#why nothing but your skivvies

[jgfurgie]

So I've been playing a lot of Monster Hunter World lately and twice now I've encountered the same player responding to my SOS Flare on Xeno'Jiiva, with this also being the third time I have encountered a player with this...quirk.

It started with DedxFace, a fellow Dual-Blades main, who showed up to the fight....near-naked. Just running around in their small clothes. Carving up this final boss like it's nothing. I think "huh. they must be seasoned."

Then twice, on two separate days, a longsword-wielder named Annie has responded to my flares where I am fighting this nightmare who can't sit still and let me gnaw on its ankles and turns the entire battlefield into a fiery hellscape, with absolutely nothing on (as best as I can tell at least, it's difficult to tell when I'm running from lazer beams).

So if Annie or DedxFace are out there....thank you for the help and bizarre experience, it at least makes this mess a little less stressful.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

eddie fights to get his usually shy and moderately intoxicated girlfriend to bed when you insist on clinging to him at every turn. requested here. fem!reader, 2.5k.

cw intoxicated reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You're holding onto Eddie's arm tight enough to leave little fingerprint bruises behind. He doesn't think he'd mind, and he doesn't try to slacken your grip as he helps you up the stairs into the trailer. 

"Do we have to be quiet?" you whisper. Or, attempt to whisper. 

"Nah, Wayne's working." He closes the door behind you and leans over your shoulder to put his car keys in the bowl on the sideboard. "Oh, hey." 

You've given up on clinging to his arm and have started cuddling his waist instead. Eddie feels his eyes go wide, peering down at you almost like he's worried you'll realise you're being bold and move away. You rub your cheek against his leather jacket and sigh. "I love your hugs," you say dreamily, words slurred but understandable.

This isn't news to him, but it's definitely nothing you've said aloud before. Eddie's your boyfriend, he knows you enjoy a warm hug, but he's your new-ish boyfriend, and you're one of the shyest people he's ever met. Half the time he kisses you and your cheeks catch fire. 

"Yeah?" he asks fondly. 

You break the hug quicker than he'd like and bend at the waist. Laughing unsurely, you attempt to untie your shoelaces, wobbling like a cardboard house in a hurricane. Eddie catches onto your shoulders to hold you up, but you can't last. 

You make a strange sound, indignation and admission at once, and put your hands behind you to sit down. You go down hard enough to make the kitchenette shake, trailer walls not especially durable. 

"Shit, are you okay?" he asks, kneeling down in front of you. 

You blink at him glassily. "Will you take my shoes off, please?" 

"Yeah," he says. He laughs and tries not to. "Yeah, I'll take your shoes off for you. Pass em over." 

You put one of your feet on top of his knees clumsily. Eddie unties the bunny knots you'd made earlier, neat and tidy, not wanting anyone to judge you for messy laces, you'd said. 

He slides your shoes off and gives your toes a squeeze. Sober you would blow a gasket, shuffling away from him with a flustered squeak, but drunk you must like it. You leave your foot on his thigh and offer him the other shoe. 

"Do you like my socks?" 

Eddie digs his nail into the second bunny knot. "I love them. Why, are they new?" 

Your socks are normal white crew socks with a black hem stripe, black toes, and black heels. You hum at his observation appreciatively, your hand straying to your stomach. "And my underwear, too." 

"How much did you have to drink while I was in the bathroom?" he asks. Eddie's seen you in your underwear, but it's still unlike you to allude to your skivvies while fully dressed. 

"Not much. Why?" 

"It's not like you to talk about underwear," he tells you, sliding off your shoe and giving your foot a squeeze just as he had the first time, thumb digging into the sole. 

You giggle and yank your legs up and away from him. "That tickles." 

"Sorry, sweetheart." 

"It's okay. I forgive you, duh." 

He laughs, thrilled to see you this adorable and this beamingly happy. He can make you smile like no one else, and of course you're not always shy when you're with him, but it takes time. Eddie wouldn't change you for anything, it's just a real nice thing to see you so proudly happy. 

And hopelessly drunk. You lay on the floor of your side for a moment, jeans riding up your calves as you curl in on yourself, your jacket falling off your shoulder. 

Eddie crawls to your side. He indulges himself, sliding his hand between your cheek and the floor to lift your head. You meet his eyes dozily, sparks of happiness to be seen in your dilated pupils and the apples of your cheeks as you smile at him. 

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks. 

"You–" you begin, not sure where you're ending, "I missed you." 

"You missed me?" You're loaded. "Don't worry about missing me, sweetheart, I'm right here. Can I ask you for something?" 

You nod hurriedly. "Of course you can," you breathe. 

"Will you help me get to bed?" 

You reach for his elbow, your hand coasting up the length of his arm to his shoulder. "Stay here," you say. You're pleading with him, eyebrows drawing together, fingers screwing up in the folds of his jacket. 

"You'll be comfier on my lumpy mattress than you are on the floor, trust me." 

"I'm tired," you say. 

"Come to bed with me," he says softly, mirroring your tone. 

"And we'll have a hug?" 

Holy fucking shit, Eddie's fucked. He thinks, I'm gonna marry this girl, cheeks aching with the effort it takes to keep his huge smile at bay as he helps you sit up. 

"I'll give you as many hugs as you want," he says, brokering a deal with you right there on the floor. 

You agree to his terms, holding your hands out to be pulled up. Eddie stands and pulls you, and you do your part, attempting to stand with a wobble as you go, but he's right there to catch you. Thus begins another round of clinging, your fingers braceleting his wrist, your hips on his. 

Eddie leads you down the hallway. It takes longer than it should, what with your face in his neck and your less than subtle sniffing. He smells better than you do, your shirt soaked with what could be craft beer but might just be a half a cup of cider, neither of which he pictures you drinking. 

"Who tipped their drink on?" he asks, pushing the bedroom door open with his elbow. 

"What?" you ask, lifting your head from his neck. He looks down at you briefly. 

"What happened? You have beer all down your shirt, babe. Did someone tip their drink on you?" 

"Robin did, she said to tell you it was Steve." You raise a hand to his cheek. It's cold, and it smells like your moisturiser. "But I don't keep secrets from you." 

He doesn't mean to melt under your touch. He has things he should be doing, depositing you in the bed, changing your shirt, tucking you in for the night with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol for your perusal in the morning, but it's a startling delight to have you stroking his cheek. You usually only do this when he's half asleep or you're very tired; hoping he'll forget, maybe, and forgetting your own inhibitions. 

"You don't?" he asks gently. 

Your fingertips slip from the soft part of his cheek up to his eyelashes. You don't touch them, breathing out the side of your mouth rather than in his face. Drunk but not enough to stop treating him with care. 

"No… except for last Friday when we went to the Hawk. I really did need to use the bathroom." 

Well, Eddie knew that. You're shy, that doesn't make you a good actress. "And now we have no secrets," he says, covering your hand on his cheek. 

Your eyes slip closed a touch. Eddie doesn't really believe himself, he's sure there's lots of stuff you don't tell him. He guesses when you need something to drink because you hate asking, and he can't work out whether you like hotdogs or if you're just humouring him when he makes them, but he thinks any secret worth having is one you've let him in on. 

He puts you on the end of the bed. 

"Can I help you get changed?" he asks, already turning for the wardrobe where he keeps your left behind pyjamas and miscellaneous clothes, washed and pressed and waiting for you the next time you come around. 

"You haven't asked if you can undress me in ages." 

He laughs like an idiot, scooping an oversized t-shirt and a pair of your pyjama pants into his arms. "Now, that's not true. I always ask, but half the time you're already getting there." He turns to you, finds you've disappeared into your shirt, elbow twisted into the bottom and arms slack. "Like that," he laughs. 

"Stuck," you mumble. 

He chucks your pyjamas down and slips his fingers under your shirt where it's folded at the top of your shoulders. "Lift your arms, sweetheart. There you go." 

He laughs again when he sees your rumpled hair and face, dropping your acidic smelling shirt on the floor. "There she is. Hey, gorgeous," Eddie teases, running the side of his hand down your cheek quickly. "Bra on or off?" 

"Can I have my shirt first, please?" you ask.

He loves you. Your shyness creeping back in despite his having seen it all before is endearing, and he wouldn't ever say no to you. "Of course you can. Do you need my help again?" 

"I think this part will be easier." 

You're right about that. You get your shirt on easily enough, unclipping your bra without help. Nor do you need help with your pants. 

Eddie strips off quickly, swapping jeans for plaid pants and his t-shirt for a ribbed undershirt. He stretches out day long aches and kicks aside your dirty clothes on his way to the light switch, flicking it off, only his lamp left on now. 

You look lovely. Makeup smudged, watching him move around his small room with your face propped heavily in your hand, a practically cherubic smile playing on your lips. 

He pulls back the sheets and grabs you by the waist, lifting you very slightly to encourage you up against the pillows. You look at him like he's a wonder, adoration softening each line of your features. Your lips part slightly, your eyebrows rise upward. 

He thinks it might be really special, to be looked at as you look at him. 

"Let me get you a glass of water," he says. 

Neither of you have managed to brush your teeth. Honestly, he doesn't think you can stand up any more to try. Water will have to do. 

"No!" you say, louder than you've likely ever spoken to him when he isn't tickling you. "You said we'd hug." 

"We will," he says, giving your hand a little shake where it clings to his. 

"Please, Eddie, I just want to cuddle with you," you confess, giving him the best case of the puppy dogs he's ever seen. 

Eddie thinks, Whatever, we'll just have to make sure we brush extra hard in the morning. He can't deny you any longer. He didn't stand a chance. 

He climbs over your legs and you tuck him in affectionately, ramming your forehead into his chest and throwing your arm around his waist with less care. You nuzzle in, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips as you get comfortable. 

"This is so nice," you praise, words sluggish, slurred even more than they were as fatigue weighs you down. 

"This is perfect," he agrees, easing as flat as he can onto his back, nothing for his arms to do now but wrap around you and hold you close. 

You sigh again. It's even happier than the first, your leg creeping up as you hook your knee over his hip. "I love you, Munson. Thanks for…" You yawn and rub your nose into his chest. "Thank you. I love you." 

"You told me twice," he says, lifting his head to give you a teeny tiny kiss on your temple. 

"It was true for both of the times," you mumble. 

Despite relaxing atop him, your arms are like a vice. He doesn't care, he really couldn't care less, 'cos if you weren't hugging him like this he'd be hugging you tighter. Eddie speaks against your skin tenderly, "I love you, too," he murmurs, sealing it with a punctuating kiss.

He rubs your shoulder, feels your arms give him one final squeeze. 

"Is now a bad time to mention I need the bathroom?" he asks. 

Your answering snore tickles his chest.

—

"Eddie." 

Eddie scrunches his face up. You look down at him, flustered, wondering if it would be better for you to run out on him and never see him again. He groans as he wakes, turning his head and distorting the stain of your lipgloss smudged the length of his neck. 

You nibble the inside of your lip. He doesn't seem particularly annoyed with you. But he is mostly asleep. 

"Eddie, how did we get home last night?" you ask, rubbing between your eyebrows. "You didn't drive, did you?" 

He'd had two beers, which wasn't too much for him to handle but is more than anyone should have if they want to drive themselves home. 

Eddie peels his eyes open. "Steve drove us."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I'm super embarrassed. I got kinda wasted, huh?" 

Eddie's hands slip under your shirt to wrap around your soft stomach. He pulls you in an attempt to make you lay down again. 

"You were very drunk," he agrees, yawning into your ribs. 

You put your hand on the other side of his head to hold yourself up. "Was I a handful?" you ask softly, brushing his bangs away from his eyes.

He smiles against your shirt. You feel the curve of his lips, goosebumps erupting underneath it. Shy, you gasp quietly and try to escape his hold, but he hugs you ever tighter, snuggling into your chest. 

"You were great. I missed sober you, though." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Drunk you doesn't get goosebumps when I touch her." Smugness colours his voice, his hand rubbing up and down your naked back roughly to chase away your shivers. 

"I wasn't weird, was I?" you worry, more than alarmed by the gap in your memory. 

"You told me all about your new underwear," —you groan— "and how badly you needed to pee at the Hawk." 

You drop your head on to his, your foreheads touching, your hand curling around his neck. "Did I do anything vaguely in the land of acceptable behaviour?" you mumble in defeat.

"You told me you loved me. Multiple times. Once in your sleep." Eddie sounds delighted.

"That's unfontunately true," you grumble, not really meaning it. 

He laughs and gives you a firm tug. "Cuddle with me, babe." 

You cuddle him if only to hide your face from the world, face in his hair, hands under his back. Eddie draws a path of fondness up and down the dip of your back, laughing at each new crop of goosebumps as they rise. He's sweet enough to let you forget the mess you've made for at least a few stolen hours that morning. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed, please reblog if you have the time it makes a huge difference for me ♡

[mlmxreader]

Kill Our Friendship | Legolas x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi can I request “When you've known someone a long time, you just want to kiss them just to see if they're a good kisser. There's nothing wrong with that, right?” With Legolas please? ❞

: ̗̀➛ To perform one small little action will kill a friendship, but maybe that's for the best.

: ̗̀➛ n/a

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You were comfortable as you strolled through the woods with Legolas at your side, all too aware of his hand lingering beside yours, so close that you could almost feel his fingers brush against your own so deftly; it wasn't far now, the small little clearing that sat at the edge of the expansive lake.

There was a small raft waiting for you there, tied to some weeds and some bushes, anchored against the bank. It was made of old wood, but it was sturdy in its frame; it could easily hold you and Legolas without a doubt, and you were excited to show it to him.

After all, you had spent so long crafting it that there was only one person in the world you deemed important enough to see it.

You caved in, linking your fingers with his and swinging your hands back and forth a little bit; it made you smile, especially when he looked at you so softly and so warmly. In his blue eyes was a hidden summertime that never ended, and when he smiled, it seemed as if the seasons were forever stuck there.

Legolas dared to smile, practically skipping along beside you until you tugged him over to the little raft at last. Amongst the expansive lake, it was easy to tell that it went on for miles. The murky dark olive colour calming along with the thick scent of the bushes and trees.

You finally let go of his hand, kneeling down for a moment to untie the raft. Legolas wasn't far behind, helping you to get it onto the water's body; he jumped on it beside you, lying on his back and letting the sun hit his skin.

You lowered yourself down next to him, your temple pressed against his and your hand finding its way to his; fingers interlocking tightly. You could only hum as you smiled, clearing your throat and trying not to show how anxious you really were.

"What do you think?"

Legolas grinned as he closed his eyes. "How did you manage to do this without anyone knowing?"

You shrugged, letting out a quiet laugh. "You aren't the only one who can be so stealthy, you know."

He laughed along for a second before falling into a comfortable silence with you; he rarely got the time to be so close, and he appreciated every single second that he could get.

It was his favourite thing, to be close with you and to actually be there with you whenever it was possible. He loved it, he loved you.

But of course, there was a... certain expectation. Legolas was a Prince, after all, and you were not of royal blood of any kind; but you had been friends for so long, always joined at the hip, that it was impossible to get you away from him and vice versa.

He knew that if he was going to act on his feelings, it would surely bring about the death and ruin of friendship - but when he opened his eyes to see you undressing, it was all too tempting for him to finally admit how he felt.

Your body was the most brilliant thing he had ever seen; every inch of exposed flesh slowly creating a masterpiece until you were left with nothing but your skivvies on. You laid back down, all too aware of his gaze, and awkwardly shifted onto your side; resting your head against your hand and letting your elbow dig into the wood.

"Why are you staying at me like that?"

Legolas shrugged as he met your gaze, swallowing thickly and trying to ignore it all. The racing, heavy pounding of his heart in the cavern of his chest. The little droplets of sweat forming on his palms. The slight shake of his fingers.

"When you've known someone a long time, you just want to kiss them just to see if they're a good kisser. There's nothing wrong with that, right?"

You shook your head, trying not to smile as you swallowed thickly, letting your free hand rest on his chest. "Not at all... I may have wondered myself, here and there..."

His gaze flicked to your mouth for a moment, and he slowly reached out; his thumb just in front of your ear and his fingers desperately clinging behind it as he leaned in slightly. "Shall we find out?"

You nodded, softly whispering "yes" before leaning in yourself; clumsily, Legolas moved to straddle your waist, letting his other hand copy the position of the other as you clung to his shoulders. Finally, he sealed the kiss.

It started out so chaste, but you could not help it; gathering his platinum hair in your hand and tugging it softly. He grinned, kissing you harder and harsher as you eagerly and desperately tried to keep up. But it couldn't last forever, and he pulled away when the need for air started to creep into his chest.

"That was..." he breathed out, nodding. "If it would be alright with you, I'd like to do it again."

You nodded back, trying not to act so fucking eager. "I'd like that, actually."

He smiled, a little relaxed as he pressed his forearms either side of your head and allowed some of the anxious tension to drop from his body. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"Can we kill this friendship?" He asked quietly. "And become something else?"

You shrugged, gently playing with his hair as you nodded slowly. "I would like that, actually. Especially if that something else means you'll keep kissing me like that."

Slowly, a grin spread across his face, and he nodded as he licked his lips, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "I'll kiss you like that as many times as you wish, beloved. All you have to do is ask."

"All I have to do is ask?"

"Yes," he breathed out. "Just ask, and I will happily oblige."

"Alright," you agreed. "Legolas, if you'd be so kind... kiss me again, please?"

[fandomnerd9602]

Break

Fem!Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

You and Petra Parker, the Spectacular Spider Girl were happily married. Life was good and a proper balance of work, college, and superhero stuff. You couldn’t have asked for anything better.

And then Petra told you she was pregnant. You were on cloud nine. The woman of your dreams was going to having your baby. Your dad, the always showboating Tony Stark, was already a doting grandpa and the baby wasn’t even born yet.

He showed up with a moving truck full of baby stuff, clothes, and diapers. “Let me know if you need anything else” your dad gave you and Petra a genuine smile. “I want my grandson to want for nothing”

“What if it’s a little girl, Mr Stark?” Petra asked with a little smirk.

“Even more so” he gave a shrug before jumping in his Lamborghini.

Aunt May practically spent every day over at your house from that point on. She already trying to coach her niece thru the first trimester, cooking meals, helping with the nursery, etc.

You and Petra couldn’t be happier. But you could tell something was on your wife’s mind. It all started at the end of the first trimester. She was started to show signs of a pregnant belly.

You found you and her getting ready for patrol. Petra just looked at herself in the mirror, costume at her ankles and only standing there in her skivvies.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” You approached her and wrapped her in a hug from behind, locking eyes with her in the mirror.

Her eyes were full of tears and a bit of sadness, “I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t be Spider Girl anymore” she whispered. Her hands were gently caressing her belly.

“I wouldn’t say anymore” you countered.

“Our baby is my main responsibility and priority, Stark” she said back. She turned in your arms to face you. Her lips were mere inches from yours. “I just want what’s best for little May”

“May?” You smiled at her, “that’s what you want to name her? Little May?”

You nuzzle Petra, earning a giggle from your favorite Web-Head.

“Yeah.” Petra giggled, “we can call her May-May as a nickname.”

“I love it. And I love you.” You gently rubbed her arms, reassuring her as best you could, “I support you. And I’m proud of you. Our baby’s gonna have a super mom”

“You’re so corny” Petra buries her head in your neck. How you love her scent, the way her head fits perfectly into the crook of your neck.

You smiled, “our baby. It’s so surreal to say”

“I know” she whispered back.

So Petra had to briefly retire from that point on. The Spectacular Spider Girl disappeared for about a year. No one knew why.

It didn’t matter if anyone else knew. All you and Petra cared about was the family you and her were building together.

And that’s all that truly mattered, just you, Petra and little May-May.

Tags: @jacelion @ma1egamer @multi-fandom-enjoyer @supercorpdanbeau @scarletquake-n7 @mostlymarvelsstuff @deafeningsharkslimeempath @iamnicodemus @pinklawyerwinnerzonk @wombatking @lifespectator @aloneodi @abimess @family-house-of-m @holiday-house-of-m @russianredassassin @revanshand @tokufighter

[rosiegirlie]

Here to bother you about your OC if that's okay because I miss her! Can we get a sneak peek of her and Rosie's next interaction? 😁 - @softspeirs

bother away omg thank you for asking about Billie !! You're so sweet !!! So this is the only thing I've actually written for my next little installment, everything else I have is in a rough outline. As a warning it takes place towards the end of the thing so it might give a bit away and I'm sorry if that bothers you. And as a follow up warning this will most likely be edited/revised for when I put the whole thing together lol. But I hope you enjoy the taste !!

“Do you want to talk about it?” Rosie's voice was gentle as he asked.

“Harry already told you what happened.” Billie grumbled.

“That’s not what I meant.” Rosie reached out and brushed back a stray piece of Billie’s hair. Chills rushed down Billie’s arms as his fingers gently traced the back of her ear. She ached for more of his touch as soon as his fingers left her skin.

“What did you mean then?” Billie was sure she knew what he meant but she couldn’t stop herself from asking. She didn’t know why she needed to hear Rosie spell out exactly what he meant but it probably had something to do with her past of jumping to conclusions and ruining too many things before they even started.

“I thought you wanted a quiet night.” He lifted her hand up and kissed her knuckles that had finally stopped bleeding. “This isn’t quiet.” 

Billie looked away from Rosie but didn’t pull her hand away. “I don’t know if I can talk about it quite yet.” She confessed while staring at how their fingers wrapped around each other. 

“Is it about Eddie?” 

Billie looked back up at Rosie. He’d always been so easy for her to read but now that he was drunk he was an open book. He was so worried for her it made Billie’s heart skip a beat. She didn’t deserve him.

She shook her head and answered, “No, it’s nothing to do with Eddie.” Billie sighed and said, “It’s embarrassing…” she trailed off with a weak chuckle. 

Billie ran her free hand through her hair and her fingers caught on a couple of knots but she forced them through. She ripped out a couple of strands and tossed them out onto the ground in front of their bench. Billie felt so childish, so petty complaining to Rosie about gossip. She didn’t want to ruin his opinion of anyone even if she thought they deserved it. She knew how well respected Rebecca was on base. Besides, Billie didn’t want anyone else to get involved. She didn’t even think she could talk to Barbara about what she’d overheard and she told Barbara everything.

Rosie’s thumb rubbed over the back of her hand and Billie was pulled back into the moment. She felt herself leaning further into Rosie’s side. She’d fantasized countless times about what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his arms but none of them came close to the real thing. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I hope you know you can talk to me about anything. There is nothing embarrassing you could possibly say that would put me off.” Rosie let go of her hand and reached a finger out to playfully boop the tip of Billie’s nose. “Did I ever tell you about when I met Majors Egan and Cleven?” 

Billie shook her head. “I don’t think so, no.”

Rosie was blushing fiercely but smiled as he said, “Let’s just say talking about flying in your skivvies doesn’t make the best first impression.” 

Billie threw her head back and cackled. “You’re not serious.” 

“I wish I could say I was joking.”

The sound of footsteps on the gravel and laughter behind them interrupted Billie asking for the whole story. Rosie straightened up and pulled away from Billie to give more than the illusion of a respectable distance between them. Billie hated how sick the sudden distance made her feel. She wanted him back. She felt weightless without his arm around her but for the first time in her life she hated the feeling. She needed grounding.

The pair were quiet while the group of airmen walked behind them and their banter did little to fill the space between Billie and Rosie. Billie suddenly realized Rosie had listened to what she’d said all those hours ago. He was respecting her wishes and letting her set the pace. It felt like it had been an entire lifetime since she’d shied away from his advance. But the more she thought about it the more Billie found herself opposing her original stance. She’d already proved Rebecca right that night so Billie figured she might as well go all in on bringing the gossip to life. 

People were still walking behind them, an unknown number of witnesses but Billie mentally pushed them aside and leaned back into Rosie’s side to close the distance he’d created. An unspoken gesture of consent; the invitation he said he would wait for. His arm immediately wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her until two were pressed tighter together than they’d been before. Billie couldn’t help but giggle as she settled into her new position practically on top of Rosie’s lap. She couldn’t bare to move. He pressed a kiss onto the top of her forehead and Billie barely held back a whimper. It was such a soft sweet thing but she couldn’t remember the last time someone had kissed her forehead. Her stomach flipped as she followed the train of thought and realized, not for the first time, that no one had ever treated her with the reverence Rosie seemed to hold for her. 

She stretched her neck to look up at Rosie through her eyelashes. He looked as drunk as Billie felt and Billie knew with every fiber in her being that Rosie wouldn’t kiss her unless she initiated it. Even though his eyes kept darting from hers to her lips. Just like she could only pull herself away from thinking about what his mustache would feel like to stare back into his blue eyes. Billie felt ridiculous but nothing felt as right to her as looking at Rosie up close like this. She wanted to look at him for the rest of her life. Billie would be the luckiest girl in the world if she could. Without another thought Billie stretched her neck and pressed her lips to his. 

[dellalyra]

omg imagine gojo with a welsh or irish gf - another irish girl

Gojo would thrive with one of us Irish women

Because let’s face it: we’re mostly all firebrands, strong, fiery passionate women.

That strong sense of loyalty and family (blood or found) oriented attitude? He relishes it, a feeling of belonging - of being truly loved and respected by someone? Amazing. The fiery nature of our blood lends itself a protective nature. The higher ups are giving him shit? Not a chance.

“Eh? Excuse you, you wrinkly sack of shite? What your last skivvy die of? Hush your gob or I’ll shut it for you. Fucking scarlet for ya’, absolute state of ya.”

Sometimes when you’re angry your accent becomes thicker or if you’re a gaeilgeoir you might slip into your teanga nádúrtha and I stg gojo has never gotten a hard on quicker in his life than seeing you spitting fire at that typical angry Irish girl speed of light.

None of his arrogance or occasional push-too-far would float either. None of us have the energy.

“Satoru, for the love of God, if you keep going on about not wanting to do the washing up because you’re the strongest, I’m going to crack up. I don’t have the energy for your shite right now. Now get up off your arse and clean the pan.”

Probably takes him a while to get used to how casually we curse and drink too, like you’re going to see your friends?

“I’m meeting the gang for a few jars tonight, coming?”

“The fuck are you doing with jars?”

The vernacular gets him too.

“SATORU!” Comes a shout from across the house.

“Yes, gremlin?”

“Grab me a few tea cloths from the hot press will you? Good chap.”

“Hot press? Is that a sex position?”

“Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph.”

If you guys have kids - they’re brought up with the value that the mammy is the centre of the family and nothing goes on without her say so.

Like imagine a little mini version of Satoru running around and sprinting to his dad.

“Daddy, can I have the sweets on the table?” Shiny blue eyes mirror each other.

“Ask your mother, kiddo, it’s her dairy milk.”

The patter of feet is followed by a:

“MAAAAAAA! Can I have your selection box?”

“You can in your hat!”

Satoru sick? Why do you keep giving him flat 7up or cream crackers? Suguru got wounded on a mission, why do you insist on putting sudocream on it?

Christmas rolls around and for some reason in late November it’s a very big deal one Friday night. You have cornered him, Suguru and Shoko and forced them all into Christmas pyjamas and made hot chocolates for everyone and switched the telly on.

“What is going on? It’s not even Christmas.” Suguru asks, completely lost.

“Wha? Sure it’s the last Friday in November.”

The three just sit in silence.

“You three, thick as a plank, the lot of ye. I told ye last week that it’s the Toy Show tonight!”

“The what show?”

“The Toy Show!”

“It’s a show… about toys?”

“Yeah! A load of kids showing off their toys and showing how they work and all. Fierce funny. Robbie Keane usually ends up on it too somehow.”

If ever there’s an issue where some arsehole is annoying you about stereotypes, it’s always an entertaining show for Satoru.

“Can you do a Riverdance?” The stranger asks.

“Jaysus, sure I haven’t done any Irish dancing since I was in 3rd class and my nanny forced me to.”

Introducing him to Irish delicacies?

No I don’t mean coddle, or stew.

I mean real delicacies.

Like a chicken fillet roll or a spice bag. Your Nana’s apple tart. Soda bread or a bottle of Lilt. Bag of tayto (cheese and onion, obviously) or purple snack bars? A curly wurly? Red lemonade or a mikado biscuit? (Fuck, we love sweets I’m realising as I write this) or a decent cup of tea (Barry’s or Lyon’s, I won’t start that debate here).

Most of all, I think Satoru would thrive in the warmth of an Irish woman. We might be temperamental, battleaxes sometimes, and always a bit mad but one thing I know is we love wholeheartedly and fiercely, with every fibre of who we are. That belonging, the nurturing, the warmth and sheer sense of home that we all somehow tend to exude would made Satoru an incredibly happy man.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

There’s a blissful familiarity in this passion. The like-for-like movements that put him in mind of their eager verbal sparring. Oliver moans, lost in the lethargic rut of sensation, and it’s only when black orbs infringe on his vision that he grudgingly breaks for air; rocking their foreheads together as he absorbs Elio’s strength like he’ll drown without it. Without him.

Chapter 8/8

A fey light creeps around the pinned-shut windows when Oliver next stirs; a diffuse palette of watercolours that accentuate the play of shadows across Elio’s ebony lashes.

They’ve swapped places during the night: Oliver rolling supine with the other man tucked neatly into his shoulder; a halo of curls cushioning his chin in an artfully dishevelled mop. Their legs lie jumbled at the knees - the soles of Elio’s feet book-ending his own - and to Oliver’s relief the emotional vertigo of the previous evening has lessened its stranglehold; leaving him more at peace than he’d ever thought possible. 

The lax slouch of Elio’s body - the vibration of his whistley snores - the very idea, even, that he’s comfortable enough not to wake immediately, burns like a supernova. There’s no conscious decision to reach up - to skate his fingertips over the pin-prick rash of irritation at his jowl - but as exquisite as the sex could be, it’s the tactile moments like these Oliver’d valued most, and trembling like an addict he glides those questing digits to Elio’s brow. 

The smattering of freckles above his nose: the ones he’s sure weren’t there in his Dartmouth classroom. 

The crease lines from his pocket that criss-cross his stubbly cheek. 

He can’t quite believe he’s finally here, and like a moth to the flame he flattens the rose-bud purse of Elio’s lower lip; the impish smile that dawns thereafter rendering him powerless not to mirror it.  

“Good morning, sunshine.”

He feels Elio humming before he actually deigns to rouse. “I can hear you thinking, mon cher…”

“Maybe you’re projecting?” 

“Sémantique,” Elio says with a yawn. “Why are you up so early?”

Oliver smirks at the blatant innuendo. “I was having a pretty spectacular dream,” he replies, fuelled by a frisson of daring. “Turns out it was real…” 

“I see…” The hand beneath his t-shirt migrates; strumming his ribs like guitar strings. “So is this just residual?” Elio asks, the lithe yield of his midsection moulding against his erection. “Or is it for me?” 

Oliver huffs as he wrestles him to the rumpled, cotton sheets. “Oh… it’s for you,” he says roguishly. “Most definitely for you.” 

An answering hardness pokes at his thigh. Slow, overlapping bites drift to his timpani pulse. Groaning aloud, he shifts his hips - a futile attempt to offset the urgency - but the petulant complaint that escapes Elio’s throat has him giggling in delight. Rasping his tongue over his jumping Adam’s apple as he rejoices at the whines caught within.

“I want to kiss you.”  

Elio’s pupils blow wide with desire. “You can. You should.”

“But I haven’t brushed.”

“And?”

Oliver sniggers. “On your head be it,” he says, ducking to do so properly, and Elio meets him halfway, domineering his mouth with the same hooded focus he used to apply to Haydn or Brahms.

There’s a blissful familiarity in this passion. The like-for-like movements that put him in mind of their eager verbal sparring. Oliver moans, lost in the lethargic rut of sensation, and it’s only when black orbs infringe on his vision that he grudgingly breaks for air; rocking their foreheads together as he absorbs Elio’s strength like he’ll drown without it. 

Without him. 

“Don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” Oliver swears, vying for restraint. “But I’ve been picturing this for months… years, all told. So I’m not about to come in my skivvies like a trigger-happy teenager.”

Elio leers as he shoves him backwards. “Don’t tease me with a good time,” he says, shucking the twisted blankets to straddle him at the waist. “Besides… that’s easily rectified.” 

He promptly rids him of his tee. 

Off and off and off, Oliver hears, returning the favour post-haste.

Yet again, Elio’s piercings snare his attention, but before he can so much as capture one between thumb and forefinger he’s already scooting southwards. Kissing sonnets over Oliver’s collar bone. Chasing the field of goosebumps that erupt on his arms.

“Ascenseur,” he instructs, teeth grazing his naval. “Lift,” he translates, when Oliver peers at him, stumped.

He’s pinned like a butterfly - spread-eagle where Elio’s knelt above him - but with a bit of creative wiggling they’re hurling his boxers towards the armoire; the beading precome at Oliver’s slit daubing his abdomen as he levers up to watch. 

“Look at you,” Elio murmurs with undisguised lust, moist breath ghosting his groin. “My preening peacock…” 

It comes automatically, the ingrained humility. “Buyer’s remorse is a terrible thing, maestro. I’d hate to think my reality falls foul of your expectations…” 

“Idiota.” Elio milks him from root to tip. “Is that supposed to be a deterrent?” he asks then, locating the faded scar that marks them as two Jewish men: binding them since time immemorial. “Because I think you’ll find I know exactly what I’m getting.”

“Oh yes?” Oliver tenses then slumps in a rough, unordered spasm. “And what’s that?” 

Elio’s eyes flare viridescent. “L'amour de ma vie,” he says point-blank.

The love of his life, indeed, and when Oliver repeats the phrase verbatim, the avid suction that surrounds his spongy glans has him panting in easy seconds; garbling a chorus of the other man’s name as he’s floored by the warmth, the tightness, the mumbled utterances Elio makes around him. 

“Christ…” he barks: leave it to Elio to master his gag reflex like an unusually tricky concerto. “Everything we’ve talked about the past nine weeks, and this you forget to mention?”

“You’re surprised?”

“You’re a menace!” 

“And a consummate overachiever,” Elio maintains, evidently enjoying his battle for self-control as one hand fondles Oliver’s scrotum. Another, the swell of his ass. “Let go, mia anima. Quit holding back. We’ll save the finesse and stamina for round two.” 

“Round two?!” 

“Problème?” Elio relaxes his jaw. Ditches all pretence of eking it out. “Start as you mean to go on,” he says, pulling off with a pornagraphic pop. “Life has no limitations save the ones we create, and we were proficient enough in our youth, were we not?”

Saliva titillates Oliver’s cleft, eliciting something primal. Forty-four, he might be, but if anyone can coax his refractory period into heroic feats, it’s the man currently driving him to premature rapture with a series of dainty flicks. 

Sweat coats his brow at the euphoric give-and-take. 

Constellations burst behind his eyelids.

The pleasure escalates. Carrying him under. Casting him out unmoored. He’s god and tribute all at once, and Oliver’s struck by a courageousness he has no business having as Elio bears him to the highest of highs. Head bowed. Cheeks hollowed. Praxitelean in his beauty.

“So…” he says, rallying his cognitive functions. “Even a cough won’t go unnoticed, huh?”

Elio’s scoff tickles his perineum. “Do you think we’ve horrified my housekeepers?” he asks, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and Oliver laughs as he totes him upwards; purging the seed from his sticky lips. 

“Your housekeepers. Your neighbours. The fishermen by the docks…”

“We could’ve sold tickets,” Elio remarks. “Printed a few programmes…”

My hubris knows no bounds, offers his puckish cohort, and Oliver snickers as he topples them one-eighty. 

“You’re a provocateur, Elio Perlman…”

“Praw-vaw-ka-tœr,” comes the heavily-exaggerated reply. “And it takes one to know one.”

“Touché.” Oliver’s gaze stays riveted to the risqué metal bars embellishing Elio’s nipples. “Can I?”

“Be my guest.”

It’s all the permission he needs, and with the full force of a hurricane Oliver laves the silver balls with his tongue; pinning Elio’s forearms to the mattress when he tosses and squirms. 

“Mon Dieu…  it’s a thing, isn’t it?”

Oliver chuckles. “What gave me away?”

“Beyond your reaction at the berm?” Elio’s spine arches in supplication. “You never used to be this focused on my skinny chest.”

“Nonsense,” Oliver tells him, leaning back in for a tender kiss. “I worshipped your skinny chest. Just as I worshipped every other part of you.” One last peck before he’s reaching down: enthralled by the sodden patch of arousal on Elio’s straining underwear. “And for what it’s worth?” His sentence shakes with conviction. “You, my darling, haven’t seen focused yet.” 

“Bene ora…” Elio squeezes his neck. “Promises, promises…”

“Actions speak louder,” Oliver disputes, casting the navy-blue boxers who-knows-where as Elio’s engorged cock springs free, its heft curving thick and glistening towards his belly button. 

“Oliver, please…”

The unadulterated scent invades his nostrils: the taste overwhelming as he suckles experimentally at the shaft. Long-repressed impulses soon leap to his rescue, and the sound Elio makes is unquantifiable when Oliver growls in unison; swallowing carefully as his mouth forms a ring. Clumsy, maybe, but there’s wisdom in the flesh. What he lacks in experience he recoups in enthusiasm, and it’s only a matter of time before Elio’s testes draw up; a harbinger of his looming orgasm.  

“Oh, fuck you…” he grumbles, fisting the pillow in pent-up frustration when Oliver uses an iron-clad grip to postpone it. 

“Is that a standard expletive or a request?” 

“Consider it a - wait.” Elio’s voice drops at least two octaves as Oliver smears the trickle of opalescence that dribbles from his tip. “Are you serious?”

The mere thought makes him shiver. “Would I suggest it if I weren't?”

“What if you’re too sensitive?”

“What if I am?” Oliver mutters, nursing a mottled hickey into Elio’s untanned thigh. “I trust you.” A beat. “Implicitly.” 

“But -”

“You said you’d take care of me, yeah?”

Utterly debauched, Elio scarce has the wherewithal to nod. “I did.” He heaves a shuddering breath. “I would.”

“So I’m going to let you.” The admission strikes a deliberate chord. “Assuming you’re amenable, that is?”

Elio shrugs. A Botticelli angel with threadbare wings. “Do you honestly think I’d say no to that ass?” he asks, tugging him up by the earlobes. “That I haven’t been ogling it since the train station?”

“Lech.” 

“Tourmenteur.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing,” Elio counters - brasher, more insistent - as Oliver turns his face, kissing the thin knot of veins at his wrist. 

“Do you have…”

“Supplies?” Elio gestures at the nearest side-table. “Check the bottom drawer. With Ollie about, it’s wise to keep it locked,” he explains, lifting the marble Achilles to procure the key, and when Oliver hangs off the bed to jiggle it open he quickly sees why.

There’s several types of lubricant, for starters: silicone and water based. A sealed bottle of patchouli massage oil. Tempo travel-tissues. Three different dildos - something they’ll definitely revisit later - and a half-full packet of cigarettes crumpled in the rear. 

“Condoms are in the bathroom cabinet,” Elio adds, lips paying homage to the birthmark on his slightly sunburnt shoulder. “Should you prefer I use them?” 

They’ve both been tested - a somewhat redundant process on Oliver’s part - and exclusivity is a given. 

“Let’s not put anything else between us,” he decides, relinquishing the small sachet of lube.

His spent cock plumps admirably, but before he can so much as think of palming himself the fwip of torn foil precedes two slick digits sliding behind his balls - gentling his untouched rim - inching inside with possessive familiarity to knead his inner-walls. 

“Phénoménal…” Elio whispers, drilling his sweet spot incessantly as he summons a tempest under Oliver’s molten skin. “You’re doing so well, bell’uomo… it’s perfect. You’re perfect...”

“More…” he pleads, a lifetime of suppression coursing to the fore. “I’m ready. Do it. I want -” 

“Oliver -”

“Sweetheart, please!” 

The entire planet shifts off its axis as Elio ceases his ministrations, sitting back on his haunches. “Since you asked so nicely…” he says, clasping Oliver’s thighs to urge him into his lap.

Despite the meticulous prep, the initial breach leaves him gasping, but the heat of Elio above him - the steely press inwards, the obstinate jostle of his pelvis - it’s everything he’s been missing these past twenty years. Memory is more indelible than ink, it seems, and Oliver makes a noise he didn’t know he was capable of. A fevered keen he muffles with the pillow when Elio seats himself fully; prolonging the intimacy with the deepest push imaginable.

It hurts. But it’s a good hurt. Truly. Each twinge like the throb of an overused muscle: exorbitantly satisfying. 

“Cazzo… that’s divine,” Elio mutters, rubbing soothing circles on his stomach, giving him a chance to adjust. 

Oliver hisses when he flexes his hips. The fortuitous nudge to his prostate conjuring fireworks in his brain. He can feel Elio’s pulse inside him. Or perhaps it’s his own? Either way, he slides a curious hand to his twitching scrotum: fingertips skimming the trimmed pubic hair corralling Elio’s erection; the outer edge of his obscenely stretched hole.

“Alright?”

“Yes,” Oliver grunts: understatement of the century. “Yes. Keep going. Move.”  

And Elio does. Retreating slowly. Snapping forward. Making Oliver jolt as he begins to grind: claiming him as surely as he’s being claimed himself. The recurrent motions of being filled are enough to send him to Nirvana, but as each filthy encouragement spurs him onwards, it also feels like his partner’s exacting revenge - deferring his climax intentionally - switching the angle just when he’s in danger of careening into the void. 

“Too much…” Elio groans, crowding in for a sloppy kiss. “I won’t last.” 

Oliver snorts. “Brevity is the soul of efficiency,” he says, licking into his furnace mouth. “Don’t fight it on my account.” 

There’s a knife’s edge they’re riding - something elemental waiting on the other side - and Elio manages a dozen uncoordinated thrusts before withdrawing completely; the fondness of his smile a stark contrast to the wanton manner with which he pumps his slippery length.

“You're going to come, aren't you?” he asks boldly, the three fingers he scissors inside him throwing an accelerant on Oliver’s release. “Sei pronto? You’re close?”

“So close -”

“Fallo, mio caro…”

Another stroke. 

Another crook. 

Another allegro to his long-neglected bundle of nerves.

“You too,” Oliver begs - the atmosphere electric - and with a guttural cry his overtaxed body convulses; a pastiche of white decorating his torso like some lewd Jackson Pollock.

“You’ve made a mess of me, Elio Perlman,” he accuses, minutes, hours, an eternity later.

He’s drenched in sweat - his limbs loose like jello - and the other man tuts as he swirls lanquid patterns in the tacky patina of semen coating Oliver’s sternum; his weight quadrupled in defiance of all known laws of physics.

“Objectively? Yes,” Elio says, smudging a streak to his jugular notch. “Personally?” He nips at his throat. “I think you’re worthy of the Louvre. Une véritable oeuvre d'art,” he declares, balancing on his elbows in preparation to rise, but Oliver’s having none of it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, anchoring him by the biceps. 

There’s tears of atonement on his cheek, and Elio tilts his head to catch them with his tongue. “For what?”

Oliver sighs. “For waiting. For forgiving.” Their Stars of David clink where they’re piled at his breastbone. “For not letting go.”

For always being one step ahead.

For reaching out when he’d thought all hope was lost.

For every time he calls him by his name, when what he really means is I want this. I want you. We’re in this together.

When what he’s really asking is should I? Do you? Are we?

When Oliver’s answer to each is a clear and emphatic yes.

Feeding off the past will get them nowhere. There’s nothing, now, that’s fixable by regret. But solace resides in that clean slate - in knowing what’s done is done - and as the distant bells of the duomo herald a brand new day, it’s all he can do to hold on tighter.

Two fragile hearts beating in tandem. 

Two pairs of lungs expanding in an age-old rhythm. 

Two erstwhile lovers united in the real world; no longer adrift in the foreverland of ambiguity.

[hausofmamadas]

TO THE SMASH N GRAB CREW | RIP to the homies and this Cece x Kenny meet cute

⁂

Pairing: Cecelia “Cece” Garza x Kenny and The Smash-And-Grab Crew gif dump

For @narcosfandomdiscord NarcOctober - Day 16

Prompt: Day of Surprises - create a fanwork that focuses on dreams, literal or metaphorical

Okay so, you guys, I have no idea if this even works for the prompt dreams, bc it’s not really a dream one of the characters is having but rather, a dream of mine, and specifically a dream of whatever this was or could’ve been???? That we were categorically deprived of thanks to the Narcos’ writers’ tendency to just drop narrative grenades lil hints of things and then never pick them back up again.

So idk if yall remember that one time Operation Leyenda actually didn’t entirely fuck some shit up but there was One Time n I’m lowkey convinced it was thanks to the involvement of some estrogen no one will convince me that GOAT Secretary Susie wasn’t the strength of Jaime and Kiki’s operation, mmkay in the form of this baddie, named Cece aka Danilo’s way-too-foxy cousin.

What exactly did this bonafide mothafucking G short for goddess do that made the mission so successful? Idk, maybe just being the sassiest, most could-not-be-fucking-bothered, beyond not-having-any-of-your-shit to political scumbag and all around general skidmark, Ruben Zuno Árce okay we don’t even have time to get into how legitimately want to light this man on fire whilst painting💅🏽her💅🏽fucking💅🏽nails💅🏽 I MEANSJSHWH it truly doesn’t get better than this

I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE SATISFIED WATCHING TBIS FUCKINFSKWJHW W SHOW except that one time Barrón broke my brain by spending the whole time being some random and then very sudddnly stealing the whole gotdamn show out of nowhere in ten mins but shhhhhhsjshshs we’re not talking about that right now like they fucking did it. They got this bitch on US soil, homie was shitting in his skivvies right there on the runway also ngl I’m convinced that Walt dressing respectably in that torturously sexy red shirt was another crucial key to the success of this plan but it was mostly Cece

Okay okay okay so then after the plan goes down like gang busters, they all meet up for lunch and we get this random little exchange between enemies-to-lovers Danilo and Kenny before Kenny cried weeweewee all the way back home to the US bc he could not handle big swinging dick Calderoni and like tbh, fair where Danilo makes a point to introduce Kenny to his cousin, The Real MVP Cece, who, like the rest of the women on this show is infuriatingly hot and stunning bc they cannot for just one moment pipe down with that shit

Almost as though he’s like been, on the low, talking to Cece about Kenny and promised to introduce them as like!???????? A blind date or somethinggghdhe like some kind of setup!??????

And it’s not like Danilo does this and Kenny’s like uhhhhhh, ‘scuse me, tf? Kenny’s literally justlikesjejsjwjsusuebehsh like, okay check this shit, look at Kenny’s fucjinfjdjsd face in that gif, like if he were wearing a suit or a tux, mans would be straightening his little bow tie, all checking himself in the mirror, picking at his teeth, breathing into the palm of his hand, asking bestie Daryl, heygorl, be honest, does this silk cravat make my neck look fat? To which Daryl is like, sorry, what the actual fuck is a silk cravat? Also idk when this became Victorian England where ppl wear silk cravats and it kinda seems like it’s setting that shit up to go somewhere except all we get is what?

A BIG. FAT. NOTHING. BURGERRRRRJDJDJHE

We literally NEVER FUCKING SEE Cece again and Kenny cries weeweewee all the way home in like the next episode, and the rest of the team gets mowed down on another airport tarmac, except sweet bby angels Sal

And Daryl and Walt but as much as I love him, he’s far too much of a glutton for punishment to be considered a sweet bby angel

I mean if blue balls existed, this show would be The Fucking King Kahuna of Blue Ballers. Why??????? I MEAN LOOK AT TBJS WOMANNNNNNNNNN OKAY????????

And as if we weren’t suffering from our blue balls enough already, the show literally pushes us to the ground and pummels us in the metaphorical dick with titanium baseball bats yes more than one by giving us this👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽one and only moment of joy, this👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽 👇🏽 one single, solitary victory

…….

…………….

………………………..

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand then they went ahead and straight-up just Game-of-Thrones-Red-Wedding massacred like seventy five percent of the motherfucking cast by like episode 9

Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoool. Fine.

═

For the giiiiiiiifs: @narcosfandomdiscord @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc @narcolini @artemiseamoon

[babblingbranches]

Looking back through the memories, Zelda mentions how Link “refuses to back down from any challenge,” and it hit me, Yeah, no kidding. Obviously there’s the big stuff like facing down monsters and fighting ancient evils, but there’s also the minor things.

Get this bell to ring as loud as you can? Ok. Withstand the freezing cold and scorching heat of the Gerudo weather while completely exposed to the elements? No Problem. Clear out a monster den in nothing but your skivvies and whatever you can steal from the monsters? Sure, why not!

Link is the kind of guy who will hear some ludicrous challenge and respond with “Wanna bet?”

[raisindave]

[Chapter 56] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

The ground connected with your feet before you entirely understood what was what. In a panic, a rhythmic thump on a thick wooden door compelled you to stand at attention at morning call as if you were back in your first week of basic training. Light peeks through sheer orange curtains. You've slept in later than usual. Hours spent awake with your thoughts dug into dedicated sleeping time. That's when a surge of memories hit you in the form of a stone in your gut, recalling the cause for your aching cheekbone. For some reason you'd fallen asleep fully clothed, but it meant that whoever's on the other side of the door won't be meeting you in your skivvies. Your response timer is quickly elapsing, and the creaking door is flung open to reveal a familiar face. 

"Sergeant," Price wasted no time, crashing into a conversation as if you hadn't been asleep seconds before. "I have some bad news."

"What is it, Captain?" 

"It's about your trainer. Lorenzo," he leaned his shoulder on the doorframe, effectively locking you in your prison with an intense look.  

You swallowed hard. The bruise on your cheek probably says it all; probably horribly angry and purple from a night spent manifesting. Fuck. What if Lorenzo got to Price first and told some horrifying story of your deeply inappropriate behaviour. In truth, you have nothing to worry about, nothing that can't be explained away as training. But that's why they're called malicious lies. He wouldn't be so evil, right? Well, he did sock you for not immediately leaning into kissing him. Maybe you're just a poor judge of character. Down the hall, your other comrades were bickering about someone's shooting record, fighting for your attention as your captain fought to find words. 

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but he quit. Pretty unexpectedly," Price sighed, flashing you a crumpled piece of paper caught between his fingers. "I got a note on my desk sometime last night. 'Said there was a family emergency or something," he grumbled. 

A steady silence settled into the dialogue, manifesting an expression of concern made for an excellent way to disguise your racing mind. You sighed deeply, but it did little to relieve a building tension in your chest. Phantoms of words sat heavy on your tongue.

"But we'll get you a new trainer, someo-"

"Captain I- "  The words caught in your throat, simmering like acid under your collarbone as time stood still. "I've learned enough from my time with him. -Sir!"

The cool morning air became increasingly noticeable as his eyes bore down into you—icy blue eyes that weighed your soul below the wide brim of his hat. Your words made him squint for a second, turning to scratch his beard to consider your proposition. He studied your expression as he studied yours. The issue was that his expression was entirely unreadable. He was intense and stoic as always, almost flickering with humour, if anything. 

"We can talk more about this tomorrow," he responded flatly after a short period of consideration. "Laswell asks that you're set to go by 17:00. She'll meet you at the front."

"Yes, sir," you nodded dutifully, finally mustering enough willpower to meet his gaze. 

He seemed satisfied with this solution. Slapping his palm on the doorframe and smiling casually past his moustache. Price took it as a satisfactory conclusion to the issue, sighing deeply and nodding with a smile, excusing himself down the hall. You peeked to watched him leave, almost doubting the authenticity of the encounter entirely. He disappeared around another corner toward booming voices reverberating over slick plaster walls. No training, no expectations, the day is entirely your own for the time being. Your door clicked shut after a hearty creak, giving you the grace to cross the room to observe the aching blemish on your face. To your surprise, it's not as dark as you'd expected, and you'd become alarmingly adept at identifying how quickly and deeply bruises manifest. However, memories of a late-night ice pack quashed the lingering mystery as you rubbed sleep from sunken eyes. 

A stack of magazines in that dusty library will make suitable food for thought to pass the time, despite their publishing dates being barely within the decade. Scores of generals and patrons gradually made their way to the distant banquet hall that you'd vaguely overheard the location of. Only a ten-minute drive from the base, a grand section of a parliament building that's dedicated to hosting this type of event. Even when the afternoon quickly came and went, you spotted Laswell bustling down the corridors, echoing flats pattering over wood and stone. It's heartbreaking to see the sling that still cradles her arm, a result of your last mission, but it hardly seems to register as an impairment to her. 

It's always hard to gauge how long it takes to get ready. You can be out the door in half an hour for military formal wear, assuming your suit lapels and pants have already been ironed the night before. Makeup is a non-issue, and neither is finding a pair of matching shoes for your outfit. There's only one way you know to effectively style your hair, but that sort of defeats the purpose of finding your own personal style for this rare occasion. A tight military-style bun won't match your outfit, either. That black mass of tulle sat dormant in the same bag it'd been left in when you bought it. You could only hope it didn't wrinkle because there's no way you'd know how to get your hands on an ironing board. The nerve-wracking thought spurred you to leap into action. 

After a moment of trying to orient which direction was upright, you flung the dress onto white sheets. You looked at it, and it looked at you. Your final obstacle, except for maybe the shoes. Or the makeup. Or maybe the hair. In what order do you even do these things anyway? The black dress was more fitted than you were expecting, snug along your hips and waist. It didn't have quite as much cleavage as your getup in Mexico, but it's not entirely far off. The guidance of an unsettlingly upbeat tutorial you'd found on your phone will help you achieve a look you'd seen in one of those magazines. It only took you two tries to achieve the manicured 'effortless' look of updos that are supposed to make you look carefree and elegant. Frankly, it couldn't be farther from your actual psychological state. Stray strands tickled bare shoulders, a thoroughly unfamiliar sensation, but it somehow registered as pleasing. This is your reward for hard work, and when's the last time you've been able to doll yourself up and peacock among greatness? 

Coral gloss made your lips shine like fresh peaches. A quick swipe of flesh-coloured eyeblack in a pearlescent tin does the trick to mask dark under eyes, the consequence of a sleepless night. It'll also cover weeks of miscellaneous bruises that flaw your skin. Every time you were certain you'd smothered the last bruise in makeup, a new blemish manifested somewhere else on your body. Some came with memories of specific encounters, and some were mysteries that left you questioning any vitamin deficiencies. Glancing at the clock commands you to fulfill any remaining swipes and tucks before stepping into unbroken black stilettos that brought you down the stony corridor. 

Although the navy blue dress Laswell is wearing is modestly styled, it still doesn't register as natural to her. She seems more like the type to wear khakis and a dress shirt or sweater, but a knee-length fitted gown seems like the rare sight, tied together with a thin white belt. You'd bet your life that's her one formalwear dress that she breaks out on every once in a while if the occasion demands it. Either way, she's gesturing that you follow into the pedestrian black truck, and you kindly oblige. Hopefully your unsteady gate won't be too noticeable as you approach a cobbled pathway, feeling a cool breeze grace mostly bare shoulders. 

"I hope Italy has treated you well," Laswell smiled, gripping the steering wheel with her unbound arm.

Oh Kate, if you only knew the half of it. 

"It's a beautiful country," you smile sweetly as you swing into the passenger seat. "I could definitely get used to linen sheets and hot coffee."

"Don't get too attached. You're all headed to a new spot in a few days, another situation."

"Should I be worried?" you queried flatly, already expecting her incoming response. 

"Nothing to worry about for the time being. You'll be filled in when the boys are," she glanced at you, diffusing bubbling curiosity with a sober look. 

Small talk was easy with her, effortlessly crossing the barrier into friendly dialogue that flowed back and forth like a crashing tide. A sweet story of her honeymoon in Italy made for a surprising coincidence, finding time to travel with her wife along the same countryside you could barely spot when you drove over the crest of a hill. She complimented your dress, and something about it made you smile at the thought that that'll likely be the only recognition of your wardrobe all night. 

"I'm sorry to hear about Lorenzo," she sighed after a generous lapse in conversation.

"Do you know what happened?" you gulped, prying for additional context absent from Price's description.

"John said he left in quite a hurry," she sucked air through her teeth in thought. "Not even two weeks' notice or anything. But hopefully, we can get ahold of him again. Price said you were making good headway."

"I'd be interested in exploring other styles if that's okay with you- or... him," the words slipped over your tongue in an effort to dissuade that outcome. "My training in his style had reached diminishing returns anyways," you forced a relaxed grin. 

Laswell smiled with a pleased shrug, content with your selection. Your heart rate steadied from the initial spike in adrenaline that threatened to sweat away your carefully applied makeup. The whole situation still rang as bizarre, like your mind would only dabble in connecting your consciousness with the gravity of last night's encounter. The thick string of pearls around the collum of your throat constricted around your airway. But the thought was quickly swallowed as a new flow of dialogue as Laswell bemoaned how tiring these social events can be. A welcome change in pace and a welcome diversion from clamorous thoughts. 

At this event, you know no one. The only faces you might see will be occupied with ceremonial duties, likely standing at those gold-inlaid fences that Laswell pulls you up to. Definitely a parliament building, exquisitely carved pillars and painted statues adorne a square building, easily six stories high. A bowing sunset painted pristine white walls the colour of sherbert and salmon, a feast for the eyes save for the armed guards. And it was beyond evident that those guards had no intention of letting a single passing caravan go uninspected; you could spot matte firearms under crisp black suits, invisible to the untrained eye. An eye that Laswell shared, exchanging a knowing smirk as you stepped toward the gates.

An expansive and grand central room made itself known after a set of heavy gilded doors. Inset white panels along tall walls that reached an arching ceiling made way for grand chandeliers, each easily the size of a small Cessna. Lustrous tiles glimmered with shimmering specs of pearlescent stone, currently occupied by meandering footsteps from painstakingly polished shoes and stilettos. Even if you tried, not a single face in the crowd rang as familiar. Bustling bodies created warm and fragrant air that reeks of excellence and pomposity. Colognes and lotions that cost almost as much as the clinking glasses of rich amber liquid and gems so sparkly they looked like they'd charge you just to observe them. 

Laswell stopped every few patrons, chatting and sharing polite handshakes with enthusiastic guests. It's hard to say what's more embarrassing; being Laswell's awkward and helpless-looking company or being at this gala to begin with. The more you spied shimmering gowns and bubbling champagne flutes, the more you realized how out of place you were. Even the music was eerie, upbeat and carefully rehearsed orchestral melodies on harp and piano, only somewhat drowned out by a steady murmur of conversation. It's clearly enough to get them to forget why this event is happening to begin with. Another few steps further into the crowd, and another guest recognizes poor Laswell, who spared an exasperated glance in your direction as a way of bracing herself for a particularly rowdy decorated general. It's funny to see glimmers of her candour before she's thrust into another unsolicited and lively exchange. 

From the corner of your eye, just past a set of tables with exquisite displays of bouquets, sat another form of manicured display. Your comrades stood at attention in formal uniforms, living mannequins that help these wealthy aristocrats remember why they're here in the first place. Rows on rows of soldiers arranged like a choir stood with prim uniforms, some familiar, some not. Your four British companions stood shoulder to shoulder in their proper blue suits, packed neatly on the third row behind a legion of similarly dressed soldiers in green and grey suits. Black ties on white dress shirts made them look like prim little businessmen. You could tell them that they look absolutely precious in their darling blue uniforms, but if you did, they'd likely ring your head like a bell. It's hard to tell your allies apart at first, though that's the point of a uniform in the end. 

Past a bustle of some passing patrons, they were easy to spot in the group with their SAS tan beret prescribed to the elite rank. It's weird to see Gaz without a baseball cap and even weirder to see Price without his boonie hat. Ghost was easy to identify, standing a head taller than Gaz, and Soap was last in line. A flash of pale skin made you instinctively divert your gaze to avoid consuming the forbidden fruit. Curiosity compelled you to look back. A full balaclava with a skull plate crudely stitched overtop must not be included in the British Air Force No. 1 Dress Uniform, so he'd have to make do with an alternative. Instead, a black tube of fabric, not unlike a scarf, covered the lower half of his face, settling just below the bridge of his nose. It made him stand out, but maybe that's why they're all disgraced to the third row. You had to fight the urge to chuckle, spotting an unseen scar creating a notch spanning above his eyebrow, making him look like a victim of a hockey hazing ritual. Pale brown hair was horrifyingly visible in the short space between where the beret met the black facemask, and just observing it felt like a forbidden insight. 

Each soldier was sparkling with gold and silver multicoloured metals on their breast pocket, making it easy for figureheads and diplomats to separate themselves from the brutality of these soldiers' practice. How do they think they earned those Purple Hearts and King's Cross'? Stepping closer made you grin at the thought of testing their drilled obedience, daring any of them to flicker their trained gazes to spy your approach. You strain against the tight fabric to will your legs to bring you closer, fighting gravity to remain on tippy-toes. No dice, even when you stepped an arm's length from the front row. Such compliant little toy soldiers, playthings for exuberant patrons to collect and brag about, boasting association to the corresponding nationalities on many of their sleeves. So many of these faces were noticeably absent from this recent conflict, save for a few of the helicopter crew you identified in the back row. Farah and her moustached familiar were notably absent, though that's far from a surprise. She seems like the type to sooner fling herself from one of those overhead balconies than be eye candy to politicians. 

Perhaps you just didn't notice these thirty-odd soldiers with polished medals when those four raided that hellish quarry back in Al Mazrah. Maybe their presence just slipped past you when you were transcribing those transcripts and interviewing the terrorized citizens. Possibly they were standing at attention in the background while you and Ghost brutalized vital information out of a cartel terrorist? It's an easy thing to miss, especially with their rows upon rows of shining chest candy that catches every stray light and jingles like sleighbells.

Closer inspection made you flinch in confusion. At the far end of the third row, just beside Soap, a shorter figure stood a head shorter than the Scot. What made your gaze furrow further was the fact that she looked so similar to you. Your same hair, complexion, even eyes matched yours. Her jaw was slightly rounder, with a few freckles you'd never been blessed with, but otherwise a near mirror. She too stood at attention, standing tall and proud in the deep blue formalwear of an American troop, lacking the light blue stripe on the side of her pants that your comrades sported. A recognizable badge on her chest denoted her affiliation as an Information Analyst, a similar pin to your own. Hopefully she's not your replacement, though Laswell did mention your trek to the next mission in the coming days. 

Maybe this is their cruel way of breaking the news? It's unbecomingly petty from someone as stark as Price, but maybe Lorenzo's unexpected resignation was the last straw after all. The thought of termination, paired with an unwelcome memory, made your dejected gaze fumble, only to catch onto something new. Out of all the things that are yet a mystery, those red scuffs and scrapes on Ghost's freshly bloodied knucklebones suddenly made the logic behind an unexpected resignation clear. 

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Master List

[gaydiation-poisoning]

This was originally gonna be a reply to a moot but it's going on too long so I'm gonna make my own post, incoherent rant inbound

To me BOTW's story was a poorly paced mess of underdeveloped characters, unrealized themes and boring cutscenes.

I adore the game, haven't spent 2000+ hours in it and completed all shrines three times over for nothing,

The world and details were utterly incredible, easily the best open world I've ever played in, but to me, the story was told so badly as to ruin what were otherwise fantastic character concepts.

I enjoy a lot of the theming and symbolism, the Silent Princess stuff in particular was just...mmm delicious I wanna eat that part of the narrative

It's such a good story, but sparse short cutscenes that show very little beyond basic character introduction, and then having 80% of a characters' growth be shown in fucking reading in game books (some of which are behind a FUCKING PAYWALL) rather than through playing the damn game is just like...objectively bad video game storytelling, at least for a game like this

BOTW tried to tell a complex story with nuanced characters but it did it in a game where the focus physically could not be on those characters, resulting in what felt like an underbaked mess that was missing massive pieces

And I can feel people arguing that "Well LINK is missing pieces of his memory so the gaps in the narrative are acKCHEWALLY GOOD" Like

Okay

Sure

If that works for you that's great, all power to you, but it's still not good storytelling.

There tends to be a general (but not rock solid) rule of writing, 'If this isn't the most interesting part of your character's life, then why aren't we seeing that?' I feel like BOTW gets hit hard when stepping on that particular rake.

You're getting bits and fragments of a really cool narrative that...ultimately means very little in the end. Trying to make a complex narrative work in a game where it's possible to leap out of the tutorial area and book it right to the final boss equipped with nothing but your skivvies and a stick is REALLY HARD and it's VERY EASY to make your story lackluster and cause it to suffer in order to accommodate that non linear playstyle. And boy does BOTW's story suffer.

Simultaneously trying to tell this narrative that's deep and complex while also having to work around the fact that the player might not even do the story stuff caused that story to have a sort of...non presence in the world, a much weaker presence than it deserved at the absolute least.

To me BOTW's story does not fit a nonlinear Zelda game, and honestly probably would have worked much better in a more traditional linear one.

It was such a good game, with such a good story, but it's disjointed pacing and resulting lack of major impact resulted in it utterly failing to get me invested. Which is so insanely frustrating.

Which is impressive, considering my ass is a constant Zelda lore junkie who will leap on the smallest story details and devour it, and yet I cannot see the supposed storytelling brilliance half the fandom seems to

Follow up reply on how these problems relate to totk eventually???

[catierambles]

Apostles Ch.4

Pairing: August Walker x Angela Warren (OFC)

WC 1090

Warnings: None

@summersong69 , @teamfan7asy , @geralts-yenn

Despite only using the loft for emergencies, Angie kept it stocked with the basics when it came to food and August made himself a sandwich as she worked, having offered to make one for her as well but was turned down.

“Tell me about yourself.” August said, sitting back down again.

“What do you want to know?” Angie asked, not looking at him.

“Have a boyfriend?” He asked and she snorted, “What?”

“Nothing.” She said, “No boyfriend, no husband, no siblings, no cat.”

“What about your parents?”

“Died when I was little, I grew up in the system.”

“How’d you get involved with the anarchist group?” He asked and there was a pause.

“I hacked into the city police department database of officers looking for those with marks on their records for the use of excessive force, especially those against people of color and women in varying degrees of awful and deplorable.” She said, “I leaked the names and records to every major news outlet in the country. The fallout was intense. Many lost their jobs, a few of the higher-ups were forced to resign, and more than a couple got jail time.”

“I heard about that.” August said, “That was you?”

“Sure was.” She said, “Don’t mistake me, I didn’t agree with the group's ideas. They didn’t want freedom, they wanted chaos. Less non-governmental utopia and more Mad Max.”

“Why’d you join up then?”

“They were paying me.” Angie said simply, “I was living in homeless shelters at the time, using internet cafes. They gave me a steady source of income that I didn’t have to declare on taxes, as well as a place to live and reliable access to food and anything I needed to get the job done. I may not have agreed with their end goal, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“And hacking into the CIA database?”

“They framed it as all the agents were government-sanctioned murderers who killed innocent people on the orders of some guy behind a desk. They were going to use it to basically hold the government hostage, do what we say or we would release the names of all your covert agents around the globe.” Angie said and he made a sound.

“And you got caught breaking in.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly delicate with it.” She said and a slow smile came over his face.

“You got caught on purpose.”

“The group was starting to get extreme, organizing bombings of government buildings in which a lot of innocents would die. Oklahoma City 2.0 basically. NSA back traced my hack and CIA gave me the ultimatum seeing as it was their files I was breaking into.” Angie said and he gave a small laugh, shaking his head.

“How’d you know they wouldn’t just lock you up?”

“I didn’t.” She admitted, “I rolled the dice and waited to see where it landed.” His smile and humor vanished immediately.

“That was incredibly dangerous.”

“Why do you care? You didn’t know me at that time.”

“If your little gamble hadn’t paid off, I wouldn’t have met you at all.” He said and she sighed, covering her face with a hand.

“August…” She said and she looked at him as he spun her chair around to face him.

“Never do something like that again, got it?” She just gave him a look and he was about to say something when there was a buzzing sound and she got up. “What was that?”

“A notification.” She said and went over to the wall, lifting a hatch and pulling a box from it. “I had a contact go to your place and get some of your clothes and other essentials. I keep some of mine here, but I figured you might want some clean skivvies.”

“You had someone go to my house and get my things.”

“Yeah.” Angie said, “The Apostles are probably watching it so you couldn’t go yourself.”

“How’d you know where I lived? Or the code to my security system?” He asked.

“I’m good--”

“At your job, yeah, yeah.” August said and took the box from her, setting it on the dining room table and opening it up, finding a few shirts along with pants and small clothes, a bag of toiletries at the bottom. “Question for you.”

“Just one?” She asked with a sassy smile and he snorted.

“You have a backup plan?”

“In case this place gets compromised? Of course, I do.” Angie said.

“No, in general.” August said and she gave him a questioning look, “Ang, the more I learn about you, the craftier you get. I refuse to believe you don’t have an exit strategy in case this CIA thing goes wrong for you.”

“Yeah, I do.” She said simply but didn’t go any further than that.

“And that would be…”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“August, I like you, I do, and we work well together.” Angie said, “But the fact of the matter is, you’re a CIA operative and Sloan has me on a very long, but retractable, leash. If it gets back to her that I have a plan in place to slip it if need be, she’s going to press the button and I’m going to be rather rudely reeled in. So no, I’m not going to tell you what it is, I shouldn’t have told you it existed in the first place. Understandable?”

“Yeah, understandable.”

“Now if you don’t mind, I still smell like…escape tunnel, so I’m going to take a shower.” She said, “You should think about taking one too, Musty.”

“We could take one together.” He said and she blinked at him, her head jerking back slightly.

“Is it like a switch you can flip? We were just talking about exit strategies and now you’re suggesting we get wet and naked together.” She said, “Talk about whiplash. Jesus.”

“One last question.”

“Switching gears again, I see.”

“How’d you afford to kit out this place?” He asked, “The tech, the automation, how’d you do it? Not on a government paycheck.”

“Don’t ask questions to which you do not want to know the answers, Agent Walker.”

“It was illegal, wasn’t it.”

“Not horribly.” She said, “And with that, shower time. If there’s anything missing from the box that you need, or just want in general, write me a list and I’ll get it got.”

“I am just learning all kinds of things about you today, aren’t I.”

“I’m a happy bundle of surprises.” She said as she walked past, patting him on the chest.

[luveline]

i absolutely love that james blurb where he gives r flowers and it's her first time receiving it! <3 can i request something similar with remus or sirius??? ty!!!

sirius black x fem!reader <3 a surprise in the dark

Sirius Black doesn’t do anything by halves. He’s starting to wonder if maybe he should, unable to tell his hand from his face in the dim light of your room, and the mess of fragrant flowers opening just in front of his nose.

The door of your bedroom creeps open and he thinks, Oh, oh no, this was a very bad idea. Sirius doesn’t have bad ideas, ever… except maybe tonight. You turn on the lights and don’t even glance his way, going through the motions as you strip down to your skivvies. Another mistake, he thinks, because suddenly you’re half nude and spinning on a socked heel, arms above your shoulders in a half stretch.

You flinch so hard he hears your neck click. It’s like a mento under a tire for the force of it, more than enough to have him springing to his seat, flowers and all, yelping “I’m sorry!” It startles you a second time.

You wrap your hands around your chest, changing tactics a moment later to cover your tummy. He’d roll his eyes if he weren’t fawning over you, flowers scattered across the floor between you, a damp bouquet upturned. The splotch of its dew wets the carpet underfoot and your cute ankle socks.

“You’re such a creep!” you shriek, which is the harshest thing you’ve ever said to him. He’s surprised it took you so long.

“Fuck, I’m sorry! Christ, here.” He shrugs out of his jacket to hold it over your shoulders. It doesn’t do much, your chest and stomach and so very naked thighs uncovered and, dare he say it, beckoning.

Your chest rises and falls too quickly. You look him in the eye for the first time since you walked in.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says hopefully.

You look sweet, rumpled from a long day, nothing to hide behind, no scarf or hair or hat. It’s rare he gets to see you like this, rarer still to see practically every inch of you. He pulls the jacket tighter across your chest and slides into suaveness. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he jokes.

“Why are you in my room?” you ask. There’s a fond sort of defeat about you now. Sirius knows he isn’t in any trouble, though when he lifts your chin you don’t concede. “I didn’t give you a key to be a pervert.”

“I’m not being a pervert,” he insists lightly, lips lining up with yours but not quite touching them. He can feel the heat of your breath.

“Could’ve fooled me. Why… why in god's name were you in the dark?”

“To surprise you.”

You talk against his lips like it doesn’t matter. There are flowers tickling your ankles and his hand yearns to flatten against the naked stretch of your navel. He holds it there, cautious.

“You surprised me,” you say dryly.

He kisses you, finally. His smile is huge, and your lips don’t quite connect. “I know,” he says, pecking what’s practically your teeth. “Sorry. I’ll get you another bunch.”

“Is it our… anniversary?”

You haven’t been together that long. Sirius shakes his head, smiling as the brush of his curls against your cheek seemingly outs you at ease, tension slipping from your shoulders as your chest bumps into his.

“Heard you never got any before, that true?”

“Where did you hear that?”

James. “Sources. Anonymous sources.”

You give him a kiss. It’s smaller and gentler than the one he’d given you, but it isn’t any less sweet. You brush a curl from his shoulder as you part ways, failing to hide a dopey smile.

“I’m gonna save them,” you say. “My first bouquet and you chucked them at me.”

“You get dressed, love. I’ll gather the fallen.”

Before you can’t get very far, Sirius tugs you back by the arm and puts his hand exactly where he’d wanted to, flat to your navel and creeping round to the slope of your side.

“I’m very sorry,” he says again. Charming. All eyes.

You wrinkled your nose. It’s basically another kiss, there’s so much love in it.

“You should be. Creep.”

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#304

“Mr. Williamson please sit.  I’m glad you could stick around.  I know that you want to bail and have a beer with the guys as everyone is eager to start a three-day weekend.  You're going to the lake, right? I hear you have a new boat and a new F-250 to show off.  But I have something to talk to you about.  Ever since I took over this company, there has been resistance to my management style, especially at this site.  That’s bound to happen any time there’s a takeover.  After a while, things settle down to an equilibrium.  Not here.  You guys think that because you guys are so far from the other sites that you can make up your own rules.  As I told you all on Monday, this stops now.  You all bitched and complained.  I thought that things would finally start to settle down.  That is until yesterday when I come back from lunch and find this on my desk….

“That smirk tells me everything I need to know.  Mr. Williamson, is this your gift to me?  Oh, don’t try to deny it.  The security camera outside my office shows only you enter my office yesterday at lunch.  It’s hard to miss a six-foot five man of your size….  What?  Nothing to say? 

“Consider this.  This weekend you are heading to the lake with your new truck and boat.  From what I heard you telling the other guys that you get your kids this weekend.  It must be hard to be away from them except for twice a month.  I know you look out for them.  You must pay a lot in child support.  I paid for my son quite a lot until he went to Arizona State, so I know how difficult it can be.  You have what three kids?  Four!  Wow.  That’s a lot of support to pay.  It's a good thing you have this job.  I know we pay you quite well, just over six figures. 

“Now, let me ask again, did you put this Vaseline on my desk?...  If you make me show you the footage, I will terminate you on the spot.  Not only will you not be able to make payments on your truck and boat, but also child support payments.  You’ll lose your retirement.  And good luck finding another job that pays this well.  So, did you?...

“See.  That wasn’t so difficult to admit.  Now, why did you leave this on my desk?  What’s the point?  I better hear the start of an answer in the next five seconds….  A joke?...  That’s interesting.  I don’t understand it.  Explain the humor….  I’m serious.  What did you want me to do with this Vaseline?...  How does Vaseline make me ‘loosen up?’  You can stop the awkward laughing.  Tell me.  You need to weigh your next response—remain awkwardly silent and tell your three daughters and one son that you got fired or tell me the instructions for loosening up with Vaseline….

“Wait, so applying a gob of it to my asshole will somehow make me better to work with?  I don’t get the humor of that or the logic of it.  Let’s try this another way.  Here catch.  Demonstrate how fingering an asshole with petroleum jelly will transform you into a better employee.

“I’m fucking serious.  There’s a reason I asked you to stay late tonight rather than yesterday.  We are the only two here.  Now, boots off, pants off, skivvies off, legs up and wide, and show me.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven,…  Good.  Good.  I’m gonna sit back and watch what you are doing….  Damn, those are some hairy legs; they are going to look great in the air.  Undies too….  Wow! That’s one impressive piece of meat.  No wonder you have four kids.  These chairs will have to do.  Sit back and raise those ankles.

“You are one hairy beast.  Reach down like those bitches do in the porno and spread your cheeks so I can see your hole.  Relax, this is between a boss and his employee.  No one else needs to know, nor will they.  Now apply the Vaseline….  Oh put more than that.  You are the biggest asshole here, and you really need to be loosened up….

“Stick that gob in deep.  Use your middle finger.  Work it in there.  Yeah.  Do a second finger.  Oh man.  I can’t tell if you are enjoying this.  Your face says no, but your fingers are going to town.  Close your eyes, relax, and enjoy.  Yeah, just like that....

“Now look at me.  Fuck yeah.  That photo is a keeper, definitely.  Hey!  Don’t move.  The photos have already been taken, and they are on their way to the cloud.  So no chance of them getting deleted. Get those legs back up.  I said it’s done.  Those photos are there to protect me from you doing something stupid.  I said get those legs back up!  Your job depends on your feet not touching the floor. 

“It appears that you need some more time ‘loosening up.’  Put another gob of Vaseline on your finger.  You know, I don’t think the gob is going in deep enough to have an effect.  Your finger is what four inches long?  I think it needs to go at least seven inches deep.  Now if there only something around that is seven inches long and that can fit in there even if it is a tight fit.  Hmmm.  Hmmm.  I have an idea.  Why don’t you reach under and put that gob on me.  Don’t look at me like that.  You know this is going to happen. 

“Oh that feels so good.  I don’t normally use Vaseline, but you were the one who chose it.  Now relax.  I’ll take over putting it in deep.  Relax.  Yes, it’s painful, but less so if you relax your hole….  Like that.  Oh man.  Your hole was made for this.  Oh fuck.  That gob is deep.  But I need to push it in even further.  Oh yeah.  It’s in deep.  Fuck yeah.  Fuck.  Fuck.  FUCK Yeah!! 

“Fucking A!  That was good.  Now keep your legs up for a moment.  I’m gonna pull out.  Now that’s a sight.  Oh man, you are leaking some of my spunk.  Stay put, I want this pic too.  Are you crying?  Good!  I got a pic of that too. 

“Now you can put your legs down.  I have to get going here.  I’m glad we could work this out.  You can get dressed.  Or, you can sit there wallowing in your own shame.  I don’t care.

“When you are riding around in your boat looking at your four kids this weekend, remember what you did, you did for them.  I know you only see them every other week.  And on those off weeks, I fully expect you to come over to my place for further training. You need to be reminded who is boss here.

“I’m out of here.  And clean up your mess.  But before I go, I have to say that a little Vaseline really does make one loosen up.  I’m glad you made the suggestion.”

[rosella-writes]

"Ayurnamat - The philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed." for zev and alistair?

oh lovely, thank you so much Tato. 💚

Rating: T

Words: 1016

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

It wasn't often that it was just them.

Alistair burrowed his nose deeper into Zevran's loose hair. It spread over his shoulder in smokey-fragrant tangles and caught in the sweaty crease of his elbow — Zevran just hummed and snuggled closer under his chin.

"Why are you awake, amore?"

Alistair grunted and shifted. Zevran hooked his leg tighter around his in protest. "Thinking."

Zevran snorted. "That is dangerous, yes? With thinking comes doubt, with doubt comes sadness, with sadness comes malcontent." He sobered slightly, and his grasp tightened slightly before relaxing again. "Be content with me, tesoro."

"I just —" Alistair's voice caught in his throat. He cleared it. "I think about it when she's not here."

"Hmm? But she is with you so scarcely."

He grunted an affirmation, and thought about his wife, asleep in a too-large bed in a wing as far away from this room as it was possible to be in the keep. He hoped her lover was there to warm it for her.

Zevran pulled back and rested his elbow beside Alistair's head — he leaned on his palm and stared down into Alistair's eyes, his gaze as sharp and assessing as it was safe and warm. He knew Zevran wasn't searching for weakness to exploit — he was searching for a way to understand.

"This isn't about Rhiannon, is it?" Zevran murmured.

Alistair sighed, and soothed the spinning thoughts away with slow strokes of his fingers on Zevran's back. His skin there was smooth and warm, contoured by relaxed muscles.

"Everything is about Rhiannon," he said, "eventually. If I follow it far enough."

Zevran frowned. He reached his spare hand up to comb through Alistair's beard. "How so, amore?"

He thought of when he surrendered control of their direction to her — this strange Dalish elf he'd just met, tattooed and grumbling and far from home. He thought of the moment she tried to give him back his rose, and he'd pushed her hands away. He thought of the hard glint in her eye when she placed her hands on his shoulders and told him Goldanna wouldn't know family if it struck her between the eyes. Everyone's out for themselves, and I'm sorry you learned that this way. He thought of the set of her mouth when she asked him to be king, to marry Anora, to stand aside while she let Loghain go...

"Speak to me, caro," Zevran murmured.

Alistair took a deep breath. "Well, I can't help but think of how everything could've been different. If I'd said this or done that or if she'd been different or I'd treated her different, blah, blah, blah." He huffed out a sigh with a dramatic roll of his lips. "And... well, yeah, That One."

Zevran knew the sound of those capital letters in his voice. He smiled slightly and nodded. "What about her?"

Alistair stared up at him for a moment, feeling his heartbeat pumping ice through his veins. It hadn't felt real until it was time to say it out loud. "Anora. She wants an heir. From me."

Zevran blinked. "Why shouldn't she? It is simple enough to give her one."

"No." Alistair recoiled, drawing his hand off of Zevran's back. "I don't... we don't do that. No. We both made it clear at the start that this was just... it's a marriage of convenience, Zev. She has her love, I have mine. And besides" — he shuddered for dramatic effect, attempting to stave off Zevran's concerned look — "I don't want to imagine her naked, much less see it. At this point it would be like seeing Goldanna stripped down past her skivvies."

Zevran raised one brow and the corner of his mouth.

"No, don't you — no Zev, stop thinking that," Alistair spluttered, laughing in spite of himself.

"I said nothing."

"I could see it written all over your face."

Zevran hummed and smiled warmly now, all teasing gone. He drew his fingertips absently across Alistair's chest, painting lines of heat through his hair.

"My dear king," Zevran murmured, "I was a Crow once, yes? I saw princes raised high and kings laid low. I saw rumoured heirs killed and gutted and poisoned — well, I killed a few of them myself. So I struggle to fully understand your plight. Fereldan politics do so bore me."

Alistair snorted and shifted under him, but Zevran leaned harder against his chest.

"But I know you, tesoro," he said gently. "You are a good man. A loving man. It is so in the way you treat even the daughter of your sworn enemy. Any other would have put a babe in her and not given it a second thought. But you? That you agonise so speaks to your character."

Alistair stared up into the warm amber of Zevran's eyes, feeling his own well up with hot tears. He blinked them away and cleared his throat. "What do I do? I can't ask Rhiannon, I can't. She'd tell me to do it."

Zevran sighed, then raised his hand to cup Alistair's cheek. Alistair leaned into the warmth of his palm. "I cannot tell you that, my dear one. This choice is yours and yours alone. Besides" — a sad smile tugged at his mouth — "Rhiannon learned long ago not to make decisions for you, no matter how much you beg. She would have you take your life into your own hands."

"I wish she had learned that sooner."

The sad smile spread on Zevran's face, twisting his black tattoo. "I believe she wishes that too. But there is nothing for it now. What is done is done."

Alistair took a deep breath and released it, raising Zevran up and down with the expansion and relaxation of his chest. He realised he'd been rubbing his thumb back and forth on Zevran's rib, as if to soothe himself — he wondered if he'd scrubbed the skin raw.

"There is only forward," he sighed.

Zevran hummed his agreement, then leaned forward to steal a sleepy kiss. His mouth missed slightly, locking crossways on his lips, but it spread warmth through Alistair's heart all the same.

[punemy-spotted]

In Which Love is a Leap of Faith

Chapter 1: Merman

Summary: You thought a man was drowning in the lake. He wasn't.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x You

Warnings: Eventual Smut, Alcohol Mentions, PLEASE DON'T JUST DIVE INTO LAKES IN YOUR BRA AND PANTIES THAT'S WHAT EMERGENCY SERVICES ARE FOR YOU DO NOT WANT TO DROWN, Don't Try This At Home, 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

Notes: Pacing meant I couldn't shoehorn being absolutely railed by Steve Rogers into Chapter 1 but Chapter 2 is starting with a bang. Will this be an ongoing series? Probably. Inspired by This Reddit Post

Did you know? Did you know the Avengers sometimes came out to your little mountain hideaway? Well. Not exactly yours, but you’ve lived here your whole life and you know it best. This is your sanctuary, the space you feel safest and yet you had no idea. Of course you didn’t, because if you did? You wouldn’t have just stripped down to your bra and panties and taken a running leap of faith off a cliff right into the mountain-spring lake below.

So how did you get here, making that perfect arc with your body, arms outstretched before you the way you remembered from swim practice all those years ago?

Easy.

You were jogging, like you always do in the mornings before work — your parents’ bar, where you wait tables and balance the books and keep the family business alive — when you saw him. Floating, almost limp in the water, just bobbing along in the emptiness. The lake had a reputation — there was always some barely corroborated story about a friend-of-a-friend who nearly drowned or a tourist who quite possibly did — and you, having occasionally been the person putting MISSING posters up, didn’t want the loved ones of the man in the water coming to town wondering.

If you could save one person from the torment of the unknown, wouldn’t it have been worth it?

So you yelled, Hey! Hang on just a little longer, I’m coming! and threw your clothes off and to the side before throwing yourself off and into the water. You’d swam here plenty of times, knew the exact angle to hit the cold surface, knew just where the shore was from here, knew the right path to take to get to your clothes, thrown haphazardly over a rock somewhere. This was your sanctuary, and you weren’t going to let it turn into someone else’s grave.

Except then you actually reach the man in the water and the blue-eyed surprise spread all over his face Are you okay?

Yes? Are you?

See that? That’s a regulator hanging from the side of his mask.

Now isn’t that convenient?

What the Hell are you doing out here?

What are you doing out here?

I thought you were drowning! Who the fu—CHRIST!

You’re not alone with the blond man in the water — you know his face now, of course you do, as you tread water and try not to glare at Captain fucking America, Steve Rogers, the Man With A Plan, cuz you sure as hell ain’t the gal with one, not anymore — and the clearing throat about three feet away from you sends you into a kicking frenzy, screaming in surprise and face-to-face with a very bemused (and also very concerned) Sam Wilson.

There really is no justice left in the world for you, because they’re both laughing so hard you think Captain America might actually keel over right here and now.

And there’s more.

There’s always freaking more, isn’t there? Yeah, that’s the rest of the fucking Avengers, popping up out of the water and looking like you’re the best comedy act they’ve seen all week.

You’re treading water so fast you think your legs and arms might give out here and now and oh fuck you don’t want to end up the friend-of-a-friend in those cautionary ta— Steve Rogers to the rescue once again. He’s so gentle when he puts his hands on your waist and holds you still Hey, hey, I’ve got you. You okay? You’ll float, just relax, just relax.

You have the good sense not to glare at him for patronizing you. He has the good sense not to tease you for swearing up down and sideways.

You good?

Yeah.

Good.

You’re so red you might in fact have turned into the sun from the force of your embarrassment and the smirks on everyone’s faces don’t exactly help but here you are. I thought you were drowning so I— you can’t even finish your explanation it sounds so ridiculous surrounded by the Avengers in dive suits and regulators.

The smirk on Steve Rogers's face? Absolutely illegal, you should kiss it off do something about it.

You’re still thinking about the what you should do when he speaks up again, steady and warm and it’s honestly hard to be mad when he’s holding you up and keeping you steady, You wanna escort me back to shore?

It’s nice of him to be the one to glare at Sam when the Falcon bursts into laughter at the ridiculousness of the offer, but you know what? Still rude.

Yeah, I can. Hard to flounce when you’re still treading water, even harder to flounce when you’re wearing nothing but a bra and panties and Steve Rogers is pressed against you.

You’re a good swimmer and he’s a good complimenter, handing you a towel and trying not to look at you in soaking wet skivvies. You briefly consider how you might have preferred him being unconscious — least he wouldn’t see the heat rising to your cheeks or the way you’re avoiding looking at him in the dive suit does it have to look so good?

Yeah, thanks. Learned to swim in the lake while you towel off and glance up the path where the rest of your clothes are waiting. You’re going to have to explain this to your family and they’re absolutely going to be weird about it, aren’t they?

Hey he startles you again, why does he keep doing that and you’ve got eyes on him, big and round you did the right thing back there. Thanks.

What?

Jumping into the water. Trying to help. It was the right thing to do.

You… didn’t need any help though.

Yeah, but you didn’t know that.

Okay we— he does that thing, the glare you’ve heard he’s famous for you watch the news and you just. Shut up, faster than you expected. Oh. So that’s how it feels.

Look. We shouldn’t have laughed — and I’m sorry about that. I’ll talk with the rest of them later. There’s not enough people who go diving into lakes and try to do the right thing, and even if I didn’t need it, you did it because you wanted to do the right thing, and that’s what matters.

If you weren’t red before, you’re redder now, about to open your mouth to say thanks and then—

But that was also incredibly dangerous, what if you’d gotten hurt in the dive? How good are emergency services out here — you can always call them before you start stripping down — water’s too cold for that anyway.

You know what, being scolded by Captain America sucks.

Better focus on the praise.

You invited him to the bar.

Well. Technically you invited all of them to the bar — something about overpriced beer and endless pool, you can’t remember you were too busy rambling in your underwear. Bottom line, you invited the Avengers — who, if you recall, apparently come out to your little mountain hideaway for dive training — to your family’s bar and your mother (bless her) didn’t kill you for not giving her advance warning so she could clean the place up.

They’re not gonna show, c’mon, it’s the Avengers. They’ve got better things to do than humor the dumb bitch who jumped into a lake wearing nothing but a sports bra and some briefs.

You’re too busy dealing with the dinner crowd to be disappointed, and trying not to think about how everyone in town is asking you about your encounter with Captain America and The Avengers was he nice what was Thor like were they polite did you really meet them in your underwear what are you, Ariel?

Did your mother have to be the town gossip?

You’re busy and frazzled and the dinner crowd gives way to the lakeside drinkers and still no one shows, proving you right as you clean glasses and try to steer gossip to something less exciting.

You don’t actually notice when the room goes quiet.

Not until you hear Hi, we’re looking for…

You could almost say you didn’t recognize him in clothes, but Captain America? Looks really good in a leather jacket and a button-down, determinedly trying not to jam his hands into his pockets like some sort of dork, hair dry and combed and even a little sheepish as he scans the room until he sees you.

Hey. That offer for drinks still open?