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lxndonorris · 18 days

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All smiles - Lance Stroll

Y/N x Lance Stroll Theme: Smutish; light touching, not explicit spending time with Lance before the Japanese Grand Prix x word count: 1250+ taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests :)

Gif by me

The buzz of anticipation fills the air as the Japanese Grand Prix approaches. In the heart of the Aston Martin garage, excitement crackles like static electricity. You stand by, wearing Lance's green Aston Martin shirt and a pair of dark jeans, feeling a mix of nerves and pride as he prepares for the first training session.

Lance, clad in his racing suit, stands by his car, a vision of determination and focus. His eyes dance with excitement as he watches the mechanics fine-tune every detail of his racing machine. You can't help but admire his passion for racing, radiating from every pore.

Lost in the moment, Lane's gaze drifts, his mind undoubtedly wandering to the countless laps he would soon embark upon. You watch him, captivated by the raw energy he exudes. It's obvious; he is in his element, a true racer at heart.

Breaking the silence, you speak softly, your voice cutting through the hum of activity in the garage. "What are you smiling about?" You ask, your eyes alight with curiosity.

Lance turns to you, his grin widening as he meets your gaze. "I'm just happy to be here," he replies, his voice filled with genuine joy. "To be living my dream, racing in Formula 1, it's everything I've ever wanted."

You feel a surge of warmth wash over you at his words. Knowing how hard Lance worked to reach this point, the countless hours of training, the sacrifices he made along the way, and all the comments he had to endure just for following his passion.

"Lance." You breathe, and you can't help but be drawn to him. With a tender smile, you reach out, placing a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing deeply beneath the palm of your hand.

"Hey," you murmur softly, your voice barely above a whisper, "that smile looks good on you."

A blush creeps up Lance's cheeks, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that sends shivers down your spine. He opens his mouth to reply, but before any words could escape, he finds himself leaning in, drawn to you like a magnet.

Your lips meet in a soft, gentle kiss, a moment suspended in time amidst the chaos of the garage. In that instant, the world falls away, leaving only you two, lost in each other's embrace.

As you pull apart, Lance's smile lingers, a beacon of light in the dimly lit garage. You can't help but return it, your heart swelling with love for the man beside you.

"Let's go, Lance." A mechanic pats his back; it's time for the first training session to begin.

As he gets ready, you can't help but admire him once more: his racing suit hugs his form flawlessly. His hair, tousled just so, gives him an air of effortless charm, reminiscent of a Disney prince brought to life.

With each movement, his suit seems to accentuate his physique, highlighting the scuplted lines of his body in all the right places. You catch a glimpse of the white fireproofs beneath his unzipped suit, a tantalizing hint of what lies beneath.

Lance meets your gaze with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He knows the effect he has on you, reveling in the tease as he toys with the zipper of his suit.

You can't help but play along, a smile dancing on your lips as he strokes himself subconsciously, his hand running across his chest once, then twice, before gently brushing over his crotch and along his waistline.

As Lance settles into the cockpit of his Aston Martin, the anticipation thrumms through the air like electricity. With a quick adjustment of his helmet and a tightening of his gloves, he is ready. With the roar of the engine, he pulls out onto the track, the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

You watch from the sidelines, your heart racing in tandem with the car as it speeds off into the distance. Slipping on your headphones, tuning into Lance's radio channel, eager to hear his voice as he navigates the twists and turns of the circuit, you stand next to his mechanics as they feel the same.

As the crackle of the radio fills your ears, you can't help but smile. Every word that comes through is laced with excitement and enthusiasm, a testament to Lance's love for the sport. You can picture the grin on his face as he tackles each corner with precision, pushing his car to the limit with every lap.

And then, amidst the static, you hear it—the unmistakable sounds of laughter, bright and infectious. Lance is giggling; the sheer joy of racing evident in every note of his voice. It is a sound that fills you with warmth, knowing that your boyfriend is living out his dreams on track.

As the session draws to a close, Lance's radio falls silent, the final moments of the session ticking away. But you know that his smile will linger long after he steps out of the car.

Lance emerges from the cockpit, and you sense the adrenaline still flowing through him, his body taut with excitement. You watch him with a mixture of pride and admiration, knowing just how much he loves being behind the wheel.

As he approaches his mechanics, their handshake is filled with a silent understanding, a shared bond forged through countless hours spent working towards a common goal.

With a deft motion, Lance removes his helmet, revealing a sweaty but smiling face beneath. His cheeks are flushed with exertion, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of the ride. Your heart skips a beat as you meet his gaze, feeling the warmth of his smile wash over you like a wave.

Lance turns to you, his smile widening at the sight of you. As he approaches you, you notice the confident swagger in his step, a testament to the exhilarating session he just completed on track. Before you can say a word, he pulls you into his arms, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tender kiss.

You melt into his embrace, savoring the warmth of his touch and the taste of his lips against yours. Steadying yourself against his body, you start to stroke him.

Your hand moves with purpose, gliding over Lance's chest, relishing in the taut muscles beneath the fabric of his racing suit. As you apply a firm stroke, you feel a low growl reverberate through his throat, a primal sound that gives you gossebumps.

Caught off guard by your touch, Lance meets your gaze with a mixture of surprise and desire. "How did I do?" he asks, his voice husky with anticipation.

You smile, your eyes sparkling with joy. "You were phenomenal," you reply, your words filled with genuine pride.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips again when you lean in, kissing him gently.

"You really should smile more." Your lips brush over his own. "I'm just so happy for you." As you run your hand through his messy hair, you marvel at the way it frames his face, tousled and wind-swept from the intensity of his time on track. Each strand feels like silk beneath your fingers.

Lance leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors the sensation. With a soft sight, he opens his eyes, meeting your gaze with an affectionate smile.

"I will smile more, just for you, I promise," he murmurs, his voice filled with warmth.

#lance stroll x reader #lance stroll x you #lance stroll x y/n #lance stroll imagine #lance stroll fanfic #lance stroll fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 x y/n #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fic #lance stroll smut #f1 smut #formula 1 smut #formula 1 fanfic

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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

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Their room reeks so strongly of peppermint that it makes Keith’s eyes sting. He blinks it away, slipping into the room as quickly as he can, minimizing the amount of light bleeding into the hallway. The lump of covers on their bed trembles slightly, and Keith’s heart breaks at the sight of it. He sets a glass of ice water on the bedside table, slipping out of his clothes in favour of a softer t-shirt and pyjama pants. He picks the cup back up and turns to the blanket lump, gently peeling the covers off his husband’s face. It’s wet, covered in tears, and his eyes are squeezed shut, fingers pressed deeply against them in an attempt to ease the pressure.

“Sit up,” he requests gently. Lance doesn’t move immediately, and Keith doesn’t push, gently stroking his forehead and untangling his hair. Lance leans in to the touch, relishing the cold of his fingers.

“It hurts,” he croaks, after several minutes. Finally he takes his hand away from his face, cracking open his bleary brown eyes.

Keith sighs. “I know, baby. But the water will help.”

“Okay.”

Keith squeezes his shoulder, then quickly crawls onto the mattress behind him, leaning against the headboard and helping Lance pull himself up so he’s leaning upright onto Keith’s chest. The change in altitude, however minuscule, make his breath hitch, and seconds later Keith feels something wet drip onto his arms, hears it drop steadily onto the duvet.

He winces. This one is…bad. He’s reminded, painfully, of the first time he ever witnessed Lance have an episode, hunched over a toilet bowl and shaking so bad Keith had been convinced he was seizing. The then-Blue Paladin had begged him, in between gags and heaves, not to tell anyone. Keith, who had only really known him for six months, six months of near-constant arguing broken up only by rare moments of true teamwork, who had barely considered them friends, had already been halfway out the door, Coran’s name on his tongue.

Keith had been scared shitless. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew enough to know that it was serious, that Lance was in real danger. His mind flashed to poisoning from a backstabbing ally, alien sickness a human immune system couldn’t fight off. A million different worst-case scenarios had rushed through his head, making Keith want to throw up himself.

But the terror in Lance’s eyes had scared him a thousand times more than whatever was wrong with him. So he had swallowed his fear, then, and kept his mouth shut, placing a tentative hand on Lance’s back as he vomited and carefully watched the door.

He doesn’t have to watch the door, anymore. There’s no more hiding.

But the fear has never left him.

“The meds aren’t doing anything,” Lance rasps. He’s drained the entire glass of water in seconds, body desperate for something to replenish all the sweat and tears and shaking effort of fighting off something that isn’t there.

“How long?”

“Third time.”

Keith tightens his arms around Lance’s waist, eyes closing in resigned disappointment. Third time — the meds have been ineffective for three consecutive attacks. It doesn’t work.

Fuck. They’d been hopeful about this one.

“We’ll talk to Coran.”

It had taken a year of Keith desperately trying to keep Lance’s secret — from the ‘real grown-ups’, as Lance called them — before they’d been caught. Usually Lance’s migraines were pretty predictable, warning signs obvious enough in advance that they could either find something to prevent it or get Lance somewhere he wouldn’t be disturbed.

But once they couldn’t manage it.

Neither of them could have predicted the bright, flashing lights of the planet the team was visiting. Nor did they know how badly that was going to hit Lance. One second he was fine, upright, laughing with Hunk, and then next the lights were flashing in and out like an ambulance and Lance’s eyes were rolling back into his head. He had come back as fast as he’d passed out, before he even hit the ground, but there was no mistaking the way he looked like someone had just taken a mallet to his skull, the way his palms were pressed, digging, into his eyes, the way he was obviously and clearly in pain.

Migraine has never been a large enough word.

Lance groans quietly. “I don’t — not right now.” He pushes himself forward slightly and then carefully spins around, so he’s no longer leaning against Keith but leaning into him, head buried into his neck. Keith moves his arms until he’s adjusted, then wraps them back around his waist, resting his head on top of Lance’s and just holding him, covering him, letting him know he’s there. “You know what he’s going to make me do.”

The team had wanted to push Lance into a pod immediately. Keith had been yelled at by five seperate people at the same time when he’d stood in between them and Lance, protective hand on his arm, and refused to move.

That’s when he thinks things clicked for the two of them, he thinks. Not when he found out for the first time, not when he promised to keep quiet, not when Lance stood by him and Black’s choice, not in the countless other times they’d fought and won together. But the time Keith had stood between him and their friends, the people who wanted them to be safe, and said without saying the words I am on your side. I will be on your side, even if I don’t agree, even if it’s the wrong one.

“It’ll help,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Lance’s temple. “I know it won’t make it go away, but you won’t feel it while it works it’s way. And who knows? Maybe this time it will fix something.”

“I doubt it.”

It hadn’t then, either. Lance had eventually agreed, battered, to a pod (“I can’t do it, Keith, I can’t, I’ll get stuck in there and suffocate and won’t even be awake to try and save myself —” “I’ll keep watch.” “What?” “The entire time. As long as it takes. I’ll stay awake and make sure you come out. I swear it, Lance.”), staying in cryosleep as the migraine worked it’s way through his body and the rest of them puzzled over his brain scans. They had even contacted the Olkari, the leading scientists in medicine besides the Alteans themselves, but no one in space is familiar enough with the human brain to find any miracles. And besides, from all angles, everything looked normal. Healthy, even, besides the pain. But obviously there was something wrong.

“That’s okay. We’ll just…sit here for a bit.” He knows that he should try to get Lance into a pod sooner rather than later. He can’t really sleep when he’s like this, so he’s just suffering, head pounding and nausea twisting his stomach, pain wrapped around his nerves. At least when he’s in the pod he’s in stasis. His migraines aren’t usually this bad — he can usually handle low lighting, can usually swallow the pain enough to smile and work and interact with the team; hell, usually the painkillers work — but when they are this bad, there are no other options. When they’re this bad, nothing does anything; not the water or an ice pack or the dark room or rest or peppermint or anything. (The peppermint always comes out, though, because Lance says it smells like healing. It smells like the times it /does/ work, smells like when he puts it on and the pain goes away. Keith will take burning eyes for that.)

For a while, the team put all their downtime into trying to figure out what they could do to fix things. Lance went through brain scans when he wasn’t hurting, when he was, when he was only hurting a little. He had so much blood drawn that he became anaemic again. Different ideas were tossed around and disproven three days later. He cycled through meds. The only thing that everyone could agree on, something that Lance already knew, was that the migraines started after the Sendak incident. Brain damage, of some kind. Once, carefully and kindly, Coran suggested that the pain might be psychosomatic. Keith and Shiro refused to talk to him for days, both remembering years of doctor’s visits that almost always ended with Well, Mr. Shirogane, have you considered that your problems may be more mental than physical?

It had been Lance’s scolding as much as Coran’s guilty face that had to two of them fixing things. Psychosomatic or not, Lance had reasoned, there’s something wrong, and what it is doesn’t really matter so long as it can be treated.

But it couldn’t. Be treated, that is. So long as it appears that Lance’s brain is just…attacking itself, sending off rapid fire pain signals for no reason, he just has to live with the constant pain of it, and the dread of the pod, the one fear Lance has never been able to fight off.

“I’ll watch,” Keith murmurs, lips pressed to Lance’s hair. He tightens his hold as Lance shudders.

He always has. It’s been eight years, in space, and Lance has been forced to enter a pod more times than he can count, for hours on end. But Keith has always stood there. He has always stood guard, watching the pod until he is bleary eyed, because he made a promise and he intends to keep it.

“Okay.” Lance exhales, long and slow. “As long as you’re with me, okay.”

“Always.”

#chronic migraines baby ❤️ hell on earth #vld #voltron #keith #keith kogane #lance #lance mcclain #klance #established klance #hurt lance #langst #brown eyed lance #soft keith #worried keith #my writing #longpost #fic

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darsynia · 1 year

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Hands Off | Ch 3: Alchemy

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

gif by @fandomsunited (not sure why that didn't persist in my final edit but I posted this late last night sorry about that)

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

Summary: Steve’s loved hearing about you from Bucky. He doesn’t want anything to derail the progress his best friend has made toward being a whole person again, which is why he’s going to use every ounce of his slowly-deteriorating willpower to resist touching you, tasting you, taking you. After all, he’s just met you, and his own integrity, not to mention Bucky’s trust, is important to him.

Neither of you are prepared for the catch.

Length | Warnings: 2,772 | Sex

Fill: Adoptable ‘Pheremones’ from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wolfstar-marvelsfan @icequeen1371 @chibijusstuff @nekoannie-chan

Alchemy

Electricity. The second your leg touches Steve’s hand, you feel a jolt of searing need that flashes across every inch of your exposed skin. The tiny amount of self-discipline you’d been clinging to has completely evaporated.

You’d already been reaching for him when Steve had started sliding his heated hand up your leg, leaving eddies of anticipation in its wake. The way you beg out his name sounds overeager even to your own ears.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, the words rough and reluctant.

“Absolutely not.” You curl your fingers around his wrist and pull his fisted hand up to kiss his knuckles. Even your lips feel swollen and sensitive, something that’s enhanced when Steve’s hand flexes after your kiss to press his thumb against them.

Both of you make noises in the dark at that.

“I shouldn’t listen to you,” Steve whispers hoarsely, snatching his hand away.

You feel desperate and empty. “It feels like I’ll die if you don’t touch me,” you plead. “I thought you were a hero, Steve Rogers!”

There’s a loud sound behind your head that can only be Steve slamming his hand flat on the headboard, and then his lips are sucking a groaning kiss onto your shoulder as one hand drags away your loosened bra. His frantic need touches up a sharp stab of fear that’s oddly erotic, but it’s the way his knee presses up between your legs to spread them that undoes you. You grab a handful of his shirt to anchor yourself right as he tears your flimsy lace panties off.

“I can’t see y-- I need you to--” he blurts out haltingly, hand gripping your hip so hard it’s definitely going to bruise. You want it to.

“What is it?”

Steve quests for you in the dark, forearm grazing your nipple deliciously on his way to taking your hand and placing it on his bicep. “I need to hear or feel that you’re with me, or I’ll never--”

As soon as he says the word ‘feel,’ you reach for him, pulling at his tank top, stroking his hip with your leg, tugging, begging, pleading.

“I hear you, I’m here, I--” he mutters, meaning you’d been saying those things out loud, but then you find each other, and he lances into you. The pure pleasure and relief is enough to take your breath away. “Oh,” Steve breathes into your hair, holding still.

You feel both pierced and enclosed, surrounded by this man you’ve heard and cared about by proxy over the past few months. The sensual heat of his body against and inside is filling you more than you were prepared for, as though the intimacy itself has healing properties.

Then, Steve moves his hips.

“Oh my God don’t you ever fucking stop!” you gasp out, moving to meet him when he rocks back in.

“I don’t think I can,” he says brokenly. The way he sucks in a breath as your rhythm matches his sends sparks of pleasure from every place you’re touching. “This is--”

“Ruinous?” you ask, deliberately angling your hips and tightening your inner walls around him. It’s rewarding as fuck, literally, because Steve Rogers grunts out his approval and speeds up, slamming into you with glorious fervor. All you can do is hold on and enjoy the ride, the fleeting thought passing through that you really wish you could see his face.

There’s reward in the clench and release of his muscles under your hands, in the noises he’s making, but then he shifts his weight and cups your face with one hand, his thumb caressing its way over to press on your lips again. You’d loved that the first time, but you aren’t ready for Steve to lean his head a breath away from his own thumb, almost kissing it, his other hand holding your hip possessively.

The tenderness of his gesture during such a frenzy rips away the secret armor around your heart before you realize it’s happening-- because this is the very last barrier he has, the only part of himself he’s holding back.

Kisses are for lovers, and he’s being a hero.

After a thought like that, everywhere you can think to put your hands feels like trespassing, even though he’s fucking you into the mattress. There’s no comfort you can give this man, but you can show him that you’re an eager participant, that you’re not merely enduring this, but enjoying it, actively. You roll your hips with every thrust, stroking your hand along his bicep instead of his face like you want to.

It’s obvious that it feels as good to him as it does for you, because Steve’s response is to huff a heated, grateful moan against his own thumb, his other fingers curling in pleasure on your face. You hum in appreciation, forgetting the way the sound will resonate on his thumb and his lips.

Steve licks his lips, and the brush of his tongue is napalm-sweet, destructive and delicious. You throw your head back and clench yourself around him as you arch up, hands sinking into his hair despite your determination not to. His response is to groan low and deep, sinking his face into the pillow beside you. You catch your breath when he runs his free hand along your leg, his hips stuttering with his lost concentration.

That’s heady enough, and you can feel a catastrophic orgasm on the horizon-- but then he keeps moving his hand, stroking and searching until he’s pulling your hand from his hair and slamming it down beside your head. Then Steve sucks in a breath, clasps your hands together and comes.

He comes, like it was a surprise, like the act of holding your hand was enough out of all the filthy, sensual, glorious things you’ve been doing together. Like Mistress wasn’t enough, like the room smelling like the musk of arousal wasn’t enough, but a palm to palm connection with you sent him over the edge.

Every second of his agony is almost as intense for you as it clearly is for him. The weight of what’s just happened floods your eyes with tears that you know Steve wouldn’t understand if he could see them. That’s reinforced when, after going limp on top of you for a few seconds, he moves to rest on the mattress beside you. The fingers he’d been brutalizing your hip with smoothe a caress over to your stomach… but he doesn’t let go of your other hand.

Lifting Thor’s hammer couldn’t have made you feel more worthy.

After a moment, the hand on your stomach starts to slide down, thank God.

“Do you want--” Steve asks, and there’s enough Mistress in your system that your body answers for you. His deep chuckle sounds relieved rather than mocking to your overstimulated ears, but mostly you just chase his twisting fingers with your hips as you whisper barely-respectable encouragement.

It doesn’t take long for the tide of onrushing pleasure to start cresting for you, and you devolve into gasps and sighs that grow more desperate the closer you get to coming. Steve’s been making little encouragement noises that have barely registered for you because, whether he realizes it or not, he’s also been squeezing your joined hands in rhythm with his other hand’s movement.

There’s something hot as hell about that, for some reason, but trying not to squeeze with him has drawn out your pleasure in wonderful and frustrating ways. You’re scared you’ll remind him that you’re holding hands, and he’ll stop-- but then Steve does something with his hand, something that only works if you’re strong and your hand is large, and you arch up, babble something incoherent, and squeeze the hell out of his hand.

“Ahhh!” Steve says, hand shifting so he can press his thumb in a warm sweep against the very center of your palm-- and that’s it, you’re destroyed for anyone else, forever. As you writhe in the throes of the best orgasm you’ve ever experienced, the thought that no other man’s going to play with your clit and your palm at the same time occurs to you, but there’s nothing you can do about that now.

You black out.

When you wake up, you recognize the clinical setting of a hospital room, and the huge, terrified breath you suck in alerts multiple people to the fact that you’re awake.

“You’re okay, Dee, you’re fine, you made it,” Bucky says from somewhere in the room. The light is too bright, his voice is too loud, and you let out a sound of distress that sounds so much like a sex noise you swear out loud. “There she is!” your asshole best friend crows. Only then does he look over at you enough to realize what’s going on. “Light too bright?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, noting that there’s an actual IV in your arm, when you go to cover your ears. “Everything’s too much. Light, sound…”

Blessedly, someone flips a switch, and most of the lights in the room go out.

“I’ll mark that down,” a woman’s voice says softly. She’s wearing a white coat and an ID badge, but the badge is turned toward her chest, and the coat is covering what look like regular clothes, not scrubs.

“Whose insurance is this under?” you ask, suddenly uneasy. You’ve been uninsured for a while, ever since stepping away from your day job to work ‘full time’ as a vocalist. In reality, you’ve swapped to doing charity work in exchange for a small apartment above their office, with fewer hours, but the result is the same.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Miss--”

“Stark’s mistake, Stark’s funds,” Bucky interrupts. His voice is loud enough that it takes your muddled brain a little while to understand what he means. Your expression must look pained, because when he speaks again, it’s much quieter. “Can we have a few minutes?”

“That depends,” the doctor/nurse/indiscriminate medical professional says, sliding her glasses down her nose to address her next question to you. “Do you feel any residual effects of your exposure?”

Sure you do. You’re shaken to your core, literally and figuratively. Your concept of heroes has been drastically changed.

You’ll never feel satisfied with sex ever again.

But that’s not what this woman is asking.

“No, I--I pretty much feel like myself.”

“Took you a minute,” Bucky mutters.

“Answering a medical question right away just makes doctors dubious,” you sniff.

“Quite right,” the woman says, sliding her glasses back up. “Three minutes.”

She’s already walking out the door when Bucky chases after her, hissing, “I won’t be done talking shit in three minutes!” You’re grateful he’d done that instead of yelling, because everything is intense right now.

“You’re never done talking shit,” you point out, holding up your arm. “So, I needed an IV? Please tell me it wasn’t for fluids.”

Bucky starts coughing. “Shit, I thought I’d have to wait a month before I could make jokes!”

“Oh, you do. I don’t.” You grin at him.

“Got it,” he says, clearly suppressing a smile. The expression shifts, and Bucky says, “You're in the tower infirmary. Steve says he’ll clear out if you want to visit the apartment. I told him you’d probably never set foot in there again.” He looks over at the window, obviously uncomfortable, so he doesn’t catch your stricken expression. Steve had done everything possible to treat you with respect. You don’t want him to think you’d be that… flippant about everything, at least, not with him.

“He knows you didn’t talk to me first before you said that, right?” You wonder if Steve needed an IV at all or if his healing factor meant he was fine by the time the two of you were rescued.

You also wonder how long he held your hand, after you passed out-- but shove the thought away.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. How did I end up here?”

Bucky walks over and seems intensely interested in the IV bag, avoiding your eyes.

“You didn’t break in, did you? Steve says there was some kind of toxic gas that would get released if we broke the door barrier dow--”

“I did not break into my apartment, no,” he says over the rest of your sentence.

“Okay, you are not subtle, which tells me you want me to know that you broke in somewhere,” you say, your scattered mind bumping into some conclusions you can’t quite bring into focus. The only one you can get a grasp on makes you frown and reach for him. “You felt helpless, didn’t you?”

Bucky squeezes your hand for a second, and you tighten your grip when he goes to pull free. The signals he’s sending are clear, but now is not the time. You yank at his hand to make him look at you, and tune the dial back to levity.

“Hey, at least one thing went right, right? You’re in a new shirt!”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, tensing up.

“Woah, there. Do what?” you ask. Bucky’s pulling at his hand again, and you look down in time to see that there’s some blood on it, before he uses his superior strength to get free, the thing he’d avoided doing before. “Gig’s up, Buck. What did you do?”

His lips twist to the side like he’s five years old and you’ve caught him stealing cookies. “I reassigned some priorities.”

“How does that put blood on your hand? Is it yours?”

An alarm starts going off in the room. It’s too loud, oppressively so, enough that all you can focus on is blocking it out.

Two awful minutes later, the sound stops, and you emerge from your pillow refuge to see that Bucky’s nowhere to be found. The white-coated woman from before is now tapping away at the machine next to your IV pole.

“Your blood pressure rose very quickly,” she says, frowning.

“Okay, you know what? Your blood pressure would rise too if you’d had that conversation, so how about you tell me when I can get out of here, and in return, I won’t rip this IV out and make that decision for both of us?”

You very much need to go home and start the process of forgetting what it feels like to hold hands with Steve Rogers, because that’s the part that’s fucking you up. It feels dangerous.

Disapproval is wafting off of this nurse/caretaker/doctor person, but she nods, pulling an envelope from the pocket of her coat to hand you. “I can remove the IV now, but as for release, give me a half hour? Yours was one in a long line of disturbances today.”

You spend the whole IV removal affronted by the characterization of what happened to you as a ‘disturbance,’ until you realize that was her goal. It had kept you quiet and still as you seethed.

You stew on that while you open the envelope, but the letter inside makes you forget all of that.

Hey, Chickadee. Tony Stark here. Good news! There is zero surveillance footage of your presence in the tower today. I snatched snagged a few images you might be interested to see, though. Please don’t sell them for money. Your phone data should be copied over to the new model I took the liberty of picking out for you by the time they let you leave. I know this makes me a dick jerk, but I take the safety of my teammates very seriously, and you’ve done wonders for that, so it’s the least I can do. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about my part in what happened today. I fucked screwed messed up, and I’m writing this on some serious pain meds. I owe you some favors, is what I’m saying, and the phone is only the first of them. I’m fine, by the way. Just fine. Stark

You’re pretty sure he wrote this himself with zero oversight, and though you probably should be offended by the insensitivity, the letter is pretty ballsy and hilarious, which is on brand, really. Bucky had implied that Steve’s accident with Mistress was Stark’s fault, and if that’s true, you have some questions, but right now you’re so shaken by the effect that you don’t have time to contemplate the cause. Inside the envelope is a second envelope, and inside that is two pictures.

One is a picture of Tony Stark with a black eye.

The other is a picture of Steve Rogers with a black eye.

Next chapter...

#allcapsbingo2023 #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america smut #captain america x f!reader #steve rogers x f!reader #captain america x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #mcu smut #mcu fanfiction #sex pollen #humor #romance

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fractalkiss · 9 months

Note

for the mini stories, 7

prompt list

for prompt #7 "uncanny", explicit, weekend in spa 2023.

Lance expects Fernando to be fully asleep by the time he comes around to his suite. If it was any other race or sprint weekend, Lance would be eager to end the day himself.

He's already turned down the lights to one. But Fernando cracks open his eyes before Lance gets on the bed, watches blankly as Lance climbs in beside him. It should be unnerving. Maybe it would have been if this had been the beginning of the season, if he hadn't been doing this for as long.

Fernando reaches out and Lance falls forward into it right away, slides himself over to feel the warmth of him. Lance feels Fernando's knuckles drifting up over his spine through his t-shirt, the slow stroke of his fingers like he's petting something; Lance pushes his face into his neck, and Fernando turns, tells him, "You'd want to sleep," into his cheek.

"Not yet," Lance says, and Fernando's hand is hot around the back of his neck, fingers through his hair, encouraging. He shuts his eyes in the feeling of it, thinks about Fernando full and demanding in his mouth, thinks about riding his cock. His dick twitches, and he presses himself into Fernando's leg already. "Dad says you're welcome to ours in Montreal anytime. The vacation house," he says.

"Did he?" Fernando murmurs, amused, as if he hasn't already been there, or already told this years ago by Dad himself.

"If you wanted to. Like, a weekend during the summer break," Lance huffs.

"What would we do?"

"Finally fucking relax. Fuck and relax," Lance adds with a snicker and Fernando's nails scrape the base of his head, the back of his ears. He's quiet, and Lance wets his lips, trying to think. Fernando knows he's hard, can feel Lance pressed up his side. He stretches his fingers over Fernando's stomach, touching Fernando's arm resting there, where he can't see the tattoo at the moment. "Tell me about Asturias."

Fernando's fingers still for a second. "Lots of mountains. Green, beautiful forests. It would be colder there now, not much rain."

He'd taken those photos in Montreal. Lance sighs when Fernando's shifts his leg, slots it between Lance's thighs, his hand pushing down Lance's spine now. "Your place has a view?"

"Somewhat yeah. You will have to bike out to get the best views. Maybe not what you would do yet, eh?"

There's no tease or jeer in his voice but Lance frowns, mutters, "Hey, shut up, I—" I want to be good to you, he thinks.

"Plenty of places to stay indoors and relax, also," Fernando continues. He shifts on to his side to face Lance, and Lance palms at him, wants to push his hand in his shorts, but Fernando beats Lance to it, tugging down Lance's pants himself to hold him, thumb slipping over the moist head of his cock. "Lots of gardens, where you can eat outside. The sun is less hot there, I always like it better outside."

"Sunbathing?" Lance breathes, thrusting a little into Fernando's hand, fucking into it. "You could do that anytime."

"No," Fernando says, and pulls away to touch two fingers to Lance's mouth; Lance's jaw falls open automatically, licks at the rough pads of his fingers. "You will see the garden, even from indoors, and a—" he says a word in Spanish, mutters a little off-track when Lance moans around his fingers. "Balcony," he says in English, "A room with a balcony, open, outside. We do not keep doors closed in summer, usually—we can do exactly this, there," Fernando says, his voice low and hoarse, exhausted, fingers sliding in and out of Lance's mouth nonetheless, the wet noise of the movement shooting down to Lance's dick, saliva gathering in his mouth faster than anything so he's drooling soon. Grinding into Fernando's steady palm too, like a dog.

Lance had been hoping to blow him, feel him full to the back of his throat until he can't no more, taking it until his voice is wrecked for the media pen tomorrow, but Fernando isn't done talking yet.

"You will like it," Fernando says. "The weather will be perfect. And you will look good, for me, no one will see when I fuck you." Lance whimpers around his fingers, the suction sound loud and desperate when Fernando takes his hand away, the wetness on his chin cool suddenly with the absence of contact; Fernando gets his pants off, and Lance's knees fall open—"Like that, that's right. That's what you will do. No one will see how much you like what I do to you. Such a shame, you'll look so—" Fernando sighs, his voice, strangled, pained. Sounding tight and in sync with how Lance feels when Fernando works him open with a finger, palm pressed over his balls, fucking with his hand, Lance moving to it until he's coming in gentle waves, unexpected, jerking into Fernando's side. Fernando kisses him towards the end of it, other hand holding Lance's jaw tight to keep him there, anchor him, keep him together.

"Fuck," Lance laughs, shakily. He sits up to take off his shirt, still breathless. Fernando is silent now, watching him, eyes impossibly dark, and still, the lines on his face deepened with his expression; wondering, lost, almost, strangely. Lance thinks stupidly, dazed, come home with me, anywhere.

He leans back down to kiss Fernando on the mouth. His hand goes to Fernando's shorts, pushes inside it.

#strollonso #answered asks #happy 42nd birthday fernando in certain timezones #ANYWAY... time to go enjoy my sunday #good morning #my fic #this did not answer the prompt but it's ok i loved getting it #thank you anon #anon asks #1418 #fernando/lance

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cirrus-ghoulette · 4 months

Note

i can't stop thinking about diabetic Copia. I hate to be that person, but maybe some more diabetic Copia? 👉👈

Sure!

Copia has a habit of going high when it comes to his blood sugars. He loves carbs, what can he say?

If he does go high, all of the ghouls scrunch up their noses and pull faces. Poor Rain gags at the smell every time, walks off until Copia fixes his bloods. To them, it smells sickly sweet. They can smell the pheromones on Copia's body, on his breath.

When Copia goes high, he gets really dizzy, his head aches, and he's parched. Seeing Copia chug bottles of water outside of performing are sure signs that his sugars are high.

If he's on tour, he'll usually lay down on a sofa backstage (before the show, but after he's eaten) and hold an arm over his eyes, wait for the room to stop spinning.

The ghouls never stay away from him for long, so they come marching into his dressing room soon after, with a view to annoy Copia. But they all freeze as soon as they smell his scent.

Rain gags and walks straight back out. Aether and Cirrus both look at each other and sigh tiredly. Swiss goes "Fuck!" exasperatedly. Mountain mumbles that he has his backup Copia Kit (that's what they call his glucometer kit) always on his person, if needed. Cumulus tuts in sympathy, while covering her nose with her hand. Dew grumbles in frustration.

"Papa, do you know you're high?"

"No, no, I just have a headache..."

"What did you have for dinner?"

"Carbonara... Garlic bread..."

"PAPA."

"It tasted too good, I couldn't resist. It was just a little treat..."

"Did you do your shot before eating?"

"Ehhh... The food came quicker than planned, I didn't have time..."

"PAPA. You always have time."

"Yes, yes..." (dismissive hand wave)

Aether sits by Copia on the sofa, uses the lance from Mountain's kit to check his bloods. They all know he's high, but they can't pinpoint the exact glucose concentration in his blood. Aether always has a little game in his head, he tries to predict Copia's sugar levels before it flashes up on the screen. This time, he predicted 8.5 and Copia was 8. Close, and thankfully not as bad as he thought.

In the meantime, Dew starts to prep Copia's insulin while grumbling in annoyance to himself. Copia knows what will send him into a hyper, and yet occasionally, he still eats carbs and sugars like a starved man.

They always make sure there's a bottle of insulin in the minifridge in Copia's dressing room, and a sharps box on one of the counters. A couple of venue staff have given him weird looks for having a sharps container in his dressing room out of context.

While Aether takes Copia's bloods, he tells Dew exactly how much insulin needs to be drawn up. They're all trained in what to do if Copia goes into a hypo or a hyper, but having Aether there, who's a Ministry infirmary medic when he's not touring, helps keep them on track.

The other ghouls stand close by Copia, wanting to show that they're there for him, but unable to get too close due to the smell. Cumulus steps over, her shirt pulled up over her nose and mouth, and strokes Copia's hair soothingly. She's pulling a face behind the shirt, and keeps coughing.

When Dew comes over with the capped needle, Aether gives him a look and asks him if he wants Aeth to inject Papa. Dew shakes his head silently and pulls up Copia's sweatshirt.

Him laying down isn't the best position to inject in, the skin on his tummy is pulled quite taught, but Copia would flop over if he tried to sit up right now. Dew uncaps the needle and pinches a roll of fat, trying to go somewhere that doesn't have too many track marks, and injects in that area.

Copia hisses and Dew mutters a quiet "That's what you get for not carb counting properly..."

Once the insulin has been infused, Swiss holds out the sharps bin for Dew, and then they all sit and wait for Copia's blood sugars to come down. It usually takes between fifteen to twenty minutes, and the pack don't leave him alone during that time. Just in case they haven't dosed the insulin correctly.

During the waiting period, the ghouls keep themselves entertained. They play a card game, scroll on their phones, chat quietly (Copia's hypers and hypos always make him sensitive to sound). As his sugars slowly drop, checked every ten minutes by Aether, the ghouls slowly shuffle closer to Copia, his scent returning to normal.

By the time he's back down at a normal sugar level, Rain's been invited back into the room, and the ghouls have climbed onto the sofa for a cuddle with Copia,

Dew grumbles to Copia (from where he's curled up on his chest) to never let himself get that high again. He was worried about him.

Copia nods, and agrees that carbonara is off the menu. For now.

#ghost #ghost band #ghost bc #papa emeritus #headcanons #my works #dew #dewdrop #nameless ghoul #Diabetic copia #Ghost sickfic #Ghost bc sickfic #Chronically ill papas #Chronically ill ghouls #Ghost chronic illness

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coldshrugs · 4 months

Text

for those following misery au progress... help i am in love with a throwaway oc

[more than just "suggestive" content below the cut]

"Remind me," Estinien says quietly. He strides slowly across the room toward his ambitious seducer, who undresses by his bed. "Your name is...?"

"Victorien," he smiles. "You may call me Vic, if it's easier to remember."

Victorien moves in front of him, his skin glowing orange-gold in the firelight. He casts his eyes down, making quick work of the buttons on Estinien's shirt, and Estinien admires his lashes from this angle too.

"Vic," Estinien repeats, testing out how it might stick in his mind. His eyes close. He swallows a moan as firm hands explore his exposed chest until his shirt falls to the floor.

Fingertips ghost across his left shoulder. Other than his chirurgeon, no one has touched the craters Nidhogg's eyes left in his skin. He wills himself not to flinch, to stay. Tells himself the violent, still-red, pitted scars are not so different than any other wound earned during the Dragonsong War. He is not monstrous, or bizarre.

Just a man with a history more visible than most.

Vic offers no further touch to that particular expanse of skin, and the heat of his fingertips leaves entirely.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks, voice free of the flirtatious wit he's used all evening. Estinien opens his eyes to find him looking at the scar. Not quite a grimace, more worried than that.

"No." He lifts Victorien's hand and places it on his chest. Somewhere neutral, where only the memories of common scraps and cuts live. "Not anymore."

Vic slides both arms around his neck, and presses his body close, closer. His head falls against his shoulder–the unmarred one–and the flicker of familiarity he felt in the corridor rushes back. Evening air and cold, wet stone. The dreary sky above him, and Io... Io in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her warmth washing over him as his arms wind under her cloak. There is heat on his neck, real heat–Vic.

His lips pass over sensitive skin, clumsy in their eagerness. Estinien steps out of his memory and back to the present, to the hand wandering down his chest, his stomach, into his trousers. Victorien does not delay, his stroke is immediate, urging Estinien to rise and meet him.

He lifts his lips to Estinien's ear. "It will not do for me to have the Azure Dragoon without his lance at the ready. If my hand does not please you, would you prefer my mouth?"

#misery au #wip whenever #i'm sorry vic but that man is sprung and his heads are elsewhere

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mawofthemagnetar · 7 months

Text

So I was thinking about NameMC...

And this ensued. I may expand on this, we'll see.

“Oh, not again!” Impulse moaned.

Zed opened his mouth to ask what was happening, when the air in front of both of them shimmered. A four-bladed drone popped out of the walls between the worlds, and swiped a blue scanner beam over Impulse from head to toe. Before either hermit could react, the drone dove back into the crack in the air and vanished.

Impulse buried his face in his hands.

“I’m so tired of this, Zed. Just sick to death. I changed my shirt. So what?”

Zed nodded, leaning back on the rock he’d found. Impulse had indeed changed out of his dwarf costume and back into his familiar black t-shirt and cargo shorts. Impulse flicked his tail irritably, the yellow spines just below the surface sticking up just slightly in annoyance.

Zed swallowed, leaning back against the boulder at spawn.

“…I mean, isn’t that…doesn’t this happen to everyone?” Zed said cautiously, “you change your shirt, the drones pop out and scan you, and they go away again. Mate, you know as well as I do-“

“But- why?!” Impulse protested, “Here, look. Open your comm. Go to the index.”

Zed rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, I know. The MC Lookbook. I know! You know I had people wearing my Ezed Kenized getup the day after I finished sewing it!...actually, hold on. On further reflection, you’ve got a point.”

Impulse flapped his wings irritably.

“Look, dude, I’m just. This is so frustrating. Is this even right? Like-“

A shout cut the air, and both men jerked their heads up.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Cleo yelled, swinging her sword at a nearby drone, “THAT’S TOO BLOODY CLOSE!”

She’d changed out of her blue evening dress into the sportier getup she liked for the Life games, and Zed smiled sympathetically as the drone vanished into thin air.

“I just- like- is this okay?” Impulse asked slowly, “Are the people sending these things out- Like, I know, I know, I know it’s harmless. It’s just collecting stuff for the lookbook. I get it. But…”

“-but the drones once jumped Skizz as he was stepping out of a hot tub?” Zed snickered.

Impulse shuddered.

“Yeah. How do you think that red speedo ended up all over…you know what, nevermind.”

They both sighed, and Zed shook his head.

“Someday, I want to get a whole bunch of shirts.” Zed said slowly, “A whole bunch of jumpers, like this one. In all different colours, and then I’ll wear a different colour every day of the week. Not just a pile of forty brown jumpers like this one.”

“I want to wear black cargo shorts.” Impulse blurted out, “And I want to wear a wristwatch.”

They both fell silent.

Impulse glanced over at Zed, and a stab of fear lanced through his heart.

“…Zed? You’ve got that look on your face. I don’t like that look.”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing, nothing. I wasn’t thinking about anything. Well, maybe a few things. But anyway, enough about me! You! And Tango, but he’s still getting out of Decked Out. You two have fun with your silly traffic, you hear me?”

“Traff- oh. Yeah, I’ll have fun, don’t worry.” Impulse beamed, “I’ll be back after we’re done today’s game. It’s only like, three hours, Zed.”

Zed shook his head.

“Yeah, I know, but still. Be careful. Ren came back off his rocker awhile ago. Or was that something else? You know what, nevermind.”

Impulse chuckled, and an alarm went off on his comm.

“Alright, Well, nice chatting with you, Zed. Anyway, I gotta go.”

And with that, he selected the option to leave the server, and vanished.

Zed stroked his chin, and slid off the boulder he was sitting on. This was giving him…ideas.

#magnetar writes #IDK I had some thoughts about stuff #this is likely a little incoherent but I may expand on it if there's interest #call this the Fashion Police AU

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shatterinseconds · 1 year

Text

New Year’s Eve

Klancemas ‘22 day 31

Lance glares at Keith all night. If Keith has taken notice, he has made no acknowledgement of how Lance tracks every movement he makes. Which isn’t difficult in a room with only six other people. Lance is just waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Ever since they had their makeshift holiday party a week ago, they also decided to have a New Year’s Eve celebration, which Coran and Allura were more than willing to participate in as well. They threw on a classic Altean movie with no subtitles for background noise, having no access to proper New Year’s Eve broadcasts—at one point, Lance did try to watch the movie and was immediately lost when the tentacle creature appeared out of nowhere. Eyes glazing over as he sat on the couch, the chatter around him indiscernible, he began to form his revenge plan.

Because Keith kissed him at that holiday party and Lance hasn’t been able to return the favor. All week he has caught Keith smirking at him when he knows Lance is looking, and it’s only fueled the fire more. Keith shouldn’t be able to get away scot free with kissing Lance under the mistletoe like that. And Lance will show him exactly what it felt like.

Now, as the timer Pidge set up starts to count down from sixty, Lance walks over to Keith, a purpose to every step. Keith converses with Shiro, none the wiser to his presence, but Shiro is. When he sees Lance approach, he sighs and subtly excuses himself much to Keith’s confusion.

That gets cleared up pretty quickly. “Hey, Mullet,” Lance growls when he is directly behind Keith. Keith spins around with wide eyes before he narrows them in skepticism.

“What do you want?”

Three.

“I’ve come to return the favor.”

Two.

“What fav—” Reaching for him, Lance doesn’t let Keith finish.

One.

At the stroke of midnight, Lance drags Keith into his arms and kisses him. He feels Keith breathe out a soft ‘oh’ across his lips before his hands find their way under Lance’s shirt, warm hands pressed against his bare skin, to draw him closer. Suddenly, Lance dips Keith, continuing to kiss the living daylights out of him, while Keith laughs, moving to pull Lance even closer until they’re flush which only causes them to tumble onto the couch. Lance breaks off the kiss, chuckling as well, as he buries his face into the crook of Keith’s neck and long hair, which tickles his nose. He is only partially aware that he straddles Keith and has an audience.

“Listen, we’re all happy for you morons, but this is not how I wanted to start my New Year,” Pidge mutters in annoyance, which only causes them to laugh harder. Keith’s lips are kiss-bitten, red and a little swollen. Streamers and confetti rain around them; Keith looks beautiful, hair wild against the couch cushions and mouth stretched wide in happiness.

“Happy New Year, Keith,” Lance says.

Keith reaches up to draw him back. “Yeah, Happy New Year,” he replies as he kisses Lance again.

Lance’s plan is truly a success.

#klance #voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #klancemas #klance fic #keith x lance #my writing #part 2 to the mistletoe prompt #happy new year's eve!!

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dxncingwithastrxnger · 1 year

Note

OKAY

remember that post i made a while ago of Trislance headcanons? Think you reblogged it. Buuut I mentioned Tristan being absolutely ticklish.

Which Lance finds out

They’ll be cuddling,and Lancelot absentmindedly traces his fingers over the princes soft skin,when he hears a muffled giggle,looking over.

Tristan has a hand pressed to his mouth,a smile trying to sneak onto his face. Lancelot looks confused and realizes,starting to grin slowly

“Aww,is someone ticklish~?”

Tristan shakes his head stubbornly,repressing laugher,feeling warm fingers slowly stroke and poke his sides,teasingly

Idk,I feel he would be and Lancelot takes advantage to hear his cute laugh,cheer him up or tease him

AKAKSKWLQW

Okay, wait, no, hold on a sec, lemme just:

Lancelot turned his head as he heard Tristan sigh softly beside him. He looked down at his boyfriend and couldn't help but smile at the look of utter content on the other boy's face. The two of them were cuddled up together, laying in the grass in the middle of the castle gardens. The sun was high in the sky above them and the air was warm, but a slight breeze kept them from overheating.

They had been there for awhile, having decided to have a day just for the two of them since there wasn't really anything that either of them had to do today. They were both completely relaxed and at ease, something that could really only be achieved around each other nowadays, and neither had any plans of moving anytime soon.

Lancelot was laying on his back, one arm stretched out across the ground beside him and the other wrapped around Tristan's waist. Tristan was laying on his side, his head resting against Lancelot's shoulder and his legs tangled with Lancelot's. His eyes were closed and he had a sweet, little smile on his face.

Lancelot lifted up his free hand and reached over to gently push a piece of Tristan's long hair out of his face and behind his ear. Tristan hummed softly and opened his eyes, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light, before looking right at the blonde-haired boy holding him.

"Hey." He says softly.

"Hey." Lancelot says.

They both fell silent again, just staring at each other for a few minutes, before Tristan suddenly giggled. Lancelot's heart fluttered at such a beautiful sound, even as he asked, "What are you giggling about?"

Tristan then reached up and pulled something out of Lancelot's hair before showing it to him. "You had a piece of grass stuck in your hair." He giggled again as he tossed it away from them.

Lancelot chuckled softly at his amusement. "You're so strange." He tells him.

Tristan wrinkled his nose slightly. "Says you."

Lancelot grins. "Exactly. I said it just now."

Tristan rolls his eyes and shakes his head at him playfully, reaching his hand towards Lancelot's and intertwining their fingers together. "Whatever you say, Lance." He says before closing his eyes again and going back to the same state he was in before. Lancelot just shakes his own head before doing the same for awhile.

Eventually, though, Tristan starts to squirm slightly, and at first Lancelot didn't even notice it, but once he did, his brows furrowed. Tristan's position had changed slightly. His head was now turned inwards, his face completely hidden, and he was curled up slightly against Lancelot's side.

Lancelot was about to ask what was wrong when he finally heard it. Muffled giggles. This only confused him more at first. Why was he...? And as Lancelot surveyed the boy, he realized that when Tristan had reached into his hair earlier, his shirt had ridden up slightly, and Lancelot had been absentmindedly tracing small shapes into his bare side.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, a grin slowly spreading across his face as a theory forms in his head. Deciding to test that theory, he stops his tracing and instead starts wiggling the tips of his fingers against the Prince's side purposely.

Tristan lets out a small, "Eep!" And tries to twist his side away from Lancelot's fingers. Lancelot's grin turns into a mischievous smirk as he does it again, pressing his fingers more firmly into Tristan's side. Tristan lets out a shriek of laughter as he pulls his face out of Lancelot's shoulder and twists again, this time trying to roll away from him.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Lancelot exclaims as he rolls over and reaches for Tristan with both hands, immediately reaching for the silver-haired boy's sides with wiggling fingers and starts tickling him.

Tristan squeals and immediately starts trying to push Lancelot's hands off and wiggle away from him. "No! No! Get off me!" Tristan yells at him, his head thrown back and his face scrunched up from his laughter.

Lancelot doesn't let up, keeping up his attack. "What's the magic word~?" He asks, unable to hold his own amusement in as he does, laughing softly.

"You a-asshole!" Tristan exclaims incredulously, his laughter causing him to stutter.

"You gotta say it~." Lancelot urges, moving his hands slightly higher on Tristan's sides, closer to his ribs, and was rewarded with another squeal and doubled efforts to get him to move away.

"S-st-star! Star!" Tristan shouted out. Lancelot continued tickling him for just a moment more before finally pulling his hands away, allowing both Tristan and himself to catch their breaths. Once they finally did, Tristan glared at Lancelot, though it lacked any actual heat.

Lancelot just grinned at him as he laid back down in the grass, pulling Tristan close to him once more. This caused Tristan's expression to turn into a pout instead and Lancelot just chuckled softly before planting a sweet kiss on his pouting lips, causing the pout to finally upturn into a smile once more. The two of them cuddled up again and went back to exactly what they had been doing before, just lost in their own little world.

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sebastiansluts · 2 years

Text

Anon Ask - Sebastian Stan, Lee Bodecker, Lance Tucker, Nick Fowler, Charles Blackwood, Carter Baizen

Anon asked: I'm thinking Lee, Lance, Nick, Charles and Carter, since he already used Bucky with you before. Heavy degradation, spitting, lots of face slapping (and any other slapping really), brutal p in v and p in a, eventual fisting (you chose where), edging to the point you beg in between sobs, choking until you pass out and he just keeps on fucking you until you wake, cumplay and aftercare, pretty please :)

Sebastian Stan x Reader x Lee Bodecker x Lance Tucker x Nick Fowler x Charles Blackwood x Carter Baizen; dub!con, degradation, humiliation, spit kink, face slapping, tit slapping, ass slapping, pussy slapping, brutal vaginal sex, brutal anal sex, fisting, edging, choking- passing out, cumplay, aftercare

ANY HATE WILL BE DELETED THIS IS A JUDGEMENT FREE ZONE DON'T LIKE, DON'T INTERACT; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+

One day, you're both lounging on the couch and you're deep in concentration scrolling through your phone, and he notices how every now and then you get squirmy and flushed, and your breathing picks up. When you get up to get some water, he quickly grabs your phone and looks through it, only to discover you've been reading fics of himXreader, and all his charactersXreader. He goes through some of them and gets super hard instantly, and only tears his eyes off the phone when he hears you gasping, staring at him completely mortified. You try to explain, and even begin to apologize, but the wicked idea has already been formed in his mind and he moves to you at lightning speed, grabbing you by the throat and pushing you hard against the wall, pressing his body against you and letting you feel just how affected by your reading he is. Then he leans in and whispers against your face, his voice lower than usual but with a commanding tone you can't help but recognize from one of his movies.

"So you think it's okay to fantasize about being destroyed by other men while your boyfriend is sitting right next to you, huh? Well, let's see how okay you feel after I'm done with you, little girl."

"I- I'm sorry," you try, but he cuts you off with a hard slap to your cheek.

"Did I ask you to speak? No, so shut your mouth before I stuff it. Now, the way I see it, this isn't your boyfriend's fault, it's not that he's not man enough. No, it's that his little girlfriend is a fucking whore," he said, spitting on your face.

You glanced around, trying to see if there was an easy escape, and he slapped you again, harder, with enough force to leave a mark. "Stop trying to figure a way out of this, and do as you're told," he growled.

"Nick! Oh god," you whimpered, and he slapped you for a third time, your head whipping around and bumping the wall.

"Now just hold on there son, that's not how you treat a lady," he said, voice switching, accent coming out thick. "I'm sorry darlin', he shouldn't have you hit you like that. He should've hit you like this," he said mockingly, then stepped back and slapped your tit. You weren't wearing a bra, since you were at home relaxing before this, before he was making your wildest fantasies come true.

You moaned in shock and arousal as he slapped your tit again, watching it bounce and sway under your tshirt. "Needta get this off-a ya," he grunted, pulling your shirt up and over your head, then sliding your sweats and panties down until they pooled on the floor.

"There we go, that's better, innit?" he slapped your tit again, hard, making your eyes burn with tears at the sting. "Say 'Thank you, Lee', and maybe I'll go easy on ya, darlin'."

"Th-thank you Lee," you stuttered as he slapped your tit again.

"Good girl! See that wasn't so hard now was it? And because you were so good, I'm gonna let you decide if we move on to your ass now or not," he grinned, fingers stroking lightly over your breasts, goosebumps rising and your nipples hardening.

When you didn't answer right away, he pinched your nipple hard, twisting it until you shouted, "Now! Ass now, Lee!"

"That's a good job darlin', now on the couch, over my knee," he said, as he sat down, feet firmly planted on the floor, leaned back to make room for you. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, then walked to him, folding yourself over his lap. Your face was pressed into the cushions, your legs hanging down limply.

Suddenly, his hand was tight in your hair, making you squeal. He pressed your face harder into the cushions, smothering you for a moment, before letting go. You gasped for breath and he spanked you hard. You screamed, not prepared at all for the strike.

"Lee?" you asked, panting, trying to turn back towards him.

He stilled you with a hand to your head, smacking your ass again. You cried out and he chuckled darkly. "Lee's not here anymore, it's just you and me now, and you're gonna be a good girl for me, aren't you? Say 'yes Charles'," he ordered, letting you finally place the mannerisms.

"Yes Charles," you breathed, hissing when he slapped your ass repeatedly. When your ass was bright red and burning, he finally stopped. His hand rubbed against your flaming skin, making the tears that had been in your eyes, fall to the couch.

"Good girl, you took your punishment well. Normally I'd be ready to fuck you now, but..." he trailed off as he helped you stand in front of him on shaky legs. You watched as his body language changed, suddenly lax but with holding his good posture. "Charles is gone, now it's my turn, and I think you need a few more good spanks."

"Oh god," you whispered, and his hands shot out, yanking you down onto the couch beside him. You cried out as your ass hit the fabric, but he leaned in and hissed, "I'm your fucking god, you say my name."

"Lance! Please!" you cried, and he shoved you back until you fell on the couch. His shoulders held your legs apart as he slapped your pussy, immediately making his hand wet and sticky.

"Yeah, that's fucking right baby, scream for me," he goaded as you did scream, when he slapped your pussy again, spanking it over and over until you were sobbing, hands tearing at your hair.

He leaned down and blew on your pulsing cunt, making you keen as you shivered. "There, this cunt is ready to be fucked now," he muttered, standing up and taking his clothes off. He did a ridiculous pose that had you giggling, before he pressed himself over you. His body language changed again, becoming looser, pressing his face into your neck.

"You ready for me baby? My turn to hear you say my name, say 'Carter' and I'll give you what you want," he murmured, voice a little higher, a little lighter than usual.

"Carter," you sighed, pulling his face up to yours, kissing him quickly. He pulled back laughing and said, "You went down easy," and pried your jaw open, spitting down into your mouth. You swallowed reflexively and he groaned, releasing you and grabbing your hip and his cock.

"Fuck baby, so hot," he grunted as he lined up with your entrance, shoving forwards in one quick, brutal thrust.

You screamed, back lifting off the couch as you were split open, his cock huge and throbbing inside you. He swore as you clenched around him, shoving you back down onto the couch with a hand on your shoulder. He pressed you down hard as his hips pulled back and slammed into yours again.

"That's it baby, fucking take it, you can do it," he growled, fucking you hard as he thrust two fingers into your mouth. You gagged, but sucked on them, until they were drenched with your saliva. He removed them from your mouth and immediately moved them down, pressing them into your asshole.

You clenched around the sudden intrusion, but forced your muscles to relax as he began pumping his fingers in and out of your hole, pulling out of your pussy and pressing against you.

"Now I don't have a pepsi cup, so I guess your ass will have to do," he grinned, and began pressing the tip of his dick into your asshole.

"Lee! Please," you sobbed, as you were forced open, his dick wet with your juices, the only thing slicking the way.

"Yeah darlin', cry for me, that's a good girl," he soothed, his hips finally resting against your ass, dick all the way inside you.

You panted, clenching and releasing around him before he sat up, pulling your hips onto his lap. He began thrusting, building up a pace quickly until he was pounding your ass, with you bent nearly in half, legs in the air on his shoulders.

"Please, can I come?" you begged, pussy pulsing emptily as your ass was stuffed repeatedly.

"No, pathetic whores don't get to come when they want, and what did I tell you you are?" he sneered, making you cry.

"Nick, please, I'll do anything," you sobbed, gasping, when he stilled his hips completely buried in your ass, and shoved four fingers into your pussy, making you shriek.

"I asked what I called you," he growled, fucking your pussy hard, twisting his hand around to stretch you out.

"A pathetic whore! I'm a pathetic whore!" you shouted as he tucked his thumb and pushed his way inside your cunt until his whole hand was inside and he could make a fist.

You were moaning, babbling nonsense, as he began thrusting his hips again, his arm being pushed deeper into you with every pass.

"Now you can come baby, right...now," he said, punching his fist up into you, his other hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing.

You screamed again but only a wheeze came out as you came, clenched so tightly around his fist your cunt ached, spasming repeatedly. Your legs shook from their tense position on his shoulders, your arms above your head, nails dug into the armrest.

He didn't let up, holding your throat as your hearing faded, and your eyes rolled back in your head. He let go, fist stilling but hips still pumping as you slowly came back, blinking up at him and breathing heavily.

"That's my fucking girl, fuck, Jesus Christ, that was the hottest thing," he murmured, stroking your face as you moaned, your cunt tightening again. Your head spun dizzily as he slowly pulled his hand out of your cunt, then pulled out of your ass, fisting his hard cock with his wet hand. He began jerking himself, breathing heavier as you gazed dumbly up at him, mouth opening autmatically.

"Oh fuck me," he groaned, coming, ropes of it landing on your face and tits, before he directed it at your gaping pussy. When he finished, he shoved two fingers into you, spreading his cum around as you moaned.

"That's what happens when fantasize about other men little girl," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You slumped, drained, and he chuckled.

"Come here baby, let's get you cleaned up," he said softly, pulling you into his arms, your legs around his waist as he carried you through the house into the bathroom. He climbed into the tub and sat down with you on his lap, and turned on the water. You were chest to chest, your legs behind him, your face pressed into his neck.

"You with me yet baby?" he asked quietly as the tub filled.

"Mmm," you sighed, body loose and heavy. "Seb."

"I'm here, I'm right here, did so well baby. You blew me away sweetheart, we're definitely exploring some more of those writings," he said, pressing his grin to your hair. You smiled against his shoulder as he leaned forwards, turning off the water. The two of you sank deeper into the tub, moving and stretching out your legs alongside his, still resting on top of him.

"Love you Seb," you murmured, already half asleep.

"Love you too sweetheart," he replied, kissing your pursed lips, which slid into a grin after. "You rest now baby, I'll take care of you."

#sebastian stan #lee bodecker #lance tucker #nick fowler #charles blackwood #carter baizen #sebastian stan smut #lee bodecker smut #lance tucker smut #nick fowler smut #charles blackwood smut #carter baizen smut #smut #no y/n #reader insert #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x y/n

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standing-restart · 1 year

Note

Okay but a threesome with Lance and Esteban (maybe even add Mick into the mix)

This is exactly what I’m talking about bestiieeeeeee!!!! Prompts like these are the reason I made this blog.

I’m setting a little scenario here for a moment : you’ve been dating Lance for a while, and you’re in a committed d/s relationship with him. You’ve talked about him sharing you before, and everything is consensual. The two of you agreed on Esteban and Mick as the ones who are allowed to join you guys in playtime.

Lance has invited them around and made them aware of the dynamic between you two before. Esteban and Mick have perhaps always known that Lance has a dominant streak, and it doesn’t come as a surprise to them that you’re his sub. Lance has also told them that you guys would love for them to join you. Maybe once, or maybe as a recurring thing. They’re down. Everyone is made aware of the safeword and of each other’s limits and kinks.

And then the day rolls around.

It starts as any other. The three of them gather at Lance’s place to play video games and just wind down from the season. Before they even got there, Lance has given you a plug, opening you slowly and messily, making sure that you’d be loose by the time the others would arrive.

You’re wearing your plug while you flutter around the house. Doing some things for yourself as well as hanging out with the boys while they play their games. The atmosphere is relaxed, comfortable, even when the four of you know exactly what’s about to happen.

Lance pulls you onto his lap to kiss you. Lifting up the skirt a bit to show off your ass to the other two. Groping it just hard enough to leave a red-ish tint after he retracts his hand. You know Esteban and Mick are looking at you. You can feel their eyes on you while Lance slowly pulls your underwear to the side to reveal the plug to them.

Mick lets out a soft gasp, and you can hear Esteban making a sound that suspiciously sounds like a whine. It feels good to be wanted by the three of them. Especially when you know that they will treat you so good. Lance gives them a little ‘come here’ motion. Inviting them into the space, literally inviting them to touch you.

The two of them are still a bit unsteady, not quite touching you with the same intensity as Lance does when they stroke their hands across the curve of your ass. When Mick’s hands trail down your thighs, and when Esteban’s fingers sneak up underneath the fabric of your shirt. Lance helps you out of your clothes, tells you to sit down on the couch.

Esteban and Mick look stunned when you sit down, your hands folded on your lap, your head tipped back a bit to bare your neck. The plug is still inside of you, and you can already feel yourself getting wet simply by the way they look at you.

Lance tells them it’s alright to touch you once again. Esteban dives between your legs, parting them slowly before putting his mouth on you. Lance slots behind you and the couch, playing with your nipples as he admires his friend pleasuring you. Mick slips out of his jeans, asking you if you’d be good enough to suck him off. Of course you are, you would want nothing more than have him inside your mouth.

The three of them treat you so good. Each one of them using one of your holes. Filling you up until you feel like you could cry from pleasure. Lance is still a bit rough with you, pulls your hair, forces you to look at Esteban while the other is fucking your mouth. About halfway through, you’re blissed out, all too happy to take their cocks and give them the pleasure that they desire.

They use you so well, Esteban even dares to give you ass a soft slap. Mick wraps his hand around your throat after asking you if that’s what you want. You can only nod and hum. Lance tells you to use your words, and you beg for it as a result.

The four of you end up sprawled out across the couch, catching your breath while Lance wraps you in his arms and peppers your face in soft kisses. You all decide to take a bath together. The tub is too small to really make it work, but the amount of kisses and cuddles you get during it is more than enough to make up for it.

#[ screams into the void ]#thank you for this delicious prompt !!!!#LS #EO #MS #multiple x reader #nsfw.txt #anon

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 2 years

Text

Flicker

Prompt: Hello again! 😅 im sorry for asking another question so soon after you had just uploaded a chapter of Embrace Of Darkness on my idea before but i couldn’t help but wonder…

Do Roman and the others have birthdays the same as humans?

And if they don’t, can you do a chapter on how Roman discovers that humans have celebrations for theirs and in turn, ask Patton what his ‘day of manifestation’ is? (Yes that’s how I think he would word it about.) and then maybe ask why he didn’t tell Roman sooner and then in turn celebrate it with him and maybe all the others?

You can completely ignore this if you are sick of writing more chapters for this story, 😂 I understand that it was supposed to be only a one shot.

Thank you for reading and have a good day! - anon

Read on Ao3 Masterlist

Warnings: ptsd, flashback, nightmares

Pairings: focus on royality but dlampr

Word Count: 4579

Humans are such...fascinating. And so emotional, aren't they? Unfortunately for Patton, some creatures that don't understand emotions want to...experiment.

Humans can be so fragile.

...and capable of a kind of strength those creatures could only dream of.

“Hello, pet.”

Patton jerks, his limbs suddenly caught up in shackles, strung out into the vastness of space. Pain lances through his arms and he cries out, jerking against the chains. “What—what—“

Something massive looms out of the darkness in front of him, pain crackling along his legs as it does. “Did you think you could ever truly escape me, pet? You are mine, you were mine first, nothing will stop you from being mine.”

No. No, that’s not true, Roman came and saved him. He got away, he got away—

“Oh, were you thinking of this pathetic thing?”

Some of the darkness swirls aside and Patton’s eyes widen as he sees a broken and bloodied form. It’s Roman—or it’s Roman’s human form, he’s hurt…

“How pitiful,” the beast sneers, “for an Eldritch to limit itself so, to debase itself so…an affront to every one of us.”

“No—Roman—Roman—!”

“Nothing will save you now, pet,” the darkness snarls and rushes for him, jaws about to—

“Brave one?”

Patton’s eyes fly open, bolting upright. A hand scrabbles over his chest, trying to get free, trying to make it stop—

“Shh, shh, brave one,” the voice murmurs again as something warm drapes itself against his back, “it’s alright, brave one, I have you, you’re alright, I’m not going anywhere.”

His wings twitch. Right, he has wings. He’s…he’s got wings because Roman took the energy that was in him and turned it into something that wouldn’t hurt anymore, Roman has him, Roman’s alright, Roman…

“R-Roman?”

“I’m here.”

Roman’s face swims into view in front of him, coming closer until it’s no longer blurry. His features are awash with obvious concern, carefully stroking the side of Patton’s cheek to—to—

Oh. He’s crying.

“You were calling out for me,” Roman murmurs, indicating his position on the bed, “I…I didn’t want to disturb you without your permission, but…”

Patton shakes his head wordlessly, clutching at Roman’s hands to keep him here. He leans close enough to bump his head into the crook of Roman’s neck and Roman’s sigh ruffles the top of his hair.

“Oh, sweet one, it’s alright. You’re alright, Patton, it’s okay now.”

His breath is still coming in great shuddering gasps and Roman lets out a sympathetic noise, arms going around him to coax him into a more comfortable position, his chin hooked over Roman’s shoulder.

“There you are,” Roman whispers, “right here, brave one, I have you. You can feel me, see? I’m breathing, just as you are, I’m alright, you’re alright, we’re both right here.”

“Did you—“ Patton swallows roughly— “did you see?”

“See what, brave one, your nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“No, my sweet one, I can’t do that unless I go into your mind.” Roman tightens his grip a little. “I…well, when you called my name, you sounded as if you were worried for me.”

Patton’s knuckles whiten as he grips Roman’s shirt. “You were hurt. You were—you looked like you were dead. And—and I was—“

The acrid taste of fear surges over his tongue and makes him retch. Roman soothes him with a hand on his back, rumbling softly.

“I’m alright, brave one,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to Patton’s temple, “see? Touch me, listen to me, I’m alright. I’m right here.”

Slowly, Patton’s hands slide over Roman’s shoulders, over his neck, down to his chest. A heartbeat, stronger and slower than a human’s, but very much there nonetheless. Roman smiles, covering Patton’s hands with his.

“Can you feel that, brave one?”

“You’re…you’re okay.”

“Yes, brave one, good job. I’m okay.” A kiss, warm and soft, brushed against his forehead. “I’m okay. You’re okay.”

The last of the tension begins to bleed from Patton’s shoulders, leaving him exhausted and trembling. “I really hate nightmares.”

“I can only imagine.” Roman reaches out to coax him into lying back down. “Do you think you can get back to sleep?”

Patton shakes his head, still clutching at Roman’s shirt.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Please?”

“It would be my pleasure, brave one.” Roman lies down next to him, opening his arms. “Would you like to come and lay on me?”

“Can I?”

“Of course, brave one. Come, come now…there. May I move your arm? Yes, just like that, thank you. Would you like your wings groomed?”

Patton nods, closing his eyes as Roman’s fingers begin to card through the feathers. They just did this a few days ago, there’s not really any need for it, but the sensations that buzz up and down his back do wonders to distract him from the lingering vestiges of the nightmare.

“…R’man?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t had a nightmare like that in a while,” he mumbles, letting his eyes drift closed, “why…why’d I have one now?”

Roman sighs, paying attention to a spot just below Patton’s wing joint. “I don’t know, brave one. Humans….human brains are complicated. It could be that you’re still trying to…process it.”

“But I don’t want to process it, I want it gone.”

“I’m sure you know it’s not that simple.” Roman chuckles as Patton whines and buries his face in his neck. “Oh, come now, brave one…”

“I’m tired and I just had a nightmare, I can whine about it.”

“You most certainly can.” Roman’s fingers scribble lightly over the sensitive spot on his back and he yelps. “Just as I can do my best to distract you from it.”

“That’s not fair!”

“It’s not my fault you’re all soft and sweet when you’re sleepy.” Still, he rubs firmly over the spots as an apology. “I’m sorry you had a nightmare, brave one. I wish I could make them go away forever, but I can’t.”

Patton nuzzles into his shoulder. “I know. ’S okay. It’s only been…”

He trails off.

“Wait, how long have I been here?”

“You know that me and mortal conceptions of time are not exactly on the same page, sweet one.”

“How many sunrises has it been?”

Roman thinks for a moment. “About…a hundred, I believe.”

A hundred sunrises…a hundred days….

“Oh, oh, dear—“ Roman’s arms tighten around him as Patton’s eyes well up once more— “did I say something to upset you, brave one? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t cry, my sweet one, please—“

“N-no,” Patton manages to sob out, “n-no, it’s not—it’s not your fault, I just—I jus’—“

“Can I sit us up, Patton?” Patton nods and Roman moves them, shifting until Patton’s in his lap and curling an arm around his shoulders. “What’s the matter, brave one?”

Patton wipes at his face. “I jus’—just didn’t realize it was—that it had been that long.”

“And that upset you?”

Patton nods. “I didn’t—I guess I didn’t realize—realize how much I…I…”

Roman holds him gently, rubbing his back with a soothing hand.

Patton sniffles. “I did miss things about being there, you know? When I was—before I—“

He takes a deep breath.

“And I think…I think I missed my birthday.”

“Birth…day,” Roman says slowly, as if testing the word on his tongue, “the day that you were born? It’s a—from what I understand, it’s a celebration, yes?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

A sad smile and Roman shakes his head. “In…days long before your birthday, when—forgive me, how much did you study about Eldritch?”

“A fair bit, why?”

“What do you know of sacrificial rituals?”

“Uh…some?”

Roman nods. “In the days of those rituals, humans would wait until their sacrifices had reached a certain age. A certain number of…birthdays. Although would I be correct in saying that birthdays exist in a much…broader capacity?”

“Yeah, they’re not all about getting one step closer to a sacrifice, that’s for sure.”

“I’m glad.” Roman reaches up and runs his fingers through Patton’s hair. “What did you miss, then, about celebrating your birthday in the place where you studied?”

Patton closes his eyes, thinking back. Memories of laughter swirl about, of smiling faces and warm voices. Of soft sunlight coming through frosty windows, lying on day-warmed blankets and listening as the birds call out to each other.

“I miss…I miss spending time with people I care about,” he mumbles eventually, “and…and the people who care about me. I miss being able to laugh about nothing in particular and…and all the stupid things that we thought were so interesting.”

“Like…?”

“Oh, I don’t know, one of them would be reading a new book in the library and would come up with this ridiculously specific fact and it was just—I don’t know why, we’d all be laughing even though it wasn’t that funny.”

Roman smiles. “Is that your favorite part?”

“I liked the weather too. It was—my birthday was right around the new year—for mortal calendars, anyway, and it was nice to see the snow and run around in it.”

“Snow, yes…”

“In the winter, when it’s cold—“

“I know what snow is,” Roman says with a faint bit of amusement, “I was…simply wondering something.”

“What?”

“If you wanted to celebrate your birthday,” Roman asks softly, “would you like that?”

“I—how?”

“However you like. I did think that it might be nice too—if you wanted—“ Roman waves his hand at the door— “I know you like the outside the way it is, but if you wanted it to change the way seasons do—“

“Yes,” Patton says eagerly before Roman can finish, “yes, yes, please, I—I would like that.”

Roman chuckles. “Not now, little one, you’re still tired.”

“No, I’m not, I’m fi—“

Of course, a massive yawn cuts him off as Roman carefully lies them back down. He cards a hand through Patton’s hair.

“Sleep, my brave one,” he murmurs, a kiss pressed to his cheek, “we’ll see about it in the morning.”

—————

When Patton wakes up, Roman isn’t in the bed. He flaps around, trying to see if he’s just moved out of reach, when he hears a chuckle coming from the window.

“Hush, brave one,” Roman murmurs, taking his hand as he opens his eyes, “I’m right here.”

“You left,” Patton mumbles, only half-acting his betrayal, as Roman presses a kiss to the back of his hand.

“I did, and I apologize, but I promise I didn’t go far.” Roman gestures behind him. “Just to the window.”

“What’s so interesting about the window?”

Roman smiles. “Would you like to come see?”

Patton rubs the last of the sleep from his eyes, taking Roman’s offered hand and stumbling out of bed. Roman wraps an arm around his waist and guides him to the window, passing him his glasses.

Patton puts them on and has to blink a few times.

“Roman, it’s…”

Roman joins him, peering over his shoulder at the trees of bright red, orange, and yellow leaves, floating in the breeze. The grass has dried just the slightest bit. The island looks like a postcard, little tendrils of fog curling about the bench.

“…do you like it?”

“I want to go outside right now.”

“You may want to get dressed first.” Roman chuckles as he bustles off, immediately pulling on whatever he can grab first and rushing outside. “Wait, brave one, I’m—“

The door accidentally shuts and Patton sheepishly retreats to open it.

“Sorry.”

“No harm done, brave one, I’m glad you like it so.”

“Oh, Roman, this is beautiful.”

“I’m glad it suits you.” Roman laces his fingers through Patton’s. “Come, will you sit with me?”

There is something terribly intimate about sitting with someone as nature bustles about you. They sit on the bench, Patton’s head on Roman’s shoulder, watching as the leaves blow in the breeze. The air smells sharper, a little more crisp as the fog swirls about their feet.

“One of the last times I remember seeing the mortal world,” Roman says after a while, “there was a book left on the altar.”

“A book?”

“I presume it must’ve been a journal of some sort, a private set of notes meant only for the writer. But I…confess I didn’t know that when I began to read it.”

“Why are you thinking of it now, then?”

“There was a passage in it about the changing of the seasons,” Roman murmurs, “about how the writer felt during the late autumn.”

Patton shifts, looking up at him. “Do you remember it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you say it for me?”

“And share the innermost feelings of someone’s personal thoughts? I’m only teasing,” he laughs when Patton shoves him lightly, “I can say it for you.”

Patton’s eyes drift closed as Roman’s voice drops, long and low and soothing.

“I don’t know what it is precisely about the feeling of walking over apples that transports me to some gothic walkway, barely lit by the warm amber glow of wrought-iron street lamps. The cores crunch under my boots as a chill breeze blows along my neck. I shiver and pull my jacket a little further around me.”

As if on cue, a breeze ripples through the air.

“Looking up, I see the faintest outline of leaved branches trembling in the darkness, a faint rustling accompanying the sharp crunch of the apples on the ground. Their slightly sweet perfume fills the air as the bottom of my boots grow slightly sticky. I lose feeling in the very tips of my fingers as the night cools, gentle tendrils of mist making the night glow softly. It becomes fuzzy, forcing me to slow down lest I trip over any other apples or dark things that I cannot see.”

Roman’s hand plays lightly with his, tapping the tips of his fingers and tugging his hand into his lap.

“A weight seems to settle itself between my shoulder blades,” he continues as Patton’s wings flutter, “and I tense, hunching over as if to try and shield my soft belly from the groping reaches of the dark. But it settles lightly, lightly, guiding me toward the next street lamps. The leaves crackle and the amber lights hum.”

The leaves rustle as Roman pauses, the fog swirling and swirling around them.

“A soft mist settles against my lips, just there, light enough that each breath I take coaxes it away before it returns. I am not warm, but I am not cold. I am supported by the mist and the dark weight between my shoulder blades as I creep from streetlight to streetlight. Time repeats as I move, the weight never once wavering. The apples crunch under my boots. My nose twitches.”

Patton opens his eyes, looking up at Roman. He’s closed his eyes too, but he opens them and smiles at Patton.

“A sharp flavor lingers in my mouth where my breath curls in front of me. My boots stick just the slightest amount to the paved walkway under me. I want to stay here, in the soft amber glow, with apples under my boots.”

Patton swallows. “That’s…that’s wonderful, Roman.”

“Well, I can’t take any credit for it. All thanks to this unknown author who left their journal on my altar.”

“Were they a poet?”

“I don’t know. I don’t believe so, but then again I’m not sure what exactly qualifies one as a poet.”

Patton hums, breathing in the smooth, chill air. “Can we go for a walk?”

“Of course, brave one, where would you like to go?”

“Do you have any places like…like that?”

“Would you like to see if the trees in the forest have changed too?”

“Yes, please.”

—————

After not experiencing seasons for a while, it is strange to be shunted so quickly from summer to autumn to winter. And yet, when Patton wakes up and he can smell the snow in the air, he can’t bring himself to fret about it too much.

Of course, the sight of Roman standing there, framed by the two trees with snow falling over his shoulders helps a great deal too.

“Hello, brave one,” he calls, opening his arms, “come here?”

Patton rushes forward, almost knocking them both over into the snow as he throws his arms around Roman’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Oh, brave one, you haven’t seen the best part yet.”

“There’s more?”

He chuckles. “There is, if you want to see it.”

“I do, yes, absolutely, I want to!”

“Do you want to eat something first?”

“…I should…”

Roman chuckles, pulling something out of his pocket. “Here. Have this.”

“What is it?”

“Just a pastry from the kitchen.” Roman links his arm through his as they walk, letting Patton eat. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

The snow crunches under them as they go, their breath curling up and into the sky. The trees don’t frown over them like the winter trees he remembers, instead they simply reach out and hold the snow they can as they pass beneath. It’s…soft in a way he doesn’t quite remember, but it feels right.

“Brave one,” Roman asks after a moment, “would you like to spend some time with the others later?”

“Others?”

“The ones you met. My…friends. Logan, Virgil, and Janus.”

“And Remus?”

“Yes, and Remus too.”

Patton is quiet for a moment. “…for my birthday?”

“Believe me, brave one, I would be more than happy to spend your celebration with just the two of us, but you mentioned that you did like to spend it with people who cared about you.”

“I…can I think about it?”

“Of course, little one. We’re almost to where I’d like to go.”

They cross the bridge, no less safe for the snow lightly coating parts of it, until they reach the lake. Or rather, what is normally the lake but is now a pool of pale pink ice. Patton’s mouth drops open as he sees it, carefully breaking free of Roman’s hold to crouch down and touch the surface.

“Do you like it?”

“I feel like at some point I’m going to run out of ways to say thank you.”

Roman chuckles, crouching down to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Knowing you are safe and happy is all the thanks I need.”

“…you’re gonna make me cry and that is not fun when it’s cold outside.”

They settle there on the side of the ice, watching the snow make idle patterns on its surface. Patton toys with a thread on his coat as he thinks about Roman’s offer.

It would be…nice to see the others again. It would be nice to see them in an environment that wasn’t the vast emptiness of nothing and with Roman next to him as well. It would be…yeah, it’d be nice. And he does miss Remus, just a little bit.

But he’d never liked the center of attention that comes with it being your birthday. He just wants to spend time with people he cares about, he doesn’t need them treating him like he’s some special thing that must be revered, or whatnot, and he’s never been a fan of people singing to him while he just stands there awkwardly.

“Roman?”

“Hmm?”

“If they—if they come, could we not tell them it’s to celebrate my birthday?”

“Why not, brave one?”

“I just—I don’t like the part of it where it’s all about me. I like—I like spending time with people but I don’t want them just focused on me, does that make sense?”

Roman considers for a moment. “Does the focus make you uncomfortable?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Does…does my focus make you uncomfortable?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Words are hard. Um…I don’t mind when it’s just us because then it’s just—it’s just you. You by yourself aren’t too much for me and you—you know enough about me to know when to give me space.”

Roman makes a noise of understanding. “But if all of the others were here and focused on you at once…”

Patton nods.

“…they may be curious as to why I asked them to come, but I’m sure we could just say you wanted to see them again.”

“Would that be okay?”

“Yes, brave one, that can be arranged. When would you like them to come?”

“…maybe later?”

“Later can be arranged.” Roman settles against his side. “Would you like to meet them here?”

“What about that big grove of trees near the waterfall? Will it be frozen?”

“Sure, brave one. I’m sure Remus will be very happy.”

“Wait, why?”

“Ah, he must not have told you the story about the time he decided to experiment with the body of a fish.”

Patton blinks. “No, no he did not.”

“Perhaps he can tell you later, then.”

—————

Patton’s hands aren’t clenched, per se, inside the pockets of his coat, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. The last time he met these Eldritch, it…well, it was not the most relaxing of experiences.

Luckily for him, the first one to show up is Remus, who doesn’t hesitate to wrap Patton in a hug. “Hello, little one.”

“Hi. How are you so warm?”

“Eldritch benefits, little one.” The tentacles wave back and forth. “These help too.”

“Wait, how?” Remus just grins. “Eldritch, alright, I get it.”

“The others are on their way,” Remus says, “though I think Roro might come back first.”

“Is he making sure they behave?”

“Probably.” Remus tugs him closer. “But that’s my job too.”

…he would be lying if he said that didn’t make him feel a little bit better.

Before long, though, another figure opens the door, stepping through and glancing around. Remus raises an arm in greeting and the figure raises one too, walking over to join them.

“Patton, wasn’t it?” The figure holds a hand out. “Do you remember me?”

“You’re Logan, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Logan smiles and shakes his hand. “It’s good to see you again. I can see why you like this place…Roman’s done a masterful job.”

“Do you—have you spent more time observing the mortal world, then?”

“Oh, yes, it fascinates me.” He reaches out, a hand just brushing the curve of Patton’s cheek. “Humans are so endlessly creative, especially when it comes to things they cannot understand.”

The soft wonder in his voice, of course, makes Patton blush and they both laugh.

“Is that all it takes, little human?” God, that’s a deep voice. “Have I lost you?”

“Go easy on him, Lo,” Remus says quietly.

“I apologize. I don’t intend to tease.” Logan’s hand drops to squeeze his. “Thank you for indulging my curiosity.”

“Is Logan bothering you?”

Patton doesn’t quite jump at the sound of another voice, but his eyes do widen at the appearance of the hoodie loosely containing another shape. “Virgil?”

“That’s me.” The shape draws up next to them. “Logan likes to poke at things until he can understand them, don’t mind him.”

“I enjoy conversing with humans,” Logan corrects, “I’m not some uncivilized beast, Virgil.”

“Right, right, wow, I’m sorry.” Virgil shakes his head. “Touchy.”

Remus and Patton laugh at the bickering, before Virgil’s attention turns back to Patton.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Why’d you ask if we’d come over? Don’t get me wrong,” he says, glancing around, “I’m more than happy to see what Princey’s been so focused on, but he’s never asked us before.”

“I, um…” He fiddles with a seam on the inside of his coat. “…wanted to see you guys again.”

Virgil blinks. “Oh. Really?”

“…why is that surprising?”

“I dunno, humans don’t normally seek us out unless it’s to get something out of it.” Virgil narrows his—eyes? What are those?—at him. “Just wondering what you’re getting out of it.”

Patton shivers in the cool air as Remus growls low in his throat. Even Logan mutters a soft Virge.

“I wanted to see you,” Patton says, proud of how little his voice trembles, “because Roman and I were talking about what I missed. From—from before. And I said I missed spending time with people I—with people I liked.”

“And you…you like us? You met us for…what, barely a moment?”

“Roman likes you,” he mumbles, scuffing his boot along the snowy ground, “so…”

“Thank you for asking us,” Logan says softly, reaching out to take his hand again, “it’s nice to see you again too.”

Virgil bumps against his shoulder. “Don’t take the questions personally, little human. I’m that much of an asshole to everyone.”

Logan’s murmured agreement brings a smile back to his face.

“Speaking of assholes—“

“Remus, no.”

“Don’t start.”

“—relax, I’m just asking where Janny is.”

“You called?”

This time Patton does jump as a figure appears behind him, whirling around as his wings instinctively pull in on himself. Remus snarls quietly, pulling Patton behind him as the last figure rolls his eyes.

“Oh, please, it’s hardly my fault the human’s so jumpy.”

“Dude,” Virgil groans, “knock it off. Literally none of us are impressed by your creepy villain facade. You’re as big of a dork as Remus is.”

“Hey! What did I do to get compared to a whale penis?”

“And what did I do to get compared to Remus?”

Patton’s breathing is still coming a little too fast for his liking, so when Logan steps up and quietly offers to hold his hand, pull him away a little bit, he takes it gladly.

“I apologize for him,” he says as Remus takes his other hand, “he’s…well, he leans a little bit more into human expectations for Eldritch. He enjoys it.”

“Mhm.”

“He is, however, mostly ‘bark and not bite,’ I believe the expression goes.” Logan squeezes his hand. “He won’t hurt you.”

Virgil snorts. “He’s a big softy, yeah.”

“I am not!”

But then his gaze catches Patton’s, who is still a bit too wide-eyed and small, and something in him just gives. He holds a hand out and carefully brushes Patton’s cheek, tapping the end of his nose.

“There, now, sweetie,” he says softly as the others hide their snickers, “I wouldn’t dream of hurting Roman’s human.”

“Correct,” says Roman’s voice as warm arms wrap themselves about Patton’s waist, “and neither will the rest of you.”

The others make noises of agreement as Patton lets the smile take over his face. Roman presses a kiss to the back of his neck. As they continue gently teasing each other about whatever Eldritch tease each other over, he thinks this might not be such a bad way to spend a birthday after all.

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autisticlancemcclain · 6 months

Text

part one

———

Over the next several weeks, Marcela continues to keep an eye on the boy. (Takashi. She knows his name is Takashi, and that he is an adult by legal standards. But she can’t get over how — how young he is. She can’t get over the scars on his face and the straight-backed robotic way he walks and the haunted look in his eyes. She hates America, often, and she hates the world, for letting children — encouraging them — to sign up for something they can never understand. He has been alive for less than one quarter of his lifespan. He is just a boy.)

She’s careful not to overbear him, to keep some distance, but at least once a week she’ll make a plate and send it his way, or have Luis weed his garden as well as theirs. She’ll even kick the football into his yard when she’s playing with Lance and Rachel, just to give them an excuse to go get it, just to give the boy a reason to get up and answer the door. She’s always been a light sleeper, too, and when she hears his car start up in the middle of the night, far too late for any errands, she’ll press a gentle kiss to her sleeping husband’s temple and slide her feet into her slippers, quietly padding over to the kitchen and watching with a mug of tea until the car pulls back into the driveway. (Some days, that takes hours. Some days the sun rises again before she sees the beam of his headlights bleed back onto their streets. Some days, even, he won’t leave the driveway, sitting instead with his hands clutched on the wheels and his eyes staring, unblinking, at the chipping paint of his garage door, for hours. Those are the worst days. On those days, she makes sure to make something sweet and warm and comforting, and leave a heaping plate of it on his doorstep. On those days, she swallows the lump in her throat and hugs her children tightly and they grip the seams of her shirt and say nothing, not even whining or squirming when she pulls them away from their games. On those days she misses her brother so much it aches in her teeth.)

On one particularly hot day, she’s reorganising the kitchen cabinets and only paying half attention. The rest of her is staring out the window above the sink, because the boy walked into his backyard two hours ago and stood ramrod straight in the middle of the clover and has not moved since and worried does not begin to cover it.

“Maaaaaaaaamá,” whines a voice behind her. Marcela jumps, whirling around, pressing her hand to her heaving chest when she sees who it is.

“Leandro,” she scolds, turning back to her half-hearted sorting of their colourful collection of mugs. “You startled me.”

Her baby doesn’t respond to that, choosing instead to flop dramatically over the kitchen table, cheek smushed on the scratched wood and limbs askew.

“I’m so bored,” he laments, brown eyes big and pouted and pleading. “There’s nothing to do. No one to play with. I am alone and despolate.”

“Desolate,” Marcela corrects, grinning. “You’re a mocoso descarado, you know that?”

He beams at her. She sets the final mug away, then walks over to brush his hair from his face and press a kiss to his forehead.

He leans into her touch, sighing. “How come I couldn’t go with everybody? It’s not fair. I’m very mature. I could have watched the scary movie.”

She hums, taking the seat next to him and gathering him into her arms. He goes willingly, elbowing her in the side in his haste to tuck himself into her lap and under her chin. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and strokes her hands gently down his back.

“You’re very mature, mi vida,” she agrees softly, squeezing. “But maybe no scary movies for the chico mono who gets nightmares when he sleeps without a nightlight and cries when he sees a dried out worm, hm?”

He harrumphs, wounded. She hides a smile in his hair and loves him with her whole body.

“‘M not a baby.”

“There’s nothing babyish about having a big heart. I just want to keep it —” she tickles the spot just above his heart, making him giggle — “safe and sound, okay?”

“Okay.”

She pulls back slightly so she has room to clasp her palms to his cheeks, kissing him smack in between the eyes with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ noise.

“There we go, mijo.”

She settles them back against the chair, rocking them a little. Her baby has grown up so much. It startles her, sometimes, when she checks in on him — on any of her babies — and sees a big, growing kid in a big boy bed, instead of the baby in a crib she’s expecting. Five years is nothing, and five years is hundreds of days worth of knowing and loving him. She hopes her children know how much love bubbles out of her, all for them. How much she treasures every single second she had and has with him.

He squirms, slightly, in her lap, forcing himself still after a couple seconds when he catches himself moving. She glances down to find him fidgeting, twisting his fingers. He’s restless — he’ll get moody soon. He’s been cooped up in the house all day with no one to play with. He’s been an angel, either helping her around the house and entertaining himself, but it’s not fair to him.

Her eyes drift back out the kitchen window, and she gets an idea.

“Lancito,” she starts, straightening out as a plan begins to take form, “you want to play chess?”

He blinks at her.

“You stink at chess,” he says, not unkindly.

It’s true — she does. She understands, objectively, how to play, but she’s never managed to see the board the way Lance or Veronica see it. She doesn’t understand how to play strategically and never has. She can’t picture future moves or anticipate strategy the way chess players can, so she’s always pretty easily beat. Not that it would matter too much if she could play well — Lance has beaten everyone in the house several times over. When he’s allowed to play on the computer, he beats the players there, too. He’s bright, and he has been obsessed with the game since his fingers were big enough to move around the pieces and his Abuela taught him to play.

She helps him to the floor, speeding to the fridge and pulling out some leftovers as Lance watches in confusion.

“There’s someone you haven’t played before, though.”

“Nuh-uh.” He starts listing on his fingers. “I beat you, I beat Papá, I beat Luis, I beat Veronica, I beat Marco, like, a hundred times —”

Marcela finishes setting up a — pointedly and deliberately — balanced plate, wrapped with parchment this time because she’s run out of aluminum foil. She spots Lance’s folded up chessboard and grabs it, placing the plate on top and offering it to Lance, who stares at it with furrowed brows.

“I bet you Takashi is a new challenge,” she says enticingly. “Why don’t you go over and ask him to play?”

Lance, bless his little extrovert heart, brightens immediately.

“Oh yeah!”

She walks him to the door, hand on his head to help guide him around the various tripping hazards in the hallway — her family is messy, and Lancito has never been the most coordinated child. He’ll be fine (probably) when he gets outside.

“Okay, make sure you’re either back in a couple hours or you come let me know that you’re staying,” she says, lingering at the front steps. Lance is already skittering across the driveway, not even bothering to wave.

“‘Kay! Bye!”

She watches as he rushes up Takashi’s steps, careful not to spill the plate. The door is open — it really is hot today — and only the screen is left closed. Marcela crosses her fingers, hoping the boy will come when Lancito knocks, and —

She freezes. Her jaw drops. Lance — didn’t knock. The little dork just…opened the door of a relative stranger’s house and just.

Walked in.

“Dios mio,” she mutters to herself, hustling back to the kitchen to continue spying out the window.

She makes it there just in time, not even bothering with the pretence of reorganizing cup ware as she watches her son stride up to the boy, a particular sort of childlike confidence guiding his bare feet, and plant himself in front of him. The boy, strangely, does not seem to notice him, still staring blankly ahead of him.

Lance considers this for a moment. He steps over to the side and sets down the plate of food, walking back to stand squarely in front of the boy. He pokes him. The boy startles.

Marcela scrambles to open the window.

“I need a chess buddy,” Lance declares.

Takashi blinks at him.

“How,” he says, finally, gesturing at Lance as a whole. “What.”

“Chess is a strategy game played by two people,” Lance explains, missing the meaning of Takashi’s statement entirely. Marcela bites her tongue to keep from laughing. “Sit down, I’ll teach you.” Lance sits. He opens his chessboard and begins meticulously setting up the pieces. “I call dibs on playing black.”

Takashi doesn’t move for a long while. For a moment Marcela worries that he won’t let Lance play; or worse, he’s frozen again, uncomprehending of what’s in front of him.

But, slowly, he sits. And he runs his fingertips over the top of the pawns. He swallows, harshly, several times. Something painful works its way across his face before settling into something pensive, soft.

“I would appreciate that,” he says quietly.

He clearly knows how to play. He lets Lance explain, but he has no trouble keeping up with Lance play for play; eventually cornering Lance’s king. Lance glares at him for several minutes after, which Shiro allows with a stoic look in return, until the frown on Lancito’s face suddenly shifts to one of begrudging respect.

“Rematch,” Lance decides, ever the most competitive child Marcela has ever known.

Shiro cracks a smile. “So I can beat you again?”

Lance huffs. “We’ll see, butthead.”

Satisfied that the boys are fine, for once, relieved at the animation returned to Takashi’s spirit, Marcela turns back to organizing the kitchen in earnest. She puts on her favourite CD and dances around the kitchen as she arranges the plates and bowls in a very particular way she knows will drive her husband insane. She loses herself in the monotony of scrubbing the fridge clean for no reason except that it’s Sunday and she’s bored and she has to time to lose herself in tedium, lucky as she is.

Hours later, long after the rest of her family comes in, Lance stomps his way into the living room where Marcela is braiding Rachel’s hair and helping her run lines for her school play.

“I want to trade Marco for Shiro,” he announces. He explains for their benefits: “That’s what Takashi told me I could call him.”

Marcela hides a smile. “You can still visit next door if you keep your brother, you know.”

“Ugh,” Lance says.

Rachel snorts. She knows as well as everyone else in the house that it will be Marco, tonight, who Lance will turn to to help check his room for monsters or sleep with should he have a nightmare. And Marco will sigh and whine and complain and never entertain the idea of not helping.

“I’m glad you and Takashi have become friends,” Marcela offers.

This brings the smile back to Lance’s face.

“Duh,” he says. “It’s Shiro.”

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