#twitchy!marvel

[age-of-moonknight]

Variant cover for Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #2 by Dotun Akande.

[allycat75]

Searching to see if anyone else notices what a fuck-up you have become, Boston Dumb Fuck, in the hopes someone close to you may get you the help you obviously need before you reach a point if no return (one way or another), but all I found was this article from about a year ago.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, I suppose. Or the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

[shironezuninja]

I’d rather be horny than pay attention to the TV.

[1425fivefive]

Oohh oscarmark omorashi maybe? 👀 (if you don’t mind! ☺️)

owen 💕!! oscar's a bunny hybrid in this, mark's a wolf hybrid, and there's piss. do with that information what you will (for the kink prompt asks)

Mark doesn’t really hear Oscar when Oscar says he needs to take a piss. Mark’s too distracted by the sight of Oscar on his hands and knees on Mark’s bed, putting his little puffball of a tail on display, perched right above his slick, pink hole, his flushed cunt.

Sometimes, when Mark looks at Oscar like this, his blushy skin, his ears floppy, the plump meat of his arse, Mark feels like nothing more than a shit cliché. The big bad wolf lusting after a nineteen-year-old bunny, too turned on to think every time he sees Oscar’s floppy ears, the baby fat on Oscar’s thighs and stomach, Oscar’s buck-toothed smile.

Mark can’t forget the unimpressed look Seb gave him when Mark told him he was becoming Oscar’s manager.

“Really, Mark?” Seb asked.

Mark flushed. “What? He’s fast.”

Seb just snorted, shaking his head. Seb didn’t have to say anything for Mark to know exactly what he was thinking.

“Shut up,” Mark snapped.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Mark said, not even trying to hide his annoyance. “He’s a good kid, Seb.”

Seb blinked at him. Finally, Seb said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, I bet he is.”

Mark wanted to throttle Seb, wanted to slap the pleased little smirk off Seb’s face.

But Mark didn’t do any of that, just muttered, “Fuck off,” and stalked off to the press pen, trying to ignore the sound of Seb’s mocking laugh.

The worst part about it all, Mark thinks, is that Seb was fucking right.

Mark had told everyone at the time that it didn’t matter that Oscar was a bunny hybrid and Mark was a wolf. That all that talk about predators and prey not being able to work together was outdated bullshit. Mark was a progressive bloke, he didn’t think prey were any different than predators.

But Mark knew from the start what he wanted out of Oscar, even if he didn’t let himself fully acknowledge it. That the reason he’d pushed so hard to sign Oscar wasn’t solely because he thought Oscar was going to take F1 by storm.

Mark had been good, though. He’d been so fucking good, hadn’t done anything until Oscar had gone into a surprise heat halfway through the season and wouldn’t calm down, wouldn’t stop begging and crying, moaning about how empty he felt, how much it hurt. Mark knotted him, fucked him through his heat, made Oscar fall apart over and over again on his cock, twitchy and blushy, letting out little squeaks of pleasure. It was like Oscar couldn’t stop coming once he started, like it was harder for him not to come, and it made Mark insane, realizing all the shit they said about bunnies was actually true.

But it was for Oscar, really. It was Oscar who needed it.

Mark knows, though, that the rest of it’s a bit harder to pin on Oscar.

Mark tries not to think about any of it as he knees his way onto the bed. It’s not hard to shove it all to one side, not when Mark’s already half-knotted, his cock thick and heavy, bobbing under its own weight.

Oscar gasps when Mark pushes into his cunt, ears pointing straight up, tail quivering, hands digging into the sheets.

“Fuck, Oscar,” Mark moans, tugging Oscar back on his cock, marveling at the sight of Oscar’s little arsehole winking up at him. “So wet.”

Oscar squeals at that, clenching around Mark’s cock. Oscar finally seems to cotton on to the fact that Mark’s half-knotted because he twists around with a panicked look on his face.

“Mark, don’t, I—fuck.” Oscar’s nose and ears twitch, everything about him frantic. “Don’t knot,” he begs, even as he fucks himself back on Mark’s cock, taking Mark deeper, Mark’s knot swelling inside him. “Don’t knot, please, I have to piss.”

Mark groans, his knot already starting to lock. “Too late for that, sweetheart,” Mark says, half-pitying, half-mocking.

Oscar’s eyes go wide and he lets out an alarmed squeak, tugging fruitlessly to try and free himself.

It hurts, painful around Mark’s swollen cock, and Oscar’s going to injure them both if he keeps that up. Mark yanks Oscar back, seating him fully on Mark’s knot. Oscar fights him but Mark winds an arm around Oscar’s chest, pulling him up, pulling him back until his thighs are spread over Mark’s, back pressed to Mark’s chest, hands scrabbling uselessly at the air.

“That’s it,” Mark says, grinding his knot deeper, burying himself in Oscar’s sweet cunt. “That’s it, good boy.”

“No,” Oscar gasps, even as his slick soaks Mark’s cock, even as his pussy flutters around Mark, even as he comes with a squeal when Mark presses two fingers to his clit, ears vibrating, nose twitching, pink mouth dropping open.

“That’s it,” Mark groans, coming deep inside Oscar, locking them fully together, knot expanding. He keeps his fingers pressed against Oscar’s clit, rubbing firmly even as Oscar tries to squirm away. “Come again, sweetheart, you’ll feel better.”

Oscar lets out an anguished sob but he tips his head back and buries his face against Mark’s neck, coming again with a breathy moan.

“Good boy,” Mark pants, eyes sliding shut as he spills a little more inside Oscar.

Oscar’s quiet for a few seconds and Mark thinks maybe the orgasms have calmed Oscar down. But he’s squirming again soon enough, whining and whimpering against Mark’s neck, letting out tragic little squeaks of pain.

Mark tries to soothe him, strokes his hands over Oscar’s waist, Oscar’s stomach, presses kisses to Oscar’s shoulder, keeping his sharp teeth safely tucked behind his lips. He brings Oscar to two more orgasms but nothing seems to settle him and soon enough he’s sobbing into Mark’s neck, gasping, desperate cries.

“It’s okay,” Mark murmurs. “Just fifteen more minutes and you can go.”

Oscar cries harder, shaking his head, and sobs, “I can’t, Mark. Can’t hold it.”

Mark wants to shake Oscar, wants to tell him to channel some of the self-control he shows in the car. But Mark can’t deny that he sort of likes seeing Oscar like this, whimpery and desperate, totally unable to hide what he’s feeling. It’s why sex with Oscar’s so fucking addicting, why Mark couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Oscar, notoriously hard to read Oscar, can’t hide a single thing when he’s naked in Mark’s bed.

“Please,” Oscar whimpers, squirming on Mark’s cock. “Hurts.”

“You’re gonna have to,” Mark says shortly. “Can’t exactly make this go any faster.”

Oscar lets out a devastated moan, thighs tensing, cunt throbbing around Mark’s cock.

“Let me make you come again,” Mark says, sliding his hand down Oscar’s stomach.

But Oscar whines and twitches away from Mark’s fingers, shaking his head rapidly. “Don’t,” Oscar says wetly, sniveling against Mark’s neck. “I can’t—might piss myself if you make me come,” Oscar whimpers.

Mark doesn’t know why Oscar saying that in his tragic little voice makes Mark’s knot pulse. Mark’s not sure if he really wants to know why having Oscar on his cock, squirming and desperate, turns him on so much. Feels like giving in to his predator brain, acknowledging how much he likes having a little bunny shaking in his arms, trapped on his cock. Feels like conceding that Seb was fucking right.

“You can go if you really need it,” Mark says finally. “I can buy a new mattress.” He licks over Oscar’s neck, inhales the sweet scent of Oscar’s slick still dripping around his cock. “Maybe you can pay me back with that new salary I negotiated for you. A little thank you.”

But Oscar’s already shaking his head. “No, I”—he takes a shaky, trembling breath—“I can hold it.”

After another five minutes, though, Oscar’s crying again, pussy fluttering around Mark’s cock, and Oscar’s hunching in on himself, gasping for air. With all the squirming, Mark’s knot isn’t going down nearly as fast as it usually does.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark grits out. “Just fucking piss already.”

Oscar lets out a pained whimper, but Mark can feel Oscar’s cunt starting to relax, can tell that Oscar’s finally going to let go.

“That’s it,” Mark murmurs, bringing a hand up to Oscar’s neck, not tightening, just letting it rest. “That’s it, boy, let go.”

Oscar relaxes fully and Mark watches his face go slack with the promise of relief.

But after only a few seconds Oscar lets out a devastated cry, turning to Mark with a panicked expression. “I can’t,” Oscar sobs, hand flying down to cup his cunt, fingers brushing Mark’s cock. “Fuck, Mark, it’s—your knot.”

Mark groans, tipping his head against Oscar’s shoulder. The idea of it, of Mark’s swollen knot filling Oscar so completely, so hot and huge inside him that Oscar can’t even piss—

Mark’s knot swells and Oscar cries out, frantic. “Mark, don’t, please—”

But Mark’s helpless to do anything other than graze his sharp teeth over Oscar’s shoulder, hands gripping Oscar’s thick neck, grinding deep into Oscar, pressing right against his full bladder.

“Mark,” Oscar sobs. “Hurts, please, fuck, don’t—”

Mark comes again inside Oscar with a groan, filling him up, watching Oscar’s soft belly swell with Mark’s come. Oscar’s so fucking full, ripe and sweet and swollen, and Mark wants to eat him, fuck him, breed him.

“Good bunny,” Mark pants, licking and sucking at Oscar’s neck. “Good fucking bunny.”

Oscar sobs on Mark’s cock, ears drooping to cover his eyes, body trembling in Mark’s hold.

“Please,” Oscar pleads, voice weak like he knows there’s nothing either of them can do, like he knows it’s pointless. “Please, hurts so bad.”

Mark lets Oscar cry and squirm, desperately trying not to knot Oscar again.

Finally, Mark’s knot starts to deflate.

“Oh,” Oscar gasps. “Oh, fuck, I—” Liquid floods the bed, and Mark realizes Oscar’s pissing himself as Mark’s knot goes down, Oscar letting out relieved, breathless sobs, face a bright, humiliated red.

“Good boy,” Mark murmurs. He expected to find it gross but instead it’s mind-meltingly hot, watching Oscar so desperate for it that he can’t control himself, wetting himself in front of Mark, his tail twitching frantically where it’s squished against Mark’s stomach.

“That’s it,” Mark breathes, and he presses his hand against Oscar’s lower belly, pushing gently, helping Oscar piss himself. “That’s it, Oscar, let go.”

Oscar gasps, shudders, more wetness soaking the bed as Mark presses down. He’s letting out heaving, ashamed sobs, but he’s whimpering something, and when Mark listens he realizes Oscar’s fucking thanking him.

“Christ,” Mark moans. “Jesus, Oscar, that’s—” Mark’s cock finally slips out of Oscar’s cunt, but Mark shoves two fingers inside of Oscar’s sopping pussy, keeping Oscar full. The heel of Mark’s palm ends up pressed against Oscar’s clit, everything wet with come and slick and piss. But Oscar tucks his face against Mark’s neck and starts grinding his pussy against Mark’s hand, chasing his orgasm, even as he’s soaking wet, disgusting, a mess.

Mark doesn’t give a fuck, can’t think of anything other than making Oscar come again, feeling Oscar fall apart on his fingers.

Oscar does moments later, shuddering and shaking.

“Good boy,” Mark murmurs, because it’s true. Because Mark wasn’t lying when he told Seb Oscar’s a good kid. He’s good, Mark thinks. He’s so fucking good.

[queers-gambit]

Alpine

prompt: in an effort to help your boyfriend with his trauma, you rescue a furry feline together - a white cat named, Alpine - who rescues you both in return.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!Widow!reader

fandom masterlist: Marvel

word count: 6.9k+

note: been seeing a lot of Alpine recently and got inspired.

second note: no, it's not comic / canon compliant so just have fun. author did some research but there's not a LOT written / known about Alpine, so, again, just have fun!

warnings: post Endgame, pre tfaws; cursing, Lord's name in vain, small angst, mostly hurt and comfort, Nick Fury calling reader a bitch playfully, Bucky's trauma responses, small spoilers, Dr. Raynor / therapy.

other works with Widow!reader and Bucky NOT necessary to read

read here: Damage Done

"Are you angry with me?"

"No."

"Disappointed? Annoyed? Frustrated?"

"No, doll."

"Then why won't you talk to me!?"

"Nothing to say."

You wiped a hand down your face, lifting it only to pinch the bridge of your nose. Your head shook to shake away your thoughts, sniffling emotion, sighing when you dropped your hand to slap against your thigh. "I'm really trying here, Bucky, I swear to you, I am. But I can't help if you don't talk to me," you softened your voice, beginning to understand this was a losing battle.

"I never said I needed help."

"You never have to ask me for help, Bucky, I just give it because I want to! Because I love you! That's part of being in a relationship!"

"Maybe I don't want it!" Your boyfriend snapped, rounding on you with unfiltered emotion in his eyes. The horrors swam in his baby blues, vivid memories he was unable to escape haunting him, terrorizing him; creating a shell of a man who could no longer hide his avid pain. "Did you ever think about that? Ever consider that I don't want your help because I don't need it?"

"Everyone needs help sometimes, Buck."

"No, not everyone - I'm not one of your pet projects, you don't get to treat me like a broken thing that needs fixed! I certainly don't need your pity - not yours."

"I don't pity you! Fuck's sake, Bucky, I love you and want to see you heal. I know you better than anyone - "

"You don't," he sneered, cutting you off. "You don't know me, not really, not as well as Steve - "

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Steve isn't here! He's not coming back!" You snapped, instantly regretting it when Bucky's eyes coated with glassy emotion he fought vehemently to keep down. "I-I'm sorry, that was - that was really mean of me and totally out of line," you apologized, both sighing deeply. "All right, look, let's just talk this out, please."

"There's nothing to say."

Your hip cocked, arms crossing, "She called me, you know."

"Who?"

"Dr. Raynor."

"Fuck's sake," he growled. "Why would she do that?"

"Maybe because today's session was, apparently, supposed to be a couples session. She thought I was refusing, called to say I was impeding on your progress and if I want to help you, I'd have to show up to your appointments. Which is really funny because you never told me about today, so I had no idea what the hell she was talking about - but that didn't stop her from tearing me a new asshole!"

He frowned, avoiding your eyes. "I didn't need a couples session. Not today, I just - I wanted today to focus on other shit."

"And I can respect that, but you're not doing yourself any favors by hiding shit from me. To get the best results from therapy, you have to actually do the work, and not just do what Dr. Raynor says, but actually listen to her advice - "

"I don't need you on my back about this, Raynor does that enough for you both," Bucky growled. "I do the fucking work - I'm the one in that room, I'm the one applying silly little rules to my life - "

"Obviously not if you didn't even tell me Raynor requested my attendance! You should've told me, and then you should've said you weren't ready! I would've respected that, but I can't do a Goddamn thing if you don't talk to me!"

His jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth, skin twitching and distinct muscles tightening. "Like I said, there's nothing to talk about," he practically spat, shaking his head at you before grabbing his sneakers from the closet.

You didn't mean to sound harsh, but demanded, "Where are you going? We're in the middle of a conversation."

"No, we're not, 'cause I'm ending it," he scoffed, sitting on the corner of your shared mattress, exchanged his shoes. "And I'm going for a run, need to clear my head."

You shook your head before leaving the bedroom, "Absolutely unbelievable."

Bucky left your shared apartment a few minutes later, somewhere you've only lived five months - the time it's been since Tony Stark, Iron Man, snapped the other half of living beings back into existence. He lost his life in return, the ultimate sacrifice, but he managed to reverse the damage Thanos created five years prior. Five months of living in this apartment without a lick of warmth, personal touch, or real sentiment; it being dreary, dark, and mostly empty. Hell, Bucky didn't even feel comfortable in bed, so he camped in the barren living room, giving visual to the way your relationship was beginning to fray, unravel, crack.

He didn't want anything personal in your apartment - thinking it was ridiculous to settle down after all you two have endured, witnessed, and fought for. You agreed to keep things at the bare minimum, only stocking what was necessary, knowing this was part of his healing process and didn't want to drum-up further anxiety. It made everything impersonal, boring, bland, and down right depressing - but it was a small accommodation you could provide your lover.

You hated the distance. Hated how alone Bucky felt after Steve. Hated how reclusive he became, the anger he projected. Hated how no matter what you did, you weren't enough - not this time. For years, you've loved him despite his flaws, his brainwashing, his trauma responses, but whatever he was enduring now was something you weren't equipped to handle. Didn't mean you weren't willing to try, but Bucky was the one pushing you away; thinking his demons were his sole responsibility, never letting you be the pillar that helped support him. God, you hated the distance.

You left the apartment, too. Nick Fury had employed you for creative, solo, high profile missions; wanting to utilize your Widow training, especially now that Natasha Romanoff was deceased. And you wanna know what? Bucky hadn't even asked about her, never tried to offer comfort, only quietly attending the funeral service you hosted with the remaining Avengers to give her a proper sendoff - despite there being no body. Bucky knew you and Nat were as thick as thieves, family without blood, two lost souls who leaned on each other in trying times; bonded by trauma, encouraged by resounding bravery, disciplined by strength. The fact that your boyfriend never even checked in with you after Nat's passing obviously hurt your feelings but you remained silent.

Again, to avoid generating more anxiety for Bucky.

You met the one-eyed man at a local, bustling coffee shop, finding the sight of the hardened, burly man eating a scone amusing. "Got you one of these," he nudged a dessert plate to your side of the table when you sat down with your desired coffee, "know you like 'em."

"Blueberries are my favorite," you half-smirked, regarding the moist muffin and sighing sadly. "All right, sir, what's on the docket?"

He stared at you for a moment, chewing thoughtfully before leaning back in his chair. "The fuck's going on with you?" He asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You look different today."

"Mh," you nodded, joking, "got a hair cut."

"No, it's your aura. Something bothering you, kid?"

"You do realize I'm a fully grown adult, right?"

Nick shrugged, "I don't see age."

"You don't - nobody sees age, Nick, Jesus."

He took a sip of his green tea. "There's still something bothering you. Not sure if you should go on this mission if you're wound tight."

"I'm just dealing with shit at home."

"Oh, right, the cyborg. How is the hundred year old psycho?"

"You you want me to stab out your other eye? 'Cause I fucking will," you threatened with a fork clenched in your grasp, perking your brows up your forehead. "Say that shit again, see what the fuck I do, Nick, I absolutely dare you."

He chuckled, hands held in defense, "Sorry, sorry, that was uncalled for. What's wrong with Sergeant Barnes?"

You shrugged, "It's complicated."

"Bitch, aliens opening a wormhole in space and time to invade Earth is complicated - relationships aren't. Try me."

After an amused chuckle, you told him, "He's struggling right now. You know? After everything, it's been a lot for him and now that things are relatively back to normal, he's having a hard time trying to assimilate himself back into the populace. You know, learning to live in this day and age - a man out of time, outside his comfort zone, forced to adjust himself after living as a weapon of mass destruction for so long. Add in the fact that his best friend passed, marking another forceful adjustment he's unprepared for..."

"Hm," Nick nodded, "heard he's got a full pardon."

"He does."

"Which has a contingency he's gotta go to therapy, right? Part of rejoining society?"

You nodded, "Right, again."

"So he's in therapy and still struggling?"

"It's not like there's an on-off switch, Nick, therapy takes time and dedication. I just don't think he feels at peace, calm, in control - like he deserves any of this; the pardon especially. Think the stress, fear, and confusion is eating at him."

"Well, he's got you."

"I'm not his mother."

"No, you're his girlfriend, and it's a girlfriend's responsibility to support him, ain't it? Help him through this?"

"I can only do so much, Nick," you scoffed, "I'm just one person and he's a stubborn jackass - he just pushes me away. I'm sure I don't help the situation by accepting your contracts."

Fury considered your words for a long moment, then asked, "You said he's lonely?"

"Wouldn't you? Given his situation? He won't say, but I know losing Steve caused a part of him die."

Nick shrugged, "So get him a dog."

You never wouldn't guessed those words could ever pass Nick Fury's lips, head cocking, eyes narrowing, arms crossed over your chest. "I'm sorry, do what now?"

"It's obvious, ain't it? Dude needs company when you're gone, a sense of purpose, to feel like there was something - or someone - depending on him. Might help whatever limbo he's lingering in."

"A dog?"

"A dog. He can take it for walks or whatever."

You considered his recommendation, asking again, "A dog?"

"Do we need to get your hearing checked again? You lose the last functionality of your ears? Yes, a dog."

"I don't know..."

"It's just a suggestion, might promote his peace, help him process grief and guilt. Telling you, a dog would do him good. Now," he took another sip of tea, "onto business."

"You give me whiplash," you chuckled. "What's this job?"

"Simple and easy," he pulled up a tablet from the chair beside him, tapping it three times and handing it to you.

"None of your jobs are simple or easy, Nicky-Nick."

"I told you, don't call me that. Look, I just need you in London to investigate a string of potential terrorist activity. Just some recon, you won't be gone more than a few days - if you behave and stay on task."

You scanned the document, "When do I ever do that?" He chuckled briefly, you wondering, "Flagsmashers? Jesus, what a name. C'mon, you can't be serious. These guys are just radicals - you know, trying to vouch for those displaced after the Blip. It's actually kinda endearing, I mean, they're trying to give a microphone to those without a voice."

"They're escalating - too quickly," Fury informed. "They haven't raised any international flags yet, but something ain't right about them. I just need you as eyes and ears, maybe report if you think they're worth the worry."

Little did you know, in only about a month, you would join forces with Bucky and Sam Wilson - The Falcon - to dismantle the organization.

"When do I leave?"

"Tuesday would be ideal. But I can push it to Friday if you wanna go get that dog."

Your laughter was endearing, handing the tablet back over.

Bucky liked holding hands, though, he often wouldn't ever voice it. It made him feel tethered, anchored to reality; instilling a sense of pride to have such a gorgeous lady - such as yourself - at his side. However, the part he liked most, was being reminded he wasn't alone; even when on crowded, overpopulated streets, he didn't have to be afraid because with his hand in yours, he looked just like everyone else. You protected him even without intending to or without even knowing what you were doing.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," he sighed, people on the street sidestepping and avoiding running into you two. "I was upset, stressed out, you know how I get after seeing Raynor."

"It's okay, baby," you assured, ever the patient, loyal, and supportive girlfriend he needed. "I'm not holding it against you, but just promise me, when you're ready, you'll tell me."

He nodded, "I will - I mean, I promise." You hummed and pet his bicep with your other hand, giving his arm a hug. "Now are you gonna tell me where we're going?"

"I told you, it's a surprise."

He was ready to reply when a small commotion echoed from the alley you were passing, Bucky coming to a jarring halt that yanked on your arm, swinging you around. You were ready to ask what was happening when you clocked one of Bucky's "friends", an older man named Yori Nakajima, arguing with one of his neighbors.

"Hey, hey, Yori," Bucky intervened, you watching from the mouth of the alley, "woah, hey, what's going on?"

You couldn't hear whatever Yori was saying, but Bucky turned to the other man and growled something at him that made the neighbor scurry off. He glared at you, lip curled in a sneer, disappearing amongst patrons of the crowded sidewalk. You frowned and approached Yori and Bucky, your boyfriend still trying to calm his friend - well, 'friend' was a very generous term. See, Yori was the father of a young man that died by the hand of the Winter Soldier, being a name on Bucky's list he needed to make amends with.

However, when you took your place beside Bucky, Yori was waving you both off and shuffling down the alley, towards one of his apartment building's doors. "What was that all about?" You asked softly, taking note of the disgruntled expression your boyfriend usually wore these days.

"Just," he sighed, shaking his head, "Yori's upset with some of his neighbors - thinks they're encroaching on being disrespectful."

"When doesn't he?" Bucky sighed, you wondering softly, "You think you're ever gonna feel ready to tell him?"

"I'm working on it," he sighed sadly. "All right, c'mon - "

You both paused with furrowed brows when there came a series of shrill meows from under a couple of soggy, cardboard boxes beside a dumpster. "Did you hear that?" You asked.

"Uh-huh."

Another elongated meow was heard, Bucky curiously approach the discarded trash coated in sewage sludge. He slowly squatted, you approaching his shoulder when another meow cried out. Now, normally, you'd never investigate animal noises out of fear they were feral and carrying disease, but something just felt sad about what you heard - apparently, to Bucky, too. Gingerly, he reached out and lifted a piece of dripping cardboard, seeing a bundle moving under the next piece. He moved that one, too.

"Oh, my God!" You cooed when a tiny kitten was revealed. White fur was stained with dirt, sludge, and other nasty juices; nose pink, eyes a piercing, clear blue with brownish tear stains rimming them. The kitten mewed in greeting, pacing a tight circle before trying to back up in the brick wall; hunching its back and hissing slightly when you lowered yourself into a squat beside Bucky. "Baby, it's all alone, should we help?" You pouted.

"I don't think it wants our help, doll," he sighed. "It looks scared of us. Bet the mother's around somewhere, be a shame to move it if she's coming back."

"It looks too skinny, maybe it's alone?"

"Or maybe it's not," Buck countered. "C'mon, sugar, we can't take it."

After a bit of back and forth, you finally relented and had to walk away. You frowned for at least two blocks, but upon your halt at a crosswalk, you were greeted by another shrieking meow. Whipping around, you and Buck both looked down to discover the wee little kitten had followed you and was practically yelling for your attention. You grinned.

"Well, now we really have to help it," you told Bucky.

"How?"

"We take it to a shelter," you answered, shrugging, "good thing I know where one is."

"What's it doing?" Bucky asked nervously, the kitten dancing around your legs; brushing up against you both, meowing the whole time.

"I think she wants you to pick her up," you smirked.

He sighed and stooped to scoop the little creature in hand, regarding it carefully; weighing it, checking paws and other vulnerable spots. Bucky muttered, "All right, yeah, fine, let's take him to a shelter. Little beast needs some food it feels like, definitely a flea bath and some fresh water."

"You big softie."

"Lead the way to the shelter, princess, c'mon," he ignored your jab, tucking the kitten into his chest protectively. "He feels fragile," Bucky worried, "maybe you should carry him, I might crush him."

"You've got the little babe, Buck," you assured, "you're not gonna hurt him - I mean, if it's even a him."

"By the attitude, could be a girl," he joked, making your heart lighten. He'd been in such a funk that you missed his teasing, soft words; the little jokes he cracked, his smile - God, you missed seeing his smile. During your time on the run after DC, while seeking refuge in Bucharest for a couple years, you grew accustomed to seeing his radiant smile; remembering how easily he offered it when just the two of you. For a moment, you considered how your relationship was no longer just you and Bucky - but his trauma, too.

Arriving at the shelter, it was like an assault on the senses. Dogs were heard barking from the kennels, the pungent smell of urine and wood chips smacking you in the face, and a sort of humidity lingering in the air - a sharp contrast to the crisp outside.

"Hi," you greeted the receptionist, offering a kind smile.

"Hi, there. How can I help you two?" The man with long hair asked.

"Well, uh, two things," you explained, "one: we'd like to tour your kennels, we're interested in adopting a dog - "

"We are?" Bucky gaped.

" - and two: we found this little fella in an alley," you pointed to the kitten curled protectively against Bucky's warmth. "We wanted to make sure he was okay, maybe leave him here for adoption?"

"Oh," Man Bun blinked, regarding both Bucky and the kitten, "wow, uh, yeah, that's really nice of you guys, rescuing the little guy. You know, since everyone came back few months ago, there's be an influx of strays. A lot of people gave up their animals when their loved ones came back."

"Well, that's super fucked up," your eyes rolled.

"Tell me about it," he sighed. "Look, I'd love to help you guys out, so, tell you what. I can let you back in the kennels - no problem! Help match you to your new companion, but, uh... I don't think I can help you with the cat. You see, we, uh, we've had to start euthanizing the overflow animals or the ones who don't get adopted in a timeframe. We're at our max capacity, so... If you wanna leave him here, uh, I can't promise he'll have a place."

"You'd put him down?" Bucky growled.

"It's not what we want to do," Man Bun swiftly explained, "but it's just necessary - we don't have the room or resources to take him."

"Do you know of any no-kill shelters? Maybe one that has room?" You asked, feeling Bucky's disgust rolling off him in waves.

"Not in the area," Man Bun frowned. "Honestly? I think the closest no-kill shelter's in Maryland. Maybe Virginia?"

"Jesus," you frowned, looking at Bucky.

"Look, my best advice?" Man Bun offered, "Take the little tike home, clean him up, and call around to other shelters to see if they have space. But if you intend to adopt a dog, maybe bringing back a kitten isn't the best timing. If you give him up to us, he'll probably be sent directly to overflow..."

"We'll take him home," Bucky instantly decided, shocking you.

"We will?" You asked softly, lips curling in a small smile.

"Why not?" He sighed.

"I would've thought you'd be more of a dog person..."

"I'm not an animal person, but we're not leaving this little guy here just for him to be euthanized. We can handle him for a few days, you know, until we find a shelter with room."

"I think that's a great idea," you grinned.

"But was this your plan? For us to adopt a dog?"

"Well, yeah..."

"Why?"

You shrugged, "Just thought a dog would be nice company when I'm outta town for work. You know, could go on walks or runs together, you'd have someone looking out for you, maybe a dog would help with your stress levels?"

He eyed you for a moment, sighing, "I appreciate that, doll. Maybe another time, though? At least let us find somewhere or someone to take this guy."

The kitten gave a prolonged squeak - seemingly agreeing. "All right, noisy, we hear you," you chuckled, giving the kitten's head a scratch. You asked Man Bun, "Do you guys have the means to check him over, you know, before we go home? Make sure he's not injured or something?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "let me go get one of the technicians."

After the tech's exam, you were given the paperwork from that day's visit, the name, number, and address of a recommended vet, and before you knew it, found yourselves at the local pet store. You would've been ashamed by the absurd amount of money you spent, but Bucky rationalized the need because you weren't sure how long your new companion would stay with you. So, you ransacked the store, buying a sizable litter box, 50 pounds of actual litter, a bag of kibble, case of wet food, several different treats, a balm for the baby's feet, too many toys and stimulation activities, a carrying case in the event of transporting the kitten, and a tiny collar - if you decided to keep the little noise machine.

The sight of Bucky with the little fuzz ball warmed your heart. He still seemed hesitant and stiff, as if afraid to hurt the kitten, but he wasn't so tense anymore. However, he handed the pet over for you to hold while he carried the supplies back home; biceps bulging to support the weight. In that moment, walking familiar streets with his arms full of cat supplies, he questioned how he got here - to feel all domestic and out-of-place. He was Bucky Barnes - a Sargent in the Army, prolific hitman, something of an Avenger now. He didn't adopt cats and buy toys!

However, watching you talk to the kitten softly, he smiled - something small at first that grew like a germinating seed to split his face. You seemed so... Bright, excited, rejuvenated, even. He knew the past five months since the Blip had been rough on you, what with losing Natasha, fighting Thanos and his army of aliens, then ricocheting into 'normal life' only to deal with his emotional baggage. Watching you walk down the street with a fuzzy white ball of energy, pointing out different things, cooing and narrating the city to the kitten as if he could understand was refreshing after seemingly seeing nothing but a frown on your lips recently.

To Bucky, as long as you were happy, he was happy - and it seemed you were very content with your new little buddy. So, he was happy with your new little buddy and figured a dose of domestic life wasn't the end of the world. In fact, he actually felt... Intrigued by the newest addition to your little family.

When you returned home, it was to an empty apartment. Bucky dropped the supplies in the living room, hands to his hips, looking around, "Well, uh... At least there's room to run around, right?"

You nodded, "And no risk of ruined furniture."

"Yeah," he sighed, watching you set the kitten down. "All right, pip squeak. C'mon, lemme give you the tour - pay attention. So, in here," he moved around the wall, kitten following and listening intently, labeling, "this is the kitchen, this is where you'll get your meals - and no, you're not allowed on the counters." He pointed a warning finger, "Don't let me catch you up there or there's gonna be hell to pay. I don't wanna find your hair in my morning bagel."

"Buck, you don't eat breakfast."

"Fine, then I don't wanna hear my girl found hair in her bagel."

The kitten mewed loudly, trotting to keep up as Bucky walked around the barren apartment - giving a literal tour. You unpacked the supplies, setting up a raised food bowl beside a full water bowl. You left the treats in an empty cupboard, the litter box ready to use in the bathroom, and tossed some toys around the open, empty living room floor. You meandered, stashing other supplies, hearing the scampering thuds of excited little feet.

When your head popped out of the kitchen, you grinned at what you saw. Bucky was sat on the floor, flicking a feathered stick over the hardwood floors for the kitten to race around and try to catch. The longer you watched, the more defenseless Bucky seemed, and dare you say it, he looked calm - maybe even happy. His eyes were locked on the animal's antics as if he didn't want to miss a single movement he made; small smile making him look younger and brighter.

You made a mental note to thank Nick Fury for his suggestion. Sure, he actually said to get a dog, but this kitten seemed to have the same effect.

"Hey, baby?" You called, hanging up your phone after calling the recommended vet. "So, uh... Listen, you know how I have to go outta town on Friday?"

"Yeah?" He glanced up, letting the kitten wrestle his booted foot.

"So, I managed to get a vet appointment but it's for Friday. Is that okay? Or do you want me to reschedule for when I'm back so we can go together?"

"Oh, uh, no, that's all right, sugar, keep the Friday slot. I can take him, it's not a big deal."

"You sure? I hate having to saddle you with this responsibility."

"I'm sure," he nodded, "I can take him, it's okay."

For the rest of the week, you had a front row viewing of an incredible bond being formed. The kitten liked you, you two had many moments together, but it was obvious the little guy adored Bucky. He was stuck to your boyfriend like Velcro, following him everywhere, shrieking for attention when Bucky was preoccupied, liked being held when he cooked, even tried to get in the shower with Bucky. They played together, Bucky's laugh warming the entire apartment; positively obsessed with one another, the little guy even sleeping between you and Bucky.

It was as if you both forgot to look for the kitten a permanent home, the lack of furniture providing wide space for play and entertainment. Bucky even got one of those cat trees, couple individual scratching posts, and a laser pointer that drove your furry friend up the wall. There was some unspoken rule about naming animals - where if you named them, they were yours officially. So, one evening over dinner, you proposed a few names, Bucky giving his opinion; but then you began to consider "theme" names. Because your little buddy was white, you mused over names like Noelle or Snow, but finally settled on Alpine after narrowly beating out Aspen.

The day you flew to London, you warned both Bucky and kitten to behave themselves. Later that night, while you were sat in a tinted SUV for surveillance, your phone rang with Bucky's contact. "Hey, baby, how's it going?" You answered, refocusing through your advanced camera lens to snap necessary photos.

"Good, yeah. Uh, how's London?"

"Pretty dreary, it's been raining all day. Hey, how was the vet appointment?"

'Oh, yeah, no, it was, uh, yeah, it was good. Gave Alpine a buncha shots, microchipped her, started her on antibiotics - "

"Did you say, 'her'?"

"Yeah, that was the other thing - turns out, Alpine's a girl."

You chuckled, "Well, I'll be damned. How're you feelin', Buck?"

"I'm... Okay."

"I'm sorry I'm not there," you sighed. "Nightmares again?"

"Yeah."

"Sleeping in the living room?"

"You know it."

"TV on?"

"Reminds me I'm not where I dreamt I am."

"Well, I'll be home in a few days."

"What's this mission?"

"Just a little recon, I'm only to observe. Nicky told me to keep an eye on some suspicious activity."

"Don't tell me you're sitting in a white van?"

"No, sir, it's a Rolls Royce this time," you chuckled.

True to your word, you were home by Tuesday night. The transatlantic flight was long and tedious; a storm creating steady turbulence, making it absolutely impossible to get any shut eye. When you landed, you made a beeline to the Starbucks and got the largest coffee possible with an added 2 shots of espresso before exiting the bustling airport. Outside, waiting at the curb, Nick Fury himself stood before a sleek and shiny car that probably cost more than a 4-year education at an American university.

He smirked, "Welcome back, kid."

"Nice of you to pick me up, Nicky-Nick."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't call me 'kid'."

"Get in the Goddamn car, I'm not having this argument again."

After storing your luggage, Nick drove you back home while listening to your mission report. You didn't think the Flagsmashers were extreme enough to warrant intervention, but all Nick heard was that now was the time to strike before there came the need, before a chance for escalation could occur. You left the tablet full of notes, observations, photos, and data with the one-eyed man, and before you fully departed the car, paused to lean in the open window.

"Hey, uh, I've been meaning to thank you."

"What for?" Nick asked, face hardened in a permanent look of disagreement. You never took it personally - Nick Fury having professional Resting Bitch Face (RBF).

"Your advice about getting Bucky a dog."

"No shit," he chuckled, "you actually got him a dog?"

"Uh, well, no..."

"What'd you get?" Nick asked in suspicion, watching your lips roll between your teeth to restrain your smile. "Ah, hell no! You didn't! A cat? A fucking cat?"

"I know you don't like them - "

"Bitch! One scratched out my eye!"

"But our cat didn't."

"Doesn't matter - fuck all them felines."

You laughed and slapped the metal door, "Well, thank you anyway for the idea of a companion animal. Bucky's a lot calmer it seems."

Nick Fury sighed, waving you off like a pesky insect. "I'll call you when I got another job. Have fun with the little demon."

"You talkin' about Bucky or Alpine?"

"The cat - wait, Alpine? The fuck kinda name is that?"

"You know, Alpine... Like the Alps?"

His head shook, "I know what fuckin' alpine is."

"Why don't you head off - looks like you're gonna give yourself a stroke. Didn't realize getting a kitten would stress you out this bad."

"Get out my Goddamn window and I can leave."

You grinned and dropped a wink, again, patting the car and stepping back onto the sidewalk. Nick peeled off, leaving you alone to shoulder your duffel bag and head inside your apartment building. When you got to your desired location, the door opened without the usual creak, Bucky obviously WD-40'ing the hinges. "Hello?" You called softly, hanging your keys on the little peg in the foyer, toeing out of your shoes, glancing around the empty apartment.

Ready to call out again, you actually almost choked on air when you inhaled but stopped abruptly. You pouted your bottom lip at the sight of Bucky sound asleep in his nest on the floor, TV's lighting flashing and creating shadows, giving clear sight of Alpine curled in a tight ball on Buck's chest. His flesh hand was raised to rest on his chest, keeping Alpine cuddled to his warmth.

Quickly, you pulled your phone from your back pocket, snapping an adorable picture of your boyfriend before silently tiptoeing away to dispose of your duffel and purse. You sent the photo to Bucky's phone, positive you were keeping the kitten. After a long, hot shower that washed the travel from your body, you changed into loungewear, pulled your hair back, then reentered the living room where you knelt at Bucky's side. In-sync, your presence made both Alpine and Bucky flinch awake - your boyfriend jerking away from your warmth as the kitten hopped off his chest.

You winced, "Oh, shit, I'm so sorry, baby, I didn't mean to wake you."

His head shook, "No, it's all right, doll, I wasn't sleeping."

"You were, don't deny it," you grinned, settling on the mound of blankets.

Bucky chuckled gently, "I tried to stay up for you. C'mere," his arm opened in invitation, smirking gently. You settled down and turned into his side, his arm now coiled around your form, constricting to pull you closer so his lips could plant on your forehead. "How was London? Your mission?"

"Easy peasy," you sighed, "nothing too strenuous or stressful. The most 'complicated' part of the whole thing was using a different car each day to avoid suspicion."

"Hmm... Who was the target?"

"Some radical group," you sighed, head resting on his pectoral. "How was it? Just you and Alpine?"

"It was pretty good, nothing to complain about. She's nice company."

As if understanding she was the topic of conversation, Alpine mewed several times in a row as she walked up the seam of your body pressed to Bucky's. She turned in two circles before settling down between you; your grin authentic as a manicured fingernail extended to scratch her head.

"Actually, sweetheart, I've been thinking..."

"Hmm? About what?" You mumbled, eyes drooping with each passing second.

"About how we should keep her - Alpine, we should keep Alpine."

"You're just figuring that out now?" You teased, sluggishly lifting your head to smirk at him. "I knew she was ours the moment you picked her up. It'll be nice having her around, don't you think? I know she's not a dog you can take on walks but with Alpine, you don't have to be alone."

He nodded, "I like that idea. She's a good cat."

"Check your phone in the morning."

"Why?"

"Mmmh, I sent you a picture, you'll see - but it's just confirmation that Alpines part of us now, part of our crew."

"Our family," Bucky agreed softly. He watched you resettle on his chest, spending the following couple hours in the glow of the TV, watching you and Alpine. Bucky's heart warmed to a degree he's never known, making the comparison of himself to Jim Carrey's, the Grinch - a movie you made him watch. Eventually, exhaustion outweighed his domestic thoughts; falling asleep with you safe in his arms and Alpine curled up between you.

"Well, this certainly is a surprise... I was beginning to think James made you up."

"Oh, please, nobody could make me up - I'm too complex, nobody's got that kinda imagination," you smirked, legs crossed, seated beside Bucky on a sofa; both facing his therapist.

"I'm glad you could finally join us - I've been asking James to bring you for a while now," Dr. Raynor's eyes darted between you and Bucky, making you feel as if she was seeing right into your soul. However, her tone was accusatory, as if scolding Bucky.

So, you swiftly defended, "Well, I'm happy to be here. Bucky's one of my top priorities, I'd do anything for him - including attending any of these silly mandated sessions. Which are bullshit, by the way, because he's not the Winter Soldier anymore so why is Bucky being crucified? Why is this being pinned on him when he technically didn't do anything? The Winter Soldier did."

"Well, healing often takes time and dedication, and must be done in a series of steps. That's how you see real progress. These sessions are a condition of his pardon - "

"I can't believe your government would even enforce these silly little rules considering Bucky's assistance. He fought against Thanos, he fought on our side, and by all means, helped restore what was lost. I just find it pretty dehumanizing to force him to jump through hoops. I mean, for Christ's sake, half the universe was snapped away, you'd think after that, there wouldn't be need for pardons or contingencies - or for holding onto grudges."

"This is simply how we keep order in a post-Blip society. Everything changed in those five years, it's necessary to keep balance amongst all worldly citizens."

You scoffed lightly, "Ever consider these sessions might be doing more harm than good?"

Raynor frowned, "Despite the Winter Soldier being decommissioned, James still has trauma to process and skeletons to clear out of the closet. Yes, the Winter Soldier is gone, but the man remains - and James needs to focus on healing that part of himself. Whatever he did as the Winter Soldier wasn't Bucky's doing, but he still remembers all he did, which creates a heavy toll on the mind. That's part of the reason these sessions are mandated - because the assassin might be gone, but the residual effects still linger."

You hummed, "Well, let's get into it, Doc."

"You know... I've heard a lot about you. James paints you in a very bright light, says your bark and bite are equally as vicious."

"Hm," you nodded, brows perked, "yet I don't know shit about you."

"Perfectly natural. Typically, most people don't gossip about their therapists. It's nice that you could join us for this session."

"Nice to be invited."

She clicked her pen and settled her pad securely on her lap, just staring at you and Bucky for a long moment. You were ready to snap at her when she opened her mouth, "So, I hear you adopted a cat?"

"We did," you confirmed.

"Alpine," Bucky supplied, body rigid with tension and nerves.

"Right... Alpine," Raynor nodded, leaning her elbow to an arm of her padded chair. "How did this cat come into your possession?"

"We rescued her from a dumpster," Bucky answered stiffly.

"Really?" Raynor perked both brows.

"She was under some pieces of cardboard, screamin' her li'l head off," You chuckled. "Though, I think it's safe to say she chose us, adopted us as caregivers."

"How's that?"

"She wouldn't let us pick her up and we were afraid to take her in case her mama was lingering around. Turns out, she followed us. We were at a crosswalk when she caught up, demanding we pick her up and take her home."

"Is that so?"

"I'd like to think so," you nodded. "We were already on our way to the shelter, so, we took her with us, got her checked out."

"Why were you heading to the shelter to begin with?"

"Oh, uh, to adopt a dog. I had a colleague recommend an emotional support animal - or a companionship animal - to help Bucky feel less alone."

Raynor made a note of something. "You work often?" She asked.

"Often enough that I feel guilty for leaving. Figured getting a dog would instill a sense of dependence, you know, help Bucky feel like there was someone depending on him. Help usher in comfort and stability, help keep him calm, focused, distracted. But Alpine does the same thing - no dog necessary, apparently."

Raynor nodded, her wrinkles dimpling as she frowned and wrote down another note. When her eyes lifted, so did her lips; a smirk on display as she praised, "I actually think that's a wonderful idea. You know, there's been a lot of research about soldiers with PTSD benefitting from an emotional support animal. You're right, they promote peace, stability, distraction - gives patrons a tangible purpose, taking care of another life not their own."

"For sure, again, anything to help," you agreed, holding Bucky's gloved hand he kept covered by leather - only worn in public.

"Although, I wonder, why get a pet? I ask because James speaks highly of you, credits you for keeping him stable and on-track. Do you feel as if she's not enough, James? Is that why you kept Alpine?"

"No," he answered instantly, "she's my best girl and will always be enough. Watch your mouth, Doc."

"But sometimes extra help is nice," you tacked on, tightening your hand in Bucky's. "But for what it's worth, Dr. Raynor, Bucky keeps me sane. I keep him balanced. We keep each other safe. Alpine's just an added bonus, a quiet menace to help quell the business of our brains."

Raynor smirked, "I must say, you surprise me, Miss."

"I'm no stranger to mental health. But as I said before, I just want to help." You looked up at Bucky, finsihing softly, "He deserves peace in this lifetime - and if a little ball of fur can help, sign me up..."

requesting rules and masterlist

Marvel masterlist

[softshuji]

Sitting with hanma and having his hands in your lap while you watch TV or do something mundane together and he's talking but you're only half listening. Instead you're turning his hands over in yours, twisting his wedding ring, lightly touching it, marvelling over how nice it looks on him, how well it fits, how much it makes him yours and he notices you're not listening really.

"what's gotten your attention sweetheart?" And he looks down to see you staring intently at the gold ring on his finger.

"mhmm nothing just thinking about how you're my husband." And it stirs such warmth in your belly that he doesn't take it off, that he wears it with such pride.

"I am. And you're my wife."

"mhm I am. Your wife."

"And I'm your husband."

You giggle and kiss his hands.

But he knows and he can see you getting twitchy and restless and warm and embarrassed and soft when you're turning his hands over, staring at your ring and his and remembering you're his as much as he is yours.

[yaekiss]

on this sinful sunday, i’m having very holy thoughts of either branding or carving my name onto childe’s skin— maybe that tummy he’s so insistent on not covering up, maybe a nice little tramp stamp. i know he’s making sure it scars, picking at the scabs and whining for you to redo them if they dare to fade away— he belongs to you!

꩜ Room Content: Dom! GN! Top! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Yan! Tartaglia, reader's dick can also be read as strap, gore + eroguro, knifeplay + blood, masochist Tartaglia, spanking (just once, on Tartaglia), terrible wound care by Tartaglia please don't follow his actions, lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ A/N: Happy Whore Wednesday pulpie! Or uhhh, it was Wednesday when I started writing this. Got a lil carried away hehe :3 Happy Thotaglia Thursday! Slut on! (With you, Childe feels like every day is Thotaglia Thursday)

Anyways. Childe thinks of you as pure divinity, the holiest of beings, and he’s eager to worship all of you and bear everything that you’re willing to bless him with. Who is he to say no to the pain you inflict on him too?

This time, he’s cockwarming you, the heat and desire he feels is dizzying. You’re inside him and just the sensation of you filling him up perfectly has left him giddy with lust. His face is smushed into the mattress with his azure eyes already rolled into their sockets. Prior to this, he pressed a lavishly decorated dagger into your palm with a fervent sort of urgency, begging for you to mark him up however you like. You try to think back on what could’ve spurred this on. Was it that merchant trying to chat you up at the market the other day? Or perhaps it’s just a sick kind of longing that hangs around the ginger no matter how much time you spend together? One thing remains clear, at its core, Childe wants to be utterly and irrefutably yours.

Taking up the dagger, you admire the inlaid gemstones glinting in the lighting of the room, their colours matching the exact shade of your eyes and you’re sure that this must have cost an arm and a leg. Tracing the cold metal down the ridge of his spine, you feel him shudder, your ears picking up a soft keening whine. You start off slow, the tip of the blade breaking past skin and revealing glorious liquid crimson. Childe sucks in a breath at the delirious buzz of pain and pleasure that he’s subjected to at your hands. 

“Nghh… please I wanttt-! to be yours!” Greedy as always.

You take your time carving out your name into his flesh, revelling in just how many moans and whines you can wring out from the harbinger. Despite how muddled his senses are, he’s acutely aware of each and every searing twist and pull of the knife. Some of the warm blood trickles and drips down to where the two of you are connected and the sensation has him losing the ability to speak, brain reeling at how disgustingly intimate this whole act is. However, over time, Childe gets squirmy and twitchy with how pent-up he’s getting, the arousal in him pooling and heightening. That simply won’t do. Good boys need to stay in line while their lover is being so so so nice to them after all. With a pointed “tsk”, you land a hard smack on his ass as a warning. He yelps loudly at the impact but he gets the message, obediently staying still as you finish carving the tramp stamp. 

When you’re finally done, you pull out of him, the lack of your cock filling him up has Childe whining again but it snaps him out of his reverie. You reach over to grab a mirror and angle it so that he can see (read: marvel at) your handiwork. His eyes glint as he catches sight of the fresh cuts, the wound spelling out your name and the fact that you’ve claimed him as your devoted believer. However, he doesn’t let you go further than cleaning and disinfecting the wound site. (Secretly, he hopes that it leaves a permanent scar, an eternal pure white etched into his skin to show that he belongs to you without question.)

Throughout the whole healing process, he picks away at the scabs that try to cover the wound, opening it back up again so that your name is written in a carnal raw red. Whenever he stares at it in the bathroom mirror for too long and thinks that a certain part of it is fading away too fast without leaving a mark, he rushes to you, whining and begging for you to redo it with a frenzied tone in his voice. 

He wishes you’ll dig even deeper, maybe even push your fingers into his flesh until he’s screaming and clenching down on your cock, use his blood as lube as you fuck up into him relentlessly. The thoughts keep coming and you can’t go a full week without Childe pleading for you to lay your claim on him.

Maybe next time he’ll convince you to leave your mark on his abdomen so that everyone can see who he belongs to.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

[silverskye13]

“I’m sorry-- you? Queasy?”

“I don't do hand wounds,” Helsknight said stiffly, and Tanguish wondered if just the thought was turning his stomach. “I don't know why I just… it's my thing. Everyone has a… thing. Martyn gets twitchy about hammers, Red doesn’t let things around his neck, EB hates water on his circuits and I don't do hand wounds.”

“Oh, so you mean you have a glaring weakness?”

Helsknight clenched and unclenched his fist, flashing his gauntlets in Tanguish’s direction.

“You call this a glaring weakness?”

“I might call it compensating for something.”

“I'll compensate your face with them, if you like,” Helsknight smiled pleasantly, and Tanguish had to marvel at his restraint. His low growl only bled through on the last few words.

[aliveandfullofjoy]

Yet again, it’s time to indulge in one of my favorite new year traditions: my ten favorite new-to-me films of 2024!

Every one of these movies got under my skin in one way or another and made this difficult year that much brighter. If you like, consider this a strong endorsement for each of them.

Same rules as always: no movies from this past year (2024) or the year prior (2023). Every other year is fair game.

01. Close-Up (dir. Abbas Kiarostami, 1990; Iran; 98 min.)

"Tell him The Cyclist is a part of me."

Every now and then, you watch a film for the first time that knocks you sideways, that reminds you of the power and beauty in cinema, that lives up to every expectation you had for it, that works its way into your bloodstream to take up permanent residence as a part of you.

That was my experience finally watching Abbas Kiarostami's Close-Up. While retaining his empathetic gaze, Kiarostami uses a real-life incident to crack open the very ideas of performance, escapism, identity, truth, and storytelling. Is it a love letter to cinema or a condemnation of its ability to distance people from reality? Is it both?

That this film exists at all is a miracle. Hossain Sabzian's performance (as himself) is miraculous in itself, too. There is simply nothing like Close-Up, and I am so grateful to have experienced it. I can't wait to revisit it for years to come.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.

02. Paris, Texas (dir. Wim Wenders, 1984; West Germany/France; 147 min.)

"I wanted to see him so bad I didn't even dare imagine him anymore."

I mean this in the best way possible: Paris, Texas was not what I expected it to be at all. For years, I've heard it spoken of with reverence, and I've seen shots from it, and I generally knew the premise, but I didn't expect a film that was as nakedly emotional as this. Paris, Texas ripped my heart out over and over and over again, and I was grateful for it every time.

Everything about it is superb: Robby Müller's cinematography, creating poetry out of the neon-soaked desert; Ry Cooder's haunting guitar; Sam Shepard's enormously moving screenplay; Wenders' patient and precise direction. And then there are the performances! I waxed poetic about Harry Dean Stanton's performance yesterday in this post, but in short: it's a landmark performance. Nearly equally impressive, and with less screentime, is Nastassja Kinski, the key to the film's mystery.

This is an exquisite piece of work. What begins as an almost unbearably lonely film grows into one of bittersweet reconciliation, of healing. I'll be thinking about Travis and Hunter walking together on opposite sides of the street for a long, long time.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.

03. Barton Fink (dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 1991; USA; 116 mins.)

"I tried to show you something beautiful."

I know I'm late to the party here (isn't that what these lists are all about?), but my God, what a major work. Barton Fink is every bit as dense and as literate as No Country for Old Men and as gripping and darkly hilarious as Fargo. John Turturro's performance is the perfect anchor, a twitchy live-wire with dueling inferiority and superiority complexes falling headfirst into a nightmare. He's matched (haunted?) perfectly by John Goodman, giving one of his best performances, using his folksy charm and twinkling eyes to terrifying effect. 

Again, though, the film is primarily an incredible achievement because of the Coens. Between their writing and directing, Barton Fink pulls at so many threads and juggles a number of conflicting tones to create a singularly hellish vision of Hollywood and an entertainment industry caught between World War II and the rise of McCarthyism. It's a marvel. I can't wait to watch it again and again.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.

04. Hoop Dreams (dir. Steve James, 1994; USA; 171 min.)

"That's why when somebody say, 'When you get to the NBA, don't forget about me,' and that stuff. Well, I should've said to them, 'If I don't make it, don't you forget about me.'"

Hoop Dreams is every bit as monumental as its reputation suggests, both a masterpiece of non-fiction filmmaking and the blueprint for the next thirty years of documentaries. The editing work alone here is unbelievable, with the film starting life as a 30-minute PBS short and growing into a three-hour-long epic.

The triumph of Hoop Dreams is a reminder that documentary filmmaking is an act of sculpture. Director Steve James collected 250 hours of footage over five years of shooting, which he and his Oscar-nominated team of editors, Frederick Marx and William Haugse, whittled down to a single, thrilling experience. The film is long, but not without reason. By the end, you feel like you've lived William Gates' and Arthur Agee's high school years with them.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.

05. Out of Sight (dir. Steven Soderbergh, 1998; USA; 123 min.)

"It's like seeing someone for the first time, like you can be passing on the street, and you look at each other for a few seconds, and there's this kind of a recognition like you both know something. Next moment the person's gone, and it's too late to do anything about it. And you always remember it because it was there, and you let it go, and you think to yourself, 'What if I had stopped? What if I had said something?' What if, what if... it may only happen a few times in your life." "Or once." "Or once."

Call it a crime thriller, call it a neo-noir, call it a rom-com, call it whatever you like: Out of Sight is all of them, and it's extraordinarily good at being all of them at the same time. Every aspect of the film is perfectly realized: Steven Soderbergh's impeccable command over tone and genre; Scott Frank's charming, intelligent, complicated screenplay; the unstoppable movie star charisma of George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez. Everything that makes Clooney such a compelling actor is on full display here, and I'm not sure he's ever been better. Same goes for Lopez: she hasn't gotten nearly the respect she deserves for being such a remarkable screen presence, even in movies that don't deserve her, but she's luminous in this. 

And, my God, Anne V. Coates' editing -- the brilliant story structure feels like it might fall apart at the seams if she hadn't held it together. Between a legend in the editing room and a legend in the making in the director's chair, Out of Sight seems to come together effortlessly. It's as graceful and entertaining a film as you'll ever see. I loved everything about it.

Currently available to rent on demand.

06. Punch-Drunk Love (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, 2002; USA; 95 min.)

"It really looks like Hawaii here."

This one really is magical, huh? Between the cinematography (Robert Elswit, a legend) and the music (Jon Brion, a legend) to the beautifully funny script by director Paul Thomas Anderson, just about every individual aspect of the film sings. This is true, too, for the performances -- Emily Watson is always so lovely, and Luis Guzmán should probably be in every PTA film ever made, but especially Adam Sandler (who, Uncut Gems be damned, has never, ever been better), and Philip Seymour Hoffman, who makes a three-course meal out of minimal screen time.

I feel like I've seen or catastrophized the worst possible version of a movie like this so many times -- an off-kilter indie love story between two #weirdos, the kind of thing that aimed to replicate this film or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind -- but the experience of actually seeing Punch-Drunk Love knocked me out. It's just so funny and romantic and sad and sweet and winning. It's a thing of real beauty.

Currently available to rent on demand.

07. Female Trouble (dir. John Waters, 1974; USA; 97 min.)

"This is so exciting! Just think of all the little horror stories that go on in other people's lives!"

What a terrific vehicle for Divine. What a brilliant continuation of the Dreamlanders' work. I certainly appreciated Pink Flamingos, even if it made me genuinely sick, and I understand why it's still seen as Waters' masterpiece, but to me, Female Trouble almost feels like a more complete, more precise, and more vicious variation of the earlier film. As a hit job on the sensibilities of good taste, its aim is deadly.

The film's look and sound is more polished and impressive than in Pink Flamingos, too, particularly Van Smith's astonishing costumes, Vincent Peranio's production design, and the horribly catchy theme song. The whole film feels like a fever dream, and it would be very easy to imagine this as a straight-up horror movie if there wasn't such a relentlessly funny rebellious spirit to it. Even still, the final act is genuinely disturbing. "Who wants to die for art?"

It's horrible. It's wonderful. It's kind of a masterpiece in its own sick way.

Currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.

08. Memories of Murder (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2003; South Korea; 131 min.)

"What did he look like?" "Well... kind of plain." "In what way?" "Just... ordinary."

At the risk of saying something extremely obvious, Bong Joon-ho is a really great director, huh? Purely looking at how he manages to make Memories of Murder -- one bleak, bleak, bleak film -- both extremely funny and extremely upsetting and, in multiple sequences, genuinely frightening, it's clear that Bong is a generational talent. 

The cast is stacked (of course) -- Song Kang-ho holds the whole thing together beautifully, lending the final shot its gravitas, but he's flanked by the likes of Kim Sang-kyung, Kim Roi-ha, Byun Hee-bong, and, most memorably, the chilling Park Hae-il.

It's just kind of a knockout on all levels, from that gorgeous golden hour cinematography at the beginning giving way to the muted grays of the procedural to the way Bong milks an overwhelming sense of dread out of something as mundane as a rainstorm.

Currently available to rent on demand.

09. The Long Goodbye (dir. Robert Altman, 1973; USA; 112 min.)

"It's okay with me."

A neo-noir crime thriller with the vibes of a 70s hangout movie, The Long Goodbye is everything you could ever want from a Robert Altman/Philip Marlowe movie: grimy, rambling, uncomfortable, and very funny in its own bone-dry way. The soundtrack consisting of just one song? Inspired.

Elliott Gould is the perfect center for the film, giving a wonderfully relaxed, effortlessly cool performance. Altman's naturalistic conversation style mixes beautifully with the genre's stylized dialogue (and every other character tells Gould how cute he is, and you know what? It's true!). Also, it's got one of the great movie cats.

I'm positive I missed some of the inner workings of it, but it washed over me like a wave at the beach, and I loved every bit of it.

Currently available to rent on demand.

10. Crooklyn (dir. Spike Lee, 1994; USA; 114 min.)

"Ladybug, you turned out pretty good considering you were raised in a house full of ashy, rusty-butt boys."

Maybe it's just how inundated we currently are with this subgenre -- Esteemed Filmmaker Reflects On Their Childhood, à la Belfast and The Fabelmans and Roma -- but I can't help but feel like Crooklyn would become something of an awards darling in 2024. Like the best of the subgenre's newer films, Spike Lee's look back isn't really about him. He's definitely there (or at least a spectacled Knicks-loving stand-in is), but Crooklyn is primarily about growing up from the perspective of his sister Joie -- or rather, her stand-in Troy.

It's also more generally about the dynamics of the family and, by extension, their neighborhood. In both regards -- as a portrait of Black girlhood in the early '70s and as a memory piece of a family on the precipice of a major turning point -- the film is a triumph. The cast is tremendous, from the parents played by Alfre Woodard and Delroy Lindo, to the miraculously well-cast group of kids. Their chemistry together is magical (and my God, they are all so cute -- the scene of them singing along to the Partridge Family is instantly iconic to me).

There are so many well-observed slice-of-life moments in the film: all of the scenes of the family spending time together, RuPaul(!) in the bodega, Aunt Song (a very good Frances Foster) singing Christian songs while Troy stares at her. And, because it's a Spike Lee joint, Crooklyn is a stylistic and technical achievement. It has one of the most audacious aspect ratio changes I've ever seen (and honestly, I'm not sure if it's successful, but I admire the swing!), plus one of the funniest uses of the floating dolly shot in any of Lee's movies.

A supremely lovely film.

Currently available to rent on demand.

Other films I loved (in alphabetical order): After Hours (dir. Martin Scorsese, 1985); Aguirre, the Wrath of God (dir. Werner Herzog, 1972); An Autumn Afternoon (dir. Yasujirō Ozu, 1962); The Bad News Bears (dir. Michael Ritchie, 1976); Baseball (dir. Ken Burns, 1994); Big Trouble in Little China (dir. John Carpenter, 1986); Blue Velvet (dir. David Lynch, 1986); Burn After Reading (dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 2008); The Cassandra Cat (dir. Vojtěch Jasný, 1963); Eyes Wide Shut (dir. Stanley Kubrick, 1999); Green Porno (dir. Isabella Rossellini, 2008); Heaven Can Wait (dir. Warren Beatty and Buck Henry, 1978); High Hopes (dir. Mike Leigh, 1988); History is Made at Night (dir. Frank Borzage, 1937); The Hunt for Red October (dir. John McTiernan, 1990); I've Heard the Mermaids Singing (dir. Patricia Rozema, 1987); The Insider (dir. Michael Mann, 1999); It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (dir. Stanley Kramer, 1963); Joy Street (dir. Suzan Pitt, 1995); La Haine (dir. Mathieu Kassovitz, 1995); La Roue (dir. Abel Gance, 1923); Leave Her to Heaven (dir. John M. Stahl, 1945); Love Letter (dir. Kinuyo Tanaka, 1953); Marnie (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1964); The Match Factory Girl (dir. Aki Kaurismäki, 1990); Miller's Crossing (dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 1990); Morning for the Osone Family (dir. Keisuke Kinoshita, 1946); Oslo, August 31st (dir. Joachim Trier, 2011); Querelle (dir. Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1982); Robert Frost: A Lover's Quarrel with the World (dir. Shirley Clarke, 1963); RoboCop (dir. Paul Verhoeven, 1987); The Salesman (dir. Asghar Farhadi, 2016); Seconds (dir. John Frankenheimer, 1966); The Shop on Main Street (dir. Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos, 1965); Simon of the Desert (dir. Luis Buñuel, 1965); Spellbound (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1945); The Thing (dir. John Carpenter, 1982); Tokyo Godfathers (dir. Satoshi Kon, 2003); Tokyo Olympiad (dir. Kon Ichikawa, 1965); Twister (dir. Jan de Bont, 1996); The Unknown (dir. Tod Browning, 1927); Walking (dir. Ryan Larkin, 1968); When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (dir. Mikio Naruse, 1960); Wooden Crosses (dir. Raymond Bernard, 1932)

And finally, some miscellaneous viewing stats:

First movie watched in 2024: The Cassandra Cat (dir. Vojtěch Jasný, 1963)

First movie seen in theaters in 2024: I Know Where I'm Going! (dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1945)

Final movie watched in 2024: Asteroid City (dir. Wes Anderson, 2023)

Final movie seen in theaters in 2024: Interstellar (dir. Christopher Nolan, 2014)

Least favorite movie: Viva Zapata! (dir. Elia Kazan, 1952)

Oldest movie: How a Mosquito Operates (dir. Winsor McCay, 1912)

Longest movie: La Roue (dir. Abel Gance, 1923 - 413 min.)

Shortest movie: Stellar (dir. Stan Brakhage, 1993 - 2 min.)

Month with the most viewings: February (54)

Month with the fewest viewings: October and November (7 each)

First movie from 2024 seen: Drive-Away Dolls (dir. Ethan Coen)

Total movies seen in theaters: 30 (including shorts)

Total movies: 246

[2nd2ndalto]

You Can Lose Sight of It All

Nico turns his face into Will's shoulder. "I don't want you to come," he wants to say. But even as the words form in his mouth, he realizes they're not true.

“I want you to come. And I hate that I want you to come,” he whispers.

___

Nico has a bit of a crisis about Will coming along to Tartarus, pre-TSATS. Re-posting here because I don't think I shared to Tumblr when I wrote this.

____

Will walks Nico back to his cabin that night the same as always, leaning in to kiss him at the foot of the stairs.

“Did you want me to… I can stay, if you want?” Will asks shyly.

They've been doing this more often than not lately, the two of them curled together in Nico’s bed, slowly falling into sleep together, waking hand in hand, or with Nico’s head pillowed on Will’s chest. Warm. Safe. And it’s good. It’s the best Nico can ever remember sleeping, but…

“Um. Maybe not tonight. I’m really tired,” Nico says, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible, not wanting the other boy to feel rejected. He's painfully aware that he’s given a similar excuse several times this week.

He’s never been quite so close to someone else or someone else’s feelings before, never had to weigh his actions so carefully, worry about their impact. But that’s good, too. He feels close, connected. Cared for.

Will smiles. “Okay.”

Will’s just as careful, Nico knows, trying not to make Nico feel bad for needing a little space now and then. Trying not to push too hard. Will squeezes Nico’s hand. He leans back in to press his lips to Nico’s forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nico watches the other boy until he arrives at the Apollo cabin. Will turns and waves before closing the door behind him.

Nico enters his own cabin, toeing off his shoes and dropping to his bed immediately. He is tired. But in the sudden absence of Will’s sunny energy, the other feelings seep in too, washing over him like a wave now that he’s alone. He feels guilty. Heavy. Will’s words to Apollo keep coming back, even louder in this quiet space.

We’ll go together.

And it felt good hearing them. He loves that Will wants to be with him, marvels at the way Will automatically assumes each of Nico’s battles belongs to the two of them now. He craves Will’s company and his energy and his warmth. But how can he, in good conscience, let Will come with him? Or more importantly, how is he going to convince him not to?

Nico gazes into the darkness of his cabin. He thinks of Will, strong and sunny and whole. Who could blame Nico for wanting him to stay that way?

He thinks of himself: sharp edges, broken, cobbled together. He feels more whole now than he has in years, but it seems precarious, especially lately. As if he could crumble to pieces at any moment, maybe even worse than before, now that he’s begun to let his guard down.

It’s been three nights now since Will’s slept over. And Nico doesn’t want the distance, doesn’t want to wake up alone and uncuddled… he doesn’t really want those things ever again, if he’s being completely honest. But it feels more and more dangerous lately, allowing himself Will’s comfort. Will’s become his anchor, his rock. But shouldn’t he be able to manage on his own?

The memories of his mother, Bianca... Jason. Everyone he’s lost, everything he might have done to keep from losing them, every way it might be his fault… it’s all come back with a vengeance the last few weeks, torturing him in dreams and stubbornly lingering throughout the day, dragging him down, sapping his strength. And more recently the dreams are of Will, too. Will, pale and lifeless. Will, ripped away from him, lost in the void.

Nico’s been keeping these nightmares to himself, hoping the memories will fade into the background again, but it's been making him short-tempered and irritable. Fragile. As much as he’s been trying, he thinks he's probably not doing a great job of hiding it.

Twenty minutes later Nico’s still exhausted, but now he’s twitchy and antsy and still so heavy. He pulls his shoes back on, carefully checking for onlookers as he opens his door and walks out into the cool night.

___

The walking keeps the voices away, but hours later, Nico’s beyond exhausted, not to mention cold and mosquito-bitten. He drags himself back to his cabin just as a faint light touches the horizon, hoping that at least in his weariness he’ll be able to keep his sleep to himself.

It works for a while. Will and Kayla arrive to wake him only a few hours later. Nico pretends not to notice their matching looks of concern when he arrives at his cabin door, likely looking more tired than he did when he went to bed last night. He manages to wave them off for the time being, telling them he needs to shower and he’ll meet them at breakfast.

And now, in the daylight, he allows himself to think - maybe it will be okay. Maybe they can do this. He’s been through Tartarus before, after all. He was younger then, and completely unprepared. He’s stronger now, smarter. Will is too. Why couldn’t they do this together? After all, Percy and Annabeth managed it.

But the spark of hope dims too soon. There’s Will across the dining pavilion, looking so bright and alive, the sun catching the gold in his hair, and Nico’s back to square one.

He can’t allow Will to do this. There’s just no way. He’s gotten too comfortable over the last year, allowing others in - especially Will, but so many others at camp too. He suddenly realizes it’s a trap. He feels a painful twist of nausea.

“Hey sunshine,” Will grins, bumping their shoulders together as Nico sits down. Will can’t help the way his gaze darts to Nico’s plate, the way his face falls, just a little. Will quickly pretends he didn’t look, and Nico pretends not to notice.

Normally Nico doesn't mind the gentle chiding to eat more, to take better care of himself. It's helped, honestly. He's managed to get his weight up to a number that Will deems acceptable (he'd informed Nico, with a brilliant, fond smile). Nico has more energy. He finds, to his surprise, that he can recover more quickly when he's tired or injured.

But he's also been a wreck lately, his stomach in knots, and he's snapped at Will twice this week in response to Will teasingly adding more food to his plate. The last year has brought Nico so much further towards being happier, healthier, more settled. Now he feels as if it's slipping away to nothing.

Will drops a reassuring arm around Nico’s shoulders, leaning in for a quick kiss. Nico’s stomach lurches, pleasantly this time. Always, even after months of such kisses and touches. Will tastes like maple syrup and sunshine and he’s so warm where they’re pressed together. Surely they don’t have to talk about Tartarus right now, anyway.

They don’t. There’s a game of capture the flag happening later, and the Apollo kids are deep in discussion about tactics. Nico lets himself be lulled by the familiar voices discussing familiar, smaller problems. He doesn’t contribute much, instead making an attempt to eat some of his meal - as much as Will’s pretending not to pay attention, Nico thinks he might be one of the least stealthy people Nico’s ever met. He'd tease Will about it if he had the energy. Nico leans into the other boy and lets Will’s warmth wash over him. Will pulls him in tighter.

Peace, at least for a moment. ___

Nico’s been perched in the branches of a sturdy oak with Harley for the better part of an hour, and it’s starting to wear on him. They’re supposed to be spying on the other team - quietly - but this kid cannot seem to shut up. Normally Nico can find it in himself to be patient with the younger boy, but today the constant chatter is grating on Nico’s nerves, and that makes him feel like shit too. He just can’t seem to get a handle on his mood.

“Shh,” Nico says suddenly, grabbing Harley’s arm.

There’s a scrambling in the underbrush below and sure enough, several of the other campers are trying to breach their defenses. It’s exactly what Nico’s been waiting for, and he closes his eyes, concentrating on extending his mind into the earth below them, running down the roots of the tree they’re sitting in, deeper, deeper.

It works. Half a dozen skeleton warriors emerge from the ground just as the Demeter and Athena campers emerge from the trees.

It’s over in an instant, and soon Nico and Harley are dropping back to the ground and trading high-fives with the Apollo campers. And for a moment Nico spirits lift and he appreciates how nice it is to be doing something normal. No voices, no visions, just dumb camp stuff. But then -

“Hey, where’s Will?” Austin asks. He turns to Nico. “I thought he was with you.”

It’s nothing, Nico knows it’s probably nothing, but it’s like a stone drops into the pit of his stomach.

“No,” he shakes his head. “He wasn’t with us.”

He can already feel his pulse pounding in his throat.

Will. Your fault.

No.

Get it together, di Angelo.

Nico presses the feeling down, trying to keep his voice steady. “He was with Jake. Last I saw them, they were heading east towards the oak grove.”

No one panics, but the mood shifts tangibly to less celebratory and more urgent as the group makes their way through the forest. Nico has to force himself not to sprint.

“Jake! Will!” Kayla yells, over and over as they make their way through the trees. Her volume sometimes grates on Nico, but he’s grateful for it in this moment, and he follows close behind her, heart in his throat.

“Over here!” a voice calls in response, finally, and the group turns in unison. Sure enough, there’s a flash of bright orange in amongst the greens and browns of the forest, just barely visible in the faded colours of twilight.

Austin gets there first, and Nico hears him curse. His blood runs cold. He and the rest of the group come upon the clearing a second later.

“Shit,” Nico breathes.

“Harpies,” Jake says, sounding out of breath. “I’m fine - I think Will is too. But he hit his head.”

Jake’s got a scrape across his face and a couple of deeper ones on his arm, blood dripping down his wrist. And then there’s Will on the ground, unconscious and looking deathly pale. Nico’s stomach twists. There’s blood, too. Nico can’t bear to look closely enough to see where it’s coming from. His chest feels too tight.

Coward.

And Nico should do something, right? But he’s frozen, useless. The best he can do is try to swallow down the bile rising in his throat and move out of the way so the other Apollo campers can crowd closer to help.

Nico finds himself standing next to Jake, who’s being expertly bandaged by Austin while Kayla assesses Will’s condition.

“He’s okay, Nico,” Jake murmurs, maybe taking in Nico’s expression. “The cuts aren’t that deep. But when we were running back to base he tripped over some roots. That’s when he knocked himself out.”

Nico nods mutely, watching. Sure enough, it’s only a moment before Will’s eyes flutter open. He tries to sit up, but Kayla presses him back down.

“Just hold still until I get you bandaged up, you klutz,” she mutters.

Nico should go to him. Everyone will expect him to go, right? Will will expect him to go. But he just can't breathe, and instead he finds himself taking a shaky step backwards, then another, finally turning and running into the woods, into the shadows.

___

Will jogs up the steps of the Hades cabin feeling anxious. He tries to shake it off. Sure, Nico's been stressed out lately, but they're still fine, right? It's going to be fine. Hearing random voices would put anyone on edge. Will tries, yet again, to convince himself that it doesn’t mean anything, that Nico disappeared after capture the flag last night. That it’s fine that he didn’t stop by the infirmary while Will was recovering. That it's not a big deal that Nico missed breakfast this morning.

He knocks on Nico’s door, trying for a positive, upbeat demeanor.

The door opens, and Nico returns his gaze for barely a second. Will’s heart sinks.

Nico doesn’t say a word, merely leaving the door open and crossing the room to collapse onto his bed. Will can't see his boyfriend's face now, but from the brief glimpse he had in the dim light of the cabin, Nico looked awful. Tired and drawn. Nico’s worked so hard - with Will’s insistence and encouragement - to get his weight up over the last year, and Will's terrified the other boy's losing every hard-earned pound of it now. But that seems to be just one more thing he’s not allowed to mention.

"Um. Can I come in?" Will hovers uncertainly in the doorway, finally entering and closing the door behind him when Nico doesn't respond. It's really dark in here with the door closed and all the blinds drawn, especially as Will’s eyes try to adjust from the bright light outside.

“You, um." Will clears his throat. "No one knew where you were last night. After capture the flag,” he says into the quiet of the cabin. “Kayla said you were there when everyone found Jake and me, but…" he trails off, uncertain.

Will doesn’t say that he spent all evening compulsively glancing up every time he heard anyone come near his room in the infirmary. That he walked up to the door of the Hades cabin before returning to his own cabin last night, but that he was too scared to knock.

There’s a long pause. “Yeah. I was just… walking,” Nico says.

"Oh." Will crosses to the bed, hesitantly sitting down. “So… what are you up to?”

“Reading,” Nico says flatly, though that’s clearly not the case.

Will’s never felt so unwelcome here before, and it’s making his stomach ache. He reaches out for Nico’s hand, squeezes it. Nico lets him, but gives him only the smallest squeeze in response.

Will swallows. He’s not going to participate in this, he decides suddenly. He’s not going to let Nico shut him out, and he’s not going to tiptoe around this. He squeezes Nico’s hand again.

“So, obviously you’re not okay,” Will tells the other boy. His voice sounds weird, too loud, breaking the silence of the cabin. He clears his throat.

“Nico.” Will shifts so he can see Nico’s face better, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. “You’re clamming up,” he says firmly. “I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”

He realizes, even as the words leave his mouth, that this is the wrong thing to say - or at least the wrong way to say it. But it’s too late. Nico turns towards him, his gaze intense and incredulous in a way that Will barely recognizes.

“Really? We aren’t doing that anymore?”

Will shakes his head, “I’m sorry, that came out wrong -”

Nico sits up, snatching his hand away. “No. I don’t think it did.”

“Nico -”

“No. Stop it, Will.” Nico’s voice is tight with anger. “I know exactly what you meant. We don’t clam up anymore. We clean our plates at every meal. We sleep eight hours a night.”

“No, Nico, please, I -”

“I’ve had enough, Solace. Maybe this is just who I am. Maybe it’s you who needs to finally realize that you don’t want that.”

Nico’s on his feet now, and Will thinks he probably should be too, but he feels paralyzed.

“What? No! Nico, you know that’s not true!” Will reaches out a hand, but Nico takes a step back. It’s like a punch to the gut.

Will can see the other boy is fighting tears, and all he wants to do is to hold him, make this all better, but -

“You and Mr. D. keep trying to tell me that I don’t know what’s real,” Nico croaks. “Maybe that’s not my problem after all. Maybe it’s yours.” Nico turns, reaching for his sword and then bending to pull on his shoes.

“Where - where are you going?” Will finally manages to get to his feet, unthinkingly reaching out to the other boy again before dropping his hand.

“I don’t know.”

“Nico. Please.” It surprises Will, how broken his own voice sounds, and Nico must notice too, because he turns and his face softens, marginally.

“I just need some time, okay? I’m - I think I’m gonna go see Hazel.”

And then he’s gone, enveloped into the shadows of his cabin. It’s been months since they’ve parted without a kiss or an embrace, and Will can feel the cold sinking into his heart as he sinks to the cabin floor. ___

Once he’s shadow-travelled to the Berkeley Hills, Nico can’t quite force himself to go any further. He knows in his heart that he’s screwed up, again, and surely Hazel will tell him the same. After a restless night and several hours the next morning spent wandering and wallowing in guilt and regret, it’s finally hunger, frustratingly, that compels Nico to journey further.

It’s still early, and when he knocks on the door of Hazel’s room in the barracks, she answers immediately.

“Nico! What on earth are you doing here?” Hazel wraps him in a hug and then steps back, her brow furrowed.

“I - I’m not sure,” Nico says, suddenly feeling even more lost. Now that he’s arrived, he realizes he doesn’t know why he came. Except that he told Will this was where he’d be, and that, at least, means something.

Hazel frowns, inspecting Nico’s face a little too closely. He looks away, feeling exposed.

“Come in,” she says, more softly.

Nico’s not sure who designed Hazel's living quarters, but it certainly wasn’t whomever was given free rein with the Hades cabin. The space is small - it’s just Hazel, after all - but the walls are light and the space is sparsely decorated with bright jewel-tones. Hazel’s already made her bed and tidied, and it makes Nico feel even more disheveled. He’s sweaty, tired and wearing the same clothes he’s been in for several days.

Hazel closes the door and turns to her brother. “So, it’s wonderful to see you, of course. But… what’s going on?”

Nico swallows, staring down at the wood-plank flooring. “Um. I told Will I was coming to see you, but… I think I’m leaving camp for good.”

It’s the idea he’s been turning over in his mind ever since the evening of capture the flag, and it’s pressing against his skull, swelling until there aren’t any other options that make sense.

To her credit, Hazel doesn’t shout or scold. She just sighs. “You better sit down.”

Nico does, collapsing onto Hazel’s desk chair and dropping his head into his hands.

“You look kind of awful,” Hazel says after a long moment.

“Yeah,” Nico says. “I haven’t been sleeping. Or eating, really. The - the voices I’ve been hearing… they haven’t gotten any better. They’re louder, if anything.”

“Oh, Nico,” Hazel says softly, and great, that’s just what he needs. The chronic lack of sleep combined with the stress of the last few weeks has tears rolling down his cheeks before Nico has any chance of fighting against it. Hazel’s there in a moment, though, bending over him awkwardly to embrace him, her hair ticking his face.

“Sorry,” Nico whispers, trying to catch his breath. “I swear I didn’t come here to cry all over you.”

Hazel laughs. “It’s okay, big brother. That’s what I’m here for. Now tell me everything.”

So he does. It helps, somehow, that Hazel’s a bit more removed from everything else that’s been going on. Everyone back at camp, worrying about him. Especially Will. He tells Hazel how he feels as if he’s losing himself again. He tells her about capture the flag, how Will’s injury sent each and every alarm in him blaring. He tells her about the nightmares. The voices.

“You think the voices are real, then,” Hazel says. She’s sunk to the floor now, seated cross-legged at Nico’s feet.

Nico swallows. “I - yes. I know they are. And there’s the prophecy, Hazel.” He repeats the lines again. It should get easier with each retelling, but it aches every time.

“Something of equal value,” Hazel muses, staring into the middle distance.

Nico nods tightly. “I think… I think that’s what’s worrying me most.”

“You think it’s Will.”

He shrugs, tears pricking at his eyes again. “How can I not? Hazel, I’m so scared,” his voice comes out in a whisper, throat tight as he finally allows himself to say the word out loud. “He says he’s coming with me, like it’s not even up for discussion. How am I supposed to live with myself if I let Will come, and he - he…” Unable to voice the rest of the thought, Nico buries his head in his hands again.

Hazel’s quiet for a long moment. “You know you can’t ever take these prophecies at face value,” she says finally.

“Yeah, of course I know that," Nico mumbles. "But what else am I supposed to do? I just… I can’t let Will come. It’s not safe.”

She shrugs. “Probably not. Is it safe for you, though?”

Nico gazes at the purple curtains, fluttering gently in the breeze from the open window. The air smells like life, and light.

“I guess it doesn’t matter. I need to go.”

“I think what you need to do is talk to Will,” Hazel says after a long moment.

Nico sighs. “I don’t even know if he'll want to talk to me. He - he caught me at a bad moment. Yesterday. Not that it's his fault, but... I - I was so worried. And so tired. And I was just a complete dick. I should have just been straight with him, but instead I lashed out about really stupid things, and then I left.” He groans. “I’m so bad at this, Hazel."

It’s weighing on him more and more the longer he’s away. He hates that he left things the way he did, hates knowing that Will’s hurting, worrying. Because of him.

"You're not as bad as you think you are, Nico."

Nico huffs out a laugh.

“Will cares a lot about you. I've seen the way he looks at you, Nico. I know it's hard, but don't shut him out now.”

Nico nods. His throat feels tight.

"If the situation was reversed," Hazel says gently, "how would you react to Will telling you he was going on a quest like this by himself?"

Nico frowns. "Well, obviously I - I wouldn't let him. That wouldn't be right. I'd do anything I could to help."

"Mmm,” Hazel agrees. “You'd probably find a way to go with him even if he insisted you stay behind."

Nico frowns. "I know what you're doing, okay? And I didn't come all this way for you to side with Will," he says, trying to summon a little indignation.

Hazel reaches for his hand. "Sorry," she laughs. "But just think about it, okay?"

Nico sighs, closing his eyes. Hazel’s hand is warm in his. He can already feel his mind beginning to settle towards sleep. He’s just so tired. He opens his eyes, leans back, blinking.

"Do you really want to leave camp?" Hazel asks.

Nico shakes his head. “No, of course I don’t. I just - I don’t know. It seemed to make the most sense.”

“Okay. Well, I need you to know that it doesn’t.” Hazel watches him carefully and Nico nods.

“You can’t make any big decisions in this state anyway, okay? You’re going to come with me and have something to eat, and then I’m putting you to bed,” Hazel says firmly, and Nico is reminded so violently of Will that his heart aches. Gods, he misses the other boy so much already. ___

Nico’s still not sure what to do next, but he and Hazel agree that Camp Jupiter will make a fine refuge for the day.

It’s nice, actually. He eats breakfast with Hazel and then she tucks him into her bed. Nico naps the morning away, mostly peacefully, his dreams muted and less troubled than they have been. He trains with Hazel and Frank in the afternoon and stays for dinner.

And then, because he’s an idiot and a coward, he lingers until after nightfall, trying to tell himself it’ll just be easier if he doesn't have to shadow-travel in the daytime.

Nico arrives back at Camp Half-Blood once it’s well and truly dark, and he hesitates at the border of the woods, irresolute. Should he head straight back to his cabin? Find Will? His stomach is still in knots, but at least now he’s moving forward. Whatever that might mean.

In the end, the decision is made for him.

“Nico.” Will’s voice is hard and determined, and it startles Nico a little, the sight of the other boy striding towards him. At the ferocity in Will’s gaze, he almost takes a step back.

Will stops a foot away, suddenly looking less sure of himself, and Nico feels his heart constrict. He suddenly realizes he can’t remember the last time they greeted each other without some show of affection. It’s crushing to see Will uncertain whether it’s allowed.

Nico tries to swallow down his nerves. “Hi,” he says softly. “Um. Can I…” Hesitantly, he reaches out his arms, and Will’s there the next second, crushing Nico to his chest.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” Will whispers, and Nico can hear the tears in his voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he mumbles into Will’s shirt. “I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot and I love you so much and I don't want to lose you -” his own voice breaks and Will squeezes him a bit tighter, turning his head to press his face into Nico’s hair. "I love you too," he whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Nico mutters again when they finally part, his head down.

“It’s okay,” Will says. "I think we should talk, though."

Nico nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment. “Um. My cabin?” Nico asks hesitantly.

They cross the green together. Nico aches to take the other boy’s hand, but something holds him back. Things aren’t quite right with them, and it’s his fault. It’s his fault he can’t sleep, his fault he can’t eat. And now this.

They’re silent as they enter the cabin. Nico crosses to his bed, turning on the lamp and sinking down gratefully. The past two days feel as if they've lasted several months. Will takes a seat on the bed across the room. The space between them is like an endless gulf, and Nico feels himself automatically leaning forward, as if that will bridge the gap.

“I need to apologize,” Will says, twisting his hands in his lap.

Nico glances up, surprised. “What? Why?”

“Before you left - I pushed you to talk to me when you didn’t want to. I should have given you space. That was... I wasn't respecting your boundaries, and -”

“Will, no.” Nico’s across the room before he’s even registered that he’s moving, coming to a stop in front of Will to wrap his arms around the other boy’s shoulders.

“It's my fault. This is all my fault. I was an asshole.” Nico mumbles into Will's hair. “I’m just so scared Will,” he says, his voice breaking. It’s a bit easier to talk this way, without those kind blue eyes gazing into his, that beloved freckled face etched with concern.

Will tries to pull back, but Nico doesn’t let him, and after a moment he winds his arms tighter around Nico’s waist.

“I don’t understand. What are you scared of? You mean the voices?” Will asks, his voice muffled against Nico's chest.

Nico swallows. “I can’t lose you.” And gods just saying the words makes him feel as though he’s going to crumble to pieces. He can’t do this again. Not with Will. He couldn’t save his mother. He couldn’t save Bianca, or Jason. But maybe he can save Will.

“Nico.” Will goes to pull away again, and this time Nico relents. Will yanks him down so Nico’s sitting in his lap.

“You are not going to lose me,” Will says fiercely. “You couldn’t lose me if you wanted to. Is that what this is about? I thought you were mad at me for… you know. Being overbearing, and pushy, and…”

Nico half-shrugs. “I mean, you are,” he says weakly, and Will rolls his eyes and finally, finally smiles.

“Yeah, I know. And I’m really sorry about that. I’m trying to tone it down, and I’m going to keep trying. I’m probably still going to screw up sometimes, but please don’t ever think that I want you to be anything other than what you are, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Nico asks, his throat tight.

“Yes. I want you. And if you don’t want to eat or sleep or - or talk… I’ll still love you just the same.”

“I do want to eat and sleep. And talk,” Nico says, his voice wobbly. "It’s just been really hard lately. I don't - I don't usually mind when you bug me about those things. I know it’s because you care. It's just… the last week or so… my nightmares have been… really bad -” his voice breaks again and this time he can’t pull himself back fast enough and the next thing he’s aware of he’s sobbing, hard enough that he can’t catch his breath. Will doesn’t flinch, though. He gathers Nico in, holds tight. Nico’s not sure how long they stay that way, but Will keeps holding on after the tears have eased, his face pressed into Nico’s shoulder, like if he holds on tight enough, he can will all of Nico’s broken pieces back together. Nico wants him to.

“I wish you’d told me,” Will whispers, and then he pulls back, his eyes searching Nico’s. “Not that - not that you have to tell me everything if you don’t want to. Just - I’ve been worried about you and I wasn’t sure what was going on. I thought it was probably something I’d done.”

Nico shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s not your fault. I’m just the worst.”

Will frowns. “You’re definitely not.”

“I’m sorry you thought it was your fault,” Nico whispers. “And I’m really sorry for losing my temper. And for leaving.”

Will offers him a half-smile. “It’s possible we could do a better job of communicating with each other.”

Nico huffs out a laugh. “Maybe.” He leans his forehead against Will’s. They stay that way for a long moment, Nico following the rise and fall of Will’s breath until he feels himself start to settle. Gods, he could sleep right now. But there are things that need to be said first.

“Okay.” Nico takes a deep breath, pulling back. “You ready for some communication?”

Will grins. “Lay it on me.”

Nico laughs. He loves being in Will’s lap, he’s learned over the past few months. It feels vulnerable, but in a way that’s warm and safe. A way he can’t remember feeling before. But at the moment he finds he needs a little space to collect his thoughts, and he gently extracts himself, moving to sit next to the other boy, their thighs pressed together.

“I’ve been having a lot of dreams, lately, about um… people I’ve lost,” Nico begins, and Will makes a soft sound of understanding.

“My mom, and Bianca. And Jason,” Nico says softly. “And then… I’ve started dreaming about losing you, too.” His voice is rough, and he’s not sure how much of this he’s going to be able to get out before breaking down again. Will reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together. And yeah, that helps.

“When you got hurt the other night, at capture the flag…” Nico finds he needs to take a moment to master his breathing again and Will, bless him, waits patiently, holding tight to Nico’s hand.

“It really threw me,” Nico says finally. “I saw you lying there, and you were bleeding, and you…” Nico shakes his head, trying to get rid of the image in his mind. “I couldn’t handle it. I just ran. I’m sorry I didn’t stay, and that I didn’t come to see you in the infirmary.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Will says softly.

“Anyway.” Nico clears his throat. “The nightmares got even worse. After that. It’s been really hard to get them out of my head, even when I’m awake. And I’m actually really freaking out, Will. About Tartarus. And the prophecy,” he finishes, finally glancing at the other boy.

Will nods slowly. “I’ve kind of been freaking out too.”

Nico blinks. “Really? But you’ve - you’ve been so cool about it.”

Will's lips quirk up. “That’s just because I’m cool,” he says, bumping his shoulder against Nico’s.

Nico rolls his eyes.

“And also I didn’t want you to worry, or like… think that I wasn’t tough enough,” Will adds more quietly.

Nico shakes his head. “Will, it’s not that I don't think you're tough, or brave. It’s about… I just can’t lose you. Especially if it’s my fault,” he finishes in a whisper, watching their joined hands instead of Will’s face. There’s a long silence.

“How do you think I’d feel,” Will says quietly, “if you went down there alone, and you… you didn’t come back? If something happened to you, because I wasn’t there to help?”

“Um. Bad?” Nico says weakly, and Will snorts.

"You can’t control everything Nico." Will's voice is gentle, but firm. "People are going to make their own decisions. Sometimes they'll make those decisions because they love you. And you still can’t control that. And the consequences of those decisions are not your fault. We're going to do this together, and we're going to be fine. I'm not going to sacrifice myself to fulfill some stupid prophecy. But I am coming with you."

Nico turns his face into Will's shoulder. “I don’t want you to come,” he wants to say, but even as the words form in his mouth he realizes they’re not true.

“I want you to come. And I hate that I want you to come,” he whispers.

Will leans his head against Nico's. "I'm really glad that you want me with you. But ultimately, it's not your choice. It's mine," he says simply.

Nico pulls back to look the other boy in the eyes. "But what if it's a bad choice?" he asks, a little desperately.

Will shrugs. "Then I make a bad choice. But I'm not planning on dying, and I'm not planning on you dying. My plan is for us to have many, many years of bad choices. Together." He bumps his forehead gently against Nico's.

Nico can feel his eyes welling again. "Really?"

"Yes," Will says, firm. "Well," he amends, "mostly good choices."

Nico laughs wetly and Will gives him that bright, beautiful smile, the one that's just for him, before pulling Nico into his arms. After a moment Nico wiggles himself back into Will's lap and Will hums happily.

Nico sighs, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend, losing himself in Will's warmth and Will's breath. He’s finally, finally, starting to feel the tension in his body begin to ease. Will’s hand rubs soothingly against his back and he just wants to forget everything else. He almost manages it.

"But what if..." Nico begins hesitantly after a moment.

Will sighs. "I know," he says, and then he's quiet. His hand stills on Nico’s back and he takes a deep breath.

"So, this is maybe... kind of dark, but... also not. I don't know." Will pulls back to look at Nico. "I'm gonna tell you what I tell myself, anyway. After Lee died, and Michael... other people too. It's hard not to dwell on that, right? But we're in this... we're in this life where that shit happens. The way I've made sense of it for myself is... if I only get a year with you, then I'm going to love you as hard as I can for the time I have you." Will's voice breaks, and he takes a second to collect himself. "And if a year is all we get, I'm going to cherish that time we had for the rest of my life. I hope we get a lot more time, but if that's all we have, I'm going to be grateful for that. But I don't want to imagine a life where I didn't get to know you and love you," he finishes, his voice rough.

Nico raises a hand to brush the tears from Will's cheek. "That's really beautiful," he whispers.

Will's lips quirk up. "No, you are."

Nico rolls his eyes. "So cheesy."

Will beams, and Nico leans in to kiss him, tears and all. He tries to pour everything he hasn’t yet said into the kiss - his bone-deep gratitude for this boy and the stubborn, steadfast way he loves Nico. The unwavering way he lifts Nico up and holds him together. His comfort and his strength.

"It's been a few days since I've stayed over," Will murmurs when they finally part. "Not - not that I have to stay. I was just um... making an observation."

Nico smiles. "I'd like you to stay. It's just - like I said before... the nightmares have been bad." He makes a face. "I didn't wanna subject you to that."

"I don't mind," Will assures him.

"What if I wake up screaming?"

"It wouldn't be the first time, right? I'll rub your back until you fall asleep again. Or we can talk about it. Or we could make out some more," Will shrugs, going pink.

Nico lets out a giggle.

"I'm just throwing out suggestions," Will says, not quite making eye contact. “I mean. It always makes me feel better.”

Nico laughs, wrapping his arms around the other boy. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," Will giggles. He leans forward, taking advantage of the fact that Nico is already in his lap to scoop him up, carrying him across the cabin and depositing him gently onto his own bed.

Nico can't quite keep the stupid smile from his face as Will pulls off Nico's shoes, then his own, climbing into the bed and covering them both.

Will snuggles against him, draping an arm over Nico’s waist and nuzzling into his neck. And for the first time in weeks, Nico realizes he can imagine a time past this. Past the prophecy and Tartarus and the knot of worry in his stomach. He turns his head against Will’s and sighs.

“After Tartarus,” he says, “do you wanna like… go to Disney World?”

He can feel Will’s soft laugh against his skin, can hear the smile in his voice, “Definitely.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Will agrees.

"I should really change. And brush my teeth. And shower," Nico says reluctantly as Will snuggles even closer. Gods, he's so warm.

"Mm mm," Will disagrees sleepily. "Stay with me."

Nico presses a kiss to the mess of blonde hair next to him. "Okay. I will."

___

Title is from True Colors by Cyndi Lauper. Thanks for reading! :)

[tgirldomme]

aaaaaa ur so gorgeous in that dress of yours on your pinned!! makes me want to sit on your lap and marvel at the pearls and the lace, i'd be too flustered to look at you directly but i'd still try to smile and show my adoration (／(エ)＼) . i'm a little twitchy though, too eager for my own good.

— a very appreciative transmasc 🐇

tehehehe, such a sweet little thing… and oh how i love having pretty boys in my lap, stroking their hair, pulling them close while caressing their shoulder-blades with my nails…

although i do wander if you’d be able to sit in my lap easily, since something tells me a decent proportion of it might be… occupied… as soon as you walk through the door ;)

[weareallstoriesintheend]

want me to model these for you? With Matt & Angel

-smoochy anon

Another for you my dear smoochy anon. The return of Matt & Angel 😘

Warnings: Mentions of smut, smutty language.

You stood in the doorway, leaning your shoulder against the frame.

Matt knew you were there, the thought of which made you smirk to yourself, but you liked to play this game sometimes - pretending you could actually surprise him, it changed the feel of the air in the room, heat crept up your neck at the mere idea of what could come next. He had found the white box you’d left on the bed, more importantly he’d found its contents – a set of black lace underwear.  

“Someone’s being nosey,” you said into the silence. He chuckled, his back still turned to you. His fingers still played with the lace absentmindedly, his thumb stroking the trim.

He turned his chin over his shoulder, eyes cast downwards, “You left them out for me…”

“… Did I? For you?”

A wide grin cut his expression; a slight nod greeted your indignation, “Always for me.”

Quietly you walked up behind him, eyeing the smugness in his face with amusement. As you reached him you pressed your body into his back, feeling the way he leaned into you just a little. Your hand grazed down his bare forearm, feeling the soft ripple of lean muscle, before caressing your hand over his.

“You want me to model these for you?” you asked, kissing his shoulder softly.

“Now Angel, we both know I can’t see you in them no matter how hard I try,” he smirked, you swatted the top of his hand sharply and he hissed an ‘ow’ in protest.

Gently you tugged the soft lace from his fingertips, gathering it up and stepping away from him. His unfocussed eyes loosely followed the sound of you around the room, a twitch of a smirk ghosting on his lips as he awaited your next move.

You placed the underwear down on the bed and began to undress, the movements so slow that you unwittingly allowed your scent to float lazily into the room and right to Matts flared nostrils. A hungry hum played lowly in his throat.

“Now Matthew…” you echoed his tone, “… we both know you can see me in so many other ways.”

Matt’s fingertips twitched by his sides, he flicked and played with his nails to occupy the ache that thudded down his arms as his mind urged him to reach out for you.

As you undressed you stayed silent, reveling in the effect you had on him. To anyone else he would almost look nervous, twitchy and swaying on his heels, but you knew better. Matthew was fighting his instincts, something he wasn’t very good at.

For a catholic boy he sure lacked discipline in the face of something so delicious.

You slid the underwear up your legs, the black lace hugged your hips tightly. The bra clipped comfortably at the back and you adjusted your breasts into the cups, marveling at how they sat so pretty.

As you looked back up to him he pulled at the hem of his grey t-shirt and lifted it over his head, letting it drop to his feet.

“Presumptuous!” you mocked, tutting at him as he grinned.  

You stepped towards him once more, reaching down and capturing both his hands before bringing them to your hips. Almost silently he sighed, a sound of relief as his fingers found the lace pressed against your silken skin.

Hooking the tip of his forefingers on each hand he pushed them beneath the thin fabric, running his knuckles against the line of your hip towards the heat between your legs. Now your fingers twitched, but you wanted him to play, to feel, to explore you.

He let the fabric of the underwear snap back, an airy chuckle following his motion. Slowly he moved his fingertips up, his plush lips falling open a touch in concentration.

They eventually rounded your breasts, not cupping them but tracing the shape as if committing it to memory. But you both knew every inch of your skin was etched into his mind already, this was simply just indulgence.

Goosebumps rose up as he traced the line of the cup, the swell of your breast pillowy against the touch. He chewed at his bottom lip and you lurched as if driven by unseen forces to kiss it.

“Eeeeasy,” he laughed breathily, his chest rising and falling under the heightening labor of lust. His hands dropped to your sides to steady you.

Matt’s hands were calloused, rough and yet tender as he moved them over the curve of your waist. He pulled you in, pushing your chest against his and you think, with delight, you saw him shudder from the friction of the lace against his bare skin. His heavy breath ghosted your face as he looked down at you, “You are dangerous, little angel.”

Grinning you pushed up slightly onto your tip toes so you could tease your lips against his, whispering, “And you love it.”

[broadcastbabe]

It’s time for another piano lesson. As an incentive to re-learning what you haven’t retained into adulthood, I am to be the embodiment of the teacher you pined for as an adolescent. You blame her pulchritude and intoxicating scent on the distraction from the focus needed to master your budding musical talents. Of course, you were at the mercy of your hormones and reacting as any young, red-blooded boy to those pivotal sexual rumblings. However, you consider it unfinished business and unfulfilled fantasies. The lingerie is as you imagined, lacy, shape-defining and bright cherry red. I’m dressed in a demure floral frock, with a few buttons open to hint at the fullness of my plump breasts. I am barefoot, because she insisted you slip off your sneakers so her contact on yours could guide you in the pedal work to sustain a note or soften your keyboard attack. You dreamed of nuzzling her bosoms, losing yourself between them as they inflated with her passion for the music she played as an example of a thunderous forte. We work on octaves and repetitive runs to strengthen your finger’s dexterity, and I reward you with another button on my dress… until it is completely open to your gaze and touch. My small feet press upon your larger adult-sized ones to vary the volume, the provocation also produces a stunning tent in your trousers. I marvel at the reflexive growth as you are lost in conjuring your memories. You complete a short concerto piece with precision and ask for a gold star. I suggest you will find your achievement award hidden between my legs… but you must keep practicing, while you search, to reach perfection. Nuzzling my neck, you slip my open dress off my shoulders. Your hands tremble as you grasp my breasts in your hands and fondle them affectionately. Moaning from the past unrequited memories, you lift me onto the keyboard, created a slightly sharp jumble of harmony. I check your finger placement on either side of my wide-spread thighs and suggest you commence. The pace is slow as you take inventory of the lusciousness seated before you. I kiss your forehead and lick the rim of your ears as I whisper encouragement. You respond by dipping closer and closer into my lap to inhale the fragrance, finally laying your head across it as you continue to play. I stroke your hair and try my best to imitate your long ago instructor. “Excellent, you no longer need to watch your hands, you’re feeling the music in your fingertips. That’s it… don’t forget to breathe, so your movements are fluid.” Your nose is leading you deeper into my warm frangrant crevice and has become a first point of contact. Massaging the moist lace with it, I gasp from the delightful targeting and the middle C that is triggered by your relentless movement. Humming with contentment, and in harmony with your playing, I lean back murmuring

“Very nice… so good… perfection… such a talented student…”

My dangling foot gravitates to your significant bulge to press and wiggle my toes against it as you play me… and for my approval. We groan together, a major third apart, as you raise your head to meet my eyes in grateful response. I nod in time with the music and the deep syncopated tapping of my foot upon you.

“I'm so impressed with your progress…”

The timing is perfect for slipping my panties from my twitchy hips as I slip off the ivories to straddle you, then gradually ease myself onto your unfurled probe. You accompany my descent with an improvised run though all 7 octaves from perfunctory to profound. Once I am seated and feeling your glorious throbbing, we use its pace to propel our movement, as you resume your lesson with a deafening symphonic denouement. 

[twh-news]

Loki Season 2 reviews are in! While critics still praise the Tom Hiddleston series… the reviews are not quite as good as Season 1

With just two days left before Season 2 of Loki debuts on Disney Plus, the first wave of reviews have come in… and they're not quite as positive as Season 1.

Loki - which continues the adventures of Tom Hiddleston's God of Mischeif title character - debuted in June 2021 with a 92% score from critics on Rotten Tomatoes.

While most of the Marvel Cinematic Universe's first TV shows on Disney Plus were considered one-offs, Loki was the first to get a second season, and later touted by Marvel President Kevin Feige as the 'most-watched' Marvel Studios series.

Now the reviews are in for Season 2 ahead of its October 5 debut on Disney Plus, with a slightly-lower 82% score from the first 50 reviews on Rotten Tomatoes.

The involvement of Jonathan Majors, who returns as Kang, amid his arrest for domestic violence, was also troubling for many critics.

Rolling Stone's Alan Sepinwall called Majors, 'the big problem' with the season in his negative review published Tuesday.

'It’s not his performance, which remains a weirdly compelling live-wire act, full of odd, halting line deliveries and twitchy physicality. Instead, it’s the ugly real-world circumstances surrounding him,' Sepinwall began.

'After the season was filmed, Majors was arrested and charged with domestic violence against his romantic partner, which led to Rolling Stone uncovering a pattern of alleged abusive behavior going back a decade. Majors was set to play the big bad for the next few phases of the MCU. Instead, it’s impossible to imagine him ever appearing in a Marvel project after this one,' he added.

ComicBook.com's Nicole Drum gave the season a positive review (3.5 stars out of 5), but even she admitted something felt off, compared to Season 1.

'Season 2 definitely doesn’t suffer from the pitfalls that would make people continue to question if superhero fatigue is real or not, but through characterizations, pacing, and too much self-awareness, it definitely feels like a very different show,' she said.

She said the first episode debuting on Thursday, 'is hectic, throwing new concepts, characters, and threats into the story with little explanation and little reason for fans to be invested.'

'When the premiere does try to stop and ruminate on what Loki just experienced in the Season 1 finale, the end result becomes rushed and confusing,' she continued, adding the, 'overstuffed and slightly frenetic chaos' sets the tone in the four episodes (of the six-episode season) that were screened for critics.

Mashable's Belen Edwards added in her negative review that Season 2 delved into the first season's worst aspects.

'Instead of digging into what makes Loki fun, the show's second season doubles down on Season 1's worst tendencies… It's a drag when it should be thrilling, an exposition-filled trudge when it should be an exciting romp,' she said.

USA Today's Brian Truitt gave Loki Season 2 a positive review (3 stars out of 4), stating, 'Sometimes you feel like you need a theoretical physics degree to understand it all. Strong character work makes up for some of that, as does a knowing sense of humor.'

He added the new season, 'couldn't come sooner, as the Marvel Cinematic Universe films are starting to feel a little repetitive and a plethora of disparate TV series haven't helped.'

IGN Movies' Jarrod Jones gave the season a negative review (5 of 10), adding, 'Tom Hiddleston’s Loki is back for more multiversal shenanigans, but the absence of director Kate Herron seems to have sapped the wily fun from his Disney+ spinoff.'

Like many reviews - even the negative ones - Jones praised the addition of newly-minted Oscar winner Ke Huy Quan.

Quan plays a Time Variance Authority (TVA) 'basement-dwelling repair guy' named Ouroboros, 'whose jovial presence gives Season 2 a much-needed boost from its overall mopey tone.'

ComicBookMovie's Josh Wilding called Season 2, 'a masterclass in imaginative storytelling' adding the show represents, 'the MCU at its best and a riveting new chapter in the Multiverse Saga that’s mind-bending, monumental, and utterly marvellous,' adding, 'and as a bonus, Ke Huy Quan is a scene-stealing delight!'

Collider's Therese Lacson added, 'Season 1 was well-loved, and with a fan-favorite character like Hiddleston’s God of Mischief at the helm, Season 2 proves that the series not only hasn’t lost its touch but remains one of the stronger pillars of the MCU as a whole.'

However The Daily Beast's Nick Schager said in his negative review, 'Its convolutions overwhelming its charming personalities and freewheeling spirit of paradox-laden adventure, it’s another indication that the once-mighty franchise has lost its direction.'

London Evening Standard's Vicky Jessop added, 'It's all a bit wearying' when describing the entirety of the season that was screened for critics.

Indenpendent UK's Louis Chilton added, 'More than anything, Loki has started to resemble what it truly is: an ill-advised spinoff in the old tradition. A too-bright spotlight for a side character who was never best suited to lead. A dinner comprising only hors d’oeuvres.'

'Loki season two is a jaw-dropping magical experience that will ultimately leave you clamoring for more, with high stakes twists and turns that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat!' added ComicBookMovie's Rohan Patel.

[anstarwar]

Squad #4 CloneShipping Big Bang Sneak Peek

Excited to get to share another collaboration for the CSBB! This time with the lovely @flowerparrish and @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@cloneshippingbigbang

Title: No One Mourns the Wicked Author: @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan Read By: @flowerparrish Cover Art By: @flowerparrish Art By: @anstarwar Rating: E, 18+ Pairings: Dogma x Tup Tags: Songfic, Clone Trooper Reconditioning, Tup/Dogma, Clone Trooper OCs, Coruscant Sucks for Corries, CC-1010, Marshall Commander Fox, Reconditioned!Tup, Fox Kills Chancellor Palpatine, Major Character Death (it’s Palpatine), Behavioral Control Chips, CloneShipping Big Bang, Tup/Dogma Summary: Tup has been reconditioned before- he had once been a Corrie Medic named Trill. Regardless of who he was and who is now, he has a deep, fierce loyalty to his vod’e and the Republic. He falls in love with fellow Trooper Dogma- then… Umbara happened and Dogma went away. He meets a Corrie named Specter and feels starts to flourish as the war ends.

Preview below the cut:

So that no one would know what happened, and to adulterate the scene so that it was shown that it was Separatists that had killed the Senator and the... the Corrie vod'e. The Shiny almost felt sick to his stomach, that he had, unknowingly, killed fellow vod'e.

The soft shells had no chance against highly skilled and deadly commandos- and this showed it to him quite clearly. The shiny hunches his shoulders a little and follows after the slicer-engineer and helps them with cleaning up after the mission.

They leave the bodies of the Senator and the vod'e where they lay and then head back to their ship. Their Sargent, then contact Marshall Commander Fox and informing him that his squad will be arriving to take the Senator Thri'kresh to a safer location in two day’s time- their ship is still a couple days out from docking with Coruscant.

The Shiny Commando marvels, while trying not to cry or vomit or scream, about how well his ori'vod and Sargent can lie to the other vod. The Demolitions expert- the most chatty of the three ori'vod'e in Theta Squad tugs him in for a hug.

They watch him- likely monitoring him so he won't do something stupid. The guilt eats at him, the numb, shocking horror of it. Not that he would say a word of this to anyone. Opsec- for one thing, and another... no one wanted to be a vod-killer.. and he is one.

The Corries are scrambling- three squads of Corries- which had been sent to protect Senator Thri'kresh- who had been in a Senatorial hiding house in one of the safer lower levels were all found dead- as well as the Senator.

Trill is one of the medics checking over the dead- and the slicers are going for the coms and hteammatesfootage- which is a bit grainy and shows that Separatist Commando Droids had slain all of their vod'e and the Senator.

Kark. The Chancellor and the Senate are going to be displeased with their failure to protect the Senator, admittedly Senator Thri'kresh wasn't popular for their Outspoken views on wanting a more peaceful resolution and for vod'e protections.

Theta squad comes waltzing over a criticizing them for their failure to protect the Senator and their complaints about how they didn't have a mission anymore and this better not go on their records as a failure- when it was due to the Corries that their mission charge is dead.

At least- that was the Demo expert and the Combat engineer complaining, one of them was silent- if a bit twitchy, while the Sargent was just watching the situation with his arms crossed and disapproval radiating from him.

"Are you going to help us carry out the dead or just bitch at us?" Sargent Byte of the Corries snaps at the complaining Commandos.

"No- it's not our mission duty to carry failures out." The Sargent said coldly as he turned on his heel and left. His squad fofollowedfter their Sargent, the Shiny Commando pausing, looking back at them, before being grabbed by the Demo expert and tugged along with them.

[theloniousbach]

THE ART OF THE DUO

BUSTER WILLIAMS at MEZZROW’S with Brandon McCune, 30 AUGUST 2024, 9 pm set and Cyrus Chestnut!!!, 31 AUGST 2024, both sets

BRAD MEHLDAU at SMOKE JAZZ CLUB with Felix Moselholm, 31 AUGUST 2024, 9 pm set

While MEZZROW’s has the famed Village piano bar Bradley’s in its lineage, it has room for drum kits and most sets there are full piano trios. Drummers make the adjustment and several primarily trio drummers leading with supreme subtlety. But there are occasional duos there as with this two night BUSTER WILLIAMS run with a very fine Brandon McCune on the Friday night and the sublime, absolute top drawer Cyrus Chestnut on Saturday right when BRAD MEHLDAU with Felix Moselholmwas uptown at SMOKE JAZZ CLUB. I luxuriated in seeing all of them.

WILLIAMS just showed up and played. Even more with the gentler and more deferential McCune he accepted the gentle chord beds and offered a tutorial in bass playing with chords and close arpeggios that kept a rhythm and offered insights into the structure of the harmonies and melodies. There was no stage patter but I recognized all but one tune; there was Someday My Prince Will Come, Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely?, Summertime, and Blue Monk in there. McCune’s chords were lush and they built his solos from the ground up. He contributed fully to a fine gig, but my attention was fully on Williams.

I’ve seen MEHLDAU at Mezzrow’s (solo) and Small’s (in a quartet) as well as with his trio at both Jazz St Louis and the Sheldon. He’s a bit too twitchy for solo, though his Beatles album is fun and more than the gimmick, while the quartet constrained him. His 90s series of albums, The Art of the Trio, signaled his presence on the scene—and gave me something to riff off of for this title. A duo lets him get at the intimacy his solo work indicates and, in younger Felix Moselholm, he had a worthy foil. The bass was active and attentive, very supportive rhythmically and harmonically. Mehldau was, of course, quirky with a cover of a pop tune by someone named Elliot Smith and an original called Quit. The standards were a bit off the beaten track and perhaps that was a benefit, The More I See You to open (I couldn’t place it but thought it might be Sometimes I’m Happy which is the impression I get from Mehldau), In the Still of the Night, and Folks Who Live on the Hill. But I particularly liked a setting of John Coltrane’s Moment’s Notice in 5/4 time.

Good as Mehldau is, he isn’t as high in my pantheon as he objectively deserves to be. But I unabashedly have Cyrus Chestnut up there, so I watched both sets and marveled. He gets fine bass players, but BUSTER WILLIAMS is a cut above but equally he gave the bassist a more dynamic conversation. There was a standard I recognized but couldn’t name and Darn That Dream which Chestnut often plays as well as standards I both couldn’t name but also didn’t recognize.

It was back to that Bradley’s feeling of serious players playing the repertoire for serious listeners including their community of peers. It was so good I could be an even more serious listener, relaxed and open, letting analysis go out the window. It was really quite special.