#this barely fits the prompt but there's a line in there somewhere that makes it sort of fit

[everybodyshusband]

"no one understands me like you do"

mushy may ; day sixteen !! (approx. 1.6k words)

read under the cut or on ao3 :)

(i'm still obsessed with @crimsonclergy's coffee shop au fic, thanks for asking :) and i haven't thanked crow in a while, so thank you @forlorn-crows for putting the mushy may prompt list together <3)

this one contains: they/them rain, hypermobile rain, hypermobile(?) dew, post-self harm dew, discussions of self-harm, hurt/comfort, australian mountain

Dew wanders around the cafe, rearranging the tables, collecting dirty cups and plates, and wiping empty tables down while there’s a lull in customers. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to say that he limps around the cafe. His leg hurts like a fucking bitch and he can’t wait until he can rest on his break; there’s nowhere to sit down while he’s working unless he’s sitting on the floor and restocking the lower shelves behind the counter.

Admittedly, giving in to the urge to cut himself right before his shift was probably not the smartest idea he’s ever had, but he’s proud to say that, somehow, it’s also not the dumbest. Every time he moves, he can feel the cuts stretching, and little trickles of blood run down his leg, smudging between his thigh and the inside of his jeans. He hasn’t covered or cleaned them properly, and he knows he’s going to be dealing with red, angry scabs on his thigh for at least a week because of it, but he didn’t have the time to look after the cuts properly. By the time he’d washed his blade and wiped the blood off of his thighs—and fucking carpet—where it had dripped down, he was already almost late for his shift.

Besides, even if he’d waited to do it at work, it’s not like there’s a place at the cafe he could have done it; the staff toilets have a faulty lock, and Dew’s lost count of the amount of times Rain has come barging in while he’s been in there. He’s not willing to risk the door banging open and Rain staring at him while he explains to them why he’s got the blade from a children’s pencil sharpener slicing through his skin.

“Are you… alright, Dew?” Rain’s voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he looks up from the table he’s wiping to see them staring at him in concern, the spoon in their hand frozen over the box of tea leaves. “You look like you’re limping.”

“Hmm? Oh,” Dew laughs. “Yeah, I’m okay. My, uh– My hip’s flaring up I think.” It’s a good lie. Believable, convincing.

Rain winces in sympathy, their knees do a similar thing to Dew’s hips; they deem it a good day if their knees only give out once or twice. “You need a heat pack?” They ask, raising their voice over the sound of the coffee machine boiling water. “I think I’ve got a wearable one with an adjustable strap in my bag, it might fit ‘round your waist.”

Dew’s touched by their concern, but—since his hip isn’t actually flaring up; small mercies, and all that jazz—he shakes his head. “I think I’ll be okay,” he assures them, “but I’ll let you know. Thanks, though.”

“No worries,” they smile, pouring the finished tea into a takeaway cup and sliding it across the counter. “This is Mountain’s, by the way.” Dew perks up at the mention of his partner’s name, placing the spray bottle down and walking—limping, wincing, whatever—over to the counter. “I know you’ll say no,” Rain starts, “but since you’re in pain, do you want me to walk it over?”

Dew smiles and shakes his head, swiping the cup off of the counter. “She’ll be right. His shop’s only next door.”

“She’ll be right?” Rain parrots in confusion.

“Picked it up from Mount,” Dew explains. “I dunno why he says it. Some kind of weird Australianism, maybe?”

“Christ, that man confuses me,” Rain mutters under their breath.

Dew snorts in agreement and begins making his way towards the door. Now that Rain can’t see his face, he winces openly, screwing his face up tightly with every step on his right leg. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Have fun,” Rain sing-songs.

“I will,” Dew replies in the same tone. The moment the door swings shut behind him though, and he’s out of Rain’s view, he sags against the wall and takes a deep shuddering breath. On the exhale, he pushes himself off the wall and wills himself not to cry as he walks the few metres to Mountain’s florist.

When he gets there, Mountain is ringing a customer through at the register, so Dew places the tea on the counter with a small nod in Mountain’s direction to make sure he actually sees the tea, and begins to walk out.

“Sorry, one moment,” he hears Mountain tell the customer “Dew! Wait a minute, will you?”

Dew nods and hobbles over and leans on the counter-slash-workbench to wait while the customer finishes paying for their flowers. It’s a lovely bouquet they’re buying; all bright reds, cheerful yellows and fiery oranges arranged neatly, but in a way that looks intentionally hap-hazardous—what with all the extra stems, leaves, and clusters of small white flowers trailing lazily out from in between the main flowers. It shouldn’t look nice, but it does, and Dew doesn’t know how Mountain does it.

It’s only when the bell above the door rings to signal the customer’s departure from the shop that Mountain speaks to Dew. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“What?” Dew furrows his eyebrows in confusion as he moves behind the counter to sit down. He’s never been more jealous of the fact that Mountain is allowed a chair behind the till.  “Nothing’s going on, everything’s fine.”

“You’re limping,” Mountain notes, pointing to Dew’s thigh.

“Y– yeah… My hip’s flaring up?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement, but Dew thinks his point still gets across well enough. 

“When your hip’s sore, you shuffle. You’re not shuffling, love. You’re limping.” Dew should be touched by the concern shining in Mountain’s eyes, as well as the fact that Mountain seems to understand him and his functions more than anyone else, but it only makes him feel bad. Mountain crouches down in front of the chair, placing a  hand delicately on Dew’s good leg. When he speaks, his voice is impossibly kind and gentle. “What’s going on, sundew?”

Dew tries to stop the flood of tears, really, he does, but once the dam is opened, there’s no going back. He falls into Mountain’s arms and starts crying in earnest, sobbing when his leg moves the wrong way and he feels his cuts all over again. “I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

“Hey, hey, no. You don’t have to apologise, love. This isn’t something you need to apologise for.” Dew barely hears him; just keeps forcing apologies from his lips as he cries into Mountain’s shoulder. “I’m going to go tell Rain that you’re having your break now, okay? Will you be fine here on your own? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Dew sniffles and nods up at Mountain through the tears. “Yeah, I’ll– I’ll be fine,” he says through a watery smile.

Mountain leans down and presses a kiss to Dew’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a minute.” The door jingles on his way out, and through the window Dew can see Mountain locking it, in case anyone were to come in looking for flowers and find no one but a crying employee from the cafe next door.

True to his word, Mountain returns in about three minutes, a hot chocolate clutched in his hand. He hands it to Dew, who accepts it—with shaky hands and a whispered “thanks”—gratefully. He takes a sip and lets the warmth seep into his body, focussing on the way it blooms out from his throat and stomach into his limbs and chest. It’s a strangely calming feeling, which is probably why Mountain brought it for him, he supposes.

He lets Mountain pull him up and waits as his partner rearranges the chair’s positioning until it’s in a more convenient spot for him to still get work done. “I told Rain your hip got worse,” Mountain explains as he helps Dew back into the chair, careful to ensure his leg doesn’t twist awkwardly and makes the cuts worse. “They said you can be on break for as long as you need to, okay? They’ll cover for you.”

The warmth that spreads through Dew’s chest isn’t the hot chocolate’s doing. Rain is too good to him. Dew makes a mental note to cover every shift they need covering for until the end of time as a thanks. “Can I–“ Dew starts, tentatively. “Can I stay here? Just– Just for a bit, then I’ll get out of your hair,” he laughs; it’s not a happy sound.

“‘Course, love. That’s why I moved the chair. Stay for as long as you need to, yeah?”

Dew nods and takes another sip of his drink. “Yeah,” he says, softly.

“Now,” Mountain crouches down in front of him again, “I don’t have any customers in the shop right now, and I’m guessing you didn’t have enough time to take care of your cuts before work, right?”

“I was going to,” Dew protests, weakly. “But, I–”

“I’m not mad at you, sundew,” Mountain reassures him. “I’m just taking care of you.” Oh. Dew didn’t even think of that. “Right. I’m going to go find a clean cloth, and then we’ll get you all cleaned up. How does that sound?”

“Good, yeah.” Dew nods, moving to set his drink down in preparation of cleaning himself up.

“No, no,” Mountain says, pushing the drink back into Dew’s hands gently. “I’m gonna do the cleaning, if you’ll let me?”

Dew nods slowly, pulling the cup closer to himself. “You– You can do it. If you– If you want.”

“Good,” Mountain smiles. “Now, relax,” he orders, playfully. “Let me take care of you for a bit, sundew.”

[murdrdocs]

saber tooth | f. odair

description. just two days out from the Games, your mentor and best friend, finnick odair, comes to your room late at night in a mutual fit of insomnia to fulfill your (potentially) dying wish 

includes. SMUT 16+, fem!reader, oral f!receiving, fingering, loss of virginity sans p in v, canon-complicit angst, mentions of finnick’s trafficking, best friends to lovers, reader’s a tribute, finnick’s her mentor, extremely brief misunderstandings, soft dom finnick, pleasure dom finnick, brief mention of drug use (one line), finnick and annie were never together but he mentored her, he rlly cares abt r :((, giggly sex (sometimes), throw away line abt lack of body hair but i rlly like body hair

a/n: whaddup whaddup! this started as a blurb but it um ,,, clearly expanded. there’s no p in v simply bc im so tired rn however i would like to continue this in the future if my mind would allow it :) also the title has nothing to do with the fic i was just listening to easily by chuck inglish

word count: 4k+ 

part 2

A week of anticipation, festivities, and celebration for the Capitol, was a week of anxiety, tears muffled into pillows, and wishing to be somewhere else for you. 

The week leading up to the 72nd Hunger Games. 

The Reaping, Opening Ceremony, and the three days of training that followed were mostly a blur. Your body picked up on the techniques you would need to survive, and with the help of Finnick, you’d managed to commit them to memory. You remembered the way you’d been trained to sit and talk and the jokes you should slip into conversation with Caesar tomorrow night. 

All of their training was working, and Finnick had told you that you had a high chance of making it out of that area. A high chance. Nothing was guaranteed at this point in your life. Which is why you needed to do a few final things. 

The door to your bedroom slides open. You lift your head from the pillow and squint. There’s a little light coming from the hallway, and it backlit the figure. But even without it, you would know who was coming to see you. The only person who’d been coming to see you since the arrival at the Tribute Center. 

“Hey, Finn,” you mumble, resting your head back against the pillow that’s always cool. 

Finnick takes a few steps into your room, stopping to flick a switch that only turns on the lamps beside your bed, and the two ambient ones in the corners. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is raspy, as if he’s tired, but not to the point of already greeting sleep. It’s a little later than it should be, you were recommended to have gone to sleep two hours ago but you couldn’t. There was too much going on in your head, too many unsaid words and undone actions. You couldn’t sleep with your consciousness this awake. 

Finnick voices the matter. “You can’t sleep, can you?” 

You shake your head, deciding to sit up a little, your bare lower half still secure underneath the thick comforter. Your room was always cold, and the silk sheets mirrored the temperature. Physically, you were the most comfortable you’d ever been, wearing the softest cotton undergarments, and a silk button up nightshirt, your toes warm beneath fuzzy socks. But the weight on your mind was the complete opposite. 

With the way Finnick looks at your face, he can tell just how exhausted you are. 

“Want something to help with that?” He asks as he sits at the edge of the bed, close but entirely too far from you. “A drink? Pills? The Capitol has it all, you know.” The way he says it is the opposite of marveling, the words laced with annoyance and frustration. His tone prompts a small smile from you. 

“‘M okay. I trust my body to do what it’s supposed to.” Finnick’s head is turned down, but you see the way the corner of his lip curls up. 

He lifts his head to fully smile at you, one of sympathy and pity and sadness. His hand reaches out and his palm rests over the outline of your shin. Far too many layers are between the bare skin on both of you, but you don’t say so. You just give Finnick an equally sad smile, expressing your dismay for your situation, and you begin to pick at your nails in your lap. 

“What’re you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Finnick shakes his head. “No such luck for me either.” He shrugs as if he’s used to it and you remember that he’s been in this position too. Just a few years ago, a young boy, your best friend, was sitting in this bed, with similar thoughts weighing on his mind. And now his best friend was in that position. 

You push the sheets back, exposing the beginnings of the skin on your thigh, and you pat the space beside you. “C’mon,” you encourage, not ceasing your patting until Finnick scoffs and slides his slippers off, crawling up to slip under the covers with you. 

The bed is larger than you’d ever seen, something your escort called a ‘bed fit for a king’, but Finnick chooses to sit right beside you, the heat of his body warming yours. 

“We could watch something. What plays on the television in the Capitol?” Finnick’s sitting so close to you that you can feel him shrug. Whenever you reach over to the bedside table, pulling the drawer open to grab the remote, you come back to sit even closer to him, where your arms are pressed flush against each other. 

“Mostly shows about the lives of celebrities here.” 

You gasp, turning to face him. “Is that rumor about you appearing on some reality show true?” Finnick’s ears redden and that’s enough confirmation that you need. Your head throws back with a hearty laugh, and you click on the TV with hopes of finding an episode. 

Finnick sits quietly beside you as you click through the channels, reading the titles and watching maybe a second or two of content before you decide to try the next thing. When you’ve gone through most channels, you land on the one that will play the Games. 

He says your name, as a warning perhaps, but you click it anyway, seeing that they’re talking about you. 

“Now the odds of this one making it out are pretty high. She’s pretty, smart, and trained by the Finnick Odair,” a clip of you and Finnick appears, one that must’ve been taken backstage during the Opening Ceremony. He’s standing close to you, crouched down just enough to meet your eye level. You’re obviously nervous, and he’s obviously attempting to soothe those nerves, cracking jokes with a hand held to your heart, both of yours over it.  “The Capitol’s Prince.” The announcer pronounces those words clearly, enunciated, making sure every late night viewer understands Finnick’s alternate title. 

Clips of Finnick throughout the years show and you grow silent, watching how he commands a room better than you ever could. 

“If she were to make it out, I’m sure she could become the Capitol’s Princess, right?” The announcer smiles just as the remote is snatched from your hands and the TV is clicked off, ridding the bedroom of the colorful hues and leaving you and Finnick with the yellow light from your lamps. 

“Why did you–?” Finnick’s interrupting. He’s thrown the remote to the side of him and he’s turned to face you. 

“I want you to make it out of the Games, I really do.” You nod, watching the way his chest rises and falls with breaths that fill the hesitant silence. “But, I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you.” 

“What do you mean? You don’t want me to be loved and adored by the Capitol?” You say it a tad bit sarcastically, but your tone dulls down when you notice how serious his face is. 

He shakes his head. “No, I really don't.” You scoff, beginning to get upset over the idea that a night that was turning peaceful, began to turn on its head. “Because everything comes with a price here,” he says your name, making sure you’re listening. “The ‘love’ the Capitol has for me is ingenuine, they love me like I’m an object. Not a person with thoughts and feelings.” 

“Finnick, I don’t think I understand.” But you do, you really do. 

He tells you as much, that same sad smile from earlier on his lips. 

Before you can speak, he does. “Look, I came in here to ask you what you want.” 

Your eyebrows furrow. 

“Before the Tributes I mentor get sent off, I like to fulfill their wish. In case they don’t…”

“In case they don’t make it back.” He nods. “So a dying wish?” Another nod. 

“So, what d’you want?” 

You know what you want. You’ve wanted it since you were a teenager, watching Finnick, the most loved victor, leave for the Capitol and come back weeks later. Since you watched him train Annie Cresta and everyone, including yourself, believed there to have been something between them. Since he walked into your room just 20 minutes ago. 

“What I want, I don’t think I can ask you for.” You speak low, your voice a whisper. Your head rests on the headboard behind you, turned to face Finnicks. 

He shakes his head gently. “I have connections. I can guarantee almost anything.” 

“No, Finn.” You don’t think you can ask him for this. Especially with what he’s essentially just told you. It would be selfish, it would be insincere, it would ruin the friendship you have between you two. 

“I can’t.” 

His head’s already facing yours, and he brings one of his hands up to cup your cheek, his thumb caressing the skin. 

“Yes, you can.” 

“No, Finn, I can’t.” Your eyes sting, as does your nose, and you know there’s no use in pretending the tears aren’t there. He’s seen them, he’s acknowledged them by swiping his thumb under your eye, catching the first drop. 

“I would do anything for you. Just say the word.” 

You search his eyes, his face, the tip of his ears, his Adam’s Apple. You’re looking for his tell. But it’s not there. It’s just Finnick. Your Finnick. And he wants the best for you. 

You’re the most vulnerable you’ve ever been at this moment; sitting in a bed in the Tribute Center, just two days out from the Hunger Games, a period of uncertainty that is life or death; your best friend, and unrequited crush, as your mentor, having to hold your pieces together at least until the end of this. 

There’s no point in hiding anything. You know you need to lay it all out. So you do. 

“Even take my virginity?” 

The air is still. Stiff. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t breathe. His thumb halts. He doesn’t blink. 

You sit there, watching him, holding in the sob that threatens to wrack across your body. 

“Forget it. I’m sor–” 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

“Yes.” 

There’s a moment where you don’t act. A moment where disbelief trickles down your body like the tears from your eyes do on your face. 

“Finn…” 

“I would do anything for you. I have wanted you since we were young, but I thought…” 

“Doesn’t matter what you thought then. Not anymore. We go from here now.” 

And there is the nagging possibility that all of this could be because of your potential fate. Maybe he’s humoring you, or letting you in on that final step of human intimacy before your life ends. You prefer not to think about it. Especially whenever Finnick’s moving closer to you and you can feel his breath on your lips. 

Your lips are almost touching, the tanned skin of his face is right in front of you, the same goes for the pink of his lips. He’s almost there, then he says, “Are you sure?” 

“‘M sure.” And Finnick is kissing you. Finnick Odair is finally kissing you. 

He kisses you softly, sweetly, with precision and a gentle nature. As if he’s afraid that he’ll do something wrong and hurt you. 

You kiss him back in a similar fashion, just with added timidness that Finnick doesn’t possess. 

Your hands raise slowly, in choppy motions that are both due to your uncertainty, and the distraction of finally having the man of your dreams kiss you like you’re made of porcelain. But you manage to get your hands to Finnicks torso, palms pressed flat against his thin shirt so that you can feel the abs along his torso. 

You’ve felt them before, in time of play fighting, or whenever he would have you replicate his breathing or form. But touching along his torso in this circumstance is different. Now, your touch ignites a fire within you. It makes Finnick grip the back of your neck and pull you closer with one hand, the other sliding the covers away and hooking his hand at the back of your thigh, pulling your left leg over your right. 

Your hands slide down to the hem of his shirt, slowly starting to slide it up until he gets the hint and pulls away just enough for you to slide the shirt between you two, up and over his head. Then he’s back on you. 

When you sigh blissfully into his mouth, he starts to kiss you like he’s desperate to have you close. Like he wants to engulf your entire being until you’re intertwined. 

The best you can do is physically move closer to him, letting the hand on the back of your thigh guide you to straddling his lap. 

It’s then that Finnick pulls away from you. Your hands trail up to cup his cheeks, moving back to play with the golden blonde locks that seemed to never be out of place. 

He stares up at you, sea-green eyes pulling you even further into a state of enchantment. Whenever he tilts his head, eyes stuck on you, and kisses into your palm, you melt. His hand lifts to gently circle around your wrist, nimble fingers rubbing little circles into the skin. 

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Finnick speaks. “I need you to remember that even if I’m doing the work, you set the pace. You tell me what you like and don’t like. You tell me when to go and when to stop. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

And then you’re back at it. His hands circle around to your lower back, pushing into the curvature to bring your chest closer to him. He uses the position to his advantage, dipping his head to kiss at the exposed bits of your skin; your neck, collarbone, the starts of your cleavage. He quickly becomes frustrated with the lack of skin, and you bite back a smile as you gently nudge his head back and begin to undo the buttons. 

He watches you in a trance-like state with a look that seems akin to awe. You can’t help but tease him just a bit, shifting in your position atop his crotch and slowing your work on the buttons. 

Finnick groans and his hands leave your lower back to push your own hands away, deciding to undo your buttons himself, grumbling something under his breath about you being a tease. 

When you giggle above him, Finnick has you pushed onto your back in what seems like the blink of an eye. Really, it did happen quick, but your eyes were already closed from giggling so hard, so reopening them to Finnick above you, your shirt opened and your barely confined tits in Finnick’s eyeline, is disorienting. 

“Jesus, look at you,” Finnick mumbles. And he is. His eyes are hungirly skirting over your figure, taking it all in. From your eyes, to the bra that you wear, all the way to the cotton panties that hug your hips. 

His gaze stops at your lower half for a while, watching your stomach rise and fall with your breaths and the way there’s definitely a little wet patch on your panties. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” He mumbles under his breath. The question is rhetorical, and meant only for him. But, in a fit of nerves, you answer anyway, needing to do something other than lay there. 

“I don’t know, Finn, there’s a lot that you can do. You can go down on me, give me your fingers, your cock.” 

His eyes lift to yours, shock evident within them. “Did you just say the word ‘cock’?” He laughs between the words, that perfectly pearly white smile greeting you. 

“Yeah,” you say, laughing through the syllables too. 

Finnick shakes his head with that smile still present. 

He swears under his breath but then his fingers are playing with the hem of your panties and you’re back under, focused on what he could possibly plan to do next. He hums, eyes on you, eyebrows raised. 

It takes you a second to realize what his intentions were, but you do soon enough. “Keep going. Please.” 

The tips of his fingers reach below the band of your panties. He begins to pull them down, just until your hip bones and the start of your mound becomes visible. At first, you disgraced the Capitols groomers' work of ridding your entire body of hair, but you can’t help but feel a little grateful that they did. You knew that Finnick wouldn’t care either way. 

You lift your hips, letting Finnick pull your panties over the curve of your ass. When they sit at the halfway point of your thighs, he lowers his head and presses his lips to the area right above the waistband. And he continues to do so, sliding your underwear down and kissing through the journey. 

The last kiss he gives you is on the arch of your foot, right before he guides the garment over the remaining part of your body, throwing them off to the side of the bed. 

Finnick sits back on his heels then, just looking at you, looking at your legs which are just almost crossed at the knee, your ankles together and one knee raised slightly above the other. You’re shielding the most vulnerable part of you, hiding it almost. But when his green eyes meet your center, briefly meeting your eyes, you slowly part your legs, allowing him to see you in all of your glory. 

Finnick sucks in a sharp breath of air, his chest rising with it. He doesn’t let it out until your legs are completely opened and bent at the knee, inviting him in. You sit halfway up on your elbows, watching him, waiting for him. 

It’s not long until he makes a move, just a few tense moments and then Finnick’s kicked into action. 

His calloused hands on your knees, sliding around to the back of your thighs as he lays on his stomach, directly facing your cunt. 

When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. “I wanna taste you, sweetheart. Just for a bit. Is that alright?” 

His eyes are visible over your mound, but they’re not focused on you just this once. They’re focused on your cunt, scanning it, taking it all in almost as if he’s committing this moment to his very strong memory. 

You’re a little starstruck, reckoning with the notion that Finnick wants to give you head. Therefore, you sit there in stunned silence, attempting to find the words to deliver your over enthusiastic agreement. But Finnick takes your silence negatively. 

“You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to, honey. Just wanna make you feel good. That’s what I’m here for.” And there are those eyes again. They’re pleading, but also making you feel comfortable, reminding you that you’re in charge. 

You smile gently, nodding. “Yes.” 

And the first lick has your head spinning. His tongue is warm, and wet, and he licks a long stripe from your leaking entrance to your clit. It’s slow, and methodical. He licks your juices up, but they’re coming back tenfold by the time he’s pressed a kiss to your clit. 

A surprised moan pushes up your throat. The feeling has your hips pushing into his face on their own accord, your elbows slipping out from under you and your head throwing back onto the mattress. 

Finnick disconnects from you for just a second to let out a pleased groan, but the absence is too much for you already. You’re wiggling your hips, searching for him. 

Finnick laughs and the sound has heat rising through you. “‘M still here. Not leaving this pussy anytime soon.” 

He lives up to his promise immediately. His mouth’s back on you, licking and sucking on your most sensitive parts. 

It’s now that you remember how experienced Finnick is. How knowledgeable he is about the general spots of someone’s body. And he’s able to apply that knowledge to your body, with the help of your zealous responses. 

You’re moaning, your back arching, your hands gripping the sheets. Your knees bend more, your legs spread more, it’s all more and more and more. You want more from Finnick. You need more. 

You’re communicating that fact when you finally have enough courage to fist a hand into Finnick’s hair, and it’s like he’s rewarding you when he slyly begins to probe a finger at your tight entrance. 

You’re clenched, far from relaxed, but with a deep breath, you’re loose enough for him to slide in to the first knuckle, then the second, then all the way, his single digit comfortable within your walls. 

Finnick fucks you with his finger, aiding the penetration with his pretty pink lips around your pink nub. He sucks, the pressure making your head spin, your consciousness in the clouds to the point where you don’t notice another of Finnick’s deft fingers teasing your entrance. 

“Another?” he asks, voice barely able to be heard due to his proximity to your cunt. 

“Uh-huh,” is all the affirmation you can give. 

It’s a little tight and uncomfortable at first, but once his digits are evened out and curling in you, and his tongue is lapping up your juices like it’s water, you’re riding so high in a blissed out state that discomfort is the last thing on your mind. 

Your approaching orgasm becomes known to you quicker than you can anticipate. It’s like all of a sudden there’s tension in your lower abdomen, begging for your attention, begging to be released. 

“Finnick, Finn,” he hums, not stopping any of his ministrations. “‘M so close. Almost there.” 

You hadn’t thought it to be possible but Finnick gives you more. His fingers fuck you faster and harder, his cheeks hollow as he alternates between sucking along your nerves and stroking his tongue is the areas that you’re most sensitive. 

It feels so fucking good, a pleasure you’d never experienced in your life. You couldn’t imagine being in this position with anyone other than your best friend, someone you trusted with your entire being. It’s as if he knows your body better than you do, because sooner than you would’ve liked, your back is arching and your legs are lifting off the bed and your nails are digging into Finnick’s scalp, all signs that your orgasm is right there and you cum with a loud cry that melts into breathy moans. 

Finnick pulls his fingers out of your cunt but his mouth stays on you, placing gentle kisses and kitten licks along the slicked area. When your legs have lowered and your breath has evened out, he pulls his head away from you, a wince leaving his lips. 

“Darling,” he starts, receiving an affirmative hum in response. “You’re pulling my hair out.” 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Your hand lets go of his hair, your body burning with embarrassment. But Finnick’s bright laugh and content smile soothes you. 

“‘S okay,” he mumbles as he leans up and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. Your lips mold to his like they were created for each other, and the kiss is slow, methodical, loving. 

You whine when he pulls away, but his hands have already hooked under your thighs and he’s pulling you with him as he starts to sit back. 

You end up in the position you started in, sitting on Finnick’s lap, your hands on his shoulders. 

Under you, you can feel his bulge confined in his pants. You shift a little over it, your throat beating with your heart rate due to the anticipation. 

Finnick’s eyes close softly and his head throws back. Your hand rises to push back the bangs of his hair which lay on his forehead, in favor of resting your skin against his. 

“Sweetheart,” he groans. “We …. We can’t.” 

Your heart drops. 

“Huh?” 

“I wanna feel you, sweetheart, I swear.” His eyes open to stare at yours and you notice the sincerity in them. It doesn’t do much to lift your spirits, though. “But we can’t. Not yet.” 

Your eyebrows furrow, waiting for further explanation. It comes from him quickly. 

“I need you in your right mind in the Games. You need to be focused, and only thinking about survival. Nothing else.” 

“You’re so full of yourself.” 

He chuckles. “Maybe. But we have to play it safe.” A beat. “You trust me, right?” 

And you do. Wholeheartedly. 

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Welcome Home | Azriel x Cassian x Female Reader | One shot 3k

After a mission away your bat boys return to the comfort of home and their beautiful mate. The three of you have a lot of catching up to do, but first, a bath.

Warnings: 18+ sexual content & language, slight d/s themes, pet names, dirty talk, wing play,p in v, anal, dp, bath sex, shower sex.

Divider by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Cassian - Can Yaman, Azriel - Avan Jojia images from Getty.

Created for @polyacotarweek prompt 2 - comfort

Masterlist | Poly Fics | Azriel | Cassian

Azriel and Cassian had been gone for a week this time, somewhere unknown, they had left from the roof of the House of Wind, their Illyrian leathers freshly polished.

You’d waved them off, tears in your eyes, unsure of when you would see your.boys again. 

But tonight was the night, as the candles that decked the corridors of the House had extinguished behind you, swirling shadows had tangled at your feet, whispering to you. Now it wouldn't be long until their Master was beside you as well. 

The clock on the mantle ticked around to 3am when Cassian finally cracked open the door to your rooms. Slowly, inching into the dark room, his wings caught on the door as they dragged tiredly behind him. 

Azriel followed, dropping his own pack to the floor and kicking off his boots as quietly as possible. 

“Sweetheart?” Cassian called softly, while Azriel’s shadows spread out, disappearing into the gloom in search of you. 

Creeping up the side of the chaise like ivy, they reached your shoulder and curled around your ear, tickling you awake. 

You'd tried to stay awake, slumped on the sofa, waiting for them, until sleep overtook you, lulling you down into the crouched position they found you in now, curled in on yourself. 

“Boys?” you mumbled, sleep still clinging to you even as you tried to drag your eyes open, “You’re home.”

Cassian smiled, kneeling in front of you and cupping your cheeks in his hands and kissing you on the forehead. “We’re home, sweetheart, all in one piece.” 

“Are you hurt? Do you need anything?” Your brain slowly kicked into gear, worry clouding your joy at the General’s return, hands running up his arms to feel for any bandages. “Is Azriel with you?” 

“I’m here, baby, and we’re safe and well.” He ran a hand up your bare arm and then kissed you too, quickly and chastly before pulling back to run his eyes over you, checking that you too were well, fed and happy. 

“Good, my boys,” you reached both hands out, touching their cheeks in turn and pulling them to you, “are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“We’re just dusty and muddy. I could do with a wash and I really want to kiss you again right now.” Cassian laughed, sitting back on his heels so he could look at you properly. 

His head was heavy with what looked like caked mud, his usual long waves weighed down in limp grey tendrils around his face. Even the little lines of his cheeks and eyes seemed to be picked out with it. You leaned down, your lips fitting against his perfectly, as if you were made to kiss each other forever. Despite his clothes and the dust settling on the carpet, his lips were soft as they moved over yours, picking up where he left off when you said goodbye.

Azriel hadn’t fared any better, but he was quietly watching you, those hazel eyes of his roving over your own body, making sure you were safe too. 

Reluctantly, you pulled away. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” You sat up, pushing your blanket to the floor. Cassian kicked it away and Azriel scooped you up into his arms.

You ran your hands into his hair, picking out debris with a laugh. Even their leathers was filthy, the white dust of limestone shining against the pitch black leather.

“What happened to you?” You lay your head against his shoulder and began fiddling with the straps of his armour as he led the way to the large bathing room. 

“Best not to ask,” Cassian grumbled, “Blame Lucien if you have to blame someone, setting fires and cracking walls. We all got showered in it. You can imagine how upset Rhys is!” He chuckled. 

You giggled too, remembering Rhy’s face the last time his pristine suit got dirty. Azriel jostled you in his arms, “he was very upset.” 

Cassian rolled his eyes, turning into the bathing room and letting his wings flare a little, dust and debris falling from between them too, the veins and creases of his delicate wings filled with soot. 

“You two should rinse off before you get anywhere near the tub,” you pointed at the cubicle in the corner of the bathing room. You’d asked Rhys for one after he’d had a similar thing specially commissioned for Nesta, it stopped your beautiful sunken tub from getting filled with mud and dust after your boys got back from training, missions, daily life - how they managed to get so dirty just existing was beyond you. 

As an incentive you began unbuckling Azriel’s leathers further, letting them drop to the floor, before you could turn to help Cassian too the male was behind you, his hands on your hips. 

“Are you going to join us?” He hummed in your ear, the feel of his chest vibrating against your back, his powerful arms surrounding you sent heat straight to your core. 

“It’ll be very lonely without you, baby.” Azriel’s hands were on you now too, pulling up the sheer nightgown you’d worn, hoping for this very moment when two sets of battle weary hands would strip you back out of it. 

“There she is,” Cassian’s hands moved up from your stomach to cup your breasts, your nipples hardening. Azriel bent forwards, latching his lips onto one nipple and then the next, flicking and teasing them until they ached. 

You let your head drop back against Cassian’s chest as Azriel moved lower, kissing down your stomach until he knelt on the floor at your feet. Scarred hands ran up your legs, his thumbs tickling the inside of your thighs, tantalisingly close to wear your silk underwear clung to your slick folds. 

His hooked his fingers into the band of your underwear and stopped there, staring up at you. 

Cassian’s large hand crept up over your sternum and wrapped loosely around your throat, holding your head back. Despite his gentle hold your breath stuttered out of you. 

“Good girl, ask him nicely if he’ll take them off for you.” 

He let go, only enough for him to use his thumb on your chin to tilt your head down to look at the famed Illyrian warrior, his wings spread out around him, his eyes glowing in the faelight. 

“Puh-please take them off, Az.” 

He began sliding them down your legs, carefully lifting your feet in turn and then throwing them behind his back. 

As he stood he let his fingers dance up between your legs, barely skimming over the slick that stuck your thighs together, before laying his hand over Cassian’s and claiming your mouth. 

“We missed you so much,” Cassian crooned, pressing wet kisses up the side of your neck, “couldn’t wait to get home to our little sweetheart.” 

Your heart was pounding, the thick heat of the streaming bathroom only making your body slicker and hotter. Cassian sucked your ear lobe between his teeth, worrying the delicate flesh until your knees buckled and Azriel had to take your weight, sliding his thigh between your sweat slick legs.

“Shower-” you moaned brokenly, trying to get Azriel to step backwards under the rainforest showerhead. He relented, allowing the hot water to drip from his hair like summer rain. “Let me - ugh - wash you.” Every word was a struggle against the on-slaught of pleasure from both warriors. 

Cassian moved away, the loss of his body heat sending goosebumps flaring over your skin. Behind you the sound of water splashing into the enormous tub filled the room. 

Azriel stepped away too, lifting his face into the water and rubbing his hands over his face. You followed, wrapping your arms around his waist and allowing your hands to find the sensitive spot where his wings met his back. 

“What are you doing, baby?” His gaze snapped down, sending water flying. 

“Let me wash you,” you pouted, two scarred hands cupping your cheeks as he kissed the pout from your lips. But then he turned, kneeling on the floor of the shower so you should reach him. 

The lavender soap was slippery in your hands, filling the shower area with its sweet, floral scent. 

You began with his shoulders, rubbing the knots away with your thumbs and then sliding your hands over his shoulders, suds revealing hints of the detailed tattoos that hid beneath, fingers brushing over the hard nubs of nipples before squeezing the soft muscle of his pecs playfully. 

Cassian, hair now slicked back from face, stepped behind you in turn, guiding your hands back to Azriel’s shoulders. 

“Just - here,” he nuzzled into the soft spot below your ear, moving your hand between Az’s wings and then pressing. 

In front of you Azriel moaned, a deep sound that bounced off the tiles and vibrated up your legs. Cassian chuckled behind you and pressed again. 

“Wicked, both of you, wicked, teasing -” he stood and turned, crowding you back against Cas until all three of you were in the corner of the shower, kissing and laughing while Azriel tickled up your sides. 

“Hmm, time for the bath I think,” Cas wrapped his arms around you, reaching for Az. 

“I agree,” you nodded, breathless. 

Tearing yourself away from their searching hands and hungry kisses, you added a large squeeze of bubble bath to the filling tub. You barely had time to turn around again before Cassian hauled you into his arms and kissed you.

“Fuck, I missed you, baby, you’ll stay with us in the bath, right?” His hazel eyes, so full of lust just moments before, were clouded with something else too, a fear, a need to be close. 

“How can I say no to you, Cas?” You looked down into his gorgeous face, clean now after his quick shower, glowing in the steamy room.

“Good,” Az sighed into your ear, the feeling of his shivering shadows creeping up your legs and around your waist. 

Surrounded, you were entirely surrounded by them and it was exactly where you needed and wanted to be. Between your boys, safe and loved and close, just the three of you in the sanctuary you’d created. 

“Good!” Cassian echoed, climbing into the overflowing water.

“Cassy!” You giggled, sloshing the water as you both got comfortable before Azriel climbed in too. 

The tub was enormous, large enough for both males and their impressive wingspans, but you crowded together anyway, needing to feel them. You leaned forwards and pressed a chaste kiss to Azriel, revealing in the contrast of his cold shadows on your cheeks and his warm, full lips gently parting your own. 

Cassian’s grip on your hips tightened, “where are you going?” he tugged you back into his lap and nuzzled kisses into your neck. “I’ve gotta feel you, baby,” he hummed, settling your hips directly over his so you could feel the hard length of his arousal between your legs. 

Gods you’d missed this, the way your pulse raced and your body reacted for them. Your legs falling further open and your hips grinding back against him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, we can’t flood the bathroom again,” Azriel groaned, remembering the last time the three of you had taken a bath together, the whole floor had been soaked within minutes, soap and suds dripping out of the floor length open windows into the jasmine scented sky. 

“Just - let me -” he nipped gently at your shoulder, “feel you then.” You never could resist when he turned on his puppy dog eyes, how could you when they were so full of want and desire and the tip of his cock was nudging between your legs in that sinful way. 

You knew exactly what he wanted and you needed it too, reaching between you, you took hold of his hard cock and lined him up against your entrance, sinking down slowly. The first inch was always the hardest, his thick head stretching you, the pressure against your clit so sudden and delicious you could barely keep your eyes open. 

And then you felt Az’s shadows on your cheeks again and you opened your eyes to meet his, dark with lust and need while he watched you sink back down into Cassian’s lap with a gasp. 

Open mouthed, you gasped harder, feeling him so deep inside of you after so long was a welcome shock. 

“You look so beautiful like this, sweetheart.” Azriel’s voice was a low purr, each word punctuated by his shadows skittering over your skin, dancing between the dappled candlelight. 

“Az-” you moaned, leaning back against Cassian once more, ever your rock in this sea of pleasure. 

“That’s a good girl,” he whispered into your ear, soft and low, “taking me so well, taking such good care of me.” He pressed a kiss behind your ear, hands squeezing your hips. “But I think Azzie is lonely over there.” He tipped your chin back up to look at Azriel again, one arm resting on the tile surround, the other under the bubbles, his arm moving slowly as he pumped his cock. “Why don’t you keep him company?” 

Azriel met you searching hand with his own scarred palm, lacing your fingers together and drawing you closer. With a whimper you allowed Cassian’s cock to slip free, instantly feeling lost and empty without his firm, grounding presence. But Azriel was quick to help, situating you on his lap, knees spread wide around his hips and the wide head of his own cock nudging against your entrance. 

He swiped a hand over your forehead, beads of sweat forming from the heat of the bath, down your cheek and neck, his thumb pressing up just a little as it brushed under you chin. It was like you couldn’t breath, taking in his gentle touch, the caress of his hand over your nipple and down your side before he corsetted your waist with his fingers. And then you were lowering on to him too, taking every delicious inch that he had to offer. 

“You feel heavenly, baby,” he whispered, nosing at your jaw and nipping at your throat while you rolled your hips. “Would be a shame not to share you.” 

The water swirled around you both and Cassian’s scent heightened as he drew closer, his hands over Azriel’s at your waist and then dipping lower, lower, tracing the dip at the small of your back and slipping under the water to cup the round swell of your bottom. Massaging and pressing, his fingers touching the delicate skin that stretched so tight around Azriel’s length and then pulling back to circle the your tight pucker. 

“This okay, sweetheart?” He breathed and the feel of his lips on your cheek, Azriel’s on your shoulder, their bodies slick and hard and wanting surrounding you had you whimpering again, clinging to them. You’d take everything they would give you, every touch, every kiss and every inch. 

“Yes - yes - Cassian - please.” You begged, letting your head fall back against him, that familiar movement, that let you feel safe in his arms, that let you gasp and shudder as he pressed inside, knowing they would keep you here on the precipice of pleasure. 

“Fuck-” he brought his other hand around your chest, pulling you tight against him, cupping your breast in his large palm. “You’re perfect - perfect.” He grunted, a second finger joining the first and your mouth fell open in a silent shout. 

“Gods damn, Cassian, I can feel you.” Azriel shut his eyes, leaning into your chest and laving at your free nipple, he sucked the stiff nub into his mouth and worried it with his teeth, breathing heavily through his nose in his efforts to stay still. 

You could feel Cassian’s answering smirk on the cooling skin of your shoulder and then, just as suddenly, deep inside where he curled and spread his fingers. 

“Cassie,” you whined, shifting down into the full feeling, trying to move yourself while trapped between the two Illyrian males and finding no give in their embrace. “Please.” 

You didn’t need to beg further because Azriel took up your cause, barking at Cassian to hurry up before he embarrassed himself. His fingers were gone in an instance, replaced by the blunt, wide head of his cock and then - “Cass-” his name was punched from your lungs, leaving you breathless and floating between them. But they didn’t move. 

Together, you soaked in the bubbles for a few minutes, connected again after so much time apart, each intake of breath making them shift inside of you, sending sparks of heat across your skin. They were here, with out, safe and unharmed. 

 The aching of their initial thrusts gave way to a deep, dull, yearning for more. You clenched around them, trying to stay still but finding it increasingly difficult to stop your body moving, it was drawn to them, needing to feel them moving and loving you as much as they needed to hold you.

Azriel pulled away from you and opened one eye. “Baby, you need to stay still.” His soft, sleepy voice rolled over your skin, igniting your need further, he had fallen as deeply as you, hypnotised by the flickering candles, your combined scents and the closeness that you all craved. 

“Az, I can’t,” you cried, biting into his shoulder to stop your moans as your hips found the perfect pressure, “I missed you both so fucking much.” 

You hooked one arm around his shoulder and the other behind you to tangle in the messy of Cassian’s curls. 

“Fuck,” Cassian grunted, “I’m trying to be good here, don’t wanna make a mess like last time” He chuckled thrusting up anyway, the water swirling around the three of you and spilling over the sides of the tub and across the pearlescent tiles. 

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I just need you, please, fuck, I can’t wait anymore.” Frantically, you moved your hands and kissed Azriel roughly before turning your head to capture Cassian’s lips too. 

“Okay,” Azriel smiled, a secret smile that only you and Cassian ever saw, “but remember you asked for it.”

He gripped your hips again, fingers bruising tight on your hips, and thrust up, chasing his release. 

“Fuck, Azriel,” Cassian groaned behind you, biting into your shoulder and starting to move in contrast to Az. 

“I love you,” you moaned, eyes closed, lost in bliss. “I love you both so much.” Your climax hit you like an arrow, your whole body clenching around them as your walls fluttered, drawing them ever closer to their own release. 

“Love you too, Sweetheart.” 

“Love you, Baby.” 

They growled in unison cumming hard, Azriel bent his head back into your chest, nipping at the soft swell of your breast. Cassian dug his fingers into your waist, pulling you down onto them one last time. 

You stayed there, sandwiched between them, matching smiles on your sated faces, until the water went cold and the bubbles faded. 

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

#4 on your enemies to lovers prompts is giving Eris vibes

Loose Lips — Eris Vanserra x Reader

Enjoy! 💕

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Rhysand was going to kill you. 

And so was Cassian.

Probably Azriel, too.

Maybe even Amren.

And Mor — sweet, lovely Mor — would be disappointed. Hurt.

You’d fucked up.

The realisation dawned on you upon waking. The rain that drizzled outside felt painfully fitting. 

You sat up in bed, clutching the sheet to your naked body. Your eyes crept over to the sleeping figure at your side.

Eris Vanserra’s hair was tousled on the pillow, mussed from sleep. His bare, chiselled chest rose and fell evenly in his slumber. His milky skin looked soft as cotton.

In a state of sleep, with no snarl or grimace or glare twisting his face, he was actually quite…beautiful.

And vulnerable. There was nothing stopping you from reaching for your dagger and plunging it into his heart right now. Something you’d fantasised about doing countless times. Something you’d promised him you would one day do. 

The male infuriated you something chronic. His history with your friends made your loathing of him a living, tangible thing.

And yet here you were in bed with him. Naked. You peeked beneath the sheet just to be sure — but the memory of the previous night was clear in your brain.

You were only supposed to deliver a message on Rhysand’s behalf. That was one of many tasks as his courtier. You were good with wielding words, with gleaning information. So rarely did you represent him without returning with something for him to turn over in his mind. 

The problem was that you hated Eris Vanserra so ferociously, your tongue always seemed to run away with you. 

Somehow…somehow, last night, your vicious, barbed words had turned into hungry kisses. To stumbling up the stairs of the concealed house you always met in to exchange information. To ripping each other’s clothes off and moaning until your voices were hoarse.

You’d crossed a damn line. And you didn’t know how.

You weren’t going to stick around to find out. 

With Eris still sleeping, you rose from the bed, keeping your movements quick and silent. You shucked your creased shirt on, making fast work of the buttons. Tugged your breeches on and shoved your feet into your shoes. 

You didn’t know how you were going to explain to Rhys where you’d been all night. How a simple message had kept you away for so long.

You’d have to find a stream to bathe in. To wash away the smell of sex. And the Autumn lordling.

Your legs feeling like jelly, you crossed the room in quick strides, not caring to lace your boots up.

“Going somewhere?”

Eris’s voice was decorated with a morning rasp. The sound took you right back to the breathy moans he’d whispered into your ear. You shook off the shiver that danced over your skin, clenching your jaw.

“I’m leaving.” Was all you offered.

“Shame.” Eris sat up in bed, stretching his arms above his head. “And you were such tantalising company, too.”

“Last night was a mistake.”

There was something positively lupine in the way he appraised your unkempt appearance and cocked an eyebrow. Amusement danced on his lips.

“That’s funny. I don’t recall you saying no.” His amber eyes raked over you. “You said yes a lot. And gods, yes. Oh fuck, yes—”

“So you’re a great lay.” You gritted your teeth. “It was still a mistake. And it’s never happening again.”

He said nothing. Merely stared at you with that hint of a smile on his lips. It incensed you so much that you wanted to launch something at him. Before you could make any more rash decisions, you turned—

“You know,” Eris lay back, resting his arms behind his head. “You may just have the prettiest orgasm face I’ve ever seen.” 

“You’re despicable.” 

He chuckled. “Perhaps. But I’m also very clever. You see, while you view last night as a mistake, I view it as an advantage.”

Walk away, your mind screamed at you. Don’t even entertain him. Last night wouldn’t have happened if you’d just walked away.

You couldn’t stop yourself grounding out, “How.”

“Because, darling, I now have leverage against you, don’t I?” Those amber eyes glittered. “Your friends would positively lose their shit if they knew you’d bedded me. Rhysand would probably toss you out on your ass, and where would you go?”

Prick. Gods, the delight you’d take in throttling him—

“What do you want, Eris? For me to get on my knees and beg you not to tell them?”

He smirked. “Pretty as you are on your knees — no, that’s not what I want.” He was enjoying every second of this. “You’re just going to have to start being a bit nicer to me, is all. You know — so I don’t slip up and accidentally blurt something.”

You snorted. “That’s what you want? For me to be nice to you? Does my hatred for you cut deep?”

“Hatred.” He chuckled. 

You stared at him, a muscle in your jaw ticking. Your mind still pleaded with you to just leave.

But there was something dangerously challenging in Eris’s eyes. Something you couldn’t yet walk away from.

He gazed back at you, cocking his head. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think,” he ignored your retort, “that being nice to me won’t be as hard a feat as you like to pretend.”

“You—”

“I think that somewhere, deep down, in that cold, emotionally-constipated heart, that you quite like me.” He grinned, flashing teeth. “And I think it fucking tortures you.”

Your body was taut.

You didn’t care that he’d won this round of verbal sparring. That he’d had the last word.

You only cared about getting out of there. Far, far away from him.

Without uttering another syllable, you turned on your feet and stalked out of the room. Before the truth could show on your face.

“Until next time, then, love!” Eris yelled after you.

[zorrasucia]

Promptober 4. Temperature play 

from @carmenberzattosgf list

Reader x Carmy Berzatto (The Bear FX)

Rating: Explicit (1.2k)

Tags: Smut, Porn with a little plot, Fluff, Established Relationship, Temperature Play (but they're really tame about it), Fingering, Cockwarming, Both Carmy and Reader have a bit of a praise kink

It was a cold evening. The forecast predicted snow during the night and you actually believed it. You laid on your couch, heating turned up and a blanket on your legs; you were comfortable and warm.

Suddenly, there was frantic knocking at your door - when you looked through the peephole, you saw Carmy.

"I didn't know you were coming tonight," you said while you unlocked the door. "Oh, shit."

Carmy was hugging himself and shaking with cold. He was wearing only his white t-shirt and his work slacks. His pale skin was red from the wind.

You dragged him inside, giving him the blanket you were using and started boiling water for tea.

"Fuck, Carm, what happened?" you rubbed his arms, trying to warm him up.

"J-just so fuckin' st-tupid," he managed, teeth chattering. "Got lock-locked out of my car. My c-coat, my keys, my wallet, my phone, everything was inside."

"Shit," the keys to his apartment, and his car, and the restaurant. You realized all at once just how fucked up his situation was.

He nodded. "No cabs. Thought I could just walk h-here," he kept shaking. "Only five blocks away f-from my place, right?"

"Oh, Carm," you fixed his hair. "Let's get you out of these clothes. You're freezing."

You helped him get undressed, leaving him in his boxers, the blanket wrapped around him, sipping tea from a chipped mug.

"See, you wouldn't have to be naked if you had a change of clothes here," you said, jokingly stern as you placed them near the heater. "Maybe my sweatpants will fit you?"

"I'll be f-fine," he insisted.

You sat on the couch next to him and took his hand. "You're still too cold," you mumbled with worry.

You climbed on his lap, holding him close, his face on your collarbone. After a little while of hugging him, he stopped shaking. Once your worries about hypothermia dissipated, it was easier to think about Carmy's muscled back and meaty thighs, and about his cold fingers tracing pictures on your back.

"You know, I just remembered I read somewhere that it's easier to share body heat skin on skin," you said.

Carmy looked at you with a frown. "Yeah?"

You nodded and stood up.

Staring right into Carmy's eyes, you took your t-shirt off, then your sports bra, and your sweatpants and underwear all at once. His pupils dilated and you went back to straddle his lap, bare, every inch of his cool skin making you shiver.

"Where do you feel cold?" you asked, tilting your head.

"My nose," he replied.

You cupped his face, and guided it to burrow in the crook of your neck, the tip of his nose drawing lines along your collarbone, tickling and making you arch your neck. Carmy used the opportunity to place a line of chaste kisses up your throat, warming his lips in the process.

"Where else?"

"My hands," he offered them to you, palms up, and you placed them over your breasts, your nipples hardening immediately at his touch, getting goosebumps with every squeeze he gave. You hummed at the sensation.

"My fingers are still cold," he prompted, playing along.

His knuckles rubbed up and down your sides, and he grinned at the way you squirmed. He ended up tracing a sinuous path from your ribs down your hips and to the insides of your thighs.

You gasped.

"Can I warm them up here?" Carmy asked, his index ghosting over your mound enticingly.

"Yes."

His index, middle and ring fingers separated your folds, the difference in temperature more notorious there than anywhere else on your body. He swirled his fingers around your pussy, leisurely coating them in arousal, unearthing new sensations with every movement, unlike anything you had felt when he had fingered you before. When his fingers were almost as warm as your core, and you thought he was done playing with you, he changed his hand. It was cold again, and his thumb pressed on your clit this time.

"Fuck, Carmy," you moaned and pulled on his hair.

"You're so wet," he marveled and kept teasing you, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips.

"Yes," you panted.

"Don't think I can fuck you right now," he lamented, kissing your neck apologetically. "I'm numb everywhere."

You knew this. Other than his hands, and maybe the bit of his thighs that you were sitting on, he was still extremely cold.

"It's okay. You don't need to fuck me," you whispered. "I just need you inside me. Get you warm."

"Okay."

You reached inside his boxer briefs and took out his cock, barely half hard despite all your efforts, and almost as cold as the rest of Carmy's skin. You guided him to your entrance, sitting on him slowly. It tickled you as it went in, awakening every nerve inside you all at once. You let out a shaky exhale as Carmy held you close, arms rounding your back.

"You're so fucking warm, baby," he rasped. It was like he melted in your arms, relaxing as you carded your fingers through his hair and caressed his shoulders. He was mumbling sweet nothings into the skin of your neck. "You're so soft, smell so nice. Thank you..."

You smiled, liking this gentler side of Carmy, his soft praise heating you from within. You stayed like that for what seemed like a very long time, your breathing syncing up.

"Feeling better?" you asked; your desire had settled down.

"Mhmm," he nodded, tickling your chin with his curls.

"I'm glad. I'm going to see if your clothes are warm now so you get dressed, okay?" you kissed the top of his head and shifted on his lap to dismount but he wouldn't let you move, holding you tight. "Carm?"

"You've taken such good care of me," he said. "Let me take care of you?"

You frowned. He had fingered you and touched your body, and you enjoyed it so much that it made you beg to sit on his cock. How else was he going to take care of you? Still, he was looking at you with those wide, beautiful eyes so you simply nodded.

"Alright."

He gave you a lopsided smirk and kissed down your breast, slowly, giving special attention to your nipple, licking at it, sucking on it. You moaned low. He moved to the other side, giving it the same treatment, making you squeeze your pussy around his cock.

"That's it, good girl," he praised and it made you clench again.

He kissed up your neck and jaw, mouthing and licking, thawing whatever cold bits he had left before.

"Carmy," you whined, feeling your belly warm up and tingle once again. "Fuck."

It was odd. He was giving you pleasure everywhere except your pussy and still you could feel it building, the smallest shift of his cock against your core was making your heart beat faster.

"Kiss me," you pleaded. And he obliged. He kissed you adoringly, his tongue gentle - his hands were still caressing your breasts.

It was a tender thing, a sigh against his lips as your pussy fluttered around him, and you surrendered in his arms. When you opened your eyes, he looked sleepy and soft, pliant under your touch.

"Carmy," you kissed his temple. "I love you."

"I love you, I love you so much," he replied.

[perfectly-m1saligned]

K!nktober day 4

Followin @dreamlandcreations prompt list. Day four: food play; biting/marks; drunk sex (they were all too good to not make a story with all of them). You can find all my stories on my Wattpad as well. Toodles!

(NSFW: MDNI!! Reader's discretion is advised)

Simon Riley x reader

(Husband! Simon)

cw: Simon is obsessed with his wife (as he should), oral (both f and m receiving), unprotected piv, creampie

word count: 2628

a/n: this is my longest one yet, but trust me, it's WORTH IT

No one would've ever pinned Lieutenant Simon Riley for a romantic, not even you when you had first met him, really, yet you couldn't deny that your husband was full of surprises. The day you said "I do" at the altar, you didn't just get married to Simon, but to his job, too. And now, said job was the culprit behind your delayed honeymoon.

A dangerous mission had taken Task Force 141 somewhere in South America for two whole months, eight weeks in which you had barely received any updates from your husband from burner phones that made him sound like he was talking through a brick. Still, Simon never thought he would be grateful for a near-death experience, but apparently there's always a first time for everything. The mission had taken place in Costa Rica and, even though he was sent to the nasty part of it, he had been able to catch a glimpse of the crystal clear water, beautiful beaches, and the opportunities that the country had to offer to civilian tourists.

As soon as he came home to you, he had bought two plane tickets, but since his trip-planning skills were fairly limited, he hoped to make it up to you by booking the honeymoon suite at the fanciest all-inclusive resort he could find; also, he couldn't risk having you seeing the same atrocities he had while on mission.

Simon wasn't exactly the most tactful guy, so he didn't really provide any explanation when he tossed onto the bed the envelope with the two tickets inside, just a gruff "we're leaving in two days" and then he was out of the bedroom, leaving your confused, half-asleep form babbling like a fish out of the water.

You never pinned your husband for a romantic, but you couldn't have been any happier when, as you walked down the hotel's hallway to your suite, he picked you up bridal style, his heart melting at the sound of your sweet giggles, your arms wrapped around his neck as he carried you over the threshold of your room. Lucious, spacious, opening onto a small living room, an arched entryway led to the bedroom - and you wondered just how many people could fit in that gigantic bed - which was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, a wooden balcony extending outside, with an opening onto your very own personal pool, and the ocean right next to it. There was also a bathtub in the bedroom, and your heart clenched with sympathy for the cleaning ladies, what they had to see- and definitely what they would see after your stay.

The staff had left a fruit basket on the bed, a little note that you were now cradling between your fingers where they expressed their gratitude for choosing their establishment and wished their best to your marriage, and a bottle of expensive champagne. "How about we wait tonight to celebrate?" Simon asked, his voice a low purr next to your ear as he encircled your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. "How about you put on one of those sexy bikinis you packed and we go enjoy the free bar, hm?" You didn't have to be told twice before eagerly agreeing, "free bar" was possibly your favourite combination of words in the English language.

You decided on a plain black bikini, with two small golden chains that ran along the underside of your breasts, and a small golden pendant that hung off the side of your bikini bottoms. Simon was wearing matching black swimming trunks, his sculpted chest carrying battle scars, tattoos lining his left forearm, ink-stained skin that you ran your fingers on countless times, memorising every line and curve. You loved Simon's body, just like every other part of him, but sometimes you forgot that he didn't exactly look like a civilian, with his crooked nose and the silver scar cutting over his bottom lip. He didn't care about the dirty side-eyed glances he received from the people that crowded the beach; as long as he had those big eyes of yours looking up at him with love, like he hung the moon and the stars, he was happy.

"How much did you pay for the whole thing anyway?" You asked, sipping on your second - perhaps third - margarita, sitting at one of the high stools that surrounded the beach bar, your feet dipped in the water. "Eh, don't even remember," Simon lied. "But I had been saving a small sum on the side for our honeymoon." Your lips curled up in a warm smile, eyes twinkling and filled with love, even as you watched your 6'4", 250+lbs husband sip on some pink fruity cocktail.

The sun was setting, so you decided to head back to your suite to get ready for dinner. How you were going to achieve that was still unclear, since you were both fairly tipsy, your arm secured around his as you couldn't stop giggling. The moment the door closed behind you, Simon picked you up effortlessly, a small squeak leaving your mouth as the room started spinning around you. "Simon, we should-" your thought was interrupted by Simon's lips, catching yours into a scorching kiss, tongue impatiently running along your bottom lip, seeking entrance, which you immediately granted, letting him delve deeper, coaxing a moan.

A growl rumbled in his chest, fingers digging in the supple flesh of your ass, pressing you against his chest impossibly closer. "Fuck the dinner," he whispered against your lips, his breath still carrying the liquor. "I need my wife." Before you could realise what was happening, your back hit the mattress, and soon Simon's weight followed as he settled himself between your thighs, caging you to the bed with two large hands on either side of your head. "And since the hotel staff was so kind..." he reached for one of the strawberries that laid in the fruit basket. "I have everything I need right here. A tasty meal," - he ran the strawberry down to the valley of your breasts, making you gasp - "and dessert." He said, sporting a cocky smirk as he brought the strawberry to his lips and bit into it.

He placed the unbitten part of the fruit between his lips, now tinted a faintly darker shade of pink, and he lowered his head. You met him halfway, snatching the strawberry with your own teeth before letting yourself fall back against the pillows. Simon watched you eat, brown irises almost eclipsed by his pupils, dilated by lust and the desire to fuck you stupid, the alcohol making his fingers itch to touch you even more. "What?" You asked, amused. He shook his head. "Just thinking about the ways I'm going to ruin you, my love." He whispered, running a hand over your bikini top, catching the small golden chain with his index finger, making you shudder with anticipation.

You never stopped being his good girl, so pliant under his touch as he undid the knots of your bikini top, discarding it onto the floor, and moved to remove your bottoms, so you lifted your hips to help him slide them down your legs. The both of you were still a little hazy, drunken giggles mixing with your breathy gasps, every touch of his fingers making your skin come alive with goosebumps. Simon took a moment to lean back and admire your naked form, the dips and curves he's memorised through the ears with every part of his body. He reached for the basket again. "Now I need you to stay still, love." He ordered with a purr, fetching some grapes, placing them in a neat line from your collarbone to your lower abdomen.

You kept your head and neck movements to a minimum, your eyes carefully following the way his fingers placed the little green grapes with care across your bare skin. A small chuckle made your chest stutter with mirth, causing one of the fruits to fall onto the mattress. Simon's eyes darkened in warning. "I said don't move, love. Or I'll have to punish you." Your eyes widened at the quietly-spoken threat, lips pressed together to suppress any unwanted sound or twitch of your body. When everything was in place, Simon slowly started to eat the grapes, lips closing around it and leaving a wet, warm mark on your body.

Once he'd caught the one that laid between your breasts, your chest suddenly caved as he proceeded to pepper the sensitive, supple flesh with more kisses, lips closing in on one of your erect nipples, making you hiss in pleasure. "Simon-" you called out with a moan. "Don't. Move." He growled, giving your other nipple a gentle pinch with his teeth, coaxing a whimper. As he continued his path down your torso, you couldn't help the giggle that involuntarily slipped past your lips when he caught the grape he'd placed on your navel, the swipe of his tongue tickling you. His large hands secured around your spread thighs, he gave them a punitive, bruising squeeze. "S- Sorry!" You squeaked meekly, earning a displeased hum from him as he chewed.

Finally, he reached the last one, and you almost bucked your hips upwards, body sizzling with anticipation. "Patience, my love," he whispered, hot breath fanning across your hooded clit as he swallowed the final grape. "Fuck..." you mewled, back arching away from the bed when he pressed his tongue flat onto your drenched slit, lapping up the arousal that had collected between your folds. He moaned, the vibration he sent against your pussy making you see stars. The alcohol in your system made you even more sensitive, your hole weeping with juices that leaked onto Simon's face, covering his lips and chin with a glistening coat.

"You taste so good, my love...fuck," he murmured, peppering your puffy lips with kisses. "So wet already, I can't wait to stretch that tiny hole with my cock." His words made you shudder, an incoherent babble leaving your mouth. "Hm? What was that, lovie?" He prompted, a wolfish grin on his face as he looked up at you through hooded eyes and bushy blonde brows. "Need...cock..." You managed to utter, hands fisting the pristine sheets as he kept his assault onto your sensitive cunt.

"Such a desperate little girl, you." He chuckled, circling your needy hole with the tip of his finger. "I know that you turn naughty after a few drinks but Jesus, baby, you're filthy tonight." His dirty talk made you chase his teasing finger with your hips, and he cooed, finally obliging to your silent plea and pushing his fore and middle finger into your needy entrance. You gasped, eyes wide open before you squeezed them shut again, He kept sucking onto your swollen and sensitive clit as he scissored against your gummy walls, stretching you out to accommodate him later. You were a squirming, moaning mess, leaking onto the bed sheets, leaving wet splotches, as you felt the heat coil in your stomach, bringing you closer to the edge.

"Simon...'m gonna..." A frustrated cry followed, as Simon withdrew his fingers and pulled away, making you prop yourself up on your elbows, brows furrowed in a scowl as he got up from the bed. "What the f-" you were silenced when he shoved his cock past your lips with one long thrust, balls hitting your chin as he buried himself in your throat. "That's it," he praised. "Good girl, take it all in that pretty mouth of yours." Hand fisting your hair in a makeshift ponytail, Simon fucked your face with deliberate thrusts, making sure you would coat the whole length of his shaft with your saliva. He grunted your name, chest heaving with ragged breaths, and he had to stop before he accidentally came in your mouth; he was more sensitive when he was drunk, but he wanted to enjoy the night to its fullest

Your lips made a soft 'pop' when Simon unsheathed himself, a string of drool still connecting your tongue to the tip of his cock. You looked up at your husband, doe-eyed, as he caught his breath. "Good girl, y/n, look at this," he held his member with one large hand. "Can't wait to fuck you stupid, love." A giddy grin grew on your lips, and you settled back onto the bed, eagerly waiting for him, but you saw him move away instead. "Si-"

"Easy, love, I'm just putting these in a safer location." He reassured you, a hint of amusement in his voice as he placed the fruit basket and the bottle of champagne onto the desk. "Though I like seeing you like this, so desperate for my cock." You merely suppressed a pathetic whimper, cheeks glowing red at his filthy words. He made his way back, putting one knee after the other, mattress dipping under his weight as he ventured one again between your thighs. "Sorry for the delay, my love," he whispered, lips skimming the sensitive side of your throat. "But I wanted our honeymoon to be perfect, to make sure I could show you exactly how I'll treat you for the rest of our lives."

His teeth sank into the thin flesh, just as his tip entered your weeping hole, your breath taken away inch after inch. Simon growled, biting down harder until he kissed your cervix, fully buried inside you. "Oh fuck, Simon-" you hissed at the delicious ache caused by the stretch, the heels of your feet pressing down on his ass to somehow get him even deeper. "What a greedy little thing you are, y/n," he murmured, chasing away the sting of his bite, running a flat tongue over the deep red mark. "Already full of my cock yet you want more, hm? We'll see about that."

You weren't sure if sex could get you drunk, but it surely looked like you were drunk off your husband's relentless fucking, his merciless thrusts making your pussy release the the filthiest squelching sounds, his lower abdomen covered in your squirt, the room filled with your voiced pleasure as he held you in a mating press, knees bent at your ears. Simon had his hands secured on the back of your legs, hips angled so he could drive his hungry dick as deep inside you as possible, a proud smirk on his lips as he watched your eyes roll back into your skull, your neck and breasts covered in red and purple-ish marks. He wasn't exactly thinking about the fact that you would have to walk around practically half naked for the next two weeks; clearly, it wasn't really one of his concerns right now.

"Simon," you called out, your hands curling around his forearms, neatly manicured nails sinking into his skin. "Please, please, please, 'm gonna cum...please!" Simon welcomed your plea, keeping the exact same pace that was driving you over the edge, and felt your gummy walls clenching his length almost painfully as the orgasm wrecked through you, making you scream out his name. Your muscles were squeezing him so tight Simon couldn't really hold on much longer, his own orgasm finding release deep inside your warm cunt, the spasms of your womb drinking his cum greedily as he grunted your name.

Silence fell once you had both rode out your high, a low, pleased hum leaving his lips as he unsheathed himself, consequently collapsing onto the bed next to you. You were both sweaty and spent, yet too tired to get up to wash yourselves. "Simon?" You called out softly after a couple of silent minutes. "Hm?" He replied lazily. "Are we going to spend every day like this?" You asked. "Oh, for sure." He chuckled, snaking a hand around your waist to bring you into his chest, nuzzling his nose in your hair. You sighed, a smile tugging at your lips. "Good."

•This is an original work of fiction, please do not copy, translate and/or share on this on another platform without credit•

[swifty-fox]

prompt #15 for inexperienced/virgin gale & john pleaseeeee

15.  “I wanted you to be my first…”

The sheets were scratchy.

Linen chafed pleasantly against Gale's shoulderblades, cradles his head as John tosses Gale's shirt behind them somewhere. Gale hears the soft whisper of it falling on the floor of the room they'd booked for the night. They'd left the rest of their boys at the bar, left Marge with her ladyfriend John had been dancing with all night, and John had driven them to the motel in relative silence.

Silence, not quiet.

The tension between them that had been low vibration at the bar raising with every mile ticked off the counter. John had even turned off the radio, as if to hear the hum of them better.

"You've done this before? Been with someone?" John asks, sucking kisses across the shivering expanse of Gale's stomach.

Gale stares up at the ceiling, tries to ignore the way his body throbs at every single touch. He's trying to show some restraint, or maybe self respect, and not give into the desperate need to beg Bucky to climb right inside his skin. Linen burns against his skin for how he's got his fingers all tangled up in the sheets. John's mustache is a wet prickle-press against his oversensitive skin. He thinks every touch might be enough to have him crashing out.

John's face comes back into his vision, flushed and dumped with hungry concern. His fingers, just big enough to make Gale feel dainty, slide along his jaw, cupping the sharp of it gently.

"Buck?"

"Not a lotta opportunities in Cheyenne or Sheridan, Bucky."

They come together in a sucking kiss, echoing around the room with wet skin contact and a quiet noise from Gale, who was taken by surprise everytime the bold force of John's tongue slipped past his teeth with casual control.

"Plenty of boys up for it in college, more so in basic training."

Gale barely makes the words out through the press of their lips, it takes longer for him to remember to reply. Longer even to allow himself the vulnerability of tender honesty.

"I wanted you to be my first," he stubbornly refuses to allow the color rise to his cheeks.

"Oh," John sighs though there's nothing delicate about the exhalation.

Instead, he sounds ravenous.

His face melts into Gale's shoulder, pressing languishing hungry kisses there, works open-mouthed against Gale's shoulder like there was something to delve his tongue inside of. It sends Gale keening, one knee coming up to cup against John's broad body.

They're rutting against each other and every movement sends his cock squishing wetly against his hip. There's a wet spot on the front of John's slacks, drooling a thin string of connection when he pulls away. Gale watches it stretch and snap, mouth watering like he's a starving man and shuts his eyes when John palms him in one broad hand.

"That's okay, doll," John says softly, "Kinda doing it for me, honestly, that I'm gonna be the one to show you what a man feels like."

"Why you gotta say it like that?"

"Like what?" John works his belt open and pulls his cock out with one smooth movement.

Gale watches John jerk himself root to head in one smooth movement, drooling fat drops of need onto the still-clothed line of Gale's own arousal. Marking him.

He doesn't know his mouth is open in shocked need until John presses a thumb to his bottom lip, smoothing back and forth as if appreciating the plump of it.

"Like I'm your girl."

John grins at him, all crooked lips and twinkling eyes, "Aren't you?"

"Bucky."

Their gazes hold for a long moment. John's still got a hand on his prick, guiding it in a slow grind against the rise of Gale's cock, ruining his pants. Finally, John acquiesces.

"Nah, you're not my girl," John bends down to nip loving teeth at Gale's nipple. Licks the beading sweat from the center of his chest and scrapes along the rise and fall of his torso muscles. They were fit fighting shape, peaked and ready for war.

"You're my fella," John croons, "My man. My copilot."

[whorekneecentral]

sd! toto? this man is the biggest sugar daddy material hands down, like a billionaire. maybe the reader is student at Harvard (i know this type of prompt has been used many times but I can’t think of anything else 😭) she’s studying to be a professor and can’t seem to be paying her student loans. And her friend invited her over to the paddock for the weekend to get her mind off of her studies and relax, where she then meets Toto and there’s a attraction which then leads to him being her secret sugar daddy?

-jenson anon ❤️

jenson anon you are so sexy for this idea ily bae <3333

you thought you knew him from somewhere; your friend ran in all the high end, luxury circles because of who her parents were and when she introduced you to the team principal of mercedes; you knew you had seen him before.

he remembered you before you remembered him - the two of you had met when he did a lecture at harvard. you were telling him that you were getting your PhD so become a professor and he said if you ever changed your mind, you could come work for them.

you never bothered with his comment, you figured you'd never see him again; you had been too busy to even think about that. between school and working to be able to pay for school, you barely had time to breathe.

the only reason you were there is cause your friend's parents paid for everything.

the afternoon goes by, everyone gets busy and your friend eventually disappears when she sees someone she knows.

you were sat in merc hospitality, having a coffee when someone asked if they could sit with you. you look over and see toto.

you tell him go ahead and you two make small talk. he asks how the PhD is going, you tell him it's slowly killing you.

"what do you mean?" the man pushes his glasses up a bit, looking at you.

you shrug, "I might die before I pay back the loans I have." you joked, not really tho.

toto shook his head, "so stupid that you need loans to go to school, to work just to pay back the loans."

"tell me about it." you sighed, spinning the cup around on the table. it goes quiet for a bit before he speaks. "let me pay for it."

you look at him like he's insane, "no, absolutely not. you're very kind for offering but I cannot let you do that."

"why not? it's a good use of my money."

"I wouldn't be able to pay you back, it would kill me to just take the money from you."

toto nods, telling you he understood and the conversation drops.

"we can work something out," he starts and you cut him off, "I can't afford that-"

"no, not like that. uh, so I was thinking more along the lines of you just giving me some company."

you get what he meant and you can't help but laugh. "I'm not looking to be a sugar baby."

"no of course not," he shook his head, "just two friends who benefit from each other?"

"well when you put it like that." you nod, smiling.

toto asked you to join him for the races over your summer break, in exchange he paid for your next two semesters.

you got to travel the world and he got the company he wanted, while your school was paid for.

it was nice, you got to explore on the days you didn't join him on track. he left a card with you which you used for emergencies but he left it with you incase you wanted to shop or stop to eat somewhere. you two had dinner together almost every night, unless he was working late.

he spoiled you with lavish clothing and jewellery to match; you told him it was too much and he said you needed to fit in with the crowd so he's just making sure you don't stick out.

you both knew he just liked to spoil you, that was the whole thing.

the break in the race schedule came up, the drivers off to rest for the summer. toto asked if you'd like to join him in England, spend a few weeks with him relaxing.

you said okay; the 2 of you spent 2 of the 4 weeks in England, resting and getting to know each other properly- and by that I mean in bed.

one too many glasses of wine turned into flirting, into touches and stolen glances and eventually you two ended up going at it right on the deck.

the next 2 weeks were on an island, a little villa all to yourselves, rolling around in bed all morning, waking up to the sun and your lover kissing on you.

you returned to the paddock, toto a little more touchy than before but no one seemed to say anything even tho they noticed the change in the two of you.

[am-i-obsessed---maybe]

New Face, Fresh Promises (10th Doctor x Timelord!Reader)

pre nanowrimo get all my fanfiction thoughts out challenge, hard mode.

continuation of this

Wordcount: 700(ish)

Series masterpost

Honestly I just wanna post something but I can't get around to finishing my new Doctor's Daughter fic for the as of yet unnamed Doctor Who series so I'm going back to my roots and using the maybe prompt list

23) Don't call me that

29) I'm never leaving, I promise

You burned, your body burned away with a single realization, you loved The Doctor. But not just loved, you were in love. You were in love with The Doctor. The man who saved you and destroyed your world in one day, the man who showed you a glimpse of the universe and left you wanting more. The man in the old blue box.

When a Time Lord regenerates a lot of things can happen, one of which is a loss of consciousness.

When you opened your eyes both The Doctor and Martha were looking down at you. You looked at The Doctor, blinked and smiled, "looks like I won" You said with a lopsided smile.

"Ugh, new mouth, I hate the feeling of a new mouth" You grumbled and tried to bring yourself up but the Doctor's arms quickly surrounded you, helping you up carefully instead. He didn't say anything simply helping you stand.

You tried to take a step on your own only to stumble, your legs felt like burned jelly.

"Doctor" You said carefully and The Doctor kept to himself how much he missed hearing you call him love.

"Yes?" He simply said.

"I don't think I'm done regenerating" You said, fainting into his arms.

The next thing you know you wake up in your room in the Tardis. The feeling of your sheets beneath you and your books and journals lining the walls. Beside you, on a chair you know he brought from somewhere else sat the Doctor. His face was drawn and he looked lost in thought.

You looked over at him and smiled.

"Hello again" You said. He didn't look amused.

"Why did you do that?" He asked.

"What?"

"Why did you force yourself to regenerate?? He asked.

You looked at him trying to both remember what happened and answer, "Doctor—"

"Don't call me that." He said sternly.

You closed your eyes and sighed.

"Love"

"Why did you do it? Why did you put yourself through that? I told you to go to protect you" He said and you sat up, looking him in his gorgeous brown eyes.

"Because I refuse to leave you" You said and he scowled.

"Don't say that—"

"I never want to leave you" You said, taking his hands in yours. You admired the sight.

"Doctor, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my lives with you—"

"No, no, don't say that" He repeated but you held his hands tightly. You knew why he felt this way, why he reacted the way he did but your post regeneration mind still wasn't fully working.

"Do you not feel the same? If you don't, I'll stop—"

"No, I, I" He said. his eyes were tearing up.

"Doctor I love you, do you love me back?" You asked.

"Of course I do, I adore you" He said, "Y/N you light my dark starless sky. You make me feel whole, like I'm no longer alone. It's not that"

"Then what is it?" You asked.

"They always leave." He said solemnly, looking away, "In the end they always leave"

You moved one of your hands up to hold The Doctor's face. forcing him to look at you.

"I'm never leaving, promise" You said and you saw a tiny smile peak it's way through his expression.

"You are brilliant" He whispered and you smiled.

"I love you" You said and he smiled too, a true full smile.

"I love you too" He said.

There was a beautiful moment, the two of you just basking in the love and care you had for one another and then you burst out laughing.

The Doctor was taken aback, his expression only sending you further into your fit of laughter.

"What? What's going on?" He asked only to be met with more laughter.

"Y/N are you okay?" He asked.

"Yes, I—" You could barely control it but you did. You controlled it enough to say, "It's just, stars that was cheesy, I don't know where that came from" You said and you could tell there was a dash of shock and worry on The Doctor's face so you clarified, "I guess this is what I am now. A cheesy romantic"

The Doctor smiled, "There are worse things to be" He said and you nodded.

[scribbling-dragon]

45 and flower husbands (or maybe emberfrost/snowbugs :eyes:) for the ask game!

breath from death

summary:

“Oh, love…” the sheer agony in Scott’s voice is enough to make Tango crack his eyes open, watery from his subsequent coughing fits, tears continuing to bead up as he tries to bring Scott’s shape into focus. When he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t, having to resist the urge to recoil from the way Scott is looking at him.

(ao3 link)

(2,473 words)

hdjsk this was meant to be more angsty than it actually was,, i just made tango into a bit of a loser tbh. but! hope you enjoy the snowbugs (i can't lie the only reason i wrote them is bc i loved the name hdsjhsjk). did i see scott gift tango a heart and go a little silly? yes. yes i did

also! if you liked this and want to send in another request the list of prompts is here! i've got a lotta free time at the moment, so i'll definitely be writing stuff a lot more than i have been recently

“Ooh, Skizz really wasn’t lying, hm?”

Tango glances up at the voice, not even bothering to lean away from the bush he’s made himself a comfy spot against. Or as comfy as he can be when every part of him is in burning pain and agony. But the slight slouch he’s found himself in puts the least amount of pressure on his various injuries and maladies, and so is the most comfortable he can be right now.

“Scott,” he croaks out, wincing a little at how terrible his voice really sounds. He’d been spitting smoke earlier, angry with how much energy it was taking to simply haul himself to his feet. It’s left him with the inside of his mouth covered in ash, and his throat feeling like it’s been rubbed raw. “Good to see you could make it.”

Skizz is somewhere nearby, but not close enough to interrupt if Scott decided he wanted to put him out of his misery right here and now. He’s somewhat caught between being thankful for such a thing, and angry that he couldn’t go on any further.

He’d just be another footnote at the end of a book, another mention; a small aside, make sure to mention the one that almost dies in the most silent and insignificant ways.

He is well aware of his previous contributions to these games. He goes out with barely a sound, and the world carries on without him, continues to spin round and round, maybe a few choosing to mourn him. Be sad over the misfortune of his death, how easily such a thing could have been prevented.

He doesn’t even realise he’s breathing smoke again until Scott coughs, waving a hand in front of his face to waft the smoke away. Tango snaps his jaw shut almost immediately, muttering a quiet “sorry” when Scott continues to cough.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Rough day?”

“You could say that,” he stretches his back out, wincing as it tugs at the edges of unhealed injuries. A stray branch from within the cherry blossom bush scraping a hot line of agony across his spine. He curls inwards on himself with a hiss of pain, tears beading in his eyes at the sudden sting of all his injuries making their protests known.

The small relief from earlier, afforded to him by other servermates, swayed by Skizz’s plea for a small gift of love, a small act of mercy. A better act of mercy would be to put him out of his misery entirely, he thinks humourlessly.

“Hey, c’mon, you're just making this worse for yourself,” a hand lays over the back of his own hand, slowly encircling it before pulling it away. The movements are done with such delicacy, such gentleness, it’s as though he’s made of an extremely fragile glass. Like he’d break if the hands moved him too fast, that he’d shatter into a thousand pieces.

Maybe he would. He feels about ready to fall apart right now, anyway.

“See,” the person – Scott, it’s still Scott, he’s still here, Tango realises belatedly – breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s much better. Now, where has your teammate gotten off to?”

“He, agh,” he coughs again, a small curl of smoke rolling off his tongue as he hacks, one or both his lungs threatening to make an appearance as he doubles over again, stomach cramping with the force of his coughs. “He went to get some resources, something to better survive the next few hours.”

“He didn’t stay with you?”

“The idiot would have,” he scoffs, laughing slightly. He then has to cough again, appreciating Scott’s gentle stroking over the top of his shoulders. He’s nowhere near as warm as Tango himself is, the fire stoked within his core happily blazing away, despite the disrepair of the rest of his body. “I made him leave. I’m dead either way. My death will be nothing to gasp and cry over, better he’s not around when it does happen.”

“Oh, love…” the sheer agony in Scott’s voice is enough to make Tango crack his eyes open, watery from his subsequent coughing fits, tears continuing to bead up as he tries to bring Scott’s shape into focus.

When he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t, having to resist the urge to recoil from the way Scott is looking at him. His hand is still lying over the top of Tango’s shoulders gently, though no longer stroking to soothe him through a coughing fit.

When Scott had turned up, looking down at him with those gleaming red eyes. Eyes that herald violence, promise it, Tango had willingly accepted his death. Would probably have stretched his arms out and taunted Scott for coming after someone when their guard is so far down that it’s ripped to shreds if even twitching his arms didn’t hurt so badly.

And then he’d just…stood there, crouched in front of him and comforted him as he coughed.

It’s his own fault that his lungs are in such a sorry state, anger over everything about these damn games making his flame burn too hot too quickly. He usually has better control over it, breathes fire for a party trick sometimes, not to clog his lungs with ash. Still, Scott had provided the comfort happily, despite them being on rival teams now, people that should be looking to kill each other. Not make sure that he can breathe and is comfortable and that his ally hasn’t abandoned him.

“Every death is worth shedding at least a tear over,” Scott tells him. His hands have migrated from his shoulders to cradling the back of his neck, now kneeling in front of him instead of crouching. Tango almost wants to tell him that he’ll stain his jeans with grass and mud; they may already be wrecked beyond repair, ripped in ways that aren’t purposeful and stained with old blood, but the thought still crosses his mind. “You’ve built good alliances here, love, there will be several tears shed over your death.”

“And a few oh, poor Tango, what a terrible way to go!’s following behind it,” he snorts without humour, only sparing a moment to be relieved when it doesn’t catapult him into another coughing fit. “The same way it goes every time,” he finishes, slightly bitter. It brings a sour taste to his mouth to think about his previous failures. His previous embarrassments.

He’s jolted from his self-pity party when Scott’s fingers twitch over the nape of his neck, making his efforts to ignore how Scott’s hands are currently resting against the back of his neck null and void. His efforts to ignore how the hands reach far enough round that Scott could easily strangle him. Could simply wrap tight and squeeze the last drops of life from him. Scott would definitely benefit from it, numerous superficial injuries littering his body that he’d probably be relieved to get rid of.

But Scott doesn’t grip to his neck tighter, doesn’t shove him to the ground and crush his windpipe. His hands remain a heavy, almost comforting, weight at the back of his neck. Their faces are close like this, he realises belatedly, the intimacy of such a thing settling over him suddenly and heavily. Like a weighted blanket’s just been chucked on his head. He feels a little unbalanced by such a realisation, even as close to death’s door as he currently is.

It makes an odd feeling wash over him, only increasing as Scott moves his hands, fingers tickling the short furs at the back of his neck. Can feel the way Scott’s thumb brushes over his pulse point – stupid, doesn’t he know that the thumb has a pulse? That you can’t measure someone else’s heartbeat with your thumb, as your own racing heart will interfere?

Scott’s pinky fingers ghost over his jaw as his hands retreat, and tango almost makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat when he thinks Scott’s pulling away from him.

He’s glad he didn’t (really, really glad) when Scott’s hands still again, settling over his jaw, cradling his face gently between his palms.

He really is quite close now, close enough that Tango can take in the smudged state of his make-up, like Scott’s been rubbing his eyes and smearing it around the corners of his eyes. Or that he’s not reapplied it recently and he’s simply been wearing the same make-up for the past few days.

He’d given up on the stupid pink eyeliner and little hearts he’d draw on his own and the others’ faces ages ago, tired of reapplying it every morning, wasting precious time that could be spent doing other things. More important things.

Scott’s make-up still looks good, though, smudged the way it is.

“I’ve always noticed when you died,” Scott tells him. This close, he can see the pink flecks in Scott’s eyes. They almost match the shirt he chose to wear for this go-around, wanting to fit better with the whole vibe they had going on at the Heart Foundation prior to its burning. “Kinda hard not to, when you're checking your comm every few minutes and hoping it’s not one of your allies that’s just died.”

“Oh,” he says, maybe a little dumbly. So sue him! He’s not sure what to say to a man very close to his face, still looking pretty despite his smudged make-up, when he gets told that he always notices him.

Yeah, some snide part of his brain comments, always notices when you make a fool of yourself and die in the most humiliating way possible.

“Oh,” Scott repeats, snickering a little. It makes his shoulders shake, meaning Tango’s face is wobbling a little because Scott’s still holding his face, cradling him carefully like he’s some delicate thing to be treasured.

Man, he’s glad Skizz hasn’t made a reappearance yet. He’s not sure how he’d explain his current everything to him with a straight face. Skizz would probably laugh at him until he cries.

“What else do you want me to say to that!” he protests, a little embarrassed at his slightly lacklustre response. “Thanks, I notice every time you die too – I'm always dead at that point! I can’t notice.”

“No, no,” Scott shakes his head, brushing one of his thumbs over the paper-thin skin beneath his eye. The motion makes him shiver, something weird, but not unfamiliar or unwelcome, curl down and around his spine. He shudders again. “I’m just teasing you, love, promise.” His eyes twinkle with mirth, “Would you believe me if I told you I came here with kind intentions?”

“Not at all,” Tango says, half-joking. “You’ve only been mean to me so far.”

“Aw, I'm hurt!” Scott cries, eyes crinkling as he grins. “I saw Skizz’s, uh, plea for help on your behalf and thought I might as well pop over and give you a little boost.”

“Oh, really?” He perks up at that. A few people have been by already, each giving him a small boost. To think he was in an even worse state as the sun rose that morning is somewhat horrifying to think about. It’s a miracle he even managed to have a coherent conversation with Skizz as their day began. “Well, c’mon then! Don't leave poor ol’ me waiting.”

“Okay, okay,” Scott laughs again, a little quieter. “God, you tell someone you're about to give them something, and it’s all they can think about.”

“All I can think about is how much pain I'm currently in,” Tango jokes.

He realises that the joke didn’t quite land as he intended when Scott’s face doesn’t continue to crease with smile lines, instead dropping into something sadder. “Well,” he says confidently, “I can fix that real quick for you, love.”

And then Scott’s leaning and Tango’s floundering, because, sure, he’s kissed people before. For definite. Kissed people plenty of times, actually! But he never quite knows what to do with his hands, nevermind the fact that he can barely even lift his hands right now.

Scott seems comfortable taking the initiative, giving him a chaste peck on the lips, warm hands continuing to cradle his face gently, before pulling back just as quickly as he’d moved in.

“There,” he says, sounding satisfied. “All better?”

“I – yeah. Thanks,” he manages. He mentally fist pumps when his voice doesn’t wobble and he doesn’t immediately chase after Scott with significantly less achy limbs than a few moments before. “That’s really appreciated, thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Scott says, wiping a little around his bottom lip, clearing away some of the smudged make-up there. “Always glad to help!” He chirps, then stands. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around, hopefully not at the other end of my sword!”

“Hopefully not,” Tango agrees. Really hopefully not because he’ll probably just stand there like an idiot and think about how soft Scott’s lips are, and the way they’d slotted against his own, and-

The clearing of a throat above him has him blinking his eyes open, squinting a little at the figure silhouetted by the sun.

“See you had a little visitor,” Skizz tells him, sounding far too smug for someone that probably only saw Scott walk away. Tango’s sheltered where he sits, so even if Skizz was on his way back while…all that happened, there’s no way he actually saw anything.

“I- what? Oh, Scott, yeah. He gave me a heart.”

“See he gave you a little something else, too.”

What?

“What?” He asks, sitting up slightly, hissing under his breath as his cracked ribs forcefully remind him that they're still cracked. “What d’you mean?”

“You got a little something,” Skizz says, “around here.”

And gestures around his mouth.

Tango wipes at his lip with his thumb, cringing when it comes away stained with make-up. Make-up that everyone has seen Scott wearing recently.

“Oh, wow, haha,” he laughs, not at all amused. “How’d that get there.”

“How indeed,” Skizz says, obviously already knowing, the dick. “Maybe we should ask the whole server, see if they can help us solve this mystery.”

“No!” Tango throws himself upwards as Skizz goes to retrieve his comm, smacking his hands away frantically. “No, no, I'm sure we can figure this out ourselves.”

“Oh, yeah. I'm sure we can.” Skizz says, and walks off. Still grinning.

Tango collapses back down to the ground, indulging his moment of dramatism even as it aggravates a few minor wounds.

Whatever shitty higher being watches over me now, he pleads, please strike me down before he comes back.

The shitty higher being watching over him decidedly does not strike him down, and Skizz comes back to laugh him again, though he brings a make-up wipe with him…maybe Tango can find it in his heart to forgive him. Eventually.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (21) Fire

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 21)

Summary: Rosie muses about her peculiar family, and gets invited/ordered to come to the pub.

Twenty-One Years Old

My family wasn’t exactly what you would call average or normal, but as Dad and Papa constantly pointed out: who wants normal. Certainly, none of us. Being an only child and without any cousins, I was mostly exposed to adults outside school. By now, I think you can agree that that wasn’t as boring as it sounded.

Uncle Myc made sure that our small family was extended when he and uncle Greg finally realised that what they had was too precious to ignore. 

Papa tried to warn the DI in his normally dramatic flair.

“You know this is playing with fire, Gavin? Falling for a Holmes, means there’s no escape. You’ll be trapped for life, and our love is fierce and protective. A bit like that dragon. John, which film was it?”

“The Hobbit,” Dad answered and reassured uncle Greg that he had nothing to fear. “Deep down, they’re as fluffy as new-born kittens.”

This got him glares that brave men would’ve flinched under, but Dad only laughed and gave Papa a kiss on the forehead and uncle Myc a pat on the shoulder. No one knew how to deal with the Holmes brothers like my Dad.

Of course, this didn’t stop Papa’s attempts to abuse uncle Greg’s name but probably increased it. From that day, every name in the book was put to good use. Dad told him he was being childish, but Dad’s poker face in such matters was laughable at best, so he fooled no one. My uncles just rolled their eyes, knowing that arguing with Papa would accomplish absolutely nothing.

The less said about my aunts, the better, but I’m not exactly one who’s able to keep my mouth shut, am I... 

Aunt Harry, the one who was still alive, just barely, by the state of her liver, according to Dad, another one playing with fire, had never been a part of my life. Just like Papa’s deranged and murderous sister, thank God. Dad gave Harry an ultimatum after we moved to Baker Street; get help to get sober or stay away. It sounds harsh, doesn’t it? I had started school when I learned of her existence. We got an assignment to make a family tree.

“Extended and chosen family can also be included,” our teacher told us.

I had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did my friends, so I turned to my main source of information, my parents.

When Dad told me he had a sister, dozens of questions were instantly on the tip of my tongue, but he cut me off before I could utter any of them.

“She’s only my sister by biology, not by heart. You can put her name on the family tree if you like, but she’s sadly not interested in switching the bottle for family.”

“What Dad means, is that the biological part doesn’t always matter. Chosen and extended family can be just as good, sometimes even better,” Papa explained.

***

I found it comforting when uncle Greg moved in with uncle Myc, because the older I got, the more I worried about uncle Myc’s solitary life. He deserved to be loved by others, not just his family. 

The pair were even more peculiar than Dad and Papa. Dad and uncle Greg were much more similar, coming from the same upbringing and social class, while uncle Myc and Papa were posh gits. (Dad and uncle Greg’s words.) But still, they fitted together, just like Dad and Papa.

And where did that leave me? Somewhere in the middle, I guess. I wasn’t really that exposed to the upper classes. That was uncle Myc’s area. At least in the connection with his job. I had the advantage of being raised by people of both societies, though, so I coped better at posh events than Dad for example. Granny and Pops were quite down-to-earth people, who obviously rose to the occasion if need be.

***

Uncle Myc was unable to deny the love of his life anything, but he drew the line when it came to pub quiz nights. He didn’t budge a millimetre when uncle Greg tried to flatter him into participating.

“Myc, love. You would ensure that my team won the whole shebang. At least when the questions are about politics, language, history, mathematics et cetera.”

“Gregory, mon cher,” uncle Myc said softly and arched an eyebrow.

Uncle Greg admitted defeat and turned to me. I was twenty-one, drank alcohol on occasion, and was above average intelligence. Three good reasons to join the team apparently.

***

“So, do I call you uncle, Greg, or Lestrade?” I inquired before we entered the pub.

“Just avoid Gaylord and Grimmwolf,” he deadpanned.

“Those are his latest then?” I giggled.

“John said he looked up obscure ones online when he’d used up all the names in the book he found among Mary’s things.”

“Sounds like Papa,” I replied.

I had seen the book now and again, but I never knew it once belonged to my mother.

Luckily for everyone involved, Philip Anderson was no longer a part of uncle’s team Division. Sally Donovan was, but she and Papa had long since buried the hatchet, and she welcomed me quite civilly.

Uncle Greg mocked me the entire evening for my choice of drink. 

“Sour beer has nothing to do with beer in my opinion,” he scolded looking disgusted at my pink brew.

“I don’t mind what you call it. Your Guinness looks more like tar than beer to me, so I guess we have to agree to disagree,” I retorted. “Now, do you know the answer to the fifth question or not?”

“You’re a good mix of Watson, Holmes, and yourself,” Sally told me after that.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” I said. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. That was the intention. They’re…um…good men and are evidently skilled at parenting. I’ll obviously deny it if I’m ever confronted with this,” she murmured.

Uncle Greg placed another glass of the “undrinkable” beer in front of me and gave Sally’s shoulder a pat.

“Getting sentimental on my, Sally?” he inquired with a smile.

“Hardly,” she scoffed and headed for the bar, but her soft expression gave her game away.

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies

[scoops-aboy86]

I'll send somethin' for the kiss ask game prompts!

💕

💕 kissing somewhere other than lips

(send a heart to make me write meme)

I'm just going to post this, because it's actually my second attempt. The first I'm going to save for the vampire Eddie fic I'm working on... Both are sad, because this is a rough week/month, and I don't feel like doubling this currently 1.2k word count on this to resolve it into a happy ending right now.

But I am open to suggestions on where to go with it, to keep in my back pocket for finishing it later.

-

They’re not dating, but Eddie spends a lot of time at Steve’s big house for someone who still technically lives in the local trailer park. 

They’re not dating, but he lets Steve dote on him. Eddie shares his weed without even bothering to charge him anymore, which is a friendship perk that historically only his band mates enjoy; Steve, in turn, provides movies and meals and snacks in between. 

They’re not dating, but when they’re both stoned as fuck they twine together on the couch, alternating who’s laying on who because it’s warm and nice and they’re both a little touch starved. It’s started happening even when Robin is there, and she keeps side-eyeing them like she’s waiting for some sort of announcement of What It Means. 

Which is ridiculous because they’re just friends. Steve doesn’t even kiss him on the mouth; he kisses him everywhere else. 

Like now, when Steve is sprawled half on top of him and half wedged in against the back of the couch, mouth on the soft part of Eddie’s shoulder. It’s all soft—all those snacks have done their work, all the lounging around Steve’s living room while still recovering from the Upside Down too, and Eddie is comfortable with this larger, well-padded version of himself. Steve’s kisses work their way gently down to his pecs, sucking one nipple into his hot, hungry mouth while teasing at the other with his fingers, cupping what could just about be called a tit in one hand—and it barely fits. One of Steve’s legs is draped over and shoved between Eddie’s, pressing against the one place he isn’t soft these days, and Eddie’s mouth is free as a bird to spout off whatever suggestive, pleading filth he wants. 

Except he doesn’t, because they’re not dating and Steve isn’t his and he doesn’t know where the line is, doesn’t know where he’d have to stop and self-control isn’t exactly in his repertoire these days or he wouldn’t be not-making-out with Steve fucking Harrington. Eddie is far from silent though, letting out moans and gasps and pleading little whines, wordless but clearly saying keep going, keep doing that, never stop. And Steve, day after day, lazy afternoon after lazy afternoon, keeps obliging him. What had started as helpful belly rubs after a big meal has somehow evolved into this, and Eddie would be lying if he said that isn’t part of why he’s really been packing it on lately, because he’s a weak, weak man and it all feels so good. Feels so good to have Steve in any capacity, touching him, taking care of him, being so sweet and perfect and Steve. 

So they don’t talk while they do things like this, and they don’t talk about it after, and it’s all fine because they’re not dating and Eddie can be content, he can be, with this arrangement. 

Steve's lips are wet with spit and trailing down his chest now, scooting down on the couch, wriggling out and pressing Eddie more onto his back so he can drape over him fully, and it’s good. All the way down to where his shorts are unbuttoned—because that’s all it takes to set this off now, is Eddie reaching down to make himself a little more comfortable, and then Steve is on him—and nipping at where his belly starts to pooch out into a roll, gripping his thighs, sliding one hand up to grip him through the denim, and…

Something in Eddie’s head (or maybe his heart) snaps. It’s not fine. It’s undefined, it’s the elephant in the room, it’s nothing because they’ve never even tried to put a name to it, just shoved it in a corner and pretended it wasn’t there. And Eddie is sick and fucking tired of pretending. He almost died in March and life is too short to wallow in something he wants but can’t ever have, never moving on because there’s some comfort in the suggestion of having Steve like this, at least, but the comfort is ultimately hollow because, at the end of the day, he doesn’t have anything. 

He reaches down, slides his fingers into Steve’s luxurious hair, and pulls. Just enough to get the guy’s attention away from tongue-fucking his belly button—Jesus H. Christ—and is only a little surprised when the tug elicits a moan. “Steve,” he tries roughly, and has to stop to clear his throat. “What are we doing?”

Never before has he seen Steve Harrington look so caught out. And Eddie had been there the day Steve had been caught making out with a cheerleader under the bleachers when he should have been leading the basketball team out into the school gym during a rally. 

“I, uh.” His face is beet red, and maybe he wants to run but he can’t exactly go anywhere when Eddie has him by the roots. “I was just…”

When he doesn’t continue, Eddie sighs and shakes his head, letting go. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He’s trying so hard to pretend that this isn’t devastating, this yanking the plug that he should have pulled a long time ago before his heart filled up with it, and in its absence he’ll have nothing. Not even a friend, probably, because that’s what happens when you let yourself become some straight guy’s experiment. “I don’t want ‘just,’ Harrington, so… I think I’m gonna go.”

Steve is still hovering over him, frozen, but Eddie wriggles out until he can rock into a sitting position and starts to wedge himself back into his shorts—a difficult task, embarrassingly more because his dick has yet to get with the new program than anything else. 

“I,” Steve tries again weakly, but Eddie doesn’t even pause in his efforts to button back up. Forget the zipper, he’s just glad he didn’t wear a cropped shirt today and can let it hang down to cover himself, which… sort of works. It’ll get him back to his van, at least. 

“It’s fine,” he says, standing up without looking at Steve. “Just, next time there’s a movie night or something, be specific with the kids about whether or not you want me to come or they’ll invite me anyway. Wouldn’t want that surprise with all the witnesses, right? And if we do run into each other, I’ll take my cues from you on how to… handle it.” 

As he says all this, he’s gathering up his stuff. It’s not much, a couple of notebooks and his lunchbox, which he’d brought over for their hangout smoke session… Really just code for ending up with an excuse to fool around. Nothing more than that, though. Steve has never even kissed him on the mouth.

Then he’s out of there, all his shit dumped haphazardly in the empty passenger seat and driving home, and Steve hadn’t even tried to stop him. He wonders if the guy is still crouched on his couch, looking shell shocked with his lips kissed red and a tent in his tiny basketball shorts. Wonders if that’s the last time he’ll ever see Steve, if that image is the one that’s going to follow him around for the rest of his life or if it’ll end up being something worse. Maybe he should move. That had always been the plan, blow this popsicle stand the second he got his diploma, but he’d stayed…

Well. He’d stayed for Steve, but he has to wonder now that the point of that was ever supposed to be, because.

It’s not like they’re dating.

now with a part 2, part 3, parts 4 & 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 - also on ao3

[mcflymemes]

GARRUS VAKARIAN PROMPTS (ME1 & ME2) *  assorted dialogue, adjust as needed

give me more time. stall them!

i want something to go right. just once.

i know you want to talk about this... but i don't. not yet.

been better, but it sure is good to see a friendly face.

i've been thinking about what we talked about.

can i ask you something?

as if we needed more reasons to avoid touching things in here.

i brought wine.

we can disobey suicidal orders? why wasn't i told?

i just don't see the point in staying quiet and polite.

i want to know i did the right thing.

throw me a line here.

damn, saying it that way doesn't help.

your hair looks... good. and your waist is... very supportive.

it was my own damn fault.

there's more to it than that.

more than one way to work off stress, i guess.

i was hoping you'd say that.

i like to expect the worst. there's a small chance i'll be pleasantly surprised.

it's so much easier to see the world in black and white. gray... i don't know what to do with gray.

i didn't think you'd feel like sparring.

let's get going. i need some distance from this place.

i'm fit for duty whenever you need me.

it's not a perfect plan, but it's a plan.

you're kicking ass.

one of my people betrayed me.

thanks for coming by.

you realize this plan has me walking into hell, too.

you were taking your sweet time. i needed to get you moving.

all i have to do is point my gun and shoot.

now i feel dirty and clinical.

i've seen so many things go wrong.

i thought you were dead.

some women find facial scars attractive.

everyone i talk to is polite, anyway.

looks like that's all of them.

are we crazy to even be thinking about this?

why do people always assume we enjoy putting ourselves in harm's way?

i'll be here if you need me.

i'm with you regardless.

i came across something suspicious.

something about him rubs me the wrong way.

i can't find any hard evidence.

do things right, or don't do them at all.

maybe they'll listen to you.

wait. that metaphor just went somewhere horrible.

i think i preferred blind optimism.

my face is barely holding together as it is.

i'll make you a deal. you get me out of here alive, and i'll tell you the whole damn thing.

never knew you had a weakness for men with scars.

i've got some things to take care of.

i gave them hope, and now they're dead. shows what i know.

i just couldn't take it anymore.

it wasn't easy. i really had to work at it.

you can count on me.

i don't need you to agree with me, but i'd like your help.

don't make me laugh, damn it.

this wasn't covered in my training manuals.

yeah, i see your point.

the damn bureaucrats are always on your back.

there wasn't time to think! i just reacted!

are you hurt?

just like old times.

nobody would give me a mirror. how bad is it?

tough bastards. but i've seen worse.

you can do what you do best.

i am amazed that they teamed up to fight me.

they wouldn't listen.

i wish i had your confidence.

there were several reasons, i guess.

i'm right behind you.

an eye for an eye, a life for a life.

i've seen some interesting things.

they were all ignoring you and hitting on me. 'bout time you got a fair shot.

take me with you when you go.

you don't ever have to worry about making me uncomfortable. nervous, yes, but never uncomfortable.

well... i guess we're done here.

need me for something?

don't worry. we're all working together.

this is your show.

i'm coming with you.

they're coming in through the doors.

that's pretty... extreme.

half of us don't even trust you.

damn it. they've breached the lower level.

i'll stay up here. i can do a lot of damage from this vantage point.

that's sort of why i teamed up with you.

i wanted to fight injustice, wanted to help people.

i knew what was really going on.

and here i thought i had my betrayal and attempted murder for this year.

thanks for bringing me on board.

well... why the hell not?

if there's anything else i can do to help... anything. just tell me what you want me to do and i'll do it.

you better get down there.

now's not the best time to become an optimist.

i know what they're like.

you're free to handle things your way.

sometimes it feels like the rules are only there to stop me from doing my work.

if we can figure out a way to make it work... then... yeah. definitely.

let's see what they're up to.

figured i could do more good on my own.

turns out there was more going on than we first realized.

if i'm trying to take down a suspect, it shouldn't matter how i do it, so long as i do it.

that's why i left.

people here needed someone to believe in.

you prove that you get things done, and people join up.

they must really hate me.

this isn't about that. this is about us.

i wish we'd joined up with them sooner.

well, they had to use their brains eventually.

i guess my father had something to do with it, too.

either way, i plan to make the most of this.

maybe i can get the job done my way for a change.

i know you're doing everything you can.

do you really think there's more to know?

it's just a name the locals gave me.

glad to see you haven't changed.

you're about the only friend i've got left in this screwed up galaxy.

at least it's not hard to find criminals here.

i can't exactly doubt your judgement.

i appreciate you taking the time to help me.

they never stood a chance.

there's nobody in this galaxy i respect more than you.

i know you can find something a little closer to home.

[alexanderlightweight]

A Magnus from a different reality shows up and he’s here to stay. He didn’t lose his Alec because I could never do that to him. For whatever reason, he comes from an Alec-less world. (Those poor bastards.)

He was just never born. Maybe one of his parents died young or they never married or or or. Doesn’t matter.

So now there are two Magnus Banes. And both of them are enraptured by Alec. And you might think Magnus might get jealous of another him but he’s delighted. With two of him, it will be easier to look after Alec. One of them can stay with him always because now he can be in two places at once. Besides, who else could be worthy besides himself? And Alec will always love Magnus. There are just two of him now.

(And please feel free to make something smutty with this one. Alec getting taken apart by two Magnus’s is a very beautiful thought. Just one was overwhelming. Now that there are two, passing out is practically standard.)

so this actually fits with a fic i have on the backburner and i dusted it off and finished writing some of it to make it work with this prompt and i hope you enjoy it because it is definitely going to be overwhelming for him. i loved this prompt and i hope you enjoy it, thank you for sending in such lovely ideas <3

lumine

nsfw/threesome/poly/self-cest sort of

-

It’s been nearly eight-hundred years of his soul-echo being torn apart from him again and again.

Magnus can no longer take the pain he knows will always come. Because the clave will not risk facing him but they will also not risk Magnus ever being allowed to find and claim his soulmate.

Magnus cannot risk Alexander slipping through his fingers one more time and so he will do every last ritual and risk everything to ensure they are finally united.

Magnus presses his palms flat to the burning ash of the pentagram.  His hands sting, the acrid stench of his own skin and blood burning fills his senses and yet still he endures, pushing past the pain and nausea to complete the ritual. 

He’s spent centuries suffering and researching to find this spell.  Waited aching hours upon hours upon years for the right time.  A little pain will hardly stop him now, not when he’s so very close.

— 

It’s been centuries since Bane has been tempted by something this interesting, this new.  A strange face — but one with magic that nearly mirrors his own— stands before him, an expensive replica but ultimately lacking the same power that Bane holds. 

Even with all of that, he and his magic taste familiar.  

“Just what has you so desperate that you would use a spell like this?”  Bane asks, almost gently as he surveys the array that has been used to summon him.  “Not even I have ever been nearly bored enough to try this and you, well you don’t have nearly the same amount of power at your disposal.  And you know it.  What is worth this kind of risk?”

His counterpart, a being whose name is the same down to the twirls of their demonic runes, doesn’t answer immediately.  Instead, he seems unsteady as he presses a hand to the image etched upon his chest bare chest and Bane’s eyes are drawn to the design.

“I know that mark.”  Bane whispers, eyes stark and gold and glowing as he stares covetously at the mark on Magnus’ skin.  

“What does that mean?”  Magnus asks and for the first time since he summoned Bane, he sounds defensive.  

“It means, that I’ll help you and I’ll fulfill your request, if you fulfill mine.”  

Bane watches with hungry amusement as his counterpart scoffs but ultimately seems willing.

“Is there somewhere for me to sign, a dotted line perhaps, for me to place my signature?” Magnus snarks at him and Bane smiles, sometimes old and dark unraveling at the opening offered him.

“Oh, I can think of something much more binding than that.”

Bane kisses his likeness with the fervor of a god accepting their tribute.  Magnus is hot and his teeth a sharp reprimand that Bane quickly tames with his tongue and hands and magic.  

“There’s no need to fight me,” Bane pulls back just long enough to say.  At Magnus’ startled confusion, he grins, “after all, fighting yourself never goes as planned.”

He uses magic to undress them both, finding similar scars on Magnus’ body but also unfamiliar ones.  He wonders just what happened.  What changed for Magnus to have a different warlock mark then him.  He must have, as Bane can’t imagine hiding his eyes and Magnus’ have yet to even flicker.  

Whatever Magnus’ mark is, there is plenty of time for Bane to discover it and this, well this is only just the beginning. 

 —  

Magnus is hot around him, tight as he opens him up and tighter still as he clenches involuntarily.   His eyes are a clear, dark brown and while Bane could dull them with magic, he won’t. 

Not yet.  

Magnus thinks it’s magic opening him up and, in a way, it is.  

Glamoured tentacles, a gift from his father in Bane’s youth, fuck into Magnus with glee.  They give him pleasure and pain until he gasps with it, on the verge of coming but not quite there. 

“Do you agree,” Bane whispers, lips pressed in a sweet mockery to Magnus’ ear, “do we have a deal, Magnus Bane.”

Magnus nods, eyes clenching shut, and Bane catches a shimmering flash and wonders if it’s tears.  

Even if it isn’t, it will be. 

Someday. 

Bane’s lip is still bleeding from their first kiss, and he bites down on Magnus’ lip, gentler than he could be. 

A reward for Magnus’ compliance.  

Their blood mingles. 

The line of Asmodeus meeting and me and the pact seals between them.  It could be finished now, the agreement complete but Bane has never been one to back away from a deal without dotting every ‘I’ and crossing every ’t’.

The room they’re in is dull.  Neutral blue sheets on an unused bed that Bane plans to christen fully.  

He shoves Magnus down and follows, using tentacles to spread his legs.  He’s fucked others in front of a mirror before, but this is different, this is new and this is all him.

His cock fills Magnus like it was made perfectly to do just that and Bane chuckles at the thought.  His palm hovers just above the mark on Magnus’ chest, his magic crossing the distance to bring the flames to life and turn them to a dancing blue on Magnus’ skin.  

“I know this mark because this is my mark.”  Bane tells him, “and that means, Magnus Bane.  That you are mine.”

Magnus shakes his head, eyes flying open in a shocked refusal and mouth parting and Bane fucks the protest from his lips with a punishing thrust, just to watch him choke on his denial.  

Whatever strange things brought Bane here, it was with a purpose and Bane will find out just what belongs to him in this new world before he destroys it.

—

Bane slips out of Magnus with a gentleness that he allows only because Magnus’ eyes are closed in rest and his legs limp as Bane unwinds them from his waist.  Magnus’ hole clenches around him, as if to beg him to stay and Bane watches as a little of his come slips free.  He’s tempted to summon a toy, something to keep Magnus’ company but as much as he would enjoy it, he doubts his counterpart would appreciate it just now.  Better to save it for later, when Magnus is more aware and welcoming of his affection and efforts.  

The contract between them hums. 

A pleasant tune that fluctuates throughout Bane’s body as he steps through the door surveys the rest of Magnus’ home.  It will settle even further once Magnus fucks Bane, but Bane plans on Magnus being awake and aware and remembering it, so he’ll wait for that pleasure.

The entirety of Magnus’ lair is a pleasant atmosphere with decor he doesn’t hate and the presence of his twinned soul everywhere.  

The contract binding him to his word tugs at him, urgently now and Bane lets out an irked sigh as he raises his hand and opens a portal, hoping to finish with this nonsense as quickly as possible.  Why Magnus is so worried about one, mewling mortal shadowhunter is beyond him, but he’ll honor their deal, no matter how silly it may seem to him.

The guidelines of what Bane was brought to do were written into the very heart of the array and so even without Magnus telling him, Bane knows who he needs to get and where they are.

Bane ignores the laws of reason and magic and steps into the unknown.  Limbo does not wait for him, as his magic has carved a way for him.  His magic goes before him and he follows, feet meeting wood and stone and angelic power humming around him.  He is in a nephilim stronghold, as apparently in this world, they still stand strong.  

A figure turns, fists raised defensively as a towel slip from his hand.  It’s undoubtedly the nephilim Magnus contracted him to find.  The one he wanted delivered safely and unharmed to his side. 

The one he paid for in advance. 

With blood and seed, pleasure and pain.  A contract more than thrice bound that even Bane would hesitate to break. The nephilim that Magnus was willing to do anything for, an open-ended payment branded into the array, so long as Alexander Lightwood is delivered to him.

Bane stares at this soft, mortal warrior.  The small scar bisecting his eyebrow and the strong corded muscle of his bare arms.  He looks young and he should look lost, instead he seems as though he's finally been found.  

“Magnus?”  Alexander asks softly, confusion and hope in his voice.  Water drops from his hair, leaving darkened spots on his sweater as he steps forward, hands lowering to his sides.  He takes only a few steps before his wariness returns.  He leaves his hands down, but Bane can read the tension in his muscles and sees the pain in his eyes as he realizes it’s not the Magnus he thinks.

“I’m to bring you to him.”  Bane says with a smirk, “I’m Bane, shadowhunter.”

"Bane?"  He’s asked and Bane nods.  "Bane."  Alexander says again, less a test and more a declaration and Bane isn’t sure why he leans forward to kiss the sound of his name from Alexander’s lips.  

The nephilim is soft and pliant to his touch, a dazed blankness to hazel eyes as Bane portals him away.  

Bane's spine lights with sparks of muted recognition as he leads Alec to the bedroom Magnus purposefully avoided earlier.  The bed inside has sheets of gold and cream, and he vanishes them with a thought.

Maroon sheets, the hue of freshly lost blood welcome him as he settles back against the headboard.  He pulls Alexander with him instead of taking him to Magnus, a soul deep curiosity growing inside of him. Alexander goes willingly, nestling between his thighs and Bane marvels that somehow, he's been split in two and yet in his hands the world beats with a warm, steady pulse. 

Bane leans down and presses their lips together, his teeth claiming as he tugs on Alexander’s lips.

Alec whimpers, lost to his kiss and Bane pulls away, letting him gather his breath before using a finger to vanish his pants.  His gold eyes feast on Alexander’s expression as his breath catches and his hand cautiously reaching out to stroke Bane's cock.

"You can worship so much more devoutly than that, little angel."  Bane suggests and places his hand on the back of Alec's neck, "share with me your ardor.  Let me taste your veneration."

Angelic power floods into Bane freely, a gift given to him with such trust that he could take it all and Alexander wouldn't even try to stop him.

It's a heady, tempting taste of the power given to him over this shadowhunter and Bane uses magic to strip Alec of his shirt and pants, leaving his hand on the back of Alec's neck, holding him in place and keeping the connection wide. 

It means that Alec can feel him, when Bane sees the mark.

It sits there, so innocently and innocuously, as though it weren't a claiming brand that Bane once spent hours upon hours toiling over.

For Magnus, the twinning of his soul to bear it, is one thing. 

For Alexander, it's entirely another.

"Mine."  Slides through his thoughts, a phantom truth that wreaks through the towers keeping him in isolation and under his touch, Alec clenches and cries out, knees tight around Bane's thigh as he comes, hot and wet and without control.

Bane admires the twists of color on Alec's mark for a moment and then brings a matching flame to his hand, twirling it around his fingers before reaching out and stroking Alec's cock, letting the flames tease the sensitive skin there.  

"There," he murmurs, "my sweet boy, aren't you.  Mine.  Matching me in every way.  Made for me, my perfection."  

There's a crown that he remembers, an old relic of centuries long past.  He'll summon it another day.  Crown Alexander in Idris' fallen treasures and anoint him as holy and royal with his cock.  One ruler to another.

For now, though, he will enjoy this moment, the one where he met his soul and their mate. 

—

Magnus wakes up feeling sore like he hasn't in centuries.  The last time he felt this sore was when he took down a horde of Lilith's scum while battling for his father's crown and it certainly hadn't been accompanied by such a delicious burn or a wet trickle of evidence down his thighs.

It leaves his thoughts sickly sweet and oozing in his skull like honey, worries like bees buzzing in his ears too loudly to concentrate and the first thought to truly penetrate the fog is Alexander.

He hurries through the loft.  Tripping over randomly placed furniture, as though his home was overturned while he slept.

The bed he'd woken in was the guest bed, the unused room that he’s used to summon Bane to leave his master bedroom untouched.

Yet when he gets to it, the door is open.

Magnus enters with his glamour down and his power out.

Gold meets gold as the heirs of Asmodeus match stares and Magnus blinks away first, lowers his gaze to search frantically and sighs in devastated relief when he sees Alexander.

Alexander is safe.  

Bane rests seated on sheets the color of freshly spilled blood as though it is a throne and Alec is in the safest place he could possibly be.  Lying spread out and naked but for a sheet and a claiming hand in his hair, face nestled against Bane's hip and lips parted in sleep a parody of a kiss against Bane's cock.

"I see why you would consider destroying the world for him."  Bane says something close to reverence in his voice and that alone is so blasphemous that Magnus can't think about it at the moment.  "I even understand why you would summon me."  There is something there, in that moment that makes Magnus understand that in this, with Alexander between them, they are closer to equals than any lineage or favored gifts from their father could bring them.

His mind is still too slow to deal with that, however, and he pushes aside everything but the need for Alec to finally be in his arms and beneath his hands.  Magnus stalks to the bed and climbs, still naked, to press a kiss to Alexander's forehead and breath in his scent, his perfect, warm scent and then he kisses his boy.  

Bane's cock twitches against his cheek and Magnus groans into Alexander's mouth as his soulmate whimpers and comes awake, sucking on Magnus' tongue and instinctively chasing him when Magnus starts to pull away.  

They part and Magnus is aware enough to shudder, his own cock hard against Bane's leg as Alexander blinks at him, hazy eyed and lips wet as he stretches in sleep-addled supplication.  

"Our good boy," Bane murmurs, hand catching in Alexander’s hair and tugging on it, earning a sleepy groan that's muffled by skin as their boy turns and yawns against the crease of Bane's groin.  "How should he greet us this morning, Magnus?  In my world nephilim would worship when they wake, do some traditions in this stay the same?"

magnus is harry shum jr portrayal and bane is godfrey gao

[theycallmebecca]

Drabble: The Chores

Happy first drabble of 2023! This one is for the Warm Up: One-Word Prompt challenge @the-slumberparty I got my word yesterday and it was "enhance" but I didn't even think to screen cap it. 🤦‍♀️

The obvious choice would have been to go with Steve Rogers... cause he is enhanced... but then I got this idea for cowboy!Ari Levinson...and y'all know I love cowboy!Ari.

Title: The Chores

Pairing: cowboy!Ari Levinson x reader

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: suggestive

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

Usage Disclaimer: This work is for fans only. This author does not give permission for it to be shared, spoken of, referred to in any public manner (podcast, tv, online, etc.) that wants to either make a celebrity uncomfortable, mock fan fiction/fandom in any way, or the author themselves. Requests can be made, but it is unlikely the author will change their mind. If no response is given to a request then the answer is a solid no, not interested and the work cannot be shared, spoken of or even referred to, regardless of the manner or context. 

Finished with work early, you escape the ranch house and settle into your hammock with a good book to enjoy the nice weather.

You are getting to a juicy part of the book the first time you notice Ari walk past you. He catches your eye and gives a small wave before he carries on with whatever chore he is working on.

The second time he comes by, he is on one of the ranch atv’s, noisily riding past you, pulling your attention from the book.

It isn't until he wanders into the area a third time, pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs, that you begin to suspect he is intentionally disturbing your peace. After all, the hammock is in a partially secluded private yard, separated from the working ranch by a row of hedges on one side.

You narrow your eyes as you watch him from over the edge of your book as he dumps the logs onto the ground by the stump he used as a chopping block. Then he disappears with the wheelbarrow.

He all but confirms your suspicions when he returns with his ax to chop the logs; logs that you both know don't have to be chopped right now and likely won’t even fit in the wood stockpile.

As you watch, he digs through the pile of logs and puts one on the stump and then positions himself so his back is towards you.

Unconsciously, you bite down on your lower lip as he swings the ax, splitting the log cleanly into two pieces. He repeats the process a couple times, allowing you to appreciate the way his body looks from behind. The way his blue jeans enhance his best, uh, ass-et. Not to mention the way his back and arm muscles flex with each swing.

After finishing a few logs, he pauses and sets the ax down. Then he turns suddenly and catches you watching him. He gives you a wink before he lifts the front of his shirt up and pulls it off. He makes a show of drying his sweaty face with the shirt before he tosses it aside.

“How’s the book?” He asks as if he isn't fully aware that you had lost interest in your book thanks to him.

Well two could play that game, you decide. “Trying to cool down,” you say, casually. “Just read a super sexy scene.”

"Sounds like a good book," he replies all the while giving you a smirk that says he doesn’t believe you. Turning, he takes his time setting up the next log, giving you plenty of time to take in the tan, bare skin of his back.

Damn him.

Once he is happy with the placement, he lines up the ax, taking a couple unnecessary practice swings for your benefit, before he slices the log into two.

With a huff, you get up from the hammock, getting his attention.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“You’re making me feel lazy,” you say, lying through your teeth. “Figured I go inside and do some chores.”

“Need a hand? Or two?” He asks, the glimmer in his eyes telling you that if you both go in the house no chores will be done.

“I’m sure you have stuff to do still,” you reply, testing him.

“Nothing the guys can’t handle,” he assures you. “I’ll just clean this up and meet you inside?” He gestures to the split logs.

"If you're sure they can spare you, I'd love the help," you say. "With the chores."

"The chores," he repeats. "I love doing the chores."

You go into the house and head straight for the master bathroom, where you plan to make good use of both his hands.

[house-afire]

Knives in His Feet (Ed/Frenchie)

Prompt: 100 words of cats

“You’re the one who made the cat flag, aren’t you?”

Frenchie did his best not to jump out of his skin. It was sort of Blackbeard’s deal, especially these days, to suddenly be right behind you, so the startle reaction was just something you had to train out of yourself, wasn’t it, like needing sleep or flinching at the sight of blood. He always had blood on him now, drying around his fingernails and in the weave of his clothes.

“Thought it’d be fierce,” Frenchie said. He hastily added, “Skeleton with the heart, though, that’s better. Some of my best work, really.”

Blackbeard leaned close to him, his voice a hot whisper in Frenchie’s ear. “Want to see something weird?”

No, he actually didn’t. A guy asked you that kind of question, it wasn’t ever the good kind of weird, like a funny-colored parrot or a biscuit that sort of looked like you.

But he liked all his fingers and toes right where they were, thanks, so he wasn’t going to make trouble.

“’Course,” he said, following Blackbeard to the captain’s cabin.

It’d been a pretty place, in Stede’s day. Bit of a pit now, if Frenchie were honest. Very obviously the home of a man going through a real shitstorm of a break-up: damp hankies everywhere, slashed-up paintings, ashes from the ritual burning of the ex’s possessions, all that jazz. Sort of smelled funny.

“You hate cats,” Blackbeard told him.

“Hate’s a bit strong. Healthy terror of them, I’d say.”

Blackbeard’s kohl was streaked with tear-tracks, but picking up on that didn’t really make his bared-teeth smile any better. “Would you kill one?”

Frenchie had heard about Fang’s dog by now. Did Blackbeard have a cat in here, waiting for an appointment with Frenchie-the-executioner?

“D’you want me to get Iz?” Frenchie offered. “Think the whole, ah, death thing is more his speed.” Not that Izzy didn’t look as ashen and out-to-lunch as the rest of them, lately.

“Oh, Izzy won’t kill this kitty,” Blackbeard said, with something dark curling in his voice: satisfaction and anguish and bitterness all mixed together. “One of the few things he won’t do, even when he’s ordered, the little fucker.”

“Guess we all draw the line somewhere,” Frenchie said.

“But you’re smarter. You wouldn’t stick your head in the lion’s mouth, would you? Fucking terrible idea, right? Something shows you it’s a monster, and you know it’s a monster, you’ve got to put it down, not trust it, not let it go on gnawing at you.”

Did lions gnaw? He’d have thought they could just bite straight through. But then, he’d lost the plot here, he was pretty sure.

“Yeah,” Blackbeard breathed. “Yeah, you’re a smart man. ‘Healthy terror,’ love that. Gotta be healthy.”

He started peeling off his leathers.

So they were doing that, then? Frenchie could work with that. He couldn’t say he was much in the mood, what with the exhaustion and the mind-numbing fear and all, but he also couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about it. Never imagined there’d be this much preamble about cats, though. Well, nobody could accuse Blackbeard of being predictable.

“Right,” Frenchie said, undoing the clasps on his jacket. “Bit of fun’s healthy too, yeah? Good thinking.”

He was a touch behind on the undressing, so he hadn’t gotten more than his jacket off before Blackbeard went and turned into a cat.

Frenchie decided to fit in that jumping-out-of-the-skin bit after all, and he recoiled to the point where he banged his back against the door. It wasn’t every day that you saw a man you were ready to bed turn into a … small-ish panther? Crazily enormous house cat? There were silver strands of fur mixed in with all the black.

Blackwhiskers, Frenchie decided, and then he had to bite down on his lip until it bled, because there were certain laughs that could come out of you that you could never get back in. He didn’t want to find out how far gone he was just from that.

Blackwhiskers was even more terrifying than most cats. Wicked sharp claws, and a hiss that made every hair on Frenchie’s body stand on end. But, well—its tail wasn’t all bushy, was it? And cats did that, when they were pissed off at you: made themselves into bottle-brushes to scrub the soul clean out of your body. It wasn’t slinking into a hunting pose either.

Frenchie wanted to jump ship to get away from it, but that wasn’t the same as wanting it dead, least of all dead by his own hand. He was more of a lover than a fighter, really.

And Blackbeard had it all wrong if he’d thought Frenchie would kill him while he was like this. Cats were a holy terror, but Frenchie had never gone around picking them off one by one. He’d armored himself in them, flown them on his flag, tucked their claws between his fingers. There was no point in wasting what scared you. Blackbeard was fucking terrifying, too, but sometimes that had kept them safe.

Mostly kept them safe from dangers Blackbeard himself had led them to, true, but safe all the same.

He knew his fear wasn’t all Blackbeard had counted on for this, though. He never looked at a thing from just one angle: it was like he had eyes like a fly’s, everything broken up into all these shards of possibilities. He’d known that Frenchie would have to think about the others, too.

It was hard to imagine any of them would ever get close enough to Blackbeard to do a proper mutiny, with a quick in-and-out, sorry-about-that knife plunge or a proper heave-ho with an anchor. Blackbeard had them all outclassed, even Jim. Izzy … there was a chance Izzy could do it, skills-wise, but he was three toes down and still loyal, so there wasn’t much hope there.

Cat was … manageable, maybe. And Wee John and Roach and Olu and the rest had all died parched and starved somewhere, and the rest of the crew was coming apart at the seams, and the box in Frenchie’s head was beginning to look a bit battered. And if Blackbeard died, they could all breathe for a change. Sail to Nassau, maybe. Regroup.

And if Blackbeard died, Blackbeard would be dead. And he hadn’t always been … this. It wasn’t so long ago that he would’ve been the cat on the flag, not the cat on your chest in the middle of the night.

And it was awful, wasn’t it, that Blackbeard had called him in here for this? It was so sad it made something twist around inside Frenchie’s chest.

“Can you still understand me?” Frenchie said softly.

Blackwhiskers gave him another hiss. Bit hard to translate.

“I know it might backfire on me and all,” Frenchie said, sliding down the door to sit on the floor, “or on the rest of us, but I don’t particularly want to kill you, if that’s all right.”

The cat’s ears flattened against its head. Very cursed skull shape, that. He ought to keep it in mind for their next flag, if he lived long enough to stitch one.

“But,” Frenchie continued, “I’m still not clear on whether you’ve got, like, a human brain in there or not. Far as I know, you’re just working with cat instincts. So if you wanted petting, or anything like that … I mean, I’d think it was just the cat asking for it.”

The cat’s eyes were luminous, like those eerie bits of the sea. It stalked towards him, and Frenchie held his breath, waiting to see if it would claw his face off or sink its teeth into his throat and toss him side-to-side.

It dug its claws deep into Frenchie’s legs, instead. It felt like being sliced open by a bunch of white-hot razors. Having his clothes bloodied from the inside-out made for a bit of a change, at least. If he didn't die in here, he'd need to dump some rum over the scratches so they wouldn’t infect. (To be fair, if he did die here, infection would be the least of his worries, wouldn’t it?)

Blackwhiskers settled down on Frenchie’s lap, its claws still rhythmically flexing in and out of his thighs. It glared up at him.

“On it,” Frenchie said. He stroked a hand down the cat’s back: once, twice, three times.

Blackwhiskers didn’t purr for it, but it put its knives away, and Frenchie was of a mind to count that as a win. He might have to grab that bottle of surgical spirits after all.

The cat’s fur was soft and fine as silk, the way he used to imagine Edward Teach’s hair would be. He had always marked those fantasies down as pleasant but unlikely, since Ed had only had eyes for Stede, but here he was, living proof that dreams did come true, in a fashion. Granted, he wasn’t having a nice nooner with his boss’s boyfriend so much as he was petting a suicidal cat-man who’d ordered most of his friends marooned, but if you looked at it a certain way, those were just details. Life never worked out how you thought it would.

“I’d like to hold on to what I’ve still got, you know?” Frenchie said, tentatively scratching the cat’s ears. “You included, I think? So, just one man’s recommendation and all, but you could stop trying to get people to kill you.”

Blackwhiskers let out a noise that was like a strangled creak, still less like a purr than the opening a door maybe better left closed. Kindness was always chancy that way.

Frenchie decided to be hopeful about it. It was nice, being hopeful. Nice and dangerous, like an enormous warm cat napping on some of your blood, but still the best he’d felt in weeks. No sense in ignoring a silver lining.