#kendall writes

For hours, you’ve been laying on your side staring quietly at your bedroom wall, taking deep even breaths trying to center yourself. The man you love has remained fast asleep as always, his heavy breathing consistent and searching hands reaching out to grab you even though you’ve slapped them away every time he’s tried, unconscious or not. 

Dante is in deep shit once he wakes up, you decided around two hours ago after waking up to a pounding heart and a dry mouth and tears spilling over your lashline. 

Not that he’d notice or care.

You hear him groan from his side of the bed, thrashing about for a moment as he rises to greet the day you’ve already started.

“Good morning,” he rasps, rolling on his side to reach for you.

Once again, you slap his hands away, curling in on yourself and pulling the blanket to your chin. 

“Oh don’t be grumpy,” Dante croons, reaching again only to be slapped away once more, his brows furrowing in confusion. “You okay? Do you need a little more sleep or something, sweetheart?”

You say nothing, eyes still fixed on the same spot on the wall they’ve been looking at for two hours. Dante slowly scoots further in your direction, the bed dipping beneath his weight, slowly dragging you toward him.

“What happened? Was I snoring too much again?”

You stiffen against his body, mumbling low.

“Ihadadreamthatyoucheatedonme.”

He leans in until his mouth is just above your ear, that deep voice you usually wrap yourself in like a luxury making your stomach turn like you ate something sour. “It’s too early for whispering unless it’s something sweet,” he wraps himself around your back, forearm wrapped around your chest. “So out with it.”

You turn in his arms, eyes still puffy from crying.

“I had a dream you cheated on me, alright?”

His eyes narrow, a brow raising. 

“That’s what has you wound so tight?”

“It’s…” you groan in frustration, turning to face him despite your annoyance. “It’s not that you did it, it’s who you did it with.”

“Your sister?”

You think your sister would ache less to have seen. 

“Worse, Dante. You cheated on me with Lady.”

He can tell that this is a unique hurt. She’s one of your most trusted friends, someone you have an unshakably strong bond with as does the man laying next to you who is attempting to hide his amusement at your fervor.

He remembers the tender, oh so delicate early days of your relationship. The two of you were barely adults, running around wildly, locked in some complicated dance between your feelings and responsibility and his unwillingness to ever put you in danger. Unfortunately for him, he could never get you to stop insisting upon putting yourself there all on your own. 

Their relationship has never been anything but platonic. Lady is beautiful, Dante is handsome but that alone doesn’t mean that there is chemistry or a bond that goes beyond two people in a dangerous line of work who don’t ask each other any questions. Sure, she understands his past but you have always been his future, even at the times when he denied himself the possibility of ever having one. 

“That would never happen.”

You sigh, frustrated, aching, raw. “But it did and I saw it.”

“You had a bad dream and now you’re awake and right here beside me.”

“The two of you had sex, Dante! It’s not so, mmph, hey!”

Your protests are muffled when he kisses you, the arm wrapped around your back pulling you against his chest.

“I know a good way to make you forget all about it,” he starts, kissing you again, his other hand rucking up the oversized t-shirt you use as pajamas, fingers splayed over your lower belly and dragging down beneath the waistband of your underwear. “Consider me your knight in shining armor, protecting you from that big scary dragon of a dream.”

The anger that welled inside of you for hours begins to subside as his hands climb and crawl and map and remind you about exactly how much he likes to touch you and only you. You laugh against his lips, your tension melting like you always do in the palm of his hand. 

“You’re pretty under dressed for a knight,” you joke against his lips, hips bucking up into his fingers that idly toy with your folds that grow wetter and wetter with each passing moment.

“And you’re overdressed to be my kind of damsel,” he teases back, maneuvering himself so that he can assist you in pulling your shirt over your head without having to cease his touching for a moment, rising to his knees and draping his body over yours.

“You know I’d never do that to you right?”

Softened, you look up at him and nod once, reaching to rub your thumb over the stubble on his jaw. 

“Then c’mon, give your savior a smile, his sword is aching to inside of something right now,” he continues his overdone metaphor about being your knight and you laugh despite yourself, surrendering to his humor and his hands and his love for you.

“I swear to God you owe me an orgasm for every time you pissed me off tonight, Dante.”

“And just how many times was that, sweet thing?”

Doing what he does best, the man to whom you’ve sworn your heart crowds the little doorway of the bathroom. His shoulders are broader than the door even while he’s leaning against its frame, one arm dangling at his side and the other pressed against the wooden frame to cage you beneath him.

You glare up at him – cold as ice. 

”Do not do that right now,” you begin only to be brought to a stop by the unwavering stance of your beloved.  

Still as a statue, Dante remains in the doorway, blocking your exit with his hand wrapped around the frame. 

“Answer the question.”

Unable to hide your apparent annoyance any longer, a humorless laugh escapes and you look away wide eyed. 

“I stopped counting after six.” 

You turn to face him again, mouth half open and eyes narrowed. There is no possible way he isn’t aware of how poorly he acted. Unfortunately, you also know him well enough to know that’s exactly why he brought it back up. 

He’s working toward an apology and you aren’t quite sure if you even want it yet. 

Grabbing a clip off of the shelf closest to the bathroom sink, you tie your hair away from your face and attempt to push past him.  

“You can have the bed tonight. I'll sleep on the couch.”

Stopping you in your tracks with a gentle grasp on each of your arms, Dante frowns. 

“You can sleep in the bed and I’ll sleep in it next to you, how about that?”

Attempting to shake him off, you point a finger toward his chest.  “You need to learn how to handle your jealousy productively.”

Scoffing, his jaw slackens.

“Have you seriously convinced yourself that I’m jealous of any of those people?”

Shaking your head, you raise your eyebrows defiantly. “If you're going to continue to be an ass Dante, go home.”

“Well here I am,” he snarks back, holding his arms out widely.

“Oh you think you’re so damn cl–” 

Stopped when his lips press against yours, the entirety of your body is wrapped up in his before you can realize what’s happening. Large arms hold you against his chest, big, calloused palms cupping the soft cheeks of one remarkably angry woman – remarkable only because it’s so unlike you to be angry. 

Pausing the kiss, Dante mumbles against your mouth while attempting to nip at your lower lip just how you like. 

“Let me make it up to you.”

Frustration rises in the back of your throat, still itching to argue with him about how he acted earlier in the evening. An argument forms on your tongue, lips parting to let it free. Almost as if he senses it, Dante kisses you again, hands sliding from your face to your sides and settling on your ribs, thumbs dancing just below your covered breasts.

So familiar with the space that is technically yours even if he spends so much time in it, he holds you against him while he guides both of your bodies away from the bathroom and toward the living room. As soon as the backs of his legs hit the couch, he slumps down atop it and pulls you into his lap, never breaking the intense kiss. Your tongue slick against one another, soft moans spilling out and stopping against the other’s lips. 

No words need to be exchanged right now. The two of you are so familiar with the other’s body that he could undress you with his eyes closed and still get it right the first time, fabric sliding over your head and being tossed to the floor behind you. You rock softly in his lap, the muscle of his thigh taut and flexed to give you something to rut against. His greedy lips trail away from yours and down your chin and throat and neck, a trail of fire from your mouth to your core left behind.

“Dante,” you whine, uncertain of what, exactly, you want.

ship: none, just buck and his mom! word count: 3303 warnings: n/a

Buck hasn’t been sleeping much lately. Nightmares and insomnia have been plaguing him consistently since the tsunami, and they’ve only gotten worse since the whole lawsuit began. He can’t be sure why he’s been wrestling so much with sleep, but he can only assume it has something to do with how lonely he’s been lately. It’s not like he wants to be alone - he misses his friends, his family . But because of the lawsuit, he’s not allowed to see or talk to any of them.

“You won’t be allowed to contact anyone in or associated with the 118,” the lawyer had told him. Buck thought he’d be just fine. He’s been there before, after all. Alone, without so much as his sister to talk to. He thought it’d be like falling back into an old routine. But it’s not like that at all. Instead, it leaves a hole in his chest that only seems to grow with each day that he’s in this forced solitude. He misses his friends. He misses his sister . But they don’t miss him back, he tells himself. They don’t miss you, they don’t miss you, they don’t miss you. Reminding himself of that simple fact makes the loneliness ache just a little bit less.

But the ache always comes right back when he wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, shaking and stomach dropped down to the floor with fear. He used to be able to call his friends. To call Maddie. They’d always talk to him, help calm him down. He forgets that they don’t miss him (they don’t miss you, they don’t miss you, they don’t miss you) until he’s already gotten his phone out and unlocked and is staring down at the contacts page. Staring down at all the names that he can’t talk to hurts, and he’s not sure if he can rationalize another nightmare all by himself again. But then he comes across a familiar name. A name he hasn’t talked to in a while. A name that, most importantly, he’s allowed to talk to. So, without so much as a second thought, he clicks the name and clicks the call button before pressing his phone against his ear.

My archive of our own invitation is pending, it could be around five days from now that I can start really writing so in the meantime. I will boost my own Tumblr and hopefully get tips of what I'm gonna do, as well as post some art!

               I promised myself I'd never use black magic. Black magic darkens the soul, Mama always told me. A pure witch only uses white magic, for it is only white magic that will sustain the brilliance of your soul.                And for years, I listened. I believed. I followed in Mama's footsteps, practicing only the whitest of magic, the purest of magic. And for years, I reaped the benefits My soul remained pure, my life was unstained from darkness, and I reveled in it. There was never a reason to turn away from the wisdom of Mama's lessons.

“It’s not like I’m forcing you,” Dante teases, amused by the wide eyed look you give him. “Go sit down if you don’t want to.

He’s never really had anyone to ask for help which means you should be grateful but all you feel is sullen imagining him with a hairless chest you aided in creating.

Sitting down means leaving the cramped bathroom of the loft above his just opened business, dingy in light and both the color of the tile yet undeniably cozy. You like the warmth of his body, mostly bare in nothing but his oversized boxers, this close to yours far too much to pass up this opportunity anyway.

Sighing, you stick your lower lip out further.

“I dunno…I just like it when you have a little hair.”

You lean in close to him, curling your index finger and dragging it through the sparse hair and scratchy regrowth covering his chest. A blush-colored path bursts to life under your fingers and you giggle, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Come on, there’s no reason to shave it.”

Hair could prevent him from chafing as he runs around fighting in nothing but his crimson leather jacket, a leather band secured across his chest, and cargo pants. You consider even pleading this case to make him understand you’re only thinking of his comfort.

Unfortunately he responds quicker than your mind can conjure up something persuasive to say.

“Yes there is,” he reaches around you in an attempt to hide how flustered he is, turning the faucet on. “Now are you gonna help or not?”

“I feel like I should be singing Amazing Grace like it’s a funeral or something,” you continue to lament aloud, refusing to dip the blades of the razor beneath the running faucet.

Groaning in frustration, he reaches to turn the water off and looks down at you. It’s impossible for him to stay aggravated for long, though. Your warm, playful expression evaporates whatever irritation swims inside of him like a charm every time.

“Fine,” he relents, plucking the razor from your fingers and dropping it in the sink, tangling his fingers with yours. “If you like it the way it is so much, come get up close and personal.”

Using the tangle of your fingers to his advantage, he pulls you against him until your chin is against his pecs, the hair you were so disappointed to envision saying goodbye to tickling your cheeks.

Exactly how long have you been laying here?

Time feels like an illusion, shed like your clothing and panties across the room that is currently filled with the soundtrack of your moaning and Dante’s muffled, soft grunting as the couch you’re spread across rocks gently back and forth across the wooden floor. 

He’s on his knees, face buried at the apex of your spread thighs, large hands digging into soft flesh so hard you’re sure that indentations will be left to admire later this evening. Your hips drag across the lower half of his face, one of your hands tangled in his hair while the other dangles off of the side, knuckles dragging across the floor. 

Another orgasm rips through you, sending tremors through your body, and it appears this one was the last he wants to administer via tongue, removing it from inside of you and lifting his face slightly to speak.

“You ready, beautiful?”

Blue eyes peek up from between your legs, the silver brows that top them raised jovially. Giggling, you nod and spread your legs wider to accommodate his width the very best you can on this too-small-for-both-of-you piece of furniture. 

Your bed is just a few steps from here but where’s the fun in that? Things started here, beneath the final dregs of the wintery sunlight drenching your living room, they may as well finish here too.

Sliding between your thighs, he leans in to kiss you, allowing you to taste the fruits of his labor across his messy mouth. His hands fall to your waist, sliding lower to wrap around your hips. Ceasing the kissing, you whine when he taps your clit with the sticky head of his cock. 

“I think you’ve made me wait long enough,” you grumble, attempting to pull him closer with your legs and arms both. 

Dante does all he can to prevent you from getting your way as usual, rocking his hips so that the bulk of his girth presses down over your wet, sticky folds.

“You weren’t complaining when my mouth was full.” Chuckling, he rocks back and forth. “I seem to recall a lot of ‘more’, ‘please’, and ‘don’t stop’…”

Looking up in annoyance, you find it hard to do a thing besides smile wryly to match the grin he’s pointing down at you. His eyes are soft yet they pin you in place, your arguments and annoyances dying while adoration sprouts in their place.

“I love you,” you whisper softly, hands reaching and sliding across his forearms and biceps, feeling every inch they can.

Leaning down, he kisses your forehead.

“You play so dirty,” he whispers back, lips pressed against your hair. Finally, he angles his hips so that he can push the first inch of himself inside of you before you can protest that your sweetness wasn’t merely an attempt to get him to bend to your whims even if he clearly fell for it.

What can he say? There’s no one else he’d rather be a fool for.