#this answer was honestly not supposed to be this long

[sgiandubh]

I don’t see the post about Sam and Cait attending the Venetian Carnival on the page’s IG or website. It must not be true! 😢

Dear Not True Anon,

Something seems fishy about that one, indeed. The Instagram post is gone, the Insta story is (obviously) gone and not archived. Even the link shared by the FB fan page Outlander Italy is gone, which means Nicolao Atelier replaced it:

The Instagram account follows S and C, but is not followed by them. This could mean nothing, but then it could mean something, after all.

The dead link is still indexed and appears as such on Google, when searching with basic keywords, however clicking on it will take you to the atelier's IG account, which has been sanitized. So this could mean the website's update happened fairly recently:

There seems to be no rule of thumb as to the removal timeframe. It can take anywhere from a couple of days to four weeks or more (if the content's owner did not file a removal request):

[Source: https://www.quora.com/How-long-does-it-take-for-something-to-be-removed-from-search-engines-such-as-Google-after-being-removed-from-a-website - answers differ, but this one stroke me as factually concise]

So I don't know if that is still happening. What I do know, that being said, is that Stefano Nicolao is, indeed, a successful theatre costume designer. That his workshop is situated in the sestiere (neighborhood) Cannaregio in Venice, smack dab into the glamorous thick of things and that the reviews are great:

What I do not understand is why he is nowhere to be found on OL's Imdb credits' page, that meticulously lists even the trainees and the seamstresses: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3006802/fullcredits/?ref_=tt_ov_ql_1

He is everywhere else, in the mainstream press (not clickbait): Le Figaro, for example (https://www.lefigaro.fr/culture/plus-de-15-000-costumes-concus-stefano-nicolao-le-prince-des-tailleurs-venitiens-20241110). And even Forbes Romania, with a two-part exclusive interview, extensively featuring OL (https://www.forbes.ro/stefano-nicolao-maestrul-croitor-din-venetia-i-261127).

The guy sounds legit, but there is something that nags me about this whole thing. I can only honestly bring this to the table as another piece of the OL X-Files and suppose we will end up by connecting the dots, if there are any dots left to connect, in due time.

My bet is either on a change of heart, change of plans or a stupid, stupid marketing mistake. Not a good look, if you ask me.

[darsynia]

Forgiven: joYOUs | CEO Steve/f!Reader series Part III

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | Ro Roll | Prev Fic

Summary: You and Steve Rogers have been dating for a little over two months, and it's been wonderful. Through it all you've asked yourself if it could possibly be real--but when he finally invites you to stay over at his apartment, you realize that being 'real' has as much to do with his complicated issues at work as it does being a Hallmark movie protagonist brought to life.

WC/Warnings: 5,200 // explicit sex

As 6/7 of my Ro Roll badly-belated-birthday fics for @ronearoundblindly, joYOUs is part III in my CEO Steve and f!Freader series. This story also (more lightly than intended) is written for the 'first fall of snow' prompt for @the-slumberparty's December Daze!

Can be read standalone!

Excerpt:

“I have a confession to make,” Steve says in an apologetic tone.

Your mind springs to swift and miserable action: Somehow his good guy persona is a sham and he’s actually a real-life Christian Grey (honestly, you’d try it). This is all a bet and your naive honesty is embarrassing (horrifyingly plausible)...

Steve says, “--happened to it, I have no idea what, but the food’s ruined. We’re going to have to get take-out.”

His warm apologetic tone heats your fears into float-away steam, and you rush to reconnect with reality. “I’m sorry that happened, but I’m here for you, not your food,” you stammer out, only fully hearing what you’ve said once it’s already out there. “Shit, that came out--”

“--perfectly,” Steve laughs.

Joyous

You’ve tried not to read anything into the 36 hours of no-contact since Steve left on his business trip. He had warned you that he would be ‘can’t check the phone’ kind of busy, but you also know that his stress has ramped up considerably with the holidays coming up. You suspect that the café project hadn’t been enough of a respite--but you’d promised yourself not to push him too hard about his burnout, and that includes acting like it’s no big deal that you haven’t talked for a while. 

Just normal early relationship stuff, really.

That all drops away like an uncomfortable bra after a long day at work when you get a text at 10 PM Friday night.

🪴🪴🪴: We still on for tomorrow at 7? I’ve been thinking about you since the plane took off from LaGuardia.

🪴🪴🪴: Whoops i

🪴🪴🪴: was only supposed to send that first part.

🪴🪴🪴: Hit enter too e

🪴🪴🪴: Buck give me back the phone. Don’t send her anything, okay? You’re hopeless, man. You have to leave some mystery. If she had any idea how much you talked about her while we were gone, she’d probably quit her job and leave the state. What’s. Oh shit it’s recording. How do I make it. Give it back. Bucky I mean it just put it down before you screwdriver

Screwdriver?

The (thrilling) mess of words take a minute or two to detangle, and once you parse the dictated back-and-forth, you realize that Steve’s subsequent silence is probably mortification. Adorable mortification.

The phone rings on silent mode, buzzing wildly in your hand. Surprise makes you drop it on your lap like it’s alive-- which it might as well be, because the vibration sends it jittering across your indulgent silk pajamas and onto the floor.

“Shit!” you gasp out, knowing that any delay in answering will probably make everything much worse. You scramble off the bed in a move so inelegant your sister calls out asking if you’ve joined her in Broken Leg Land. “I’m fine, just an idiot!” you holler, finally grabbing the phone from your crumpled position on the bedroom floor.

“That’s not true at all!” Steve Rogers’ voice echoes from the speakers. You must have  brushed the ‘answer’ part when you picked it up, because of course that would happen.

“Oh my god, is there a deity of phones I’ve badly wronged today?” you gasp out, bringing the thing gingerly up to your ear. Thankfully, he’s chuckling, and damn, it’s sexy.

“Seems like it. Should we call this a draw?” he suggests, adding, “I evicted the phone thief, sorry about that. He just wants what’s best for me.”

“Which would be… screwdrivers?” you offer, grinning despite your rational brain screaming at you not to sound overeager. “You somehow don’t strike me as an orange juice and vodka kind of guy.”

“You’re right, and that was a nice deflect.” There’s gratitude as well as sheepishness in Steve’s voice. When paired with the ‘forbidden truths’ in the dictated texts, you may be sitting on the floor in twisted-up PJs, but your mind and heart are floating on a cloud somewhere high above Manhattan. “Should I send a car tomorrow?”

Surprise snarls the response in your throat into a twisted um-cough combo that is entirely indelicate. “Sorry, yes, that, yes,” you manage, kicking yourself. He runs a company, having a car service probably doesn’t seem impersonal to him, even though he’s always picked you up or met you somewhere before this. The Maiden Aunt in your brain tries to argue that the magic is over, but she’s drowned out by College TA, who thinks this is a step up in statistical importance.

Some girls get a devil on their shoulder, but you ended up with a pessimist and an overachiever.

“How about a do-over,” Steve says, interrupting your mental chaos. “Can I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Yes!” you say in a flood of relief. “I’m sorry, you said ‘send a car’ and all I could picture was one of those movies where someone in livery holds up a piece of paper with my name--”

He interrupts before you can gnaw past the foot in your mouth and up onto the ankle.

“I don’t mind driving, don’t worry. See you at seven, then.” With that, CEO Eye, Ear, and Heart Candy hangs up, leaving you in a flustered, anticipatory mess on the floor in your bedroom.

Jennie gives you relentless shit over that whole sequence of events, but she also gives you access to her closet. You’ve already run through your handful of fancy dresses on dates with Steve, and everything else gives you ‘someday I might go clubbing’ or ‘student on a budget’ vibes.

Your sister’s tastes run more expensive than yours, and she’s always been a fan of modular clothing-- skirts that wrap around, blouses with 3x as much fabric as necessary that end up folding and twisting into a masterpiece, etc. It’s worked out well for her while she’s laid up with a broken leg, but the unusual style might help you keep up appearances. You choose a black form-fitting pants topped with a silky wraparound blouse; hopefully they’ll look sophisticated enough for your first visit to Steve’s apartment.

True to form, Jennie makes three ‘wrapped present’ jokes about the two ribbon-tied sections of your shirt before you make it out the door.

Steve is waiting beside his car when you come outside. He’s clearly come from work, wearing tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt that looks so good you’re practically overheating in the brisk winter air. Then he smiles at you, and your body takes a detour from ‘visit to Arizona’ straight down to ���the Brazilian Rainforest,’ all innuendo included.

Oblivious to your secretly disrespectful ogling, Steve moves to escort you to your car door, standing deliciously close by as he opens it. His aftershave smells heady and masculine, distracting enough that you turn your heel a little bit on the seam of the sidewalk. Your unbuttoned coat swings back and his hand moves to steady you, fingers tangling in the red ribbon holding your blouse together on that side.

“Oh!” you gasp, half because of his sheer strength and half because good god, if that bow comes undone on the street you’re not sure how much you’re even going to care right now. You gently grasp his hand (finding that, yep, the sizzling live wire connection on physical contact is still active), salvaging the knot for the sake of your sanity.

“Wow,” Steve breathes in a low voice that sends its resonance whizzing through your whole body. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur intelligently.

You’re never going to tell your sister how many mental seconds it’s taken you to go from 0 to head over heels for this man.

“Do you need me to adjust the buckle? You were making a face,” Steve explains.

“Oh, no, I was coming up with something suitably embarrassing to text my nagging sister so she doesn’t send me ‘romantic suggestions’ all night,” you admit. “She means well, but I think she’s been watching too many Hallmark Christmas movies. Nothing I do or say will measure up!”

He chuckles. “I won’t comment on what my own nag might have to say on the outcome of the evening.”

“You mean the professional phone thief? He owes you, not the other way around! Telling secrets on dictation while your friend’s planning to bring a girl home-- and then sending it? Hung, drawn, and quartered.”

“Well, the method of delivery may have been terrible,” Steve says, looking over at you while paused at a red light, “--but none of that was a secret.”

The light changes, and just like Jennie’s favorite movies, he holds your gaze instead of driving on. You’re suddenly very aware of everywhere your clothing touches you, especially at your chest, where the fabric of your blouse clings to your curves. When you pull in a breath, Steve’s attention dips down to appreciate them, too.

“Eyes on the road, CEO Eye Candy,” you tease (not for the first time), and his expression scrunches up into easy laughter.

There’s an older, well-dressed couple in the parking garage to his building when you arrive, and the four of you ride the elevator up together until you and Steve step out. Just before the doors close, you catch the woman looking up at her husband fondly, nodding toward the two of you. No pressure! you think to yourself again, but then Steve opens the door to his apartment and smiles with such honest happiness that you forget everything else but him.

Just like he is, the main room is a charming mix of vintage and modern, with warm wood accents and high-tech amenities. There’s something both open and intimate that hits you right away; the floor is dotted with comforting rugs, the walls with bookcases, creating cozy little nooks, but the lamplight is warm and inviting throughout.

“I need to start the oven,” Steve says with a light touch to your arm, gesturing to take your coat. You nod and hand it over before you step farther in, finally letting yourself glance beyond the bookshelves of classics and the homey crochet afghan to the view. 

It’s completely captivating. The wall of windows face east, showing the lively cityscape to glorious effect (and you can’t help but picture what the sunrise would look like!). It suddenly hits you that you’re in Steve’s space. There are no phones to ring and save you from a misstep, no waitress to break the tension, no dog running past chasing its ball in the grass.

If he sees just how far gone you are on him already, will Steve think you’re a gold-digger, or will he understand that you can’t help but be dazzled and drawn in by the kind of man he is, not the things he surrounds himself with?

“Are you all right?” Steve asks. You startle, making eye contact with his reflection in the window, and something about the intimacy of that makes you tell the absolute truth.

“I’m realizing there are no flowerpots to hide behind.”

He smiles and moves closer, one hand casually in his pocket. When he’s just near enough that you can feel his warmth through the back of your blouse, Steve tips his head in a move that bleeds sincerity, still holding your gaze.

“What if you didn’t have to hide?”

You can’t look away. “What if that doesn’t make me any less shy?”

“Makes it all the more rewarding to earn that smile of yours,” Steve says, moving to face you instead of the view.

The weight of where you are, who you’re with, and how much it means to you keeps your gaze glued to the view outside the window, but the city lights blur a little with the frequency of your blinking. You want to reassure him that the shyness is good actually, that it means you really like him, that what he thinks about you is important--

“I have a confession to make,” Steve says in an apologetic tone.

Your mind springs to swift and miserable action: Somehow his good guy persona is a sham and he’s actually a real-life Christian Grey (honestly, you’d try it). This is all a bet and your naive honesty is embarrassing (horrifyingly plausible)...

Steve says, “--happened to it, I have no idea what, but the food’s ruined. We’re going to have to get take-out.”

His warm apologetic tone heats your fears into float-away steam, and you rush to reconnect with reality. “I’m sorry that happened, but I’m here for you, not your food,” you stammer out, only fully hearing what you’ve said once it’s already out there. “Shit, that came out--”

“--perfectly,” Steve laughs. You can’t help but toss him the Skeptical Eyebrow, despite your heart voting on the ‘melt’ option. “I’m being serious,” he goes on. “Honesty is in rare supply for much of my day-to-day. Suppliers expect us to push for cheaper materials, manufacturers are uncomfortable with flexible deadlines, and we’ve fired multiple product designers who get upset by how much we rely on end-user feedback.” He lets out a long sigh, punctuating it with a rueful laugh. “I felt more relaxed with the construction crew than I do with my so-called ‘peers.’”

The frustrated defeat in his tone makes you step close to tuck yourself up against his side, hugging him with an arm around his back. Steve’s arm comes around you right away, and god, you wish you could bottle that feeling. The two of you have shared quite a few toe-curling kisses, but physical affection like this is exciting, despite being prompted by Steve’s ongoing business concerns.

It’s easy to believe that this part of your life isn’t real when you’re at work answering phones and giving directions. You’re never prepared for the way Steve tips your life upside down, and in a way that makes moments like this more magical. Late at night, you do sometimes worry your job at his company makes it harder for him to disconnect.

With his heartbeat thrumming under your cheek and his arm tucked around you, that concern feels as far away as the streetlights visible across the city. There’s still a thread of tenseness in his embrace that tells you he’s not as relaxed as you are. You might not have the money to take him out for a fancy dinner or attend an exclusive event, but you can show him he’s wanted.

“So what you’re saying is that we should brainstorm another building project for the lobby? Preferably within sightlines of the front desk?”

You get to feel his laugh before you hear it.

“Oh, I wish. I’ve actually started looking into Habitat For Humanity, a couple of other hands-on charities,” Steve tells you, squeezing you tighter against him for a second or two. “They’ve got experience with higher profile contributors, safety concerns, that sort of thing.”

The moment hangs. Humor isn’t enough.

“That doesn’t solve the underlying problem though, because the problem isn’t you,” you realize aloud.

“You’re right.” Steve kisses your hairline, but you can sense that his metaphorically held breath isn’t going to release like this. You’re struck by the rightness of your reflection; the two of you fit together so well visually that it’s easy to miss his job insecurities and your uncertain future. Movement beyond the surface catches your eye, and you realize it’s the perfect way to break the tension.

“Oh! It’s snowing!”

“Those are some giant snowflakes.” He hugs you to him briefly before stepping over to a small panel on the wall. “May I?”

The more time you spend with him, the braver you feel. “I’m going to say yes, even though I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Steve’s answering smile is blindingly handsome. “Watch,” he says, nodding to the view. A second later the lights in the room dim or shut off, heightening the glowing cityscape outside. There’s a beauty to the familiar hodgepodge of buildings, more so with the fairy dust of snow drifting down from above.

“It’s like a snowglobe,” you say, tearing your eyes away from the scene to look at Steve. To your surprise, he’s not looking outside, he’s looking at you.

“May I?” he asks again. Heart pounding, you nod, and he walks toward you, his features thrown into sharp relief by the dim light. When Steve finally reaches you, the anticipation has doused you with fuel set alight by the touch of his hand at your cheek. 

This kiss is nothing like the gentle exploration that was your first with Steve. Where then you were still learning each other, this is knowledge. He lifts you up against him effortlessly, his thumb tangling with the ties of your blouse in a way that pulls it taut against your breasts. You let out a gasp as he kisses his way down from your neck over to the neckline of your blouse, making a begging sound of his own.

It sounds like enough of a ‘May I?’ that you whisper, “Yes.”

In three large strides he’s at the couch, setting you onto your feet as he sweeps the afghan and pillows out of the way. When he turns to face you again, you offer him the end of the ribbon tie holding your blouse together.

The reverence with which Steve pulls it loose is sexy as hell, but you absolutely adore the way he locks eyes with you and keeps your gaze when the fabric falls away. You pull in a ragged breath, and his gaze sharpens.

“What do you want?” he asks, his own answer ringing in the undertones.

You want everything, as far into the future as fate allows, but you force yourself to focus on the here and now. “I-- God, I just want you. I want-- oh!” You press your lips together to stop yourself, shy again. There’s honesty, and then there’s honesty. In that confident but gentle way he has, Steve knows exactly what to say.

“Whatever it is, yes.”

He takes your hand and backs the few inches to the couch, sitting down and tugging gently, a clear but respectful invitation. Steve takes a few seconds to just look at you, his eyes tracing across your features and down to the structure of your blouse. He’d mentioned his sketchbook at one of your early-on dates but never elaborated; now the way he unerringly follows each ribbon with his eyes, fingertips, and then lips make you feel like a work of art.

By the time your shirt drops to the floor, you’re practically drunk on the honest arousal you can taste on his lips--and you’re still mostly dressed! One thing you’re certain of: no one will ever make you feel as much like a medieval harlot and an object of worship at the same time like Steve Rogers.

Reluctantly, you draw back from his addictive kisses, pulling his hand from your cheek to briefly kiss his palm. “I’m going to ask you something, and you’re going to answer me without trying to smooth anything over, got it?”

Steve’s gaze darkens with an amused sort of interest. “I’ll see where you’re going with this, but you should know that there are two places I like to be in charge: the boardroom and the bedroom.”

His tone is gentle, but with an undercurrent of steel. You’re completely unable to stop the way your breath catches and your thighs clench. Sweet fires of hell, this man is perfect.

“It’s a deal,” you manage to squeak out.

“Go on, then.” Steve lifts a hand to brush his thumb along your hairline, down your cheek to press against your lips, dragging them open. From there, he continues to where the swell of your breast meets the lace of your bra, skirting your nipple by lifting his hand up to clasp with the other hand behind his head. Throughout, his gaze holds yours, intense and commanding.

“Sure, show me up, like I’m going to remember anything more than my own name, at this point,” you whisper-whine.

“I used it a few times on my recent trip.” His soft admission is in direct contrast to his casual, confident body language. You’re starting to realize there’s a stronger dichotomy to Steve than you thought. Will you get to have the kind, thoughtful boyfriend who saves you from an evening of elitist tedium and a fierce, possessive lover?

Will you survive, if so?

“Tell me. I’m getting a little jealous of whatever it is you’re thinking about,” Steve intones.

You stop biting your lip and grin. “I’m filing away these new pieces of information about you. Just… don’t ask me where I’m filing them.”

“Oh, I will.”

His voice is like a caress that cascades over you, pausing at your most sensitive places. You shiver, both for your own acknowledgment of the sexual tension and for him to appreciate his effect on you. After letting out a breath that’s more like a yearning sigh, you set your hands on the top button of his dress shirt. With Steve’s steady gaze on you, though, you’re questioning yourself.

“My plan sounds stupid in my head now, with you oozing all of this confidence.”

Immediately, his hand covers yours, setting off sparks with every swipe of his thumb on your skin. “At work it’s a facade, a persona, even--and not a flattering one. I didn’t think I could shake it off, the night of the gala. It’s more natural when--” He interrupts himself by pulling you in for a deep, passionate kiss.

“You’re not faking it here,” you observe minutes later. The whole concept is knocking you sideways, but-- “Okay, I need to tell you I’m picturing you in one of those tailored suits commanding a room of powerful people and that is just sexy as hell.”

He rocks his hips up into you. “I’ll let them know--but, roll back a minute. What was your plan? Better yet,” Steve interrupts himself, setting a heavy hand on your hip to hold you still as he grinds up against you again. “Show me.”

His confidence is literally rubbing off on you. “All right, but fair warning: it’s very ‘over-eager receptionist peeks at you between decorative plants.’” As soon as the words are out of your mouth, his warm hand travels from your hip around and down, fingertips pushing aside your waistbands to firmly grip your ass.

“I know exactly who I’m here with.”

There’s enough of the altruistic, spend-a-week-building-with-the-bros tone in his voice to be reassuring, and you nod.

“Right, then.” Briskly, with the heat of arousal singing through you from every point of contact, you unbutton the top button of his dress shirt. “You’re kind.” Button two: “You’re moral and fair.” Your eyes are focused on your ‘work,’ but you can see Steve break into a smile. At button three, you’re almost halfway down. “You’re a hard worker.”

Steve lets out a deep ‘Mmmm’ sound. Thanks to his ass-grab leverage, he blatantly moves your hips in time with his for a cycle of thrusts that leave you breathless. You can’t look at him, so you clear your throat like a prudish schoolmarm and meticulously unbutton #4.

“You’re good at your… job.” It takes a little while to free this button, so you end up worrying your lower lip with your teeth as you try. Once you’re finished, with anticipation lifting every single hair follicle on your body, only then do you make eye contact.

He mutters ‘fuck’ and reaches between the two of you to unbuckle his belt, popping his trouser snap with an expression that challenges you to object.

There are two shirt buttons left.

You’re completely out of your depth, as desperate to come as you may have ever been in your entire existence, and you have zero idea what else to say--but you reach for button number five.

You wet your lips. Slowly.

Steve grips the couch with his free hand-- but the one he’s holding onto you with is still firm and not at all bruising (not that you’d mind. You’ll paint yourself with this man’s passion if he lets you). 

“You’re passionate.”

He makes a cut-off sort of growl in the back of his throat when you move to the last button. You can see the heavy bulge of his cock in his boxer briefs just an inch away from your palms. In a perfect world, you’d say ‘fuck it’ to coming up with another word. In a perfect world, you’d reward both of you by giving up and sliding to your knees, demonstrating exactly how much you appreciate this tall, sexy, beast of an honorable man--and then you have an idea.

Your borrowed pants have a simple clasp, and you move your hands slowly from Steve’s last remaining shirt button to release it, incidentally dragging across his straining cock as you do so. The blatant teasing gets ‘worse’ when you draw down your zipper, nudging, rubbing, and pressing until it’s fully unzipped.

Throughout, Steve’s hand on your ass remains steady, but his breathing grows more and more ragged.

Finally, you lift your hands up and away, denying him any more contact before dropping down to reach for the last button.

“You--” he rumbles, but you interrupt him with two words.

“You’re patient.”

With a practically incomprehensible oath that thoroughly refutes your last impudent compliment, Steve shoves down your loosened clothing and angles the two of you to the side on the couch, all in a single action. Then he sinks two fingers inside you roughly, both of you groaning at the desperate, glorious pleasure of it.

You cram a fist in your mouth, but he stops in the middle of his one-handed shucking of his pants and boxers to yank your fist free.

“All through that shitty conference I imagined the noises you’d make tonight,” Steve grits out, looking down at you with naked desire in his eyes. He twists his fingers mid thrust, and you can’t help but cry out, your hips chasing every movement his talented, devastating fingers perform on you.

You’re already so close. The white-hot, catastrophic release starts to cloud your vision, stayed only by your delayed understanding of what he just said.

“Wait, you’re saying during the--”

Steve kicks the last inches of his lower clothing free and swaps hands deftly, spreading your arousal on his cock with an ‘Mmmm’ of pleasure so filthy you flutter around his fingers in pre-orgasmic shock.

“Thinking about you genuinely kept me sane, and I'm going to turn those daydreams into reality,” he rasps, a modern Greek god with the morals of a saint and the body of a satyr, as if you could ever do anything but gratefully worship him.

You mouth something like the word “Yes,” too desperate for anything more coherent.

The pleasure that follows his first deep thrust is ruinous. You forget everything but Steve, the taste of praise on his lips, the delight his touch chases across your skin, and most of all, the power he arches into you, music and mayhem and meaning, all at once. By the time you’re shuddering around each other you’ve ended up on the floor in front of his couch--and you only notice because Steve’s got a hand cradling the back of your head.

“I’m out of adjectives,” you whisper weakly. “All of the good ones. Most of the naughty ones. Fuck, other languages, too. Even extinct ones. You’re fluent in everything.”

Steve pulls you to his chest and does something athletic that ends with you on the couch beside him, his soft homemade afghan covering the most pertinent parts of your nakedness.

“You make me want to be fluent in everything,” he murmurs. “And, thank you.” Steve grabs his shirt and holds it in front of his crotch. “I’ll get a washcloth.”

He’s jogging farther into the apartment before you can respond, but something about his protective actions trigger a flurry of realization, something you should be--

Oh.

The fall of snow past the giant picture windows brings reality crashing into you. You just had glorious, intense, messy sex in a room that is visible from other nearby buildings!

Steve reappears with a soft-looking washcloth. He’s wearing pajama pants, with what looks like a matching long-sleeved top slung over his shoulder.

“I forgot about the windows,” you say in a small voice, taking the washcloth and using it under the afghan.

“Oh, right,” he says in a completely un-worried voice. Steve looks over at you, sees the half-scared expression on your face, and his demeanor sort of… softens. It’s both obvious and hard to quantify, and it hits you that he’s almost certainly done that before, even if you hadn’t noticed. You imagine there’s a lot of things his clothes and a carefully-crafted facial expression would cover for. He sits down beside you on the couch and offers you the shirt as he says, “The couch is recessed enough into the room that it’s not very visible, I think, but I wasn’t thinking, and I should have asked you about that. I’m sorry.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, and you ask him about that while pulling on his proffered pajama top, juggling the blanket in the process.

“Would it be strange to say I get very… goals-oriented?” he asks, rueful and amused in equal measure.

“How much different a ‘persona’ are we talking, here?”

The question is meant playfully, but Steve takes long enough to answer that you can feel the warmth of the washcloth start to fade in your hand.

“Too different for comfort, I’m coming to realize.” 

He reaches for the washcloth, but you pull it close and get up, gesturing for him to lead you to wherever you can rinse it out. On the way, you can’t help but eye the windows in a new way, perhaps as unintentional adversaries.

“I haven’t let myself be truly seen in a long time,” Steve says as you drape the rinsed washcloth on a drying rack in the dimly-lit kitchen area. “The reason is--well, it might be insulting, but it’s honest.”

You resist the urge to hug your arms around yourself. He’s given you a shirt to wear that matches his, and you were serious with those compliments earlier, despite the pleasure-wrought desperation you felt as you spoke them. “Go on?”

“You’re yourself with me. Not fawning. There’s no facade, no attempt to pretend you have more money or influence. That’s rare. Precious even.”

His statement stings, despite everything that’s happened tonight, despite the way his compliment hews off the rough edges. There’s no derision or judgment in his tone, so you smile at him, albeit stiffly. 

���I don’t really have a way to hide those things. I’m me. I figured if you were bothered by--” you wince, feeling a sense of inferiority rise up inside you (dropped out of college, pulled out of your internship, entry-level job, depleted nest-egg, caregiver for your sister, baggage, baggage, baggage) before you wrestle it all back down. “--any of that, you’d move on, and I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

“I don’t want to move on,” Steve says firmly, brushing his hand over your hair as if to adjust the disarray that came from putting on his shirt. “I want to move forward, even if that means you can see through some of the windows I usually cover with curtains. Will you be exclusive with me?”

“I’d really like that,” you whisper, overcome. “And not just because you fuck like a complete god.”

The words slip out before you can fucking stop them, and you gasp, the tidal wave of your social inferiority to a man like Steve coming blasting through all the tentative bridges you’ve just built. You hear buzzing in your ears, your vision is misted over with regret--but seconds later, you realize he’s laughing.

“Okay I swear on every single deity that exists, I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud! I’m so sorry,” you groan, your relief over his amusement barely tempering the metallic tang of adrenaline on your tongue.

Your… your boyfriend Steve Rogers takes your hand in his and lifts it up, bowing over it before kissing it with more chivalry than a whole season of Game of Thrones. Even one of the early ones.

“Sweetheart, you’re forgiven.”

<- Previous story...

[jelzorz]

202.

Corvus considers himself to be a pretty good tracker. He's just always been good at noticing the little things: broken twigs and disturbed soil and changes in the calls of native birds and such; things that take practise to see and an amount of training to hear. It's not that surprising, honestly, that he notices the change in Soren's behaviour before Soren ever does himself.

It's been how long now? Eight? Almost nine years? Terry's been with them for seven of those, and they've been out and about and adventuring the whole time so of course he notices the way Soren's eyes have started to wander whenever they're in Katolis.

It's subtle at first: a little smile here, a lingering touch there, the slightest pink in his cheeks whenever he and Opeli find themselves sitting next to each other in a meeting or at a meal. Corvus says nothing about it because it's not his place to say, and Soren is happy, which matters more than the little sting of jealousy that creeps unwantedly into his chest. He'd caught himself once hoping she'd just turn him down and had hated himself a little for it: Opeli is his friend too, and cleric or not, she deserves happiness just the same. If whatever is happening between them brings them joy, then Corvus would be remiss in wishing for anything else.

It's better now. He's grown used to it, and there's always something about the castle and its surrounds that Terry wants to know, so Corvus obliges him, and it's nice to hang around and just talk, no mission, no recon, no silly jokes.

Today is the same. The Yule season has settled over the city comfortably, and the festival the common folk throw every year is in full swing. The air is cold but it smells like cinnamon and spun sugar, the trees are lit with twinkling balls of Sunfire magic, the snow is soft and piles like pillows on every available surface, and Soren is wheedling Opeli (as always) to join them for the evening festivities.

Corvus hides his smile because they all know the answer is yes. Opeli has never had any resolve when it comes to Soren, and the facade of being stern and unyielding stopped fooling the three of them years ago, but it's Terry who intervenes.

"Actually, Corvus and I were thinking about going to the river," he says. "I was told I'd get to learn how to skate this year."

Opeli raises an eyebrow at Soren. "Then I can't very well tag along, can I?"

Soren flounders, very poorly disguising his disappointment. "What—I mean—Did I say that?"

"Oh, you didn't," says Terry. "Corvus did. Remember?"

"Um." Corvus' cheeks warm, because yes, he did, weeks ago, and he's somewhat ashamed that he'd forgotten. "Yes. Of course."

"Problem solved then," says Terry, clapping his hands. "You two enjoy the festival. We'll see you when you get back."

Opeli flushes a little. Soren flushes a lot.

"Oh," says Opeli. "I was under the assumption I'd be joining all of you."

"We're here for the month," says Terry, waving her off. "We can hang out anytime. Go have fun."

Soren flushes more. "You mean, like. Alone? At a festival?"

"Yeah," says Terry, giving him a look. Corvus has to fight back a laugh. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course not," says Opeli primly, her recovery always graceful. "I suppose I'll go and get my cloak." She eyes Terry suspiciously as she rises, but she touches Soren's arm before she goes. Soren mouths a thank you at Terry when she's not looking and offers them both a grin and a thumbs up.

He follows her to the stairwell leaving Corvus and Terry alone at the table, and they glance at each other and burst into laughter at once. The air is warm. Corvus' cheeks are sore from smiling all night. Terry leans back in his chair, his elbow brushing lightly against Corvus' arm.

"You'd think they were teenagers," snorts Terry.

"They're doing their best," says Corvus. "And y'know, strictly speaking, it's a little more complicated than how it looks, Opeli being a cleric and all but. Yes. They're ridiculous."

"You'll still teach me to skate though, right?"

"Yes, of course," chuckles Corvus heartily. "We can go now if you like."

"I would like that," says Terry, getting up. He grins at Corvus, and for a moment the world stills, and Corvus feels his heart do something funny, something unexpected, and when Terry touches his arm, it does it again.

Oh, he thinks. That's new. Or has it been something that's been happening for a while?

Corvus finds he doesn't know.

Perhaps there are little things he doesn't notice. Perhaps that's not so bad.

[princess-of-the-corner]

Honestly outside of that stuff we could have had moments where Adrien and the other senti-rich kids do something they think is completely normal only to be confused by everyone being extremely concerned because what they did isn't something a human should be able to do.

Like have then do something like this on the regular

https://www.tumblr.com/marinette-alias-ladybug/140452543020/adrien-agreste-climbing-his-wall-just-to-catch?source=share

GOD I always forget about him climbing the wall like that then get Until Dawn flashbacks like BOY

But yeah have the episode where they go to the pool with the group and Adrien's just underwater for a solid 10 minutes because he doesn't know how long actual people are supposed to be able to hold their breath for and everyone's like ????

Adrien's like "WHat? No this is normal. Chloé and I would spend forever holding our breath underwater in the pool and playing mermaids."

Everyone: *looks to Chloé for answers*

Chloé: "Yeah? Why is this a problem?"

Everyone: *gives a weary look to Sabrina hoping her experience with the two would help.*

Sabrina, shrugging: "I just figured it was a rich people thing."

[vigilvntes]

anyway i have been thinking about how much i want adrian to fuck me (this would fix me i know it would) but like specifically i really want to make out with him. i wanna feel his whole tongue in my mouth while he holds me (cause im horny but also i a softie dammnit).

i get the vibe that he hooks up regularly as vigilante so hes experienced in bed more than people would think, but since he keeps the mask on he doesnt kiss much. but when hes close enough with someone he can take off? with be ALL over you with his mouth. will be kissing you nonstop.

OKAYYYY FUCKBOY VIG AND TOUCH STARVED ADRIAN I SEE THE VISION

but yes i definitely agree that he's a dark horse when it comes down to it. i mean maybe im delusional maybe im fucked in the head but you can't convince me that absolutely no one in that town has fucked around with vig because let me tell you i would be FIRST IN LINE!!! he's been running around for years, and it seems that at this point people have just kinda made peace with him being there?? so no doubt he has hookups like he's charming and confident when he's in the suit and we see that a lot in the show. so yes. he probably fucks a lot as vig.

but adrian???? out of the suit???? touch starved. it's all well and good when there's a barrier between him and whoever he's sleeping with (literally), but warm fingertips brushing his hair from his face??? clinging on to his bare back while he fucks you??? soft, breathless kisses while the two of you moan into each others mouths???? he's a sucker for it. all the hookups in the world, all the people that throw themselves at him after he saves them from being mugged will never, ever compare to just being himself, just being adrian, around someone who accepts him for who he is and what he does and someone he trusts enough to keep that secret.

as soon as he comes home he'd rip the mask straight off and his lips would be straight on yours. doesn't matter if he's had a good night or a bad night, touching you, kissing you, his tongue in your mouth and the little surprised noise you make when he bites down on your bottom lip is enough to make him feel like he's on cloud nine. he'd kiss you until you literally can't breathe, and if you pulled away from him to catch your breath the most pathetic whine would leave his throat and he'd turn his attention to your neck instead. the whole time he's inside of you, his lips are on yours. missionary?? he's kissing you until your lips are blue. from behind?? he's leaning over, grabbing your chin and making you turn your head so he can slip his tongue into your mouth.

and his affinity for kisses doesn't just apply to sex!!!! he'll wrap his arms around your waist when the two of you are cooking dinner just to plant the sloppiest, wettest kisses on your cheek just so you'll giggle and playfully slap him away. before you leave the apartment you have to swipe the AKM (adrian kissing machine). he'll probably get moody if he doesn't get a kiss in the morning.

if you're both feeling nasty he'll spit in your mouth, or he'll let you spit in his mouth. he probably prefers the latter.

🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡

[iamthepulta]

i did it u_u

[searchingforserendipity25]

For the Silm Phrase Prompts, any character(a) + Ossiriand + without wish or purpose?

Thank you @polutrope! It took a while but it's here. A more whimsical approach to one of the most heartbreaking line about Túrin, now with Finrod and his problematic cousins on their famous road trip. 

-

Tourist Traps 

Finrod rose, tottering a little on his feet, and grasped a helpful bough with one hand.

“No, hearken to me. There is no danger of us being eaten, therefore we should go. We are, indeed, obligated to go on. For are we not hunters, we are scholars, and, most of all, we are princes of the Noldor. We are, seekers and inquirers of every wonder in the great kingdoms of Beleriand -” 

“Speak for yourself. The flesh-eating begonia was enough. If I wanted to chat with deceitful creatures set on dominating my spirit and eating the remains, I would have stayed at home and hosted the dragons, or invited my brothers for a visit.”

Maedhros did not need to open his eyes to tug at his brother’s plait. 

“I did not wish to use the Ice as such petty leverage,” Finrod said. “But.” 

“But,” Maedhros said, not bothering with inflections, nor to open his eyelashes from his doze.

Maglor at least had the grace to stop braiding his damp hair to look at him with a vaguely solemn look. He had drunk too much cider for it to be very convincing - like Curvu and their esteemed father, he went terribly pink all around the ears after three glasses - but he did try. 

Finrod lifted his nose. “I am surprised at you, cousin. The journey was your notion. It is a diplomac endeavour. We are on a hunting trip, as is the way of noble princes, and restablishing ties of kinship, and the like.”

“Methinks Finrod has had enough reestablishment,” commented Maglor slyly. That could not be blamed on the drink. “With us, at least. Really we are very easy and steady people, and very boring; it has to be the poisonous flowers for Felagund to enjoy his holidays, and nothing else will do.” 

“This orchid is not said to be malicious,” Finrod says, coaxingly. “It merely makes forceful osanwë contact on very rare occasions, by all accounts.” 

“I am not following you into the maw of a ravenous plant because of remorse,” Maglor told Finrod, very seriously. “You get a sorrowful song about it, and you have already said you do not want the song.”

“No one wants the song,” Finrod reiterated with feeling. Turukáno had been very clear about that. 

“And that is fair! But it does not mean I am willing to abase myself merely to please you, or please myself into feeling better about past errors; therefore, I am regretful, Ingoldo, but not enough for ravenous plants. I do not think this is unreasonable.” 

“Children, please,” Maedhros said, from somewhere underneath his impressive straw hat. “You are both too bony and, frankly, stringy to an unappetizing degree. No self-respecting flora, or fauna, or uruk would take a bite out of you.” 

“See,” Finrod said, quite pleased. Maedhros’ say-so was powerful leverage, among the grandchildren of Finwë; it was said to have a powerful effect even upon king Fingolfin. “Maedhros is an expert in his field, and he agrees with me.”

 Maglor wrinkled his nose, in very much the same way he always did when Maedhros agreed with someone that was not him. 

“Besides all else,” Maedhros added. “The Laiquendi have given us leave on condition of our best conduct, and we all known Finrod’s naturalist efforts do not always mind such things as local legislature.” 

Finrod splashed his feet in the water, just at the right angle to dampen Maglor’s hems. “Bah. Spoilsport. The two of you!“

“Cowards,” Maedhros said dryly. “Dreadful faint hearts, truly.”

Maglor tied off his hair and bend down with the wooden comb to start brushing his brother’s, not without tugging at him in retaliation.

“Poor Felagund, stuck in such wretched company. I am most sorry, of course; your quest is high-hearted, but there is nought in this world that would urge me to go into the mazes of caves under the wood for the pleasure of inquiring into the mind of a sentient plant.”

“Nought,” Maedhros agreed, in a tone that was like the closing of a door.  

There was silence, for a little time, such as there was ever silence in the sweet green light of the glen. A dragonfly wove its way between the reeds; the wild doves spoke earnestly at each other above their eyes. 

Maedhros deigned at last to turn his head and open one eye of burning white. “Shall you go alone, if we do not follow?”

“Oh, very likely,” said Finrod, quite unembarrassed.  “Tis a patrolled land, safe as much as any in Beleriand, and safer than most.” 

The trick of getting his cousin to do anything, Finrod knew, and Maglor knew, and Fingon knew, was to be cheerfully self-interested, and tug him along into his own enjoyment. The fact that Maedhros tended to know when it was happening did not make it any less effective. 

They did, of course, go with him. 

-

Finrod, he felt, could be excused some complacent smugness; for all things had gone quite as well as he had contrived them to be. Art, lore, and culinary pleasure: half-way through a long trek down the talan road and the charming road by the high canopies, he started entertained the notion of writing a little travel guide when he returned to Nargothrond, for truly there was a great deal to be said of the beauty of Ossiriand, and all that one might do and see in it.

 It was a hunting journey, even, in the sense that they had followed both orc tracks and harts on the way to the forest, before entering it properly. 

The peace the Green-elves kept was quite perfect, however, and the herds of deer were only to be hunted a few scant times a year; for they were friends of the trees and friends of the beasts, the singers of the forest, and even their diet was mostly of those untended plants and fruits that grew in plenty out in the wild, carefully stewarded over long, long years. 

They had pledged solemnly to respect the peace of the Green-elves, and even mostly done it - Maedhros had a talent for interrupting whenever Finrod’s inquiries and interviews on the lore of the Avari grew wearisome, and as Maglor would as much talk to the streams as those who kept them clear, he fit in quite well with the people of Ossiriand. 

Dutifully - his itinerary notes, Finrod had noted, were quite strictly planned and unpleaseantly reminiscent to his maps of war - his cousin had lead them from sight-seeing landmark to landmark: Tatië’s Parlour, the beautiful caves with remarkable drawings left behind during the Journey, and the the great salmon-leaping competition down the Legolin and the great singing circles of celebration afterwards, and even, at Finrod’s insistence, timed their trip to coincide with the famous Laiquendi Bicentennial Berry Tour. 

 (Fifty different kinds of blackberries in a single biosphere was really quite remarkable. Finrod had a number of interesting conversations with the bush-stewards all throughout, while Maedhros stood tall and grim beside him, with his pale mouth juice-stained and his great arms holding a growing number of baskets whenever Maglor came back from his mercenary wanderings from stall to stall.) 

 He was very thorough, Maedhros, enough to become a little more at ease: and when all dramatic waterfalls and interesting ancient trees were met, he went about the high grass and the wildflowers with the fierce determination of an elf looking for optimal levels of sun-dappled sunshine and healthful photosynthesis. At which point, when it was found, he laid down his very, very long self, arranged his hair charmingly about himself, and fell asleep into a stillness greater than the stillness of the boulders by the water. 

Maglor liked to complain, and to make his yielding cost a great deal to everyone involved if it could be arranged, but he had been the one to connive with Finrod to decide upon the times and the places of their escape.

Between his cunning references and Finrod’s insistent offers, they had gained a slow victory in the long work of convincing Maedhros that Himring would not be attacked by surprise or fall into rubble if her lord went to the forest for his health for a year only, not even that long.

 It had been a great effort top prepare for such a journey. It was only afterwards, when they rode idly under the green leaves of Ossiriand, that they came to find all the planned excursions paled before the plain pleasure of swimming in the clear rivers and fishing trout to eat when hungry, with no hurry and no duties to attend. For a time it was a little like a return to the Noontide, when all was joy, at least never so great a trouble a journey through Aman could no diminish out of sight. 

Finrod had known the peace of green Ossiriand would do Maedhros good, and it did. Maedhros, who had little chance for warmth in Himring, shed his furs only when it proved untenable, and went about the endeavor of enjoying himself with a steady vigilance that was more unnerving for being so constant. 

It was not an arrangement without self-interest, and Finrod was not sorry to admit it. He had so long wished for such a journey, and set about elaborating all his collecting of stories and specimens with care. 

And he suspected Maglor had only been half-jesting, when he wrote saying he was to be exiled for the year out of command; he became ever more impossible to bear, the less time he had for his art; a little time to retreat from the Gap was a considerable benefit to all his loyal riders.

After the first fortnight of discourses and re-acquaintance, and all the great events and views had been sharply scratched out of the list, Maglor had gained a distracted look in his eyes, and started giving the strong impression he would far rather be left to his devices and his harp for a short eternity, without having to speak to anyone, and be perfectly content in this way. 

Finrod enjoyed the opportunity for collaborations, when they came; but this was not that. Mostly they laid about in the shade drinking cider and eating a dozen variety of nuts, hunting for the best place riverside rock to sun-bath on.

It was not, it had to be said, particularly exciting stuff. Finrod started to grow a little mad by the second fortnight of peaceable, thorough journeying - there was, after all, so much wisdom found only in the hidden wonders of the wild, and his own list of places that must absolutely be perused at length.

 In all fairness, the orchid did blossom fully into mind-contact very rarely. It made its displeasure known in more straightforwardly most of the time. There was, perhaps, a reason why the land around it was kept so secure.

(And then Maglor put his foot down and decided he really did need to finish his composition, and bullied Maedhros’ into taking an appointment in the hot springs while he was occupied, quite well-deserved after he was through with the grueling work of explaining matters to the local ranging authorities; and Finrod did go on alone, in the end.

Singing as he went, he sought beauty with no aim but to seek it, well-inclined to find a new marvel under every canopy, finding it indeed in the least expected of guises - thought his cousins never did cease to tease him for his hankering for strange specimens, begonias and orchids and slumbering Aftercomers all.)

[to-the-batcomputer]

something about the medium of comics... the stories just do not stay in my head

[kindahoping4forever]

I miss your fics. I hope you’re doing well tho

I appreciate this, thank you 🥹

For the record, I miss my fics too! This unofficial hiatus has been out of necessity rather than choice, and I can honestly say there hasn't been a day where I don't fantasize about A Grand Return. 💙

[confinesofmy]

getting home from my first easter without my mom after spending 12 hours with the fam and eating a hot pocket as a late dinner bc i didn't feel comfortable bringing home a plate earlier... something needs to change.

[kamipyre]

@lovlorne sent in: let's hear aboutttt... ray :} || the paper machine's gossip session ( ft. talk about meme )

send “talk about-” and a name for my muse to talk about that person!

scorched verse:

“He needs to broaden his HORIZONS.” And she’s not just talking from one shore…for one thing, he ( @bloodxhound ) still hasn’t budged ( and probably will never ) on his cruelty towards crocs. But that’s a long-term goal- for now, she can settle with the one that gives her a bit more flexibility! “He says he doesn’t mind seaweed, which I think is more than a start!” After all, seaweed is the lettuce of the ocean…if Ray can digest that then bonito flakes are more than doable. That being said, she is getting off-topic and needs to talk about the detective himself- “…He’s weird. He’s all for wrecking stuff and making Mister Godot write reports about it, but then he’s all orderly about like, his stuff. And schedule.” Like how he drags her to the gym with him at least two times every month and unless there’s a case going on, he visits the gym almost every day. “He gives me free paper. And food! Even if his opinions there are wrong half of the time- but it’s okay! We have TIME to convince him otherwise!”

embers verse:

Eyes widen ever so slightly. Well that’s a name she hasn’t heard in a while- where did they hear that name? One that was once at the center of the biggest scandals within LAPD has now become a relic of an old era. A name that is only whispered in passing as if the owner himself has died. But really, it’s been what, a year or two since he resigned? Her fingers fold. “…He said he’d be back.” Her voice is firm, eyes steady. That’s why he gave her Paper Moozy and its city, didn’t he? Ray’s not the kind of break his promises anyway. “If he were here, we wouldn’t be dealing with half of these problems. He wouldn’t stand for it.” Of course that could be said about the others too- the ones who care more about the truth than a spotless record. If they were here, perhaps the public wouldn’t have lost faith in the LAPD either. Her fingers keep moving. “He’ll be back. I know it.” 

In her hands, there’s a paper replica of MOOZILLA.

[luke-shywalker]

let me know if you need anything

“Hey, Solo!”

Ben looked up. The sudden motion triggered a dull ache in his right eye—he winced.

“Uh—sorry.” Amalia came to a halt in front of him in the grass. The tall, bulky Togruta girl always looked like she was going to barrel right into you, but always managed to stop a few inches short. Back when they’d hated each other, Ben had thought this was some kind of intimidation tactic. But now that they were something like friends, he realized that she was just…well…awkward as heck.

Amalia peered at him and at his covered eye, then tapped her own cheek. “You look like one of the deep space pirates.”

“Wow,” said Ben, deadpan. “I’ve only heard that about five hundred times since I came back to Jedi school.”

“What’d they do to you, huh?”

Ben juggled the air with his hands, trying to figure out how much detail to go into. “Uh…they cut my eyeball open, and sewed a synthetic band into it to hold it together and make it stop falling apart. Basically.”

“Whoa. Sounds gnarly, dude.” Amalia paused. “…Can I see?”

Ben laughed. “Bro. Do you want to see?”

“I mean? Kinda? Will you like, die if it’s exposed to air?”

“Listen, I’ll show you, if you want to freaking see so bad.” He lifted the patch. He had to manually pry his eyelids apart—they were still swollen. He closed his left eye, just to see how well he could see her—everything was sort of a bright, slanted blur.

Amalia made a face. “Ew. It’s all red. Is that blood? Nasty. I see a coagulated mass of—something. There is straight-up slime in your eye, dude.”

Ben put the patch back on. “Yeah—I’ve been trying to, like—cry it out, but I can’t think of anything sad enough to make me cry. I dunno. I’ve had a hard time feeling emotion lately, in general.”

He said it, and then realized he hadn’t wanted to say it. He backtracked as quickly as he could.

“But now that you’re here, Mal, all I gotta do is look at your ugly mug,” he quipped.

Amalia rolled her eyes so hard she pretty much just rolled her whole head. “Hardee har har. Have you looked in a mirror? Geez, Solo, you can’t say shit like that to girls.”

“Oh—you’re a girl? Oh my Force, I didn’t realize. Sorry, miss.”

She wound up and punched him in the arm. Hard.

“Ow! Bruh. I’m already injured.”

“Well, you weren’t injured enough,” Amalia huffed. “Fixed it for you.”

“I’m telling Uncle Luke.”

“Yeah, go run and tell your Uncle Luke. Pissbaby.”

Ben tried to think of something clever to retort, but then his eye started hurting again, and he felt kind of sick. He hissed and lowered himself down into the grass, which seemed to initiate a truce.

Amalia leaned down. “You okay, bro?”

“Yeah—fine.”

“Are you still allowed to train and stuff?”

“I’m not supposed to do any ‘strenuous activity’ for four weeks.”

“Well, you were never getting any, anyway,” Amalia snickered. “Now you just have an excuse.”

Ben wrinkled his nose. “Ew. No, I mean…”

“Does lifting rocks with the Force count as strenuous activity? You’re not technically lifting them physically.”

“Eh. I always give myself headaches when I do that normally, anyway, so…maybe just littler rocks.”

“When are you gonna be able to see again?”

“Out of this eye?”

“Yeah, well, which eye do you think I’m kriffin’ talking about, dumbass—“

“I don’t know.”

“…Damn.” Amalia sat down next to him. “Sucks.”

“Yeah, I mean…I know it’s gonna be months. Maybe a year. And I don’t even know if it’ll ever be the same. Probably not.”

Amalia twitched her lips to one side. “Does it bother you?”

“Like, what, the pain? Or…”

“No, like…losing your vision. Like, coping with the loss.”

Ben shrugged. “…I dunno. Sure ain’t the biggest thing I’ve lost. It’s hard, I guess, knowing you’ll never be the same, but…I was already never gonna be the same, so…” He trailed off.

Amalia nodded at the horizon, picking a blade of grass apart with her fingers. “Yeah…I get how that is.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments. A low breeze came and rustled the grass.

“…Maybe I’ll gain some kind of extra Force sensitivity,” Ben said hopefully. “To compensate. Or something.”

“Yeah,” said Amalia. “Or…maybe you won’t, and you’ll just be half-blind.”

Ben threw her a tired glance. “Thanks, Mal. You’re a real pal.”

“What can I say? I try to offer a realistic outlook on life.”

“Hm.”

“But, for real though…let me know if you need anything. Okay, Solo?”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Like what? Another punch in the arm?”

“Well, yeah, if you need that, I’m your girl. But, uh, seriously. Like if you need to talk, or…” She gestured vaguely at nothing.

“No offense, Mal? But you are not great at talking.”

“Hey. Never said I was. Just said that I would. Or if you wanna, like, just go throw rocks in the pond together, or something. Go look for weird bugs. Climb that cliffside Luke said not to climb. You know?”

Ben smirked. “Ha. Okay. Yeah. Gotcha. And then I’ll bang my head real hard, and knock out my other eye.”

“Exactly. You get me.” Amalia stood up and dusted the grass off her tunic. “Well…I’m on kitchen prep with Fannie and Meliko tonight, so…guess I gotta go. Do an extra meditation for me, will ya? Fannie drives me nuts.”

“Really? She’s so nice.”

“Yeah,” Amalia scoffed. “That’s what drives me nuts.”

Ben snorted. “Well, okay, Mal. See ya at dinner, then, I guess.”

“Will you see me though?”

“Dude, shut up!”

[navree]

Slade Wilson

assuming you're asking about regular slade wilson and not anime prince slade wilson from MAWS (aka the best thing to have happened to dc animation since kevin conroy agreed to voice batman) as those two are VASTLY different people and it remains stupendous that they really did all that with deathstroke the terminator

How I feel about this character: So, I know my absolute unabashed delight with MAWS Slade and my constant posts about how I want him in every episode might make it seem that I have a lot of thoughts about Slade Wilson in general, but I really don't, it's just that the way they adapted this specific character and how they did it was so off the rails that I fell in love with it. Comics Slade I don't have much to think on, I think he's a decent character even if he's not a very good person, and I think too many people forget that preboot Slade was basically a pedophile because he was fucking 15 year old Tara Markov, but there's enough going on there with his interpersonal relationships, especially when it comes to his family specifically, that's interesting for me to not find him boring and enjoy what can be done with him.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: I've read some Jayde fics that have made me go "can see it", but other than that, probably the main ship I have for Slade Wilson is Adeline. Love a good complex married couple, and from what I remember of the preboot characterization, it's not even as if he stopped caring when she straight up shot him in the head. I like that there's some residual care between them even after the marriage ended, and that for whatever else they're always going to share a bond through their children, and especially in the way that at least one of those children is dead.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: The kids, maybe? He's a shit dad and they hate him but at least it's narratively interesting and can provide for good character moments.

My unpopular opinion about this character: I'm not sure I really have any if I'm honest, since I'm not overtly all that passionate about mainline comics Slade. Maybe it's just that I don't really ship him and Dick, I get the appeal and the nemesis stuff and everything I do, it's just never spoken to me.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I don't know if I've got any hardcore desires to have it ever happen in canon, but I do have a personal headcanon that Slade was involved for a bit in Jason's "train around the world to be the Red Hood" scheme, because I like that idea, and in my interpretation it was motivated in no small part by the fact that, just like Bruce, Slade is himself the father of a murdered child he watched die, and was operating in a sort of "well if Grant somehow came back I really would hope that someone would be there for him and help him out", because I think a lot of people forget that a parent outliving their kid, especially if that kid died violently, is a really heavy thing and is going to weigh on a lot of actions taken for quite possibly the rest of their lives.

[empresskylo]

ghost knows he’s too rough and impatient with sex. knows he won’t know how to please you properly. knows he can’t possibly do things right with you, knowing you’ve never done this before. but god, he wants to. he wants to treat you how you deserve. never thought he’d be so desperate to fuck someone good and slow like he does with you.

so he goes to price. the one man who will know all the right ways to please a lady properly. asks him to show him how to take care of you. tells him he doesn't know how to care for someone else's needs, at least with someone inexperienced like you. tells him he needs to be instructed. to see just how he should work you.

you’re nervous at first, thinking it’s an absolutely insane idea, but you can’t hide the wetness along your panties as you sit on ghost’s lap, back pressed against his chest, legs spread, his knuckle dragging down your warmth. price sits back in his chair, telling ghost exactly how to move his fingers, paying close attention to your body's minuscule movements, the way your brows furrow when ghost moves a certain way, or your eyelashes fluttering.

and this was supposed to be a strictly hands-off approach… but god, watching ghost fumble, unable to maintain the slow speed you need, keeping you from reaching your orgasm, has price on edge. he leans forward, rolling his chair with him, and tells ghost to stop. tells him to watch and to pay close attention. price tears your panties off and your eyes go wide at the contact. you swallow, expecting ghost to be furious, but his hands only settle around you and he takes notes as he watches his captain work.

price runs his thumb up your slit, circling your nub, and tells ghost to hold your thighs apart when you unconsciously try to clench them. then his finger is sinking into you and your head falls back against ghost's chest, eyes shut. you moan and you feel ghost harden beneath you. “how’s that feel, sweetheart?” price asks you. you babble out incoherently, price adding a second finger, and chuckling darkly at your response.

it becomes too much, his fingers thrusting in and out of you, his other hand rubbing your clit, ghost's fingers digging into the softness of your thighs as he forces them apart. “ohmygod,” you slur, “m’gonna—“ price smirks, his eyes darkening as he watches you orgasm, your body clenching around his fingers shoved deep in your heat. "talk her through it," price tells ghost. so ghost does. you're shaking still and ghost rubs his hands over your exposed skin. "that's it, baby. you're doin' s'good," he praises.

"whata fuckin' sight," price mumbles to himself, his fingers leaving you empty. you steady your breathing, coming down from your high, completely limp in ghost's arms. price can see the way ghost's eyes have gone dark, his pupils swallowing his irises whole. knows ghost doesn't know how to be soft. sees the feral need to ram himself into you overtaking his features. "gonna take it slow with her, yeah?" price asks.

ghost breathes rapidly out, his hips begging to buck up against you. he knows he wouldn't be able to control himself if you let him fuck you. so he answers honestly. "not sure I'd be able to."

price tsks, sitting back in thought, his eyes roving over your spent body. you suddenly feel shy, wanting to close your legs, but ghost's arms tighten on you. "need me t'break her in?" price finally asks after several long beats of silence.

ghost grinds up against you, his hand sliding into your hair and pulling your head to the side so he can kiss your neck. your eyes flutter at his attempts to be so delicate with you. "want the captain here to be your first time, love?" ghost asks against your skin. you stutter when you answer. "don't you want to be?" "course I do. but I won't go easy on ya. I'd hate to ruin you, sweet girl. price will take it nice n' slow. just like you need." and after, you'll be ready to take ghost. ready to adjust to his size.

you swallow hard, ghost's hands escaping and clawing at your clothed chest. you nod. "o-okay."

price stands from his chair and begins to undo his belt. "come sit on my desk, sweetheart."

part two

cod masterlist

[roseseafoam]

Since time is what we make of it anyway—I’ll have experienced three months of being 30 tomorrow. It’s really nothing different than any other year, really…

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied noncon, break-up, toxic relationship, crazy ex-boyfriend, intrusive thoughts, anger issues

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about gamer boyfriend who doesn’t know what he has before it’s gone…

You told him you were leaving, but it didn’t dawn on him that’s what you’d meant. He was deep in-game—he couldn't pay attention to your whining. He figured you went out to the store or something, but later, after midnight, he realized he was hungry, and you were nowhere. Not in the kitchen making dinner, not in his bed sleeping, and not in the bathroom either. 

Did you go home? He wonders, standing alone in the dark, empty silence—feeling a little put off at the sight of his room—how even in the dim light, it’s a clear fucking mess. You usually tidy up a bit for him, but you hadn’t this time—no, there’s old underwear and socks everywhere, shirts and hoodies too, empty cans and pizza boxes. It’s a bit gross, actually, he admits while scratching his neck. 

The drawer he’d dedicated to you in his dresser is open and empty. Did you take everything to get it cleaned? You are a bit of a neat freak—unlike him. Suppose that would be something you’d do. Weird of you not to take any of his laundry as well, though.

Oh, well. He shoots you a “gn bby” on his phone, then collapses on his bed and falls asleep—smiles a bit as he does so—it’s nice not having you here to tell him to undress and go shower first. Yeah, you can be such a nag sometimes.

He wakes up late in the day. You’re not there. Usually, you come over to wake him with some breakfast. He checks his phone—you didn’t reply last night. It isn't that weird—you were probably already asleep at that point. But why didn’t you answer when you woke up? There’s no way you’re still asleep, right? 

Fuck, he’s hungry.

“gm,” he sends—contemplates asking you what’s up but doesn’t. You must be busy with something not to have checked your phone yet.

The entire day goes by, and you still don’t answer. He doesn’t take it too hard. But he won’t deny being a bit miffed.

It’s when three days go by that he’s well and truly confused. He’s sent you several texts at this point, even called you a few times, getting a little worried something had happened to you before he got the message that he’d been blocked. 

What the fuck’s going on with you?

He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.

He swallows thickly. No… No way, that’s what you meant, right? No, can’t be. You love him. You’re his pretty girlfriend. The one that comes with his food and later comes back for his bowl. The one that sucks his dick under his desk as he goes on a kill streak. The warm pillow he uses when he finally drags his bad posture to the bed and falls asleep.

No. Where the fuck are you? Are you sick or something? Yeah, must be, right? So delirious you’ve managed to block him somehow. You were probably only trying to call him back. You were never so tech-savvy—a fever must have worsened it. He should go to you. He can bring his pc. Or no, he can get you and bring you back here. Yeah, that would be easier.

He calls your roommate, tells her he’s coming, and asks her to let you know to get ready.

“What are you talking about?” she says through a piece of gum—her voice all dull as if bothered to have picked up the phone. Or, rather, she sounds a bit drunk. There’s music in the background. “Girl broke up with you, didn’t she?”

His blood runs cold at that. A lump forms in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump that makes him think he’s about to throw up. “N-no, she didn’t.”

“Hey!” she calls out, not to him, though—she’s covered the mic with her hand. He only hears the muted distortion of voices and bass through it before your roommate comes back to him. 

“Sorry—she’s telling me a different story,” she relays, popping her gum in his ear before sneering—or, at least, that’s what he pictures. “Honestly, how long did you think she was gonna put up with cleaning up after you anyway? I know I wouldn’t last half as long as she has.” The lump in his throat grows thicker, swelling up until it's choking him. “Anyway, good luck.”

She hangs up, and he drops his phone. There’s a crack as it hits the floor. And then something wet on his face. Something hot. Something searing as it tracks down his cheeks and drops off like acid onto the floor. 

What should he do? What do you want him to do? To tidy up? He can do that! He’s not some imbecile like your friend makes him out to be who can’t even do the basics of chores. Of course, he can! And so that’s what he does—hands shaking as he tidies. 

It feels foreign, and he’s not even sure where to start. And it quickly proves to be a lot worse than what he’d thought. Beyond stinky clothes and dirty dishes, there’s trash, rotten food, sticky surfaces, and other things he can’t even put a name to. It’s gross, actually. Downright disgusting. How long’s it been like this?

Even after everything’s put in order, there’s a smell that lingers and no end to the dust he has to clean—cringing at the little insects that come crawling out of their hiding spots. Geez—has it really been this bad?

He falls asleep on the floor at some point—having completely forgotten to eat—then wakes up feeling awful the next day. The kitchen is barren, and so he orders take-out. Eats and then goes back to cleaning. There’s still a lot left.

It’s barely recognizable once he’s done. Nice and bright and tidy and clean. There’s a sum of a dozen large black trash bags in the hallway he needs to take out, but other than that, everything’s perfect—perfectly presentable to have you come over again.

Still, he gives it a couple of days. He knows you. You’re going to change your mind. You’re too sweet to be breaking up with him. Too nice. You wouldn’t just leave him, not like this. Yeah, you’re only trying to teach him a lesson—after a while, you’ll come back on your own. You’ll be ecstatic over what he’s done with the place—apologetic even as you tell him you were wrong about him—and then everything will go back to normal. Make-up sex and everything. 

But you don’t. No. You’re nowhere to be seen or found—even after a week’s passed. You’re still gone. And he’s starting to believe you might just be gone for real.

No. He sees what this is. You’re waiting for the grand gesture, aren’t you? He never knew you could be so petty—but it’s actually kind of cute. Fine then. He’ll play along—come crawling to you on his hands and knees with the best apology you’ve ever heard. And then you can end this whole thing.

And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.

“Hey…”

It’s you. 

“Hi,” he smiles in return, happy to see you. He’s been so nervous, but somehow, your face and voice are enough to calm him down.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Oh, of course. You weren’t expecting him. Still, it feels weird of you not to gush happily over the surprise and rush him inside. It’s not every day he goes outside—you should be a little impressed.

But no, of course, you’re playing the part of fed-up girlfriend—acting hard-to-get. He’s got you—he’ll play his part, so don’t worry.

“I wanted to apologize,” he announces. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend—I see that now. But I’ll be better from now on, I promise—come over, and I’ll prove it to you.”

As far as apologies and promises go, he thinks that sounded pretty smooth—not too desperate, not too demanding. Pretty slick, if he can say so himself.

And so, why aren’t you smiling? He can understand being nervous—so is he—but why do you look guilty?

“That’s really nice. And… I’m really happy you’re looking better. But…” you start, and his gut’s already wrenching. “I think you need more time for yourself to just… enjoy what it’s like to be independent, you know?” 

No, he doesn’t know. What are you saying? And why are you holding onto the doorknob like that? Holding it steady as if you’re planning to shut it as soon as you can—why?

“Thanks for stopping by. It was nice seeing you—it really was. Take care of yourself, okay?”

It’s shutting—his plans—disappearing right before his face. He knows he isn’t owed a second shot, but this isn’t fair. You can’t be serious—are you?

“What? No, wait—” He stops you, weighing his own hand on the door, keeping it open. “Listen, I’m good now. I’ve pulled it together, you’ll see—I’ll come in, and we’ll talk about it.”

You resist, using both hands to almost push the door back on him. “I have company, so—”

“What’s up?” another voice announces himself—deep and presentful. He comes into view behind you—taller than you, taller than him—looking down his nose at him with a raised brow. “Who’s this?”

You look a bit panicked—no, embarrassed. “Oh, uhm—”

Why are you embarrassed? “Who’s that?” The bitterness in his voice surprises even himself—loaded with the same type of spite he seethes with when players use cheats to win.

“He’s an old friend, but he was just leaving,” you say, but you’re not speaking to him. No, you stroke a hand over the guy’s broad chest, looking up at him apologetically before turning back to him again, voice strict in a way he’s never heard, “Bye.”

“But—”

You shut the door. On him. In his face. 

His skin crawls—goosefleshed and chilled. Was that a date? No, right? You have a brother, don’t you? Yes, must be. No way you’re dating. There’s no way, right? It’s only been a week… no way you’ve moved on in only a week, right?

You looked really nice—wearing that sweet blouse with all the little bows and that cute little skirt you’d always wear out on dates. Damn, when was the last time the two of you went on a date? Must be months ago, if he can’t even remember. 

Come to think of it, the two of you would always have sex when you wore that skirt. Yeah, it’s your fuck-me-skirt. Are you going to fuck this guy too now? On the first date? Is it your first date? No, probably not—who has their first date at home? That’s more like a third or even fourth or fifth date, right? Were you dating him while the two of you were still together? Have you been cheating on him all this time? Laughing at him behind his back—talking shit with your bitch-roommate? About what a pathetic loser he is? About how he’s a slob who can’t take care of himself? How he needs you? Have you!?

He shouldn't be texting you all this from a random number. He knows that, but the full realization doesn’t dawn on him before it’s too late, and he’s sent you over a hundred messages, some small and others at such a length they take up more than what the screen allows. What the fuck’s he doing? He’d bought the new sim so that he could contact you in an emergency, not to spam you with accusations like some crazy ex. 

He starts deleting them—in some desperate wishful thinking, with the hope you wouldn’t see them, but then the dotted line starts beating, jumping in taunt. His eyes are wide as he stares at it, holding his breath. Ten seconds pass before it disappears—no message sent.

You blocked him again. And he can’t blame you.

And yet, he can’t let you go, either. 

He spends the first few weeks hauled up at home—his flat becoming as trashed as ever as he doomscrolls all your socials through a fake account. You’ve deleted all the pictures of him—even the ones of yourself when you’ve been with him. There’s no evidence the two of you were even dating.

How could you do this? How could you erase him like this?

He has questions, and he needs answers. You can’t just do this—the two of you haven’t even had the talk—he hasn’t even got to say his side yet!

He just wants to talk to you—why won’t you let him? He just wants you to hear him out. He deserves that much. But since you’re not giving him any option of contacting you, he’s had to resort to medieval methods—lurking outside your apartment like some creep, eyes peeled on your building’s entrance, waiting for you to show.

He’s there for hours, patiently—refusing to go home—thinking he’ll be there all night if he has to.

But then there you are—coming out of the complex, stepping down the alley, dressed all nice for the night. You seem to be in a hurry—are you on your way to another date? Well, wherever you’re going and whoever you’re meeting, they can wait.

“I need to talk—” he doesn’t get the words out.

You’d noticed him following you and tried to out-pace him—make him lose interest. But the area your flat’s situated in is a sketchy one—at least for girls, and you’d made the decision long ago that you’d never walk outside unprepared. And so, as soon as feeling the stranger's hand on your arm, you whip around to maze him right in the face.

“Argh!” he screeches and stumbles back, hands covering his eyes. “Fuck—ow-fuckin’dammit, shit—what the fuck did you do that for? Fuck—”

You were going to make a run for it, but the familiar voice has you halt—wait a minute…

You call his name, and sure enough, it’s him who looks up at you through the teary redness of your pepper spray assault. 

“Oh my god, shit—I’m so sorry—I thought you were a—” you stop yourself. “Fuck—never mind. Come—” You link his arm with yours and lead him back inside the apartment you just left. “I’ll help you rinse—I’m so sorry.”

You rush him to the bathroom, seating him atop the toilet lid as you wet a cloth and start soaking his face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it was you—” you apologize again. “Are your eyes okay?”

“Not really,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though steals himself soon after. “But they're getting better…”

His face unswells after a good thirty minutes, after which he’s able to keep his eyes open again—sore and no doubt bloodshot, yet fine, if not for that. You’ve moved him into the living room instead, having done what you could to rinse off your attack—having provided him with an apologetic glass of water. Now sitting with him, waiting for the effects to wear off.

It feels nice to be with you again despite the circumstances—but it’s awkward how you don’t speak.

“You look nice,” he says—trying to break the tension. It’s not as if the two of you are strangers, and so you shouldn’t act like it.

“Oh, I’m going to a party—roomie’s already there, so…” you say, sitting at the edge of your seat. “If you’re okay, I should probably head out… soon.”

A silence fills his head, as well as the room—a heavy stillness before a single word leaves him. “What?” His face sinks—part confusion, part offense, and something else—something that makes his voice come out accusatory and outraged, “You maze me in the face, and you’re just gonna fuck off to a party?”

Your eyes widen.“Well… it’s—”

“No—what the fuck?” He stands abruptly. His head’s so empty except for the blinding darkness slowly overtaking it—leaving him feeling boiling and all but nuclear. “That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious?” He’s shouting now—and then he’s on you, with one hand fisting your pretty dress and another around your throat. “First, you dump me without warning, assault me like some maniac, give me a lousy apology, and then tell me to fuck off? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

You splutter his name and push, but it’s like fighting a wall.

“Where are you actually going dressed like that, huh? What’s so fucking important? Is it another date? What, with that same oaf I saw here last time? Or is it someone new already? I know how flighty you can be. I mean, fuck, I knew you were a little freaky, but I didn’t know I was dating a fucking slut!”

His strength comes as a complete and utter devastating shock. You’d think sitting in a chair all day would make any muscle obsolete—but the hands holding you don’t right now is more than anything you could hope to fight against.

“Stop! Get off me—” you cry, thrashing hopelessly as he lifts your dress and rips your lace panty down your thighs. 

A growl in his voice and nothing but rage on his face.

“If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”

♡ BNHA – Shigaraki, Dabi, Denki, Kirishima ♡ BLLK – Nagi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist