#you know it already. light hair dark brows my beloved. <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[sopekooks]

370/638 days of missing yoongi

[sourpeachsayshi]

You had more thoughts about big bro Choso??

I'm listening 🎤

⊱ ─── [ marathon ] ─── ⊰

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ minors / ageless blogs / blank blogs - do not interact.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags: public (is it pseudo incest if yuji is asleep? and choso is his brother?); heavy petting; kissing; nipple play; dry humping; reader is yuji's best friend; choso is yuji's brother; non curse au; hooking up in secret; size kink

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ notes: nyx, my beloved. I initially was going to write something short, but decided to expand on this and I'm wrapping it up as a little gift to you <3

midnight rolls around, the living room glowing in blue light. yuji is on the floor, curled into a ball with his eyes shut as he snores quietly. the movie is still playing, you know it's the last one, but you've got another hour and thirty minute left and it only just started. usually you wouldn't be so conscious of the time, eventually falling asleep, but halfway through choso decided to join you both and you've been on the edge of your seat ever since.

he's so big. his strong, muscular legs taking up quite a bit of space on the humble sized sofa. you find yourself fidgeting with your outfit. tugging at the hem of your short dress as you adjust the straps of the top.

your cheeks are already warm, even though choso is innocently just watching the movie.

"you cold?" he asks, keeping his eye on the screen but picking up on your restless movements.

"yes," you lie. it's actually quite nice - neither too hot or cold, but you figure you would feel less exposed under a blanket.

choso gets up and walks over to the other side of the room. he picks up two blankets, one which he spreads over yuji's body and the other which unfolds over your lap.

"thank you," you softly answer, snuggling underneath to conceal yourself.

"no problem," he nonchalantly replies, but your body shivers when you notice that he sits even closer to you.

you try to watch the movie, tell yourself not to think about what happened a couple of weeks ago in choso's room. you nip at your bottom lip, your belly fluttering with guilt. you swore it would be the last time. you can't keep lying to your best friend like this. hate that you've been showing up at his place more often under false pretenses.

"comfy?" a deep voice whispers against your ear, and you squeeze your thighs underneath the blanket as you swallow the lump in your throat.

a breathy response comes out of you. "yeah, I am"

"good," he answers back, his fingers moving to unravel the blanket even more. "make some room for me then, I'm starting to feel the cold too.."

another lie. but a lie that makes your heart quiver with anticipation.

silence lingers, the two of you keeping your eyes on the television screen. you glance in his direction, wetting your lips at his handsome features. his hair is out, flowing freely to his shoulders, with some of the layers pulled into a half up do. his exposed ears show off his silver jewelry, and you notice a new piercing on his helix. his dark brows frame his perpetually exhausted eyes, his jaw tight and his mouth in a firm line.

he turns towards you just as you quickly glare at the screen pretending like you weren't just gawking in his direction.

choso leans closer, intruding into your space. "this movie sucks"

"it's only slow in the beginning," you insist, "it gets better towards the middle..."

his touch is warm, it makes your thigh tingle when he places his palm over your exposed flesh.

he strokes his thumb back and forth across your skin, "does it?"

"you should pay attention," you murmur, your legs spreading on their own accord, your face finally turning to his. he's so close that your noses bump, and you look at him with sparkling eyes. "the details are really important..."

"are they?" he answers back with a slight grin, teasing you as always. his shy, introverted personality tucked away somewhere else.

your heart pounds in your chest, your attention quickly moving to yuji who is still asleep on the floor.

"I can't seem to pay attention when you've been walking around the place in this little thing all day," choso adds on, stealing your focus once more.

the heat blooms in every space that makes a pulse. you know it's been a distraction, that was the whole point of you wearing it. the top fits a little too snug, your breasts pushed up and on the cusp of spilling out. the hem was a dangerous length, and you are far too ashamed to admit it was for the purpose of easy access.

his hand trails upward, the pads of his fingers delicately tracing a path up along your inner thigh. you gasp lightly against his lips, an electric spark running up the base of your spine when you feel him press his index finger against your underwear.

"what's got you so wet?" he purrs into your mouth, his bottom lip grazing over your own.

your eyes shoot to yuji again, your anxiety out on full force.

you place one hand on his shoulder in an attempt to pull yourself out of this precarious position, but choso simply slips his free arm behind your waist and tucks you into his frame. he kisses the corner of your mouth, his affection traveling to the sweet spot against your neck.

you swallow a whimper, his mouth hot and wet against your flesh. "choso-" you whine as quietly as possible, "your brother is right there-"

his lips find yours, he silences your warning with a kiss. his thumb traces the slit of your clothed cunt, his other hand slithering upward to squeeze your left breast.

"he can sleep through a earthquake," he replies nonchalantly. "we're fine"

you know it's true, but it still feels so...inappropriate.

your hand moves to hold his jaw, your body melting into his weight while you both make out on the sofa. he arches forward, keeping your back resting against the arm chair, the blanket falling to your lap and exposing your upper body. he removes his hand from between your legs, and hooks his index finger around the straps of your dress.

he pulls them down, drags the fabric further to reveal the deep swells of your breasts. a moan leaves you when he finally releases you from his kiss, your spit slick lips panting to catch your breath. he pecks your neck, the indentations around your collar bones, and further down. his greedy hands pull at your dress, just low enough that your hardened nipples are exposed. he uses both thumbs to massage the tender buds, a satisfied expression highlighting his face.

"I knew you weren't wearing a fucking bra" he smugly states.

your head falls back against the arm rest, your body tingling with pleasure from him tweaking and rolling your nipples. you shift your head to check on yuji again, your stomach twisting into a knot out of guilt.

before you can let yourself spiral into the depravity of your sin, choso glides his tongue over one of your nipples to silence your thoughts. the blanket is barely covering you both, the hem of your dress hiked up as your body slowly becomes horizontal.

the movie plays, a scene of passionate dialogue ensuing among the characters while you and choso make out heavily on the sofa. the music carries, a sudden boom from the bass making you both freeze. you both turn to yuji, noticing him shift onto his back still heavy with sleep.

you tremble underneath choso, gazing at him with frightened eyes.

"I can't-" you insist with a shake of your head, while he sighs against your neck.

your both in this position for a seconds, until he murmurs an "okay".

before you know it he's picking you up like you’re featherlight, maneuvering your disheveled state until he has you situated on his lap. large hands find your hips, and he drags you back until you can feel his length press up against your ass.

"relax," he whispers again, his teeth nipping at your delicate lobe. "you keep watching the movie..."

you find yourself obliging as you mold into his chest, your breasts heaving when you breath heavily as he grabs one of your tits in his hand to knead at your pebbled nipple. his other hand finds your soaked underwear once more, and presses the cloth between your lips as he massages the folds.

your vision is blurry, the blue light morphing the colors and the shapes all around you. you brain is a fuzzy thing, lobes made of cotton that's slowly being plucked.

choso kisses your shoulder, his hip bucking slightly to add some friction against his cock.

"turn around"

"but-" you stutter, your back slightly arching when he pinches your nipple.

"it'll be quick, just turn around and face me..." he firmly dictates, and you're so horny at this point that you simply just oblige with frustration.

he keeps the blanket in place as you spin, straddling him properly with your arms locked around his neck.

"lay on me," he adds soft, holding you in a gentle embrace as he hides both of you underneath the blanket.

you sigh dreamily feeling the brush of his cock against your cunt, choso's hands grip onto the plush meat of your ass, and you both instantly start grinding against one another for some much needed relief. his soft tee adds friction to your chest, your nipples brushing over his hard torso. your fingers sink into the locks of his hair, your thighs spreading further as you move with a little more conviction.

"shit-" he groans, lightly tapping your ass to egg you on. "oh shit, that feels good..."

you raise yourself up slightly, forgetting for a moment that you both aren't alone. you look down at where your sexes meet, watching yourself slide back and forth over the imprint of his cock. choso stares at your pussy with concentration, one hand traveling to slip an index finger underneath the fabric. he tugs it to the side, giving you better access. you're trembling, your arousal coating the light material of his sweatpants.

choso is bucking his hips subtly, the sound of the sofa creaks mildly. his eyes fall to your chest, the dress resting just under your nipples, your body glistens as a mist of sweat glitters your skin.

your thighs quiver, a ghost of a whine muted by the television screen when your stomach flutters as you reach your orgasm. choso moans, his head falling back to the sofa when he cums, tainting his sweats with a large, noticeable stain.

the heat of the moment dwindles fast for you, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to make sure that yuji is still asleep.

choso's fingers find your chin, turning you back to face him as he lowers you to his lips. "told you nothing wakes him up," he reassures.

"we can't keep doing this," you add with a shake of your head.

"you say this every time," he notes, helping you as he readjusts the straps of your dress.

"we...we went a bit too far..."

"too far is me fucking you, sweetheart..."

you gaze at him with frustration as you slither off his lap, tugging the blanket over you as shame burns your skin. you try to readjust your position, licking your lips only to find that you can still taste him on your tongue. but then he shifts, his mouth against your ear once more.

"and we haven't done that...yet."

[confused-since-birth]

Shape of the unknown part 3

Hello! :) This, I think, is the last part of the series. I've been thinking about an epilogue, but not sure. Hope you all will enjoy it

It's not proofread so ignore the mistakes you'll find please :)

genre: angst

warnings: blood, suffering, death, weapons, the plot is not the same as in the game, reader is not mc

word count: 1444 (aprox)

summary: It doesn't matter how much you try to escape fate, it will always find a way to come true. All you can do is hope this is the first and last time Sylus and you go through this.

When interpreting prophecies things are never what they seem. Dreams and premonitions always have loopholes. They all are symbolic, rarely should be taken word for word. Many nights and days should be spent thinking of the true meaning and how you get in the point where they become true. Stars and planets, pleading to the gods, herbs or cards sometimes help.

In the deep of night, one doesn’t know that killing is not entirely about a body, one sharpens their sword, washing it with tears, caught between love and duty. The third finally hears the mocking laugh of fate and can no longer cry, for the flames cannot be stopped anymore. Begging will do nothing to stop the wheels of future from tugging them towards their anguish.

Your mistake was getting tangled in this mess. But how it could’ve been prevented? The gods laughed in your face since the very start.

Days go by in a rush. Moon or sun, you don’t know, nor feel it. Sylus’ calls go unanswered. The faces around you are blurred, your hands seem someone else’s. Visions of flames, blood and destruction weaken your body.

At first, you’re confused what are your feelings truly. Sadness is long overdue, making place for anger – hot and heavy. Silence turns from protection to a weapon against him.

After hearing your hundred refusal, Sylus has had enough. He couldn't understand what could’ve made you so apprehensive, going so far as to deny him your presence for weeks. His wings bore him to your balcony in a hurry.

The night sky had no clouds, the moon shining over the city. A slight breeze made its way into your room awakening goosebumps on your skin, making it more difficult to light candles than it already was with a shaky hand. Suddenly the sound of wings scares you, dropping the matches on the ground. A familiar face welcomes your tired eyes. Beautiful as ever, Sylus makes his way in your room. The dancing light of a few candles you got to light makes his face look sharp and his blood red eyes piercing.

“Out”, is all that comes from your chapped lips, returning to your attempts to light more candles.

His stare becomes sharper, brows closing in. A small growl can be heard before a clawed hand grabs your wrist. Sylus’ tall form exudes danger and your body instinctively gets defensive, smaller, trying to set your wrist free.

Taking a better look at your face he can see deep dark circles around your pretty eyes, your hair is unbrushed, the attempts to free your hand are weak. Your form seems so sickly.

Under his stare you feel naked. The thin dark blue dress you wore to bed didn’t help either. Suddenly, the room seems too cold.

“Why am I no longer welcome?” his voice whispers, eyes searching for yours in almost a desperate manner.

“You should head back to her.”

“Jealous, my love?” he smirks, trying to hide his hurt.

Truth be told, you were jealous, but this wasn’t the problem. You would give up on love if it meant that your beloved could be happy. There was no sacrifice you wouldn’t do for him. The problem was that you knew that the same could not be told about her. No matter how much the sorceress loved him, she was meant to betray him in the end. There was no rivalry between the two of you, just the promise of tragedy that hanged over your heads. The sorceress didn’t want you to mess with her plans and you didn’t know how could you stop the disaster anyway. It was a divine comedy.

But what you didn’t understand was why – for the love of gods – did he amuse her? Only to come back to you? Why is he putting salt in a wound you try so hard to close?

“If I’m a fun thing to you, you must know it’s not the same for me, Sylus. I’m not a cow’s bone and you a dog to keep picking me up only when you want to fool around”, you say battling with your heart, knowing how the words will affect him.

For a moment the anger in your eyes shocks him, the words hitting him like a ton of bricks. In his hundreds, thousand of years of existing did he feel so lonely, cold and hurt. What could he say back? Thinking for a second about the last months, realization came upon him. While he tried sheltering you, loving you, diverting the sorceress’ attention, trying to change the story, all he achieved was turning you against him.

Once again, what could he say to you when he himself pushed you to misunderstand him?

The tears in your eyes broke him. He cursed himself and all he could do was leave, while the wind carried your whimpers of pain and suffering to him almost all night.

Sylus knew that if he didn’t amuse the girl, her eyes would eventually turn to you, and in trying to reach him, who knows what she could’ve done to you. The curse surrounding a dragon and his beloved hanging in the back of his mind didn’t help soothing his worries. Only to realize that he killed your heart, completely shattered it.

His eyes closed, warm, angry tears from under his eyelashes, feeling through the string between you two that he wasn’t alone in his pain. The thought of you, crying, begging the gods to take the suffering from you, crushed him. Now he understands the pain he felt burning in his chest while he took the sorceress for a flight.

It was too late anyway. All he has to do now, is await death, wishing that you would be spared by fate.

But fate was cruel.

You knew that the Legion was on its way to Tarus. All the letters you sent, asking other Temples and cities to help the people of Tarus to leave went unanswered. A million of questions swirled around in your head – how and why there was no answer? Not even the closest of your friends, in the furthest point of the continent, dared to help you? It didn’t make sense. They promised to send help if it was needed, after all, your own novices, doctors and sorceresses were sent there when they needed it. Why wouldn’t they reciprocate? Was the mail actually never delivered?

This seemed more like the case, as for the last three weeks not only mail seemed to be problematic, but also trades.

After five more days, the sky turned dark red. Smoke filled the air, as the Legion reached Tarus. Blood poured like rivers, screams were the only thing that could be heard. A true disaster was unfolding. The regret of not being able to help the kids you had to assist being born, the elderly your hands tried to take the pain of, all those people, now dying. Why? For not being privileged. The excuse? The existence of a big bad monster near Tarus that was seemingly hidden and helped by the people.

However, a wave of guilt washes over you as the only thing that seems important in this moment is reaching Sylus. You need to see him at least one last time, maybe, even though it’s impossible, you’ll save him. Then you two can fly somewhere far away, live a peaceful life.

As you reach a field outside the city, your eyes fall on two figures. Your lungs are burning after running all this way, only to see your lover, your dragon, being stabbed in his chest, falling to his knees. A shriek escapes your lips, hands covering your mouth. No, no, no, we have to run, we have to leave, no, no, no���

As your eyes meet, pain shoots through your back and chest. His eyes open in horror. Looking down you see the arrow plunged into your heart.

He hissed and moaned in pain when he couldn’t run to you as the sword in his chest was pushed a little deeper by the girl. Her back was turned to you, even though you could hear a small whimper – she was crying.

When you close your eyes, the only hope that is in your heart is to never wake again – not now, not tomorrow, not in another life. Everything that you’ve seen, heard and had to do were more than enough for the rest of the eternity. Perhaps, you and Sylus may find one another in the afterlife. Perhaps death will be kinder to you and your love than life was. As your last breath exits your body, the sound of crying and regret can be heard growing louder.

Then there’s nothing.

[heylinfanclub]

Okay but outside the anatomy there’s stuff like (studying art styles I already like): a thick dark outer lineart with thinner, often colored inner lineart is NICE.

I like bright, saturated colors and also Cool colors. I like using weird colors for unexpected things. Love seeing pops of purple and orange on water, blueish trees, pink grass and green skies. But it’s all still clearly representative of what they’re meant to be.

Rim lighting is DOPE.

**back at that anatomy tho**

I like limbs that taper at the joints, though I’m not sure how taper to get before it looks weird (more of that ‘u gotta study real anatomy to stylize that anatomy’)

Big heads often important for big expressions but once I got the ‘1/3 between the shoulders’ in my head, my brain like ‘okay head has to fit between the shoulders’. Most animations meanwhile got heads as wide as the shoulders or wider it’s fYNE,,, making the neck thicker is more my style than pencil necks however, so that’s,,, still hard.

Alphonse Mucha and the SYMBOLIC DETAILS. Love a dash of organic and then symmetric details. I love the Borders. And ofc King of the ‘thicker border, more fluid thin and colorful inner lines’.

JTHM was very detailed for black n white and that’s somethin that also intrigue me. I don’t always like to color things. So that my work could still look POLISHED in black n white would be nice. The way the lines are drawn, thick and jagged, thin yet cuffed with chunky details (say very skinny long boots, but they have THICK buckles). Plusss… jhonen a master of ‘simple headshape’. I would love a simple headshape I can draw from many angles. But it’s a big ask. Especially for multiple dif headshapes. But the Big Bug Eyes, Small Chin, easily diversified but often simplified to a triangle nose, all very nice.

She-Ra probably too realism for what I really want (more fun). But it’s very much an idealized ‘semi-realism but cute’. Love the lil blush mark everyone gets across their face. Diverse body types. Angela and Glimmer main color scheme queens I love. Perhaps I’m more interested in the shows sci-fantasy aesthetic. The backgrounds? Oh god chef kiss. Inspo for hair perhaps. I really wanna draw hair but it’s HARD. show simplifies a lot of beautiful hairstyles across many many characters. It’s got room for study.

**grabs The Aristocats for cat anatomy study only** I would give them bigger eyes.

Tbh. Aggretsuko may just be a good study. Dark thick outer lines. Big expressive heads n faces. Still pretty detailed and cute!

C-could you believe—- The Boondocks. Study how they draw afros and the like. Diverse body types. I really like how they draw clothes and shade in stuff in general (the sort of sharp shading I feel from stuff like jthm too). It’s crisp. Loved Riley’s outfit when he was sellin chocolate (his hood looked like a cloud it was so fluffy). Also EYEBROWS SO GOOD?? How do they do it. (Makes me think of a tumblr artist but I’ll just say Sad Catholic Dog and y’all who know, know). It’s the definition of the forehead muscles ALONG with sharp, defined brows.

OFC. XIAOLIN SHOWDOWN. MY BELOVED. so smooth. So unique in shape language. The swirls everywhere. Hidden yin Yang symbols. Everything given a traditional Chinese aesthetic even if it’s not in China (how often they fly to like, America, but it’s still red tile roofs and that unique palanquin shape, everywhere). Thick lines, I love how they draw hands and how POINTY the shoulders are. Heads just Round as Hell, EASY PEASY.

Scavengers reign biology my beloved. Lines are uniformly thin, colors seem flat at times, but it’s still deep and intriguing. Someone said they draw beards weird but boi I wish I could draw beards at all so BEARD REF.

There’s a ton of shows I haven’t watched that I know would be good for study but I always take my time watching shows. (kipo how long will my brain neglect you, THE COLORS AND VIBE ARE SO UP MY ALLEY, but perhaps it’s the fear of distracting hyperfixation that keep me on a leash).

Lookin to expand style and watched video on it like. ‘Pick features u find important and highlight/focus on em then. Shrink stuff that’s less important’. BIG EYES. BIG MOUTH. LONG LIMBS. FUN HAIR. At least a moderately noteworthy nose zone cause I don’t want em Gone. I WANT. Anime but not it seems. (Always on that semi realism-cartoony-realism triangle somewhere close to semi-real and cartoony. Which is where anime is!!)

But I’m also curious how this idea would correlate to. Drawing animals. Longer limb kitties. Cheshire-like faces. Maybe. Maybe.

[neonovember]

Two Coffee’s

Mafia!au x Steve Rogers

CHAPTERS: 1 2 3 4

summary: your escape to Brooklyn was harboured by secrets and a harrowed past, left abused and betrayed, you accepted your destiny of being swallowed by the crowd. Until the King of New York showed up in front of you and wanted a piece of you for himself.

divider by @firefly-graphics​ !

Taglist 🏷️ (send an ask to be part of my taglist for this series!)

@tinkerbelle67 @patzammit @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @nomadstucky @nessie2183 @shamelessfangirl-3 @namelesssav @marvel-phoenix @euphoric-goddess @roseeatta @abschaffer2  @louderfortheback @stupendouslovegardener @wandamaximoff-simp

It had been several weeks since you and Steve got into a routine, you would meet with him to discuss your husband, and he would be the omnipresent blanket of protection in the form of brooding men in dark cars stationed outside your apartment, the diner, your favourite coffee shop. His presence was present in every vessel and part of your life now, and it seems crazy that just 3 weeks ago you hadn't even down the man.

Now it was like he never left. Now it was like he was a part of your routine.

It’s that thought that lingers as you step outside the diner doors and into the chilly afternoon of the Brooklyn streets. With two cups of steaming coffee in hand, you march with a newfound determination towards the indiscreet black sedan that had been parked on the diner sidewalk since you walked through the doors that morning.

They may not speak to you directly, but you couldn’t find the heart to let them sit around for hours on end with nothing but the car heater and a carton of OJ. Especially against the winter breeze that felt like iced knives against your trembling skin.

You tap on the tinted glass gently, scrutinising the reflection that looked too exhausted and angry to really be you. There is a scuffle before the window is sliding until it reaches a quarter down. The man takes a moment to stare you down, hazel brown eyes with deep burly brows eyeing you before recognition clicks in him.

You’re Steves.

He looks at you expectedly, and you remember why you’re here in the first place, the borderline boiling coffee cups going unnoticed by your freezing hands.

You raise them up with a smile, and his eyes flicker to them. The man sitting in the driver's seat next to him bops his head as he catches your eye. Reaching across the brooding man whose stumbled jaw is currently working itself a beat, the man across from him with light eyes cracks an apologetic smile at his friend before accepting the coffee with a nod.

You don’t miss the bristled expression that adores the man as you hand his partner the drinks, all you can do is smile tightly before the window is sealed shut once again, and the only thing meeting your eyes is your reflection itself.

— -

“3 club sandwiches for table 18 hun, and ask if they'd like today’s apricot cobbler,” Caroline says in a rushed voice as she tied back the loose strands of hair escaping from a not-so-neat ponytail.

“You leaving already?” You reply mournfully, as you watch her sneak a few pastries into her duffel bag.

She whips her head up to look at you, her smile pulled down into a pouting frown

“Aww are you gonna mwiss me?” Caroline bubbles out in a screeching high baby voice.

“Ugh, you know I hate when you do that”

“Why do you think I do it” Caroline replies swiftly, wagging her eyebrows playfully

“Seriously though, I’m the only one on shift for the next” You pull up your sleeve to check your invisible watch “4 hours” You moan, following her as she rummages around the back kitchen searching for her phone charger.

A sound of trump escapes her throat as she eyes the hidden wire under a box of napkins

“No can do my beloved, Ron’s asked me over tonight. I think this time he's finally gonna give in” Caroline replies, as she looks over her shoulder smiling at me.

“You and that man. Jesus Caroline, you know it would be a bit easier to date someone..uh I don't know not married?” You gruff, shaking your head disapprovingly.

Caroline turn’s to you, rolling her eyes half-heartedly

“Not everyone can have Brooklyn's hottest mafia slash bachelor slash billionaire wrapped around our finger” Caroline replies, before laughing at your bugging eyes

I told you to keep that on the low dammit!” You hush at her with your hands, eyes searching the empty kitchen in case of eavesdroppers, or men donned in black. Either one scared the crap out of you.

“You know I would never tell a sole, these lips are sealed” Caroline replies, doing a zipping motion with her fingers

‘Yeah yeah, I do. I just wished you were here in case they- he shows up, you know?” You reply softly, gulping down the fear of even thinking of his name.

A look of recognition comes over Caroline’s features, before it is soon replaced with a fury that screams only fierce loyalty and bad decisions.

“Swear to god, if I ever see that man I’m putting a bullet through his skull” Caroline replies, her auburn brows furrowing with a look of determination that almost had you believing her.

“Mhm, with what? A silicon spatula?” You reply, eyebrows clocking up in disbelief, you used humour to mask all your emotions, not just the messed up ones.

“I was thinking a 47 Remington, maybe a shotgun! If I could just saw off the handle, I think it would look pretty good down his throat, don’t  you?” Caroline smiles with that innocent look, her eyes shining and her cheeks pushing out the dimples on her left side.

“I would pay to see that” You giggle, before pouting your face as she gathers her bag

“You have Hazel on shift don't ya?” She replies as she notices your kicked-dog expression

“Yeah, but she's as helpful as a sac of potatoes. Too busy talking to Daniel to be of any help” You sigh, swiping a hand across your forehead

At the mention of her name, your eyes watch the young waitress leaning over the kitchen counter, loud boisterous laughter leaving her red rubbery lips as she tries and fails to cover her mouth. Her nails are painted a mossy green but are chipped from her constant biting, and every step of hers jingles from the beady jewellery that adorns her neck and ears.

She had gotten the job in less than a day, and spent less time serving customers than she did suggesting songs for Daniel's busted speaker. The power of connections and a pretty face ran especially deep in the service industry.

Being the restaurant manager’s neice also helped.

Caroline turns to you, shaving her hands in your face to squeeze your cheeks

“Worrin’ will give you wrinkles. She’ll help if she knows you need it. Problem is you never ask don't you?” Caroline replies, unwrapping her apron from her waist and hanging it onto the encrusted wooden hooker.

There was truth to Caroline's words, no matter how much you despised them. All your life you had to rely on yourself, didn't matter if you were in the dusty cabin of your mother's home or the ceiling-high walls of your husband's manor. hell accepting even Steves's proposal felt like pulling teeth, despite every day prior wearing you thin with the lack of protection you held walking through the streets of Brooklyn. You'd taken to wearing a hood most days quicker than you did accept Steve's protection.

“Okay well, women in society have largely been told that they are not allowed to age, so guess my wording is really just a fuck you to the world”. You reply, following her out the back kitchen and down the coordinator to the front counter.

Caroline's laugh echoes through the diner, as she smiles across at you.

“There is hope for us yet” She grins, saying a quick bye to Daniel before slamming the diner door behind her.

Not before screaming out to the bustling street side

“Ya hear that world? Y/N says a big FUCK you” 

All you can do is smile brightly as the diner chimes jingle into the growing murmur of the Sunday lunch rush streaming from the diner booth surrounding you.

-- -

“When’s the last time you got laid, Steve?” Rumlows voice echoes in the large office, it's like sandpaper, that voice of his, and it irritates the raging headache pressing against Steve’s temple.

Steve scoffs back a disgruntled noise, shaking his head before flicking through the folded stack of papers left on his desk that morning.

“No, I mean it, they’re usually a sea of women that leave your floor, what happened?” Rumlow edges him, those busy eyebrows rising up in expectation, his bulky frame sitting hunched on the velvet chair across Steve’s.

Steve’s eyes flicker across to Rumlow, searching his face before drifting down to catch the seared tattoo peaking from his rolled sleeve. Rumlow had once been integrated into one of New York's more violent and unstable crime syndicates, the kind that dealt with human trafficking and selling girls like fucking stables.

Steve was already weary of his often violent and ill-tempered mood, the kind that ended up boiling into violent outbursts. But he needed men at the time, and Rumlow was like a trained dog, so he bit back his resignation and enveloped him into the family.

Oh, how he grew to regret it.

“I’m busy, alright, gotta keep fucking Brooklyn from sinking” Steve replies without looking up from his work, swift signature flying over the dotted lines of dock payments and shipments from Budapest.

Rumlow hums, folding his arms across his chest thoughtfully, his eyes linger on Steve’s, analysing him carefully.

“You’re fucking her aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“That girl you’ve got us looking after, a goddamn wife, you know what he’ll do to us if he finds out we’ve got his little wife knee-deep in our shit?” Rumlow spits out, venom lacing his tone as his eyes glint with a certain fire.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Steve’s voice bellow from deep within his chest, but his face is unmoving, his features set in stone that refused to wither into clay.

“C'mon Steve, I know she’s a fine piece of ass but is she really that fucking worth it? I mean you’re putting a lot on stake for some tits-“. Before Rumlow can finish his sentence, a loud crunch envelops the room, Steve's fist flying into Rumlows mouth as he shatters his face.

The immediate scream of pain and anguish fills the room, as blood begins squirting out of  Rumlows nose, spilling down his white shirt and staining it further, Steve has to restrain himself from killing the man for the way he talked about you.

The sound of Rumlows wheezing whimpers is drowned out by the loud stomps of boots against the hallway floors. The door opens with a thunk, slamming into the wall behind it before Bucky steps into the bloodied scene of Steve’s office.

“Fuck sake Steve” Bucky grunts, as his eyes reach Rumlows crouched position on the floor, holding a hand to his nose to try and seize the blood oozing from the imprint of Steve’s fist.

“Clean that shit up” Steve replies before wiping away the blood off his knuckles with a cloth towel, throwing it towards Rumlow.

“You don’t ever speak to her that way alright? Let this be a warning to all of you, what’s my business with her is just that, my own” Steve snarks, flicking off the splatters of blood that landed on his cufflinks.

Rumlow shuffles awkwardly, reaching for the rag with a blind hand before limping out of the office, his dignity and ego left in the pool of blood staining the plush carpet.

Bucky steps closer, his hands shoved into his pocket as he stares unblinking at the stained carpet.

Steve looks towards him, muttering profanities under his breath as he smooths out the wrinkles in his suit.

“What?” Steve asks Bucky, watching on as his closest friend refuses to meet his eye.

“When you have us shuffle in on rotation to watch her like some fucking fast food gig, you don’t think they’ll be asking questions??” Bucky murmurs

“That isn’t why I asked you to watch her now, is it? They're my closest men-you’re my closest man, and you want to question me? Bucky when have I ever done anything stupid? Huh?” Steve replies, eyes searching through the disappointment that covers Bucky’s face.

“Never, but I think you’re about to start now” Bucky replies, anger lacing his tone as he moves out of the room.

As much as it pained him to admit it, there was truth to Rumlow’s words, Steve had made a name for himself as a notorious bachelor who never slept with the same girl twice. He found a certain addiction in the debauchery of sex, but it was never love. Steve fucked because he liked to hear the sound of his name screamed into the city skies, watching the women he’d bring home unravel before him.

Now though, Steve has to take a moment to consider that his bed was left cold through most nights, the mantel and throne of the mafia king consuming him.

-- -

Pushing through the swinging doors of the diner restrooms, you cough out a gag as you breathe a lungful of air sharply. The diner's bathrooms were usually a mess by the time you closed your doors but god did it seem so much worse today.

Your eyes survey the diner for the crowds of patrons that usually occupied the leather booths but find them empty instead, a few drizzled customers sipping a coffee before folding their newspapers and making their way out.

The sun had dipped into the horizon soon after you had walked through the bathroom stalls, but the winter months caused the night to come quicker than ever, basking the outside with a darkness you can't help but shudder against.

Collecting the diner menus, you shove them into the shelving compartment situated near the doors, and as you reach for a washcloth a sudden feeling of eyes searing holes into your back envelops your senses. It feels like you’re being watched, and it feels like you're just now noticing, the suddenly ominous atmosphere created by the foggy darkness outside causing you to gulp. You crane your neck slowly to search for those pair of eyes, but all you can see is your manager’s head bobbing up from the diner counter.

She gestures with a nod for you to come over, and you discard the washcloth on the table before meeting her eyes.

‘I’m going to head out, just serve the last few customers and lock up for me.” Mare replies, wiping a hadn't across her face as she slings a bag across her back.

“Where did Hazel go?” You reply as you notice her absence from the kitchen

“Oh, she had to attend this party or something so I gave her the rest of the night off” Mare replies nonchalantly.

You have to dig your diners into your thigh to stop from throwing a sharp remark. You had to beg Mare to let you stay home after you’d got that flu going around the city, and even then you had to make it up in overtime. And now she was leaving you to clean up the diner all on your own, so much for a positive working environment.

You think about stealing from the register just to spite her, but you know she would find out either way and then you'd be rotting in a jail cell with an officer calling for your husband to come to pick you up and throw you back into your other living hell.

So you bite your tongue and bid her farewell as she exited the diner without a second look.

You register her words soon after, customers? But you had sworn all of them had filed out hours ago. It’s then that you noticed the hunched figure almost lying over the diner counters, and you move swiftly to reach his stool.

The man from before is perched on one of the diner stools, his grip pressing into the counter until his hands were knuckle white. A stringy black wooden jacket now adores his body, a stark difference from the deep coal black of his tailored suit in that car hours ago. It obscures half his face, scrunched up to cover his nose and mouth.

His eyes dart across the now empty diner booths, ears catching every sound like a hawk, the scar stretching across his face like a white hand pinched and relaxed with every turn of his head. 

He’s hiding from something that you know, but you also know he isn't a man to particularly be afraid of getting caught.

Stepping towards him with a tentative shuffle of your feet, you grip your notepad tight around your hand, a tight smile gracing your features as he slowly rises his head from your scuffled converse to meet your eyes.

“What can- what can I get you?” You gulp down the nervousness from your voice, there’s nothing to be afraid of. He wouldn't hurt you- he can’t, Steve had promised. And you don't know why but you take it his word is as good as gold.

“Just a coffee honey, just like the one from before” The man replies, a dead look in his eyes as you note down his order.

“Nothing to eat? I can’t promise you a fresh meal, but we’ve got a few sandwiches I could heat up for you” You reply, you ask just because it's customary, but god you wished he could be out any sooner.

“Haven’t got the appetite ‘m afraid” The man replies, a smile cracks over the ice of his features, that same jagged white scar folding across his face. There's a glint in his eyes that shine against the diner's fluorescent lights, like he knows something you don’t and it scares you to no end.

You nod slowly, before quickly shuffling your body to get behind the kitchen counter. Reaching for a clean ceramic mug, you make quick work of pouring a fresh batch of espresso into the mug, the black liquid swirls like a whirlpool, steam rising from the cup so you have to carry it gently towards his seat. You feel his eyes on you the entire time, and your hands shake a little as you place it out in front of him.

“Anything else?” You say, rocking on the ball of your feet as you watch him carefully.

“I’m all set, thank you” The man smiles up at you, and your eyes furrow at the disingenuous smile that fits all too big on his face, its almost disprorpoatnte like a Halloween mask, all white teeth and dead eyes.

“I would appreciate it if you could join me, however..?” The man adds, eyes meeting yours that burn into you intensely, he still wears that same Cheshire smile, but his eyes, his eyes almost challenge you to say no. To see what would become of you if you did.

“Uhm..I’m on the clock, can’t be chattin’ when I'm meant to be..” You reply, trying to find the right words to say.

“Serving..customers?” The man clocks his eyebrow, turning around to gesture to the empty diner.

“There hasn't been a soul hat walked through those doors ever since you took your little bathroom break honey, so how about you make my crap day just a little brighter by sittin’ with me?” The man frames his proposal like a question, but you know the way he grips the counter tight that he means it as a command.

There is a beat of silence, of you just staring at him, trying to conceal your growing fear before your eyes dart to the diner doors. He catches your eye line, and coughs out a wheezing chuckle, clocking his head to the side.

“You aren’t that dumb, are you?” The man replies in a condescending tone, and you let your failure weigh down your shoulders.

“Follow me” The man replies with a smile, gathering his coffee mug with one hand before pressing the other to the small of your back, causing you to shudder unconsciously. He leads you to one of the booths hidden away from the door, and you sit with your back straight as he leans onto the booth table.

The silence between you both is filled soon with his hurried gulps of coffee, slamming it to the booth table and causing a crack to form like a lightning bolt through the ceramic mug. The violence causes you to finch, and he looks up at you with a grin.

And within a second, the man is quickly unmasking his hoodie from his face, and the scene that confronts you causes a sickening nausea to rise up your throat. The man’s face, which had been obscured by the hoodie earlier, now bears violent bruises and cuts that burst from his nose and jaw like flowers. They glint against the diner booths overhanging light, fresh and still swollen since the object or thing had cracked against his face.

The man grunts at your disturbed expression, slamming a hand down onto the diner counter that causes you to flinch.

“Your fucking protector gave me this, did you know that?” The man snarks with disgust, you're too afraid to meet his eyes but you take in his words slowly.

Your protector? Huh? No… he doesn’t mean-wait

Steve did this?

You can’t dwell on that realisation before the man is rambling to you angrily again

“And for what? You aren’t shit to me, to any of us, and frankly, we’re getting tired of watching your ass mop and clean after fucking truckers and shit. I used to take down fucking men, and I’m here babysitting. I think it’s about time to put out, alright?” He replies a knowing expression across his face that is soon morphed into amusement as he registers your confused expression.

“I mean you do know that’s why he keeps you? Wants to train you to be his little wife like you once were to little old Richerson’s. Or did you think we’d forget about your husband who’s hunting you down hm? Who’s probably going to throw my ass in the Hudson with a missing foot for even talking to you?”

You bristle at the mention of your husband's name, shaking your head as you press your fingertip to your squeezed eyes until you see stars.

No, no no. This was all wrong. Steve said he’d protect you, he had said that. He promised it like his life depended on it, but the truth was, yours did. And now, now he confuses you, your temples start to throb as a headache sets in as it does since that night when you think too hard or try to remember anything from before. Before your husband, before New York, before this very diner booth.

Did Steve really expect you to be some sit-in wife for him? Jump from one prison into another to finally be the last chest piece of his kingdom? You feel sick at the thought, the nausea burning your stomach as you press a hand to your mouth.

“You seriously didn't think you were anything else did you? Women can't be in this world unless they're whores or wives. That’s how it's always been and always will be. Don’t ever think otherwise, or soon you'll just be another fucking useless whore lying fast down in an alleyway” The man grunts, before pushing the cracked coffee mug towards you before rising from his seat, reaching into his pocket to throw a few scrunched bills at you.

“Clean this shit up, and I suggest you start putting out and doing it fast” The man replies, looking down at you before reaching for your chin, raising your face to meet his eyes.

He ticks at the tremble of your lips as you gulp down the nausea and fear still bubbling deep inside you.

“It's a shame really, that such a pretty face goes out like this, you see I didn't want to be the one to tell you this, but he gave me no choice.” The man sighs sadly as if it was the world's burden to carry that information.

“Reckon you could’ve been something if Richardson had not snatched you up like he did all those years ago. Funny how life works though isn't it? Used to be living in tower high walls and now you're scrubbing a dirty restaurant floor”. The man replies softly, yet the words spit out of him like blood, insincerity written all over his face that told you he didn’t feel bad. Not one bit. In Fact, he probably enjoyed it.

He lets go of your chin with a shove, before his loud boots stomp against the linoleum floors, slamming the diner doors behind him with a bang, and leaving you to drown in the ever-growing lies the people you’ve trusted have suffocated you in.

[a-boca-do-inferno]

kindness (logan howlett x reader) [request]

summary: (y/n) crosses paths with a unique stranger twice.

warnings: fluff, slight swearing, a little violence

words: 0.8k

notes: caveman logan my beloved <3

“Can I help you?”, the girl offers a polite smile to the man who has just entered the store. 

He is rather tall and a little ominous looking, with a full brunette beard that covers half of his face, long hair of the same colour contouring his shoulders. She can’t ignore the threadbare clothes he’s wearing; they look almost as if they haven’t been changed or washed in a long time, yet they don’t emanate any stench, curiously. When his eyes meet hers, there’s a frown on his features that’s noticeable through the deep crease between his brows, and she’s already waiting for the rude response to come. Unfortunately, well-mannered customers are not common in her work.  

To her surprise, however, he simply shakes his head and marches toward the back of the store, returning seconds later with some canned beans. He also picks up a lighter hanging from one of the front shelves on his way back, handing the items to her.  

The girl graciously puts them in a bag, offering him another friendly smile as she takes a look at the prices. “That will be five dollars.”  

Her attentive eyes follow his movements in silence as he takes ten bucks out of his pocket, and her fingers unconsciously search the drawer in front of her for the change. Before she can open it, his voice is gravelly and punctuated as he speaks, a faint smile under his thick beard, “keep the change and thank you.” He places the bill on the counter next, giving it a light tap as if to reaffirm his words. 

She blinks once, taken aback by this unusual display of kindness coming from such an unlikely individual. “Thank you”, she simply replies, astonished. The mysterious man turns his back and walks out of the store, without another word.  

The next time she sees him again, it’s later in that evening and they’re both in a dive bar. It was a long week and the girl just wanted to relax a little, have a few drinks and maybe sleep until noon the other day. Her plans were quickly frustrated, though, as some random, visibly drunk guy started catcalling and harassing her to go to his table. She did her best to ignore it and not let him ruin her night, but she finally had enough when he started calling her names for everyone to hear.  

She got up and made her way to the counter to pay her bill; the single beer she was able to have. The man from the store was sitting to her right and they exchanged a brief look, his full beard only allowing her to make out his hazelnut eyes. He gave her a short nod and she responded with a grin, turning her attention back to the bartender. She stretched out her arm to pay him, but as soon as he touched the money, the girl was violently yanked to the side. The impact was strong enough that two glasses fell off the countertop, the shattering sound making some people nearby turn their head to see what was going on.  

“You come here, you little bitch!”, the asshole from earlier spoke, still grabbing her forcefully by the elbow.  

She couldn’t even react properly as a tall, dark shadow passed through her vision, knocking the man out with a single punch. Her arm was free again and she held it to her chest, trembling slightly in fear and surprise. Her eyes met the man from the store’s one more time, and now they seemed to be torn between anger and worry. He came up to her and examined her from head to toe, seeming satisfied with his search when his gaze landed on her dumbfounded face. 

“You alright?”, he inquires, and she can’t help but notice the abismal difference between his soft tone of voice and the hard, deep crease on his forehead. 

The girl clears her throat, smiling a bit. “I am, thank you for that”, her eyes turn to the guy still on the floor, but they quickly go back up. “You’ve been good to me twice now and I don’t even know your name, mister.” 

There is a moment of pause until he seems to get over some fleeting conflict in his head, his expression softening. “Call me Logan.” 

What a beautiful and fitting name. “Thank you, Logan”, she says, savouring the foreign word in her mouth. She offers him another gentle smile and for the first time, he responds in kind, wrinkles appearing in the corner of his eyes. She can’t help but notice he suddenly doesn’t appear so ominous anymore.  

Logan then points with his chin at her money on the counter, forgotten by the bartender during the whole mess. And just when she thought he couldn’t surprise her anymore that day, his soothing tone catches her off guard yet again, “c’mon, let me buy you a drink.” 

[x-infernhoes-x]

Dangerous Game- Dominic x Reader [SMUT]

Dominic aka Hot Aswang Leader, Abswang, Zadddy Aswang x Reader

Warnings (?):  Smut, Blood, Biting, Implied Relationship, Implied Consent, Dominic being slightly possessive? M A R K I N G S, Oral (female receiving), THEY BE GOING AT IT NON-STOP

Genre: Good Ol’ Fashioned Forbidden Love (if there’s a genre like that LMAO)

Description: I wrote this at 3:40 am last night while listening to Dangerous Game from the Broadway Musical, Jeykll and Hyde and my brain immediately went, why not coconut? So have this little brain fart I just got when I’m supposed to be sleeping. Come get y’alls juice Dominic simps. Also, reader is AFAB but I’ll try my hand at a gender-neutral one if ever I get possessed by the spirits of determination, diligence and inspiration. Also included a Bridgerton reference there and maybe an Ang Darling Kong Aswang reference too kasi why the fuck not.

PS. I’ve managed to finish this up sometime around 2:45 am today and yes I did sleep last night/yesterday and no, I didn’t spend my whole weekend writing this fic. Maybe.

He knew this was all sorts of wrong from the start and yet here he was, standing within the bed chambers of the woman he burns for more than anything in this world and a strong and almost otherworldly desire that only could be satiated by being with her. Dominic knew that his kind and his lover’s kind would be at odds due to how their nature was as a creature of the night to prey on humans. Although despite this, he was feeling hopeful that his relationship with his beloved would last. As the Aswang Prince, he was well aware that was happening around the clans he ruled over and he also knew of the union of Elisa who happened to be one of his people and her now husband, Victor. He also knew about the bloodshed that had taken place during that time and how it led to the civil unrest and rebellion within the tribes of his kind that rages on up until this day.

The wind from the open window where he had come from seemed to rage on and about outside as if there was a storm brewing. There before him stood (y/n) clad in her sleepwear with her back facing him, dark eyes wide in disbelief and brows furrowed in uncertainty and the Aswang Prince could tell from the way she stood and presented herself that she was thinking about the same thing as him. Shrugging off his coat, he then took a step forward towards his beloved who seemed to be unmoving before him, strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, his sharp nails gently running down the tense woman’s arms, back before halting to a stop on her neck and stomach with a gentle yet vice-like grip, his face gently nuzzling against her warm skin, breathing in her scent like a drug.

I feel your fingers- Brushing my shoulder- Your tempting touch, As it tingles my spine- Watching your eyes As they invade my soul- Forbidden pleasures I'm afraid to make mine.

“D-Dominic, what are you doing…?” His lover would ask, trying her best to pull herself away from the prince, breath hitched in her throat, soft lips trapped in between her teeth. “Hindi natin tong pwedeng ipagpatuloy….delikado na.” Tilting her head towards him, Dominic responded to her, breath ghosting over her lips, “I know…Pero wala na akong pakilam kung mahuli pa tayong dalawa.” Before he would bestow his lover a searing and passionate kiss hotter than the flames of hell and the santelmo could ever conjure, his hands relinquishing their hold upon her throat as they made their way down past her shoulders, breasts and stomach only to disappear between the valley of her thighs where his fingers would make quick work of her folds, already dripping wet with her arousal, making his lover groan out in pleasure, his hips bucking against her backside.

At the touch of your hand- At the sound of your voice- At the moment your eyes meet mine- I am out of my mind- I am out of control- Full of feelings I can't define!

With Dominic’s left hand still relentlessly working upon his lover’s heat, he could feel (Y/N)’s hands attempt to push him away once more, her chest heaving and skin flushed a deep red, letting out a fragile keen of his name escape her lips before he took a step back once he felt her tug on his jeans, a hint for him to take off what was left of his clothing, the thick plume of desire that once clouded his mind seemed to dissipate when he felt his own arousal escape the confines of his now discarded garments as he let out a moan of his own once he saw (Y/N) drop her night dress to the ground, awakening something primal within him, eyes drinking in every single curve, dip and imperfections that his lover had. To him, (Y/N) was the most beautiful woman he had set his sights on regardless of what she would say and it was pretty ironic to say that an Aswang like him was starting to believe that God was real and that God was definitely a woman that took the form of his lover who was perfect in every way.

It's a sin with no name- Like a tiger to tame And my senses proclaim It's a dangerous game!

With their lips pressed together in a heated kiss that seemed to drive them both wild, the raven haired Prince of the night drew back with a low snarl, his teeth trapping her lips between his enough to draw blood as he pulled away with a smirk, the dark red liquid staining both of their lips as he spoke, voice raspy and deep, “I’ll make sure that you’ll only feel me and only me tonight and leave marks on your skin as a symbol of my love. Sa akin ka lang at ako sayo, naiintindihan mo ba?” his words seemed to send chills down the quivering woman’s spine as he dragged his sharp nails down against her soft flesh, his lips and occasionally his tongue and fangs would trail lower and lower, his face disappearing between her legs, eating her out like a starved beast, his nose brushing against the soft bundle of nerves, hands gripping her thighs and hips tightly with his unnatural strength, his nails dug into her flesh, which left miniscule bleeding marks where Dominic held her, his eyes boring into hers, drinking in the sounds (Y/N) made like fine wine.

It's a sin with no name- Like a tiger to tame And my senses proclaim It's a dangerous game! A darker dream That has no ending Something unreal That you want to be true.

They’ve done this a million of times but Dominic would never get tired of hearing his lover’s needy pleas for him whenever they made love like this, his fingers would tease her entrance relentlessly, watching her squirm and thrash upon her mattress with an almost sadistic delight. He loved how she would beg for him, how her body reacted to his fervent touches and how breathless she would get after he would kiss her. He loved every second of it and it was safe to say that Dominic was proud of himself to be able to make his beloved to become like this and all for his eyes only. After a few more flicks of his devilishly talented tongue, Dominic then pulled away a grin plastered on his face while his partner mewled rather pathetically, almost as if to ask him why he ceased his relentless teasing just as she was this close on reaching her much needed release and was surprised to feel two of his fingers enter her, curling and twisting inside of her clenching walls that made Dominic groan the same time his love had yelped and screamed his name out like a desperate prayer and all at once his fingers came out of her with a satisfying ‘pop’, admiring how her juices coated his fingers and glistened in the dim lighting of her room like ambrosia.

A strange romance Out of a mystery tale The frightened princess Doesn't know what to do!

Does she just run away? Does she risk it and stay? Either way, there's no way to win! All I know is, I'm lost And I'm counting the cost My emotions are in a spin! And though no one's to blame...

“Here, have a taste of yourself.” Dominic stated, pressing his fingers against (Y/N)’s lips, which of course the overstimulated woman took in with such eagerness, sucking on his digits like how she would suck on a lollipop, her gaze hazy and pupils blown, almost turning themselves as dark as the night and that was enough for Dominic to enter her without warning but had enough preparation for him, her moans silenced by the fingers that were still in her mouth, her tongue now swirling around them making him growl against the junction of her shoulder and neck, his fangs piercing the skin there as well before he pulled his fingers away from her mouth, replacing it with his own, not minding the slight metallic taste from the incisions he had left a few moments ago.

It's a crime and a shame! But it's true, all the same It's a dangerous game!

No one speaks- Not one word- All the words are in our eyes Silence speaks Loud and clear- All the words we want to hear! It was an all lips, tongue and teeth type of kiss that seemed to flare both of their senses up into overdrive and making the lovers both drunk and high off of the euphoria they were sharing. Both of their bodies rocking against each other, their hands grasping whatever their fingers could touch, grab and tug at. Dominic could feel (Y/N)’s nails run down from his shoulders and down to his back, edging him to go as fast as he could on her, his hair sticking haphazardly onto his now sweaty skin, hips furiously slamming into her with no breaks at all. Dominic was living for it and this action alone made him hoist (Y/N)’s leg up to rest upon his shoulder while the other one snuck behind her, reeling the woman in closer by her haunches, both of them moaning in delight. At that moment they both couldn’t care less about the sounds they made, the important thing was that they were both here together, regardless of what the consequences that would soon bestow upon them.

What happened next between them was all a blur save for the things they’ve done in one whole night. Dominic took (Y/N) to great heights with him making love to her continuously, he had her pressed against the wall with him taking her from behind, on the floor, on her dresser, on every possible surface and position he could think of down to the point where the two of them did it in front of the mirror where he would watch his length disappear within her and the way her breasts would bounce every single time he would thrust into her, his hand would grip on her throat and would tighten slightly, lips would ghost over her ear whispering a string of curses and words that would give Satan himself a run for his money and his lover would respond to every word he would say with a moan or a mantra of his name and it was a sign that she was close, coming for whatever time that night and he was nearing his climax too from the way he was holding her against him.

I am losing my mind- I am losing control- Full of feelings I can't define! It's a sin with no name Like a tiger to tame and though no one's to blame It's a crime and a shame And the angels proclaim It's a dangerous game!

“D-dom, I-I’m close!!” (Y/N) cried out with tears in her eyes the moment Dominic had thrown her upon her bed, her toes curling and hands balled up into fists, . “Then come with me, my love. I w-want to see you break.” The prince would respond as he pulled her into a tight embrace, still rocking against her like there was no tomorrow and soon enough, they both came together leaving (Y/N) mumbling out his name like a babbling child, her insides coated with his own juices as she shakily held into her, both trembling from the extreme ecstasy they both felt.

Once they both had come down from their respective highs, the Aswang Leader could only pull his face back from its previous position from (Y/N)’s shoulder, his touch soft and light as he brushed away some strands away from her face with a soft smile as the two basked in the afterglow of their passionate love making, the two would merely hold entwine each other’s hands as a silent promise to never let go of each other before Dominic pressed a sweet kiss upon it. “Mahal kita.” He spoke firmly, eyes full of love, warmth and vulnerability that only she was allowed to see as the female responded with a kiss and a soft smile before saying, “Mahal din kita, Dominic.”  And soon the two lovers fell asleep, with their bodies pressed up against each other.

It's a dangerous game! Such a dangerous game...

[assassins-and-hidden-blades]

Miracles -- Part 3

07/04/2021: Here it is!! The one, the only, the... 6.1k words of purely self indulgent protective!Jacob (lowkey been doing it for everyone and their mother except for when with the reader and idk why bc i dig that shit too)

I really hope you guys enjoy this, because I loved writing it!! There's a chance I could sneak in a last chapter if people wanted that? Feedback would be greatly appreciated!! This is super long, so sit down and get comfy :)

Pry these commas from my cold, dead hands tho. Also, I HC Jacob to be predominantly left-handed, but that's just me aha.

Warnings: Bit of violence, swearing, corporal punishment, arson (without giving too much away)

Tagging: @marshmallow--3 // @missingfrye // @ct-5445 // @iceboundstar // @rahdaleigh // @pink-polarfox // @b3k1720 // @itseivwhore // @sofiewithat // @missbenzayb

Assassin's Creed Mobile Masterlist

Red Dead Redemption 2 Mobile Masterlist

Part 1 HERE, Part 2 HERE

The night was cold.

You retreated further under the blankets, turning to rest your head on your beloved’s chest. You wore an oversized shirt, and he wore a loose pair of breeches. His arm pulled you closer, fingers stroking your bicep. In turn, you traced the Rook painted on his chest. “Jacob?”

He turned to gaze down at you, lips inches from your forehead. “Yes, my love?”

“My family have written to me; they would like me to visit them in Warwick.”

“Your family lives quite far,” Jacob remarked, smiling adoringly at you. “Will you and Lily be alright travelling by yourselves?”

You sighed. “That’s the problem.” Sitting up, you gently grasped Jacob’s hand, playing with his fingers. “They don’t know that Lily exists, and I have no chance of telling them that I have a child without the status of ‘wife’.”

“I see…” Jacob watched you trace the lines on his hand. “Is there anything I can do?”

Propose, you idiot.

“Could you look after Lily while I’m away?”

“On my own?” His fingers tightened around yours.

“I trust you with her, Jacob. You’re the only one I can trust her with.”

He sucked in a breath. “Are you sure?”

“Stop doubting yourself.” You kissed his temple. “Besides, she adores you; she’ll listen to you.”

“Alright then. It’s decided.”

“Thank you, my love. However can I make it up to you?”

Sensing the humour in your tone, Jacob winked. “I can think of a few things.”

You laughed to yourself as you blew out your candle, the darkness enveloping the room as you pulled yourself closer to Jacob, the security of his arms lulling you to sleep.

----------

Before you knew it, you were packing a carriage with your luggage, setting off for the journey ahead. Jacob was standing in the doorway of your house, Lily resting on his hip. “Mama, do you have to go?”

“Sweetheart, if I don’t, then horrible Aunt Susan will come marching all the way down here herself, and we don’t want that, do we?” Lily shook her head, giggling.

“She’s not the only one who’s going to miss you.” Jacob wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. Smiling, he dipped his head to lock his lips with yours.

“Yuck!”

The both of you pulled apart, chuckling.

“Well, I best be going. Don’t get into any trouble; I know what you both are like unsupervised.”

Sharing mischievous looks, they began to wave as you got into the carriage.

“Bye, Mama!”

“Safe travels, my love!”

You watched as they recede from view, the picture of your perfect family playing in your mind as hooves against cobblestone played in your ears.

As soon as the carriage turned the corner, Jacob turned to Lily. “What do you fancy doing?”

Lily giggled. “I have school!”

Jacob mockingly rolled his eyes. “That is the worst answer I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you saying I can skip?”

As much as he’d want to say yes, you would have punted him six ways from Sunday. “‘fraid not, love.” He took her inside. “But I can promise that afterwards, I’ll take you to get iced cream.” Lily cheered in victory before she hopped down, scurrying to collect her things for the day ahead.

----------

Jacob walked Lily to school that morning, keeping her on his left and away from the curb. He grasped her hand firmly, lest she get lost in the rushing crowd. When he approached the building, he saw various parents saying goodbye to their children, as well as some children arriving on their own.

He knelt down to her height, tidying her windswept appearance with a reassuring grin. “You have a good day, alright?”

Smiling widely, she nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Papa.”

Wait, what?

Jacob’s breath caught in his throat. Lost for words, he kissed her head and returned the hug tenfold. “I love you, angel.”

“Love you too!”

The bell rang moments after, causing Lily to pull away. “Don’t be late!” Waving, she ran to catch up with her friends and disappeared into the building. Standing up, Jacob cleared his throat and tugged on his waistcoat to compose himself, though he could barely stifle his grin. The warmth in his heart engulfed his chest. He walked past the rest of the parents as if he were walking on clouds, his happiness fixed for the day.

----------

“What’s got you in such a good mood today?” Evie asked her brother, watching incredulously as she found him tidying his train carriage.

“Oh, nothing.” Although his tone was dismissive, his face told a completely different story.

“Did you… have a good night?”

“Oh, no.” Chuckling, he sifted through the papers on his desk. “Y/N’s headed to Warwick.”

Puzzled, Evie tilted her head. “Free beer?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘P’.

“Come on, then; what is it? You can’t expect me to keep guessing forever.”

Restraining himself from jumping for joy, he turned to his sister. “Lily called me ‘Papa’.”

Evie’s face lit up. “Oh, Jacob, that’s lovely! Does this mean you’ll…” She mimicked opening a ring box.

Blushing, he nodded, a toothy grin plastered on his face. “I’m excited, Evie. I… I need to sit down.”

He leaned back on the sofa, tossing his hat beside him. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “Are you alright?” Evie took a chair to sit opposite him.

“I… I’ve never felt this much joy in my life.”

“Jacob Frye, you’re practically speechless.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“You have to buy the rings before Y/N comes back.”

“I will. Maybe Lily will want to come with me. Not yet, though; I don’t want to spring the news on her immediately.”

Evie began to talk about the type of engagement ring you would find the most appealing, but Jacob had all but zoned out. He was fidgeting with the iron band on his right index finger, engraved on the inside with the Assassin’s Insignia. Barely thinking, he removed it and switched hands, sliding it on his ring finger.

He was going to get married. You were going to be his wife.

“What if she doesn’t say ‘yes’?” A sudden anxiety clutched his heart as he looked up in worry.

Evie was stunned into silence. “What are you talking about?! Of course she’s going to say yes!”

“She has a child to think about; what if she doesn’t want to get married at all?”

“Jacob,” she sighed. “She knows you’d do anything for Lily. You’ve done it right from the beginning.” He shifted in his seat as a phantom pain clutched his side, remembering his tussle with Thomas Lynch. “She would be insane not to want someone like you as a husband, and as a father to her child.”

“When did you learn to talk like that?” Jacob smirked.

“When you’re the eldest, you learn a thing or two.”

“Bullshit.” He scoffed, but wordlessly thanked her for the reassurance.

“Knock knock.” Eyes fixed on the doorway as Henry peered around the corner. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I need some papers from Jacob.”

“Right; which ones?” He stood up and closed the two meter gap to the pile of half sorted paperwork.

“The ones on James Brudenell.”

���Who?” He frowned.

“Lord Cardigan.”

“Oh, that prick…” He thumbed through the various files, quickly getting to the end with no sign of the desired intel. “I must’ve left it at the house. I’ll head off there now and bring them to you tomorrow.”

“Can you not come back straight away?”

“I need to get to the school; there won’t be enough time. I’m taking Lily out for that new iced cream.” Evie quirked her lips into a knowing smile. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she shrugged.

Shaking his head, Jacob grabbed his hat and opened the door, watching the train slow into the station. “See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget the--”

“The papers, yes, I’ll get them!” By then, he had already jumped onto the platform, disappearing into the crowd.

----------

On the stroll back to the house, Jacob checked his pocket watch, planning his time accordingly. He’ll find the papers, finish the paperwork that should’ve been completed two weeks ago, and head to the school.

The street seemed unusually quiet at this time in the afternoon, but Jacob only grew concerned when he noticed a lack of Rooks. Usually, there would be more and more scattered around the closer he grew to the house, but so far he could count them all on one hand. A scuffling from behind him pricked at his ears. He spun, brows furrowed, but the road was empty, save for a carriage calmly trotting past. He used it as a reassurance that he was probably acting paranoid, and continued where he was heading, albeit at a faster pace.

The secure feeling he felt upon approaching the house eased the weight on his chest. Pulling out his key, he wasted no time in disappearing inside. It was quiet without you, and there was the familiar longing he felt in his heart. Sighing, he mentally crossed off another minute until he could hold you in his arms again.

He moved upstairs and into his study. At the prospect of spending more time with him, you jumped at the chance to make a spare empty room a working office. He hung his jacket and hat on a coat rack, taking a seat at the desk. The natural light coming through the window landed perfectly on the wood, illuminating the workspace without the need for candles. Jacob searched his drawers, finding the file with relative ease. He grabbed a dip pen, opened an ink pot, and quickly began scrawling details down.

He was lost in thought at the memory of his encounter with Lord Cardigan when a crude knocking hit the door downstairs. Jacob froze, focusing on the noise outside. All business was kept around the train; he sternly told Evie and Henry not to give out the address to anyone. The only other people who would have had an idea where he was were the Rooks stationed around the street, but they were loyal -- were they not as trustworthy as he thought? Who was at the door?

Harsher thuds against the door made his heart leap. He moved slowly; inch by inch, he stood and crept towards the door, pulling out the cane from his coat as quietly as he could. His boots barely made a sound as he headed down the stairs, hand calmly turning the knob to open the door.

On the other side stood two gentlemen, waiting almost expectantly. “Can I help you?” Jacob asked, tone laced with suspicion.

The two exchanged looks before one started to speak. “Pardon me, sir, but would you be interested in purchasing some humbugs? We’re opening a new shop not too far from here. We thought we could go from door to door to begin our business endeavours.”

Eyes flitting between the two, unease began to set in. “No, thank you.”

“Understood. Have a nice day.” The other tipped his hat and turned to leave as Jacob slowly shut the door again.

“What…?” He’s had bankers act more persuasive than these men. They did not seem that interested in sales. His eyes scanned the room, as if that would give him answers to a most peculiar interaction. In a second, his heart jumped as they landed on the clock. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be late to pick up Lily. He grabbed his coat and hat from upstairs and burst out of the door, rushing in the direction of the school.

----------

He made the journey by the skin of his teeth, jogging almost the entire way. As soon as he approached, the bell rang, and children began to flood out of the doors. He stood by a tree and scanned the children as they continued to rush out. A few moments later, Lily emerged, nervously clutching her hands together as she scanned the adults around her. Jacob frowned and walked towards her, concern growing. He could see the upset growing as she at first couldn’t see him. “Lily!”

As soon as she heard her name, her gaze immediately landed on the source and took off running towards him. He knelt just in time for her to jump into his arms, face hiding in his neck. “Hey, are you--” He was cut off by the sound of sobs. “Okay, alright, it’s alright, angel.” Confused, he picked her up and went to sit on a bench overlooking the playground, shushing her gently.

Cradled in one arm, Jacob used his free arm to reach into his pocket, bringing out his flask. “Take a drink, sweetheart.” She gingerly took the container, taking a few gulps of the fresh water inside. “Now, tell me what happened.” He tried to speak softly, to not provoke more tears.

“I didn’t do it! They think I did, but I didn’t!”

“What didn’t you do?”

“Throw a rock.”

“Even if you did do that, it’s only a rock.”

“It hit the teacher!”

Jacob was silent for a minute. If they thought she pelted a rock at the teacher, there would have been harsh punishments…

“Please believe me; I promise I didn’t do it!”

Shocked, Jacob pulled her closer. “Of course I believe you! Why wouldn’t I?” His eyes landed on her fists, which have barely opened since he saw her, save for the flask. “Can I see your hands?”

She nodded, and Jacob shifted her against his shoulder so he could use both hands as he slowly uncurled her fingers. Her palms were a stark red, the clear markings of a cane riddled her skin almost completely; and they looked like the instrument hit hard. He quietly asked for the other one, inspecting them with the care one would give to a newborn, brows furrowing at the sight. Lily watched his eyes moving constantly across her hands. The thought of letting her father down ushered tears to the surface. Jacob’s eyes caught hers watering. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love. Do you know who really did it?”

Nodding slowly, she pointed to the playground to a boy who was laughing by a group of children who were playing with marbles. “Oliver.”

“Okay.” The two of them stayed there for a while as Lily continued to calm down.

Just as Lily began to smile at Jacob’s conversation, a shadow overcame the both of them. Jacob felt her recoiling into his side. He looked up to see a weathered looking man with a styled moustache and a stiff looking suit, a hand against the back of his head. “So, she’s yours.” The slight tone of disapproval channeled an urge of protectiveness inside him. He sat Lily behind him on the bench as he stood toe to toe with the teacher.

“Is there a problem?” Jacob’s eyes assessed the man from head to toe, noting the thin cane that he leaned on.

“You should be ashamed of your daughter’s behaviour.”

“Why? She did nothing wrong.”

“On the contrary…” Turning around, he removed the cloth on his head, revealing a jagged cut along the back of his head.

“It wasn’t me, sir! It really wasn’t!” Lily was begging for her teacher to believe her.

“Then who was it?”

Lily stood up on the bench still hiding behind Jacob’s shoulder but managing to equal his height. “Him.”

Her finger showed Oliver laughing at someone who had tripped over a skipping rope.

“Do you really think that she would do something like this?” Jacob raised an eyebrow.

Neither agreeing or disagreeing, he instead gestured with his cane. “I’m watching you, Y/L/N.” Jacob narrowed his eyes. “I would be mindful of your attitude towards my daughter.”

Grumbling, the teacher turned and walked away. “Oliver!”

“Th-Thank you.” A sniffling from behind him softed his face and melted his heart.

“Let’s go, angel. There’s some iced cream with our name on it.”` He hoisted Lily on his hip and headed in the direction of home, hoping that the anger would dissipate with each passing step.

----------

The house came into view shortly after Jacob left the sweet shop, two cardboard pots of the cold dessert in their hands. “This is delicious!” Lily was almost her normal self again over the journey home, relinquishing details of the day as they closed the short distance to the house. Placing Lily on the floor, he took out his key and pushed it into the lock, turning the knob. Without turning the key, the door opened. He must’ve forgotten to lock it when he left the house earlier. Brushing it off, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside for Lily to enter first. He checked the rest of the street one more time for anything out of the ordinary before shutting and locking the door behind him, acting safe rather than sorry.

A slight smell filled his nose as he walked into the room. It was barely there, but he could smell something. Unfocusing his eyes, he watched as colours flooded his vision. Looking around, he couldn’t spot anything strange right away, but the smell was in the air and it set him on edge. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes. He had felt more emotion in one day than he had for a long time, and his body had worn him out. “Are you hungry, Lily?”

She sat at the kitchen table. “A little bit.”

“Anything you particularly fancy tonight?”

“Hmm… Sausages and potatoes!”

Jacob chuckled at her excitement. “Consider it done, my lady.”

----------

Dinner was over and done with by the time the sun set below the skyline. Jacob helped Lily get ready for bed before tucking her in. “When’s Mama coming home?” she asked, playing with Jacob’s hair.

“Hopefully in a few days; Warwick is surprisingly far, even by carriage.”

“Thank you. For believing me.”

Jacob smiled sombrely. “I will always believe you. That also reminds me…” He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a small pot of salve. “May I?” Lily offered her hands, and Jacob gently rubbed the ointment over her raw skin.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s supposed to get rid of the pain. How do they feel?”

She nodded. “Good.”

As he returned the salve to the table, he took a breath, steeling himself to give either the best news or the worst news.

“How would you feel… if I asked your mother--”

“To marry you?!” Her eyes widened, her smile reaching her ears. “Yes!”

She jumped out of the covers to hug Jacob tightly. He reciprocated, closing his eyes to savour the moment. “Please ask her,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Giggles filled the air as he pulled the covers over her again.

“Thank you, for letting me in.”

“You make Mama happy. That’s all I want.”

Jacob sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re wise beyond your years.” He leant down to kiss her forehead. “Goodnight, angel.” He stood up and blew out the candle.

“Goodnight, Papa.” Lily didn’t miss the way Jacob’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, shutting the door quietly.

He poked his head into his study, sighing when he saw his half-finished paperwork that needed to be handed to Greenie the next morning. Every fibre in his being resisted, but he knew his procrastination would catch up to him eventually. So he sat down, lit a candle, and tried to wrap everything up in as little time as possible.

About half an hour went by before Jacob finished the long overdue paperwork. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he went downstairs to the spare room he kept his bedclothes in. He fell backwards onto the bed. “Just five minutes…” he bartered with himself, resting his eyes.

----------

A scream made his blood run cold.

Bolting upright, Jacob immediately noticed plumes of smoke coming in from underneath the door, the burning smell inviting a cough from his lungs.

The house was on fire.

He lunged for the doorknob, the metal quickly searing his skin. His fingers clenched around the knob reflexively. “Ah, fuck!” He shook out his hand, watching as the flesh blistered in front of his eyes. Turning around, he dug around in the chest of drawers for extra clothes to wrap around the knob, turning and pulling swiftly before the heat travelled through the fabric. The door burst open. Jacob ducked as the flames whipped around the open space, newly fed by the released oxygen. Fresh smoke engulfed the room; Jacob inhaled a lungful as it blew towards him. He cleared his chest as he fanned the smoke away. Wrapping the clothes around his arm as a guard, he braced himself and ran upstairs, only one thing on his mind.

“Lily?!” The flames had almost completely engulfed the lower floor; he was surprised and relieved that he had managed to dodge any falling debris. “Lily!” He covered the metal with the clothes as he reached her door, slowly peeling the door away and slipping through as small a gap as he could, avoiding the mistake he made earlier. He closed the door behind him, the air luckily cleaner in her bedroom. “Lily, where are you?!”

He checked under the bed, and began to grow panicked when he couldn’t find her. He heard the scream, but nothing else. What if…

He swallowed, trying to ease the tight band in his chest.

Opening the wardrobe, he practically collapsed in relief when he saw Lily cowering in the corner. “Come to me, angel.” She dived into his arms, quivering in fear. “It’s alright, we’ll get out. I need you to be brave for me, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice was shaking.

He looked around for a quick exit, eyes landing on a window. He led Lily over and unlatched it, pushing it with his uninjured hand, albeit with difficulty. Leaning out, the air cleansed his lungs. He hoisted Lily onto the windowsill to give her fresher air, holding her to make sure she doesn’t fall out. She clutched onto him tightly. He noted how it opened into an alleyway. He heard the bells of police and fire engines around the front of the house.

“HEY! OVER HERE!” A man peered around the corner. “HEY! HELP!”

“We can’t fit the ladder through here! You have to go around the front!”

Jacob blinked. “Have you gone mad?!”

“There’s a small window around the front, looks like the landing. You better make a move before it’s no longer an option!”

“Can’t you just climb down?” Lily mumbled, mind in shock.

Jacob inspected his blistering palm; it felt as if he was still holding the doorknob. Slowly, he put pressure on his hand against the windowsill. The pain immediately bubbled up his arm. Biting his lip, he tried to pull himself onto the windowsill. With his weight, it was maybe possible, since he could drop higher than normal and roll once he hit the floor. With Lily, that wasn’t an option.

“I can’t risk it.”

“Well?!” The man was still there, watching him.

“Be ready!” Jacob pulled Lily into him. “I need you to breathe into this, alright, angel?” She nodded slowly. He gave her one of the shirts wrapped around his arm. “Close your eyes.”

“Should I count to ten?”

“It shouldn’t take any longer, love.”

Taking a second to compose himself, he wrapped his hand up and opened the door, squeezing through as little as he could before shutting the door again. He made a beeline for the end of the hall, dodging the flames as they grew nearer, licking the edge of the wooden floor. Reaching the window was the easy part. The hard part was opening the damn thing. It felt heavier than it usually did, and he strained his free hand to push it to the top. Outside, firemen were already level with the window, waiting for the two of them to emerge.

“One of you at a time.” Without hesitating, Jacob leaned out of the window, one arm reaching Lily out of the window, while the other stopped him from falling out himself.

Just as the firemen approached, Jacob heard a crack above him. “Take her. Take her now!” The urgency in his voice paid off, as he jumped out of the way of a falling support beam, blocking his way out. He hit the floor, covering his face as embers flew around him

Lily crying out caused his heart to flip, but he managed to catch a glimpse of her safely in the arms of the firemen. “No! PAPA!” His anxiety eased slightly, but only just. He scrambled to his feet just as the beam crumbled completely, blocking the window from view.

“Shit!” Coughing, Jacob looked around for another exit. His mind thought back to Lily’s bedroom; he could probably climb down carefully one-handed if he was quick enough. His study also seemed to be the furthest from the rest of the flames.

However, he was on borrowed time.

Downstairs was fully demolished; there was no way out there. Upstairs was closing in on him fast, the heat beginning to singe the hair on his arms and sear his skin. He ran for his study, narrowly avoiding falling debris. As he slammed the door shut, he was relieved at the sight of the room being unscathed. For now. He looked over the papers; they were definitely worth taking.

He emptied his desk of the files and stuffed them in a satchel that hid under his desk. He worked tenderly with his burned hand, careful not to aggravate the wound more than he already had. He coughed some more as he slid the satchel over his head, tightening the strap so it would lay fast against his back. As the cold leather touched his skin, he hissed. The flames must have licked him on the way in. He turned to check how much time he had left.

The fire had crept inside the doorframe, taunting him in a turbulent tango.

Jacob hurried for the window, looking for the latch. His fingers felt around the edge, but he couldn’t feel anything. He tried pushing, with no luck. Does this window not even open?!

Frantic, his non-dominant and uninjured hand went for the first thing that he could always rely on.

Two wide shots rang out, cracking the glass in a spider-web mosaic. He moved to shatter the glazing, but the world began to spin. Knees wobbling, he fell against his desk, hitting the floor. Coughing hurt, breathing hurt, thinking hurt.

But he was so close.

He blinked away the world that spun around him, shakily getting to his feet. He threw the force of his whole arm into the window, the gun providing the force to break the shards completely. Clearing the way for his hands, Jacob holstered the gun and slowly began the climb onto the roof.

He wasn’t dying. Not today.

Wincing every other second, he pulled himself half-heartedly onto the tiles. Jacob took a second to try and stabilise his vision, securing extra fabric around his hand. He manWeuvered his way around the burning holes, hoping instead to find a way down that doesn’t involve jumping or falling.

Unfortunately for him, that choice was made for him.

A tile came loose under his foot. He slipped, the edge of the roof coming almost too soon for him to react. His fingers grasped the gutter, which did nothing but snap under his weight. Upon hitting the ground, Jacob managed to roll, but instead of ending on his feet, he slumped across the floor. Groaning, he lay still as he recollected himself. To anyone else, he looked dead.

A pained cry set his heart pumping again, yet he didn’t realise at first that the cry was because of him, not for him. Light footsteps rushed over to him. “Pa? Papa?” He felt fingertips dance across his cheek. “Please wake up!”

He reached for the source of the voice. “I’m okay. Are you alright?” He managed to open his eyes to check over Lily’s state. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin was dirtied in soot, and one of her hands was bleeding. “Has anyone said they would help you with this?”

She shook her head, the worry not leaving her face. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be; it’s over now.” He began the arduous process of standing up; from his stomach to his hands to his knees to his feet. Offering his hand to her, Jacob led the two of them out into the street. When everyone gathered in the street saw them, they cheered. Rooks quickly came to assist Jacob and pick up Lily, but he waved them away. He limped his way to the ambulance wagon waiting in front of them. Lily was hoisted onto the end while Jacob leaned heavily against the side. Lily faced him for reassurance.

“Mr Frye, sir!” He tilted his head as little as he could to get a view of who was calling his name. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine; just a bit singed.” He tried to joke, but the pain in his face betrayed his laidback attitude. He grasped his ribs, as if it would ease the burn on the inside. “Where’s Evie?”

“As soon as we heard what happened, we sent for her. She should be here any minute now.”

“Lily goes with Evie. As soon as she shows up, take her to the train. She’ll be safe there.” Another hard cough shook his chest.

“With all due respect, are you sure you’re well?”

“I’m… I…” The floor was ripped from under him. Jacob’s knees buckled as his vision went black. After a few seconds, he came to. The Rooks had caught him on the way down. Disorientated, he blinked, trying to process what was going on around him.

He heard a familiar voice. “Where are they?” Rooks wrapped Jacob’s arms around their necks, pulling him to the edge of the wagon. He barely registered arms pulling him from behind to lie down. He noted how he was staring up at the stars.

“Evie!” A young, panicked yell drove Jacob to sit up, but hands pushed him back down against the wood.

“You don’t want to make things any worse, Mr Frye.”

His body jolted between consciousness and unconsciousness as Evie came into view. She also looked worried. “Jacob? I’ve got Lily; she’ll be safe. I’ll come to the hospital as soon as I can.” Lily was snuggled against Evie, a bandage wrapped around her hand.

“Let’s hope I don’t fall off.” It was weak and hoarse, but there was humour in his tone.

“You better not.”

“Take the bag.” He gestured to the leather satchel underneath him. Slowly, she undid the strap and pulled it out from under him, barely able to avoid causing a wince. She looked inside to find the papers in impressive condition. “It’s the paperwork Greenie asked for.”

Jacob’s smile was weak as the wagon began to drive away. The rocking of the cobblestones was rough, and although jarring, also brought comfort. He fell in company with the stars as his consciousness left him yet again.

----------

The next time he became lucid, he immediately noticed that he could breathe better; oxygen was easier to take in than before, and although not perfect, kept the lightheadedness away. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the light. The feeling of rough gauze was not unfamiliar to him, so he assessed the wounds on his back based on how rough it felt to lean on.

He brought his burned hand up to see that it had also been wrapped neatly. Although that was the majority of his wounds, his entire body ached. He leaned back into his pillow and closed his eyes, assessing the situation. Approaching footsteps made him roll his head to the side, and a doctor appeared with a clipboard. “How are you feeling, my boy?” He asked with a pencil in his mouth, flipping through the various pages.

“Like I’ve been run over by a carriage. Multiple times.”

“I’m not surprised; you inhaled half a factory.”

Jacob prepared himself for the question he knew he had to ask but would hate the answer to. “How long has it been?”

“Oh, a few days, give or take.”

“How many days are we giving or taking?”

Just then, a door opened on the far end of the ward, a few people rapidly approaching. As they turned the corner, Jacob’s heart sank a bit. You were hurrying towards him with the look of a mortified wife, but he dreaded what you thought would be more mortifying: your house burning down, putting your only daughter’s life in danger…

“Thank God!” You swerved around the bed and kissed him, one which conveyed a hundred different emotions, the most evident being relief. After the initial shock, Jacob’s fingers came to your jaw, lightly directing as he kissed you deeper.

He slowly pulled away, worried eyes scanning your face. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I haven’t the foggiest what happened--”

“You’re both safe; that’s all that matters.”

“But the house…”

“I’ve been prepared for disasters like this for a while. Everything I couldn’t stand to lose went in a fireproof box. There’s nothing gone that I can’t replace.”

“Papa!” Your eyes widened as you exchanged an impressed look with Jacob. Lily had crawled onto the bed and nestled her way into Jacob’s arms.

“Are you alright?” Without speaking, she nodded, deciding to play with his hand, fidgeting with his fingers and tracing the lines. Jacob looked to Evie, who followed her in.

Shepulled a concerned face, coming up to her and putting her hands over Lily’s ears. “She’s been crying herself to sleep, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night calling for one of you, sometimes both. She’ll heal, I’m sure, but for now I think time needs to pass. I investigated what could have happened that night; it wasn’t you.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were Templars; pisses me off though.” He turned to you. “If you hadn’t visited your family…”

“Don’t ponder the ‘if’s, Jacob. It leads to all sorts of grief.” You threaded your hands through his hair.

Evie nodded. “All I know is what happened, not necessarily who did it.”

“Go on.”

“The house was rigged to burn down. Someone must’ve broken in, set down some oil or gas, and set it alight. It all happened very quickly -- it’s a miracle you got out when you did.”

At the explanation, Jacob ran a hand down his face. “The fun never stops.” He shifted to stand up.

“What are you doing?” You put your hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to find whoever did this, and I have a feeling I know exactly where to start.”

“Not in this state you’re not.”

He stood up, much to your protests. “Honestly, Y/N, I’m…” His vision went black immediately, blood rushing to his head.

You quickly caught him. “‘Fine?” Sitting him down again, you brushed his hair out of his face. “Just take it easy.”

“I have errands to run.”

Evie whispered something to Lily, who gave the couple a mischievous grin. “We can do it!”

Jacob smiled, catching on. He leaned down to Lily’s ear. “Pick something Y/F/C,” he whispered. She nodded, grabbing Evie’s hand and running away.

The both of you laughed as Evie was dragged out of the ward. “What was that about?” You raised an eyebrow at the secrecy.

“It’s a surprise.”

Rolling your eyes, you joined him on the bed. “Don’t keep me waiting for too long.”

Jacob smiled to himself, the familiar excitement climbing. “I won’t.”

[lokislittlesigyn]

Thunder - Loki x Reader [Oneshot]

[My masterlist, where this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / Female reader

Warnings: Maybe some anxiety and angst? Reader is afraid of thunder. Mostly fluff. There’s also some banter, and reader is a little spirited (at least imo) but it’s all in good fun.

Author’s Note: super original title i know

It was storming last night, and seems that it’ll storm for a while. This is a shorter one, under 1k words, but it’s short and sweet.

As someone who was scared of thunder as a child (i’m a little better now), I hoped some others could relate to this and find comfort in it. Loki loves you! <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d lost track of the time by now.

Sitting on the couch, or lounging really - leaning against the armrest with one hand propping your head up, the other draped over your lap. You’d already dressed in your pajamas, but sleep had evaded you for... Probably a few hours at this point.

The darkness outside hardly helped gauge time.

Well. 

Mostly darkness.

A flash of light filled the room, followed by rumbling thunder. You looked to the window with a jolt. Another distant flash. Another rumble. You furrowed your brow, settling back into your spot on the couch.

When will this storm end?

Your thoughts were soon interrupted, however.

Loki’s arms found you, wrapping around you from behind. His nose pressed to your hair, followed by a kiss. You closed your eyes, smelling the fresh, clean scent still on his skin.

“Done in the shower?” You asked.

“I have been a while. You should get to bed, my sweet,” he murmured.

You pursed your lips. “‘M busy.”

“Busy?” Loki prodded. “Busy with what, exactly?”

You nodded to the television.

“Oh come now, you know those people will pick the worst house of the bunch.” His lips brushed your neck - earning a gasp.

“Hey- Maybe not this time!” You chuckled, shooing him away.

“Nonsense. They’re always imbeciles.”

“Oh yeah? And which house would you pick?”

“I wouldn’t.” Loki said with confidence, walking around to the front of the couch.

“Mm, and why’s that?” You tilted your head up at him.

Loki paused. Huffed a little breath, his chest heaving from under the comfortable shirt he wore - the same deep grey as his soft sweatpants. His head bowed slightly. “Because I already have everything I need, right here.” He extended a hand to you with an innocent smile.

You felt your face heat up. Took his hand. Stood, clicking the remote’s off button and tossing it aside. “You’re too charming, you know that.”

“Too charming? How could I be too charming?”

“Because you- Oh, you did that just to get me off the couch, didn’t you. It’s a ruse. You just want me to go to bed- AH!”

Loki scooped you up, carrying you bridal-style through your apartment, to the bedroom.

“Right you are, my darling girl.” He set you down on your side of the bed. “It is far past your bedtime.”

“Says the night owl.” You raised a brow.

Loki smirked, his nose scrunching a little. “Says the god to his beloved.”

“Really? Pulling the god card now? I thought that was reserved for serious situations.. Like getting the last slice of cake at Tony’s party...”

“One, this is serious. Two, that cake was delicious. And three, I don’t see you going to bed.” Loki tsked his tongue, sliding under the covers on his side. A sigh escaped him as he laid down, but he didn’t fully relax yet. 

“Am I not?” You smirked, sitting cross-legged beside your pillow. “Must be those bad influences I’ve been hanging around…”

“Oh?” Loki raised a brow, but you could tell he was tired. His eyelids drooped a little as he gazed up at you. He looked beautiful, truly. Maybe you could go to sleep…

“Yeah. Real cute guy, keeps telling me he’s a prince or something.”

“He sounds wonderful. No more wonderful than his companion, though.” Loki still managed to look mischievous despite his exhaustion - a smile spread across his lips. 

You couldn’t help but grin. Conceding, you slid your legs under the covers, welcoming the softness and warmth-

Another flash.

Ba-boom. Your breath caught in your throat. 

“What’s wrong, love?”

You shifted your feet against the sheets, staring down at the blankets. “I.. I don’t like storms.”

Loki remained quiet. He sat up, moved a bit closer. “Why’s that?”

“They’re.. Loud. Too loud. It always scared me when I was a kid, and.. I guess I never grew out of it.” You swallowed, then straightened up as Loki’s hand touched your shoulder. You turned to him. 

His eyes were trained on you, catching the faintest light from the street outside.

“I’ve never been too fond of storms, either. They tend to accompany Thor throwing a fit, you see..” He smiled. 

You managed a chuckle. “He must’ve been a pain to deal with.”

“Oh, horribly. You’ve never seen such dramatics.”

“Not even from you?”

“Hey.”

You laughed. Another crash of thunder - now closer - sent your body stiff, and your head whipped to face the window. Loki’s hand moved from your shoulder to your cheek, gently moving you to look at him.

“Look at me, darling. Lie down. That thunder can’t hurt you, I promise.”

You looked into his eyes. At the adoration there, at the pleading - the sincerity. Eventually, you exhaled a shaky breath and settled down next to him, back to the window. Facing him.

“May I?” Loki raised a hand, glowing with green magic. You nodded.

Loki’s magic spread over you. You felt the gentle prickle of energy - like that of static, mixed with a warm feeling that reminded you of a fireplace.

Soon, your body relaxed, muscles giving up their strain, face releasing its tension, your heartbeat establishing a mellow rhythm in your chest. You nestled your head against the pillow and took in a deep, satisfied breath.

Whatever soothing spell Loki had used, it certainly worked.

And Loki stayed right next to you, placing a kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep, darling. I’m here.”

And as you drifted off, you could’ve sworn you heard him say “I love you.”

[allycryz]

Nsfw prompt: “Oh my god. Did we just break the bed?” for the ot6 :3

Alright, here it folks. Urianger gets spoiled, six people are very cute, a bed gets broken. Also pushed myself to write this in past tense since I haven’t done it in a while.

Rated E for Eggsplicit, is honestly pretty PWP but there’s feelings and fluff in there

“I beg thy forgiveness.” Urianger frowned at the piles of books crowding his room. His hands stroked light upon the spines, tracing letters, "I am certain thy book was here but it seems not."

“It’s alright.” Nerys said from her perch on his bed. The thin mattress creaked beneath her weight, swaying with each minute gesture. "I know you'll find it. Come sit with me."

He looked up with a hand caught in his silver locks and mouth curled into a frown. Twas not often he wore his consternation so openly and it was...quite charming. Not least of which because of the subtle pouting of his full lips. (She hoped he was not so upset as to halt her plans.)

“Nay, I shall keep searching.”

“Uri.” She patted the space beside her. “Please?”  

"I am unable to refuse such an invitation twice." Urianger moved like a dancer, once explaining that his poise and posture came from learning at the elbow of Louisoix Leveilleur. Nerys mostly believed it, seeing all the similarities in how he and the twins held themselves. And yet–she was convinced it was not the whole of the story.

He sank to his knees before her, rather than where she indicated. “It has been some time since I relaxed by thy side.”

Nerys stroked over his noble brow, nails scratching light into his scalp. “Far too long. Though this is not by my side.”

“But how else shall I do this?” He brought her hand up, leaving reverent kisses upon her fingertips. As always it made her breath catch, whether alone or in the company of their lovers.

They were not often alone, just the two of them. (And with what she planned, it would not be this way long.) There was so much she had yet to discover about him, the newest of her lovers. The sinuous sway of his hips was but one coin from a well-buried, well-protected treasure chest of knowledge. 

But there were facets of him that were extensions of the relationship they already had; as her comrade, her friend, partner of her partners. He was always kind and respectful, as willing to listen as to teach. That impish sense of humor he kept beneath it all–she had found that long before she took him as hers.

Here was one discovery that still made her tremble: the way he looked at her as if she was a treasure worth worshipping.

Another: the secretive smile upon his lips before he struck. Nerys was a moment forewarned by it before he rose to kiss her. 

Still another: how good a kisser he was. She was overwhelmed enough that one moment his lips were on hers, the next she was beneath him. The bed groaned and swayed with their movements, an anchor in the swirling sea of his presence.

Besides being noisy, the bed was on the small side. Not really what she expected. Urianger could live like a monk, subsisting on water and archon loaf with naught but a candle for luxury. But with the way he luxuriated in Haurche’s sumptuous bed or the raptures on his face when he shopped for fine clothes…

Nerys had assumed he was only a hermit when his studies called, not as a matter of course.

“We need to get you a new bed.” She murmured as he unfastened her already half-open shirt. His eyes had gone to the partly revealed breastband since her arrival. “You’ve barely any room for yourself.”

"No need, my lady. I seldom sleep here--indeed, I have moved most of my possessions to Haurchefant's and Thancred's rooms."

“Yes but-” Nerys unclasped the golden torque about his neck.  "You have been in the Sands for a week now. And I'm sure this won't be the last time you have to stay here."

"Would it comfort thee…" His words became a moan as her hands worked into his taut shoulders and nape. Were he able to, he might purr under her ministrations.

“Yes?”

"I often avail myself...of the cot in the archives."

“Uri.” She clucked her tongue. As if he and their lovers didn’t admonish her for various bad habits ranging from overextending herself to less-than-prudent jumps down cliffsides. 

Today is not about me though.

“Once again, I must beg thy gracious pardon.” He lowered his cheek to her chest, nuzzling against the swell of breast even as his hands eased down the breastband. His long fingers kneaded the sides of her chest slow and gentle. “In penance, I shall serve thee faithfully all afternoon and into the evening.”

Desire coiled in her belly. One word from her and Urianger would worship her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Even now, his practiced healer’s touch found her pains and soothed them away. But she came here with an agenda and she must not forget it, even-

Her mouth fell open with a moan as he took handfuls of her chest, squeezing with gentle strength. That impish gleam was in his eyes when he looked down. 

“Will you…” She swallowed. “Lie on your back for me?”

“If that is thy wish…” He flipped them easily, settling her atop him. Hands slid over her bottom and squeezed. “Dost thou wish for control today?”

“Just a shred.”

His lips caught hers as she slithered down, meeting the barest resistance before he let go with a chuckle. Nerys gave him a look and received only a smile in reply.

According to Haurche, the chiton was far easier to deal with than his scholar’s robes. She never had the pleasure of unwrapping him from his old mode of dress. Piece by piece, I took him apart like a present before taking him apart as a lover might do. There is nothing quite like a reveal, my heart.

That conversation ended with Haurche performing his own slow striptease. Nerys drifted from the fond memory to the present, to the bunch of fabric now at Urianger’s waist and the silken black smalls she unveiled beneath. His cock strained against the taut fabric, twitching at the glide of her hand.

"Wilt thou let me return whatever favors thou dispenses?" His voice dropped to low and rumbly and then to a groan as she rubbed her cheek upon his clothed cock. 

“I’ll think about it...You certainly proved your tongue’s prowess when we were last together.”

Urianger sighed, either from her touches or the memory of nine days ago–him and her and Y’shtola between them. “I-I didst not sup upon thy nectar then…”

She squeezed his thigh. “No but I saw you send ‘Shtola into the heavens.”

“Where she doth belong, crowned in stars and cloaked in moonlight.” His words then turned to garbles and gasps as she mouthed against the fabric. Traced her tongue over the solid outline of his shaft and inhaled his musk.

“And what shall be her throne?” Nerys hummed against him. His hand found purchase in her hair and tugged. Heat kindled between her legs at the touch, more when he did it again. Sitting up so she could see the intent in his eyes.

“Thy visage is the most glorious sight of all…” He groaned, digging filed-down nails into her scalp until she trembled. “What better seat for our beloved than that?”

“Oh,” she breathed. It had taken him no time to master her needs and wants. Had he not watched her plenty, with a lover or two or three between them? And you really are that easy. 

Nerys would not be the only one losing sense and control. Her thumbs hooked beneath his smalls to ease them down, freeing his erect length from their confines. She squeezed his thighs as her tongue dragged up his shaft, finding the sensitive ridge under his head. 

“N-nerys-” he gasps, reaching for the white cotton sheets and grabbing them by the fistful. “I-I should have better control, than to be driven so wild so quickly.”

She pulled off of him with a soft pop of sound. "You've been locked away in here for a week with only your hand to relieve you. No wonder you're sensitive."

“I shall...endeavor to satisfy thee. Thou need not worry-”

The door opening startled her, even though it was Phase Two of her plan coming to fruition. Urianger froze beneath her before he chuckled, the sound as much sigh as it was mirthful. “My lady, didst thou invite them and not tell me?”

“Surprise.” She grinned and turned her head. Y’shtola and Thancred watched them with twin expressions of pleasure. “I hope this is alright?”

Urianger groaned. "I wouldst never turn away those I love so dearly. And they look upon me as if I am a feast laid out for their sampling."

“Ha,” Thancred snorted. "Seems like Nerys has the feasting part well in hand."

Y’shtola smiled, turning her back towards Thancred while keeping her eyes upon them. He dutifully took care of the hooks at her nape, easing the scarlet and gray dress down her shoulders. She arched an eyebrow at the pair on the bed. “Well? Don’t stop on our account.”

Nerys gave the slightest hint of her intentions–a little secret smirk she’d learned at his feet–before swallowing him down. Breathing with purpose through her nose to take him deep, deeper, deeper still. Gods but Elezen were thick, and the reduced air goaded her as much as the eyes upon her. 

The gaze of the world was ever upon her in ways that made her anxious, embarrassed, fearful. But to simply put on a show for others, to stir their passion? That was something Nerys loved. No one expected too much of her besides the occasional fling, and those were more and more rare these days. There was no time to adventure in Eorzea’s bedrooms as she once had.

How lucky, that her lovers liked to watch as much as she liked to perform, while duty kept her from the dark corners of taverns and rolls in the hay.

Urianger laid back, forearm pressed against his brow. Lowered it so he might press his fist to his mouth. Nerys hummed around him, sinking further onto him until she could take no more. It was not enough, not yet, but he moaned all the same.

The heat of Thancred’s bare skin pressed against her back and his palms curled over her breasts. Toyed with them as his lips trailed over her spine. “You need a bigger bed, Uri.”

His response was a muffled groan about clenched knuckles. Y’shtola crawled onto the bed, over him with teasing touches, and stretched her small frame between him and the wall. She seized his wrist, dragging it to lips. “Ah ah. How will she know she’s doing a good job? Let her hear you.”

“Sh-shtola-” Urianger shuddered with the full force of his body as Thancred’s hand slipped down his stomach, fondling his sack. Nerys began to lift her head, found Thancred pressing her back down.

“Good,” said Y’shtola with an approving nod. “Keep her there a moment, Thancred. Urianger–there is no one to overhear you. So I had best hear your response.”

They watched as Urianger opened his mouth, his wordless cries filling the room with their sweet, penitent notes. His reward was another fondle, another suck; Y’shtola petting his hair.

“Nerys is far too overdressed for this.” Thancred said, drawing her up at last.

“And so is he,” Y’shtola agreed before she caught Urianger’s chin and kissed him. The man made a desperate noise before giving himself over to his passion. Nine days ago, Nerys watched him do the same as he filled Y’shtola, as Nerys held her close. Then he’d had the presence of mind to extol her virtues between breathless kisses. 

The same passion is clear in his half-lidded eyes and fervent mouth. Even if he is now in a place beyond poetry.

“You should have a taste too,” Nerys gasped, writhing against Thancred’s purposeful touch over her trousers. For his complaint about her state of dress, he was taking advantage of the friction of cloth against her skin. 

“Do you think so? I think that if we both suck him, he’s liable to pop.”

“What about all his rings?”

“They’re in my quarters,” Thancred laughed against her ear. “Besides, that’s not a guarantee he’ll be able to hold off-”

“I swear to thee.” Urianger licked his lips, eyes flickering from Nerys’ mouth to Y’shtola’s hands kneading his chest to whatever expression Thancred made. "If thou drives me to completion, I shall return the favor in kind. Thou...thou should not go unsatisfied because of my folly."

“Yes, definitely folly to show us how bad you want us.” Thancred snorted. “Uri, it’s okay to come. We’re not going anywhere.”

“True enough.” Y’shtola nipped at his jaw when he tried to rise. “I was going to make him hold off but that might be cruel…”

“I’m disappointed, darling.” The new voice sent shivers through Nerys. Thancred’s steady grip kept her from turning to greet him. “It’s ever so entertaining when you’re cruel to our lovers.”

He is not due quite yet… Not that she minded. Hopefully, in his impatience he remembered to bring-

“Surely,” Haurchefant said with a laugh. “You might magick up a way to help him hold back? As all his rings are in Mor Dhona, and not always reliable.”

“That will cost you, my Lord Emissary.”

“Tell me then, O Great and Powerful Sorcerer: how much for such a device, snapping away everyone’s clothes, and your cock in my mouth later?”

Hades’ laugh was a clear ringing sound that warmed Nerys’ already heated flesh. He was often playful, this ancient lover of theirs. Seldom was he so open as she heard in the notes of his mirth, playing in harmony with Haurchefant’s chuckles. Urianger met her gaze, his smile softening even more the warm mush her heart turned into. And then he gasped as Thancred ran a teasing hand up his length and Y’shtola bit down on his shoulder. 

A snap and her clothes disappeared, along with the bunched up chiton and the black smalls shoved about Urianger’s knees. Thancred’s warm skin pressed against hers–chest to her spine, thighs to the backs of her legs, his unclothed cock hard against her rear. Before them, a ring of black and purple aether pulsed at the base of Urianger’s cock.

She put a hand to it. It felt solid but as it shimmered, she saw flashes of the skin beneath. Hades had all manner of aether tricks to aid in the bedroom. This was one she hadn’t seen before.

He knelt on the floor beside the bed as bare as everyone else. His hand slid past her a moment, she caught the motion of him patting Thancred’s cheek. Then his fingers were on her chin, tilting it up for him to brush lips against lips. She moved to deepen the contact and he pulled back, clucking his tongue. “Ah ah, your mouth is destined elsewhere.”

“One kiss won’t hurt.” Nerys squirmed against Thancred’s hold but today, he was willing to cooperate with Hades. He held her fast and pressed light kisses down the line of her neck. 

“I wonder. Now, my dear–how long should we make our scholar squirm?”

“Oh not too long. Remember why we’re here after all.” Urianger looked up at that with raw curiosity in his gaze. 

“Please, the man loves when we deny him.” Hades rose then to perch on the edge of the bed with his torso turned towards Urianger’s face. His bare fingers ran over his chest till they found the gold hoops in his nipples. A small tug set Urianger’s face and neck red with pleasure. “Does that feel good then?”

"L-lovely,” groaned Urianger. "My lady Nerys...didst thou c-conspire against me?"

She laughed. Haurchefant made himself known then with his fingers guiding her limbs, positioning Thancred alongside her. He caressed them both while they obeyed onto their hands and knees, arms and shoulders against each other. "You've been holed up here for days. I thought you were due a respite."

"And I thought you deserved a little punishment as well." Hades added, thumb circling the stiffening nipple. "Depriving us for days."

"H-ha." Urianger quirked a brow. "Couldst thou not visit me whenever thou desires, Hades? I did not bar my door to thee."

"Impudent man." Hades leaned forward to kiss him as Y’shtola tugged at his silver locks.

A hand pressed against her nape as she saw another do the same to Thancred. Haurchefant must have removed his rings prior to his arrival. She could not feel the familiar press of metal or see his signet contrasted with Thancred’s white locks. Even with his fingers bare, with him standing behind them, she would have known his touch without ever having to see them.

It was that way with all of them now. Even Urianger. She had learned the feel of him that first night with Thancred between them and his touch reaching behind her for Haurchefant, caressing her arm lightly as she shook with the overwhelming pleasure of that moment. 

“Ladies first,” Thancred purred when their eyes were level with the ring. 

Nerys laughed, from the remark, from the surge of joy rushing through her. She licked a stripe up the thick shaft. Thancred did the same, meeting her with an open-mouth kiss that had the benefit of teasing against Urianger. They pushed each other–matching every swirl, lick, and suck; triumphant when one coaxed a loud moan or gasp. It was a heady competition, egged on by Haurchefant stroking her spine and praising them both. 

“You two are exquisite,” Haurchefant sighed as his hands drew away. Fingertips dragged over her skin until she felt them dip between her thighs, heard Thancred groan aloud. Nerys half-expected the mattress to dip with Haurchefant’s weight but instead he drew her back. She had to stretch her long torso to keep her mouth against Urianger.

He accommodated and leaned forward, bracing hands on either side of her. “Dearest Thancred, you will help her for this next part? She is radiant when she takes a cock completely.”

“Hmm…” A raised eyebrow. “Alright Haurche. Long as you promise to give me something nice later. No fair if only Hades gets your mouth tonight.”

“My darling boy…” Hades raised his head and Urianger whimpered at the loss. “Since when are you the arbiter of what is fair or not?”

“You hush.”

“If you want to stop my mouth, you need to be far more creative.”

“Both of you hush,” said Y’shtola. Her voice trembled as Urianger suckled at her chest but still resounded with the underlying core of iron. “You’ll get your turns later, if you’re good.”

“Yes ‘Shtola,” said Thancred with a laugh. He curled a hand over Nerys’ nape and helped her ease back onto Urianger. Behind them Haurchefant praised their obedience while the head of his cock notched against her folds. 

Urianger was a writhing mess beneath them and it was beautiful. The disheveled state of his hair; the blossom of red suffusing his upper body; the sighs they pulled from him; the pattern of bites on his neck from Y’shtola and on his torso from Hades. And him, impossibly hard and impossibly large in her mouth as Thancred dragged her up and down and Haurchefant sank into her. 

Their eyes met, his mouth worked. She reached forward though it could upset her balance. Brushed fingertips against his and then seized his hand. His hips canted upwards and it was almost too much with him so lost in sensation. Somehow, she managed to take him all the same. 

His trembling lips tried again before they managed a word in the babble of whimpers and sobs. “Please...please…”

Nerys answered with her eyes while her hand reached out again, brushing against Hades’ side. Haurchefant picked up her pace and she all but collapsed. It was then Hades turned his amused look at her and the hand desperately groping at his hip.

“May I help you?”

Her eyes swept downward. She could not see the ring just then–Thancred pressed her down so far that her eyes could see only golden skin and silver, curling hair. Haurchefant sighed behind her. “What a good girl, taking him all the way. You’re doing beautifully, my heart.”

“I wonder…” Hades voice floated above her. “What could she be trying to say? Have you any notion, ser?”

“I am not a betting man-” (Thancred’s derisive snort at that became a groan.) “But perhaps she would like to be dear Uri’s angel of mercy.”

“Certainly not. Our ferocious hero?”

“Our compassionate hero.” Haurchefant’s hand joined Thancred’s and brought her up. Hades met her pleading gaze with a sigh and an incongruously soft kiss to her forehead.

“If you insist, dear.” The ring disappeared and they were all lost.

Haurchefant and Thancred pushed her down, Urianger bucked upward. Hades leaned entirely on the bed, bare chest against their scholar as he kissed him with Y’shtola dragging her nails down his back. 

“That’s it,” Haurche panted in her ear. “Help him finish, beloved, dearest, our Nerys-”

Urianger cried out as his hand reached for her-

Haurchefant knelt on the bed and filled her-

And as Urianger spilled into her mouth, the chorus of their raptures was overwritten by an earsplitting crack! There was the sensation of falling, of balance going horribly wrong as she slid backwards into Haurchefant and Hades into both of them. A strange sound escaped her mouth when the momentum and impact both caused Haurchefant to fill her and not entirely pleasantly. 

She lifted her head and Urianger looked down at her. He had not sat up. His eyes were glazed with satisfaction even as realization pierced the fog of his climax.

“Oh my gods.” Nerys stared at the ramp they occupied. “Did we just break the bed?”

Shocked silence met her question. It was Urianger who broke it with low, barely concealed laughter. He slapped a hand over his mouth and his shoulders shook with the effort of not breaking. Behind her, Haurchefant chuckled into her ear as Hades scowled at them all.  Y’shtola stretched out where she was. Thancred roared with laughter behind them on the floor.

“Th-thou didst tell me…” Urianger said, fighting to control his mirth. “That I was in need of a bigger bed.”

“And I was right!” She watched Hades vacate the space between them before squeezing Urianger’s thigh. “Now what do you have to say for yourself?”

In answer, Urianger sat up with care and eased himself down. His warm hands cupped her cheeks, tilting her face up to receive the brush of his mouth against hers. “That I am glad we have a Sorcerer of Eld to set us to rights.”

“Hm.” Hades dusted off his arms with great exaggeration and wounded dignity. The gleam in his pale gold eyes was the only clue he was not so piqued as he pretended. “Give me a moment. As today we are demanding favors before we do anything, I needs must calculate the price.”

“Do make haste, lovely man.” Haurchefant adjusted Nerys in his lap and the friction sent her shivering. “I would like to finish what I started.”

“If I may offer a suggestion…” Y’shtola stretched herself upwards and Nerys could not help watching the curve and rise of her bosom, the marks of lips and teeth upon the teak skin. She wrapped her arms about Urianger from behind and propped her chin upon his shoulder. “You could ask to give Nerys proper thanks for arranging all this.”

That twitch at the corners of her mouth spelled Nerys’ salvation and destruction. “Now wait a minute-”

“Brilliant as always,” Hades smirked. “While the guest of honor recovers, I would like a sampling of our event planner in exchange for my great and powerful magicks.”

“Deal!” Haurchefant said, lifting her up while the bed repaired itself with a rush of aether. He had to withdraw from her to do so but from the looks around her...she would not be empty for long. “Have a care with her, lest we break it again.”

“I have ensured it won’t tonight.” Hades stepped over and gathered her into his arms. Laid her back upon the mattress, sprawled upon Urianger’s lap. “And tomorrow we purchase Urianger a bigger, sturdier bed.”

“There, my lady.” Urianger grinned above her. “Thou shalt get thy way after all.”

“I usually do,” she said before Hades moved to have his way with her.

Not that she was complaining.

[wingsofhcpe]

whumptober day 1- barbed wire

fandom: shadow & bone

pairing: fivan [ivan x fedyor kaminsky]

rating: T+

additional warnings: blood & injury

you can also read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34208404/chapters/85114393

[tagging @camilleisback upon request <3]

It’s days before Ivan finally finds Fedyor.

The druskelle, clever bastards that they are, have elected to hide near the borders with Fjerda and wait for reinforcements rather than make a run for it. There’s an abandoned warehouse that must have once been a butcher’s store near a withering Ravkan village; it’s well-camouflaged between the trees, and the vegetation and snowdrifts muffle the sounds of screaming that echo from inside as the witch-hunters torment their prisoners night and day. The location would have been impossible to hide, had it not been for the honed senses of a Heartrender being able to detect the distressed heartbeats from miles away, as well as an experienced Squaller sensing the slightest vibrations in the air that are commonly caused by loud noises such as screams.

Seven Grisha had been taken captive during the druskelle raid at their camp; when Ivan barrels into the warehouse, druskelle dropping left and right with nothing but a flicker of his wrists, he finds two survivors and five rotting corpses. For a moment, he fears the worst- but as his senses clear and the adrenaline of battle fades, he realises one of the two remaining heartbeats echoing in the dark, murky space, belongs to Fedyor. Ivan’s head snaps like a hound catching the scent of blood, and it is mere seconds before his eyes adjust to the distorted light coming from the busted door, and he finally makes out a shape at the far end of the warehouse. Before he can even think about it, he’s running.

Fedyor’s body is suspended by the wrists from a meat hook attached to the ceiling; it’s bad enough to see his lover limp and unmoving like a corpse, but then Ivan takes a closer look and realises with gut-wrenching horror that Fedyor’s hands aren’t bound with rope but with thick coils of barbed wire. The jagged points have dug deep within the skin, leaving sickening gouges across Fedyor’s wrists and forearms. There’s blood everywhere, having dripped down to his elbows, shoulders and even his hair. It has created a small puddle on the rotting floorboards, and Ivan’s boots squelch as he steps on it, trying to get as close to Fedyor as possible. The latter is nearly unconscious, but he makes a low, keening sound when Ivan attempts, in vain, to undo his bindings. It’s no use; the barbs are embedded deep into the flesh, and trying to uncoil them now will only cause more damage, more bleeding, more pain. They have to be cut away, but Ivan isn’t sure whether any of his Grisha is carrying a blade sharp and slender enough for the job. Either way, his first concern should be getting Fedyor down from where he’s still hanging from; this way, he’ll be able to get a better look.

It’s slow work, painstaking for both parties. Fedyor stirs in and out of consciousness as Ivan works, whimpering and begging for mercy. Ivan realises with a pang of unrestrained fury what a devilishly clever idea it had been to bind a Grisha’s hands in such a manner- Fedyor’s hands are close enough, he could twist them if he tried, he could use his powers to do away with his captors. But the barbed edges would shred his skin further if he did, would cause him to suffer and bleed even more. The druskelle had evidently known that; they had risked their own lives for the sake of toying with their prisoners in such a sadistic, inhuman manner.

Fedyor’s weak, pained cry jolts Ivan out of his fury-addled thoughts, and he realises belatedly that he has pulled too roughly at the wires; fresh blood is trickling from somewhere, and Ivan swears colourfully under his breath.

“I’m sorry, moye serdtse, I’m sorry,” he whispers, hoping Fedyor can hear him, hoping he knows Ivan doesn’t want to hurt him, he just has to get him down for his own good “I’m almost done. Just stay strong for me, Fedya.”

Finally, he manages to pry the hook loose from the wire; Fedyor’s body drops lifelessly, but Ivan is there to catch him and gently lower him to the floor, until Fedyor is lying against his chest. Ivan holds him gently, cradling him against his own body and whispering apologies and reassurances. It’s only then that Fedyor’s eyes open just slightly, brown irises glazed with pain and pupils dilated. His cracked, bloodied lips move, and Ivan has to strain to hear him.

“You found me.” The injured man whispers, and Ivan nods seriously.

“Of course I did, my love. I’m here now. You’re safe.” He doesn’t mention how he’s been too late; how he’s allowed the druskelle to torture Fedyor for four long, endless days. How they have lost five of their own, because Ivan had been too incompetent to find them fast enough.

Yet Fedyor’s mouth twitches into a small, relieved smile. “I knew you would… you always… find me…”

“Shh…” Ivan lays a hand on Fedyor’s cheek, flushed with fever. “Don’t talk now.”

They stay still for a little while; Fedyor’s ragged breathing echoing in sync with Ivan’s relieved sighs as he holds his beloved close, peppering gentle, loving kisses across his bloodied cheeks and brow. Eventually, Ivan carefully places a hand over Fedyor’s still bound wrists.

“I need to take these off.” He says softly, and catches the glint of fear in Fedyor’s delirious gaze. “I cannot lie to you, Fedya, it will hurt. But it will only be for a little while. It’ll feel much better after.”

Fedyor whimpers softly. “…so much. They hurt so much, Vanya. My hands… it feels like they’re on fire…”

“I know, I know.” Ivan voice cracks with despair; seeing Fedyor suffer like this, it’s too much to bear. “I will make it better, I promise. Just… Just trust me, dearest.”

Fedyor’s eyes close, but he nods tiredly; even while in so much pain, he must know there’s no other solution. Ivan takes his kefta off, bundles it up into a makeshift pillow and lays Fedyor down on it as carefully as he can. Then he calls out to one of his Grisha, requesting the sharpest and thinnest blade that can be found in their equipment or the druskelle’s. While rummaging, he takes the opportunity to hastily check on the other survivor, a younger Inferni woman- she’s alive and in slightly better condition than Fedyor, although her hands have been bound in a similar manner. By using her powers to heat them up, however, she has made the wires pliant and thus easier to remove. Clever, Ivan thinks to himself. He would have asked her to do the same for Fedyor’s bonds, but she looks so pale, and she can’t even sit up without feeling faint. No, he can’t run her any more ragged. The dagger will have to do.

Finally, Ivan finds a fine, razor-sharp blade within one of the druskelle’s coats. It’s possibly used for gutting fish, and is less than clean, but it’s his only choice, and anyway, Fedyor’s probably already suffering from an infection judging by the rust that covers the wires. Dried fish gore won’t make a big difference at this point.

“Close your eyes and count to fifty, Fedya.” Ivan encourages as he kneels next to his partner. “Focus on the numbers. Don’t think of anything else.”

Fedyor nods feebly and does as he’s told; his eyes close and his lips begin to move in a voiceless mumble as he starts to count. Ivan slips his fingers carefully between the coils of wire, and as gently as he can, he begins to saw at it with the dagger. No matter how gentle he tries to be, however, Fedyor’s body immediately tenses and his breath comes out in short gasps. Ivan shushes him softly, although he knows it’s not much help. The best he can do for Fedyor now, is focus on his task. And so he does- he does his best to shut off the pained gasps that soon turn into whimpers, and saws methodically at the accursed barbed coil until, little by little, it starts to come off.

“…fifty.” Fedyor murmurs shakily at some point, and Ivan doesn’t have to look to know there are tears running down his blood-crusted cheeks.

“Ten more, moye serdtse. I’m almost done. You’re doing so well. You’re so, so brave, my Fedyenka. So brave.”

Fedyor’s chest heaves as he cries quietly, but he doesn’t complain, not even when Ivan finally cuts through the wires and is able to pull them away. There’s a sickening wet sound as the barbs are pulled free from Fedyor’s flesh, where they’d been wedged for days, and Fedyor’s back arches- for once, he can’t keep in the hoarse scream that rips out of his throat. But the next moment his muscles relax as Ivan unbinds him completely, his fingers twitching slightly in relief as blood circulates back to them. Ivan breathes out a sigh, and places his palm on Fedyor’s forehead.

“I’m done, Fedya. It’s alright now.” Fedyor only shakes his head a little, unable to speak. But his heartbeat has eased just slightly- he’s still in pain, but he’s better.

The group makes camp right there, inside the warehouse (after moving the corpses of the druskelle away and dumping them into a snowdrift to be prey for scavenging animals. Serves them right). They hold a funeral pyre for the deceased Grisha, but Ivan only speaks a few words as the squad’s leader and then retreats back into the building; one of the others has lit a fire in the middle, right under an opening in the rotting roof, using old scraps and thin branches. The interior is warm now, and the smell of burning cloth and wood is chasing away the odour of stale blood and dead bodies. Ivan directs two of the Grisha to stand watch as soon as the funeral pyre outside is done, and focuses on the task at hand.

He digs around the ruins until he finds something that resembles an old, cracked wooden bowl- possibly used by the previous owner of the establishment to collect the majority of the blood that poured from freshly slaughtered cattle. It looks cleaner than one would expect, and it smells only vaguely of blood; nothing a good rinse with snow can’t fix. After that’s done, Ivan refills the bowl with snow and holds it over the fire until it’s turned into warm water. He rummages through the squad’s supplies too, and finds clean cloths and bandages.

Fedyor’s eyes flutter behind pale, close lids when Ivan returns to his side, although he seems to weak to open them. Still, Ivan knows he’s still conscious and in pain.

“I’m going to clean your wounds.” He says softly, sitting next to the other man. Fedyor can only hum in agreement- it’s not like he could move away even if he wanted to. Even if he didn’t know his wounds had to be cleaned before infection set in for real. There was no Healer with them, as conflict hadn’t been expected. It had only been a reconnaissance mission. It would be three days of fast riding at the very best, until they made it back to the Little Palace, and Fedyor wouldn’t last for half of it if Ivan didn’t do something to keep the infection at bay.

So with as much care as he can possibly muster, Ivan takes hold of Fedyor’s hand into his own and lifts it up slowly to take a closer look. Even with the dried blood obscuring the worst of it, Ivan can already tell it’s worse than he’s initially assessed; the cuts are deep, the skin around them swollen and hot to the touch, and there’s white liquid concentrated on the edges of the deeper, wider gashes. Fedyor’s hand is trembling in his own, and Ivan can only imagine how much it truly hurts. Fedyor has a high pain tolerance, yet even for him this must be almost unbearable.

In a desperate attempt to comfort his partner, Ivan starts to hum a slow lullaby as he soaks a strip of cloth in the warm water, then wrings it out and starts to slowly, gently clean the blood and grime away from the cuts. Fedyor lets out a quiet sigh of relief, the clean, warm water immediately doing wonders for his mangled hand. Ivan allows himself a small smile; he doesn’t cease his humming while he continues to carefully clean and bandage Fedyor’s left hand, then his right. All the while he keeps a metaphorical eye on Fedyor’s heartbeat, glad to feel it gradually grow slower and more relaxed. The last thing Ivan does after he’s checked Fedyor for other open wounds (he’s satisfied to find nothing, although the dark bruises on his face, chest and ribs are certainly worrisome), is clean the rest of the blood from his husband’s hair, face, and neck. By the end of it, the water in the bowl has turned from clear to a dark, muddy brown colour. Ivan does away with it as soon as he can- he can no longer stand to look at Fedyor’s blood.

Most of the other Grisha have gone to sleep by now, including the other survivor- a good sign all in all, and Ivan can see from where he stands that her own wounds have also been taken care of. The two Grisha he’d ordered to stand watch are doing so in a perfectly straight posture, even after four gruelling days of riding and searching, and Ivan makes a mental note to mention their names and devotion to the General when they go back to the capital. When he’s certain everything is in order, Ivan finally allows himself to lie down next to Fedyor. The wooden floor is uncomfortable at best, but he doesn’t care. Gently, he slings one arm over his husband’s sleeping form and draws him close. He’s never letting Fedyor go, ever again.

Fedyor hums a little in his sleep, cracking one eye open to look at Ivan. Immediately, he smiles tiredly and Ivan smiles back, unable to begrudge him such a simple pleasure.

“How are you feeling, moye serdtse?” He asks.

“Much… much better.” Fedyor whispers in a relaxed manner. Yet Ivan doesn’t harbour any illusions- he knows the pain and fever will come back with a vengeance soon, and he wants Fedyor to get as much rest as possible until then. He’ll need it. So he places a chaste kiss on Fedyor’s lips and starts filing his hand through the latter’s hair. Predictably, Fedyor submits to the affections; Ivan knows how to best make him relax, even under such conditions.

“Sleep.” Ivan whispers tenderly, and Fedyor nods. Before he closes his eyes again, Fedyor offers him another small smile.

“I knew you’d find me.” He mouthed, and Ivan nodded, pride and love and devotion swelling in his chest.

“Of course, my love. I will never leave you. I promise.”

Even if the whole Ravka, the whole world, was against them, they believed in each other. And in the end, that was that really mattered.

[artificialqueens]

Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me, Chapter 2/10: Vaginal (Gottrosenali) - Writworm42

A/N: Continuing down the list--vaginal orgasm! This refers to orgasms achieved via penetration without direct/targeted stimulation to the g-spot.

As per usual, disclaimer: THIS FIC IS NOT SEX ED. It may be based on an infographic but it is NOT educational, it is FICTION!!!! If you want more info on anything in the fic, I recommend visiting scarleteen, it's a fantastic resource.

Thank you Holtz for beta-ing <3 <3 <3

“What do you mean you’ve never been fucked with a strap?”

Rosé shrinks under Denali and Mik’s gaze, cheeks burning scarlet as their mouths gape in shock at her. It wasn’t supposed to be such a big deal; just an offhand comment while they were cuddling, wondering out loud how it felt to be on the receiving end of the strap she so enjoyed using with her partners. She hadn’t expected Denali and Mik to react like this, to literally push themselves up to stare at her, completely flabbergasted.

“I just like wearing them so much, I never got around to actually being fucked with one,” she justifies, trying to sound as casual as possible, though she knows from the way both Mik and Denali soften that she’s not as successful at that as she was hoping. But that’s the truth, as dumb as it sounds; she’s always enjoyed wearing the strap so much that by the time she takes it off, she’s content with something else. It’s easier that way; no need to switch things around, stop to change condoms or re-fasten the strap.

Not to mention the small part of her that’s sort of relieved that she hasn’t tried, because if she has no feeling to reference, then she won’t have a reason to spend time fixating on whether she measures up to it or not; if she doesn’t have a standard in mind, then she can settle on taking Denali & Mik’s word for it that she’s any good. Like right now, for instance, when Denali is reaching out to grab Rosé’s hand and give it a kind squeeze.

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with that,” the blonde reassures her, “It’s just that you’re so good at it, it’s hard to believe, that’s all.”

“Seriously, I’m like, so shook right now,” Mik agrees. It’s flattering, really, and for a moment, Rosé thinks the compliment is where things will end; deciding that they want her to keep being the one to wear the strap, that as long as she’s so good at it, there’s no need to switch things up.

Of course, she should’ve known both Mik and Denali better than to actually believe that.

“So, follow up question,” Denali’s brow knits into a frown as she looks Rosé up and down, locking eyes with her again before proposing, “Do you want to try getting fucked with a strap?”

“Not that you should feel pressured!” Mik interjects, casting a sidelong warning look at Denali. “We’re just wondering, are you ever like, curious? About what it feels like? ‘Cause we’re both pretty good too, I think--”

“Wow, you think?” Denali interjects, huffing indignantly. “Nice, Mik. Real nice.”

“You know what I mean.” Mik rolls his eyes theatrically, only to shriek when Denali decides to get revenge by jabbing him hard in the side.

“The point is, Rosé--”

“What I meant to say before Denali interrupted me--”

“No, let me ask!”

“Me!”

“Enough, both of you!” Rosé tries to sound stern, but has to pinch her own thigh to keep from laughing. She swears that sometimes, it’s like dating two toddlers; Denali and Mik freeze mid-spar, Denali’s hands halfway to Mik’s shoulders as if she’s preparing to push him down and slap a hand over his mouth so she could beat him to the punch by force. Which, judging from the way she slowly lowers her arms with a sheepish look in her eyes, is exactly what she was planning to do.

God.

“I already know what you’re going to say,” Rosé crosses her arms over her chest, “So one of you just get it over with already.”

Mercifully, Mik relents without a fight, sitting back on his heels as Denali scoots forward towards Rosé.

“Rosie. My beloved.” She slaps her hands over Rosé’s cheeks, cupping her face as she continues, “Next time we have sex, if you’re feeling it…” she pauses for effect, locking eyes with Rosé before continuing gravely, “Will you let us stick our dicks in your hole?”

“Or holes!” Mik interjects. “If you’re into that.”

“Jesus Christ.” Rosé groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. Clowns, absolute clowns, the both of them. But despite her exasperation, neither Denali nor Mik seem particularly deterred; if anything, they become more expectant, Mik leaning in excitedly and Denali’s eyes taking on a further intensity as both of them wait for Rosé’s answer.

“Yes,” she finally sighs, rolling her eyes. “Yes, you can stick your… you can stick your dicks into my--my… God, I can’t believe I’m saying this-- hole . You can stick your dicks in my hole.”

When both of them begin to cheer in response, Rosé can’t help but wonder what the Hell she’s gotten herself into.

--

As it turns out, it’s almost two weeks until they actually wind up using the strap at all. It’s not that they don’t want to; in reality, the whole situation is out of their control. Things get busy at work for Mik, and Rosé has three auditions she needs to prepare for and recover from, and Denali is always so tired after practices these days that even if Mik and Rosé have the inclination to run to bed, it’s already taken up by her collapsed, already-sleeping body. In any case, sex--whether it involves dicking Rosé down or not--is the last thing on their minds in that time period.

At least, it’s the last thing on Denali and Mik’s minds, as far as Rosé knows. The truth is, while they’ve been occupying themselves with other things, Rosé’s mind has stayed on its usual one-track, their earlier conversation and the promises Mik and Denali had made playing in her mind over and over again. She finds herself drifting into fantasies even when she’s supposed to be focusing on something else, until by the end of their impromptu sex break, she finds herself almost constantly on edge, increasingly restless thanks to the thoughts that never quite seem to leave her head.

Thoughts like Mik kneeling over her wearing his strap, stroking the length of it as he trails his eyes over her body, delaying touching her knowing that any second, she’ll break and beg for it. Or Denali sliding into her while her mouth is latched to one of Rosé’s nipples, sucking and licking and making her come totally undone. Swallowing the length of it while Mik’s hand is tangled in her hair, or listening to Denali huff as she snaps her hips up against Rosé’s. How a strap might feel different from fingers, and exactly how Denali or Mik might make her thighs tremble, might fuck her so hard she can’t walk.

It’s a rainy Friday night when her dreams finally come to fruition. Dark clouds had been looming over the city for the last few days, and everyone had been waiting for the sky to unleash the storm they had been sure was coming. There’s no real warning, no initial spitting or dampness in the air; the sky had gone dark and let loose thunder, lightning, and a torrential downpour.

Given that, it’s no surprise that the power goes out less than thirty minutes later.

“Did you find the candles yet?” Rosé calls over to Denali, squinting through the darkness to watch her girlfriend scour the kitchen cabinets.

“ Did you find the candles yet?” Denali mocks as she whips around and shines her flashlight right in Rosé’s eyes, scowling at the two people piled on the couch. “It’d be a lot easier if you two bums helped, you know.”

“I can’t get up, I have a Mik on my lap,” Rosé hums, the shit-eating grin spreading on her face spurred on by Mik giggling at the comment.

“And what’s his excuse?” Denali snorts, pointing her chin towards the man nestled up against Rosé.

“I’m huddling with Rosie for warmth!”

“And I’m very grateful,” Rosé pats Mik’s head, winking over at Denali, who huffs and grumbles something under her breath before turning back to her search. Finally, she finds what she’s looking for, and soon the living room is littered with candles that light the room in a soft glow.

It would almost be romantic, if it weren’t for the way Mik’s elbow is digging into Rosé’s ribs.

“So what now?” Denali shoves Rosé over, jostling Mik and dislodging his elbow in the process as she grabs Rosé around the waist, pulling her in while she settles. Rosé doesn’t particularly mind, though; Mik shifts closer, too, and it’s nice, getting to be in the middle of the cuddle-pile.

That is, until she feels something against her leg, and realizes with a jolt that Mik’s hips have started to squirm against it, her calf having unwittingly slipped between his legs.

“It hasn’t even been ten seconds,” she snorts, but when Mik looks up at her, there’s an almost pitiful desperation in his eyes, hunger and eagerness obvious even in the near-darkness.

“I can’t help it,” he whines, “It’s been so long…”

Without even meaning to, Rosé presses her leg up against her boyfriend a little more firmly, hardly noticing the fact that for just a moment, she loses her breath completely.

“What’s the matter?” Rosé savours the way Mik sighs out shakily, eyes closing as he chases the pressure she’s applying. “Can’t keep it in your pants anymore?”

“I think that means he’s been a good boy, Rosie.” Denali’s breath tickles at Rosé’s ear, and for a moment, she stops, frowning as she tries to figure out what Denali could possibly mean before it clicks suddenly.

“Not at all?” Rosé's eyes widen in surprise, and Mik’s blush becomes so fierce, she swears she can almost feel it from her place on the couch.

At least she’s jerked off a couple times in the last two weeks, when she’d been alone in the apartment and too horny to wait; she’d naturally assumed that Denali and Mik had done the same. Unless…

“Strap feels good against me,” Mik provides simply, grinding down against Rosé’s leg a little harder, “not enough to come, usually, but I thought…” he clears his throat, and Rosé has to stop herself from leaning forward to kiss the embarrassment from his face. “I wanted to save it for when we--when you--”

“What d’you say we take this to the bedroom, yeah?” Denali proposes, her hands sliding home to Rosé’s chest and palming her tits through her shirt. “I think Mik might explode if we keep him waiting any longer.”

Rosé moves so fast, she’s surprised she doesn’t accidentally knock over a candle.

It’s almost pitch-black in their bedroom, but Rosé finds that she doesn’t particularly care. As soon as they’ve crossed the threshold into the room, they go purely by feel, falling back onto the bed in a giggly, excited mess. Mik’s hands find their way to Rosé’s waist, his fingers splaying over her sides and nails digging in as Denali’s mouth meets Rosé’s own in a deep, perfect kiss. By the time Mik’s lips latch onto her neck, she can barely keep it together; she needs more, and she needs it now.

“Please,” Rose moans into Denali, who smirks against her lips.

“Please what, baby?” Denali plays dumb, biting down a little on her lip as Mik escalates his own teasing, licking and nipping up to her jaw, his hands wandering down to play with the hem of her shirt.

Fuck.

“More…”

It’s all Rosé can muster, but it’s enough; frantic hands begin to move over her body, tugging and grasping and peeling her clothes away until she’s in nothing but her underwear, Denali’s hands cupping her tits through her bra and Mik’s mouth marking her collarbone.

“Still up to taking my cock, angel?” Mik’s voice drips with hunger and need, but Rosé can hear the concern behind it, the need to hear that Rosé is still open to trying something new. But Rosé doesn’t even need to think before she nods, squirming with anticipation.

“I’m ready,” she breathes, locking eyes with her boyfriend and mirroring the want she finds in his own. “ Please .”

Mik answers her only with a chaste kiss on the lips before slipping away to get everything prepped.

“I want this off,” Denali brings Rosé’s attention away from Mik with a firm squeeze to her tits before one hand drops below the cup, a lazy finger tracing over the underwire.

Rosé wastes no time in granting the request, shimmying out of her bra and sighing in relief when Denali responds by latching her mouth onto one of Rosé’s nipples, tongue gentle and teasing. Not that she can focus on Denali’s ministrations for long--before she has a chance to lose herself in the feeling of Denali nipping and sucking on the hardened bud, she notices the bed dip and shift as Mik climbs back on, bottle of lube in hand. And the sight of Mik with a harness fastened tight on his hips, his favourite realistic cock waiting between his legs?

Rosé can’t think of a single thing she’d rather see right now.

“Can I--” she starts to reach forward before freezing, suddenly becoming aware of the bemused twinkle in Mik’s eyes as he watches her reaction. Denali picks up on it, too, and takes the opportunity to ghost a finger along the curve of Rosé’s spine, humming with satisfaction when Rosé shivers.

“Can you what, angel?” Denali teases, the hand on her back moving down again to rest on her ass. “Go on, don’t be shy. Tell daddy what you want.”

“Can…can I--” Rosé starts, but it’s too difficult; looking from the strap to the bottle in Mik’s hand back up to his cocky smirk, her embarrassment overtakes her, and she looks at him with pleading eyes, burning face a cry for help.

“Put your hand out, baby,” he softens, taking pity on her, and she smiles gratefully as she obeys, letting him squirt a generous amount of lube into her palm so that she can stroke it on for him, the mess covering her hand when she finally finishes well worth the lingering sensation of the toy in her grip. She wipes the excess lube off on her bare stomach, then scoots back, fitting straight into Denali’s waiting arms.

“Hips up,” Mik continues directing as Denali’s hands find their way back onto Rosé’s tits from behind, deft fingers circling and pinching while Rosé lets Mik slide her panties down and throw them aside.

“Think you can take daddy already, or do you need fingers first?” Denali whispers into Rosé’s ear before planting a soft kiss on her temple, and for a moment, Rosé pauses, frowning as she considers her options. The strap doesn’t look that thick, and Rosé trusts Mik to be gentle, to go slow and check in often. But at the same time, there’s a reason Denali asked; what if it really is different, and it hurts?

“Relax,” Denali cuts off Rosé’s spiral with a hand snaking down to her slit, playing with her folds gently to bring her out of her own head, focus on something else instead. “You have nothing to worry about, ‘kay?”

“We can go as slow as you want,” Mik adds with a soft, reassuring smile, and Rosé nods, letting out a shaky breath.

“Wanna feel you,” she decides. “Please, daddy.”

Mik says nothing, only leans forward to kiss Rosé sweetly, but she swears she can taste excitement on his lips.  But the moment is over as soon as it began; Mik pulls away and gets to work lining himself up with Rosé’s cunt, flashing her one last lopsided smile before he begins to ease himself in.

“How’s that feel, angel?” he starts to thrust in and out shallowly, slowly, and Rosé has to admit--her boyfriend wasn’t lying when he said he was good. Between his teasing and Denali continuing to play with her nipples, craning down to kiss the curve of her neck, Rosé can’t help but squirm, chase Mik’s dick with her hips while pushing her chest up into Denali’s hands. But it’s to no avail; they both keep up the cruel game, working her up and practically radiating glee as she gets closer and closer to unravelling.

That is, until Denali brings a sharp slap to her tits, and she’s jerked out of her trance by the realization that she still hasn’t answered her boyfriend.

“Focus, baby girl,” she murmurs, “Use your words and tell daddy how you feel.”

“Good,” she breathes, “Feels good, daddy, so fucking good— ah,” she cuts off with a gasp as Mik speeds up a little, thrusting a little deeper as he smiles down at her approvingly.

“Good girl.”

Rosé has to admit--now that she’s actually on the receiving end on her lover’s strap, she gets the hype. Mik’s pace is relentless, yet fluid, the rhythm of his thrusts unbroken even when he leans down to attach his lips to her neck. His hands tighten around Rosé’s hips, grip bruising as it pulls her closer still, allowing him to hit exactly where he needs to. And Denali, in the meanwhile?

“God, I wish you could see yourself,” Denali’s voice is low in Rosé’s ear, hands traveling down her sides and nails scratching along her skin. “So pretty right now, our pretty little mess.”

As if to further tease Rosé, Denali brings one of her hands down between the redhead’s legs, laughing when Rosé immediately cries out in shock and overstimulation when Denali begins to circle Rosé’s clit with far-too-gentle fingers. But her moans turn into whines of protest when just as fast, Denali takes her fingers back again, this time bringing them to Rosé’s lips for her to suck into her mouth.

“There we go, good girl,” she purrs as Rosé licks the taste of herself from Denali’s fingertips. “See how wet you are, sweetheart? Poor baby,” she laughs a little, her other hand’s touch becoming soft on her waist as she teases, “can’t even control yourself, can you?”

Rosé can’t answer; she’s too far gone, too lost in the dizzying task of trying to take in every feeling, process everything being done to her. It’s a fact that neither Mik nor Denali fail to notice, but it’s Mik that finally says something after a few more moments of torment, his voice dripping with condescension as he goes in for the kill.

“You take daddy’s cock so well, baby,” he murmurs against her collarbone. “Doing so good for us.”

He moves one hand from her hip to her jaw, tipping her chin up to kiss him languidly, and fuck, she can’t hold on much longer, not when Denali’s hands are stroking the insides of her thighs and Mik’s tongue is against hers and all she wants is more.

“Please,” Rosé musters up all the strength she can to force the plea out, eyes screwing shut in effort, “Please, please let me come, please, I need to come, please!”

“Go ahead, angel,” Mik gives her one more sweet kiss before making one last particularly hard thrust, and that pushes her over the edge.

Rosé’s orgasm crashes over her all at once, knocking the air from her lungs and making the world spin. Mik fucks her through her orgasm, Denali whispering sweet praises all the while, and slowly, she comes down again, still feeling like she’s floating on air.

“How d’you feel, gorge?” Mik looks at Rosé with concern as he pulls out, and it’s cute, the little flash of insecurity that Rosé catches in his eyes. She laughs, opening her arms to beckon Mik towards her.

“I feel amazing.”

Mik beams as he shimmies out of the strap, crawling up towards Rosé and making room for himself between her and Denali. But as he does, he accidentally brushes himself against Rosé’s thigh, and the little gasp he lets out alerts her to something that isn’t quite right.

He’s wet, and swollen, and Rosé realizes with a jolt that she hadn’t heard him come like he thought he might.

She looks over at Denali, tipping her head towards Mik suggestively. The blonde frowns in confusion for just a moment before her face lights up in understanding, and she smiles as she puts a hand over Mik’s thigh, licking her lips when Rosé does the same on his other side.

“Open your legs, baby boy,” Rosé murmurs, kissing the blush that’s already burning at his cheeks. “It’s time for me to thank you.”

[miekasa]

the pre-pancetta snippet: early december, 3 months before the world went to shit

💉levi gets sick [levi grumbles in the background]

it was the pre-pandemic flu season. levi caught it at work and just his luck, it was pretty bad for him. but healthcare is expensive, capitalism sucks, so he wore a mask and still went to work the next day, thinking bedrest during the weekend would be enough. erwin kindly dropped off some sports drinks while hange gave him a new bag of black tea leaves. oc comes home to find him almost asleep at the table while waiting for water to boil for his tea and her senses tingle. she just knows. levi is pretty out of it by then, very pissed, feeling like shit, but still thinking about the slack he has to pick up at work. oc is very concerned because he looks awful. she bugs him and asks him if he’s okay with her checking him up. he is about to tell her to piss off but what the hell, lucky his roomie’s a doctor and he’ll take free healthcare when he can. so he nods once in dramatic brooding levi fashion.

her hands are cool on his forehead and neck, it feels so good, and levi is really trying not to accidentally moan out loud. when she brings out her stethoscope and asks him to take deep breaths, his focus is on her hand absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder [levi thoughts: he’s really out of it if this is all he can focus on]. oc’s brow furrows when she finds out he’s had only one cup of tea for the entire day and only one meal the day before. he says he’s brewing more, but oc is not having it! she heats up some leftover soup she has and makes him eat before handing him a tylenol. levi feels unsteady and weak but he’s trying to keep up the i’m-fine-it’s-just-the-flu facade. oc sees right through it and tails him to his room.

she helps him to bed, all while saying he’ll need meds for the virus and he needs to eat and drink more fluids because he’ll need an IV drip if not. even if it’s just the flu, he got a pretty bad case. levi strips off his shirt before he drops onto his pillows, grumpy and dismissive, telling her to just leave the prescription. he can handle it. oc snorts before leaving him alone (for now)

levi wakes up to rustling sounds and finds oc by his bedside setting up some stuff. his head is pounding, entire body is aching, and his cough is killing his throat. he’s very grumpy and is about to tell oc to just let him be but he gets a coughing fit. oc rubs his back while checking his vitals, her voice soft with worry as she asks him how he is feeling. he says he went to the bathroom but that’s it. he doesn’t see oc frown, but he’s more than annoyed that he is disturbed when she digs him out of the blankets. she helps him sit up, propping him on his pillows, and she makes him eat more soup, drink some tea, and take his meds. his throat is cooling and he realizes belatedly that she made him strong mint tea. he’s just swallowing whatever so he can go back to sleep [levi is trying very hard not to vocalize his disappointment whenever her hands leave him]. oc sighs at the little care her patient has for himself, but she tells him that he needs a drip at this point. she’s not satisfied with how little he’s been eating and drinking. levi is ready to throw hands because he refuses to spend thousands of dollars for 2 hours at the emergency room and get scammed by health insurance just so they can give him IV fluids, but oc surprises him by saying she’s all set up, and if he’s okay with it, she can do it here.

he shrugs and holds out his hand. the skin of her hands are a little rough with a few calluses, her touch so light and sure. the needle pinches but the pain dulls after a few seconds. he watches oc taping up the line and securing his hand to some makeshift splint so it doesn’t move around much. oc hangs up the bottle on the hanger she installed on the wall lamp by his bed before heading out. levi tries to fall back into sleep again. suddenly, he feels a damp cool cloth brush his forehead and his face while another hand runs through his hair gently. he’s groggy and he squirms because what. he hears oc shushing him, saying something about sponge baths for fever, and he’s just so not used to tenderness and care, and she’s sponging down his neck and his chest, running over his arms, turning him on his side gently so she doesn’t jostle him into wakefulness. her hands are firm and gentle as they wipe down his back and it’s cool and soothing and so good over his heated skin. he falls asleep in minutes. this never happens.

he thinks oc drops in once more in the middle of the night because he remembers someone holding him up to take something. when he wakes up the next morning, his fever is gone and he feels like himself again. he sees an empty bottle on his bedside table which means oc must have changed his drip too. the one he’s hooked to is almost gone. he’s in the middle of answering a work email on his phone when oc, already dressed for work, pops in to check on him. she has a tray in hand, looking genuinely relieved and happy that he’s better. his knows his appetite is back because the smell immediately makes his mouth water. he is very hungry after 3 days of soup and tea. she made really good pancakes, fried bacon to a perfect crisp, and the scrambled eggs are savory and creamy. it’s killing him. he can forgive the tea bag from a packet. levi is still a tea snob. oc is cheery, chirping that he’s good to go without a drip as long as he keeps up his food and fluids.

oc: water, tea, or pocari sweat, levi! none of the sugary sports drinks erwin left you, that stuff is a scam.

levi: i don’t have pocari—

oc: i bought you some, they’re in the drinks cupboard!

levi: why—

oc: it’s not just sugar, it has the electrolytes you need!!

she unhooks the IV and takes out his line, lays out his medication regimen and tells him to please call her if he starts feeling bad again. levi rolls his eyes and bats her concern away, grumbling that he’s fine and well enough, but he’s listening to every word she says. he utters a small thank you because how on earth does he convey his immense gratitude in words, he is not used to words!!! his cheeks feel very warm. oc giggles and ruffles his hair. she understands her roomie’s not talkative, but his soft gaze betrays everything beneath his gruff exterior. his shyness is adorable even if he was a grumpy old man while sick. oc thinks that her theory of him being 89 years old deep inside might be right after all. she sternly tells him to rest and lay off strenuous activities until he’s really recovered.

oc: rest. no cleaning today.

levi: my room—

oc: no. cleaning. today.

and just like that, she’s off to work [levi thoughts: wtf she works on sundays?]. all that levi can think of for three days, or more like since that day, are her gentle, comforting touches, her kind smiles, and how pretty she is. he tries, he really tries to push back the thoughts and bury the memories, but all efforts become in vain for him the next week.

he’s reading on the couch and relaxing for the night when oc comes out of her room looking like a fucking goddess. she’s in a deep green dress of flowing silk with thigh-high slit, sporting a dark, vibrant red lip, complaining of some recognition ceremony she has to attend for one of her bosses at work. she pouts while slipping on pumps that make her legs look even more stunning. levi is aware that he is staring and has tuned out her voice, so he forces himself out of it. he remembers basic conversation etiquette and lamely asks about the party. oc says it’s a black-tie-long-gown thing that’s a waste of her time. she twists her hair up in a messy bun and puts on earrings, grumbling that this is the most formal she’ll go. levi is mildly amused when she says she’ll nick a bottle of good champagne and some desserts before she escapes the party in an hour. tops.

levi: what if you get caught?

oc: they can spare one bottle and a few cupcakes

levi: and what reason have you come up with if they start interrogating you?

oc: my roommate is sad and a stress-eat is essential after shitty weeks of being underpaid laborers *cheeky smile*

he rolls his eyes. when she steps out their door (her uber’s there), levi counts to ten before groaning very loudly to let his frustrations out.

but she really did steal and bring home the good stuff, squealing in excitement when she sees that he was still up. he actually waited for her to get home but she doesn’t need to know that. they shared fruit tarts and fancy mini-cakes and worked through the bottle of champagne while bonding over their mutual disdain for assholes at work. conversation was open and easy, and levi cannot remember when he has been this comfortable around others who weren’t old friends of his. he was in an old shirt and jogger shorts. oc was still in her dress, barefoot, lipstick still perfect and bun still messy, picking a strawberry off the last cake while laughing at his dry jab about her boss. and jesus christ, she was exquisite.

at this point, denial begins to trickle in, but levi doesn’t know that yet. it’s just the champagne, right?

end. this was so mf long, i’m so sorry 😭 anyway this is insanely self-indulgent, and this is me coping with the pandemic (and with SnK ending today)

AHHHHHHH I LOVE ALL OF THIS ANON!!! SO MUCH!!!! PLEASE THIS HIT ALL THE MARKS!! Levi being reluctant to having someone take care of him, oc picking up on him not feeling well even though he’s not really showing it, and eventually just giving him the care and attention he needs (without suffocating him because you know he would be grumpy about that). I love this wow, seriously. 

AND THE END!! When they’re drinking together and he’s feeling better, you know damn well he didn’t even want her to leave in the first place, and IM SO GLAD HE’S FINALLY REALIZING!! Levi, my beloved, you are in love it is not the champagne 😌😌

[watchtower-feed]

Shoulds and Coulds

SSA AU ✧ Damian Wayne ✧ Timer

Notes: This is my favorite trope hybrid. Does a lot of emotional damage. I also wanted to move away from Y/N-centric narrative and try the soulmate’s POV.

Words: 3,615

          When you live in a world full of superheroes, there are worst things than meta human villains, invading aliens, and psychotic clowns. One of them is having a soulmate.

          Some say it’s better because your other half is easier to find, but they’re not the one who has a hero or a villain for a soulmate. You do

     Damian Wayne was raised to believe in destiny. That it’s his fate to one day lead the League of Assassins and continue to change the world for the better. Talia would talk of his future feats while massaging the glowing numbers on his arm. As a young boy, he’s noticed how his mother would always avoid looking at his timer.

     But destiny proved to have its own plans when Slade attacked the League and murdered his grandfather in front of him. His mother safely stole him away and brought him to his father. When she whispered her bittersweet goodbye, she kissed his timer for a long time. And it was the last time he ever saw her.

     His father and Alfred dedicated a grave to Talia in the family cemetery, a few meters away from Bruce’s own parents. There was no body beneath the ground but Damian had no trouble shedding tears on the gravestone etched with her name.

     Damian Wayne was then raised in a family where his choices decided his fate and those around him. Every split decision in a fight could lead to injury or death. Every word uttered turned arguments into thirst for blood. There's no way of knowing what will happen until it does.

     Every action he makes, consequences follow. Nothing is given freely and nothing is asked of him. Suddenly, he no longer has a clear destiny.

     But when he looks at the changing numbers on his arm, the inevitable countdown that comforts his loneliness, he’s still sure of one thing. No matter what happens, what turns he takes, or mistakes he makes, he has you.

     It’s the last day of summer before Damian goes back to high school for his senior year. He’s spending it much like every other night with his brothers: in costume.

     “Just a few more minutes,” Dick grins at him while he peers at Damian’s covered arm, making his youngest brother rub it under his sleeve and hide it from Dick with a scowl.

     Jason snorts through the comms and Damian can hear him breathing loud and the wind trailing behind him, “Do you think-- it’s going to be-- a damsel-- in distress?”

     “We’re out and about and Ivy is busy turning the Narrows into her new garden. Of course, she’s going to be a damsel. She’ll probably be trapped in Ivy’s vines and Damian’s going to be the one who’ll cut her down and save her.” Dick swoons towards Damian who harshly shoves him away and jumps off the rooftop to leave his eldest brother behind.

     Tim’s voice filters in his ear as he glides over rooftops, “Or it could be a bad guy. Probably out looting and taking advantage of the chaos just like these guys.” They all hear Tim grunt as he kicks and punches.

     Damian groans and glares at the night sky. They’re damage control while Batman handles Ivy by himself. From what they’ve been hearing through his comm, Ivy’s trying to find new territory after the mayor sold her greenhouse to an out-of-town developer.

     “You’re always such a party pooper, Tim.”

     “At least I’m not narrating R-rated romance novels.”

     “Hey! Those are quality gol--”

     Damian stops in an alley and turns off his comms. He hides in the shadows. Stands still in the darkness, holding his breath before releasing it through his shaky lips. He loosens the collar of his tunic and breathes out of his mouth slowly.

     Finally, he rolls up his sleeve and the glowing red numbers light up his face.

     9 minutes.

     He remembers his mother kissing the last digit after she said goodbye. After expressing her distaste for his link all his life, why did she kiss it so gently? What did it mean? Why did she look so sad? Was she worried? Scared?

     Damian Wayne has grown up waiting for the day when his timer would stop, when all the waiting would stop, when all the uncertainty and guesswork would finally come to an end.

     “Robin!”

     His comms are overridden and Batman’s voice blares through. “There’s another stray headed to your location.”

     “On it.”

     Damian’s running. Heading toward the screaming.

     “Damian, how many more minutes?”

     “Dick, focus!”

     It’s too late. Damian’s already staring at his still exposed wrist.

      7 minutes. 

     When he reaches the chaos, he sees a monster shaped like a bulb with its vines swinging wildly around, smashing into buildings and wrapped tightly around civilians.

     Dick’s words suddenly haunt him and he wonders if his soulmate is one of them. His eyes roam each victim. Damian wills himself to focus. There’s still a lot of time.

     He unsheathes his katana and cuts away at the animated vines. He catches each civilian as they fall and takes extra care when he lets them down onto the ground. An ambulance arrives when he lays down the last victim. The medics pour out and attend to them. He steals one last look at his wrist.

     2 mins.

     Damian turns his full attention to the monster. He cleans his katana on his sleeve and charges forward. He hacks and slashes at each vine it sends his way. But one vine hits him and sends him flying back. He braces himself for the impact and hits the windshield of a car.

     He groans, back aching, and notices the moving numbers on his arm.

    36 seconds.

     The monster is advancing. Damian grits his teeth. His lips are quivering. He grips the hilt of his weapon and waits. With the monster just a few feet away, Damian yells in frustration and leaps. He comes down to its side and slashes the monster’s head off.

     Its limbs flail in the air without an entity controlling it and one of the larger vines whips around and slams Damian against a building.

     His head smashes against the brick wall and his body slides down to the ground. He feels warm blood drip down his face. It slowly covers his eyes and he sneaks one last look at his wrist.

     3 seconds.

     He feels a gloved hand wipe off the blood on his face and pull on his eyelids. When his eye opens, he hears the three continuous beeps while locking eyes with you.

     “Are you okay? Do you know where you are?” Robin is staring at you through his mask while you flash light into his eye. His pupil constricts and then dilates when you move away the flashlight. “Talk to me, Robin. I need to know if you’ve got a concussion. Do you remember where you are?”

     You watch him blink both eyes and slowly his mouth moves, “Gotham.” You give him a long look before you finally release the breath you’ve been holding.

     Robin is your soulmate. After 27 years of waiting, you finally meet him. But work comes first.

     Your hands move and part his hair to look at the wound. It’s a small gash but it’s going to need stitches. For now, you need to stop the bleeding.

     Damian’s hand covers yours and he brings it down to his face. You watch him stare at the now faded mark on your wrist and slowly he brings it closer to his lips before pressing a kiss against the faded string of numbers.

✧ ✧ ✧

     “Y/N, how many casualties?”

     You’re still not used to having Batman addressing you by name. You clear your throat and stare at thepiece of paper you brought with you to avoid looking at any of them. “7 DOAs and 12 in critical condition but quarantined. Hospital records show that 42 are already in recovery.”

     “Red Robin, how many missing persons reports?”

     “23 but there’s no more ground to cover.”

     “Where else can we look? The rest of the area is still ground zero, Bruce.”

     Batman glares at Jason. He’s still not used to having his name mentioned in front of you. But it’s not like you want to be here. You want to help but you’d rather be out there in an ambulance, reporting to doctors. You’re only here because of Damian.

     He nudges your shoulder with his and waits for you to turn to him. You hide half of your face behind your paper and give your soulmate a deep frown. Damian replies with a quick smile before turning his full attention back to Batman.

     “--still some debris here. Red Robin, Batgirl, and I will look into it. The rest of you take the rest of the night off.”

     Dick and Jason are already getting ready to argue with Bruce when Damian tugs on your hand and leads you to the elevator shaft. When he closes the door, you slump against the scaffolding and sigh. You’re exhausted. It’s another long night in Gotham as usual.

     Damian’s tall form stands next to you, leaning against your shoulder, sending electricity up and down your spine. He’s bowing his head in thought. You eye him curiously and watch his brows meet at the center.

     “You’re sneaking out, aren’t you?”

     Only his eyes turn to you and he smirks. It doesn’t take much for you to decipher what he’s thinking. All you have to do is look and everything is written plainly on his face. Even when his family is around, the stoic demeanor he wears with them is very telling of what calculations he’s making and what he plans to do next.

     You smirk back. “Where to?”

     The shaft doors open automatically when it reaches the top. Damian places his wide palm on the small of your back and guides you out of the secret door. He stops by the wall and leans on it to cage you in with his arms. “If you’re tired, beloved, we’ll stay in.”

     He leans down and kisses you. His lips are chapped from the cold night but his breath is warm like the sun. You find yourself inhaling and tasting all of him without another thought. He pushes you back against the wall with his body molding into your curves. Your breath hitches when his leg presses against your crotch. You push him back gently.

     “Let’s… Let’s sneak out…”

     Damian hasn’t turned 18 yet and you’re ten years older than him. You’ve found it so easy to just lose yourself in his touch, his warmth, his taste. But you have principles. Your rules. Boundaries you’re not willing to cross. He clenches his teeth like an animal baring his fangs.

     Damian doesn’t understand these rules. You’re soulmates. You shouldn’t be bound by such trivial legal matters.

     You slink away but hold his hand. You pull him away from the wall and toward the garage. “Come on. Lives to be saved, my boy wonder.”

     But he tries to be good. Tries to be as good as you. Good enough for you. So he respects your rules, the high standards you’ve set for yourself. Just like how you never try to talk him into a more honest life, knowing that being Robin is what makes him him.

     But destiny is nothing like karma. It plays by its own rules.

     It’s the early morning of Damian’s birthday when Alfred hears the house phone ringing. Damian and his siblings walk in from the cave while Alfred answers it. The boys are loud but exhausted, stretching their limbs and rolling their shoulders to shake away the fight from the night.

     “You excited for the big day, buddy?”

     “Kids finally gonna lose his V card. What do you think?”

     “Takes a special kind of stupid to lose it in an alley, Todd.”

     Tim’s the only one who notices Alfred’s stiff posture and desperate grip on the phone’s receiver. “Alfred?” The others stop and watch Alfred slowly turn to them, gaping, the receiver slowly slips from his grip. “What’s wrong?”

     He’s staring at Damian. His voice breaks when he utters your name.

     They break every speed limit and run every red light on the way to Gotham General Hospital. The emergency room is in chaos and the lobby is filled with people all waiting to see the victims of the accident. The wailing and the sobbing is forcing Damian to hide his head between his knees so he can think.

     The hospital didn’t call Wayne manor. One of your colleagues did. He was about to clock out but as soon as he saw you on the gurney, head bashed in with blood all over your face and in your hair, his knees went weak. He and a few of the other nurses knew you were involved with Damian Wayne and someone had to tell him.

     Four hours ago, a building collapsed near the hospital parking lot where the ambulances are parked. You and your colleagues were headed home when it happened. They’re only letting immediate family members in and no one in Damian’s family is listed as your emergency contact.

     “Is anybody in there with her?”

     “We can’t divulge that kind of information, sir.”

     “We’re her only family in Gotham!”

     “Unless you’re listed in her contacts, we can’t let you in.”

     “Check again! We should be in there--”

     “Stop!”

     Damian shouts in the waiting room, making all the chatter and buzzing cease. He stares at Bruce, Dick, and Jason before marching toward them and grabbing his brothers by the collar. “Just stop. Let them do their job.”

     You’ve told Damian enough stories about the hospital and the different types of behavior the nurses had to deal with. You don’t blame them because it’s their loved ones in question but you just wish they’d understand that wasting the nurses’ time helps no one.

     Damian lets go of his brothers and waits for them to take a seat. Bruce looks at his son. “I thought she would put one of us as her contact.”

      Damian’s mouth stretches into  a line, “I knew she didn’t. Y/N was sure I’d be the first to respond if something happens. She believed in me.”

     “Thank you,” the nurse says to him. “I’ll call you as soon as Y/N’s ready for visitors.”

     Damian nods at her and sits down with his brothers. He did the right thing but he feels sick to his stomach. He suddenly gags and Cass is quick enough to shove a trash can under his head. His retching echoes in the still quiet room.

     By the time they’re called them in, the waiting room is half empty and Damian’s birthday is almost over. They stand in front of your hospital room door with Damian’s hand on the handle. He’s staring at the timer’s faded mark on his wrist.

     His siblings turn to each other but neither rushes him in. Bruce gently places his hand on his son’s shoulder. After a sharp intake of breath, Damian finally turns the handle.

     The artificial light is glaring hard at your heavily bandaged head. Your open mouth is covered by a nebulizer and IV packs hung beside your bed.

     “Why…” Dick’s voice is breaking and almost a whisper. “Why does she need so many?”

     Bruce purses his lips when he answers, “The building collapsed from neglect over the years but the Joker was using one of the empty apartments for storage.”

     “What was in it?” Tim asks, making Jason elbow him and shush the rest of them.

     “Do you really think this is the time?” he nudges his head toward Damian who’s standing right next to your bed and holding your free hand.

     Damian has tuned them out the moment he saw you. He lowers himself and lays his chin near your shoulder. He watches your chest rise and fall and hopes your eyelids would open.

     “Y/N. Please.”

     It’s almost sunrise when you finally wake up. The room is quiet but the repeated beeping of machines helps stir you into consciousness. You blink and wait for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. You’re in a hospital room crowded with hunched sleeping forms littered about.

     You feel someone’s fingers intertwined with yours and your eyes land on a small mop of black hair lying on your bed. Instinctively, you reach out and ruffle it out, the tips of his hair feel familiar on your fingers. The boy wakes slowly and then his eyes widen as he stares at you.

     “Y/N.”

     He stands up quickly and hovers over you, unsure of how close he could get but you can see that he wants to embrace you. Slowly, the others start waking. The two eldest men quickly run out and you can hear them calling for a doctor.

     You unclasp the tube from your mouth with one hand and release it from your mouth with a pop. You cough a few times and the boy gently helps you sit up and rubs your back until your breathing eases. You turn to him, curious.

     “I feel like… I should know you.”

     The others are halfway up at this point. Your words made them stop. They all watch Damian’s eyes stare deeply into yours with his eyebrows almost meeting in the middle.

     “What do you mean?”

     You stare at him, studying his face and trying to place where you’ve seen him. “You’re… Damian Wayne, aren’t you?”

     You feel Damian’s fingers let go of your hand and his body takes an involuntary step back.

     The doctor comes in and realizes what he’s walked into.  He asks to speak to you alone. Everyone slowly filters out and crowds the hallway in front of your room.

     Tim’s the first one who approaches Damian, reaching up to place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just retrograde amnesia. There’s a good chance Y/N will get her memories back.”

     Damian looks at his brother before he nods to him.

     “What if she doesn’t?”

     “Jason.”

     “No, seriously. What if.”

     Damian glares at Jason who’s not letting up. The others aren’t intervening because it’s one of those rare moments where Jason could be right. “You gotta be ready for the worst here, kid. What are you going to do?”

     Damian turns away from him and peers into your room. Even in your condition, you look as bright as you always have to him. Suddenly, you catch Damian looking at you. He quickly tenses and stands up.

     “Are you running away?” Jason blocks his path, acting like a real brother even though he isn’t. “Aren’t you her soulmate, huh, Damian Wayne?”

     “That name doesn’t mean anything to her right now!”

     The doctor steps out into the hallway, forcing the boys to shut their mouths and glare at each other. He coughs and turns to Damian. “Excuse me. Y/N’s asking for you.”

     Damian stares at him but doesn’t move. Jason slowly pushes both of his shoulders toward the door. You see him and make a small wave.

      “We’ll wait out here,” Jason whispers to him before gently pushing him into the room and closing the door behind Damian.

     You wait as he slowly walks up to you. “So, Fred tells me you’re my soulmate.”

     Damian stops just a foot away from your bed. It takes a moment but his demeanor changes. He presses the soles of his feet firmly on the ground and it lets him look you in the eyes with more ease. “I am.”

     He says it with such intensity that makes you turn away when you feel a warm blush coating your cheeks. You try to cover them with your hands and breathe out a shaky laugh. “Wow. I mean-- just wow. How long have we been…”

     “9 months.”

     You feel your cheeks heat up even more. You press your palms on your face, trying to hide yourself. “Phew… 9 months. And I actually-- But you’re not even 18 yet. Gosh.”

     Damian’s hands touch yours, making you flinch. He slowly pulls your hands away. You open your eyes and find his face so close to you. “I’m 18 now. It was my birthday yesterday,” he whispers, his warm breath blowing on your face, a familiar feeling that makes your fingers itch to reach out and touch the back of his neck.

     “Oh… Happy birthday, Damian.”

     Damian’s gaze drops to your lips but they look back up just as quickly. When he looks into your eyes, dilated and roaming his face, he remembers the first time you met. He can almost hear those three beeps.

     “Hey…” You watch big tears drop from his eyes. When you wipe them he seems shocked they’re there. “Come here.” You pull him close, making him climb onto your bed and curl up beside you. He rests his head on your shoulder and you hold him tighter when he shakes. “It’s okay,” you rub his head and your fingers untangle his unkept hair. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

     “Why…” he chokes out. “Why aren’t you questioning any of this? Why do you believe it so easily? Your timer’s run out. There’s no way to know if I’m really your soulmate.”

     You sneak a look at his arm and touch his faded marks. “I think… my soulmate wouldn’t be the type of person who would take advantage of an amnesiac.”

     Damian lifts his head and looks at you. “You’re too…”

     “Gullible?” you laugh.

     “Good.”

     You go still. “Does that mean I changed?”

     He looks at you. Your head is completely wrapped with bandages but your eyes still gleam when you watch him, pupils roaming to look for little tells hiding beneath his face. That small hidden smirk on your lips that slowly emerges when you finally piece something together, a mystery he didn’t know you were unravelling.

    Damian looks at you and all he sees is his beloved.

     “No,” he answers. “You’re still you.”

     You smile at him, “See? If I fell for you once then I’ll do it again. Especially now that you’re legal.”

     Damian snorts when he laughs. Unable to control it he hides his face on your shoulder, making you laugh along with him.

✧ Watchtower Masterlist ✧  

[flowercrown-bard]

I Scream a Truth, You Hear a Lie - part 2/ 5

for @ban-aard <3

read on

AO3

previous  /   next

It was just one day, Jaskier had told himself. One day of indulging and not having to pretend anymore.

One day wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. So who could fault him when he did his best to find ample reason to start their little act a little sooner?

In all fairness, it hadn’t exactly been a calculated plan but a necessity to go into town together the next morning. Jaskier had looked through Geralt’s clothes to find something suitable for Geralt to wear to the festival. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find no such thing.

So, naturally, the only solution was to go buy Geralt something he would look nice in – well, nicer. He could probably wear a potato sack and still look breath-taking.

“Why do I need new clothes?” Geralt grumbled, though they both knew it was far too late for any protest. They were already making their way through the streets of the small town in search of a tailor.

“Because, my dear witcher, no husband of mine will walk around as if they just crawled through a forest.”

“I did crawl through a forest just yesterday.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to look like it.” Jaskier swatted a hand against Geralt’s chest. “I like to spoil my lovers if I have the means. And right now that means getting you some clothes that don’t still have dried blood or mud on them.”

“Then spoil away.” Even without looking, Jaskier heard the eye-roll in Geralt’s tone.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “You know, being spoiled by me is a wonderful thing. You could at least try to look as if you enjoyed it.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but his shoulders sagged with an inaudible sigh.

“Besides,” Jaskier said after making sure no one was around to listen in, “if we just show up at the festival and announce that we are married out of the blue, no one is going to believe us. But willingly going to the tailor with me? That does sound like something a witcher would only do if they were hopelessly gone on me.” Jaskier ignored the way Geralt stiffened. He wished he could also ignore the knowledge that Geralt very much didn’t willingly go but was all but forced to accompany him. “And rumours have to get started somewhere. I promise you by tomorrow half the town will know that I have your heart.”

If only. Oh, how the words stung, how he loved indulging in this hopeless fantasy. He needed to be careful, or else he might start to believe it himself. Maybe it would be better if he did? Who cared about the inevitable heartbreak when it followed the beautiful belief of having all he had ever wanted?

Without waiting for any more grunts of protests he opened the door to the tailor’s shop, holding it open for Geralt.

He entered after him and immediately felt at ease. Within a moment he had forgotten about his inner turmoil about their pretence, when he saw the stunning fabrics.

Immediately he went to the first rack with doublets and ran his fingers over the soft materials. There were so many he wanted to try on, but before he could decide which one to try on first, Geralt cleared his throat behind him.

Jaskier turned around and his eyes widened when they fell on Geralt holding up a light blue doublet with beautiful silvery-white embroidery almost the same colour as Geralt’s hair.

“It would look good with your eyes,” Geralt said, everything about his tone and posture speaking of discomfort, but Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat nonetheless.

He stepped closer to Geralt –perhaps a little closer than necessary - to look better at the garment and saw Geralt’s throat bob.

Jaskier’s eyes were transfixed and suddenly it was hard to find the words for what he had wanted to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind.

“I thought you were going to sit in the corner and brood while I do all the, you know, looking at clothing and all that.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. “I can put it back if you don’t like it. I know I’m no good with such things, I just… I thought as your – “

Geralt’s voice broke off and he averted his eyes with a closed off look. Something softened in Jaskier’s chest and he gently took the doublet from him.

“No, no! I love it. It is really thoughtful of you. Give me a moment, I’ll try it right on.”

Jaskier disappeared into the fitting booth, if only to stop the spate of words that threatened to spill from his mouth. For some reason, his heart sped up when he pulled the curtain to the side. He knew it was ridiculous – Geralt probably wouldn’t care at all – but he almost felt like a bride letting her spouse see her dress for the first time.

“So, how do I look?”

Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when Geralt only stared at him with a blank expression for a few moments that stretched into eternity.

“You – good.” The words sounded like Geralt wished to be anywhere but here, but Jaskier couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten pleasantly when Geralt scrambled helplessly for more words. “You look beautiful. Of course you do. You always do.”

Jaskier snorted. “Always? Need I remind you of how you see me in literally my cheapest undershirts when it’s just the two of us or when I don’t have time to comb my hair properly because you make me get up at an unspeakable hour?”

A strange look – almost fond? – softened Geralt’s eyes.

“Always,” he repeated quietly, looking Jaskier straight in the eye.

Jaskier’s mouth went dry. He wanted to squirm from under this intense gaze, but felt rooted to the spot. He never thought he’d needed to be saved from wordlessly gaping like a fish, but relief flooded him when the tailor appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Ah, master bard!” She said with a smile. “That is an excellent choice.”

Immediately, Jaskier felt more at ease. This was a performance; this he knew how to do, though a bitter voice inside him reminded him that unlike him, Geralt must have heard the tailor even before she had shown her face. Everything he had said and done had already been part of their lie.

He shook the thought off with a smile.

“Actually, it was my husband’s choice.”

For a second, the tailor’s eyes went wide, darting over to the only other person in the shop, before settling back to her normal expression.

“And can I get anything for your lovely husband as well?”

“Something black. Or dark blue,” Jaskier said, chancing a glance at Geralt who had a look of barely concealed surprise on his face. “Preferably in silk or some other smooth fabric.” Geralt had always hated the feeling of scratching fabric on his skin. Not that he ever said so out loud, but the way he kept shifting uncomfortably in his old clothes spoke for itself.

The tailor hustled to the back of the shop and Geralt crossed his arms. “I thought you didn’t like it when I wear black. I could have just worn my own clothes if we just buy black again.”

“Careful.” Jaskier’s tone was full of teasing mirth. “If you keep talking like that I might start to think that you’d want me to buy you the most colourful garments I can find.”

Though Jaskier wouldn’t mind seeing Geralt in lighter colours for once, it was an empty threat. Geralt looked too good in black to force him into anything else. How could Jaskier resist bringing out the snow white hair and the glowing eyes with the contrast?

Geralt huffed but the corners of his mouth turned upwards. “No thank you. I’ll leave the eye-catching clothes to you.”

“As if you could ever not be eye-catching.”

Jaskier regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth. The smile that had teased Geralt’s lips vanished in the blink of an eye and he hunched over, as if to make himself look less tall and bulky, his eyes averted.

“I know.” Geralt’s voice was rough. “No need to remind me.”

Jaskier’s insides twisted uncomfortably. “Remind you of what? Of the fact that you are gorgeous?” When Geralt scoffed, Jaskier added more firmly, “Just you watch, when we go to the festival, I’m the one people will be jealous of for having such a beautiful husband.” He stepped closer to Geralt and put a hand on Geralt’s arm. Slowly, he felt the tension in Geralt’s body ebb away “And you are the most beautiful when you are comfortable. So, dark clothes it is.”

“Then why did we need to buy new ones at all?” Geralt grunted, though there was barely a hint of true annoyance in his tone.

“It’s the thought that counts. Like, how people give their loved ones flowers. It’s not really about the flowers. If it were, the beloved could just buy or pick them themselves. But it’s a show that they are thought of and that the other person wants them to be happy.”

Geralt’s brows were knitted together as if in deep concentration, but he didn’t argue.

When the tailor came back to show them the clothes she had found, Jaskier was sure they were perfect for Geralt. The right balance of artful and moderate that Geralt would hopefully feel handsome in without being out of his comfort zone.

Geralt, however spent more time than Jaskier had ever anticipated scrutinizing the doublet.

“Can you change it a bit?” Geralt finally asked when the tailor got nervous from the scrutiny.

“Of course,” she said hastily. “Should I sew it tighter?”

“No,” Geralt said and for a moment he looked as though he didn’t want to continue talking. “Embroider some flowers on the collar. Buttercups if you can. Or blue ones.” He glanced over at Jaskier before looking away quickly. “Cornflowers.”

“Oh darling.”

The whispered endearment escaped Jaskier without thought. The warm feeling in his chest grew stronger, like a wildfire and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Geralt who turned away and pretended to look at the other clothes on display. It was obvious that he was avoiding Jaskier’s eyes, but it didn’t matter. The damage had already been done. If there had been any hope that Jaskier would escape this whole ordeal without his heart fully in Geralt’s hand and shattered when he inevitably crushed it, it was all gone.

Yet somehow Jaskier managed to get through the day without too much trouble. He kept teasing Geralt good naturedly and eventually Geralt stopped tensing up whenever Jaskier let an endearment slip. It was exhilarating to be allowed to call him such a thing as his darling.

Jaskier should have known he was taking it too far.

“I won’t call you that,” Geralt said when they retired to their room and were allowed to drop the act, though in Jaskier’s case it meant that he was forced to put the mask back on that hid the open affection he had for Geralt. “’Darling’. Or ‘my dear’ or anything like that.”

He said the endearments as if they were something spiteful. Jaskier’s stomach turned to lead.

“Oh. Yeah, no of course. You don’t have to. I wouldn’t expect you to.” But oh, how wonderful it must feel to have Geralt call him by a word that spoke of love and being important to him. “Is there anything you would like to call me?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt didn’t squirm, but the discomfort radiated off of him. “Those pet names just feel wrong. Like an act.”

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh. “It is an act.”

“No need to remind me.” Geralt hesitated for a moment. “But if it were real I wouldn’t call you by an endearment either. It’s too performative. I wouldn’t want my partner to have to perform or pretend with me.” Jaskier could only nod, his throat suddenly too tight. The way Geralt talked about what ifs that never could be, that weren’t wanted by Geralt, made it impossible not to yearn. “You are just… Jaskier.” Geralt didn’t seem to notice the way Jaskier deflated at that. “You are Jaskier and that should be enough, don’t you think?”

Yes. It should be enough. But the gods knew it wasn’t. If being Jaskier would be enough, Geralt wouldn’t sit out of reach from him, he would be leaning against him and let him run his hands through his hair, he would tell him that he loved him. But Jaskier wasn’t enough. Still, it was a nice thought, one that he would keep locked away in his heart for cold and lonely times.

“So, do you want me to not call you by an endearment either?”

It wasn’t something Jaskier had considered before. He loved telling his partners in whatever way possible that they were dear to him. Of course there were plenty of couples who didn’t do such a thing. It had never crossed Jaskier’s mind being one of them, but somehow he didn’t think he would mind with Geralt. There was a softness in knowing they what they meant to each other without having to say it for the world to hear, as much as Jaskier wanted to shout it from the rooftops – but none of that mattered anyway. There was nothing to know – nothing but the fact that he wasn’t as dear to Geralt as the witcher was to him.

Geralt shrugged. “You call all of your lovers ‘darling’.” Why did he sound so bitter about it?

“That I do. It would be just fitting if I called you that as well.” Jaskier tilted his head to the side. “Although… you aren’t just one of many. You are special - Would be.” Jaskier cleared his throat and let out a nervous laugh, praying that his overcorrection didn’t draw any more attention to his slip up. “You would be special. If any of this were real. Which it isn’t. Obviously.”

Geralt sighed. “Jask. It’s fine. You are a convincing actor, but there’s no danger of me believing your act.”

“No?” Jaskier’s voice trembled and his blood ran cold.

“No. I know you don’t love me. So. No reason to be nervous, no reason to remind me of what I already know.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good. That’s good.” It was a relief, though somehow the way Geralt had said it so gently and softly tugged at Jaskier’s heart. “But the point still stands. I can’t call you what I call everyone else. But just calling you by your name… I don’t know. It’s too simple.”

“I like it.” The quiet admission shouldn’t have made Jaskier’s heart feel like it was beating out of his chest. “It’s…it sounds nice. The way you say it.”

Jaskier stared at the back of Geralt’s head, wishing more than anything that he would turn around and let Jaskier see what was going on in that head of his.

“What way do I say it?” he asked, blinking dumbly while wrecking his brain about what Geralt could possibly mean.

Geralt grunted. “Forget about it. It’s enough to know that you’ll do fine pretending.”

���As do you. Really, Geralt, I would have thought that I would have to be the one pulling all the weight with this act, but you’re a natural.”

Geralt froze. Even from behind Jaskier could see how his body was gripped by an iron tension.

“I’ve watched you be in love with everyone around you for years now. I learned a thing or two.” Before Jaskier could even begin to pick that statement apart, Geralt let out a heavy sigh. “You should go to bed. Acting like you are in love with me must be exhausting and you’ll have to do it all over tomorrow.”

--

It was Geralt’s own fault. If he hadn’t opened his stupid mouth, they could have just stayed in their room at the inn until the day of the festival arrived. But Geralt just had to ask for the extra embroidery that of course meant they had to get out together again to get the doublet once it was finished.

“That’s good!” Jaskier had said, brimming with excitement when Geralt had reminded him of that the next morning. “We can be seen together more. That’s exactly what we need for this to work.”

Another thing they apparently needed was touch. Geralt had known that. Of course he had. After all, he had seen Jaskier with lovers before, had watched how he laid his arms around their shoulders and waists and leaned in close, while Geralt had stood back and had tried to rein in that ugly, bitter feeling inside him that made it impossible to look away, yet torturous to watch.

So yes, he should have been prepared for the amount of touching to come. He had been yearning for it, if he was truthful with himself. And yet, it was so different from how Jaskier touched his real lovers. With them there was no hesitation, no hint of reluctance.

But then again, Geralt had always known he’d been different.

For all that Jaskier always said he liked Geralt just fine, he had rarely ever touched him. Geralt found himself looking forward to those treasured casual touches he sometimes received when Jaskier forgot himself, when he forgot whom he was touching. He longed for them – and he resented them. They were always just a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, a bumping of elbows when he made a joke. Never more. Never enough. Sometimes Geralt had been foolish enough to think that Jaskier was finally comfortable enough with him to touch him as Geralt wanted him to, but every time Jaskier’s hands would only hover above his skin just shy of touching him and always changing course at the last moment.

Geralt had tried his hardest not to let his disappointment show. He had scowled and turned away and grunted at Jaskier.

It had been different when they had first met, when Jaskier had offered his touches freely. Geralt like the fool that he was had growled at him, until Jaskier had finally realised who and what he was so casual with until he had finally stopped. The longer they had known each other, the more averse Jaskier seemed to reach out to him.

So Geralt shouldn’t be surprised – shouldn’t be hurt – that even now that Jaskier pretended to be in love with him, he touched him differently than his lovers.

His touches were soft, almost unsure. A brush against hands first, before he got brave enough to intertwine their fingers. A look searching Geralt’s face before he carefully, slowly brushed a strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear, always mindful not to touch too much of his skin as if it was the most repulsive thing he could imagine.

It stung. And still Geralt found himself yearning for those false caresses if they were all he could get.

After going to the tailor for the second time, he suggested just strolling through the town – like lovers did, so that they could be seen together – if only so he could hold Jaskier’s hand for a little while longer and pretend Jaskier wouldn’t pull back the moment they left anyone’s sight.

As they went back to their room, seemingly knowing eyes following them, Geralt felt his heart grow heavy with every step. The door had no sooner closed, that Jaskier took his hand away from Geralt and put distance between them as if he had burned himself.

Sharing the bed that night felt different. There was little space between them, but the way Jaskier lay rigid as if trying to keep them from touching left no doubt that he wished they didn’t have to share, while downstairs people thought it was different, they thought they were laying in a lover’s embrace, safe in the knowledge that come the morning they would wake entangled with the one who had chosen them.

How Geralt wished that was the truth. But as it was, he shifted until he laid at the far edge of the bed, giving Jaskier the room he needed.

In the morning they still woke up entangled, and maybe that made it hurt even worse.

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: language, attempted sexual assault and harassment, mentions of past sexual assault and harassment - do not read if these situations are triggering for you.

Word count: 6.1k - am I capable of writing anything short anymore???

A/N: HI I’M FINALLY BACK AND POSTING SOMETHING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ALMOST 3 MONTHS WOW. This story continues the Agent 14 series (so definitely check that out in my masterlist if you’re not familiar!) and...it’s something I’ve had on my mind for a while. I just needed to get it out. I hope that you like it and please share what you think! Feedback is appreciated!

When her phone starts buzzing, she’s mid-swing at the faded sandbag hanging from the ceiling. 

She’s glad to have the place to herself - the dusty air and stale silence more of a comfort. A bead of sweat slides down her temple, itching past her ear, and her finger scratches at the spot absently, coming away salty wet. There’s sweat slicking her scalp, too; she feels it under the tight twist of her braids, heat trapped beneath the strands. Her dirty little basement gym - faded posters lining the walls, advertising fights long finished, flickering bulbs hanging from the ceiling, stained linoleum - is quiet in the mornings. A kind of quiet that is all too rare in the city, in her life. 

Sure, it was nice of Sam to continue inviting her on their morning runs - she has every intention of taking him up on his offer, when she finally gets off the opening shift at work. She sees his 4 a.m. offers a couple times a week, shooting back a quick response that she’s already up, heading in to open the cafe. He finds it all so funny; calls her “Agent Barista”, and endearingly teases her about her rigorous coffee training at the SHIELD Academy. 

Okay but real talk, 14 - what’s your top secret mission down at Starbucks? Pinged her phone as she brushed her teeth and concealed undereye circles with strategic swipes of makeup. 

Key word in your question is “top secret”, Wilson. As in, tell you but I’d have to kill you. You know the drill. 

Another ping. Yeah, yeah. Y’all agents talk a good game, but I know for a fact 41 can be bought with a box of See’s candies. Just gotta figure out your weakness. 

Good luck. 

No luck needed. I’ll bring a couple sweaty super soldiers your way around 8:30, you’re welcome. 

With a wrapped hand, she flicks one swinging braid back over her shoulder, turning to her duffel bag for her phone. It’s buried under a spare pair of socks and a sports bra she forgot to wash, still buzzing as she grasps it and flips the screen upwards in her hand. 

Unknown caller. 

She’d bet every cent to her name that she could guess who was on the other end of the line. Tongue pressed against her teeth, she dismisses the call and drops her phone back in her bag. Fury can wait. 

Turning back to the sandbag, she sucks a quick breath through her nose, curling power in her lean shoulders, and then unleashes a furious combination of jabs and kicks on the beaten plastic. Grunts and harsh pants slip past her lips, fists slinging blow after punishing blow, her weight held bouncing on the balls of her feet. The sandbag is a stoic opponent, taking her fists and feet without so much as a groan of protest, swinging back only a few inches on the chain even as she whips around high for a roundhouse kick. Growling, she rocks her weight back on her heels, before leaping forward off one leg to drive her knee into the bag with bruising force. More to herself than the bag, she thinks, glancing down at the tender skin on her bare knee, stinging from the impact. She leans an elbow against the bag and drops her head, swiping at the baby hairs along her forehead. 

The phone buzzes again, insistent and muffled, and she lets her head drop back with a heavy sigh, eyes closed. 

“Shut up,” she mutters, eyes narrowing in a nasty glare at the offending noise. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

She whirls at the sound, fists raised - she hadn’t even heard him enter. 

Steve has the good grace to look sheepish as he approaches from a shadowed staircase in the corner of the room, his hands raised in surrender. Not many people have had the sheer dumb luck - and misfortune - of sneaking up on her, and the part of her brain not whiplashed by adrenaline grudgingly admires him for it. 

“Morning, Captain,” 14 sighs, her hands falling to her hips, rolling her neck against the tension in her shoulders. 

“Morning,” he smiles. He’s trimmed back the beard, she notices, closer to the sharp line of his jaw. Dust motes swirl around his golden head like fairy dust as he passes through the puddles of light cast from the weak overhead bulbs. It strikes her then, the unassuming slope of his shoulders, a little shuffle in his gait, not quite lifting his feet from the ground. Not a strut, no stalking or preening like the SHIELD boys she came up at the Academy with, eager to throw their weight around. Somehow, despite his height, he manages to duck his head, to look up at her under a fringe of enviable dark lashes. Disarming and soft, a wayward blond strand falling over his forehead, he tucks his hands into his pockets, standing just a few feet away from her. He nods at the hanging sandbag behind her. 

“Gave that thing quite a beating,” he says, tilting a dark eyebrow. She shrugs one shoulder. 

“Looked at me funny,” she quips back, still catching her breath from the last bout. Her tongue swipes at a drop of sweat on her upper lip. Sniffing, she turns her gaze down to the wrapping on her hands. “I don’t recall inviting you, Rogers - I thought this was a private session.” 

“Sorry for intruding,” he says, scrunching his nose and swiping at the errant lock of hair hanging before his eyes. With a jerk of his chin, he gestures towards her gym bag, where her phone has gone blessedly silent. “Fury had a feeling you would, um, how does Sam say it…’shady button’ him?” 

She snorts in spite of herself, just managing to slap a hand over her mouth before her laugh becomes obnoxious. Even in the dim light of the fluorescents, she can see the high flush creeping up those scruffy cheeks. Steve rubs the back of his neck, a familiar embarrassment curling in his belly; it’s a joke the team plays sometimes, and he gets it, he really does. Gotta laugh at your CO sometimes - it brings the team together; so he drops little phrases here and there, incongruous slang with his pleated slacks and old-fashioned manners. Even things that Sam says - the word “fam”, or adding “ass” as a suffix to virtually any word - from Steve’s mouth, they’re suddenly enough to have the team rolling with laughter, Tony red-faced, Wanda close to tears. The tips of his ears burn, and he always acts put out, lowers his stern father brows, but if there’s one thing he learned as a Brooklyn-born punk, it’s how to take his punches.

“Oh, I’m sorry - I’m sorry,” 14 says, hand still half-covering the silly grin tugging at her mouth. “It just sounded so funny coming from you. It was like-”

“Kinda like if your dad were saying it?” Steve purses his lips, tilts his head to the side.

“Oh god…yes, that’s exactly it.” It ignites a fresh burst of giggles, though she scrunches her nose and shakes her head at the image. “Uh, just do us both a favor and don’t say that again.” 

“I don’t think you can restrict Captain America’s freedom of speech.” He lifts his eyebrows, playful, considering. The slope of his nose casts a long shadow across his cheek, skin like Irish cream. She rolls her eyes, turning away to her duffel bag, using her teeth to tug at the wrappings on her hands. 

“So. You’re Nick’s new personal assistant or something?” Dropping to the bench, she rummages through her gym bag and takes a long gulp from her water bottle. She swipes at her phone screen - 3 missed calls now. 

Steve shrugs. 

“I volunteered,” he says simply, large knuckles still visible where they stay curled in his pockets. “Thought…hoped I might have better luck.”

She licks her lower lip, chasing a coveted drop of water. It’s not as though she’s tired of the job - it varies so much, from one day to the next, that it makes boredom impossible. No, it’s not the job, she’s just…tired. Of what, or why, she can’t really say. Steve is patient. He doesn’t say anymore, just waits, standing a few feet away and shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his soft eyes watchful. Her fingers go to her shoulders, massaging the oncoming ache in her muscles. 

“What’s the mission?” 

  **********                                                                                      

“You need some help there, punk?” Bucky leans a hip against the doorframe, arms crossed over his beloved NASA hoodie, an amused twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. Across the room, Steve frowns at him in the mirror. 

“Never really got the hang of these damned things,” Steve huffs, fingers losing the knot on his bowtie and sighing again as the cloth falls loose from the crisp collar of his shirt. Hands falling to his narrow hips, he turns to Bucky, wearing a look of defeat rarely seen on Steve Rogers. 

Wordlessly, Bucky shuffles across the carpet and begins to knot the offending fabric, fingers of metal and flesh looping one strand over the other and back again. Chin lifted, brows furrowed, a marble bust of martyrdom, Steve is ever stoic while he works. 

“Thought you were gonna shave for this,” Bucky comments, his voice quiet, not lifting his eyes from the tie. Steve makes a dissenting noise from his throat. 

“Yeah, well, the beard makes it easier to keep a low profile,” he says, a hand reaching up to rub his whiskers absentmindedly. “And besides, I’m sort of attached to it now.” 

Bucky chuckles, a smile dimpling his own scruffy cheeks. 

“Know what you mean - God, but nobody looked like this when we were kids, ya know?” He steps back, finished with the tie, and gives Steve an appraising nod, pursing his lips. “Not too bad, Rogers, not too bad.” 

Raising a dubious brow, Steve turns back to the mirror, tugging at the sleeves and adjusting his shoulders in the tux. Strictly white tie - totally out of his element, but sometimes duty comes with a dress code. He wedges a thick finger between the starched white collar and his own tender skin. 

“In this get up?” Steve shakes his head. “Never did get used to wearing a monkey suit.” 

Tongue in his cheek, Bucky grins. 

“Have you seen yourself in your uniform?” 

Steve flings a fist back behind him, grinning triumphantly when his hit lands in Bucky’s gut; a metal fist swings in retaliation, but Steve manages to sidestep, his hands raised in quick surrender. 

“Hey, not too rough,” he says, tamping down a mischievous smile. “Tony will have my head if I ruin another one of these.” 

“Tony could buy you one for every day of the week,” Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

A knock on the doorframe makes them both turn. 

It’s been years now, since he met Natasha - wind whipping up familiar curls on the deck of the helicarrier, a watchful smile, wolves’ teeth hidden under a lamb-soft face. Even later, when he learned to trust her, he always found himself surprised at her startling contrasts, the ease with which she managed to be two things at once; ally and spy, friend then enemy then family. In truth, she was testing him. They both knew. Years of probing, disguised as teasing and sarcasm and near-insubordination - assessing his strength, his weakness, the man behind the shield. And after all this time, it was his steadiness at each of her own turns that pacified her, let her learn to lean on him in return. 

She smiles in the doorway now, her bright hair swept sleek behind her ears, revealing diamond teardrop earrings, probably on loan from Tony’s collection. The tips of her hair just brush her pale, bare shoulders, revealed by the strapless neckline of her jumpsuit. Black was always her signature color - never dull, though, because with Nat black is a spectrum, a rainbow refracted through her prism: intimidating, alluring, powerful, subtle. 

“You clean up good, Rogers,” she smirks, her hands tucked into her pockets as she gives him a look of approval. “Keeping the beard, though?” 

Steve’s hand idly brushes against his trimmed whiskers.

“It’s grown on me,” he admits. “And besides, I’ve got too much of a baby face without it.” 

“Some girls like that.” 

“Some guys like that,” Bucky adds, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, well,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, willing down the flush that crept up at his friends’ praise. “I’m not supposed to be the bait tonight.” 

“No, I guess that’s my job.” Another voice appears behind Nat, her head peaking around Nat’s shoulder as she steps forward to share the space in the doorway. 

Unbidden, Steve feels his mouth fall open. He always thought she was beautiful, from the first time he saw her, no makeup and the sleeves of her sweater splashed with coffee and mocha sauce; this morning, in the dusty half-light of the basement gym, sweat gleaming on her forehead and arms. But he wasn’t prepared to see her like this, glowing in his doorway, draped in a pink silk slip that exposed one of her thighs. She’d let her hair loose from it’s tight braids, her makeup bringing a dewy sheen to her cheeks - she looked…fresh, blooming like a rose. A clean swipe of red across her lips, almost an afterthought, as if she couldn’t be bothered to make more effort than that. Steve swipes his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs and clears his throat. 

“Um, wow,” he says, wincing at his own voice, which nearly gave an embarrassingly pubescent crack. “I mean, you…uh, you look great.”

“Better than great,” Bucky pipes up, the amused tilt to his mouth the only hint that he enjoys Steve’s embarrassment. “She looks beautiful.” 

Nat nods in agreement. 

“The dress is perfect for you - is it one of Stark’s?” she asks. 14 shakes her head, modestly gesturing to the gown with her hand. 

“I’ve had it for a little while actually, I just couldn’t pass it up,” she sighs. “Just haven’t had the chance to wear it.” 

“Well, we’re finally gonna put some miles on it,” Natasha smiles, her eyes cutting to Steve, who has clamped his jaw shut to prevent himself from saying more. “We all ready? Happy’s pulling the car around.” 

14 nods, a shy smile tilting her mouth as she spares a glance at Steve before moving to follow Nat down the hall. She turns, and he sees that the cut of her dress falls low against the small of her back - almost low enough to glimpse the sweet dimples at the base of her spine. When they’re out of the doorway, he feels Bucky’s eyes on him - he’s perched on the edge of the bed, chewing his lip, one eyebrow lifted in an all-knowing look. He opens his mouth to speak but Steve lifts a hand. 

“Don’t,” Steve cuts him off. “I know what you’re gonna say Buck, but just- don’t.”

Bucky lifts his hands in surrender, standing from the bed and walking over to where Steve still stands in the middle of his room. 

“Fine, I won’t say a damn word,” Bucky sighs, shuffling across the thick carpet. He slaps his friend on the shoulder, gripping Steve with a firm hand. “Except you better move your ass instead of standing there like a dud - didn’t I tell you not to keep a lady waiting, Rogers?” 

 **********                                                                                         

Sam had whistled playfully as she glided out of the elevator on Steve’s arm, his eyebrows lifting halfway up his forehead. 

“Damn, girl - almost didn’t recognize you without your apron,” he winked, his gap-toothed grin charming as ever. 

“Didn’t match my shoes,” she winked back, flicking her hair over her shoulder. It sent a wave of her perfume drifting upwards; something bright and sweet, neroli, he thought, or orange blossom - maybe a hint of coconut. He had licked his lips without thinking; he’d like to smell it again, just to be sure. 

Here, in this stuffy ballroom across town, with eager officials and bourgeois brats trying to rub elbows with Captain America, he finds the smell much less appealing. Sweat and ambition, excess and greed, all covered in layers of atelier cologne (eau de aristocratie) and - well, Bucky heard enough of his socialist soapbox speeches back in the day, and his views certainly haven’t changed much. 

Still, he makes polite small talk with his admirers, rubs elbows, accepts drinks, all the while keeping one eye on the far corner of the room. It’s quiet, secluded, an overstuffed chaise with a soft cover tucked away from the buzz of the main dance floor. She’s perched there, ankles coquettishly crossed, the side slit of her dress revealing one leg and her glittering open-toed shoes; she leans on one arm, tilting her head towards the target, charming smile drawing up her lips as she hangs on his every word. Or pretends to, anyway. The target seems not to know the difference: Robbie Sinclair, a middle-aged man with the tanned smile of a Kennedy, salt and pepper hair slicked back from his face with a boyish cowlick escaping near the front, grins confidently as he talks to her. Steve watches him preen and puff his chest, spreading his legs to take up far more space than he needs. He stretches one arm along the back of the couch, leaning closer than appropriate, but she doesn’t move away. 

He doesn’t like this, any of it. To be fair, he’d never been a big fan of the espionage facet of his job; much to Nat’s chagrin, subtlety and subterfuge were not Steve’s strong suits. If he had his way, they’d come in swinging and arrest this creep (and his insider-trading Wall Street buddies, too). But shooting from the hip wouldn’t work here, not when they still needed hard evidence on this guy, something more substantial than rumors - heavy as those rumors might be, words like “human trafficking” and “slavery” coming up in his SHIELD files. He understood the necessity, and so did 14. 

Still, bringing her here and dangling her like a worm on a hook, hoping this asshole would take the bait…his stomach churned, whiskey bubbling unpleasantly at the thought. Steve angles his body around a chatty senator, trying to maintain his view on the corner. Sinclair looks about ready to take a bite, his head bent close to 14’s, sly smirk plastered on his face as he whispers something in her ear. Did her fist tighten around her glass? He can’t quite tell from this distance; he knows his own fingers are white-knuckled on his third whiskey. Or was it the fourth? 

In a blink, a stumble, a minute trapped in choked small talk with Miss New York (during which he wondered if her real teeth were filed down like a shark’s underneath that crown-winning smile like Sam told him), he’s lost her. 

A snowy static of panic whites out his brain, and his heart picks up against his ribcage as he all but shoves the beauty queen out of his way, his vision tunneling on the now-empty chaise in the corner. Where did she go? Where would she go? Barely managing subtlety know, he ducks his head, speaking to the comm device in his ear. 

“Natasha. Do you have eyes on them?” 

“…no, I was doing a sweep of the terrace outside,” she answers a moment later. “Did you lose them?”

Steve turns a circle where he stands, sharp eyes scanning each face and failing to find the one he wants to see. 

“They’re gone, I’ve lost visual.” He tries to keep his voice down, his tone tight and clipped. Through a break in the crowd, he thinks he catches a glimpse of her dress, but when he looks again it’s the wrong color, the wrong dress, the wrong woman-

“Alright, I’m heading back inside - I’ll go up the stairs to the next floor, see if they went up that way.” 

“Okay, I’ll take this floor,” Steve says, already making a beeline for the open doors of the ballroom, his tight-laced dress shoes clicking a solitary echo in the cavernous hallway just outside. Past the doors, and the gazes of nosy party-goers, he doubles his pace - the stiff starched tux protesting against the movement. 

They’re not tucked into the alcoves along this hallway, and he deliberates a moment where the hall forks in opposite directions, before darting to the left and continuing his clipped jog. In a small part of his brain, he knows he shouldn’t be this concerned about her. 14 was an agent - a highly trained, highly skilled agent; he’d worked with her enough by now to know firsthand how well she could handle herself. But the other part of him couldn’t shake the way Sinclair had looked at her - the way every man in the room had looked at her when she walked in, circling and waiting for their chance to close in. Not to mention the less-than-sterling reputation of Robbie Sinclair, who, aside from the trafficking conspiracy that put SHIELD on his scent, had a handful of secretaries threaten him with harassment suits, before they were quietly paid to keep their mouths shut. 

He comes to a dead end, a dancing nymph statue (far too baroque for his taste) mocking him with her tambourine against her hip. Doubling back, he curses under his breath and runs through the building schematics in his head, wondering where they could have slipped away to so quickly. 

“Natasha? Any luck?” 

“Negative. You?”

“No.” Steve clenches his fists and tries to force his heart back down from where it’s climbed up into his throat. His teeth grind together, jaw locked tight, holding in a frustrated growl. Unprompted, a wave of worst-case scenarios floods his mind - 14 dragged away by thugs, knocked unconscious, bleeding and gagged, unable to call for help. She’s a good agent. A good soldier. She can handle this. Try as he might to force them away, the tide of panic swells over and over inside him, the voice of his intuition telling him something must have gone wrong-

Behind him, an elevator dings. 

Steve turns to see the ancient metalwork door rattle open, Agent 14 stumbling out half a moment later. 

He blinks. She’s lost her shoes - no, she’s carrying them, the straps dangling from one hand. The side slit of her dress looks higher, and he notices the frayed edges along the top where the fabric has ripped. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair mussed, and she takes labored, panting breaths as she leans against the wall. 

It takes him a while to understand what he’s looking at. As his panic starts to ebb, something different, something wounded and green threatens to perch in its place, at the sight of her so disheveled, with swollen lips and rumpled clothes. He says nothing; he has nothing to say, shocked as he is by the bitter taste of his own thoughts, wondering if a rendezvous with Sinclair was worth the information she might have gained. 

It’s not until she starts sniffling that he notices the tears running down her cheeks.

The realization stops him cold, strangles the dark seed of doubt just starting to sprout in his heart, and fills him with shame and guilt. He takes a step forward. She’s not looking at him. 

“…14? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice hushed. “Are you hurt?” There were no visible wounds that he could see, though she had limped a little when coming out of the elevator. 

She nods, sniffing again.

“I’m-I’m fine,” she says, her voice scraping in her throat, barely holding back a sob. Squeezing her eyes shut, she presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent tears. 

In two steps he’s at her side, though unsure of what to do, what would be appropriate, what she wants or needs. Were they…friends? Acquaintances? Colleagues? Do work friends hug, comfort each other? 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he ventures softly, still not touching her, not crowding. He holds back a few inches, waiting, his hands feeling empty and heavy at his sides. “Do you want to?”

She nods, but it takes a few moments before she has regained her composure enough to lower her hand from her mouth and take a few rattling breaths, preparing to speak. 

“He…h-he,” she stutters over a sob, like a child who’s cried too hard for too long. “He grabbed me and-and was kissing me, and then he tried,” she’s interrupted by a hiccup and a shaky sigh. “He tried to…to…” 

She raises her eyes to his, tears welling up again, and shakes her head. She can’t say it, won’t say it - it is too much. It will make it real. 

For his part, Steve barely restrains himself from blacking out with rage. His jaw is so tight he can feel his teeth nearly crack from the strain, fists curled but unsatisfied with not being wrapped around Sinclair’s neck. How dare he? How dare anyone? When he gets his hands on this goddamned son of a bitch, he’ll-

His vengeful train of thought is interrupted when she collapses against his chest with a sob, gripping the lapels of his jacket for support. On instinct he wraps his arms around her, caging her in, his chin resting on top of her head. 

“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he hushes her and holds her, wishing there was more he could do, more he could say. He holds himself back from other platitudes, from it’s okay, and everything’s alright - he knows it’s not true. 

She shakes and cries and rides out the storm in his arms, full of anger and fear and shame and helplessness; all the while, he stands silent and solid, murmuring soothing words his mother might have said - in another life, when someone held him, protected him. 

Neither of them knows how much time has passed when her sobs become less violent, when her breathing calms, but she doesn’t step away. Her head doesn’t move from its place on his chest, and he makes no sign of wanting it to. Gently, slowly, he rocks her in his embrace, one hand smoothing over her back. 

After a while, she speaks. 

“I’m so tired,” she whispers. From this angle, he can see her blink slowly, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. He nods.

“You’re coming down from the adrenaline - that’s normal,” he murmurs, letting her weight sag against him, wondering if he’ll need to carry her.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not like that…that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” 

She doesn’t answer, not right away; her breathing has settled into an easier rhythm, less frenzied and panting. Her fingers slide from their place at his chest to rest around his waist. 

“When I was in high school, there was this guy.” Her voice startles him when she finally speaks again, she’s been silent for so long. He makes a noise to let her know he’s listening before she goes on. “He was…I don’t know. Popular, I guess. Cute. Football player. Advanced classes. All the girls liked him.” She takes a shuddering breath before forging ahead. “And-and I guess he liked me because he couldn’t leave alone for a single fucking minute.

“God, it was constant. He’d grab my ass, or say dirty things about me to other guys…sometimes it wasn’t even sexual, it was like…he’d squeeze my waist or pinch the fat on the back of my arms and comment about my weight.” She sniffs, and Steve tightens his arms around her, not speaking. “One time, between classes, he grabbed me by the hips and bent me backwards over a desk - he wouldn’t let go, and he was just laughing…and no one said anything, none of the guys or my friends or anybody.” 

Steve frowns, feeling impotent and frustrated. “I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head again. 

“The worst thing is I just put up with it. I didn’t say anything…I didn’t think, I didn’t know-” she huffs a bitter laugh. “I guess I just thought it was flirting. Like I should’ve been flattered by it.” 

“You shouldn’t - you don’t have to take that,” Steve says, fighting to control his tone. “Not from anyone.” 

“I know that now,” she says. “But I was just a kid…nobody told me. Nobody helped me.”

He opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say, but she goes on.

“And nobody told me that it never gets better, it never changes.” He can feel how tightly her fists are clenched at his sides. “No one told me that this would be the rest of my fucking life. First it was him, and old men at the gas station where I got snacks after school, and truck loads of frat boys following me home. Jesus even the damn milk guy at the café calls me ’sexy’ and won’t leave me alone.” She sniffles again, voice tightening with anguish. “I’m tired, I’m so tired - I’m so fucking sick of all of it…of-of just being a thing, I’m tired of being looked at, and-” She tries to swallow back her sob, but it crests and stutters in her lungs, taking over her voice once again as she presses her face impossibly closer. 

It breaks his heart and stokes his rage, the helpless, hopeless weight of her bitter words. Here he is, over a century old, and still watching people fight the same battles; battles to be heard, to be seen, to be treated like humans. He’d seen it all his life, women like his mother, like Peggy, spines of steel and hearts made of diamonds, resisting a world that would grind them down and make them small. He wishes his shield were wider, stronger. He wishes he could protect them from this. 

“I can’t tell you it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Because it’s not. It’s not okay, I’m so sorry.” She squeezes his waist gratefully and nods her head a little. “But you…you don’t ever have to feel alone in this, okay?” He leans back a little, prompting her to lift her head, to meet her tear-bright eyes. “You’re not alone. I promise.” 

It’s not enough. It’s not over. But today, for now, it feels like something. 

 **********                                                                                             

Natasha pages Happy, who pulls the car around to the front of the building. She says nothing as 14 limps down the front steps, shoes in hand, one arm linked with Steve’s and wearing his jacket, the too-long sleeves covering her hands. Nat’s eyes slide up to his - their silent exchange lasts moments, microseconds; her lips pinch tightly and her elegant white fists curl tight. 

Happy holds the door, offering a hand as 14 drops inside, folding her legs and wrapping her torn skirt as tight as she can around the exposed length of her legs. Nat glances at the open door of the car and steps away, angling her back to the patient Happy. She juts her chin at Steve. 

“You need a hand, Rogers?” He knows the look in her eyes is mirrored in his own - the look of a boxer stepping in the ring, of a lion sighting prey, a shark scenting blood.

Steve shakes his head, a hand reaching up to loosen his tie. 

“No, it’s alright. You go on with 14.”

Happy peaks his head around. 

“You don’t want me to wait for you, Cap?” he frowns. “I can keep the car running.”

Steve glances over Nat’s shoulder at the town car, where 14 has curled up in the backseat, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. 

“Nah. I need to have a word with Mr. Sinclair.”

  **********                                                                                        

The arrest doesn’t make the front page. Or any page of the papers, in fact. Robbie Sinclair wakes in a hospital bed, in SHIELD custody, and ready to make deals with anyone who will bargain - provided his security detail keeps him well away from the Avengers and their Captain. 

When the file crosses his desk, courtesy of Natasha, he notices the long list of names Sinclair has provided them with - powerful men, Wall Street and Capitol Hill’s finest, who found their positions one dirty handshake at a time. It would take some time to build a case against them all, find sufficient evidence for arrests, but SHIELD was up for the task. There’s a note in the back of the file, a small article someone has attached with a paperclip. 

‘Executive’s Secretaries Speak Out’ reads the headline, with the subtext ‘Sinclair accused of sexual harassment, assault’. It appears a few women who had crossed his path were tired of being silenced; they had banded together, sharing pain and courage, to finally see him brought to justice. And combined with the charges SHIELD was bringing against him, it was unlikely he’d step foot outside of a prison for the next couple of decades. 

It’s a start. 

A few days later, Steve rises before the sun, a creature of habit. He takes his run alone, listening to a podcast that Sam had recommended. By 5:30, he’s stretching at the bench in front of the tower, before making his way down the street to the coffee shop. 

She does a double take when she sees him, surprise and (he hopes) excitement creeping up in her smile. There’s only a couple of baristas in the store at this time - they haven’t hit their peak yet - and she’s wiping down the bar in front of the espresso machines by herself. 

“Morning, Cap,” she smiles. There are tired little circles under her eyes. She looks beautiful. “You want your usual?” 

“Hmmm,” he pretends to think, narrowing his eyes at the menu. “Actually…how about you surprise me.” 

She raises her brows, a little impressed. “You sure? Anything goes?”

“Anything - I promise I’ll try it.” 

“Alright,” she smirks, mischievous and much too eager, and she turns away from the espresso machines to the blenders behind her. 

Milk, syrup, ice - other ingredients he can’t see or identify, all thrown into the pitcher and blended. She leans against the counter as the machine whirs loudly, a cheeky smile dimpling her cheeks. Just as the machine stops, the bell above the door chimes, both of them turning to look. 

A small, wiry, white-haired man backs his way into the store, pulling a dolly stacked high with milk crates. He looks around, making sure he’s not backing into anyone, and catches sight of her behind the counter. Steve doesn’t like the look of his smile, or the way 14 ducks back down to her blender, her shoulders inching upwards.  

“Morning, sweetheart,” the man says, a bit too loud, rattling the crates on his dolly as he wheels around tables, towards the back of house. 

“Morning,” 14 replies coolly, not looking up from where she’s carefully lining Steve’s cup with mocha sauce. She doesn’t say anything more, keeping her head down as she pours out the drink and reaches for a canister of whipped cream. Steve’s eyes cut between them, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. 

The milk man hustles back through the store with an empty dolly, on his way to collect the next load of crates, and 14 sighs a little when the bell chimes on his way out. She’s just turning around to hand Steve his drink, when she notices that the café is empty - he must have slipped out as well. 

“Hey, pal,” Steve claps a hand on the man’s shoulder, consciously withholding his full force. “I was wondering - you usually deliver the milk here?”

“Yeah,” the man huffs, a little confused, and in a hurry to unload his crates. He squints, the rising sun in his eyes. “Why?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to talk to you for a second, that’s all,” Steve smiles. His hand doesn’t move from it’s place on the man’s shoulder. 

When he comes back inside, his towering, chocolate-swirled beverage is waiting at the end of the bar. 14 is waiting, too, arms crossed, one hip propped up against the counter. She tilts her head to one side. 

“Do I wanna know?” she asks. Steve shrugs. 

“Nothing to know,” he says, shuffling up to the bar to claim his drink and stare at it, incredulous and amused. “Now what on earth is this thing, a milkshake?” 

She rolls her eyes.

“It’s called a frappucino, old man,” she grins. “Drink up - you promised.”