#dancing as a metaphor for pinning

[tteokdoroki]

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — SATORU GOJO. a woman in uniform.

about. satoru let’s you try his uniform on in the bedroom and loses his fucking mind. not even the strongest sorcerer can resist a woman in uniform.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, smut, power play, pussy jobs, oral sex ( m!receiving ), clothed sex, blind folds, some slight sub/dom dynamics, fem!reader. i wrote this with my clit tbh.

i think that gojo goes feral for you wearing his uniform. the whole get up, the blind fold and the jujutsu tech jacket. he’ll try to fight it, the feeling of power slipping away, as you crawl up the bed and between his thighs — your tongue dragging over your lips.

“oh, you shakin’ satoru?” he can see the excitement dancing around in your eyes even through the fabric covering them. he can sense the flare in your energy as you loom over him, ranking your nails down creamy washboard abs while his infinity fizzles away. “poor you. it’s not fun to be on the receiving end, is it?”

if satoru really wanted to, he would flip the situation in an instant — have you pinned to the bed with your clothes askew and your mouth hanging open in breathy whines as you beg for him to touch you. but he doesn’t. he can’t. you have so much power over him when you’re dressed like that and you act like you’re the strongest one in the room. you both know that he has the power to end your free rein over his body.

he is the strongest after all.

your mouth is quick to follow your nails, teeth and tongue trailing a wet path from gojo’s prominent collar bones, between his firm pecs and down his tense stomach. you suck hickies into the bone of his slender hips, shades of mauve and navy-ish blue blooming against pale skin like adding water colours to a blank canvas. satoru inhales sharply, losing control of his invisible barrier just so he can savour the feeling of you ravishing his body with nips and sucks and kisses.

you haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

“lift your hips, satoru, let me see what you’ve got under all this,” you coo sweetly and it’s as if you’re drizzling honey in his ears. the white haired man follows your command like it’s the law, instinctively bucking up and away from the bed so you can pull down his boxers. “how sweet, you’re so hard.” satoru’s cock springs free from its restraints, sticky and bright red at the tip, pulsing and thick at the shaft. when you touch him and take hold of his length in your tiny hand, kitten licking the entirety of him while you look up at him hungrily through your blindfold… the man is sure he might die. you could kill him like this, with his infinity down…and you’re fully aware of it.

teasingly, you ease his cockhead past the seam of your kiss swollen lips and let it nudge the soft epithelium on the inside of your cheek — lubing him up, getting him ready for more of your torture. “should i suck you off? or should i ride you?” you manage, even though your mouth is full of dick…the next, your nose is buried in a trail of soft white pubic hair.

“don’t do that… please…” satoru whines, chest flushed and heaving, brilliant blue eyes boring deep into your soul. his fists form balls at the sides of his shaky legs, he could reach out and touch you — coax you into giving him more. it’s not like he has any restraints on…except for the metaphorical ones of your will and your control. you let go of him with a lewd pop, a trail of your saliva mixed with milky precum tying you to his sensitive erection. “f-fuck…”

cocking your head to the side, you use a soiled thumb and forefinger to lift the black hand over one of your dangerously pretty and mirth-filled eyes. “do what?” you respond with an inquisitive purr, licking your lips and moaning at the taste of the six eyes on them.

“s-shit,” satoru curses, blood curdling and boiling hot lust spreading through all four of his limbs at the sight. “don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing to me…don’t act like you don’t know how feral i am for you…” saliva pools on the pallets of his tongue, slipping in between the sorcerer’s words as you move like a vixen in the woods above him — sliding yourself into gojo’s lap to position yourself perfectly above his aching cock. “don’t—“

gojo chokes on a moan as you begin circling your hips, plush and puffy pussy lips sucking in the length of his cock whilst it lays flat against his tummy. if he focuses his mind enough, pushes through the dark veil of lust you’ve pulled over his mind that works in overdrive, he can just about see his bulbous, leaky tip peeking out from underneath the folds of his dark uniform — the uniform that’s draped so perfectly over the curve of your mouth-watering body. a deep groan anchors itself in gojo’s chest like the roots of a sturdy oak tree and his hands leap up from the bedsheets to grip your peachy ass barely hidden by his clothes.

“don’t this, don’t that,” you hum condescendingly, as you alternate the movement of your hips — dragging them back and forth, back and forth over your lover’s pathetically wet dick. you make sure to clench your slick hole every time it meets his tip, glazing him in a small stream of your arousal. “don’t you know how to shut up ‘n take it, satoru?”

the dominance in your voice has the white haired man in shambles, twitching beneath the weight of your body on his. for christs sake, he’s the strongest, he brings curses and sorcerer alike to their knees just by mention of his name. so why is he so weakened by the sight of you above him? by the sight of you in his clothes, grinding sloppily on his wet cock? gojo doesn’t want infinity projecting him, not when he occasionally slips inside of your welcoming, tight cunt when you thrust yourself down on him.

“g-god…baby, please!” he hiccups, fighting the urge to force you down onto him fully — bully his way into your squishy insides. satoru could do anything he wanted to you, in a single moment he could have you sniffling against the sheets and crying as much as your cunt does…but the way you rein him in just by wearing his clothes stops him.

“what’s the matter, handsome? you cryin’?”

at your teasing, the cream that oozes from his sensitive tip paints your clit adds to your gathering arousal as it soaks through satoru’s uniform. nastily, he doesn’t think he’ll wash it, he wants the memories of tonight to stay with him forever. he wants to remember how you took over him and took his every capability in using his power — reducing the satoru gojo to a pussy drunk fool.

the scent of your sex is the only way he can think to immortalise this moment.

“i can… i can take it. give it t’me, want everythin’ you’ve got,” satoru simpers eagerly over the lewd, sticky pap, pap, pap of your sexes meeting in a salacious bump and grind. he has no idea where to look — intimidated by the control that oozes off of you, the control that he gives you. if he stares at your bouncing breasts beneath his jujutsu tech jacket or your clenching cunt for too long, he might just bust all over you and his inform before he even has the chance to be inside of you.

light laughter escapes you at gojo’s babyish bleats and whimpers — so you lift the blindfold once more, lips spreading into a slow and sexy smirk, much like the kind he would tease you with. “i don’t think you can handle my everything, baby.”

and you’d be right. not even the strongest sorcerer in japan could handle his woman in his uniform.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

#tteokdoroki #gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo #satoru gojo x you #jjk x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing

[theflowerofhumanity]

Razor Valentine

It all began after an incident just outside the Bridge that sent one man to the morgue and sent Spock to Sickbay. The Vulcan the first officer of the ISS Enterprise didn’t spend much time there. He rarely needed medical attention, not only because he was tall, strong, and intimidating on his own but also because he, like the captain, was usually accompanied by his personal guard. In this case, he’d been attacked from an angle and so failed to unsheathe his own dagger in time to avoid having his upper arm gashed by his attacker. He had debated on the necessity of visiting Sickbay at all after dispatching the man. The last thing Spock wanted to do was spend any time around that drunken butcher McCoy, especially since he always had something disparaging to say about Vulcans. But the bandage he’d wrapped around his arm quickly became saturated, green blood oozing down his sleeve and onto the floor, so it was with some reluctance he made his way to McCoy’s lair.

Happily, the doctor hadn’t been there at all. The sharp-tongued head nurse had taken charge in his stead. You would have thought, to Spock’s slight amusement, that she was the superior officer the way she ordered him to “strip” and to “sit down on the damn bed”. I don’t care what happened, and I’m not going to ask, she’d told him. In fewer than sixty seconds, she had staunched the bleeding and rebandaged his wound much more competently and securely than he had.

Spock spent that brief time considering Christine Chapel. The way her platinum-blonde hair curled subtly around her chin framed her long features perfectly. He had a very un-Vulcanlike preference for blonde, human women, and there were plenty such women aboard if he wanted to admire one from afar...or, more improbably, take one as his lover. Until now, however, he could count the number of encounters he’d had with this blonde crewman on one hand. He rarely had any reason to be here, and he avoided interacting with McCoy whenever possible. Her work in Sickbay likewise kept her quite busy. There was always someone who needed to be metaphorically stitched up and sent back into the violent world that was the Enterprise. In short, their paths seldom crossed.

Something about the curiosity and low-level, thrumming excitement he’d felt when Christine Chapel’s fingers skimmed against his skin made him take particular notice now. He had remained seated on the bed for a few more moments after she had dismissed him. His deep-set brown eyes met her crystalline blue ones as she said, “Well, are you waiting for an official discharge, Commander? I’d advise you to leave while you can.”

Flexing his wounded arm, he picked up his stained and discarded uniform shirt from the floor and swept past her. At the door, he turned to get a better look at her long, shapely legs only to find her looking back at him as well. Her top teeth had sunk into her bottom lip. The gesture made her look surprisingly girlish and vulnerable, and the sight made Spock want nothing more than to turn back, pin her against the wall, and taste those lips himself. It wasn’t logical. It was...instinctual. Instead, he simply inclined his head and went on his way.

Since then, both Spock and Christine Chapel had made a point of manufacturing reasons to run across one another for a few seconds here and there. This contact always occurred while both were on duty, and they seldom exchanged anything but a heated glance or, on Christine’s part, an occasional smirk or a sassy one-liner. Both of them knew what being wanted looked like, and both could read it all over the other. But Spock also knew that the dance was just as alluring as the end result. As a Vulcan, he had a great deal of patience, even in a world that didn’t much value that virtue or any other. He would stay alive and wait.

@multirptrash

#*rv #i wanted to get something up but could never come up with a specific scene in the present #so I'll leave that up to you! hope this is enough for now <3 if not let me know

[tothepointofinsanity]

Observation Log Series: Sayaka [III]

Today on: Visual metaphors for depression and the actual “magic of friendship”.

Images are taken from this Magia Record game video on YouTube.

I am pretty sure someone else in the ages past had already covered this bit, so I suppose I will add this to the archives for my own documentation purpose. Or for just anyone who feels like reading it, really.

Sayaka’s magical girl transformation in this sequence is very interesting. There are a lot of jokes about how she’s yeeted everywhere by the Holy Quintet in her own transformation, so here are the notes:

The beginning of her transformation is shot in the sequence of a downward spiral. Sayaka falls through the hoops and into the ocean as her opening, a reference to her descent into madness (keep in mind: the sea as a metaphor for an inescapable expanse of darkness; the abyss) in the main show, as well as her deteriorating mental health. The spiral drawn to resemble piano keys (🎹) is also no coincidence, but they break apart when Sayaka plummets past them, much like music becoming discordant and incoherent.

Right after that, she gets thrown around respectively by her friends, each of whom gets her to the destination of being fully transformed. What is important to notice is that for the majority of this part, you cannot see Sayaka’s face, and she appears completely indifferent and motionless as others pass her around without hassle. You would think someone like Sayaka, who typically exhibits stubborn tendencies, would be resistant to being literally thrown around, but I feel that there are reasons for this:

• Sayaka being shown not as weightless, but rather as something heavy that makes an impact wherever she goes. She’s literally dead weight in the water despite her Witch being a mermaid. There is no attempt whatsoever we see from her where she tries to swim gracefully or float naturally in the sea. She just seems to be…there, being moved rather than performing her transformation by herself like all the other magical girls.

• The Holy Quintet are the essence of friendship that help Sayaka not necessarily out of her depression, but rather giving her a massive boost by flinging her to the next appropriate person. Given she is portrayed as dead weight, she doesn’t transform manually and do fancy dances, instead heavily reliant on the support of the crew to help her get changed. The sequence where she’s thrown onto the bed and lies there before being flung out again is very reminiscent of the tragedy that individuals struggling with mental health problems can barely get out of bed on their own at times, even to the point where it seems they might never leave said bed. Homura has to pick up Sayaka in a bag before tossing her to Kyoko, where it unfurls and it becomes her cape.

It is also interesting to note that the bed is surrounded by mirrors of all sizes and shapes that don’t reflect Sayaka at all, but rather the oceanic creatures and environment. Her self image is nonexistent and replaced by the sea. When she’s thrown to Kyoko, it is only then she is “stopped”, and we finally get to see her face. Her hair is long, unlike the appearance of her short hair that we are used to. Kyoko helps her with the last part of her transformation by putting on the gold hair pin.

Kyoko being the one to not throw Sayaka but rather casually stop said impact is likely symbolic of their relationship. The ocean is stopped by the unmovable rock.

• In the very last part, Sayaka appears standing on a platform that arises from the sea, and only then she seems fully refreshed and ready to go. Once again, instead of swirling out of the water or something, she needs something solid to stand on and raise her to the surface as she is incapable of doing so herself. Her entire transformation seems to highlight that others need to be on standby to support her, or else she will likely just dwindle and sink motionlessly to the bottom of the ocean. By the way she’s posed, it also seems to imply that she has complete trust in her friends, who were there at every turn to assist her transformation.

Something else I thought about as well is the irony that despite being mermaid coded in terms of her own Witch and backstory, Sayaka is almost always portrayed as a sinking vessel the moment she hits the water. A finless mermaid, yet frustratingly a mermaid that cannot even swim or float. I find that this interpretation would fit into the existing narrative that Sayaka and the Incubators view her as useless or inadequate. What good a mermaid who sinks in the sea? What good a magical girl who needs others to help her transform proper? Noting that Sayaka’s transformation always involves her emerging out of water seems to tell us that she has always pulled her weight out of the abyss by herself.

TLDR: It wouldn’t hurt to show that Sayaka requires support from everyone in order to do her best.

#Sayaka Archives #madoka magica #puella magi madoka magica #magical girl #pmmm #pmmm sayaka #sayaka miki #mahou shoujo madoka magica #magia record

[helplesslypurple77]

~AU Week: Historical AU(Fyodor/Reader)~

Summary: But to be engaged to Fyodor. A small part of you was thrilled.But a much bigger and more practical part of you was worried.

Because he had always been a perceptive man. You were in danger of him very quickly figuring out your feelings and rejecting you, or even worse simply leaving you alone to your misery. You were sure to die a metaphorical widow.

Warnings: Smut, kind of mildly dubious consent??~

Notes: ok so uh this story is set in some ambiguous country in the regency era, so that kind of fashion. Please don't look too hard at the historical inaccuracies…

Also about the midly dubious consent in the warnings. It's kinda there?? The tiniest bit?? Dub con?? Not rly, the consent is muddy?? But reader is clearly really into it. Ok so there's a slightly dub con kiss, but no ones protesting at all

...

Lady Caroline was a total bitch. She stuck her button nose in the air and scoffed at all the other ladies at the tea party with the scorn of the only child of a new money family. You sighed, never losing your perfect poker smile.

“You see,” Lady Caroline continues, never one to measure her words. “My father had sent a letter to the Duke of Silverwall. He is sure to accept my proposal, as my family is known for our exceptional breeding.” She leans close, her obnoxious bright fan fluttering. “We have sired two former queens.” 

She says the words conspiratorially as if they're a secret. As if she doesn't say it every chance she gets. You roll your eyes with a sigh. It's a bright sunny day, and several ladies are sitting around a small table filled with delicate desserts and colorful drinks. Autom has fully arrived, and the trees on Lady Cecilia’s estate are full to bursting with dry leaves. Red, oranges, and even some greens fall gently to the ground, covering the green grass with a crunchy carpet of fall colors. It's sunny, but a slight breeze floats through the air, the temperature pleasant. 

The group of ladies are dressed finely, in browns and beiges and even some bright oranges and reds. Laughter and the clatter of teacups fill the air around your table. You take a dainty bite of a small fruit pie and savor the delicious flavors on your tongue. The desserts are the only reason you come to these. And the gossip. You do love gossip.

Your brown gloved hand reaches for another tart, and Lady Caroline looks at it distastefully. 

“You’re so lucky Lady Name, I could never eat that much.” She says, her beady eyes shooting you a fake smile. She simpers, taking a sip of her tea. You sigh. Silence falls again.

Lady Caroline is an unpleasant woman, jealous and spiteful and sure of her own worth in life. And not to say anything unkind, but she’s a bitch. She puts other people down, throws her family’s newfound status around, and wears yellow. You hate the color yellow. It's unpleasant and far too cheery for such a gloomy woman.

Lady Cecilia, seated to your right, speaks up. “Well ladies, are you excited for the autumn ball?” Exited chattering fills the air at the change of topic. You shoot her a small smile. Lady Cecillia is a kind woman, with long blond hair pinned up into a fashionable updo, and pretty gold charms sprinkled throughout. Her dress is a gorgeous burgundy that compliments her blond hair and the golden accessories. Her father is a Marquess, so higher than Lady Caroline's father, a mere earl. You don't believe in status until Lady Caroline starts throwing her status around like it's something impressive. Then you are happy to flex your own high status. 

Your father is the Duke of Somerset, standing opposite Lady Caroline's ill-fated crush the Duke of Silverwall. One of the only two Dukes in the country too. Lady Caroline likes to forget that in favor of her father, a mere earl. She’s annoying. 

“Lady Name, you are to attend with your brothers right?” Lady Irina says, a breeze dancing in the cute pin curls that hang around her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing a lovely shade of deep brown, which highlights the brown pigments in her eyes. Apples and leaves and other things are embroidered throughout, catching the light in brilliant gold threads. You smile. 

“Yes, that is the plan. I have set a tailor to come tomorrow.” You say. “My brothers are all without partners this year. I cannot imagine why.” 

Lady Cecilia titters, hiding a blush behind a gloved hand. Lady Irina smiles. Lady Caroline simpers quietly behind her teacup. 

“Yes, your brothers.” Lady Caroline starts. She’s dressed in a gray-blue, pretty silver accessories scattered throughout her hair and around her neck. The dress is the only pleasant thing about her. She continues, flicking that gray fan back and forth. “I hear they are still looking for finances, is that true?” She finishes, sounding less curious and more excited to say something snide and unpleasant. Her hair is done in an undo as well, but she refused to use the popular pin curls. You were sure she thought she was too good for them. 

“Yes, that is correct.” You say, taking another lovely pie from the tray. “Although they have received several offers. Father says he is entering talks for me as well.”

The ladies at the table perk up, and Lady Caroline gets that expression on her face where she hones in on something, ready to pounce. 

“Oh, how exciting!” Lady Cecilia says, looking sweetly, genuinely excited for you. Lady Irina nods, taking a bite of a small French pastry. 

“Yes, I still remember when my fiance was chosen.” She says, getting that look on her face. Everyone knows the story of Lady Irina and her fiance. How they hated each other at first but fell madly in love soon after. You can't help the smile that carves its way across your face. Although you've heard it a thousand times, you still appreciate that Lady Irina has found someone she loves. 

Lady Irina shakes out of her daze, taking another bite of her pastry. “These pastries are simply wonderful Lady Cecilia! I must have the recipe.”

“Oh yes!” You agree. Lady Cecilia nods. “Oh course, I'll send it home with you.” The three of you trade smiles. Lady Caroline coughs.

“So Lady Name, tell me. Who are you to be engaged to? It must be a lovely viscount I'm sure.” She says, her voice dripping with insincerity. You roll your eyes so far back into your head that you fear for a moment that they might simply get stuck there. Lady Irina joins your eye roll, but Lady Cecilia frowns. She opens her mouth, ready to speak but you raise a hand as you see your coachmen coming towards you. 

Your coachman hands you a letter, the envelope a plain cream. The seal is familiar, however, your family's crest. You smile. 

“Oh, it's from my father.” The ladies around you look up curiously, Lady Caroline grinning widely. She looks thrilled, like a vulture who just landed on a large dead carcass and is about to dig in. 

“It must be news of the engagement. It seems they have completed talks already.” You say, using a butter knife to slice open the envelope. The paper inside is heavy, and your father's familiar handwriting greets your eyes as you skim. It only takes a few minutes to find the words you knew were coming, and while you personally aren't very thrilled with the outcome, you're still going to use it to your advantage. You place the letter back into the envelope, slipping it into your small purse. The three ladies look on curiously.

“Didn't go well huh?” Lady Caroline simpers. Her fake kindness makes you wince. You can barely hold in your anticipation as you start, schooling your face into a small smile. 

“They went quite well, the engagement will be announced at the autumn ball in a few days.” You say, shooting the other ladies at the table sincere smiles. Lady Caroline's face falls slightly, but she recovers startlingly fast. “Well, I'm sure he’s a lovely viscount. Who is he?” She says, smiling insincerely. You bite back a grin.

“Oh, I'm not supposed to tell yet.” You say, pretending to be worried. Lady Irina leans forward curiously. 

“Oh Lady Name please. We’re starved for gossip.” She says. Lady Cecillia nods excitedly. You give a decisive little nod. 

“Oh fine then. You ladies aren't allowed to spread this around all right?” You say, just as a precaution at this point. They all nod. You do trust Lady Cecilia and Lady Irina, but you know Lady Caroline will blab the moment she gets the name out of your mouth. You would be stupid to unknowingly tell her information. But you're sure someone will find out anyway, you don't really have anything to lose. 

You lean forward. “All right. Well im engaged to—”

“Name, it's time to leave.” your fathers familiar voice interrupts your words, and the ladies sink back in defeat. You stand, taking the small package of recipes Lady Cecilia hands you gratefully. 

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait a couple of days then.” You say with a wink. 

⚔⚔⚔

Your opinion of your fiance, the Duke of Silverwall could be better. Duke of Silverwall Fyodor Dostoeyvsky was, on the outside, a perfect fiance. He had succeeded his father at the early age of twenty, and had been running his entire estate for two years now. He was smart, handsome, and very, very wealthy. 

You’ve known the man for ages, as your fathers were good friends and you had core memories of him pulling your hair and pretending it was your younger brother Philip. He almost got away with it but your other brother Ivan tattled on him. He had been a smart boy, he was always the one who came up with the mischief the four of you got into. He was also sneaky, always subtly shifting the blame to Ivan or Phillip when you guys got caught. 

To his credit, he had never shifted the blame to you, but you were sure that one day you would have to take the fall. And while you weren't furious that he was your fiance(there were much worse options), you weren't thrilled either. Because you knew he would never love you.

You have loved him since a young age, an innocent crush that had developed into a deep love that you could never quite shake. But you knew that he simply saw you as a childhood playmate. He saw you almost as he saw your brothers, friends to go riding with, or to engage in philosophical discussions, but never as a woman. 

You still remembered when he had accidentally seen you changing a couple years ago. You had hoped for a blush or something but he had simply left, closing his eyes the entire time. Your heart had broken, and you had simply accepted that he would never see you that way. 

But to be engaged. A small part of you was thrilled. For you had dreaded seeing him with another woman for years now. You had awoken in a cold sweat from nightmares involving them dancing, kissing, or worse.

But a much bigger and more practical part of you was worried. Because he had always been a perceptive man. You were in danger of him very quickly figuring out your feelings and rejecting you, or even worse simply leaving you alone to your misery. You were sure to die a metaphorical widow. 

You did your best to convince your father, of course not mentioning any more embarrassing facts, but he was steadfast. There was simply no convincing him. So, you put your other plan into action. Convincing Fyodor.

⚔⚔⚔

“Convince your father to dissolve the engagement.” You say. Fyodor raises an eyebrow in your direction as he escorts you around an especially muddy patch on the path. You're walking in the park, down by the duck pond that's always surrounded by wildflowers and away from prying eyes. There are no wildflowers this season, the grass is covered in leaves of different colors. They crunch under your feet as the two of you speak under your breath.

“Well hello to you to, Name.” Fyodor says, chuckling in your direction. “Yes, I'm in exceptional health, thank you for asking.” 

You roll your eyes, pinching his arm beneath his white coat. You're wearing white today as well, a pretty white chiffon that hovers just far enough above the ground to avoid staining. A white fur ruff covers your shoulders. It's cloudy out today, the temperature nippy as the days before the Autumn ball shrink. The autumn ball is the day it's all irreversible. The day society becomes privy to the engagement between the two dukedoms. The day your fate is sealed.

“Can you please convince your father to dissolve the engagement, Fyodor?” You ask, your voice a whisper. Although the surroundings appear to be empty, you never know who’s servant is hiding in the bushes, on the hunt for gossip. 

Fyodor heaves out a little sigh, as the two of you turn the corner of the pond. “Why Name?” He chuckles a little. “Is it that unfortunate a fate to be my duchess?” 

It's not, in fact it's a dream. But not in this way. You dodge the question. “Well, you don't want to be engaged to me right?” You chuckle, pulling him to a stop as you stare out across the pond. A few ducks alight on its surface, ripples flying across the formerly pristine surface of the lake.

Fyodor chuckles, notably not answering your question. “But in all seriousness Name. Our fathers are quite set on this engagement, and the unification of the two families under the crown will be huge news.” He says. “Your brothers are now free to marry below their status and our substantial family resources are now pooled under one estate.” 

You frown, disliking how correct he sounds. “I know.” You say, as the two of you leave the duck pond behind. “Fine, I guess my fate is sealed then. Oh yes,” You continue, an afterthought occurring. “Come over tomorrow, the tailor's coming. Father says we need to match.” 

Fyodor gives his assent. And your fate sealed, you clutch his arm tighter and finish the rest of your walk in companionable conversation. You always have gotten along so well.

⚔⚔⚔

“Congratulations my lady.” Your head Maid Olga says, twisting your hair into a complicated style with her sure hands. Olga is a kindly older woman who has been your maid ever since you were a baby. She was your mothers maid before you. You smile at her in the mirror, applying light makeup to your face and cheeks. 

“Thank you, Olga.” You say, lightly swiping some rough on your cheeks. Your maid nods at your dress in the corner. It's a brilliant white, silver and lavender thread embroidered the length. Your family's crest, along with birds and fruits and other things. A silver tiara set with amethysts sits to your left, and Olga braids golden threads into your hair as well. You put on your silver and amethyst matching earrings as your maid speaks again.

“You’ll be able to buy a wealth of dresses, mistress.” She says, winking at you. You giggle with excitement. “I know, that's the best part.”

“And of course Mistress.” Olga leans forward, whispering the next part into your ear. “Finally get to experience the pleasures of married life.” She winks at you through the mirror, and you blush, giggling.

As much as you wish you could, you're sure he won't touch you. You had learned of those types of pleasures from the forbidden section of your parents library. You had been back there playing hooky from your math teacher, when you had stumbled on the hidden erotica section of your family's plentiful library. You hated to admit it, but you had indeed had fantasies about your fiance. Dirty fantasies that warmed your body and made a strange feeling build in your stomach. 

You were no longer a virgin. It was not such a big deal anymore, and you had lost your virginity at seventeen to the handsome butler your parents had employed for a while. And while you came with a cry you had imagined Fyodor, imagining clutching his shoulders and screaming his name to the heavens for mercy. But you knew it never was to be. You just resigned yourself to being an old maid, alone and sexless for all eternity. You sigh, and hold your gold mesh shawl close to your shoulders, heading downstairs.

You hate how handsome Fyodor looks. His long hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, strands falling around his face in a flattering way. The white suit compliments his dark hair and pale skin, the lavender and silver accents glowing under the light. He’s wearing a circlet, matching one to your large tiara. 

The coach ride is loud. Your entire family is sitting on one side, and Fyodor’s mother and father and little brother sit on the other. You're sitting next to your fiance, smashed against the wall of the carriage and his warm body and absolutely combusting. Every so often he whispers in your ear, the words hardly mattering. All you can feel is his hot breath on your neck, tickling your ear. You shiver each time and are far too excited as he helps you exit the carriage. 

You're practically vibrating with excitement as you and Fyodor stand behind the grand entrance. You're late, on purpose. For today is the announcement that seals your fate, but also the day you get to metaphorically punch Lady Catherine directly in the face. And because your fate is already sealed, you're looking forward to the pleasure Lady Catherine's shocked face will bring you. 

The grand doors open with a slam, and the chattering in the ballroom below ceases as the two men by the door announce your arrival. 

“Duke of Silverwall, and his Fiance, the Her Grace of the Somerset Dutchy.” The men shout, their voice bellowing out over the hall as you stand there, face smiling, back tall and proud. 

You start down the long staircase, your train trailing behind you, your hand on Fyodor’s steady white-clothed hand. The mix of faces below you is just as satisfied as you had hoped. Shock, some faces scream it. Others seem to say ‘i knew it’ while you receive the jealous stares of some prettily dressed ladies. Your white gown stands out among the sea of reds and browns, and the telling matching suit your fiance is wearing is also a dead giveaway. It takes a minute or two to get to the floor of the ballroom, and by then the rest of the people have turned away, and the music has resumed. Everyone still eyes you discreetly, however, and you know they're waiting to ambush you with questions and interrogations. You can't erase the grin from your face.

“You look very happy indeed my dear,” Fyodor whispers to you, as he leads you onto the dance floor. It's a waltz, a slow dainty one that you know by heart. 

“Did you see the look on Lady Cathrine’s face?” You whisper, your feet stepping the familiar pattern of the waltz you know by heart. You learned this dance with him, two teenagers being yelled at by your scary dance instructors, your first true dance as fiance’s should be this one. I'ts quite fitting after all, although your sure he's forgotten those dance classes. You try not to read into it at all.

Fyodor chuckles, leading you into a spin. The white of your gown spins around you, a cloud of spinning white and brilliant silver. You know you look stunning, a lily in your pale white among the autumn roses. The air of the ball is starting to affect you. The bright lights and the stares, jealousy and admiration alike, fill your heart, making you more tipsy, more risky than the fine wines ever could. You can feel his eyes on you, those dark, brilliant eyes. Intoxicating and luring you into their depths. You feel risky, and just the slightest bit horny. His hands are on you, around your waist, his gloved other clutching your own. Perhaps that’s why your lips are loose.

“I was so thrilled when I heard about her little crush on you.” You say, hands winding around his neck. You're closer now, closer than proper. You don't feel the stares around you. “She’s a truly unpleasant woman you know.”

Fyodor smiles, humoring you. “I have heard you say so only a thousand times my dear.” The nickname makes you dizzy with love, cheeks delightfully flustered. You pull away, bowing as the waltz ends and you come down from your strange high. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” You start. You can see Lady Cecilia and Lady Irina waving you over frantically out of the corner of your eye. “I have some catching up to do.” and then, in a moment of boldness you stand on your tiptoes, pressing a short kiss to his cheek and whirling away. You will not stand beside him long enough for him to bring it up.

⚔⚔⚔

It was a long night. When you weren't being interrogated by Cecillia and Irina you were being passive-aggressively insulted by jealous mothers, or congratulated by families, or taking a toast from the pleased queen or avoiding dance requests from other men.

The only men you dance with are your brothers, your fiance, and your very close friend, the Viscount Perry, who everyone knows is your good friend. 

You barely speak in the carriage, leaning against the window tiredly but you're wide awake as Fyodor leads you inside his castle. You forgot. Tonight was the night the two of you moved in together. You calm your face as you walk through the familiar halls, heels clicking on the marble floors. The pretty arched ceilings of the main entrance halls, the gorgeous artwork and stained glass in the main hallway, it's all very familiar scenery you know from your childhood. You would run these halls with the boys, until you were older and didn't want to dirty your dresses. You had always been a so-called ‘girly-girl’.

Your fiance has been strangely silent, and it's not until you're sitting at your new vanity, carefully stowing your earrings and tiara that he speaks.

“Who was that man you danced with?” He says, his face turned away from you as he hangs his coat. You start undoing Olga’s complicated hairstyle as you speak.

“You mean Viscount Perry? Oh he’s a good friend.” You say, scratching your scalp as your hair tumbles down around your bare shoulders. You're clothed only in your shift, and you would be flustered but you know Fyodor doesn't see you as a woman at all. You hate how it hurts you, that fact.

“So he was the reason you were so…” He pauses, a certain quality in his voice when he finishes his sentence. “…Hesitant to marry me.” The end of his sentence is nothing like you were expecting. He almost sounds, well, jealous. 

All your wasted thoughts, your sureness that he could never like you like that, all of it is breaking apart, much akin to a shattered mirror. Suddenly you can remember stuff, stuff you had missed. The fact that he had never thrown you under the bus like your brothers, his constant pestering when you were younger. And even his red ears as he exited that room, the room you were changing in. and even just the other day, as he masterfully dodged the proposition you had thrown at him, the demand you had said. ‘Ask your father to dissolve the engagement’. You're practically vibrating with joy as the revelations pour over you. He likes you, just like you like him. 

Your mind is running a mile a minute, but Fyodor, blind in his jealousy, takes your silence as an acceptance. And as you turn, you find him standing next to you, gripping your arm tightly. 

“Is that why? You love that man? You wish to marry him instead of me?” His usually immaculate poker face is gone. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth curved into a sneer, the anger and jealousy carved clear across his face. You find it dangerously attractive. Your dazed silence is again, taken as an affirmative and before you can actually get out an emphatic no, his grip slides from your wrist, and then he’s kissing you.

It's a brutal kiss, the possessive bruising of lips that ruins you inside and out, driving you mad with arousal and a strange kind of happiness. You melt into his frame, and his big hands grip your lightly clothed hips, the heat of them sinking into your skin. It heats your insides, that familiar cocktail of heat that is arousal. You love it.

“Fyodor.” You try, panting around searching kisses. “Fyodor—”. His hands get rougher, searching for purchase on your hips, hands gripping and tugging naughtily. You moan into his mouth as he sucks your tongue, naughty slurping sounds filling the walls of your chamber. He kisses to dominate, and you easily surrender control with a moan, your poor cunt clenching under your silk chemise. He channels his anger and possessiveness into the kiss, as if aiming to suck your soul and love out through your mouth so that Viscount Perry can never have them. 

“Fyodor.” you say, your voice a moan as he noses at your neck, sucking possessive hickeys into it, trailing down to the low neck of your chemise. You whimper and he chuckles.

“That's right, say my name.” Fyodor says, a hint of his accent coming thickening his words. The accent he had possessed for many years had faded four or five years ago, but never quite faded away completely, always lining his words. It sometimes became thicker when he was angry. It came back in times like these too. You whimper, gripping his dark hair in your hand, fingers weaving into the locks, tugging it gently. He chuckles against your collarbones, getting dangerously close to the neckline of your chemise, and the wealth beneath it.

“Tell me name, did that Viscount Perry ever see you like this, undone and moaning?” Fyodor says, breath ghosting across your collarbones. You shiver, moaning out a response. 

“No, oh god, of course not.” Your voice is a whimper, underlines of tight sexual tension lining all the words. He chuckles proudly against your chest, mouthing at your nipples over your chemise, leaving a wet spot behind him. 

“He never gets to see you like this.” He sounds so proud, so vindictive, so attractive. “You're my wife, never his. Mine.” The possessiveness should not turn you on, but it does, and you rub your thighs together, desperate for some kind of friction. You want him, more than you think you’ve ever desired anyone, let alone him. 

“Fyodor,” You speak his name as a whisper, a prayer to your god, begging to feel him inside you, running you with his possessive corruption. “Oh god Fyodor, I need you so bad.” 

Your hands tear at the loose fabric of his shirt, yanking it over his head and discarding it somewhere, anywhere, you don't care. His skin is pale, thin with just a bit of muscle tone, and you mouth at his collarbones. Fyodor hair has been knocked from its neat ponytail, and it falls around his face, a sexy mess. His pale skin bruises easily and everywhere you kiss you leave a trail of red behind. You love the marks you leave upon him. He grips the silk of your chemise, yanking at the delicate fabric until it rips, falling into pieces around you. You grip his shoulders with a groan as he hoists you up, laying you on the bed. Your feet hang off the edge, your ass in the air, your toes just brushing the ground.

You feel his hand on your ass, smoothing over the cheeks until they find their way between your legs. 

“You're so wet.” Fyodor says. His voice is a tease, a taunt. And yet as his fingers spread your pussy lips and play with your clit, you can hear the pride in his voice. You grip the silk sheets in a death grip, your mouth opening in a moan, drool collecting on the sheets. Fyodor chuckles, his voice rough his arousal as he slips a finger fully inside you.

“We were always destined to be engaged, you know.” He purrs, his accent deep and thick and deliciously sexy. You love his accent, his voice, the way he twists his words, taunting you, praising you, rejoicing you. He continues with his words, scissoring his fingers inside of you as you moan into the silk sheets. “I knew you loved me, and I loved you too my darling. I thought I could be complacent, I could await the days when we would be married. And yet, you were stolen from me.”

The anger in his words, combined with the thick fingers scissoring your hole open, drive you nearly insane. But you're still able to process the words. He knew you loved him, and he loved you in return. You were destined, predetermined by fate. Your heart clenches with joy, even as the walls of your pussy clenched around his fingers. He chuckles, a light slap hitting your ass. 

“A mere viscount has stolen your affection.” Fyodor’s words are low, angry, possessive. He accompanies it with a slap, a harsher one on your pussy. You whine as he removes his fingers. 

“Oh god Fyodor, want you. Fuck me!” The profanities are not befitting of a lady, but you could care less. The man behind you, the man you have loved for years and years, has informed you he loves you back, and he is reducing you to aroused tears on the mattress you will sleep on for the rest of your life together. You want him, want his hot cock ruining you, draining away the rest of your sanity.

“You beg for me.” Fyodor says, the statement full of pride and arousal, and thick with that accent. “You beg for me over this viscount. And I shall obey your every command, my wife.” The sentence is whispered, almost reverent, and full of so much awe and yet equally measured with arousal that you nearly lose it right there. You're a mess, panting and quivering on the mattress and as his hot cock penetrates your insides you cum with a cry on the mattress.

Your walls clench, your hands gripping the silk until it crumples, your cries muffled in the silk of the sheets. Fyodor shelves himself inside you in one fluid stroke, his cock bullying your walls apart with equal parts pain and pleasure. You're soaking wet, your arousal dripping out of your pussy and soaking a ring on your thighs, but Fyodor is big, biggest you’ve ever taken by far, and tick to. 

It takes a while for the orgasm to subside, but Fyodor gives you no rest, fucking your through the overstimulation reletlessly as you moan his name helplessly, hands still tangled in the sheets. 

“You're such a pretty slut for me.” Fyodor coos the praises leaking into your ears as the pleasure returns, as you move back and forth on the mattress, your toes just brushing the ground. He leans over your prone back, balls slapping your ass with each hard thrust inside of you. The words are degrading, the word ‘slut’ not befitting of a lady, but you love it. You love the way he says it, the possessive nature of the words, ‘for me’. That's right, you're his slut, his slut forever. His wife.

You can feel another orgasm welling up, and you cry it into the spit-soaked sheets beneath you. Fyodor returns the cry with the same words, the promise that you’ll come together. And as you reach your peak, as you tumble over the cliff with your soon to be husband right behind you, you let the words slip past your kiss-swollen lips. 

“Oh, I love you, Fyodor.” You moan, as you fall over the edge. His hips stutter, his cock filling you up one more time as he hears the words, the words he was longing to hear so desperately. And he returns them, whispered in your ear as if they are forbidden. 

“I love you, my darling,” Fyodor says, flipping you over and shoving his cock right back into your hole, the squelching sounds of his cum and your arousal mixing as he fucks it deeper inside you.

...

Endnotes:

whenever i write au’s the characters tend to run away so sorry if this is ooc. Also man, Fyodor and Ranpo are so annoying to write because their a little like all knowing gods…so they always end up a little more dumb in my fics, or maybe dumb to emotions

Dazai’s a little easier because he actively acts like a dumbass all the time

#bungou stray dogs #mariannacrxss #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor x reader #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky bsd #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs smut #helplesslypurple77

[rottenpumpkin13]

Out Of Context Shit Heard On The SOLDIER Floor #5

previous: 1, 2, 3, 4,

*Zack walks in with his head in a pumpkin*

Zack: Zack-o'-lantern

Genesis: do you think our menstrual cycles have synced?

Sephiroth: please stop crying. I am not equipped to deal with depression this early in the morning.

Kunsel: When I die please donate my penis to science.

Angeal: Director Lazard dresses like a gay penguin.

Sephiroth: Is fruit cake an insult? I just called someone a fruit cake and thought it was quite funny.

Kunsel: Why does Rufus sound like he went through puberty twice?

Sephiroth: I thought the Molly you spoke of was the name.

Roche: Kunsel can have a little medieval torture, as a treat.

Zack: Where were you when my hand was stuck in the toaster??

Sephiroth: I don't know what Coraline was complaining about. She had two mothers.

Lazard: One of these days I'm going to lose my shit and punch Genesis in the face.

Angeal: (on the phone): I-just-swallowed-whiteout help desk, Angeal speaking, how may I help you?

Genesis: Merry Christmas.

Zack: It's October?

Genesis: Alright shitty Christmas then.

Zack: *break dancing while Genesis sobs*

Genesis: If we're all single by age forty let's become a married throuple.

Angeal: I can't tell if that drawing you did is President Shinra or Colonel Sanders.

Roche: Fuck it. I'll just steal Sephiroth's hair. It's no big deal!

Sephiroth: I would commit unspeakable atrocities for a single piece of lasagna right now.

Cloud: Ronald McDonald would never treat me like this!

Sephiroth: I do not mean to be immature, but I will now be giggling whenever we reach the 69th floor.

Genesis: Eat this apple and tell me it doesn't taste like chicken tenders.

Angeal: Sephiroth stop laughing Genesis might be going to jail.

Zack: 🎶 Grab somebody sexy tell 'em HEY *tackles Sephiroth*

Cloud: There's a pickle in your wallet. Is that a metaphor?

Lazard: There's no need to act defensive, Roche. Lots of men have gay thoughts about Sephiroth.

Genesis: Bullying IS a healthy coping mechanism.

Lazard: Do you like my new bottle of pills?

Cloud: What if—bear with me—What if! No one cares about Loveless?

Sephiroth: I think he's the size of twelve capybaras stacked on top of each other.

Angeal: Which one of you gay clowns told upper management about—Put your hand down, Genesis, that wasn't a compliment!

Zack: *through a mouthful of cookies* HE'S A DILF!

Angeal: You can't threaten me with a butter knife.

Sephiroth: If I sniff this entire box of markers, will it put me out of my misery?

Zack: My fear is that he'll come at me with a rolling pin.

Cloud: Seph! Stop choking Genesis with that extension cord he's into that shit.

Lazard: If you keep this up, Sephiroth, I'll make you wear a shirt for a week.

Genesis: How do I look?

Angeal: With your eyes, Gen.

Roche: I personally frame all of my speeding tickets.

*Cloud walks in shaking*

Cloud: GUYS! ZACK CAN DO MATH!

Sephiroth: Somebody stole a jar of jam from my desk drawer.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #ffvii crisis core #genesis rhapsodos #final fantasy vii #angeal hewley #final fantasy #cloud strife #zack fair #ff7 crisis core #final fantasy 7 crisis core

[evilwizard]

A Fairly Obvious Metaphor

To begin, let me be clear:

Fear is love, and love is fear

These chains are not the kind you break

You’ll still be dreaming when you wake

I wish to make you understand!

There is no truth that was not planned

And if you plan to doubt my words

I’ll plan to make you seem absurd

Will you will a god betrayed?

Upon my scale is purpose weighed

Your life is chaos, or chaos driven

And you have nought that wasn’t given

So do not fight—or struggle slightly

Lest you draw the web more tightly

Fetid rot draws flies away

From where I willed you all should play

(It’s a fairly obvious metaphor)

Dance upon the needle, then

Let the pin prick on your feet

Devils love to live in sin

And stinking flies on putrid meat

Don’t blame me when it all goes wrong

Yours is a ship I tried to steer

You buzzed away in cheerful throngs

And now you’ll starve alone in fear

I’ll still be eating well, what’s more

Loved and adored by righteous flies

Who see themselves in my eight eyes—

It’s a fairly obvious metaphor

#evil poetry

[m00nc4kes]

I love you. (pt.3)

hobie brown x black! reader

words: 6k

rating: teen & up

summary: He loves you. He loves you not. He loves you.

warnings: gender isn't mentioned for reader but they're fem leaning; angst with a happy ending; drinking mentions; lots of flower metaphors; yall know the drill

part 1 part 2

He loves you.

The flower petal flew away in the wind, dancing as it floated to the ground. You plucked another petal, letting the soft texture of it leave your fingertips.

He loves you not. 

A frown etched itself onto your face when you realized how it would end. Again. You stared at the last petal for a long moment before plucking it and releasing it into the wind. 

He loves you.

The flower stem was discarded to the side as your breath left you in a heavy wave. You knew he loved you, you could allow yourself to believe that. Especially after the last three flowers yielded the same results— the universe told you the same thing. But you wished he would tell you instead. You wished his love for you was greater than his fear of losing you.

You didn’t know how much longer you could keep the flower petals in between your fingertips before they rotted away.

There were shouts and cries in the distance. You knew you were getting close. You reached up to pull the mask over your nose then secure your hood over your head. The brass knuckles you wore glistened in the sunlight as you clenched your hands into fists. Your boots slammed onto the pavement as you broke out into a run. 

Protests and riots had practically erupted all over the city after the Prime Minister established a curfew. It was in response to the citizens’ unrest about the police brutality that the PM refused to acknowledge. You weren't the only victim of the pigs' barbaric behavior— of their complete disregard for regular citizens. But that was only one thing on the long list of beef you all had with the PM.

Your footsteps slowed as you neared the crowd in front of the government building. The place was packed and condensed with furious people. The energy coming from the place told you that the protest would become a riot in no time at all. People were screaming at the pigs adorning their riot gear and their shields, you didn’t blame them. You moved past people until you could see the front.

Someone stood above the crowd, screaming obscenities at the filth in front of them with a megaphone. They cried, “How dare you!” While the people joined them.

Your eyes reached for the skies, searching the rooftops for a familiar spiked Spider-man. You knew he was somewhere— he always was. He watched and observed the pigs, daring them to flip the switch on you guys.

You were always drawn to him, your eyes never failing to find him even in the unlikeliest of places. Even if the glimpse of him lasted merely a moment, only to be blown away in the wind like the petals that often found themselves in the palm of your scarring hands— you would always find him.

Like now. You spotted him squatting on a nearby rooftop, watching the scene unfold with a tilted head. You let yourself observe him a little longer before returning to the crowd. You joined the shouts and the cries of the people until it all went south.

Tear gas was first— then the pigs started shooting rubber bullets into the crowd as they used their shields to push everyone back. It quickly became a violent mess, though one you’d been prepared for. 

Your brass knuckles slammed up against a pig’s mask and made him stumble back. He had been in the middle of pinning someone on their back, but you’d be damned if you let it slide. You grabbed the person on the ground and took off with them. 

You were practically hacking up a lung, trying to breathe through your mask. It didn’t help that you couldn’t see much of anything. People were fighting and running all over the place and the person in your arms wasn’t faring any better. He had snot and tears running down his face. You just wanted to get the two of you out, but you still couldn’t see shit. 

You knew your old wounds would ache when you went home later. Man, you longed for a bath.

Your eyes stung as you whipped your head around. Through the fog, you couldn’t tell if you got turned around or not. You didn’t want to panic— you didn’t. But your nerves were getting fried and the guy hanging off of you wouldn’t be much help. 

Then, you heard Hobie’s voice in the haze.

“Oi! Keep runnin’, mate!” 

It was enough to fuel your footsteps again and keep your nerves solid enough to get you two out of there. You were sure he didn’t know it was you, but it didn’t matter to your wounded heart.

The last petal on your flower would tell you the same thing over and over as it danced in the wind: He loves you. 

You saw Hobie from time to time outside of the protests. Sometimes you’d overhear a concert occurring while you stood near a venue or spot him in a pub as he chatted with his friends. In each instance, you would stall your cheers or resist the urge to ask him for a tipsy dance. Instead, you would carry on as if your heart wasn’t rapping against your ribs and your legs weren’t threatening to buckle from underneath you.

You wondered if he ever knew you were there. If he even wanted to be with you anymore. Maybe the fear convinced him to fall out of love with you and give up on the two of you.

Perhaps it was time for you to move on— the flower petals could only do so much. Eight months and four days was enough time to mourn a relationship and move on, wasn’t it? You’d stop thinking in patterns and repeated words, hoping to make sense of your failed love with Hobie. You’d understand that love was a four letter word not meant for you— not selfish enough for you. You’d understand that once upon a time, Hobie loved you and you loved him.

Even with the last petal screaming ‘He loves you!’ in the palm of your scarred hands, you could move on. You should move on. No, no, you would. You would move on.

You would let go of that petal and watch it fly away. The universe could tell you whatever it wanted— but you were tired of holding out hope. Eight months and four days was enough time to pick up your fractured pieces and mend your heart. You could put the pieces around the blade Hobie had put there and move on. 

The idea didn’t sit nicely with you at first. You toyed with it, swirling it around as if it were the whiskey in your glass cup. You’d sit alone at pubs, thinking of the possibility of letting go, as bitter of a taste it left in your mouth. When you grabbed a flower, the idea made you hesitate at plucking the petals, forcing you to stop asking the universe questions you already knew the answer to.

Then, the idea adjusted to you and your habits. It would lead you out of your pining and show you that moving on wasn’t just a possibility, it was something you could do. It made you think that your relationship with Hobie was something to learn from, not something to return to.

But the idea never considered that your resolve would be so weak when confronted with Hobie again.

Your protest organizer called a meeting a few weeks after the curfew was put in place. She said the meeting was extremely important since she would be partnering with another group. Apparently, if everyone played their cards right, the PM and police department could be overthrown. So you weren’t surprised that your usual meeting place was completely packed.

People were still showing up in the little room, standing around talking to each other. You, on the other hand, were sitting at one of the tables that littered the place, talking to one of your friends. 

She leaned in close, a conspiracy on the tip of her tongue. “I heard this group has close dealings with Spider-Punk, that’s why Ramona wants to work with them on this.”

You had to stop the panic from reaching your expression. You answered slowly, “Is that right?”

She hummed and tapped the table. “Apparently some of the people in the group know his identity— they’re not gonna tell us who he is, though. For good reason. You never know who might crack under a little pressure from the police.”

“Huh.” Your mind was absolutely reeling. You had thought you’d seen Kamala at some point— but you psyched yourself out. You didn’t want to believe that one of Hobie’s friends were here, because if there was one of them, then there would be all of them.

And that meant Hobie would be here.

You were going to say more to your friend but you accidentally locked eyes with someone across the room. It took you looking away then looking back to realize you were staring at Riri Williams. Another one of Hobie’s best friends.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

She openly stared at you for a moment. You were sure your expression matched hers and even more sure that you two were on the same train of thought. The two of you never harbored any ill will towards each other, she was a fun person to be around, even after you and Hobie fell apart. But she could understand how awkward this was about to be. 

Suddenly, her eyes flicked over toward the door then back at you. You turned your head to face the door to see Hobie. He gave Riri a confused frown. You saw the moment he followed Riri’s gaze and his honey-colored eyes found you.

Your heart leapt to your throat and you found yourself trapped under his gaze. Surprise was written all over his face, but there was a flash of something else in his eyes. You hadn’t seen it in such a long time, but you knew him well enough to recognize that glint of sudden resolve.

Before you could consider what it meant, Ramona moved to the front and cleared her throat. You tore your attention away from Hobie.

“If it’s alright with y’all, I’d like to commence this meeting.” Her words were silk smooth yet commanding at the same time. 

People started grabbing chairs and filling up tables around the room, so you weren’t surprised to find that someone was moving the chair beside you to sit down. However, your soul nearly left your body when you realized exactly who was there. 

Hobie, in all his lanky glory, leaned back into the seat with his arms folded across his chest. He lazily met your gaze through half-lidded eyes which made you turn away from him. You wanted to crawl into a tiny hole and never come out.

Ramona began to explain how the symbiotes worked and how she planned to use their weaknesses against them, all things you’d heard before. Every so often, the other organizer would ask questions to clarify certain points. You believed if you focused and contributed enough to the conversation, you would forget about the man sitting next to you.

“Now, we do require a lot of speakers and amps for this to work out,” Ramona started, “If anyone’s able to pitch in, it would be greatly appreciated.”

You leaned forward onto the table. “If you need a shit-load of speakers, I got a cousin who’d be willing to donate.”

Other people joined in with other things they could supply and one by one, everything needed was being checked off the list. Ramona clapped her hands together.

“This is perfect. And I’m assuming those of you who know Spider-Punk can relay the message, yes?”

Hobie spoke up, “Word by word, ma’am. The bloke won’t be missin’ a detail.”

“Absolutely wonderful.”

You hadn’t seen Ramona so hopeful in a long time and that brought a gentle smile to your face. For someone who’d been fighting against the government for so long, you could only imagine the relief she felt. The smile on your face promptly fell from your lips when a foot pressed up against your boot. You didn’t spare it any attention and shifted your foot away. You could handle an accidental touch, you told yourself as you released a shaky breath.

Yet, the Chuck Taylor persisted and nudged your foot again. You didn’t quite appreciate your heart being sent into the stratosphere from the very intentional touch. This time, you pointedly moved your foot out of the way and shot Hobie a glare. To which he returned with a confused eyebrow raise.

He had the audacity to jut out his chin to tell you to pay attention which— you were just doing. You bit down the spike of irritation and returned your attention to Ramona. Your cheeks were starting to warm up and it only made your irritation harder to curb. The last thing you wanted to deal with was being flustered. 

Everything suddenly got worse when Hobie’s foot was there again, pushing up against your foot and— what were you going to do? 

Not this, that’s for sure. You weren’t going to play footsie with him— not when you still had that double-edged sword lodged in your chest. And definitely not when you were finally getting used to the idea of moving on. You weren’t doing this.

So when his shoe nudged you, begging for your attention, you moved to slam your heel onto his foot. He needed to cut it out. But, your shoe only met the floor when he shifted his foot out of the way.

“Too slow,” he muttered, not once sparing you a glance.

The words made your brain short-circuit. Wires were in disarray, clogs weren’t moving like they were supposed to, and an indignant laugh was threatening to leave your mouth. You had to cover your mouth and turn away from him. You didn’t know what his main objective was, but you were familiar with his antics. He knew which buttons to press to pique your competitiveness and you didn’t like that. The action only made playfulness surge through you even though you tried to force it down.

What was the point in egging you on like this?

His foot was back and pressing up against yours again. It was a dare and a silent question.

Would you indulge him? Even after all of this?

You knew the answer to that, no matter how much you tried to lie to yourself and say otherwise. At the end of the day, you were completely and utterly weak for Hobie and maybe he knew that.

You pushed your foot against his shoe, accepting his dare. You kept your face turned away from him, you didn’t think you could handle him seeing the way your lips quirked up. Which is why you missed how his eyes lit up. 

You could practically hear the universe again, reminding you of your flower petals. Your past I love yous, your broken heart, and your longing for Hobie spurred you to play footsie with him until the end of the meeting. 

You were the first to pull away, shifting your body to face him completely when Ramona called an end to the debriefing. You just stopped and looked at Hobie, the very one who still had you wrapped around his finger, the one who had put you in this heartbroken position— and you said nothing. His warm dark skin, the countless piercings he adorned, his amber-colored eyes that held an infinite amount of secrets behind yet looked at you like you hung the stars— you took it all in. And you silently asked him why?

Your flowers answered for you over and over and over:

He loves you.

He loves you.

He loves— 

Before you could get his answer, there was a tap on your shoulder. You already knew who it would be, so you weren't surprised to see Ramona there looking between you and Hobie with a knowing look. She gestured for you to follow her. You figured it was about the supplies you volunteered for. You spared Hobie one last glance and he gave you one of those sweet smiles of his before you stepped away. 

You attempted to will your heart to stop racing as you followed Ramona into her little office. She suddenly spoke and broke you out of your reverie.

"I was going to get straight to business and ask about the speakers, but I'm curious," she trailed off as a smile broke out across her dark skin. "Is that boy a lover of yours?"

If you were drinking water, you were sure you would've spat it out everywhere. Your mouth hung open for a few moments. Lover was such a strong word. "Uh," you were going to play dumb. "Who?"

She gave you a look that said you weren't fooling anyone. 

"That boy you were giving heart eyes to."

"Heart eyes?" You shook your head and blew a raspberry. "Far from it."

"Oh so you just look at everyone like that?"

You gave a non-committal hum. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't." You started to drum your fingers on her desk as your mind wandered.

Ramona let out a puff of air and shrugged. "If you say so, but he was definitely giving you the look."

Your head practically snapped to look back at her. "What look?"

“Hm. Who knows?” She was teasing you, you could tell from the way she smirked at you. You slumped over her desk with an exaggerated noise. 

“Ramona, c’mon—”

“Well.” She took her time to dig through some files in a cabinet behind her desk. “It’s like I said earlier: heart eyes. But maybe I’m reading too much into it?” She raised an eyebrow at you.

You didn’t exactly have an answer to that. Your gaze fell to the floor. Were you reading too much into this? Trying to figure out what the hell Hobie was trying to do? 

There was a hand on your shoulder. “Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to pry ‘n make you all sad now.”

You placed your hand over hers. “No, no, it’s okay. It’s just that—” You hesitated. You wanted to hold your tongue but something about Ramona’s kind brown eyes made you speak. “I don’t think we know how to look at each other any other way.”

That confession rang loudly in the small, cluttered room. Ramona patted your shoulder then dropped her hand. “That’s surely something special, isn’t it?” She stepped away from you and pulled out a file. “Now, about those speakers.”

The topic practically flipped on its head and you eagerly gave her all the information you had about your cousin. Yet, your mind couldn’t let go of her words. 

It was special.

Your love was special. It made you hold out hope even when you believed you didn’t.

It was special enough to make you wait for Hobie, even after he broke your heart. Or, hey, maybe you were just stupid. Stupidly in love with Hobie Brown. 

You scoffed. It made you feel stupid.

When your meeting was over, Ramona bid you with a short farewell. “Good luck with your lover boy!”

You made an indignant noise, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah.”

You opened then closed the door behind you, taking in a deep breath. The little meeting room was empty with some chairs in places they weren’t supposed to be.

Then there was a voice to your left.

“Lover boy?”

You whipped around so fast that you swore your neck would’ve snapped if you went any faster. You openly gaped at the sight of Hobie leaned up against the wall with his hands tucked neatly into his leather jacket. 

“You…” You started off slowly. “You didn’t go home?” You couldn’t keep the bewilderment from being evident on your face.

Hobie simply pushed himself off of the wall. “I was waitin’ for ya.”

The eye contact you two shared was too intense for you. You dragged a hand down your face and moved your gaze to the studded lapels on his jacket. You could remember vividly how you used to drag your fingers along the material to entice him for a kiss—

You shut that thought down there. 

“First footsie, now this,” you muttered as you pulled your jacket closer to your body. Frankly, you didn’t think your heart could handle this. Figuratively and literally.

You didn’t spare Hobie another glance as you headed toward the exit. Though, he caught up to you easily. 

“C’mon, let me walk you to your flat. It’s late.”

Before your hand could touch the door, he pushed it open for you. The cool night air hit you and it was confirmed that it was, in fact, late.

Noticing your sudden pause, Hobie stepped forward and leaned his face into view. “Well? Whaddya say?”

You drew out a long breath. The universe had its way of fucking with you, didn’t it? Fine. You could play along. “Sure. Why not.”

The walk was strange. You weren’t drunk and stumbling over yourself this time, nor did you feel the need to acknowledge the space next to Hobie that you currently occupied. The two of you kept a respectful distance between each other— no arms draped over shoulders, no leaning on each other for balance, nothing. Only hands firmly tucked into jacket pockets.

You passed under yellow street lights as the sound of your shoes echoed into the air. Your gaze trailed to the ground as your mind wandered to a flower with beautiful pluckable petals. It was always up to chance anyway, so it never mattered how you started. And maybe, just maybe, you were feeling pessimistic. 

A petal fell.

He loves you not.

“Are you nervous?” you found yourself asking. Hobie startled beside you, most likely not expecting you to speak. He gave you a questioning look.

“About?”

The petals continued to fall in your mind. “The plan. Everything’s riding on whether or not Spider-man can handle the task.” 

Hobie clicked his tongue. “The bloke can handle it. Besides, he won’t be alone.” He paused to nudge your shoulder. “You’ll be there brandishin’ those brass knuckles of yours.”

Reeling from the sudden touch, your voice caught in your throat. “My— how did you—” You made a frustrated noise at your fumbling. “You noticed?”

He shrugged, his jacket brushing against yours as the space between you shrunk. “Hard not to notice someone absolutely deckin’ a pig at any given moment.”

There was a sense of pride behind his words that warmed your wounded heart. You felt your lips spread into a shy smile. 

He loves you. 

You merely shrugged, once again receiving that fleeting touch. "I don't do nothin' they don't deserve." 

Hobie snickered. "I know that's right."

See, you could do this. You could make small talk and be acquaintances. This was good. 

"You're still performing, right?" You already knew the answer to that. 

Hobie met your gaze out of the corner of his eye. "I am." 

"Could never take that from you, huh?"

The smile didn't quite reach his eyes and you feared that you had said something wrong. Though, he didn't let you linger in silence for long.

"Course not, but..." With how he trailed off and broke eye contact, you could guess what he wanted to say.

It wasn't the same.

And, well, of course it wasn't. You used to go to every show, even before you two ever got together. You loved the music his band made, so you made sure to be there in the front row, screaming to your heart's delight. So, no, it wasn't the same.

But whose fault was that?

Your hand absentmindedly found itself over your heart as you remembered that blade— the heartbreak. You hated how quickly your mind could flip a nice moment on its head. But there was no way you could just pretend that you didn’t remember how hopeless you felt after your relationship fell apart. Not when this very walk reminded you of how Hobie had stopped holding hands with you in public and how swiftly it had all spiraled after that.

Your flower cried, he loves you not.

“How’re your injuries?”

You blinked yourself out of your reverie, hoping your solemn thoughts didn’t reach your face. Though, with how concerned Hobie suddenly appeared, you were sure they did. It probably didn’t help that your hand was resting near one of your scars. 

You dropped your hand and did your best to wave his concern off. “Wouldn’t really call ‘em injuries at this point. They’re just scars now.”

“They don’t hurt anymore?” he asked. 

You sighed and moved your attention to the ground. They didn’t really hurt, they just ached at times like when you overexerted yourself or rolled out of bed wrong. The muscles that were torn didn’t really have the same flexibility anymore, but you could live with that. One amazing bath would take all of your problems away.

“They’re… fine,” you said carefully. And they were fine. You were fine with the scars they left even if, at times, you weren’t. You were fine even when they reminded you of why Hobie left— of a relationship you couldn’t seem to move past— of Hobie leaving your apartment and never coming back. 

You couldn’t do this.

Your footsteps slowed to a stop. You hated when your mind plagued your thoughts with this— No, you hated the effect Hobie had on you whenever he was near. You longed for him all of the fucking time like some lovesick puppy yet couldn’t handle being close to him at any given time. It made you feel stupid. 

“‘M sorry, I ain’t mean to pry.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, but you could hear the guilt in his voice. You two weren’t standing beside each other anymore; Hobie stood a few steps ahead of you, under a streetlight while you stayed in the darkness surrounding it. 

You didn’t understand why you kept reacting like this— always reliving the past until it upset you. You just needed to take a deep breath and finish the rest of the walk. You’d be fine.

“(Y/N), are you okay?” Hobie asked, taking a step forward. You took one back.

There it was. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The final nail in the coffin— You had told him to cut it out with all the pet names and he did. Of course he did, that’s who he was. But you were sick of how casual this all felt. You couldn’t just be acquaintances with him.

“Why are you doing this?” You started off quietly. It was merely a whisper in the wind. “You’ve got to know what this is doing to me, right?” You tried to calm your racing heart, to keep your emotions steady enough for you to speak.

You heard Hobie shift. “What?”

It truly didn’t help. “You—” Your hands tightened into fists. “You can’t just walk out of my life then walk me home like it's nothing!” You didn’t mean for your words to come out so sharply, but you were slowly tearing apart again. “You take care of me after getting left at some stupid party. Then you sit next to me and start a game of footsie— And proceed to offer to walk me home after. I—” Your voice got caught in your throat so you shook your head. You started again, this time much softer. “I don’t understand. You must know I’m having a hard time moving on, right? Can you tell? Is that why you keep…” you trailed off. The pathetic, choked laugh that left you made you want to curl into yourself.

You had to move your gaze to the starless sky to keep the tears at bay, but you continued. “What you’re doing… it’s…” Selfish. That’s exactly what it was. The realization dawned on you and you slowly tilted your head down to look at Hobie. The tears that welled up in your eyes dripped down your face.

Hobie, oh, Hobie stared at you with those eyes of his. Those eyes that shared the same color as the whiskey you used to drown your sorrows. A vice. Your vice. He practically glowed under the streetlight, his eyes glistening. 

He looked completely and utterly wrecked.

You just wanted an answer. “Why, Hobie?”

You could see his hesitation clearly as he opened then closed his mouth. In your mind, the last flower petal fell and tried to tell you what he couldn’t. But you didn’t want that. You were tired of guessing. Tired of plucking flowers. You just wanted him to tell you that he loved—

“Because I still love you, and ion know how to deal with that.”

Everything seemed to still, except for the tears that slowly fell down your face. Your mind couldn’t quite keep up. “You…” you started yet never finished. You couldn’t. 

Hobie observed you quietly with his eyes lidded and focused. You shifted on your feet under the intense gaze.

Your mind finally caught up and the words found themselves leaving your lips. “Why did— why’d you say that?” It was a stupid question. A stupid, stupid question, but Hobie took it in stride.

“Jus’ wanted to say it, duck.”

For a moment, you could imagine Hobie gripping the blade he had plunged into your chest, silently asking if you’d let him take it out. Your body started to shake as another round of tears overflowed from your eyes.

“Knowin’ I wouldn’t say it back?” 

There was a soft, understanding look on his face. “Knowin’ you wouldn’t say it back.” 

You knew the blade wouldn’t come out easily, you were sure it would never come out. Even if it did, the wound it left behind was sure to ache afterwards. But…

Your face was in your hands as your disbelief finally reached your wet, burning cheeks. You could hear your heart in your ears. “Can you say it again?” 

There was no hesitation. “I love you.”

You knew Hobie would do his best to soothe the pain in your aching heart, no matter how deep the blade had dug into his hands.

Your legs finally seemed to catch up as you timidly walked up to him, still wiping away your tears. Once close enough, you pressed into him and wrapped your arms around him. The action was reciprocated almost instantly as you silently wept into his jacket. 

Hobie’s embrace was warm and you never wanted to let go. His arms held you close as he spoke near your ear.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for hurtin’ ya.” You could hear the emotion in his voice. “I made a mistake. I jus’— I thought it would be easier to stay away to keep you safe but— it was worse.” He pulled away just enough to see and hold your  face. “You were right. It’s not worth bein’ miserable.”

He wiped your tears away with his thumbs then said softly, “I couldn’t— I can’t stand bein’ away from you and seein’ you with that sad look on your face. I’m sorry, love. Please, forgive me.”

You looked at him with your watery eyes, realizing how quickly you’d just watched him break. Hobie Brown didn’t beg, but, for you, you knew he would. Your hands trailed up to his cheeks, brushing away his stray tears.

If only he knew that you had already forgiven him, as sad as it was. As broken as you were. You didn’t think there was a universe where you couldn’t forgive him. Not when his warm brown eyes stared at you as if you held his world. 

Love was a four letter word, and it made you do stupid things.

Like pull his face close and press your lips onto his. The kiss felt like a sigh of relief while the next conveyed how much you wanted and needed him in your life. 

When he pulled away and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, he whispered, “I love you so much.”

You knew he would have no problem telling you such, over and over again. 

And he did just that when the plan was set into motion and the final standoff between the People and the Thunderbolt Department took place. Your cousin had hooked you up with your shit-load of speakers and it was all connected to a single guitar:

Hobie’s.

With a single powerful cord, the battle began. Pigs were everywhere but your group took them down with a grandiose need for freedom. It didn’t last long. The end of the affair was easily called when Hobie’s guitar bashed in the Prime Minister’s head.

Victory was sweet and smelled of blood, but the cheers and screams of the crowd overpowered it all. Hobie had torn off his mask and raised his bloody guitar in the air. The moment would be something you’d never forget, especially when Hobie looked at you with well-deserved pride written all over his face.

With hugs and cries being handed out around you, it took a moment for Hobie to reach you, but once he did, he squeezed you tight and kissed all over your face.

“Fuck! I love you so much, ducky!”

Your cheeks hurt from grinning so hard while the tips of your ears burned from the loud declaration. But you couldn’t stop yourself from cheering then planting a kiss on your boyfriend’s lips. Though, you were sure you couldn’t call it a kiss from how much you two were smiling.

You knew that there would be a lot of healing and growing as time went on. Hobie took no offense to you not being able to tell him that you loved him. He would say it enough for the both of you. Though, there would never be any doubt that he loved you. 

Not when he performed on stage, dedicating songs to you. Not when you two shared tipsy dances and kissed each other late into the night. Never.

But where was the fun in never saying it back?

“Hobie?”

He hummed, which was to be expected. It was late into the night and you both were supposed to be asleep. The boat rocked gently, attempting to lull you to sleep, but to no avail. You stared at your boyfriend’s resting face, taking in his handsome features.

There was something about this night that made you want to pour your sleepy heart out to him. It probably didn’t help that that godforsaken blade was no longer in your healing chest. Instead, it clambered to the floor and flowers blossomed at your feet.

You reached forward and placed your hand on his cheek, rubbing your thumb along his cheekbone. He peeked open an eye and gave you a small smile. He covered your hand with his and shifted his head to kiss your palm.

“Y’alright, me duck?” he whispered and you nodded. You leaned closer to him.

“I love you, Hobie.”

Both of his eyes flew open as he drew in a sharp breath. He gaped at you and his hold on your hand tightened. His mouth opened then closed. His reaction only made you smile which, in turn, brought tears to his eyes.

“Aw, Bee,” you cooed, pressing light kisses on his forehead. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He let out an indignant laugh because how could you expect him not to cry at least a little? He moved to wrap his arms around you and pressed your foreheads together.

“I love you too.”

The confession soothed your soul and calmed your heart. You smiled even after you fell asleep, it was hard not to. You didn’t have to pluck flowers anymore, asking the universe to spare you an ounce of hope. There was no denying the truth.

He loved you.

And you loved him.

header by me :0, divider by cafekitsune :3

so sorry this took so long pookies, but i hope you guys enjoyed this little series of mine <333 i put a lot of love into this last part and i hope it shows

(lawd i hope i got everyone who wanted to be on the taglist, sorry if I missed you!)

taglist: @hoe-bie @hao-ming-8 @anonoussy @amianelf-main @muffinlovesfiction @hobiebrownenthusiast (won't let me tag for some reason :'() @l0ve-sicc @monsterroonio @deathmoonpalette @tires-slashed

#hobie brown x black!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown #atsv #across the spiderverse #spider punk #writing #spider punk x reader

[gaybananabread]

Congrats on the milestone!! Definitely an exciting one. For the event could I request lemon, dragon fruit, banana with MHA lee Denki and either ler Bakugou or Kirishima (or both lol)?

Fruit(s): Lemons, Dragon Fruit, Bananas

Why choose? I love writing these two as a tag-team, and Kaminari is one of my favorite lees for MHA. Might as well end off the Fruit Shop on the fandom that got me into this whole community! Once again, thank everyone for requesting and participating in the event; I hope you Enjoy!

Lee: Denki

Lers: Bakugou, Kirishima

Summary: Denki swipes one of Kirishima’s favorite hoodies, which just so happens to be Bakugou’s best blanket. To “avenge” the red head and get the jacket back, Baku uses a special method of persuasion on the electric hero. Kiri decides to help, playing a good cop role.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

Denki ran for his life, ducking over furniture and dancing around other students. He got a few shouts and petty insults, but none of them mattered. If he stopped for just a second, he’d be toast… 

A few feet behind him, a certain fiery blonde surged forwards, letting off a few small explosions to hear Denki squeak. That dork was so dead when he caught up with him…

-

The crimson red hoodie was, in Denki’s opinion, the softest clothing article in the entire dorm complex. It was just heavy enough, and the plush lining on the inside was perfect for cuddles. Sure, it was Kirishima’s favorite piece of Crimson Riot merch he had, but the guy could share.

Sneaking out of the room, Denki hid the hoodie in a place only he would know. He’d return it…eventually. 

Right as he relocked Kiri’s door, he backed into something firm and warm. If that wasn’t hint enough, a low, rumbly growl left the man’s mouth. Oh shit…

“You better have a damn good explanation for this, dunce face.” A small whimper escaped the electric blonde when Bakugo touched his shoulder. Without a word, he took off, running frantically to escape his peer. He couldn’t stay ahead forever, but he had to try.

-

Denki pushed past another student; one he was hoping he wouldn’t run into. Kirishima was about to ask what was wrong when he saw Bakugou on his friend’s tail. Much more surprising, the boy was doing it with something akin to a smile on his face. Whatever was going on, Denki deserved it.

Before he could slip away, Kiri grabbed his shoulder, spinning the other student around. Denki was sent reeling, falling right into the arms of a very strong, very mischievous-looking blonde. Shit.

“Uh…h-hey, Bakugou. Can I…can you let me go? Ehe…” 

Bakugou just chuckled, grabbing the other blonde and tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Denki kicked and squirmed, punching the taller teen’s shoulder. “Lemme go, you brute! I’m innocent!” A lie, but could you blame him for trying?

The explosion user barked out a rough laugh and continued to carry his classmate like a fussy child.. “Bull shit! No way you’re innocent after running like that. Now hold still, ya brat!” 

Kirishima trailed behind the two, following them into his room. Baku slammed the other blonde down on Kiri’s camo sheets. Denki let out a small “oof” as he landed, trying to squirm away. In seconds, though, he was pinned, his arms gathered above his head and his thighs straddled by an almost forgotten redhead.

“Okay, give it up, dude. Where’s my hoodie?” Kiri cracked his knuckles, smirking down at the bratty student. Denki giggled, but didn’t say anything. His lips were metaphorically sealed. Emphasis on metaphorically. “W-whahat hoodie?”

Above him, Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Save it, dunce face. Tell us where the damn hoodie is. Now.” He gathered both of Denki’s hands in one of his, using the other to wiggle his fingers menacingly.

Even though he knew it was coming, the Pikachu-esque boy’s eyes went wide. He knew he was gonna get it, but the wiggling fingers made him more nervous than any spoken threat.

“I dohon’t know! A-ask Mina, shehe loves Crihimson Riot!” Denki honestly had no idea if that was true, but he had to try something. The looks he received, though, told him he had fucked up.

“Oh really? I thought you didn’t know what hoodie was taken, Kami. Care to explain now?” Still giggling, he shook his head, knowing what would happen next. Not wanting to disappoint, Kiri dug in, squeezing and poking his belly and sides.

He giggled like a child, the sound bubbly and bright. The boy tried to kick or twist away, but with Kiri on his thighs and Baku holding up his arms, he wasn’t going anywhere. “G-guhuhuys! Nohot thihihis!”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, though the red head chuckled. “This is only gonna get worse for ya, man. Might as well spill now while you can breathe.” Denki just shook his head, staying stubbornly persistent.

The other blonde grew impatient, deciding he’d waited long enough. “Little shit isn’t spilling if you baby him. Gotta be rough with his ass.” Using his free hand, Bakugou dug into one of Denki’s underarms, squeezing and drilling wildly.

“Grk- BAHAHAHA! BAHAKUGOHOHOU!” Denki arched his back at the intense sensation, his eyes squeezing shut. He had expected some tickling, but damn! Angry boy was getting mean with it.

Kirishima shook his head, looking like a frustrated mother. “Seriously, Bakubro? How’s he gonna talk if you’re torturing him?” Still, he didn’t back off, gently running his fingers up and down the length of his midsection.

“Q-QUIHIT FIHIHIGHTING! YOUHU SOHOHOUND LIHIKE MY GRAHANDPAHARENTS!” Both ticklers’ eyes darted down to him, one amused and one ready for murder. Deciding to be a minor devil’s advocate, Kiri teased his violent partner. “I mean, he’s not wrong, bro. You wanna bake some cookies after this?”

Bakugou growled, deciding to get him back for that one later. Right then, he had a different nuisance to destroy. “Just shut up and get his fuckin’ knees already. If he can yap, he can laugh harder.”

“WAHAHAIT! NOHO, PLEHEASE NOHOT THEHERE!” He kicked twice as hard, struggling to do anything besides laugh and beg. “Sorry, dude. You should’ve spilled.”

Without another warning, Kiri turned around, digging into the backs of Denki’s knees. The boy shrieked, tossing his head back and cackling at the torment of his worst spot. “NAHAHAHA! YOUHUHU- *snort* PLEHEHEASE!”

The other blonde chuckled evilly, running his short nails up and down Denki’s forearms, trailing a path from his elbow to his armpit over and over again. It was all the shorter boy could do not to lose his mind, snort after shriek after snort ripping from his throat.

Finally, after about two minutes of the intense tickling, Denki caved; he couldn’t take it anymore. “OHOHOKAHAHAY! IHI’LL SPIHIHIHIL! *snort* NAHAHAHO MOHOHORE!” Small tears of mirth gathered in the corners of his eyes, one sliding down the side of his face.

Kirishima immediately stopped, recognizing the desperation in his voice; he’d never hurt his friends intentionally. Baku scoffed, still not releasing Denki’s arms. “There ya go, fuckin’ brat. Now spill it.”

Giggling off some of the leftover sensations, he tried to recover. “Hohoholy shihit…thahat was- youhu guys are ahahawful!”

Bakugou squeezed his side, making the blonde shriek in surprise. “Ohokay, okay! Ihit’s in my cohomic cubby! Noho mohohore!”

While the aggressive boy would have been more than happy to continue, Kirishima put a hand on his. “That’s good, Bakubro. Let him breathe, I’m happy.” Rolling his eyes, Baku climbed off his sparky peer, sauntering off to who-knows-where. Kiri would talk with him later.

Kirishima looked back down at his giggly friend with a fond smile. He ruffled Denki’s hair, though it was already messy enough. He had one piece of advice that might save the guy from another total wrecking.

“Next time, Kami? Watch what’cha steal around Bakubro~”

#kasey's fruit shop #mha tickle #lee!denki #ler!bakugou #ler!kirishima #ticklish!denki #sfw tickling community #tickle fic #tickle #fruit shop event #my hero academia tickle #ticklish!kaminari #lee!kaminari #mha #mha denki #mha kaminari #mha bakugou #mha kirishima

[allofthebeanz]

I have succumbed to another Some Like it Red rewatch, so here are the things I liked!

Ray tells Fraser to ask anyone about the nickname and then Fraser takes it literally and asks some random guy just to disprove Ray

Sister Annie's fuck you're a cop face

Mmmm whatcha say~

The fact no woman wants to help Ray and fake injuries. Ray, what have you done?

Elaine compliments Fraser's dress <3

Never forget Welsh was attracted to Ms Fraser

on another note, go Fraser for being more confident to set boundaries, the way he dismissed Welsh when he was putting his arm around him :D

and on another another note, I was pleasantly surprised they didn't follow up with a 'lol look at this dude attracted to a dude in a dress' gag. Welsh doesn't even come back. Good shit

Fraser crosses his legs <3

Fraser wants to know if teal or mustard works better (you got the right dress colour Fraser, it matches the purple!)

the fact Ms Fraser has a little heart pin for her scarf

at first I cringe at the 'child bearing years' bit, and then I think of it as Fraser channelling his grandmother because he's nervous to be in a classroom again

Baby Lesbian Melissa!

SCARF FLIP

Fraser being absolutely appalled by Ray thinking he's responsible for his ex-girlfriend becoming a nun

boing boing boing

"Fungus" :/

The Car Changing Scene(TM)

the dialogue with the mixed metaphor is chef's kiss

*honk* "Would you put that down?!"

again, they don't do the stupid gag when the jewellery store owner asks if Ray and Fraser are the girl's parents. It's taken seriously like any question

OPEN THE DOOR FOR HER RAY

the girls are gonna run away together ;_;

Ray having a moment of questioning his sexuality for two seconds when he's dancing with Fraser

THE DANCE

how did they absolutely nail the awkwardness of the gym dance

*hair flip* "Grading papers indeed"

this is the second episode where Fraser uses men's sexism to kick ass

THE SCOTCH

That last bit... Ray. Ray, c'mere, I wanna talk to you. Ray let me talk to you RAY

As always, feel free to add to the list!

#due south #ds30below #ms fraser #beanz rambles

[universitypenguin]

Word Count: 4,977

Warnings: Smut. 18+ readers only. Explicit sexual content. Rough sex. Steve suffers emotional distress. Kidnapping and hostage situation.

Master List

R is for Risk

The atmosphere vibrated with stress. Like the tolling of bells in a provincial town, tension echoed off the walls. Your mind shied away from the metaphor as soon as you thought of it. John Donne’s poem, asking for whom the bell tolled, wasn’t an analogy you wanted to connect with at the moment. It was too close to acknowledging the truth of your predicament and that wasn’t a topic you could mentally cope with right now.

After all, how did a person handle dancing on the edge of death, other than by ignoring it?

Taskmaster turned and tilted his masked head to the side, looking like a very ugly German Shepherd puppy.

“Time’s running out, girl. Better start praying your boyfriend turns up.”

You tilted your chin and met his threat with defiance. Inside, your stomach was churning. But it would be a disaster if Taskmaster knew his effect on you.

He loved seeing terror, but loved knowing that he was causing it even more. You’d clocked the glee in his voice when he’d broken your finger on video for Steve to witness. The wound still ached but had mostly gone numb as the hours counted down.

“How am I going to kill you, my pretty…? It would be more dramatic to leave your face intact, I think. Or perhaps not. I should deny him the sight of such a lovely visage ever again, so he can only remember you the way you were on our last few calls.”

Taskmaster laughed.

You rolled your eyes. “Visage? Have you been reading Jane Austen recently? No. Let me guess. Charlotte Brontë.”

His smirk didn’t budge.

“I find it fascinating that no matter how I threaten you, it doesn’t disturb you as much as when I remind you how terribly this will scar Steve. You’re really in love, aren’t you? I always thought it was his looks. Say, does he actually have an eight pack under those pressed shirts and khakis?”

You sneered. “Are you coming for my boyfriend? He’s taken.”

“Got him all leashed up, huh?”

“There’s no leash. He loves me. I love him - that’s all there is to it.”

Taskmaster’s face moved in a way that suggested he was wrinkling his nose under his mask.

“Have you ever been in love?”

He stiffened, shoulders pulling tight as his arms drew back, bringing his elbows in toward his torso.

Your eyes narrowed.

“A psychopath who’s been in love. Interesting.”

“Shut it, girl.”

Taskmaster swung away and moved to check the cellphone he’d placed on the counter.

A timer had been set right after the first ransom call. The digital clock was ticking down the minutes to your demise. If the Avengers didn’t hand over the vibranium ore stored in Tony’s safe, Taskmaster would kill you. Or to be more precise, his words had been, splatter your brains all over the wall.

“Three minutes left. If he loved you, he wouldn’t cut it so close.”

“If you were in his shoes, and the woman you loved was in mine, would you make this deal? You’re working for Klaus. In his hands that vibranium would put millions of people in danger.”

Taskmaster shrugged. “His money’s green.”

“So is Tony’s. Ask him to pay you more. Ask him for double whatever Klaus is paying you. You’re not stupid. It’s obvious which well runs deeper.”

For a moment, he pinned you with a cold glare that had your heart pulsing with fear. Had you pushed too hard?

Laughter exploded, shaking the man’s frame. He clutched his stomach and threw his head back, reveling as if you’d told the greatest joke ever written.

“You’re good. Really good. I’m impressed, Y/N. They warned me you were clever; but I didn’t think you’d get to me.”

Hope blossomed.

“I’m worth more alive than I am dead, and we both know it.”

The timer screeched its finale. A chorus of blaring horns and raging vibrations broke the tense moment.

Taskmaster clicked his tongue.

“Well, well. Time’s up. The Avengers have run out of chances to save you.”

You considered him, feeling a strange sense of calm that defied logic. In the back of your mind a trampled down instinct screamed at you to panic, but it was too distant to matter.

“I suppose you’re going to kill me and not double your pay. I’d thought you were intelligent. But it’s no matter, since I’ll be dead in… five minutes?”

Taskmaster grinned.

“Your calculations missed a variable. Loyalty. I have a reputation to protect and Klaus is a well connected man. If I double cross him, I’m as good as dead. So yeah. No deal. But I’m not going to enjoy this next part as much as I planned to. You made a good sparring partner, Y/N.”

The sound of your name on his lips sent a chill through your heart.

Fuck. He’s going to do it.

You stiffened as he stepped around the kitchen island, moving towards the living room, where you were cuffed to an armchair. The raw panic you’d thought would overwhelm you didn’t come. Its absence was the most remarkable thing about the whole situation. You were gripped by a cold fear that froze you, but heightened your awareness of everything else.

Taskmaster had taken two steps, his gun raised and movements purposeful, when the world exploded. There was an ear shattering sound, as if a firework had gone off beside you. Glass flew and stung as it sliced your legs. You covered your face and dove for safety beside the barricade of the sofa. Surprisingly, the cuff came loose as the chair tipped over and you jerked your hand free.

Gunshots snapped through the air. You crawled towards the door, away from the flying glass. Hands grabbed your waist, pulling you backwards.

You screamed.

Training with Steve paid off in that moment, when even despite comple terror, your elbow flew back and cracked against your assailant’s jaw. He was momentarily stunned and then seized your waist even harder, his fingers digging until they pinched. You yelped and kicked at him, then remembered to twist your hips for better leverage. Now on your side, you trapped one of his legs between yours and flipped on top of him.

“Y/N, stop! Stop! Hey!”

He blocked your fist with his forearm and pulled off the black ski mask. You gasped at the sight of Steve’s face. He hauled you into his arms and drew you tight against his chest as you tucked your face into his neck.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

With a shudder, you felt your bravado melt away, and went limp in his grasp.

From behind the couch there was a chuckle. Tony snickered.

“Quite the romantic reunion.”

“Romantic? She nearly knocked out his teeth,” Thor said.

Tony sighed. “Sarcasm isn’t a language you’re ever going to master, is it?”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There was a mandatory post hostage crisis interview with SHIELD. Steve protested the exercise, pulling out his “I am the Captain” voice on Maria Hill. You intervened by cutting in and agreeing to the interrogation. While they called it an ‘interview’ everyone knew what it really was. Steve was upset, and took you aside to ask if you were certain you felt up to the task.

Of course, you didn’t, but it was a matter of pride.

You wouldn’t use Steve’s status to get special favors. There was a stubborn desire to prove that, even if Captain America was your boyfriend, you could stand on your own.

You promised you were alright, kissed his cheek, and went with Agent Hill.

After the interview she insisted that medical checked you out. You were exhausted. All you wanted to do was go home but she insisted. Until you went with the nurse, you didn’t realize why.

Steve was waiting outside the exam room when you were done. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face. When he saw you, he straightened. You took what felt like your first full breath in hours when his arm curled around your waist. His jaw was bristled with stubble when he pressed his lips to your forehead. The big hands cupping your face were trembling as he clasped your cheeks.

“She’s all yours, Captain,” Agent Hill said.

Steve didn’t seem to hear. His gaze was fastened on the bruised skin of your neck. The marks had begun to show up during your conversation with Maria. By the time you’d gotten to medical for the check up, they’d sharpened into a clear shape. You wore Taskmaster’s hand print around your neck and would be wearing his marks for weeks.

Rage bubbled in Steve’s crystal eyes. You held still as he brushed the back of his fingers over the painful areas, and gently traced the marks that showed the outline of your attacker’s fingerprints.

He was silent. It coated the air with tension. You waited, but rather than speak, Steve dropped his head and breathed deeply. When he lifted his gaze again the violence had been replaced with his usual calm, steady expression.

The unnatural compartmentalization was unsettling. Steve shared his emotions freely with you. Your relationship had begun as a slow burn, but when Steve chose to be in a relationship, he held nothing in reserve. After more than two years together, you’d seen him fall apart, scream, cry, and laugh himself silly. This was not your Steve. The way he’d shut down his emotions in a single moment… it just wasn’t him.

He led you to the elevator bay and pressed the down button. You wrapped your arms around yourself for comfort. From the side of your eye, you watched Steve. He was distant, and not only in terms of the physical space he’d place between you. The composed mask was a hideous disguise on your handsome boyfriend. Emotions you’d had locked down tight were suddenly loosening. You looked up at the dial and willed the descending car to move faster. When you had the inevitable breakdown, you wanted it to be inside the walls of Steve’s apartment. Your hands began to tremble. You shoved them into your cardigan pockets to hide the reaction.

By the time you stepped into the lift, you were trembling from head to toe. Next to you, Steve was lost in abstraction. He wasn’t really there. Knowing this, being able to read him so easily, made his mental distance harder to tolerate. You wavered between asking him for a hug and crawling into the corner to hide. The elevator doors closed and you almost spoke up, needing the comfort of his arms, but Steve retreated to the corner of the car. He leaned, his left hand on the back railing and his right on the side rail. He was locked down.

He’d want to break down behind closed doors, too.

For all his emotional vulnerability, which you greatly admired, Steve liked to keep his rawest emotions private. You mimicked his posture in the other corner. The lift whirled. Your heart started to palpitate.

The lights flickered; that was the only warning. One moment you were in a beam of fluorescence, the next, everything went black.

With a lurch, the elevator stopped.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Damn it,” Steve muttered. He stepped forward and punched the button on the call box. “Hey, we’re stuck. The electricity went out.”

A buzz, then the disembodied voice of Happy Hogan came through the speaker.

“We’re aware. Sorry, Cap. The building took some damage when Taskmaster blew through the lobby. One of our circuits overloaded. It shouldn’t be too long. Tony is on it.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

Steve turned to look at you and jolted when you weren’t there. For a moment he was terrified. Then his gaze dropped and he saw you crumpled on the floor with your head between your knees. He wasn’t sure what to do. There were no tears. Instead, you just sat with your hands clasped behind your neck and your elbows tucked around your head. Silent. He blinked in the low light from the single safety panel that was still lit and saw you were shaking.

He eased down and very cautiously, rested in a squatting position, his hands dangling between his splayed thighs.

“Doll? You okay?”

You didn’t answer and he kicked himself mentally, regretting the stupid question.

“I’m just gonna slide over and sit next to you, alright?”

He sat down and did as he’d said. When he was next to you, Steve was startled as you slumped over from your defensive posture, right into his lap. Your shoulders and back were still curved, but you settled into a modified fetal position, with your hips and legs still on the floor, the rest of your body tucked into his lap.

Steve wrapped his arms around you. His hands were still encased in the fingerless gloves of his sleuth suit. Through the exposed fingertips he could feel how cold your skin was.

“Shit. You’re in shock.”

“No.”

You murmured the single syllable answer, the denial surprisingly strong.

Steve smoothed his hand over your hair.

“Baby, you’re shaking like a leaf. You’re freezing.”

You curled tighter and shuddered as a wave of terror emulated through your body. Steve pulled you all the way into his lap. He was worried by your lack of reaction as he situated you between his spread legs, your back to his front. There was no point in calling back down to Happy. Steve knew Tony was working on the elevator as fast as he could. Triaging what issues he could affect, and which ones he couldn’t, Steve used the mass of his body to surround yours. He peeled off his gloves and laced his fingers through yours, rubbing the skin to warm it. You shuddered again, violently.

He heard the short quick breaths and knew that no matter what you said, this was panic. Maybe even a panic attack. He wasn’t familiar enough to know the exact threshold of what constituted a full blown panic attack, but your gasping inhalations spoke for themselves. Steve clenched his arms around you and held on. You groaned and he saw the corner of your eyes crinkle as he nuzzled your temple. What had been shaking and tremors a minute ago were increasing to convulsions that rattled your entire frame.

“Shhh… It’s okay. I’m right here. You’re safe. We’re in Avengers Tower. You’re safe.”

You were as rigid as a board.

He settled a firm hand on your shoulders and kept a gentle grip. You shuddered and clutched your arms around your knees. He stroked up and down your upper arms. His hands moved down to your elbows and back up, over your shoulders and neck. He didn’t know what to say - so he didn’t say anything. He just kept trying to soothe you with his hands and the shelter of his body.

Slowly, you eased against him and uncurled from your tense position. Steve sighed, quietly, his eyes sliding shut on a wave of relief. You turned to burrow into him as if you could crawl into his suit with him. At the moment, he wished you could.

Then, to his surprise, you grabbed his shoulders and swung your leg over his hips. Steve’s hands automatically moved to your bottom. Out of habit he kneaded the supple flesh. When he realized what he was doing, he froze.

“I’m sorry, doll. I-”

He broke off when he looked up and saw the burning lust reflected in your eyes. His brain short circuited. In a moment, all of the information he’d ever stored in his mind was lost. Steve stared, unfathoming, as your mouth descended onto his. Later, he would reflect that he’d felt like a male spider being hypnotized by its mate.

Your hands went to his utility belt and undid the buckle with quick fingers. Steve hadn’t yet recovered his senses. He was motionless as you undid the snaps covering the zipper of his pants. Lust unfurled in his belly as you slid down the fly and pushed the material apart. The familiar feeling of your hand closing around his dick triggered an instant wave of arousal.

“Ah, fuck…”

The word slipped from his lips, the vulgarity almost going unnoticed, as his brain switched off and his body took over. Steve moaned and thrust into your teasing grip. He moaned as your hand fell away, then grunted approvingly when your lips pressed against his. Steve could still feel the heat of post-mission adrenaline pulsing in his blood. Combined with the pleasure of arousal, it created an intoxicating cocktail in his brain.

“Baby, please,” Steve gasped as you ground yourself over his dick.

“Mmmhh…” your tone was sweet and as viscous as honey.

The sound went straight to his cock.

“Off,” Steve grunted, tugging at the waistband of your skirt.

You continued voraciously attacking his mouth, cheeks, neck, and throat with your lips.

Steve was bubbling with emotions. After days of pent up stress, fear, rage, and despair, he’d thrown himself into your rescue mission. The consequence was that now he was a super soldier teetering on the edge of control. His usual control was slipping away and he just couldn’t hold on to it for another second. Your teeth scraped his jugular and your tongue darted out to soothe the wound with a gentle lick. The sensation went straight to his spine, electrifying every nerve in his body as it traveled down to his groin.

He threw back his head, snarling at the wild pleasure and the mounting frustration of not being inside of you.

You pulled back from the kiss, just enough to speak. Your lips brushed his.

“Fuck me. Please, Steve. I need you so bad.”

That snapped the last thread of his control.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He pushed you off his lap, and stood in a graceful movement. You’d almost climbed to your knees when Steve reached down, cinched an arm around your waist, and lifted you. He pivoted to the wall in a whirl and lifted you higher so your legs could wrap around his waist. You clung to him, breathless from the rush of being manhandled against the wall.

Oxygen left your lungs as Steve attacked your neck with the same fervor you’d gone at him with. Your eyes rolled back as he found the spot that made you feel as if every nerve in your skin was on full alert.

“Steve! Oh!”

He growled and rutted against you, only separated by the thin barrier of your panties.

“Fuck me!”

You meant for the words to be a demand, but he rubbed the head of his cock across your clit at the moment you started to speak. You whimpered the command in a hoarse cry of need.

Steve shoved a hand between your bodies, pushed his fingers into the crotch of your panties and ripped. The material was strong and you felt the sting as well-stitched seems dug into your skin. Steve hissed and twisted the material around his hand. You yelped at the snap of elastic, then moaned as the material vanished. The heated flesh of Steve’s arousal finally pressed to your needy core.

He adjusted his grip and lifted you over his erection. Accommodating the broad tip was always the most difficult part of making love to Steve.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d rubbed his thickness in your dripping juices, coating himself just enough, and then buried his dick in your vulnerable sex. The panels of wall behind you bowed, rattling under the force of Steve’s invasion. You cried out and clung to his shoulders as he slammed into you, splitting you open without a shred of finesse. Tears rolled down your cheeks at the harsh burn of him pushing through your folds. The friction should have been unpleasant but the heightened tension made it feel different. Your pussy rippled and juices flooded your channel to ease his entry. Steve moaned against your ear. That noise reverberated through your body and echoed in your heart. This was exactly what you needed.

You tossed your head and rocked against him o aid the difficult joining of your bodies. Steve gave a low grunt and cinched his arms around your hips. You gasped when he lifted you and thrust up at the same time he let go. You shrieked at the abrupt invasion of him in the deepest parts of your body. The wetness eased the burn as your pussy accepted every inch.

Steve grunted and you felt the coolness of the elevator panel on your back again as he pinned you against the wall.

“That’s it, baby. That’s what I want. What I need. You feel like heaven.”

Your pussy clenched and he gasped.

“Fuck. Fuck! I’m… I need…”

You stroked your hands over his trembling muscles and nuzzled his jaw.

“S’okay,” you said. “Please. I need it too.”

He shivered. Then his eyes turned dark, so only a tiny ring of blue remained around his pupils. You clung tightly as he left control behind and simply unraveled. It was impossible to keep up with him as he pounded out all the frustration, terror, and pain he’d felt over the past few days into your body. Your legs shook from the depth of his cock and the angle of his pelvis as he hammered into you with abandon. Pleasure swamped you, radiating out from your core, extending deeper and further with every brutal thrust of Steve’s hips.

“Aaahhh!”

The tension snapped without warning and you screamed in ecstasy as the climax erupted. Your vision went black and your heart felt as if it was about to explode. The orgasm destroyed your senses and ripped your muscles apart in spams of ecstasy more powerful than anything you’d ever experienced.

Steve didn’t seem to realize you were in orgasmic bliss as his thrusts continued in the exact same rhythm. You choked on an exclamation, so lost in the throes of your own release that you couldn’t speak. Steve growled and his hands tightened on your hips.

“Hold still, baby girl. Fuck. Aw… fucking hell!”

His head dropped to your chest and his panted breath warmed your decolletage as he rutted even harder. You croaked out what should have been a wail, if you’d had the air to make such a sound. You couldn’t get enough breath for a proper scream. Steve rolled his hips and the slight change of angle ground your clit against his pubic bone. A second orgasm slammed into you, shattering all sense of self and stripping you until the only thing you knew was the endless pleasure rippling through your muscles and sizzling along your nerves. The orgasm went on, and on, flooding your eyes with tears and finally bringing air into your lungs. You sobbed. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. Your pussy didn’t flutter - it seized with the violence of a climax you hadn’t imagined yourself capable of.

Steve’s tongue curled around your nipple before his lips closed to suck the tender bud with enthusiasm. You screamed and arched, bucking with the sudden flash of pleasure that blazed through you. In the haze of climax, you hadn’t even noticed when he’d tugged down your shirt and pushed aside the cup of your bra.

He was still thrusting. You felt the warmth of his release and knew he’d already come, perhaps several times. The release didn’t seem to matter. You remained trapped between the pleasure demon feasting on your breast, and the metal panel of the elevator wall. It shook from the force of Steve’s body pounding into yours. The deep angle was nudging a little spot you hadn’t known about before today. It was somewhere in the very back of your pussy and his thrusts seemed to strike it at just the right angle to make your bones turn liquid. Your muscles went slack as the next orgasm came. You whimpered, then it stuck. This time your muscles shook and your body trembled but there was no wild thrashing - you were nearly limp from exhaustion.

Steve groaned. You felt the warmth of his release. He shuddered and you felt the signs that he was finally slowing. Unexpectedly, he reached between your legs and stroked your clit. The rumble of his voice was reassuring, but you couldn’t hear the words, as your body shuddered through a climax that hit like a sucker punch. You clawed at the material of Steve’s uniform, lost in the pleasurable agony of the last orgasm being ripped from your body.

The world fell away. Steve’s arms holding you tight were all you could feel as blackness descended.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Come on. Come back, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”

You turned away from the fingers gently stroking your cheek. You felt like your eyelids were weighted down.

“That’s it. There she is.”

The crooning voice interrupted your peaceful cocoon of sleep.

“Honey. Open your eyes.”

This time the voice was commanding. Your eyes flickered, but fell closed. A hand grasped your chin and white light glowed behind your closed lids.

“Come back to me.”

The sternness was nowhere to be found now. The voice had an edge of fear in it. Your eyes opened to the blurry sight of a figure leaning over you. Your arms were warm. Looking down, you saw Steve had draped your sweater over you like a blanket. You were in his lap, curled into his chest, with his arms cradling your back and knees.

You struggled for words and realized that your tongue was thick and your mouth was dry.

“Shhh…” Steve murmured.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead and nuzzled your temple.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m sorry. They’re going to be done fixing the elevator in a minute.”

That sounded really good. You nodded and relaxed into his arms, resting your head on his shoulder.

“That’s it. Go ahead and rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

The fierce note in his voice nearly permeated the fog over your brain but you were so exhausted that you couldn’t push back the urge of sleep.

An unknown length of time passed before a jolt of the elevator car started you into awareness. You bolted upright and were only saved from hitting your head on the railing by Steve’s grip on your waist.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re going to get out of here. I’ve got you.”

The words circulated in your brain, only half absorbed, as you struggled up from the depths of a sleep cycle.

“How long…?”

“Ninety minutes.”

Steve’s voice sounded odd. You looked at him and saw the worried knit of his brow, and the tension in his shoulders.

“Steve,” you mumbled through a sore throat.

The word came out scratchy. His eyes dropped and he looked as if he’d been slapped. Then the pitiful look disappeared behind a composed mask.

“I’m going to take you back to medical, sweetheart. They need to check you out again.”

“No.”

“Don’t argue,” Steve said.

You shook your head and burrowed into his arms.

“Not…going…”

A heavy sigh, followed by a gentle squeeze of Steve’s arms, let you know you’d won as the elevator began to move again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next time you woke up it was sunny.

Light streamed through the window and you were surprised to find that you were the only occupant of the King sized bed you usually shared with Steve.

Shoving down the covers, you stood on shaky knees to make your way to the living room.

Steve didn’t look up when you came in. He was so still that it took a second for you to notice him. He had the lights off and the curtains drawn. A feeling of dread washed over you. Dawn was Steve’s favorite time of day. Unless he was seriously injured, or sick, he never missed a chance to sit with his coffee and enjoy the sunrise.

You stepped towards him and he startled, his head whipping around.

“Steve?”

He blinked, his lashes fluttering with surprise.

You could sense anxiety but couldn’t understand the reason for it. Seeing Steve’s emotions so plainly written on his face triggered yours. You climbed onto the sofa next to him, curling your feet underneath your legs.

“Are you okay?” His voice was raspy.

Your eyes settled on the end table where two empty bottles of blueberry bourbon sat.

“Yeah. Are you?”

His head tipped back. “No.”

You reached for him, but he pulled away. Miffed by the rejection you stared as Steve slid to the corner of the sofa.

“What? What’s wrong?” you asked.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Steve blinked, his eyebrows drawing down as his jaw clenched.

“For what?” He said, repeating your question with a sharp sting of bitterness that made you flinch.

You were at a loss for words.

“Steve…”

What did you do? What does one say when they don’t understand the root of the problem? You could read the obvious signals that he didn’t want to be touched, but decided to ignore them.

There were a few things you knew about your boyfriend. One of them was that, while his main love language was quality time, when he was upset his love language became physical touch. Steve shifted away, but you pretended not to notice as you wrapped yourself around him and snuggled up with your head on his shoulder.

“Talk to me. Please, Steve.”

He grunted.

“I apologize. For how I treated you today. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. All I can tell you is that it will never happen again.”

You turned your face up, ready to protest, but Steve laid a finger over your lips. His expression was stern and set with determination.

“It. Will. Never. Happen. Again.”

- - - - - - - - -

Master List

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers alphabet #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america lemon #captain america smut #captain america x fem!reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #18+ only #minors dni #no minors #smut fanfiction #chris evans charaters

[batwritings]

can i request giving karl head please but hear me out: instead of swallowing you spit his cum into his own mouth

I'm mad that I took this long to write this because fuck this concept with a sweetie like Karl is really hot. ^^; Enjoy!~

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Karl whimpered for the umpteenth time as you swallowed his cock down again. You could feel him twitching under your tongue with every bob of your head. You knew he was close, but you also knew what he wanted from this.

See Karl was tricky in a way. On the one hand, if you really wanted him to pin you to his bed and fuck you senseless, it wasn't hard to get him riled up. On the other hand, there were moments like these, where he just needed to be the one brought to his knees. Metaphorically speaking of course.

So here you were in his stream room after a long-ass stream, blowing him. He'd put on his mask, but with you and only you was he truly vulnerable. Which is why he'd asked for exactly what he did.

You swirled your tongue around the head of his member a few times, knowing that's where he was most sensitive. "You close sweet boy?" you cooed, somewhat mockingly. You knew you were teasing him at this point, but you also knew very well that he loved it.

"Mhmm!" Karl whined, trying to hide his blushing face behind his sweater sleeve to no avail. "Please let me cum, I'll be a good boy...!"

You honestly couldn't resist him if you tried. This boy had you wrapped around his fingers like he was wrapped around yours. So back down you went, paying special attention to the head and leaking slit of his member.

The orgasm hit sooner than you expected, Karl practically arching out of his chair in the process. You took it in stride though, letting the pearly white strands gather in your mouth. It took him a moment, panting and whimpering with overstimulation from your perfect wet lips still being wrapped around his dick.

He pets your head softly, letting you know he was ready for you to move. You slide off his cock with practiced ease, doing your best not to let any of his cum fall from your lips. The two of you meet in a searing hot kiss as you let the viscous substance transfer from your tongue to his own.

Karl hums softly, clearly enjoying the taste and feel of his own release as your tongue dances with his. Only when air is needed do the two of you pull away, a single strand of saliva the only remnant of what had transpired. One of the man's signature giggles escapes when you make eye contact with him, a blush spreading across his already flushed cheeks.

You rolled your eyes fondly; you'd really do anything for this boy.

#bat writes #anon reqs #karl jacobs smut #mcyt smut #dsmp smut

[beyond-the-kitchen]

Lyrics flow from miles’ fingers like they always do. Hes never had a problem with writing, words come easy, muisc even easier. He is an emotional person and his outlet just so happens to be something that helps pay the bills, quite well if he does say so himself.

There is a downside to this emotional truthfullness, a side that makes the writing painful. Sometimes he thinks hes too poignant for his own good. The lyrics are sometimes not thinly veiled metaphors, hints at half-truths, somtimes they are a genuine retelling of his life. places and people, the memories and perceptions that certain events and periods hold. He himself is a holder, every person he has met he cradles close to his heart, those he goes on to befriend, or on the rare chance romance, he locks inside and keeps warm. Helps them weather every storm they encounter, every curveball or extreme high he helps them manage. He has his favourites of course, everyone does - his mum, his friends from home, Alex.

Alex is of course the crux of his current emotional turmoil. As he so often is, Miles is not oblivious, not blindsided by his affection for the man. He knows Alex is difficult to pin down, hard to get a read on and often wears a different face every day of the week to protect himself from his harsh realities. Miles is accutely aware of all these qualities, and yet Alex is still the sweetest man he knows, still the most endearing. The source of his current heartbreak, yes, but undoubtedly the love of his life. And so the lyrics flow, freely and entirely heartfelt. 100% how Miles feels about Alex and his recent absence.

You're walking around, your head in the clouds You're acting as if you're Mr. Johnny know-it-all Mister come and watch me fall

You're feeling alive, a Jekyll and Hyde You're riding the tides and everybody's just doing fine Leading that double life

I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll wait right here, I'll see ya when I see ya

I hope to see you soon I hope to see you soon Ah, come on

You're dancing with death in a bulletproof vest There's no other way to say it, brother Better watch your step Before all goes west

The king and the queen, the milk in your tea The partner in crime you only ever found once in life Don't let it pass you by

I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll see ya when I see ya

I put myself on mute before I spill the beans Oh, not again 'Cause when you're dancing to your own beat You can be anything that you want Yes, I'm an executive that you can trust

I'll wait right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya

I'll wait right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll be right here, I'll see ya when I see ya I'll see ya when I see ya

I wouldn't wanna be ya I'll see ya when I see ya

#hehheheh idk where tf this came from but… #thoses into the void and sprints away #this is my first milex fic #but its really just my love letter to see ya when i see ya #BECAUSE COME ON THAT SONG IS A MASTERPIECE #anyways feedback is needed and greatly appreciated #milex #milex fic #milex fanfiction #tumblr drabbles #im gonna go write my top gun shit now byeeee

[hawaiian-tea]

the freak

first song im posting on here omgg

yet another circus metaphor im sorry

he held a sickle

my hand in the other

glance lingered on my dimple

it was a long time coming

wanted to show him my paintings

he said leave pretty to the personalities

go stand in the ring

with all the other freaks

now i hate lawrence ferlinghetti

like the ghost of christmas past

he shows me what i almost was

and what i could be now

what i could be if i didn't wear one shoe three sizes bigger

you could be the poet

i have become tich miller

i would rather be the acrobat

than the freak

soaring through the air

constantly risking absurdity

but if i was on a tightrope id fall off immediately

im graceless as i jerk my body

flung over the beam

if i was in the circus

i would be the freak

fingernails down to the floor

babies with scales

gentleman with only one arm

girls with snapping bones

neuro variance

the trapeze artists stretch the furthest to normality/the ballerinas dance the closest to normality

i try to understand the lifestyle of the freaks

now i hate lawrence ferlinghetti

like an embarrassment from the past

he shows me pity i asked for

how i act even now

under strobe i wear one shoe three sizes bigger

you can be the poet

i am tich miller

but i would rather be the acrobat

than the freak

soaring through the air

constantly risking absurdity

but if i was on a tightrope id fall off immediately

im graceless as i jerk my body

flung over the beam

if i was in the circus

i would be the freak

the dancers wonder why i shake like a man possessed

clicking, scrunching up my nose

exploding through my neck and head

smirks and looks from the audience

pinned down like an insect

what a spectacle of the spastic

couldn't hold a pen in her two hands

don't speak to me at all about it

i know i don't fit into your irregular

i'm too erratic to be peculiar

and eclectic in a way that's poetic

but in the end

i'd rather be the acrobat

than the freak

soaring through the air

constantly risking absurdity

but if i was on a tightrope id fall off immediately

im graceless as i jerk my body

flung over the beam

if i was in the circus

i would be the freak

#songwriting #song writing #song #lyric writing #writers on tumblr #writing #tics #disabilties #circus #writeblr #music #my songs <3

[literallyjustanerd]

Chapter 4! It's exactly 5000 words! It's Codywan fluff and angst! It's got a clone OC cameo!

Cody divider by @freesia-writes with gorgeous helmet art by @lornaka

Summary: Brothers, reunited at last. As Cody and Rex fill in the blanks of their time spent separated, memories from before the end of the war float closer than ever to the surface. Memories of his general. And though he's overjoyed to be with Rex again, all is not well, in a way Cody can't quite understand. Will he be ready, when everything that has been hidden comes to light?

Words: 5000

Read it on AO3 or below! Hope you enjoy. Any and all comments are loved and appreciated and metaphorically printed out and pinned up with heart magnets on the little fridge in my mind :)

Obi-Wan moves like a ribbon through wind. Fluid and graceful, slick and sharp. Beautiful and devastating. The bright Kashyyyk sun turns his tunic translucent and sets his silhouette aflame as Cody watches and awes from below. It would be a death sentence to anyone else, yet Obi-Wan makes a dance of it. He’s an artist, each gleaming blue brushstroke leaving trails of elegant carnage in its wake. Around Cody the men cheer, an orchestra raising an accompaniment to their general's display. He loses grip on his saber when a droid knocks him forward, sends it plunging to the bottom of the canyon where his men had been cornered. Cody doesn’t fret, he has no need: it doesn’t slow his general in the slightest. Droidekas are airborne, then minced to scrap metal on the rock face with a regal wave of Obi-Wan’s hand. SBDs explode into blue and orange starbursts. They’re all but ignored by their destroyer, as though their purpose is merely to provide the gust of wind that artfully ruffles Obi-Wan’s auburn hair. He’s a poet. He’s a cyclone. He’s a force of nature. He’s Obi-Wan . 

The last droid falls, tumbling gracelessly from the cliff face above. Obi-Wan descends after it to the whoops and hollers of the 212th. With impossible lightness and an ethereal calm, he meets ground, mere feet away from Cody. Close enough that Cody can see how his pale cheeks have pinked with exertion. It’s the only hint that he has expended any effort at all, and somehow it only makes him look more radiant. His breath still eluding him, Cody steps forward and presents Obi-Wan’s lightsaber to him like it’s an offering at an altar. Fingers brush with a jolt of electricity, and he isn’t ready for the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes when their gazes meet: he’s looking into a mirror, seeing his own awe and adulation reflected back at him. Obi-Wan looks at him like he’s the rising sun, like he’s the one defying odds, gravity, and logic. The smile on his face as he takes the saber lights a fire in Cody’s chest, his next words fuel to the flame.

“Wherever would I be without you?”

“Your message… I couldn’t believe it. Thought I’d–” Rex chokes on the last word, his smile trembling, fighting to stay on his lips. He breathes a slow breath, and finally, the giddy haze around them begins to lift. “When I heard you’d gone AWOL, I thought it was just another Empire cover-up. I… I thought they’d killed you.” Cody reaches forward again to grip Rex’s forearm. Their foreheads collide with a comforting bloom of pain, a few more seconds lost to silence as Rex’s words sink in. Cody means to speak again, he does. But he can’t seem to find enough air in his lungs for any of the things he wants to say, nor does he think his ears could stand to hear the answers to his questions. Seldom has he ever felt so weak, and the feeling grits on him, sandpaper against his skin. He shudders to imagine what his men would think of him, had they ever seen him in such a state. A man reborn, stripped of his rank, his identity taken with it. For the first time in Cody’s life, he feels nothing like a Marshal Commander. As disquieting as it is, as untethered and formless as it makes him feel, it does little to dull his joy at the familiar face before him. He may not be Marshal Commander anymore, but for the present moment, at least, he thinks he can settle for being a brother.

Cody and Rex stay on the floor of the transport, gripping tight to each other for longer than Cody cares to count. They’re both breathless through tears and laughter, their embrace so vigorous it’s almost violent. Cody doesn’t care: Rex could break his ribs and Cody wouldn’t blame him one bit. It’s a small eternity before either of them can speak. When they do, it’s both of them at once, their words tripping over boyish giggles, jostling and shoving each other playfully, like children.

“Where’d you get this bucket of bolts?”

“–missed you so kriffing much–”

“You looked like a maniac back there!”

“–can’t believe it’s really you –”

“You actually found me, you really–”

Both of them join for the final refrain:

“You’re here. ”

Rex stands, reaches a hand out to help Cody off the floor, then leads him down the short hall to the cockpit, all the while speaking with another clone through the comm, arranging a rendezvous point somewhere in a system Cody isn’t familiar with. At Rex’s order, the ship’s other crewmates clear the cockpit. Thoughtful of him, Cody thinks, to give them both some time alone. Once he shakes this strange feeling from his bones he imagines he and Rex will be up half the night catching up. He takes the co-pilot’s seat as his brother sets the navicomputer, watching him work. Pale, shallow shadows roam across Rex’s face from the console lights, dipping into and deepening the lines on his brow and around his jaw, his mouth pulled to one side in focus. Once their course is laid, he releases a breath, and his shoulders lax somewhat into the worn seat behind him. Only then can Cody, too, let his aching limbs go. 

Eventually, Rex breaks the silence, laying his words out careful and slow in a way that pricks Cody's ears.

“Cody,” he says, low, “brother, I have to ask.” Cody’s back straightens. “Your inhibitor chip. Do you still have it?”

Memories lurch into his mind, sick and burrowing like Geonosian brain worms. Rex’s grief and panic after Fives’ death. The frantic searching for what it could all mean. Feeling it all the while deep in his bones, knowing there was something big, dark and snarling waiting for all of them just out of sight. The incoming transmission on Utapau that day, and the phantom words that had haunted him, hunted him in every quiet moment since.

Execute Order 66.

Good soldiers follow orders.

In the end, all he can do is nod. Rex stands abruptly, hand moving to the commlink on his vambrace. Beneath him, the storm-grey durasteel presses just slightly colder through his threadbare trousers.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Rex says, though Cody can’t be sure whether it’s directed at him or himself. His brother is a restless nexu pacing the length of the hold, turning sharply on his heel as he keys in a comm frequency. Each swift switchback coils Cody’s guts tighter, wringing a nauseating tension into his limbs. 

“I have a medical freighter on standby. We’ll get it removed.”

The questions begin.

It shouldn’t surprise him to learn just how vast the network is that Rex has built. He had read all The Empire’s reports on Rex’s activities, scoured them obsessively in fact, but in reality they barely scraped the surface of Rex’s operations. It seemed he had contacts everywhere, from covert agents lurking in the Coruscant underbelly to runaways-turned-pirates skirting the outer rims, Even on Nal Hutta, which, as it turned out, was the only reason Rex had been able to find Cody at all.

“Sent some men down to the bazaar where we traced your message. Had to bribe a saloon keeper to let us review their security holos, but we saw you leave with the scrapper crew,” he says. Cody nods along. Is it jealousy he feels at such a well-planned, coordinated team effort? “From there, we got in contact with a few clones in the scrapper guild, and managed to work out which crew it was and where you were headed.”

All those brothers. All living outside The Empire’s control. Just scraping by, yes, and by no means deluded enough to consider themselves safe, but out there nonetheless. Free, in a certain sense, certainly more so than they'd ever been under The Empire or The Republic. And all of them, even the ones not directly fighting, not only knew Rex, but respected his orders, trusted his advice, deferred to his command. A familiar pride swells in his chest when he hears Rex speak about it, the kind only a big brother can feel. 

It takes hours, or that’s how it feels to Cody: he hasn’t bothered to check the chrono. Rex tells him of their clone rebellion: Echo, Riyo Chuchi, all the missing or presumed dead clones that still have some fight left.

“It’s not easy going,” he admits, as though it bears saying aloud. “But we’ve managed to save a few. We’re getting stronger. Slowly.” Cody is struck dumb when Rex asks for inside information: the Kamino plot, the supposed pension plan, the rumoured clone decomissionings. The wounds of their recent past are even fresher than Cody thought, it seems: the salt of Rex’s questions stings more than he expects. He can’t bear not to be honest, though: he has no new information to share on the subjects, and in fact seems to know less than Rex himself. He had been kept even further in the dark than he’d known, moving hands passing him by in the dark corners his eyes had never adjusted to. A pawn in a game played just to kill time, to keep him busy while The Empire tightened their grip. Marshal Commander in name only, placated and too occupied with his own demons to question what was happening just out of view. The sharp breath punched from his lungs seems to fill the whole cockpit, the space around him shrinking to cage him in. The pains in his head have returned, to corral his thoughts away from where he tries to reach. Rex’s eyes are on him, he can feel it.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" he breathes. Cody doesn't reply. 

When his throat has turned scratchy from talking past the threat of tears, the river finally runs dry, and the questions stop, at least for the moment. Their journey is still far from over, and Cody suspects there will soon be more to talk about, once they have wrapped their minds around all they have covered so far, but for now there is peace. In the interim, Rex works a datapad at his side, brow furrowed over whatever report he’s reading. It's almost rhythmic, the way he keeps sparing glances in Cody’s direction. Every few minutes, attention shifting from the console, his head tilts over his shoulder to look surreptitiously over at his brother. Checking that Cody is still there, like they used to do before a drill test as cadets. A flicker of comfort warms Cody’s chest, fighting off the frost from deep within. It's a much-needed solace to know that Rex has felt Cody's absence just as keenly as Cody has felt Rex’s. It soothes Cody's mind, still aching from the sheer volume of information he's taken in over he and Rex's last few hours together. It’s hard not to ruminate, more on the subjects they didn’t cover than the ones they did, the unspoken questions that seem to take up more space the longer they’re left unsaid, their weight pressing on Cody’s chest as minutes scrape by.

He presses his fingers into his ribs, hard. It doesn’t do enough to hold him together, tendons and sinew unspooling themselves at his nape, in his stomach, through his feet. He answers each of Rex’s questions as plainly as he knows how, despite the growing fear of what Rex will think burrowing deeper into his brain. Each sordid detail laid bare in the harsh, blinding sun of his own words. Every order he followed with unblinking obedience, every awful act overlooked with play-pretend loyalty.

“I wanted to leave. I wanted to stop, I didn’t want to do any of it.” 

He speaks of the bitter jealousy that spurned him every time another brother came up missing on the morning ledger, even as he personally recited the warrants for their capture. The jealousy, sometimes, even of the brothers whose obituaries he had read. 

“I just couldn’t stop it. Whenever I tried, I– I didn't know where else to–"

Just when he feels he will lose his words altogether, Rex’s hand alights on his shoulder, cool water on a raw burn.

“I understand, brother. I know ,” he says. “We all do.”

When they finally lurch out of hyperspace, it knocks the question clean out of Cody’s lungs.

“What about the Jedi?” he blurts, and Rex’s hands freeze on the console. Both, Cody imagines, from the question itself and from hearing his brother sound so uncharacteristically fragile. His sigh is an answer of its own, in a way. Rex’s thoughts seem to press down on him until they drive a deep crease in his brow. Without the haloed light of hyperspace, the shadows have sharpened into a harsher relief, leaving jagged shapes carved into his face. His expression is resigned: he had been waiting for Cody to ask.

“We’ve… heard of surviving Jedi,” he says carefully. “But they’re few and far between. Most are just rumours. We’ve got almost no reliable intel on anything solid.” 

“But there are some reliable reports?”

A long pause follows. Cody gets the sense that Rex is debating with himself, whether or not to answer. Who is he protecting?

“Commander Tano was with you on Mandalore,” Cody presses, “wasn’t she?”

Rex nods, shakily.

“I read the reports. The venator crash… they said it killed everyone. Before they knew you were alive, your name was on that list. How–”

As weak as the shuddering breath is from beside him, it’s enough to cut Cody off. He hangs in the silence that follows, suddenly scared to even move.

“It was all Ahsoka,” he utters. His eyes won’t meet Cody’s. “Without her…”

It’s slow. It’s agonising. It’s like being frozen in carbonite piece by agonising piece . But Rex tells him everything. Every gut-wrenching detail of escaping the crash. And all the brothers who didn’t.

“She’s out there,” Rex finally says, once the storm lets up. “She’s… not ready. Can’t join the fight, not yet. She needs time.” His voice catches, quavering on his last words, and it sends a sharp sting into the corners of Cody’s eyes, too.

“She’s just a kid.”

Seconds pass. Rex allows Cody time to try and voice the question it seems they both know comes next. It remains unsaid, but Rex answers nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, brother. We haven’t heard anything of General Kenobi.” Cody bobs his head in a nod. With searching eyes and analytical intent, Rex watches his reaction, measuring, gauging. Cody shrinks under the attention, unsure what Rex is looking to find and fearing every possible answer.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I wouldn’t have expected it.” What he had hoped , on the other hand… 

“And General Skywalker?” Cody says, suddenly as desperate to be off the topic as he had been to address it. Rex’s mouth twitches, head shaking.

“I used to hope…” He sighs. “The reports all had holes in them. Thought it might mean he’d made it out.” He turns his gaze out the windshield. “But if he had survived, he wouldn’t be hiding. He’d still be fighting with us. I’m sure of it.”

Kashyyyk sings at night. An orchestra of warbling birds, howling pack animals and croaking insects. Even the wind through the forest behind lays a low, haunting melody over the velvet-soft undergrowth. It’s nothing like the stifling soundlessness of Kamino, or the driving, demanding mechanical rhythm of Coruscant. Cody leans forward, knee drawn up, to poke at the fire, embers curling triumphantly upward. Obi-Wan sits beside him, legs folded neatly into his usual meditation stance. On haphazardly scattered bedrolls, their men surround them, sleeping sound. Peace, rare and precious. Especially for Cody.

“Beautiful night.” Obi-Wan keeps his voice hushed, pitched low and gravelly. Cody turns to him. The flickering of the fire throws dappled light over Obi-Wan, glints of light and shadow showering him like golden flower petals.

“It is.”

A particularly mournful bird call sounds from somewhere behind them. 

“After the war I should like to return here,” Obi-Wan muses, “and explore it freely. There is so much history in this place. It's a shame to have to see it in such unrest."  His words are poignant, he knows, but Cody can’t take in anything beyond the first three.

“Do you think about that often?” he asks, skirting his gaze around Obi-Wan. “About… after?”

Obi-Wan shifts, sighs, leans back on his hands to tip his head to the stars. There’s a faraway look on his face, the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes growing like spring seedlings when he smiles. One of his tabards is slipping free from his shoulder, leaving a pale collarbone uncovered to the night. He does not adjust it. 

“I have already picked every old text and scroll I will study, when I finally have the time,” he says in answer. “Perhaps eventually, I will even take on another padawan. But first, I will travel. Until I find somewhere quiet and peaceful to rest.” He pauses a beat before half-heartedly adding, “Should the council allow it, of course.” Cody ponders the words, turns them over in his head like a puzzle, but still he can’t make them fit quite right in his head. The life Obi-Wan speaks of is beautiful. It’s all Cody would want for him. But he’s still trying to cut holes in his own reality to make those words fit when Obi-Wan speaks again.

“And yourself, Commander?” Struck dumb, Cody can only blink. Obi-Wan straightens beside him and tilts his head. “What do you want for yourself, once the war is over?”

And what can he do but be honest, when he turns to meet those dizzying blue eyes?

“I imagine you in a cosy little place,” Obi-Wan tells him, shifting his legs and turning to face Cody fully. His cloak and tunic sway with him, leaves in a gentle breeze. “Somewhere peaceful and green. Somewhere you can make entirely your own. Your whole life, you have given everything you have to your men. It’s one of your most admirable qualities,” and oh, Cody is not ready for what Obi-Wan’s smile does to his chest, how his words reach through his ribs and wring his heartstrings to breaking, “but I wish to see you take care of yourself, too. I want for you to build yourself a home. And I believe I know you well enough to know that somewhere within you, you wish for the same. ”

“I’ve never considered it,” he says, tacking an awkward “sir” to the end. “I’m a soldier. We all are. We don’t know any other way. Without this war… none of us have a purpose.”

With the look that Obi-Wan gives him, Cody may as well have shot his general in the heart. Obi-Wan's mouth falls ajar, but he stifles his instinctual reply and seems to ponder Cody’s answer deeply.

“One’s greater purpose is rarely just to be all that their creator intended,” he says finally, speaking the words like a prayer into the night. “You are more than this war, all of you. You have given so much for The Republic, but that is not your worth. You deserve more, you should want for more than this.”

Insides twisting and pulse stuttering in his fingertips, Cody tries to speak, to give the answer he knows Obi-Wan is waiting for. The fire lends him tendrils of gentle warmth, but its comfort, and Obi-Wan’s raw, solemn sincerity are formidable opponents. When it becomes clear that words are beyond him, Obi-Wan continues in his place. Ever eloquent, ever earnest, ever considerate. Cody’s brow pinches with a soft, tender, beautiful kind of pain.

What was it he had said next?

The stars blur when Cody looks up at them, blinking back the mist that gathers in his gaze. His pulse beats like battle drums as he takes a breath, steels his nerves, and meets Obi-Wan’s eye with the resolve of something more than a soldier.

“Do you imagine yourself there, too?”

The simple, sweet curve of Obi-Wan’s lip tears Cody into shreds, burns him to ash and pieces him back together in an instant. He sighs, soft and perfect, and leans in close. Around them, Kashyyyk’s gentle hymn reaches a soaring crescendo as Obi-Wan presses a lingering, reverent kiss to the scar below Cody’s eye.

Cody strains to finish the memory, until the now-familiar pain lances through the back of his skull. He flinches with it, lurching in his seat and drawing in a sharp breath, defences already worn down. A quick movement in the corner of his vision draws his attention, and when he looks toward it, his heart plummets through his feet. Rex’s eyes bore into Cody, wide, alert and searching. Rex tries to cover it up, to disguise it, but Cody had already seen: Rex’s hand had twitched toward his blaster. The curtain is pulled back, and the truth looms bright and terrifying behind it. 

Emptying the cockpit. Treating him so carefully. The reluctance to speak of the Jedi. The constant, furtive glances in his direction. They hadn’t been for Cody’s comfort.

Cody almost throws up on the spot.

Rex is scared of him.

He’s crushed by the weight of a dozen atmospheres as he realises fully just what his brother has been through, why he was so insistent on removing his chip as soon as possible. The rest of the journey, he can barely bring himself to breathe, determined to make himself as still and quiet as possible, desperate to keep from making things worse than they already were. He will get his chip removed, and everything will be okay. He won’t ever again have to see his brother look at him like an active landmine or a rancor set to charge.

They reach their rendezvous not a moment too soon.

Cody is brought on board, walking two steps behind Rex, nearly tripping on his feet. The waiting ship is as jerry-rigged and cobbled-together as its crew, and its medical bay is no different: all the supplies look stolen or salvaged, a far cry from the cold, pristine sterility Cody is used to seeing from medical bays. Needless to say, he’s apprehensive at the thought of surrendering his brain to the subpar equipment. But it’s easily overshadowed. For Rex. And for himself, as well. In truth, he’s been just as afraid of his mind as Rex for months now, and the thought of an end to the torment is enough to lure him through the seven Sith hells and back again. Rex explains the procedure as he half-listens, and as he’s positioning himself on the table, the doors hiss open and a medic enters. Much to Cody’s surprise, the clone’s scars and tattoos are familiar.

“...Lieutenant Finch?”

The clone above him meets his eye, then lifts his fingers to a lazy salute, grazing the winding serpent tattoo coiled at his hairline.

“Commander,” he says blithely. There’s a dry smile in his voice that just barely reaches his lips.

“You two know each other?” Rex’s voice rises, confused, from behind.

“I was decanted to the 212th,” Finch explains over his shoulder, foregoing eye contact and instead booting up and programming the surgical droid. “You know, before–”

“Before you deserted,” Cody finishes. Finch snaps his fingers into a point in Cody’s direction, giving a single, curt nod.

Breathe. In. 

Tension ekes into the room, like static electricity before a storm. Cody can feel Rex’s eyes on him. He can imagine how his brother’s mind turns, mapping out every direction this could go. Possibilities like trails of water carving a fractured, splintering path through dust. It was years ago, early in his career, but Cody can remember clear as day how he had felt when he’d received the report of the lieutenant’s desertion. All that hurt and righteous anger. The confusion as strong as the scorn at how one of his own could leave their ranks. He had felt so personally betrayed, as though the desertion was a black mark over his own head. In a way, he supposes, it was: never before had he been forced to confront the possibility that he and his brothers might disagree with their programming, were capable of taking their fate into their own hands. He’d blamed Finch for the fury that followed in himself. In retrospect, he’s not so sure that that is who, or what , he was really angry at. Cody lays his head back flat on the table. A sharp breath leaves him in what could almost be mistaken for a laugh.

“Guess you were smarter than all of us in the end, huh?” is all he says. 

There is no response from any of them, each listening in their own silent reverie as water trickles past them down an unfamiliar path.

A few minutes later, Finch has finished setting up for the procedure. Rex grips Cody’s arm tight before he goes under, tells him it’s going to be alright. As darkness seeps in from the edges of his vision and Rex’s voice grows distant and muddled, Cody tries to believe him.

Breathe. Out. 

Black. Thick, coddling, a woollen blanket muffling all his senses. Space, empty. Cavernous. The implication of an echo. No sound. Toes edge toward a precipice. Nothing, nothing, nothing, all the way down. A perfect nothing. A mollifying nothing. A final nothing. Toes over. Falling. Peace, relief, absolution. Mercy. Silence, finally, gods almighty, silence. Light on the horizon. It’s over. Rest. It’s done. Limbs move fluid, unchained. Unbound for the first time, feather-light and rejoicing. More light, bigger, brighter. Then colour. Shape. Then sound. Voice. 

Cody’s eyes open in small, seeking movements, attuned to absence. To beautiful, exultant, glorious absence. For the first time since Order 66, perhaps for the first time since the moment he’d been lifted from his incubation tube, Cody’s mind is utterly and completely clear, empty. Quiet. He wallows in it, drinking in the fleeting euphoria. A split second later, he hears it. Words unburied, memory unshrouded.

“Cody, my love… I can’t imagine myself anywhere else.”

To break that vow.

It’s only the first drop of the storm that follows, a single blade of grass in an endless, sprawling meadow. A million more memories follow in its wake: a private moment stolen together while working late, a surreptitious glance shared across the war room. A warm hand in his, holding tight but always gentle. His fingers smoothing through autumn-coloured hair. Tender words and hushed laughter. A single beam of light through a window, a single perfect morning. Waking slow, tangled in sun-warmed sheets, with the whole galaxy held sound in his arms. A whispered promise, a vow sealed with his lips against the gentle, curving valley between neck and shoulder.

His arm, heavy as stone, raising a blaster. To follow orders.

Great, flowered vines grow from the cracks in Cody’s psyche, probing, pushing at his mind. Too big, many for how small he has become.

His skull splits open. A sob tears itself from his throat, rattling his chest.

With graceless limbs he pitches himself upward, only to be held down by firm hands. He tries to cry out, but all that comes is the barest whimper.

“I fired at him. I tried to– Rex, brother, I– Maker, I ordered it all .”

He feels the embrace moments before his flagging senses catch up, vision plunged into darkness when he buries his face in Rex’s shoulder.

“Breathe, vod.” He obeys without thought or question. “Just breathe. It’ll pass.”

The sight of Rex still there, still by his side, barely disguising his concern, sets a fresh, raging flood over his mind, dragging more memories like driftwood to the surface. Every traitorous thought he’d ever had before the end of the war. Every restrained conversation he’d had with his brothers, with Rex especially, over what would become of them after the war. Every time they questioned The Republic, the Chancellor, the Jedi Council. Endless, circular debates always coming to the same dead end. Wanting to escape. Not wanting to abandon their men. The chilling, horrible dread in his bones touching down on Utapau, the foreboding feeling that it was already too late.

It’s a long while before Cody regains enough sense to sit and speak. Rex does not leave his side for a moment. He’s given a ration bar and a mug of caf. It’s bitter and burned. He drinks it to the last drop. Finally, mercifully, the silence begins to feel less like oppression and more like peace, as the pounding pressure in his head abates. His mouth quirks in a dry smirk when he finally raises his voice.

“Tell me I’m not the only one who took it that badly.”

Rex’s laugh is a balm to every wound he’s ever suffered, deep, full-chested and free. Leaning forward, he slaps Cody’s back, his shoulders hanging loose, at ease.

“You took it like a champ,” he chuckles. Cody wants to sing, to jump and cry for joy like a child. He has his brother back. But still, lurking behind his relief, the rest of his revelations threaten to drag him back under.

“Come on.” Rex stands and holds a hand out to him, his smile softer now but still stubbornly bright. As though he can read Cody’s mind, he says, “I know we’ve got a lot to talk about. We’ll get to it, I promise. But you need to rest.”

The doors glide open, and Cody doesn’t hesitate before stepping back into the world as himself once more.

“We’ve got our next heading. I’ll fill you in later,” Rex says, walking in step at his side. “For now, I think some of the boys have a game of sabacc going. It'll be a good way to introduce you.” 

He cracks a wide, teasing grin in Cody’s direction.

“You still a filthy cheat?”

#dear fellow traveler #codywan #codywan fic #codywan fanfic #sw tcw #sw tcw fanfic #commander cody #clone commander cody #captain rex #drabble

[lovesongbracket]

Reminder: Vote based on the song, not the artist or specific recording! The tracks referenced are the original artist, aside from a few rare cases where a cover is the most widely known.

Lyrics, videos, info, and notable covers under the cut. (Spotify playlist available in pinned post)

Just Like Heaven

Written By: Pearl Thompson, Boris Williams, Lol Tolhurst, Simon Gallup & Robert Smith

Artist: The Cure

Released: 1987

“Just Like Heaven” was the third single from Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me It was inspired by a trip Robert Smith took with his then-girlfriend (future wife) Mary Poole to Beachy Head at East Sussex. Smith told Blender in 2003: “The song is about hyperventilating – kissing and fainting to the floor. Mary dances with me in the video because she was the girl, so it had to be her. The idea is that one night like that is worth 1,000 hours of drudgery.” “Just Like Heaven” was The Cure’s first top 40 hit in the US. It also reached the top 40 in France, New Zealand and the UK. In the summer of 1992, Smith called it “the best pop song the Cure has ever done.” Per Robert Smith – about how the band’s girlfriends influenced the music – “I’ve never been a big fan of irony. The girls would sit on the sofa in the back of the control room and give the songs marks out of 10. So there was a really big female input.”

[Verse 1] "Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick The one that makes me scream", she said "The one that makes me laugh", she said And threw her arms around my neck "Show me how you do it, and I promise you I promise that I'll run away with you I'll run away with you" [Verse 2] Spinning on that dizzy edge Kissed her face and kissed her head Dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow "Why are you so far away?", she said "Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you? That I'm in love with you?" [Refrain] You, soft and only You, lost and lonely You, strange as angels Dancing in the deepest oceans Twisting in the water You're just like a dream You're just like a dream [Verse 3] Daylight licked me into shape I must have been asleep for days And moving lips to breathe her name I opened up my eyes And found myself alone, alone Alone above a raging sea That stole the only girl I loved And drowned her deep inside of me [Refrain] You, soft and only You, lost and lonely You, just like heaven

Like Real People Do

Written By: Hozier

Artist: Hozier

Released: 2014

Alternate version included: Live in America, 2015

This song is a metaphor. Hozier uses “bog bodies” in Ireland, bodies which are exhumed after centuries of natural mummification, to describe a new relationship.

[Verse 1] I had a thought, dear, however scary About that night, the bugs and the dirt Why were you digging? What did you bury Before those hands pulled me from the earth? [Chorus] I will not ask you where you came from I will not ask and neither should you Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do [Verse 2] I knew that look, dear: eyes always seeking Was there in someone that dug long ago So I will not ask you why you were creeping In some sad way, I already know [Chorus] So I will not ask you where you came from I would not ask and neither would you Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do [Chorus] I could not ask you where you came from I could not ask and neither could you Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We could just kiss like real people do

#the cure #just like heaven #robert smith #hozier #like real people do #polls #poll tournament #poll bracket #tournament #bracket #lovesongbracket #round2 #Youtube

[felt-squirrels]

So turns out the theological question “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” is a metaphor for wasting time and not philosophy or something.

#angels #philosophy #theology #good omens has lied to me #good omens