- this is my secondary blog. main is @fourcolorfever where i post ab x-men
- character list can be found -> here
- masterlist can be found -> here
- talk/send in anything about anything!! i'm always open to chat, even if requests aren't open :3
- other things i could talk about?: x-men + marvel/dc comics in general, but especially anything mutant related
- currently reading: new x-men by grant morrison and misc., uncanny x-men by joe casey and sean phillips, and x-treme x-men by chris claremont and salvatore larocca
if you had to chose between one, would you pick an aquarium meet with maam crew or food truck taste test with damn crew?
listening to Corvus ramble about all the fish and corals and other oceanic interest of his or sharing fried and sodas while Damien bickers with Gavin about paper straws?
i totally lost this in my inbox!!!
aquarium with maam, no question. especially if one is lucky enough to go when tbere's no school groups or summer camps or whatever. vv peaceful, and i would just stare at the horseshoe crab for hours
I love love love conflict/arguments im sorry I just think it’s not something we see a lot for content in the redacted fandom, we usually see mutual angst between characters and stuff so I think it’s great that you’re so good at writing conflict, i came to request maybe a Milo/sweetheart argument, whether it be domestic or not whatever you think!
I imagine that earlier in their relationship Milo was a bit more abrasive (not David levels lol) but I think that his relationship with his father and being on edge and staying on his toes at work for his jobs itself and because people made fun of him lots he was awakes on edge and very ready to get defensive, so if you wanted to make it something about that :)
No issue if you don’t want to though! Just saw your requests open!! Thanks!
-😽
(a/n: back to the grind!!! hope my return to the stage of requests is satisfactory. reqs open!)
A buoyancy at complete odds with the sterile, subtle hostility of the building around them inflated in their chest, carrying them aloft through the lobby toward the fromt doors leading out into Dahlia proper. They had to bite down on the inside of their cheek to suppress the smile that insistently challenged the corners of their lips.
A chance to prove themselves after a job well done.
That's what their supervisor had called the file he had slipped into their hands as they went to clock out for the day. He was an anachronism made flesh: short, crisply cut and maintained hair slicked with pomade, rumpled button-up and slacks that always had the bitter tang of long-gone diner coffee emanating from the fabric, jaw always on the shadowy side of stubbled, no matter how recently he had shaved. He was meant for missing persons and mistresses in greyscale, not magical minutiae and breach of covert reports.
But there he was. And he had a reputation.
And he wanted them to be on his taskforce.
And on top of all that, as if this day could possibly get any better, they had a date. A date who was standing right by the front entry to the Department of Uniform Magical Pracrices. A date who was...scowling, his eyes fixed somewhere vaguely around their head.
"Milo?" they asked, their voice turning tentative, that barely-there smile fading in an instant. "Is everything alright?"
He raised his eyes to meet theirs, and they quickly cataloged the flinty cast to his gaze, but also something softer, almost bruised.
"Perfect." he muttered before shoving the door open with a twist of his shoulder.
The walk to the car was damn near silent, their insides twisting with an unspoken uncertainty that was quickly approaching the territory of fear.
"Are you okay?" they finally murmured once they were both buckled in and heading to Milo's apartment for takeout and a movie.
"Who was he?" he attempted to ask in a casual tone and failed miserably. "That guy you were talking to."
"Guy I was talking–" Their eyes furrowed before shooting up in stunned realization. "Julian? My supervisor?"
"Julian." Milo said under his breath, pointedly ignoring the clarification to the man's position in their life. "Stupid name."
"Right." they said, their tone turning decidedly flat. They weren't the type to die for an institution, but Julian was a good guy who did good work, and they couldn't help the way Milo's attitude was ruffling their feathers. "What exactly is your problem with him?"
"Nothing."
The answer came much too fast, on the tail end of a just-stifled retort.
"Milo." Their voice was somehow much too loud and much too quiet.
He sighed, fingers tightening on the steering wheel, the skin over his knuckles pulling tight.
"You just...seemed really happy around him, 's all." he finally replied. "Relaxed. Familiar. Chummy." He shot them a quick look before turning back to the window.
"What does that have to do with you?" they shot back, causing his jaw to feather. "I'm going home with you, aren't I?"
"You are." he conceded, and they could hear the 'but' chasing its tail. "But you just...seem real comfortable in the Department. Makes me wonder..." He licked his lips. "Well, it makes a guy wonder where your priorities lie."
Their brow arched. "Really. Running around doing glorified hall monitor duties is all fine and good, but governmental work is where we draw the line."
"First of all, you know damn well my job is more than that. Second of all, I'm just saying–"
"You're saying that you don't trust me as an employee of the Department because part of you is still hung up on the way it warped your dad."
The car fell deathly silent for a moment, but they pushed on.
"While I'm going to ignore the complete lack of nuance in your argument for painting all Department workers as a monolith of incompetence, I'm going to focus on the fact that it's wildly insulting to be compared and likened to a man who I've never met and have expressed my distaste for. On numerous occasions."
"And thirdly," they concluded, "I was talking to Julian because he was impressed with my work and wanted to promote me to more confidential and privileged cases. I wanted to tell you so that we could celebrate."
Milo's face fell, and they felt a frisson of guilt at the twinge of righteousness that surfaced at the sight.
"Sweetheart, I didn't know, I–"
"You still meant it." they shrugged. "Just take me home. We'll take a rain check on movie night."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he ultimately relented, not saying another word until he gave them a quiet farewell at their door.
My mutuals, no pressure! (Hope it doesn't matter if some of them aren't in the fandom): @cas-fandoms @indigonightmar3 @florasomnia @urnewroomie @102booksfan @naokikui37 @pseudomutuality @maxismeyhem @kijumizstudios @jeli-in-tea @elvishdemigod @ruubric @wontyourecognizeme
(a/n: hey...this was supposed to be made last month. all it took was a fresh set of nails to remind me how much i love the way my fingers look when i type– i mean. how much i love to write. HUGE shoutout to @damnbtway for this idea. hope you enjoy my inability to write full fluff)
“I don't think I'm meant for love.”
David looked up from his laptop, eyebrows scrunched in the way that told Asher that he was deciding between polite concern and well-worn frustration, the downtick to his lips giving credence to the latter.
“Dramatic.” David observed, his tone neutral but not unkind. “I take it dinner didn't go well?”
“You take it one million percent correctly.” he huffed in reply, beelining for the fridge to grab a pop before collapsing on the sofa with a long-suffering sigh.
Silence.
He sighed again, casting his eyes down and to the side in forlorn despondency.
More silence.
He opened his mouth to sigh again, but changed course to a snicker when he heard the laptop click shut.
“What happened.”
“Well, if you must know,” he began, earning a withering glare that he pointedly ignored, “he got there on time.”
A different kind of silence.
“So…he's punctual. And that's…that's a problem?” David asked, his nose wrinkling in thought.
“Yeah, but you don't understand. I was early. Like, ten whole minutes early.”
This earned a surprised and somewhat approving expression that really shouldn't have made his heart stutter the way it did.
“I'm impressed,” David replied, his voice taking on the cadence of careful intention, “but he still showed up on time.”
“It's the principle of the matter.” he huffed. “He should be just as excited to see me as I was to see him.”
He realized how immature and disproportionate that sounded, but such things never truly mattered in moments of baggage disposal such as these.
“Right.” It was a testament to the utmost gravity of this situation that David didn't tack on a snide comment.
“Did anything else happen, or are you just realizing what it's like for everyone on the flip side when they meet up with you?”
Ah. There it was.
“Ass.” he groused, giving David a squinted look, though it wasn't without a deepening of his smile lines. “You know, no one would ever believe me if I told them how petty you are. You've got everyone under the impression that you're just a stoic sort of dickhead, when in reality, you're just as much a shithead as me.”
“Well,” David rumbled, returning his narrowed gaze with a cool look of his own, “there's something to be said about letting the pretenses drop around someone who knows you better than anyone else.”
“Ass.” he grunted again, praying that his best friend couldn't detect the hitch in his breathing.
“Come on,” David sighed, propping his elbow on the couch and leaning his head on his palm. “What else went so wrong that you're denouncing romance forever?”
Asher faltered, the tender skin at the sides of his nails suddenly becoming an increasingly distracting sight.
“Did he say something?” David's tone dropped into a warning grind. “Did he insult you? Make you uncomfortable? Try to do something you didn't want–”
“No, no.” he rushed to assuage him. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh.”
David settled back, though only slightly, his posture still tensed in anticipation of something yet unrealized.
“Then what was the problem?”
Asher didn't say anything for a long while, weighing the pros and cons of spilling his guts. He ultimately came to the conclusion that he owed nothing short of complete and utter transparency with the man who gave as much to him.
“He wasn't you.”
The apartment went deathly still, the hum of the air conditioning the only thing left to accompany the unsteady breaths echoing in his head.
“What does that mean, exactly?” David's voice was practiced, composed, and a dead giveaway for the lack of balance he was currently experiencing.
“He wasn't you.” Asher repeated, not letting himself indulge in the humiliating desire to meet his eyes. “He kept telling me things about himself, about his work, about his friends, about his life, and I just…I didn't care. I know how awful that sounds, and I felt how awful it was, but I checked out ten minutes in. All I could think about was coming home to you and forgetting that I had gone out in the first place.”
More quiet followed, and Asher had just mustered the courage to get up and go to his room when David spoke.
“It wouldn't work.”
And how pathetically telling it was that Asher elated at the idea that he wasn't dismissing his feelings outright, that a sensible explanation was at hand, even as something deep within his sternum began to wilt.
“I'm going to be the Alpha.” he continued. “After my dad. And you…you're going to be my Beta. I'm sure of it. And the politics of it…it just invites too many issues.”
He couldn't help the petulance that snaked its way into his tone. “That's why? Pack dynamics? That's bullshit, and you know it. It's not like a marriage, not the way most people think of it as, anyway. Plenty of Alphas and Betas are mates, David–”
At the word ‘mates,’ David flinched, sending a lance of something cold and bitterly sharp through his fingertips.
“It wouldn't work.” David repeated, before he added on, at a devastatingly diminished volume, “For me.”
A lifetime of carefully constructed scaffolding came crashing down in a barreling heap, a dam bound with nothing but the wisps of a faraway want crumbling to splinters and ruin.
It wasn't like Asher had expected a fairytale ending. Nothing of the sort. But it didn't have to be so abruptly finite, the candle snuffing itself out from both ends the instant the wick caught. His lungs were turning rotten, pulpy ephemera catching in his bronchial tubes and urging him to act.
“Can we act like it would?” he whispered. “Like it would work? Just for a moment?”
“Asher.” David rumbled, his eyes soft and tender. “That's not a good idea.”
“I don't care.” Asher bit back, fully aware of how his tone began to border on the pitiful holler of a struck dog. “It wasn't a good idea to tell you in the first place. I want to act like it would work. Please.”
David's face took on a brief but powerful conflict, his expression clouding over with a stormy internal reckoning before he sighed, long and ragged.
“Come here.” he rasped, and Asher scrambled to his feet and over to his best friend. David's hands, so large and capable, gently guided him to straddle his lap, the contact eliciting a shaky exhale from both of their chests.
The first brush of their lips was hesitant, lacking commitment, giving both parties ample time to retreat, to escape.
Neither took the grace period.
The next impact was a collision of flesh and heat, stubble rasping over skin and the flow of oxygen halting in service of something better. Asher's hands fluttered up to David's chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer, closer, closer.
Something feral and righteous burned at the points of his canines and the hinges of his jaw, indignant and fierce. It was so unfair, so lacking in justice, to be kept apart by something so simple and yet ao destructive as power.
The absence of understanding threatened to rend him from the inside out, his innards curdling with a base, primal strain of anguished rage. Why couldn't it work? Why shouldn't it work? The sense of rightness that coursed through his veins nearly brought tears to his eyes.
He remembered, of all things in this moment, being a child, making friends with all manner of kith and kin. Spending nights on floors and every so often, spending a bleary-eyed Sunday morning in a rock-hard pew, listening to a man in an overstarched shirt drone about edicts and dire warnings he couldn't care less about.
But one thing that always stuck was the story of creation. How one was taken from the rib of another, destined to be at their side for all eternity, for the eternal machine to chug on the pumps of two pistons. As he got older, he had scoffed at the idea, casting it aside as demeaning and derogatory. Everyone was their own person, plain and simple.
But when David's palms swept a branding trail from his shoulders to his waist, his body hummed with a contentment as yet unheard of. Blunt fingers crosshatched with callouses slotted perfectly into a skeletal framework that practically whined with their own intrinsic craving, embedded to the marrow.
He panted into David's mouth, an electric thrill arcing up his spine at the resulting groan that poured onto his tongue. He could feel his phone digging into his thigh through his pocket, his shirt's tag scratching along the nape of his neck, and the fuzzed tang of coffee-tinged aftertaste on his cheeks. But he didn't care. Life could make a worthless martyr out of him, his trials consisted of the most inconsequential annoyances, and he would triumph with a ferocity unmatched.
Anything for this to go on endlessly. His pyre would be the discomfiture of pleasure, the inconvenience of hedony.
David's teeth nipped at his lower lip, soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue, sucking at the inflamed tissue until it throbbed in the best possible way. His fingers dug in ever tighter, and Asher sent up a desperate plea to anything with ears to hear that he would wake up to his best friend's handprints seared onto his skin.
Minutes, or hours, or perhaps days passed, neither one quite ready to end the bubble of bliss so fretfully erected, both sensing their impending arrival to the other side of heaven.
But they did it anyway. They broke apart, staring at each other, saying words that had no need of voice. They got off the couch. They went to their rooms. They laid on their beds and stared at their ceilings, wondering when the ache would dim.
i am not dead, in case you were wondering. things have been happening (work. it’s work. it’s always work.) i have one piece brewing and then it’s request time baybee. ty for your patience and for not razing my crops to the ground. much love.
i totally forgot to post ab this, but to those of you who have sent asks/requests! they will come, i promise! i'm working on some pride-focused things, trying to make them long-form, but i haven't forgotten my roots 🙏🏻
NSFW content below the cut mdni thing got heated very quickly
(I maybe regret a little please don't stone me for that :)))
"Oh, f-fuck." The stutter that left his lips as his hips were lifted and slammed back down only made the other man chuckle, free hand brushing back the hair, sweat causing them to stick to his forehead.
"There's that foul mouth." Another thrust caught him off guard, the attention already dwindling, barely focusing on anything but the fiery burn between his legs, chaffing thighs already sore, muscles clenching from waist down below.
"Shhh, cowboy, you're doing so well for me…"
Was he?
It started earlier in the day. His car, the truck loved beyond its usefulness, broke down with one last stutter of the engine, spurt of the black smoke leaving his exhaust, and that was it. No amount of turning the key in the ignition changed the outcome. The car was dead.
Sam was good at things. He liked to believe himself as a handyman, teenage years teaching him the hard and honest work that was supposed to straighten his ways and make him a reliable man of the household. Leaking sink? He was on his knees, a wrench in his hand. Broken or loose lock? Screwdriver and few minutes of tinkering and everything was fine. Building a shed from scratch? No sweat.
But knowing anything about the monstrosity under the hood of his car? That, was beyond his mind, nothing left to do but to call a mechanic and tow the machine into his garage. Or maybe to a dump, judging by how old it was.
Said mechanic didn't pick up. When he finally did, after getting bombarded by the impatient and frustrated man, he told him to call in the next week instead, his schedule full. And between ending the call and spewing a string of profane curses out in his porch, a familiar tone over the fence called his name.
"Need a hand?" more than one probably, but he would take the two biceps over his self-pity and wallowing.
But his pride wouldn't let him ask so openly about it.
David was less worried about the pride or offended ego, already opening the gate to his house. Living in the neighbourhood was a useful thing, he had to admit.
"Is there even a point? I think it reached its final moment." he mumbled, arms crossed on his chest when the man took a peek.
He said something, and Sam no longer could pretend he understood or knew what was happening, knowledge lost on him. Black magic, but David seemed more than well versed in the cylinders and whatever else was there.
"I've fixed worse. You have a toolbox or should I go get mine?"
Of course he had one. He was a man of the house.
The sweltering heat was unbearable as he watched him work from the shadow spot near his driveway, gravel crunching underneath David's shoes as he hummed to himself, muscles straining the rolled up sleeves, some grease staining the skin in dark splotches. It's been some time already, and even if he was stubborn enough to fix everything, Sam felt bad.
"You thirsty?"
"Don't trouble yourself. I'm almost finished."
And what did it change? He hated being idle while someone else was working.
Glass of lemonade. Chilled, straight from the fridge given to him with a mumbled and almost shy "here" and David drank it greedily, some of the juice dripping down his chin and onto the shirt, same hand that was just deep in the engine now wiping his mouth, lips pursing and glistening with the drink. Sam took the glass back, his own palm pressing right over when he held it, his own mouth growing dry at the sight, desperate for a drink too.
When he finished, he wiped his arms against his jeans, pleased smile on his face, work done, and car working.
When he turned the key and the old engine roared to life, Sam was inclined to thank him way more than profusely.
That's how they ended up on the ratty couch in the back of his garage. David refused every form of payment Sam offered, saying it was just a neighbourly favour. Sam refused to let him go empty-handed, everything that was forcefully put into his mind as he grew up reeling at the possibility of not returning the gratitude in any way. He was taught better, and he was set on following the order he knew.
Now, David had his hands full of his ass, fingers digging into the flesh, guiding the steady motion into a staccato against his lap, body half sitting as the old springs creaked under their shared weight.
"Taking me so well, who could have thought." The teasing never ended, be it words, fleeting touches that lingered close but not close enough to the heat that emanated from between his thighs, chest heaving as his breath hitched, another depth reached. David only chuckled.
"Maybe we should help each other more often. Southern hospitality starts to grow on me."
Sam only panted, mouth shut close to muffle the obscenities that would surely spew, any smart comments lost on him some time ago, between kisses tinged with saliva, bitterness of the lemon and teeth clashing against each other. Messy, rushed and beyond desperate to get off the heat of outside and into a different, even hotter one.
"Come on, cowboy, let me hear you a little."
The pornographic moan that left his vocal cords would put anybody to shame. His hands moved on their own, placed against David's chest, shirt still on, only few buttons undone to reveal the skin and hair underneath. His nails scraped, not enough to leave a mark, the broad chest more than perfect to scar it.
"Mhm, that's it. That's it." he sped up the pace, just a little, just to catch the man on top of him off guard, body slumping forward, forehead almost hitting the backrest of the sofa, of it wasn't for David's shoulders.
He was big. Muscly big, working out and well eating big, the bulk suiting him like lemonade suits a hot day and Sam has never felt more thirsty in his life, saliva dripping from his mouth as he lapped on the exposed skin, messy and sloppy kisses tracing anything that could have been touched by him, gold of the necklace around David's neck getting in the way, making him whine weakly, mind completely and utterly gone. Empty.
Quiet. Beside the repeated mantra of David, please and too much despite being not enough at the same time.
Strong enough, he picked him up so effortlessly that Sam melted into the touch again, only to ease him down again, burn of the stretch going straight to his shaking legs, muscles cramping. But he still kept going, chasing the high that came from David's endless praise and reassurances that he was doing so good.
"Can feel you getting closer, cowboy. Is the ride too much?"
"Please."
"What do you need, sugar?" the fucker said it on purpose, Sam knew. His mind knew, but it was drowning in the pleasure that began to overflow, every inch and thread of his body on David's mercy.
"P-please…p-lease l-let me…" he mumbled, every syllable punched out of him, slap of skin against skin making him slowly see stars right in front of his eyes instead high in the sky. He doubted he would even have the strength to look up at this point.
"Of course, cowboy. Show me."
And show he did, untouched cock spurting in uneven twitches, every single one making him whine and moan as David's hand began to gently stroke the tip, fingers turning sticky with the amount that shot out of him, still not stopping.
Overstimulation and one hazy "too much" later, his hands, the same ones who kept making him bounce on him, gently pulled him down, head cradled against the slightly calloused palm, still softer than silk or the cotton on Sam's flannel, hastily taken off and laying somewhere on the ground, torso only in the white undershirt, tank top embracing his own muscly physique.
He was thicker than David, flesh softer around the edges, cosy layer of pudge on his lower stomach not deteriorating the other man who easily manhandled him onto his lap, jeans pulled down in one swift move. If he wasn't floating so high in the clouds, he would wish to be thrown over his shoulder, carried back to the back seat of his truck and be fucked again, until his mouth only could speak his name and brain only focused on the outline that bullied his prostrate with every single hit.
"Shh, I have you." he did, he felt it, with how his arms embraced him gently despite his rough demeanour.
"A real cowboy, huh?" between the strokes against his face and whispers of comfort, David took a look against the garage, his eyes stopping at the hat sticking out of a carton box of things unused, a very characteristic shape making him smirk, devilish plan already forming in his Sam-focused mind.
The man curled up on his chest, breathing shakily and grabbing at him for purchase, eyes closed as he simply nuzzled into the soft of his chest, hummed in agreement, the teasing tone escaping him fully.
but before, a little rant, courtesy of my mutuals that indulged me and my brain (mwah to all of yous <33)
Avior is so vanilla, the man screams beige (and it's okay, we don't judge) so I bet he would feel so guilty about even thinking in a way about Starlight. Man is the equivalent of a Victorian male, salivating at the smallest of visible skin, eyes with hearts in them just because its Starlight.
and also, Expedition33 soundtrack is so him, he feels like a gentle song so much 🫣🫣 like, listen to "Honey and Clayworks" or "Robe de Nuit", he's so melodic to me...
okay back to the agenda but ao3 linky here for those who prefer
He believed them right away, because why would there be a reason to not trust their words? They may be more sheepish that usually, tone laced with very welcomed tinge of exhaustion caused by none other than him, hands wrapping around his neck in the last desperate act of getting a kiss before he inevitably got up, embrace broken, chill of the empty spot on the bed beside them making them bury more into the sheets they shared.
The muffled instructions were clear, despite the tone being far from. Spare towel waited for him in a small cabinet by the sink. Toiletries were already placed in the shower, the small shelf built into the wall a shelter for bare necessities and much more, smell so divine he could not help but breathe it in every time they got close. Something between the lines of clean, fresh and of taste, he nodded while reading the labels, eyes scanning every single letter written on the bottles as if it could tell him the future. At least the one concerning his personal hygiene level.
Moisturising, nourishing, for sensitive skin, there was everything anyone could wish upon having, and yet he still couldn't choose, brain rattling upon being bombarded with the options he considered pointless. Why would someone need so many? He really knew little of the human ways of life despite sharing it with one for so long.
Technically not one, the image mirrored to perfection the second time they got dragged into his hell. The same face he adored, he held in his hands, the most precious of treasures, wonder of the world that was only his to cherish. The same body that held them up when everything around fell apart, the same smile that brightened darkest of thoughts, the same aura yet it was not the same at all.
Impersonation was not the word. Mimicry was not the way to define it, pretending was a reach he was not alright with, but whenever he looked at the person in front of him, magic flowing from their fingers like it belonged there in the first place, he couldn't help but long for a soul that was lost between the verses of a song played in the background, notes misplaced despite having their purpose on the sheet of his spellsong.
When the meridian gave them the memories back, everything settled, their shared tune a constant thrum in his ears since then, harp strings being plucked with the gentlest of traces, symphony worthy of a full concert hall. Though he was the biggest fan, he didn't care for anyone else.
The water was warm when he stepped under the spray, body uncoiling and relaxing the moment his muscles were drenched, He reached for the bottle but instead pressed it against the cold tile that grew warmer under his touch, steam billowing in the shower, mirror above the sink getting fogged up rather quick.
The involuntary sigh that left his lips at the simplicity of the pleasure made him cringe. As mundane as it was, somehow the mortal flesh took to it, limbs turning into mush. He wasn't tired, he did not experience the needs and cravings like humans did, shell only powered by magic and emotions he had a plethora of, tongue still heavy with the taste of slight tanginess among the overwhelming syrupy sweetness he devoured like a man starved, desire and their body fuelling him to the brim and more, demons of lust not coming close to what he was offered. Among every emotion he could feed off of, their own was a treat like no other, a cherry on top of the cake that was them, layers complimenting each other like peaches and cream, strawberries and chocolate. Whatever label they fell under, he would follow everywhere without a second thought.
The foam from the soap against his palms looked so bubbly he had to take a moment to appreciate it.
Rubbing it against his skin still felt good, but suddenly grew longing for them to do it, let it be their hands massaging the suds into the knots, undoing any ties and cricks accumulated after the night, sleep coming to him way easier than he anticipated. The prospect of laying his head on the fluffy pillow, warmed by the sun blanket pulled on top of him, a very welcome and familiar weight curled by his side, mattress dipping enough to tilt them a little bit more towards them and at the mere memory, he shut his eyes closed, fingers pinching his forearm to snap out of it. The mental image ceased its existence before another emerged as he dragged the soap across his thighs, muscles spasming just a little due to the strain and soreness, concept so foreign he gasped.
They were straddling him like a well experienced jokey, back arched so beautifully he wished to keep it that way forever, a monument in their name build from nothing but his devotion, from paper to the museum of their memories stored safely in his ribcage. Their lips glossy from their mixed saliva, flesh kissed and worried between his teeth till they told him to stop, a gentle plea for "more" making him weak in the knees.
"Oh shit." Another habit he picked, swearing was a funny concept to think about, but the foam in his eyes stung, soon to be washed out by the water that still kept going. He shook his head, blindly reaching for shampoo, the bottle almost falling from his hold as he opened it, scent wafting, more potent due to the temperature in the bathroom.
They always smelled good, like rays of sunshine on a summer day, overripe cherries that explode in one's mouth upon being bitten, his love cascading down their body like the juices down the chin. He kneaded the flesh, starlight not only on top of him but also all around, his eyes staring only at one that mattered, their face a light in the darkness he was more than willing to step in. How tight they gripped him, how his name rolled down their tongue that was tracing his neck not so long ago, counting every freckle and mole on his skin, constellations drawn with their carnal urges and not the knowledge-driven sketches of ancient astronomers.
He had to stop, the blob of shampoo squeezed out slowly disappearing, sliding down the drain as he just stood there, a temptation growing despite his better judgement. Fire in the pit of his stomach, coiling dangerously tight, fingertips tingling as he tried to calm himself. To no avail, his mind against him, portraying more devious and impure of thoughts. He pinched himself again, harder in the faintest of hopes to make it stop.
This time, it was him on his knees, their dishevelled state allowing him the switch, gratitude spelled out in hungry licks and hums, mouth more than full of them and them only as they writhed on the bed, his spot taken by their feverishly hot body, his shirt bundled over their mouth to keep the sounds muffled, a crime truly. Busy with the matter at hand, he only tugged on their leg, putting it on his shoulder, earning yet another arch that made his eyes roll, efforts doubled if not tripled.
He licked his lips, swearing that he could feel the sensation, phantom pain of pleasure they were drowning in. Taking in a deep yet shaky breath, looking down on himself, he only embarrassed himself further, seeing what he feared. Just a memory, just a simple thought of them made him so pent up, tip practically weeping, his hand not brave enough to touch it.
They wouldn't be so prudish, always eager to show him more about life, in whatever area and expertise his curiosity peaked, but he wasn't them. D(a)emons, no matter how close they existed to those on the mortal realm, were not made for those – he wasn't made for those – the notion reserved for a certain type.
Why was he so tempted now? Why was he even considering such a depravity when between him and his Starlight stood only a wall of the bathroom and haze of the steam that managed to accumulate inside? If not unfair of him, then it would be improper.
Excuses, his mind reeled, fingers almost grazing what twitched eagerly at the prospect of relief, bottom lip bitten at the uncertainty. He was in a shower, place more than perfect to wash away any dirt he would be feeling afterwards, any sounds muffled by the spray, he would be more than glad to cover it when the bills would come, a fee and compensation for his actions.
Inhale, he leaned back against the tiles.
Exhale, he shuddered as his hand trailed down to the base, so close, so –.
"Avior? You're going to use all the hot water, c'mon." their voice from behind the closed doors made him snap his head so hard he heard a crack in his neck, pain shooting down the right side. Another knock, louder this time.
"Hello! You're okay in there?"
"Y-yeah. Coming." he cut the water off, tail flicking in an annoyed manner.
Her eyes crawl over to find yours, lids lax with the carelessness solely bestowed on the honest summer child. Her heels are burrowed into damp, glutinous mud, still weeping with the remnants of last week’s downpour. Bare feet tilt at a persistent angle, pushed by the creek's current, the only sounds your shared breathing and the babble of liquid motion over stretches of flattened stone.
“What wouldn't you like?” she drawls, her voice lancing through the balmy stillness between you. “Rich's godawful cologne suffocating you while you try to cook his dinner like a serf?” She snorts, fingers lazily drifting through kelly green blades of bristled growth.
The night before, she had insisted on you stopping by right after work while she grabbed a portable radio for your night to the drive-in. Her mother had indeed been slaving away over the stove while her stepfather, Rich, encased her from behind, barely allowing her an inch of movement in any direction.
But there's one particular aspect that has stuck out in your mind and needled at your idle hours since.
“He kept kissing her neck.” you finally answer, flicking an ant off of your skirt. “They were loud and wet and…and kind of off-putting.”
Alexis grunts, her agreement not needing to be articulated. But her eyes remain on you, eyebrows raised in droll challenge, irises shimmering with something that tugs at your memory.
"Is it just the thought of him kissing your neck, or being kissed on the neck in general?” she questions, her hand falling stationary.
“The thought in general.” you reply, your nose wrinkling. You've always been rather sensitive, giving your peers and family members no shortage of amusement as you twisted and flinched away from gentle pokes and teasing prods. You can't imagine that having lips where your sensation is most heightened would be anything nearing pleasant.
Quiet resumes, and you've just managed to tuck away your sensibilities enough to lay back on the grass before her words reach your ears.
“I could kiss you there. If you want. To see if you like it.”
Your chest hitches, static weighing thick and heavy over your just prone form. The implications don't need to be voiced. The potential fallout sits like a stone in your throat.
“I…I shouldn't…” you trail off, fingers curling into your dampened palms.
“Wouldn't you rather find out now?” There's an odd sort of hunger coloring her tone, desperation tempered with a bite that almost makes you wince. “Why would you want to wait for some prick to slobber all over you just to find out you'd rather be dead?”
The word dead coming out of Alexis Getty's mouth is nearly enough to make you break into peals of laughter. She isn't made for talks of mortality, not conceivable in terms of beginning and end. You can close your eyes and imagine her laying on this creek bed at any period, at any era. The world could be in ruins, and she would still be siphoning the sunlight for all it was worth, gulping it down like a rabid scavenger aware of its closing window.
Call it familiarity. Call it something that won't go past your trachea. Either way, it's just wrong.
You bite your lip, watching as her pupils dilate a touch at the crease in your skin.
“It…it won't mean anything, will it?” you ask. You're not religious, exactly, but the community might as well be your temple, your family its followers, and its creed forbids aberrations.
Her face shutters, her nostrils flaring.
“No.” she mumbles. “It doesn't matter.” Her eyes flash with an accompanying sneer inching at her lips.
“I'm just helping you. I've done it enough.”
Something hot and sour lances your stomach at the reminder. Girlhood is a toothy thing, blossoming in patches of damp in curves you aren't ready for, shark-infested waters you haven't managed to acclimate to, milestones so far out of your reach while others attain them with every other step. Lip gloss and mascara feel like they're trying to glue your orifices shut, making sure you can't see and you'll never be heard. It ends up leaving you sitting in front of your mirror in a daze, wondering when, or if, you'll ever feel ready.
Alexis, on the other hand, was born ready in a way that renders you equally dizzy. She flirts and parries advances with blistering ease, caustic insults and saccharine coos intertwining into a symphony that makes your bones chill as you watch from the outskirts. She kisses and tells with identical nonchalance, detailing her exploits with brash satisfaction moderated with boredom while you stew in something nervous and slippery.
It will be helpful, won't it? To be on the receiving end? To know what she does and how it feels good, so that you can replicate it later?
“Yeah.” you eventually murmur. “You can do it.”
Your eyes slide shut on instinct, not allowing your senses to catch up with what your mind has decided. The second darkness descends, you feel them. Plush, slightly sticky warmth grazes your skin, lighting a traction path that forks lightning around your skull.
You remember when she first moved here, your mother all but commanding you to show her around. You had ended up on this very same creekbed, what would eventually become your ‘spot.’ She had nicked peaches from a yardside farm stand with a quick snap of her wrist, tucking them into her skirts with a wink and a smirk.
You had watched her sink her teeth into the warmed, fuzzed flesh, overly eager to see her reaction to the fruits of your land. But then the juice had trickled, and she had slurped the tender meat until you had to focus on your own produce in order to not do something irrational. The thought of her mouth and tongue roving over the mess of sugar and fiber had stained your mind for weeks after.
Now, feeling those same motions on your heated skin, you wish that your dermis could split as easily as a peach's, that she could play audience to the deepest, wettest parts of you.
Seconds or hours pass, time stretching and morphing into a pocket of simple yet devastating pleasure that you can't bring yourself to reconcile with. Her mouth is eternal, her tongue everlasting, and all you want is to fall into the void of athanasia with her.
But eventually, she retreats, breaths puffing in moist drafts over your collarbone. A groan sits leaden in your throat at the sheen of saliva ringing her mouth, and you briefly wonder if it still carries the remnants of nectar.
She looks down at her watch, then jumps to her feet, leaving an imprint in the grass already fading.
“I have to get going.” she mutters.
“What for?” you ask, cringing at the desperation lining your tone. You know it's irrational, but you can't help but wonder if your neck wasn't up to par, if you didn't taste the way men do. You don't even know what men taste like, but a sudden, unquenchable urge wells up within you to not only match it, but better it.
“I have a date.” she answers, blase as ever. A vague silhouette takes form in your mind. Gangly limbs and calloused fingers, nicotine breath and wandering hands.
And oh, how you ache. How you burn. It doesn't matter. It can't matter. But you can feel your teeth lengthening, whetting themselves on sleek and bitter steel.
“Have fun.” you eke out, watching the creek rush by, continuous and unfeeling. A singular stone tumbles along its current. You know that it will eventually fall out of synch, that it'll stray to the banks and find rest among its kin, too burdened to forever be held aloft. And as she makes the solitary trek back to the township proper, you know the feeling so intimately that it nearly ruins you.
—
She's in your front yard. Her body leans against her beat-up Ford Falcon, the engine idling. Her shoe arcs in drag paths through the packed dirt of your entryway, sending up plumes of sepia tinted dust.
You open the door and go out to greet her, the words lapsing to quiet before they reach the open air. Her coming to you is a novelty, and the implication has the hairs on your arm standing on end.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, and ‘here' could mean anything from your property to the mortal plane entirely.
“I'm gonna be gone.” she replies evenly, her hair frizzing in the steadily growing humidity. Her manner is almost frenetic, charged with prey's instinct for watchful wariness. “For a while.”
She looks as though she wants you to wail, to throw yourself down on the earth and beg. But you instead feel a hollow resolve fill your chest cavity. Something ancient and weary resting in your bone marrow knew this day would come, in the half-baked fashion of a child imagining the sun blinking out, plunging the earth into permafrost at the first mention of dissolution. A tumble from the mundane into the ephemeral.
“With the guy from…” you swallow past snarls and profanities. “From that day?” Your voice is limned with a plea so needing and insecure that you almost want her to insult you the way she did the men who lurked outside the storefront window when she bussed tables.
She nods, chin tilting upward in defiance of a structure you aren't aware of. Her eyes meet yours, and your lips nearly form a perfect circle as the memory from before finally settles into resolution, a stubborn fold in a sheet of paper finally wormed out of its obstinance.
Your mother had taken you to a different county, wanting to show you one of the new-age centers for stray animals.
“They don't euthanize them right away.” she informed you as you made your way through corridors of steel cages and echoing yips and yowls. “They keep the majority of them for adoption.”
You remembered that your dad had muttered something about it being a waste of tax dollars, but you thought it was rather nice, to give the rejected a second chance, or at least the hope of one.
You had dawdled by the end of a hallway while your mother talked to one of the volunteers. Peering into the nearest cage, you were caught in your own sort of limbo.
Pressed against the bars was a Rottweiler, lips curled up in a ferocious baring of fatal teeth. But its eyes were open, bare in another fashion entirely, frantically jumping between your face and your hand at your hip. Simultaneously asking you to touch, and daring you to try.
Alexis looks much the same way, you realize, beckoning you ever closer and promising a fitting retribution.
Affection, or perhaps a jealous sort of pity, buoys your next words.
“Is he nice?” you reply, knowing the answer.
“No.” she says swiftly, intending it to hurt but unable to follow through. “But he wants me.”
You let the pointed comment slide by, readjusting your blouse.
“Well,” you try with a smile, “when you come back, I'll be here.”
A bright laugh tears from her tongue. “You make it sound like you're staying in this shithole forever.”
“You make it sound like you'll be gone forever.” you retort, but somehow it doesn't sound as funny.
You hold up a finger and dash into the house, fingers sliding against glass and fumbling under water before you re-emerge, tossing her a farewell token.
A peach.
Her face lifts and falls and goes every other direction in the span of a second, her limbs spasming.
“A snack for the road.” you tell her. “And maybe a little something to remind you of home.”
She holds the fruit in her palm for a moment or two before biting into it with a savage tear.
“When I come back,” she says through a mouthful of pulp and juice, “we'll share one. We'll buy out that whole damn stand. We'll get sick of them. I promise.”
It's the last thing you'll ever hear from her. And when you're sitting on the creekbed after your mother's wake, not caring if you muddy your Sunday best, a small, worrisome nook of your mind will pause to wonder if Alexis Getty ever ate another peach.
your favourite character from redacted and one headcanon given to them (or more, I'm bad at maths anyway)
(a/n: MARCELINA! have these...mini headcanons under a headcanon...umbrella? reqs open!)
okay, so my character is corvus. i love him so much no one could understand he's my blorbo yadda yadda yadda
but my big headcanon is that he is the absolute perfect person to take on any outing ever, but particularly educational/experiential outings.
i'm talking museums of all make and manner, from art to natural history to pop culture to oddities and abnormalities.
want to explore a historical figure's estate? he's there. spend an exorbitant amount of money just to rent an aquarium out for the night to have it to yourself? he's delighted by the horseshoe crabs.
heard of a tunnel that's said to be a gateway to hell, and you know that it's not real, but wouldn't it be cool to just see it? he's taking pictures of you up against the gaping maw of the other side
(and if i said he would be more than open to going to a comic store, then that's just my opinion okay whatever)
i just think he's the perfect balance of factually inclined and willing to spend an afternoon doing whatever with you. i don't think of him as a blank slate or desperate for socialization. i just see him as genuinely interested in all he can learn, and being in specified areas of novelty is just his kind of vibe
Can I request hux x damien ( I feel like it fits them the most but feel free to change the couple if you like :) ) where hux is doing the thing where you watch a whole episode/ series in parts on TikTok and damien is tellinf him to just watch the show already and eventually catches himself invested in the show too 😂♥️
(a/n: this is solely based on one of my tiktok interests </3. reqs open!)
"When you do their taxes, I'll do the dishes."
Damien's eyes flitted up to the screen hanging nebulously somewhere by his nose. His head was nestled against Huxley's chest, their legs tangled together beneath sheets that had been kicked down to a rumpled heap at their feet.
His brows twitched. After every minute and a half or so, there would be a gap of silence accompanied by the rasp of Huxley's thumb against the phone's surface.
"Huxley." His voice broke the comfortable quiet that fell betwixt them when they did their own things. "We have Netflix. We can watch Young–"
"Yeah, yeah. I know." Huxley smiled down at his boyfriend, giving him a firm squeeze with the arm currently wrapped around him. "But I'm too far in to stop now. And they're adding more every day."
His eyes crinkled at the edges in the way that made Damien's chest constrict since he was branded his 'good luck charm' amidst the clatter of bowling pins and intermittent cheering.
"At this point, I have to be their most consistent viewer. It'd be sacrilege to stop."
Damien snorted, shaking his head. "It's sacrilege to waste a television show that was made for television that we could watch on a television on your phone."
Huxley, of course, didn't take the bait, simply shrugging and scrolling to the next episode, or rather, clip.
Despite himself, Damien couldn't help but to let his eyes drift upward every so often. The large yellowed captions smack dab in the center of the video certainly made watching it easier, and he would be lying if he said that some odd section of his brain didn't light up at the novelty of watching a show in a vertical fashion.
"He annoys me sometimes."
Huxley peered down again, a semi-triumphant smile settling on his lips. "Who?"
"Sheldon." Damien answered, giving Huxley a beat to respond with a succinctly righteous remark, and when he didn't, continued.
"It doesn't take an actual genius to recognize when people are upset sometimes. Accuracy is great and all, but he needs balance."
Huxley hummed an agreement, and they lapsed back into silence to watch the next clip, neither choosing to comment on Damien's seeming conversion; one out of grace, and one out of chagrin.
being friends with fanfic writers has got to be the best thing about the internet. i get to be tortured by the gods BUT i'm also their favourite little guy who they send sneak peeks and drafts to. everyone go make friends with writers NOW
