows you may be the next big thing.”

“well i know i have a b-“

“now is not the time for a dirty joke asshole.” you giggle smacking him on the arm.

“i mean after all i AM just a man okay? dirty mind and all.” he scoffs.

“and it doesn’t change a single thing i feel for you.” you laugh as he kisses you one last time before you both drift off to sleep.

[shotmrmiller]

since i'm rambling about self inserts? (is that it?) now you're miserably turning over on the bed, pulling the comforter over your head because you wasted a whole whopping 70$ for MW3 only to get an unfinished game and a piss-poor half-assed shock value main character death.

You fall asleep thinking about what you'd do differently- how johnny wouldn't die so needlessly, maybe even convince Captain Price to let Johnny put a bullet in Makarov's head in that helo.

And when you wake, your surroundings are different. The bed is too small when yours is a king, the innerspring mattress creaks when you sit up, even though you explicitly bought a memory foam.

The walls are spartan instead of the personalized decor you had. Looking over the edge of the bed, the floor isn't carpet. It's an ugly, white vinyl tile.

Where the fuck are you?

Your hands are callused but the only time you even got one was when you tried your hand at gardening, only to eventually realize you could kill a cactus with your brown thumb.

Hopping out of bed, you beeline to your bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror. Almost everything is the same. Eyes, hair, body, height.

Only difference is your flesh. It's littered with scars- both old and new. A thick, pink jagged line across your clavicle (a blade?), a puckered star shaped keloid above your hip bone (A gunshot wound?)

Stepping back out into the room, you carefully survey the space around you. A tac vest you swear you've seen before hangs on the back rest of your small chair.

Two black glock-19's sit on the desk. How do you know that? You don't know lick about weapons.

There's a large sheathed blade by your nightstand table. Didn't Rambo have one of those?

Suddenly, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You're dreaming. Jesus. Maybe you should start reading some smut fanfiction before bed to get Simon in your-

A knock at your door pulls you out of your degenerate thoughts.

oooookay.

Padding quietly to the door, the metal of the handle feels shockingly cold. How wildly vivid.

"Ye- what the fuck?"

What the actual fuck?

"Language."

...

Your mouth gapes in utter disbelief. "Simon?"

His dark eyes narrow behind his skull mask. "Chummy, are we?" He steps forward, forcing your neck back at an uncomfortable angle to keep your eyes fixed on his. "You and I, Sergeant, ain't friends. It's Ghost to you. Clear?" he snarls.

You swallow thickly. "C-Crystal, sir."

He tips his chin forward. "Get decent, I'm to take ya to the debriefin' room."

what?

"Now."

Spinning on the balls of your feet, you hastily dress, and grab the vest on the chair. UK flag on it. Tactical. Heavy as hell.

Your hands move on their own, and fingers smartly clip buckles, pull up zippers and close the pockets- as if you've been doing this your whole life.

What is happening?

When you get to wherever it was you were going, you're met with more recognizable faces.

Captain Price stands in front of Laswell, bulky arms crossed as he speaks to her in a hushed tone.

Gaz sits on a chair with his head hanging back as he blankly stares at the ceiling, trademark cap in place.

And then there's- "Bonnie!"

Johnny.

"Good to see Simon dinnae eat ye on the way here."

Simon Ghost doesn't react to the jibe at all.

Why are you sitting in the middle of the 141 listening to Laswell debrief about Hassan? Why aren't you waking up yet? You're lucid. The sharp sting of your nails digging into the palms of your clenched hands isn't dulled.

"Good hunting."

This can't be happening.

This isn't real. The heavy helmet strapped to your head. The weight of the bulky tac vest full of equipment. The painfully tight straps around your thighs. The way the rifle feels in your hands, solid and dense.

Not real.

Until you're offloading with Bravo Team in Al-Mazrah on the search for Major Hassan. The tall grass grazing your pants, the NVG's over your eyes to help you see in the dark. The harsh recoil of a weapon you've only ever used in a video game. The gurgling sounds of the enemies as they choke on their blood by your feet. The bullet whizzing past you, clipping your cheekbone. The burning sting of it, white-hot pain.

Real.

It feels fucking real.

[silverskye13]

For a hurt/comfort idea, how about the Red King treating Martyn after he gets back from the rooftop escapades with Tanguish? Poor guy is really not used to roof running and was probably all kinds of sore and bruised from the experience.

To say Martyn walked himself down the cells would be an overstatement of his ability, at the current moment. Being tired, hels, being exhausted were feelings he wasn't exactly used to, but was at least familiar with. Every warrior at some point pushes themselves a little too far and pulls a muscle or breaks a bone, and has to spend long hours recovering even after the health potion hits. But damn, the rooftop running was a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Martyn still didn't know how in the hels Tanguish had intended to keep running.

"Just two more streets and it's a straight shot to the Colosseum--"

Bullshit. Just two more streets and Martyn would drop dead, more like. Everything hurt now. Everything. Of course his arms and legs. But also his back, his ribs, his teeth and jaw. Bracing for impact -- and then actually impacting -- had jangled more than just his nerves. Also every time he took a step on his left leg, pain went shooting through his hip. Also his fingernails hurt. His fingernails. From gripping ledges and shit. Gods and saints, he hurt in places he didn't even know you could hurt! The heels of his feet felt bruised.

He was bleeding too -- no stab wounds, thank the gods. But he'd taken a cut to one arm, and a cut near his ribs where a stab had tried its best to be fatal and he twisted. The cuts were the easiest to deal with, oddly enough. He was used to that kind of harm from the Colosseum. Right now they itched, and made his clothes feel gross and sticky. They would sting when he cleaned them later.

Ugh. He didn't want to take a bath. If he sat down in the water, he really didn't think he'd be able to stand up again.

Martyn blinked, a motion that somehow made the back of his head ache. Stress maybe, or just the unharmed parts of his body getting jealous of all the complaining the rest of him was doing. In front of him, his cell door wavered in and out of focus, his tired eyes denying him sight unless he really, really concentrated. Martyn sighed and opened his door. Then he realized he couldn't open his door, because he locked it when he left. He tried in vain to remember the passcode for his key.

He couldn't remember the passcode for his key.

"Bloody hels," Martyn scowled and kicked his door, and yelped when he felt the kick travel all the way up his leg to sink hooks into his hip. He hopped on one foot, waiting for the tenderness to subside, only for his other knee to decide to stop cooperating. With an inglorious shout and tumble, Martyn crumpled to the ground in a heap of sore muscles and bitter bones.

"Bloody hels!" Martyn whined, drawing out the phrase into a howl that, while unhelpful, at least made him feel a little less frustrated. Martyn lay on the ground, taking some solace in the heat radiating up from the floor. It sank through his coat and into his bones, taking some of the edge off his soreness. He knew if he lay here too long, he would get stiff, and standing would become a crippling labor.

He couldn't bring himself to stand.

Martyn had resigned himself to his fate of sleeping in the middle of the hallway, when the tip-tapping of clawed feet pulled at his attention. Martyn didn't have to see Red coming down the hall. He would always recognize those footsteps. The odd incongruence of muffled paw pads and scraping claws was something that could only be his Lord.

Martyn tilted up his head to peer at Red as he came to a stop in front of his door. Martyn and Red's cells were side-by-side, and Red already had his hand resting on his door, long claws keying through the combination lock Martyn had insisted he keep locked when he was out. With the habit of long memorization, Red keyed it in, opened his door--

-- and stopped just as he took one step over the threshold. The long, wolf-like ears twitched and swiveled. He tilted his head, the blinding crown, pulled low over his eyes, glinting in the dim light.

"Am I really breathing that loud?" Martyn asked sardonically.

Red wrinkled his nose in a confused expression and looked down. He couldn't really meet Martyn's gaze with the crown on, but he nearly did.

"Me Hand," Red said, his voice a low rumble, "how come thee to the ground in our hall?"

"Just dropped something, my Lord."

"Aye? And... What be it that you have dropped, me Hand?"

"Myself, mostly."

Red snorted half of a laugh. Then he sniffed, and sniffed again, and asked, "Why do ye smell of blood and..." He gave another long sniff, his nose wrinkling at whatever the smell was. "Be that... roof tiles?"

"You're uncanny, you know that?" Martyn asked. When Red only waited patiently for a response, he added, "That would be because I got in a knife fight on a roof, my Lord."

"Me Hand."

"Yes, m'Lord?"

"Be ye possessed by a particularly knife-fond soul of a pigeon? Or be ye so bored with the errands ye run, that ye must make challenge for yourself?"

"I don't think that question deserves an answer."

"Need ye help, Hand?"

"What? Me? No," Martyn waved a dismissive hand, and even managed not to wince when he did it. "I'm just... Resting. Give me five minutes I'll be up, quick as a wink."

Red gave him a long-suffering sigh. He reached up to his iron crown, gently wrapping claws around it to begin lifting it away from his eyes. The moment his fingers touched the metal, whispering sprang to life in the air around them, and the lights in the hallway reddened. Martyn tried to get his arms underneath himself to shove himself upwards.

"Woah hey don't that's not-- you don't have to do that--!"

Martyn pushed up, let out an inglorious wince of a noise when his whole body shrieked its chorus of aches, and promptly fell back over into his side.

Red lifted the crown off of his eyes, pushing it back onto his head where it flattened his long ears uncomfortably. He fixed bright, glowing red eyes on Martyn, bloody tears drifting from his eyes to fizzle I to nothing in the air around his face. The whispering intensified into barks, growls and howls, noises that sat just on the other side of true hearing and made the insides of Martyn's ears itch and burn.

Red looked Martyn over, taking in his harms with a cold, eldritch stare. Red had a demon in him. Something to do with black altars and Hermits on death worlds and sacrifice. When the crown was off, the demon stalked forward, and Martyn could see it now, writhing behind Red's eyes, a caged and hungry thing made of teeth and claws and baleful intent.

"Me hand," Red hummed, his voice a resonant double as the demon barked and growled his words along with him. Martyn marvelled that such an evil thing could shriek behind his Lord's voice, and yet still couldn't lessen the depth of concern and care in Red's tone. "Do not hide your harms from me. Ye ken I would give ye the world if ye only asked it."

With that, Red stooped and gathered Martyn up in his arms. So close to the demon, Martyn felt like his bones were vibrating. He felt like, if he could listen hard enough, he might be able to hear whatever the howling thing whispered when it wasn't gliding along the edges of Red's voice. Curiosity compelled him to ask what the demon thought of him, what it whispered to Red in the dark hours sealed behind the crown. Mindfulness told him he already knew what the demon whispered. It was a suspicious creature born of fear, after all.

It was not the demon that carried Martyn into his Lord's room though, no matter how loudly it barked around Red's eyes. Martyn liked the way the demon made Red look. A long red smear followed his Lord when he moved, trailing him in phosphorescence that reminded him of neon signs leaking their plasma. Sometimes he thought something, and the thoughts would turn into visible sparks that danced and jittered like absentminded lightning, his very essence a long exposure ribboned across the world.

Martyn was so transfixed watching it, he didn't realize Red had brought him to his bed until he was being laid gently on it. Then Red reached up to his crown and lowered it over his eyes again, and with a final barking growl, the demon vanished off Red like it had never been. His Lord diminished before his eyes, small, weary and contained -- but more his Lord than he had been when the demon was awake.

"You're uncanny," Martyn said breathlessly, his voice full of adoration.

"I be only what I must," Red hummed, leaning down to kiss Martyn gently on the forehead. He smelled of blood and winter, and his kiss was cold. "And ye be resting where I can keep ye safe."

"Who's going to hurt me down here?" Martyn chuckled, though he sunk into Red's bed gratefully. He had the softest pillows in hels, of that Martyn was convinced.

"Perchance a stray roof tile may swear vengeance upon thee and thy household for thy offence," Red grinned. He lumbered to a dresser and pulled out a rag and some bandages, and after some feeling around the room, returned with a ewer of water as well. He helped Martyn to sit, and with great care removed his coat and shirt, and began tending to his wounds.

"You're not supposed to do this part," Martyn informed Red. "I'm supposed to take care of you, my Lord."

"Aye, but how will ye take care of me when ye be in pieces?" Red asked patiently. When he finished cleaning the cut on Martyn's arm, he kissed just above the spot. A ritual. Something to seal the healing. "Tend to me as I tend to thee, and if my care be lacking, me Hand, leave me to bleed, as I deserve."

"I would never," Martyn breathed, and he meant it.

Red finished cleaning the cut on his side, and kissed him there too. Martyn squirmed at the closeness of breath somewhere vital. He knew Red would never betray him -- it was not in his Lord's nature -- but the paranoid creature that made Martyn him screamed that he would be so, so easy to kill right now, and Red's claws and teeth were sharp. And, though Red would never dream of harming him while he was vulnerable, he was sure the demon would, if given the chance. The demon had done it before.

The demon was not the one who eased Martyn back into the bed, and drew blankets over him. Nor was it the demon that traced a gentle claw over his arm, drawing patterns and symbols into his skin as he hummed, and soothed Martyn to sleep.

It was Red, his Red, who curled up beside him when finally sleep took him, his head resting gentle on the hollow of Martyn's collar, matching their breaths. It was Red, his Red, who hummed quietly for long hours, and brought him cold compresses when he woke in the night too sore to stay asleep. It was Red, his Red, who kept him safe.

The loyalty of a dog and the master who keeps watch for it, Martyn would think, wry and sardonic, as sleep came for him again. I would rather be a hound than a squire, I think.

[blogthebooklover]

Smite The Wicked/Into The Sunlight

Author's Note: This one shot is based on Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This is almost 7 pages long on my Google Doc, lol. I do have a fan art WIP of this scene, be on the lookout for that soon. This is also available on Wattpad and FFN. I do not own Planet of the Apes, or The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Noa burst through the door, smiling widely and feeling ecstatic, “We did it!  We beat them back, Mae!  Come, come, come and see.”  He was about to leave to see the victories again, and briefly turned his head to look over his shoulder.  Mae was lying unconscious on a bed, in a small dark room and she wasn’t moving.  Noa went down on all fours and hopped over to check on her.  “Mae, you are safe…now,” he said, nudging her arm carefully.  The female human still did not move.  Noa placed his hand on her forehead, and then stroked her temple with the backs of his fingers.  She felt cold to the touch, like from being outside too long in the winter or during a rainstorm in the spring and summer.

“Mae?” he asked softly, and then his golden jade eyes widened slightly, “oh no.”

The young chimp grabbed his canteen of water nestled along his hip, cradled the human’s head in his other hand, and brought it to her lips.  The water dripped down the sides of her mouth and cheeks.  Noa’s eyes widened this time in fear and shock.  He dropped his canteen, not caring about it spilling onto the floor and soaking into his fur.  “Oh n-no…,” he whispered, taking hold of her small hand in his, squeezing it as gently as he could.  

He felt tears well up in his eyes, as he gently wrapped the human female in his arms.  Burying his face in her neck, he let out soft sobs, his shoulders bobbing as he tried to hold back from sobbing and hooting too loudly.  

Behind him in the doorway, Anaya, Soona and his mother Dar glanced in when he entered to tell Mae the news.  They saw Noa bring his canteen up to Mae’s lips for some water, only for her not to take it at all.  The three apes glanced at each other in concern and sadness for the young ape and his human friend.  Soona embraced Dar, burying her head in the older ape’s shoulder.  Dar gently stroked the younger female’s head, keeping an eye on her son and feeling tears well in her own brown orbs.  Anaya reached out to pull the door shut to give Noa some privacy, and a chance to say goodbye to the Echo.

Noa cradled Mae’s unconscious body in his arms, gently stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.  He had placed her head against his shoulder, gently brushing away strands of her hair from her face.  The young ape bit his bottom lip, as he tried his best not to hoot in sadness.  Noa was too far gone into his mourning to take notice of the door opening again.  Or the heavy footsteps coming up behind him.  He then felt someone’s hand on his shoulder, looming over him and his friend.

“Is she dead?” asked Proximus Caesar darkly.

“Because of you,” Noa accused weakly.  

“It was… my duty for…apes.”

“Duty?!  For apes?! ”

“In the name of Caesar,” the bonobo king huffed, “to keep apes strong.”  Noa shot the barest, most hurtful and hateful of glances over his shoulder at the bonobo.  “The true Caesar…wanted to live…in harmony with… humans,” the young ape argued weakly, putting an emphasis on the word true.  Proximus sighed audibly through his nostrils, before growling slowly, “I am the true Caesar.  My words…the apes follow.”

The bonobo king turned away from Noa, releasing the younger ape’s shoulder.  “Now, we are rid of the human girl.  We will find more…and make them…our slaves.  Better yet…we will kill them all…and this world will be ours.”

Noa had placed Mae back down on the bed, and laid her hands on top of each other over her stomach, and lightly patted them before standing up to face the bonobo.  “Kill…all humans?!  Caesar cared for humans���as well as apes.  And…there can be no world…without humans…without her,” the young ape interjected defeatedly, gesturing to the human girl behind him.  “Mae…made her choice…Noa,” Proximus said, glancing over his shoulder at the chimpanzee, “she died for humans…and humans are always selfish.  They do not…know how to…love.”

“‘Humans… do not know…how to love?’” Noa repeated before challenging Proximus, feeling his hackles rising along his neck and shoulders “and what…do you know of love?  Who do you love?!”  He suspected his golden jade eyes were wild with grief and anger, because he noticed the bonobo’s own brown eyes widened slightly and inhaled sharply.

“I…I love my kingdom,” Proximus for once in his life, stumbled on his words, “I tried to make you understand, Noa.  That humans are…wicked and weak.  To teach you…the ways of Caesar.  But I was wrong…you are also…weak.”  Noa curled his fingers into fists, and gave the bonobo the most deathly glare he could muster.  “No…you are the weak one…  You are the wicked one…  ‘And the wicked shall not go unpunished!’”  The young ape repeating the words the bonobo used during one of his speeches.  

Proximus snarled at Noa before lunging forward to grab the chimp.  Noa was two steps ahead of him, bending at the waist and tackling the bonobo right through the open door.  The chimpanzee banged his fists into the bonobo’s face and chest, screeching so loud it rang through the air.  He simply did not care anymore, now that Mae laid dead in the room behind him.  

Proximus grunted as he kneed Noa in the abdomen and pushed him off.  The bonobo beat the younger one in the face and chest.  The chimp could feel blood, he couldn’t tell if it was his own or the older ape’s.  Noa grabbed Proximus by his shoulders, and headbutted the bonobo as hard as he could.

He stumbled off of the chimp, and Noa crawled away from the false king.  The young ape felt a hand wrap around his ankle, dragging him back to the bonobo.  Noa kicked Proximus in the face with his other foot, causing the bonobo to release his ankle.  The force from the kick was enough for the older ape to knock against the metal railing of the ship.  Proximus became disoriented when his head banged against it.

X.X.X.X.X.X.

Back in the small room, Mae stirred awake, blinking rapidly for her eyes to adjust in the forthcoming dawn.  She brought a hand to her face and head, checking for any signs of injury.  She turned her head to survey her surroundings, the young woman was in a small room and was lying down on a cot with a worn blanket underneath her.  There was a door to her right, and she could hear the sounds of apes fighting each other.  She gasped softly when she heard Noa screech in pain, and the other ape he was fighting was Proximus Caesar.  Mae heard the older ape’s head bang against the metal railing, and Noa coming into view in the doorway.

She called out weakly, reaching out for him, “Noa!”

The young chimp turned his head, his golden jade eyes glistened in surprise and unshed tears of happiness at her.  He hopped over to her on all fours, and crouched in front of her.  “Mae,” he exhaled, grabbing her outstretched hand and feeling relief that she was alive.  He gently picked her up in his strong arms, and she wrapped her own around his neck.  

As quickly as he could, Noa carried Mae out of the room and ventured further into the ship to find a place to hide.  Eventually, the chimp placed the girl onto his back, and climbed up into the rafters.  From their hiding spot, Noa could see Proximus had come out of his disoriented state and was searching for them.  The bonobo growled in frustration, sniffing the air for their scents, but the salt from the ocean was too thick to trace them.  The chimp stiffened when he noticed Proximus was right under them now.  He felt Mae tightened her grip slightly around his neck and chest.  

Then the bonobo glanced above into the rafters.

“Going somewhere?” he snarled in wicked delight, before ascending up to where they were.

           Noa told the girl to hang on as he climbed further away from the approaching bonobo.  The chimp swung from rafter to rafter, he felt Mae hold on as tightly as she could on his back.  They could hear Proximus along the rusted metal, prompting Noa to climb faster.  He could feel Mae losing her grip around his torso.  He had to hurry to find a safe place for them.  The young chimp found an opening to the deck of the ship, swung from a metal rafter, and pulled himself and Mae through it.

Mae let go of the ape at once, when she was safely on the deck.  He was about to join her when something grabbed him by the ankle, his eyes widening in surprise.  He was pulled back down into the opening, releasing a screech of fear as he disappeared.  “NOA!” Mae screamed, reaching out for his hand through the opening.

X.X.X.X.X.X.

Proximus threw Noa onto a rafter, the younger ape hitting his head against it.  The bonobo placed his foot on the chimp’s chest, slowly pressing down as he sneered, “I thought… you were like me, Noa.  I was wrong…”  Proximus leaned down further, pressing even more into Noa’s chest, causing the chimp to choke.  The young chimp could feel himself becoming lightheaded.

“Your heart is too…human!”

Noa growled at the bonobo, grabbing onto his ankle and using whatever strength he had left, pulled the older ape’s foot off his chest and tossed him to the side.  The bonobo grunted in pain when he hit the metal wall of the ship.  The young chimp pushed himself up, looking around for the way he took to get to the opening.  Proximus struggled to get up, feeling disoriented from the force.  The older ape pushed himself up, only to slip on a wet patch of dirt and grime on the rusted metal.

Proximus grabbed hold of the edge of the rafter, hanging on with whatever strength he had left.  The bonobo growled in frustration as he contemplated a way to get to the younger ape, and finish him off once and for all.  There was a loud creak in the metal, the wet spot had created an indentation in the rafter and then it snapped in half.  Proximus hooted loudly in fear as his half broke off and dangled in the air.  The bonobo screeched out for Noa to help him.

The young chimpanzee was halfway near the opening to the deck, when Proximus had called out to him.  The bonobo was dangling from half of the rusted rafter of the ship.  Noa dared to briefly look down at the bottom of the ship’s interior.  It was a very large and long fall from where he was, and where Proximus Caesar was still hanging on to the metal half.  The chimp made eye contact with the bonobo, the older ape reaching out his hand in desperation.

Noa growled in frustration at this predicament.  From the opening to the deck, he could hear Mae yell out for him.  He turned his head to look at her, the human female was halfway through the opening and reaching out her hand to his.  The chimpanzee gritted his front teeth together, contemplating whether to help Proximus, or grab the human female’s hand to safety.

There was another creak in the metal, and Noa quickly turned his head toward the sound.  The rafter half where Proximus was dangling from had moved again, this time away from the other side of the ship.  The bonobo screamed out for Noa to help him again, reaching out his elongated arm to the chimp.  The younger ape knew it was useless to do so from the far distance between them.

Noa could only think of one thing to say to the disgraced king.

“I agree with you…on one thing.  My heart is too human…”

X.X.X.X.X.X.

The bonobo roared at him as the rafter broke completely off, and the reverberation from the metal caused the older ape to let go.  Proximus fell into the recesses of the ship, with the rafter following after.  Noa could hear both the older ape hitting the bottom and the metal rafter falling on top of him.  The chimpanzee winced at the sound as it echoed throughout the ship.

Noa closed his eyes briefly, he didn’t know if it was a moment of silence for the bonobo, or utter shock from such a gruesome way to die.  He inhaled sharply through his nostrils before ascending upward to the human female reaching out to him.  The young chimp clasped his large hand as gently as he could around Mae’s much smaller hand.  She had some help from Anaya and Soona as all three of them pulled him through the opening.  The two chimpanzees embraced him tightly, hooting in happiness that their childhood friend was safe.  They touched their foreheads with each other, huffing lightly with joy as Dar approached as well to wrap her son in his arms.  He touched his forehead with his mother, feeling grateful that his friends and family were safe.

Noa turned his attention to Mae after his mother released him from her embrace.  The human female stood there shyly, her gaze not quite looking at him as he approached her.  

It was Mae who eventually stepped forward and wrapped her small arms around his neck.  The young chimp was shocked at first that it was the human who initiated this intimate gesture.  He slowly wrapped his arms around her, one around her back and the other stroking her hair gently.  He felt her small hand grasp the fur along his shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck.  She felt so small in his strong arms, he suspected she felt perfectly comfortable at the same time.  Noa would keep that thought and feeling to himself.

She pulled back to look into his golden jade eyes.  The human female had a small smile on her lips, and he returned it in kind.  

He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning his head slightly to his left, he noticed it was his mother with Soona and Anaya next to her.  The older female chimp gently took his hand and Mae’s into her own, and placed them on top of each other before placing hers on top of their entwined hands.  

Then Anaya placed his own hand on top of Dar’s and then Soona.  “Together strong,” Dar said softly.  Noa noticed the tears streaming down Mae’s cheeks.

He raised his free hand to her cheek, and gently wiped away her tears with the backs of his fingers.  That small smile from earlier was still on both of their faces.

X.X.X.X.X.X.

The four apes and the human female joined the rest of the Eagle clan in the courtyard of Proximus’s domain.  Anaya surged forward, hooting in delight and encouraging the others to join him.  Dar and Soona stayed behind with Noa, taking in the celebration going on around them.  Noa looked around for Mae, until he glanced over his shoulder behind him.  

She was standing in the shadows of the rusted ship, her right hand grasping her left forearm and looking away at something in the distance.  The young chimp huffed lightly before nodding to himself, and slowly approached the young human.  

 He reached out his hand to her, offering her a small smile.  Mae glanced down at his large hand before meeting his golden jade eyes.

He nodded slowly, silently telling her it was all right.  She placed her hand into his, and he pulled her into the light of the day.

Noa led the human female over to his mother, Anaya and Soona, and turned to the remaining Eagle clan.  The rest of the clan stood there silently in the courtyard, staring at the human female next to their new leader.  

Mae glanced around at the Eagle Clan, her grip on Noa’s hand tightening slightly in anxiety.  She could feel all eyes on her, some of the apes closest to the quintet had sniffed in the air around her.  She couldn’t tell if they were scenting her as a friend, or sniffing in utter disgust as a foe.

Then, a young female child ape approached her slowly.

The child ape glanced back briefly at her mother, the older female raising her hand in a way of saying it was okay.  The little ape turned back and came to a stop in front of Mae.

The child ape blinked slowly, moving her head up and down taking in the human’s appearance.  Mae let go of Noa’s hand when she crouched down to the child’s level.  

The little ape cocked her head to the side in curiosity, hooting lowly under her breath.  Then, the child reached forward and brushed the backs of her fingers against Mae’s smooth cheek.  The human gasped softly at the contact, before giving in and slowly embracing the little ape.  The little ape placed her forehead against Mae’s, accepting the human entirely.  Mae felt fresh tears stream down her face in joy.

A few more child apes approached Mae, cautious at first, and then began touching her hair and clothes in curiosity and wonder.  The human smiled at the ape children around her.

One of the child apes grabbed Mae’s hand, and began leading her into the crowd of the Eagle clan.  The other apes lightly brushed their knuckles against the human’s clothes and arms as she passed them.

Noa looked on proudly as Mae traversed through the Eagle clan, his people accepting the human as one of their own.

[procyonloser]

Adam kicked a rock with one of his new hooves, hating how it felt against the hoof - dull, but still there. Kind of like him. A fucking cow demon. He sure as fuck didn't sign onto that shit, and he was pretty sure it was at least 95% Lucifer's fault that he looked like this. That he sounded like this, unable to speak besides...mooing.

Vaggie told him it suited him, to have lived a life only valuing what women could do for him, what women could give to him, to be turned into a cow.

Adam called her a stuck up dumb cunt with one stupid eye. It came out as a long angry moo, and she simply laughed in his face and walked away.

He had to get out of that fucking hotel as often as he could. It hurt his brain to be in there, to hear the songs, the little trust exercises, the crying, god Charlie cried so much. Adam had to get away, but Pentagram city was just as depressing as the rest of Hell. Violent criminals, weird sex shit, badly spelled billboards advertising hired assassins. Gross, Adam thought to himself, hopping over a puddle of... He didn't want to think about it too hard.

"Hey big boy, you want to be branded?" A demon leered at him, leaning against a car on the sidewalk. There was another demon inside it that blinked multiple eyes up at Adam, raking down his body. Adam was not into it, this wasn't adoring fans in Heaven talking about how awesome he was.

He felt like, well, a piece of meat.

"Hey, come on, I think you'd look great with a nose ring, maybe a little bell collar." The demon laughed, pushing away from the car and following Adam along the sidewalk. Adam's tail flicked him, trying to keep him away, his powers were mostly gone now, he had typical sinner strength, and he didn't want to get into a fight only being able to say moo.

"Excuse you, sir!" A voice boomed with pomp and circumstance, descending from on high. Lucifer floated down from the sky above, angelic wings flapping lightly as he landed, hands on his hips like a wanna be Superman.

"This cow, I mean sinner, is my friend Adam! I will not allow you to speak to him in such a manner." Lucifer said, and Adam wanted to throw him off of a window. Where was any of this care in the last fucking ten thousand years?

"... Who the shit are you?" The demon asked, blinking repeatedly. "Some weirdo with an angel kink?"

"No!" Lucifer snarled, eyes briefly turning gold before he smiled politely. "I am Lucifer Morningstar, your King."

The demon looked unimpressed. "Sure you are, anyway, I was just telling your cow he'd look better with a piercing, maybe a brand of my name on his fat ass. Or maybe, nipple rings, yeah? That'd be hot."

Lucifer's horns began to push out of his skull, and Adam looked curiously between him and the demon. He'd actually enjoy seeing Lucifer rip him to shreds.

"How dare you speak about him in such a way, do you not know to whom you are addressing - Adam, the son of Earth, the first man, you vile- wait did you say nipple rings?" Lucifers tone shifted from one that rocked the very ground itself to curiosity. Lucifer swiveled to stare at Adam, gaze stopping directly on his chest. "Mm... Hmm..."

Adam blinked, looking at the demon, who was also confused.

"Moo!" Adam huffed, stomping his hoof. Lucifer snapped out of it and obliterated the catcalling demon into dust with a snap, before blinking and wincing.

"Oopsiedoopsie, I told Charlie I wouldn't do that anymore. Uh, he'll reform I think. It's fine. Anyway, you want to go home? I was just out, flying to the store. I think we need some....milk...." Lucifers brain seemed to stop functioning again as he stared at Adam again.

".....Moo?!" Adam yelled.

This truly was hell.