#AND I’M THINKING ABOUT THE ALL CAST NOW

[verricherri]

Slightly pervy Spencer figuring out he has a size kink with petite!reader? 👀 (No i’m not projecting about being short why would you think that?????)

Statistically Significant (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: I blacked out somewhere between “two fingers” and “fold you in half.” No I will not be recovering — well, lucky you anon. I’m considered petite too 😌 so this one’s for us Warnings: spencer reid that rearranges your insides, intense eye contact - dont say i didn't warn ya Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The movie played, but he hadn’t looked at the screen in almost twenty minutes — not really, not beyond the vague flicker of light and sound casting shadows on the walls and across your skin, where you were curled beside him on the couch like something effortless, completely at ease, legs tucked under one of the fleece blankets you’d taken from his lap halfway through the first act without asking.

He didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t mind. He couldn’t even think about the blanket now, not when every subtle shift of your body — the way you stretched, the soft crack of your ankle as you re-crossed your legs, the casual fall of your oversized t-shirt slipping further off your shoulder — made it increasingly difficult to do anything but think about you.

And then his eyes landed on your foot.

Bare, relaxed, resting near his thigh, the edge of your heel brushing the cushion between you like it had always belonged there.

He blinked once. Then again.

And before he could stop himself, he found his gaze locked onto the sharp curve of your ankle — delicate, birdlike, small enough that he was suddenly possessed with the certainty that he could probably wrap his entire hand around it and still have room to spare.

It wasn’t just the ankle.

It was the scale of you. The way your frame seemed to disappear beneath the blanket. The way your wrist had looked earlier tonight when you passed him the remote. The way his hand had accidentally brushed yours when reaching for the same piece of popcorn and had completely engulfed it without even trying.

It was like his brain had stored all those images somewhere quiet, subtle, harmless — and now, they were bursting to the surface at once, setting off a slow, startling awareness in his chest that he couldn’t look away from.

“Spence?”

Your voice was soft, a little amused, and when he looked up, you were already watching him, one eyebrow raised in quiet curiosity.

“You zoned out,” you said, your mouth curling into a smile that wasn’t mocking — not really — just gently, warmly interested. “Too much profiling going on in that big beautiful brain, or did I bore you with my excellent taste in movies?”

He blinked again, caught somewhere between guilt and fascination.

“No—no, not at all,” he said quickly, sitting up straighter, trying and failing to unstick the words from the tangle of thoughts crowding his head. “I was just… um. Thinking about your ankle.”

That made you laugh — a real, delighted sound that made his stomach flutter like it always did when he managed to surprise you.

“My ankle?” you repeated, clearly entertained. “Of all things?” He flushed, already regretting the honesty, but it was too late now. “I just—noticed it. And I realised how… small it is. Compared to my hand. I think I could probably wrap two fingers around it.”

You paused, blinking slowly.

Then, as if testing him — as if you knew exactly what you were doing and wanted to see how far he’d go — you shifted your foot just a little closer, letting it settle more firmly against his thigh, your toes nudging the seam of his jeans like an invitation disguised as innocence.

“Go on, then,” you murmured. “Try it. For science.”

He hesitated. Just for a second.

But then he reached out, carefully, his fingers brushing the inside of your ankle with a kind of reverence he hadn’t expected, and as his hand closed gently around the joint — thumb pressing into the fragile bone, his other fingers curving beneath — he felt his heart kick hard in his chest.

He wasn’t wrong.

His hand dwarfed you.

Your ankle disappeared beneath his palm like it had been made to fit there, like the size difference between you was not just anatomical, but designed, deliberate, something that shouldn’t have made his pulse quicken the way it just did — but absolutely did.

He swallowed, throat dry.

“See?” he managed, voice low. “Two fingers.” You tilted your head, lips parting slightly, eyes sharp now in the dim light. “You’re turning very red.” “I didn’t mean anything weird by it,” he rushed out. “I just… didn’t realise. Before.” “That I’m small?” you asked.

He nodded.

“That you’re… big?”

He hesitated, and something about that hesitation made your mouth curve, slow and dangerous.

“I mean—yes,” he said, voice going a little hoarse. “I guess I never really thought about the contrast before.” “You really didn’t notice?” you asked, shifting again — just enough for your t-shirt to slide higher on your thighs, enough for your toes to press a little firmer into his leg. “That your hand could probably wrap around my throat?”

His whole body tensed like a livewire.

You smirked.

And he knew — in that exact moment — that he was completely fucked.

—

“You’re flushed,” you said, still smiling, but quieter now, like you were observing him from under a microscope and finding something new, something vulnerable. “I’m not—” he started, but his voice betrayed him with how raw it sounded, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” “Like what?” you asked innocently, but your eyes flicked down — to the hand still hovering near your ankle, to the slight twitch of his fingers, to the way his breath had started coming slower, shallower, like he couldn’t get enough air past whatever was building in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how to explain it. The way his brain had suddenly gone offline except for the part obsessively cataloguing every place where he was bigger — your wrist, your ankle, the curve of your waist, the whole of your thigh that he could probably cup with one palm. The way you were looking at him now like you knew exactly what he was thinking and were daring him to say it out loud.

“You know this is a kink, right?” you murmured, tilting your head, voice soft and heavy with suggestion. “The size difference thing.” He blinked, stunned. “It is?” “Mhm.” You shifted again, not dramatically — just enough that your knee brushed his thigh, enough that your voice was a breath too close when you added, “Some people get really into it. The whole big hands, big body, holding-you-down-with-one-arm thing.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“That’s…” he trailed off, and then nodded, a little helpless. “That’s very specific.” “Is it?” you whispered, resting your chin on your knees now, looking up at him with wide, almost amused eyes. “Or are you just realising that it might be your thing?”

He stared at you, throat tight, hands curling faintly on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

And then, very quietly, very carefully, he said, “Can I see your hand?”

You didn’t hesitate. Just offered it up, palm facing his, fingers relaxed.

He raised his own hand slowly and pressed his palm to yours — and the difference hit him like a punch to the gut.

His fingers overlapped yours entirely, knuckles past the tips. Your palm was swallowed in his. Your thumb looked like it belonged to a child next to his.

He didn’t move. Just stared, as if trying to process the size of it — not just the visual, but the feel, the confirmation that all his instincts had been right. That you were small. That he could probably wrap his hand around your throat or your waist or your thigh and still have space to spare.

And then, like he was thinking out loud, he said, “I could hold you down with just one hand.”

The words left his mouth before he had time to consider how they sounded — filthy, reverent, full of awe and something sharp underneath — but the second they landed between you, it was like the air shifted.

He didn’t take his hand away.

You didn’t pull back.

Instead, you whispered, “Show me.”

He paused, not because he didn’t want to — he did, God, he did — but because something about the way you said it made his pulse jump. Not a challenge. Not a tease. Just trust.

So slowly, gently, he slid his hand from yours and reached up to cup the side of your neck, his palm spanning the whole distance from your jaw to your collarbone. His thumb rested just under your ear. His fingers curved around the side, not squeezing — just fitting.

Perfectly.

You closed your eyes, breathing in through your nose, your body going still like you were letting yourself feel everything.

“Spencer,” you whispered, eyes fluttering open. “This okay for you?”

He shook his head once, then leaned in closer until your foreheads nearly touched, his voice low and wrecked.

“It’s more than okay,” he said, thumb brushing gently along your throat. “I think I’m obsessed.”

You gave a soft sound — half laugh, half gasp — and tilted your face into his palm.

“Then keep going,” you breathed. “Test your theory, Doctor.”

And oh, that did something to him.

He moved before he could overthink it — shifted closer on the couch, crowding your space but not forcing it, just letting his body speak what he couldn’t yet say out loud. His knee brushed yours. His other hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth, eyes locked on yours like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever been asked to solve.

He looked like he was studying you — not in the way he usually did, not clinically or professionally or even analytically — but like every inch of you was new data he needed to understand by touch alone.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, fingers trailing down your arm until they circled your wrist. He held it up, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted as he wrapped his hand around it. His fingers overlapped easily. He squeezed, just a little. “Barely any pressure.” “You’re turning red again,” you whispered, almost giddy.

He didn’t care. Not anymore.

“I think I want to measure everything,” he said, voice gone thick. “Just to be sure.”

You were already pulling him closer.

—

He didn’t even know when it shifted — when curiosity stopped being innocent, when the need to understand you turned into the need to unmake you — but he was past the point of return now, and it hit him with all the force of a theory proven true: you were tiny, breakable, and absolutely built to take every inch of him like a miracle designed just for him to solve.

And now he had to solve you.

You were beneath him — thighs spread, one leg folded over his arm like he wanted to frame it, preserve it, press it between glass and label it with some Latin classification that meant mine — and he was watching the head of his cock press against your entrance, thick and leaking and entirely too much for the body that trembled and pulled him in anyway.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, not even meaning to speak, his voice hoarse from restraint. “You’re shaking already.” “I’m trying,” you breathed, a little laugh caught in a gasp, your hands fisting the sheets because he hadn’t even gotten fully in and you could already feel the stretch of him, the steady, inch-by-inch burn of being filled beyond what your muscles expected — and the way he was watching it, wide-eyed, completely entranced, made the ache feel even sharper. “Spence—” “You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you could feel his body vibrating with the effort not to rut into you blindly, not to let his hips snap forward and ruin you too fast, too early, even though every part of him screamed to do exactly that. “You’re so small, and soft, and fuck, I can see you opening for me. I can see it—look—right here—”

His thumb brushed just below your belly button, trembling, and you whimpered, because the pressure alone made you feel like he was everywhere — not just inside you, but under your skin, stretching you from the inside out.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathed, more to himself than to you, his brows furrowed like he couldn’t make the math work. “This shouldn’t even be possible. Your body shouldn’t let me in like this.” “Then stop talking and move—”

That earned you a quiet, wrecked laugh, and then he did — he moved, slow and deep, and your eyes rolled back instantly, your mouth falling open without a sound, because nothing had ever felt like this — like him — and it wasn’t just the stretch or the thickness or the length, it was the way he held your body like it was sacred, the way he looked at you like you were divine proof that the universe loved him back.

“Oh my god,” he whispered as he bottomed out, chest shuddering. “You took all of me. You took all of me.”

You nodded, weakly, but the tears gathering in your eyes made it clear just how much it took to take him — how full you were, how raw it felt, how your walls fluttered with the effort of keeping him inside like your body couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go.

And still, he didn’t move. Not yet. Just stared down at the way your body clenched around him, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift it higher, spread you wider, test how far he could fold you without breaking the illusion of reverence.

“You feel like you were built for this,” he said softly. “For me.”

His voice cracked halfway through, like he still couldn’t believe it, like this was something his brain — so used to analysis and control and facts — couldn’t compute no matter how hard it tried.

“I could ruin you,” he whispered, voice gone dark now. “I could fuck you until you forget your own name, and you’d still beg for more.”

Your hand fisted in his hair at the base of his neck, desperate, grounding.

And finally, finally, he started to move.

The first thrust was slow, so slow, like he was dragging every ridge and vein of his cock against every swollen inch inside you, and when he pulled back, you felt empty in a way that made you ache instantly for him again — and then he slid back in just as slowly, just as deep, just as devastating.

It wasn’t pace. It was pressure. It was a scientist testing the theory of how many times he could hit the same perfect spot until the subject collapsed.

And you were going to collapse.

“I want to measure the way you fall apart,” he panted, his hand tightening on your thigh. “I want to watch how you react. What muscles twitch. What your voice does when I hit this angle—”

He adjusted, and you screamed.

Not loud. Not performative. Just a raw, honest sound like the breath had been punched out of you and replaced with nothing but him.

“That one,” he breathed, mouth against your cheek. “That sound. That’s what I want. Every time.”

He moved faster now, still deep, still devastating, and the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room — slick, obscene, holy — while your legs shook around his hips and your hands clawed at his shoulders like you were holding onto the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“I could keep you like this,” he muttered. “In my bed. In my lap. Every goddamn night. Just folded open and dripping and taking it all.” You whimpered, writhing. “Please—” “I want to see you stretched out the next morning,” he whispered, teeth brushing your ear. “I want to spread your thighs and see the outline of me still inside you. I want to look at your cunt and know I wrecked it.”

You came like a wave crashing against the rocks — sharp and loud and sudden, your body seizing beneath him with a sob so high-pitched it made his rhythm falter, his name spilling from your lips like prayer.

And he held you through it. Drove through it.

Spencer’s thrusts got erratic, sloppy, his jaw tight as your cunt clenched around him like a vice, like your body was trying to milk every last drop from him because it needed it. Because you wanted to be full in every way a person could be full.

And he gave it.

With a groan like it tore through his chest, he buried himself one last time, fingers digging into your hip, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he came inside you, hard, deep, too much — his entire body trembling from the force of it.

You were still shaking. He was still inside.

Neither of you said anything.

Not until he finally pulled back to look at you, eyes blown and lips parted, and said — barely above a whisper:

“You are… the most important discovery of my life.”

—

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go. Didn’t speak.

Just kept his body pressed to yours — his chest still heaving in the aftermath, skin damp with sweat, breath catching every few seconds like he couldn’t quite believe he was still breathing at all — and held you like he’d just survived something.

Like you had just saved him.

You weren’t sure who moved first — maybe you twitched, maybe you breathed a little too deeply, maybe your fingers brushed the base of his neck — but the moment you shifted beneath him, his hand came up to your face instantly, cradling your jaw with such gentleness it broke something open inside you.

“Don’t,” he whispered, eyes still closed, voice hoarse. “Just—just stay right here. Let me—please—let me feel you.”

So you stayed. Quiet. Still.

Your thighs were shaking. Your throat was dry. And he was still buried inside you, softening slowly, but not enough to make you feel anything less. If anything, it made you feel more — because he wasn’t holding you out of hunger anymore.

He was holding you like he’d been starving for years and didn’t trust the world not to take the meal away.

His lips brushed your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then your jaw.

Then he let out a long, slow breath and finally spoke.

“I’ve never…” He swallowed hard. “I’ve never felt that. Not like that. Not ever.” Your hand found his chest, fingers curled lightly in the dip beneath his collarbone. “Felt what?”

His eyes opened then — wide, dazed, impossibly soft — and when he looked at you, it wasn’t lust or pride or even satisfaction. It was awe. Pure, scientific awe. The kind that made you feel like he’d just discovered a planet where your body lived at the centre of every orbit.

“The stretch,” he said, like it hurt to say it. “The fit. The heat. The way you—God, the way you opened for me. Like your body knew me before I even touched you.”

You inhaled shakily.

“And when I was all the way in…” His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead to yours, chest rising fast. “You were shaking. But you held me. You took every inch and still looked at me like you wanted it. Like you needed it.” “I did,” you whispered. He kissed you then — soft, reverent, like he didn’t deserve to — and pulled back just enough to whisper, “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how that felt.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

And that silence must’ve unraveled something in him, because his voice dropped even lower when he murmured, “Do you realise how small you are compared to me? How delicate your bones are, how tiny your wrists? I could hold both in one hand and still have fingers left over. I could fold you in half and carry you through fire, and you’d barely fill my arms.”

Your body fluttered around him at the words, and he felt it — because his whole expression changed again. From awe to ruin.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You like it.”

You looked away, embarrassed.

“No,” he said, catching your chin and gently guiding your gaze back to his. “No. Don’t hide from that. That’s mine now.”

You blinked.

“That sound you made when I said you were mine?” he whispered. “I want to record it. I want to play it back every night. I want to catalogue every fucking detail of what it feels like to fit inside someone who shouldn’t be able to take it. Who takes it anyway. Who takes me.” You felt your throat close up. “Spencer…”

He kissed your cheek. Your nose. Your lips again, slower.

Then, finally, he pulled out of you, slow and careful, eyes flicking down between your legs — and his breath stuttered at the sight of it.

His cum leaking out of you. Your folds swollen. Your thighs twitching from aftershocks.

And you — still soft, still open, still his.

“You’re ruined,” he whispered, not like an insult — like a prayer.

He disappeared between your thighs and kissed the inside of your knee. The curve of your hip. The sore, tender space above your mound.

Then: “I’m not done with you. I’m going to fuck this into your memory until your body recognises me like second nature.”

You whimpered, curling weakly.

He grabbed the blanket, laid beside you, pulled you to his chest.

And finally, when your breathing had evened out and you were half-asleep on his chest — legs still tangled, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he couldn’t let go — Spencer reached for his phone with the kind of quiet guilt only a man with too many tabs open could feel.

He turned the brightness all the way down.

Searched with one hand while the other kept rubbing slow circles on your back.

And typed:

“Can you develop a size kink after one statistically unlikely sexual encounter?”

Then:

“Is it normal to feel emotionally wrecked after sex with someone whose wrist fits inside your hand?”

Then:

“What does it mean when you think you just met the person you were scientifically designed to fuck forever?”

He stared at the last one. Didn’t hit send.

Just watched the blinking cursor.

Then tucked the phone under the pillow, pulled you closer, kissed the top of your head, and whispered — so soft you didn’t even stir:

“God help me if this wasn’t a one-time thing.”

You weren’t awake.

But if you had been, you might’ve smiled — because Spencer Reid didn’t need to write a paper.

You were already the only result that mattered.

[ptergwen]

saw the post for ideas 👀… yknow those vlogs peter would film in homecoming? what if the only exception in strange’s spell was to let him keep a copy of those films of you and him/memories of the team. he rewatches them when he needs to feel like someone is there with him eating dinner, on holidays, a rough night of patrol, etc :(

always belong to you ❤︎‬

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w/c: 2.0k

warnings: suggestive jokes, doctor strange being a bully, angst

a/n: ugh you know i love an angst/fluff combo, i lowkey got carried away if you can't tell by the word count lmao but i think y'all will like :) p.s. i have more things brewing so stay tuned!

"ok, so, we just got on the plane. we're taking off in... i don't know, soon."

the camera pans to you half asleep on peter's shoulder. you hide your face in your boyfriend's flannel, grinning nevertheless. "y/n's tired. it's early," peter tells the camera. "but i'm excited," you mumble. he beams and hugs you to his side. "me too. we all are."

you wrap your arms around peter's bicep and rest your chin on his shoulder. "so, where are you the most excited to go? london, right?" peter looks over at you, his hand rubbing up and down your side. "mhm. what about you, venice?" you ask him.

"definitely venice. i’ve been practicing my italian," peter says. you move closer to the camera so you can talk into it. "yeah, he actually learned some italian. and french, for when we go to paris." you smile sleepily. "city of love," peter adds. you peck his lips, and he smiles against yours.

you never actually made it to paris. god, that whole trip was a disaster. it's a miracle his camera even survived it, since most of his stuff literally got blown up. your plans kept getting changed, and peter barely got to spend any time with you or his friends because he got dragged into doing spider-man stuff, spider-man stuff that put everybody in danger.

but it's not spider-man's fault that he lost you — it's peter parker's.

"you've been practicing your british accent. that's something," peter jokes. "oh yeah, true. i also learned british slang. i wanna be cultured like you, innit?" you do an over-exaggerated accent, which peter chuckles at. "c'mon, i never even leave new york. except germany that one time, and..." he lowers his voice. "space."

"what are you doing?" mj pops up behind peter. her, ned, and betty are in the row behind yours. you got stuck next to flash, who's been snapping at one of the flight attendants for something. "just making video diaries of the trip," peter explains. "ooh, aren't those for may?" ned enthusiastically asks from the aisle seat. "hi, may! everybody say hi to peter's aunt!"

"hi, peter's aunt!" betty waves. "sup, aunt milf," flash chimes in. peter clenches his jaw. "hi, may. your nephew woke me up," mj deadpans. she manages a smile. "i don't know how i’m gonna get any sleep around the lovebirds."

"i'm gonna sleep, too. i'm still kinda tired," you tell mj through a yawn, squeezing peter's bicep. "you should try to sleep, darling. there's gonna be a pretty big time difference when we land." you lay your head on peter's shoulder again with a smile that he returns even bigger.

"okay, i will. don't wanna be jet lagged," peter agrees, turning the camera to himself. "well, that's it for now, may. love you! see you when we land!"

"bye, may!" you echo, peter resting his head against yours as the video ends.

you were both so happy back then. now, you don't even remember who peter is. all he has left of you is memories, ironically enough. it's all he has left of any of his loved ones. may is gone, his only family. his best friends have no memory of him, and neither does his team.

but if peter had just thought things through before he asked doctor strange to cast that spell, he wouldn't have needed to cast a second one, and the world wouldn't have forgotten peter parker.

peter wishes he could make you remember him on nights like these, when he's missing you extra. he'd kept to himself all day in his classes — he doesn't really engage with anyone unless he's in the suit. patrol was quiet tonight, though. so as peter lays on his creaky bed at the end of the day, all by himself in his cramped apartment, he's never felt more lonely.

he thought it might make him feel better to watch some of his old videos. his camera is one of the only things he'd kept from before, and it has videos with everyone on it. he watches them sometimes so he can hear your voice, see your face.

"peter! you look so cute in your little lab coat," you say behind the camera. "babe, you can't call me cute in here," peter groans. you zoom in on him setting up some test tubes. "yeah, you think you're so tough cause you're an avenger. spider-man can't be cute, he's too big and scary," you tease.

"maybe not scary, but he's big for sure." peter smirks at the camera. "i can confirm," you smirk at him. peter's eyes widen. "woah, y/n. i meant, like, my arms. you're so unprofessional today, i think i'm gonna need a new camerawoman," peter shakes his head playfully, pouring something into a beaker.

"you can't replace me. i'm irreplaceable," you insist. "yeah. i know you are," peter says, and means it. he can make out a smile in your voice. "anyways, since you're so tough, why don't you take off the coat? and the goggles? i guess you don't need them."

"i can't! if doctor strange comes back and sees, he'll say i’m-"

"-violating safety precautions and being stupidly, dangerously irresponsible."

doctor strange lands on the linoleum floor of the lab, his cloak trailing behind him. peter has his goggles on his head, so he quickly pulls them down. you prop the camera up against a stool subtly, all three of you coming into the frame.

"we're dealing with the quantum realm, parker, something neither you nor i completely understand. let's not take our chances." strange puts on his own pair of lab goggles, giving both you and peter a stern look. you make a face at the camera. "yes, sir. i mean, stephen. i mean... yeah, stephen," peter stutters.

you take his hand to calm his nerves. he laces your fingers together with a grateful smile.

"where's banner?" doctor strange asks. "still not here yet. scott and i started setting up, though," peter answers. "you're certainly no world renowned scientists, but fine. i trust you know enough to handle glassware," strange says sarcastically.

"and what have you been doing, practicing your magic tricks?" you ask doctor strange. "they're not tricks, it's a mystic art. but yes, actually. things work differently in the quantum realm than they do here," he replies, narrowing his eyes at you.

"thanks for clearing that up. wow, you know a lot about this stuff. i can see why they made you sorcerer supreme," you say smugly. doctor strange closes his eyes, visibly irritated. "no, they chose wong. you know that," he says in a monotone. peter bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

you'd naturally met the avengers over the years you and peter were dating. everybody loved you because peter loved you, and they loved him. doctor strange was another story. peter hardly felt like strange even tolerated him, let alone his girlfriend he was constantly getting humbled by.

you figured that if he did it to peter, someone should do it to him. peter always appreciated you having his back in those moments.

you and strange had your banter, though, and he did love peter in his own way. clearly, considering that he brainwashed the whole world for him on multiple occasions.

"is there a reason you're here exactly?" doctor strange questions you. "yeah, to watch you make pym particles." you shrug. he sighs. "make– it doesn't work that way." doctor strange turns to peter. "what is she doing here?" he crosses his arms over his chest, his cloak mirroring his stance.

"y/n's always here," peter innocently replies, swinging your connected hands back and forth.

"yeah, she's one of us!"

"who said that?" doctor strange demands, looking around the lab.

"it's me, i’m tiny. hold on." scott suddenly grows from the size of an ant to his normal, human size, appearing next to the three of you. doctor strange and his cloak jump backwards.

"have you been here this whole time?" strange's voice raises in anger. "um, yeah. pay attention much?" scott scoffs. "pete already told you, we're setting up. hey, y/n/n." you and scott fist bump. "pete," he claps peter's shoulder. peter nods at him. "hey, scott. keep up the good work."

"solidarity among the bug men, isn't that sweet?" doctor strange dryly remarks. scott points a finger at him. "listen, wizard. you should be nicer to me. i’m your ticket to this whole quantum thing."

the two of them start to argue, so you and peter sneak away. you grab peter's camera again and film him as he finishes setting up for their experiment.

"i can't believe we got all that on video," peter laughs out. "yeah, that was some avengers reality tv shit," you agree. peter tightens more test tubes in place. some have pym particles in them, others empty. you suddenly take peter's chin between your fingers, prompting him to stop what he's doing and look up.

"you know what i was trying to say before? i know you're tough, and strong, but i’ll never just see you as spider-man. you're peter."

his doe eyes lock with yours behind the camera.

"and you might be spider-man to the world, but you'll always be my peter."

peter stops the video. he rewinds it to the part where you call him your peter, and then rewinds it again. tears begin to well up in his eyes. at the time, it was just something sweet you said. you could never have known how much it would mean to him now.

peter curls up on his pillow. he's gripping the camera with both hands, holding on tightly like it's you, because it's the closest thing he has to you. tears drip down his face and land on the screen as the rest of the video plays.

"thanks, baby. i'm not that strong, though. i just try to act like it because i’m scared. this all gets pretty intimidating sometimes," peter admits. "i know, but you deserve to be here. they need you here, and i think you're strong for coming," you reassure him. you flip the camera so it's showing your face and the back of peter's head.

peter kisses your cheek, then your lips lovingly. he can't tell watching it back, but he assumes he tries for more because you giggle and turn your face away.

"okay, guys! we hashed everything out!" scott calls in the background. "something of that sort," doctor strange mutters. "and y/n, since you insist on being here..." the cloak of levitation flies over to you and forms a makeshift hand, holding out a lab coat and goggles. "we have a dress code."

peter snickers at you. you put down the camera and take the lab gear, glaring at doctor strange, who smiles wickedly. strange's cloak floats behind you and taps on the camera lens, alerting his attention to it. his smile drops.

"are you two idiots recording in my lab?" doctor strange asks you and peter. "bruce's lab," scott corrects him. "yeah, it's mr. bruce's. i mean, doctor bruce's. i mean, doctor banner's-" peter cuts himself off when doctor strange comes marching over. he narrowly avoids bumping into him.

strange's cloak swipes the camera off the lab desk. you reach for it, but the cloak floats higher.

"well, until mr. doctor bruce banner shows up, i’m in charge, and this is strictly confidential," doctor strange decides.

"but we're not gonna show anyone, it's just for memories!" peter defends. "bruce always lets us record," you add. strange grabs the camera. "coat and goggles on. now," he reprimands you, scowling at the camera as he shuts it off.

peter actually finds himself laughing when the video ends. he misses you and his team so much, but watching his old videos has been comforting. he's exhausted now, both physically and emotionally, so he gets under the covers and lets himself drift off to the sounds of your voice as the next video plays.

there's a piece of you in each one, and a piece of peter parker, too. the real peter parker — yours. he'll always belong to you, even if you don't know it.

tags

@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety @girlinlovewithlove @marvelgurl @superlegend216 @angelinabelovedballerina @moniffazictress11 @superlegend216 @doubledizzy22 @mystic-writings @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @lnmp89 @starlight-starks @hollandsangel @ellebutnotwoods @tayyx @valluvsu @ronweasleysslut @winchestersgirl222  @fishingirl12 @raajali3 @niktwazny303 @thismessymasterpiece @alina02 @itsjanedeluca @idkeverythingistakennn @prancerrparkerr @urfayevorite @getwellsoontana @deanswifeyy @marvelita86 @uhhhj13iguess

[mareastrorum]

This is only half a thought so far, but maybe other people want to chime in.

I’m doing Watch Machina (currently at episode 15) and Nein Again (currently at episode 21) while I also keep up with current Critical Role content (Age of Umbra episode 4) and something that bothers me a little is Matt’s current method of narration.

In C1, Matt’s style is very informal with regard to the narration. There’s little added drama via his tone, pace, or choice of words. “Toothy maw” became a meme pretty quickly, but the point of every description was to efficiently set the scene so the players could start their RP and choose what to do. There wasn’t as much precision with his descriptions, and of course that is a talent that takes a long time to hone when you’re describing lots of different things over the course of several hours. However, the narration was far less formal and calculated than his NPC dialogue, so (in combination with voice acting) it was very easy to determine when Matt was in character or not. It wasn’t a bad thing; Matt’s very casual narration and formal dialogue leading up to the Chroma Conclave’s attack on Emon was excellent because it was so sudden, leading the players and the audience to experience the exact same shock the NPCs would have. It’s not a bad way to narrate. If anything, it made the heartfelt moments so poignant, especially at the end of the campaign. That description of snow drops would not have been nearly as impactful if Matt had narrated that way all the time.

In C2, Matt started getting more descriptive and slowed down his narration to match. As Aabria would put it, he “paints a word picture” and includes more environmental storytelling for the setting itself, not just things for the characters to expressly interact with. I think this is part of what led to the Nein interacting with the set dressing more: Matt mentioned it, so it must be important! This led to some fun hijinks as time went on, and it gave Wildemount a different feeling than Tal’dorei. I couldn’t tell you that Emon had a particular vibe to it other than it being a big city, but howdy do we know that Berleben is full of nosy, bored people in a smelly swamp, and we sure know that Zadash is a bustling city with stark class segregation while Nicodranas is a beautiful trade hub with a mixture of different cultures. I think part of that may have come from working on the source books (they have similar language for the plot hooks and location entries). However, that method of narration was mostly limited to first descriptions of a new place or events (“cutscenes” like the attack in Zadash). Within a scene, Matt was still fairly casual in his discussions with the players.

But currently in Age of Umbra, and with a good chunk of C3, Matt’s narration is far more deliberate. There is a consistently slower pace compared to earlier campaigns, usually only speeding up in combat. Part of that may be for production purposes (easier for transcriptions and closed captioning), but it also impacts the pacing of the game itself. There’s also that presence of a new character: the narrator himself has a voice, and that is now part of the story. It’s extremely noticeable when the cast gets Matt to “break character” as the narrator to only be a DM. It requires a baseline level of formality for that to happen, and Matt committed to it in nearly every scene, regardless of the context of the scene. While that doesn’t feel all that strange for Age of Umbra (it fits well with the soulsborne style of game), it does make me realize that it’s part of why C3 felt incongruous. Like, sorry about the dead horse, but I was expecting C3 to be pulpy, which very much benefits from the narration style of C1 rather than the formal narration style Matt prefers currently. Punchy, informal narration sets a player expectation of “you’re here to get something done and I’ll tell you if it works,” while the current style instead lends itself to “you’re part of my story and this is the tone.” The former is great for fast-paced roleplay and the latter is suited to unhurried storytelling—which wouldn’t feel as mismatched if C3 hadn’t been a story where the PCs needed to prevent a second calamity within the course of a few weeks.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this was a mistake. Matt clearly enjoys how he narrates currently, and every DM is entitled to their preference. However, I think there’s a lesson in here that varying the narration style to match the purpose of the scene and story would benefit the players and the audience.

To be fair here, Matt is not the only DM who doesn’t mix it up very often. Brennan Lee Mulligan (Dimension 20) is far closer to the C1 style of fast, informal narration with very limited, specific instances where he would slow down for drama; there is no “narrator” character in his players’ story. D20 has a far more casual tone to its seasons than CR does in its campaigns. Luis Carazo (Tales Unrolled) narrates similarly to Matt, with a focus on instilling an emotional reaction for the players to deal with, and the players collaboratively join Luis as the narrator for their own characters; it’s a back and forth where the DM and players contribute to that additional presence. Tales Unrolled is on the opposite end of the spectrum from D20, with a clear feeling that it is a storytelling experience.

Again, choosing one narration style over another isn’t necessarily a flaw. However, I think varied narration is a tool that most DMs underutilize. If used carefully, adjusting narration styles within sessions on the fly could enhance the experience of an Actual Play campaign for everyone involved. It could be used as a signal to the players for what type of scene this will be or when a scene is shifting. It could also signal to performers in a show for pacing within an episode (hijinks are over, time for some drama; time to cool down from the tension).

But, as always, it’s easier to point stuff out like this than it is to do it in practice.

[a99jazzybean]

HIIIII! I just binge read your date everything fics and I love them! May i ask for yet another Chance fic, where y/n is familiar with g&g and used to play with their friends from time to time - using his dice of course! And... y/n used to kiss the piece for the "lucky shot", doesn't matter if it worked or not. So now, with Skylars help, y/n can speak with him and even play a session or two and it is so much fun! But she is completely oblivious to the fact that he remembers every time y/ns lips touched his dice-y form and each time he silently yearns for her lips to touch him once again... The rest is up to you, lots of love!

I love this prompt so much! Thank you for the request!

With a Taste of Your Lips...

synop: You and Chance decide to play another session of G&G. Little do you know, a special tradition of yours has him feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. i.e. You discover Chance can feel when you kiss his die.

words: 4.7K

includes: chancexfem!reader, ttrpg playing, making out, fondling an object?, cumming untouched kinda, smut

a/n: I might make a part 2 to this one, thoughts? Also, its got smut. No minors!

“You feel yourself growing weaker. The spell the lich cast on you drains your life force. All of your comrades are downed. You are their final hope.” Your GM stares you down, brow raised. “What would you like to do?”

Looking around the table you see all of your friends' faces are grim. All eyes are on you. Taking a look at the battlemap before you, your eyes widened. 

“Past the cliff, it’s the Abysmal Pit, correct?” You asked the GM. 

“Correct.”

“And anyone who falls in is erased from existence, right?

“Correct.”

“No!” Sam shouted. “I know what you’re thinking. You can’t do it!”

You give her a solemn look, eyes filled with sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” You pick up your red D20. “But you can’t stop me. I’m going for a grapple on the lich, then I’m dragging him over the edge with me.” 

A chorus of gasps erupts from your party members. Some are getting teary-eyed. 

Two years of a campaign filled with adventure, friendship, romance, and tears. This is how it ends. Perhaps it was destined to be. 

“Make your roll.” Your GM feels tears prick in their own eyes. Not knowing whether they want you to succeed on this or not. 

As is tradition on major rolls, you bring your trusty die to your lips. Pecking it softly, you pray that this works. 

“Lucky shot,” you hear Sam say under their breath. 

Cupping the die in your hands, you give a good shake. Then you release it onto the table. Everyone in the room is holding their breath as it rolls. Finally, it stops. Natural 20. 

Normally, the table would erupt with cheers. This time, it wasn’t proper to celebrate. 

“Prim,” your GM took in a shaky breath as he spoke your character’s name. Trying to hold back tears. “You muster up the final dregs of strength within you. Pulling yourself up with a groan. Everything hurts, but your mind has been made up. Pushing through it all, you start to run. Taking one final look at your fallen teammates. This is the last time you will see them. Tell me how this ends.” Their voice wavered. 

“As I run toward the lich, I let out a final ‘goodbye’. I grab it around the waist, then throw both of us off of the ledge. No matter what it does I keep ahold of it. It’s coming with me.” Your own eyes fill with tears. 

“As you fall, the lich tries to get you off of it, but to no avail. For a brief moment you can see a flash of its past humanity. Fear filling its face as it realizes the one thing that it tried to run from has finally arrived. Death in the shape of a half-elf rogue who risked it all to defeat it.”

Chance sighed dreamily, remembering your great sacrifice. Seemed like you frequently played characters that laid their life on the line. No wonder he was absolutely smitten.

While you weren’t able to see his personified form at the moment, he was able to see you. Back hunched over as you typed on Mac. The computer feeling pretty good about themselves as you cranked out your latest self-insert fanfic. What else were you supposed to do when an AI took over your job? 

Chance wasn’t able to see what you were writing, but could see Mac occasionally blush and chuckle at the words you were typing onto them. 

“Care to share?” He asked the computer. 

Mac glanced over at him, then back to one of the screens in front of them. 

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s kind of mortified that I’ve even read this stuff.” Mac turned back to read what you had just typed out, red blooming on their face. “Yeah, no. You don’t need to know about this.” 

Chance grumbled to himself. It didn’t feel fair that Mac got to see the sexiest innermost thoughts of yours. Actually, he was kind of jealous of many of your objects. Betty slept with you every night, witnessing the limited sexual exploits of yours. Johnny, he wouldn’t talk about it, too much of a gentleman. But the massage setting on his shower head? He might have alluded to activities you had accomplished with that. 

It was frustrating to say the least. Seeing how much better the other beings in the home got to know you intimately. All Chance wanted was a taste of that knowledge. 

He hoped you’d put your Dateviators back on again. Now that you had been able to see him, all he wanted was your attention. It didn’t help that you enthusiastically offered to play G&G with him. Only feeding into the ever-growing obsession with you. 

It didn’t start when you put those glasses on, no. It started when you came up with that damned tradition. Kissing the 20 side of his die body. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, really. But he felt it, every single time. It was special, something you only did when making a major roll. And you always picked him. Your “lucky shot” for your “lucky die”. 

The thing was, you hadn’t ended that tradition. When you began playing with Chance, you continued to make your lucky shots. Not realizing that although the personified version was sitting in front of you, Chance was still very much connected to the object he was. He would have you roll on something difficult, and as if it were instinct, you pressed your soft lips right on the20 side. Thankfully, Chance had been able to maintain his composure as you watched the die roll. However, it was beginning to become too much. 

Each press of your lips to the die had him falling for you harder and harder. 

With a sigh, you pushed away from your computer. Eyeing the die beside you with a smirk. Tapping on the desk, your gaze flitted over to your glasses. It had been a few hours since you had them on, couldn’t hurt to say hi to your office. And there might have been a specific object that held your affections.

“You know. I can feel you looking at me, right?” You teased the die before putting on the Dateviators. 

Chance’s face was ruddy when you looked at him, caught red handed. Rubbing his neck sheepishly, he gave you an apologetic look.

“What can I say? You’re nice to look at.” 

Now it was your turn to blush. The damned man always seemed to fluster you in such innocuous ways. Somehow always polite with his flirting. 

There were times he could be fairly forward, but he never pushed. It was sweet. 

Thinking about it, you could go for something sweet now. But nothing that was consumable. 

“Do you have a session prepped?” You asked.

Immediately, he perked up. A bright smile on his face complimented by an enthused flush. 

“Of course! Ever since you’ve come along, I’m like ten sessions ahead!” He leaned toward you, bouncing on his toes. 

“I’m glad that you’ve been so inspired. I love your stories.” You gave him a soft smile. 

His eyes widen, practically sparkling at your words.

“Y-you love my stories?” He held his hand to his heart, feeling the muscle pump faster at your compliment.

“Why do you think I want to play with you so often?” You pulled his die over with a finger, rolling it around. “I have a lot of fun with you.” 

“We could have more fun.” He raised a brow suggestively, looking over his glasses at you.

Red in the face, you waved him off with a giggle.

“Do you have time to play now?”

“I always have time for you.” 

You were sure you heard Timothy scoff somewhere in the distance. That was no matter though, for now you had the full attention of your favorite die. 

“Shall we play, then?” 

Chance nodded enthusiastically, then proceeded to get his GM station set up. When his screen and notes were all in place, he gave an approved nod. Looking up, he beamed at you again. Feeling his heart squeeze at the content smile on your face as you sat on the other end of the table from him. Oh how he wished to always keep you happy. He would play forever with you just to make sure that smile never fell from your lips. 

“Alright, where did we leave off?” He glanced over his notes.

“I managed to talk myself out of being eaten by a giant.” You had your own notes pulled out. 

Chance felt his heart swell again. You took notes! Oh, you truly were the perfect player. 

“That’s right! My charismatic girl!” He chuckled as your face grew red. 

He was glad that he managed to make you as flustered as you made him. Equal opportunity flirting to make the other squirm. Again, perfect. 

“You’ve gotten away from the giant, but you still have yet to find the gilded egg laying hen.” 

“Thankfully, you have quite the wise girl as well!” You let out a satisfied huff. “Can I make a perception check to see where the chicken is?” 

“You may.” He motioned for you to continue.

Shaking the die in your hands you urged it to roll well. 

“C’mon D20, show me what you’re made of!” 

You released the die, it clattered into your dice tray. After a moment of circling, it landed on a 16. 

“Nice! And that’s a plus four to my perception!” 

“Wonderful!” He cleared his throat, continuing his tale. “As you look around the foyer of the giant’s castle, you aren’t finding any indications of where a hen might be roosting. However, after a moment of hearing silence, there’s a new sound filtering down the hallway to the north.”

“What’s the sound?” You ask with a knowing smirk.

“It’s soft harp music, almost dreamlike.” 

After your previous character died valiantly saving a village from a dragon, Chance asked if you would mind experimenting with a fairytale themed game. Of course, you agreed, excited to see what he would come up with. While some of the quests you have been on so far were a bit predictable, he had many twists and turns added in. 

Like Cinderella’s slipper turning out to be a baby mimic. When you had managed to aid the prince in finding his lost love, the mimic revealed itself, chomping down on her foot. However, she didn’t scream. It turned out, Cinderella’s ballgown had already consumed her and was using her head and limbs to blend in. The fairy godmother revealed herself as a demon looking to collect on the souls of the kingdom. All she needed was the prince to disappear so she could take his place. 

It was a lovely twist that ended with a fairly hard battle. Thankfully the prince that accompanied you turned out to be part of the bloodline of very powerful sorcerers, so he was able to aid in the defeat of the fairy godmother. 

The prince tried asking for your hand in marriage, but you had other adventures to go on. Instead, you left with a hefty amount of gold. A token of appreciation for saving the kingdom. The engagement ring hidden amongst the coins didn’t go unnoticed, Chance giving you a cheeky wink when he mentioned it. 

You had noticed the man had been throwing romance options at you throughout each of the fairy tales. Many of them were love stories, sure, but it seemed like he really wanted you to get with someone. Little Red Riding Hood, growing smitten with you after you saved her from the belly of a wolf. A huntsman asking for your hand after you aided him in saving the kingdom from a corrupt king. Snow White practically begged you to marry her after you turned out to be her “true love's kiss”. He was laying it on pretty thick, so to speak.  

Truthfully, the reason why you never accepted was because you wanted Chance to stop hiding his affections behind characters in your game. The two of you had constant flirty banter, but it felt like he could only speak through innuendo when hinting at wanting anything more. While it was endearing, it was starting to become tiring. 

Though admittedly, you were a coward too. It would be hypocritical to judge the man considering you couldn’t muster up the courage to do anything either. Instead, you sat in a flirtatious purgatory. Something that could be viewed as a comfortable platonic relationship, but in reality had very, very heavy overtones of desire. 

Neither you or Chance could be subtle. There were times where you could feel the hunger in his eyes as he ran your game. Usually when you did something quite clever. 

That time when you answered his Latin riddle? The man was very glad he had baggy pants on. 

Then there was you. Easily bending to his dominating whims when he was GMing. Something about him having that kind of authority over you often had you clenching your thighs and squirming in your chair. And don’t even get started on the villain monologues. He pulled one of those out, you left the gaming table with your panties soaked. Giving Betty quite the show when you couldn’t get to sleep. 

Back to your current game, Chance asked for your next move.

“I follow the sound of the harp.”

“You feel almost entranced at the music. Your steps pulling you to the north hallway. After about an hour of walking (remember, this is a GIANT’S castle) you made it to the room the music was coming from. Peering inside, you see a giant sitting on a bed. She appears to be much shorter than the one you first encountered, but still clearly a giant. You can tell she is related to the other giant, both sporting the same nose shape. The giant girl is playing the harp, her fingers delicately plucking at the strings. You look across from her and see what you’ve been looking for. A hen nestled in a nest of straw. Its body swaying side to side with the music. Below it you see a peek of gold. What would you like to do?”

“I’m not going to try and hide.”

Chance looked at you with wide eyes, surprised at your blatant move.

“I handled the other giant with my words, I can easily do the same again.”

Oh, he loved your confidence. Your willingness to dive in despite the consequences. He just hoped that it wouldn’t end with your bones ground up to make bread. Quite the horrific way to depart this mortal realm.

“If you say so. You stride inside with confidence. Hyping yourself up from your previous encounter with a giant.” He rolled a die, giving a grimace. “The giant girl doesn’t appear to see you. She’s looking right at the hen, swaying side to side as she continues to play the harp.”

“I try to catch her attention by clearing my throat loudly.” 

“You clear your throat, and she stops playing. A sour look grows on her face as she looks for the source of the sound. Looking down, she finally spots you. Crossing her arms, she gives you a pout.”

“You know, it’s quite rude to interrupt a performance.” Chance put on the voice of a little girl, making you chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Chance, you know that wasn’t in-game.” You gave him a stern look. 

“I know, I’m just messin. Anyways… she looks at you, waiting for you to respond.”

“I apologize, your music is lovely.” 

“Then why did you interrupt me?”

“Well, I have some important matters to discuss.”

“Important matters? What’s important is that Bailey gets her proper rest.” Chance returns to his normal voice. “You follow her gaze to the hen in the nest.”

“Is Bailey your hen?” 

“Obviously!” The character voice returned. “And she won’t lay eggs unless I play for her.” 

“I see.” You ponder on that information for a moment, then ask. “Is the harp huge?”

“It’s giant, so is the hen.”

“Didn’t the asshole who hired me say he had been here before? Why send me up if there’s no way to bring the items down?” You huffed in frustration at the quest-giver.

“Who said there wasn’t a way to bring them down?” He clicked his tongue at you, admonishingly.

“Hmmm. I think I'll talk to the girl some more.” He motioned for you to continue. “I’m sure Bailey loves your music.”

“She does, she always lays an egg when I play! My daddy says I’m gettin just as good as my mama!” Chance goes back to narrating. “After she says that she goes quiet. Her eyes widening as if she’s just realized you were here. There’s a darkness in them that surprises you for a girl so young.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” You bit your lip nervously.

“You’re a human. Humans aren’t allowed here!”

“Um, you’re dad let me go. At least I think it was your dad.” You give Chance a nervous glance.

“Roll on persuasion.”

Shaking the dice, you let it drop. Watching in fear as it lands on a three. Chance’s gaze grows dark.

“You only think you know? How can I know if you’re telling the truth?” Chance narrates again. “The giant girl stands up, towering high over you. A glare on her face as her eyes narrow. But you spot something odd, her eyes are watering.” The little girl voice is put back on. “All humans lie! I bet you’re no different!”

“I decide to stay quiet, letting her speak.” You say to Chance. Again, he’s surprised at your action.

“Your people killed my mom!” He switches back to normal. “You now see tears falling from her eyes. She’s going to reach for you.” He rolls a die, eyeing you expectantly. “Would you like to do anything to stop it?”

“No. I let her.” 

“A large hand grabs you with a crushing squeeze. You feel the air forced out of your body by the strong grip of her hand. She lifts you to her head.” He clears his throat, going back to the girl voice. “I should just eat you, show you how it feels.” He gives you another expectant look. “Are you going to try and do anything?”

“Nope. I’m gonna close my eyes and accept my fate.” 

Impressed, Chance sits back with his arms crossed. Pondering on what to do next. While you had managed to talk your way out of the last giant encounter, he thought you would at least try to fight your way out of this one. The giant child’s stat block was something that you could manage on your own. 

“Okay. I want you to roll persuasion, and I’ll be nice and give you advantage for what you’ve managed to do so far.”

Pumping your fist in the air, you reached for the die. This time, you brought the D20 to your lips, giving it a light peck. This was a roll that was gonna need it. 

“C’mon lucky shot, don’t let me down now.” 

The first roll landed on a 6. Again, you brought the die to your lips. The kiss to the dice slightly lingering, just for good luck. You shook it in your hand and released, crossing your fingers for a good roll. Slowly, it spun to land on a 20.

“Nat 20 babee! Let’s gooooo!” You stood up and cheered, your character saved.

Chance remained seated, face beet red. His breathing had become labored. For some reason, he couldn’t get himself to calm down. Maybe it was the fact that you had kissed the die in succession. Something he could feel burning through his body. 

Coming down from your high, you realized Chance hadn’t continued. Turning, you gave him a concerned look. Walking over, you eyed the state he was in. Face still extremely flushed. 

“Are you okay?” You leaned toward him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“I-I’m fine. We can continue!” He rubbed his neck nervously.

“Are you sure? Your face is really red.”

“What did you expect after kissing me like that!” He clamped his hands over his mouth, face turning another shade darker. 

“What? I didn’t kiss…” You looked over to the die, feeling a heat crawl up your neck. “C-can you feel that?”

Hands still over his mouth, he nodded. You realized you had been performing your luck ritual the entire time you had been playing with Chance. He could feel it. Every. Single. Time. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You felt terrible, doing that to him without asking.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He said softly.

“But then I kept making you uncomfortable! Kissing you without your consent, ugh. I’m so sorry, Chance.” You gave him a sad look that pierced his heart. That wasn’t what he meant at all!

“I never said I was uncomfortable.” He composed himself somewhat.

“Huh?” 

“I might have liked it…” He trailed quietly. 

“What was that?” You couldn’t make out what he said.

“I like it!” He blurted. “I really like it when you kiss me.” His face grew red again as he waited for your response.

“Y-you do?” 

He nodded sheepishly. 

“Yeah. It feels… nice. Really nice.” He bit his lip nervously. “You’re always so soft and sweet.” 

“Oh.” Your face was burning.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He gave you an apologetic look. 

“Chance…” This time you were nervous.

“Yes?” 

You leaned down toward his face. Arms planted on the headrest of his chair.

“Can I actually kiss you?”

“I-I mean technically you are ‘actually’ kissing me…” He stuttered out, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips.

You gave him an unamused pout.

“You know what I mean. How’s about this? Can I give you a reciprocated kiss? One that you also participate in?”

“Yes. Please.” 

With that, you pressed your lips to his. Chance froze up at first, eyes wide at the fact that this was happening. Leaning into the kiss, his eyes fluttered shut. You let out a content sigh at the feel of his lips against yours. Soft and plush, perfectly meldable with your own. 

With your tongue, you teased at his bottom lip. Gladly, he slightly opened his mouth for your tongues to intertwine. A low groan left him as he tasted you. So fucking perfect.

The man pushed the chair away from the table, letting you sink onto his lap. Your hand trailed up his neck, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. He moaned against you at the action. His own hands trailed over your body, mapping out your slopes and curves. Ultimately they landed on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. You giggled against his lips, pulling away to get a good look at him.

Face still flushed with kiss bitten lips and blown out pupils. He stared up at you like you were a goddess that was granting him a blessing. That was sure how this encounter was feeling. Something that he had only dreamed of. 

“You’re so handsome.” You pressed kisses against his jaw and down his throat, making him shiver. 

“And you’re beautiful. So perfect.” He pressed a kiss to your lips. 

Leaning your forehead against his, you smiled. Then an idea came to you. Biting your lip, you wondered if the man beneath you would oblige to your whims. 

“Chance…”

“Hmm?”

“When I kiss your die, where do you feel it?”

“Oh, um, I guess on my face? Like a whisper against my cheeks and the corner of my lips.” He let out an awkward chuckle. 

You shifted off of him to grab the die, then returned to his lap. Holding the die in front of you, you looked over the numbers.

“So what would happen if I kissed the other numbers?” You asked, gaze hungry.

Oh, oh, this was hot. So fucking hot. Chance thought just kissing you was a dream come true. You wanting more from him? That was merely a fantasy.

“I suppose I would feel you kissing me on other parts of my body.” He answered. Truthfully, he had no idea what would happen. You only ever kissed the 20.

“So if I kiss the one.” You brought the dice to your lips, pecking the side.

Chance giggled at the feeling. Right on the bottom of his foot. 

“I take it that was your foot?”

He nodded, excited to see where this was going. Already feeling himself growing semi-hard in his pants as  he watched you in anticipation.

You pressed a kiss to the five, eyeing Chance’s response. He twitched under you with a whimper. 

“Where was that?”

“My left thigh.” 

Okay, so if five was the left thigh then… you pressed a kiss to the six.

“R-right thigh.” He groaned out. Having your lips on him like this was something else. 

It was probably a good thing you never kissed the other numbers. He was sure you would make him cum from just kissing him alone. 

“So if six is your other thigh then that must mean seven or eight is likely your-”

“What if we avoided that area?” He cut you off, a nervous sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“Why’s that?” You leaned in, giving him a deep kiss.

“I-I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Chance, would me kissing the dice equivalent of your crotch make you cum?” Wow, just right out with it. 

“Y-yeah, yeah. It would. I’m gonna be honest. With the way that you’re already going at it, I’d probably cum just from you kissing me.” 

“Really?” You sat upright, eyes sparkling. 

He nodded, blushing furiously. 

“Could we try it?” You bit your lip. 

The thought of having the man fall apart just from you kissing him had you riled up. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. Seeing him squirm from your kisses before coming undone. Oh, that was very appealing. 

“You want to?” He was surprised.

“Yeah, I do. Only if you want to.” 

“You don’t have to ask twice.” He wrapped a hand around your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Your tongues tangled with each other as you moaned. 

Pulling away, you brought the dice back up to your face. Eyeing the numbers, you decided to go for the 19. You gave it a slow kiss, watching Chance as he shivered and moaned. The feeling reached a sweet spot on his neck that had him keening. He was pretty sure he was addicted to your lips now. 

You continued to press kisses to various numbers. Loving every whimper and moan you managed to get out of the man. Occasionally you would lean back in to give him a proper kiss on the lips, only to return to tease him with the die. 

Chance could tell you were avoiding the seven and eight. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“P-please.” He groaned through gritted teeth as he felt your lips on his chest. “I need you…”

“Need me to what?” You teased with a smirk.

“Kiss the seven and eight. Please.” He begged, squirming beneath you.

“Hmm. Good boy.” Oh fuck. That had his dick throbbing. 

Slowly, you brought the die to your lips. You pecked all over it, then finally pressed a kiss to the seven. Chance cried out at the feeling. Your lips right where he needed them. Feeling them press against his throbbing length. He was sure the next one would be the last he needed. You gave another slow kiss to the eight. It was his undoing. Cock twitching in his pants, releasing a sticky load into his boxers. His hands gripped at your hips as he rutted against the feeling of your lips. 

“Oh f-fuck.” He stuttered out. 

You pressed your lips to his, then kissed all over his face. The man melting into your affection. 

“How was that?” You asked softly.

“Amazing. Perfect. Wonderful. Perfect. Did I mention perfect?” He chuckled.

“I’m glad I could give you that.” You picked up the die again, giving it a peck on the 20. 

“Guess I’ll be keeping my lucky shot tradition for our other games.” You gave him a sweet smile. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Chance pulled you back to him, “did you think playtime was over?”

[revelboo]

(Not really an ask more of a statement)

I’m so thrilled I stumbled on your fics!! I’ve been obsessed with your takes on all my faves :), I just caught up on the Jazz one and I’m so in love (again). I also really really adore your Bluestreak, Cosmos (underrated boys fr) and TFP Shockwave one 🫧🫶🏾. I hope you continue with some of these cause they are so good! No pressure ofc just expressing my adoration 🩵🤍💙❤️

I’m glad you like my nonsense! I enjoy amusing myself writing stories

Over It Now Pt 27

Jazz x Reader

• Shifting on his shocks slightly in the sun, he can feel the heat sapping him, lulling him into near recharge while he waits. And he’s nearly out when you finally come out of the big brick building. Walking without the crutch and without that cast and a twinge of guilt twists through his spark still. Because that was entirely his fault, but it’s hard to be depressed when you’re smiling like that. Pausing right in front of him to stretch out a leg to show off the lack of a cast before sliding into the driver’s side behind the wheel. “You think you can handle all this, kitten?” He asks as you grip his wheel in soft hands and he has a sudden thought that maybe he’s not ready for all this.

• Feeling him shudder around you as you skim your hands over his wheel and hear his engine rumble to life, he makes a funny growling noise when you grip the gear shift. “Can you feel everything I touch?” You ask suspiciously, trying to imagine what that would be like, someone tucked inside you touching things. “Is it too weird?” Feels like it probably is as you start to scoot over the center console into the passenger side and he groans.

• “No, no I want you to drive,” he growls quickly before you can slide yourself over his center console because you have no idea what you’re doing to him. Painfully aware of the weight of you, your warmth and everywhere those soft hands touch. “Touch me, please.” Even if it’s a form of torture as you sink back into the seat and grip his gear shift to put him into gear. “I can feel everything and I’m a little sensitive, okay, doll? No one’s touched in there before.”

• Why do you like that admission? That this is something he’s only experienced with you? Fingers caressing the stitching on the steering wheel as you drive, you feel weirdly powerful. “So what happens to your bot bits when you’re a car?” They’re obviously still there, just hidden. So his head is here somewhere. His hands. His spike. Face heating as you feel yourself fighting a grin, you rest your palm against his gear shift, thumb sliding against it.

• “Any part in particular you’re wondering about, doll?” He asks raggedly. This feels like dangerous territory, teasing out in broad daylight. “Maybe your favorite part?” And you laugh, the sound sinking into him and making him feel light. ‘You think that’s my favorite part?’ You tease back, fingers sliding against his wheel. “You like playing with it well enough.”

Previous

[ilovekittycats2]

Pretend

Pairing: b. barnes x ex!widow!f!reader

In which,

Bucky wakes to an unfamiliar stillness and realizes—for the first time in a long time—he’s not alone.

A/N: This is a short lil blurb for all my bucky girlies!! sorry for the inactivity recently! i am back for good! send reqs!

WC: 685

masterlist

They sit side by side on the edge of a rundown motel bed, boots off, bruises blooming beneath black sleeves. The lamplight is warm and flickering, casting long shadows across the walls—ghosts that neither of them acknowledge.

The mattress sags beneath their combined weight. The kind of sag that means too many people have passed through, left things behind. Blood. Sweat. Secrets. The kind of place you don’t sleep so much as collapse. The kind of place you don’t talk unless you have to.

Bucky hasn’t said a word in over an hour.

You haven’t pushed.

You’ve gotten used to his silences. Learned to read the weight of them. They aren’t hollow. They’re full. Heavy. Coiled tight like a wire stretched to the point of snapping. Sometimes they’re safe. Sometimes, not.

This one feels dangerous.

His jaw ticks again. Barely there, but you catch it—the twitch, the slow grind of his teeth, the almost imperceptible flex of muscle in his forearm.

"You keep clenching your fists like you're waiting to hit something," you say softly.

He doesn’t look at you. “I’m fine.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “Right. The famous ‘I’m fine.’ Works every time.”

He exhales sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, almost a warning.

You don’t flinch.

You lean forward instead, elbows resting on your knees, braid slipping over your shoulder like a weight you forgot you were still carrying.

“You’re angry,” you murmur. “You’ve got this... rage tucked so deep inside you, I don’t even think you know what it’s aimed at anymore.”

For a moment, he’s completely still. A statue carved from grief and restraint.

Then—barely perceptible—he flinches.

You don’t press.

Not yet.

“It’s okay to be angry with him,” you say, quieter now. “With Steve.”

That lands like a punch.

His head snaps toward you, sudden and sharp. Defensive. “What are you talking about?” he says, too fast. “You think I’m angry with Steve?”

You don’t move. Don’t blink.

“I don’t think,” you say evenly. “I know.”

He stares at you like you’ve just stepped over a line no one else ever dared cross. Like you’ve peeled back a layer he thought was buried too deep for anyone to reach.

“I’m not—” he starts, but the words hitch in his throat. He doesn’t finish.

You turn toward him slowly. Not to corner. Not to confront. Just to be closer. Present. Steady.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” you say. “He left. He chose to leave. You woke up in a world without him—again. And you’re angry. Because now it’s just you. Because he left you behind with everything you didn’t know how to carry alone.”

His shoulders rise in a shaky breath, then fall.

Still silent.

“You want to believe it’s the world you’re mad at. The government. The war. The people who don’t understand you. But it’s him, isn’t it?” you ask, softer now. “It’s Steve.”

And then, from him—barely audible, like a confession scraped raw:

“I don’t know how to not be angry anymore.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Tangible. Bitter.

His voice breaks halfway through the sentence, and he doesn't meet your eyes. But you see the tremor in his hands now—resting on his thighs like they don’t belong to him.

You don’t hesitate.

You reach out slowly, carefully, like you’re approaching something wounded and wild. Your fingers brush his.

You expect him to pull away.

He doesn’t.

You let your hand settle over his, gentle and sure. Not gripping. Not pushing. Just there.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you say, barely more than a breath.

The silence that follows is deeper than before, but it’s different now. Not coiled. Not waiting to snap. It’s full of all the things that have never been said. That maybe never will be.

His fingers, trembling beneath yours, turn—just enough that they can hold on.

It’s not much. It’s not enough.

But it’s honest.

And it’s real.

He doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t defend.

He just lets you stay.

And maybe that’s the bravest thing either of you has done in a long time.

[glasskey]

What Season 6 did to Nick AND June

Yeah, I’m never going to get over this. Now in the past when I’ve not been entirely happy with series finales I’ve been somewhat soothed by time to ponder and follow up press from Show runners and cast that had something constructive and generous to offer. Here, we received the opposite and as a result I’ve been left to stew in the delicious juices of my hatred and resentment.

After all of the push back, it’s pretty evident that Blaine was unjustly dealt with in season 6, particularly in comparison to the rest of the Gilead Four. Not only that, but there’s a resounding consensus that Nick and June’s relationship was callously spat on and set on fire with an almost gleeful hatred. Last but not least, June now seems to look unsympathetic and opportunistic….and THAT is not her fucking fault. Please, let me elaborate.

The writers had several options to chose from to cast as the villain but they found Blaine the most convenient to go with for a multitude of reasons. They also wanted to make a political statement, so there you go. They weren’t really concerned with all the rest of the “sense of justice”, “out of character” element because they could always fall back on deniability and off screen character history. Unfortunately the audience WAS concerned with these things and have considered the show runners dismissal of their opinion as let’s say, quite rude. They’ve unfortunately chosen to paint Serena in a positive light and, cast the core message of the show about motherhood instead of female autonomy, which undermines basically all of it’s feminist values. Essentially it simply re enforced Fred Waterford’s philosophy about women’s greatest purpose being as a walking womb. Yet they somehow managed to undermine their OWN themes of mother hood by having June running around Gilead constantly bleating about Hannah, while treating Holly like an inconvenient after thought.

They missed their chance to utilise that love triangle as a demonstration of a woman having the power to choose in her personal relationships, by determining Nicks actions be the deciding factor. Honestly, I’ve seen more autonomy demonstrated in the infamous Joey / Pacey / Dawson love triangle in Dawson’s Creek. I mean FFS….DAWSON’S CREEK! Because American writers are so stifled by traditionalist theological values, the idea of a woman actually leaving her husband because she dared to fall in love with someone else, remained absolutely inconceivable. The writers themselves commented “I don’t think the audience would like it if she just abandoned her husband”, yes that’s right ”abandoned”, like leaving him was tantamount to orphaning a helpless child. Like men are utterly incapable of looking after themselves, and women should feel guilty over wanting to end their marriage. It’s made no less offensive by the fact that Luke walked out on his wife and it was written off as “people change”. Once again, OK for a man, but not for a woman. Got it. I felt SO failed as a woman, by the moralistic, traditionalist messaging that occurred, I find it difficult to articulate. In order for the writers to disassemble the idea of Nick and June as the manifestation of an autonomous choice of collective rebellion, and jam these traditionalist ideals back into place, they had to flip both Nick and Luke’s character. They had to violate a text, destroy narrative symbolism and change the very core nature of characters. I’m wholly unimpressed that these writers idea of true love is that some man “waited for her”, like she OWES him something. It’s utterly archaic. Seems almost stalkerish considering the fact that the protagonist actually asked him not to, and yet here we are being told that it’s some sort of demonstration of undying love. Must be the same person who thinks that June and Serena’s relationship is a “love story”.

I personally RESENT being told by both these writers, and by default the fans that latched onto this ridiculous bullshit, that I have “romanticized” a “Nazi”, when the writers themselves built the character to play the dark romantic hero for 5 seasons, and then suddenly changed their minds. It’s insulting and worse still, it makes fans a target. No matter how many times these writers try to whack Blaine with this inflammatory label, historical fact dictates that it still doesn’t make it fucking so. They previously ran promos for him being a part of Mayday, made continual distinctions between Blaine and the rest of Gilead’s foul regime and then suddenly decided to run around screeching that he was an unholy, irredeemable war criminal. They can fuck right off with that 180 self righteous, holier than thou, bullshit.

Everyone was all on board for 4 09 and 4 10. By the way, don’t think that I don’t remember those very same little Nick haters that posted comments relenting past hatreds during season 4, who are now proudly crowing about how “they always knew he was a war criminal and a fascist”, because I see you. Those writers aren’t fooling anyone; if it looks like a take back, and it smells like a take back….then it fucking is. There’s a REASON that the majority of the audience FEELS betrayed and no whining or mealy mouthed justifications by the writers, to their little press besties is going to fix it and magically make it go away. I also refuse to sit back and have their finger wagged at me for wanting the candy they dangled in front of me for 5 seasons, or at the very least adherence to the original source material. They can fuck right off with that shit too. These writers are the ones that violated a text and if they’re getting a mouthful about it, they should just fucking own it instead of acting like self righteous little brats.

Daisy’s / Holly’s story line has essentially been removed from The Testaments TV series and the timeline shortened. It honestly feels like the audience is constantly having to point out to the writers, that they are not fucking idiots, that they don’t have amnesia, that they read the books and that they KNOW when writers are violating a text. This whole branch of the family feels like it’s been treated as if it was simply so inconvenient to these writers that it needed to be erased. As season 6 concluded, Holly was hand balled to her names sake, while June skipped off to rescue the family favourite.

The way that both Blaine and his relationship with Osborn were disposed of in The Handmaids Tale felt nothing short of personal. The writers weren’t satisfied with splitting the pair apart permanently, they wanted to do it brutally, they wanted to devalue their previous connection, they wanted to strip Blaine of his parentage and last but not least, have the love of his life kill him. Even his final words made it sound as though he’d had a gazillion chances to be with her and his daughter, and had greedily chosen power instead. It was like watching the writers beat Blaine to death and then gleefully kick his corpse.

It wasn’t just Blaine that Season 6’s schizophrenic manoeuvrings touched, it was many others including June. I’ve been hearing a lot of rumblings about June lately, and coincidently they started this season. They’ve not been flattering, frankly some of them have been a bit disturbing. I’d argue that if Blaine’s character wasn’t consistent this season, then neither was hers, particularly when it comes to the context of their relationship. June knows what it’s like to survive in Gilead, previous seasons have depicted her doing awful shit to either stay alive or for her cause. I don’t believe this character would suddenly develop some sense of self righteousness that would make her deaf to any of Blaine’s reasoning; including the fact that he told his demented father in law the girls at Jezebels had nothing to do with it, and that he had no idea he would kill them. Let’s just consider what happened with Eden and what went down at the Jezebels in season 4. June KNOWS what the deal is in Gilead. Audience’s should have no doubt that the writers changed the tone of their interactions, the nature of their relationship and as such they changed the character of both Nick AND June within it’s context. While it was not their aim to make her look unsympathetic, because of their rampant tampering in their relationship, it was an inevitable result. I’m actually surprised at audience members who DID readily gobble this up as sounding legit for their characters. Some of these people were actual critics who should have recognized a snack bucket of deep fried garbage when they saw it, but instead they chowed down on it, and then swore up and down they’d just eaten a gourmet 3 courser.

They’d attempted to paint Blaine as a villain but because of the sum of his past actions, most didn’t buy it and it simply made him look abandoned and June opportunistic. The fact is you can’t say that Blaine is not a liar and still say that June is heartless. If you want to say the story line is false for one, then by default it’s false for both. Changing Nicks character changes the genuine nature of Nick and June’s interactions and therefore changes her personality entirely in the context of their relationship. Essentially, if Nicks character construct is false, then in the context of their relationship, so is hers.….you don’t get to have just half of the pie. These writers wanted half and it was waaaaay too late, he was intrinsically tied to her as they’d painted them as soul mates from the very beginning. They’d spent seasons and seasons building their bond, demonstrating the constant tether that held them together despite the regime. Then they just simply wanted to get away with cutting it off brutally. These writers created an aura of timelessness between them, so despite their best attempts to sever them later, they remained tied together and the inevitable consequence was that when they attempted to drag him down, she went with him.

This eternal connection is something the season 6 writers never understood, and it’s why they thought they could simply decimate Blaine’s character, dispose of him and walk away with their protagonist intact. I want to be crystal clear to those who think that June is now some horrible ungrateful wench….these writers did these two dirty. Not just Blaine, but June too. These writers back peddled on their relationship and did just about everything to devalue it; they didn’t anticipate that it would make her look opportunistic and heartless, but it was bound to happen once they tried to make their connection look superficial. The end result was that these writers made BOTH these characters look morally bankrupt, they made their relationship look valueless, they destroyed their mutual bond as parents and they ruined an epic love story. On top of it all, they not only mocked their audience for caring for these characters and their bond, but appeared to despise them for it. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it. These writers lured viewers into a cruel trap, wounded them and then got pissed off when the audience actually told them they’d been a bunch of arseholes for doing it. I don’t know about anyone else but I don’t really have any qualms about telling them that I fucking hate them for it. It was cruel, surprisingly vindictive and I for one won’t forget it.

Minghella commented that you definitely couldn’t accuse the writers of pandering. I’ve no doubt this statement is actually a politely pointed jab at the writers brutality. It’s atypical coming from a Brit, a razor sharp insult disguised as a cleverly worded complement, that you only get wise to about 3 days after the fact.

The rating difference on this season, between critics and audiences is suspiciously large. They’ve submitted to the Emmy’s, but you just KNOW that Severance and Adolescence are going to take virtually everything so good luck with that. Awards aside, it won’t make one iota of a difference in terms of viewership. The truth is no one really gives a fuck. This is GOT all over again. Current audiences will tell ALL their friends that they loved the show but the last season was shit and it totally ruined everything before it. Then people won’t watch any of it because well, who wants to waste their time watching a show that effectively self destructs in the last season? Yep, fucking no one. Who wants to watch a spin off of that? See previous answer.

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Below the Belt (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Summary: You've been working with retired MMA fighter turned trainer Natasha Romanoff for months. When one errant punch leaves your mouth bleeding, things take an... interesting turn.

Words: 2667

Warnings: SMUT, mild, vv mild, violence because you're training for MMA. Language. More SMUT.

A/N: I love MMA fighting but know bare minimum about it so...

-X-

The gym stunk of sweat and adrenaline when the practice bell rang for the final time of the night. You could taste copper on your tongue, sharp and pointed as it slicked over the muscle and reddened your mouth guard. Your lip was split from a nasty elbow Natasha had cracked clean across your face in a brutal clinch drill. Not intentional, not really, but she didn’t apologize.

She never did.

The old lights above buzzed incessantly, casting everything in a dull golden glow that made your bruises seem deeper and your shadow longer across the mat. The place had been cleaned out earlier by Sam, who had closed up to give you two the floor. He was well aware of how intense your training sessions with Natasha could be.

Natasha stood across from you in the makeshift Octagon, chest rising and falling steadily as sweat dripped down her collarbone in rivulets to the neckline of her tank top. Her gloves hung loose at her sides, her brow raised as a ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips.

“You drop your guard again like that and I’m going to split more than just your lip next time,” she said pointedly, her voice low and rough from yelling drills over the last hour.

“I think you just enjoy making me bleed,” you chuckled, licking over the weeping wound as you smirked back.

Her eyes didn’t leave yours once, watching the droplet of crimson bubble up from the cut as you breathed through the familiar sting. It was controlled—unreadable—but charged as hell. The kind of stare that felt like she was peeling back layers of you that only she could see.

Stepping closer to you, she reached up and gripped your chin with her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes darted to your lip, lingering, before flickering back up to yours.

“Hold still,” she murmured, pulling the mouthguard from your teeth without asking and tossed it aside. Dropping her glove, she carefully wiped the blood from your mouth with the edge of her hand wrap, leaving a pink smear across the gauze—though if she noticed, it wasn’t apparent as her eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You’ve been slow all week. Something on your mind?” she asked quietly.

She was close now—too close. You could feel her breath on your jaw, could smell the clean sweat and citrus of her body spray. You could hear the steady pound of a heart in your ears but you didn’t know if it was hers or yours.

“You wanna keep playing like a big dog? You’ve got to stop freezing every time I get close,” she murmured, lips ghosting over your chin teasingly.

“I can’t help it,” you whispered, tilting your head slightly, mouth a mere inch from hers. “Every time you get close, I forget how to breathe.”

There was a beat of silence, only the heavy sound of her breathing mingling with yours, before—

“Fuck.”

Her lips collided with yours hard. No warning, no hesitation as her hands found your jaw, her tongue running along the split in your lip like it was her prize to claim. And as she sucked your bottom lip into her mouth for a moment, only to soothe it roughly with her tongue, you knew this wasn’t about training.

Not anymore.

Moaning into the harsh treatment, your fingers sunk into her locks as you dragged her closer. A quiet but guttural groan escaped the back of her throat, the noise burning away every ounce of composure either of you pretended to carry in that moment.

Her hands slid down from your jaw, bracing at your sides as she pushed you back—step by step—until your spine met the padded wall of the training cage, the metal rattling faintly behind you.

"You like the pain, huh?" she breathed against your lips, biting the edge of your bottom one, pointedly scraping over the split. Her voice was deeper now, soaked in something darker… need, frustration, maybe months of watching you move and not being able to touch. “Do you take the hits just to feel something? Or do you take them so you feel me touching you?”

She didn’t wait for a response as her mouth found your throat, tongue tracing along the prominent vein there before biting down; not enough to break skin but enough to bruise. To leave her mark on your skin as she sucked, branding you like it was her right.

Both hands bared now, she slid one under the hem of your tank top, fingers splayed out across your ribs as she finally let herself feel you. Feel what she’d been denying herself for so long. Mapping you like a territory she’d long studied but never dared to venture.

“You ever fuck someone on a mat?” she rasped in your ear, her nails digging into your skin.

Her thigh pressed up between your legs, pinning you there and grinding slow. Her breath hitched—just slightly—when she felt how hot you already were through your shorts, the thin material already clinging.

Her eyes searched yours, something vicious and wanting behind them. “Tell me to stop and I will… or you’re not leaving this octagon.”

Head falling back against the metal, a broken moan cracked from your throat. “Fuck, Natasha, please,” you panted, arching into her touch. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for months.”

Slotting your leg between her thighs, your hands fell to her hips for a moment, encouraging the filthiest fucking grind of your life as you felt the drenched fabric sliding along the line of your muscle. Her arousal was painting you through the damn shorts and it was the hottest fucking thing you’d ever experienced in your life.

Her mouth collided with yours again, this time messier, hotter, all tongue and teeth and bruised-lip hunger. She moaned into the kiss—shamelessly. Her fingers fisted in your tank as her hips rolled down over your thigh, chasing friction like she couldn’t help herself. It wasn't the kind of moment that let either of you pretend anymore.

This was obsession unleashed.

"You wanted me?” she gasped against your jaw, dragging her teeth along it before biting the underside, sharp enough to leave a mark. “You think I didn’t fucking notice?”

Her hands were everywhere—tugging your tank up and over your head with a growl, baring your chest to the gym’s low, golden light. She sucked in a breath, palms grazing your skin like it was something sacred.

“Jesus…”

She kissed down the center of your sternum, tongue flicking low, slow, teasing.

“I should’ve fucked you the night you broke Harper’s nose. You walked out of that ring with blood on your face and that smug little grin—” Her lips found your nipple, teeth sharp as she nipped. Sucked. Teased. “—and I knew.”

She rocked harder against your thigh, fingers sliding to your spine as her nails bit into your flesh like she needed more. More pressure. More you.

“Fucking take me already,” she rasped, the command breaking with need.

A noise that bordered on a growl escaped your throat as you carefully maneuvered her down, pinning her to the mat. Her breath left in a choked gasp as her back touched the soft padding, the thud echoing off the walls. Her eyes flew wide, chest heaving, but her eyes were dark.

Hungry and burning as she stared up at you.

Your hands were everywhere, yanking off her tank top before snagging into the top of her shorts as you threw them aside like they were the most offensive garments you’d ever had the displeasure of touching. Her hands gripped at the mat as your mouth traced her neck, then her collarbone, before descending on her chest like you were starving. Mouth closing around one nipple, she arched into your touch, her curses a string of Russian you couldn’t understand and didn’t care to in that moment. Her fingers tangled in your hair, grip so tight it burned against your scalp but it only served to steal a desperate, ragged moan from your throat.

She writhed beneath you, hips twitching every time your fingers skimmed the edge of her soaked panties, breath hitching with each teasing pass. The muscles in her abdomen clenched as your palms flattened against her waist, tracing every line carved by years of brutal training.

Her thighs parted instinctively when your hands dipped lower, panties clinging to soaked heat. She lifted her hips—submitting, no trace of control left in her posture—and gasped your name like it meant something dangerous.

“Fuck, don’t stop. Please…”

Trailing kisses down her torso, over her toned stomach, your tongue dipped into her naval as you worked down until your mouth was pressed against her aching pussy, only the thin barrier of her panties separating you from your prize as you tongued her swollen clit through the damn near sheer black lace.

Natasha’s hips jerked beneath you, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Her thighs clenched around your shoulders, trembling with the strain of holding back—of not bucking, not clawing at you like an animal. But she failed.

Gloriously.

“Fuck—” Her voice cracked, head thrashing against the mat as your mouth worked her through the lace. The dampness was obscene—her arousal soaking the fabric so thoroughly it stuck to her, molding to every twitch, every pulse of need beneath it.

And you didn’t give her relief.

You played with her.

Your lips moved slowly, deliberately, mouthing at her clit through the veil of her panties, tongue rolling in wet, lazy circles that made her whimper like she’d never been touched this way. Her hands clawed at the mat, then at your shoulders, nails dragging desperate lines down your back.

“Take them off,” she begged, her voice fraying at the edges, pride long gone. “Please, take them the fuck off—I need—” Her breath hitched again as you sucked against the fabric, drawing another strangled moan from her chest. “I need you.”

She arched, completely undone beneath you, every inch of her sculpted body twitching under your tongue. And still, she gave you that look: eyes dark, feral, the same fighter who taught you how to drop someone with one strike.

Only now she was spread beneath you, begging for mercy.

"Fuck, baby—" her voice dropped to a ragged whisper, lashes fluttering. "Rip ‘em. I don’t care. I just want you inside."

You almost tore the fabric from her body and the moment your mouth met her bare, aching clit, Natasha shattered.

A scream, raw and breathless tore from her throat as her back arched off the mat, muscles coiling like a live wire beneath you. Her thighs clamped around your head, heels digging into the mat for leverage, as if grounding herself against the sheer, searing pleasure flooding her body.

“Fucking—God—” she gasped, voice breaking entirely, hands flying to your hair with a brutal grip that threaded into the strands like she was drowning and you were the only thing giving her air.

Your tongue was relentless. Wet, hot flicks—sharp and fast—alternating with the slow drag of your mouth sealing over her clit, sucking, teasing, devouring her. She writhed beneath you, sweat slicking her skin as your name tumbled from her lips in staccato moans, each one more desperate than the last.

"You’re gonna make me come—" she choked, fingers tugging, hips grinding helplessly against your face. "I—I can’t—"

But she did, the sound of her moans almost bleeding into a scream.

The orgasm tore through her like a strike, legs convulsing, her cry cracking the air as she clung to you, thighs shaking, the muscles in her abdomen clenching so tight it made her breath stutter. But even in release, she was a fucking sight—glistening with sweat, mouth parted, hair wild across the mat. Her body quaked beneath you, fingers so tight in your hair that you wondered, briefly, if you’d come to find random strands of it on the mat later.

When her hips finally dropped, spent and twitching, she looked down at you with a dazed kind of awe. A crooked smile tugged at her lips, and her voice was hoarse. "Jesus fucking Christ... What are you?"

Her hands finally slid down, fingers curling beneath your chin to pull you up, her mouth already chasing yours again, desperate to taste what you’d stolen from her. Whatever this was—whatever it would become—you knew that you’d never be able to walk away from this beautiful, broken creature…

And you’d never want to.

You kissed her deeply, tongue gliding along hers languidly as your hand replaced where your mouth had just been, two fingers easing into her cunt as you swallowed her gasp. The noise that escaped her mouth was unholy as your fingers sank inside her—hot and dripping with every thrust. Her entire body jolted like you’d flipped a switch, hips bucking into every movement shamelessly.

“Fuck, god… yes…” she whimpered against your lips, her cries vibrating into your chest like a beacon. Her arms circled your shoulders, nails dragging down your back as she clung to you, thighs trembling as you curled your fingers just right.

She was soaked, your fingers sliding deep with a wet, obscene sound that only spurred her on. Every curl of them inside her made her moan louder, less controlled. You could feel her clenching already, her body raw and over-sensitive, still twitching from the orgasm you’d wrung out of her.

"Harder," she breathed, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking. "Fuck me harder, baby. I want to feel you for days."

And so you did—driving your fingers deeper, harder, your palm grinding into her clit as she cried out, nails digging into your shoulders with every ragged thrust. Her back bowed off the mat again, sweat dripping down the dip of her spine, breathless curses spilling out in Russian and English alike.

“Fuck—detka—I’m close again—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

Her legs wrapped around your waist, locking you there, holding you in her as her cunt clenched tight around your fingers, dripping onto the mat below. She was shaking violently, every muscle straining, every nerve lit with white-hot tension.

And then—

Her second orgasm ripped through her like an unending fire, body locking up with a ragged scream as she came all over your hand, thighs quivering, mouth open in a silent cry as her whole form spasmed beneath you.

You kissed her softly, coaxing out every last drop of the aftershocks before stilling your hand, though your fingers remained. Still but there.

Natasha melted into the kiss, her mouth slow and searching now, lips brushing yours with the tenderness of someone trying to memorize the shape of something they'd never let themselves believe they could have.

Her body trembled against you—raw and boneless, every inch of her still humming with ecstasy. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she clung tighter, fingers threading into the back of your neck like you were something precious.

And her eyes, when they opened, were nothing short of wrecked.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” she whispered, her voice cracked and thick with emotion. Her hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing just below your eye as she held you there, gaze locked. “You’re not supposed to feel like that.”

She shifted, just barely, pressing her forehead to yours.

“I’ve trained you for months,” she breathed. “Watched every inch of you move, bleed, win, lose… but this—” Her voice faltered, just slightly. “This wasn’t in the plan.”

Outside, the city murmured like it always did—distant sirens, the hum of streetlights, the echo of late-night traffic. But in that gym, on that mat, in the lull between want and aftermath, Natasha Romanoff held you like you were the only fucking thing left in the world that mattered.

[andy-15-07]

owmg just a prompt PROBABLY FOR JOAQUIN

he’s all so good with his dirty talk n u ask him “where did u learn how to say those things?” “is it working?” n as an answer u guide his hand down to make him feel how wet he’s making u

Say It Again, Torres

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 999 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

The night was young, but the air between you and Joaquin was already thick with electricity. You’d spent the evening wrapped up in his company,just the two of you,in the quiet sanctuary of his apartment, the city lights casting a soft glow through the windows. The way he looked at you had shifted since dinner: from playful charm to something raw, edged with a hunger that made your pulse quicken.

You sat on the plush couch, fingers tracing idle patterns on the leather. Joaquin had settled beside you, his arm brushing against yours in a casual way that sent shivers down your spine. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and a sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and velvety, “I’ve been thinking about you all evening.”

Your breath hitched. There was something in that tone,so intimate, so deliberate,that made your skin crawl in the best way possible.

“Oh yeah?” you teased, arching a brow. “What kind of thoughts?”

He chuckled softly, leaning closer so his lips brushed your ear. “Naughty ones. The kind that have me imagining all the ways I’m going to make you forget your own name.”

Your heart skipped. “Is that so?”

Joaquin’s hand slid slowly to your thigh, fingers tracing the curve just beneath the hem of your dress. His touch was light but charged with promise. You swallowed hard, the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, teasing, wanting. “Where did you learn how to say those things?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He smirked, a gleam in his eyes that was half mischief, half pure desire. “From experience,” he said simply, and then his mouth was on your neck, sucking gently as his hand slid a little lower.

You bit your lip, trying not to lose control. “Is it working?” you asked, lifting a hand to his chest and guiding it down slowly, deliberately. Your fingers pressed into his palm, letting him feel just how much he was making you ache.

His eyes darkened, and he groaned softly. “Yes,” he admitted, voice rough. “Very much.”

The room seemed to shrink around you two as Joaquin’s hands explored, his lips never leaving your skin. Every whisper, every brush of his fingers sent waves of heat through you. Your breath came faster, your body alive with the promise of what was to come.

“God, you feel incredible,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “I want to make you feel even better.”

You reached for him, fingers tangling in the dark curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that was fierce and full of need. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before slipping inside, deepening the kiss, making your knees weak.

Joaquin’s hands roamed lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, fingertips pressing against bare skin. The cool air met the heat of his touch, making you shiver with anticipation.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded softly, voice thick with desire.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and whispered, “I want you.”

That was all the invitation he needed. He lifted you effortlessly onto his lap, his body pressing against yours. His hands cupped your face as he kissed you again, slower now, more intimate.

You felt him grow harder against your thigh, and your breath caught. His hands moved with a growing urgency, and you tangled your fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Joaquin,” you moaned, voice trembling, “please.”

He smiled against your mouth. “Patience,” he said, lips ghosting down your jaw and over your collarbone.

His touch was electric, tracing a path over your bare skin. He teased and tantalized, his hands moving lower, slipping beneath your dress again. You gasped when his fingers brushed against the slick evidence of your arousal.

“See how much you’re making me crave you?” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

Joaquin growled, lifting your dress higher, exposing your thighs to the cool air. His lips found your inner thigh, kissing, licking, sucking gentle trails that made you arch against him.

“You’re mine,” he said fiercely, voice low and possessive.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded.

“I want you,” you whispered, breathless.

His mouth closed around you, warm and insistent, his tongue teasing, coaxing waves of pleasure through your body. Your back arched, your fingers gripping his hair as the tension inside you wound tighter and tighter.

“Joaquin, I’m,” you began, but the release crashed over you before you could finish, your body trembling in his hands.

He rose slowly, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet kiss before positioning himself between your legs. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

With slow, deliberate movements, he entered you, a deep groan escaping his lips. The connection was electric, every movement sending sparks flying.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You moved with him, matching his rhythm, your bodies a perfect dance of pleasure and need.

“Say my name,” he urged, voice ragged.

“Joaquin,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He quickened, his hands steady on your hips. The room filled with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, breaths mingling, hearts pounding.

“Come for me,” he growled.

You did, shuddering around him, your cries filling the space between you.

Joaquin followed, his body tensing as he reached his own peak, collapsing beside you with a satisfied sigh.

You rested your head on his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin.

“That was…” you began.

“Only the beginning,” he promised, kissing your forehead.

The night stretched before you, full of whispered promises and lingering touches, the perfect afterglow of a night neither of you would ever forget.

[levanswrites]

troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank. 

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed. 

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.  

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts. 

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills. 

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go. 

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser. 

Freak. 

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug. 

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this? 

This he’s good at. 

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page. 

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced. 

Then: 

Churn. 

Nope. 

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then: 

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?” 

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze. 

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone. 

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly. 

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.  

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch. 

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway. 

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head. 

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale. 

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real. 

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels. 

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked. 

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact. 

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?” 

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.  

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging. 

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale. 

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips. 

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.  

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest. 

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch. 

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?” 

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm. 

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod. 

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you. 

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while. 

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy. 

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly. 

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks. 

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look. 

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine. 

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.  

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight. 

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.  

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—” 

He laughs. 

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window. 

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall. 

You lick your lips again. 

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.  

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth. 

After that, you go quiet again for a while. 

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread. 

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat. 

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward. 

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should. 

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric. 

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning. 

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know. 

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.  

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play. 

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’    

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space. 

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while. 

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you. 

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows. 

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer. 

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek. 

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed. 

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.  

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him. 

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. 

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips. 

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow. 

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord. 

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything. 

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky. 

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod. 

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight. 

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.  

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door. 

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console. 

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes. 

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel. 

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink. 

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters. 

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[birdie-in-arcadia]

Always

This was an anon request, and I honestly had a lot of fun writing this despite the subject matter. Thank you for such a great ask anon, and I hope I did it justice! Enjoy <3

CW: angst, verbal fight between Vessel and fem!reader, reconciliation, fluff, and suggestive content at the end

Word Count: 5.3k

It started in the little ways. The late replies, the sidelong glances that never quite land. The way he pulls his hands or lips away just a second too early, almost like warmth and love has become something he doesn’t yearn for the way he did before. 

You’ve been trying not to notice, to shrug it off. You tell yourself he’s tired, and that tour wears on everyone, which is inevitably true. That if you give him space, he’ll come back to you in his own time. But it’s been weeks, and that quiet ache in your chest is getting harder to ignore. Every time you reach for him, literally or metaphorically, it feels like his edges are sharper than they used to be. Not angry or anything, just… untouchable and distant. 

And even now, back at the hotel, he barely looks up when you speak. You’re perched on the end of the bed, arms wrapped around your knees, watching him dig through his overnight bag. Your hair falls over your arms, tickling you occasionally as if to say, “lighten up”. But you can’t, no matter how hard you try. 

“Did you want to get breakfast downstairs in a bit?” you ask, gently. Not needy or clingy, just hoping he’ll want to be with you. 

He hums noncommittally. “Maybe. I’m not sure I’m up for it.” His tone is flat, yet loaded. You simply nod and take a deep breath before replying quietly, “Okay. I can bring something back up if you’d rather stay in.” 

“Maybe.” Another one-word response. You want to rake your nails through your hair and rip it out at the roots in frustration. You don’t understand what you’ve done to deserve such... silence. It’s all maybes with him lately. No certainty, no weight or sincerity. Like every answer is a placeholder for the thing he wants to say, but won’t. 

You try not to show your disappointment or frustration. Instead, you stand and stretch, offering a faint smile. “I’m gonna go see if the band lounge has that ginger tea again. Might help my throat.” 

“Yeah,” he says absently, his gaze now cast on his phone. “Good idea.” 

No offer to come with you. No kiss goodbye. Just the rustle of his joggers as he reclines in the corner chair and the low hum of traffic outside the window. 

You step into the hallway and let the door click quietly shut behind you, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. Your gaze is fixed on the floor beneath you as you wrack your brain, attempting to think of anything and everything you’ve ever done wrong or said sideways that could’ve hurt his feelings or pushed him away. You mentally ask yourself, “Am I too much? Do I need or ask for too much from him? Is he tired of me, or has he found someone better?” Nothing makes sense. You’ve loved him as much as he’ll let you, you give him space when he requests it, and you give him your undivided attention all the same. 

It was such a perfect relationship up until about four weeks ago. You try as hard as you can to think of something that could’ve been pivotal enough to warrant such distance. Was there an argument or a disagreement of any kind? Any harsh words or slammed doors? Absolutely nothing comes to mind, and it’s driving you mad. What did I do? 

You blink hard and shake your head, turning your focus to the elevator you’re approaching. You click the down arrow button and stare at its flickering orange glow, letting your mind run wild with what ifs and circumstances and possible answers to an impossible equation. 

The lift doors opening brings you back to reality and your eyes dart up as you see yours and Vessel’s dear friend II standing near the front of the lift, bracing himself on the handrail along the side. He smiles at you as you step in the rig, standing opposite him. You lean against the wall as you hear II’s Welsh lilt ask you which floor you’re going to. “Lobby, please.” you answer simply, your tone too deflated to hide. His face drops from friendly to concerned as his brows furrow slightly. 

He turns and jabs the button with a calloused thumb, and the doors close, trapping you in this space with him, and you just know he’s gonna ask what’s wrong. It’s in his caring nature. Like clockwork, you hear that same voice ask, “You alright, babe?” He’s called you that platonic nickname since he first got to know you nearly six months ago, and you’re used to it by now. It holds the same endearment as “buddy” or “pal” or even “dude”. 

You sigh as you turn your gaze from the dingy steel walls of the moving rig to meet II’s, and you can see the concern on his features. You quickly decide how much you wanna tell him, and you reply, “Yeah, just... I dunno, Ves seems so distant lately and I don’t understand why. I’ve been thinking all day for the last few days about what I could’ve done to upset him or push him away, and I got nothing.” You shrug as you finish, and II’s face goes from an expression of concern to one of sympathy as he nods his head along to your words. 

“Sorry, love. Ves just gets like this sometimes when he’s got something on his mind. He was like this right before him and his last girl broke it off, for example.” II says before he realizes his implications. As your eyes go wide and your brows arch on your forehead, you feel your stomach drop through the floor of the lift. His own eyes widen, and he immediately backpedals. “Uh, no wait, I uh- shit- I didn’t mean- that's not what I-” he splutters, his hands flailing in front of him as if he’s physically grasping for the words. You chuckle lightly at the sight. 

He sighs and runs a frustrated hand over his face before dropping it limply to his side. “I didn’t mean that’s what’s gonna happen with you two. It was just an example, and a horrid one at that. Sorry about that.” he says, his tone heavy with embarrassment. His cheeks are red as his gaze fixes on his Nikes. You chuckle again as you reply, “It’s alright man, my heart only stopped for a couple seconds.” He lets out a nervous yet relieved laugh as he runs a hand over his hair, and the rig comes to a stop. 

He steps out first, and you follow behind as you ask, “You thirsty too?” He turns back to glance at you over his shoulder, and he slows down to walk beside you. “Nah, just wanted to grab more of those Lifesavers gummies. Fuckers are addicting.” You hum in agreeance as he asks, “What’re you gettin’?” You point to the coffee and hot water bar a few feet away and reply, “Hopefully one of those ginger teas if they still have any.” He hums again as he makes his selection and pays the clerk behind the counter. 

“I was actually headed up to talk with him about tomorrow’s gig after I grabbed these. D’ya want me to talk to him about what you told me?” II asks as you both walk back toward the lift. You ponder for a moment, hands comforted by the warmth of the paper cup in your grasp. After a few steps, you reply, “No, that’s okay. I’ll talk with him about it tomorrow on the flight back. I appreciate it, though.” II simply smiles at you and nods once before you both step back into the lift. 

You make small talk about venues and light rigging and sound systems as the lift takes you back to your floor. Eventually, it comes to a stop and you both bid your farewells as you step off, leaving II, as his room is another floor up. 

Your mood slowly falls back down into “what did I do to upset him” the closer you get to your room. As you approach the door and unlock it, a pit forms in your stomach as you open the door and step in, finding Vessel gone. 

You pull out your phone instantly, nearly dropping your fresh tea, and you check your messages. Did you miss the chime of a text message? Apparently you did, because you have one new message from Vessel. 

It reads, “Grabbing drinks with III. Don’t wait up.” 

What the fuck? Your face screws up as you reread the message three times over, incredibly confused as to why he’d want to grab drinks considering he’s recovering from addiction. Worry and guilt sweep through you as you wonder if he’s drinking again because of you. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away in frustration. 

Wait. Didn’t II say he was going to talk with Vessel about concert shit? Did II lie to you or is he just misinformed? You sit your cup on the counter nearest you, and you frantically pull up Find My iPhone. You zoom in on his location, and it indicates that he’s still in the hotel, and so is III. 

A bone-chilling realization washes over you, and your stomach churns something nasty as your mind flies through all the possibilities. III’s still in the hotel, and so is Vessel. Are they together? Is Vessel in another member’s room? Or is he in someone else’s room entirely? 

A myriad of emotions flood through you as your veins fill with fire and ice and your heartrate catapults. There’s no way, right? Vessel has been cheated on in the past, so he’d never... right? You aren’t certain of that, and it makes you vehemently nauseous. However, you are certain of one thing: you have to find him now. 

You storm out of the room, emotions in a whirlwind as you stare down Find My iPhone, stomping in the direction of his location. Your brain is a tsunami of thoughts and possibilities. What if he’s just in one of the guys’ rooms? What if they’re just relaxing and maybe gaming, and you storm in there like a bat outta hell for no reason and embarrass yourself? 

You shake your head, and one thought lingers: regardless of who’s room he's in, you’ve been lied to. Your chin trembles, but you deny your eyes any release of salt; not until you know for sure. His location leads against a wall in between two rooms. Huh? You refresh the app, and it still shows the same place. Maybe it’s up or down a floor? 

You turn confusedly and head for the lift you were just in with II. You press the up-arrow button since II said he was going to talk with Vessel, and you're kind of banking on him being up there with II. You tap your foot lightning fast as the rig moves slowly upward, the gravitational pull downward not helping your nausea in the slightest. 

Once the door opens a few moments later, you step out and follow his location directly to II’s room. Okay, this checks out, but why did he say he was getting drinks with III? You form a fist, knuckles forward as you raise your arm, but just before you knock, you hear your name.  

Their voices are low but still audible in the quiet of the room. You freeze, not intending to eavesdrop, just… uncertain. The way he’s speaking is different; tense. 

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Vessel mutters. “It’s like… the closer she gets, the more I feel like I’m going to fuck it up.” II doesn’t respond right away. 

“She’s everything. Sweet, steady, and forgiving. And I can’t even hold a conversation without it feeling like a lie.” Vessel continues. You blink as the words land, your heart dropping into your stomach. 

“Every time she looks at me like I’m the moon and stars in her skies, I just feel like a fucking fraud. Like she’s in love with someone who doesn’t exist anymore. I feel like I’m living in someone else’s skin when I’m with her sometimes,” he continues. “Like I have to pretend to be this perfect version of myself or I’ll lose her.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But the worst part? I think she’d be better off if I did.” 

You don't hear the rest. Your ears are ringing and roaring with your blood. But you don’t need to hear it, nor do you want to. His voice cuts through you like a razor, sharp and brutal. The weight of it lodges in your lungs, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You stumble back a step, hand pressed to your chest, mouth slightly agape. Your heart pounds in your ears as you catch yourself on the wall across from II’s door. 

I feel like I'm living in someone else's skin when I'm with her sometimes. She’d be better off if I did. He can't be fucking serious.

You turn, quick and quiet, and walk straight back to your shared room. Your hands are trembling when you unlock the door. 

The air in the room still smells faintly like his cologne; amber, smoke, something earthy. You shut the door behind you and lean against it for a moment, the silence loud and suffocating. Your brain immediately goes to war with your heart.

He doesn’t love you. He’s been pulling away because he’s already gone; emotionally checked out, just waiting for the right moment to say the words out loud. You’d been holding on to hope that it was in your head. That maybe he was just stressed. Maybe he was trying. But you heard it. Not from a text, not from a rumor. From his own mouth. 

No, you know he loves you. From the way he clings to you at night like you're his lifeline. The way he always checks in on you no matter the scenario. He brings you along on every tour, to every show just so you feel included. All the times he's held you while you cried and put you back together with just his voice and vocabulary.

She'd be better off if I did. His words ring through your head again, shattering any semblance of logic or hope that he still wanted you around.

You cross the room in a haze and start pulling your things together. Toothbrush, charger, whatever clothing you could find strewn over the floor haphazardly. That hoodie you always wear to bed that still smells like him catches your eye, and you feel your throat nearly close up as a sob threatens to tear from it.

You step over to the end of the bed where the hoodie lays, and you pick it up and take a deep inhale of its scent. Agony surges through your chest like a knife to the heart and your knees nearly buckle as your combined smells lilt through your sinuses.

You clutch the hoodie with white knuckles, your face contorting into a mixed expression of anger and grief, and a sob pummels its way up your throat and past your lips. You throw the hoodie onto the floor and turn from it, picking up what's left of your belongings on the floor and surrounding tabletops.

You divert your eyes from the article one last time and deny yourself the relief of fully crying. Not yet. You stomp into the bathroom and grab your toiletries from the shower wall, knocking down one of his bottles in your wake. You groan as it tumbles down, echoing through the bathroom. You leave it where it lies as you rush back to your bag and stuff it all in with shaking hands. 

In a last ditch effort to feel in control of something, anything, you make the bed. As you finish, you hear the familiar crinkling of a small aluminum packet underfoot. You wince at the sound, at the memory, and you bend to pick it up and discard it in a nearby waste bin.

You bend and hover over the desk and tear a page from the hotel’s notepad. You pick up a nearby pen, then pause, staring at the blank paper. A single tear falls onto the sheet, wrinkling it. And then you write: 

"If you wanted me to leave, you didn’t have to disclose it secretly to II. I wish you’d just said it to my face." 

You fold it once and place it on the bed. You give the room one last look, and then you’re gone.  

_______________

“…I think she’d be better off if I did.” Vessel’s voice trails into silence. II says nothing at first, he just lets the words of his struggling best friend settle. Vessel had been waiting outside II's door as II returned from grabbing his snack in the lobby with you. He'd let Vessel in without a word once he saw the helpless look in his eyes.

Vessel leans against the wall, head tipping back, eyes shut. The room smells like lemon floor polish, burnt coffee, and old carpet; cheap and forgettable. A fitting backdrop, he thinks bitterly, for the way he’s been acting lately. 

“I mean, fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “She gives me everything. Patience, kindness… all this love I don’t know how to process. And what do I do? I shut down. I shut her out. I can feel her slipping away from me and I just keep letting it happen.” 

II sighs, arms crossed. “So talk to her, man. Don’t let your head run the whole show. If you’re scared, tell her. If you love her, and I know you do, show her.” 

“I do,” Vessel breathes. “God, I do. I’ve never-” His voice catches in his throat. He clears it, blinking hard. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Not since... you know. It’s terrifying, being vulnerable again. But I don’t want to lose her. I’d rather die trying to let her in than watch her walk away thinking I didn’t care.” 

II rests a hand on his shoulder, solid and grounding. “Then go. Tell her that, all of it. Before your silence speaks louder than your words ever could.” Vessel nods, heart thudding against his ribs, determination coursing through his veins. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you, man. I’m going now.” 

He turns, heart already racing, and opens the room door. The hallway stretches ahead of him, silent, like it knows what's coming. His feet move rapidly toward the elevator, and he jams the button. He all but jumps inside when the doors open, and he mashes the floor number until the rig is moving again. He’s grinning as he descends at a slow pace, ecstatic that he’s about to go fix everything with his girl, and maybe even make love to you if you’d let him. 

The door clicks open with a familiar sound, the keycard light flashing green. He steps inside, voice low but warm. 

“Baby!” His cheerful greeting rings through the small room. 

He’s met with silence. He frowns as he notices that the bathroom door is open, and the lights are off. 

“Baby?” he tries again, this time laced with a hint of confusion. Still nothing. The room is quiet, way too quiet. His eyes scan the space. The bed is made, the chair in the corner is empty, and the closet door is slightly ajar. 

And then it hits him. Your things are gone. The tote bag that always slouches beside the dresser? Gone. Your travel case of skincare and scrunchies that typically adorn the counter? Missing. The sweater you wore this morning, cream colored, soft, probably still faintly scented like you? No longer tossed over the arm of the chair where you always leave it. 

His blood runs cold. “No…” he breathes, stepping forward. He checks the bathroom, heart lurching. Nothing. Your soaps are gone, even your microfiber hair towel. 

His hands start trembling as he crosses back to the bed, eyes darting over the blankets, the table, the floor, anything. “Maybe she just ran out for food”, he thinks. “Maybe she-” 

Then he sees it. Folded once, an unpinned grenade on the center of the bed, his given name, not the moniker, not a pet name, in your handwriting unmistakably on the hotel paper. He picks it up slowly like the bomb that it is. His eyes trace the words. 

If you wanted me to leave, you didn’t have to disclose it secretly to II. I just wish you’d said it to my face. 

The paper trembles in his hand. He rereads it.  

Once. Twice. A third time. 

“No, no, no- fuck, no-” His voice breaks. 

His knees give, and he sinks onto the edge of the bed, the note still clutched between trembling fingers. The breath leaves his lungs like he’s been punched. His chest burns. His vision blurs. 

You must’ve come looking for him and overheard. Dammit, his plan of diverting your attention by telling you that he was going out with III did the exact opposite. Go figure. Regardless, you heard him. But you didn’t stay long enough to hear what came after. Didn’t hear him say he loves you. Didn’t hear him say he wants to fight for you. You think he wanted you to go. 

He drops his head into his hands, shoulders shaking as a raw sound escapes his throat; half anguish, half pleading. The pain slams into him like a wave, unforgiving and cold, clawing its way through every part of him. He presses the note to his chest like it might somehow undo the damage, but it doesn’t. It just hurts. 

“Fuck,” he gasps again, standing suddenly, stumbling, frenzied, and searching for anything that could give him an answer. He grabs his phone from his front left pocket, and he opens your thread. His thumbs hover, trembling, then he types: 

“Please come back. I didn’t mean it like that. Please.” 

“I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you heard. Please just tell me you’re okay.” 

No “... is typing...”, no response. He hits the call button. 

Straight to voicemail. 

He calls again. 

Two rings, then voicemail. 

“Pick up, baby, please,” he whispers to the static. “Please, just... fuck, just talk to me. Let me explain. I swear to God I didn’t mean it like that…” 

He’s pacing now, chest heaving, phone in a death grip. And then, a miracle. He swipes down with shaking fingers and opens the location-sharing app. Your dot is still live, still glowing. Looks to be approximately three blocks down. A little boutique hotel near the edge of the shopping district. You must’ve forgotten to turn it off amid all the emotions and taxi-hailing. Otherwise, you definitely would’ve turned off your location. You don’t want to be found. 

Without a second thought, he bolts for the door. 

Rain pours against the sidewalk as Vessel sprints down the street, dodging passersby, lungs burning, the cold biting into his damp skin. He doesn’t feel any of it, not really. The only thing he feels is you. The absence of you, the shape you leave behind, like a phantom in his chest. 

The GPS dot blinks steady on his screen, his lifeline. He turns a corner and sees it, small and quaint, tucked between a florist and an antique shop. The boutique hotel you chose in the heat of heartbreak. 

He’s there in seconds, breath ragged, soaked to the bone. The front desk blurs past as he races up the stairs, skipping steps, heart pounding so hard it makes him nauseous. He follows your beacon of hope to the very door you’re hidden behind. 

He knocks once, three light sounds against the wooden door. He’s met with nothing. He knocks again, another three times, but a tad bit louder this time, in case you’re sleeping. 

“Please,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to the wood, rain dripping from his hair and trailing down the door, his fingers clenched into fists. “Please let me in.” 

Still nothing. He swallows down a sob and knocks one last time, louder this time. “I know you don’t want to see me. I know I hurt you. But baby I swear, I didn’t mean it like that. You left before you could even hear the rest.” Silence on the other side. He breathes hard, trembling hands travelling upward to brace himself as he leans on the door, and he fights the urge to break it down to get to you. Your silence completely unnerves him. 

“I was talking to II because I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he confesses, voice cracking. “I’m scared all the time. That you’ll realize I’m not what you need. That you’ll wake up one day and see what a fucking mess I am and walk away and-” 

The lock clicks, and his head shoots up to look for your face, regaining his balance and lowering his hands to his sides. The door opens just enough to reveal you; eyes red and glassy, hair tied back in a loose bun, gray hoodie zipped to your throat. You don’t say anything at first, you just look at him like he’s something wild and foreign. 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest as you prop the door open and turn, walking away from him, the sights of the city momentarily capturing your attention as you approach the window in your room. You hear the door click shut, and you feel his presence in the room as you turn to face him. He’s standing about a foot from the door, his hands at his sides, his face drawn down, his big, beautiful puppy eyes focused solely on you. 

“You lied to me,” you say finally, breaking the silence, your voice quiet but sharp. “You told me you were going to get drinks with III when you were just upstairs talking shit about me to II.” 

“I wasn’t-” he steps forward, then stops, hands raised like you might bolt. He exhales and checks his tone before continuing. “I wasn’t talking shit. I was spiraling, alright? I was telling him that I’m scared of how good you are to me... how I keep messing it up.” He finishes, and he takes a small step toward you as if you’re a feral cat he’s found outside. "And I said I was going out with III because I didn't want you worrying and wondering where I was. I couldn't just tell you I was going to talk to II because I didn't wanna risk, well... this happening..." He trails off and you mull over his explanation. You know mentally that he was right. You would've definitely insisted on going with him. You decide leave that part of the argument to be discussed later.

“You said I’d be better off without you,” you snap. “How the hell was I supposed to take that?” You punctuate your question by unfolding your arms and gesturing toward him, your brows furrowing in frustration. 

He flinches, the realization of how bad that would’ve sounded from your perspective washing over him. “I know how it sounded,” he says honestly, voice breaking again. “But that wasn’t the end of the sentence. I was saying I didn’t want to lose you. That I was going to talk to you. That I love you. I’ve just been- fuck, I’ve been so in my head lately, and I didn’t want to put that weight on you.” 

You shake your head, eyes shining. “You think lying was protecting me?” you ask exasperatedly, your arms out to your sides, forefingers pointing inward toward yourself. “But I didn’t lie about that,” he says, his tone serious. You point as accusatory finger at him as you spit, “It was lying by omission, Vessel.” His face drops. 

“I didn’t mean to lie,” he breathes. “I just… I thought if I told you I was falling apart, you’d start seeing me the way I see myself. And then you would leave.” You step back, arms crossed tightly, and your frustration is evident on your face. “And the distance? The coldness? Was that supposed to be protection too? Because it felt like punishment.” 

His face twists in anguish as the truth in your words pelts him like bullets. “I know,” he says. “I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been awful. And I hate how I’ve made you feel. I hate that I made you doubt yourself when the only failure in this relationship has been me.” He looks at you through defeated eyes, tears beginning to brim again. 

Your voice wavers now, anger giving way to hurt. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough, or maybe I was too much. Like I was annoying you just by existing. You’ve been pushing me away for weeks, Vessel.” You feel your tough exterior cracking as the look in his eyes peels you apart layer by layer. 

He steps forward again, slower this time. “I didn’t know how to let you in without showing you all the worst parts of me.” You look at him, eyes searching, still guarded. “Ves, you already have. Remember when your family cut you off because they don’t agree with your new lifestyle? Or when we first got together and you were so anxiety ridden you practically bolted for the bedroom anytime you heard your doorbell ring? I was there through all of that, and I never batted an eye. It’s my job as your partner to see you through every chapter of life, no matter how scary or unbecoming. You know this, love. You just have to let me in.” You finish, your arms falling to your sides as a tear marks its own trail down your face, dripping from your jaw. 

His expression crumples. “And you’re still here, still talking to me, even with me coming to find you like some sort of headcase,” he says quietly. You blink fast, biting the inside of your cheek. “How the hell did you find me, by the way?" You ask him, suddenly reminded of the blaring question.

He lets out a short, breathless sound. Almost a laugh, almost a sob. “You didn't turn off your location, lovey." he replies, a slight hint of amusement in his eyes. You chuckle and run a hand over your face as you're taken aback by your own lack of attention to such a major detail. "Christ... Well, I'm glad I didn't," you reply, looking up at him through long lashes. A long silence passes between the two of you as you both take in what the other has said. Then, with trembling hands, you capitulate and motion him forward, and you move toward the bed. “C’mere.” 

He wipes his face with the back of his hand as he approaches you slowly. He perches at the edge of the bed like you might dissolve if he touches you too soon. Vessel looks over you after a few seconds, taking in your disheveled appearance. His chest aches with the knowledge that it’s his fault you fled in such a hurry, and that you’re so forlorn. You meet his gaze and allow your eyes to take in the sopping wet cat of a man next to you. Rainwater drips from his hair onto his lap below, but he doesn't seem to notice, and he looks like a man who’s been through war just to get to you. 

“I love you,” he says again, steadier now. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I’m sorry for every time I made you question that.” You look at him, eyes glossy, heart swelling in your chest. “I love you too, Ves. That’s why it hurt so much.” 

He moves to kneel in front of you, hands reaching for yours. You let him take them slowly, like it's a test she’s not sure he’ll pass. “I’ll do better,” he whispers. “Not just today. Every day. I’ll keep choosing you.” You swallow hard, the lump in your throat rising again. “Don’t shut me out again, please,” you whisper to him, eyes blurring with tears. “I won’t,” he says, forehead pressing to your hands. “I swear it.” 

Your breath shudders as you exhale through the sadness leaving your body. You pull him up and into your arms, holding him tightly, like you’re afraid if you lets go, he’ll vanish again. You stay like that for a long time, just holding each other, letting the fear bleed out. Eventually, you whisper, “Let’s go home.” Those three simple words wash over him like a cool wave of relief, and he didn't realize how badly he craved to hear you say them until you did.

The walk back is quiet, but your fingers are laced the entire way. Once inside the room, Vessel closes the door behind you with a soft click. The lights are low, the hum of the city a dull throb beyond the shaded windows. You turn to face him, and he just stands there for a moment, eyes soft yet unsure as they flicker over your form. 

You step toward him, hands reaching for the hem of his soaked hoodie. “Let me,” you say. He easily acquiesces and lifts his arms, letting you peel it away slowly, reverently. His shirt comes next, and it hits the carpeted floor with a dull, wet slap. Your hands glide over the bare skin of his chest; cold from the rain but warming beneath your touch. He watches you like you’re shaping the skies before his eyes; like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth. 

He undresses you slowly, hands lingering, fingers and lips exploring, and you move together like water, slow and unhurried. There’s no urgency now, just the deep ache of reunion. He lays you down with such care, like you’re thin glass. 

When he enters you, it’s with soft gasps and a whispered, “I missed you.” Your bodies meet in a rhythm that speaks more than words ever could. Not rough, not desperate. Just homecoming. Every thrust, every touch, every sigh is an apology, a promise, a thread sewing you gently yet thoroughly back together. 

He presses his forehead to yours as you move in tandem, voice trembling. “You terrify me,” he whispers, “Because I want you, all of you, forever. I want to bare my entire soul to you, my beautiful girl.” You whine as you pull his face to yours and you kiss him slowly, deeply, and so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper as he moves above you. You wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders as you approach your peak. 

When you both reach your climax, it’s a beautiful release of emotions and endorphins. Your shared moans and heavy breaths curl through the room around you. You’re breathless, your eyes are locked with his, and your fingers stay intertwined. 

You lay like that long after cleaning up, curled into each other beneath the sheets, skin to skin, heart to heart. You sport only Vessel's hoodie, the same one which broke your heart earlier, and a pair of knickers, and Vessel lays comfortably in only his underwear. His nose is buried in your hair, arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

His voice is low, barely a breath against your ear. “You smell like me, love.” You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s because I'm wearing your hoodie, you goof.”

“Oh,” he murmurs delightfully. “Then I guess I like me better on you.” You groan playfully and swat at his chest. “That was horrendous. I rescind all affection.”

He grabs your hand and kisses each knuckle with dramatic flair. “Forgive me, my darling muse. I’ll compose better lines on the morrow.” You hum, feigning pretentiousness. “I’ll be expecting a full sonnet.”

“Only if I get paid in kisses,” he jokes, smiling against your cheek. You open one eye. “You drive a hard bargain, Mister Vessel Marie.”

He smiles wider and chuckles before taking on a more serious tone. “I missed you. Even when you were still next to me I missed you so fucking much.” Your heart tightens, full and aching. “Don’t do that again, please. Don’t pull away like that. I am always here for you, sweetness,” you assure him, rubbing over the tops of his knuckles with your thumb.

“I won’t,” he promises. “You’re stuck with me now. I’m basically your emotional barnacle,” he finishes, and you can hear the cheeky grin shaping his words.

You snort. “Sexy.” He pulls his hand from yours and he licks the tips of his pointer and pinkie finger before smoothing over his eyebrows with them. "I try," he says, waggling his brows down at you. "You are such a dork," you say to him as you giggle. You turn in his arms just enough to kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you,” you tell him, and you've never been so serious about anything else in your life.

“I love you more,” he whispers. “Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.” He kisses your cheek as he pulls the duvet higher around you both, your legs tangled, his thumb brushing soft circles into your hip. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you closer to sleep. How would you ever be able to live without this?

And when you’re nearly unconscious, he whispers to you, “Gonna stay with me, sweet girl?” You squeeze his hand as you whisper your reply, and it’s the last thing said for the night. 

“Always.” 

@deathcapbunny @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 Here you go! If you'd like to be added here, let me know :) I really hope you enjoyed this, anon <3<3

[multy-d00dles]

Sex hc for twst but like, less about sex itself and more about interpersonal/ how I see the cast relationship with sex. im proship/profiction and very into sex education, so respect your own dni.

Trein definitely thinks sex is a private matter, not sex negative per sé, but definitely more of a “I don’t care what you do in bed” type of guy.

Divus slept around, probably in his teen or young adult days, willing to brag about it around friends if two shots of vodka are added to the mix. Preaches sex-ed and consent.

the only thing Crowley is fucking is dying. But definitely masturbates

Sam is another one who slept around, with guys mostly. May or may not have a sex toys selling business.

Vargas FUCKS, he’s loud too and has gotten backlash for it

Riddle has HORRIBLE relationship with sex, like he knows it’s normal but feels ashamed of what turns him on. Cried when they showed how labor works in class

Trey empathizes more with his mom after learning how much pregnancies affect the body, probably the first top/dom alignment in Heartsaybul.

Hate to break it to y’all but Carter is into gang bangs, doesn’t care for their partner gender but is waay into his own pleasure. Knock him down a peg

Did Ace had a girlfriend? Yes, did they do it? I don’t think so, for me he only hit first base and they broke up before it happened (nothing concerning happened, they just weren’t compatible). Still feels self councious abt his performance since then

Deuce, This king is scared, but curious, but scared. The talk on STDS frightened him for life

bottom Bottom bottom!! Leona Kingscholar is 100% not putting much effort in sex, likes to be pampered and cuddle. Immediately dizzy after orgasm

Ruggie is the first guy with a dildo toy, it hurt the first times, but learned that mosturizer goes a long way.

Thank GOD Jack’s got good people in his family who don’t shame him when he can’t control his way to stress relief. He also cums a LOT and hates cleaning after.

Azul is the first guy I can see into body worship, like it doesn’t get him hard per sé, but it’s his favorite thing.

Floyd drive is fucking horrendous, can go for hours and cumming doesn’t make him stop. Which is bad bc his thing doesn’t go forever, gets very upset when he can’t continue.

Another one for the sex toy user, Jade is into some ‘risky’ things (such as orgasm control). Thinks fluffy handcuffs are impractical but fashionable

Contrary to popular belief, Kalim knows more about women's health than anyone, definitely the person you want around when ur fighting period. Also very polite during sex, consent king!

I know people like to picture Jamil as kinky but I don't, I don't see it personally. Very vanilla but likes to give his partner massages during aftercare

"Vil is a pillow princess" WRONG. He's already pampered and given the princess treatment everyday by his fans. Likes to take charge when hes in bed

Rook is 100% a vouyer, the idea of having sex doesn’t turn him on as much as it does watching others do it. The only problem he does it without people consent ♡

Epel thinks sex is a competition, probably the e most kinky out of the first years.

if you think Idia fucks I’m sorry to disappoint you, he does NOT. This guy needs a HUGE amount of preparation

Ortho knows about sex the way Wikipedia lists it, he will make his own experiences but this is all he will get for now

Malleus is a virgin, like full on “I haven’t kissed anyone yet” virgin.

I would have said the same for Lilia but, considering what we now know form chapter 7,,,

If I didn’t say that Sebek wants to be dominated I’d be doing a terrible job. Gets turned on pretty easily too, but never enough to cause him boners

Silver is a biiit struggling with sex because he keeps falling asleep during the middle of it. May have some rape/cnc fantasies that he’s not too proud of.

[thinkblotted]

Building a Better Star (aka, the Star Essay)

I like Star. I’m getting that shit out of the way right here at the beginning, just in case. I like Star, I like what she is, I think she deserves better writing. 

Also - these are my takes. These takes may not be your takes. We can have different takes.

Okay? Okay. Let’s go. 

For the purposes of this analysis and suggestion, I’m only going to be going off of movie canon Star, rather than book canon Star, because while they’re basically the same, there are a few background elements in the book that expand  on Star’s internal thoughts and relationships with the boys that you could only get from exposition in the book, and that’s not as available a source as the movie, so. 

Since I’m either posting this on tumblr for the four people who will read it, or filming myself talking about this like a normal person with normal hobbies, I won’t explain who canonically she is because that’s unnecessary for this audience of me and a discord server, but rather who she is as a character as presented.

The thing about The Lost Boys is that it exists as a double edged sword of characterization for all its characters. They’re all incredibly simple, and in that white space that’s left behind where deeper characterization would be put in other movies, here there’s just a void, leaving the audience to fill in the gaps however they see fit with whatever they can glean from the surrounding world. 

The vampires are the prime example of this - of all the characters, they get the least amount of dialogue and have the most void to fill in who they are as characters. Star is the runner up, having more character, but the same amount of void in her backstory. 

So who is Star? 

Star is The Girl of the group, a trope wherein you have a group of characters who make up the core of your main cast and usually they’re all male, with one or occasionally two exceptions being girls - if it’s two, one will be the ‘nerdy’ or otherwise ‘not strictly desirable by main male cast’ role, and the other will be The Girl, who is almost always the love interest of the main male, who, even though she’s more of a main character then the secondary girl, typically does less than them. As presented, Star fits this trope easily, as well as filling out the subtropes that it consists of. 

She’s soft-spoken, pretty, demure, stays out of most of the fights in the story, offers the protagonist advice but never tells him directly how to face the conflict of the story, offers support but never directly physically supports the protagonist. She’s an inciting incident all to herself, but never actually drives the plot forward except to be a shining prize on the mountaintop of the narrative that the protagonist must climb in order to claim. 

After being in the Lost Boys fandom for about two and a half-ish years now, there are some take-aways specific to Star that the fandom tends to play on the most. 

And I want to add in here, I do not have a problem with these traits being assigned to her. Star, like the rest of the cast, is a very malleable character. The void around her is just as vast as the other vampires, and this is fandom - we play with blorbos from our media like dolls. This entire thing is purely based on what I personally would like to see Star become, and since I’m a freak, I don’t just write fanfic, I also do this. Apparently. So take everything I’m saying with a giant grain of salt.

The traits that I most see attributed to Star are:

-She’s a shrinking violet, either unwilling or unable to interact directly with the conflict of the story

-She’s being held against her will to the point that leaving in any capacity is not only not an option, but would lead to physical harm/possibly death if she tried (ie, she’s an abused captive) 

-She cannot be held responsible for any bad decisions she’s made in the past or makes in the current story, or any bad turns the plot takes 

The first assertion is held up pretty well by the canon of the movie, and most of the fandom also agrees that it would have been nice if the movie actually did make Star a little less soft. There have been several outcries for Star to ‘vamp out’ like the Boys did, to at the very least give her a scary vampire face! Her tiny confrontation with Max at the end of the movie would have been a perfect space for that, but unfortunately, the movie has 80s-itis and being the female love interest and a victim in the plot, Star isn’t allowed to be aggressive in such a blatant manner. 

Star also hangs back whenever the Boys have presence on the screen. She’s never in the forefront, sharing the space, she’s in the background, watching them, only observing. The one time she directly contradicts them, ‘Leave him alone’ she’s told straight up to ‘chill out, girl’, and she doesn’t continue the conflict. When she does decide to try and be more forward with Michael, directly affecting things, she waits until there is no other persons of consequence around in order to do so. 

The second assertion of her being held against her will is a little trickier to pin down as a trait, but evidence of this is implied with how she contributes to the narrative - mainly, in asking Michael directly to save Laddie and her from the Boys, or at the very least, the situation she’s in. Though, it should be noted, that Star never makes a direct statement of what that situation is. She hedges that it’s being being driven to kill to sate the vampiric nature, but when taking scenes like David simply saying her name to get her to come to him, being told indirectly to back off when the Boys are hazing Michael, and backing away in a fearful manner when Michael is drinking the blood wine into consideration, there’s the darker notion that she’s being abused in other ways. 

Because the movie is meant to be a lighter flick, full of scary-yet-alluring vampire punk boys and over the top monster-hunting gore, billing it as a ‘horror-comedy’ excludes any deeper exploration or more explicit on-screen showing of verbal, emotional, or physical harm that Star may be experiencing. Doing so would take away from the fantastical and darkly whimsical nature of the story, grounding it too much, and making the Boys, though they be villains, into villains we wouldn’t love to hate.

Thus, the darker implications of what Star might be facing behind the scenes, when Michael isn’t around and before he came along, is left to the audience’s interpretation, as well as any ability Star has to struggle against them. The fandom frequently interprets as none, thanks to the plot of the movie being what it is. 

The third major assertion that the fandom tends to adopt is that Star is largely if not completely irresponsible for the missteps of other characters and for her own predicament. 

This given trait is the most difficult to back up with evidence directly from the canon as it relies heavily on filling in the blank spaces of Star and the other character’s backstories. Star is not responsible for Michael spotting her in the crowd at the concert or deciding to follow after her. Star technically didn’t tell Michael to accept David’s goading to race. Star told Michael she both didn’t know how to help him, and couldn’t explain it. Star is not responsible for Michael’s induction into the Boy’s gang because, well, she told him what he was drinking was blood. Star never directly acts to drive the plot forward until the beginning of the third act when she does admit to Michael that she needs his help, thus, cannot be held responsible even in part to Michael’s involvement. 

Lack or acceptance of Star’s responsibility for her own inability to leave the Boys is even harder to pin down, as we have no movie canon for what her life was like before meeting the Boys. The implication from the world around them is that Star is a runaway kid like many of the people seen in the opening sweep of Santa Carla, likely from a crappy home and was taken in by the Boys but soon got in over her head, but this is never directly confirmed. 

The idea that Star made a bad choice, and was not just manipulated and coerced after the ‘honeymoon’ period with the Boys is somewhat controversial as it paints Star in a less favorable light. She isn’t an innocent victim, but rather someone who made a bad call and refuses to acknowledge her own agency in that decision, instead placing any and all blame on the Boys. 

‘But what if she’s tried that already?’ Unfortunately, that lies entirely in the realm of off-screen possibilities that are not support by any canon. Star in the movie is never shown or implied to have tried escaping before, and in the book she merely has internal monologues about wanting to leave, not that she’s ever attempted it. 

Giving Star any one of these traits on their own isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Star is very much helpless in this situation - she’s in a den of immortal man-eating monsters while only being barely half of one herself, and refusing to take the option that would grant her more physical power to assert control in the situation, because the act required would be a shattering of her moral compass. Regardless of her involvement in how she got here, she deserves to be able to leave and make better choices. 

But giving Star all of these traits at once with nothing else to her flattens her completely. It does her, in my opinion, an incredible amount of injustice to absolve her of any kind of responsibility in her own problems and then rob her of any bravery to take a risk and change it herself.

And that’s not a good character. 

In order to build a better Star, we need to first accept a truth that might be a slightly hard pill to swallow: 

A good Star is not necessarily a protagonist. 

At least, not in the same way that Michael or Sam can be. Michael and Sam are protagonists in that they’re the heroes of the story. They face the main conflict head on and drive the plot forward with their actions, and are who we’re rooting for to win. We see them and their actions as ‘good’. They are absolved by the framing of blame in what is done to them. (Michael in getting in over his head with the Boys by ignoring the reservations and loose warnings of others, and Sam of murder with the fact that the Boys are man-eating monsters bent on getting back at them when one of their own is killed.)

If you make Star a protagonist in the same way, with her needing to be framed as ‘good’ in the story, but only keeping the character traits previously listed, then she’s a boring character. She becomes only nebulously ‘good’ just by virtue of not technically having done anything that could be considered ‘bad.’ Being counted as a heroine only by default. 

And that sucks. That puts her simultaneously on a pedestal where she can do no wrong, but is an empty shell that’s there to smile or cry and do nothing else. 

Often, when talking about female protagonists, antagonists, anti-heros and characters with grey morality or amorality, the added layer of them being women forces ten times the scrutiny on not just how they’re built as a character, but on their creators and why they’re choosing to build the character in the way they are. Any mistakes plot-pushing decisions made by the character aren’t as likely to be accepted as just the character acting in the story, but get traced back to the author. The audience constantly asks the question, ‘if it was a male character, would there be consequences for this act, or are you treating this character special because they’re a woman?’ 

In this case, it’s ‘Michael also fucks up, and yet is treated as a victim, deserving of sympathy and being saved by his brother rather than having to fight all on his own. Their situations are the same. Why not Star? The only difference between them is gender.’ 

This essay is not about whether or not Star is deserving of being saved, nor is it saying that she deserves being trapped in the situation that she’s in. But much like how Star reminds Michael that she did indeed tell him that it was blood in the bottle and he scoffed at her, Star deserves not to be a lifeless doll being acted upon, and a good female character deserves to not be a pretty, perfect Barbie doll that does no wrong and always looks pretty. 

So with the knowledge that a better Star cannot be purely a protagonist, how do we lower her from the boring pedestal? 

My suggestion: by inverting her three main traits

The first: If she’s billed as meek and demure and soft, then make her more aggressive and vulgar 

The second: If she seems to be kept at silent gunpoint, then give her more freedom to act

The third: Make her at least partly responsible for her own situation, regardless of whether or not she thinks she is 

The first revised trait is the most important in my opinion to building a better Star, as it will help direct and reinforce the second two. 

A large part of Star’s lack of presence in the movie is quite literally, a lack of physical presence. Star seems to hate even being near the vampires, and depending on what kind of story you wish to show her in, it could make sense. But chances are, if she’s given the shrinking violet trait, she’s been given the other two as well, and that makes a bad Star. She must be allowed to speak, and more than that - she must be allowed to show emotion. 

Let Star be angry. Let her be hurt in a way that’s not beautiful and languorous, a wilting agony of suffering in silence. And I’ll say it: Let Star say the Fuck word. As silly and simple as it may seem, such a small detail can transform a character. Star deserves to be as rough-edged and imperfect in her words and attitude as any of the rest of the Boys, possibly more if she’s in a situation that she hates! If she had the bravery to run away from home, then she should be afforded the bravery to be more than a pretty, silent, pure woman who doesn’t know what a cigarette is. 

The second revised trait is going to be the most fluid in interpretation because it relies the most on the author or artist or fan’s personal interpretation of what the relationship between Star and the Boys is really like. 

In the movie, Star seems to move with the Boys. She’s usually near them enough that they can keep an eye on her, as we see with David watching Star talking to Michael before the beach race. The only times we see Star distance herself physically is right after the bonfire, where she comes to the Emerson cabin to convince Michael to save her, or when she and Michael have sex. The first time, she seems desperate, like she may not have much time, and the second, she’s been left there on her own while the Boys go out and cavort, likely with the implication that she should stay where they can find her when they get back. 

Again, this is the trait that can be toyed with the most, but a good way to combat the feeling that she’s being held against her will is to give the notion that there are parts of being around the vampires that she likes. There are tiny hints of this in the movie, and the book expands on this. In the movie, there’s a moment during the race where Star seems to be enjoying herself while riding with David - at the very least, she’s enjoying the speed and thrill, if not the person she’s with. In the book, Star and Paul have the best relationship of any of the boys, with Paul trying to cheer her up and promising a ‘happily ever after’. To keep it from feeling like a full captive situation, give Star a reason to feel a bit conflicted over the pack. She’s there in the first place, after all. 

The third revised trait is going to be the most controversial, as it’s a hard thing to admit when people in real life do it. 

Admitting that sometimes, the problems we find ourselves dealing with, are our own fault. We make a bad call, we make a poorly informed decision or decide in the heat of the moment. Sometimes, we are lied to, but the lie is flimsy and we chose to swallow it because it’s what we wanted to hear at the time. I like to ask authors writing villains this - what’s worse and more compelling; a villain who lies, or a villain who tells the protagonist a truth they don’t want to hear? 

And, as backwards as it sounds, making Star partially responsible for her situation is giving her more agency in her story. It gives her a reasonable character flaw that she has to confront and defeat. 

Here is where I’m going to throw in an interesting observation about a specific scene that I think helps lend itself to this particular revised trait: the scene where she asks Michael for help directly. In canon, the scene goes about like this - Star comes to the cabin, Michael tells her that he knows about the vampires, and when he expresses that he thinks it’s basically done for him, Star tells him that it’s not, he’s not fully gone, and that she needs his help to save all three of them. Now, there’s something really, really interesting to me about this scene: Star is NOT a reliable narrator during it. At all. 

To say that she’s lying outright about everything would be untrue, but when you examine it, you realize that she’s being untruthful all the same. When Michael gets upset, accusing her of not caring about him because in his eyes she let this happen, she says that she DOES care about him, using physical touch to reinforce this. When she’s soundly rejected, by Michel slapping her hand away and demanding to know why she REALLY came, she very reluctantly tells him that she was hoping he’d help them. It’s her last answer, the last thing she wanted to say. Obviously hoping that the emotions would be enough to persuade him, rather than just saying that she needed help outright, which would be easier to say no to. 

Secondly, the WHY. Star states that Michael was ‘supposed to be her first, because it’s what David wanted’. When watching the scene, the delivery, the body language, and given the full context of the plot and how we’ve seen Star behave? We can only come to the conclusion that Star. Doesn’t. Know. That. 

Max’s ultimate goal is to get Lucy, and to get Lucy, he needs Michael and Sam to be on board, or at least BE vampires. Killing one of her children would hardly serve that goal. Given the ending fight, Max doesn’t give a dead rat’s ass about Star. And Star? She doesn’t even know Max exists. David telling Star to kill Michael to turn her into a vampire is not only pointless, but going expressly against Max’s wishes. We don’t know how much of Max’s plan David and the Boys know about, or given their personalities and implied relationship with him, even care about, but defying him in this instance doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do. 

Not to mention - Star does like Michael. She hugs him at the end, she does give him a warning about the blood, albeit a weak one. She does attempt to fight Max in the end, even if she fails. As for her thoughts on David, those are more complicated. Whether the relationship is real, coerced, that she’s simply a pawn being used to tug Michael around or whether she and David did like each other at one time, is unknown, but it is clear that Star knows that David is interested in Michael, and doesn’t like it. So it would then be logical to assume, given this, that Star would assume, based on what she knows and has been able to observe, that she’d pain David in a worse light. Insinuating that it’s HIM who’s pulling the string, assuming what he wants and what his intentions are, even if she DOESN’T. KNOW. 

All this to conclude: Star is an unreliable narrator taking actions based on her own flawed assumptions. Which means she’s going to make mistakes, and miscalculate her position. She’s going to cast herself in a certain light, and like anyone, maybe not want to admit when that light is suddenly not a reflection of her best. 

So, how do I conclude this. 

Star is an interesting character, and I do enjoy her. If you managed to sit through this to get to here, and if there’s anything to take away from this, it’s that I enjoy Star and I want her to be a better…her. She deserves to cuss and spit, she deserves to be angry and sad at her predicament, she deserves to be loved as a whole person and not some untouchable angel. Let her fight. Let her bite. Let her bleed for her freedom and personhood.

Most importantly, if you allow the Boys room to be more than they are presented as on screen, then you can afford to give that to Star. 

Thank you for reading, if you did. 

@misslavenderlady (I almost forgot!)

[mrs-dot-kennedy]

Could you write something about virgin FemReader x Henry? Maybe in a private bacchanal? (Like Reader asking Henry her thoughts on a bacchanal, and how strange it would be, so Henry decides to make it a real thing)

This is the best I could come up with, I kept the plot as close to the request as possible but I suck at writing porn poetically. I’m sorry, ily, I hope you like it💞

There is something about October light that makes the world feel older than it is.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, a Greek lexicon spread open across your knees, the spine cracked and listing from overuse. Outside your dorm window, the leaves bleed gold and rust and shadow. The lamps cast long yellow rectangles across the floorboards, catching dust in their glow like frozen pollen. Your room smells of wine, old wood, and a faint trace of Henry’s cologne — though he would never admit to wearing it.

He sits in the desk chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, suit jacket folded with geometric precision on the back of the chair. The cuffs of his shirt are undone — rare — and you can see the faint pulse in the tendons of his wrist as he turns the page of Plutarch’s Moralia. There is a half-empty wine glass near his elbow and the silence between you is as familiar as your own breath.

It’s late. So late that the usual noise of campus has gone still, muffled into a hush you feel in your ribs. The others had left hours ago. Camilla kissing your cheek. Charles slurring a joke. Francis raising one amused eyebrow as Bunny tried to take the wine bottle with him and Henry coolly disallowed it.

But Henry had stayed. Of course he had.

It is your voice that breaks the silence — softly, too softly. You don’t mean to speak, not at first, but the question is a stone on your tongue, and it’s been there for weeks now.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” you ask. “The Bacchanal?”

Henry does not glance up. “Goodness rarely has anything to do with it.”

“But—” You pause. Your fingers toy with the edge of the lexicon’s worn paper. “What does it mean, really? Not just the ritual. I mean... all of it.”

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Mystery. Communion. Abandon. The casting-off of rational self.”

He says it like an entry in a manuscript. Clean. Technical. Removed.

You swallow. “But the sex—”

That makes him look up. Slowly. Carefully. His eyes are unreadable behind the flicker of his glasses in the lamplight.

“I don’t mean—” You flinch. “I’m not being— God, sorry. I didn’t mean that crudely.”

“You’re not,” he says, and his voice is so soft it almost startles you.

For a moment you hesitate, and then — maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the hour, maybe it’s the fact that Henry has always had this effect on you: making you feel older, braver, cleverer than you are — the words begin to tumble out.

“I just— I don’t know what it would mean. For me. I’ve never—” You pause, pressing your lips together. “I haven’t. You know.”

The air in the room stills. A quiet not unlike the one between a lightning flash and the thunderclap that follows.

Henry does not smile. He wouldn’t. But there is a flicker — the smallest shift in the set of his mouth — something caught between solemnity and sympathy.

“You’re a virgin,” he says, without judgment.

You nod.

And then, because your throat is dry and your skin feels too hot and your stomach is tight with the kind of embarrassment that has nothing to do with shame and everything to do with wanting to be understood, you whisper, “Is that ridiculous?”

“No,” Henry says, with that terrible calm that makes everything he says sound like a truth carved into stone. “Not at all.”

You pull your knees up toward your chest, rest your chin there. “Everyone else seems so… beyond all of this. I don’t know if it’s just me, or if they’re pretending better than I am.”

“They aren’t pretending,” he says.

“That’s worse.”

Henry tilts his head again, examining you in that way of his — like you're a passage in Thucydides he hasn't quite translated yet.

“You asked what the Bacchanal means,” he says after a moment. “It means the collapse of boundaries. Of self. Of history, time, shame. To be penetrated by god, the ancients believed, was to be undone.”

“That sounds…” You trail off.

“Terrifying?”

You nod again.

“Yes,” he says. “It is.”

You close your eyes. Let the warmth of the wine and the lamplight bloom against your skin. And then, in a voice so quiet it hardly feels like your own, you ask, “Have you?”

His gaze does not waver. “Had sex?”

You nod once.

There is a pause. Measured. Not hesitant — Henry doesn’t hesitate — but curated.

“For the most part,” he says finally, “my energies have been… otherwise engaged.”

It is exactly the kind of answer he would give. Elegant. Controlled. Disengaged enough to preserve distance, but not enough to be dishonest.

You don’t ask more. You doubt it would make you feel better if you did.

You look away, cheeks burning, but he is still watching you. Watching in that way that makes you feel like he’s hearing things you haven’t said out loud.

“You’re afraid it will make you lesser,” he says. “Or exposed.”

You don't answer. The truth in his words makes you ache.

Then — and it is so Henry that it doesn’t even startle you — he speaks again, evenly:

“If you’d rather not face that unknown among strangers,” he says, “you and I could do it here. Tonight.”

The room doesn’t change — not really — but something in it does.

The air feels closer. Denser. A breath caught between two notes. You aren’t sure if you imagined it until Henry sets the book down, quietly, precisely, the same way he always closes something he’s finished reading. There’s nothing hesitant in him. Never has been.

But in you — a thousand things stir at once.

You should feel awkward. Embarrassed. Unsure. Instead, you feel… calm.

The calm of a blade held at perfect balance. The hush before the first note of a requiem.

“Only if you want to,” he says. “If you don’t, this never happened.”

You believe him. And that might be the strangest part — how much you believe him.

“I want to,” you say, and your voice sounds more certain than you expected. “Not because of the Bacchanal. Not to be like the others.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I thought it was that.”

You meet his eyes, and they are steady. Steady in a way that steadies you.

You uncross your legs slowly, sit up straighter. Your heart is loud, but not from fear. It’s something else. Something like stepping into a cold lake just as the sun breaks open over the horizon.

“I want it to be with you,” you say, and the words feel like they’ve been waiting in your chest for days.

His expression doesn’t change much — just a breath through his nose, the faintest shift of his mouth. But that’s all Henry needs to say everything. He’s always been a man of angles and control, of deliberate lines and perfect stillness. The flicker in his jaw tells you what he’s feeling more than anyone else’s tears ever could.

He moves with purpose, but not urgency. Sets his glasses on the desk. Rolls his sleeves to the elbows with slow precision. Every gesture deliberate, almost ritualistic — as though this, too, must be carried out with classical elegance, without haste, without ceremony.

The chair creaks as he stands. The room is silent. Sacred.

He steps toward you.

And when his fingers reach for yours — cool, careful, reverent — it feels not like possession, but invocation.

He steps toward you, and your breath catches in your throat.

Not from fear. Not from uncertainty. But from the weight of the moment — how real it suddenly feels, how still he is even in motion, like a statue made flesh. He reaches for your hand and, with a gentleness that seems almost at odds with the severity of his hands — pale, angular, capable — his fingers lace with yours.

“You’re certain,” he says, not as a warning, but as a ritual. A final invocation.

You nod.

“I’m certain.”

And then he bends, not to kiss your mouth, but your temple — slow, almost ancient in its formality — as though you are something sacred. The gesture is dry and warm and strangely chaste, more reverent than romantic. He lingers there a moment, the bridge of his nose brushing your hairline, before pulling back enough to look at you fully.

His hand comes up to your jaw, knuckles ghosting along your cheek.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly.

“I know.”

There’s the briefest pause.

“So am I.”

That admission makes something stir in your chest — sharp, sudden, vulnerable. But then his lips brush yours and it hushes every thought like snow falling on stone.

It’s not urgent. It’s not hungry.

It’s measured.

A kiss like punctuation at the end of a careful sentence. The first of many, you realize — and the thought steals the air from your lungs.

You don’t notice that he’s guiding you down until the back of your knees brush the edge of the mattress. His hands are at your waist — not tight, but definite — and he eases you backward with the same composure with which he might smooth out a wrinkle in a manuscript.

The bed creaks beneath you. The light from the lamp pools in soft shapes across the blanket. Henry leans over you, one hand braced beside your shoulder, the other coming up to brush your hair from your forehead like he’s clearing the dust from an inscription.

“You don’t need to understand all of it tonight,” he murmurs, the words sinking deep into the quiet between you. “Just this.”

Then his lips find yours again — slower, fuller — and he kisses you like you are something to be studied and remembered.

He messes up your gloss more and more with each kiss — his lips smear it all over your mouth, careless in the most beautiful, deliberate way. It tastes sweet, too sweet, almost cloying — artificial strawberry, all saccharine and shine — but beneath it lingers the dry, almost metallic trace of wine on his tongue. That bitter tang makes your breath catch, makes your spine prickle. It anchors the sweetness, sharpens it. Like honey smeared on the blade of a knife.

His hand comes to your jaw then, thumb pressing lightly at the hinge as though coaxing you open, and when he kisses you again — a little deeper now, a little longer — it feels like he’s trying to memorize your shape through taste alone.

You exhale softly, mouth still parted, and he draws back just enough to look at you.

Your lip is swollen from the kiss, gloss blurred to the edges, and you can feel the faint stickiness where his mouth has been.

You are far too lost in it to notice when his hands have drawn up from your hips, only registering it when you feel them under your blouse. His fingers trace shapes and paths across your collarbones and stomach before he presses his palms — big, warm and, surprisingly calloused — to your breasts and begins fondling them.

You are facing the ceiling, eyes wide open and mouth agape as he explores your body however he likes. You don’t know what else to do — other than moan and whine — as he touches so expertly, it’s like your body were an instrument and Henry had already mastered it before he even had the chance to touch it.

Soon enough your clothes lay discarded on the floor, he has made quick work of them. Now he stands here on his knees, in between your legs, and he looks attentively at you.

You are too dazed and too nervous to decipher the look he is giving you accurately. It glints with something cool and unreadable — a knife held behind the back, or a secret folded between the pages of a very old book. You wonder, absurdly, if you’ve done something wrong — if you’ve broken some unspoken rule of Henry’s impossible interior world.

And your confusion must show in your face, because a smirk curls the corner of his mouth — not cruel, not quite — just sharp enough to draw blood if you got too close.

It is not the smile of a boy. It is the smile of a god who has just been offered something sacred and knows he will take it.

Without a word, he begins to undress himself — methodical, quiet, precise. Like shedding layers of armor, or unraveling an ancient rite. The buttons of his shirt come undone one by one, and each movement feels ritualistic, like he’s stripping himself not just of clothes, but of time, of pretense, of the long cathedral of silence he’s built around himself.

And still — still — he doesn’t look away from you.

You feel like the offering on an altar, and he the high priest preparing for invocation — to possess you, to witness you, utterly and without shame.

You are rendered frozen like a statue until he chuckles and says:

“Do you want to lend me a hand?”

And you know that he is inviting you into participating in the moment, because Henry winter couldn’t possibly need you to help him take off his shirt.

Yet, you obey. Your body springs back to life and your hands raise up from the mattress to reach for his chest. It’s only when you are halfway done unbuttoning his — expensive, cotton — shirt that you realize that you’ve been laying motionless while he made a mess of you.

You are not allowed much time to duel on the thought — for as soon as his defined and worked chest is bare for your eyes to enjoy, Henry is quick to take off his trousers and push you back down to the mattress.

The night blurs in your mind, your senses too overwhelmed for your brain to register it properly. You were wet, dripping, when you felt his cock pressing against your cunt. His cock. Heavy, thick, red and impossibly hard — all for you. Henry rubbed it over your glistening folds, not just the head — no — the full thing. He coated it all down to the base with your juices, shamelessly.

And if that wasn’t enough, he rubs your clit with the pad of his thumb at the same time. First in slow circles and he fastens his pace little by little — until a wet spot has formed underneath you. He doesn’t let you come, though, he is mean like that. Even though it’s your first time. Even though you are supposed to be the main one enjoying yourself. Henry ‘s voice is steady and serious when he tells you you are not allowed to come unless it is around his cock.

He pushes it in minutes after he has prevented you from orgasming, which makes you see stars when you close your eyes and they roll back.

You sob and moan, holding tightly onto him — so much so that you sink your nails on his back and almost draw blood. Henry has practically folded his body, his chest pressed against you as he thrusts inside and out of you in a relentless rhythm. Your walls are so tight, so warm… And the wrap so perfectly against his swollen member that he can almost feel his taut balls drawing up already.

When he notices your body beginning to quiver his thumb finds the nub of your clit once more. When your head lolls towards his, Henry kisses your trembling lips and drags his tongue against yours. He encourages you into letting go, says he will catch you, that he is almost there too. All this while his dick ruts inside your pussy.

It doesn’t take you much convincing before you orgasm all over him. You clutch onto him for dear life while you trash around, your body spamming violently. Your cunt gushes and your body trembles at each and every roll of Henry’s hips before he has to pull out in one swift motion. He ends up coming all over your belly — his cock painting your skin white as it spurts its milky load in thick ropes.

Your body has gone boneless, limbs light, when he collapses down on the bed beside you.

He doesn’t touch you at first. That surprises you, though it shouldn’t. Henry’s not made for idle gestures. He moves when something must be done — no sooner, no later — and right now, nothing is required but breath. The sound of it, shared between you, fills the quiet like mist.

You stare up at the ceiling once more. You’re not sure you could move if you wanted to.

The room is warm. The wineglass on your desk glints in the half-light. Outside, the wind rustles through the red-gold skeletons of the trees. Inside, there is only the slow unspooling of your heartbeat and the sense — fragile and unshakable — that something has shifted in the world, though everything looks the same.

Henry exhales beside you, a sound nearly silent. You feel it more than you hear it.

And then, at last, he turns his head.

“I didn’t hurt you.”

It isn’t a question. But it isn’t quite a statement either.

You glance at him — the pale arc of his collarbone, the scattered hair curling damp at his temple, the calm behind his eyes that is never really calm — and shake your head.

“No,” you say softly. “Not even close.”

He watches you for a moment longer. Then he nods once, as though to himself, and stares back at the ceiling.

Another minute passes. Maybe more. Then — suddenly, gently — his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers now cold from disuse. He laces them with yours and doesn’t look at you while he does it.

And you think: If this is how a god touches, maybe the bacchanal doesn’t have to be so terrifying.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: “Where You’ve Been”

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Dad Jason Todd/Red Hood & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !None

❥︎ ︎Summary: You ran away from home.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open.

Jason wasn’t the best when it came to emotions.

He tried-God, he tried, but it was like speaking a language he was never taught. There was always a gap between what he meant to say and what actually came out. That gap felt even wider with you. And you, well… you felt things deeply. Loudly, sometimes. Quietly, when it was worse.

You were an emotional kid, always had been. Jason used to tell himself that was a good thing, that it meant you were still soft in a world that tried to make people hard. But when things spiraled-when the tears came or the silence set in, he never knew what to do with it. He always felt like he was one step behind.

This time had been one of the harder ones.

Something happened, you wouldn’t say what. You just went quiet. Shut down. He noticed, of course. He always noticed. But instead of pushing, instead of being there, he gave you space. Too much of it.

He thought you needed time to cool off. Instead, you ran.

And when he woke up the next morning to an empty bed and a wide-open window, Jason felt something tear straight through his chest.

You were gone.

No note. No messages. No tracks. And for days, there was nothing but the crushing silence of your absence and the sound of his own thoughts-every one of them worse than the last.

He barely slept. Barely ate. When he wasn’t searching, he was pacing or parked in front of the door, hoping somehow, you'd just...walk through it. Like nothing happened.

He was sleeping on the couch again that night, if you could call it sleeping. It was more like passing out from exhaustion. Then-

Click.

The sound of your bedroom window sliding shut jolted him awake instantly. His heart leapt into his throat.

He didn’t even stop to think. He was up and moving before he’d fully processed it.

When he got to your room, the light from the hallway spilled across the floor, casting you in its glow.

There you were.

Backpack hanging off one shoulder. Hair messy. Clothes wrinkled and slightly damp from the rain. You froze when you saw him standing in the doorway.

Jason’s chest rose and fell, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Every part of him wanted to yell—to scream, Where the hell have you been? Do you know what you put me through?

But he didn’t.

He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and forced himself to remember what mattered most.

His voice came out low, steady—hoarse from too many sleepless nights.

“Are you hurt?”

Your eyes filled with tears so quickly it was like someone flipped a switch. The second the question left his lips, you dropped your bag and ran straight into his arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking and trembling as you collapsed against his chest. “I didn’t mean to-I didn’t think-I just-I didn’t know what else to do-”

Your words fell over themselves in a panic, but Jason caught all of them. Or maybe it was enough that he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, tightly, almost too tightly—but you didn’t care. You burrowed into his jacket like it could protect you from every bad thing in the world.

Jason let out a shaky breath, one hand pressed protectively against the back of your head. He pressed a firm kiss into your hair, his lips lingering there like a promise.

“You’re home,” he murmured. “That’s all I care about right now.”

You nodded frantically against his chest, still crying, still whispering apologies he didn’t need.

“I should’ve been there,” he added quietly, guilt sitting heavy in his voice. “You shouldn’t have felt like you had to go through it alone.”

“I just…” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know if you’d care.”

Jason pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still cupping your shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed but fierce.

“I always care,” he said. “Even when I don’t say it right. Even when I screw it up.”

You sniffled and gave a weak nod.

He wiped a tear off your cheek with his thumb, then pulled you in again, slower this time. Softer. Like he was scared you might vanish again if he let go too quickly.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Not alone. Not like that. Next time… talk to me. I don’t care how messy it is. Just let me be there.”

“I will,” you whispered. “I promise.”

He kissed the top of your head again, this time closing his eyes.

And for the first time in days, both of you could finally breathe.

[billy-17]

It’s tweets like these with this amount of likes that always remind me that Tom is not taken seriously or respected at all, and it sucks.

https://x.com/haalasback/status/1937182867584344115?s=46

I’d rather people just not talk about him because all this does is perpetuate this perception of him. This mentality has already seeped its way into critics, and I’m sure it’s made its way a little bit into the actual film industry with directors/producers/actors/studios. It’s always bugged me a bit too that no other actors/directors ever mention him as someone they want to work with or praise. I get he’s “not into Hollywood” but other actors are also not into Hollywood but still go out and meets people and goes to events every so often. Idk it’s frustrating all around, and I’m low key anxious about the odyssey and how it and Tom’s performance is received. Because if it’s not the absolute best, you can bet a ton of blame and insults will be directed towards Tom just based on the reactions of him being cast at all.

rage bait post ✔️ this number of likes on twitter means absolutely nothing these days. the platform is full of bots and rage bait clowns. even the people in the quotes and replies trying to defend him (and some of those comments are seriously embarrassing lol) are still just giving the post more traction by engaging with it.

and seriously who even is this guy? some “inspired” actor nobody’s ever heard of who admitted he didn’t even know tom was a working actor before spider-man. like okay, so you were clueless about his career and now we’re supposed to care about your opinion? tom doesn’t need validation from someone that out of touch, and this random absolutely does not represent what hollywood directors or actors think of him 😅. i’m all for being realistic and not just a blind fan who sees everything through rose-colored glasses, but some of you are acting like the worst possible outcome is already happening, when in reality the positive one is way more likely. yeah, there are definitely people pushing agendas against him, but they’re clearly not working. the general public doesn’t see him as a bad actor. christopher nolan trusted him enough to make him the co-lead of his biggest movie. that alone tells you their little narrative isn’t gaining any real traction.

side note - i noticed that this type of pretentious film stans who bring up tdatt and act like robert pattinson outshined tom are clearly just lying. they haven’t even watched the movie. if they actually had and wanted to highlight a strong performance in the first 40 minutes, they’d mention bill skarsgård or even sebastian stan. not pattinson, who was honestly terrible in it. they only bring him up because his scenes with tom still float around on twitter and that’s all they’ve ever seen from the film.