#how to get rid of throat itching

[lay-z]

sugar plum promises | 1

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x CURVY!FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; some physical descriptions of Reader; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers; hurt/comfort; eventual smut [Please mind the warnings for each part!]

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB × | [ SPP MASTERLIST ]

It’s Saturday, his first day off base since returning from a three month long deployment just the day before yesterday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly like no one ever has before while he’s minding his business and checking out the new flavours of instant Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you suddenly address him directly.

“Big lad like you needs a proper meal,” you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. “In my humble opinion.” You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, immediately checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a “Have a good day, love,” and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling in this moment as his body decides to act on autopilot, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, perhaps this time, Simon’s going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping that maybe, you’ll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

He follows you discreetly through the supermarket like a man on a never-ending mission, silently stalking like a cat in a mouse chase down the aisles. His eyes are locked on you like a heat-seeking missile, noting every move you make, watching how every step sways your curves in the right fashion, nearly causing him to run into a display rack at his momentary distraction.

He nearly growls when some random bloke blocks his path to you and to ask you a question on top of that. He doesn’t quite manage to pick up the words, but it’s enough for him to clench his jaw and tighten his grip on the abused instant noodles cup. A deep huff escapes from behind his balaclava, and he resumes his discreet surveillance as soon as the man saunters his merry way.

Simon watches as you throw a pack of biscuits into the cart, your body turned away from him, your back facing him while you lean over. His eyes land on your round, firm rear like a magnet drawn to the iron. He can almost see the way your muscles move under the jeans fabric—

His thoughts are rudely interrupted when an elderly woman approaches the same shelf, and he has to step into the next aisle and pretend to browse, stomach twisting as he loses visuals on you.

As the woman moves her squeaky cart on wheels down the lane, his eyes flicker nervously before he catches sight of you again, chest heaving with a sigh of relief as he sees you browsing the frozen goods section, and his fingers twitch around the plastic cup, itching to touch you, to grab your hips and grind himself against—he shakes his head with a low grunt, trying to rid himself of that thought. He's already painfully hard enough.

It’s wrong, Simon knows that. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t use his skills to basically stalk you for making a nice, yet throwaway remark in his direction, but he somehow can’t keep his eyes off your body, his gaze glued to your every move—until you obviously pick up on the surveillance.

You do notice him. He’s like a looming shadow sneaking after your own, and for a moment, you wonder if you should’ve just kept your mouth shut for once when you’d spotted him initially.

He’s built like a bloody tank, wearing a balaclava and matching gloves with a skeleton pattern. What the bloody hell were you thinking?

All bark, no bite. That’s what you were thinking, and Wonder if he’s as tough as he looks or if he crumbles like a fresh scone with a few buttery words—like many other “scary dog privilege” men before him.

Slowing your steps, you eventually come to a stop, heart thudding as you glance over your shoulder, only to see him a few feet away, staring right back at you in a way that’s as adorable as it is eerie.

Simon’s feet freeze on the spot, his gaze locking with yours across the freezer cabinets, eyes wide. He didn’t expect to be discovered so easily, and he stands there like a deer caught in the headlights of a Humvee with an RPG attached to it—that he hopes will shoot him on sight.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the fabric of the balaclava, his mind racing for an excuse, a reason, though he comes up with nothing. The seconds feel like hours as the two of you stare at each other, before he finally blurts out:

“I...” His voice is hoarse, a low grumble that betrays his own surprise.

Oh. You almost laugh out loud at the sight before you, though you manage to suppress it, lips pursing in amusement instead.

No bark, no bite, actually.

He looks like an awkward little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the secret candy drawer in the living room.

“Yes, you?” you ask teasingly, wanting him to continue, to stammer and try to come up with a proper yet easily punishable lie. Raising an eyebrow, you turn towards him fully, keeping one hand on the shopping cart while your other rests on the curve of your hip casually.

“Well?”

Simon’s brain short-circuits as he desperately tries to come up with a plausible excuse, but all his mind supplies is a loop of caught, caught, caught like a broken record while he merely stands there like a fish washed out on the shore. He clears his throat awkwardly and straightens up, attempting to look innocent.

“I... I was just... uh...” he stammers, his voice wavering as the words refuse to come out. He mentally curses his lack of social skills, the years of isolation making him stumble like some twonk.

“Just doing some shopping,” he eventually mutters gruffly, his eyes flitting away from your gaze for a moment before darting back, unable to resist another look. There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment.

You nod slowly. “Doing some shopping,” you repeat, amusement glinting in your eyes as you glance down at the single cup of instant Ramen he’s still clutching in his hands like a lifebuoy. “Right.”

You notice how utterly still he is; no shuffling, no fidgeting, broad chest barely moving as he breathes, dark eyes flickering the slightest bit whenever your gaze catches his.

He’s a different breed of man, that one, you muse.

Clicking your tongue, you shift on your feet. “You call that shopping?” You nod your chin at his hands. “Like I said, you need to be fed a proper meal, love. Is your wife out of town or something?”

Simon bristles at your comment, his shoulders tensing as your words hit a nerve, a bit too close to home. He glances down at the cup of Ramen in his hands, feeling a mixture of shame and stubbornness.

The truth is that he’s so bloody touch–and attention-starved that your simple words, your simple presence, make him feel flustered, his frayed nerves now on edge.

“I don't have a wife,” he mutters, words edged with a hint of bitterness. He knows he’s being judged, but there’s a baser, hidden part of him that simply revels in the attention, in the fact that someone as classy and obviously put-together as you, has noticed him at all.

“And I can feed myself just fine.” He adds dryly, raising the cup defiantly as if to prove a point.

You swallow another pleased smile as he confirms what you've expected while the word brat burns on the tip of your tongue at this display of attitude.

Glancing back at your full shopping cart, you lick your lips briefly in thought, pondering and weighing the risks before looking back at him. He hasn’t moved an inch, simply keeps observing like you’re the odd ball here.

Pulling on the shopping cart, you slowly start walking backwards towards him, approaching like someone would a strange street dog.

“Tell you what,” you say as soon as you’re an appropriate distance away from him, and it’s then that you notice how tall and broad he truly this is up close. “If you help me carry these groceries to my car, I’ll cook you a proper dinner tonight.”

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and bewildered by your audacity. He simply stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, grappling with the unexpected situation. You’re trying to coax him with a treat like one would do with an animal to gain its trust, and Simon is furious about the tiny part inside his brain that’s thrashing to jump on this opportunity.

“You... You’re serious,” he finally manages to sputter, his brain struggling to process that you, that a woman like you, a stranger, is actually proposing this to someone like him.

“Why would you do that?” His eyes narrow in suspicion, though beneath the hardness of his expression, there’s a hint of curiosity, a hint of longing for a chance at this offered piece of normalcy.

Sensing his—understandable—apprehension, you give a small shrug in return, finally offering him a tentative yet genuine smile.

“Because you look like you could use it, love.”

You let your eyes roam once more, looking him up and down from boot to mask, heart giving a curious flutter as your gaze locks with his; tawny eyes so dark, you know you could get lost in them if he lets you in.

Then you reach into your purse slung over your shoulder and you notice how his broad shoulders tense and how his fingers flex as if he’s bracing himself for an attack.

As your hand disappears into your purse, Simon’s defensive instincts kick in automatically, his muscles coiling tightly in anticipation. His sharp senses on high alert, he blinks, slightly taken aback but not surprised by his own reaction, though he can’t help it; years of experience and survival training already hard-wired into his responses.

But he relaxes incrementally, when he sees you withdrawing your hand—now holding a purple ball pen and small note pad, and the sudden burst of adrenaline fades to a steady thrum in his veins as fast as it came.

“I...” he begins, but the words feel caught in his throat, his mind suddenly blank.

Covering his little slip-up with your own feigned nonchalance, you start scribbling away on the first blank page of your notepad before ripping it out and holding it out for him to take, thus offering a different treat—secretly hoping he’ll like this one.

“My name,” you explain, deciding that it might not be as self-explanatory as it would be for any other man you’ve previously met, “and my phone number.”

When he eventually takes the slip of paper with due care, his eyes keep flickering between your hand and face as if still expecting you to pull a gun on him, until you take a polite step backwards.

“Call or text me for that meal if you change your mind,” you add confidently.

Simon’s gaze follows your hand warily, taking the note from you with a slow, measured movement, his gloved fingers feeling uncharacteristically clumsy and uncoordinated as he grabs it. He stares at the slip of paper in his hand for a moment, brows furrowing behind his balaclava as he takes in the sight of your phone number and name written in neat, cursive handwriting, reading the words slowly in an almost mechanical manner, committing them to memory as a precaution.

His fingers twitch involuntarily, and for a wild, fleeting moment, he wants to raise the paper to his nose and inhale the faint scent of your perfume that clings onto the paper. And then you take a step backward, giving him space, and he takes an unconscious step forward, like a puppet on a string, not wanting to put that space between you again while his eyes stay glued to yours with a touch of desperation.

You’re leaving the ball in his corner and he doesn’t know how what to think, how to act.

As you adjust the straps of your purse on your shoulder, you drink in his subtle reaction with a mixture of sympathy and glee.

“Alright then?”

Simon watches in awe as you readjust your purse like it’s the most interesting action he’s ever seen, and when he opens his mouth to respond, his thoughts tumble over each other like leaves in a breeze. A simple yeah or a sure would’ve been the logical answers, but none of this is logical to him right now.

“You’re not worried,” he observes, the words nearly sounding accusatory, “about having a stranger over for dinner?”

He almost wants to call you daft, reckless; giving a man like him your number and name, offering your kindness up so easily. Can’t you tell what kind of man he is? Don’t you know what he can do with the intel you’ve already provided him with so willingly?

Simon wants to reach out and shake you, but his fingers are trembling and his cock is still throbbing, still semi-hard in his pants—and he can’t quite tell which is worse.

There’s a long pause between you as you regard his question with a light crease between your eyebrows, and you catch yourself wondering again what this poor man could’ve possibly been through for him to be this bloody suspicious.

From your experience, almost every other man would’ve jumped on this opportunity already, presented on a silver plate. You’ve been flirting with him since you spotted him entering the supermarket. However, you can only admit to yourself that his cautious reactions are merely heightening your curiosity and the urge to unravel this beast of a man completely.

“Most people start out as strangers,” you answer eventually, gauging his next reaction carefully, “and usually one takes the initiative to get to know the other if they’re interested, you know?” You flash him a disarming smile. “This is me taking that initiative here, mister.”

He takes a step forward, invading your personal space, and the height difference between you two becomes more painfully (arousingly) clear. Simon towers over you, his body vibrating with suppressed tension while he looks down at you with a stare that usually has his rookies quiver in their boots—not you, though.

“And what if I’m not interested?” he responds too bluntly and not as playful as he intended to, his voice lowered, nearly growling at you. He’s picked up on how other men talk to women at pubs, has eavesdropped and heard how Soap and Gaz talk to the birds they end up taking back to the barracks, and yet he can’t quite get his own tone right.

He certainly doesn’t like the fact that you’re making his heart race, that you’ve piqued his curiosity without even trying. It feels unfamiliar, dangerous, and somehow, he finds himself craving more of it in the same heartbeat.

Tilting your head owlishly, you regard him with a half-puzzled, half-amused look.

“Then I'll go on my merry way, love,” you reply with a breathy chuckle that obviously leaves him feeling even more lost judging how his eyes widen. “And then we move on after having a basic human interaction at a supermarket. Life’s beautiful, innit?”

Something about the way you talk, with the casual pet name, ‘love’, thrown in every second sentence, or the way your laugh makes his skin prickle in some foreign, exciting way, drives him mad with primal want and the unfamiliar urge to keep you here with him, keep you talking.

But he also feels like a damn fool in this moment, and on top of that, his face feels so hot under his balaclava, too. You’re not reacting the way he expects you to, not at all, and it’s throwing him off-guard.

He clears his throat again. “You’ll just... move on,” he repeats incredulously, like it pains him to say the words. “Just like that.”

You shrug, flashing another smile. “I mean... yes. What else is there to do? I’m not running after a man who’s not interested in me. I’m too old for games like that.”

Simon’s eyes narrow again. The thought of you giving up so easily, leaving, not even giving him a second thought—it pisses him off, for some reason, because it’s making him desperate. How the bloody hell does Garrick make it sound so easy and suave every time?

“How old are you?” The words burst out without him meaning to, his tone still gruff and defensive.

You snort softly. He’s so bratty, so rude, it’s almost endearing for a man looking like him, and it pokes your curiosity, causing the urge to take care of him to blossom even more hotly behind your ribcage as you drink up the tension in his body and fatigue clinging behind his wary, bottomless gaze.

“Old enough to know what I want, love.” It’s a curt response that has the desired effect judging by the way his jaw ticks under his odd mask. You smile again as you put the pen and notepad back into your purse, turning halfway around to your shopping cart to signal your departure.

“Anyway... my ice cream is melting, so I’ll be heading to the cashier. Thanks for the chat. You have a good day now.”

Just like that.

Simon is reeling internally as you prepare to leave, and he can’t help but admire the subtle power you wield with the way you carry yourself and the nonchalance you display so bloody effortlessly. Suddenly, he is torn between letting you go and the fierce need for you to not walk away. His chest tightens and his fingers twitch, and he suddenly feels like a child lost in this bloody supermarket, scared of being abandoned again.

However, he swallows the plea festering on the tip of his tongue, the words asking you to wait, stay, and talk more. No, Simon falls back, clutching the bloody Ramen cup in one hand as he stares after you while you simply move on like you said you would, as if you didn’t just throw him off balance completely with this whole interaction.

When his other hand balls into a tight fist, he hears the crumpling of paper, and when he glances down at his open palm, his heart nearly drops with relief.

You’ve given him your number. He’s never gotten a girl’s number in his life.

It was real. It is real. Everything that just happened is real, and he wasn’t simply daydreaming it up this time.

His fingers close around that scrap of paper like a life line, his mind racing once more with possibilities, the scenarios, the what-ifs.

[tojicide]

OBSESSED. ☆ SYLUS.

📰 extra, extra! why is your bodyguard so obsessed with you? girl, you wanna know...

warnings. fem!reader, popstar!reader, bodyguard!sylus, established romantic history ( very brief ), pet names, semi-public, fingering, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v. wc. 4.6k.

an. reused the header and a bit of the plot from an aaron hotchner fanfic i wrote on wattpad in like… 2021??? tweaked most of the details obvs but ig i was born as a bodyguard au lover

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Your bodyguard was such a buzzkill.

Dragging you out of every party you make an appearance at, replacing your shots with water once he believes you’ve had one too many, watching you like a hawk no matter where you are or who you’re with...

You despise those who have an inability to have fun, so as far as you’re concerned, Sylus is the devil reincarnated. You aren’t exactly shy about your opinion of him either, and perhaps in hindsight, that is exactly why he was currently pacing through the party you’re in attendance of to try and ruin your night yet again.

(Ruin your night or… do his job? Hell if you care about the logistics of it all. Two sides of the same coin, you think.)

His protective instinct only grew more intense ever since the two of you shared a kiss before a concert of yours that left your lipstick smeared over your face like there was no tomorrow…

And what did that asshole do? Nothing. It was in his nature to make your life miserable after all. Sylus let you walk out in front of your thousands of fans, makeup messy and appearance disheveled all from his mouth on yours alone.

And boy, did the tabloids have a time with that one… Who was the culprit? A new fling of yours? Fiancé? Possible baby daddy? Each and every news outlet had some uniquely wrong to say. Can’t a girl have a makeout session with her bodyguard in peace?

Unfortunately for you, the paparazzi have been hounding you ever since that day, itching to get the 4-1-1 on your love life.

And ever since, you haven’t given many people the time of day—including Sylus. Tonight, you’ve managed to stay two steps ahead of your dear bodyguard and evade eventual capture for just a bit longer. You’re currently surrounded by a few of your friends, socialites and actors alike.

Your lips seem to flap freely when you have a few drinks in you, but tonight, you’re sober but even more talkative than ever. Your chosen topic of conversation? Your overbearing and stupidly handsome bodyguard, of course.

Too lost in your story, waving your arms around to your theatrical pleasure, you hardly noticed the way your friends’ faces paled to a ghostly shade of white, their eyes nearly bulging out of their heads and their lips parted as if they had something to say but… couldn’t.

All the while, you were too busy blowing off the  steam that you’d acquired from your last encounter with the forsaken bodyguard. “…And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?”

As fate would have it, you hear a throat clear behind you followed by an annoyed sigh that you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand. You spin around, already wearing a scowl.

“Obsessed with you, hm?” Sylus says, his voice low and seemingly dangerous, though your utter distaste for the man rids him of his intimidation. “You’re quite self important. I could never live in a world where I’d fall at the feet of an egotistical popstar.”

You roll your eyes at that. Who does he think he is? Everyone loves you—all except for the disgustingly handsome man standing in front of you.

“Mm… well, you can always die an untimely death and never have to work for me again,” you reply, giving him the most passive aggressive smile known to man. “Hopefully that gives you an ounce of hope.”

“It does,” he replies, returning the same expression that you gave him.

It’s borderline infuriating how undisturbed Sylus was. No, it is infuriating. No matter how many insults you chucked his way, he never cracked. (And the one time he did, it led to the two of you playing tonsil tennis in your dressing room...)

You shake your head, huffing in utter annoyance. You then hold your wrists up for display, cocking your head to the side as you give him a mock puppy dog expression. “Sooo… are you here to take me away, Officer Buzzkill?”

Sylus merely blinks in response to your taunting, taking a firm grasp on one of your wrists before he tugs you through the sea of partygoers. He laces your fingers together, squeezing tight as to not lose hold of you.

“Must you always make things so difficult?” he asks, keeping his eyes ahead.

You shrug your shoulders. “More or less.”

“More or less?” he echoes, glancing over his shoulder to properly look at you. “I suggest you try a different style of communication, sweetness. Your clipped attitude will get you nowhere.”

“Oh? But it’s gotten me so far already…” you trail off, glancing at his lips for a few agonizingly long seconds before a smirk tugs on the corner of your mouth. “In fact, I think it can get me even further.”

Sylus’s jaw tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he tears his gaze away from you. He can’t handle the way you’re looking at him—so unbelievably beautiful with those siren eyes of yours, the mere sight of you already stirring something unwanted within him.

He turns around to continue leading you through the crowd without a reply. You begin to glance around yourself, attempting to plot your brilliant escape.

“Don’t,” he flatly states, his iron grip tightening on your hand.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a strong tone of defiance.

Sylus gives your hand one solid tug before you’re standing in front of him, his free hand pressing onto the small of your back as he keeps you pressed to his chest. “If you haven’t noticed, you brat, I will always chase you. I’ll find you just the same.”

You almost deflate under his intense gaze, his deep red eyes piercing through your own. It wasn’t often that Sylus manhandled you, but when he did, it made you feel… different. Intrigued, maybe.

“How touching,” you deadpan, “but you still get on my nerves.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Tch. Oh, I’m sorry… when have I ever cared about what you think?”

“Never,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You know… if you hate me so much, you should just quit on me.”

Sylus rolls his eyes, his red irises drawing you in like no other. “I don’t… hate you. You should be rather thankful that I don’t, because I’m doubtful that anyone else would want this job of mine—you’re quite the handful.”

“Mm, I’m only saying,” you murmur with a shrug, giving his hand a harsh squeeze as if the roughness of your grasp would make him let go, but he, of course, does not. “You don’t need this job, and yet, here you are.”

He raises a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

You smile, the same shit-eating grin that he has grown to be all too familiar with. “Give me your wallet.”

Sylus huffs, his broad shoulders deflating as he fishes his black leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it over to you. You take it with ease, taking your hand from his as you crack it open.

You slip his Black Card from the sleeve, proving that he truly didn’t need the job for any monetary gain. And then, a triumphant smile graces your lips as you pull out none other than a Polaroid photo taken of you—backstage at your concert just before the kiss you two shared.

“Ooh… what’s this?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

Sylus reaches forward to try and snatch the tiny photo from you, but you are far too quick. “What are you revealing exactly? That you were secretly snooping in my wallet prior to now?”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation, “and that you’re secretly rich and in love with me. Does that make us even?”

His jaw sets, his piercing gaze set on yours. He works to snatch the photo from you, tucking his belongings back into his wallet before he slips it into his pocket. “No. Maybe if you were less of a pain, we could be even.”

You wiggle your eyebrows in suggestion. “You’re not denying being in love with me, dear bodyguard of mine.”

Sylus gives you a deadpan expression. “Must you always be so self righteous? God forbid I am proud of you and your success.”

The genuine nature of his words set you back a step, your brows knitting together and your lips parting. If Sylus noticed the shift of your expression, he didn’t mention it. Thankfully. His cold fingers lace with yours once more, continuing the stride towards the exit of the party.

“Rather than putting on this show of yours, you truly should be thanking me for saving your reputation,” he quietly adds, his hand now curled around your waist as you approach the exit. “There is a swarm of paparazzi outside who are desperate to get their grimy hands on a picture of their beloved popstar doing something remotely scandalous.”

(And if Sylus knows anything about you, it’s that you love scandals. According to you, they ‘make life worth living’. Tch. Diva.)

You chuckle. “Aww, you care!”

“Do I care, or is it my job to look after you?” he asks, plucking his sunglasses from his pocket to place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the rapid camera flashes of the paparazzi. “Public intoxication numerous times a week is not a very good look for you, sweetie. Incredibly frowned upon.”

Your jaw sets as you listen to his words. While they are undeniably true, you don’t have any plans for admitting that—not now or in the near future.

“Making out with my bodyguard is frowned upon as well, but you didn’t seem to be complaining about that bit,” you say under your breath.

Your voice was low enough that your weighted words were almost drowned out by the booming music of the party and by the chatter of the photographers you’re about to be engulfed in. Almost. 

Sylus flashes you a glare. “You shouldn’t mumble. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You heard me,” you state.

He did hear you, that was exactly the problem. It was no coincidence that the two of you haven’t spoken much since your very intense lip lock. You’ve been avoiding each other, evading the invisible string that connects the two of you like both an electric current and a noose.

The tension between the two of you was tangible, palpable even—you could practically taste it just as well as you could still taste his lips on your own. It was intoxicating, imprinting, searing.

It managed to distract you from the flashing lights of the cameramen who were swarming you, capturing flick after flick of you being led through the crowd.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “You know, you can help me out with all of this,” you murmur, gesturing towards the paparazzi. “My publicist came up with an idea that will get them off my back for a while. Give them the answers they need and… whatnot.”

“Is that right?” he asks, glancing your way. “Do tell.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tuning out all of the chattering paparazzi who are currently surrounding you. “Be my impromptu mystery man for the cameras. I’ll give you anything you want in return, I swear it.”

Sylus hums, the sound omitting a deep rumble into the air. “Anything I want? My, my, sweets, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

You huff, grasping onto the collar of his jacket as you pull him into you. “Just go with it.”

“Just go with wh— mmph!” Sylus’s words were muffled by your lips slotting against his in a searing kiss, his hands instinctively finding their home on the curve of your hips.

The kiss was… tame. It was supposed to be, after all. It was merely for the cameras, a way for you to put an answer to the questions that have been flooding your inbox and left your name circulating in the news for days on end.

But when Sylus’s tongue brushes against your bottom lip, you slightly pull away, muttering a faint, “Sylus, what’re you…” before he pulls you right back in, his large hand now resting on your cheek.

“If you’re going to use me like a whore at your disposal, I’d suggest you let me enjoy myself and taste you properly,” he sporadically says into your mouth, his hand shifting to tangle in your hair as he tilts you to his liking, your tongues meeting in with gentle swipes. “See? I knew you could do better than that.”

True to his suggestion, you kissed him like there was no tomorrow, your hands fisting his shirt in your palms as your lips moved in tandem with his. Lipstick and paparazzi long forgotten, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands give your hips a firm squeeze.

The moment he hears that sweet, impossibly faint sound of your pleasure, he knows that he’s in for it now. That’ll do it for him.

He abruptly pulls away, clasping his hand onto yours as he continues pulling you through the now stunned crowd of paparazzi. Sporting an erection and your lipstick smeared on his lips makes no difference to Sylus—if anything, he enjoys the world knowing that he has the hots for the woman who he has sworn to protect.

Sylus helps you into the passenger seat of your black SUV, closing the door behind you before making his way to the driver’s seat. He peels off, driving with intention through the streets of the city.

It was now evident to you that he was driving the SUV in pursuit of his favorite lookout spot, one that overlooks the bustling city from a distance. Sylus had taken you there once before as per your request to ‘stay out a bit later’. Nothing happened then, but you have an inclination that your luck has changed.

“I know what I want from you,” he states, placing a hand on your thigh.

How did he already manage to figure out what he wants in return for helping you? A raise? A car? The blood of his enemies? You’re intrigued, raising a brow. “You do?”

“I do,” he confirms without missing a beat. “Get into the backseat.”

A gasp leaves your kiss swollen lips as you mull over the utter implications of his words. It didn’t take a genius to understand them, but you were… surprised to say the least. “I think you’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Qin.”

In a literal sense, sure he was. But if the two of you were going to judge based on what you two want, he absolutely wasn’t—you both knew that.

He chuckles, the sound low yet infuriatingly sexy. His hand slips beneath your skirt, his middle finger brushing along the damp spot of your panties. “Your body seems to disagree with you, ma’am.”

And if you weren’t already wet before, hearing him call you ma’am was more than enough to do it for you. “Shut up,” you grumble.

“You can make me,” he suggests, setting the vehicle into park before giving your thigh a few pats. He nods his head towards the backseat. “Go on.”

Without hesitation, you kick your heels off and crawl into the back of the vehicle, thumping down on the seat with a sharp sigh. Sylus follows you within the blink of an eye, his knees settling on the spacious floor of the car.

“What’re you…” you ask, though your eyebrows raise as the pieces of the puzzle click together in your mind. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he repeats, his warm hands rubbing your knees as he spreads your legs apart, his lips finding the tender skin of your inner thigh. “You know… you truly should be resting for your show tomorrow evening.”

“Should I?” You bite on your bottom lip as he leans forward, nosing at your clothed pussy with a muffled moan of his own. He inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal driving him to the brink of insanity.

“You should,” he answers, pressing an open mouthed kiss on your cunt through the fabric of your panties. “You should stop talking too. You need to rest your voice just as much.”

You swallow hard, whimpering ever so softly as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to give himself access to your glistening core.

His eyes are set on your heat, his cool hands hiking your thighs over his shoulders. He rests his cheek on the warmth of your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “Because believe me, sweetie, the things that I want to do to you will not be in favor of that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Oh?” you ask, titling your head. “What will they be in favor of?”

He grins, wicked and devilishly handsome. “I’m glad you asked, because there’s someone else I’ve been wanting to hear from.”

Before you have the chance to reply, he’s already got his face delving deep between your legs, the filthy sounds of squelches and slurping filling the otherwise silent car.

“Oh, I— mmh, you didn’t answer my… my question,” you stammer out between breathy moans, your head tilting back on the headrest as your eyes flutter shut.

Sylus smiles into your pussy, pointing his tongue to accentuate the squelching noises that your heat was making, entirely wet and dripping for him.

“Can you not hear her?”

Never in your life did you think that having a man on his knees talking to your cunt would be this arousing, but… you’re fucking soaked.

“I-I can,” you gasp, cracking your eyes open to look down at him. “Fuck, you can talk to her in fifty languages for all I care, holy shit.”

He quietly chuckles, the sound sending a spark of vibrations onto your already sensitive clit. Your thighs tense, aching to close on him, but he keeps them spread with his strong hands on your thighs.

Your lips part as a string of breathy sounds leave you, beautiful moans and needy whimpers alike—all of which play as music to Sylus’s ears. It was nice to know that your mouth was good for more than just singing and bickering at him…

Teeth nibbling into your bottom lip, you glance down at him, only to be met with the most crazed eyes known to mankind. So disheveled, your slick leaking down his chin while his tongue delves into your heat like a man starved. He looks like he’s in his own pussy drunk heaven.

When you feel his pointed tongue begin to curve and lick in ways it hadn’t before, you do your best to follow his movements.

S-Y-L-U-S he spells on your puffy cunt with his writing tool of choice—none other than his stupidly talented tongue.

“You’re so—”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, his voice more like a husky whisper now. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, sucking on your clit before releasing it with a harsh pop.

Filthy sounds fill the air, your own breathy moans spilling from your swollen lips in tandem with the messy sucks of Sylus’s lips on your cunt. Not to mention, your girl truly was loud.

“Singing so beautifully for me,” he rasps, his eyes flitting up to watch your blissful expression. Lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin—an absolute wet dream of his come to life.

You bite your lip, hardly focused on the words coming out of his mouth. “Mmh, what…?”

“Quiet, sweets,” he repeats, hooking his hands even tighter around your thighs as he gives your heat a few more harsh licks. “I told you I was talking to her, didn’t I?”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, your core grinding against his wet muscle as you chase your release.

Sylus was more than eager to give it to you, redoubling his efforts while locking his hands over your legs to keep you steady enough for him to pleasure you effectively. The warmth pooling in your belly was far too much, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“Mmh, I… I’m coming,” you warn through an airy whine.

And when you do, Sylus swoops in even more greedily than before, his flat tongue lapping at your honeyed release. There was no way he would ever be able to go without tasting you like this now that he has. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

As you come down from your high, you grin with a few pants. “Look at you, falling at the feet of your ‘egotistical popstar’—mmph!”

Sylus plunges two fingers into your mouth to shut you up, rising to plant himself onto the seat beside you. “That’s hardly an insult to me anymore, my dear. I know what I am.”

He pulls his spit slick fingers from your mouth, bringing them to your pussy as he gently circles your sensitive clit. His free hand guides you through the motion of straddling his lap. With a simple nod of his head, he gestures for you to lift your shirt up, and you do.

“And what’s that?” you ask, watching as he leans forward to mouth at your breasts through the fabric of your bra.

“I’ve already told you,” he murmurs, bringing his free hand to his belt to free his cock from the confines of his pants. “A whore at your disposal.”

“I knew it,” you chuckle, though the sweet sound is interrupted by a breathy moan that he coaxes out of you once he slides his fat cockhead along your folds.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side. “Are you not going to reciprocate my affection?” he teases, grasping tightly onto your hips. “Or do I have to work a bit harder for it, ma’am?”

Your knees would have certainly buckled if they weren’t firmly planted on the leather seats of the SUV. Who would have thought that you had a thing for white-haired bodyguards who call you ‘ma’am’?

Sylus raises a brow, a cocky smirk tugging on his lips. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You feel your face heating up more and more the longer you look him in the eyes, shifting your hips so that the tip of his cock finally meets your entrance. “Just… shut up and put it in.”

“How demanding,” he hums, smirking ever so slightly as he uses his grasp on you to make one sharp snap of his hips, burying balls deep inside of your heat. “But as you wish, pretty.”

You cry out immediately, the burn of the stretch fading into unfolding pleasure. Eyes locked on each other’s, breaths mingling with ease, skin slicked with sweat, it was…

“Perfect,” he whispers, smoothing his hands along your hips before one reaches up to cup your cheek. He pulls you into a deep, searing kiss. “So, so perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, you were merely testing the waters that had yet to be explored. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing your deepest points with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Sylus begins to help you move a bit quicker, rocking your hips forward in smooth rolls, earning moans from the both of you that seemed to come straight from your guts.

“Give it to me how you like it, baby,” he encourages, both of his hands planting firmly on your waist. “Use my cock however you need it, sweets, it’s yours.”

His words have your clit pulsating around his thick shaft, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you begin to work up a pace of your own that has your heart beating wildly.

“I always… fuck—I always knew you were obsessed with me,” you jest, your grin stretching wide.

Sylus hums, the sound low and deep, his iron grip on your hips helping you maintain the intensity of your movements whenever your muscles beg for a break. “Yeah? Needed me to be buried inside of you to have that bit of confirmation?”

You nod with a smile, hands wrapping around his neck as you plant your forehead against his. He smiles too, a breathy moan leaving his mouth as you circle your hips in a way that has him seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah, I’m obsessed with you,” he admits without a semblance of shame, tilting his head back on the headrest.

Already feeling your second orgasm approaching, you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat that made a musk that was so beautifully Sylus. His hands smooth over your backside, giving your ass a squeeze.

“Tch, let me see that pretty face,” he demands, nudging you with his shoulder so that you were sitting up once more. “You look so beautiful like this.”

You struggle to form a sentence, bouncing unabashedly on his cock, skin slapping together in an erratic pattern that spurred you even further. A string of whimpers and whines leave your puffy lips. Though your reply lacked words, it perfectly communicated what you wanted to say.

“Oh, I know it, baby,” he rasps, tilting his head back again as his eyes slip shut. “Pussy’s addictive—shit, I’m obsessed with her too.”

You begin to lose yourself all together, reduced to nothing more than a blissed out woman riding her bodyguard’s cock. “Sylus, I… mmh, I’m gonna cum.”

He nods in understanding, smoothing his hand through your hair as he brings you in for another kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and drooling in the most beautiful way possible.

“Gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like this, baby,” he warns, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, as if it were confirming his words. You don’t do this often, contrary to popular belief, but you are on the pill. Luckily. “Please do.”

Sylus pants through a smile, licking his lips as he guides you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Huh… you really are something special.”

A deep groan leaves his mouth as he dips his head, grip tightening on your waist as you ride him through your shared orgasm. You aren’t sure where yours ended and his began, or if you had gotten the order wrong entirely. All you know is that in that moment, the two of you became one.

Panting, your hand plants on the fogged up window of the vehicle, leaving your handprint in its wake. Sylus lets out a breathy chuckle, raising his own shaking hand to the window.

You watch through lidded eyes as he draws a tiny heart, writing his and your first initials inside of it with a little + in the middle. How cute.

Sylus then turns to face you again, bringing his hand to your cheek. You nuzzle into his palm, placing a kiss on his skin. “I have something to admit.”

He nods his head a single time, beckoning you to continue. “What is it?”

You give him a wry smile. “My publicist never gave me the idea for that publicity stunt.”

“…I figured that much, sweetie.”

note. bodyguard!sylus, my glorious king… ok i lowkey hate this but it holds no purpose saving up space in my drafts so :D pls interact if you enjoyed, rbs are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for readingggg !!!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or him seeing you with someone else.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ i might be posting another chapter in a few days hehe,,, i've been thinking about making a post about the kind of outfits this reader wears, lmk if you'd be interested!!

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

YOU: you there? sent at 10am YOU: i miss talking to you. sent at 1pm YOU: i'm booooreeeed :( sent at 4pm YOU: sorry if i'm bothering you :) sent at 6pm YOU: sry i'll stop now!!! sent at 8pm YOU: i miss you... sent two minutes ago YOU: sorryyy, im a bit tips. sent now

you frowned as you looked down at your phone. everything felt like shit. emilia was off to talk with rafe, and you could see vivian making out with topper, the boy's back pressed against the tree, everyone else having someone to talk to, or even be in the presence of. everyone except for you, and the pitiful plastic cup that consisted of 75% vodka, 10% of some random punch and 15% of diet coke in your hand.

"am i pathetic?" you asked the fire blazing in front of you, taking a long chug from your mug. you already knew the answer. the guy you possibly liked was ignoring you, meanwhile everyone else was shoving their tongues down each other's throats. it felt like you were the only person in the universe.

"probably." a voice appeared next to you, nearly making you choke on your drink. you looked to your left side as you coughed, trying to get rid of the itch in your throat, seeing that someone had pulled up a chair right next to yours, making your eyes widen.

"who-" you coughed, "are you?" you held your breath, hoping that it'd help, only for the boy to bend you forward slightly, slapping your back a few times, "breathe in." he commanded, and you did so, "breathe out."

after a few more times of doing that, you started to feel slightly better, able to finally speak without having to cough. "thanks..." you said softly, "uh, who are you?"

"i'm dodge." the dark-haired boy flashed you a smile, "can i ask you, what's your name, and why do you think you're pathetic?"

you told him your name, taking a moment to think of an answer to his second question, "well... all of my friends have someone they're with right now. one of my friends is with a guy she swears she hates but ends up getting with all the time, and another is with a guy who i'm pretty sure has a crush on her."

"then just go and mingle." the dark-haired boy shrugged, like talking to people was the easiest thing in the world. for a lot of people, it was. not you. "drunk people love socializing. someone would probably be willing to listen their ear off about… the history of cars, or something."

"i'm terrible at it. i swear, i'd accidentally end up offending them in some way." you shook your head, "i have pretty bad anxiety. i see a large group of people and it's like... i stop functioning." "you're in a large group of people right now. look around." you did as dodge said, chuckling as you looked around the clearing. you were surrounded by people. couples making out, people hanging out in groups, people by the fire... yet you didn't feel as anxious as you always do.

"i take beta blockers, and since alcohol is a depressant, it relieves my anxiety and lowers my inhibitions, meaning-" "-that you'll feel good after a few drinks but if you keep drinking more, you'll start to go down and eventually feel like crap." the boy finishes your sentence for you, and you cock your head to the side with a slight smile, "you're a lot smarter than most frat boys."

"and you're a lot smarter than most pathetic people." "i take it back," you nudge dodge to his side, "you're awful." "i think you like it." he grinned. "only because my inhibitions are lowered by alcohol." you rolled your eyes, "but tomorrow i'm gonna have the worst case of hangxiety and avoid you like the plague." "you're a cruel woman."

you laughed, shaking your head and looking to the fire, taking an absentminded sip of your drink, "y'know, people tell me that i'm smart, but for some reason, i've never really been able to figure out why i feel different than others." "well, how are you different?" "to the people around me… it seems to come so easily to just talk to people. to connect with someone. but i feel like i can't connect to people at all."

"i mean, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses." the boy shrugged, "you're bad at socializing but i bet you're good at other things." "well, there's one thing i can tell you're not good at, dodge." "oh yeah? what's that?" the boy raised his brows in amusement, "pep talks."

MEANWHILE...

emilia sat down onto the chair next to rafe's, handing him a beer while taking a sip of her own. she leaned back on her chair, tsk'ing, "so, uh, why'd you wanna talk to me?" "oh." rafe chuckled under his breath, turning to her, "you just seem like a cool girl. a cool person."

"oh. thanks." emilia said with a tight smile, taking a long swig of her beer, "so, what are you into?" "mostly football and partying." he chuckled, "i do read sometimes, but don't go around telling that to people 'cause i'm probably gonna get shit on."

"i wont." emilia chuckled softly, "but one of my friends recommended this one bookstore to me. i can send you the address if you give me your number or your snapchat or kildareuchats user."

rafe tsked, "i would, but... i pretty much fucked up my phone this morning." "what? how? you drop it into the toilet or something?" emilia chuckled. "no, no." rafe shook his head humorously, "i fell into the water and didn't even realize it was in my pocket... it was a whole thing. now my phone is sitting in a bowl of rice."

"let's hope for the best." emilia chuckled, stretching her arms over her head, and that was when rafe noticed the logo on emilia's shirt, narrowing his eyes as he thought back to the list of music AnnabelLee had recommended.

fleetwood mac - rhiannon

"fleetwood mac." rafe said quietly, "what?" emilia asked, "fleetwood mac. on your shirt." the boy gestured to the cut-up shirt she was wearing, making emilia laugh, "oh, yeah. i borrowed it from my friend who's a big fan of them. i like them too, but she's obsessed with them. especially stevie nicks."

"who's your friend...?"

"oh, she's here with us." emilia says, looking around, until she finally spots you. and then rafe spots you, talking to another guy, a smile on your face and your body practically pressed against his side. you threw your head back in laughter, before focusing back on the boy you were with, leaning close to him. rafe tries to focus on emilia; AnnabelLee, the girl he's somehow fallen for without seeing her face or talking to her in person... but for some reason, he feels his his gut twisting whenever he thinks about the girl he'd talked to twice, a girl who pretty much got him thrown into a lake talking to another guy. flirting with another guy.

"can i... can i ask you a question?" rafe cleared his throat, "it might be a weird." "yeah, go ahead." emilia smiled, "does your friend have a cat?"

rafe's question made emilia chuckle, "that is a weird question." she stated, "but yeah, she does." emilia smiled at rafe, "her name is angel. she's white, but she has heterochromia. one of her eyes is blue and the other is green."

rafe's face went pale. white cat with one blue eye and one green eye... his mind went back to the one night when he'd gotten drunk and he'd asked you what the cat you'd told him lives with you in your dorm looked like.

she's white, fluffy and has one blue eye and one green eye. she's also a pain in the ass, but i still love her. when the puzzle pieces finally fell into position, rafe's head turned to where you'd been in record time.

only to find that you were no longer there.

TAGLIST: @yktayy9669 @tinythebunni @dywho @melalsworld @akobx @samwinchesterisawhore @st8rkey @jjasmiineee @ltristessedureratoujours @a-lovers-card @uselessnewt @lunaleah @letstryagaintomorrow @cinnamqnnlatte @papapoy @kay133sposts @wtfisastiles @butterfly1c @emmiesummers @melodyyybubbles @toomanywhitelies @littl3loveydovey @scne-vampire @alwaysmaybank @mysticbby2009 @luna443 @drewstarkeyswife-7 @flowerluvr @kisselxoll - cont. in com

[dmitriene]

cw: smut more towards the end but it's here.

sometimes taking care of simon's ghost riley wounds may take some time, usually, this kind of routine goes away fairly quickly, showing off newly found, slightly healed wounds, allowing you to quickly treat them with the right medication and bandage them before he immediately gets dressed and forgets that he was ever injured in the first place, but sometimes, he behaves differently.

brawny chest vibrating with occasional, low growls and little whines that mingle along the way, this time, simon returned home with face coated all over with tiny cuts, not allowing medics to waste his time, and even more so to look at his face, he waited till coming back to you, to get rid of the balaclava that itched all over his sensitive skin, catching on the tiny slashes that he only disinfected with water.

one of those times it could cost him an amputated limb, but no matter how often you show your concern about simon's methods of taking care of himself, he does nothing to improve it, after all, it can cost him the loss of your gentle, caring touch, the worried murmurs of your soothing voice, the way your fingers map over his full, sinewy features, and if often it's his body, now, you have his face in the mercy of your hands.

you let him settle between your spread legs, accommodating the width of his slumping shoulders, as he kneels on the rug beneath your feet, his jaw cupped in one of your palms, hand occupied with holding his face up, as you squeeze the warm, wet cloth in the other, dabbing it against his cut decorated skin, wiping away the grease and blood, noticing the serene, slow flutter of his nearly translucent eyelashes, fanning over the carved out, purple blue circles under his eyes.

simon nuzzles in your palm, suddenly, escaping the brush of your ointment smeared thumb, and you let out an uncontrollable, displeased huff, but it does nothing to bother him at all, not when he nudges his crooked nose over your tickling skin, letting you feel every tissued expanse of his face, the biting, patchy stubble, a feathery kiss of his swooping lashes, nearly dark at the roots, growing pale blonde at the wispy length.

he looks at you with pupils of ebony and irises that gleam under the warm light with underlying, simmering playfulness and raw vulnerability, and when your brows crease in a frown, lips pouting out with a light chastise of his name, his throat rumbles away an almost too high whine, pulling at your heartstrings, twisting them around and making your eyes go wide, unblinking, as if his current, unusually needy behavior is something too unbelievable to comprehend.

but, even then, you don't stop trying to apply the needed ointment on simon's skin, winning over even through his grumbles and all the nuzzling he gives to your hand and thigh, he'd have you all to himself afterwards, you tut, even with a light coloring smile over your lips and a delicate, faint kiss you press against his forehead, the barely there touch of your fingertip trailing along the creases of the crow's feet wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, deepening with age.

you'd let him heal the way he wants afterwards, nuzzling his stubborn face against your spread, sopping wet pussy with pleased rumbles and eager, twisting tongue, coating his mug with your viscous, sweet slick, spending hours lapping over your slit and thrusting up your spasming, fluttering hole, feeling over your gummy walls, the way they engulf his muscle, pulling and tightening around the intrusion, as he slides deeper, curling against this sensitive, spongy spot.

your work is done there, now, with your fluids soaking simon's skin alongside rubbed in ointment, digging fingers holding your quivering legs apart, as he fulfills the inner need and ache for more of you inside his gut, slobbering over and drinking up every drop you have to offer, filling his drooling, ravenous mouth, and the little sting he feels in his wounds is a thing to be worried about after, when he would be sated enough.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[girlfromflor]

alpha!kyle has been a current thought in my head, so i wrote about him coming back home after a long mission.

it's his fourth day home since his last mission ended.

kyle has you tucked close to him, under the covers inside the big nest you made for yourselves. he still smells a bit like tiredness, the exhaustion from the battlefield clinging to his muscles but it's almost imperceptible now.

your sweet, honey-like scent mingles with his and into the fabric enveloping you. there's a low, constant purr rumbling in your chest, scratching an itch on kyle’s mind that he waited so long to get rid of.

he's home. safe and sound with his omega so close to him, happy and purring at his presence. the notion makes his own chest vibrate with a purr as an answer, the growl of it making clear how his alpha scrapes the edges of his consciousness.

it's probably early in the morning, kyle doesn't look for his watch nor his phone, instead just basking in the dim, morning light seeping through the window – which is opened only a bit, the cold wind from outside making the fabric of the curtain swing ever so slightly.

despite the breeze, he's warm where he lays with you. the heavy weight of faux fur fabric working well on keeping your naked bodies' warmth secured inside the blanket fort you call a nest. you've been naked ever since he came home – his clothes smelling like blood and gunpowder, alpha stressed and tired, growling grumpily at the thought of fabrics keeping your skins from touching each other.

you haven't fucked nor have you indulged in any type of sexual activity, it didn't felt quite right yet. instead he just stripped off his clothes, dragging you around the house so you both can, in this very order: get cleaned up in a quick shower, eat something light and settle on the big nest you have in the corner of the living room, napping on the cushions that cover the floor inside it.

he knows you're awake and you're aware he's too, but none of you say a word. it's peaceful like this. the calm, quiet atmosphere working the remaining of his stress away, giving you time to fully push away the sleepy haze that has been pulling at you, until you move from his arms to stare up at his beautiful face.

his eyes are closed, eyelids shut very lightly. his lips pressed to one another, but they part as soon as he takes in your shifting scent – which is reacting to his relaxed, laid back expression –, nose twitching to take it in better. he grumbles, one hand brushing down your side to hold your hip as the other runs its fingers to your hair.

his eyes are sharp and lidded when he opens them to stare at you, making a shiver run down your spine. you've never been so close to having him bared to his soul in front of you, alpha so present it makes his scent almost fresh out of the woods. it brings your omega from where she was resting far inside your mind, her claws scratching softly around your head, urging you to sleep so she can step in.

it's been like this for four days. it's always rough for him, coming down from mission-mode, but this time kyle's inner alpha seems ready to fight for control, begging for your omega to comfort him at all costs. you both allowed it to happen the first day – and the second –, having to hold back on it by the morning of the third day. you couldn’t risk going feral together, not without someone to watch over you two.

kyle seems to read your mind, your bond doing most of the talking as you bask in the silence, the room quiet except for the – now almost inaudible – purr coming from deep within your chests. his voice is low and hoarse when he speaks, a groan following as he cleans his throat and tries again.

"could ask john to come over, honey..." he mumbles on his thick accent, holding you while he watches your reaction. "he could watch us next time, mhm? he's a good alpha, he'd take care of us..."

"mhm..." your hum of agreement is barely an answer, the grunt coming from him making it clear that he wants you to elaborate. "if you trust him, than it's fine by me, love."

kyle hums then, pleased with your answer. his adorable omega, relying on him whilst taking care of his once exhausted body, helping him work through the tiredness and out of the alert mode he had to depend on so much over the last few weeks – giving him enough support so he could recover from weeks of soldier-like routine on a hostile environment in only a couple of days.

he truly does love you a lot and maybe it's time he shows it to you, rewarding you for been so good to him.

a/n: part of I'LL CALL THE MOON: COLLECTION (coming soon)

[sweetfwr]

(TEASER!) MISSION: MATRIMONY ˒˒ yjw

your handler was very clear what your mission entailed: get in, get information, then get out, no matter the cost. when you find yourself in a sham marriage to avoid suspicion from the enemy country’s government, you begin to realize the cracks in your ever-so-sweet husband’s facade. turns out, the enemy might be even closer than you thought.

pairing) spy!jungwon x spy!reader

tags) fluff, enemies to lovers, romantic comedy, action

wc) SOON

warnings) mentions of killing, injury, weapons, violence, and more.

your husband was hiding something.

whether it was a mistress, a huge debt to an evil loan shark, or a criminal record, you were yet to find out. even if your money was on the mistress. honestly, that was what landed you in couple’s therapy in the first place.

so you sat primly in a therapist’s office — legs crossed, arms folded, and the big, fat diamond itching on your ring finger itching like guilt. truly, how did you let his big secret elude you? you’re a spy, for god’s sake. you escape death on the daily, uncover national secrets, and get rid of dirty politicians, yet you can’t figure out where your husband heads on his own after dark? or why exactly he leaves no trace of his activities?

doctor kim’s office reeked of lavender room spray and he smiled like someone that reupholstered his own furniture and drank chamomile by the gallon. he adusted his glasses for a moment, clearing his throat and letting his eyes wander to his clipboard.

your husband beat him to it.

“that’s jungwon. with a j.”

his voice was steady, pleasant, even warm. the kind of voice that could pull you to sleep— or into your demise if you didn’t know better. except you did. your husband was lying to you, and you were yet to find out just how catastrophic the situation really was.

jungwon sat in the sad, beige lounge chair beside yours and smiled like he meant it. teeth pearly white, hair parted neatly, and not a wrinkle in his carefully ironed shirt, he looked every bit the image of a loving spouse.

you resisted the urge to douse him with kim’s steaming cup of tea.

doctor kim only nodded, humming and scribbling something down on his notepad.

“well,” the doctor started, chuckling when you and your spouse tensed up ever so slightly.”i’m going to start off by letting you both know that this is a safe space. no judging or assigning blame, and especially no hurting each other.”

the softest of laughs followed. “you’re not going to kill your spouse. neither of you are murderers.”

as if on cue, the two of you offered the oblivious man across you tight smiles and awkward chuckles.

except now, your neatly polished nails were curling into the arm rests and jungwon’s arm was twitching like he was calculating the distance between him and the nearest emergency exit.

“just to clarify—we don’t need marriage counseling. this is just… a healthy little check in.” jungwon spoke, as if the chill in the room didn’t exist.

you turned to stare at him, before slowly nodding stiffly in agreement. “right. like a dentist appointment, but for our marriage.”

the doctor only blinked, before moving to furiously scribble down notes on what you believed to be his thoughts and observations about how you were the strangest couple he’d ever given aid to.

kim nodded, likely regretting every certification framed on his wall. “you’re not alone in that mindset. a lot of couples come to me just to strengthen their bond. say, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your ability to talk through conflict?”

“7.” you said, almost immediately. it was robotic and held no emotion, like you had planned out answers for specific questions beforehand.

jungwon’s confident “9.” followed right after.

you turned to him slowly, and he tilted his head at you like this were some quaint dinner conversation and not a literal bomb waiting to detonate all over your lives.

“that’s generous,” you said.

“what can i say? i’m a generous guy,” your spouse replied smoothly, and you held his stare with an intensity that made the third party in the room begin to sweat.

the doctor cleared the tightness in his throat, the lavender diffuser puffing in the corner like it was nervous too. you and your husband stayed as cool and collected as ever, despite the fact that you were making a mental note to hide his keys later. and oh, you were going to hide them good.

“well,” he said carefully. “do the both of you feel heard by your partner?”

you really thought about this one. your husband always looked like he was listening, staring at you intently and leaning into your every word. head tilted and hands folded, you had to give it to him. he did make you feel heard.

that is, if you didn’t feel like he was calculating the pressure points on your neck half the time.

“sure,” you responded curtly. jungwon pursed his lips, looking as if he didn’t like how you were already bored of the conversation. “he listens.”

completely disregarding his previous expression, your partner smiles graciously. “and she talks a lot.”

“excuse me?” you turned to him, completely and utterly fed up with his bullshit responses as if you weren’t paying this damn counsellor 300 bucks an hour to keep up appearances. your killing and spying for a living can only make so much.

“honey,” your husband laughed. “i’m just agreeing with you here.”

“i talk a lot,” you smiled, the kind that would make any normal person flinch. except, your freakishly perfect husband was no normal person. ”mind elaborating?”

he didn’t react. of course he didn’t. a lot of your inner hatred towards him was rooted from how good he was at pretending. at being a doting husband. a cardigan-wearing, camellia-watering, perfect man who never had a hair out of place during dinners at 7.

”just saying,” jungwon said, leaning back with the manly charm that had you falling into his honey trap in the first place. “sometimes i don’t even have to speak. it’s like she’s having the conversation for the both of us.

you scoffed, and something tells you your husband is well aware of how he’s irritated you.

from beside you, jungwon smirked in his seat. and you?

unsure whether you wanted to kiss him or kill him.

like 4 tag once released!

[icejjfishesz]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄 ❞ 𓄼˚ ▍ E.E.

❛ 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆             ━━  how days off are spent ❜

❛ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁                ━━  sex in the kitchen cause…why not ❜

❛ 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁         ━━  1k+ ❜

❛ 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲      ━━  emily is literally soooo fine ❜  

WRIST DEEP IN SUDDY WATER, scrubbing the life back into a blue plate as you hum a song to yourself. you glance up at the kitchen window above the sink, admiring as solar rays cast light on the leaves of the tree outside. 

while you admire nature…emily admires you. the way your shoulders roll back by virtue of their soreness, your allure is unquestionable. emily gazes your way from the living room, she just finished sweeping the hardwood floors until they are akin to the day you first moved in.

you’ve both settled into the new place comfortably, emily more than you. it’s clear by the way she slumps down in relaxation while you still get used to your surroundings. maybe you were a control freak, even slightly.

“do you think our neighbors are nice?” you hum, noticing the way the family next door walks out of their house. the question isn’t one that truly plagues you. it’s your way of making conversation.

she stands from the slump of the couch, long legs carrying her to the kitchen, she leans up against a wall just watching you. there is a sense of calm towards every emotion you bestow upon her, like a pill of tranquility –– an immediate nostrum to all her ailments. the love you deliver for her. she appreciates you in your most natural form, doing a habitual task such as washing dishes mid-day on a sunday. she venerates the simplicity of your beauty, greedy palms itching to be pressed against your skin. 

“i think they’re fine.” she hums, not truly giving your question very much thought either. she’s too busy staring your way. you’re so engrossed in the task at hand, washing the last cup in the sink. so when dual hands tighten around your hips, you jump. her silhouette looms over you, your heart beating rapidly at the unexpectancy of it all but quickly relaxing when you recognize her.

“jesus, emily.” you laugh off your alarm when you feel her chin press against the blade of your shoulder. “you scared me.”

“you scare too easily.” she mumbles, placing a kiss to the nape of your neck. she grips at your waist, desperate for your attention. “when will you be done?”

“just need to dry the dishes and clean the counters.” you reach for a gingham kitchen towel, drying off a plate. her hands press your butt against her pelvis: she latches onto you, pulling you close and then even closer.

“let me help…” she mutters, breath tickling the skin of your neck. “you’ll be done quicker that way.”

you hold the plate out to her wordlessly, she takes the now dry dish from your hands and puts it away in the cupboard. 

soon, all the dishes have been dried and put away. then onto the countertops which to emily, look clean enough as is. your hands wiping the counter down, until it’s practically luster. she makes her way back behind you, sighing audibly. 

“you could take a break, you know…” tattooed hands finding their way across your stomach to rest across your abdomen. 

“or…” you hum. “i could finish cleaning now so i don’t have to worry about it tomorrow.”

yeah, or…she presses against you, deviously. lean body flush against yours.

“babe –– ?”

“shhh…” she shushes, licking her lips as her eyes stay trained to the swell of your ass. “you can keep cleaning.”

it elicits a chuckle to bubble up from your throat. “what are you ––”

then tedious, implacable fingers make their way across your front, pressing against the inseam of your cotton shorts. the sudden pressure shocks you, body jolting to it –– leaving you bent at the hips across the kitchen counter. her sporadic fingers slip away from the inseam despite the squeeze of your thighs trying to hold her there, they move to the hem and then slowly rid you of them. down to cuff around your ankles.

“i have to –– ” 

“clean the counters. yes, i know. i told you, you don’t have to stop.” smug lips quirk up at your quickened breaths, your ass pushing into her despite yourself. “bet you’re already wet.”

ignominy spreads over you deliciously –– so familiar that it doesn’t even phase you. you reach for her wrist, wrapping your hands around it and leading it up to your abdomen before you let it go back down –– underneath your underwear. letting her feel for herself the mess she makes of you so easily. 

“damn, baby…” she breathes out another laugh, this one not from humor but as a release from the shackles of the intensity of this situation. she slides her hand out of your underwear and instead opts to push them to the side. and then, cocky as ever: “i knew it.”

and she did. you lick your lips, waiting for her to resume her allconsuming touches against your skin. you suck in a deep breath, trying not to rush her. 

your patience is rewarded when she slips a finger inside you, a second following within seconds just to have you clenching around her. desirous breaths, slipping from your mouth. all under her command. her long fingers push in and out of you with precision only a woman in love with your body could have. 

she revels in the artistry of making you feel this way. 

“come on baby, take it.” the hand that was free from the latch of your greedy pussy engaged in the sweet pursuit of rubbing at your clit in a circular motion. you suck in a deep breath as you try and gain a sliver of your composure. your brows furrow within the waves of pleasure she bestows upon you. 

“you can take it, i know you can.” she cooed in encouragement, eyes locked in on the swell of your ass, mouth parting as she darted her tongue out to lick her lips. “you love it when i have you like this, don’t you?” 

you nod, back arched as you press your front against the counter to push back into her hand. 

“what was that?” she muses, free hand leaving your waist to push against your spin, keeping you still –– holding you at her mercy. “tell me you like it when i make you mine.”

“i love it.” you breathe eagerly, desperate to please her as she pleases you. your autonomy serendipitously surrenders to her control. her, an angel with the way her devilish actions unfold you, commanding you to her attention. deliver you.

[queenie-the-court-jester]

Just a silly question but how will cotton react when he saw or knew that y/n REALLY love to eat rabbits and have a weird obsession for eating them? Like. Is he gonna be terrified or he gonna be like "stay away from my child but I still love U tho"

-(I wanna be the 🦖 anon please and yes the ask earlier where I quack was me too )

Cotton x carnivore!darling

Tw: minor body horror, cannibalism, reader can be another hybrid or human, cotton being cotton, blood mentioned. Not proofread 🌺

🔪he knew there was something wrong with you. From the moment you took him in and nursed him to health. To the way your hands glided over his abdomen and raked down his thighs. Your eyes staring hungrily at his throat. He saw the red flags, but he ignored them, because you made him feel something he thought he hated. Fear. Adrenaline.

🔪when you reluctantly let him go, he begged to stay. He knew he wasn't much of a meal but won't you give him a chance? He'll gladly let you tear open his chest and claw out his intestines. How would you eat him? Raw and fresh? Or cooked and seasoned? The thought excited him beyond belief!

🔪when you had your first litter of children, he quite literally had to pry them from your hold. He loved you but he couldn't risk you eating your newborns. So for the first few months he raised them himself from a distance. The only way he'd let you near them would be if he was close by and had a sedative in hand.

🔪 while quickly becoming a prisoner in your own home, Your shorter than average husband was constantly breathing down your neck, his gaze never leaving your form. And with the help of your offspring, life got even more suffocating. You loved your children, you really did. But you could never really get rid of that little itch in your mouth begging to sink into some meat. When was the last time you had it? You were starving.. you didn't want to eat vegetables anymore..

🔪one night you went missing. How the hell did you break out of the chains he found. He felt his heart stop and scrambled out of your bed. Ears moving around to try and catch any noise. Quickly rushing to the children's rooms, he relaxed in seeing them all safe and sound. Until he heard something from outside. Grabbing the dart gun from his bedside, he stepped out slowly. Following the smell of blood and cracking of what sounded like bones. Going Deeper into the forest...

🔪and there you were. Crouched over the bodies of what seemed like a deer hybrid family. You didn't seem to notice him, happily chewing and tearing at the flesh underneath you. Blood spewing out onto the dirt floor, he swore he could see a little twitch from the mother's hand. Their bones bent in unnatural places and the gashes on their bodies lethal. He slowly approached, standing over you

"there you are.. where have you gone..? you had me so worried honey..."

🔪 you simply stared up at him, licking your bloody lips and dropping the arm you were chewing on. He could feel himself get hard at the sight. Weirdo. Ignoring the corpses next to him, he set down his gun and kissed you softly. Wiping the rest of the blood off you with his shirt. He learns quickly that once you've eaten meat, you don't need to eat it for a good while. Expect him to hunt down his fellow hybrids for you in the near future. After all, what kind of husband would he be if he kept neglecting your needs?

[nghtwngs]

soft currents next to you

description: there is falling in love. there is also falling into another universe. there is also falling in love again.

pairing: robert “bob” reynolds x batgirl!reader, dick grayson x batgirl!reader [unrequited]

genre: angst, fluff, smut [see warnings below], friends to lovers, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, slow burn, found family, crossover, hanahaki au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: 18+ mdni, semi-graphic depictions of a fictional terminal illness [hanahaki disease], themes of mental illness, mentions of drug abuse, addiction, and recovery [bob], doesn’t follow any specific dick grayson canon so the timeline might be kinda weird [you don’t need to know anything if you’re only here for bob], mostly thunderbolts* canon-compliant and obviously spoilers, she/her pronouns used to refer to reader, implied masturbation, skippable smut scene near end: fingering, oral [fem-receiving], unprotected sex [stay safe, guys; this is just a fic], creampie, subtle dom/sub undertones [reader seriously needs a break and i’m a softdom!bob truther], hints of dumbification [i’m also indulgent]

Лена, ты слышишь? [Lena, you hear that?]

a/n: as a dick grayson girl, writing him not returning reader’s feelings tears a piece of my soul away, but i gotta do it for the fic. idk if this idea is way too niche or not but thanks to @b4tgirlz for being a real one and the only person i can talk comics [& obsess over fictional men] with

It itches. Love itches, you mean. Not for everyone, not for the lucky ones. But that’s how it begins for you: with an itch. It’s the kind you can’t scratch. All you can do is suffer and suppress it, clear your throat over and over until Dick starts to look concerned even though you’re not the one in the hospital bed right now. There are million other faces here. You feel like they’re all staring. And then you cough some more, feigning temporary illness. You’re temporarily ill often these days. That’s when you finally excuse yourself to the bathroom.

You wonder if you’d see pity on their faces if you look back.

The flowers claw their way out of your throat as if they’re covered in thorns. Like they’re badgers blindly burrowing out of the tunnel that’s your esophagus. You carefully avoid touching the toilet seat. Your coughs begin to fill up every inch of the room, echoing off the tile. You don’t have to worry about someone hearing you. The rest of the stalls are empty. You checked. You don’t have to risk seeing a stranger look at you with pity, or even worse, a person you know. You don’t even want to think about that.

The mess you’re making might have even been pretty if you didn’t know what it meant, where it came from. It seems rather ironic for such a thing to be so beautiful, but people have been seeing beauty in pain and suffering for centuries, so in some sadistic way, it’s sort of beautiful. The petals always come before the whole flowers, almost as if to prepare you for it. Still, you’re never prepared.

It’s violently red today; generally, a bad sign.

You pick up a stray blue petal from the floor between your fingers, letting it whirl down into the toilet. You wipe the blood off the seat with toilet paper. There’s a sign above the seat covers. ‘Don’t flush flowers.’

Why should you care? Your throat is sore. You’re dying. You’re sure you’d find the disposal box, the one specifically made for the flowers, empty anyway. You flush.

You unlock the stall, walking over to the sink. Your reflection stares back at you with bleary eyes and a hard frown. It’s a sight you’ve grown familiar to. You’re quickly wiping the stray tears off your cheeks and your eyes with the back of your hands. Deep breath. In. Out.

You scrub your hands clean with soap. Again. Again. And again. Specifically, that spot between your fingers. You can still feel it. The flower petal. Soaked and dripping onto your finger. Red. The water is scorching. It gets rid of the feeling.

It’s only the squeak of the door opening that makes you pull away. Like your hands weren’t numb. You pretend like you didn’t just flinch from the sound. You stare down at your hands for a moment before drying them off and exiting the restroom. You don’t spare the stranger a glance.

There was only one home for you, and it was here, in Dick Grayson’s soft bed. For a teenage boy, his room was pretty pristine. For Dick, it embodied the Wonder Boy he was. You’re too tired to continue watching Jeopardy, Dick guessing nearly all of the questions correctly while Wally huffs as he gets nearly all of them wrong. It took him a few episodes to realize you’re supposed to answer with the question because he kept leaving to grab more food. (You’ll help poor Alfred restock the cabinets later, even when he kindly waves off your help. But he’ll eventually relent. He always does.) Wally pouts, quickly speeding to the kitchen to find more snacks for himself to fill up the endless void of his appetite.

Dick’s shoulder somehow manages to be comfortable, and you feel the tugs of the Dreaming, wrapping its delicate hand around your head, pulling you away.

“Goodnight,” you hear faintly when the Sandman opens his gates for you.

You dream of Dick Grayson that night. Like you do every other one.

The mission was supposed to be easy. So easy, in fact, that they sent the Teen Titans out. You were still settling into the team, practically clinging to Robin as much as you could—much to Kid Flash’s dismay—since he was your best friend—also much to Wally’s dismay.

But you wake up dizzy, your head held by your Robin, who you’ve never seen so worried. Normally the most calm and collected one, besides you, Dick slipped into his leader role easily. He holds your head like you’re made of glass, and you can barely make out a few of his words.

Explosion… Down. No. Yes. One. Batman… Help.

His voice, although panicked, is soothing enough for you to slip back into unconsciousness. You don’t even hear him crying ‘Batgirl!’ to get you to return to him.

While recovering from the various injuries you had sustained, you’ve developed a weird cough that won’t go away, even when you take that wonderful Chinese cough syrup three times a day for a full fortnight. That stuff has always worked like a charm for that pesky lingering cough you sometimes get after a cold. On the fourth week, you get terribly annoyed and go see the doctor. They try every scan on the planet (and the galaxy). They tell you there’s nothing wrong but to return if it gets worse.

The prescription-grade cough syrup tastes much worse than Pei Pa Koa.

The coughing does get worse when you spot them one night: Dick has his arm slinked around Kori’s waist, standing a little too close to her to be considered friendly. When she first arrived to Earth, you saw the way Dick’s gaze gravitated towards her. Like everyone else’s, yours did too. She just had that aura about her that made you never want to look away. You think she’s just started up modeling recently. Not for money or anything. Just for fun.

It starts to get blurry, but you think there’s an innocent kiss or a touch or something. You have to get away. People are starting to glance at you because of your incessant coughing. And for some reason, your lungs begin to ache. A constriction roots inside your chest, your hand making a tight fist to dull the pain.

When you go to the bathroom and cough up a single little pink petal instead of the alcohol you’d just consumed, your breath is stolen away by more than just the petal. Denial is a game you love to play, so you flush it quickly down the toilet after staring at it for five minutes. Hanahaki Disease was one of the rarest but most fatal if not resolved quickly.

Surely the world couldn’t curse you that much, could it?

You hear a knock on the door and then that familiar sweet voice you love, asking if you were alright.

Were people really that unlucky?

Two more flower petals have to crawl their way up your throat before you reluctantly step into a doctor’s office again. This time, you don’t go to the Titan’s medical team. You go to someone who claims to be a Hanahaki expert. You feel for those people, the ones who know diseases with no cure like the back of their hand.

When the results come in, both you and the expert stare, horrified, at the x-ray of your lungs. You’d be lucky to make it beyond the end of next year.

New York City is a little different here.

No Batman, no Joker, no Superman—no Nightwing. And who were you if not Dick Grayson’s best friend?

There is no Gotham here, the center of attention on your world for having the highest rate of crime in the world for eighty-six (and counting) consecutive years! Instead, it’s New York City and some parts of Newark that take the brunt of the destruction caused by supervillains, aliens and the like, and superheroes.

The first day you were dropped off into this world, some government agency grabbed you up for interrogation. Twelve hours each day for an entire fortnight like clockwork. Any injuries you sustained were patched up that first day, but your shoulder was still killing you. You’d been on medication for your lung and throat pain already, but the meds they gave you were thankfully a little stronger.

The not-so-friendly agents were assessing whether you were a threat or not to the safety of the American people, but once it was clear your story had no flaws and that you were powerless, they reluctantly gave you proper papers to go about your business until someone—perhaps the new Avengers (whoever they were)—could figure out a way to get you back to your world. Considering this Earth has had its fair share of run-ins with people from other Earths already, your presence wasn’t exactly a surprise.

Still, even after you were freed from government custody, you could feel their eyes on you, scrutinizing your every move. The government was only waiting for the slightest slip-up. It was nice to know you were never alone, even on a different planet.

When Valentina Allegra de Fontaine hears about you, she feels like she struck gold.

Experienced hero plucked right from her earth and dropped right onto this one. All alone and surely in need of some familiar environments—a new home even.

While the Avengers weren’t not getting along, things weren’t exactly smooth sailing either. With the public not exactly accepting them as the new Avengers with open arms, Valentina needed something to bring them some credibility. And now, she thinks she’s found her something.

Immediately, she has Mel reschedule all her meetings that day, so that she could arrange one with you. Shouldn’t be too hard to convince a hero to be a hero now, can it?

It was apparent by your poorly restrained eye rolls and that smile of yours—if you could even call it that—that you were unimpressed by her. But she keeps that grin on her face as she explains to you how helpful your set of skills would be to her and her freshman team, the Avengers.

“With your abilities and prior experience with teamwork as part of the Tights—“

“—Titans.”

She presses her lips together in a sickeningly sweet smile as she corrects herself, “Titans, you’ll be a wonderful fit for my team. None of them have ever been on a team like this before, so it would just be lovely if you could show them a thing or two.”

“Haven’t they been working together for almost a year now? I’ve seen articles.”

Her eyes crinkle again. Valentina nods. “Yeah, but I’m sure you know how it is,” she says with a quiet chuckle.

“I don’t, actually,” you deadpan.

As always, she keeps her head held high, her calm hands sat in her lap. “Well, please consider the offer. I’ll add a generous bonus to it just for you.”

“I don’t need your money, Ms. Fontaine,” you tell her, crossing your arms. “I’d like to go home.”

She kisses her teeth. She’s the one correcting you this time, “De Fontaine.”

You know a bitch when you meet one, but then she offers to fund research for getting you back onto your world if you’ll take a place on the team. Valentina has finally hit the jackpot.

You didn’t like joining teams after they have formed. Not great for bonding when people have already built and burned their bridges, but since you had nothing better to do, you tentatively agree to work with them temporarily while some scientists, and now hers, figure out how to get you home.

Valentina feels like she’s won, but she’s shaking your hand and congratulating you, “Welcome to the Avengers, Batgirl.”

From the news articles you’ve read about the Avengers, New Avengers, B-vengers, whatever… it seems like the public is kinda hot-and-cold with them right now. You wonder if Valentina really believes you’ll boost their ratings.

While you’re not expecting the warmest of welcomes from a team who appears to be a bunch of random people with cool abilities stuck together in Rapunzel’s tower, this is definitely more unpleasant than you had expected it to be.

It also sounds like Valentina just shared with them the news from the obvious apprehension they regard you with.

The elevator ride had been awkwardly long getting up here (which you’re unfortunately used to, considering Bruce likes his Batcaves way below the surface), and now it’s somehow even more awkward. Mel, Valentina’s personal assistant, had been kind to you from the get-go, but you doubt you could trust anybody who willingly works for a monster like Valentina. You also came across the videos of her impeachment trial on YouTube while trying to make sure your favorite creators were also on this Earth.

The woman with the short bleached blonde hair, who you assume is the team’s leader by her assertiveness, tells you her name. Her gaze is reasonably wary but not entirely unkind. Yelena, you learn. The British woman on her left is Ava, also known as Ghost. (Cool name. Thanks.) The man wearing the silly beret is John Walker—Captain America. The giant on Yelena’s right (You heard her call him dad.) is Alexei Shostakov, who boisterously introduces himself as the Red Guardian. He grows twice as excited when he finds out you speak Russian (Лена, he gasps, ты слышишь?), among many other languages. Briefly, Yelena explains that there’s another member, but he won’t return until around six p.m. since Congress closes at five.

You pause to stare at them. “You have a Congressman on this team? Is that even like…? There’s gotta be some conflict of interest there, right?” Each of them shrug at you, clearly never having questioned it before. “Right?”

Christ.

“And we can’t forget,” Alexei starts with a big, toothy smile, holding his palm out towards the person lounging in the chair by the giant window—Is that not a security concern?—“Bob.”

“Bob?” you echo.

They all look at you, nodding. “Bob.”

The man in said chair sits up a little straighter before he meets your eyes with a sheepish smile, returning your little introductory wave. He sets his book down, pretending like he wasn’t already paying attention to this little meet-and-greet going on. Quickly, you realize it’s your turn and lamely introduce yourself to the group.

“Your hero name is… Batgirl?” John snorts.

You glare at him, retorting, “What’s so funny, Captain America?”

Yelena and Ava snicker at each other beside you, murmuring, “Off-brand.”

He huffs, looking at everyone. “Well, fuck you guys.”

“Well, I’d rather not,” you answer, giggling.

“Oh, very funny. Very mature.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just an asshole,” you hear Bob whisper, having shuffled behind you.

You smile. “Oh, really? Couldn’t tell. Thanks.” You explain to the team, “The name Batgirl is special—it was given to me, and now, since they probably think I’m dead, it will be passed down from me to someone else.”

Yelena says thoughtfully, “Oh, like Captain America… but officially.”

“I was the official Captain America!” John cries out with indignation, throwing his arms up in the air.

“Tell us more,” encourages Alexei. “Is your world much different from ours?”

John quickly gives you a once-over and then interrupts you before you can even open your mouth, “Why not Batwoman?”

“Taken.” You shrug. “I got comfortable. Didn’t really ever feel like I needed to change just yet. But I guess I’m not a teenager anymore.” You let out a quiet chuckle and gesture to Alexei. “And to answer your question, besides several major cities not existing here, not really.” You shrug. “I think the main differences are people… like the heroes and criminals.” You gesture back-and-forth, saying, “We have Batman, you have Iron Man. We have Superman, you have Captain America. I think those are comparable, I’m not exactly sure.”

“Since you’re Batgirl,” John begins inquisitively and not good-naturedly, “there a Batboy, Batdude, Batguy… too?”

You naturally glare at him. “It’s Robin.” Nightwing now, actually.

“Oh, keeping up with the small, flying animal thing,”—he nods thoughtfully—“I see.”

Asshole.

“Ignore him; he just kind of talks,” Ava says, rolling her eyes.

In your lifetime of crime-fighting, there have been plenty of missions gone sideways. But this one? This one definitely takes the cake for being the worst.

“No one even thought to bring a screwdriver?” There was one in your toolkit, granted, it was the one you lost when you slipped through the cracks of the multiverse.

Walker grunts, readying his shield. “Why can’t we just smash it?”

“You can’t break it,” you say for the third time, holding out your palm to stop him, “or we all die.”

“Well, we’ll die anyway if we don’t get out of here.”

“I mean, yeah, just a lot more slowly.”

No wonder Valentina was desperate (She’d never admit to that.) to get you on her little team of heroes. They were a disaster. By some grace of all the higher powers in life there were (You actually knew a few.), you all managed to get out alive and, relatively, unscathed.

“After this,” you say with a strong huff and after a few untimely coughs, “remind me to buy a nice set of tools for each of us.”

The ride home isn’t too bad though. Alexei started a mixtape for them even before your arrival because the silence got a little awkward. And there’s only so much a super soldier can do to keep spirits high. With some enthusiasm, you add a few of your own songs to the playlist, feeling a bit more at home with this team of outcasts turned family.

“Where are you headed?” Walker asks, watching you walk towards the exit, still clad in your suit.

Everyone else was now in their civilian clothing for the night, grateful to shed away their suits for something more comfy after a full day’s mission. And yeah, you all almost died. But that was really just another Tuesday.

“Nightly patrol,” you answer, stopping in front of the elevator. Standing near the air conditioner, your black cape continues to flow. (While Walker would never admit it aloud, it looks seriously cool.) The elevator’s up arrow indicator lights up. “It’s been awhile since I’ve done it, and I need to learn the street names.” Their confused stares grow uncomfortable quickly, forcing you to ask, “What? You guys don’t do patrols?”

Everyone looks around at each other, before shaking their heads with a collective “No.”

“So what… you only do missions?”

“I mean…” Yelena begins, a thoughtful look taking over her face, “yeah.”

“The hell you guys even do around here then?” You chuckle, stepping into the opening elevator, offering them a playful wave goodbye. The alone time would be a relief.

Wayne Enterprises and Wayne Foundation galas, you were no stranger to. After being a friend of the family for more than half your life now, you knew how to smile at the camera and talk some snobby but loaded people into donating to your charities. Although not only a charity gala, but also an entire event dedicated to your inauguration into the Avengers, you still slipped into your socializing mode easily.

Thank Jesus, Valentina thinks as she watches you charm some old money bags. Two dozen reporters had hounded her on her way inside the venue, shouting their questions:

Is she not a liability? She could be lying about her past.

Why would another world’s hero help protect ours? She didn’t grow up here! She’s practically an alien!

Well, Thor was also an Avenger, she pointed out, shutting the reporter up. But maybe he gets more leeway because he’s a man.

But finally, an Avenger with some damn media training that wouldn’t embarrass themselves and her like the other losers. Even Congressman Barnes couldn’t compete, which was as pathetic as it was sad.

The glass of the champagne you’ve been barely sipping has grown grossly warm under your tight grip. Honestly, you just needed something to hold to keep your hands busy. After an entire hour of meeting high profile guests, you desperately need a break. It would be suspicious if you took another trip to the restroom though, so you opt for walking around, pretending like you have somewhere to be, people to charm. That always works, doesn’t it?

On your second stroll around the venue, you catch a stray six-foot man lurking around Yelena like a lost puppy. “Hey,” you greet them. “Enjoying the party?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” Yelena answers, lifting up her champagne glass, clinking it against yours before taking a sip. “Good alcohol. And congratulations.”

“Thanks.” You chuckle softly, taking a small sip yourself. “Didn’t take you for a champagne girl.”

She shrugs playfully, smiling at you. “I’m full of surprises.”

“What about you, Bob?” you ask, glancing at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “You a champagne kinda girl?”

A soft laugh falls from Bob’s mouth as his head shakes. “No, unfortunately not.” He scratches the back of his head, continuing, “Been sober for awhile now.”

“Oh, I see. That’s great. That takes more strength than people think.” With your shoulder, you nudge his, smiling kindly. “This your first gala?”

“Uh, no, it’s my second… We had to attend one for the Avengers’ six-month anniversary or something.”

“Jesus, you have anniversary parties?”

He chuckles, nodding. “Valentina’s idea.”

“I figured.” Your eyes scan around the room before meeting Bob’s once more. “You enjoy these things?”

He pauses for a moment, considering whether or not to be truthful. After seeing no harm in it—you’ve been way nicer than any of the other people he’s met—he answers truthfully, “Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“Really? You’re really good at talking to these people though. I saw you earlier, and you seemed so…”

“Comfortable?” you add helpfully.

He nods.

“I’m just a master in the art of bullshit,” you joke. “After four-five-hundred of these, it starts to get a little easier.”

“Only three-hundred ninety-eight more to go, then.”

“Don’t worry, Bob, as the resident gala expert, I’ll keep you company. You’re in safe hands.” Abandoning your champagne flute, you link your arm with his. “You mind joining me for my third stroll around the place?”

Neither of you had noticed Yelena slip away from the two of you, and when you did, you didn’t acknowledge it either.

There’s some surprise evident on his handsome features, as if he’d expected you to leave him to the wolves here with Yelena gone. But he smiles back at you and says, “Not at all.”

“You ever gotten Bob the Builder?” you ask after about ten minutes of mindless conversation and making fun of some of the silly-looking guests in their extravagant dresses and thousand-dollar Rolexes.

“No, not yet.” He shakes his head.

You lift your hand over your mouth, which lets out an excited gasp at his admission. “I’m the first?”

“You’re the first,” he echoes back. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smile at your enthusiasm.

A sound of delight forms from your lips. “I like being the first, Bob the Builder.” You pause to meet his gaze, asking sincerely, “You don’t mind it, right?”

“No,” he says truthfully. Not from you, he doesn’t add.

“Oh, no. Four o’clock, incoming,” you whisper into his ear, which nearly makes him shiver—thankfully, it doesn’t. “I’ll lead. Take notes, alright?”

There’s an elderly couple heading straight towards you with pleasant visages, cooing at how nice the two of you look. You accept the compliment with ease, and the pair unknowingly follow your expert lead into the conversation. It’s kind of magic how you manage to hit all your marks: your newfound place on the team, charity, and a hopeful future for the city and the world. Beat for beat.

“That was pretty awesome,” Bob tells you once you’ve parted from the lovely couple.

“And what’d you learn, Bob?”

“I need to become as pretty as you.”

You blink a few times, flattered by the sincerity in his words. “That’s sweet of you,” you thank him, smiling down at your feet. “Thanks.”

Maybe it’s only now that Bob realizes what’s just come out of his mouth because his cheeks redden, almost becoming as red as the wine being served next to you. “It’s nothing,” he replies, smiling coyly. “Did you see the cake yet?”

“The giant one with my face printed on it?” You cringe outwardly. “Yeah, yeah, I did. Could’ve used a better picture though,” you mutter, tongue poking your cheek.

“I think you look nice.”

Your lips press together tightly, appreciative of his reassuring words. “Thanks, Bob. I’ve never really been celebrated like this before… It’s kind of weird. Birthday parties are one thing, but this? This is something else entirely, y’know? I didn’t even get to pick any of these decorations, or the flavor of the cake—honestly, I don’t even like it. Valentina’s event planners arranged everything. I didn’t choose the charity either… Well, I shouldn’t be complaining. This isn’t really even for me. It’s for the team…”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to enjoy it.” He then says pointedly, “It’s your face on the cake.”

“I guess…” You press your lips together before inwardly groaning. “Oh, some more investors are coming our way. I won’t make you sit through this one too. See you later?”

He nearly protests, but the words die on his tongue as he watches you blend back into the crowd, slipping so effortlessly into your charm-the-pants-off-rich-people-for-charity persona.

It’s not for another hour that you see Bob again. Your eyes were automatically searching for him in the crowd as you were speaking to some CEOs or whatever. You felt a little bad for leaving him alone, but he probably went looking for Yelena. But then you spot him walking your way with a white box clutched tightly in his hands.

“Hey, I found you,” he says softly, like he’s been looking for you his entire life. Your throat tingles. He slips the box into your hands, watching you open it with hopeful eyes. “Since it’s your party and all, I knew you couldn’t leave. But no one would notice if I stepped out for a moment, so I went out to a bakery a couple blocks away and got you a slice of cake you’ll actually want to eat.”

Your favorite flavor of cake sits right in your palms, putting a smile of awe on your face. “And it doesn’t have my face on it,” you say, chuckling quietly.

Teasingly, he points his thumb back towards the entrance and says, “I could always go back and—“

“No, oh my God.” You laugh sweetly. “But wow, thank you, Bob. Let me pay you back for it—“

“No, no—it’s okay. It’s nothing, really. I just thought you should at least get a cake you like.”

Holding it tightly to your chest, you admit to him, “I did notice you were gone.”

“Yeah?”

“I was looking for you,” you begin sheepishly. “My star pupil disappeared on me. I thought you went back to the tower, honestly. I wouldn’t have blamed you. I wanna be back in my bed right now.”

“Well… I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.” Kissing your teeth, you offer, “You wanna share this cake with me, Bob the Builder?”

At his shy acceptance, the two of you make it out of that suffocating party together, sitting on the steps out back to take turns eating the cake with the single fork Bob had retrieved—he had only gotten it for you, but he doesn’t quite mind this, nor the fork that’s stained slightly by the pretty color off your lips.

“Are these team building weekends really necessary?” you hear John ask from behind you, stepping off the jet, his bag slung around his shoulder.

You turn your head to raise your eyebrows at him. “You really complaining about a free vacation?”

“Well, we could be doing some actual Avengers work right now.”

“I think we’re allowed a break every once in awhile. We’ve been on mission after mission for the last few months. And frankly, a beach chair and a good book are calling my name right now. C’mon, Bob, book club isn’t gonna start itself.” You pull the willing brunet towards the beach house to claim first pick of rooms.

“Walker,”—Alexei slaps him on the back hard, almost causing him to tumble down the stairs—“only you would complain about beach vacation.”

John tries to shrug him off. “I’m not complaining—we should just be doing field work now.”

“You’re so lame,” Ava remarks with a smirk as she walks in direction you and Bob were headed.

“She’s right,” Yelena adds monotonely, following the rest of the group. “You are so boring, Walker.”

John huffs indignantly, adamantly denying the accusations being thrown at him. “I’m just thinking of the team!” He watches them all walk towards the beautiful, multimillion dollar beach house. Perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy a day or two. They’re already out here anyway.

“Do you like the book I got you the other day?” you ask Bob once you’ve claimed your room—the view was arguably the best one in the place. “You were reading it on the way here.”

He nods, lifting it up for you to see. There’s a bookmark neatly wedged in between some pages where he left off at earlier. “Yeah, yeah, it’s good. I’m almost finished.”

“Great. Which room did you end up picking?”

“Oh, just… the one right here.” He points to the room next to yours.

“Hey, we’re neighbors.” You playfully elbow him. “I’m gonna go change, and then we can head to the beach, alright? See you in a bit.”

He offers you a small wave as you disappear into your room, leaving him behind in the hallway.

“Watch out, lover boy, coming through,” John grunts, hauling his bag past him. A soldier should always pack light, but he’s also prepared for whatever comes their way, so he brought most of his weapons.

“What?” Bob splutters.

“Yeah, I mean, if you wanna be a little more discreet about it, then I’d suggest stop making eyes at her.”

“I don’t—“

“As much as it pains me to agree with Walker, he’s right,” Yelena admits, crossing her arms. “But you guys are cute.”

“Sickeningly,” Ava comments, walking up the staircase.

“So very cute.” Alexei nods enthusiastically in agreement, continuing, “You two are like Romeo and Juliet.”

Bob groans internally, clutching the book you gifted him a little tighter. Was almost everyone aware of his little crush on you now?

Ava cocks her head, narrowing her eyes at Alexei. “You do know they kill themselves at the end?”

“I really don’t…” Bob mumbles, offering them all a nervous smile, “it’s not like that.”

“I don’t see any reason not to go for it.” Bucky shrugs, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “She seems pretty into you too.”

Okay, so everyone was aware.

Little did they know, you were hurling up some blue Salvias into your toilet. Right before you flush, you whisper a quick prayer that the toilet pipes don’t get clogged. Out of the various types of flowers your lungs have grown, you hate the long ones the most. They take way too much time to come up and make your throat all itchy. The only good thing about this one was that it was thornless.

There was something sweet about watching the team relax—Well, not stress over dying a painful death because volleyball was not exactly relaxing.—over a game of volleyball. The weather was perfect, hot but not overly so, making the wind feel fantastic as it came through. The smell of the seawater would waft towards you as it did, and it was pretty damn relaxing. You and Bob were sitting under the shade of a beach umbrella, reading your respective novels. After a match or two, Ava taps out to go enjoy the views, forcing Yelena to come and persuade you or Bob to join in on their little game.

You shake your head. “I wanna finish this,” you tell her. “It just started to ramp up.” Turning to your book club buddy, you encourage him with a gentle nudge. “But you should go.”

While Dick Grayson carries your heart (and your life, both unbeknownst to him) on his person, it’s not like you couldn’t appreciate a pretty person. And boy is Bob Reynolds pretty. He got hot easily, so he had quickly ditched his shirt after a few minutes of sitting and reading. It’s been awhile since you’ve wanted to chew your knuckles over the sight of a deliriously beautiful man before, and you think you’ve maybe read fifteen pages in the last hour out here. And because you also want to finish your novel in a timely, decent manner, you shoo him kindly over to the others.

Bob has never played volleyball a day in his life.

Once he gets the rules explained to him, he catches on easily and does pretty well for himself and his team (Yelena). Perhaps it was a mistake to send him off to play volleyball. Your eyes keep wandering over to him and his abs that apparently miraculously appeared because of the Project Sentry serum. Curse you for having needs, you suppose. Bob is your friend, you remind yourself, feeling worse that you could be thinking such impure thoughts about someone who’s so quickly gained your friendship.

Only over his dead body would he confess such a thing, but after seeing you in your swimsuit earlier, Bob had to make a hasty and shameful trip to his bathroom.

You had fallen asleep next to Bob while watching his third favorite movie, your head laying right on his fluttering chest. But when he wishes you good dreams that night, he forgets—just for a moment—about the Void. So when he slips into the same darkness, he opens his eyes, only to see someone who looks an awful lot like you. While he stumbles a little closer to watch, it just takes him another moment before he realizes it is you.

The long white hallways tell him they’re in a hospital, but it’s not you who is injured. You’re standing up, rubbing your hand down someone’s back as he paces along the white tiled floors. Bob can make out your puffy eyes, but there are no tears in sight, only from the man you’re attempting to console.

“She’ll be fine, Dick,” you say softly, taking his hand into yours to kiss his knuckles. The sight makes Bob uncomfortable, but he’s not sure why it does when you’re only trying to console someone. “Babs is strong. You know that as well as I do.”

He blinks, and suddenly, you’re on your knees in the bathroom, violently throwing up. Was that a flower petal? They’re still in the hospital, considering the fluorescent and obscenely bright lights. He hadn’t spotted you earlier, but now he could clearly see you watching your own memory yourself before quickly shooting up from his very real bed to empty your stomach into his trash can.

But you don’t make it in time and something blue and red makes it cruel path out of your esophagus and onto his floor. He quickly realizes the red is blood, but the blue… is a flower? Bob appears, reasonably, horrified at the sight of what had just crawled its bloody way up and out of your throat moments ago.

It has been awhile since you’ve thrown up flowers, but you think it’s because you haven’t been around Dick in awhile. But while he may not be physically present on this earth, it’s obvious he still lives in your every memory.

Bob’s index finger shoots out, pointing directly at the flower on his floor. His other hand come ups to cover his mouth in attempt to stifle his own potential projectile reaction. “What—what is that?”

“A flower,” you cough, wiping your mouth of blood.

“How the fuck did you cough up a fucking flower?”

“I’m dying.” The confession comes out so easily, and you blame Bob for being such a disarming person. He’s now seen your world through your memories. He’s almost been there since day one.

He doesn’t know whether he should laugh or not, so he waits for you to crack a smile or show any sign of amusement after that. You do nothing but stare at him.

“How?”

“Love.” You continue with a defeated shrug, “I’m dying because the guy I love doesn’t return my feelings.”

“You can die from that?”

“On my world, you can. It’s rare but possible.”

“And you…?”

You nod.

He glances down once more to the mess on his floor that you’ll try to clean up later with embarrassment running through your bones, but he’ll help you despite your protests and apologies. He always will. “Does it hurt?”

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand. “Not anymore. You get used to the feeling. And well, I’ve also been stabbed. Like a lot.”

He can’t help but stare, unable to say any words of sympathy. He wants to, believe him, but they don’t come as easy as he would like. “Is he… the one from…?”

You nod pathetically. “Dick Grayson. Bestest friend in the world—my world.”

“You’d think after becoming literally invincible, you wouldn’t be so afraid of heights anymore,” you tease Bob, whose shaky eyes are trained far away from the side of the tower beneath your dangling legs.

He swallows, barely giving a glance down. “Yeah, I’m still not so great with heights,” he tells you sheepishly.

“That’s a shame. I’d have loved to show you some rooftop parkour on one of my patrols. You could’ve kept me company. For a bit, at least. I know you aren’t… ready.” You kick your feet in the air a little as you continue, “I suppose your suit wasn’t really made for that anyway. You might trip on your little cape.”

“Don’t laugh.” Bob pouts.

“I’m—”—you wheeze—“—not.”

He scoffs at you, playfully nudging your shoulder. “Sure you aren’t. And don’t you have a cape too?”

You’re laughing so hard that you double over, clutching your stomach. “Well, it’s shorter, and I also have like over ten years of experience—shit, am I really that old now?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, shut up,” you mumble, calming down from your fit of giggles.

The air grows quiet between you, but it remains serene. Well, you suppose it’s as quiet as New York gets at night. Less traffic, less honking, less stress. From a rooftop nearby the two of you snuck onto, you can see the skyline clearly. The window lights, which twinkle like a million tiny stars, are breathtaking. It’s a peace neither of you have felt in a long time, sometimes one you can barely afford with a life like yours. It feels like everything you say would just disappear into the air, but you also know the other will hold onto it if asked. So you’re grateful for this and for Bob, who never ever takes and only gives—perhaps even too much. And maybe it’s time for him to take something of yours.

Your voice sounds so small when you hear the words out loud for the very first time. “I don’t think I wanna be Batgirl anymore…”

Bob stares at you with wide eyes, spluttering, “You wanna quit?”

“It’s not that,” you explain. “I mean, I did quit for awhile after I started showing signs… I could barely look at Dick without coughing up rose petals from my lungs, but I just. I think I wanna be my own thing now, y’know? I wasn’t the first Batgirl, and I certainly won’t be the last… I just—I’d like to choose who I’m going to be this time.”

“I get that. When Valentina…” He gestures vaguely around himself. “When she made me into the Sentry, I didn’t get to choose any of it. The team told me after I lost my memory of what happened… that day last year. She came up with the name, gave me the suit and cape, told me what to do. And then, the Void happened… and now, I’m here.”

“Well, if it means anything to you, I think Bob is pretty great,” you say with a tiny, lop-sided smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Batgirl is pretty cool too, I guess—hey!” He rubs his arm where you whacked him before continuing with a pointed tone, “I was going to say, ‘Batgirl is pretty cool too, but whoever you want to be, I think I’ll like her too.’”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

It seems otherworldly fortuitous when a nightingale flies by, perching itself on the edge of the same rooftop you two were sat on.

You’re sitting on the arm of Bob’s lounging chair, peering over his shoulder to watch a YouTube video on setting up your new IKEA bookshelf on his phone.

“Does somebody have a flower garden in their room?” You and Bob glance up from his chair at Alexei, who’s holding a… familiar-looking trash bag. He picks up a handful of the flowers, stained with your blood but rinsed in case of something like this. “I must say these are beautiful. Very pretty. Shouldn’t be thrown out.” To your horror, Alexei begins to place all the intact flowers across the kitchen counters and the living room.

Bob’s sympathetic eyes are already on you when your gaze reaches his.

“I’m gonna kill myself,” you grumble, groaning quietly to yourself and Bob. “The one time I don’t take the trash out immediately.”

He tentatively places his hand over yours, making you look back at him again. A faint smile appears on your face, but it’s there.

You wake up early the next morning to quickly dispose of the flowers around the common spaces yourself, only to find them already gone. Weird, you think before spotting Bob in his usual relaxation spot. No one else was up yet. He’s relaxing in his chair by the window, reading another one of the books you recommended him. And you can’t help but smile a little, your heart feeling a tad warmer.

The day the itch in your throat—the one you’ve come to accept as second nature, is gone, you think is the day you will die. You had long since accepted your sentence, the terms and conditions you failed to read when you fell in love with bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Robin what feels like lifetimes ago now. So when your throat suddenly clears for the first time in years, you think it will be your last day on this Earth and the only other one you’ve ever known.

You’ve heard the stories… they say it hurts, or it feels cathartic. Those like you eventually all come to accept their fates as you have, but when you wake up the next morning and each one after that, you don’t know how to feel anymore.

After a few days, you show up to the leading team of doctors hired specifically by Valentina to keep her new Avengers alive. They knew about your condition since all your lung x-rays came back with a giant plant root wound painfully around your lungs. You were a medical wonder to them, and unfortunately, it also meant that the only information they had on your disease was well… from you. So when you didn’t die like you were supposed to, they were frankly just as puzzled as you were.

There were only two known ways to get rid of your ailment besides dying: one was to have your feelings returned by your unrequited love, the other was to surgically cut out the root from your lungs. The operation was highly experimental and highly risky. Those who have made it out alive have either lost their ability to feel love for their unrequited or for anybody altogether. In cases, that you’d argue were worse than death itself, some of them came out incapable of feeling any kind of emotion. To you, that would be losing your humanity. And how could you let go of that when you’ve seen what it’s done to others?

Scarecrow, Two-Face, the Joker.

It’s not for awhile that you realize your heart doesn’t stutter at the thought of Dick anymore, doesn’t clench and make that itch in your throat form a cough. But when exactly did you stop feeling that way about him?

Bob appears at your cracked door, knocking the frame with a gentle smile. “Wanna help me with breakfast?”

You glance over at him from your television—it’s playing Doctor Who, a show you’re grateful transcends the bounds of space—and nod. The smile you return him makes his grow a little brighter as you shuffle towards him to follow your somewhat daily routine.

“I know you clicked ‘Leave at door’, but I’ve got ice cream, some pastries, and a Pride & Prejudice Blu-ray for delivery, and I didn’t want your little kit to get stolen,” announces a voice through your door.

You snort, calling out, “I’m reporting you!” You twist the doorknob, finding Dick on the other side with an easy grin.

“Reporting me?” He gasps, clutching the items closer to his chest. “I’m just making sure these make it safely to their recipient. There are some hungry thieves out here, y’know,” he whispers, eyes shifting to a certain speedy ginger who happens to walk by at this particular moment.

You giggle, stepping aside for him to enter your room. “Gimme gimme.” You make grabby motions with your hands, trying to get him to hand you a pastry.

“Magic word?”

A groans slips out of your mouth before you begrudgingly mumble, “Please, Dick?”

“What was that?”

“Don’t push it.”

“You’re not going on patrol with me like… ever.” You scoff in disbelief at John, shaking your head.

“What?” He puffs, adjusting the beret on his head. “Why not? It’s boring here, and I just got my handgun fixed up.”

“Besides that alarming statement, you killed an innocent man in broad daylight…”

“Innocence is a matter of perspective.”

“No, Walker.”

“But it’s my turn to pick the movie tonight,” you grumble.

“Except it’s a stupid movie,” retorts John.

“Pride & Prejudice is not a stupid movie. It’s literally one of the cult classics! You made us watch Die Hard twice.”

“Also a cult classic—The first time was for the experience, and the second for Christmas.”

You scoff. “We’re watching Pride & Prejudice.”

The entire team was hesitant to watch the film at first, but throughout it, there were many tears shed… mostly by Alexei, although he tried to deny it, blaming the wind and dust. (You were inside.) Still, you could tell the others are enjoying it—even Walker, who was trying to pretend otherwise. Somewhere along the line, there was a joke or two about how Bucky—being as old as Jane Austen—should’ve played Mr. Darcy, garnering some snickers and a long sigh.

While Bob was definitely, totally paying attention to the movie, he seemed to be more interested in your expressions as you rewatched it for probably the billionth time. Even so, you were still completely captivated by it, smiling like a little kid. He watched you mouth some of the lines you’d known by heart to yourself. Eventually, he felt a tap on his shoulder, making him look back at Yelena.

While the others are absorbed into the movie, she whispers in his ear, “I know you like her, Bob, but the staring is getting creepy.”

He blushes and reduces his glances to once every five minutes instead.

You’re not sure how to bring it up—the rest of the Thunderbolts (Alexei filled you in on their temporary namesake before they became the Avengers, and then he and Yelena got into an argument about who was the actual sponsor of her Little League team.) aren’t even aware you’ve been dying. It’s great news, however, you’re not dying from unrequited love anymore! Still, you should probably tell Bob, the only person who was aware of your condition. But it had just felt unnatural to bring it up in any of your recent conversations.

Despite this, Bob does notice a change in you. Your face looks visibly brighter, and your body stronger. Your coughs went away almost completely, only occurring when someone is smoking outside or there’s construction pollution. He wonders if the disease that’s plagued you has realized you were too precious of a life to make a true victim. Because, to be frank, Bob has no idea what he’d do without you.

While the Thunderbolts understood pain and suffering, none of it could be considered normal. Child assassin, child experiment, super soldier, super asshole, Alexei. Not to say you had a normal childhood—you became a superhero as a freaking teenager, but your traumas were similar to his: dysfunctional family, depression, insecurities rooted so deeply into your being, you couldn’t get away from it. Although he and Yelena were close, you just got him. You clicked. You didn’t have to explain your feelings because the other always understood.

He never once felt like you looked through him. And whenever you smile at him, laugh with him, Bob feels some kind of euphoria. It’s better, cleaner than any high he’s ever gotten from meth and the like. Perhaps it’s not the most appropriate metaphor to make as a former addict (Nearly 1.5 years sober!), but he thinks he wants to stay high off of you.

He feels too anxious not to ask, so one night, he ends up at your door, knocking gently. Moments later, you open the door. “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

Bob clears his throat. “Just wanted to check in. Haven’t seen you all day.”

“You saw me at dinner,” you remind him, teasingly. You step aside, and he immediately shuffles into your room while you close the door behind him. “Something the matter, Bob?”

He’s not sure how to ask, so he just rips off the bandaid before he can chicken out. “Are you… feeling better now?”

It’s the most he can say it without actually saying it, but like always, you just understand.

“Oh, that…” You bite your lip, nodding slowly. “I am, actually. I think it might be gone.”

You can see his shoulders sag in relief, and he nearly envelops you in a hug. You catch the twitch of his body, as if it aches to be closer to yours. Yours makes the same kind.

“Good, great… I mean, that’s wonderful.”

You return his smile, echoing his sentiment. “It is. I’m just hoping that it clearing up isn’t some weird sign that I’m gonna spontaneously die. That would suck.”

“Don’t say that,” he grumbles. “I don’t really wanna think about that… You said it should go away once the feelings are returned or disappear, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So that means…”

“Uh-huh.” You bite your tongue gently. “I guess being away from him helped with that. Only took being on an entirely different planet though…” You both release a small chuckle at that. “I knew he was never going to… But back then, I couldn’t really imagine anyone being better than him. But you know, I suppose that’s what best friends are for… What is it?”

A thoughtful little frown has settled onto Bob’s face. “What if he feels the same way about you, and that’s why you don’t have it anymore?”

“I guess I just know. You ever felt your heart beat for someone else?” Your hand presses against your chest, directly over it. “It’s, like, out of your control—and it squeezes up. But in a good way. That doesn’t happen when I think of him anymore.”

Bob knows that all too well.

You had never felt more alive than you did the day you put on the Batgirl suit.

Black, reinforced fabric fitted perfectly to you—the esteemed yellow bat symbol stitched proudly over your chest. Next to you, a cute boy with forest green combat boots and a little yellow ‘R’ over his heart. Playfully, he tugs on your cape.

There was nothing more freeing than feeling the wind in your face, slipping through your fingers as you leap from one rooftop to another with your best friend. Childish laughter fills the air as you start your patrol for the night.

At first, you were hesitant to make that first leap onto the next building. But then a kind hand reached out with an encouraging smile to match, guiding you onto the other side. His yellow cape glimmered gold under the moonlight, luring you to follow him to the edge of the world.

Concrete crumbles around you, the sounds of bombs exploding so loud that they rumble through your chest. Your memory is unfortunately a little foggy, having blacked out for a few moments. Hopefully. Some civilians are in the line of fire of some villains whose names you forget, forcing you to rush to their side to bring them to a safe place. You aren’t even sure what’s safe anymore.

There’s really not much thinking you can do—letting your autopilot run for you, your trained instincts taking the reins until you will eventually drop.

Evade. Save. Dodge. Kick. Jump. Punch.

Most importantly, don’t kill and don’t die.

In your daze of fighting and more fighting, you can barely make out the sounds of fabric ripping over the ringing in your ears and the fresh pain coursing through you. You guarantee there are cuts and bruises all over your face now, which you hope will heal faster and won’t scar like the wounds all over the rest of your body.

Bucky finds you underneath some rumble, struggling to lift it off of yourself, and helps you back to your feet to continue the fight. While Yelena is taking care of one of the people bombing the city, you run towards Ava and John to help them with the other. Alexei is too focused on bringing civilians to safety to notice you disarm the man trying to shoot at him.

Once the threat has been contained, you’re able to mourn the hero suit you’ve worn for the better part of your life. It’s torn in so many places that you can barely recognize it anymore. However, the Bat symbol has been spared and remains intact, as if to tell you your purpose still lives on.

Bob has nearly bitten all of his nails off waiting for you all to return to the tower, especially you. Because he was still technically a civilian, he wasn’t allowed to listen in on your comms. Instead, he anxiously watched the entire battle on the flatscreen in the living room. A few helicopters were circling around the few blocks of the city the destruction was taking place, recording everything.

It is unbearable trying not to pull you into his embrace when the team returns. You’re all headed straight for the med bay to get treated. It seems like you took most of the injuries, much to his horror, but you were the strongest person he knew. You could get through anything.

Your suit has been torn to shreds though. He winces each time he looks at it laying on the table beside you. The dark cape was completely ripped apart, leaving nothing but a few scraps you tried to fruitlessly pick up and take back. But you make light of it, telling him not to worry about it as you sip the warm tea he brought you, made exactly the way you like it. At least you were faring better than the suit.

“I think I was in need of something new anyway,” you muse, licking your lips. “Maybe it’s finally time I spread my wings. I’ve already jumped, or I guess fallen, out of the nest.”

“You pick out a name yet?”

You nod, setting down your cup of tea on the table. “Yeah, I decided awhile ago. You remember that night when we were sitting on that rooftop, and I made fun of your fear of heights?”

The relief that Nightwing feels when he sees that you’re alive and in one piece has him nearly in tears. Is that a new suit you’re wearing? That’s besides the point. The relief that Dick Grayson feels, though? It is immeasurable and shakes his entire body to his very soul. He’s been without his best friend (Sorry, Wally.) for nearly a year now, and to say that it’s been hard or difficult is an entirely gross understatement. He could barely eat or sleep the first few months after you had slipped through the literal cracks in the universe.

He should’ve caught you like he did every other time in your lives. Dick has always been your safety net, and he failed you the one time you needed him most. B told him he doesn’t have to go out on missions for awhile, but Dick needs to bury himself in his work. Not even Kori could console him, but she always tried. And while he appreciated it, he needed to be alone for awhile.

He loved Kori, truly, but his love for you was different. You were each other’s person. It was always you two against the world. (Again, sorry Wally.) Not necessarily in a romantic sense, but you guys were soulmates, completely in tune in every aspect of your lives—on the field and off. As Zatanna liked to put it, twin flames and whatnot.

The hug he pulls you into steals your breath away, bodies shaking. He kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against it as he listens to you catch him up on everything since you landed on this Earth. If it had been any nicer occasion, he’d be freaking out with you about being on an alternate Earth.

But then you make a confession that’s stealing his breath away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks more distraught than you’ve ever seen him before. There’s a little wrinkle between his eyebrows that you want you smooth out with your thumb like usual. But there’s nothing usual about telling your best friend you were going to suffocate to death because of a rare disease caused by your former love for him.

You breathe out a sad little laugh. “What would that have done?”

“I could’ve helped you—“

“—How, Dick?”

“B knows all the best doctors, he could’ve—“

“Dick…”

“I would’ve done anything to help you.”

You know what he means, and it makes your stomach curl. He is too good for the world. Any of them.

“You can’t force yourself to love me. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“I already do! I could’ve tried!”

You slink your arms around him, wrapping him into your embrace. “Boy Wonder, you can make plenty of miracles happen, but that? I don’t think so. And we both know it’s not that kind of love.”

“I do love you,” he responds defeatedly, melting into your warm, familiar embrace.

“I know you do. I love you too.” It is strange but also cathartic to be able to say that so openly, so honestly. You don’t have to hide it anymore because it’s no longer killing you. “I love you so very much, Grayson.”

A string of apologies fly out of his mouth, but you gently shush him. “You have nothing, and I mean nothing, to be sorry for. It’s not something either of us could’ve controlled. We both know feelings don’t work like that. They’re weird, and they creep up on you out of nowhere—but they also transform. I’m okay now.”

“You could’ve died,” he reminds you, “and it wouldn’t been my fault.”

The only thing you can do is hold him even tighter. “But I’m not dead, and it wouldn’t have been your fault. It’s no one’s fault, Dick.”

It will be a long time before he believes you, but for now, it suffices.

“We should go home soon… I wish we could stay longer, but we don’t know how long we can keep the portal open.” Dick is tugging you gently, but his face then falls at your hesitation. He keeps his arms on you to ground himself.

“Actually, Grayson, I… I think I wanna stay,” you confess.

“Stay?”

“We’ve all felt that—that calling… and I… I think it’s led me here now, Dick. I can’t just leave when these people need a new team who can protect them.”

“But you… you belong with us… with me.”

“I do, but now I belong with them too.” You glance back at the team and Bob, all watching you and Dick from the other end of the helipad. “They’re family now, my third one, I guess.”

“Nobody knows if we can get you back to our world after this.” Dick sniffles, your name so sweet and sad on his tongue. “I don’t want to never see you again…”

“I don’t either, but we’ll hold out hope, alright? If you guys could figure out getting here once, then who’s to say you can’t do it again? I mean, I’m not even the first person to come here from another world. How fucking cool is that? I’ll see you again, Dick. I know it. Don’t you?”

He stares in awe of you for a moment before nodding agreeingly. “I do.” His smile returns. “Wow, I’ve never heard you sound so… optimistic before.”

You sniffle, chuckling through your tears. “I guess I’ve changed since coming here.”

“Yeah, you have, Nightingale,” he teases you.

You let out an ungraceful snort, wiping away your tears with the back of your hand. “Birds of a feather, Nightwing.”

Bob has had almost the entire year to prepare himself for this moment, and yet he still feels like he’s going to throw up at the sight of you leaving for, probably, ever. While your spot on the team was always going to be a temporary thing, he thought that maybe… No, you wanted to go home. And now you were.

The others tried to console him while you were talking to Dick on the helipad, your best friend and the man you almost died over. The tower would feel so empty without you. Who would he cook breakfast with? You were the only one who knew how he liked his eggs. And he was pretty particular about his eggs.

And book club? How’s he supposed to do book club without the club? He thought he enjoyed reading books alone before you joined the team, but getting to talk and laugh and make fun of them with you? And there’s no way he could do it with the rest of the team. He doubts any of them even read.

Instead of disappearing off into the sunset (It was early morning.) with pretty boy Dick Grayson like he thought you would, you turn around and walk back towards them. So this was really it—goodbye.

The words run out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he blurts out a jumbling mess of syllables, “I know it’s selfish, and if you wanna go home, you should, but I don’t think I want you to go—“

Your mouth feels a little dry when you admit, “—I’m not going.”

“W-what?”

“I told Dick I was going to stay here.”

“You did?”

You nod in response. “How could I leave you guys?” Your teeth pull your lip in worry. “How could I leave you?”

“But you’ve been missing home, and I thought…”

“Yeah, I did too. I do miss it, but I’m sure I can go back, I think…” You chuckle nervously. “I hope… But I am home. Here, I mean. I guess somewhere along the line, I got attached to you idiots. And the Avengers need all the help they can get, y’know?”

Your mouth forms all the words, yet it feels like it’s still dancing around what you really should be saying. The confession rests on the very tip of your tongue, threatening to be released out into the world.

“You’re an Avenger too.”

“Yeah.” You chuckle, scratching behind your ear. “Sorry, um, I also wanna tell you… It shouldn’t be this hard. Oh, God, don’t look at me like that—I’m gonna lose my train of thought—“

Never in your life have you been kissed as fiercely or passionately as this. Bob’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his tongue prodding and prodding until your gasp allows it entrance.

John clears his throat loudly, remarking, “Hey, you guys know we’re still here, right?”

“I don’t know if they care,” Bucky comments, trying not to stare.

“Well finally,” Yelena says, “we’ve been waiting.”

“Took you two long enough,” Ava chimes.

Alexei claps like a proud father. “Oh, this is wonderful! Nightingale is staying, and these two finally figured out they like each other!”

You bury your face into the crook of Bob’s neck, embarrassed by your affectionate display.

“I love you!” you hear Dick Grayson, your best friend in the whole world(s), shout before he does a flip back into the portal home.

“Show-off,” you remark affectionately, tutting.

It’s raining outside today, the sound of the raindrops tranquil. Mindlessly, your fingers run up the back of Bob’s neck (His whole body shivers.) and tangle themselves in soft brown locks. He walks you backwards until the back of your knees hit his bed, and you land on its soft mattress.

He leans back, warm blue eyes meeting your gaze. “This okay?”

“Okay?” you repeat, pecking around his collarbone. “This is more than okay.”

“Okay… Great. That’s great.”

Nervous chuckles escape you both as you begin to undress each other. His shirt lands somewhere on his floor for you to steal later—probably tomorrow morning. You think yours ends up draped over his TV—or maybe it’s your bra—but the way he’s kissing the tops of your breasts is really distracting you from figuring it out.

“It’s been awhile, so… I’m kinda out of practice,” you admit, embarrassed by your little confession.

He lifts his head, shaking it. “Me too. I haven’t… in awhile either.”

The pads of his fingers dance around your waist, skimming past the hem of your pants. You let out an embarrassing whimper from the slightest tap of his fingers against your clit, the only barrier between them the fabric of your underwear.

“You sound really pretty,” he whispers, nibbling on the skin of your shoulder.

A sound between a hum and a whine bubbles out of your lips. “No teasing, please. Not right now.”

His mouth leaves your neck for a split moment. “Okay, no teasing.”

Luckily for you, he means it. And in no time, he has two fingers inside you, stretching your wet cunt out. A warm tongue darts around your sensitive nerves before a pair of lips gently sucks at the flesh. Sometimes, you forget just how strong Bob is, his large hands pressing down onto your thighs to keep them spread open for him with ease. He doesn’t look that strong, but you’ve seen what he hides underneath his shirts and sweaters. A low groan tumbles out of his throat at your fingers tugging his hair, and he whimpers at your sweet, soft whines. He’s making you feel that way, and the thought excites him more than he’d like to admit.

By the time he’s made you come around his fingers and with his mouth, he’s gotten achingly hard and has been bucking his hips into the side of his mattress for any sort of relief. You tug him forward, smashing your lips against his and delight in the taste of your cum on his tongue.

“Need you,” you murmur, whining from sensitivity as Bob continues to circle your clit with his thumb.

Impatiently, you unbuckle his belt and tug down his pants and underwear together with practiced ease, waiting for him to step out of them. He quickly kicks them away before pressing himself back on top of you, eager lips finding yours again.

“You need me?” he asks between sloppy, desperate kisses.

Your teeth tug at the meat of your cheek, chewing with a shyness that he likes seeing on you. “I need you,” you repeat with a small nod.

“Alright, pretty girl. Lay down for me?”

You follow his instructions, and he thinks he could cum solely from the sight of you spread out on his bed for him. He’s already fucked his own fist more times than he can count to the thought of this. He’s praying that it’s not any figment of imagination or some cruel trick of the mind Void is playing—but then again, anything the Void shows never feels this good.

And fuck, do you feel good.

He pumps his length a few times before smearing your cum around your swollen folds to coat himself in your slick. He is already delirious with pleasure, and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet. But when Bob finally slips into you, it’s gentle, and he’s cupping your face so sweetly. You whine as he slowly bottoms out, filling you up until you’re full of him. He’s a lot but not too much, just enough.

“I’ll take care of you, okay, pretty girl?” He feels your tight walls clenching around him, and it takes so much in him not to cum then and there. Slowly, he pulls his cock out of your needy cunt just to slide it back in all the way in one swift motion. “That’s it. You can take it.”

You nod dumbly at his words, feeling your cunt continue to stretch around him. He leans down over you, pressing his warm mouth onto yours. He even tastes like you still.

There isn’t much you can do except cry out his name and hold onto him, nails digging into his back as he fucks himself into you with your legs wrapped tight around his hips—not that he minds any bit. It’s not like you can hurt him, but he’ll end up mourning the scratches you could’ve blessed him with later on. Invulnerability isn’t always a gift.

“You feel so good,” you whisper.

He inhales sharply and jokes, “You should see how you feel.”

Although you’ve been pulsing around him, you need just that little extra push before you can cum. Without much thought—How can you have any when you’re getting fucked like this?—your hand somehow snakes between your bodies, finding your clit with ease.

“Oh, fuck…” he drawls out as you manage to get even tighter around his cock. How was that possible?

Your second release hits you before you can even get the words to come out, your cries filling the room. He realized soon after he got his powers that his stamina never really changed unless he was using his abilities for awhile. And fucking you wasn’t really a superpower—though you are inclined to disagree. Well, it meant that he could continue to thrust into you, drawing out your pleasure until you’re shaking from overstimulation.

Through the haze of probably the best orgasm you’ve ever been given in your life, you vaguely make out his question and answer, “I-inside’s okay.”

After making sure again, Bob finally cums with a last few bucks of his hips, a new delicious warmth filling you inside. Without pulling out, he collapses on top of you, careful not to suffocate you. The mixture of your cum is probably all over his sheets anyway, but you think maybe he just wants to be inside you a little longer.

It nearly makes you cringe, how heavily you’re panting right now—it’s the only thing you can hear. The thought quickly disappears when you feel him place a gentle kiss onto your mouth.

“You okay?”

You’re too fucked out to make any words leave your mouth, so you manage with a little hum.

“I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?” There’s a hint of insecurity that you can detect in his soft, hesitant tone.

Shaking your head adamantly, you can do. You play with his hair while you try to find your voice again. “I wouldn’t let you be rough with me if I didn’t like it,” you whisper, gently pressing your finger into his cheek. “And if you couldn’t tell, I really liked it.”

You also like the smile that makes its way onto his face. It’s a wonder that a man who could do all of that to you could still be blushing crimson at your words right after.

Leaning forward, he nuzzles his nose against yours and asks quietly, “You seriously wanna stay here?”

“Yes, Bob the Builder. I wanna stay here. On this Earth. With you.”

“I’m really glad,” he murmurs against your mouth, an honesty in his words you’ve come to appreciate greatly.

You sing-song a familiar cartoon tune, “Can we stay here?”

Bob snorts, answering, “Yes, we can!”

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” You’re standing next to Bob in your suit, a reassuring expression on your face. “It’s seriously not a big deal, I already do this with Yelena all the time—“

“No, no,” Bob says quickly, waving you off. His bright blue eyes keep darting between you and what’s waiting below off the edge of the building. “I wanna do this.”

“No offense, dude, but you look terrified.”

He nods. “Well, that’s great, because I am.”

You sigh, taking his hand in yours. “And I said you don’t have to. I already appreciate you considering it.”

“I want to,” he tells you with full honesty. “I do. I wanna know if it’s like how you described.”

“Even though you’re scared and squeezing my hand like you aren’t a perfectly safe distance from the edge?”

“Yes.”

You give him your brightest grin. “Just don’t pass out on me, alright? I don’t have super strength, and I will get Alexei to carry you back to the tower by himself.”

[i-cant-cast-that-yet]

Y'know, I read a lot of Jiuyuan--or really just anything Shen Jiu in general, and Id like to pitch this idea to the class:

Disciple Shen Jiu who fuckin haaates men, right? Shen Jiu who goes to brothels to sleep bc he just can't around the other boys knowing full well how shit his reputation is bc of it but Fuck You he's gonna do what he has to to get some fucking rest on this shit ass peak of pretentious rich-kids who wouldn't know the tip of their sword from the hilt unless it was jammed in their throats--

Disciple Shen Jiu who's seen just about every flavor of man in the streets both from his nights with his jiejie's and from his time with the Qiu and the slavers, and loathes them with a passion and is, shamefully in his mind, afraid of them.

Standoffish, rude, holier than thou, venom spitting queen with a cruel streak a thinly veiled mile wide, Shen Jiu. A scum villain in the making.

Enter Disciple Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan, in all his millennial transmigrator glory. Hikkikomori ass lame ass chokes on a meatbun and fucking croaks after reading a porn harem web novel for the fucking plot (cough-lbh-cough) Shen Yuan.

This rando ass dude with Shen Jiu's family name--no they aren't related stop asking, Shen Yuan why do you look grossed out do you wanna fight??--

Shen Yuan who doesn't get close to any of his shijie's, bc "Oh they're all gonna be in Bingge's harem at some point, I don't wanna steal the protagonists wives!!"

Shen Yuan, a shut-in nerd in his early to mid 20s, who also shirks any of his shixiong's attention for other reasons. He's not big on sports in the first place, and as cool as swords are they're fucking heavy!!! Where's the training montage skip button, system!?!? All this (ugh) comraderie...he just wants to stay in the library and pretend the scrolls are as interesting as zhongdian was, okay?

Shen Jiu, who sees these avoidant traits in a boy with his name and a face that looks like his and assumes Shen Yuan has the same traumas as him.

He hates men, Shen Yuan included for both the happenstance of his birth and also because he's an idiot, but now he's seeing more of him reflected in this dude and it itches.

Maybe he bullies Shen Yuan like he does Binghe. Maybe Shen Yuan, who isn't actually a teenager in his own head like lbh was and fucking hates the scum villain (he called for castration in one life and he'll do it again!! This life gave him cultivation and a sword, he'll get creative if he has to) fights back.

Puts all that time in the forums to good use and verbally eviscerates the guy. Hits on several sore topics all at once and if it wasn't for the very public scene being caused Shen Jiu might have killed this upstart instead of just throwing a punch and jumping him like he currently is.

And listen. Fighting between peaks is typical. The Qing Jing peak lord of the time could care less if Shen Jiu fights the Liu kid from Bai Zhan--there's history between the peaks as it is. But the two Shens beefing so publically?? That's bad for Qing Jing's image.

Shen Jiu might be hated, but Shen Yuan is adored by several key figures across the sect and this Shizun can't tell if the brat did it on purpose or not but it's troublesome either way. Shen Jiu is here on Zhangmen-shixiong's head disciples request, so she can't get rid of either of them.

So she strategizes. It's like her whole thing.

Qing Jing peak lord-jie sticks the Shen's in the xianxia equivalent of the get along shirt. She makes them go on missions together, do chores together, etc. They'll either snap and kill one another or become friends. She wins either way.

It's bad at first. Blood is drawn, fans are thrown and broken over heads. They're too alike and too different and Shen Jiu sees himself in this kid but also every rich boy who wastes their own potential and privilege that they can't realize they were blessed with and he haaates it. Shen Yuan is pissed bc this ass is cruel and awful but so fucking sympathetic once he's spent enough time around the guy to put some pieces together. Bro loves a problematic blorbo and Binghe was a lot of things in pidw, but the product of Shen Jiu's projection is chief among them and Shen Yuan is getting a whole lot of it right now and it puts a lot into perspective.

...................

This is getting away from me now. It's late. Maybe I'll pick this up later.

[azullumi]

WHERE WE LIE ON THE EDGE OF SUMMER !!

premise— you didn’t think that being neighbors and childhood friends with scaramouche would come with many things. for one, you have a sassy loser pathetically in love with you. content tags & warning — pairing: scaramouche (w/ gender-neutral reader) | modern!au, childhood friends, puppy love, scaramouche can’t skip stones, secret pining (for scaramouche), scaramouche words of reassurance and act of service advocate, fluff, word vomit, unspoken confessions | wc: 4.8k ; one-shot

notes from a jellyfish — (repost) first fic for the eat your heart out event!! nearly lost my mind writing this, but enjoy!!

SCARAMOUCHE is a liar. 

No truths spill from his mouth, that much is certain. 

He could never understand how poets write the beauty of a single sway of grass in the wind nor see how artists condense a single moment into a small stroke of a brush and find it breathtaking when it will all be bound to rot, but he tells others that he does anyway because he is a liar.

His words would bloom withered in his mouth, a shameful garden of ache, and the petals would never feel the lingering warmth in his lips.

But he never liked the heat, the suffocating warmth, always preferring the winter cold. But it was summer when he first met you and he remembers your laughter as you threw pebbles across the water, your smile gently shaped by the warm sun.

i. standing in between here and there

“Are you okay?”

There was only a grimace of annoyance on his face when you turned to briefly look at him. 

It was summer once more and Scaramouche dreaded summer more than anyone could, much more so now that he’s spending this hot day with a stranger—a child of his aunt’s friend, who is also their neighbor. The combination of sitting under all this heat and being forced to get along with someone he doesn't know is deadly. He can't even remember what their name was. Perhaps they had uttered it once only for it to be lost among the pebbled path or to be drowned in the river.

He raises his eyebrow at you, “Is it not obvious enough?”

“What’s with this sassy lost child? Jeez.” You mumble more words underneath your breath, something along the lines of him being grumpy. The summer breeze brushes across your skin as you stare at the river, contemplating. Perhaps you were debating if this stone will reach farther than the frog who jumped across just now, or maybe you’re just thinking of the boy—who your mother had asked you to get along with—sitting silently on the grass behind you since earlier.

You throw one stone over the water. It bounces once and twice, the surface responding with small ripples, sliding across before eventually sinking. You do this many times and he watches you every single time, eyes seemingly unable to look away. But curiosity is a hungry monster that consumed him, so he speaks to rid of the itch that claws at his throat:

“What are you doing?”

“Stone skipping,” you paused, witnessing the stone jump only once before reuniting with its old friends at the bottom of the river, “wanna try?” You blink at him, waiting for his answer. There was silence then came a grumble. He stood up from his seat with an expression that makes it seem like you forced him to do so.

You handed the boy a pebble, but he had to stare at it for a few seconds before he took it from your hand. You waited with an expectant gaze, your mind somehow anticipating that he’ll do better than you—Scaramouche looks like he’s good at everything that he does.

Oh, but how your expectations came crumbling down the way your breakfast cookie fell into your glass of milk.

“Go on, throw it.” You had told him and you didn’t know that he was that much of an obedient child because he really did throw it. Just not aimed at the water. He threw it like how one would pass a ball to a friend; his stone didn’t even graze nor come near the surface of the water.

But Scaramouche had the same perseverance of a rock against the wind. He picked up a pebble and threw it once more; this time, it is now aimed at the water but it only went straight ahead, sinking slowly to the bottom.

You don’t think you’re in the right time to say anything, so you just stood still and watched the struggle of a young boy who had a small stone in his hand, with the occasional rustling of leaves as the breeze passes and with the sound of a splash prodding at the silence that envelops you like a familiar companion. You wanted to go and teach him how he’s supposed to do it, that there is a certain angle that he has to reach and he’s not supposed to throw it just as it is, but your mind seems to tell you not to so you didn’t. It’s all quite a spectacular watch, after all, it was as if you were watching your favorite show at 7 PM after waiting hours for it to go on air.

No matter how many times Scaramouche tries to throw and make the pebble bounce across the river, it always just sinks the first time it comes into contact with the surface. He’s silent, but the frustration is evident in the scrunch of his eyebrows and the increasing aggression in his movements.

“Oh, wow, you’re terrible at this.” You were the first to break the silence—your words seem to have stabbed his unyielding spirit as he groaned and just went back to where he was sitting. An act of surrender after struggling for so long.

”You don’t want to try again?”

“Why should I?” The pebble will only sink anyway. What’s the point of doing something when you know you’ll fail in the end?

“Come on, just try it once more.” But you were a stubborn one and Scaramouche doesn’t have much of a choice, not when you’re already right in front of him, taking his hands into yours and pulling for him to stand up. You drag him back to where he was earlier, still holding one of his hands even as you pick up a pebble right at your feet.

“Here, do it like this.” Your hand is warm against his, gentle, in contrast to the crumpled look on his face. You guide him, saying words that he can’t process that much as he’s way too focused trying to fan the flames that danced across his cheeks.

He throws, in the same angle and form that you have guided him into before you had stepped back to watch, holding hope that he’ll succeed this time in the same hand you held him. The stone doesn’t immediately celebrate with his other failed attempts at the bottom as it bounces against the surface. 

You cheered, the sound of laughter slipping out of your lips as it seemed to tickle the insides of your mouth the more you held it in. There’s a certain feeling of warmth that washed over him when the melody rings inside his head. The roughness of the feeling, sharp in its unfamiliar edges, is akin to a huge wave that crashed into his form, but the comfort of it as it submerges him reminds him of the afternoon light shining on the floors of his home.

“It only bounced once.” He says, trying to downplay it all to get rid of the feeling that consumes him.

“But it did. That’s what matters, doesn’t it?” The feeling only seemed to grow stronger as if it’s feeding on your every word, being fuelled by your gaze, by your smile, by the sound of your voice. He tries to drown it all by thinking of other thoughts, diving into a different topic instead, and all the while, copying you as you resume your stone-skipping activities.

“Do you not get bored doing this?”

You hum, contemplating for a few seconds before you answer: “I think everything is a little more fun when you do it during summer,” you beam at him, then return your gaze back to the river before you throw, “Like this, especially when you’re doing it with someone.”

To be honest, he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. This childlike mindset—although, for one, you and him are just a pair of children, playing beside the river, feeling the heat prickling against your skin. The bugs only grow louder in each second that passes as the afternoon slowly comes to the pass, replaced with the onset of the evening. The sky is painted with various colors mixed together but all in harmony, oranges and reds mixed with something golden, tainted with purples.

And yet, he would always ask himself, what is even nice about summer?

“I don’t know why but maybe I’m just saying that because I like summer,” you say as if you had read his mind, as if you had noticed the lingering question on his face that asks you why. “Do you like summer?”

It takes him a moment to answer, letting the orchestra of the wind against leaves, of the stone splashing against water, of the cicada’s song last longer than his silence. He could have said no, he could have disagreed with you and argued with your answer. He could have said that he despised summer for its heat and bugs. But he didn’t and that was the problem.

“I… like summer.” There are razors in his tongue as he speaks, the utterance of the sentence making him bleed internally as he bites on his words. Perhaps the hesitation in his tone betrays his words or perhaps it was the twitch of his lips paired with the contort of his forehead that made it appear as untruthful as it actually was.

Even so, you were convinced. You gleam at him, eyes bright with excitement: “Really? You don’t seem to be one to like summer.”

“I do, why would you say that?”

You shrug, “You just seem like a winter person to me.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. In fact, that was the whole truth and the actual lie was him saying that he likes summer. He still doesn’t understand himself for saying such words—maybe it’s the heat getting into his head or maybe it's the sound of your laughter that plays over and over inside his mind.

It feels like having a crush—He slaps himself mentally at the notion.

“We should always spend summer together then.” You’ll say, watching a pebble bounce across until it reaches the other side. A feat you have only achieved twice—the second time being this moment. You silently rejoiced for your success, clenching your hand into a fist.

He responds, “So we could just watch stones bounce on water the whole time?” and this made you chuckle before you refute: “Unless you want to, but there are tons of other things to do during summer.”

This went on and on: you, just listing out whatever activities you could do and saying whatever, and him, who listens to every word you say and would give you short responses. It is not until dusk had ended and the evening came, and now, you’re standing by the doorway, saying your goodbyes to the boy who’s terrible at stone-skipping.

“You don’t even know my name, do you?”

“I do.”

You laugh, “Liar.”

ii. take a step closer, won’t you?

Summer came to visit like an old friend you had known for years.

It’s a fleeting companion, a familiar stranger bound to disappear, gone as the wind carries your scent. The sun kisses your skin very delicately, the grass will hold your being as if you were its own child, and you will miss its embrace the moment it slips out of your hands quietly. But there’s a strange comfort welling up in your heart knowing that you will feel it once more in time and you won’t have to spend a lifetime missing it—or him.

“What are you being so slow for?” The dark-haired man stops from his track and turns to look at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips formed into a frown. “The sun will set before we even reach the river.” It’s the mayor of complaintown, throwing his usual complaints at you. You could only roll your eyes before you run to him, catching up to his pace before the two of you resume walking.

Scaramouche, somehow, kept his promise. Although it’s not exactly a promise because the two of you didn’t make any, he did keep his word of spending every summer with you. And right now, you’re in the middle of walking through the forest near your home—an adventure, you may say, despite the fact that you have taken this path multiple times already and you’re just returning to the place where the two of you usually spend your moments under the summer sun.

The gentle murmurs of the rushing water reach your ears, eventually getting louder as the two of you draw close to your destination. Not sooner than later, a familiar scene comes into view: the small river—a stream, to be exact—in all its glory displayed before you, a path of water stretching from here to there across your line of vision, carrying memories of when the two of you played around it.

There’s a small smile embedded on your lips. It’s the thought that it's only the two of you that knows of this place that makes you warm—it’s like a secret place for you and him.

You come close to the body of water, crouching down, staring at your rather unclear image by the water, and making out the contours and edges of your face. You try to reach out to your reflection, disturbing the surface with the tip of your fingertips, and you watch as it ripples underneath your hand. Although you’re way too focused on whatever you are doing that you forgot the existence of the boy who came here with you.

“Are you just planning on staring at the water all day long?” Scaramouche says as he crouches down beside you. He speaks as if he didn’t spend his time staring at you, admiring the way the sun holds you in its embrace, while thinking that he could just look at you for hours without getting bored.

You hum, “I really don’t know what else to do now,” you draw something on the water, the surface coming in creases.

“I thought you said there are a lot of things to do in the summer.”

“Yeah, but we already did nearly all of them.” You grumble, turning to look at him with a troubled expression. Indigo orbs meet yours in a gentle gaze; Scaramouche’s gaze, tender and soft, doesn’t often match the harsh bite of his words. It leaves you wondering, confused, if this is just his way of showing that he cares or if there’s something more. But you don’t like thinking about it—fools base their thoughts on foolish assumptions, and you are no fool.

If only you know what festers underneath his skin. Looking at you like this, honey light against your skin, he thinks you’re beautiful—the word isn’t even enough to capture the essence of your being. The world seemingly held its breath for this moment as everything came to a still except for the wind that brushes against your face. He is foolishly and utterly starstruck by the existence of you, as if you were meant to be in this place, to experience this small, fleeting moments with him, to be bathed under sunlight, to breath in the air of your surrounding, the feel the coldness of water against your feet—to live.

There's you and his mere image being reflected by your eyes, and he tries to see into the waters of your gaze for something that is akin to the just adoration he holds for you, hoping that you hold him under the same light too. He may speak of words that hold no meaning, no truth, but his feelings for you are intense and unwavering that it consumes him. Won’t you pull him a little closer?

You break the stillness, your surroundings seemingly coming back to life with the sound of your voice: “What are you thinking now?”

“Just how stupid you look.” The boy answers. Liar.

You acted as if you were offended by his statement, letting out a gasp and even placing your hand over your chest to show that you were quote on quote, hurt. He only rolls his eyes at your performance.

You jest, “Why are you so grumpy? Do you just hate being with me?”

“Stop assuming things, I didn’t say anything like that.” His attention is now to the river, watching as the stream flows and as the rocks remain unmoving.

You grab this moment to take advantage of his vulnerability and inattention. Snickering, you scoop a handful of water before splashing it to him, drenching him in the process. At the sight, laughter bubbles from your throat—he reminded you of a wet chick.

“So we're playing this game?”

“You started it.” You grin, splashing him once more but this time, he was able to shield himself from your attack.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Cold!” You exclaim as he repays you the favor.

It became a battle between you two. You’ll splash him with a handful and he’ll only retaliate after like two or three of your attacks, and even so, he’ll only fight back with only so little. Nevertheless, water drips from your head, down to your face and he, too, is left there on the side of the river with you, completely drenched and with his clothes sticking to his skin. His gaze is on you and yours are on him, and the two of you break into laughter—you think you’ll remember the sound of yours and his tangled together forever.

For a moment, it felt like the two of you were children once more.

“Ah, now we’re both wet.”

Scaramouche flicks your forehead, earning a groan from you. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours, duh.” You sneeze as soon as you finish your sentence. Scaramouche doesn’t fail to notice you tremble, hugging your knees close to your chest as if to quell the growing chill. 

He abruptly stands up, and you watch him as heads over to where his bag is. He’s been carrying that since earlier and you’ve been curious as to what it contains—you didn’t get the chance to ask him earlier but now, your question is going to be answered. 

You follow after, standing and peering behind him to see the contents. Your eyes are able to make out a water bottle and some snacks—were those your favorite?—among the pile of things. Albeit you didn’t get to see anymore of it as he turned around and placed something on top of your head, obscuring your vision.

You realized it was a towel when he started to gently rub your hair and the side of your face with it, drying you with the soft fabric.

“I didn’t know you had that much prepared.” You comment, letting him seemingly take care of you. Sometimes, it feels like you’re indebted to him with how much he looks after and cares for you. It feels unfair; you take so much from him and he never takes anything from you. He never lets himself indulge, settling on here and there, but never by you. You wish he would come close, he wishes you’ll hold him closer.

“I think we’re going to get sick after this.” You ask with worry lacing your tone; the water was cold and none of you brought any spare clothes, save for the towel he had prepared. And while he’s the one who got drenched the most, he’s here, focusing on you instead. 

(You’ll always find yourself being bathed underneath all of his attention, whether you notice his gaze or not.)

“You’re the only one getting sick between the both of us.” He answers, draping the towel all over your shoulders before he goes and takes out a smaller towel to dry himself. There’s a small pout on your face when you hear his words—you can’t say anything in retort.

“Are we going home now?”

“If you want to, that is.”

The sun is already setting and darkness is slowly creeping into the day as time passes. Your surroundings are dyed with a warm golden, fading into blue. The animals that dwell in the night are revealing themselves as the ones who thrive during the day are returning to rest. Eventually, you also have to go home too. Exhaustion has seeped into you, settling into your weary bones.

“Can you carry me?”

“What? Can’t you walk on your own?”

“Oh, please, almighty Scaramouche. My legs are hurting and I’m tired.” Your hands are clasped together as you speak, batting your eyelashes at him.

Scaramouche could have complained a little more, dismissed your request, and walked back on his own, but he didn’t. And it’s not like he did not want to, but he just could not. How could he ever deny you? You were all that he could ask for, you were only asking him for one thing. Rejecting you at this moment was just like turning away from you—even though he knows that you’re most likely bluffing and are capable of your own. 

(But, oh, he’s simply nothing without you. After all, you make up half of his soul even if he’s not even a fragment of yours.)

“You’re so troublesome.” You’re his favorite problem anyway.

Dusk is settling in the corners of the forest, and in the midst of the trees and along with the harmony of cicadas, is you and Scaramouche. The dark-haired man carries you on his back while you keep him occupied with your chatter of whatever that comes to your mind.

And just as he notices every small thing about you, you can’t ignore the dark hue his skin is painted in:

“Your ears are red.”

He takes a few seconds, mumbling, “It’s too hot.”

(Maybe it’s summer that is warm, or maybe it’s you.)

The next day, however, Scaramouche got sick and you had to nurse him back to his health—out of worry and guilt. Although you held that fact over your head, treating it as some sort of trophy.

iii. aren’t we already close enough?

Something knocks at Scaramouche’s window.

That’s how most horror movies start, but this is no horror movie, and it doesn’t take much for him to know that it was just his neighbor trying to grab his attention.

Another knock came. He heads towards the noise, pushing the curtains aside, and immediately seeing you across in your own room, standing by your open window. Upon seeing the man, you enthusiastically wave at him.

You mouthed, even doing some hand gestures to throw your message across to him: “Do you wanna watch the stars with me?”

It seems like he didn’t understand what you were trying to say as he only stares at you with a confused expression. You sighed and gestured for him to wait, disappearing from his line of sight for a moment before returning with a pen and paper in your hand; you scribble something on it and he watches you with a curious gaze.

With your words written by ink, a few of it crossed out, it reads: Let’s go stargazing.

He mouths, “Right now?” In which you responded with a nod and a smile. Then you return to your pad in hand, turning to new page before writing:

There’s going to be a meteor shower tonight. Let’s watch it together.

Scaramouche puts down his reply on his paper that he has gotten as you were writing.

Where? 

The forest has a small clearing, it’s perfect for stargazing.

Right, and why are we talking like this?

It’s more fun this way and I don’t want to wake people up.

So, do you wanna go???

Okay. Yeah.

YAY !!! I’ll meet you outside.

But just as you were about to leave, he threw his pen at your window, an attempt to grab your attention although he did end up startling you.

It’s cold.

Wear something warm.

You beam at his display of his concern and give him an ‘Okay’ sign.

A few minutes flies by and you come out, jacket in hand. A certain man, with hair as dark as midnight, greets you. He’s clad in sweatpants and an oversized shirt, layered with a jacket on top—he was dressed comfily, as if he were planning on sleeping prior to this.

“Were you planning on going to sleep?”

“I was, until you called.”

“You could have just turned me down. I don’t mind watching the meteor shower alone.” You feel guilt rising in your chest, looking down at the ground you were rooted on. Thoughts whirl like a hurricane, creating a vortex of doubt that wreaks havoc inside your head. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, feeling all of these all at once over a simple and small thing. You were the one to insist, always the first one to come barging into his door.

But somewhere between your thoughts and his own, between loving you and adoring you, he knows you in ways that no one could. You’re the only one he ever knows.

“You’re not bothering me,” Scaramouche ruffles your head, messing up your hair. He speaks in the same note of his touch, soft and gentle, and it feels foreign and familiar at the same time; you want this, you could get used to this—the small thought that remains inside your mind echoes as he dispels all of your worries with just a few of his words. “Besides, I also wanted to watch the meteor shower.” With you.

“Really?”

“Where’s the stubborn and strong person who’ll drag me out of my room every summer that I know?” He flicks your forehead, making you wince and rub the spot to ease the pain. He adds, a small smile etching into the curves of his lips, “You were the one to say that everything is better when you do it with someone.”

“Well—”

“There’s no need to worry over such useless things,” He heaves out a sigh, “If I hated you, you would have known.”

He doesn’t know what took over him to have his hand seek out your face, caressing your face so tenderly like a lover would. The dance of his fingers left a trail of warmth across your skin, blooming and spreading like fire, and maybe it was your fault or maybe it was his that your face leans closer to his touch as if desiring for more of his softness. He doesn’t fail to notice the look on your face, the fire that festers within you spreading to him.

Scaramouche is mesmerized by the miracle that is you. 

He clears his throat, looking away, afraid that he’s going to be consumed by your light the more he keeps his gaze on you:

“Let’s go before we end up missing it.” His tone falters into something sweet, and his hand, too, falls into something kind—his fingers slipping into your own. You could only nod your head in response, afraid that your words would break in your tongue before you could even speak.

It doesn’t take long to reach the spot you were talking about. But it did feel like time moved slowly with the silence as neither of you let go of each other’s hand; you battled with your reasoning, thinking that it will help you walk better in the dark and not trip over anything even when you’re already familiar with the path. Or maybe it was just too cold, you don’t know; it’s not like you want to let go either.

(And in the same cadence of your thoughts, his soul whispers to you: “I don’t think I want to stop holding your hand.”)

Tonight, the stars are a witness to the wake of something foolishly beautiful. As the streaks of light fill the sky like a stroke of a painter’s brush on an empty canvas, lush grass forms into nothing as it sinks beneath your being, intertwined with his as he clutches your hand tight—the sky holds the stars as the earth bears your weight all the same. When the warm breeze leaves and when life all becomes nothing in the absence of indigo merging into golden, can you stand with him a little closer underneath the fading warm?

���Kuni.” What does his name taste like in your mouth?

“Hm?”

Scaramouche isn’t stupid, but you make him feel stupid, and he loves you stupid, like a loser stumbling over the stars in your eyes. He understands why poets write the mundane and how artists portray a fleeting moment bound to rot by time. It doesn’t take much but he spent a long time seeking comfort in the warmth to know the answer—he knew what it was when he wished you were with him to enjoy the sun.

You reside in the deeper parts of his soul, tangled in the loose threads of his being. Scaramouche prays—even when he doesn’t necessarily believe, but what is a god’s gaze for your love?—to whoever is listening that you’ll stay there forever. Can a human ever stop their heart from wanting? 

“Don’t you want to go home now?” You had asked him; the meteor shower has finished and the clouds are already hiding the vast blanket of stars above you. There’s not much left in this night, just silence and a pair of people who had nothing and everything at the same time, lying on the grass as if they’re the only ones who matter in the world. He has always existed right there beside you and he has belonged to you in ways that you may never know.

“I’m still not sleepy yet.” But his mouth gapes into a yawn and you laugh.

“Liar.”

Call him whatever you want, he just wants to stay with you a little longer.

Scaramouche may be a liar.

But he likes you, that much is certain.

taglist: @felibrary, @yunicide, @bittersweetmiko

© AZULLUMI 2024. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[sugoi-writes]

Hi, i have a proposition for you...

Alastor catching himself bleating whenever reader touches him 👀

(i just find it so adorable when he squeaks like a little fawn when Rosie pulls him in that one scene and the theory that he does that only when he's happy and with a person he feels comfortable with)

Gdhdhd I had discovered this a while back, and the idea THRILLS me. To no fucking end! I hope this is okay and worth the wait! (Two Fics in one week? HUH?)

No warnings for this one! Just cute cute fluff (I'm doing my best! ;w; gdhdhdhd)

A Bleating Heart - Alastor x GN! Reader

You were reading your book in Alastor's armchair, taking in the heat that radiated from the mint green flames of the fireplace. When you heard a groan to your rear, you paused. You looked behind you, only to see Alastor tossing and turning onto his side. You couldn't help your frown, watching as Alastor's brows furrowed. The Radio Demon was frustrated, his cheek smashed into his pillow aggressively. 

"...everything alright, dear?" You ask softly, recalling that he was 'laying down' to get rid of his headache. Though you knew that Alastor wasn't one for sleep, you kept quiet and content all the same. But when he shook his head, pointing directly to it, you understood perfectly. 

" 'Antlers still bothering you, huh...? Headache?" 

Alastor hummed lowly, turning over and laying face down into his bed. While he was muffled by a pillow, you could barely make out what he said:

" I loathe shedding... It hasn't even begun, and-- oh, they itch-- to no end..." 

"And I assume that doesn't help your headache either?" 

Alastor grumbled, unable to be upset at your gentle pestering. You doted on him like his mother, a quality he would never admit to loving about you," ...Not a lick, dear..." 

You innocently stand from the armchair, walking over to Alastor's bedside," Would... Would it helped if you laid your head in my lap?" 

Alastor raises his head up slightly, eyes narrowed," I hardly see how that could help in this predicament..." You sigh, gently rolling Alastor over onto his back before sitting in the space he used to occupy. Begrudgingly, he did not stop you, but his eyes followed you cautiously. 

"Just trust me... Okay?" 

Alastor's expression soured. Trust is a hard-earned thing to receive from him. The Radio Demon, in all his glory, was slow to make acquaintances, and slower to give out trust. But, he relented, allowing you to sit beside him comfortably. When you patted your lap expectantly, Alastor complied. Due to his antlers, he awkwardly laid sideways on his bed, knees rising and coming together as his head finally met your lap. Thankfully, you would not be disemboweled by his accursed antlers tonight. 

When you smiled down to him, Alastor simply closed his eyes, unable to look your way without feeling embarrassed. This was well outside of his comfort zone. He was feeling incredibly vulnerable while his body did everything to antagonize him. He felt like he was between a rock and a hard place, despite your plush thighs cradling his head.

However, when he felt your hand brush against his hair, scratching gently, his throat ran dry. All nerves and stiffeness became lesser; like the rest of his senses, they became dulled. 

The touch was... Foreign, soft... But not unwelcome. It was soothing, even. When you continued to touch, your hands working in subtle circles against his scalp, he couldn't help the quiet, pleased hum that left him. 

" 'Feels good, my buck?" 

Alastor cracked one eye open, his smile wavering,"...please don't make me say it out loud," Alastor said quietly, a chuckle rising in his throat. You shrugged, not minding his shyness. 

"Hmm, it would be so much cuter if you did, though~" 

When your hand moved to an antler, scratching gently at the base, a full-body tremor ran through his neck down to his hooves. His knees knocked together, a quiet, animalistic noise tumbling out of him. You blink a few times, surprised by the noise, and decided to repeat the action. When a meek, content bleat hit your ears, your eyes nearly doubled in size. You were beaming down at Alastor, a large, giddy inhale expanding your chest. Your heart throbbed at the subconscious gesture. 

Meanwhile, Alastor's eyes were slammed shut, much tighter than before. His heart was racing with anxiety, his palms suddenly feeling clammy. 

Why. Why now, of all times, could he not keep his pathetic little ticks at bay? Of course he found comfort in your company, but-- 

...Maybe he should have used his words, after all. 

"Alastor, was that...?" 

"If you value your life, you will never speak of this again." 

You throw your free hand up defensively, a coy smile on your face," Oh sure, sure... Of course. Whatever you say, Alastor." When a second hand joined the other, lightly scratching at the base of his other antler, that small, high pitched bleat bounced right out of him. 

"Mmm... Yes... Yes, not a word, mon ange... Not a single word... but this-- this is fine for now..." 

You chuckle, increasing the pressure you applied as Alastor melted into your touch. 

"If you continue to be this adorable, I would never speak again, if it meant you stayed like this forever~" Alastor's hands folded together, laying on his chest. Soon enough his knees fell apart, creating a wide 'v'. He looks to you with both eyes as his brow twitches. 

"And what fun would that be? I rather enjoy our conversations, cher." You nearly snorted, surprised that Alastor didn't realize you were joking. 

You laugh, your shoulders shaking with an effort to be quiet as Alastor's legs finally gave out, hanging lazily off of the bed. When your hands moved higher up his antlers, you noticed his legs swinging back and forth idly. You wondered if he noticed, or if this was yet another subconscious action. 

" Fine, fine... I promise to keep talking~ but only if I get to keep spoiling you like this." 

Alastor feels his heart squeeze at the notion, a warmth spreading across his cheeks and ears. He refused to confirm or deny your request with words, instead shimmying his shoulders to sink further into your lap. An open-mouthed sigh was your only response as you lightly dragged your nails across one of his points, his hands untangling from one another. His body almost felt like liquefied, completely and utterly relaxed, taking up an obnoxious amount of space on his bed. And for once, he allowed himself a moment to enjoy it while in someone else's presence. 

He felt safe... Immensely so. But he would never profess to that to you so soon. 

For now, he was content with you playing with his hair, scratching his irritable antlers while he listened to you speak. Quite frankly, it wouldn't take long for Alastor's mind to shut down, his body losing the fight to slumber. When you noticed his breathing toggle to a steady, silent repetition, you resigned yourself to being a pillow. If you were honest, you would sooner die again than move from that spot. You would only permit that once Alastor woke up again, head clear and eyes soft... You wondered how he would look waking up, the adorable thought alone making you feel a surge of glee.

You didn't mind the sensation of pins and needles settling in your legs, knowing that this was a rare moment. Why interrupt something so fleeting? So precious?

You couldn't help but watch as Alastor laid in your lap, unmoving and completely slack. You decided you wouldn't tell him about how he lost his smile while he slept. In the rarest of moments, his lips were agape, formed into a flat, horizontal line. You'd tuck that secret into the back of your mind for safe keeping... A fond memory you'd hang on to for the rest of your afterlife. (A secret almost as precious as his quiet snores, which started when you played with his hair again.) You almost squeaked when Alastor bleated again, much softer than when he was awake. Yes, it would be best if you never mentioned it... Alastor would die from sheer embarrassment alone, you think.

You let out a tired yawn, your mind wandering. Honestly? If you were really, truly in Hell... Well, this was a pretty splendid way to spend it, wasn't it? Why seek forgiveness and redemption, when your entire world was in your lap? And with that thought in mind, you decided to get some sleep, your head resting against the cool wood of Alastor's headboard. 

[tragedygroupie]

babysitter blues

cw: LEGAL age gap, fingering, praise kink, loss of virginity, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), daddy kink, blink and you’ll miss it dacryphilia, authority kink (???), imbalanced power dynamic kinda???, alexandria rick, kind of long winded buildup to the smut, brief substance use (alcohol), soft dom! rick… yeah that’s all i can think of rn.

your entire life had been colored by an overwhelming sense of inertia. tucked away in the mundane labyrinth of the suburbs, not even the advent of the apocalypse could blot out the pervasive sense of ennui that had followed you since childhood. the horrors of the newly established outer world, the grotesque undead and the occasionally more dangerous still living were completely unknown to you. the apocalypse had not annihilated your reality, it merely redefined the confines of your sequestration.

life in alexandria was largely a matter of finding a way to pass the time. girls that barely qualified as adults weren’t exactly hot commodities, rarely sought out for anything, so it fell on you to fill the hours until the end of the world.

sometimes it was reading, which slowly morphed into a project of creating a library for the community, almost entirely curated from your own collection, with some generous donations here and there from bemused older folks surprised that young people still cared about that kind of thing.

other times it was babysitting, which started largely as preemptive measure to get out of being assigned any kind of work that would require any amount of physical activity. sure it was lazy, but you enjoyed the company of most of the kids, and they all liked you, enchanted by the whimsical dresses you wore and the stuffed animal army you had at your disposal.

truly, the only visible sign that you were experiencing an apocalypse rather than another red hot american summer were the bags under your eyes, perpetually exhausted from the never ending parade of nightmares that left you jolting awake, violently gasping for air.

a girl like you had no business hanging around a man like rick grimes. perpetually tense, eyes wildly darting around like he was itching to drive the butter knife he spread his jam with into the throat of some unspecified assailant. a bloody splash of color in your grayscale world. he was unlike anything you’d ever seen, a Marlboro man, blue collar through and through, from the dirt that he could never seem to fully rid his nails of to the rough, calloused hands that secretly made your mouth water.

this was the apocalypse, yet your sense of self preservation was as brittle as it’d been when you were sixteen. all your snark, that goddamn mouth that always got you in trouble evaporated when you were around him, replaced with an unfamiliar earnestness that made you cringe internally. you tried, really you did, to not follow him around like a lovesick puppy, to think of reasonable pretenses for your incessant need to be in his proximity, and fortunately enough, you quickly found an in.

no matter how adept rick was in this new world, he seemingly struggled when it came to childcare. when it came to his daughter, he was wildly protective yet somehow simultaneously clueless, and the first time you saw something approaching relief flash through his eyes was when you offered to look after her.

truth be told, rick didn’t quite know what to make of you. you were soft without being stupid, sheltered but not maddeningly clueless, and your eagerness to listen to him when everyone else dismissed him as paranoid endeared you to him in a way no one else in Alexandria quite managed. when you offered to look after judith, the last thing he thought was that you’d become a distraction. you were pretty, sure, but you were young enough to be his daughter, and if there was one thing rick grimes wasn’t, it was cliché.

but goddamn did you make it hard. his life in the new world had been characterized by leaving absolutely no room for error, every potential outcome identified and accounted for. yet in his brief respite from having to care for his daughter entirely by himself, he failed to consider that you wouldn’t just be a hot flash of want that pulsed through his veins whenever he happened to run into you, you’d be in his home. he was a stronger man than most, but he was still a man, and being in such close proximity to that kind of temptation was enough to drive anyone crazy.

every time he walked through the door it was something new. sitting on the floor with your hands outstretched, beckoning judith to crawl towards you, oblivious to your skirt riding up your parted thighs. bending over the cradle to kiss her good night, while the cotton of your already short dress just barely covered your ass.

you may not have been completely clueless about the dangers outside the walls, but you were downright brainless when it came to the effect you had on him, and it was that very lack of awareness that had him fucking his fist in the shower, coming with a groan to the thought of those pretty, naive eyes looking up at him as he split you open. it wasn’t enough, like putting a bandaid over a cut that sliced to the bone, but it was a safety valve, it kept him from doing something stupid.

today shouldn’t have been any different from the routine he had established. he got home as dusk started to settle, having made an extra effort to see judith before she went to bed. he tried to leave the frustrations of today at the door, determined to be a good father, to exact control over the flaming emotions that licked up his chest, stopping the spread before he became engulfed.

as soon as he hears your voice, with its lilting quality as you respond to judith’s babbling, the hard lines that have taken up a virtually permanent residence on his forehead soften. he walks across the threshold, into the living room where you’re sprawled across the couch, judith sitting on your lap. you get up, and he has a blissful few seconds to admire the dress you’re wearing, a little white dress with embroidered flowers better suited for frolicking in a garden than waiting out the end of the world, before you open your mouth to greet him.

“look who’s here judith! daddy’s here!”

fuck.

he knows you didn’t mean it like that, and a better man wouldn’t have thought anything of it. a clearly innocent comment shouldn’t have the blood draining from his head and rushing towards his dick, but the way that word rolls off your tongue is downright sinful. his face is an impenetrable mask of cordiality, concealing his desire as he answers.

“how’re my girls?”

it’s more forward than he’d be under any other circumstances, but he can’t help it, he needs to see if his words affect you the way yours do him. sure enough, a rosy blush blossoms across your cheeks as you hand Judith to him. the words rattle around your head, and you make a mental note to remember it for later, when you’re alone and twilight has fallen, so you can replay it in earnest.

“she’s been wonderful, we had so much fun today, didn’t we Judith?”

you go on, filling him in with details about the day, your voice becoming a pleasant hum that barely filters through, he’s too busy looking at you. all soft curves to his taut muscles, hands that’ve never seen a day of hard work. fragile things like you normally fill him with a vague sense of irritation, if not downright disgust, but with you it’s different, the overwhelming need to lay claim to the last bit of silken sweetness in this apocalyptic wasteland threatening to undo him.

dimly, he becomes aware that you’re asking if he wants to put Judith to bed tonight, and a dull panic sets in. you can’t leave, not yet, not until he’s gotten to feel you.

“i’d like to see how you do it. for future reference” he says, his voice cool and glacial, completely devoid of the growing desperation blooming in his abdomen.

you nod, secretly proud at the prospect of teaching him something. he’s so worldly, so knowledgeable in things you hadn’t even conceived, and the idea of him wanting to learn from you about anything makes you feel mature, no longer a lovesick puppy yapping at his heels.

you three go to judith’s nursery, and when he passes her to you, you begin to show him the routine you’ve established. it’s quick, nothing flashy, just getting her changed into her pjs, singing a quick song, and stroking her hair until she falls asleep. mercifully, she’s out like a light, and the two of you creep out of her room, careful not to disturb her. when you get into the hall, you avoid his eyes, unsure of what to do now. you see him so rarely, and without the buffer of Judith, you feel small again, all that newfound maturity fleeting, like it was never there.

rick has to suppress a smirk at your shyness, and after a beat of silence, he’s unable to resist making an offer.

“you want a drink?”

you look up at him, trying in vain to hide your excitement.

“sure.”

one drink follows another, though you never quite manage to get rid of the grimace that accompanies each swig. its endearing, he knows you’re only drinking this shitty beer because he offered it, trying to convince him that you can handle yourself. you’re sitting together on the couch, and the once respectable distance between the two of you has shrunk down considerably, your knee against his as you go on and on, talking about anything that catches your fancy. to his credit, he doesn’t seem to mind, nodding and trying to focus on your words rather than how soft and warm your thigh feels pressed against his.

“i know the whole library idea seem… frivolous, but you should come by sometime. i can recommend you something good.”

he smirks, his voice coming out low and measured.

“never said that darlin. i just don’t have a whole lot of time for reading.”

you shake your head, your voice earnest in a way that would leave you mortified if you were sober, trying to ignore the pang of need in your cunt at the pet name.

“bullshit. you’ve probably just… never read a good book. with the way the world is… who doesn’t need escapism sometimes?”

he nods, clearly humoring you. it’s nice to see you passionate about something, even if he shares absolutely no interest in it. he notices how you shift next to him, your thighs pressing together at the pet name, and makes sure to take note of it.

“amen to that.” he says, taking another swig from the bottle you’ve been sharing.

when he looks back at you, you have a dreamy, far away look in your eyes. he raises an eyebrow at you, his voice coming out teasing.

“have i got something on my face?”

you shake your head earnestly, your voice coming out achingly sincere.

“you have really nice eyes.”

he scoffs, amused by the observation. it’s something you’d normally be too scared to say to him, but the beer has clearly loosened your inhibitions, and goddamn if he doesn’t love it.

when you lean towards him, your lips meeting his softly, all unsure and sweet, it’s all he can do to not groan. this is wrong, you’re young enough to be his daughter, he should be the adult here, put a stop to this and gently tell you that you deserve better than him.

instead, he finds himself kissing you back, all those good, proper sentiments dying in his throat as he pulls you into his lap, his mouth never leaving yours. his hands are all over you, exploring every inch of the soft, supple flesh he’s been craving for god knows how long. you’re trying to keep up, your mouth clumsy and shy against his, but he’s relentless, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he kneads the plush of your ass through your white lace panties.

your dress is riding up your thighs, and it’s all he can do to not tear it off you. he knows he needs to be gentle, he gets the sense that you haven’t got much experience in this arena, even though his more primal instinct is to push you against the wall and fuck you till you see black. instead, his hands creep up your thighs, until he’s cupping your clothed cunt, your panties already dewy with arousal.

“fuck baby, all this for me?” he asks, his voice teasing as he marvels at how easily aroused you are. all this from a few kisses, it’s really just too easy.

you let out a keening whine, your hips instinctively rocking your cunt against his hand, desperate for any amount of friction. you nod desperately, too dumbstruck for words.

he chuckles, slowly starting to rub you through your underwear.

“use your words, pretty girl.” he says, his voice half joking, but with an undercurrent of seriousness, a warning that he’ll stop if you don’t comply.

your eyes flutter shut, the puffy sleeves of your dress falling down your shoulders as your hands go to grip his big arms.

“all.. for… you” you pant, your cheeks burning red.

it’s embarrassing really, how soaked your panties are. it makes you feel like a slut, but you know you wouldn’t get this way for just anyone. you couldn’t imagine being this easy for someone else, and if you were more clear headed you’d try to tell him, but all you can do is mewl pathetically, frustrated by how the lace of your panties dilutes the feeling of his fingers on you.

he chuckles, reading you like a book. he moves the lace aside, dipping his index finger into your aching cunt, biting back a groan when you gasp.

“that feel good, baby?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you let out a whiny mhmmm, and he allows it, pumping steadily while the rough pad of his thumb rubs circles onto your clit. when he curls his thick finger inside you, you swear you see stars, and your nails dig into the weathered muscles of his arms.

“oh fuck, daddy” you mumble, too far gone to notice or care that you slipped up, oblivious to how his eyes light up at your words.

“poor thing… those little fingers just don’t do it for you, do they? can’t reach that far, isn’t that right?” he says, condescension dripping from his voice.

you nod furiously, your hips bucking into his touch as your head lolls forward, letting him pull you closer into his arms as you whimper out a response.

“s-so close daddy”

he coos at you, that sweet desperation making him throb in his jeans. normally he’d make you work for it, make you respond to all his questions to build good habits (because there would be a next time), but he figures he’ll go easy on you just this once, especially when you plead so pretty.

“go on baby. make a mess f’me.” he says encouragingly, and that’s all it takes for you to come, burying your forehead into his chest as you ride out your high.

when you go limp, he starts stroking your hair, maneuvering your head so you’re facing him. he kisses you again, and it takes a moment before you kiss him back, your brain still partially fogged over from pleasure.

“you act like no one’s ever made you cum before” he says teasingly, and when your face flushes it just confirms what he already thought: you’re a virgin.

you avoid his eyes, your voice coming out all shy and flustered.

“i don’t really have much experience… is that a problem?”

he has to resist the urge to scoff, because no, that is absolutely not a problem. if anything, it makes him want you more. but he doesn’t want to scare you, so he just tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him, his hand cupping your cheek.

“it’s not a problem at all, honey. just wanna make sure you’re okay with all this.”

it takes all his self restraint to ask you that, because his jeans feel far too tight and all he wants to do is bury himself inside you before he preemptively blows his load, but he knows he needs to make sure you’re ready, that you want this too. despite everything, he’s still trying to be a good man.

you look up at him, and you nod, your pupils all blown out and hazy.

“ ‘m sure.” you say softly, before reaching up to kiss him.

he savors the kiss, giving you a moment before he stands up. you let out a small squeak, your thighs immediately going to wrap around his waist, looking at him in confusion.

“what, did you think i was gonna take your virginity on the damn couch? i’m not a goddamn animal” he grumbles, looking at you with fond irritation as you giggle.

he presses his lips to yours to keep you quiet, sloppily making out with you as he makes his way to the bedroom. when he gets inside, he lays you down on the bed gently, his mouth never leaving yours.

he gets you undressed in no time, not giving you a hard time about the fact that your white lace panties and bra are matching (almost like you were asking for it), and when your unsteady hands finally finish fumbling with his belt you get to see his cock for the first time. and fuck is he huge.

he looms over you, his arms caging you in as he presses warm kisses to your neck, trying to ease your worry. when he pushes in, he goes all the way, burying himself to the hilt. your eyes roll back in your head, letting out a soft cry as you snake your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he lets you adjust.

when he starts to move, he sets a slow, steady pace, and the ache gives way to newfound pleasure, your eyes screwing shut as he goes deeper than you knew was previously possible.

“fuck baby. you’re so fucking tight.” he mumbles, sucking a bruise onto your neck as you let out a moan.

when he’s sure you’re not gonna break, he starts to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder and more pointed, earning whimpers and moans that seem to come from deep in your gut. tears start to fall down your cheeks, not from pain but from a combination of pleasure and being so overwhelmed.

“you cry so pretty, baby.” he says, angling his thrusts to hit that spongy spot inside your walls.

your face scrunches up as you get that newly familiar coiling feeling in your stomach, and you blearily open your eyes to look up at him, your bottom lip quivering.

“daddy… can i cum, please?” you whimper brokenly, and if he wasn’t almost there already, that definitely pushed him.

“such a sweet thing, asking permission on her first time. you can come baby, go on” he responds, his firm grip on your hips teetering dangerously close to bruising.

when you come, he can feel you pulsating around him, squeezing him like a goddamn vice, trying to milk him for all he’s got. it only takes a few more sloppy thrusts for him to join you, coming in you with a groan.

once you both came down from your highs, you turned to him, your body exhausted and spent. you weren’t exactly sure what he expected of you, you’d never hooked up with your employer before and all conventions about appropriateness were completely out the window when you had his spend dripping down your thighs.

“can i stay the night?” you ask quietly, your cheeks red with embarrassment.

to your relief, he just chuckles and pulls you closer, your head resting on his chest as he wraps an arm around you.

“sweet girl, i’d be a right asshole if i sent you home like this.”

you smile, quickly falling asleep in his arms. and for what feels like the first time in months, rick finds himself dozing off without much of a fight too.

[nanamis-baker]

Higuruma's hand combed through your hair as you kneeled before him, his length stuffed in your mouth while his tip brushed against your throat.

He was big- so big - you could barely breathe around his size, but you were determined to make him see stars.

"do it properly, okay?" He said as he took a drag of his cigarette.

You hummed around his length. Of course you would do it properly - he had been so stressed lately, but you couldn't say anything.

You started moving your head back and forth, the weight of his length pressing down your tongue as tried to take more of him, coating him in your spit and his pre-cum.

Higuruma groaned as your teeth gently scraped against his sensitive skin, the sound traveling straight to your core. Your tongue reached out to go over his slit causing him to let out a hiss.

You tried to move your hand so you can wrap them where your mouth can't reach, but the restraints - his tie - around your wrist prevented you.

"you want to use your hands, huh?" He asked, "don't worry though, your mouth is enough" he finished breathlessly.

Higuruma's hand tightened around the back of your neck as he took another drag of his cigarette, taping it to get rid of the ash around it.

He started to move your head on his length, forcing you to take more and more of him till your nose brushed against his pelvis.

Tears coated your eyelashes but you knew the man in front of you was just getting started.

Higuruma let go of the cigarette, smushing it in the ash tray before his hand threaded in your hair, grabbing hold of it before he started to fuck your mouth.

He moved your head up and down, his force brutal as he made you take his entire length again and again, moaning whenever his head brushed against your throat.

How hands itched to touch him- to touch yourself- you were so turned on right now, but there wasn't anything you could do except taking what he offered.

"good lord, you are doing it so well" Higuruma groaned, his hands shaking slightly. You knew he was close- you could feel him pulsing in your mouth, as a layer of sweet coated his exposed body, making him glow under the overhead lights of his office.

You sucked in your cheeks, humming around him, knowing that is what it would take to throw him over the edge.

And you were right, Higuruma came with a loud moan, filling you up, his hand not slowing down until the lasts of his orgasm were over.

Finally, he let go, helping you to your feet before he bent you over the desk he was sitting on.

"God, what are you doing to me?" He asked before plunging deep inside you.

a/n: Okay, this has been sitting in my drafts for the LONGEST time and I finally decided to post this smol smutty drabble haha Dividers by @/saradika

[r3starttt]

STAY SOFT

PAIRING: Hunter! Ellie x vamp! reader

CW: blood. fighting. oral. knife play. unfinished, hurried, horribly written, I WILL DO IT PROPERLY AND DECENT LATER ALRIGHT

SUMMARY: you're obsessed with each other. and alone!

TAGLIST | KINKTOBER: @s4pphic-myth @levilvrr @girlkisser168 @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @softlikesilk-chiffon @grey-jedi12 @slut4ellienabby @roos4lm4 @elliezlils11utt @1-800-fantasy @ellieswifee232 @roos4lm4 @rob1nbuckl3ys @abbys-muscles @0court @dinakisser @lott6i

| ELLIE TAGLIST: @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @aouiaa @chlobearsworld @crispers @bruhhtsukjf @twopeoplee

Blood glistened through your pearly teeth as a guttural moan escaped the man’s lips. You feasted on him, ravenous, devouring his neck without mercy, your fangs drinking deeply from his veins.

He thought he’d finally get to feel your body, to sense the curve of your hips in the intimate closeness that had filled his mind since the moment he first saw you. His grip was firm and leading, but unsteady, and the urgency in his touch felt—was—disrespectful.

Your laugh was captivating, almost like a siren’s song—an immaculate melody that echoed men���s worst desires. When you hummed against their skin, lips just inches away, it drove them mad. With your flawless skin, soft hair, and those eyes holding something dark and mysterious, men were too drunk or too lustful to notice or care. Red or not, it didn’t matter to them. Each time you danced for them, held them close, and led them into some shadowy corridor with your soft voice, you’d ask them to share—did they do this often? They’d always say no, swearing you were the only one, or the forever one.

With women, it was different. You’d hold them gently, push their neck aside, and kiss their tender skin. Sometimes, you imagined men might feel this way about you, and the guilt would almost fade. But when you were feeding on men, you realized how different it truly was. They didn’t submit; they gripped. They didn’t murmur; they shouted and commanded. They didn’t seek eternity like the women did—they sought to drain you, leave you discarded. Women, on the other hand, would quietly thank you with soft whimpers. If they were too weak, you’d look into their angelic eyes, see their pretty lashes flutter, and kiss their last breath away with your cold hands.

Men? They would curse you to hell—if they had the chance.

This one, though, wasn’t your usual prey. He was cruel, harsh, and nasty, and the way he treated her—it sickened you. So you begged for his attention, holding him against the wall the moment you had him alone, sinking your fangs into his vile neck. His sweat, dirt, and alcohol assaulted your senses, lingering on your tongue, teeth, and skin until it was all washed away by his blood. Even that tasted sour.

“Look at me,” you commanded, casting a sharp glance at his fading form. You dug your nails into his cheek, nearly tearing the skin. His eyes, glazed with alcohol, barely registered the pain. He was too weak to fight, but even if he tried, your strength far outmatched any human's. You sneered at his mustache, disgust evident on your face.

“Hey…” you hissed, your fangs glistening in the dim light. He obeyed with a pathetic whimper.

“Good boy,” you taunted. “You like being called that, don’t you?” You laughed as blood dripped from his cheekbones, down his neck, soaking your hand and his filthy clothes.

“Fucking—” he tried to gasp out his last breath, but before you could finish him off, a dagger pierced your body.

The pain was unreal. It wasn’t the sharp agony you inflicted on your victims but something deeper, burning and itching as it spread through your veins. The scream that tore from your throat was inhuman, loud enough to make the walls tremble. The man fell limp beneath you as you clawed at your own skin, trying to rid yourself of the unbearable sensation.

Footsteps echoed, heavy boots against the concrete. A quiet, almost smug “got you” drifted through the air. You forced your eyes open, vision blurred, but you saw her—a woman dressed in black, her face obscured by metal, weapons strapped across her body, a dagger in one hand and a blade ready in her pocket.

A gunshot rang out. Your arm ripped open, burning more fiercely than any bullet wound should. Your eyes flashed red, pupils dilating with a rage that surpassed anything you’d ever felt toward a man. But before she could come any closer, you vanished into the shadows, slipping from her grasp.

Ellie groaned, glancing up at the dark night, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. She lived for you, craved you more than any man ever could. Her mind was as twisted and perverted as a man’s, driven by a selfish desire to own you, to hear you scream her name in agony and hang you on her wall like a prized trophy. She wanted to see the eternal fear etched on your face.

She longed to touch you—just once. If she never captured you, someone eventually would. Her lips parted in a quiet curse as she crouched over the dead man’s body, searching his pockets for anything of value. She found nothing but alcohol, cigarettes, and a few worthless coins. Maybe it was time to quit, become a full-fledged alcoholic—not like she wasn’t halfway there already.

You, the elusive vampire of this small, forsaken town, were her obsession. You were the only reason she kept going, the excuse for her drinking, her nights in underground bars, and her constant hunt. If she caught you, she’d have everything—money, fame, recognition. That’s what every woman wanted, wasn’t it? To be seen, to be known. Ellie was no exception. She had nothing but the hunt and the little money she earned, most of which went to booze or was stolen by the men in her life.

She didn’t hate you, though. She didn’t even want you dead. She just wanted to possess you, to have something that was truly hers, to see her name carved into your skin.

You didn’t hate her either. You understood women—all of them. You knew their desires, their cravings for what they couldn’t have. It wasn’t wrong, but you knew many of them would never get what they wanted. Killing them was a mercy, a twisted proof of love. But you wouldn’t die for them. Not that you could anyway.

You had seen Ellie before, days prior. She was at a bar, sitting beside you with alcohol in hand, staring blankly at the wall. She fiddled with a bracelet, glancing at it over and over, until her thoughts drowned in the liquor. When she finally left, your heart had broken the next night when you found her curled up on the street, hugging herself for warmth. You hid her money, moved the alcohol out of sight. Men would take advantage of anything that moved. You protected her before you knew who she was.

Then the rumors spread. She was hunting you? Your ego swelled, but she didn’t try as hard as the others. Not like the men who occasionally came after you, men you easily dispatched. But Ellie gave you something no man ever could: fear. And it was delicious, as satisfying as any blood.

If she ever killed you, it would be worth it—to die in her arms. A woman would claim her place without her own death involved. You had nothing to lose, but why make it easy? You weren’t used to pain—not like this.

Once, you had loved.

Now she rests somewhere in this town.

You’ve never dared to go near her grave. It would be disrespectful. She was the one victim who didn’t die by your choice but by mistake, by love. It was dangerous, and it was the only time you ever felt regret, any real pain. You can still feel the scratches she left on your skin, the way she held onto you, hoping to be saved—but you didn’t.

-

She’s merciless. She doesn’t just kill—killing is too simple, too vague, reserved for those who want it quick and clean. Williams shares that distinction with you: she murders. She takes her time, studies her prey, follows silently in the shadows. When she strikes, it’s deliberate, calculated, and brutal. There’s no safety, no mercy in her actions. She makes sure her victims feel it—the pain, the horror. You can hear the screams, the desperate pleas for life, and you can feel the warmth of their blood soaking into your hands. Their eyes, wide with terror, stay with you long after it’s done.

It’s almost admirable, really, to witness a human capable of such atrocities. What money can drive someone to do, you suppose.

Williams is staying in a small, rundown house. A family lives there—large and struggling. The man of the house is gentle, more so than the rest. Williams got lucky with her choice of refuge, but they barely have enough to feed themselves. Children seem to appear with every turn of the seasons, as if the universe—or God—was intent on making life harder for them. A cruel kind of providence, giving just enough for survival, but never enough for comfort.

Ellie wakes up most days around four in the morning, haunted by nightmares. If she’s too drunk or lucky, they’ll wake her at two instead. She drifts back to sleep when her body allows it. On those rare mornings she wakes feeling halfway rested, she showers, though only every other day. She pulls on her boots, layers herself in worn clothes, and hides beneath the massive hood of her coat. The children have seen her a few times, though they keep their distance. Once, the youngest girl, barely old enough to walk, approached her and offered a small cup of milk. It wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t good, but Ellie accepted it anyway.

She starves herself as long as she can, holding off the hunger until it gnaws at her insides. That’s when she heads to the woods, and that’s where you’ve seen it—the way she hunts. Whatever animal she can catch, she grips it with ruthless force. Her once-gentle hands turn harsh, unyielding as the creatures scream in terror. They hiss and writhe, but she doesn’t care. She silences them swiftly, consumes whatever she can, and moves on.

For her, there’s no room for sympathy, no room for mercy—only survival. And somehow, that made you feel a strange compassion for her. Even when her touch was harsh and painful, when she haunted you with the sole purpose of owning, hurting, and killing you. Her steps sent fear racing through your veins, her hands struck your skin with cruelty, and her bullet tore into you, leaving you weaker each time. Her belongings, her weapons—they were all designed to burn you alive, to inflict endless pain. Even with every bloody, messy encounter, every vicious fight, where her blade threatened to pierce your skin, and her gun was always aimed at you, it was impossible not to admire her.

She never stops until she has you. She wants you just as much as you want her. It's a twisted obsession, mutual and consuming. Your hisses send shivers down her spine, her bites stir a hunger in you, not for flesh, but for something deeper. You can hear her heartbeat as if it were your own, the steady thud of her boots on wet ground, her breath catching when she knows she's close. You notice how her sweat gleams on her skin, how the freckles on her face fade beneath the flush of red that colors her cheeks after every fight or a night spent at the bar.

And Ellie? She loves everything you give her, even when she's the one taking, using you as her excuse. She loves the thrill of being caught in your grasp, the scratch of your nails on her skin, a reminder that she's alive and has something left to fight for. She loves the drunken moments when she sees you, even if she's too intoxicated to act, when she watches you from afar, helpless as you disappear before her eyes. She loves the chase, the dirt, the failed attempts to capture you. She loves that you fight back. She loves that it never ends.

-

The forest was a living maze, dense and impenetrable, devouring every sound. The air felt heavy, suffocating beneath the thick canopy, where the moonlight barely dared to enter, casting only faint ribbons of silver along the narrow path. Ellie had been tracking you for days, her desperation mounting with each passing hour. This was her last chance. Your fangs were buried in the tender flesh of what had once been a small bird, no more than a brief indulgence, a fleeting snack before the real prize.

You sensed her before you saw her—her presence was a ripple through the stillness. The faint echo of her boots seemed closer than they were, her breath uneven, laced with quiet mutterings as she spoke to herself. The scent hit you next: human blood, sharp with adrenaline, soaked in determination. She was close.

From the high branches, hidden in shadow, you watched her with quiet amusement. She moved with careful precision, every step calculated. The bow slung over her shoulder bounced lightly with her movement, and at her side, a switchblade caught a gleam of moonlight. Tonight, she wasn’t just hunting—she intended to finish it. The way she carried herself told you everything. She needed to end this. She needed to end you.

But you were ready for her. If all went as planned, you would make her task far easier. If it failed, she would get what she had been hunting for so long—her victory, and you. But if it went as you had envisioned—no more than a hasty thought formed when you first saw her step into the woods—you would claim what you desired most. You would give her a reward, one that would last forever.

With deliberate slowness, you brought your fingers to your lips, wiping the blood with your thumb, though it did little to clean the stain. You took your time, running your tongue over your sharp fangs, savoring the last traces of blood. The small body of the bird lay beside you, its once-beautiful brown feathers now scattered, broken by your touch.

A crack in the distance shattered the stillness, and before your mind could react, your body moved instinctively. There she was, as you had expected—clad in that familiar black coat, boots sinking into the soft earth, and her white blouse, filthy and torn, revealing the delicate lines of her clavicle beneath the grime. Her hair was a mess, pulled into a careless bun, stray strands framing her face, damp with sweat. She was armed—too armed, really, for the task. The blade at her side would have been enough, or so she had assured the man whose house she’d passed through. The arrows, the extra gear—they were to frighten the "creature," to keep herself from being caught off guard.

But now, you were closing in, slipping through the trees and onto the soft grass, your movements silent. She was right there—just within reach, waiting for you.

William's breathing was steady but strained, her focus on you- yet elsewhere as she moved cautiously along the narrow path, her back exposed—vulnerable. Her grip tightened around her blade, her steps slow and deliberate, but she hadn’t noticed you yet. Not yet. Her eyes swore to see you, hear you, but it was just the leafs and the hunger for you, she needed to catch you this night. The moon was bright enough to lighten the path and the ambience was quiet enough to hear and distinct any atrocity, any anomaly- you.

Pale skin beung hit by the breeze while it guided you through the underbrush like a shadow, silent, swift, steps and tones attuned to the rhythm of the forest. The woman's heartbeat was loud in your ears, a steady thrum that guided your every step. Her scent guiding you. You could practically taste it.

It was moved silently- your body through the brush, the pads of your feet barely disturbing the soft beneath you.

Her silhouette was clear now—taut muscles beneath her worn clothes, hair falling loose from the messy bun at her neck. You could see her weapon at the ready, but her pulse was vulnerable, beating steadily just beneath the surface. It betrayed her how calm yet unsteady she was. When she'd attack her grip would be stiff- not now.

The feet of your own guided you to pray from behind, not even the rustle of leaves betraying your presence. The hunger thrummed in your veins, not just for her blood but for the chase, the fight. Feel her teeth sink into your skin, her nails digging and her blade itching. Hear her scream and groan- Your hand reached out, fingers barely brushing the fabric of her coat.

In an instant, you were upon her. One hand clamped over her mouth to stifle any cry- quickly bitten as you'd prevented. the other gripping her wrist, forcing the blade from her fingers. Her body tensed immediately, muscles coiling as she struggled against you, twisting with a ferocity you admired.

She wrenched her head to the side, managing to break free from your grip, her body spinning around in a blur of movement. Her eyes locked onto yours, shining and with a dark undertone, wide and wild with adrenaline, her chest heaving as she swung her fist. You dodged her aggressive.

Her lips a cacophony of atrocities and profanity against you while her body hit yours and fought to free from your grip- which left bruises with its every touch.

“Stop following me ,” you hissed, voice low and breathless. Without missing a beat, she reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh, her eyes a determination instance- a mirror of your soon death. You barely had time to react as she lunged at you, the blade aimed at your chest.

And it digged, not enough to pierce but to harm, to make a hole in your clothes and taint them with a beautiful red- unhunmman- unlike any blood Ellie had ever seen. Your skin, as tender and soft as it tasted, it was harsh and strong, and along your force impossible to fight, to kill.

You sidestepped her attack, but the edge of the blade now nicked your arm, then to your face. It made you hate her for an instance. A thin line of blood runing on your skin. The pain was sharp, it burned. Your mouth opened wider than any human could. fangs peeking through as if about to spit the venom to her eyes, you hissed- a cry of pain that hurt her ears and left her blind.

The tip of your nails caressed her freckled skin, covered by the black of her clothes which got ripped with the force with with you caught her and slamed her against the nearest tree, her strength no longer serving her to protect herself. The switch of her blade hurting so much and so deep it made you feel blind and feasty. You almost let go.

The impact rattled through her, but she didn’t falter. She moved with deadly precision, slashing at you with the knife, each strike faster than the last. All on your thighs who seemed to be unpierfecul.

Your fangs slipped through your massive wide mouth, your slick tongue sticking out. It was long and burning. You gave a taste to her neck before digging your fangs into her neck.

The grip with with you held her and trapped her became so sofocating, so allurong she dropped the blade. As if a twosted venom had run through her veins and made her weak.

It clattered to the ground between you, forgotten as your hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose her throat. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, everything slowed—the pounding of her pulse, the warmth radiating from her skin, the fear that flickered in her eyes despite her resolve.

She bucked beneath you, every muscle in her body straining to fight, but you held firm, your gaze fixed on hers, your breath mingling with hers. Her chest heaved beneath you, her eyes blazing with fury.

She bared her teeth, straining against your hold, she growled, holding on her pain.

"Not fighting back?" you mocked her, a tone grotesque and meant to dizzy her even more. You felt the warmth runing down your cheeks, down your arm and legs, everywhere where her blade had cut, where the dagger had attempt to pierce. As it was minimum scratches, the blood seemed endless in your body, a perfect contrast with the tone of your skin.

You were fierce, more than you'd like it to be. But she wouldn't stay still, her fingers holding onto you to push you away, her feet fighting as you choked her more and more. as your fangs sucked deeper into her skin, opening her skin, leaving her weak and dizzy. "Fucking bitch-" she hissed in pain, her nails digging into the skin of your arms, attempting to push you. Fingers then tangling into your hair, pushing you back with fierce. "You're no better than a man, I see" your fangs pierced your bottom lips, your mouth not drenched with her blood as your eyes grew darker, a weird pupil and red on them. You looked insane, a look that caused her discomfort.

But you didn't care, your hair getting caught on her fingers as she insisted on gripping and you insisted on piercing her skin and sucking her life.

For a moment, you admired her resolve. Her heartbeat hammered in your ears, her skin warm beneath your touch. You loosened your grip just slightly, giving her a chance to fight back, to keep the dance going. But she was too weak for that, too afraid to fight back for the first time in her life.

“Go on,” she struggled to speak, daring. “Finish it.” Ellie’s breath hitched, her eyes locked on yours. Despite the fight, despite the blood and the bruises, there was something else in her gaze—something raw and unspoken. The tension between you was thick, almost suffocating.

“Do it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, daring you.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

"I thought you wanted me" the words echoed against her skin. Your nails now going down on her skin, riping her coat open. Your other hand trapping her neck against the tree. She knew better at this point, if she attempted to move it'll be suicide.

"You dreamed of me, didn't you..." Your voice was strangely comforting, too quiet for her own good. Williams felt like she'd already died. "Don't you wanna-" her breath chocked at your grip and her sudden movement "rest for once- be with her?" Her laugh was mocking, painful. It changed something withing you, and anger you haven't felt in years. "And you, Williams? don't you want to see him?" but you knew how to attack as well.

It was a matter of threatening some people, the vulnerable drink women who've been with Ellie in late nighrs at the bars- A drunk woman who had nothing to loose but all to win was more vulnerable than else. And she herself had allowed a see through of her brain to you, with that obsession she craved to much. All these years alive haven't been in vane, you knew better.

Her face dropped in disgust, a madness that was uncomfortable to see. Scrunched nose, pouty lips, freckles cheeks covered now in sweat, her pupils dilatation and he rfacr showing all the pain now turned into mad.

"Let me do you the favor..." you whispered with that same soothing tone, your nails piercing on her neck. Now dripped with the blood you've sucked out of her and the holes you were digging. "Please?" you leaned closer, pressing a hovering kiss over her lips.

She cried- Ellie Williams cried. The salty of it almost burning the skin of your fingers wrapped around her suffocated neck.

“Look at you,” you whispered, your voice soft, an intimate taunt as you admired the fragile beauty of her surrender, her pulse fluttering like a moth beneath your touch. And as her strength ebbed, her gaze held yours, already resigned.

"Tell me you don't want me, and I'll let go..." Your murmur made her groan. Ellie had betrayed herself and others- she was far too gone to deny herself one last chance, one opportunity to do it all again.

You pressed burning kisses on her throat, quickening to collect her blood and taste the salty of her skin. Her uncovered clavicle gentle beneath your touch. The tip of your fingers held the dagger on your hands, feeling them burn in a blinding pain. Your eyes met hers, barely making it to move. The dirt painted your knees and the fabric of your clothing.

Ellie- catching her breath and her struggling to keep herself standing, either her blurred teary eyes, met your gaze. Her eyebrows furrowing in pain.

She watched the small smoke of your skin at the touch of the dagger, your hisses of pain- It didn't elict the pleasure she dreamed of. Her breath was ragid and unsteady, horrified by the sight on instance.

She took the blade withing her fingers, showing the sharpness to you. Her body felt on the floor. next to you- and your eyes followed.

The tip of it digged into your neck. Your eyes teary with a pain no human could endurance. Her eyes showed so much hate, and you would've loved if she killed you. You'd loved to be hers, for her to have and admire each day, for her to be happy for once and all.

"Let go" she saved her blade on her back pocket, taking the dagger off of your hands. You hissed in pain- relieved. "Take me." Her words felt like the warmth you've been craving on for years and years, billions of them. It was cruel really, but you craved it. You've missed her, the woman you once loved- and this was as if the universe had heard your prayers. She was back again, for the story to repeat itself.

And it turned something in you, whose eyes turned into beast-like. Your fangs guided you close to her. "Why won't you just kill me, Williams?" your nails cupped on her skin gently. "End this... take what you want."

"I'm offering you the same thing" your jaw clenched, heartbeat unsteady for a small second- not supposed to happen. "We'll still die anyway." you scoffed at her words, taking her body with gentleness.

Your lips were cold against hers, as if sucking on her life through the kiss. Her hands were quick to get rid of the thin fabric covering your body.

Her body stood up gently, cupping your face with her hands. Your movements were harsh and sloppy, hungry.

What you've craved for ages was In front of you, to take for once. And you didn't hesitate on doing so.

Your tongue lapping at her pussy with no doubt, looking at her pretty face. Ellie gasped, holding the sides of your head as she looked down on you, as if guiding you with the eyes. As much as you craved to kill each other and own the other, the connection you shared was almost tangible. An undeniable aura bigger than any love a human could ever experience.

The blood of your hands drenched on her white blouse, undoing the messy tangling of it with your nails. The revelation was so pure, so tender. Her hardened nipples properly displayed for you to touch.

The palm of your hand rested between her breats, feasting on her pussy with eyes closed, admiring each beat of her heart. You could sense every gasp, every breath, every unsteady inch of her skin as if it was yours.

A whine escaped your lips, thrusting your tongue into her tongue, savoring the wet of her pussy. Your fingers gently cupping her tits, making small circles over her nipples with your thumbs. Then moving them down the sides of her pretty stomach, sensing every inch of skin, scratching every scar on her stomach, drenching it with her own blood.

spit pooled down her folds, your fingers massaging the sides of her thighs, behind her to cup at her ass and then to her inner thighs, scratching at the skin there to then play with the sides of her pussy to keep the pleasure intact while your lips got occupied with her inner thighs.

Your lips kissed over her clit. Her stomach tensing at the sensation, so sensitive it almost hurt. the small kisses around her folds slowly growing into a gentle sucking.

at each lick and kiss on her pussy, her hips would buck into your face and her fingers would tangle harsher onto your soft hair, almost scratching at your scalp. She was whining, it was quiet but oh so pretty.

You shoved your face deeper, teasing her drenching hole with your middle finger, almost scissoring her folds while your tongue sucked on her puffy clit. One of her hands came to cup at her own nipples, almost crying to feel more.

her eyes struggled to look back at you. A puppy-like look on her face: gentle furrowed eyebrows, freckles covered in a brush of red. she looked so pretty like this.

Within each thrust of your fingers inside her, bubbly words would gently hit into your ears while abusing- teasing her creamy hole. She tasted sour, a good mix between sweet and salty, nothing you haven't fantasized with.

Your tongue savours every inch of her. Licking, sucking, kissing her arousal. Teasing it with her fingers and tongue. Your fingers curl inside her so perfectly, and she clenches around you. Her lips let out quiet hiccups and blabers, all small pleads and promises. Ellie is already yours.

Her name falls from your lips as quiet prayers. Over and over again. Her arousal grows to fill your mouth deliciously. Too overwhelmed by her pretty voice, her hands on your hair, her hips looking for more, thighs chocking you- your whines overlap into a sloppy wet rhythm. Her bodh searched for more friction, pulling you closer into her Pussy, rubbing herself desperately while your tongue sloppily licks over her cunt.

Your fingers get sucked in by her sliky hole. faster and faster until you can feel it as if your own- you taste it right after.

She's yours, forever to take and you're hers forever to own.

[prentissluvr]

warm brown jacket — sam winchester

for : 200+ followers event [ open ] ➖⟢ pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : major fluff, friends to lovers ➖⟢ cw : mentions of canon typical gore, violence, and bloodiness at the very beginning, mentions of being casually shirtless around each other kind of?, dean teasing a little, barely edited ➖⟢ wc : 1.3K prompt : sharing clothes in a totally (not) friendly way

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

you’re used to the grime and gore of the job; you don’t really have much of a choice. but the whole front and back of your shirt and jacket are so unpleasantly sticky from a horrid concoction of blood, mud, and maybe more, that your fingers itch to peel the layers from your body as you head for the car. of course, you’re just going to tough it out until you can shower and change at the motel. you know that sam and dean will let you take the first shower tonight; they’re not the ones who beheaded a vampire then got shoved into a mud puddle by a second right along with the decapitated body gushing blood from it’s stump of a neck. it sucked, to say the least.

you can’t resist pulling your jacket off, and you’re lucky that it gets rid of most of the mud. but it’s the front of your shirt that took the brunt of the blood, and it’s sticking to your skin, warm and just about dreadful. there’s a rustle beside you coming from sam, and you don’t have to look over to know the sounds of him taking off that big brown carhartt jacket. your favorite.

it’s only when he nudges you, holding the fabric out for you to take do you look at him. he’s got that pretty, borderline awkward smile when he’s trying to be subtly sweet. he doesn’t want to make you feel self-conscious about the mess on your clothes, but your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt and the grimace on your face that’s so subtle just about no one else but him could spot it, and he knows instantly that the stickiness of your clothes is bothering you.

you smile at him, not too wide so you don’t accidentally show him that he makes you feel in love, and accept the jacket with one hand. you’re trying to maneuver your own mess of a jacket away, but sam takes it from you with a soft, “here, i got it,” as you near the car.

“thank you, sam,” you say, pausing at the door so you can shrug the much cleaner layer on without being confined to the small car.

“course,” he replies, all casual and kind as if he isn’t dying to see you put the jacket on. then he remembers his manners. “dean and i’ll look away if you wanna,” he forgets how to be smooth for a moment, clearing his throat as he gestures vaguely to your bloody shirt, “you know, get rid of the shirt too. ‘m sure the blood’s worse than the mud.”

“right, of course. don’t wanna get the inside of your jacket covered in the blood anyways,” you agree, glad sam said something about that because you weren’t quite sure what to do. you certainly didn’t want to keep the shirt on, and you’ve been shirtless around the boys plenty before because of the way you live out of motel rooms, but with sam so close like this, waiting for you to put on his jacket, you feel the tips of your ears go flaming hot at the idea of taking your shirt off without some sort of awkward warning. this way, sam’s being an utter gentleman and taking the shot for you when it comes to who’s the most awkward this time around.

sam gives you his silly, pursed-lip smile and his dimples pop out and all you want is to kiss them til they never go away. he slides into the car, and as the door shuts closed, you turn your back to the impala, tuck the jacket between your knees, and shimmy the mess of a shirt off your body. a chill of air hits your sort of blood-wet skin, making you shiver before you can drop the ruined shirt and pull the warm layer over yourself. but the second the soft fabric is over your shoulders, then around your arms and torso, it’s sweet heaven. sam’s body heat lingers, warming you in an instant and pushing a sigh of relief from your parted lips.

the time-worn softness of the fabric is glorious after such uncomfortable textures, and though the metal of the zipper is a little chilly against your stomach as you close the jacket around you, you couldn’t care less about that. 

a moment later, you’re settled into the back seat, trying not to look at sam to see if he’s taking in how you look in his favorite jacket. instead, you catch dean’s eye through the rearview mirror and he sends you a teasing wink that has you stuck between rolling your eyes at him and flat out planting your face into your hands to hide.

the ride is quiet save the few minutes in a fast food drive-through. dean grumbles about the restaurant’s lack of pie as he drives off in the direction of the motel.

standing in the motel room, you hate to take off the jacket, but it’s a must if you want to shower and get the rest of the day's grime off of you and down the drain. sam’s already assured you that you don’t need to wash it for him, so you leave it on the foot of your shared bed before you head to the shower. you know that he likes to pack up any piece of clothing he isn’t using right away.

you try to keep your shower short for the sake of your companions, though it's difficult when the hot water feels so comforting and cleansing. even so, being back in your own clean clothes afterwards is certainly nice as you leave the bathroom after brushing your teeth and running through your short post-shower routine.

sam’s sitting at the table across the room and dean stands from his bed, ready to shower next. you’re expecting to mourn the loss of the jacket on your bed, but your eyes immediately fall on the nicely folded bundle of brown fabric placed neatly by your pillow. unable to resist, you walk to it and pick it up, placing it on your lap as you sit on the edge of the bed. you try to catch sam’s eye to silently ask what he means by leaving it there, but it almost feels as if he’s avoiding your gaze in favor of staring at the book in front of him.

since you can’t get sam’s attention, you turn to dean before he can go, but all you get is a sly smile before he disappears into the bathroom. 

it has got to be your raging crush on pretty boy over there, sitting so close and far all at once, that’s making you jump to silly conclusions. but the barely visible blush on his cheeks, his refusal to look up when he heard you pick up the jacket, and dean’s knowing look makes it feel like sam wants you to put that jacket back on. and you do too.

so, you stand and turn as if you’re not looking at sam anymore, but you’re careful to keep him visible out of the corner of your eye as you unfold the fabric and put it back on. the ac is too strong; it’s cold, you tell yourself that’s enough of an excuse.

if you could tuck sam’s pretty brown hair behind his ears like you so often get the urge to, you bet the tips would be pink. even with his face half blurry in your peripheral, you can see the look he's giving you, because he is looking now. it’s an expression you don’t see on him often at all; he’s the kind of guy to always school his features away from betraying what he thinks and wants. this time, it’s loud and clear and you can feel it as much as see it. you, wrapped up safe and warm in his jacket, are exactly what he wants. 

you think you’re gonna kiss him, and he’s gonna kiss you back with his hands clutching at that soft brown fabric to be sure it’s all real and glorious like he thinks it is.