#you got that salt - i got me an appetite

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

and when i sleep i'm gonna dream of how you tasted when I'm all out, I think about the way you ride it

[luveline]

May I request a roan & eddie & r's first outing after the wedding and roan is so happy she tells everyone "this is my mom"?

dad!eddie x (step)mom!reader —breakfast on the family moon

The sun is high in the sky that afternoon, and every breeze smells of salt and fresh flowers. Eddie turns his head one way and sees a field of lush green grass, turns it the other and finds himself looking out over the white stone monolith of the family hotel where you’re staying. 

Roan climbs up onto the solid wooden table next to empty plates smeared with syrup and melted chocolate, vying for a last strawberry as big as her hand. “You want that one, bub?” he asks. 

“Can I have it?” 

He bites off the stem. He’s not sure if that’s disgusting, but you’ve married him now, no take-backsies, and you aren’t here to see anyhow. He spits the green into a napkin and offers the fruit to his waiting daughter. “Okay?” 

“Thank you,” she says, catching it in her teeth. “All the fruits are so yummy here.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouthful, baby,” Eddie says. 

She shrugs, pulling her knees up. They’re red from crawling along the wooden table but unscathed, stark against the pale fabric of her dress’ skirt. 

“Look,” he says, pointing at the waiter standing near the restaurant's big patio doors, “the waiter’s gonna see you climbing all over the table and getting your spit on me.” 

Roan turns to look. Her behaviour remains unchanged. “Where’s mommy?” 

Eddie drags her backwards off of the wood and into his lap. He kisses her cheek, her forehead, hoping to imbue the intensity of what he’s feeling on to her —he’s never been this content in his life. He’s married you, and marriage is a piece of paper and all his heroes would laugh in his face but would they? Because what’s better than finding your person, and loving them, and getting to be loved back? “She’s getting another plate for you and your good appetite.” 

Roan’s been just as thrilled since the wedding. She cried a little on the plane from the changing pressure, but before and after that she’s been a vestibule of joy. She turns into his kissing to cuddle him by the neck, her arms around him and her hair tickling his throat. “Mommy said we can try surfing today.” 

“I know! Do you think you’re ready to surf? We got you that wetsuit, all we need is a boogie board.” 

“A what?” 

“It’s like a surfboard, but not so big,” he explains, stroking her curls back from her face absentminded, eyes scanning inside of the hotel restaurant for a hint of your pale dress. 

“I want a real surfboard.” 

“Mm, no, babe. You can’t carry a surfboard. It’s okay though, we’re gonna be on boogie boards too.” 

She leans back. “Can we have more breakfast?” 

“Let’s see what Y/N brings back.” 

You’re summoned by his name drop, edging toward the patio doors as you chat to one of the waiters. You’re laughing politely, attempting to point to your two Munson’s but struggling with the plates you carry, one in each hand, while drinks pressed between your arm and chest threaten to spill. The waiter takes one of your plates. 

“Aw, sugar, thank you,” you say, “it’s just there. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s why I’m here,” the waiter says with an easy customer service smile. 

You and the waiter approach and put down the plates and cups. “Hi, baby,” you say, visibly perplexed at Roan’s huge smile. 

“This is my mom,” Roan tells the waiter. 

“And she’s just as beautiful as you are, hun. You are a lucky guy,” he directs his last comment at Eddie. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Eddie says. 

“We just got married,” you say proudly. 

“But how old are you?” the waiter asks Roan. 

She holds up five fingers, and then a sixth. 

“You were slow,” the waiter says to Eddie. 

“It’s not his fault, we’ve been engaged almost a year,” you say, “and we didn’t know one another until not even three years ago, so–”

Roan doesn’t care about the waiter’s confusion. She reaches for you where she’s sitting in Eddie’s lap, almost tipping onto the floor as she stretches as far as her arms can go. She whines until you take notice. 

“Hi,” you say, cutting yourself off to pick her up. “What, babe?” 

“I love you,” she says. 

You and Eddie laugh. The waiter makes a sound of understanding. “She looks like dad because you are the stepmom,” he says. 

“Just mom,” you say, giving her a little kiss. “She really does look like her dad though, huh? Except he’s not covered in chocolate.” 

“We can arrange that.” 

You laugh against Roan’s cheek, “I love you,” you say, just for her, “I got you a bowlful of strawberries, your skin is gonna turn pink ‘cos you’ve eaten so many. Love you.” 

Roan closes her eyes. She’s been smothered in love for a week straight and there’s no signs of it ever stopping. “I love you too. Let’s have melon.” 

“I got some.” 

Eddie nudges you back into your seat. “Alright, quick, we need to eat and sleep it off for an hour before we go surfing. Chop chop.”

“He’s so bossy,” Roan says.

“I know, baby. Don’t listen to him.” 

[kittenlittle24]

A/n:

Recently started watching House MD and instantly fell deep into the fandom. Please forgive any mistakes, might be ooc, I didn’t write anything in a very very long time! As well as this is my first time writing a Gregory House imagine! Not good at writing summaries!

Summery: Reader and House used to date, and like a little boy now that someone else has his toy he wants it back.

Masterlist

The door to her office slammed open, she didn’t bother raising her eyes, “Yes Gregory?”

Frowning, “You know I don’t appreciate being called like that.”

She smiled, lowered the file she was reading onto her desk, and placed her hands on it, “Ah. Just like you know I don’t appreciate people barging into my office like that.”

He pulled out the chair opposite of her and sat down, he put his legs on her desk and started to play with his cane.

“Nice bling.”

She sighed and lightly smacked his feet, not wanting to hurt him but signaling to take them off.

“Are congratulations in order?”

She stayed silent for another moment, he wasn’t done, she figured.

“Though I really don’t understand why you would do something so idioti-“ he didn’t disappoint.

“House. Say why you are wasting my time or get out.”

Putting his legs down, he sat up, “5-year-old girl, fever, loss of appetite, irritability, and shortness of breath.”

“Did you run an EKG?”

Hitting himself in the head with a fake gasp, “Why didn’t I think about that?”

She got up and walked around the desk to open the door for him.

“You don’t need my consult, you know what it is. I don’t know what the hell it is you want from me, but I want you to leave.” She told him before returning to her desk and resuming her paperwork.

She heard him get up and limp to the door, only looking up when she heard it close, but just to see he was still there, her door closed once again and he was leaning heavily on his cane and looked deep in thought, eyebrows scrunched together and knuckles almost white from his grip on his cane.

“So expect me to watch you walk down the aisle, wearing all white and what?”

She leaned back in her chair and quietly replied, “I’m not sure why you think you’re invited.”

His mouth opened slightly and his eyebrows raised to a shocked expression.

“My fiancé doesn’t want me to invite an ex to our wedding.”

“Who cares what he thinks?” He yelled.

Getting up and walking to stand in front of him, “I do! And frankly, I understand him. House, you want to be miserable, fine, have at it. But please, leave me out of it! I’m done with whatever this is!” She answered with her hands moving between them.

“I don’t think you can be more done with me than not even inviting me.”

“You broke up with me! Don’t you get it? How could I marry another man when you’re sitting right there? I’m marrying him and then I’m leaving the hospital.”

“Leaving me,” he added defeatedly.

She nodded and looked down. Not able to look at his blue eyes.

“Marry me instead.”

Her eyes shot up to him, shocked and so each speechless.

“You don’t want to leave the hospital, you love me, I love you, I’m an asshole and you could tell me that everyday for the rest of my miserable life. Please, be miserable with me.” He asked in a low voice, half jokingly.

Against her better judgment, as if forgetting the pain he put her through when he broke up with her because she got too close and he was too afraid of intimacy and letting anyone break his walls down, she took his scruffy cheeks in her soft palms, raised his head to lock their gazes and whispered, “I guess I am an idiot.” Before she placed her lips on his, kissing him passionately, feeling his salt and pepper beard scratch her chin in the best way possible.

[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Seven

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter-specific CW: torture (what fun!), period-typical sexism

A/N: the dead speak! lmao at least that's what it feels like coming back after an entire YEAR??? I kinda got sucked into playing 1,200+ hours of baldur's gate 3, romancing a certain vampiric elf time and time again, which gave me plenty of inspiration to continue this fic. I never meant to be gone for so long, so if you're still interested in this story, please let me know!

───────── ❅ 🦇 ❅ ─────────

What have you done?

To say that you were restless would be an understatement. The first order of business when you returned to your chambers was finding a safe place to store your stolen weapon, and now, hours later, you had yet to succeed. 

You paced the room, wearing holes in the soles of your slippers as you wondered if you had made the right decision. It was unlike you to have sticky fingers, but then again, these were unprecedented times. Boldness meant survival.

Above all, you feared Ren was privy to your thievery, despite his silence on the walk back to your chambers. The prick of blood seemed enough to distract him for a moment, or perhaps he was practiced in hiding his tells. Either way, the consequences of him knowing gnawed at your sanity.

Rey had tended the hearth while you were away, ensuring your chambers were kept warm and filled with the familiar scent of dry wood. Her diligence as a handmaid proved to be an unforeseen complication in hiding your contraband.

Instinct urged you to keep it close to your bed, but reason told you it would be found too easily there. Same with the lounges circling the hearth, whose velour cushions could conceal many things if asked to. Though a dagger lodged in one’s rear would raise many concerns, as well as promise unspeakable punishments to come.

For these reasons, you ultimately settled on the bookcase.

Towering in the corner was a collection of books and texts, dense enough to put even the most curious scholars to sleep. A perfect place to hide a dagger.

Dragging a footstool over as a makeshift ladder, you reached for a leather-bound book embossed with gold letters along its spine. Imperium Nunquam Fuit. Though written in Old Basic, you understood its meaning.

The Empire That Never Was. A phrase coined by Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin to describe the destruction of Alderaan during the Revolution. An unsavory way to speak about a fallen civilization—considering he was the man responsible.

You made quick work of hollowing the historical text, skimming the page you’d turned to before defacing it. This passage detailed the last of the Imperial attacks on Alderaan, near the end of the Rebellion. One of the more infamous sieges of the war, earning its place in history with a tithe of blood and destruction.

The lines of script told the story of how Imperial soldiers salted Alderaan’s lands and butchered the citizens—babes and crones included. The Empire was thorough, wiping out an entire civilization over a mere conspiracy. With few survivors, and even fewer successors, Alderaanian blood was a rarity. You supposed that was one of the many things that set General Organa apart from the rest.

Considering the contents, it was a book of little interest to the First Order—a perfect hiding place.

The point of your blade pierced the parchment with ease, as if slicing through a block of butter rather than a thousand-page text. Tragic as it was to ruin a book like this, what other choice did you have? Hosnian Prime’s Grand Archives likely stored dozens of copies; one locked away in the depths of the First Order’s fortress would not be missed.

The fit was snug, but it would do for now. As for the pages you’d carved out, they laid in a pile at your feet, a messy reminder that your room was not private.

You slammed the book shut and returned it, hurrying to clean the shreds of paper scattered across the red carpets. Despite your efforts, the fragments proved too difficult to clean with just your hands alone, forcing you to sweep them into your skirts.

As you carried the pieces to the hearth, a gentle knock sounded through the oak doors. “Gods,” you muttered as you rushed towards the fire, dumping the pages unceremoniously onto the crackling wood.

Another rap on the door.

“Just a moment, please!” It was impossible to hide the panic in your voice as you prodded at the withering pages with an iron poker. Time seemed to slow as you watched the flames engulf the ink, turning Alderaan’s history to ash once more.

“It’s me, my lady.” Muffled by the wood, Rey’s voice was barely audible over the fire, hissing with fresh fodder. If any good came from her being your visitor, it was her staunch etiquette. She would not barge in uninvited—unlike some of the castle’s residents.

Brushing the slivers of evidence from your gown, you opened the doors, mindful of the lingering ash in the hearth. “My apologies. I was…” You cleared your throat, smoothing out your skirts before finishing your lie. “Indecent.”

Demure as ever, Rey dropped her gaze as she curtseyed before you. “It’s no matter, my lady. I was sent to fetch you; the Supreme Leader requests your presence.”

The moment his name left her lips, cotton filled your mouth, forcing its way down your throat as you swallowed your fear. What reason would the Supreme Leader have to summon you—at this late hour, no less?

Your thoughts immediately turned to Commander Ren. Perhaps he had noticed your theft after all and reported your offence to Snoke. If that were true, you vowed to slice his throat first. 

“Did he give a reason?” you asked, trying to maintain your resolve.

Rey’s throat knocked in her slender neck. “He did not say.”

Part of you wanted to take the damned blade with you, but recklessness wouldn’t serve you. Though you did not recognize him as your ruler, you were not keen on adding treason to your ledger.

You sighed, coming to stand beside Rey at the door, shoulders pressed back and hands folded over your lap. “I’m surprised he didn’t send you with manacles.”

She said nothing, but the trace smile on her lips told you all that you needed to know. You couldn’t blame her for watching her tongue around you. Given what transpired last night, you would do the same in her position.

The two of you walked in near silence to the throne chambers, passing countless tall windows with panes stained a deep red, dark enough to block most light from entering. What little light did manage to seep through painted the halls crimson, giving the appearance of blood spilling over the floor.

The burned pages of text flashed in your mind.

Every step forward was committed to memory, including the number of paces between notable fixtures, as well as where each one stood in relation to your chambers. Still, there was no sign of an access point in this section of the castle. But your resolve did not falter. If there was a means of entry into this accursed fortress, there must also be a means of escape.

As you rounded the corner to another corridor, you glanced at your handmaid, noticing that her usual singular bun had evolved into three smaller ones, meeting the nape of her neck in a uniform line.

“You’ve changed your hair.” The observation came out as more of a question than a comment.

“Yes, my lady,” she said, delicate fingers reaching to touch the one near her collar. “An effort to be closer to the gods.”

You furrowed your brows. “How’s that?”

“As there are three of them, there are three knots. We servants are forbidden to worship openly, so we find other ways.” She closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her chin towards her chest. “Divine strength allows clarity of the mind.”

While you were not necessarily a pious woman, you were familiar enough with the gods from your upbringing to understand what she meant. As a child, you often prayed at your family’s shrine, asking for a bountiful harvest, good health, and, most of all, peace in the realm. For many years, they fulfilled your wishes. Now, your faith provided you with little comfort.

“Certainly,” you said, not wanting to discuss the subject any further. “Are we nearly there?”

“Just down this hall,” she said, her tone clipped. Either she was annoyed with the change of subject, or just as uneasy about seeing the Supreme Leader as you were.

True to her word, Rey came to a stop near the end of the corridor, leaving a short distance between you and the two looming oak doors, with iron enforcements woven into the grain and a guard posted on either side. Their faces were concealed by crimson veils, the signature regalia of the Praetorian Guard. Those tasked with protecting the ruler of these lands, whether they carried the title of Chancellor, Emperor, or Supreme Leader.

The warmth drained from your face at the sight.

“This is where I leave you, my lady.” Her face lacked its usual peachy hue, her freckles washed away by the candlelight. “The Supreme Leader does not allow us to enter these chambers, save for when he is passing judgment upon us.”

Standing before the faceless guards, you understood her unease.

“Will you be here to escort me back?” you asked, palms growing damp as you clutched the fabric of your gown.

“It is late. I must turn in for the evening.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting between you and the guards, whose presence seemed to loom over you from meters away. “Besides, I should think you do not require my assistance from this point.”

With that, she turned on her heels and retreated, her steps muted as she faded into the stretching darkness of the hallway. Turning to face the guards, dread settled in your stomach. Surely these warriors would not accompany you back to your chambers.

You studied them for a moment, the strategist in your mind seeking to understand what threat they posed. Both were tall and well-fed, given the size of their uniforms. The one to your left carried a bisento, while the other held a tall voulge, both equally unnerving. Their blades were pristine, foreign to combat. You wondered if the same could be said for those wielding them, too.

As if seeking to test your theory, they readied their weapons as you approached, each blade humming as it sliced through the air.

You came to a halt, the hair on the back of your neck now stiff. “I’ve been summoned by the Supreme Leader.”

The two remained poised to strike for a long moment before returning to their sentry state, offering one another a brisk nod as they pushed the heavy doors open, revealing the grand throne room. With tentative steps, you approached, pausing at the threshold.

Black marble columns lined the walkway to the throne, each manned by a knight of the Praetorian Guard, their crimson armor matching the First Order banners draped along the cobbled walls. Above the throne was the room’s sole window, with red stained panels filling the space between the spokes of the First Order insignia. Six steps carved of the same dark mineral as the columns led to the throne, lined with black velvet upholstery and a towering slate backing. Perched comfortably in the seat was Supreme Leader Snoke, draped in golden robes that flowed over his limbs like smelted ore, barely concealing the matching jewelry wrapped snugly around his fingers.

The paragon of humility.

He was joined by another: the fire-haired General Hux. His gaze snapped to you as the doors creaked open, beady eyes piercing you like darts from across the chamber.

“Ah, my guest of honor,” Snoke crooned, clasping his hands before his chest in delight. His tone fell icy as he turned to address the General. “Leave us.”

Confusion spread across his pale features as he turned to face Snoke once more. “But, Supreme Leader, there is still much to be discussed.”

“Perhaps I did not make myself clear. You are to leave these chambers at once, General Hux, or you will be removed.” Snoke’s gravelly voice rumbled through the hall with the force of a thousand footsteps, and reluctantly, Hux obeyed.

You watched the scene play out before you from the safety of the doorway, your feet rooted to the floor.

Snoke relaxed in his chair once more, beckoning you in with a hand gesture. “Please, come in, darling.”

Willing your feet to move, you did as he asked, eyes flitting between the Praetorian guard and the approaching General Hux, whose expression could only be described as irate as he brushed past you, black coat fluttering behind him.

Your heart was lodged in your throat as you neared the throne, feeling like a lamb being shepherded towards the maw of a lion. You stopped in line with the last of the guards before the Supreme Leader, leaving some distance still.

Snoke watched you with keen eyes, a stark contrast to his stoic front. “I do hope you are well, my dear. I can only imagine the days spent in anticipation of your wedding are agonizing.”

You frowned. “Is that why you summoned me? To ask me about my wedding?”

“Of course not. But pleasantries are the foundation of any proper conversation.” The humor fell from his voice. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” The words left a sour taste in your mouth, like wine crafted from grapes plucked too early.

Satisfied, he settled back into his throne, resting his hands over the ornate armrests. “See? Deference needn’t be cumbersome.”

His mocking tone made your vision red, but you held your tongue. Invisible threads tied you to him and his guards, each one pulled taught in the silence. It would take nothing more than a misstep to cause one of them to snap.

He spoke again, this time with authority. “It has come to my attention that you are unaware of what is expected of you as a noblewoman.”

You let out a terse exhale. “I suppose I am. Perhaps that is because of the conditions under which I am becoming one.”

A thin smile curled on the Supreme Leader’s lips. “These are unprecedented times, lieutenant.”

The emphasis on your title made your skin crawl. Snoke was calculated, sadistic. With his power, he was untouchable. The red veils surrounding you served as a constant reminder of his invulnerability.

“Now, I am curious. How did you manage that?” he added, tilting his head in intrigue. “A commoner like yourself rising to the rank of a commanding officer is no easy feat—even more so for a woman.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hardly see how this is relevant to my new status as a noblewoman.”

Despite your outward naivety, you knew too well what being a noblewoman would entail. You’d known from the moment your betrothal was announced. You were to be the docile wife of a commander, providing him an heir, a spare, and a warm bed whenever he pleased. Your military career would be swept away by the title of Lady Ren, all traces of your independence lost to time. You couldn’t think of anything less appealing.

“As a Lady of the First Order, you will be granted privileges seldom given to others, such as this.” Snoke motioned to the surrounding space, and you found yourself unable to decipher his meaning.

He isn’t referring to having an audience with the ruler of the realm as a privilege, is he?

He continued, “The safety of the castle. Our stronghold. You will be protected within its walls.”

Oh. Of course.

You suppressed a scoff. “I find that hard to believe, considering Commander Ren has attempted to strangle me twice over since my arrival.”

“I see,” he mused, pressing an index finger to his lips in thought. “My mercurial underling. If only his mind were half as quick as his temper.”

Somehow, your first instinct was to defend Commander Ren from his inflaming remark. While the Supreme Leader was correct about Ren’s temperament, he didn’t see the side of him that you saw—however infrequently it may have showed itself. There was a tenderness to him, fleeting in nature, like a luminescent star ripping through the night sky. You saw it in his eyes as he sat before your hearth, again when he laced your bodice.

Or perhaps what you felt was just the lingering effects of his charm.

Snoke’s rough voice broke your reverie. “Nevertheless, I’m sure Commander Ren had his reasons. Just as I’m sure whatever actions may have led to these outbursts will cease henceforth, won’t they?”

Before you could answer, a searing pain sliced through your skull, its barbed tendrils reaching into the deepest part of your consciousness. Every muscle in your body became succinctly rigid, frozen in place as an invisible force suspended you midair. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to call out; for the gods, for your mother—even for Commander Ren.

“You will behave yourself, insolent girl, or you will be disposed of.”

Despite your efforts, no sound would come from your throat. An eternity seemed to pass as the Supreme Leader kept you trapped, holding your feet to the fire of his anger. Mustering every ounce of strength, you forced your chin down in agreement, hot tears distorting your vision.

Without moving a muscle, he relinquished his hold on you, your knees cracking against the marble floor in an instant. The violet fabric of your gown pooled around you like the blood of a slain enemy, collecting the tears that fell from your chin.

Before you could find your voice, the creak of wood and subsequent rustling of armor behind you swiped your attention. The guards had readied their weapons, aiming at something other than you.

You flinched as the doors slammed shut, followed by a heavy—yet quick—footfall.

“What is the meaning of this?” Commander Ren’s voice was biting, filled with untamed fury as he entered the grand hall. His cloak rippled behind him like the night sea, silver sword in hand as he marched forward.

You scurried backwards on your tender palms, caught between his rage and the throne. He drew closer, only stopping at the intersection of two of the guards’ blades.

“Commander Ren, what a welcome surprise,” Snoke crooned. “Your bride was just leaving.”

His eyes found yours in an instant—wild and dark. Silently, you pleaded for his cooperation. If he were to strike at the guard, your life would be forfeit.

Outnumbered by eight blades, he stowed his own. “What have you done?” he demanded.

Though he was looking at you, his question was directed at the man atop the throne, whose enthusiasm at his subordinate’s display was palpable.

“Nothing you have not already done yourself,” Snoke growled. With that, he stood to his feet and stepped down from his throne, closing the gap you’d deliberately left and standing over you. “See her back to her chambers, Commander.”

A snarl flashed across Ren’s face as he pushed past the guards and kneeled before you, extending a gloved hand for you. Though he was quiet, his eyes were heavy with guilt.

With legs like a new foal, you accepted his help, gripping his hand like a lifeline as you stood. “Thank you.” The words floated from your mouth, burning your throat as they passed through.

He only nodded in return, guiding you away from the chamber. Because of his intrusion, the outer guards were now sealed inside, allowing some privacy in the dimly lit hall.

Ren came to a halt, moving both of his cool hands to rest on your shoulders, inspecting you. “Are you hurt?”

Averting your eyes, you shook your head dismissively, ignoring how your knees seemed to rattle with every step.

He let out an amused hum. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you will, Commander,” you managed to say through your dry mouth. “I’m fine.”

At that, the two of you carried on in silence, meandering through the castle, passing knights and servants alike down each corridor. Ren’s emotion rolled off of him like heat from a flame, slowly dwindling the further you were from the throne room.

As your legs regained their strength, so did your voice. “How did you know I was in there?”

“Does that really matter?”

“I’d say so. For all I know, you’re the reason he summoned me in the first place,” you argued, head spinning as you tried to recognize your surroundings. Only when you realized these walls were unfamiliar did your pace falter. “Stop!”

He obeyed, meeting you where you stood. “What?”

“Answer me.”

He let out a terse breath. “No, I am not the reason he summoned you. Come, we can discuss this later.”

At that, he began his stride again, but you didn’t follow. “No. I will not take one more step. Not before I know where you are taking me, as it is clearly not my chambers.”

“I’m bringing you somewhere private,” he finally answered.

“Are my chambers not private enough?”

“By the gods,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, it is unbecoming of me to be seen entering your chambers before we are wed.”

You scoffed. “How pragmatic of you.”

Ignoring your comment, he continued, “After your encounter with the Supreme Leader, I think it’s best if we avoid unnecessary speculation—for your sake.”

You couldn’t argue with him. If Snoke was inclined to submit you to the rawest agony over the slightest display of defiance, you could only imagine what else he was capable of.

“Fine,” you conceded, seeing reason in his words. “But let it be known that my cooperation does not reflect my satisfaction with this decision.”

A smile ghosted over his lips. “I know.”

[freelancearsonist]

and they'd find us in a week

➔ Javi Gutierrez x gn!Reader - 1.8k

➔ Javi whisks you away to Italy for your honeymoon. The only problem is, you're too busy exploring your new husband to leave your hotel room.

➔ Rated MA for basically just husband!javi fluffy cock-worship, oral (m receiving), handjobs, cum swallowing, lots of spanish pet names (reader is spanish speaking), no use of y/n, reader is able-bodied but no description of anatomy and no pronouns used. [please let me know if i missed any :)]

You’ve never woken up quite as languidly as you do today.

The first thing your senses are alerted to is the roaring crash of waves. Bright light floods your eyes even through your closed eyelids, and you roll over with a groan to press your face into the plush pillow beneath your head for a few more precious seconds of darkness. It smells of your favorite leave-in conditioner after your shower last night–a familiar scent in this otherwise unfamiliar bed.

Not that you can complain–this is the softest bed you’ve ever slept in. The mattress is cloud-like and the sheets are silky and warm… except on the other side of the bed. Those sheets are rumpled and turned back, cold with absence.

You sit up and rub the remaining dregs of sleep from your eyes, glancing around the sizable hotel room in search of your fiance–husband. You’re still getting used to that shift in title, but it’s a very welcome change.

The balcony door is open, which is why you can hear the waves so clearly. There’s a gentle breeze swirling in through the opening, fluttering the curtains and sending a slight chill down your spine despite how warm the morning already is. The air smells so fresh here–salt and water and everything you love about the beach. It’s spring, the season of rebirth, and things are changing. Leaves are returning, flowers are blooming, and you’re starting a new page in the story of your life with the man of your dreams.

The man of your dreams, who is currently nowhere to be found.

You swing your legs over the edge of the mattress with a groan of protest, still sore and shaky from yesterday–your third day of honeymoon bliss. Your suitcases still sit on the dresser across from the bed, zipped and neatly packed; you haven’t worn clothes in three wonderful, languid, pleasure-filled days. It’s been absolute bliss.

The sound of the shower shutting off alerts you to the fact that it was running in the first place–it was barely noticeable over the sound of the ocean outside the windows. You smile to yourself and lay back down against the pillows, the mission of finding your husband completed. 

Javi comes out of the bathroom moments later, wrapped in the most plush white robe you’ve ever seen while toweling his hair dry. And really, you’ve done nothing over the last three days except wet your sexual appetite–repeatedly and vigorously–with your husband. But seeing him like this makes you hungry; it drives a burning hot rod of arousal straight through the deepest, most unfathomable part of your gut. Your want over the past few days has been completely insatiable.

You look up at him—sleepy eyes half-lidded, wet hair slicked back, the faintest of smiles tugging at his perfect lips—and you are so, so in love with him. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” He says with a smile. “Do you want to order breakfast?”

You’re shaking your head before you can really stop yourself, because there’s only one thing that could quench your appetite right now and it’s standing right in front of you. “No, I’ve got my breakfast right here.”

His mouth opens to ask what you could possibly mean, but you catch his hand and pull him into a deep, languid kiss before he can say anything. It’s slow and syrupy, the morning bleeding into the action. You trace your tongue over his bottom lip and his mouth parts so eagerly to accept you. He’s become so familiar with your desires over the past few days, even after years together thinking he knew everything there was to know. But he keeps learning and adapting, finding new ways to draw little sounds and reactions from you. He’s nothing if not attentive to details and extremely eager to please.

He’s been doing a lot of pleasing over the past few days, though. He’s certainly earned a break and some appreciation, you think.

He lets out a little grunt when you gently push him into the mattress; his lips curl into a smile when you crawl over him to straddle his sturdy hips.

“Mi amor,” he mumbles, trying his best to lean up so he can keep kissing you despite your hands pinning his torso to the plush mattress. “Por favor–”

You lean down to appease him, lips feather-light against his as you whisper, “calmate, mi esposo. Yo cuidaré de ti.”

You can feel how quickly he hardens from your words even through the thick robe covering him and it sends a heady sense of power rushing through your veins. Your husband is a strong, important, powerful man–you’re the only person in the world who can bring him to his knees. He’ll even beg for it, if you ask. He’s putty in your hand, but you don’t take it for granted. You’re lucky and you know it–you’ll spend every day for the rest of your life thanking whatever deity there is for giving you Javi.

“Mi cielo,” he murmurs as your fingers find the tie of his plush white robe. “You don’t have to–”

“I want to, Javi,” you assure him as you slowly pull the knot apart. “Please?”

You can see the gulp that bobs his throat even as his eyes flutter closed and he tilts his head back. “Okay,” he whispers.

You unpeel the robe like a wrapping around a candy, appreciating the sight in all of its decadence but desperate to dig in. 

He’s desperate for it, too. Aching and hard just from your kisses, thick and flushed with arousal. Every beautiful inch of him is ready and waiting for your attention, from the soft curls at his base to the weeping mushroom head of him. 

The first touch of your fingers against his length is electric–he nearly jolts from it. Your fingers are so light and soft, it’s more like a whispering breeze than an actual touch. That is, until you wrap him firmly in your hand, fingers barely long enough to completely circle him. He moans then–a shuddery, shaky, utterly wrecked sound not quite like anything you’ve ever heard before.

“Still sensitive?”

He nods wordlessly, and you can’t blame him really. All you’ve done since arriving in Italy is go at it like rabbits, and last night he actually came dry. He’s bound to be a bit overstimulated, the poor thing.

You halt your hand and meet his dark brown eyes when his head pops up. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” He flushes a bit, surprised at his own desperation. “No, amor, por favor no pares.”

You can’t help the gentle laugh that flows from your lips–you love him like this. Stripped down, not just physically, but spiritually. Soul bared to you in a way that no one else has ever seen him. He allows himself to be weak and vulnerable in your arms because you build him back up stronger every time.

You lower yourself to him and lick languidly, one large stroke of your tongue up the vast length of him. He shivers with the stimulation and lets out a groan, hands clenching into fists at his sides to will himself not to squirm. It’s so hard to sit still like this, though–just the barest touch of your tongue, and he’s already near the brink.

He takes a deep breath, then another, then wills every cell in his body to not come.

Somehow, miraculously, it works–when you take his tip between your plush lips and swirl your tongue just right, he manages to hold it together. He lets loose a low grumble from deep in his chest, though, when your fingers dance down his stomach and over his hip to cradle his balls.

“Ay, dios mio…”

“Good?” You giggle when you ask, because you don’t really need him to answer. You can feel the way his thigh trembles beneath your free hand and see the way his chest hitches with shuddering breaths. His body is tuned like a fine guitar string to your skilled fingers–you know exactly the right chords to strum to get the sounds you want.

Your mouth presses deeper and deeper, the thick head of his hitting the back of your throat long before your nose finds those soft, soapy-smelling curls at the base.

“Ay, mi amor.” It’s more of a whimper than an actual spoken statement–high-pitched and needy. “Por favor…”

You pull off with a pop and let your hand take over with firm strokes that make him whimper. “Qué necesitas, mi cielo?”

“I need–” He gulps thickly, hips stuttering up into your grip, cock twitching as if in anticipation of your permission. “Need to come.”

You hum and lick slowly around his tip, dragging the flat of your tongue over his slit to taste the salty precum pooling steadily there. “Then come, darling.”

And Javi–ever only obedient to you–does exactly that. His body shakes with the force of it, beautiful damp sandy-brown curls splayed out against the pillows and broad hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets as he fills your mouth. 

You never get tired of the taste of him; he’s the perfect mix of salty and sweet and something wonderful that can only be described as Javi. The first drop that meets your tongue makes you crave more–you push as far as you can to take every following spurt that he pulses into your mouth.

You swallow around him–drawing a whine from his throat in the process–before pulling off to admire your handiwork. And surely you can call yourself an artist, because the fruits of your efforts are a masterpiece. He’s flushed red from the shoulders up, chest heaving as he slowly steadies his breath, mouth agape around moans that have finally ceased.

You kiss up his body as he comes down from the high, over the soft round of his stomach and up his flushed neck, finally coming to his parted lips. His eyes meet yours, and suddenly the entire world is spinning on its axis until it’s flipped onto its back–your back. He chuckles as he hovers over you, scattering kisses all over your face.

“Gracias, mi amor,” he hums contentedly. Like this, you can feel every inch of his skin pressed against every inch of yours, the open robe falling around the parameters of your bodies and caging you into a soft, feathery cocoon.

“Was that what you needed, my darling?”

“Everything I needed and more,” he tells you earnestly. His kisses start to stray off course–across your cheeks, then along your jaw, then down your neck. “May I return the favor?”

It’s a tantalizing offer, certainly; as much as you’re eager to finally leave this room and go explore Italy, it’s not looking like today is going to be the day.

“Por favor, mi esposo.”

And Javi, ever the faithful servant, is more than willing to oblige. Con gusto.

THE END

➔ Translations:

calmate - calm down yo cuidaré de ti - let me take care of you por favor no pares - please don't stop qué necesitas - what do you need? con gusto - with pleasure

➔ A/N: the title of this one is another hozier song (big surprise cece) - "in a week" is so beautiful, pls give it a listen :) thank you as always to @shakespeareanwannabe for betaing this lil thing 🥺 thank you as well to the dieter bravo brainrot club for always enabling me <3

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :)

[mistress-violence]

Prompt: Salt from @into-the-jeggyverse (September 2)

Word count: 610 words

Pairing: Jegulus (modern AU - genderfluid Regulus)

⚠️ Warnings: none

James has been acting a little strange for about two days. He was tense around Regulus and had long moments of silence, totally uncharacteristic of him. Even now, when they were at the table eating a late dinner, James could barely look up from his plate. Regulus was confused and maybe even slightly panicked. They had only moved together for two months. If James regretted the decision and didn't know how to tell him? If they would move separately as they were before, would they still be a couple? Maybe that was the problem, maybe James actually wanted to break up with him. Regulus swallows, and his appetite died.

"James..." he said, but immediately gave up his intention to be so direct. "...Salt. Can you give me the salt, please?"

James raised his head towards Regulus and read the fear and confusion on his face. He puts down the fork he was eating with, taking the salt and holding it out in front of him. Regulus grabbed it, but James wouldn't let it go. Instead, he looked at him with his penetrating and calm eyes.

"Reg," James began. "I found the skirt in the closet".

The boy froze, and James let go of the salt. Regulus didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he should do, what excuse he should find. Was it better to lie or tell the truth? In the end, not even Regulus knew for sure what the truth was. Sometimes he hated his body, other times it seemed absolutely normal. Sometimes he wanted to let his hair grow, other times he wanted to put the scissors in it and make it as short as possible. Sometimes he would walk down the street and his eyes would run after girls in skirts and dresses, and he couldn't stop thinking how it would have been if he was the one wearing them. He has such confused feelings and he feels like a stranger, as if no one could fully understand him. Was it just an attraction to feminine things or was there something more, something that was hiding in him and wanted so viciously to surface? Was he going to be judged or made to choose between being cis or trans? He wanted to know just one person who could give him the answers.

James got up from the table and left the kitchen for a while, returning with a paper bag. Regulus followed him with his eyes, observing how he reached into his bag and took out a black skirt. Although it was similar, it was not the skirt that Regulus kept hidden in the closet, so the confusion was bigger.

"I bought this today" James said slightly restrained. "I was thinking of wearing it tomorrow when we go out downtown, and you could wear yours. If there are two of us, maybe it will be less awkward to go out like this."

Regulus was speechless. James bought a skirt and was willing to go out in public with it just to give Regulus more courage. Maybe James didn't understand exactly what his lover felt and wanted, but he had decided to support him without forcing him to reveal anything without being prepared to do so. James just wanted to make sure Regulus knows he was on his side no matter what. The boy let out a short laugh and smiled widely, sprinkling a little salt over his dinner.

"Sounds very good. I think it would show off your legs," Regulus said, continuing to eat.

James smiled in return and put the skirt aside to sit down at the table and finish their dinner together.

[coyotelip]

starchaser (+ onesided moonwater) microfic: salt, hypnotized || MCD || @into-the-jeggyverse @taylorswiftmicrofic || wc: 687

Every Saturday, the same man comes to the restaurant. 

They are a fairly prestigious restaurant, so regular customers are not uncommon, but this man is particularly eye-catching. He is always dressed in a perfectly tailored suit over a black shirt. In fact, all of his clothes are black, which suits his pale skin and black hair. He books a table for the same time, arrives exactly 5 minutes earlier, orders the same dish with the same wine. 

He is always alone.

This sets him apart from others, because such prestigious places are used for dates or meetings with partners to impress. However, it seems that the man has no one to impress. He is sitting at a far table under a painting of a forest landscape, eating his meal slowly and with manners and watching the candles on the table. 

He seems to be hypnotized, sometimes he can take a sip of wine and roll it around in his mouth, watching the flame at the end of a long candle for a couple of minutes. 

Remus is equally hypnotized by these moments, but it's not the candle, it's this man, his slow and graceful movements. And although he is dressed in black, he acts on Remus like a flame on a moth. He wants to get closer, wants to hear his voice and smell his cologne. 

However, the man's table is not assigned to him, and Remus does not even get the opportunity to ask if he needs some water or the bill, or to say bon appetit or good evening. 

So he stays in the corner, hypnotized by the unattainable flame, running through hundreds of questions in his head and wondering why. 

◇◇◇

Every Saturday, Regulus comes to their place. He comes to their restaurant, at their time, sits at their table, orders their favorite dish, and spends exactly the same amount of time as it took James on their first date to charm Regulus completely. Thirty-three minutes.

He recalls how the wine tasted the sweetest on those evenings together, how everything around them disappeared for him, and they existed in their own bubble, sharing events in their lives, discussing colleagues and friends. They met their anniversaries, birthdays, and celebrated promotions at work here.

James proposed to him here. At this table, with a bottle of this wine, five years ago. He hid the ring in the salt and made Regulus laugh with this incredible performance.

“Oh, I think the salad is under-salted today... Mm, something is wrong with this saltine, could you please take a look, dear?”

“Oh my god, it's probably just empty, call the waiter and they'll replace it”

“I don't want to bother them with something so stupid, but look, for me?” James' big eyes does wonders on Regulus, so he couldn't refuse and took the salt in his hands, unscrewing the lid.

Only to find a silver engagement ring with an emerald inside instead of salt.

Four years ago, they got married.

Three years ago, they bought a house on the outskirts of town because James wanted Regulus to have a studio at home.

Two years ago, their house burned down with everything inside. With James inside.

And the most painful thing was that Regulus was left with nothing, not a single thing, because the house had everything. He didn't care about the documents or his studio, all of which could be repaired with money. However, he did care about the things they had earned together, about their photos and books with notes, about gifts from his husband, about his things. He cared about James's body, which remained there, right in front of the door, because he hadn't managed to get out before he lost consciousness.

Regulus was left with only memories, and he decided to drown himself in them, finding no other way out.

And every Saturday he came to their restaurant, sat down at their table and ordered their meal, hypnotized by the candle in front of him, begging for the little flame to swallow him up and take him away with it, just as it had once taken James away from him.

[gayvorestories]

it's very long and doesn't have nearly as much gay sex as I usually write but enjoy

"Two tickets," Ricky said to the man at the ticket counter as he slid $40 under the glass.

"The movie starts in 30 minutes in Theater 3"

Ricky winked at the guy behind the glass and slid a $100 bill underneath.

"Theater 2, knock on the side door by the entrance."

"Thanks man," Ricky said as he put his arm behind his date's back and led them inside.

"What was that about?" Jack asked quietly.

"Just a little something the guys here do to make a little money with the empty rooms."

They approached the snack counter and Jack stepped slightly in front of Ricky, "We'll have two large popcorns, two large sodas, and a box of whoppers."

As he stepped over to the Now Playing posters, Ricky felt his stomach groan. When they had started dating a few weeks earlier Jack had told him he was into guys with big appetites - he just didn't mention that meant date night was going to be an all-you-can-eat until he felt like he was going to explode.

Jack gave the most insane head Ricky had ever had though, and he wasn't about to pretend a full stomach and empty balls were something to complain about, so he'd happily stuff himself for the little guy until he couldn't force anything else down.

He gave his painfully full stomach a gentle press and turned around to see Jack with what looked like two jugs of soda and two popcorn buckets big enough to carry groceries in. Good thing we got the private room, Ricky thought to himself.

They slipped into the door into the totally black room, knocking on the door to the tech closet as they walked past.

Jack set the two buckets and cups down as Ricky lowered himself into the seat, his bloated stomach making it hard to maneuver between the rows.

"Movie starts in ten," a voice from down the hall said just before the door to the theater closed.

Jack looked around behind them as the projector turned on and lit the room. "So just us?"

"Mhmm, just us," Ricky said as he leaned in and kissed Jack on the lips.

Jack smiled and ran his hand along the inside of Ricky's thigh, grazing over his dick for just a brief second before leaning in and giving him a kiss in return. "You want your popcorn big boy?"

"Mmm, I'm starving," he said as his stomach let out a low groan of disapproval. He reached into the first bucket and shoveled a big handful into his mouth.

Jack rubbed his swollen stomach, "you're practically skin and bones, we better get it into you."

Ricky put a few more handfuls into his mouth at a normal pace until he felt Jack grab the bottom of the bucket and put it up to his lips. He opened his mouth as Jack shook, causing it to fall down into his mouth. He ate as quickly as he could, with Jack reaching over and picking up pieces that fell from the side of his face. What felt like minutes passed and at some point he was just swallowing some of the pieces without even chewing. When he felt the unpopped kernels slide into his mouth in a big group he gave a swallow and felt them go down easy.

He opened his mouth to talk but was cut off by the next bucket. After a minute of half-chewing, Ricky had switched to just swallowing whatever he could move towards the back of his throat as quickly as he could, the salt drying him out close to the end and making the last few swallows rough and difficult. He reached for his soda as soon as he was finished took a few big gulps. His throat was so dry, he popped off the top and started chugging.

It wasn't until he looked at Jack that he realized he'd just thrown back an entire 54 oz cup of soda in one go. Jack's face and ears were bright red as he reached forward and rubbed Ricky's noticably-larger stomach.

He's so turned on he looks like he's gonna jump on top of me, Ricky thought to himself. The look on Jack's face had him hard as a rock and he reached for the second cup. Tilting his head back to give Jack a clear view of his throat, he started chugging the second cup as quickly as the first, feeling his stomach stretch painfully as the fizzy liquid filled him up bigger and bigger.

Halfway through the cup, Jack moved onto his knees in front of Ricky, undoing his belt while he kissed his belly. By the time he finished the cup, Jack was pulling his dick out of his underwear with one hand and rubbing his stomach with the other. He leaned back in the chair, his stomach popping out of him like a basketball.

Ricky let out a small sigh as he leaned back in his chair, and bit his lip to stop from moaning when he felt Jack's lips slide down his shaft. He looked down but couldn't see anything other than his round, bloated belly. He rubbed his stomach and smothered another moan as Jack bobbed up and down on him. A burp tried to make its way up his throat and he swallowed it back down, the gurgling sounds from his stomach drove Jack wild and head or no head he was going to fuck that man senseless when they got back to his place.

It didn't take long for him to blow his load, the sensory combination of his aching stomach and Jack's mouth short-circuited his brain. He had to cover his mouth with his hands to stop from moaning loud enough to be heard in the next theater, and was completely out of it now.

Every part of his body tingled as a voice whispered something into his ear that he couldn't quite make out. His mouth opened and he waited for whatever Jack was about to feed him next, swallowing gently as soon as he felt it hit his throat. He gave a few more swallows, the mass moving further down with each one. After a few more, his mouth started to stretch, the tightness mixing in with the post-orgasm haze and the constant dull ache in his stomach.

Ricky kept swallowing, the feeling of his stomach stretching further than it had ever gone becoming almost a little fun. After a few more swallows he opened his eyes and felt his heart stop for a moment. Oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck what am I doing, he thought in a panic. That painful stretching was his jaw unhinging for Jack's shoulders to fit past. He was practically halfway down this throat - and Ricky felt himself give an involuntary swallow, dragging him a few inches deeper.

He tried grabbing Jack by the sides and pulling him further out, but Jack just wiggled in his grip. He braced the seat in front of Ricky with one foot and pushed, causing Ricky to swallow involuntarily and pushing himself almost a foot and a half further down. Before Ricky could react, he put his other foot on the seat and pushed again, this time forcing himself down to his knees. Ricky gagged and tried to force jack back up, but from the inside he felt a pair of hands brace against the walls of his stomach as Jack pulled himself the rest of the way in.

Ricky felt the moment Jack's feet slipped into his stomach and tried to heave as hard he he could. "Jack, don't worry baby I'll get you out, I'm so sor-".

Ricky paused for a moment when he felt shaking and moaning from inside of him. He sat in stunned silence for a few moments while he felt Jack shudder and moan.

"Baby I gotta spit you back up, what did you do, how do I get you out?"

A handprint pressed against the outside of his stomach as Jack's muffled voice came from the other side, "you don't baby, it's a one way trip."

"W-what? What do you mean, I gotta-"

"Just watch the movie and let your belly do its work."

"J-Jack no, I gotta let you out, my stomach can't tell the difference between you and the food from earlier!"

"Shhh, you're gonna get really tired soon, just lean back and watch the movie."

His eyelids were already getting heavy, his body was trying to make him sleep to save energy. He tried to heave a few more times, but nothing came up and the exhaustion was taking over.

"Just let me be a good meal for you baby, lean back and let me be yours."

"Jack.. I can't... my stomach won't...." Ricky said as sleep started to take him.

"That's right, fall asleep big boy, let your belly do what it does best."

...

The end credit music played loud through the speakers, jerking Ricky awake. What's going on, why am I-

Ricky saw his huge stomach in front of him, like an overinflated beach ball, and remembered what had happened. He got to his feet as quickly as possible and felt the contents of his stomach slosh. The outside was a tight as a drum but the inside made him feel like a water bed.

Down the hall he heard someone coming and felt a wave of panic. There was no way he could explain this, he buttoned his pants and booked it for the other door, bumping his stomach on several seats on his way out. Directly across was a door to the parking lot, and he slipped out as quickly and quietly as possible, barely able to keep himself upright from the weight in his stomach.

When he got home, he collapsed on his side in bed, his stomach gurgling and groaning happily as it worked on its meal.

"Jack you dumb asshole..." he sighed to himself as he rubbed his sore stomach.

...

The next week, his stomach had shrunk back to its normal size - albeit with an extra 15 pounds of weight in his middle. As Ricky got out of his car at the usual all-you-can-eat buffet, he gave his stomach a rub with his thumb. He hadn't been able to satisfy his hunger all week. As he walked in, he looked around the room and spotted a guy in the back corner with a cute haircut and little bit of a belly. I know what I want, Ricky thought to himself as he fixed his hair and walked in the guy's direction, god I'm so fucking hungry.

[magicalrocketships]

Butternut Squash, Bacon, Sage and Chili Pasta

Notes

okay so this recipe is a "however much you've got of anything is fine" recipe, whatever makes it easier, in whatever volume you like.

any recipe that says "cut squash into small pieces" sounds like a nightmare to me, not least because my stupid wrist can't cope with cutting a lot of raw squash. It also takes more energy than I have. To avoid this, hack a butternut squash in half, length ways. Scoop out the seeds. Make a couple of little cuts in the flesh. Spray a little oil over it or drizzle some, whatever you've got. I did a little spray oil and a bit of chili oil today because I like squash and chili but do what you like. Salt/pepper is good. Then wrap each half in tinfoil, and stick it in the oven at about 180 degrees (fan) for... 30 mins? 45 mins? an hour? Basically until you can slice a knife through it super easily. You can even let it go so soft you can scoop it out with a spoon depending on how arsed you can be with squash prep. Then when it's cool enough you can just slice off the skin and cut the flesh really easily. Also you can do this at any point before cooking. I left a couple of hours to get some energy back, but you can do it the day before. You can even do it weeks before and freeze it. hashtag energy hack.

you can use any pasta. The original recipe called for tagliatelle, which I used today, but I've used pretty much all pasta. My favourite is spaghetti or linguine. You can also use this exact recipe and cook it into arborio rice to make risotto. The flavour combo is good and easy and delicious.

if you don't like chili, don't use it, it's nice without too, I just like it.

Ingredients

Butternut squash. I'd say half a squash does two portions. Maybe three if you have less of an appetite than me. Also depends on the size of the squash. I'd say if you're cooking for four people, use a single squash. This is helpful, I'm sure. cut into bitesize pieces (see note above)

salt

pepper

oil to cook bacon, whatever oil or spray oil you like

one red chili or half a teaspoon of chili flakes, honestly however hot you like it or don't like it. I like it when my lips tingle because it makes me feel alive.

pasta. if you're doing a whole squash, do pasta for four people. Adjust accordingly. We're on this planet too short a time to not enjoy exactly as much pasta as you want to eat. I recommend linguine.

bacon. like, 300g? I like smoked bacon but honestly: bacon. whatever kind you like, cut into little bits.

1-2 tsp of dried sage. i've never actually tried it with fresh sage because it's never in the supermarket but if you live somewhere where it's easy to get, why not try it. Sage, squash and bacon is a magical combination even when it's dried.

Instructions

cook the pasta in salted water

while the pasta is cooking, fry the bacon until it's looking nice and bacony (I know, I can't imagine why I don't have a cookbook either)

add in the butternut squash, chili (flakes or otherwise), and sage

cook until the squash is all hot if you'd let it go cold, and season with salt and pepper if you want to (might depend on how you seasoned the squash earlier, and how salty the bacon is)

drain the pasta and stir into the bacon/squash/sage mixture

serve, eat, stare into the middle distance and feel nice things about yourself.

original recipe below the cut. You might like it better with pumpkin as suggested but don't try it with tinned pumpkin, you'll be disappointed. However I think my amendments are nicer, but i've made it loads over the years.

[otomehonyaku]

Diabolik Lovers Lost Eden Drama CD Translation ☽ Vol. 4 Mukami Saga ☽ Track 4・The Flaw Called 'Prejudice'

Original title of this track: 思い込みという弱点 Voiced by Sakurai Takahiro (Ruki), Suzuki Tatsuhisa (Yuma), Kishio Daisuke (Azusa), Kimura Ryōhei (Kou) English translation by @otomehonyaku Click here for the audio (as always, BIG thank you to @karleksmumskladdkaka!)

TRACK 1 ・TRACK 2 ・TRACK 3・TRACK 4・TRACK 5・AFTER STORY

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This is the fourth volume of the Lost Eden drama CDs! I'll make separate posts for each track and update the links above as I go. This is the fourth track of this CD. The next one has a little more spice for my fellow Ruki and Yuma enthusiasts ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) Happy listening and reading along!

Please do not reuse or post my translations elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[The scene starts at the Mukami dining table.]

00:00 Yuma: But really. Azusa always takes the good stuff right from under your nose, huh? He fuckin’ outsmarted us…

Kou (with food in his mouth): I know, right? Kitten was gone before I knew it—it’s our fault for not paying attention, though.

Ruki: Hey. Don’t talk while you’re eating.

Kou: Okay…

[You silently stare at your plate of food.]

Ruki: What’s wrong, Livestock? Have you had enough to eat?

[You don’t respond.]

Ruki: You’ve lost your appetite, haven’t you? Well, I suppose that’s only reasonable, given what you’ve been through.

Azusa: You’re not eating much, either… Ruki.

Ruki: Hm. I’m not very hungry, either.

[Meanwhile, Yuma is happily scarfing down the food.]

Yuma (with food in his mouth): Y’all’re almost makin’ me look bad for havin’ a healthy appetite. 

Kou (with food in his mouth): You can’t really fight when you’re hungry.

Ruki: It’s alright. 

[You want to talk to Ruki, but...]

Ruki: Wait. Let’s take the time to talk later, so you can tell us about all that happened before you came here. It’s not something we should discuss during dinner, is it?

[You agree.]

Ruki: Good. Eat a little more, then. If you want, I can cook you something else that’ll boost your digestion.

[You tell him you’ll just eat a few more bites.]

Ruki: I see. Then I will do the same.

[You eat together for a little while longer. After dinner, you tell the Mukami brothers everything you know—most importantly, about Karl Heinz’ alleged illegitimate child.]

01:52 Ruki: Oh…

Yuma: Karl Heinz’s got an illegitimate child? No way.

Kou: Is there some kind of proof?

Azusa: Then, it might actually be false…

Ruki: It might. We should take this with a grain of salt.

Yuma: The Demon World’s in chaos. Those Ghouls, the other four Species…

Azusa: Everyone’s fighting… to rule the Demon World…

Kou: That’s because a certain someone (1) is not doing a proper job of governing it in the first place.

Ruki: That certainly plays a big part in it, but even if he had welcomed his powers and faced his responsibilities head-on, he could not have prevented this chaos.

Kou: That’s true, but…

Ruki: We should not expect anything from him. Especially not now.

Yuma: What’re we gonna do, though? If we let those rioting idiots march on Eden, aren’t we the ones avoidin’ responsibility because we didn’t protect our home?

Azusa: Do we… even have the strength to do that…?

Ruki: With that attitude, no.

Yuma: Ruki…!

Ruki: We’re no purebloods, but Lord Karl Heinz gave us this life. We are His sons.   We have no reason to be afraid just because some lowlife is claiming to be Karl Heinz’ son, don’t you think? Besides, why do you assume our powers are inferior? We were, without a doubt, given life by the grace of Karl Heinz’ power. We are simply prejudiced because we cannot become Adam. Because we used to be human. If the four of us join forces as brothers, we can protect Eden. If you all want to protect this place, that is.

04:12 Yuma: ‘Course we do. D’ya really think we’re that heartless? Right, y’all?

Kou: Of course!

Azusa: I want to… protect Eden, too…

Kou: We really convinced ourselves that we won’t stand a chance… that we can’t do it just because we used to be human. 

Yuma: We did.

Azusa: We won’t know… until we try.

Ruki: Exactly, that’s it. You cannot know anything unless you try.

[You start fidgeting.]

Kou: What do you think, Kitten? Are we doomed?

[You half-heartedly tell him that you don’t think that at all.]

Kou: Thank you, but could’ve said so with a less anxious look on your face.

Yuma: You do think we’re doomed, don’t ya?

[You answer honestly this time.]

Ruki: You’re afraid of us getting hurt… Heh. That sounds like something you would say. I’m grateful that you think so, though. Unfortunately, the situation is so dire that we cannot avoid making sacrifices. I’m fully prepared to make sacrifices. You all understand this, right?

05:37 Azusa: I understand.

Kou: Yeah.

Yuma: Yep.

[You agree, too.]

Yuma: Heh. Aren’t you perceptive today? I thought you’d straight up try ‘n talk us out of it.

[You tell Yuma that you feel for them.]

Azusa: You understand how we feel…?

[You tell them you know what it’s like to lose your home.]

Kou: Ah. That’s true… Kitten doesn’t have a place to call home anymore either, after all.

Yuma: Then why don’tcha call this place your home? We didn’t have anythin’ before we came here either. This is our home now.

Azusa: Yes, Eve… I think it’s a good idea. I would be happy… if you protected Eden with us.

[You vow to help them.]

Ruki: Then it’s settled.

[The scene shifts to Ruki’s inner monologue.] 

07:03 Ruki: And just like that, we vowed to work together to protect Eden as best we could. It is a fundamental instinct—a desire, even—of all living creatures to wish to be close to something. That’s why it’s no pity to make sacrifices to protect what we love. We will protect Eden, and we will protect Eve.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meaning Shuu, the rightful heir to Karl Heinz’ powers.

[five-miles-over]

For All Time, It Was Always You

Chapter 4: Kitty Makes Three

(Pairing: Loki x Wife!Reader)

Click here for Chapter 3: Happy to Keep His Dinner Warm

Summary: Your husband comes home from work, and he's brought someone new.

Warnings: None, really. Fluff and allusion to smut

"Loki…" You reached behind him and fished a stack of letters out of the mailbox. Among them were a few frivolous catalogs for home and gardening goods, a magazine that proudly advertised gourmet gifts of chocolate, salted nuts, and cheeses, and a few letters inviting Loki - or rather Mr. Laufeyson - to apply for a credit card. You closed the door behind Loki and turned the lock.

The sounds of the evening news floated from the living room television into the hallway…Something about a variant being caught and pruned, identified only by a serial code that you'd never remember. Loki let the kitten jump out of his arms, freeing them so he could give you a hug and a gentle kiss on the lips. His arms encircled your shoulders, the smell of rainwater mingled with the faint smell of sweat becoming apparent as he held you close to him. "My beautiful bride…" He whispered your name with relief in his voice before hugging you again. 

You couldn't help but put your arms around him, letting yourself be comforted by the embrace. Standing on the tips of your toes, you pushed some of his dark hair back. "I've got dinner on the table. Why don't you…wash your hands?" You added, "Darling?"

Loki pecked your cheek before removing his TVA jacket and placing it on a hook. "Absolutely." While Loki turned on the water and rinsed the mud off his fingertips, the black kitten cantered towards you, looking up with curious yellow-green eyes. 

You knelt down, your smile disappearing as you extended your hand out. "Hello…" The kitten stopped moving for a moment, and then nuzzled against your fingertips, moving her nose to smell you. She meowed, revealing a set of tiny yet sharp teeth. "Although she be little, she is fierce," you breathed, amazed by how docile this kitten seemed despite having such striking features. You began to pet the kitten's head, watching her close her eyes and purr.

"She likes you." Loki remarked with a smirk, exiting the bathroom with a few buttons of his white shirt undone. He crossed his arms and chuckled, leaning against a wall. 

You looked up. "Where did you find her?"

"At work." Loki remarked. When you asked him what exactly he does for a living, he simply said that it's classified, and that he's been recruited to do some work for the agency that protects a Sacred Timeline. "Let's eat, darling. The smell of your cooking is whetting my appetite." 

"Of course." Reluctantly moving your hand away from the kitten, you followed Loki into the dining area, where you'd already set dinner for two. "Do you think it'd be alright if I opened a can of tuna for the…?" The black kitten meowed before you could finish.

With a shrug, Loki opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses: one for you, and one for him. "I thought of naming her Sylvie."

Taking the tuna from the pantry, you opened the can. placing it in front of the kitten. She opened her mouth and shook her tail as a little 'thank you'. Then, she took a mouthful of the tuna and chewed it. "Good girl…" You stroked her head once again. 

Loki dryly chuckled. "You know, when I tried to call her that, she almost scratched me."

"Maybe she was just getting used to you." 

The God of Mischief graciously pulled the chair for you before you sat across from him at the table. "This all looks amazing…Almost made me think it was our anniversary, which I know it won't be for another nine months, two weeks, and three days." Loki served himself a large helping of spaghetti bolognese using a pair of tongs. Before you could even ask if he wanted some cheese grated on top of his food, he already shoveled a mouthful inside. He closed his eyes and moaned, still for a moment before looking at you. "Darling, this is really good." Loki swallows, his fork immediately twirling around the spaghetti for a second mouthful. 

"I'm really glad you like it." Watching Sylvie enjoy her tuna from the corner of your eye, you began to eat as well, helping yourself to bites of salad and spaghetti. Not bad, you thought to yourself. Though if you were being honest, much of the taste came from simply watching Loki - yes, Loki your husband - relish every morsel of the dinner you prepared for him. "I'm impressed with how much you remember about our wedding." You let out a small laugh before sipping from your wine glass. "A lot of men tend to forget things like this…Or at least that's what I've heard."

"I'm not like most men." Loki winked. "I thought I made that quite clear on our wedding night. But…maybe you need a reminder, pretty bride." He slurped his spaghetti, leaving a spot of sauce staining the corner of his lip.

You looked down, laughing a little more. "Sylvie can hear you!"

"She'll get used to it."

You and Loki continued to eat while the television in the living room served as background noise. You could hear the cheers and the upbeat music coming from some kind of game show, but it didn't really spark your interest. You were more fascinating by how Loki finished his spaghetti, gulped his wine, and after serving himself another heap of spaghetti, served himself a few spoonfuls of your cucumber salad. You loved the way he dabbed his mouth clean with the napkin after every two or three bites, how he ate the remaining sauce with a spoon after all the noodles were finished, and how he ate his salad one piece at a time. So he'd feed himself a piece of cucumber, and then a piece of onion or tomato, followed by another piece of cucumber. Call it novelty if you will, but there was something…entertaining about watching your husband eat, and learning every little nuance of his. 

"How was your day?" Loki asked you after a while, wiping his mouth yet again.

You swallowed a mouthful of salad. "Good. Joyce Hazeldine stopped by with her son Bill."

His eyebrows rose for a moment. "What for?"

"She wanted to visit, see us after the honeymoon. What do you think about having her and her husband at our house for dinner sometime this week?" You casually asked, looking up at Loki. 

"Only if Bill comes," Loki chuckled. "Still remember how he was the youngest of my groomsmen. The only one who couldn't come to the bache-" He smiles before correcting himself. "The pre-wedding celebrations, I mean. How is he?"

You shook your head at your husband's mischief. "Not too well. He broke up with his girlfriend."

"Jewel? Good riddance. I remember her grabbing the microphone at our wedding and singing "Like a Virgin" just so she could have everyone know that Bill was the one who…erm, took her innocence."

Eyes wide, your jaw dropped. "What?"

"How can you not remember that?" He laughed while spearing his fork into a piece of tomato. "She even put on a veil while singing."

"And you didn't stop her?" "Darling." Loki ate the piece of tomato on his fork. "It was more fun to watch her crash and burn in her own embarrassment."

You couldn't hold back your laughter, dropping your fork to cover your mouth. "You're so bad!"

He smirked, leaning closer, his blue eyes darker with cunning. "It's why you married me, right?"

"And because of your money." You quipped, relieved to see him laugh in response. After a few moments, you gathered yourself. God, he was so handsome in the candlelight, how were you just noticing the way his eyes glimmered? The way his cheekbones shone and his dark curls fell perfectly in place with no effort? "Loki, I... " Before you could finish, Sylvie purred against your leg. Looking down, you gently scratched her head. "I think she's done with her dinner."

"So am I." Loki rose from the table and put his empty plate into the sink, his eyes on you while you threw Sylvie's empty can of tuna in the garbage and cleared the table. Pleased to find almost no leftovers of spaghetti, you put the remaining cucumber salad into a little Tupperware container destined for the fridge. But just as you leaned forward to blow the candles out, you felt Loki's breath tickle your ear. "Not yet, darling," he whispered. 

"No?"

"Not. Yet."

You continued to clear the table, putting the dirty dishes in the sink. As for Sylvie, she trotted into the living room and curled at the foot of the couch, yawning before stroking herself with her paw. She lazily eyed the television, which featured a recorded performance of a lean country singer wearing an all-white ensemble, holding a guitar in his hands. He grinned at the audience, announcing the title of the song he wanted to sing for them tonight. 

While the music played, you poured some soap onto a sponge and started scrubbing the stains from the silverware. While you lathered the plates with foam and bubbles, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. Loki pressed a kiss behind your ear, swaying with you in time with the song.

Say hey, good lookin' - what ya got cookin'?

How's about cookin' somethin' up with me?

Hey, sweet baby - don't you think maybe

We can find us a brand new recipe?

"I'm done cooking for the night," you laughed, rinsing the soap.

I got a hot rod Ford, and a two dollar bill

And I know a spot right over the hill

There's soda pop and the dancing's free

So if you wanna have fun, come along with me

Say hey, good lookin' - what ya got cookin'?

How's about cooking somethin' up with me?

Loki put the cleaned dishes on the rack, and took your wet hands in his. "Loki, what are you doing?" You teased as he led you to the center of the kitchen, his grin wide from ear to ear. As the fiddle began his solo, your husband held you in his arms and moved side to side in a rhythmic fashion. And then, he twirled you, making the two of you laugh while dancing.

I'm free and ready, so we can go steady

How's about savin' all your time for me?

No more lookin', I know I been tookin'

Hows about keepin' steady company? 

Loki's hand rested on your hip, slowly wandering down. "I never quite understood why, but you always loved Hank Williams's music. Every Wednesday night, his songs would be on television, and you would always have them on."

"He's…he's got a certain charm." You lied before leaning in to kiss the corner of Loki's mouth. "But his charm is nothing compared to yours." 

And that was all that it took for Loki to pull you in for another, deeper kiss filled with devotion as he ran his fingers through your hair. "I love you so much," he murmured against your lips. 

"I love you, Loki." You said it as if it were the easiest thing you could ever say. Earlier this morning, when you first found your wedding photograph with him, the word 'darling' could barely escape your tongue. And now? Saying 'I love you' felt like second nature. You leaned in for a second kiss, breaking away with a gasp when you felt your husband gently squeeze your behind through the fabric of the dress. You exclaimed his name, unable to hold back a smile.

"You're so irresistible…" Loki teased, kissing the tip of your nose. "Please, darling…" His hand continued to stroke your rear, and his lips made their way to your neck, leaving a trail of soft, enticing kisses. "I can't stop myself."

 "I'm all yours tonight…" You sighed before Loki took you by the hand, almost dragging you into the bedroom and closing the door with a slam.

Tagging: @anukulee @smolvenger @pineappleandro @lotsoflokilove23 @talklokitome @rumin8ting @12-pm-510 @painedfever @iambetterthanbefore @princess-ofthe-pages @thenotoriouserg @lokischambermaid @lokiismineforever @lokidbadguy @lokisgoodgirl @lokisprettygirl22 @holdmytesseract @wheredafandomat @wolfsmom1 @lovelysizzlingbluebird @evelyn-kingsley @muddyorbsblr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @icytrickster17 @thatdummy-girl @fantasyfan4life @huntress-artemiss @itsdoni @gruftiela @ellooo0ooo @ireallyneedtherapy @jennyggggrrr @turniptitaness @fandxmslxt69

[galacticgraffiti]

If You Want to Give Me Anything (Then Give In) - Part III

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x John 'Soap' MacTavish

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 4.5k Summary: The helo ride back is intense. Price is the funniest unintentional (or not so unintentional?) cockblock of all time. bon appetit. CW: blood, gays yearning, memories of blood-licking and knife-licking, blood kink (i guess?), definitely knife kink, lewd thoughts, making out against a car, angsty ending (all will be well i prommy) A/N: Found the dividers here. Kisses to @patchmates for loving me through the ghoap brainrot.

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Part III

Ghost is staring at him. The whole helo-ride back to base. Dark eyes fixed on Johnny, half-lidded and sweet and full of sin. A promise to him, maybe. A threat, for anyone else.

When Price ordered them back from that building, his calm voice for once unwelcome only because it interrupted something holy, Soap’s mouth still tasted like blood: Ghost’s blood, bitter and coppery and yet the sweetest thing Soap had ever tasted.

The change was sudden, swift: Ghost pulling Soap to his feet, tugging his mask back down in a smooth, practised motion, and collecting his knife from the floor as Johnny stared at him, the taste of Simon’s skin still on his lips, the salt of his blood still on his tongue.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.” A soft order spoken through the bloodied mask. Ghost’s hand squeezed Johnny’s before he let go.

The way to exfil was quiet, and the Captain already waiting for them when they got there, tapping his foot, smoking his cigar.

“Got me,” was all Soap mumbled when Price shot him a questioning look at the blood that still stained his teeth.

Ghost’s mask was soaked in red as well, but who could tell the difference between black and blood-darkened fabric?

Price nodded at Soap’s half-hearted explanation, said nothing, though his gaze flicked between them, but then he just… shrugged to himself. Lit another cigar and fucked off to the copilot’s seat as the helo took off.

Just the three of them in here, plus the pilot. Soap pulled on the headphones, conscious of the dark eyes that had been fixed on him ever since he put the knife to his own mouth. Felt like Ghost hadn’t blinked even once, Johnny’s reflection a constant in the black ring of his pupil. 

Now, Soap finds himself staring right back at Ghost. Eyes glued to every tiny movement, to the sliver of skin that’s exposed where Ghost’s shirt has ridden up, revealing pale flesh and an even paler scar on his hip.

Soap wants to lick it, can feel himself twitch at the thought of getting to taste Simon’s skin, salty with sweat and sweet with sin. He indulges for a moment:

How the ground had felt between his knees when he looked up at Simon, begging for his knife in his mouth. How it had felt to be sliced open so meticulously by blade and gaze alike, to be disected, pulled apart and made to come undone by the feeling of Simon’s lips against his own. How Johnny had wanted, had wanted more – had wanted Simon’s knee slotted between his thighs, had wanted to grind down, to push up against the broadness of his chest, had wanted to feel Simon grow hard for him, had wanted to plead to hear the quiet, moaned whispers that fell from his lips, had wanted to push his hand into Simon’s boxers, to feel him, to know, to wrap his mouth around him and let himself be used until he forgot the cruelty of the world. Had wanted to lick the blood off Simon’s neck and know that he would be Johnny’s own to keep, that Simon’s heart might replace the one Johnny had given away to him.

Yes, Johnny lets himself indulge. Presses his lips together so he doesn’t groan when he thinks about the feeling of Simon’s hot tongue in his mouth, licking at the bloodied gash in Johnny’s tongue, sucking on it, greedily, like he would never get enough. Like this meant just as much to him as it did to Johnny.

Minutes pass that feel like hours.

At first, Soap doesn’t mind. He likes looking at Ghost. Likes looking at Simon even more. And it’s Simon now who is looking at him: His brown eyes large and softer than they ever are in battle. It takes some of the worry away that has settled in Johnny’s heart: What all of it means. He still isn't sure, but this must be something. Right? With the way Simon is looking at him… It must be.

A mean glint in his eyes, maybe, but Soap thinks that’s just a trick of the light. He thinks he could stare at him forever and be content. Count his freckles rather than his scars. Sink into the soft wrinkles around his eyes, make them deeper, make Simon smile every fucking day until his happiness would be etched into his face… Yeah, Soap would be content. Fucking elated, actually.

Simon watches him, still, when Johnny runs his finger along his lips, tracing them in the memory of the blood he spilled, and the feeling of his teeth ripping into Simon’s skin until they drew blood as well, received an offering in turn for the gift that Johnny had given so freely.

Soap isn't even trying to wipe away the blood that has long since dried, is just keeping his hands busy, but–

“Don’t.”

It’s a sharp command, even though Soap can barely hear it over the noise of the helo, in spite of the com device in his ear. Even though Ghost is almost whispering, because there are people in here with them, and they are not alone; like there is anything he could do that would make Price turn a deaf ear. Like he would care, even if it is anything. The Captain is a good man.

The word is whispered, but it’s an order nonetheless, and Soap drops his hands in his lap immediately, feeling almost ashamed by his own actions. Ghost stares at him through silvery lashes, seemingly satisfied at the immediate effect his scolding has.

Soap blinks, gazes at his own fingers like they betrayed him; stained now with speckles of dried blood.

It hadn’t even been a conscious action, just… something to do. Idle hands have never suited Soap. Neither has an idle mouth. His tongue craves a taste, something to swirl around, to play with. A piece of gum would do; even better yet a fucking lollipop. Soap has always liked the rainbow coloured ones that taste like all artificial fruit flavours run through a blender. A cigarette would be nice, too. Or, best of all– well. The thing he would like most of all, he can’t have. Not right now.

Gum is the only option he does have, but if he popped a piece of fucking gum right now, he’s pretty sure Ghost would punch him in the mouth. Put the taste of blood on his tongue again.

Fuck.

Soap can feel himself firming up properly now, cock twitching at the thought of it, what it might be like; what it was like: His tongue gliding along Ghost’s knife, worshipping a deadly blade like it’s a holy thing, worshipping it the way he wants to worship Simon. Tongueing at it, lapping at the tip the way he would at the head of Simon’s weeping cock, revel in the salty taste of it, press his face between Simon’s thighs and inhale him deeply, let himself be buried by the smell, the taste, the presence of him… the sound of him:

Would be a sin to taste you less than pure, Johnny. My sweet boy, my perfect boy. Sweet’eart.

Soap shifts in his seat, presses his thighs together. Pointedly tries to think about something else. Anything else. And fails miserably. He quietly wishes once again that he had a fag, nicotine to calm him down, tar to clog his lungs that won’t take any air in anyways; something to do, keep his hands and mouth busy–

“Stop squirmin’, Johnny.” Ghost’s rough voice, right in his ear, and Soap nearly bangs his head on the fucking metal sheet behind him.

“Fuck ye,” he grumbles, and is rewarded with a short, deep huff of laughter.

“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you.” Large eyes framed by golden lashes stare at Johnny as he says it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like seven words from his mouth aren’t all it takes to shatter Soap’s brain, to send it spinning off its fucking axis.

“What?”

Ghost doesn’t move, just keeps staring at him with those fucking eyes, so dark they are almost lost in all the eyeblack if it weren’t for his pale lashes, weren’t for the whites of his eyes shining in the shadows.

“You heard me,” he finally says, quietly, just a breath in Johnny’s ear.

Soap swallows thickly, thigh bouncing up and down, trying to will down his own erection, trying so desperately not to think about it all. Trying to make it through this hellride so he can press Simon up against a wall back at base, grind into him until they’re both panting, bury his hands in his hair, in the meat of him, get on his knees and show him exactly what he can do with his mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, LT,” he whispers.

Ghost leans forward, sudden and unexpected. Places a hand on Soap’s knee until the bouncing of his leg stills, shivering underneath the touch. Two layers of clothing between them, and yet, Soap thinks he can feel the heat permeating off Ghost’s skin in waves to match his own.

“Quiet down, sweet’eart. You’ll need the energy later.”

“I… wha- steamin’ Jesus, Ghost. Ye need tae– fuck.” Soap shakes his head, inhales deeply. Is simultaneously glad for the fact he’s wearing tac gear and fucking hates it, because every little movement he makes, hunched over as he is, has his hardening cock grinding right against the edge of his tac vest, begging to be touched properly.

Ghost leans back, keeps watching with intense eyes. Slowly, he pulls the knife from its sheath, the one that now has a dark stain of Johnny’s blood on the handle. Runs his hand along the wood, stroking it sweetly, feigning innocence.

Johnny chokes on his own spit, hips almost bucking off the bench at the sight of it.

“Ghost–”

“What? Just makin’ sure it’s still sharp. Can’t be too careful. And the handle… well. Know a little trick to get the blood right out but maybe… maybe I’ll just leave it. Nice little reminder of your… loyalty.”

Johnny’s thigh starts bouncing again, fingers drumming a fast rhythm as Ghost peels off one of his gloves to run his pale thumb down the blade. Red blooms in its wake, blood dripping suddenly from the finger, and just like that, Ghost presses it right next to the stain Johnny left on the light wood of the handle, rubs it in slowly, almost gently.

Soap’s cock jumps, and he thinks distantly that he shouldn't be so turned on by the sight of blood, shouldn’t go stupid at the way Ghost’s hand closes around the handle of the fucking knife and strokes it, slowly, deliberately, eyes never looking away from Johnny.

“Careful now, Sergeant. You’re already filthy, no sense in staining any more of your gear, yeah?”

Soap chokes, considers telling Ghost that he isn’t the one bleeding, isn’t the one staining his gear – feels the way his cock is weeping and knows it will be a lie. For a moment, he seriously debates crawling over to Ghost, to bury his face between his thighs, breathe him in to satisfy this aching fucking need, begging him to fuck his mouth with the handle of the blade, to give him the real thing, even – give him anything, his fingers, even gloved, just anything- to give him what he craves until tears are running down his face and all he can think about is Simon.

Soap huffs, strains against the straps keeping him in place. Folds his hands over his groin, surreptitiously grinds the heel of his hand against his aching cock, and– 

And stops when Ghost shakes his head.

“Be home soon, Johnny. Be good for me now.”

Soap almost whines, like a scolded fucking dog, but Ghost shoots him another warning glance. And, because he is a merciful god, slides the knife back into its sheath and into his thigh holster.

(God, his thighs, his fucking thighs. Johnny needs to feel them, wants to kiss them, trace his tongue along all the scars he knows they bear, kiss every patch of unmarred skin he can find so Ghost can feel his mouth, really feel it, and know that Johnny lov- know the extent of Johnny’s feeling. Johnny wants to press his face between them until there is no air to breathe that doesn’t smell like Simon, wants to sit between them, on them, grind his aching cock down on the muscular thickness of them until he can rub his come into the skin, make Simon smell like him, know that they belong together–)

“We better fuckin’ be home soon,” Soap mumbles to himself, almost groans when he shifts again and the seam of his trousers rubs up high against his inner thigh. “I need ye tae– if ye don’t fuckin’-”

“Alright now, ladies, keep it in your fuckin’ pants until I have plausible deniability, Christ.” Price’s voice crackles suddenly through their headsets. “You would think…”

The rest of the sentence is lost to the fact that he grumbles the words  into his stupid beard (Soap loves the Captain’s beard) and takes a drag of his less-than-up-to-regulations cigar (Soap hates the Captain’s cigars. He wants one so bad, wants to twirl it in his fingers, close his lips around it while staring Simon dead in the eye, wants to busy himself. God does he hate those fucking cigars). 

“Yes, Sir,” he responds, sounding vaguely chastised though he can’t find it in him to feel guilty. With interest, he notices the way Simon’s hand twitches in his lap at Soap’s words. Price’s voice pipes up again.

“Good lad.”

And Christ if that doesn’t do something to Soap. He’d prefer it be Simon’s voice speaking those words though, gritty and dark, with his thick accent and his cut-off consonants. Sweet’heart. Good lad.

When Soap meets Ghost’s eyes, he knows that maliciously teasing glint was not a trick of the light after all. He looks demonic, otherworldly, ethereal: An angel melting into the darkness, eyes barely blinking, never flicking away from where Johnny’s hard-on presses desperately against the cage of his jockstrap by now.

And suddenly, Soap minds the fact that this helo ride seems to take forever very much. Because nothing will ever be enough when it comes to Simon. Nothing.

Because he’s everything.

The helo lands eventually, almost without Soap noticing, too lost in all the things he wants to do to Ghost – wants Ghost to do to him, too lost in the memory of the taste of his blood that still lingers on Soap’s lips, too lost in his heated eyes that tell Johnny exactly what Simon is thinking about right now.

“Let’s go, boys!”

An SUV is parked by the landing strip across the runway. Very thoughtful- base is only a few minutes away, but a tired ache has started to creep into Soap’s bones now that the adrenaline of battle is slowly subsiding, though his body is so keyed up he is nearly vibrating.

Ghost is eyeing the driver’s seat, but Johnny quickly hooks his fingers into the straps of his tac vest and pulls him back.

“I’m no’ gettin’ in that fuckin’ thing if yer the one drivin’, LT. Fuckin’ menace ye are behind the wheel. Christ, bloody wonder I survive every time, got closer tae death drivin’ shotgun with ye than I have in fuckin’ active warzones, ye rocket.”

Ghost stares at him, then drops his gaze down to where Johnny’s hand fists his vest.

“You got a problem with goin’ fast, Sergeant? Wouldn't have taken you for the type.”

His eyes flick back up, catch on Soap’s lips.

Soap swallows, although his mouth is fucking dry, because he’s so close to Ghost, finally, and if Price wasn’t standing right next to them, Johnny would have already bent over the hood and asked Ghost to fuck him right there. Or pressed his hands between the muscled wings of Ghost’s back and bent him over instead, if his earlier words are anything to go by.

Steamin’ Jesus.

“No problem… Sir.” Soap can feel Ghost shudder for the fraction of a second before he regains his composure. “Like it fast, actually. Jus’ wanna make sure I make it oot alive. Be a shame tae have made it through tha’ hell only tae die because ye cannae keep yer foot off the gas fer a fuckin’ second, aye?”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, MacTavish,” Ghost spits, but he’s smiling beneath the mask. Soap can tell. Can always tell. He leans a little closer, lowers his voice, doesn’t care about the way Price rolls his eyes and pointedly turns away from them.

“Like ye watched it when I was lickin’ the blood off yer knife, LT?”

“You–”

“I’m goin’ for a fucking fag, you twats,” Price announces, suddenly, loudly. “Give you a minute to sort… whatever this is… sort it the fuck out. Heaven forbid we make it back in one piece for once, gotta be at each other’s throats now? Bloody wankers, you are.”

He turns and gestures at Ghost.

“Give me a fuckin’ cigarette, Lieutenant. Come on, I know you have one.” Takes it out of Ghost’s proffered hand, lights it, takes a deep drag. Looks both of them up and down with his brows drawn together. “Gonna go talk to the pilot, be back in ten. Pull yourselves together until then, Christ alive.”

He starts walking, eyes cast steadily forward, but then he turns around once more, points the cherry of his cigarette in Ghost’s direction.

“And I’m fuckin’ driving!”

Soap snorts, until Ghost’s hands settle on his hips, pull him closer, right up against him. Soap can feel the hard muscles of Ghost’s thigh against him, the uncomfortable edges of their tac vests sliding together. Gloved fingers hook into the belt loops of Johnny’s trousers.

The air crackles in Price’s absence. They’re all alone– well. Alone as they can be, for now. 

Soap’s fingers are still entangled with the straps of Ghost’s vest, his breath warm on Simon’s fabric-covered throat.

Ghost cocks his head, stares at Johnny. Gloved fingers trail up Soap’s back, fist into his hair, and Soap can’t suppress the huff of air that escapes him when Ghost pulls, until Johnny is staring right up at him, those few inches difference between them seeming like the world right now.

When Ghost bends down, and simultaneously presses a thigh between Johnny’s legs, the world fizzes at the edges.

Ghost’s voice is dangerously low, and traitorously warm when he finally poses his question, staring right into Johnny’s soul, bullying his thigh between Johnny’s until Soap lets out a stifled whimper when his cock grinds against corded muscle.

“Tell me, Sergeant… this too fast for you?”

Johnny shakes his head, surges forward instead, inhales the sweaty scent of Ghost so deep it makes him dizzy.

“Never, LT. Been waitin’ fer it fer ages.” His hands leave Ghost’s chest, loop around his neck instead to drag him down so Soap can press his hot mouth to the mask, right where Ghost’s mouth would be.

The fabric tastes like dust and blood and sweat, but Johnny doesn’t care. Nothing could keep him away now. His hips develop a rhythm of their own, grinding down against the thick thigh offered to him as he licks and bites at the fabric that covers Simon’s face, getting more frantic with each passing second.

“Fuck,” he breathes, inhales the scent of Ghost, revels in the small huffs and the strangled sounds that escape Simon’s mouth. “Fuck, Simon- love– c’mere, fuck, let me taste ye- please- I need tae… I need–”

Hasty, trembling fingers hesitate at the edge of Ghost’s mask, silently asking permission, and when Simon doesn’t stop him, Johnny pulls up the mask, bit by bit, until pale skin is revealed, the scars that carve an eternal smile into Simon’s face, and, finally, his plush, pink lips that Soap wants to lick and taste and bruise until the world caves in.

Johnny presses up against Simon, stumbles backwards with him until his back hits the metal door of the SUV, licks into his mouth and moans when Simon’s tongue darts out to lap at the bloodstains covering Johnny’s neck, his cheeks, his chin.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, sweet’eart,” Simon mumbles, warm and sweet against Soap’s skin. “So fuckin’ good– carved yourself open for me, didn't you, all to let me taste you- all of you– Christ, you want that, Johnny? Want that again? Tell me… tell me that’s what you want, need to hear it–”

“I want that,” Soap breathes, tries to press himself even closer to Ghost, rutting against his thigh desperately, begging for it, starving for it. “Please- would give ye anything– anything tae have tha’ again, want tae taste ye again, all of ye– everything– please, love- please–”

“Mhh, good lad, Johnny.” Simon’s mouth trails along the shaved side of Soap’s head, hot tongue licking along his jaw as large hands squeeze to keep him still. “Good lad.”

Soap can’t help the shivers that wrack his body at the sound of it- finally – finally-

Simon laughs quietly, and it’s the most angelic sound Johnny has ever heard, honeyed and dark and golden like the sun. Soap can feel Simon’s lips twist into a smile against his cheek, a real one.

“That do it for you on the helo, the Captain calling you his good lad, hm, sweet’eart? That what got you all hard?” Ghost says it casually, like it’s a joke, and if Soap didn’t know him so fucking well, couldn’t read all of his tells, he would laugh and tease, and tell him Yes, it was the Captain, just to get a rise out of him.

But Johnny can hear the slight pause between Simon’s words, hear the hesitation, the fucking fear. Fear that he might not be enough, when he is everything and more.

“Nothing the Captain could say would get me hard, love,” Johnny purrs, rubs up against Ghost, presses his barely contained hard-on right up against Ghost’s hip, sneaks a hand down to trace along the outline of Ghost’s cock, finds it just as hard as his own. “It’s all you, doll. Everything you do… everything you say… everything I am– God, Simon, it’s all for you.”

Simon groans, eyes slipping shut as he leans into Johnny’s touch, pushes his hips forward into Johnny’s hands, loses himself for a moment, and Johnny is there to hold him, keep him safe, take care of him.

When Ghost pulls back, a flush has spread down his neck, the scar bisecting his lips pink and raw from Johnny’s kisses, and a small smile playing around the corners of his eyes.

“Fucking- Christ, Johnny. How the fuck–”

“ –did we get here? Did this happen?” Soap leans back, ignores the throbbing of his cock when he does, stills entirely against Ghost, cradling his scarred face in his hands and staring up at him. “Feels like a fuckin’ dream, aye?”

Simon’s eyes go impossibly soft.

“Bloody well does, Johnny.” He closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath, and again, Johnny is struck by the incredibility of this whole situation.

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breath; knowing time is almost up. For now.

Then Ghost shifts, breaks the spell and pulls away, though the pained look in his eyes tells Johnny he doesn’t want to, that he wants to keep going, wants to have this. Still, Soap needs to hear it.

“Simon, tell me that-”

“Boys!” Price’s voice barks across the dark field. “Get the fuck in the car, we’re leaving. Hands to yourselves, or bloody Jesus have mercy.”

They let go of each other reluctantly, squeezing into the backseat of the car, thighs pressed up against each other.

The car ride isn’t long, a few minutes staring out the dark windows, but somehow, it feels like an eternity even more than the helo did. They’re so fucking close.

Johnny can’t face Simon, can’t be held responsible for what he will do if he allows himself to look at his face, at his lips, even though they are hidden beneath black fabric and white paint once again.

Ghost’s hand creeps over, comes to rest on Johnny’s thigh, and Soap presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, leg twitching away from contact, because if Simon’s hands move a fucking inch higher, he’s gonna come in his pants like a teenager.

Ghost seems to understand, pulls his hand away, doesn't try anything else. And Soap attempts to steady his breath, stares out the dark window, thinks of trees and of calm, rolling hills, and the taste of blood and Simon’s skin and- no. Stop it. Pull yerself together, ye lovelorn cunt.

Nothing Soap tries will soothe the desperation burning in his core, the want to be touched, the need to be close to Ghost. That insatiable desire to feel Simon come apart, to watch his cheeks flush and the rise of his chest, and to taste his skin afterwards, see if he might taste like Soap’s own sweat. To kiss him so deeply Soap will feel it burning on his own lips from beyond the grave–

The car stops, the lights of the base popping up suddenly and snapping Soap out of his musings. He scrambles out to fresh air, breathes in deep like anything could steady him now other than the touch of Ghost’s hands, the taste of Ghost’s mouth.

Ghost gets out of the car on the other side, slams the door shut, nods to Price, his eyes cast down, his body hunched over.

And he turns around and leaves Johnny standing there, like a dog in the rain, as he takes off without a word, stomping into the sleeping building. Abruptly, Soap’s brows draw together.

Tae fuck was tha’, then?

Price puffs his smelly cigar and stares after Ghost, then places a careful hand on Soap’s shoulder. Soap shrugs him off, refuses to look at him. Wonders quietly if he was right after all: Maybe it’s not anything. Maybe now that the adrenaline has worn off, Ghost wants nothing to do with him. Maybe–

“Well, go fuckin’ after him, you tosser,” Price grunts and lights another cigar. “Don’t make your Lieutenant wait, MacTavish. Have your fucking head if you do this one wrong.”

Soap’s brows shoot up, and he wants to ask Price what he means – what he knows – but with the way Price stares at him, softly shakes his head and gestures towards the entrance with his chin, he knows he won’t get any answers out of him.

“Debrief of the mission tomorrow at 0-600, Sergeant. Remind him of that, will you?”

Soap nods curtly, worries his lip. And goes after Ghost, heart thundering and cracking with each of his steps.

It could be something. But if it’s not… Johnny doesn’t finish that thought. Thinks it might kill him if he did. Just legs it and hopes Simon hasn’t changed his mind after all.

Part II ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Part IV

I've added a CoD option to my taglist!

taggies for those stuck in the brainrot with me @ulchabhangorm @pinkiemme @purgetrooperfox @certified-anakinfucker @patchmates

[dazzlinglybitter]

It's Disability Pride Month!! Let's talk about POTS!

Hello beautiful people. Since it's Disability Pride Month, I wanted to talk about my disability. I have a condition called POTS. It stands for Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Sydrome, which is a very long name, and you can see why we just say POTS. Essentially, it means that when I change position or stand up, my heart rate gets too high. It is normal for your heart rate to go up when you change positions. But what makes POTS different is it changes too suddenly and much higher than average. The National Institutes of Health defines that a person with POTS has "an increase in heart rate of 30 beats/min or more when moving from a recumbent to a standing position that lasts more than 30 seconds". Which on its own doesn't sound all that bad. I would be a much happier human if that's all it was. However, POTS comes with its own host of symptoms. That swing in heart rate can cause dizziness, lightheadedness, blurred vision, and sometimes fainting. Other symptoms of POTS include:

Exercise intolerance

Headaches

Nausea

Fatigue

Anxiety

Dry mouth

Excess thirst

Leg pain

Blood pooling

Brain Fog

Swollen Extremities

Sleeping problems

Bladder problems

Digestion issues

Tremors

Shortness of breath or chest tightening

Memory issues

Poor temperature regulation

Chronic dehydration

Neuropathic pains

Increased sweating to the extremities

Loss of appetite

Light sensitivity

Dry eyes

Heart palpitations

Chest pain

Cold extremities due to poor blood flow

Heat intolerance

Hypovolemia (low blood volume)

And probably more that I've missed! Doesn't sound all that fun, and trust me, it isn't! POTS is a condition under the larger umbrella of Dysautonomia. There are several different types of dysautonomic conditions, POTS is only one of them. Here are some fun facts about POTS:

POTS effects around 0.2% of the world's population

It is most common in females, 75 to 80% of all patients are female

Though it can be diagnosed at any age, it is most commonly diagnosed between the ages of 15 and 25 (I was 19 when I got diagnosed!)

There is no cure for POTS and it's a chronic illness

Some teenagers will outgrow the condition in their 20s

The average time to diagnosis is 5 years and 11 months (took me almost a year, luckily)

According to Dysautonomia International, 25% of POTS patients are so disabled they cannot work or attend school

There is no singular cause for POTS, and many patients will likely not know what caused their condition

Research on POTS is incredibly sparse, making advocacy, treatment, and diagnosis even harder

The usual recommended treatment is increased fluid intake, increasing salt intake, wearing compression stockings, raising the head of the bed to conserve blood volume, reclined exercises like rowing, recumbent bicycle, or swimming, and a healthy diet

While there is no FDA approved medication for POTS, some medications such as beta blockers can be used to aid the condition

Though the heart is directly involved, POTS is not technically a heart condition. It is technically a nervous system disorder stemming from the autonomic nervous system

There's lots to be said about POTS! I don't think I could fit it all in one post if I tried. But if you made it this far into the post, thank you for taking the time to learn about it! Awareness is key, and the more people that know about the condition, the better we are. Happy Disability Pride Month!!

[scotianostra]

On 21st July 1796 Robert Burns died in Dumfries, he was just 37.

Rather than go over Rabbie's life, this post mainly covers the last few weeks of his life, and him dealing with his iminent demise………

It is apparent from Burns’s correspondence, his poetry, and even from his First Commonplace Book that the bard was plagued by ill health on several occasions throughout his short life. ‘A Prayer in the Prospect of Death’, first published in the ‘Kilmarnock’ edition of Burns’s Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect is believed to have been written in 1784 when the bard was just twenty-five years of age and suffering a bout of ill health: O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!

Burns gives this poem the longer, more explanatory title, ‘A Prayer, when fainting fits, & other alarming symptoms of a Pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threaten me, first put Nature on the alarm.’

Indeed, we might consider that the threat of illness never truly left the bard: there are several references throughout the poets’ correspondence to rheumatic episodes, hypochondria, physical injury, toothache and periods of ‘melancholy’. However, the first signs of the illness which would eventually claim Burns’s life began in the winter of 1795 when the poet was confined to his sick-bed for several weeks. His health declined over the course of the months that followed, and from the bard’s correspondence in the summer months of 1796 it would appear that he sensed the finality of this particular episode of ill health. In a letter to George Thomson on the 4th of July hewrote: ‘ I received your songs, but my health being so precarious nay dangerously situated, that as a last effort I am here at sea-bathing quarters. – Besides my inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone; & I am so emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs.’ If you remember my last post about Burns at the beginning of the month where he sought the healing powers of the Brow Well and bathing in the Solway Firth near Ruthwell. Burns was soon aware that the sea-bathing was ineffective, writing to his father-in-law James Armour on the 10th of July that;

‘I have now been a week at salt water, & though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.’

Tragically, Burns’s final letters became increasingly desperate, and the poet expressed deep concern for the welfare of his family, it became clear the bard was preparing for the worst when he wrote to his brother Gilber:

God help my wife & children, if I am taken from their head! – They will be poor indeed. – I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, & partly from too much thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands.’

Burns was right to be concerned. Indeed, he died in significant financial difficulty, overshadowed with the threat of debtors’ jail. Burns himself acknowledges this in a letter to his cousin, James Burness, on the 12th of July in which he states: ‘When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail.’

Before this threat could be realised, Burns died surrounded by his family and close friends on this day in 1796.

While biographers and critics have offered several theories surrounding the cause of Burns’s death (many of which are fanciful and without evidence, some even hinting at conspiracy), scholars and medics who have examined the poet’s own account of his illness, together with those of his contemporaries, agree that the poet most likely died from bacterial endocarditis: a serious complication of his recurring rheumatic illness. Of course I dn’t think his like of alcohol helped though.

Robert Burns’s funeral took place at midday on the 25th of July 1796, I will cover it in more detail in a few days……

[apprenticestanheight]

Work Stress- Adam Stanheight x gn! reader

ALLLLLLL RIGHT, welcome to the monthly "my mental health is shit" fic that I bestow upon the people whenever my mental health isn't as great as it could be, which--in fairness--is nearly all the fucking time.

Two of these might be coming out this month, though! I have not had the greatest streak of days without anxiety lately and I write fics whenever it gets really bad. The day I finished this one, I was like "I am going to write something. for chainshipping (again)" so a chainshipping fic will probably be out by the end of the week

On some other notes, A: while it's not explicitly stated, the reader is what's traditionally considered midsized as that's what I am and I wanted to write a fic with my body type. As per usual with me, the reader is generally gn but as I know the anatomy best, they're AFAB. B: requests are starting to get looked at! I have one waiting to be finished, edited and posted sitting in my drafts but otherwise will have probably looked through and decided which requests I will do vs which ones I won't by the time this has been posted. Things will probably start coming out at the end of this week and keep coming out into next.

Fic type- this jumps into a lot of differing areas, but the main genres are quite possibly the oddest combination I've ever written--smut and angst.

Warnings- as this fic contains smut it caters to an audience of people 18+, so minors, DO NOT INTERACT. There is A LOT here--p in v, oral (both recieve, even if on Adams end the oral is only mentioned), doggy style, fingering, petplay kind of (I was trying to think of a gender neutral petname and puppy was the only thing my brain could think of at first. It's literally just used as a petname and gets overshadowed by 'baby' after a point bc I remembered that that word existed--I wrote a lot of this while tired, pls take some of the stuff in it with a grain of salt), as for sfw warnings: there's a mention of loss of appetite in relation to extreme stress

It's no secret to Adam that you've been having a very, very rough year.

You've been living together since just a couple weeks after he'd escaped the trap--he was taken from his apartment and found it too anxiety inducing to stay there so you let him move into yours.

You'd been dating since you were twenty one and at twenty six, moving in was bound to happen eventually, but getting out of his lease was taking a hell of a lot more time than Adam had originally anticipated.

He noticed every rough day in the bags that you'd begun to sport underneath your eyes, how late you came to bed and your reluctancy to be very affectionate with him--whenever things got bad, be it at work or with stuff going on in your head, you withdrew and pushed him away--and in the fact that you weren't eating as much, in that you always looked like your mind was somewhere else, wandering off completely.

So, one day near the middle of November--where he'd started to notice your bad days in very early March--he joins you in the kitchen while you speak to one of your bosses via phone call.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, grabs your hand, gives it a squeeze. He wants to cheer you up--you're prone to bad days due to insecurity and because of a long-standing not so great track record where your mental health is concerned--and, in that particular moment, finds himself willing to do anything.

You give your best go at grinning back at him, but it comes out looking like more of a grimace. You let Adams hand go to run a stressed hand through your hair, returning your hand to Adams and letting him interlace your fingers thereafter.

"Yes," you whisper. "I understand that things are always tough in the last quarter, but--" you sigh dejectedly as your boss cuts you off, and Adam presses another kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger for a minute.

"Yes, Earle--but you're not seeing the point here. I'm eligible for the raise because I've kept the teams afloat! The only reason you're not also eligible for the raise is because you took an eight month vacation with PTO that you quite literally stole from other employees, myself included, and just because Monica isn't willing to fire you over that doesn't mean your actions didn't warrant alternative punishments," you lean forward, press a kiss to Adams shoulder. Adams grin widens slightly as he notices that you're visibly relaxing from his touches.

A solid two minutes of shouting pass by on the other end. Adam gives your hand a supportive squeeze whenever Earles voice raises another octave in his shouting, pressing kisses against your temple when you let him pull you into a half hug. He keeps hold of your hand when the position changes, your torso pressing against the counter as Adam stands in front of you.

"Earle--I am eligible for the raise because you took six weeks of PTO from me, which I only get thanks to our companies union," You snap. "Now, because I had to spend so much time doing my fucking job, unlike you, I'm eligible for enough of a raise to make me capable of buying a home by '06, and if you're pissed off at me for that, I genuinely cannot help you any further. I have a boyfriend who I would much rather be talking to over your sorry arse, so I'm going to hang up now and if you call me back, I will ignore it. Have the day you deserve, asshat."

You hang up the phone and sigh, gaze meeting Adams in an instant.

"'M sorry," you whisper, biting your top lip for a few seconds as you look at him. "Work has been a fuckin' mess since like, the end of February. I just--damn it all."

"Eh, Earle sounds like a dickhead," Adam laughs. "How does one even get away with--eight full months? Of PTO? How?"

"Per the union agreement we have, we get six weeks a year," you start. "It's why I'm always off in December--I like staying home when it gets cold, gives me an excuse to read and drink more tea than I should--but we've moved to digitizing off time recently. Took the six weeks I'd planned to pace between the end of this month and all of next and switched them up for himself. Did that with five other employees and still, Monica doesn't fire him. Just makes me eligible for a raise of fifteen dollars on company dime because the off time I lost out on forced me to do more while I was there. Our company has one hundred and eighty-six employees in the Jersey branch and a bunch of 'em like taking spaces in the last six months of the year off, so it was me managing two teams of eighty people. Not easy work at all."

Adam blinks. "Did Monica even offer to give you the PTO back?"

"She gave me hers," you shrug. "Earle can have a lot of fuckin' fun managing one hundred and sixty people by himself. I'll find out if I get the raise tomorrow morning and my PTO will kick in then, too. He can eat shit as far as I'm concerned, I have a long list of books and two boxes of my favorite tea to drink my way through as of tomorrow."

You let Adam lead you into your shared bedroom, humming as you lay down on your bed and close your eyes.

"Are you okay?" Adam asks.

"Been a very, very stressful eight months," you laugh. "Trying to think of what I need and only one thing continually comes to mind."

"What's that?" You can hear the eagerness behind the teasing tone in Adams voice.

"I need--uh--" You laugh, suddenly feeling a little awkward. Propositioning Adam for sex was not typically done with words but kisses and your hands on his chest, relishing in the way that he looked when he lead you to your bedroom and fucked you senseless.

"Go on, baby," Adam whispers, his lips suddenly near your ear. "Gonna say it?"

You hum, suddenly embarrassed at yourself, and Adam laughs.

"Use your words, puppy," He whispers, pressing a kiss against your earlobe. "How am I supposed to know what you want me to do if you don't use your words?"

You moan helplessly in response.

"You really are cute," Adam says. "Tough while at work, one phone call later and now you're helpless that you can't even speak. Can't even say one word."

"Adam," you breathe, both because it's the one word that's coming to mind and also because you know he loves the way you say his name when all you want is for him to fuck you.

"Good puppy," Adam presses a kiss to your cheek. "Tell me what you want me to do, mm? I'll do whatever you want, but if you want me to fuck you, know that you'll be in bed for a long time once we go to sleep. You're going to come a lot tonight, puppy. You deserve it."

You moan in response. "Please," you whisper.

"You want me to fuck you, puppy?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Adam--I need you to. Don't wanna think anymore. In eight months, I've thought enough for eight lifetimes. Fuck me senseless, please."

"Whatever you want," Adam says, pulling you into a long kiss that has your head spinning.

You spend the next few minutes like that, in a kiss that's so intense, so loving and so fucking good that you wonder how you've been able to go so long being fine with quick kisses and self gratification.

The first kiss reminds you of how amazing it is to be kissed by Adam whenever the more dominant side of him comes out for a bit of fun, the way that his hands anchor themselves on your hips before one slides up your torso to cup your face, the sureness of his tongue in your mouth--everything feels amazing, and it's almost like it's too good to be true.

And then Adam pulls away for air and your eyes are opening and his lips are against your clothed shoulder, breathing in deeply with a smile on his face.

"I'm sorry we've not been--well--" you start. Adam tilts your chin upward and presses a kiss on the underside of your jaw. "I've been a terrible--"

"I've missed this, sure," Adam says, pressing another kiss against the underside of your jaw. "Yeah. Of course I've missed it, Y/N, but I absolutely understand that you've been busy. Work has kept me busy, too, so I'm just glad we can have tonight. I've missed you so much and I just wanna make you forget about how shitty the past months have been. Wanna make sure the only word you remember how to stay is my name, and that's what I'm going to do tonight, puppy. Sounds good?"

You nod eagerly, which makes Adam laugh as the hand that's on your hip gives it a squeeze.

Your gaze becomes affixed to a random point on the ceiling as Adams kisses rove across the scope of your neck, one hand on your jaw to move your head whenever he wants better access.

After a point, you start to realize that his kisses are getting longer and not too long thereafter you realize that Adam is carefully laying hickeys over your neck and is taking his time with doing it.

You want to murmur a quip, do something to jab at the possessiveness hickeys usually carry, but right as you go to do so his lips and tongue find a home on the pulse point on the right side of your neck and all you can do is moan softly, one hand finding his hair.

"Adam," you whisper. "Fucking hell, Adam--you're going to drive me insane. Please don't stop."

You hear Adams laugh, slow, amused, a little sadistic. "Well, if I'm the one who drives you to insanity, I think that means I'm the one who has to pull you out of it, doesn't it, puppy?"

With the use of that one, silly nickname, you're reduced to what is basically a human shaped puddle, and Adam knows it. Whenever he calls you his puppy in a slightly dominant tone, your knees are at risk of giving out and the look you give him is tantamount to torture if he intends to tease you until you're begging.

"Mhm," you hum, moaning as Adams lips press in a peck against your pulse point. "Also means the same if you put me into subspace with all this foreplay, Adam."

Adam grins, and you let him tilt your chin so that your head turns to meet his gaze.

"Of course," he says. "I'm basically an aftercare god, despite the fact that Scott dunked on me for it while believing a cigarette afterwards is anything less than the bare minimum--I'll take good care of you once the session is done, puppy. I promise."

Your shoulders relax at the reassurance, and you grin as Adams lips press against your forehead.

You nod after a second. "Okay," you say. "I--thank you, for this. Pre-emptively."

Deep enough into subspace and you'll borderline on mute, only able to focus on how Adams ministrations feel. You have no doubt he intends to take you there tonight, so you feel the need to thank him before you slink that far in and have to wait for it to wear off to speak a coherent sentence to him again.

"We both need it, so it's my pleasure," Adam says, starting to undo the buttons of the black long sleeved button up you'd worn to work and had yet to take off that day. "And yours--it's both of us. I promise I'll start getting more dominant in a sec, these buttons hate me."

You laugh a little, helping him undo the rest of the buttons. "They're square. They hate everybody, me included. Getting this shirt on was a nightmare this morning and I've been reminded as to why I never wear the damn thing."

Adam uses the small of your back to guide you off the bed just enough to be able to completely take the shirt off, following it by the oddly quick--Adam is very, very good at undoing the pesky little hooks that hold bras together, oddly--removal of your bra.

His lips are on yours again, one hand on your bare hip while the other finds itself cupping your face, tongue gliding across your lip in asking for entrance which you grant as your arms wrap around his shoulders.

Kissing Adam in moments like that is always amazing--kissing him has been one of your favorite things since your romance started, even quick and chaste kisses that don't last more than a few seconds. Kissing Adam has never ceased to be an absolute delight, whether it led to sex or was used as an alternative form of "hello" "goodbye" "good night" or "good morning."

And then his lips start traversing down your neck once more, and then they go further.

Adam starts draping kiss after kiss across your torso, lips pressing against you in a way that allows his tongue to poke through his teeth as he kisses you with his mouth slightly open. Every single touch of his cold tongue against your warm skin makes you clench around nothing, quickens your heart rate and feels so impossibly delightful. Adam is kissing you in a way that damn near drives you insane, and you feel yourself sinking into how good his lips and tongue feel against you as he delivers praise between kisses.

"Such a good puppy for me, mm?" Adam murmurs when he's close to your belly button. "Taking all of this so well even though you probably just want me inside you already. Such a good cumdump for me, puppy. Perfect."

You hum in response, eyes drifting down to meet his gaze as he looks up at you. He smiles, briefly, before continuing with his kisses, letting himself spend a lot of time on your hips before his kisses rove across your stomach.

He kisses along your v-line slowly and in a way that makes you want to start begging, hands roving up from your hips to your biceps.

He glances at you for a second in the asking, waiting for you to nod. You do so and Adams hands move to your pants, taking them off along with your underwear before laughing at himself.

"I've got you here, lookin' fucking perfect," he says, kissing your bicep. "And yet I'm still clothed."

Your hands go to the hem of his shirt and he lets you pull it off, kissing the side of your shoulder as he watches you toss it near the laundry hamper in the far left corner of the room. Next come his pants and his boxers, which Adam takes off in a manner that's somehow effortless despite his continued kisses to your biceps throughout the process.

"I forget how much I love your arms until I'm kissing your biceps again," Adam says, laughing a little. "Fuck, baby. Your arms are fucking gorgeous."

You hum, pressing your head into the pillow behind you as Adams kisses start up again and his hands start wandering. One settles against your face, cupping it softly, and the other goes wandering delightfully down your torso, not stopping until his fingers are millimeters above your clit.

He pauses, gaze meeting yours in a way that feels almost a little sadistic.

"Gonna make you come so many times tonight, baby," he says. "Safe word?"

"Hibiscus," you whisper. It's a precaution for when you get really kinky, a word you came up with but, five years into your relationship, have yet to actually use.

Adams lips press against the center of your collarbone, "good puppy," he whispers against the skin.

His fingers start making slow, tantalizing circles around your clit, and his kisses continue, roving down your torso and staying in the general area of your hips and stomach.

A few minutes pass you by, and right when Adam has picked up the speed and is bringing you to the edge of an orgasm, he stops.

When he notices the disappointment in the way your head falls back onto the pillow, he wastes no time in licking his fingers clean of the wetness spread across them.

"Didn't think I'd let you come so soon, did you, puppy?" Adam moves up, lips near your ear. "I did say I'd make you come multiple times tonight, but I said nothing of letting you do so without a little edging first. Gonna edge you until the sun goes down, at least, and then make you cum until at least one or two in the morning. Gonna call in sick tomorrow, too, so that I'm not worrying about waking up and going into work."

"How much more time until the sunset?" You ask. It's four--the sunset can't really be so far off, can it?

"An hour," Adam says. "But--to be fair, a lot more can be done in an hour than one might think. Also--eight hours between five and one am. Assuming that the session exhausts you, you'll probably wake up close to noon tomorrow, but there's snow in the forecast and I'll probably make you a cup of tea if I wake up before you do."

You hum. "Thank you, Adam," you whisper. He kisses you deeply, and you can still taste yourself on his tongue.

"Don't thank me," he says when he's pulled away. "It's what good partners do, especially when I'll have practically rearranged your guts and it'll be a reward for doing good anyway."

You laugh. Adam presses a kiss to your forehead as his hands once again ground themselves on your hips and yours find his shoulders, holding him close.

"I love you, baby," he says. "Sorry that work has been shit."

"I love you too," you respond. "And--that's not your fault. Please don't blame yourself for mistakes that aren't yours, Adam. Please, just kiss me. Wanna forget about work and stupid fucking Earle--just wanna think about how good it feels to be touched and kissed by you. Please."

Adams lips press against your forehead again, his hands cupping your face.

"Gonna make sure you do," he says. His lips move to your biceps again, and you shudder an intake of breath as he leaves a hickey in the wake of one of his kisses.

You have a thought to call him a hickey fiend but don't--the risk of joking with him when Adam is in dom mode is not worth the reward even slightly.

His kisses trail down your face to your neck, and from your neck to your chest. You moan a little when his lips find your nipples, biting gently as his hands give your hips a contented squeeze.

Your head falls back onto the pillow beneath it, and you smile slightly as you hear Adams contented hum as he kisses along your chest from one nipple to the other.

The next several minutes are spent in pretty much the same state. Adam kisses your chest and neck with an open mouth, tongue all too eager to leave a trail of saliva behind his kisses. He's mostly quiet as he goes about it, but every time he does something to make you moan his hands squeeze your hips in acknowledgement.

And then his lips move to your stomach, spending an absurd amount of time leaving hickeys in the less obvious places. He spends more time on your hips which tells you you'll have dark hickeys to look forward to once you have the time to investigate the state of your body in a mirror, but he's not always the dominant one when you two are having sex--you'll find your moment where he's in a particularly submissive mood and douse his body with light-ish hickeys in some very obvious spots.

His lips move down to your thighs, and his gaze meets yours.

"You're feeling all right?" He asks, lips pressing gloriously against the top of your right thigh. "Need you to make space for me, puppy. Haven't paid your thighs attention in so fucking long--'nother minute of waiting and I will go insane."

You laugh as you spread your legs and Adam positions himself in between them, lips moving across your thighs as his arms slip under them and his hands find your hips.

The amount of attention he devotes to your legs alone is almost a little excessive--it takes him ten minutes before he's content to move from your right leg to your left, and then he's focusing on that leg just as long.

Then again--Adam has always loved your thighs. You've had moments of insecurity that they were too big to handle but he's always met your insecurity with reassurance, promised that he'd tell you if he was having trouble breathing whenever he asked you to sit on his face. He loves your thighs and your biceps, which are two of the areas where you find most of your insecurity.

And then you feel his breath against your folds, and you breathe in deeply while clenching around nothing.

"Wanna taste you, puppy," Adam says. You're nodding eagerly before he can even finish the sentence, wondering how it was that you managed to go eight months without feeling Adams mouth over your folds, his lips on your clit.

Adam is good at giving oral--he is fucking amazing at it, and as his tongue presses flat against your folds, his gaze holding yours, you find that it seems he's still as good as he was eight months ago.

His tongue runs through your folds for a very long few seconds before it presses against your clit. You moan at the contact, eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head as his tongue moves in circles around the bundle of nerves.

His tongue moves back to your folds, and your hand goes to his hair. You don't hold him in a tight grip or anything, just enough to ground yourself and keep yourself from slipping away.

It's hard not to slip into it, though. The grip that Adam has on your hips, the way he's eating you out like a man starved and that goddamned nickname he always uses whenever he's domming. All of it is so much combined, so much after eight months, and all you want to do is slip into subspace and just let Adam use you however he wants.

He keeps going until you're so close--teetering on the edge, nearly ready to come on his face--and then he stops, pulling away with a glistening mouth to take a breath.

And then he's lifting himself off of you, pulling himself up to press kiss after kiss after kiss to the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and his hand is cupping your face.

"Please, puppy," he says. "Don't wanna go eight months without this ever again. Missed it."

It takes everything in you to drum up a response, still working through the second almost-orgasm of the evening.

"Never," you manage to mumble as your head turns, seeking Adams lips. He kisses you slowly, meaningfully, and you have a moment--just a moment--where you hate yourself for letting sex get away from you for such a long time.

Work has been eight months of never ending stress, eight months of managing one hundred and sixty people, dealing with a boss who claims to care about the team but only offers a raise to the five people from whom a guy stole off time rather than firing the idiot. You feel bad--work has taken the majority of your head space since March, and that doesn't feel fair in the fucking slightest.

"Adam," you whisper. He presses a peck to your lower lip and darts his tongue out to wet his own.

"Yeah, puppy?"

"Missed you," you respond. "'M sorry about work. I promise I didn't mean to get so busy, it's just--Earle and his fucking scheme, and Monica refusing to fire his sorry ass while he has the time of his goddamned life in Monaco, and--ugh. I don't mean to ruin the mood but it's just not leaving my head."

Adam laughs, presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know how you get, Y/N," he says. "I'm too drunk on the thought of your thighs around my head to even get slightly turned off right now but that's not the point."

He laughs again, thumb gliding across your bottom lip. "I've been worried about you but I knew work was probably the reason for your late nights, baby. I promise, it just made me cherish our lazy mornings even more. If you don't like working there, you can always quit, too--you've got your rainy day savings, and my job lets me cover the rent and have money left for groceries if you don't get something right away. Has anything else been bugging you or is it just work?"

"Just been in a funk," you respond. "The sex is helping a lot, but I've always found that being with you helps me like nothing else can. Needed this, Adam. Even if you've kept me from orgasming twice so far."

"Fifteen more minutes til sundown," Adam says. "You'll be so sick of coming when I finally start letting you, baby. I think I have it in me to last eight hours, but that's because I'll be giving myself a reprieve. You, however, might not get one. Dunno--it depends on if you'll want one, really."

"You'll know I do if I use the safe word," you respond. "Just--be soft with me, mm? I don't think I can handle being degraded too much, if at all. I'm scared that if you call me a slut with a mean tone I'll just fall to pieces and start crying."

Adam laughs, presses a kiss to your temple. "Think I've done enough edging," he says. "Kind of just wanna kiss you until you're begging me for more, baby. Sound okay?"

You nod, arms wrapping around his shoulders. "You really wouldn't be mad if I quit my job?"

"I would be the opposite of angry at you if you just announced it and didn't even give your two weeks," Adam says. "You've spent the majority of the last year giving them an arm and both of your legs in the effort it's taken to keep things afloat. You're up for a significant raise which I would wait to see if you got, but there are places that pay the amount you'd be getting after your raise as the starting salary, which only goes up after the first six months. I'd start applying to those places if I were in your shoes and I didn't get the raise I fuckin' deserved."

Adams lips drop to your collarbone. "'M so in love with you," he says. "And I'm sorry that work has been such a shitstorm lately. If you want, you can switch from a marketing job to working for a salary that covers rent and groceries with me at the bookshop? They're hiring all the fucking time and it means I can basically just...spend the entirety of my break just kissing you relentlessly if you do decide to join up."

You laugh, pulling a hand through his hair. "Maybe," you say. "If I don't get the raise."

Adam laughs, gently biting against your collarbone as his hands find your hips again.

"Love your hips, puppy," he says. "Will probably have to put lotion on the hickeys I left on 'em. Got a little carried away."

"I'll get my revenge somehow," you respond. "If you ever find yourself in a submissive mood, I will absolutely cover your neck in them."

"I like hickeys in obvious places, so long as you keep them light,"

"Oh, they will be. Everywhere but your pulse point--I happen to like your pulse point, Adam. Might get carried away worse than you did with my hips."

Adam bites your collarbone again, kissing up the center of it to the underside of your jaw before his lips are once again against yours.

"I love you so fucking much," Adam says into the kiss, giving your hips a hard squeeze. "Fuck, Y/N. Gonna make sure all of your stress is gone from your mind completely. Just want you to be thinking about me, puppy."

All you can do in response is moan into Adams mouth, closing your eyes and moaning once more as he uses your moaning to slip his tongue into your mouth, one hand coming up to cup your face.

You spend the next little eternity kissing, moaning whenever Adams hands squeeze whichever part of your body they've ended up near or on--typically your ass, just below it on your thigh, your hips, or your tits--and occasionally tugging at the hairs near the nape of his neck, where one of your hands rests.

And then, Adam pulls away. You gaze at him as he holds himself up by his elbows, a handsome smirk on his face.

"You're all right?" He asks.

The truth is, all you can think about is the memory of his cock inside you and you're convinced it's slowly driving you nuts, but by all other accounts, yeah.

You nod. "I'm amazing, Adam," you say. "Need to feel you."

As you speak the words, Adam is already reaching for his night stand on his side of the bed, grabbing a condom.

You roll it onto his length, one of your hands overlapping the hand he places on your hip as you lie back down.

Adam positions himself at your entrance, pushing into you slowly even despite how wet you are--you're more than ready to feel him, but Adam still goes slow to be cautious.

When he bottoms out, both of you moan. Your lips are almost right next to Adams ear, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, so the sound of you moaning just makes Adam want you more. One of his hands is on your breast, and he squeezes it, rolling the nipple between his first finger and thumb as you clench around his length.

After a minute, you're telling Adam he can start moving and his thrusts come to a slow start as Adam figures out the pace he wants to start with.

His lips have dipped close to your ear when he whispers, "you're so wet for me," and he kisses the side of your head before adding "such a good puppy. Fuck--you're amazing."

And you're moaning in response, starting to get cockdrunk as Adam moves in calculated thrusts, one hand propping himself up by the elbow and the other against your hip.

Your thighs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, and Adam laughs as he lifts the hand on your hip to cup your face.

"You like this, baby?" He asks. You moan, nodding slightly as your eyes close, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

"Such a good puppy for me," he says. "So good, baby. You're doing so good."

And then you moan again, and Adam presses a kiss to the corner of your lips. He quickens the pace of his thrusts, lips moving to your neck as the hand that was on your face moves to your clit, rubbing circles around it and delighting in the moans it brings from your throat.

Your release spurs his on, and while you moan and release around him Adam releases into the condom, thrusting his way through the aftershocks and the way that your legs start shaking with them.

He pulls out and discards the condom, heading back to you quickly and peppering your face with kisses.

You find yourself in a state of complete and total relaxation and euphoria. Adams hands on you make you sink further in, and Adam laughs a little--you're looking at him like he's the love of your life while you're practically drowning in post-orgasm bliss, which is a delightful and meaningful addition to the times in which you've looked at him like that, particularly whenever he's decided to surprise you with breakfast or when you wake up to find him admiring you as he'd woken up before you had.

"You're feeling all right?" The orgasm had been a little intense.

You nod, and Adam presses his nose against the apple of your cheek, pressing a quick kiss there as his hands find your face.

"Going quiet?" He presses his lips to your forehead. "Not for long, baby. I have at least seven more hours with you, yeah?"

You nod, and Adams lips are on yours again.

A lot of the time, you start to realize, will be passed with Adams lips against yours, his hands going somewhere on your body as you moan and whine at his touches.

You don't hate the idea, though--Adam is a damn good kisser and absolutely knows what he's doing with his lips and tongue. You've proven yourself capable of lazily making out with Adam for hours several times, though that was when the two of you were kiss fiends in the honeymoon phase and couldn't go more than twenty minutes without it.

But then, Adams lips trail from your lips to your chest, paying attention to it as his hands move from your face to your hips. Once he's paid satisfactory attention to your chest, he moves to your stomach, where, per the presence of your hips close by, he stays for a long ten minutes.

Then his lips are on your inner thighs and your hand is in his hair and all you can do is moan, one word waiting and ready at the tip of your tongue but not falling off of it.

You watch through half lidded eyes as Adams eyes lock on your cunt, nod fervently when his gaze meets yours and his head tilts in the asking.

His tongue finds your clit and he moves one finger, slowly, into your hole as his lips follow his tongue. You turn your head and moan into the pillow in an effort to silence yourself, but the noise level at which the moan sits is still so obscene that Adam chuckles, shaking his head as his left arm slips under your thigh and his hand finds purchase at your chest.

Adams tongue moves around your clit in evenly paced circles, finger moving at a calculated pace as he adds another. Adams fingers curl around your g-spot once every fifteen-ish seconds, and every time your moans get louder because of the action, Adam laughs a little and presses his tongue flat against your clit.

Adam has you pushed to your orgasm in fifteen minutes. You barely have time to warn him before you're coming over his mouth, chin, and his hand, but Adam hardly cares. He only licks his fingers to clean them and juts his tongue out to run it over his lips, all while holding your gaze.

And then he's kissing you and you're tasting yourself, humming into the kiss as Adam reaches one arm out and fumbles for the nightstand in search of another condom.

Adam gets it and rips it open, sliding it onto his length and motioning for you to get on your knees and turn around. You do as he says and Adam slowly slides into you, the both of you moaning slightly as he bottoms out.

Adam waits a minute for you to adjust to him, and once you have he starts thrusting. He sets an even, quick pace and moves a hand to your clit, moaning as you lean back and press your back against his front.

Adams lips find a spot in the space between your neck and shoulder, and every last one of the sounds you make spurs him on. His moans are low, typically comorbid with yours, and they come in between the praise he manages to mumble out as he moves and you start moving back onto him.

"So good," he mutters, biting gently against your shoulder. "Fuck--"

You moan in response, unable to form any coherent thought other than Adams name.

"Adam," you whisper as the pace at which Adams finger touches your clit increases. "Adam--"

You feel him smile against your skin, a cocky grin taking up his face.

"Yes, baby?" He asks, moaning as you clench around him. "Gonna use your words for me, mm?"

"Adam," it's the only word that comes to mind right now, though it'll be one of ten, at best, once he's pushed you to orgasm again.

"Adam, oh--" You moan as he snaps his hips up into you.

Adam keeps the pace he's set and it's not long before you're moaning loudly as Adams lips and tongue suck a hickey into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, your release occurring just seconds before his own, before he's a moaning mess as he thrusts into you through the aftershocks.

Adam pulls out and lays you back onto the bed before rolling the condom off and tossing it into the trash.

The cycle continues that way until you find yourselves nearing one in the morning. Your lips are wet with your own saliva after you've pulled off of Adams length and he's being sweet, your face in his hands as you start moving to sit on the bed.

"One more for me, baby," he says. In eight hours, you've come more than eight times, your legs are basically jelly, and all you have on your mind is Adam. "Just one more, mm? Then I'll run us a bath and we can just relax, I promise. Aftercare god, remember?" He laughs a little at the tail end of his sentence, cringing at himself a little bit.

And you're nodding, smiling at Adam as his lips find your inner thighs and you're blissed out on post-orgasm euphoria--Adam had let you touch yourself while sucking his dick, and you'd come over your hand as he shot his load into your mouth, which you'd agreed to let him do--and it's fifteen minutes til one and Adams lips against your thighs is absolutely amazing.

And then his lips and tongue go to your cunt, and you're moaning as your thighs wrap around his head, which leads to him laughing and squeezing your hips.

And Adam eats you out carefully, slowly, moaning as he does so. He's taking his time with you because you're blissed out and will definitively need to be easy on yourself in terms of walking after all that's been done. He's moaning, tongue moving through your folds in a way that feels incredible to both you and him, and his lips find your clit as he moves to start fingering you.

Adam sets a good pace, quick but not too quick, and curls his fingers at your g-spot with every thrust. You're moaning loudly despite the time and Adam is loving it, and then you're coming on his lips and his tongue and Adam is licking it off your cunt and his lips with a focused precision.

Then Adam is getting up, pressing a kiss to your forehead and telling you he'll be back in a few minutes. He tells you he loves you but doesn't expect a response--you're absolutely too blissed out to say much of anything, and he loves it because it's the first time in eight months where you've looked so relaxed, the first time in eight months where you've felt it.

Your eyes close as Adam leaves your shared bedroom, and you hear him starting up a bath. You smile to yourself, pressing your cheek against the pillow, having a brief, floaty thought of I am so lucky before Adam comes into the room again, smile on his clean face.

He kisses your eyelids, hands finding and interlacing themselves with yours.

"C'mon," he says. "I've run us a bath, baby. Gonna relax your legs, which are definitely sore by this point."

And then your eyes are opening and he's helping you stand as he tells you how much he loves you and how amazing you were during the session, and his lips are against your forehead in a kiss.

You're mostly quiet as Adam leads you to the bathroom, humming as you get into the tub with him.

You press your chin against Adams shoulder and in the next few minutes, you're still tired but the water is still hot and you're starting to form coherent thoughts again.

"Thank you," you whisper, pressing a kiss to Adams wet shoulder. He hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"For what?" Adam asks.

"For the last nine hours," you say. "For making me forget about work stress and for the sex."

Adam laughs, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "The sex was enjoyable for both parties, then," he says. "And--you're welcome, but you don't need to thank me. Just wanted to help you de-stress a little, and I'm glad I could do that."

You're in the bath together for thirty-ish minutes after that, and you let Adam wash your hair as he peppers your hickied neck with kisses and his hands run along your biceps. You wash his, and you spend the time waiting for the conditioner to set talking about your plans for the day as the day has turned.

Adam intends to let you sleep in and to make breakfast, and you intend to at least move from the bedroom to the living room after you've woken up so that you can read from the comfort of your couch.

You get out of the bath and, because your legs are still pretty sore, have barely any choice but to let Adam help you back to your room and sit on the bed as Adam gets dressed and grabs you clothes.

You get dressed into a pair of black boxers--they, Adam decides, will be comfier than sweatpants--and a hoodie Adam had during his baggy clothes phase that's baggy on you, too, and covers two thirds of your thigh before your knee amidst laughter and kisses that you share in the relative dark.

You and Adam end up going to sleep on the couch anyway so as to avoid halfhearted fighting about who sleeps on the wet spot on the bed from the sweat emitted during sex, curled up in each others arms with a thick, warm and fuzzy blanket covering you both up to your shoulders.

[maddilynmuse]

The Midnight Snack Shack

In a shocking turn of events, I’m positing something on here before AO3… largely because I meant to write at least one other thing before this but oh well???? It’s fanfic, I can be a hedonist!

So let’s just consider it a Scriptfrin Saga Sneak Peak!

The gang are at Bambouch, and Mirabelle commits the sin of arriving late for dinner. There are no leftovers. As punishment for this offense, Siffrin does a little trolling on the way to seek out a restaurant.

Anyways, no real content warnings that I can think of, though tell me if you think I should tag one. That said, there are Spoilers for In Stars and Time. Please finish that before reading this! Also, while not necessarily required, this is technically part of a series.

Enjoy~

.

It’d been a wonderful day in Bambouch! Bonnie had (understandably) wanted some alone time with their sister, so that left everyone to wander about and do their own things. Mirabelle had had a lovely time talking to some of the other house maidens in the local house of change. One of them had taught her about this thing called surfing! She wasn’t very good at it yet, but it was still exciting! Even if being in the ocean was kind of scary? It was so big…

It wasn’t until the sun started to dip below the horizon that she realized how long she’d been out. Oh no oh no oh no! She had to get back to the others! What if she missed dinner?!

As she ran back, her worst fears were confirmed. She sprinted to Nile’s house only to see everyone cleaning up dishes…

“Crab- were there, um, leftovers?” she said, righting her bow upon on her head and trying to brush the salt off of her and suddenly very aware of the fact that she was dripping on the floor.

“No…” Bonnie said. “I thought you went to a restaurant or something. I mean, I always make some extra…”

“Buuuut I ended up wrestling some other dudes on the beach and worked up a huge appetite,” Isabeau said, flexing one of his arms.

“He is very good at it,” Sif purred, wiggling their eyebrows and putting a hand on Isa’s bicep.

Isabeau’s face darkened as he made a tea kettle sound. Huh, weird. Why would he get embarrassed about being good at wrestling? She could only assume it was a weird romance thing, but was wrestling romantic??? She hadn’t seen anyone propose via wrestling in her books (not that those were realistic), but…

Oh whatever. Boys will be boys.

“Well, that’s alright. I’ll figure something out, if that’s okay?” Mirabelle said. They had to have something lying around, right? If not, missing dinner wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to her. There might still be workarounds though! She could ask the neighbors or maybe the local house, maybe go fishing? She’d never fished in the ocean before, but it couldn’t be that different from fishing in a river, right?

(If she wasn’t quite so deep in thought, maybe she would’ve caught some of the sneaky smirks shared between her friends).

“Actually, I think I heard someone say that one of the restaurants here should still be open,” Siffrin said.

“Oh yeah! Is that still a thing, Nille?” Bonnie said.

“Unless it closed today, should be,” Nille said. “Think about eight thirty is when they change the locks.”

Mirabelle looked at the clock. It was around eight now, so that still gave her time! But it was getting pretty dark…

“Perfect. I think I remember where it is,” Siffrin said. “I’ll take you! Maybe I’ll get some dessert too~”

… she had no idea how to say nicely that she would prefer anyone but Siffrin to do so right now. She loved him deeply, but he had the memory of a goldfish sometimes. It was kind of concerning, actually??? She looked to the others in a desperate, silent plea for help, but apparently the exact opposite message got through.

“Great idea. You have the best night vision of all of us, after all,” Odile said.

“Yeah! And he’s, like, really great at finding stuff!” Isabeau added.

“I trust him completely to remember what I said before dinner,” Bonnie said with a grin. “No more telling needed!”

“Can you tell me anyways?” Mirabelle squeaked. Oh Change, please help her. As usual, her deity did absolutely nothing of note as Siffrin led her out the door.

“So… are you sure you know where you’re going?” Mirabelle said.

“Absolutely! I always remember everything.” He held his head high as he led the way.

“… not that I’m doubting you, but I think. This is. The way I came from?” The buildings looked familiar, and while she was not typically the navigator, she was pretty sure the setting sun being on the opposite side of her meant she was just heading backwards.

“And?”

“Siffrin, that’s the way to the ocean!”

“Yeah,” Siffrin said, not even missing a step.

Maybe this could still make sense? “Is the, um, the restaurant on the pier then?”

“Nope.”

…

“Siffrin. Why are we going to the ocean.”

“Thought you might want your clothes.“

Oh. Right, she was still wearing swim clothes! In her haste, she’d forgotten. How sweet of Siffrin- wait. “Siffrin, I-I mean, that’s very nice, so thank you! But we don’t have time! I’ll pay extra I’m sure they’ll forgive me dripping a little!” She’d chosen a one-piece that covered her well enough and even had a pretty skirt-thing, so it’s not like she was being indecent! “Besides, my clothes are at the house… I didn’t get changed on the sand in front of everyone…”

“Oh. Should we go there instead?”

Mirabelle’s eye twitched a little. “Siffrin! Restaurant!”

“Hehe, okay, okay.”

Hopefully that would be the end of it.

———

That was not the end of it. She loved Siffrin, she did. A lot of the time on their quest, his tendency to pick up random objects and inspect everything was useful! Vital even! And while a slight problem at times outside of questing, it was still endearing. But did he have to do that now? Sure, they hadn’t had any real sense of urgency in months, and she doubts he kept on his toes and rushed through every loop (she hopes he didn’t, that sounded exhausting), but she hadn’t realized you needed practice in it! Because why else would he be! So! STUBBORN!

“Hey look, this rock looks like a seashell!”

“Siffrin, that IS a seashell!” There were a million seashells! They were near the seashore!

“Oh. That makes sense!”

She was going to get… what did Odile call it? An ulcer. She was going to get an ulcer.

It didn’t help that people kept staring. One might think Mirabelle would be used to it by now, but this seemed more than usual??? The feeling of being watched put chills down her spine. The occasional whispering didn’t help either, but it was hard to hear over the occasional chatter.

Siffrin took a right and then stopped, turning to her, “Do you think anyone sells seashells?”

“Um, no? We’re by the seashore!”

“I think Odile could.”

“Even she can’t sell seashells by the she- um, sea sore- shore- SIFFRIN THIS IS NOT WHAT WE NEED TO BE DOING RIGHT NOW!”

Siffrin laughed and looked up at who knows what. “Oh, huh. It’s almost dark! We should get going.”

“Yes. Yes we should. Thank you, Siffrin.”

He decided to leisurely walk to wherever they were trying to go up until they got close enough to see someone by the door with her keys.

“NOOOOOOO!” Mirabelle moaned, running over. “Are you closed?! Were we too late? Oh please oh please tell me you have a few leftovers! I’ll pay extra!”

The person—a heavyset sort with skin a few shades lighter than Bonnie’s—gave her a sympathetic smile. “Sorry sweetie. No leftovers, I’m afraid.”

Her stomach chose then to grumble and she sunk dramatically to her knees.

The person locked eyes with Siffrin, both grinning, and chuckled, “We’re only just opening, a little early to have any leftovers!”

What.

Siffrin burst into laughter beside her. “Your face!”

WHAT?!

“Siffrin! Did you know?! Did you do did this on purpose?!”

“Mm hmm~!”

“Stars, you got her good, didn’tcha?” The woman said.

“SIFFRIN YOU- YOU…” she took a deep breath and LET IT ALL LOOSE, “YOU CRAB!”

“GAAAAAASP! BELLE SAID CRAB?!?!”

Mirabelle’s head snapped around. There, around the street corner, was…

“Bonnie?!”

“CRAB! GUYS! SHE SAW ME!”

“Aaaaand you just gave away everyone else,” Odile said as she also stepped out from the shadows. “A pretty good tailing session, I would say, but try not to be a sellout.”

“Oops,” Bonnie said.

“MADAME YOU’RE HERE TOO?!” Mirabelle said.

Siffrin was leaning against the wall he was laughing so hard. And the mystery person didn’t look much better.

“In my defense, I intended to see this supposed ‘Night Market’ with my own eyes,” Odile said. “Any amusement I got from watching you and Siffrin was simply an added bonus.”

Mirabelle stared into her soul, but Madame’s poker face remained as good as ever. “You knew.”

“Yes,” Odile said. “And I’m not going to be the only one to go down with this ship. Bonnie’s already sold us out. Show yourselves.”

Nille, Isabeau, and two strangers stepped from the shadows.

Mirabelle’s eye twitched. “HOW?! WHY?! WHY ARE YOU HERE AND HOW DID WE PICK UP MORE PEOPLE?!”

Nille held her hands up defensively, “I wasn’t letting Bonnie go out at night alone.”

“I wanted to feel included,” Isabeau said (and honestly that was so adorably earnest she couldn’t even be mad at him for it).

“Also, people saw us following you and called the defenders,” Bonnie said.

“Hi. That’s us!” One of the apparent defenders said. “So… you do actually know these people and are not passing charges on a group of stalkers?”

The other had become a few shades lighter. “Dude. I’m pretty sure these are the saviors.”

“What?”

To add further salt to the wound, someone else had come from inside the restaurant—a cook, presumably—and was surveying them all with a raised eyebrow and a chuckle. “Oh, they got you good good.”

“I think Sif’s dying,” Isabeau said jokingly.

Their rogue was on the ground absolutely wheezing, laughing so hard sound had stopped coming out.

“Death by laughter…” Odile said. “A new one, I take it?”

Siffrin made a hand gesture Mirabelle did not recognize at Odile, but did not stop.

Mira stared down at him. “Siffrin. You are my friend, and I love you. That’s why I’m giving you a three second head start to run.” She drew her rapier. “Three…”

That was apparently enough to make Siffrin hop up and start running, though he was still laughing so much he might as well have been drunk.

“Two…”

Almost immediately, he managed to trip on a rock and do an impressive cartwheel only to then hit a wall and scramble back up.

“One~!”

“DISTRACTION!!!” Bonnie shouted, tackling her.

“Oh! Bonnie! You wanted gotten too?” Mira said, smiling sweetly (knowing good and well she would never hurt them, or Sif for that matter, all in good fun!).

“CRAB!” Bonnie jumped off like she was a hot pan. “SCATTER! SHE CAN’T CATCH EVERYONE!!!”

The next few minutes were spent in the world’s most disorganized game of chase with the poor, baffled defenders trying to explain to passers by that it was just the saviors pranking each other which did somehow less than nothing to dissuade anyone from watching.

But eventually Mirabelle had to concede, leaning against the wall to catch her breath and, “Pfffff, hahahaha!”

“You laughed, so I’m off the hook~!” Siffrin said.

Mirabelle rolled her eyes, but was smiling. “Yes, yes. Okay, I’ll admit it, that was funny.” She stood up and brushed the dirt off the swim wear the best she could. “A little mean, but funny.”

The group congregated and laughed together. Siffrin in particular was absolutely beaming (it felt nice to see, more than worth it, even).

“Sorry,” Siffrin said, “But what can I say? I’m a professional little stinker!” They snickered. “Besides, it’s tradition to mess with unwary tourists!”

“Especially Vaugaurdians,” the person from before—the one who’d been at the door—said.

“Mm hmm! And tip well too,” Siffrin said. “I used to wait around the docks and do the same trick to people coming off the boats. Mom ‘officially’ told me to stop, buuuuut she’d sneak me some extra snacks when I lured them to the shop.”

Odile scribbled something down in her notebook, and Isabeau’s eyebrows went up…

But Mirabelle could only gasp. “Siffrin lore?! And! Using your mischief? For profit?! For shame!”

“What. I, um, you know I’m not getting paid for this, right Mira? I only just met… hmm. Sorry, pronouns?” They said to the person.

… what? Hmm. Well, it wasn’t the first time Siffrin forgot what he was talking about as they said it, though still concerning…

“I’m not picky, but eh, been leaning towards she/her lately,” the woman said. “Name’s Vivian, but Viv’s fine. Now then, weren’t you hungry, sugar? Let’s get you something nice and fresh. And hey, your friends can come too if they’d like! Honestly, that was enough of a laugh that I think you’ve earned yourself a discount. Oh, and being the saviors and all too.” She chuckled and waved them inside.

Siffrin was the first in.

————

And that’s it, hope you enjoyed! This originally was just supposed to be a small set up to introduce Vivian, but as you can see, it got wildly out of hand and now Mirabelle is living a comedy sketch. This was so fun to write.

I prefer tea, but buy me a Kofi?