#always know exactly which cards are used

[alinathinkstoomuch]

TOO PRETTY TO BE STRESSED

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request. warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits. word count: 2.1k

✧ masterlist

Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud. 

It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’ 

And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.

So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.

“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.

You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”

“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.

“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”

“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”

Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”

“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”

You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”

Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”

You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.

“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”

“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”

“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”

Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”

“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.

“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”

“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.

You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.

“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”

“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”

“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly. 

“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”

“They live to complain.”

A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.

“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”

“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.

You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk. 

“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”

He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”

That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”

He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”

You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”

“They already know.”

“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”

He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.

“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”

“So… business as usual.”

“Basically.”

He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.

Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.

He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.

And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.

“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk. 

He tilted his head. “Tempting.”

“You’d never actually do it, though.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”

Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat. 

“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”

You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”

Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you. 

Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them. 

“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart.”

And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”

He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”

You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”

“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.

You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”

“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”

You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”

“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.” 

“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”

“Okay, now I have to see that.”

He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.” 

You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”

“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”

You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.” 

“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.” 

“It’s mostly just you.”

He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan. 

“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”

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[starpens]

CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !

asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?

caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.

he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.

he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.

because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?

it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.

thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—

“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.

knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”

“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”

you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.

he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—

“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”

“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”

“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.

“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”

“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—

“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”

caleb immediately chokes.

a lesson on what not to do.

the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.

slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”

“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”

“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”

“y-yeah…”

“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”

“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.

however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”

he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”

“w-what?”

you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.

“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”

you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.

“use your words, pipsqueak.”

“y-yeah, i get it.”

his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”

caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.

“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”

“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.

caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.

the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.

his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.

caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”

backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.

“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”

your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.

you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.

“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.

“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”

caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”

“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”

“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”

“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”

his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.

“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”

“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.

the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.

it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.

“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”

you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb’s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.

it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.

too deep.

the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.

“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”

you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.

he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?

he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?

his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.

and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.

he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”

“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”

“o-oh.”

the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”

for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.

he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.

“teach me the rest, ge?”

the rest.

caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.

“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.

“c-caleb.”

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”

his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”

“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”

“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”

you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”

and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.

the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.

“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”

“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”

“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”

he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.

“c-caleb!”

you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.

“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”

he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.

you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”

“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.

“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”

caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”

what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.

“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.

caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.

he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.

those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.

seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.

“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”

that’s all it takes.

one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.

you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”

“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”

you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”

“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”

your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.

caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”

you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.

“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”

[readwritealldayallnight]

It’s been months since Simon has been home

All he wants is to see you, his sweet girl, so much so that he loses track of what the actual date on the calendar is, in favour of counting down the days, hours, and minutes until you’re in his arms again

That’s why Simon’s surprise when he walks in to the local shops is genuine, before quickly turning into annoyance, when he notices that almost all the shelves are stocked with things for Valentine’s Day

Bright red, pink, and purple gifts covered in glitter and sparkles, sequins and jewels, all of them screaming out one word, over and over and over again for shoppers to see

Love

It’s a word Simon tries not to think about too often, in spite of it being part of his daily vocabulary

Yes, while your hunk of a man’s favourite pet name for you has always been love, it’s a word he has yet to say to you outside of being anything more than a name, a word he has yet to say he feels for you, even though his heart spells it out with ease each time he is with you

It’s hard for him because he can remember exactly the last time he told someone that three word sentence

Christmas Eve, a lifetime ago, he’d just gotten off the phone with his brother, sister-in-law, and nephew, hearing the young boy shout out into the receiver that he loved his uncle Si, a light hearted chuckle slipping past the Lieutenants lips before he’d replied back without issue that he loved him too, before he hung up and never heard his family’s voices ever again

He wants to say it to you because it’s true

He does love you more than anything, but he just can’t bring himself to say it

Those memories have become so tangled up in trauma, his mind associating darker times with those three goddamn words, the ones he knows would mean so much for you to hear he just can’t bring himself to speak aloud

He has dreams where he forces himself to say it, where he tells you a thousand times over that he loves you, whispers it in your ear, shouts it from the rooftops, writes it down everywhere for you to see and even etches it into his flesh with a needle and ink, until the dreams become nightmares and he’s yelling those words at your bloody corpse, writing it in the snow dusting your tombstone, waking up in a cold sweat, dreading the day you say those three words to him and he can’t explain why he can’t say them back

And while he can’t yet explain to you all of the demons that continue to call his skull their home, he finds himself not needing to, not with you

With you, there is no pressure to say things that cause him more pain than joy, there is no need to explain things that he struggles to fully comprehend himself, there is no need to perform or act in any way that isn’t true to him, not with you, his sweet girl who somehow understands him more than he feels he understands himself most days

Instead, with you, he gets to say things that are his own version of I love you, no matter how grand or small:

“I see you”

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever had”

“I can’t believe I get to call you mine”

“You make me so happy”

“Let me carry that for you”

“Put your seatbelt on”

“I made dinner”

“I’ll do the dishes, you go sit”

When the 14th of February eventually rolls around, you aren’t expecting anything out of the ordinary, never having acknowledged the upcoming gimmick of a holiday with Simon

Which is why you’re so surprised when you wake up to find the spot next to you in bed empty, noises in the kitchen letting you know Simon hasn’t gone far

Bare feet slowly padding towards the sounds of a grand breakfast being prepared with much frustration from a seasoned soldier who struggles to use seasoning, you can’t help the overwhelming grin that takes over you face when you see nothing more than a simple card standing up on the dining table, no bells or whistles, no flower petals thrown all over the flat, no orchestra serenading you awake, just you and Simon, all you need, all you want

Reading the card stretches your smile further than you thought possible, quickly sneaking up on your love to wrap your arms around him from behind, his own matching smile etched upon his face as he scrambles up the eggs, imagining you enjoyed the card, which reads in his scratchy handwriting:

“ I ♥️ you ”

[cathnospam]

“What do you want for your birthday.”

“Nothing.”

“What kinda cake?”

“None.”

“Well besides my ass, which would be chocolate flavor—-“

“Are you finished?!”

That’s exactly how your conversation with your husband Katsuki went for the past 4 weeks.

Every year you get him something he always wants, last year was a new tool for his gauntlets, years before that was the autographed card from All Might, but this is your first year as a husband and wife and you really wanna do something EXTRA special.

But you’ve ran out of ideas.

And unfortunately you’ve ran out of time.

You were on a business trip for a week before his birthday and while you were in the states you managed to buy him new clothes, a hand written letter, a few American snacks he always wanted to try, and even some jewelry, but…it still didn’t seem enough.

Bakugo was actually the perfect husband, he allowed you the option to be a stay at home wife even if you are a hero too, he’s grown so emotionally intelligent for you, he listens, he cares, you just want to give him a birthday he deserves.

And you know he’d be grateful regardless, he always is. Which is why he always tells you he doesn’t want anything.

You get off the plane early to surprise him. Knowing he’d be off work by now, you told him to call off, but you knew he wouldn’t listen. Not even for his birthday, but luckily Kiri was on your side and insisted he headed home early and take a break for a couple days.

He honestly didn’t want to. He needed a distraction from you being gone. You just told him you’d probably won’t be in by tomorrow morning which means you’ll be missing his birthday. His voice sounded crushed behind his passive aggressive insults on the phone. You nearly told him it was a lie, but you needed your plan to go accordingly.

When you take the uber back to his penthouse, you arrive inside and it was quiet and dark. Hopefully he wasn’t home yet.

You drop your luggage to place all his gifts on the table and blow up a few balloons, and place his card right for him to see when he opens his door.

But he didn’t show up yet.

You waited

waited

wait waited.

But 45 minutes passed and he still wasn’t home.

You sigh, and text Kiri where he was and headed to take a quick shower,

25 minutes passed and you’re out to see he texted back,

“He went drinking w us (I TRIED TO SEND HIM HOME), but he’s headed back rn. i’m taking him.”

You roll your eyes until you hear the door open and the familiar voices of Bakugo cursing and kicking out his fellow friends.

“What—-?”

“Happy Birthday!”

You tip toe out the corner to see your flustered hubby holding his card, eyes widened from confusion to place it back down and rush over to you.

Man you missed his scent.

He was wearing an all black outfit with his gold chain with your wedding ring on it. You missed him so much.

“You said you were—“

“I know i know. I wanted to surprise you….you’re not mad are you—-!”

Picking you up from your ass he kisses you, practically swallowing your lips in the process, “H-hey I’m only wearing a robe here?!”

“Good. My present is easy to unwrap then.”

You playfully smack his chest before he smacks his lips with your agains, “THOSE are your presents….but…I wanted to give you something better..”

Bakugo furrowed his brows for a moment and rolled his eyes, placing you down he hugged you. He just needed to smell you, make sure you were really with him.

“You’re such a dumbass…”

“How? Because I wanted to give you the best present?”

“You did by being here you idiot.”

You looked at him a bit dumbfounded and he just scoffs at you before lifting you up over his shoulders and taking you both to the bedroom.

you really are dense, because if you really knew him you’d know you’re the only present he needed and wanted this year.

[navybrat817]

Game Nights

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Game nights in the tower are unpredictable.

Word Count: Over 900

Warnings: Humor, mentions of violence, the team loves trolling on John, kissing, implied smut, team bonding (kind of), Thunderbolts spoilers, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Silly headcanon set in the same world as Not Exactly a Secret and part of my Tower Shenanigans. I'm not at all sorry. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Game nights typically take place on Saturdays since Fridays are reserved for movie night. Snacks and drinks are a must, but there is a drink maximum, so things don’t get too crazy or emotional. 

Bucky purposely gets John the generic brand when it’s his turn to go snack shopping and tells him to deal with it since the quality is just as good. Everyone else gets the name brand of whatever they want. 

There's a huge board with all of your names and the games listed. The tally marks are in various colors, and sometimes names are erased and replaced with affectionate nicknames. 

When John demanded to know who changed his name to “the man with a punchable face”, Bob was ready to confess, but Bucky took the blame, followed by Yelena, you, and Ava. It was a real “I'm Spartacus!” moment. 

Anyone caught cheating is on clean-up duty. You and Bucky have both cheated on the same night so you could clean up together. 

There are occasional tournaments complete with medals and trophies. The gang insisted that participation ribbons were not allowed, but you found a funny last place trophy that you had to get and everyone agreed.

The gang tries to switch it up between classic games, video games, and children's games to keep things interesting. No matter what you play there is a level of competitiveness. 

You try not to rub it in when you win a game, but you will have a subtle smirk on your face when you catch Bucky’s eye. Alexei, on the other hand, loves to yell, “In your face!” while doing air thrusts and Yelena has come close to banning her dad from game nights because of it.

If it’s girls versus boys, the girls win almost every time. The boys can't figure out how, but it might have something to do with John and Alexei both trying to be the leader, Bucky being done, and Bob just wanting to have fun. 

Bucky picks you for any game that requires a partner or teammate outside of girls versus boys, even if there is someone better suited. He doesn't care because he always wants you by his side. 

Bucky also picks two-player games for the two of you to play while the rest of the gang plays something else. Yelena often does the same thing with Bob. 

Weapons aren't allowed. That rule should've been enforced from the beginning, but John insisted after Bucky threatened to stab him during a game of Uno. 

To be fair, John kept playing Draw 4 cards and everyone knew it was a dick move. Even John knew it. 

Bucky will switch to Russian when he gets frustrated or really into a game. He didn't realize it until Yelena and Alexei replied in Russian. 

Hide-and-Seek is banned. Ava kept phasing out of her hiding spots, and you and Bucky got caught fooling around in the coat closet. 

Truth or Dare is also banned. Too personal with the questions when it was meant to be a fun night and Ava kept daring you and Bucky to kiss each other, which you did.

Bob got nervous the first time you all played Among Us, but Yelena assured him it would be fun. It ended with a chair flipped over, which is considerably tame.

Bob also goes into any shooting game prepared to lose because look who he’s playing with? He still has fun with it.

You once sweet talked Bucky into playing Dance Dance Revolution and he did well, surprising no one. So did Yelena and Ava, and not a single one of them cracked a smile while they danced.

John takes Pictionary way too seriously, and you threatened to break the easel and stab him when he raised his voice at Bob. Bucky fell in love with you a little bit more. 

Ava encouraged you to flash Bucky once when he was winning at Mario Kart. You did and he looked, but he still managed to win. 

Yelena argues with Alexei during Jenga. She doesn't need him to tell her which block to move or distract her. 

You and Bucky always end up choosing each other's cards during Cards Against Humanity. You just get each other, and you love getting a laugh out of him every time he reads your card. 

Alexei insists that karaoke should be considered a game and he always wants to sing first, which embarrasses Yelena. He once serenaded you and Bucky because, well, he’s one of your biggest supporters. 

Card games are tense and Yelena usually ends up with the most money by the end of them. She prefers Poker to Blackjack. 

Bob was so happy the first time he won Clue that he almost cried. Everyone hugged him, knowing he never got the chance to have fun game nights growing up. 

John recently made a casual comment about wanting to play games like these with his kid. No one gave him a hard time because everyone could see how much he longed for it. 

Some game nights end with yelling and broken furniture, but more often than not they end with smiles, laughter, and a sense of normalcy. It’s a nice change of pace from some of the horrors you’ve faced, and a great way to bond. 

But Bucky will still find a way to stab John if he can if only to keep him on his toes. 

BAHAHA. What do we think? Any other games? What other shenanigans do we think they get up to in and out of game nights? Let me know! Love and thanks for reading.

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[queen-of-gotham]

✨💖 Pretty Girl 💖✨

Synopsis: how the guys react to having a hyper-femme girlfriend.

Featuring: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Duke, Damian, Clark, Wally, and Barry

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Enjoy!

Bruce Wayne

He’s quietly observant, the kind of man who notices you changed your lipstick shade between brunch and dinner without being told.

Doesn’t comment much at first, but when he does it’s thoughtful, “That color suits you,” “Those earrings bring out your eyes.”

Secretly proud when you’re on his arm at a gala, because people notice you and how much he’s looking at you.

Will happily fund any shopping trip, but insists he’s “just tagging along” while carrying your bags and making sure you use his card for every purchase.

Lowkey loves when you ask him which dress to wear, not because he’s an expert, but because you trust his opinion.

Dick Grayson

Your biggest hype man, full-on gasps at every dramatic twirls, and “Oh my god, you’re gorgeous” every time you walk out in a new outfit.

Loves taking photos of you (with your consent) and setting them as his phone wallpaper.

Will 100% try on your sunglasses or hats and model them badly just to make you laugh.

Buys you makeup or clothes on impulse because “it reminded me of you.”

Knows the name of exactly two makeup brands, but says them with the confidence of an expert.

Jason Todd

Pretends he doesn’t care much, but he always does a double-take when he sees you dressed up.

“You’re gonna make me forget what we were supposed to be doing” is a frequent comment.

Likes sitting and watching you do your makeup — not to learn, just because he thinks you’re mesmerizing when you’re focused.

Big fan of “your lipstick is smudged” followed by “let me fix it” (he does not fix it, matter of fact he makes it worse.)

If someone tries to make a snide comment about you being too “high-maintenance,” Jason will end them verbally (or literally, depending on the day).

Tim Drake

Has a very quiet appreciation for your style, he’s not loud about it, but he notices every detail.

Will ask questions about your makeup process because he genuinely finds it interesting.

Occasionally steals your hand cream or lip balm and then acts like it’s not a big deal.

Loves when you send him “outfit of the day” pics while he’s at work, they brighten his whole mood.

Sometimes gets distracted mid-conversation just staring at you and wondering how he got so lucky.

Duke Thomas

Acts like a fashion critic in the best way, “Bold choice with that color, but you pull it off.”

Enjoys shopping with you because he’s actually got a good eye and will spot things you missed.

Loves seeing how excited you get about new outfits, matches your energy with an enthusiastic “YES” when you show him.

Will absolutely coordinate his own outfit with yours for events because he likes the power couple vibe.

Thinks your makeup routine is like watching an artist at work.

Damian Wayne

Initially doesn’t get the point of multiple outfits or “fancy paint for your face.” Because he thinks you’re naturally gorgeous.

Slowly starts complimenting you in a blunt, Damian way, “That shade makes your skin look… warm. It’s pleasing.”

Will stand there quietly while you model outfits and then deliver a surprisingly thoughtful verdict.

Secretly memorizes which pieces you wear when you’re happiest and notices if you stop wearing them.

If someone tries to belittle your style, he’ll cut them down with surgical precision.

Clark Kent

Old-fashioned in the sweetest way, tells you you’re beautiful every single time, like it’s the first time he’s noticed.

Loves seeing your confidence when you’re dressed up.

Will beam with pride introducing you to people, “This is my girlfriend, isn’t she gorgeous?”

Secretly keeps little mementos like a lipstick mark on a napkin or a candid photo he took of you laughing at a picnic.

Is careful never to make you feel rushed when you’re getting ready, he enjoys the anticipation

Barry Allen

Lights up the moment you walk in wearing something new, cannot stop smiling.

Loves spontaneous fashion shows at home, he’ll sit cross legged on the bed, clapping after each outfit.

Will ask “Do you need a photographer?” and then happily take 100 pictures for you.

Brags about your style to friends, “Yeah, I’m dating a fashion icon.”

Doesn’t care if you take twice as long to get ready, he just uses the time to hype you up from the doorway.

Wally West

Treats every new outfit like it’s the Met Gala: “Stop. STOP. Oh my god, you’re killing me right now.”

Will make a big deal of spinning you around so he can “get the full view.”

Tries to learn makeup terms but mixes them up hilariously, “Is that your… contour blush thing?” (It’s just foundation)

Loves matching his tie or shirt to your outfit for date nights.

Genuinely believes you’re the most stunning person in every room, no matter what you’re wearing.

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⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

[seeyouinthespring]

hi everyone! i know ive been super offline (for good reason lol) but i did want to share something on here.

the biggest reason why i haven't been posting is because i've been organizing really heavily with the filipino migrant population in chicago with the tanggol migrante (defend migrant) network that is based in many major cities in the us. we provide know your rights trainings, organize support systems for people with uncertain status, and have an emergency hotline for those detained.

recently, we were made aware of 2 filipino migrants in ICE detention in indiana, which falls under our jurisdiction as the closest philippine consulate is in chicago. one is a 71 year old working grandmother named tita r, who is currently in a clark county facility and has been since march, even though she is a legal green card holder and thus a us resident.

as you would expect, the conditions are horrible. she has been shackled, gone days without her kidney and blood pressure medication, and spends all of her time in a windowless, unsanitary hall filled with bunk beds and other people in detention. the only respite is video calls with her family, which cost $25 for 20 minutes, and is incredibly hard to navigate. at one point, she was being transferred so many different places, her family had no idea where she was.

this week i traveled with fellow organizers to kentucky, where her son and daughter are based. we were privileged to meet with them and offer support during this horrible time. tita r had her master hearing, where it was decided she would have to wait until next month to hear the decision of whether or not she will be deported back to the philippines. tita r has been in the country for over 40 years, and has built her life and raised her family here.

every time i am on a video call with her, i always want to cry, out of both sadness and laughter, because she may be one of the funniest people i have ever met. she calls everyone either boo-boo or bobo, which is always an endearment. she was showing the other people in her facility, look how tall my grandson has gotten! it breaks my heart to hear that she thinks she will die in detention due to the conditions. we learned that at one point, her blood pressure was at 204.

the stories of filipino migrants aren't exactly shared often within the us, where the narrative mostly centers around latinos, especially mexicans. but filipinos are the second largest undocumented population in the us. every day, 7,000 filipinos leave the philippines to seek work elsewhere, because us imperialism has destroyed the country's economy, and idea of sovreignty.

we are raising money for tita r, because the philippine consulate hasn't released funds that her family is ENTITLED TO through the assistance to nationals fund, and as a result her family has had to shoulder the burden of legal fees, on top of the unimaginable situation they are going through. tita r's final hearing is next month, august 7th. we're trying to raise as much money as we can, and collect signatures for a petition demanding her release. i will include links here, but you can also go to @tanggolmigrantenetwork or @migrantechicago on instagram to hear updates on her case, or to even get involved, as there are campaigns running across the country right now.

please share this post. i will make a follow up post about the second detainee, a father named tito e who was detained at o'hare when coming back from the philippines, even though he is a green card holder.

donate & sign

(art by @lycheeluver on instagram)

[salem-s]

EVER SINCE ROCKY DUNE (18+) — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you and rafe notoriously flirted all-throughout high school, seeing who could rile the other up the most. after not seeing each other for four years, you run into him at a bar and slip into a familiar rhythm of banter. you're surprised to see that he’s not the same frat-prick he was in high school. and rafe realizes that you're exactly the same… except way hotter than the last time he saw you.

WARNINGS fluff, angst, suggestive content but no actual smut. lowkey wrote this off two glasses of wine. i’ll edit in the morning. enjoy. 18+ MDNI.

WORD COUNT 7.7k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER devil's advocate by the neighborhood

Rafe's been on cloud nine lately.

Work has been going spectacular (as a job really can get), the girl he's been trying to brush off gently has finally gotten the hint that he's just not that into her, the city life has been treating him relatively fairly (as in, he's no longer tied to the confinements of his father's meticulous expectations ever since he moved out and started working onsite in the city, so now he can finally breathe), all of his friends are in one place and he has a great work-play balance that people could only dream of.

He isn't sure if it gets better or worse when he sees you from across the bar.

It's jarring. Especially when he triple takes to make sure it's actually you and not some trick that the tequila is enticing him into, because his vision isn't that great to begin with so it's not a completely foreign concept for him to mistake someone for a different person. He's done that way too many times which called for an astronomical amount of awkward encounters to try and make up for his fuck up.

But no. It's you. Clear as day.

And hotter than he can handle.

Shamelessly, through the crowds of people coming in and out of his focus, all his eyes can do is stay on you.

Study your figure in all its glory. The way that skirt sinfully snugs your curves. The way you're subtly shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pressure on your poor heels, the inches too high for him to count. The way your clothes cling to your skin and how your hair has changed since the last time you saw him. The way you're smiling and laughing at something funny your friend said, looking way too fucking pretty to be considered casual.

It's funny, because all throughout high school, all he could think about was how he couldn't fucking stand you. But not in the way one would expect.

No. In the way he couldn't stand not having you.

Rafe couldn't stand the way you batted your lashes at him every time you (somehow) lured him into another one of your traps, as in getting him to do your homework with a simple squeeze of his bicep or allowing him one slow dance at prom in exchange for some of the shitty weed he used to deal to Kooks (a discounted rate for you, always). You knew all of his nooks and crannies, knew how to play the cards he dealt you, and, boy, you won the game every single time.

Yet now?

He can't look away.

In fact, he's craving the confrontation, almost jittered at the thought of being close to you again after going so long without it. His hands twitch in your direction, a subconscious pull to you that he can't explain. It's as if you're casting a spell on him without even knowing it. Every time you laugh, his heart skips. Every time you take a sip of your drink and he focuses on your lips, his breath hitches. Every time you almost meet his gaze, his knees nearly buckle.

Rafe's been nursing a half-drank tequila soda for the past thirty minutes, since he laid his eyes on you the first time, shamefully staring at you while — maybe — taking three sips in the same time frame.

And — of course — when you happen to look over your shoulder and nonchalantly scan the crowd, your eyes find his as he's downing the rest of his drink.

The shudder that waves over his body is indescribable, and an automatic smirk etches his lips when you fully realize who you're looking at, proud that you finally found him after not being subtle in the slightest. It's his trademark pick up: send a crooked smile to a pretty girl across the bar in hopes it'll get her blushing, get her enticed enough to mosey her way over to him and spark up a conversation, or vice versa where he's practically stalking up to her and preparing his whole entourage.

But Rafe's mind spins when you simply look him up and down, eyes bright and mischievous, before turning back to your friend and continuing with whatever you were saying.

The act stuns him, blinking stupidly and animatedly to make sure he saw that correct. Did you just...brush him off? Acknowledge the guy you flirted with for four years straight with a simple up-down glance? And follow up with nothing? Not even a wave, or nod, or smile?

Topper, who accidentally witnesses the brutal rejection, claps Rafe on the shoulder a little too audaciously to be considered compassionate.

"Damn, bro," he murmurs loud enough for Rafe to hear. "Looks like that move's done. You're buying our next round again, right?"

The words piss Rafe off for a multitude of reasons, the first being that he's never inviting Topper and his other high school friends to stay with him for a weekend ever again, because it's been one day of them visiting and Rafe's already done with their bullshit, the same bullshit they'd pull all those ages ago and the same bullshit that he could never fucking stand. It was a courtesy invite, something to get Topper off his back because he asked to see the city one too many times.

The second reason being the fact that — no — he's not done. Never with you.

(You're the only person he's thought about in years. Even when he had a relatively long-term girlfriend. Even throughout all the hook-ups he's endured only to picture it's you underneath him. It's sinful the amount of times he's imagined you saying his name, clawing his back, imprinting your mark on his skin. No one else's. Only him. Solely him.)

Pathetically, he recounts all the missed opportunities he's had with you. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in honors chemistry and pawning notes off each other. When'd he go home to study for an exam, he'd see your tiny hand-drawn hearts in the corner of his paper that he traced over gently like it was engraved. Purposefully approaching you in the halls or in the courtyard to rile you up just so he could talk to you. Kissing you once and fucking it up all in the same breath. Slow dancing with you at prom as an excuse to hold you, even when he made you think it was in exchange for some free weed.

Christ, he would've given you the weed for free if you simply asked nicely.

Two more shots, thanks to Topper, and Rafe's pushing through the crowd to you.

When your friend sees him approaching with a stone cold expression, she frowns and darts her gaze between the you and him, yet the cautiously growing smile on her face gives away the fact that something interesting is about to happen, so either that's why she doesn't say anything to you — who are talking animatedly about something random — or she simply doesn't care.

His hand feels like ice against your hot shoulder. "Don't tell me you're too shy to say hi, baby?"

You already know the scent of his cologne, the cadence of his voice, without having to turn around. You've known it for years, dreamt about it for years, so sue a girl for thinking it's all a dream when you're actually hearing it after so long.

Your friend, though, is reacting real time. "Baby?" She darts her gaze between you and Rafe, looming behind you like a shadow. "Got a secret boyfriend I don't know about?"

Your finger taps your chin in mock contemplation. "Hm, a few. Hang on, let me guess."

When the pads of his fingertips skin against the small of your back, you stifle a grin.

"This one's blond," you muse teasingly, loud enough for him to hear and sweet enough to get him to indulge in your little act. "Dirty blond, though. Not to get confused with a Targaryen blond. A head taller than everybody else and a jaw clenched so tight it might break if you call him Rafey."

At the nickname, his hand fully presses onto your skin, somehow finding its way under your tank top to seer against your bare skin, burning hot and inviting just for him.

"Easy," he murmurs low and baritone in the shell of your ear. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Your friend, simply third wheeling for the whole occasion, says her parting words. "Some rep." She turns to you. "I'll be at the bar."

With a ferociously beating heart, your eyes follow your friend as she sifts through the crowd, making her eventual way to the bar after pushing through several friend groups who do their best to accommodate her.

Though his palm is branding your skin, ice against your fire, settling under your tank top so shamelessly that you'd think it was meant to stay there. His audaciousness certainly surprises you, as you've only had a few physical instances with him that kept you up at night: his palm somehow finding its way to your jaw during your prom-night slow dance, arms bear-wrapped around you pulling you away from a cat-fight at the Boneyard one summer night before graduation, climbing over his shoulders and settling there for a game of chicken against your friends in the ocean.

The night always ended the same, with a lingering touch and his piercing blue eyes that seemed to stay too long on you, as if he was itching for more.

But now, older and wiser and hotter, he doesn't pull away.

Instead, he holds you firmer.

It makes you hum. "Cameron, you're scaring away my roster."

He's still behind you, a ghost of a man, almost building up the anticipation of actually being face to face with you.

"No need for them anymore," is all he says before moving in front of you.

And — god — if the close proximity isn't fogging your brain.

You always knew he was tall. Hell, you've been closer to him than this before, but the reaffirmation nearly startles you. His shoulders are a bit broader then you remember, biceps more defined and almost begging to burst through the seams of his t-shirt. The curtain bangs and eventual buzz cut are long gone, instead replaced with a short-grown mullet that you've never seen on him yet crave all the same. It makes him look more relaxed, more sure of himself, as if he's venturing out from the cookie-cutter image he's been molded to fit and finding his own style, finding the own beat to his drum.

It's intoxicating. You're addicted.

And Rafe? He looks fucking hypnotized.

You nearly snort when his blue eyes scale your figure up and down slowly, taking you in shamelessly as if he has all the time in the world to do so. All while his hands settle on your waist, and his palms only press harder when you don't push him away and instead invite the contact. Eventually, his blue eyes find yours and a lazy smile etches his lips.

"You're awfully bolder than I remember," you say slowly, drawing out every syllable to fully ingest his attention.

"You're awfully hotter than I remember," he responds quietly, more to himself as he looks at you in awe. "Since when have you been here?"

You frown in faux offense.

"Are you telling me you haven't been keeping tabs on me, Cameron?"

He snorts.

Yet you continue. "I've posted so many Insta stories, and I know you've seen every single one," you add sweetly, a honey-laced cadence to your voice that nearly lures him into a trap.

"Always kept tabs on you, baby," Rafe murmurs methodically, almost in a trance as he tugs on the ends of your tank. "I like this."

"You like it?"

"Mhm. Makes you look pretty."

"I didn't wear it for you."

Rafe's lips twitch. "Who'd you wear it for?"

Your smile widens. "Me. And all the guys in my phone," you muse.

But that only makes Rafe furrow his brows and tilt his head in mock seriousness, hands pressing a little tighter against your bare skin (not that you mind in the slightest) as if he's staking a claim on you, branding you with the marks of his palms and the pattern of his finger prints. You never knew how nice his touch could feel, never knew what you were missing out on all those years spent bickering back and forth, never knew that kind of form he could mold to the sculpture of your figure.

It's comical, really, knowing damn well you don't have a roster, nor a list of guys in your phone, but how would he ever know? What's the harm in a bit of play? Especially when he looks so pathetically cute trying to look serious with a pinched brow and puffy parted lips. He’s not threatening to you in the slightest. Never has been.

"What?" You ask with faux confusion, going as far as jutting out your bottom lip in a pout that he can't help but stare at. "Why are you frowning, baby?"

"Delete their numbers,” he murmurs, looking solely at your mouth that’s growing into a crooked smile. “Just keep mine.”

“Rafe, we haven’t talked in four years, what makes you think you’re mine?”

“Baby, I’ve been yours since freshman year.”

You falter.

Only slightly, as you involuntarily suck in a breath at the ferocity of his confession. Whether it's actually true or not, whether he's just saying these sweet nothings to hopefully get in your pants, whether it's the influence of whatever he's drinking and the excitement of getting laid tonight, it still makes your heart flutter.

Because you think back to all that time ago: fourteen with brightly aligned smiles thanks to the braces that came off a year earlier, refusing to coward under his pretty blue eyes like all the other girls and stand your ground, show your indifference, prove that it's gonna take more than a few slick one liners and a charming smile to lock you down. Not to mention he's tried more than once to score with you, when you were fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

One liners tossed over his shoulder as if its second nature, and you flirting back but never giving him an actual chance, not unless he could change for the better. Your relationship is ping pong, tennis, thumb-war. You let him know that he can get close but he can't touch.

Opposite of what he's doing now, which is cautiously smoothing his palms on the skin under your tank top, fingertips digging gently into your flesh.

And, oh, he sees you falter, even though you hoped it was subtle enough. But nothing gets past him, ever.

Rafe's grin is so fucking pretty it makes you scowl. "C'mon. Don't act like you didn't know."

Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.

"I don't," you deadpan back, though in your attempt to remain stone-cold, your voice is quieter than you intend. "You're full of shit."

"Am I?" He's so fucking close to you. "Here I am, pouring my heart out to you, and you think I'm bluffing?"

You manage to quirk a brow. “I wouldn’t consider the insinuation you want to sleep with me the same as pouring your heart out.”

Rafe’s lips twitch. “No?”

“Nope.”

“Even if I asked nicely?”

“Even if you bought me a car.”

Rafe laughs boisterously, head tipped back at your usual venom cadence that he never takes to heart. It’s almost as if he craves it, loves that you give him a hard time, keep him on his toes and make sure his ego is in check, because lord knows the rest of the female population that he encounters probably don’t have the gall to keep him in line. You never did. Sure, you flirted with him (if your definition of flirting was incessantly insulting him and pissing him off) and had your fun, but there was never the insinuation that he was serious.

The thought of him being serious about you settles a kettlebell in your gut.

“Baby,” he says with a giant grin, and you hate the way your heart skips at the name. “You could slap me and I’d buy you a small country.”

“Oh?” You hum, still aware of his hands on you. “So it’s that easy? Let you fondle me a little, slap you, and walk away with a sovereign nation?”

“Why are you acting like this is news?”

“Because you’re you,” you deadpan, ignoring the way his facade cracks slightly. “You want what you can’t have, and once you do, you’re onto the next.”

His once-charming smirk now morphs into something you can’t describe, perhaps a hint of it left on his lips as his eyes soften with such speed that you nearly have to blink to make sure you’re talking to the same person. All he does is stare at you for a moment, giving you more than enough time to take back what you said and turn it into something he approves of, something that’s true.

But you don’t. You hold your ground and let your words linger in the air. It’s obvious, no? His motive has always been to get what he doesn’t have, which is nearly impossible since he already has what money can buy him. The riches, the trust fund, the dozens of yachts he has all can’t buy what he really wants: you.

“That’s what you think of me?” Rafe asks gently, more sincere than you’ve ever heard him. “That’s what you think I see you as?”

You open your mouth to retort, probably something witty and bitchy and out of tune with the mood of the conversation, but just past Rafe, back at the bar, you notice Topper and two other boneheads from high school you know he used to bum with, staring at the two of you and laughing at the entire interaction. Topper ducks his head to whisper something to his friend, snickering and darting his gaze between you and Rafe as he says something, probably something crude and fucking ridiculous.

It makes your spine straighten.

You're brought back to earth, remembering why you never gave into Rafe's flirting and complex for all these years. He's a cookie-cutter mold of what home is: rich frat assholes who think they can sweet talk their way into getting anything they want. You zoom out, and remind yourself that you only know Rafe on the surface. You don't know what he's like behind closed doors, you don't know how he treats his sisters and any motherly figures in his life. You don't know how he'll treat you after you give him what he wants, which is simply getting his dick wet.

You've only seen this side of him, thinking back on all the times he's openly hit on you and you've hit on him back with those bitter insults you love to throw at him. But whereas he's treating this as a game, to get another token under your belt, you've been treating it as a shield, a mechanism to remind him of what he could have if he wasn't so fucking pretentious.

"Look," you start firmly, flirtatious edge gone as you reach down and peel his wandering hands off your waist. "I'm not sure what kind of caveman-dominance-act you're doing for your friends, but we're grown enough to stop running in circles with this little bit."

Rafe frowns as you place his arms at his side.

“If you want to get your dick wet, there’s plenty of girls here to suffice,” is all you conclude with, offering him a smile that isn't very nice and doesn't reach your eyes before disappearing into the crowd.

Leaving him speechless, hurt, and hard.

You really thought that'd be the end of it.

You said your piece, let him down firm enough so that he won't try the same shit again the next time he sees you. Because, as fun as it is to rile him up and flirt with no consequence, it's getting pretty old putting up with his audacious behavior, especially now that you haven't seen him in how many years, and he's feeling you up as if he ever had any right?

Please.

Rafe’s never been one for commitment. He had one long term (six months, at that) girlfriend in high school, but after an abrupt breakup that he refused to elaborate on with anyone, nothing was stable for him since. A new girl every weekend tucked under his arm, bringing a girl by the hand up to his room only to repeat his same actions with a different girl an hour later. It wasn’t something you ever wanted to involve yourself with, no matter how hard you flirted or how hot he looked on certain days, nothing would actually make you fold.

But tonight?

It’s proving difficult to stick to your word.

Especially when your ex mistakenly gets involved.

You didn’t even see Seth enter the bar, nor did you see the three vodka shots he downed back to back to back, nor did you see him spot your best friend so that, conveniently, means you’re somewhere nearby too. After slithering away from Rafe, you beelined towards your friend and got another drink, moseying out to the outdoor patio to get some fresh air and to decidedly try and ignore whatever the fuck just happened.

It’s when you’re halfway through telling your friend the summarized version of your and Rafe’s lore when your ex decides to approach.

The whole interacting is nothing graceful. He’s drunk and babbling on and on about absolutely nothing at all (you dated for three months and broke up because he was actively sending nudes to his ex girlfriend) so his words don’t really mean anything to you. They’re harmless, really, slurred and incoherent and nothing you really need to pay attention to. Seth is barely a threat.

Although, when ten minutes go by and he’s still not leaving you alone is when you start to get antsy.

You really wish you hadn’t given your friend the it’s okay nod because now she’s nowhere in sight, and you’re on your ninth damn that’s crazy. You only have so many of those left in the chamber, and Seth’s breath reeks of vodka and with every word, despite your constant step back, he’s getting closer. He keeps trying to grab at you, to hold your hand like old times and get you back like he’s been trying to do for a few weeks now.

It’s getting ridiculous. He’s got you caged in a corner and every time you try to duck under his arm and escape, he’s blocking you in, continuing his rambling with more fervor each time. Your eyes scan the patio and the small glass door leading back into the bar for someone, anything, any light at the end of the tunnel to help you get you out of this mess.

When he asks who you keep looking for, the lie rolls easily off your tongue. “My boyfriend.”

You’re not even looking at your ex when his shoulders stiffen. You’re looking past him to search for a viable candidate to try and read your mind, get the hint, and come over here and play the part.

Of course, your ego dies when Rafe enters the patio.

He doesn’t see you immediately, eyes trained on the barely drank beer in his hand and huffing out a low breath. But he’s alone: not surrounded by his degenerate friends and finally having a moment to himself to collect his thoughts, debrief your interaction earlier without Topper chirping in his ear at how funny the whole thing was. For a moment, you slightly pity him and his dejected expression. His pretty blues resemble that of a kicked puppy, and your heart does a weird flutter when you consider the fact that you actually might’ve hurt his feelings.

But when Rafe meet your gaze, it’s a silent exchange.

Your eyes are slightly widened, a wordless help that he seems to understand immediately, wiping the pitiful expression off his face and instantly turning stone cold. The drink in his hand is set down on a table full of random people, getting a few confused looks. But he doesn’t stop to address it, instead eyes staying solely on yours as he approaches the dim corner your ex has you backed into.

Christ. Your dignity is dwindling by the minute.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe hums low, baritone enough to make your ex jump in surprise and spin around to face the voice of the culprit. “Ready to go?”

Not by the minute. By the second.

Before you can open your mouth and humiliate yourself further, Seth scoffs in disbelief as he turns his head between you and your supposed-boyfriend, eyes wide and mouth agape. It takes him one, two moments to fully register what’s going on and react.

“Th—this is your boyfriend?” He splutters with a slur.

The sound makes Rafe rolls his eyes.

“You mind?” He asks coolly, taking an audacious step towards you.

It makes Seth step aside immediately. The cold blue stare plus the added height definitely frightens your ex, as he’s never been the one for confrontation and scoured away anytime there was any inclination for a fight.

But Rafe? No. He craves it.

Fragmented memories scatter your brain. Writing his chemistry notes for him when his knuckles were too busted to hold a pen. Witnessing the Great Boneyard Squabble in real time when he broke Connor Carlone’s jaw yet suffered two broken ribs. Remembering how easy it was for him to throw hands instead of using his words and almost always used fighting as a cop out, because he knew he’d win.

You remember one particular time you drunkenly found him sitting alone on the sand dunes, putting his ice cold beer against a busted knuckle. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him distant, quiet, so unlike the Rafe you’ve grown to know and despise. You asked him if it hurt, he only shrugged. You then asked him why he keeps doing it if it hurts, to which he responded that it’s all he knows. Fighting and putting on a mask are all he knows.

And your ex certainly wants no part of it.

“No. Not at all.” He turns to you and swallows thickly when he watches Rafe slither an arm around your waist. “Uh, I’ll, um, see you?”

Before you can retort something smart, the breath is momentarily sucked out of you when you feel Rafe’s palm tug you taut to his side, still indulging in his little pretend part before it’ll get swept away from him. You can’t say that you blame him, as he’ll take any excuse to get his hands on a girl even if it’s for a glorious sixty seconds. And with you — the girl who never let him get too close — he’s certainly going to extend the short-lived time he has with you as long as he can.

“You won’t,” is all Rafe responds with, and your ex is staggering back, slipping back into the crowd and disappearing before you know it.

You manage to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but mask the relief with an eye roll and a gentle shove at his rib cage.

“You didn’t need to do all that,” you murmur, still holding onto the smallest grudge you have with him on his boisterous behavior earlier.

(Despite how fucking nice it feels to have his hands on you).

You hear Rafe snort beside you.

“I got him to fuck off, didn’t I?”

You bite your tongue when a bratty response rises in your throat, only holding back because he’s right. Of course all it took was one glare to get your ex to tuck tail and bolt, whereas your attempts to brush him off and leave proved fruitless. As much as you want to roll your eyes again, say something snotty that’ll either rile him up or piss him off, you hate to acknowledge that Rafe did exactly what you wanted him to do without explicitly having to say anything.

“Yeah,” you murmur quietly, almost frustrated. “Thanks for that.”

Being the prick that he is, Rafe isn’t letting you get away with a half-assed apology muttered under your breath, because suddenly he’s right in front of you, a hint of a grin ghosting his lips as he ducks down to your eye level, making it that much more person than it needs to be.

“What was that?”

You narrow your eyes. “You heard me fine.”

“You know I’m hard of hearing, baby, lemme hear that voice. Gotta speak up around me.”

That abhorrently incriminating nickname turns your heart into a stampede every time, no matter how hard you try to push down the feeling or deny it. Curse Rafe Cameron and his sultry cadence and stupid pretty eyes that are twinkling with delight.

So you do what he asks, and you don’t get flustered (or at least show it). You look him deadpan in the eye, face him square, and put on your sweetest voice.

“Thank you, Rafey.”

But it has the opposite effect. Instead of flustering him, making his breath hitch, throwing him off his game, it only spurs him on further.

He breaks out in a giant fucking grin.

“That so hard, hm?”

Oh, poor choice of words, you think.

Because it makes an idea pop into your head (undoubtedly a stupid one, but a fun one nonetheless) as you take a small step forward, now being the one to crowd his space instead of vice versa. Your chest just barely brushes his, peering up at him through batting lashes and the sweetest smile you can muster. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you bring a hand to skim over his heart, feeling it thump erratically under your palm.

A flicker of surprise coats his features, but you have to admit he masks it quickly with his signature expression, a charming smile and low lidded eyes.

One of his hands cautiously ghosts of your waist, and when you don’t pull back or slap him away, he lets his palm press further into your figure, fingertips slipping under your tank and smoothing over the soft skin of your waist.

Slowly, your other hand skims over his belt loop, just barely dipping your fingertips between the waist band of his pants and his hot skin on his lower abdomen. The unfamiliar contact (from you, especially) makes Rafe suck in a breath in shock, gripping your waist tight and possessive that it makes your heart skip. It only augments when you allow yourself to move forward, fully letting him feel the soft flesh of your breasts press up against his chest.

And that’s when you feel it: the outline of his cock pressing hard against your front.

You peer up at him all pretty and composed, whereas his lips are parted and his blue eyes are nearly blown back with lust, and the sight of him almost makes you fold. Almost. But you zoom out, remember who you’re dealing with, remember all the times he’s left you hot and bothered and aggravated. No matter how big his dick actually feels.

“No,” you murmur softly, responding to his earlier question. “But I know something else that is.”

Rafe opens his mouth to respond, but you’re quicker, taking advantage of his discombobulated state to twist out of his grip and completely remove your hands from his body, stepping out of his grasp and slithering into the crowd.

“Hey—!”

He tries to snatch you, but you’re faster, weaving in and out of friend groups like a snake and not even bothering to check if he’s following you, to see if he’s waiting to press you against a wall and take you in front of all these strangers. You figure that or he’s stuck in the same spot, dumbfounded and hard and annoyed.

You know you’re in trouble when you throw a spare glance over your shoulder before you head back into the bar, suppressing a grin when you spot him through the crowd, eyes solely trained on you with a jaw clenched so tight you’d think it would break.

To elongate his misery, you blow him a kiss before disappearing inside.

Although, it only takes thirty seconds for him to find you again.

You stifle a grin when you feel a calloused hand snatch your hand, fingers lacing through yours without a second thought and tugging you backwards, sending you stumbling back and bumping into his chest hard. Hard enough to turn a few heads.

The music is so loud. Everyone is laughing and singing and talking. The bass is vibrating the floor. But the only thing you can feel is his hot body pressed against your back and the rapid thumping of his heart. All you can hear is his baritone voice ghosting the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, especially when one of his hands snakes around your body to press against your hip bone, pulling you even closer than you were before so you can feel him against your back, harder than he was before.

“You think you’re funny?” He snaps in your ear, all flirting edge gone and replaced with something else, perhaps frustration.

It only makes you prouder. “A bit.”

He scoffs and it’s nothing nice. “A bit,” he mocks under his breath. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“Yeah,” you muse, wholeheartedly agreeing. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away, Cameron.”

When you tilt your head away from him to give him access to your neck, Rafe takes the leap of faith, ducking his head to the soft skin and attaching his lips to your vocal cord. And — god — if this is how his mouth feels now, you can only imagine what it’ll feel like against your lips, your chest, your—

“Can’t,” he admits immediately and so certain of himself, especially when he copies your previous action and his fingers dance along the waistband of your skirt almost daringly. “Won’t.”

The sensation makes your heart skip and spine straighten, sucking in a breath when you feel his teeth gently graze the muscle of your vocal chord with the added feeling of his warm fingers meeting the skin of your lower abdomen, and you pray that the act is subtle enough to not alert him that your body is very much reacting to his body.

Of course, he notices.

“This what you needed, baby?” The baritone of his voice against your neck reverberates your nerves. “Some attention?”

All you do is hum, because, yup. Right on the nose. At least you can admit it to yourself.

When he sucks a particularly sweet spot, you let out a quiet noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, quiet enough so no one else at the bar hears it. Well, everyone except for him, who hears it loud and clear and wants to hear it for the rest of his fucking life.

Rafe exhales deeply through his nose, tickling your skin. “I knew you’d sound so pretty.”

“I always sound pretty.”

A chuckle. Not necessarily a nice one. “Can’t believe you never knew.”

You frown even though he can’t see it. “Knew what?”

“How bad I fucking wanted you.”

The confession makes your stomach do a weird flip. “But you—“

It’s as if he knows your thought process, knows the way your brain works, because he answers your question before you can even get it out.

“Always wanted you.” He kisses your neck with surprising chastity. “Want you to drive me nuts for the rest of my fucking life.”

You blink stupidly, praising whatever higher being that he can’t see your face right now. “That’s excessive.”

“It’s what I want,” he albeit murmurs with candor. “And I always get what I want.”

The rational part of you wants to spin around and slap him silly for such an out of touch comment. He’s on top of the world, getting more money than he knows what to do with and only knowing the lifestyle that comes with a silver spoon. Rafe Cameron gets all the material objects he wants. Watches. Boats. Cars. Designer anything. That’s something money can buy, and money he’ll happily spend if it’s something he has his eye on.

But you? You’re the outlier.

You’re the girl he reached for but could never grasp. You gave him glimpses of what he could have if he stopped being such a prick and straightened himself out. You’ve told him time and time again (after he’s asked you out time and time again) that you’ll only ever go for him if he gets his shit together, stops acting like a frat asshole and ditches his degenerate friends who share the same brain cell and only mooch off of him for his money. He’s refused to see it, not wanting to lose the only “friends” he’s ever had, so every time he let you walk away with your ultimatum, hoping the next time he asks you that your stance has changed.

But it never has.

Not even now.

“You know how I feel,” you respond earnestly, and you bite the bullet and twist around in his arms so you’re facing him, chest to chest and peering at his pretty blues under the kaleidoscope of purple, blue, red, green lights. Your hands brace on his chest and his settle on your waist, looking at you ardently with all sighs of sexual frustration gone, instead replaced with seriousness, determination, admiration. “How I’ve always felt.”

“I know,” he answers immediately. “I can be that person.”

You quirk a brow.

He sees your apprehension, your deflection, the same look you always gave him. But it’s different know, especially when you’re in his arms and not dreaming of pulling away, especially when he looks so damn sure of himself in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I’m…trying to be,” he says after a moment. “Ever since Rocky Dune.”

Your spine straightens at the mention, a memory so deep in your brain’s archives that you nearly forgot its entire existence.

It was the summer after senior year, where your graduated class would congregate on a sector of dunes so secluded from civilization it became your uncharted territory, the spot only your class knew about. Everyone would drink and smoke and carry on as usual, just…less chaotic. The music was never too loud. The lights were never too bright. No one shouted and drunkenly sang obnoxiously. People would chat with other people they didn’t really know. It was…nice. Different. Almost nostalgic. Your class’ secret.

You block the memory away because there was one night that you were so fucking nasty to him that it makes your heart lurch.

You were both relatively drunk, not stumbling but tipsy enough to say things from the locked vault of your mind that never should’ve met the light of day. Secluded from the party, you and Rafe sat shoulder to shoulder in the dunes and watched the gently waves lap against the shore, met with the sound of the water and silence.

Where you kissed him.

You were lonely, fresh off a breakup and he was right there. Saying the right things. Being uncharacteristically nice to you after he saw you crying alone. Finally leaning into the real version of himself, the guy you’ve seen glimpses of. He’s softer, dedicated, serious and devoted. You saw him, not the front he always put up. Just Rafe. And for that one kiss, you thought he’d straighten up, finally understand why you’ve never given him the actual time of day beforehand, why you flirted back but never give him a chance. You thought it would click, he’d keep being himself and stop the frat-prick-asshole act to impress his friends.

Yet he had to ruin it.

Because when he pulled away, he put on that stupid fucking smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

And you wished you hadn’t seen a glimpse of the real Rafe at all, because in that moment, you knew you’d never see it again, never see him again, only the persona he’s created to seem cool, nonchalant, like a prince. It broke your heart, humiliated you while you were already so fucking embarrassed when he caught you alone, and it was where you put your foot down.

By this point, you’d already shoved him away and stood up, creating distance. “How stupid of me to think you could ever change.”

You still remember the way his face fell in the moonlight.

And you just had to continue. “If you think acting like this is going to get people to like you, you’re not surviving anything outside this fucking bubble of an island. Stop waving around a wad of cash and let’s see how many people still hang out with you. Grow the fuck up, Cameron.”

The words still haunt you, the expression on his face still haunts you, and the fact that that was the last time you saw him up until this very night haunts you right now. Those were the last words you said to him, your last memory with him, and it’s you saying the worst things he’s probably already thought about himself.

“I never apologized,” you say when you’re brought back to earth. “What I said was—“

“It was what I needed to hear,” Rafe interrupts gently yet firmly, making your apology die in your throat. “It woke me up. When I left for the semester, I straightened out. Focused in school, got good grades, got clean, made friends who actually give a shit about me. You… I should thank you.”

You’re flabbergasted.

Despite it, he continues.

“I want to earn you,” he says softly, as if he’s been itching to say it forever. “I meant what I said. I know I…” His gaze flickers down momentarily. “…seem impatient, but I wanna do this right. With you. If you’ll let me.”

You search his expression for any shroud of doubt, any flickers of playfulness or teasing regard, but you come up short. Instead, you’re met with bright blue eyes that shimmer with certainty, that look at you with such seriousness that it throws your brain for a loop and sets a kettlebell in your stomach.

But the excitement outweighs the uncertainty.

You cave. “One chance.”

Rafe nods immediately.

“One,” you reiterate seriously.

He nods again, emulating the pure embodiment of obedience at the thought of being irrevocably yours.

“If I catch you being a prick,” you continue pointedly, “you’re done.”

“Copy,” he responds earnestly.

“I’ll pluck your balls off like an apple.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I mean it.”

“Baby, I’m about to be on my best behavior, just you wait.”

You quirk a brow as you let a thick silence elongate between the two of you.

The gesture makes Rafe blink, lips twitching. “I can call you baby, right?”

All you can do is give him a pointed look, trying really fucking hard to remain stoic but it’s proving difficult when a smile threatens to creep up, because you have to admit being called such a name, especially with the way it rolls off his tongue with such eased nonchalance that you’d think he was born to say it, makes your heart flutter uncontrollably. Of course he can call you baby. He can call you whatever he wants as long as he never says it to anyone else.

“Yeah,” you find yourself saying. “As long as you say it right.”

And for the second time in your life, you’re gripping his shirt to tug him close and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Rafe responds immediately, mmrphing low into your mouth as his hand comes up to hold the column of your neck, keeping you in place and squeezing just a fraction. The act makes you gasp gently, lips parting at the feeling, but it only allows him more access, slipping his tongue audaciously into your mouth to taste your sweetness in all its glory.

Your hands brace on his chest as some sort of pathetic mechanism to ground yourself, because your heart is leaping out of its chest and the skin that he’s touching of yours is on fire, and you pointedly decide in this moment that you’ve never been kissed like this, so passionately, ardently, gingerly. Frankly, it throws your brain for a loop, especially when he emits a satisfied hum the reverberates in your throat.

You almost forget you’re in the middle of a bad. There’s people all around you, singing and dancing and laughing and completely ignorant to your little moment. The atmosphere is loud and boisterous and unforgiving with its collected heat, but it envelopes you in a blanket, tucked into the warmth that is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe. It’s intoxicating, knowing anyone could be seeing your exchange right now and dismissive to the fact that this is one of the most exhilarating moments of your life.

When you pull away, Rafe’s leaning in for more.

You grin. “Easy, Rafey.”

He mirrors your smile. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”

“Your place or mine?”

The words aren’t what he expects, because his brows fly up in surprise as he peers at you with bright blue eyes nearly blown black. He’s trying, he’s trying so fucking hard to do this right, to take his time with you and earn you the way he’s supposed to. The last thing he wants to do is jump the gun and ruin his one chance he has with you, a chance he’s been shooting for since he was fourteen, and if he somehow fucks it up (and knowing him, it’s not unheard of) he’ll probably lose his mind.

“You— But I—“

You interrupt his babbling. “Whatever I want, right?”

Rafe sucks in a breath. “Yeah, fuck, anything.”

Your hands smooth up his chest to rest and you lightly graze your nails along his neck, your fingers moving to the nape and pinching the ends of his overgrown hair delicately. It feels nice to hold him like this, to see what gestures make him fold and see what he positively reacts to. And, so far, any place you’ve been touching him has been fair game. He’s given you the green light without his words, simply showing his affirmation through his actions.

“Okay,” you pointedly decide. “Mine then.”

When you snake your hands down to lace your fingers with his, Rafe doesn’t object. As you weave through the crowd with him in tow towards the exit, he makes no argument. When you slide into his lap in the taxi and cling to him as if your life depends on it, he invites the contact. And when you lead him up to your apartment and shut the door behind him, the feeling he’s had for you for years tenfolds.

And, for once, you’re not pushing him away.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes yup hey here’s another one shot literally nobody asked for. hope you enjoyed!

[sigynpenniman]

HELLOOOO it’s me oakley, local ggg fan. PLEASE tell me about the mcr tour and lore. i’m so curious

AHEM.

Well

Okay no for real where do I begin I haven’t actually considered how to start explaining this to someone who is completely new to it. I’m so used to throwing around phrases like ketchup and mustard hot dogs at state execution and it making sense to others immediately

okay so basically MCR are currently on tour, on a “play the well-loved album straight through front to back” variety of tour. The two things you need to know about the current state of my chemical romance are 1. They’re essentially permanently silent and often appear to be motionless and 2. They are never ever ever actually motionless and they are always fucking Up To Something, they just almost never tell us what it is until all of the sudden they scare the shit out of us on a random Sunday in November

so the last MCR tour in 2022 & 2023 had a running theme of Gerard dressing up in various outfits, ranging from obvious costumes (like Halloween bodysuits) to casual feminine looks like knitted dresses, but there was always A Fit, and it was generally a different Fit with a different reference every night. However in the very end of the tour, they played the same character at every show for a couple of weeks - we call it the Dead Secretary

^ this is the dead secretary. Nobody really knows exactly who they are meant to be, but given some of the phrasing written on the drums & Gerard’s fascination with 9/11 the character at the time seemed to be somehow 9/11 related

Gerard then waved at the crowd and walked silently offstage in Osaka Japan, without a word or explanation, and then MCR, as they do, then went completely silent for a year and a half, leaving us bewildered and scared in the dark

In November of last year, they finally reappeared with a new logo in a very obviously non-English font and a tagline. The next day we got the first of a series of trailers (do you see a familiar face in there? Perhaps a woman you may recognize from above?) explaining exactly what was happening: they were going on tour with The Black Parade, and there was at least some level of theatrical fascist critique at play.

They then left us more or less in the dark with very little by way of clarity for another 8 months. because this is MCR and they’re terrifying

We are actually officially mid-tour now, and this is what has turned out to be the lore:

The Black Parade are an in-universe band in the fictional nation of “DRAAG” (we don’t know what it stands for), a pseudo-Russian-Italian-German-amalgam fascist dictatorship. The Black Parade, in existing MCR lore, “died” in Mexico in 2007, in a planned move to kill off those alter egos and move to their next era. In our new lore, “somehow they came back” (quoth Mikey Way) and are now being ?forced? to perform by DRAAG’s “Grand Immortal Dictator.” The general flow of the show is thus: the band comes out, they do a couple songs, Gerard introduces them to the crowd as The Black Parade in an ever changing and very funny accent, a couple more songs, a guy in a suit (“The Clerk”) comes out and hands Gerard a piece of paper which they read on stage, but don’t read aloud (the paper is generally thrown into the audience, and fans pick it up later and post its contents - which thus far have been different every night). They do another song and then we have the “Elexecution.” A group of 4 bagged individuals are stood up on the b stage in the middle of the stadium, Gerard explains their crimes (generally “questioning the grand immortal dictator”) and the audience is asked to vote on their execution using red and black cards that are handed out when everyone enters the building. This is deliberately played every show as a literal magic trick, as Gerard as a rule deliberately phrases their instructions to the crowd so no one actually knows which side of their card saves the 4 people. However it doesn’t matter what the crowd chooses, as the 4 people always die - if Gerard attempts to save them, someone somehow will cause the execution to happen anyway, by threat or brainwashing. The limp stunt performers are hauled away and the show continues.

Not long after this the Clerk returns with another piece of paper which he tries to give Gerard, who generally refuses to accept it in some way. The clerk then slaps Gerard, hard, who crumples to the floor, sometimes leaving the paper behind, sometimes doing its bidding (once it was an ad read for ?fictional fiber supplements?). They then roll into Mama which is a song about hell and war and transgenderism, and to which they’ve added a new bridge about daggers and murder and treason, the implication being that there’s some plan to kill the dictator. Gerard takes their uniform jacket off here, and does this song in an undershirt. After another song the Clerk comes back and physically forces Gerard back into the uniform jacket, with some level of threat. They then play the last two songs of the album. As all of this is happening, assorted imagery is occurring on the LED volume onstage, culminating in the control and launch of some sort of missile or bomb (exactly who is bombing who remains somewhat unclear, probably deliberately). The last song is wrapped around to the first song again, and the Clerk comes back out on stage this time dressed as an opera clown. He and Gerard play off each other for a moment, before he stabs Gerard in the heart. Gerard dies convulsing on the floor and the rest of the band are black bagged and dragged away, and the clown slowly loses his mind, finally blowing up himself and the stage.

A lovely woman then comes out and plays a 10 minute cello solo and then the band comes back to the b stage in the middle of the stadium and goes Thanks Everybody We’re My Chemical Romance Wasn’t That Fun 💗. It’s THIS set where Inspekta turned up.

This is a thousand words and it is STILL AN EXTREMELY ABBREVIATED SUMMARY. The important thing to know is that the general plot appears to be this: the black parade have either been let out of political prison or literally resurrected, and are being forced to perform for the dictator’s regime against their will. They are trying, very very hard, to revolt, but generally they aren’t succeeding. However, very very crucially, the show is changing every night. Gerard retains their injuries from the previous show, and they seem to be getting smart about what’s happening (for example, Gerard blocked being slapped at the last show, and got poked in the eyes instead - they may turn up with black eyes this coming week). There’s also a lot of mentions of “reprogramming” and “reconditioning.” The implication so far seems to be that the band are being either brainwashed or straight up killed and resurrected between shows, with unclear levels of memory and awareness of the happenings of the previous loop.

^ our haunted doll 3 loops in, starting to deteriorate

again I am leaving so so much out. I haven’t even mentioned the hot dogs or the ventriloquist dummy Gerard treats like a child or the ENTIRE CIPHER LANGUAGE that all the merch and documentation is in (which we have all had to decode and learn to follow along) or Marianne (our GIRL) but that’s like. A short version. If you want more lore I have a super long post with every scrap of info I could find that I’m trying to keep updated as new lore drops. All the shows are on YouTube in full in decent quality and I. I really recommend it. The reason I say it feels relevant is that the general “anti-fascist and fuck politicians for real” themes of the show are Very Pointed and Very Intentional, and I find Inspekta being the god of leadership to be a very funny character to casually flail around with at the end of the politics and fuck fascism concert. Gerard hasn’t ever had a plush on stage before, this isn’t a known part of the MCR canon to us previously (maybe it will be now?) so the choice is interesting

the next show is Saturday night in Texas. The most interesting thing to see there is going to be whether Gerard has black eyes. So far they’ve only ever been slapped and have maintained their injuries from that - this is the first “new” injury, and whether they retain it will be important to determining how “permanent” the effects of each loop are. The hope and expectation from the fandom is that the band will break the loop eventually, and defeat the dictatorship for good. As of now, they have another show planned, at the end of a leg, in Mexico, where the black parade died last time - the question is, this time, are they going to live?

this was fun as hell to write thank you. im delighted by the developments. come hang out with us come watch the next show we livestream EVERYTHING there’ll be a post Friday/Saturday with all the accounts on all the platforms who are streaming. come see what happens next!!! And be the first to know if Inspekta appears again

[guppyfish77]

So about the Battle Subway Trains

Hi, I love trains! And the Trains in Unova have a surprising amount of detail? And nobody talks about it? And if I don't talk about it I will explode!?!!!

So despite Unova being inspired by New York you'd think the Battle Subway Trains would be based on The New York Subway Trains? However they look like they are more based on Japanese Railway Trains!

I'd like to preface before going into this that despite talking a lot about the Japanese Railway, I am not Japanese, while I did my best to research as best I can, some stuff may fly over my head, I also used an online translator for some information so it might not be 100% accurate.

Alrighty lets get into this! This is mainly for fun and its going to be under the Read More because it is verrrrrrrrry long, I hope that you enjoy!

If you aren't aware, each train in the Battle Subway has lore! All the lore comes from this Worker NPC on the bridge in Anville Town. Depending on the day, a different train will show up on the turntable, and he'll give you a little dialogue for that train! This dialogue is what I'll be mainly analyzing :]

Single and Anville Town Trains:

"This is a Single Train! It's the oldest train in the Battle Subway. It's for a loop line to go around the Unova region! Do you know Tubeline Bridge? The train that runs on it is this Single Train."

"As you know, this is a local train to Anville Town! Isn't it just so cute? This one is a little slow and heavy. When it runs, the whole train sways. The train car is the same model as a Single Train. Because it is an old train car, I hear the maintenance is hard, but it's the one I always ride, because I loved it as a kid!"

So! The Single and Anville Town Trains are the same model of train, you can actually see this in their designs where they both share the same face but they differ in the livery. (Livery is a term referring to the train's decor/color, the color is often associated with a particular company or in this case a particular train line.) I'm going to use this fact to assume that if one train has one feature, then it's likely that the other train also has that same feature. Such as how the description of the Anville Town Train says it sways as it runs, if that is the case then the Single Train also probably sways. (which sounds kind of awful to battle on, unless you have good train legs I suppose X_X)

It is stated that the Single Train is the oldest in the Battle Subway. I believe though, that it means the oldest train that is currently running in the Battle Subway. As there is another train that seems much older and no longer running, but I'll get to that train much much later.

Older trains are indeed harder to maintain, and expensive too. This is because the older the equipment, the harder it is to get its parts as they become more obsolete. Though I will say this, trains can last a long time! The average service life of a train is about 30-50 years, it really varies from train to train. These trains would most likely be on the older side.

There is a slight possibility that it has been continued to be maintained past it service life. Given how fond the Worker NPC talks about the train, it might have high sentimental value. Therefore if it is past its service life, it has not been scrapped or recycled yet because of it. I doubt this is the case though, usually it is never worth the maintenance cost (especially for regular operation.)

Like the description says, you can see the Single Train running on the Tubeline Bridge, here's a video of it! Apologies for the way I am recording this, I don't exactly have a capture card, but I wanted to show you guys regardless

You can see how fast the train is going as it passes below you! At least the just Singles Train anyways, seems to me like it's going about 20-30mph? I tried doing math to find the exact speed but that's difficult for several reasons (no idea how large a "tile" in Pokemon really is and objects in the overworld are not very accurate in size so I can't exactly do any comparisons. The perspective of the camera also makes it tricky.) Given how the Anville Train is described as "slow and heavy", I would hazard a guess to say that the other trains of the Battle Subway may run faster than this.

You can also see that each train is made up of 7 cars as it passes below you if you slow down the footage. Which is not surprising, you have to win 7 battles in a row to complete a "set" where you are then dropped off at a rest stop. I believe the Battle Subway trains to be electrical multiple units (EMUs) so it would probably make them 7-car sets.

It also looks like the Singles Line is very busy with the trains only being seconds apart! Now I know this is more a visual thing so the environment would be interesting to look at, but I'd like to think it indicates that the Battle Subway/Singles Line is very popular! (and very well organized!)

As for Real life train inspirations I think perhaps the Tobu 10030 series?

The Tobu 10030 is a version of the Tobu 10000 series with some minor changes, such as the design of the face and using a bolsterless bogie. (Bogie is a part of the train that refers to a frame that holds sets of wheels as well as the suspension, breaks, etc. in which the body of the train car rests upon.)(A bolster is a part that connects the side frames of the bogie and the underside of the car's central pivot point.)(A bolsterless bogie is a bogie type that doesn't have a bolster). The front of the train is covered in fiber reinforced plastic and the outer panels are "bead molded" (which... I have no clue what that means...) This series has been going under renovations since 2010.

Double Train:

"This car is a Double Train! This is a mass-produced car from a decade ago! Compared to a Single Train, the number of parts was reduced so it could be built for a lower cost. The number of parts influences the budget and construction time. The streamlined and beautiful design of the Double Train is still valued today."

So the Double Train is at least 10 years old! (That's what decade means!) Honestly though, I think the Double Train might be older than 10, in Japanese the description just says that it is a "mass-produced train from a long time ago" and doesn't mention a number... Another reason is that in the Multi Train description, it mentions that it is a test model for future trains that will replace the Double Trains. Which means perhaps that the Double Trains may be reaching near the end of its service life, which again average 30-50 years. It could be a possibility that this train may have a shorter service life than usual, who knows. This all speculation really.

As for lowering the amount of parts, from what I found it makes the train lighter. It would also probably lower the cost as well like the description says (trains are really really expensive to build! EMUs can cost $2mil-$10mil per car!)

It also mentions that it is a mass-produced car! It's a train made with mass production for commercial purposes! I believe it's usually for train lines that are really busy, where they would need a lot of trains? It typically means that there are a lot of them. (All this makes me wonder about train production in the Pokemon World...)

As for Real life inspirations, I think that the Double Train is inspired by the Tokyu 1000 series train.

The Tokyu 1000's design and equipment is similar to another train, the Tokyu 9000 series, with improvements such as improved handling and making it easier to do inspection and repair work. As well as reducing the amount of spare parts from the Tokyu 9000.

Multi Train:

"This car is a Multi Train! Few cars of this model were produced. This is a test car to develop future mass-produced cars that will replace the old Double Trains. The technology born during the creation of this train car made the Super Single Train and Super Double Train possible!"

The multi train is a test/prototype train! A little surprised that an entire line is running off a few prototypes. Like the description says, not many are produced as the purpose of a prototype is to test features and improve upon them if needed before they are put into mass production. Given that it says the technology from this train was the reason the Super Single and Super Double Train was made possible. I'm thinking it was most likely testing some eco friendly features? As it is the Super Single and Super Double Train's main feature.

Perhaps them using a model with so few trains means that the Multi line isn't that busy/popular? (Surprising then the train platform is not swarming with more train photographers haha!)

As for real life inspirations, while the livery may not be the same I think it could be the Keisei 3000 (2nd Generation.)

The Keisei 3000's body is made of lightweight stainless steel and the passenger doors have a paper honeycomb structure. When they were designing this train, they wanted it to be both environmentally (energy saving) and customer friendly (being accessible to elderly and those with disabilities.)

Super Single and Super Double Trains:

"This Super Single Train is a new mass-produced car! It's an environmentally friendly train, because they revised all the parts to drastically reduce power consumption! Newer trains have to be built in a way that's both functional and environmentally friendly. Compared to the past, they've improved significantly."

"This Super Double Train is a new mass-produced car! Such a streamlined and refined design! Beauty and utility working together! That kind of beautility is unique to mass-produced train cars! It uses the same train car as a Super Single Train. The only difference is the appearance. It is a superb train car that will go down in the history of the Battle Subway!"

The Super Single and Super Double Trains are the same model. Honestly the description of these trains doesn't give me a lot of information besides the fact that these trains are eco friendly. So I'll talk about what trains do to make themselves (even more) eco friendly!

They are stated to be eco friendly by reducing power consumption. I think it could be referring to a "VVVF inverter control" (it stands for variable voltage variable frequency. In English its mainly called the VFD or variable frequency drive.) A VVVF is a type of system for an AC motor that can reduce energy consumption! (There are two types of electrical current, DC or Direct Current and AC or Alternate Current. An AC motor is a motor that is driven by AC electricity.) It is important on energy saving trains! I won't get too much into how it works, but essentially it controls the AC motor's rotational speed by controlling the frequency. By controlling these, it can control the speed and acceleration of a train. You'll find that a VVVF is often paired with a three phase motor (I will not go into that...) Let's just say that these systems are very efficient at using power and help save energy.

Really, reducing power consumption usually means being more efficient at using power. Like using LEDs, using better insulation to retain cooling or heating, and generally using parts that use less electricity. It could be that the train is lighter in weight too (lighter vehicles use less power.)

Both of these Super Trains are mass produced! Which tells me that there are a lot of Super Single and Super Double trains! Its lines are probably busy.

As for real life inspirations, it is very much inspired by the E233-2000 series train

The E233-2000 is a little bit of an oddball in the E233 family exterior design wise. Its design was inspired by the Tokyu 5000 series. Its basic running equipment is the same as the E233 trains before it though.

I think it is a bit of a stretch, but I'll mention it anyways. The E233 (which the E233-2000 is a subsection of) is a train that has won the Laurel Award in 2007. The Laurel Award is an award given to trains by the Japan Railway Friends Association for trains with an excellence in technology and design (specifically geared towards commuter trains.) It could be what all the "beautility" comments could be referencing to? They do look verrry different though, and the E233-2000 came after the award was given...

Super Multi Train:

"This train car is a Super Multi Train! This is the latest train car! Improved acceleration and deceleration! Automated train-car controls! It's full of cutting-edge technologies. Also, a regeneration brake system, a car-body tilting system, a whatchamacallit system, a thingamabob system... I don't remember all the details, but it's just a big festival of all the latest technology!"

Ohhoho! The Super Multi Train description is a goldmine of details! This train is the whole reason I wanted to make this post! Let's run through its features!

Improved acceleration and deceleration means that it can run between stops faster, allowing for quicker operation time.

Automated train-car controls or ATC is a safety system on trains that prevents trains from going over a certain speed! If the train goes over the maximum speed permitted then the ATC will pull the brakes automatically to reduce the speed and release the brakes when it is below maximum speed. It also displays the maximum speed to the driver. It is an incredibly important safety system!! From what I understand, the term ATC is very common in Japan, in other countries the ATC would simply be a part of cab signaling (it is a safety system mainly for the driver and train crew, it tells them track status and condition information) and train protection technologies. ATC is installed on all Shinkansen trains, it is also installed in some subways and heavily used railways.

Here's an example of what it looks like! The green triangle there is the (current) maximum speed. There are a lot of different types of ATC systems and this ones a D-ATC (stands for Digital Automatic Train Control) from within an E233! There are a whole lot of different types of ATC, and they can come in many looks! I would show more examples, however, I have hit the image limit on this post... :[

A regenerative brake system is a special type of breaking that allows a train to generate electricity via breaking! The electricity can either be used immediately, stored, or returned back into the line. You might've heard this feature on electric or hybrid cars. It is a common eco friendly feature!

A car-body tilting system is a feature in trains that allows the body of the train car to tilt into a curve! It allows the train to go faster on a track (not needing to slow down on a curve) but the feature is mainly for passenger comfort! When you ride, you don't feel the centrifugal force at all when going around a curve! And it makes the ride so smooth! Here's a short video demonstrating what it looks like:

There are essentially two major ways to do a car body tilting system. There is active tilting (forced body tilting) or passive tilting (pendulum system). A forced body tilting system uses computers to tilt the train using track data or sensors, telling the train when and how much to tilt. If the calculation is not done correctly, it can leave passengers with motion sickness (An infamous example is the Advanced Passenger Train in the UK). The tilting itself I believe is done via hydraulics. Forced Body Tilting is more popular in European and American trains.

As for passive tilting, the train in the video uses it! (A controlled pendulum train!) It means it uses natural forces to tilt the train car. I'll dive deeper into this type of tilting in the Wi-Fi train section because it actually mentions it's a pendulum train! As to which tilting type the Super Multi train has... it could honestly be either.

(Ah! I forgot to mention this, but tilting trains are especially useful in mountainous regions, where there are a lot of curves.)

In the Japanese version of the Super Multi description, it also mentions that it has a "earthquake warning system" and a "tornado monitoring system".

An earthquake warning system is not something fully installed into the train, rather it's mainly a set of sensors installed along the track, coast, and major inland areas. For passenger rail, if any signs of an earthquake are detected, it will alert any trains in the affected area and drivers are required to apply their emergency brakes. For shinkansen trains it will cut off power to the affected area which will automatically activate the emergency brakes.

Well, I found something close to a tornado warning system. There is a "gust warning system" where sensors measure wind speed and to predict where strong gusts of wind would go. Again, it's not a system that is installed within the train. From what I could tell, they would restrict travel speed during strong winds. If wind speeds are too high, then they would shut down the lines. (I suppose would be very useful, especially when there's some legendaries that cause powerful storms roaming around.)

In the Japanese version of the text, it also states that the Super Multi Train is also a test train. Which again means there's also not a lot of this train. It also states that some of it's features are unnecessary due to it being a test train lol

In the description all these features are stated as "cutting edge" and "a festival of all the latest technology" when these features are not all that new? And Regenerative breaking seems to be pretty common? (Every irl train I have shown thus far all have it.) Eh, I don't think it's that big of a deal. They are just fictional trains after all.

I originally thought the train looked like an Eizan Railway Deo 800 series, but thanks to the leaks, it looks like that the JR East 205-500 was used as a base to design the Super Multi Train? With probably heavy modification to the final design. (While I don't condone the method that these leaks were obtained, curiosity did get the better of me. This is the only train that I ID-ed this way.)

This Train was exclusive to the Sagami Line, though it ended operation in 2022 and every one of these trains have been scrapped. The blue color I believe is an homage to the Sagami River that runs along the line. The Train used a semi automatic door system for its passenger doors. Which means that rather than the conductor opening and closing the doors, the passengers would press a button to open the door when the train has stopped.

Wi-Fi Train:

"This train car is a Wi-Fi Train! It is the fastest long-distance high-speed train in the Battle Subway! This is called a pendulum car. Its body tilts while going around curves, so it can run without slowing down! Faster! Farther! Our engineers' spirits are infused in it!"

A pendulum car is a very specific term!!! Like I mentioned in the Super Mutli Train section it is a type of car body tilting. There are multiple types of Pendulum systems, There is Natural Pendulum, Controlled Pendulum, Air Spring (also called Simple Pendulum), and Hybrid.

Natural Pendulum is just using the centrifugal force of when it goes around a curve to tilt the train. This type was known to cause motion sickness in riders because when it straightened out, the car would "lag" or wobble. Sometimes the force was not enough to tilt the train and this would also cause passenger discomfort. These issues were fixed later with a controlled pendulum, where there would be a degree of control to the tilting. Using mechanisms similar to forced body tilting, it would prevent wobble and ease the tilt. The air spring method, as suggests in the name, uses air springs to help with tilting. It is similar to the controlled pendulum, though it tilts less than it (controlled pendulum can tilt 6 degrees and air springs can only tilt 2 degrees). Air springs are cheaper to build though and still are able to make the train go faster. Hybrid is the combination of controlled pendulum and air springs, allowing for an 8 degree tilt.

I hope the Wi-Fi train is not a natural pendulum? You're telling me you have to battle on that and you might get motion sickness?? Though it sounds like it might be more high tech so it is most likely the other types... Hopefully...

It also states that this train is the "fastest long-distance high-speed train in the Battle Subway!" Looking at Japan's tilting trains (that are not shinkansen), they go about 120kmh-130kmh (about 75 mph-81 mph.) So it could be a possibility that the Wi-Fi goes something along those speeds.

I've looked through Japan's tilting trains, and the closest one might be the JR Hokkaido Kiha 201 series? It's not at all close though... I can't really find a good match tbh. I think the 113 series seems to be a bit more closer visually.

The one on the left is a Kansai livery and the right is a JR Shikoku livery. They are both the same train, JR Shikoku bought the 113 series from JR East to replace some aging trains and then modified it. Which is why they look a bit different. The modifications include strengthening the front of the train and adding shock absorbing material inside.

So Those are all the trains that run in the Battle Subway! However there are 2 trains that don't, instead they only show up in Anville Town on certain days. I'll be calling them "Old Train Car" and "Futuristic Train Car"

"Old Train Car"

"This train car is the kind that ran a long time ago. Compared to contemporary train cars, it has more parts, so I heard it was difficult to build. The old train cars built with lots of small parts have their own unique beauty and attract a lot of fans. Those cars no longer run in the Battle Subway, but I hear they're still used in a faraway region. Ah... I'd love to be on that train!"

So this sort of car used to run on the Battle Subway. It's said to be still running in another region, though with how old the train looks I can only think that maybe it would be running by railway preservationists.

The design of this train reminds me a lot of old Japanese electric trains and trams. Especially trams with that double roof. I don't think it's really based on any particular vehicle? Here's a couple that I found;

The only one I feel like is worth mentioning is the Jomo Electric Railway Deha 101 (this specific car is the Deha 101, others of its kind are called Deha 100 type) and the Nagasaki Electric Railway 160 type. Both of these vehicles I believe are still running to some capacity.

The Jomo Deha 101 has been running for over 90 years. While car 101 still resides at Jomo Railway, other Deha 100s have been transferred to other private companies where they have been scrapped. I believe the only existing Deha 100s today are Car 101 and Car 104 (which has been painted bright yellow.)

The Nagasaki Electric Railway 160 type used to belong to the Kyushu Electric Tramway where it was called the Type 1 Electric Tram. When it was transferred to the Nagasaki Electric Railway it was renamed into the 160 type. Today, there is a single car in operation. I believe it is the oldest wooden car in Japan that is still in service.

I suppose I will also mention the Keifuku Electric Railway Mobo 21 Type Train, it does look the most similar. Though, it's purposefully designed to look like an old style tram.

"Futuristic Train Car"

"This train car is a new train to run in the future! Wooo! Cool! Super cool! The latest motor breathes fire! Uh-oh, if it really breathed fire, that would be bad! But it is full of the latest technologies! It's undergoing a lot of testing. It's called a gauge-convertible train. It's a sweet car that can adjust its wheels to run on any rail!"

So first off, I'd like to say that this train visually kind of looks like a "Sonic" 883 series (nothing to do with the blue hedgehog, it was just a coincidence lol)

However the description!!!! A "gauge convertible train" that is undergoing a lot of testing... That description matches exactly with the GCT! (literally standing for Gauge Change/Convertible Train, though in Japanese it's called FGT or Free Gauge Train!)

The GTC is the project name for this experimental shinkansen. The one in the picture is the GTC-01, the second generation of its kind (as this is the version they would be testing before and during the development of the game, there is now a 3rd generation.) So, the term gauge refers to the distance between the two rails. Different trains run on different gauges, they can come in either narrow gauge, standard gauge, or wide gauge. Japan's rail network is mostly narrow gauge (specifically Cape Gauge.) The main exception are the shinkansen trains, which run on standard gauge. This shinkansen like the description says would be able to run on any gauge. It used to be under a lot of testing by the Free Gauge Train Technology Research Association. Today though, the GTC-01 second generation sits on display in the Shikoku Railway Heritage Museum.

There are a lot of challenges that the GTC faces. It takes a bit of time for the wheels to adjust to the gauge and you need to go slower when it's doing so. It has increased maintenance costs. The heavier specialized bogie creates more wear on the rails as well as making the train harder to detect. (Ok! Basic explanation for Railway Signaling! Tracks are split up into sections called "blocks", and a small electrical current is run between the two tracks that makes up the block. When a train runs through, the wheel and axle of the train disrupts the current, which then the system detects that block as being occupied by a train. If it is occupied, the signal lights at the end of the block will be turned red, preventing other trains from entering the same block, thus preventing collisions. The problem arises in the GTC in that the wheel and the axle are separate, thus something about this is making it hard to detect on the rail.)

With this train being a "gauge change train" it really made me wonder what gauge the Battle Subway trains runs at? I thought maybe standard gauge or maybe even wide gauge because you can only make the train so wide depending on the gauge. And you'd probably want it wider so that there is more room, especially if you are fitting a battle arena in it! However in Japanese the description mentions that "The rails are a little wider on the tracks that run at higher speeds." Which is... exactly how Japanese rail works? So the Battle Subway lines are probably narrow gauge?

Another thing that's interesting about the "Futuristic Train" is the date that it actually shows up. In Anville Town the way that each train shows up is dependent on the last digit of the day of the month, like so:

0- (10th, 20th, and 30th) "Old Train Car"

1- (1st, 11th, 21st, and 31st) Single Train Car

2- (2nd, 12th, and 22nd) Double Train Car

3- (3rd, 13th, and 23rd) Multi Train Car

yada yada you get the point (4- Super Double Train, 5- Super Single Train, 6- Super Multi Train, 7- Anville Town Train, 8- Nothing, 9- Wi-Fi Train)

The only exception is the "Futuristic Train" who will show up ONLY on February 1st, June 12th, October 1st, October 14th, and December 30th, pretty random huh? haha of course not! These dates are dates significant to the History of Japanese Railway/Transportation!

February 1st: The opening of Japan's first electric street car in 1895!

June 12th: The temporary operation of Japan's first passenger railway in 1872!

October 1st: The release of Japan's first Shinkansen, the series 0 in 1964!

October 14th: The official opening of Japan's first passenger railway in 1872, with the first two stations between Shimbashi and Yokohama! This day is also Railway Day in Japan, celebrating this event, Tokyo holds a Railway Festival and train companies like to do events on this day as well! 

December 30th: The opening of Japan's first subway line in 1927, The Ginza Line!

Rails, Station Platform, and More Train:

So the Station, there are a few details I can pick up on here!

The type of track that the trains run on (at least in the station) are ballastless tracks! It means the rail is tied directly onto a slab of concrete rather than having ballast hold it up (ballast is that rocky gravel that you often see beneath the tracks.) This type of track is quite expensive to build and makes the place a lot nosier, but it has a lot of advantages! For one, because there is no ballast to maintain, it has lower maintenance cost (ballast must be packed every now and again using a ballast tamping machine. Which lifts the track and jostles the ballast beneath it. Ballast also needs to be replaced after a while because the rocks have to be irregularly shaped for it to work, and natural weathering can make them smooth out.) It is also easier to clean and has a longer lifespan. Because the rail is tied to slabs of concrete the rails are less prone to deformation, which is good! Though it is also that same inflexibility means that it is difficult to change anything about it and takes longer to repair.

Their buffer! (that little black thing at the end of the line, I think it is a buffer?) It doesn't look like that effective of a buffer... The purpose of a buffer is to stop a train if brakes fail. Though this thing seems to be more for the driver telling them where the end is, hence all the, what I presume are, lights. Let's hope they have some sort of other safety system in place.

There doesn't seem to be a third rail. I have a feeling that might be because most Japanese railway trains are powered via overhead wire (literally every irl train I have shown is powered this way.) Maybe the Battle Subway trains might be powered via overhead wire? I might be over analyzing here, they might not have thought of modeling such a small detail haha

The train itself has some sort of device on top (that box thing.) I believe it to be some sort of air conditioning unit. Given how each train car has one large unit on top of it, I believe that it uses a centralized cooling system, which means there is one large air conditioning unit. (There are 2 other types, they are distributed cooling which consists of 6-8 small units and centralized distributed which consists of a couple of medium sized units.) Central cooling systems are easier to install and maintain because there is only one unit to worry about.

Signboards:

The Buildings in between routes have a electronic news bulletin board, and depending on which city is connected to it, the news bulletin will give a little flavor text about the city. There's some flavor text about the Battle Subway when it's about Nimbasa City, and it different depending on whether you are playing the first one or the second one, here they are:

BW

"Run and battle! Trains never stop!” Battle Subway in Nimbasa City"

"They say someone who loved battles also happened to be a railway maniac, and thats why we now have the battle subway"

So, this might be a coincidence, but there is an old name that Japanese Train Fans used to call themselves. The name was "Railway Mania" (鉄道マニア direct translation). It was used up until the 1950s. Today it's seen as a derogatory term but it was used very commonly back in its heyday (even more popular than "railfan" apparently.) I think it is kind of interesting that the term "Railway Maniac" was chosen for this flavor text and I wonder if it has anything to do with this old name. However, I say it might just be a coincidence because the term "Maniac" is not unheard of word in Pokemon (Item Maniac, Poke Maniac, Hex Maniac, etc.) But regardless, there's that little fun fact for you!

B2W2

“Get on a train and fight!” Battle Subway in Nimbasa City"

"The energy generated by heated Pokémon battles is the fuel that keeps the Battle Subway running"

I'm going to get a little headcanon-y here. We can interpret this figuratively, as in if there are no battles then its not really a Battle Subway is it? But I think it would be fun to interpret it literally! What if Pokemon Moves could get absorbed somehow to power the Train? And if the Train doesn't need it it could go into the line to power something else in the Subway! I think that would be cool :]

Extra Stuff:

●I think the Battle Subway Map could also be inspired by JR East's rail map, the main reason is the single lines (dark green) which goes in a loop around the Unova Region...

Reminds me of the Yamanote Line (light green) which also goes in a loop connecting a variety of major stations together in Tokyo and is a very very important line!

●While I do believe Gear Station is inspired by New York's Grand Central Station, I do think there's a lot of design elements taken from Tokyo Station as well

●The gray bodies of the Anville, Single, Doubles, and Multi cars are probably meant to represent an exposed steel/aluminum body rather than the ones painted white like the Super Trains.

●In the Anime, the trains are said to have an ATO system, this is also a real system, it stands for Automatic Train Operation. It's a system that allows a computer to control when the train stops and goes with no driver involved! I don't think that the trains in the games run on an ATO system though, as there are Depot Agents who talk about train driving (Depot Agent Cameron who says "I’m good at driving, but I’m not good at dealing with Pokemon." at the start of battle, and a way more obscure Depot Agent whom you can talk to on the platform after 14 wins on a Super Train who says "I’d rather have an exciting battle than slowly drive the train.")

●In the Anime, there's a stamp rally, which is a real thing! There are station stamps in Japan which tourists can collect. Though, occasionally Pokemon will collaborate with JR East to create a Pokemon Stamp Rally! The most recent is this Pokemon Horizons Stamp Rally promoting the show! Here's a map of what stamps you can collect at each station and the prizes you can get!

●In the Nacrane city library there is a book that mentions that Nacrane used to have steam locomotives running through it!

"This book is about the things you can ride in the Unova region, such as Castelia City’s cruise ship and Mistralton City’s planes. Before there were planes, locomotives carried people all over Unova. The railway in Nacrene City is a legacy of those lines." (B2W2)

What kinds of Steam Locomotives? I suppose we will never know, as we never see one in game.

●There's an Roughneck NPC you can talk to at Tubeline Bridge in B2W2 where he says

"Watch it! People use “railway fan” as a catchall term, but there are many types of railway fans! There are riding fans, detraining fans, station fans, train-car fans, schedule-table fans, picture-taking fans, recording fans, and more! Don’t go thinking they’re all the same!" (B2W2)

So in Japanese, Railway is Tesudo (鉄道, testu 鉄- Iron and do 道-Road) and a Railway Fan is Tesudofan, however fans will abbreviate to just Testu and stick what aspect of trains they enjoy with it, so like 乗り鉄 (Nori 乗り-Ride, 鉄-tetsu) as a Train Riding Fan, or 撮り鉄 (Tori 撮り-Taking a Picture, 鉄-tetsu) as a Railway Photography fan. There are a lot of these and the NPC does go over some! There's also Railway Modeling Fans (Fans who collect model trains and/or construct model railways), Collecting Fans (Fans who collect railway related items such as tickets or stamps), Operation Fans (Fans who like researching railway operation and equipment), Regulation Fans (Fans who like researching railway handbooks and laws and regulations that go into a railway), Simulation Fans (Fans who like playing train driving/railway management games), Artists/Writers, Urban Explorers, and Railway Preservationist (I gave up on the last ones lol). There are lots of ways to enjoy trains!

There's also the super specific terms of "Mama Tetsu" where a mother becomes a railway fan because of their children's interest or "Oyako Tetsu" where a child becomes interested in trains because of their parents.

●The badge on Ingo and Emmet's hats probably represents the logo for the railway company that they work for, while researching about Japanese Railway Companies, I noticed that they have a lot of circular logos, here's a handful:

From what I could gather, these types of black and white circular logos are called a mon, kind of like a crest? If you wish to scroll about the logos, here is the link for the Wikimedia commons list.

The company's logo is also what's usually depicted on irl conductor's hats anyways, in the exact same place too.

(I was looking for a screenshot to showcase the hat to put here, but instead I found this promotional video! It's actually pretty good at going over the basics of what a driver and conductor actually do! Please feel free to check it out)

●The name "Depot Agent" is a little bit of a strange name, in Japanese the name is simply "Railway Worker", a depot is often referred to a train yard, however depot can also refer to a station, given where we see this trainer class working (at Gear Station), it is most likely that the depot in this case is referring to station, so they are station workers!

Final:

After all this I have come to the conclusion that somebody at Gamefreak really liked trains! And I really think all the little details are so awesome! and it really cements the Battle Subway as my favorite battle facility!

Anyways I hope you learned a thing or two and I hope you gained a new appreciation for trains and the Battle Subway! Thanks for Reading! ✌

(If I got anything wrong, please feel free to correct me, there was a lot of information I had to sift through and I am NOT an engineer * _ * and if you have something to add please do! I would love to learn more! ^ ^

[reavesluv]

too straight for you?

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x superfem! reader.

Summary: Paige has been trying for a really long time to figure out if you swing even a little bit ‘her way’.

Just fluff, mentions of nakedness.

notes: hiii girlies, this is my first time writing on here, i used to write fanfics on wattpad but i realized my thing is one shots and not reaaally long series fr.

i love this idea of super straight looking girls dating super masc girls sooo…anyway, this was so much fun to write, i love my girl!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You can’t even tell how many times you’ve seen that blondie look at you, ever since the start of your sophomore year.

You were transferred from Tennessee to Uconn, because your parents got really good job offers in Connecticut, so you really did not have a choice, at all.

Everything started so casual, you two shared one of your favorite classes, Anatomy.

You really loved that class, and you always tried your best to pay attention, but it was impossible, because less than a few rows behind, you could sense how a specific girl could not stop looking at you, it was just so annoying.

she was blonde and tall, always had her hair in a ponytail or a messy bun, and by the way she dressed you definitely could tell she was not girly at all, always in hoodies, lose pants, crocs or nike dunks, and that men’s cologne that could drive any girl crazy. she didn’t wear any makeup either, and the only thing you could think was: “so she just wakes up with that gorgeous face card?”

You on the other side, were completely the opposite. A lot less shorter than her, not even close. Your hair always done, always with a different hairstyle because you loved to try them, your makeup always flawless and it looked gorgeous on you, even if it was a 7am class. It was impossible for you to use those lose pants, you could not. So you normally showed up to classes with a pretty skirt, or a flared legging, you actually had them in every color possible just for school. You only had one type of sneakers and they were sambas, in every color of course, that was the only type of sneakers that were girly enough for you to wear, and if not, you were always wearing those big and comfy uggs or those pretty kitten heels you loved. You were addicted to buy new fragrances for you to try, but never men-like, you could only wear Bath and Body smells, Carolina Herrera or Ariana Grande.

You had a collection of Stanley’s in your dorm, and you would always carry one, everywhere.

And also, you were a ballerina, a really athletic one, but you would never risk getting a nail broken to catch a ball, or getting your knees dirty on a soccer game, you would rather watch the Victoria Secret’s fashion show all over again a million times before watching a soccer or baseball game.

but you knew she was a basketball player, and without her knowing, you showed up a couple of times to her games, just to see if she was as good as everyone said, which she really was, not surprising at all.

Your nails were always done, even your toenails. there was no way you could go more than two weeks with the same set, and there was no way someone would catch you with split ends in your hair.

Funny thing was, that even if she was so different to you, so manly like —that drived you crazy, because that was exactly the type of girls you would kill to see them naked, and every time you caught her looking at you, that was the only thing you could think of.

You could tell that blondie was not straight, and you knew that she could not tell the same thing about you, but no way you would make the first move.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had no classes that day, and you asked if the school gym was available to do some stretching and go all over your choreography again.

It was available, that day wasn’t supposed for anyone to use it.

you were stretching on the floor, specifically on the court, when four girls with basketball balls came in, you could tell who they were.

Kk, Sarah, Kaitlyn and the last one to enter, but the most important to you, Paige.

the four of them stopped talking and stood looking at you.

“Oh, we didn’t know the gym was being used, we’re so sorry.” Sarah said.

“Oh no! security told me no one was supposed to use the gym today, i’m the one who’s sorry.”

“it’s okay, i guess we all can use it? what if you stay on this side of the court and we practice on the other one?” Kk added.

“Sure, if that doesn’t bother you girls”

“it’s alright, you stay there, no problem” Kaitlyn ended.

Fuck — the only one you wanted to talk to was Paige, and she was the only one who didn’t say anything to you.

You brushed that thought away and put your airpod’s on again.

“That’s the girl i’ve been telling you about!” - Paige told her friends.

“Oh that’s her? well you’re right, she’s gorgeous” - Kk said.

“Careful there, she’s mine” - she answered

“Girl boo” - They all laughed.

“This is your chance, why don’t you go talk to her?” Sarah told Paige.

“I don’t know, look at her, she’s so…girly, i don’t think she even likes women”

“You will never know if you don’t try, Paige”.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After a while, you finished your choreography, and as if you were in class, you felt the eyes of Paige on you the whole time.

You had thrown back the ball to the girl a few times, when the ball hit you on some part of your body after she shot a shot or dribbled badly the ball. When that happened, she only smiled softly at you, that smiles that would make your stomach ache and to forget your thoughts.

The girls behind her laughed at her every time. It was so obvious by now.

You took your things and left to the locker room so you could shower.

“Oh Paige, i got something for you!” Kk told Paige.

“If it’s not the girl i don’t want it.”

“Ugh you’re head over heels, is disgusting. And no, it’s not her, but it’s something of hers.”

Paige turned to look at Kk, she was holding your precious Stanley.

the same one you forgot on the court on purpose, cause you were not talking to her first, but you had to help her a bit.

“NO — WAY” Paige said

“Oh yes way girl, is the universe telling you to go talk to her!”

“Give me that— “ she took the Stanley off of Kk’s hands. “I’m using this as an excuse to talk to her”

“You go!” the other ones said.

You were still on the locker room, putting on some light makeup so you can go buy dinner, when you saw her— the girl of your dreams, entering the locker room.

“Hey…” She said, you could tell she was nervous.

“Hi you”

“i think this is yours..” Paige said, handing you your Stanley.

“Oh shit— i must have forgotten it, thank you so much” you smiled at her.

She smiled back, again that smile that would make your world upside down.

“So…” she said softly, almost a whisper.

“I’m Y/N, i’m sorry i didn’t introduce myself before.”

she smiled again, her eyes lighted up at what you said.

“I’m Paige.”

“Oh, i know.”

when you said that, you saw how the cheeks of the blondie turned red, she couldn’t even hide it.

“You’re flustered because i know your name?” you chuckled softly

“Stop, you know what you’re doing” - she answered

you smiled, you couldn’t stop doing it, and got closer to her, you had to look up to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, i know what i’m doing”

she stood there, just admiring you, as she has been doing all this time, but now, a lot more closer than before.

“I—I..Can i—?…” she tried to speak.

“Yes, you can have my number.”

she looked at you and opened her eyes in surprise, there was no way you could read her so well as you did.

“Thank you…” she said.

she handed you her phone and you added your number.

“Took you long enough.” You said grabbing your makeup and putting it in your makeup bag again.

“I know..you just looked…”

“Too straight for you? Yeah, i know.”

she stood there, smiling like an idiot at you.

“But lucky for you, i’m not.” you said, also smiling.

“So that means, i’ve been thinking myself to sleep if you liked girls or not for anything?”

“You did that cause you wanted, you should’ve just talked to me”

“Oh shut up!” she said, flustered again.

You stood on your tiptoes and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

you chuckled softly, “I guess now i’m gonna have to buy a jersey with your last name.”

And after that, you left. Giving yourself a high five for throwing the girl of your dreams at you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

this was pretty fun

with love, m 🪽

[thatonegrimm]

Feel totally free to ignore this if you're uncomfortable with it, but do you think you could do the Saja Boys with a more dominant leaning reader? Do you think they'd be into it? Not like it? Be amused by it? This could be preferably a little bit spicier or non-spicy if that's more comfortable for you, or a mix of both.

For non-sexual it could be a reader who kinda likes being in control of the situation like paying for things, making sure they're eating/drinking/sleeping enough, making the decisions. Maybe the other boys make a joke about the reader 'wearing the pants' in the relationship lol.

The way you write Jinu (which i love) does seem to lean a little bit more into the submissive side which gave me the original idea.

Thank you for the request! ❤️Ok anon, I just couldn't get the non-sexual version out of my head to even attempt a spicy version of this, you convinced me to well I'm gonna do a second part. Here you go!💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Dominant-Leaning Reader

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

🧿 Jinu 

It was small things at first.

You were the one who double-checked the hotel confirmations, who noticed when he forgot to eat between interviews. You didn’t scold—just quietly handed him a protein bar mid-ride, unscrewed his water bottle, passed it to him.

And he always blinked at you like you’d done something huge.

That night at dinner, the waiter brought the bill. Jinu reached for it out of instinct.

You gently placed your hand over his. “Let me.”

His eyes widened. “Oh. You sure?”

You nodded, already slipping your card inside.

“…You’re kinda scary sometimes,” he muttered with a bashful smile.

“Scary how?”

“Like… in control.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I like it.”

The others teased him later—something about “being the sub in a power couple.” Jinu turned bright red, but didn’t deny it.

And when you offered your hand later to guide him through a crowd?

He took it without question.

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

💪 Abby 

Abby wasn’t used to people fussing over him.

So when you ordered for both of you at the restaurant—knowing exactly what he liked—he sat back, wide-eyed, and beamed like a puppy that just got adopted.

When you told him to drink more water after rehearsals?

He gulped it down in one go and looked proud.

“Good boy,” you teased once, wiping sweat off his forehead.

He short-circuited.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered.

“I’m organized.”

“Same thing.”

And when he got pouty about a sore muscle and you wordlessly sat behind him to rub his shoulders—firm, confident, skilled—he damn near melted into your lap.

The others caught him just lying there, eyes closed, arms boneless.

“She owns you,” Mystery said flatly.

Abby just hummed. “And I love that for me.”

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

📚 Mystery

You told him to wear a jacket before going out. He scoffed.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll get cold.”

“I don’t get cold.”

Five minutes later, he accepted your jacket silently.

He never said thank you. Just wore it. All night.

You made sure he had a snack packed for every stakeout. That he didn’t skip his tea. That he took his charger. At first, he rolled his eyes at your constant prepping.

But when the power went out during a mission and you handed him a flashlight and backup phone, he stared at you like you were psychic.

Later, in the dark, he muttered, “You’re like… weirdly capable.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He didn’t answer. But the next time you held the door open for him?

He walked through like it was normal.

No complaints.

(And when Romance called you the “boss of the relationship,” Mystery shrugged and said, “Good. Less work for me.”)

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

💋 Romance 

You pushed his hand away when he tried to pay for lunch.

“Let me, pretty boy,” you said with a wink.

He choked.

“Did you just—you did not just call me—”

“I did.”

He looked personally attacked. And incredibly flustered.

You were the one who reminded him to eat, who told him to stop buying stupidly expensive moisturizer when he hadn’t replaced his phone charger in two months.

And every time you did?

He folded faster than origami.

“You’re bossy,” he said once, lips curving.

“You like it.”

“Unfair.”

That night, you leaned down, tilted his chin up, and kissed him slow.

He sighed against your mouth.

“You’re too powerful,” he whispered.

“And you’re too pretty to resist,” you whispered back.

He swore you were going to ruin him.

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

🔥 Baby 

You told him to drink water.

He glared at you. “Stop momming me.”

You just raised the bottle. “Open.”

“I’m not a toddler.”

But he drank it.

You told him to get eight hours of sleep before the show. He stayed up gaming.

The next morning, he trudged in with eye bags and groaned, “Fine, you were right.”

“You always say that.”

“I hate it.”

But he leaned into your shoulder anyway, letting you rub circles into his back.

You once guided him away from picking a fight with a staff member who messed up his mic.

He grumbled the whole time. “You love bossing me around, don’t you?”

“Only because you need it.”

His eyes glittered. “Someday I’m gonna flip it on you.”

“Mmhm. Sure.”

He never did.

He liked your hands in his hair too much.

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

M-List

[cursedyuri]

WILL YOU SHUFFLE ME, SPREAD ME APART?

summary: in the slums of zaun, you’ve carved out a life for yourself which not many would envy. you spend your nights in the arms of strangers, trading coin for hasty touches and labored breaths. and since such a line of work isn’t always enough to keep yourself fed and clothed, you have a second service to offer: fortune telling. 

or... two times vi comes knocking, and a third time you let her in.

18+ only! smut below. cw for fingering (r! receiving), cunnilingus, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of blood. 7k words.

The heels of your boots click against damp cobblestone, wet thumps echoing through the dingy alleyway leading to Babette’s brothel. It’s a particularly humid night, even despite the chill in the air - the humidity makes it worse, you think. It feels like the cold is seeping into the very marrow of your bones. 

You pull your cloth coat tighter over your torso, thankful when you rap on the brothel’s wooden door and are allowed in almost instantly. One step through the threshold, and the biting cold melts like early-spring snow. The air is thick here, too, but warm and smoky. Tobacco stings sweet in your nose, a cocktail of too-strong perfumes mixing with ribbons of incense that linger suspended midair. It’s an intoxicating kind of smell, one that makes weak women and weaker men feel more inclined to spend their hard-earned coin on a night with a stranger. 

Part of you is hoping none will choose you tonight. It’s not that you’re opposed to it - gods know you’d be in the wrong line of work if you were. Rather, you’ve got plans to eat the meager dinner you’ve purchased for yourself, sip some red wine, and rifle through your cards for answers about what’s been going on topside lately. You’ve heard murmurs of an attack, rebellion… You’re not exactly sure what to believe, so as you often do, you look to the cards for clarity. 

The deck sits idly by a thicket of half-burnt herbs on your desk, stacked precariously where you’d last used them. You shed your coat and hang it on a brass hook by the desk, then slide into the seat in front of it. Still thawing, you sink into the velvet cushion and reach into your knapsack for the paper-wrapped sandwich inside, also procuring an unmarked bottle of wine from beside it. You’re wiping an iron goblet clean with the fabric of your tiered skirt when a familiar voice calls your name from the doorway. It’s one of the other workers here, Nina. She’s been here just about as long as you.

“You might hate me,” she says, a preface that makes your lips turn downward in a frown. 

You grunt, uncorking your wine and pouring a hearty serving into your goblet. By the sounds of it, you’ll need the liquid courage. “I just sat down, you know.”

Nina’s delicate brows pull together; maybe she’s feeling apologetic, or maybe she’s just laying it on thick so you’ll take a job before you’ve even had dinner. 

“I thought so, but… I think you’ll like her, peach.” She pauses for a beat. “And if you take her, I may have some chocolate I’d consider parting with.”

“Bribery,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips as you roll your eyes at Nina’s offer. “But fine. Send her in.”

“Will do, peach,” Nina practically squeals, disappearing from your doorway just as quickly as she’d come. 

Cursing under your breath, you take a swig of wine and turn to the tarnished mirror behind your desk, examining yourself. By some stroke of luck, you’d had the sense to put on a layer of makeup before you’d gone out earlier. Blemishes are covered, your eyes are rimmed with kohl, and a smear of rouge emphasizes the pouty shape of your lips. That’s all you ever need, paired with the eye-catching swell of your breasts against the low-cut linen of your blouse. This will be easy enough.

You’ve drained half the wine in your cup by the time your client knocks at the open door. You turn your head to greet her and, before you can get a word out, the door slams closed with a heavy thud. At first, you gawk at the client because of her notable entrance - but then, you gawk because Nina was right. You like her.

This girl looks like the undercity chewed her up, spit her out, then chewed her up again. She’s all sharp edges and leather and lipstick, black makeup smeared from her eyes to her cheeks. Her hair’s black, too, though you can see patches of red exposed from an uneven dye job and a few heavy-handed washes. She’s certainly achieved the menacing look she’s sought out, and though it’s a mighty contrast to her pale complexion and piercing blue eyes, it somehow works for her - she’s the kind of girl you wouldn’t mind getting dirty for. 

“Good evening,” you say, because it’s all you can seem to think of to break the silence. “Would you like a drink?”

The client surveys you up and down with those icy blue eyes, working her jaw. She nods. “What do you have?”

“Wine, whiskey, gin,” you tell her, gesturing to the makeshift bar cart beside a loveseat at the entrance of your suite. Different colored liquors fill antique, mismatched bottles at different levels. The client glances over at them, steps up to the cart and surveys that, too. Then she turns to you, gestures to your goblet.

“I’ll have what you’re having.” 

You nod. “Wine it is, then. Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.” 

She obliges, lowering herself onto the plum fabric of the loveseat. Her legs are spread just so - enough to make it obvious that this woman is used to taking up space, and unafraid of what that kind of confidence might imply. Your eyes linger on her parted knees, but not long enough to get caught. After you fill up a goblet for her and refill your own, you glide across the room to hand her the drink. She accepts it with a nod of thanks, her fingertips brushing against yours in the process. You take a seat beside her.

“What’s your name?” You regard her behind fluttering lashes, sipping from your freshly filled goblet. The wine is sweet on your tongue, bitter around the edges. You can already feel it loosening your muscles, relaxing your inhibitions. Piquing your curiosity, even. 

The client takes a swig from her own drink and says, “Vi.” 

Vi. Her name is tattooed on her cheekbone, you muse, gaze sweeping over her face once again. There’s a silver hoop pierced through her nose, a scar etched into her upper lip. A healing bruise on her left jaw catches your eye, blooming faint shades of purple, yellow, and green. You’re afflicted with an urge to reach out and touch it - to touch her. But when she catches your gaze with those steely eyes of hers, you’re frozen. Like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar, your cheeks flush hot. Vi seems amused by your appraisal, cracks a smile that looks somehow natural on her war-torn face. 

She cuts through the tension like a spearhead, one hand reaching forward to readjust the sleeve of your blouse, which had fallen down your shoulder. Her fingertips are cold and calloused, but the touch fills you with uncharacteristic warmth. “What’s your name?” 

You tell her and she repeats it, that sultry voice curling around every syllable of your name as if she were tasting it. 

However intoxicating Vi’s voice might be, it dawns on you again what she’s doing here. She’d paid for your time, paid to sip your wine and touch you with those split-knuckled hands of hers. You have the sense to wonder why - a woman like Vi should have no trouble warming her bed for free, yet here she is.

“Well, Vi,” you say, pausing briefly for another sip of wine, “how do you want me?”

If your straightforwardness bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She brushes dark locks of her out of her eye-line, seemingly considering your answer. Then: “I heard you tell fortunes.”

You quirk a brow at her. “I—yes. Is that what you want?”

Something flashes in her eyes. “Among other things.”

“It’s extra for that,” you clarify. “The fortune-telling, I mean.”

“I have enough.”

And that settles it. You uncross your legs, stand up and move to retrieve your deck of cards from the desk. There’s a table in front of the loveseat where Vi still sits, and that’s where you lay out an ornate silk cloth to spread the cards upon. You gather the thicket of herbs from your desk, too, along with a match. Vi watches you set fire to the sprigs, a stream of smoke billowing upwards and filling the air with a sweet, earthy scent. 

“What questions do you have?” You ask, settling down upon a floor pillow on the opposite side of the table from Vi. After you set down your goblet of wine, you pick up the deck and begin to shuffle; the fluttering sounds of cards fills the silence before Vi can answer.

“Do I need to ask questions?”

“No, I guess not,” you respond, shoulders shrugging. “I can just see what the cards say about you.”

Vi nods her assent, tossing her head back to finish what’s left of her wine. One by one, cards fly out from the deck as you shuffle, some upright, some inverted. When you’ve circulated through the deck once or twice with no other cards presenting themselves, you stop. 

“Five of cups,” you read aloud. The card’s illustration depicts a figure in a black cloak, turned away, three emptied cups at her feet. Behind her are two upright cups, unnoticed. “Loss. Mourning.”

Vi inhales sharply through her nose, and when you look up at her, she’s white-knuckled with her hand around the stem of her now-empty goblet. You lift your brows in a wordless question - should you continue? 

She nods.

“Something didn’t work out as you’d planned it, and you’re too stubborn to let go. Instead, you lament the loss and let it hold you hostage.” 

There’s a sound like Vi humming, a quiet acknowledgement of your words as you move to the next card. 

“Four of wands, reversed - this tells me you’ve been separated from loved ones. This is what didn’t work out as planned, maybe?” 

When you look at Vi this time, she’s leaning forward in her seat, forearms braced against her strong thighs. 

“Maybe,” she echoes. “What else is there?”

You show her the next card, another inverted one. The illustration depicts a man in ornate clothing, a flower plucked between his fingers as he prances confidently towards the edge of a cliff. “The fool, reversed.” 

“That’s me?” Vi asks. “The fool?” 

“Hm, not always. But with the other cards… You are the fool, Vi, I’m sorry to say it.” You hope she catches the tinge of playfulness in your tone, serious as the reading feels. Heavy as the tension feels.

“Well,” she starts, “the cards don’t lie, I guess.”

You hum in agreement. “The fool, reversed this way, tells me that you’re reckless. Lacking caution, you’ve opened yourself up to betrayal.” 

“Fuck’s sake.” Vi laughs without humor, tries to drink the last crimson drops of the wine in her goblet. “Can I get some more?”

You move to get up and fetch her the bottle, but she waves a hand to dismiss you. She’s up and across the room in a flash, refilling her cup and taking a swig before she’s even made it back to the loveseat. 

“But…” You hold up her final card - judgement. The art depicts an angel blaring into a trumpet from the heavens, the humans below rejoicing. Her eyes assessing the card, Vi looks to you for an explanation.

“Judgement tells us that renewal and transformation is possible,” you finish

“Renewal, transformation... Right. What’s the catch?”

Smart woman, you think. There’s always a catch. 

“You have to be willing to let go of what’s held you stagnant. Accept what’s behind you and focus on what’s ahead, because wallowing in misfortune does you no good.”

That seems to resonate, because Vi’s expression turns shadowy, thoughtful. She drinks again, her lips nearly purple from the wine. You take a moment to drink from your own cup, ready to ask Vi if she wants you to undress yourself, or if she’s the kind of client who wants to do it for you. 

Instead, you’re stunned into silence when she polishes off her drink, slams the cup down onto the table, and stands. Her jaw is locked again, tense. 

“Vi?” Your brows lift in question. 

“Thank you,” she says. She moves towards the door, then stops when she seems to remember something. One bandaged hand digs into her jacket pocket, emerging with a handful of coin. She places it on the nearest surface, a small table with a lamp glowing atop it, and only glances back towards you before she vanishes out the door. 

There’s a draft in the room, suddenly. You curl into bed, pull the covers over your goosebump-afflicted skin, and think.

The days following Vi’s visit dawn bleak and cold as ever. Nina asks about your client the following morning, and you let her bask in the satisfaction that you had liked her, but you politely break the news that she’d been nothing particularly special - a white lie to keep the questions at bay. You’re not one to run your mouth; besides, rumors spread through Babette’s brothel like wildfire. 

Some of the latest rumors? There’s a man with magical abilities lurking in the shadows of Zaun, with a touch that heals the sick. There’s a blue-haired revolutionary forming a significant following in the undercity, those of whom claim she’ll free them from Piltover’s brutality. You’re not sure what to believe, but there must be some truth to the rumors, because your cards sense something afoot: the tower, ten of swords, ace of cups. 

Still, business continues as usual. Degenerates and saints alike seek your company, and you need the money to survive, so your bed is always warm. 

Because you’ve had dozens of clients over the years who visit and never return, you don’t expect to see Vi again. Still, your mind keeps returning to her - you wonder why she’d stormed out so suddenly, why she’d paid you for sex without laying a finger on you. The curiosity lingers in the back of your mind, but you counter it with reality: she’d probably chickened out. Heard something too striking in her reading and couldn’t follow through, but decided to pay for your time anyway. At most, it was a kind gesture. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about her? 

Weeks pass, and your routine continues. Tonight’s another late night, and you’re relaxing after several clients in a row. You’d bathed in water treated with salts and oils, the scents still clinging to your skin as you rub salve into your aching muscles. The last few clients had been rough - twisting your limbs, working you into positions that tested your flexibility and endurance as they used their tongues, fingers, and other appendages to chase their pleasure through your body. None of them had made you come, though, so in the momentary solitude of the bath, you’d slipped your hand between your legs until your release pulsated through your tired frame. Now, you’re feeling pleasantly warm and at ease, perfumed and ready if there may be a late-night visitor. You’d be grateful for the extra money, if you’re being honest.

When there’s a steady knock at the door, you saunter over to answer it in nothing but your lingerie, lacy black and surprisingly comfortable. Who knows? They might pay extra for such ease of access - and a nice presentation. 

The flirty smile on your lips disappears when you realize who’s on the other side of the door. 

“Gods—Vi?” You try not to express your shock, schooling your features to the best of your ability. Vi, however, turns a pretty shade of pink when she takes in the sight of you: tits pushed together and decorated in delicate lace, the soft hair over your sex barely obscured with thin fabric. Your thighs are plush and glowy with moisture, hips hugged beautifully by the high-waisted panties that match your elaborate bra. 

Vi’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. “I’m… Sorry to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” you assure her, opening the door all the way to allow her entry. You try to ignore the way her gaze first moves to the empty bed, something like relief washing over her features before she turns back to you. The door shuts with a soft click. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I thought you were a client.”

After wrapping yourself in the first robe you find by your bedside, you move to the bar cart to pour Vi a drink. She scoffs, an almost-laugh that’s low and soft. “Well, I am a client.”

As the wine sloshes into her goblet, you fix her with an admonishing look. “A client looking for sex, Vi.” 

That shuts her up. Her cheeks are still pink, you notice, as you take in her appearance: most of the dye has faded out of her hair, leaving it a patchy canvas of black, maroon, and fuschia. She’s still sporting a cut and a bruise here and there, but more wounds are covered with bandages than last time. Notably, she’s not drenched in black paint, though there is a ring of liner around her eyes. 

“Thanks,” Vi says when you hand her a cup of wine. She shoots back a mouthful and moves to the loveseat, lowering herself into the same spot as last time.

“So?” You arch a brow at her. “Here for another reading, I take it?”

She nods. “Yeah, sweetheart. If that’s okay.”

“I thought I scared you away last time,” you reply with a smirk. There’s a hint of truth to the statement, though, teasing as you might be - you hadn’t expected to see her back so soon, if at all. 

“Oh, you did,” she admits. “But things have changed, and now… I’m curious what you have to say. I could use some advice.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

Just as it was last time, Vi’s attention is honed in on you. You shuffle the cards with expert precision, and she watches the way your hands dance over the deck, fingers grazing the careful illustrations of each card with easy familiarity. This time, five cards leap from the deck: seven of cups, the chariot, eight of wands, four of wands, eight of pentacles. It’s a story unfolding beneath your fingertips, all the more interesting when you think back to Vi’s last reading.

“You’ve made progress,” you tell her. “But the hard work isn’t over. You’re prone to wishful thinking, which is a good thing, sometimes, because your determination is a powerful force.” 

Glancing up at Vi, you offer her an encouraging smile. “When you fight, I get the sense that you almost always win.”

Vi snorts, wiping a burgundy smear of wine from her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s what the cards say?”

“Not exactly, but, well… I’ve gathered some things for myself.” You hold up the chariot card. “This one tells me you need an ironclad will to move forward. One I don’t doubt you have.”

Is it just your imagination, or does Vi turn pink again?

“And these,” you say, holding up the two cards from the wand suit, “show me fire. Creation, destruction, volatility. You’re dealing with something that can be useful or detrimental, depending on how you proceed.”

Vi’s eyes are alight, not unlike the fire you’ve just discussed. What you wouldn’t give to know how her life aligns with these cards - what fire is she playing with? What challenges is she facing?

“And the last one?” Vi’s voice cuts through your internal musings as she gestures to the final card on the table. You pick it up and show it to her - the eight of pentacles, depicting a man hard at work, hammer in hand.

“It’s very much in line with the others,” you explain. “Diligence, focus, hard work.”

She hums, nodding. “Got it. So, any chance there's a card that’ll tell me what I should do?”

Her tone drips with sarcasm, but you can tell there’s a glimmer of sincerity in the question - and in those pale blue eyes, swirling with emotion. 

You press your lips into a firm line, setting the eight of pentacles card down. “I wish I could tell you exactly what you want to hear, Vi,” you say honestly. “But that’s not how the cards work.”

“Yeah,” Vi responds, voice bitter around the edges; somber. “I figured as much. Thank you, uh, for the reading.”

In the silence that follows, you imagine a braver version of yourself: one that isn’t too hesitant to ask questions. One that would feel comfortable offering a listening ear to this riot of a woman, whose scars and bruises tell you just as much as the cards you’ve splayed out for her. You wonder where she goes after she leaves here, if that home holds a family, friends, a lover. But all you can do is wonder. You don’t go sniffing for information - like the brothel dweller you are, information finds you. And if it doesn’t, perhaps it’s better to wonder.

Vi rises from the loveseat, readjusting one of the tattered blankets strewn across its surface. She finishes the remainder of her wine and, gently, sets it on the table. 

She says, “I’ve gotta go.”

Her hand dips into her jacket pocket and emerges with far too much coin, which she sets out on the table for you.

“That’s too much,” you counter with a furrowed brow. “We didn’t—you only had your cards read.”

You reach forward to collect the extra cash, ready to push it back into Vi’s palm, but she backs away with her hands in her pockets. 

“Nah, sweetheart,” she replies, ambling towards the door and prying it open. “Keep the change.”

The next time you see Vi, her knuckles are bleeding. 

It’s been weeks, maybe even months, and you’re surprised to find her at your door again, much less in her current state: battered and bruised, her knuckles raw and red. Her shoulders sag, that proud, confident air about her entirely deflated. She’s a shell of the woman you’d first met months ago; all that brazen confidence she’d once had has burnt down to dying embers. 

When she looks at you, her eyes are forlorn, watery. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Vi…” You open the door further, ushering her in with a gentle hand at the small of her back. 

Inside, you pour her a drink - water, this time - and instruct her to lie down on the bed, draping a thin blanket over her frame. 

“You’re hurt,” you say pointedly, gesturing to her bleeding knuckles. “Can I help?”

Vi’s expression doesn’t change; her eyes are distant, her skin so pale it’s almost grey. But she nods her assent, so you get to work - you swipe a wet cloth over her knuckles to clear away the blood, then cautiously apply a salve to her wounds. Through it all, Vi hardly even winces, a fact that doesn’t exactly surprise you. Even now, with her brazen confidence stripped away to the bone, she’s tougher than most. It’s an attribute that runs through her to the core. 

“Don’t you want to ask what happened?” Vi asks, suddenly. Her voice is raw, and to avoid looking her in the eye, you focus on wrapping her knuckles with layers of soft gauze. “Wanna know how I fucked up this time?”

You frown. “I’m not one to pry.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause before Vi speaks again. “That’s what’s different about you,” she says. “Everyone else just… Wants something from me.”

Brows knitting together, you fix Vi with a look that you hope reads less as pitying and more as understanding. You’re certainly familiar with catering to other’s desires over your own; it’s been this way for longer than you can remember. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely. Finished dressing her wounds, you let go of her hands, still kneeling at the side of the bed. You stand up with the intention of refilling Vi’s water, but as you reach for the cup, she catches your wrist in one bandaged hand. 

“All those times I saw you,” she starts, “when I had you read my cards… You never asked about my life.”

You nod, wrist burning from her touch. 

“Why? You never wondered?”

“It’s not my job to wonder.” You swallow. “Just to give people what they want.”

Vi’s gaze is intense, holding you in a trance. You’re frozen there, standing at the side of the bed, entirely in her grasp. “But do you ever get what you want?”

Do you?

You’d been working for Babette for years, longer than most - and before that, even as a child, you’d always understood that bending to the will of others is the easiest way to move through life. You can slip through the cracks that way, get enough coin or food or clothing to live another day. You wanted that, you suppose. To live. 

But you’re not sure that’s what Vi’s talking about.

“I have enough,” you say. “There’s not much I want.”

Vi nods. “But there’s something.” 

You smooth your free hand over hers, and she lets go of your wrist. “I’ll get you some water.”

As you refill her cup, you feel her eyes on you, and your mind races. Why does she care about what you want? You’re a stranger to her, a fortune teller living on scraps in an undercity brothel. First, she’d paid you for sex she’d never had, and now she’s in your bed, asking you questions you barely had the wherewithal to ask yourself. Gods, this woman is something else. You wish you could read her mind - crack open that beautiful skull of hers, sift through her thoughts, learn what had led her to you not once, not twice, but three times. You wish you could know everything about her, read her like your favorite book with its pages dog-eared, its cover well-worn.

Maybe that’s what you want, after all.

Returning to the bedside, you hand Vi her cup and stand by as she takes a long drink, then sets it on the nightstand. Her hair has grown a few inches since the first time you’d met her, you muse, and you like it this way - long locks of pink-crimson fall in jagged layers just past her shoulders, her bangs framing her face nicely. You wonder what it would feel like to reach out and run your fingers through that hair, to brush it free of knots, to hold the back of her head in your palm. 

“It’s late,” Vi says, interrupting your train of thought. “I should go - you should get some rest.”

She peels back the blanket you’d settled over her, sitting up. You hesitate, then reach forward to touch her forearm. “You can stay, I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you up,” Vi says, “or… Keep away any business.”

Something in your chest tightens. “You won’t.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“I want you to stay,” you interrupt. “You need rest, too.”

Vi’s mouth hangs open for a moment, stormy blue eyes assessing you. Then, she settles back into bed, pulling the blanket up over her chest again. There’s a long pause, only the muffled sounds of laughter and salacious moans from other rooms filling the silence. You’re debating setting yourself up on the loveseat when Vi murmurs a quiet hey to capture your attention, then pats the space beside her in bed.

There are candles still burning on desks and tables and dressers throughout the room, lamps shining in shades of yellow and orange. You’ll lie down for only a moment, you tell yourself, long enough for Vi to doze off. Then you’d turn off the lights, blow out the candles, maybe sneak off to find a client looking for a fortune teller. You sense that Vi needs someone beside her for now, though, so you climb into bed, wrapping your frame in a velvety purple blanket. 

Once you’ve settled in next to her, Vi turns on her side to face you. Her lips, rosebud pink, are chapped, and you watch her moisten them with a swipe of her tongue.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hushed. “For letting me stay here.”

I didn’t know where else to go.

You turn over to face her, too, the corners of your lips pulling upwards. “Of course. I’m glad you’re okay, Vi.”

There’s a softness in Vi’s expression, now - one that you hadn’t seen before. The tough facade has melted away, as has the hurt, the pain. All that’s left is her rounded, wide eyes, her relaxed jaw, the curve of her lips. You catch yourself staring too long, and when you look up again, Vi’s already watching you.

She raises a bandaged hand to your face, where it hovers an inch away. Her expression asks for permission, and when you lean into her touch, Vi’s hand cups your cheek with a gentleness you’d never think her capable of. Not with those scars, not with the cuts and bruises that have become a permanent fixture on her skin. Her thumb skates over your cheekbone, and the touch feels electric.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

Your breath hitches; you hope she doesn’t notice.

“I’m sure you hear that a lot,” Vi adds. And it’s true, you do. 

You hesitate. Then: “Not from anyone who matters.” 

Vi smiles - it’s a soft kind of smile, one that you wish you could take a photo of, frame it and hang it on the wall to return to when you need a reminder of the warmth in this moment. Her hand leaves your cheek and travels down to your arm, then finding your hand beneath the blankets. Your eyes feel heavy, suddenly - so must hers, because she doesn’t speak again. You fall asleep next to her, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, her hand warm and heavy in yours.

When you wake up again, the room is a dark, inky blue. 

You sit upright, back straight, memories of the night before slowly filtering into your mind. Half-expecting an empty space where Vi had once been, you glance to the side, finding her sleeping figure curled under the blankets. Chest tightening, you look down at her in the black dark, eyes straining. 

Her eyes open, lashes fluttering, and you gasp.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Did I wake you up?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” she murmurs back to you. One of her arms snakes around your waist, encouraging you to lie back, and you oblige. You’re closer than you were when you fell asleep, Vi’s steady breaths tickling at your shoulder. 

You’re suddenly very aware of her skin on yours; your shirt has ridden up your stomach in your sleep, and Vi’s arm, wrapped around you, burns against you. Your stomach is warm with something delicious, something dangerous.

It doesn’t help when Vi pulls you closer, palm opening against the flesh of your hip. You’re frozen for a moment, wondering if she’s still sleeping, somehow. 

“Vi?”

“Hm?” You feel her draw back, as if waiting for you to turn over, so you do. Eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you peer up at her. 

“I think I know what I want.” 

Vi’s quiet, her gaze steady on you. You’re about to take it back, whisper never mind and turn to sleep again, when she brings her hand back up to your cheek, cupping it in her hand the same way she had the night before. 

“Tell me,” she whispers in the dark.

“I…” You hesitate. “I want you to touch me.”

There’s a long pause, Vi’s eyes flickering over your face, analyzing your expression. Your body is tense with anticipation, and when she finally, finally leans in to press her lips to yours, the tension seeps out of every muscle.

Like everything about her, Vi’s kiss is different - her touch is different. She holds your face as her lips move against yours, soft and wet and sweet, thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek as her tongue traces the part of your lips. You open your mouth for her, let her lick into you to deepen the kiss. 

It’s been a long, long time since you’ve been kissed like this. You’ve grown accustomed to hasty, messy kisses, foul breath and rough touches, far too many clients eager to skip past the kissing and get to the fucking. But Vi tastes like heaven as she takes her time with you, tongue soft as it pushes against yours. Every kiss leaves you aching for more, the warmth in your lower belly growing hotter with each smack of your lips against Vi’s. You pull back, catching your breath, and Vi peers at you with bleary eyes. 

“You okay?” She asks, thumb still stroking at your cheek. You nod and pull her in for another kiss, drawing a soft moan from the bottom of her throat - one that goes straight to your cunt. 

You’re not sure how long you continue like that, trapped in a heated kiss, bodies moving closer with every languid sigh and pleading moan. But eventually, the layers of clothing between you is a burden you can no longer bear. You pull back to work your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor before Vi tugs you close for another searing kiss. Your hands slip beneath the thin fabric of her tank, and she shivers, a full-body chill that makes you flush impossibly hotter. Once her shirt is discarded, too, Vi gently pushes you to lie flat on your back, climbing over you in nothing but a thin pair of shorts. You realize through the haze of lust clouding your mind that she must’ve woken up before you - she’d turned the lights off, taken off the stiff pair of pants she’d arrived in the night before. 

Hovering over you in the dark, Vi’s an absolute dream. Tattoos decorate her pale complexion, inked into her arms, her shoulders, her neck - you’d already noticed that she’s heavily inked, but it’s more striking when she’s half-naked like this. You don’t have much time to look, though, because Vi leans over to tuck her face into your neck, warm lips latching to the sensitive skin and littering kisses in an imprecise path. You keen high in your throat, leaning the opposite way to grant her more access, your hands finding purchase on her narrow hips. When you dig your nails into her skin, hissing as she parts her lips over your neck and sucks, her hips buck forward, grinding her thinly-clothed heat over your pelvis. You nearly see stars.

There’s always been a cold draft in your room, in the brothel, and in Zaun as a whole. But here, now, you’re on fire. You lift your hips and push Vi down against your pelvis again, encouraging her to find that friction again, and she emits a muffled moan against your neck when she does. It’s heavenly, that sound - you want to hear it again and again and again, until it’s forever etched into your memory. 

“Gods, Vi,” you gasp, her teeth scraping against your neck. She works her way further south, leaving kisses and bites in her wake, until she reaches the peaks of your breasts.

“You’re so pretty, fuck,” she murmurs, dazed. Both hands cup your tits and squeeze, her thumbs playing with the buds of your nipples until they’ve hardened from her touch. She then leans over to take one nipple into her mouth, moaning around the flesh as if she’d been dying for this. Her tongue draws wet circles over the sensitive bud, her cheeks hollowing out when she sucks at it until you’re gasping and writhing. You need her further down, where your cunt throbs and gushes in anticipation, but she takes her time with your other tit before she even considers undressing you further. 

Still straddling your waist, Vi sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She flashes you a wicked smile, eyes twinkling, and lifts her hips to reach for the waistband of your shorts.

“This okay, pretty girl?” 

You nod, biting your lip. Pretty girl.

Vi rolls your shorts down your thighs, pulls them off with ease and sets them to the side. Your panties are next - a simple, cotton pair that wasn’t anything flashy - and she tosses those to the edge of the bed, too distracted by the sight of your naked body to care much about where they landed. 

Typically, you weren’t shy about your body. In your line of work, you couldn’t be shy - you had to know your features and work them to your benefit. But with Vi eyeing you like you’re a meal and she’s a woman starved, your stomach flutters with excitement and, somewhere, a glimmer of insecurity. The need to impress her. 

And gods, does she seem impressed. She curses under her breath, her rough hands smoothing over the curves of your body, squeezing your hips and your thighs and your ass, licking her lips like she’s parched. You realize, as she settles her hands on your knees and works them apart for you, that she’d taken off her bandages, too. The thought evaporates as quickly as it had come, though, because now Vi’s settling between your spread legs, peppering kisses along the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” she tells you between kisses. “You gonna let me eat you out, sweetheart?”

The question sends another cascade of butterflies through your stomach. You take in a deep breath, enjoying the sight of Vi between your legs, looking up at you with pleading eyes. You might die if she doesn’t make you come soon.

A whispered “please” from your lips is all Vi needs - her mouth is on you in a moment, tongue splitting through your folds, warm and firm and wet. She licks at you languidly, takes her time spreading your arousal from your hole up to your clit. You’re drenched, you just know it, and Vi moans as if to confirm your suspicions, lapping up your wetness with every flick of her tongue. Just like she’d taken her time with her mouth on your tits, she takes her time with your cunt, sucking on the swollen bead of your clit until you’re whining her name between sharp breaths. It’s all you can manage to say, your hand tangled in her scarlet locks of hair, tugging at her scalp each time she circles your clit with her tongue. After she’s worked you up enough, you’re suddenly so empty - you need more, and you tell her as much, chest heaving.

“Vi, I need—fuck, I need your fingers,” you cry out.

She answers with a gratified hum, and the vibrations have your eyes rolling back into your skull.

Just as you’d asked, though, Vi swipes a finger through your wetness; there’s hardly any resistance when she sinks the digit into your entrance, groaning again at the feeling of your walls around her. 

“So wet for me,” she comments, grinning. “This what you needed?”

You nod, face twisting with pleasure. Vi just chuckles under her breath, working her fingers up to a steady pace. Once she has you moaning again, all high-pitched and needy, she latches her mouth back onto your clit, and you’re gone. You come hard, clamping down on Vi’s fingers and tossing your head back, eyes squeezed shut through every wave of pleasure - it’s only once you’ve come to that you finally open your eyes again, gazing down at Vi starry-eyed.

“Can I be honest, sweetheart?” She sits up on her heels, licking her lips. “That was hot.”

“You think so?” You ask, reaching out for her. She moves closer and kisses you, lets you taste yourself on her lips. 

You pull back only to murmur, under your breath, “I’m not done with you, Vi.”

You’ve had sex with plenty of women in your lifetime, but few have made a real effort to make you come - and none have done it so fast. You’re determined to return the favor. So, with a pointed glance, you instruct Vi to lie back on the pillows, plucking one from behind her to set under her hips.

Vi had called you beautiful, but she’s utterly divine. All sharp edges and lean muscle, she’s a vision, and you’re almost convinced you’re dreaming as your hands smooth over the tattoos inked into her arms. You imagine yourself tracing each of those tattoos with your mouth, sucking bruises into the dark ink - but you’d do that later. Right now, all you want is to bury your face in the patch of red hair between her legs, lose yourself in the taste of her arousal.

Vi’s vocal, you conclude, because as you prod your tongue inside of her, nose bumping against her clit, she won’t shut up. 

“That’s it, fuck, you’re so good,” Vi moans, sitting up enough to allow her to watch as you lap at her pink cunt. An endless chorus of praises and curses leave her lips, punctuated with wanton moans. She’s needy, too - before long, she’s gripping a fistful of your hair and directing you with it, tugging you closer, to the side, to the other side, as she grinds her cunt down against your mouth. You revel in the way she’s using you, pleased when her stomach tenses and your name spills from her lips, warning you of her impending orgasm. She rides it out on your face, and when you finally pull back, you’re wet with her from nose to chin. 

“You’re way too good at that,” Vi tells you when you crawl up beside her, rubbing the wetness off your nose. 

“You’re just as good,” you respond. You move to lie down beside Vi, but when you see her frown, you arch a brow at her.

“Hm?”

“Sweetheart,” she coos, “I’m not done with you.”

She pulls you into her lap, lets you straddle the toned muscle of her pelvis. And after you’ve ground your pussy against her until you’re shaking with another release, she’s still not done. It’s a long night.

At the table in the corner of your bedroom, your deck of tarot cards lies spread face-down. There’s one card upright, though: two of cups.

[honeyslibrary]

Rookie Card | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, little to no knowledge of Costco (I've never been lol), edited once, that's it I think!

Summary; Jack finds out that reader keeps a certain card in her wallet

Word Count; 3.1k

Authors Note: I feel like if this happened IRL he'd be such a little shit about it and would not stop teasing 😭 Also I don't have a Costco membership idk what they sell there and I did not look it up to be accurate 🥴 -Honey

You knew this Costco trip was a mistake the moment Jack grabbed the cart.

"I'm driving," he'd announced with that lopsided grin that still made your stomach flutter after eight months together. That grin had gotten you into this relationship in the first place. The same one he'd flashed at you across the bar the night you met, when your friend had elbowed you and whispered, "Holy shit, that's Jack Hughes," and you'd pretended not to know exactly who he was.

Now that same grin was steering an overloaded shopping cart through the warehouse chaos of Costco on a Sunday afternoon, which felt considerably less charming.

"Slow down," you call out as he narrowly avoids clipping an elderly woman examining a stack of discounted bestsellers. "This isn't the ice, Hughes."

Jack shoots you a look over his shoulder. "I'm being careful! Besides, we need to beat the sample rush. Those little pizza bagel things go fast."

You roll your eyes but can't help cracking a smile. For a professional hockey player who regularly gets body-checked into boards, Jack has an almost childlike enthusiasm for the free samples at Costco. It's endearing, even if his cart navigation skills leave much to be desired.

Two hours later, the cart is piled dangerously high with everything from the mundane essentials you actually came for (paper towels, coffee beans, that specific brand of Greek yogurt Jack insists is the only acceptable post-workout snack) to the impulse purchases that somehow found their way in when you weren't looking (a 2.5lb bag of dried mango slices, a folding camp chair, and what appears to be an industrial-sized container of protein powder).

"Do we really need all this?" you ask, eyeing the mountain of products as you approach the checkout area.

Jack looks genuinely confused. "Which part don't we need?"

"I don't know, maybe the trashcan sized candle?"

"You said your apartment always smells like hockey gear!"

"I meant you should do laundry more often, not turn the place into a Yankee Candle outlet."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Trust me, I'm doing us both a favor."

As you approach the front of the store, Jack steers the cart toward the self-checkout area.

"The regular lines aren't that long." you comment, glancing at the regular checkout lanes where actual employees could help with the small mountain of purchases you've accumulated.

Jack scoffs. "Self-checkout is way faster. Plus, I'm basically a professional at scanning."

"Since when?"

"I did a grocery store commercial last season, remember? Spent like three hours scanning the same box of cereal from different angles."

You bite back a smile. "I'm pretty sure that doesn't translate to actual scanning skills."

"I forgot you were the expert," he rolls his eyes, smiling as he maneuvers the cart into the self-checkout lane.

The Costco self-checkout is already chaos. The cart is overloaded, the scanner next to yours keeps yelling "place item in the bagging area," and Jack is too busy pretending the jumbo box of Goldfish is a dumbbell to be remotely helpful.

"Four pounds of pure cracker power," he announces, curling the box in perfect form. "Could be a new workout trend. Snackercise."

An exasperated mother with twin toddlers shoots him a look that's half annoyance, half recognition. You've gotten used to the double takes, the whispers, the occasional autograph requests. Jack handles them with ease, always friendly, always gracious, never making it weird. It's one of the things you admire about him, even if you're still adjusting to dating someone whose face is plastered around the city.

Today, thankfully, the mother is too focused on keeping her children from dismantling the candy display to approach. Jack sets down the Goldfish box with a mock grunt of exertion and turns his attention back to you.

"Want me to scan stuff?" he offers, reaching for the box of protein bars you're holding.

"I've got it," you say quickly, having witnessed his "scanning skills" on previous shopping trips. The last time you let him take over at Target, you'd ended up with three accidental duplicates and one item that never made it into the system at all.

You're juggling a case of sparkling water and trying to scan your membership barcode from the app when you groan.

"It's not loading," you mutter, tapping frantically at your phone screen where the Costco app has frozen on a loading icon. "Can you just get my wallet? It's in the pink one, middle pocket of my bag."

Jack perks up like you just asked him to defuse a bomb. "On it," he says, already elbow deep in your tote. "Why do you carry so much stuff in here? Are you secretly a suburban mom?"

"Just grab the wallet," you sigh, shifting the sparkling water to your other arm. The self-checkout machine beeps impatiently, its screen flashing a demand for your membership ID.

"I'm exploring uncharted territory here," Jack narrates, rummaging dramatically. "I may need supplies. Possibly a headlamp."

The employee monitoring the area, a tall guy appearing about your age, wearing a faded Yankees cap, glances over with amusement. You feel a flash of self-consciousness, aware of how you and Jack must look: bickering over a shopping cart like you've been married for decades rather than dating for months. It's comfortable, though. That's what surprised you most about being with Jack, how quickly the comfort came, how easily you fell into each other's rhythms.

Jack pulls out a crushed receipt, a Tide pen, and a tampon like he's on Let's Make a Deal. "Is this a snack bar? Why do you have a Canadian penny in here? What year even is this?"

"Jack." Your patience is wearing thin. The case of water is getting heavier by the second, and the lady behind you is starting to make pointed throat-clearing noises.

"Okay, okay," he says, finally fishing out your wallet and flipping it open. "Looking for the ol' Costco membership—" He hands you the card, "wait a sec."

You pause mid-scan, turning slowly at the change in his tone. "What?"

He's gone still. Smirking.

"No way." His voice cracks slightly as he pulls out a small, glossy rectangle. "Is this? Babe, is this my rookie card?"

Your stomach drops. "Oh my God, Jack. Give me that."

The blood rushes to your face so quickly you feel light-headed. Of all the things he could have found: the ancient gum wrapper you keep forgetting to throw away, the fortune cookie paper with the embarrassingly accurate prediction about meeting a handsome stranger, even the crumpled CVS receipt from when you panic bought three different pregnancy tests after a condom mishap last month (all negative, thankfully), he had to find THAT.

"You carry this around?" he laughs, holding it up like he's found hidden treasure. "In your wallet. Next to your license. And your credit card. I’m literally next to your driver’s license.”

You lunge for it, nearly dropping the sparkling water. "I forgot it was even in there!"

It's a lie and you both know it. The card is in pristine condition, carefully tucked into one of the clear plastic sleeves in your wallet where most people would keep photos of loved ones or emergency contact information. You'd bought it four years ago, back when Jack was just starting to make headlines, back when you would never have dreamed you'd one day be sharing takeout on his couch while he complained about his coach's defensive strategy.

He dodges you like a child on a sugar high, rookie card still in hand. "You've been walking around with literal 18-year-old me in your purse this whole time?" He holds it toward you, pointing at his face. "Look at this haircut! I look like I was just let out of a Boy Scout meeting."

"Stop talking," you hiss, your face fully on fire as the self-checkout voice robotically reminds you to please place item in the bagging area.

The employee at the front is now openly watching your exchange, a slow smile of recognition spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who Jack is, and exactly which card Jack is holding. Great. Just what you need: a witness to your humiliation.

"Oh, this is rich," Jack says, shaking his head. "You, giving me crap about being cocky, but meanwhile? You've got a personal Jack Hughes shrine in your wallet."

You glare at him, wishing desperately for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet. "Do you want me to put that card in the trash right now?"

He snorts, finally slipping it back into its slot with fake reverence. "Absolutely not. That thing's probably worth, like, eight bucks."

"Try a couple hundred," the employee chimes in helpfully, then immediately holds up his hands in surrender when you shoot him a death glare. "Sorry. Just saying."

"See?" Jack grins. "You're carrying around, what, Nathaniel's monthly rent in your wallet? That's dedication." He gestures to the Rangers fan, who apparently is named Nathaniel and who apparently needs to mind his own business.

You snatch the wallet out of Jack's hands, cheeks still burning, and you return to scanning items with aggressive efficiency.

"So," Jack says, leaning against the bagging area with his arms crossed, watching you work with infuriating amusement. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you were a fan?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you mutter, scanning a jar of almond butter with unnecessary force. "I told you I watched hockey."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned having a collection of hockey cards. Of me, specifically."

"It's not a collection. It's one card."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm. And are there others at home? Like, do you have a special album or something? Holy shit, do you have posters?"

"No," you say, a beat too quickly.

The truth, which you would rather die than admit right now, is that you do own exactly one poster. It's from a sports magazine spread three years ago, and it's been carefully rolled up and stashed in the back of your closet since your third date with Jack, when things started to feel serious enough that you realized having his face on your wall would be deeply weird.

"You hesitated," Jack says triumphantly. "There are posters."

"There are no posters," you insist, though your traitorous complexion is probably giving you away. You've always been a terrible liar, a fact Jack discovered during your first attempt at playing poker together, when he cleaned you out of chocolate-covered almonds (your chosen betting currency) within twenty minutes.

"You know," he says, taking pity on you and beginning to bag some of the scanned items, "it's kind of cute."

"It's embarrassing," you correct him, focusing intently on scanning a pack of chicken breasts.

"Why? You're a hockey fan who happened to start dating a hockey player. That's not weird."

"It's weird if I was specifically a fan of you before we met."

"Were you?" he asks, and there's a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing now.

You sigh, pausing your scanning marathon. "I watched your games sometimes. I thought you were good." You look up at him, considering how much to reveal. "I liked how you played, like you were actually having fun, not just doing a job. It was... I don't know. It made the game more exciting."

Jack's expression softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer. "That's... actually really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"Too late," he says, tapping his temple. "Already filed under 'Evidence My Girlfriend Thinks I'm Amazing.'"

The self-checkout machine beeps demandingly, reminding you that you've paused too long between scans. You return to the task at hand, but the tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable rhythm as Jack bags while you scan.

"You know," he says after a moment, carefully arranging a tub of laundry detergent next to the candles, "I have some of your work saved on my phone."

You look up, surprised. "What?"

"Those illustrations you did for that children's book about the penguin? I downloaded them. They're in a special album." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the admission. "I show them to the guys sometimes. Demko's kid loves the one with the penguin on the skateboard."

"You... show my work to your teammates?" The thought of Jack's hockey buddies, men whose names appear on jerseys and in ESPN headlines, looking at your penguin drawings is surreal.

"Yeah. I'm a fan." He says it simply, without the teasing edge from before.

You don't know what to say to that, so you just keep scanning, but something warm unfurls in your chest. It's been like this since the beginning, moments of revelation that catch you off guard. Reminders that beneath the public persona and the franchise player status, Jack is just... Jack. A guy who gets excited about Costco samples and saves your artwork on his phone.

Jack leans in, way too pleased with himself, as you scan the last few items. "I'm starting to think you were a fan before you were my girlfriend."

"I hate you," you say, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't."

You glance at him. He's grinning like an idiot, casually bagging your industrial-size trail mix like this isn't the most embarrassing moment of your life.

"Okay, maybe I don't," you mutter, swiping your credit card.

He bumps your shoulder. "It's okay, babe. I'd carry your rookie card around too. If you had one."

"What would a children's book illustrator's rookie card even look like?" you wonder, punching in your PIN.

"First professional doodle," Jack says thoughtfully. "Maybe that red panda you showed me, the one you drew for your niece's birthday card."

"That was awful. I gave him six toes."

"It had character," Jack insists. "Very avant-garde."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in your head. "Let's go before you start reciting your career stats to the family behind us."

"Oh, I would never—" He pauses, then turns to the man waiting in line. "Did you know she keeps my rookie card in her wallet?"

"JACK."

He laughs, loud and unrestrained, as you grab his arm and drag him away from the checkout area, your face flaming all over again.

"You're the worst," you inform him as you navigate toward the exit, receipt clutched in your hand.

"And yet, you keep my rookie card with you at all times," he counters, skillfully steering the cart around a display of seasonal patio furniture. "Makes a guy wonder what else you might be hiding."

"My deep regret about agreeing to date you?"

"Nah, that's written all over your face." He grins. "I'm thinking more like, do you have a scrapbook? Did you write my name with hearts around it in your diary? Ooh, did you have one of those fathead wall decals?"

You stop walking, fixing him with your most serious expression. "Jack. If you ever want me to sleep over at your place again, you will drop this immediately."

He considers this for a moment, then mimes zipping his lips. "Dropped."

"Thank you."

You resume walking, pushing through the exit doors into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits your face, warm against the crisp autumn air. Jack moves ahead to guide the cart, his shoulders relaxed under his faded blue henley, hair slightly mussed from where he ran his hands through it while deliberating between two different coffee brands for twenty minutes.

"I forgot to ask," he says as you reach the car, "are you coming to the game on Thursday?"

"I have that deadline for the fox book illustrations," you remind him, helping to load bags into the trunk of his SUV. "But I could come to Saturday's game maybe?"

Jack nods, lifting the case of water with ease. "Saturday works. Oh, don't forget, there's that charity thing on Sunday."

"Gala thingy?"

"Yeah." He slams the trunk closed. "Bring your wallet though."

You narrow your eyes, pausing with the shopping cart halfway to the return corral. "Why?"

"In case anyone asks for your autograph," he says with exaggerated seriousness. "After, you can show them my rookie card, tell them you knew me when."

You groan, abandoning the cart to march back to him. "I swear to God, Hughes—"

But before you can finish your threat, he catches you around the waist, pulling you against him. "You're cute when you're mortified," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you, right there in the Costco parking lot, with the orange glow of sunset painting everything gold.

When he pulls back, you keep your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm never taking you shopping again," you inform him.

"Yes you are," he says confidently. "You need someone to reach the top shelves."

"I can bring a stepladder."

"A stepladder won't tell you interesting facts about protein powder or help you pick out deli meat."

"Those are selling points?"

He kisses you again, quickly this time. "Admit it. Shopping with me is an adventure."

"A nightmare," you correct him, but you're smiling. "A recurring nightmare where I'm trapped in Costco forever with a hockey player who thinks jumbo sized everything is a personality trait."

Jack laughs, releasing you to retrieve the abandoned shopping cart. "Come on, nightmare's over for today. Let's go home and figure out where we're going to put that giant candle in your apartment."

"Your apartment," you counter. "You bought it, you store it."

"Fine, but you have to remind me to burn it. And not burn the apartment down."

You watch him return the cart, the easy grace in his movements, the way he nods politely to an older couple walking past. When he returns, he slides into the driver's seat beside you, immediately reaching for your hand across the console.

"So," he says as he starts the engine, "should I be concerned about any other professional athletes you might have rookie cards of? Am I competing with, like, the entire NHL draft class of 2019?"

You squeeze his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought you'd dropped it."

"I'm just saying, I should know if I'm in an open relationship with you and a wallet full of hockey cards."

"Just drive, Hughes."

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[marsupials-of-mars]

It's funny how often Bill is described as a master manipulator, he's so smart that he knows what everyone is thinking and how to push their buttons.

Because he is SO BAD at manipulation!

The only reason he ever gets what he wants is because he can literally read and control minds. And historically, he is pretty shit at using what he learns in a productive way.

Every time he has a human partner, it's because they are obviously desperate for something he can provide. All he does is use the fact that he's a seemingly omniscient otherworldly being to gain ethos, and then tell them he can get them the thing they want.

These are not complicated concepts. Anyone with those inherent advantages could do that. And, historically, when the actual negotiations are up to him and he hasn't backed someone into a corner, he pretty immediately fumbles the bag.

Think of when he possessed that priest: he pitched his plans outright with zero tact and everyone in the room immediately refused and dedicated themselves to making sure he never got his way.

The pharoh DISPISED him, found him annoying and tried to banish him. The shaman caught wise pretty quick. Xgqrthx never even planned on helping him at any point. Every plan failed because of Bills own ineptitude, when all the cards were stacked in his favor!

The way he talked to Ford was disturbing and direct and entirely Bill-like. Ford was just a sponge for any flattery and happened to be into the way Bill spoke and left him rats and suggested murder because he is also abnormal.

Bill is bad at making friends, which is why he has just a few henchmaniacs he's gathered over billions of years.

People DO NOT LIKE HIM.

And he's in denial about that to an extent. He always thinks they'll be on his side once he reveals his true intentions. He always thinks they'll go for the promise of infinite power and destruction because who wouldn't?

Basically, for an immortal god who's had an unfathomably long time to practice social skills and can LITERALLY ENTER MINDS TO KNOW EXACTLY WHAT TO SAY... he's really, really bad at manipulation. And really, any sort of person to person connection.

[arachnidseyes]

「🌺」 +18

~Before

Looks like another long day.

Damian’s head rests on your stomach as you both cuddle on your couch. His hands rest on either side of your waist just under your shirt. Your fingers run through his hair and trace his bare shoulders, shirt discarded a while ago. He says it's because he runs hot but you know it’s because he likes the skin to skin contact.

His eyes flutter closed as your fingers lightly card through his thick hair, he looks tired. He always looks tired.

You want to voice your concern but it's difficult. He's a trained killer since birth, he doesn't need your concern. He knows what he needs and you would have left it there if not for the scar you spot on his shoulder blade that wasn’t there a week ago.

“When did you get this?”

Your fingers trace the wound. It’s not serious but it’ll still scar his skin for months, maybe years. Damian’s eyes flutter open and he touches the scar, as if trying to recall the moment he got it.

“I don't remember.”

You take your hand away from his hair, clearly not very satisfied by that answer. He sighs, propping himself up on his arms to look at you.

“You worry too much, beloved.”

“Why shouldn't I?”

Your eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion and Damian’s fingers fiddle a little at your sides, trying to figure out how to word his next sentence.

“Because I can handle it.”

He can tell that answer doesn’t satisfy you either, he didn't really expect it would. You push his chest to sit up on the couch, looking him in the eyes when you say,

“I love you,” He bites the inside of his lip a little and you know it's him trying to hide a smile. “Which means I'm always going to worry about you, even if I don't have to. Get used to it.”

He huffs a laugh, you can tell he wants to argue further but doesn't exactly know how. You take the opportunity to ask him, while stroking a thumb along his the sullen skin under his eyes.

“Are you tired?”

He sinks further into your palm and flutters his eyes closed.

“It’s busy at the hospital, Father has been unrelenting since Croc broke out of Arkham. I had a run in with him a few days ago.”

You glance back at the scar.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You are helping.”

You both can’t seem to hide the quirk in your lips as Damian brings you closer to straddle his thighs. He wants to tell you how safe you make him feel, how your concern makes him feel cared for, but he just doesn’t think he can yet. He tries anyway.

“I love you too”

You give him a confused look, getting comfortable on his lap.

“You said you loved me earlier. I love you too.”

He says this with his patent flavour of sincerity that makes you smile. You bring his face closer to kiss him, a short one at first which turns into a few more which then turns into making out on the couch, a not uncommon past time recently.

Your hands float mindlessly from his shoulders to his biceps and back up again, tracing the hard-earned muscles. His hands trail carefully up your shirt to explore your bare waist, keeping you close as he leaves your lips to place slow kisses down your jaw and neck.

“You’re so good to me, beloved.” He pulls you in even closer so you’re chest to chest, with just your shirt and bra keeping your skin from touching. “Let me take care of you too.”

You want to argue that he already does but your brain short-circuits when you feel his hand on your ass, pulling your lower body closer to his, only then do you understand his meaning.

“You mean…”

You look him in the eyes and he looks back, he nods his head, somehow looking unsure but resolute at the same time.

“Have- have you ever…?”

You’re not necessarily surprised and maybe a little more relieved than you should be when he shakes his head. After a deep breath, you breath out an, “Okay.” before kissing him again, this time with some renewed enthusiasm.

Now, you’re both adults, you know what to expect and you’re sure he does too but that doesn’t stop it from being a little intimidating. As you feel the almost reverent way he touches you, the way he sinks into the couch letting your love wash over him, there’s no one you’d rather float into uncharted waters with.

You clumsily shuffle off your shirt and try not look as scared as you are. You can tell he’s trying not to stare too intensely, which is a nice thought but also completely unnecessary because you love it when he stares. You place your hand over his and slide it up your back until he gets to your bra. You give him an encouraging nod and he unclips the garment, letting it fall from your shoulders.

He stares openly, at the way your tits move with your breaths, the way the nipples harden in the exposed air. He keeps eye contact with you as he leans in to gently place kisses in the valley between your breasts. He slowly travels along the swell of flesh until he reaches a nipple and takes it into his mouth, licking the bud gently as he takes your other breast into his warm hand to gently feel it.

You release a long hum in response, sinking further into his touch. Your hips slowly begin to grind down, unable to stay still. Damian doesn’t seem to mind at all as his other hand stays on your ass, encouraging your hips forward. You vaguely wonder where he learnt this or if he’d thought about it before. You can feel yourself getting embarrassingly wet and it gets much worse when you feel his hardness against your clothed pussy. A throaty moan escapes from you and Damian gives you a groan in response, mouth still busy with your tit.

You lean down and whisper into his hair, “Damian, please.”

He lifts his head up immediately, gazing dazedly into your eyes, making sure you’re asking for what he hopes you're asking for. The look in your eyes is all the confirmation he needs.

He nods his head again, seemingly at a loss for words and slips his hand under the waist band of both your shorts and underwear. You shift, helping him rid you of your remaining clothes and help him shuffle out of his shorts.

You both take a long moment to stare down at your naked bodies. Both of you also seem to realise their might be a problem, staring down at the size of his hard cock. Damian’s hands travel down to your thighs, spreading your legs a little wider. You try not to move when his thumb brushes your entrance, testing the waters.

He curses in his mother tongue when he feels how wet you are for him already and he gently eases a finger inside you. You both groan as he slowly stretches you out, the slick sound of your wetness filling the room before he eases in another finger. He uses his middle and ring fingers to stroke your insides, somehow brushing just the right places to make you writhe and moan into his neck. His palm against your mound gives you some delicious friction as you grind against his fingers, getting more and more worked up by the second.

You feel your orgasm building and you make the difficult choice to pull Damian’s fingers from you before either of you get too carried away with your pleasure. You look him in his gorgeous, dazed eyes.

“I can take it.”

Damian screws his eyes shut and tips his head to the ceiling, your words seemingly having an affect on the poor man. You take his cock in your hand, actually feeling it for the first time. Lining up his tip with your entrance, you lower yourself down, using his shoulders for support. You both moan as he enters you, Damian grips the couch cushion, head tipping back as your warm walls envelope him. The stretch is a divine mix of pleasure and pain, you feel every inch of him, reaching places no one else has.

You both groan when you bottom out and you lean against his chest for support as he tries to even out his breaths. His hands lazily stroke up and own your back and you feel so full. You kiss up his exposed neck and catch his lips in a deep kiss, you both stay like that for a long moment, closer than you’ve ever been before, as close as two lovers can be.

Slowly you start to grind against him, unable to keep down your sounds of pleasure as his cock brushes newly discovered sweet spots deep inside you. You lift your hips just to bring them down again, Damian’s grip on your hips helping you keep rhythm. Your thrusts only get more frantic, as his soft pubes brush against your sensitive clit. Just when you’re building up to your orgasm you feel your legs lock and you fall against your boyfriends chest with a whine, legs shaking as your pussy clenches around him.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice is hoarse and breathy, squeezing your waist to keep himself grounded. You whine again, nuzzling into his neck to hide your hot face.

“I can’t move my legs.”

Damian lets out a breathless laugh and you lightly smack his shoulder.

“Shut up. They just stopped working, I think I got too excited."

He holds you to his chest and rolls you onto your back, resting your head on the couch cushions.

“Is this better?”

He eases into you so you take all of him again and you groan, nodding up at him. His first thrust knocks all the air out of you as he sets a slow pace. His hips rock against yours as he slowly builds up pace, his cock reaching so deep inside you in this new position it has you seeing stars.

You can barely keep yourself together, lifting your hips from the couch to meet his thrusts, your moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through your living room. Damian’s thrusts grow faster and more frantic, clutching your waist for dear life while resting his head against your shoulder. You let out a loud moan when he slinks a hand down to lightly stroke your clit.

You bring his face away from your neck and bring him into an open mouthed kiss. You moan into each others mouths as you both reach your climax with a few more perfectly timed thrusts.

You wrap your arms around his neck while your legs lock around his waist to keep him as close as possible. He rests against your chest, catching his breath, listening to your rapidly beating heart. It’s quiet for a good few minutes while you both come down from your highs, eventually Damian mumbles into your chest.

“I should’ve warn a condom.”

You snort, “We’ll get a plan B or something. Don’t ruin the moment.”

Damian huffs and brings himself up, his biceps flexing with the strain as he slowly pulls out of your sensitive pussy. He sighs and kisses your knee, staring down at you with half-lidded eyes.

“You look gorgeous, beloved.”

You grin at him, lift an eyebrow and say,

”Well, I just took your virginity so I’d hope so.”

He rolls his eyes, unable to wipe the grin off his face. He scoops you up into his arms and carries you down the hall to your bathroom.

“I don’t appreciate that phrasing.”

“Oh, okay then, what about popped your cherry?”

“Shut up.” He grumbles while testing the hot water in the shower.

“Deflowered you?”

He refuses to answer as he lathers himself and you with soap.

“Stole your V card?”

Later that night, you’re both lying in bed, while he applies lotion to the little love bites he gave your tits and neck. You ask him your burning question,

“Which of your brothers gave you sex advice?”

“Beloved.” He warns with absolutely no heat behind it.

“You definitely got advice from one of them. Oh my god, was it Bruce?”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Please just say it wasn’t Alfred.”

“Goodnight.”

「🌺」