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bananasplit133 · 21 days ago

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Dial T for Tenna

Ant Tenna/Reader

Summary: You’re hired to be Tenna’s emotional liaison—a corporate stress ball for a TV star known for explosive tantrums. Despite his fierce resistance and fear of losing fame, you patiently absorb his outbursts and fears, slowly earning his reluctant trust. Your job isn’t to fix him, but to keep him afloat—and somehow, that makes all the difference.

AO3 link

__________

“ WHAT!? I DON’T NEED AN EMOTIONAL SUPPORT LIGHTNER! WHAT WOULD THE AUDIENCE THINK?! ”

The figure with the TV-shaped head practically shrieked , his screen flickering wildly between harsh static and a burning red glow. His fists slammed onto the glossy conference room table with enough force to rattle the papers scattered across it. The higher-ups remained unmoved, their faces trained in professional calm — clearly, this wasn’t their first time weathering one of Tenna’s infamous tantrums. One of them even exchanged a knowing glance with another, their patience worn but not broken.

“Mr. Tenna,” a tired voice finally cut through the tension, a middle-aged woman adjusting her glasses with deliberate slowness. On her blouse rested a nametag labeled ‘Kairos.’”Her tone was firm but not unkind, the kind of voice used when dealing with someone prone to theatrics. “You had a breakdown on-air last week because your intro jingle was played in mono. What do you think the audience thinks of that?”

Tenna’s screen dimmed slightly, like a flickering heartbeat. He threw his head back with a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, as if protecting himself from the words. “It wasn’t a breakdown! It was a performance piece ! ART, I tell you!” His voice cracked somewhere between indignation and desperation. He pivoted to glance sideways at the conference room windows as if searching for some invisible applause or sympathy from the empty hallway outside.

The woman’s lips twitched into a small, unconvinced smile, but her tone hardened as she pressed on. “You almost stepped on a spectator during one of your... outbursts.” Her voice had an edge now, the kind that cuts through denial like a knife.

“We were lucky that… Mike, was it? … was quick to switch to the standby screen. There are still people who attended the live show and thought the whole thing was part of the act,” she said, her voice lowering. “But it wasn’t. It was chaos, and it could’ve ended badly.”

Tenna’s flickering face shifted into something almost like regret, but it was swallowed quickly by a flare of defensiveness. “They didn’t understand the nuance of the moment,” he said, voice dropping to a low growl, “the audience loved it. Or at least, they should have.”

You sat silently in the corner, clutching your clipboard like a shield against the storm of static and emotion filling the room. You studied him— him , the man called Mr. Tenna—livewire in a cheap suit, a walking television set full of ego, noise, and drama wrapped in flickering static. At least, that was what the audience saw. What they didn’t see were the cracks beneath that flashing exterior, the meltdowns nobody talked about. You wouldn’t be here if he were fine, of course.

Clearing your throat, you stepped forward, voice small but steady. “Hi. I’m—”

Suddenly, he whipped around with a jolt, screen flashing erratically like an angry broadcast signal losing control. “ You’re the therapy human?” His voice dripped with revulsion and disbelief, and for a being without eyes, you could’ve sworn his gaze was burning right through you.

You forced a slight smile, trying your best to seem friendly and approachable despite the electric tension crackling between you. “I prefer emotional liaison, actually,” you said, hoping that a little humor might ease the edge. You had about… one day until you’d be working together, and starting on good terms seemed like the smartest move.

He recoiled as if you’d slapped him, the static on his screen suddenly buzzing louder. “ You prefer being a corporate babysitter ?!” His tone was scandalized, almost theatrical in its outrage. “Do I look like I need coddling?! I am the FACE of this network!” His fists clenched so tightly you thought the cables behind him might snap.

A voice muttered from the back of the room, barely audible over the static crackle but impossible to ignore: “And that face almost squashed a person to death last Thursday.” A dry chuckle rippled through the others, but Tenna’s flickering screen turned cold, as if stung by the reminder.

He growled lowly, almost threateningly, but something in his body language softened — a tiny, imperceptible shift in his posture. Did he shrink a bit or are your eyes playing tricks on your mind? The glare flickered for a split second into something unreadable, before the storm of static roared back louder than ever.

The room fell quiet after the comment, a heavy kind of silence that made your skin feel tight. You gripped your clipboard tighter, your fingers digging into the edges without realizing it.

Tenna’s screen flickered with static, and though he didn’t have eyes, you felt the weight of his glare like heat pressed against your skin. The higher-ups exchanged tired looks but said nothing—this wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with one of his outbursts, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

The tension in the room was thick, like everyone was waiting for him to explode again or collapse entirely, but he just sat there, fists clenched on the table, his screen pulsing red with every shallow breath you could almost hear.

Finally, Kairos cleared her throat, her voice low and even as she broke the silence. “Tenna, nobody’s denying you’re the star. The ratings speak for themselves. But the breakdowns, the outbursts—they’re starting to take a toll on the show and on you. You can’t keep going like this and expect everything to hold together.” Her eyes met his flickering screen with a steady calm, like she was trying to get through to him without triggering another meltdown.

Tenna wheezed in response, a short burst of static crackling across the room. “Breakdowns? Those were.. performances . If I toned it down, the audience would lose interest. They’d stop watching. Th - They can’t stop watching…” The faint white glow pulsed beneath his skin, quicker now—like a warning light struggling to stay steady.

Your fingers tightened on the clipboard.

You’d read the reports. Watched the clips. Heard the stories. You knew the warning signs. The shift in his tone, the flickering of his screen, the flickering red bleeding into violent static. The pitch of his voice was climbing now—desperate, not loud.

……

“They’d stop watching…”

That was it. That was the trigger.

You could see it happening like slow-motion—his shoulders rising with tension, screen pulsing erratically, hands twitching like they were trying to grasp onto something real before his mind unraveled. You could practically hear the wires buzzing behind his eyes.

This was it. Your cue.

You stood up slowly.

Tenna didn’t notice you at first. His fingers dug into the table, his voice sputtering out through waves of static like he was buffering his own panic.

“Th-The screen goes black, the audience stops caring, and then what? Will i just be forgotten forever?!”

His screen flashed violently now, looping between half-rendered animations—laugh tracks, applause, then sharp cuts of color bars and a black void with a lonely “NO SIGNAL” bouncing like a screensaver. It wasn’t just theatrics. It was fear.

Real, raw fear.

You set the clipboard down and took a careful step forward. “Hey…”

No response. His hands trembled, static warping the air around him like heat off a broken screen.

Another step.

“ hey ... big guy,” you said again, voice a little louder, but still soft. Not confrontational. Not challenging. “Take a breath.”

His head snapped toward you like a spotlight locking onto a performer mid-show. His screen froze on harsh red again. “What do you know about it? You don’t get it—people used to wait their whole week to see me! Prime time! I was the moment. Now people skip through me. Speed me up. Mute me. Forget me.”

He was spiraling. You could see it in the way his screen blinked so fast it was strobing. Another step. You were close now.

You raised your hands gently—like you were approaching a scared animal. “ Mr Tenna…”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no fire in it. Only static. “Don’t say it’s okay. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

You were right in front of him now. Up close, he was still a tad taller than you, and when he wasn’t yelling, he looked… small. Like something burnt out behind the glass.

“Listen,” you said, “TV isn’t dead.”

His screen flickered into confusion.

You kept going. “Yeah, it’s changed. Sure, people scroll and tap and speed things up. But there’s always going to be people that love the screen. Who wait for a broadcast. Who feel something when a jingle plays just right. Hell…”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug, voice quieter now. “Even I still watch TV.”

His screen glitched.

“…You do?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Call me old-fashioned. But sometimes I just want to sit down and get lost in something. No skipping. No rewinding. Just letting a story carry me.”

His shoulders loosened, just slightly. The screen faded from red to a low, pulsing blue.

“I don’t want to replace you,” you added. “I just want to help you stay on the air.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then he let out a sound—not quite a laugh, but something close. A wheezy, half-scrambled chuckle, like an old VCR trying to play a warped tape.

His head tilted to the side, and his screen flickered again. A soft glow. A little animation—a TV with legs sitting on a couch, popcorn in hand.

“…You’re weird.”

You smiled. “Maybe a little.”

He slumped back into his chair with a mechanical sigh, one hand running down the side of his screen like he was physically powering himself down. The static fizzled out, leaving only a dim, flickering white glow.

“Fine,” he muttered. "This didn’t happen. I wasn’t about to short-circuit or whatever you think you saw. If anyone asks, I was just... adjusting my contrast settings.”

“No promises,” you teased, tapping your clipboard gently. “But hey… thanks for not melting down.” Looks like your first paycheck will be an earned one.

He gave a soft static hum in response, barely audible.

Then, just before the silence could stretch too long, his screen lit up with one final message, typed in clunky, retro font:

THANKS FOR WATCHING.

And this time, it wasn’t sad.

…

The static fizzled out.

Silence hung in the air, but this time, it didn’t crackle with tension. It was something softer. Tentative. Like the room was afraid to break whatever fragile truce had just been formed between chaos and calm.

Then a chair scraped quietly. Papers rustled. The higher-ups began shifting in their seats, murmuring among themselves in low voices, their once-stern faces now marked with something that might have been relief.

Kairos tapped the end of her pen against her clipboard, eyebrows raised in something close to approval. “Well,” she said, standing slowly. “That went… better than expected.”

“I thought he was going to overload again,” someone muttered.

“Or throw the table through the glass,” another added, half-joking, half-serious.

Kairos didn’t smile, but her expression softened as she looked at you. “Not bad, liaison. You might actually survive this gig.”

Another higher-up leaned toward her, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear: “Good call on this one. We might’ve found the right match for him.”

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, still standing beside Tenna, whose glow had dimmed to a low white hum like a set left on in a dark room. He didn’t speak again—not really. But his screen flickered faintly. And that was enough.

The suits filed out slowly, muttering updates and schedules to one another, the crisis seemingly defused for now. You picked up your clipboard, still warm where your hands had gripped it earlier, and cast one last glance at Tenna before turning to follow them out.

As you reached the door, you heard the softest burst of static behind you—almost like a whisper.

“...Don’t be late tomorrow.”

You smiled without turning around.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

_______

PART 2

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cinnasite · 1 month ago

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the perils of a hot lab partner

꩜ pairing: chemistry lab partner!hange zoe x gender neutral reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content

꩜ word count: 759

꩜ synopsis: where a chaotic lab partnership turns into an electrifying romance. chemistry isn't just confined to test tubes, you know?

Lab partner!Hange who bursts through the door twenty minutes late and looks like they've been struck by lightning, goggles askew and lab coat half-buttoned, apologising clumsily while somehow already knowing exactly what compound you're supposed to be synthesising.

Lab partner!Hange who gets genuinely ecstatic by successful experiments. Their eyes light up with an intensity that makes your stomach flip as they lean over your shoulder, their breath hot against your ear while explaining molecular structures.

Lab partner!Hange who has ink-stained fingers from frantically scribbling notes, and you find yourself staring at their hands more often than you should, wondering what those fingers would feel like trailing across your skin.

Lab partner!Hange who pushes their glasses up their nose with the back of their hand, leaving smudges that you have an inexplicable urge to clean off with your thumb, your faces inches apart.

Lab partner!Hange who always smells like pine and something vaguely, uniquely them, a scent that becomes intoxicating when they crowd into your personal space to check your measurements. The way their body seems to naturally radiate warmth doesn’t help. At all.

Lab partner!Hange who gets so adorably excited about breakthroughs that they grab your hands without thinking, their touch electric as they bounce on their toes, eyes sparkling with manic joy.

Lab partner!Hange who stays late in the lab with you, the room growing dim as they lean against your workbench, watching you with an unreadable expression that makes heat pool in your stomach.

Lab partner!Hange who absent-mindedly chews on their pen while thinking, drawing your attention to their lips in a way that makes you lose focus while balancing equations.

Lab partner!Hange who has a habit of rolling up their sleeves when concentrating, revealing surprisingly toned forearms that distract you more than any difficult formula ever could.

Lab partner!Hange who notices when you're struggling and moves behind you to guide your hands, their chest pressed against your back as they murmur instructions, their voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Lab partner!Hange who starts bringing you coffee in the mornings, skin lingering against yours during the handoff, their gaze drinking you in with an eagerness that makes you forget how to breathe.

Lab partner!Hange who gets protective when other students boisterously interrupt your work, stepping closer until you can feel the possessiveness of their presence, both comforting and dangerous.

Lab partner!Hange who catches you staring at their mouth while they explain complex theories and pauses mid-sentence, their eyes darkening as tension crackles between you like static electricity.

Lab partner!Hange who starts finding excuses to touch you—steadying your hand while pipetting, brushing past you in the narrow lab aisles, their touch lingering just long enough to make your pulse skyrocket.

Lab partner!Hange who begins texting you late at night during the mid-semester break about "lab questions" that somehow turn into long conversations that leave you lying in bed, wondering if they miss you too.

Lab partner!Hange who wears their hair in a messy bun that makes you want to pull it loose, especially when they tilt their head and expose the elegant line of their neck while concentrating.

Lab partner!Hange who starts unconsciously mirroring your movements, both of you reaching for the same equipment and freezing when your bodies brush, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Lab partner!Hange who looks at you over their glasses with an expression that's equal parts scientific curiosity and something much more tantalising, making you feel like their most fascinating experiment.

Lab partner!Hange who gets flustered when you compliment their intelligence, cheeks flushing as they fidget with their lab coat, suddenly unable to look at you.

Lab partner!Hange who finally snaps during a late evening lab session, grabbing your wrist when you reach for a beaker and pulling you against them, their other hand tangling in your hair as they kiss you desperately against the bench, months of yearning finally exploding between you.

Lab partner!Hange who breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, "I've been wanting to do that since our first titration," before claiming your mouth again, their hands roaming as you forget everything except the way they say your name like a prayer.

Lab partner!Hange who shows up the next day with a lopsided grin, acting like they didn't just have you screaming against their dorm room wall the previous night, casually asking, "So, want to grab dinner? Like, an actual date?" with mischievous eyes and the burning memory of exactly how you taste.

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projectfreefall · 1 month ago

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How long does a carriage normally last? Are there any noticeable frame changes?

Stoodie: For the sake of simplicity, we shall use Earth units of time! Time on Cybertron is far different than time on Earth, as our planet

has longer days and takes longer to orbit our star! Fun fact, our planet takes 83.3 earth years aka a vorn to orbit our star!

The average carriage takes about 3 Earth years from sparking

to emergence! A long time to you humans, surely! But a quick process considering our very long lives! And it affects us in some similar and some dramatically different ways!

It seems you are interested in learning more about the details of Cybertronian biology! Delightful! I love to see creatures eager to learn!

Click the read more and follow along the C.A.R.I.E. cycle!

(Stoodie will be used to answer History/biology asks that aren't asked to a specific character! And if anyone wishes to use these headcanons in their own works, that is 100% allowed!)

(Caution: fictional infant development topics of pregnancy and labor under the read more.)

Stoodie: A cybertronian's gestation goes through four key phases!

Phase one: The first phase of a carriage is called "The Orbit". This phase starts the second after two or more sparks participate in a merge that successfully causes one of the creator's sparks to fissure from the electrical surge and ignite a proto-spark.

Over the course of 2-5 hours, this proto-spark will spin chaotically from the energy still surging through it from the merge. In this state, it will either destabilize and fizzle out into nothing, or if a stable rotation and energy level is achieved, it will form its own orbit around the adult spark. The proto-spark, completing its first full stable orbit, signals the start of its journey.

Over the following month, the sparkling's orbit will change the nature of its new carrier's spark. The two will form a small gravitational field as they pull at each other. The presence of that field of influence causes the carrier's spark to release an energy signature signaling to the rest of their systems to begin construction of a body for this new energy. Sparks do not like to share their chambers, you see, so it becomes the frame's mission to get this new spark out of it. This is the end stage of the first phase of gestation and is usually when a Cybertronian discovers they are carrying, as they will feel a strange fluttering static inside their chest. That is, unless it's discovered earlier by physically opening the spark chamber for whatever reason.

Phase Two: Well, now we've got a little bitty one on the way, who needs a body, and how does the Carrier build that body? Well, first, they will need resources! The carrier will spend the remainder of the first year of their carriage accumulating resources like energon, metal, and nanites and stockpiling them in special ways.

For example, the metal that will physically build the little one is stored in Carrier's own armor. Now, to store that access metal without symphoning what the carrier needs for their own body, the excess metals and minerals are added onto the carrier's armor, physically increasing their density and making them much sturdier to protect the delicate newspark inside, but also much heavier! Most carriers will weigh 5-15 tons more, depending on the sparkling frame type, by the end of this stage of sparkling development. But that armor is tougher than a tank's during it, protecting both baby and parent!

One of the most important stockpiled resources in this phase are construction nanites from the sire, after all if the carrier's frame only used their own nanites, they would just try and program and grow a clone of the carrier, which might cause spark-frame disconection errors as this new body would try and steal the carrier's spark and not the one it was intended for. So nanites need to be taken from the Sire so that there are two different codes interchanging information to build a body tuned to the sparkling's unique frequency that was generated when it was sparked. This ensures that the only spark leaving the carrier's spark chamber at emergence is the sparkling's.

There are many ways for a carrier to harvest the sire's Nanites, and each couple has their preferences. The most efficient is for the sire and the carrier to do a cross-feed connection with fuel lines found in their chassis. While it is the fastest and most efficient way to transfer the nanites, as this method only needs to be used once, most bots find it the most boring, as you have to basically sit there and do nothing until the carrier's storage tank has filled.

Another example that I guess could be considered appropriate in terms of content, though I find it rather barbaric, is Syphoning. Akin to how you humans portray vampires, a carrier with pronounced fang-like denta can bite and steal the nanites from their partner. Obviously, many bots try and avoid needing to syphon as it's not exactly a painless way of doing it, but one that has developed in our species in the event of an emergency situation. Carriers are known to develop permanently pronounced canines during carriage, and it's common for some to have a medic reduce them down.

There was an old saying that you could tell a bot had carried either many bitlets or multiple times the longer their canines were. That, of course, was a tall tale and has no scientific backing to prove that the number of sparkling a carrier has effects the length of their denta. Anywho, we are getting distracted, moving on!

Phase Three: This is the longest phase in the carrying process and lasts 2 years! During this phase, the gestation chamber takes over primary control of the creator's T-cog to change its structure, which also means the carrier loses the ability to shift into their altmode the deeper into this phase the carriage gets. And like anyone going through gestation emotions can run wild!

It goes from being a rather small, unnoticeable spherical chamber under the spark chamber to a structure that could best be described as a clawed servo that spans a majority of the hollow space it's created through the T-cog in the chassis. This clawed servo structure forms an antigravity field only within the sphere of influence it has between its digits. It fills this gravitational void with a dark and thick, viscous material composed of energon, nanites, plastics, oils, and metals. It has the consistency of the earth food, jello. Inside this ball of goo is where the sparkling body will be constructed. And thanks to the antigravity field that protects the space, it doesn't matter how hard the carrier is jostled, the sparkling's frame will not move inside this space and is protected from physical damage.

During phase 3, both sets of construction nanites (sire and carrier) work in tandem to construct the sparkling's frame. This process takes a long time because the nanites do not always get along, and one team may deconstruct the parts the other group has constructed. In the first year of the building, both creators' nanites will fight each other over what elements and features they want to remain in the final construction. From the color of the optics to the shape of the olfactory and even the final altmode class, all these necessary components are determined by the winner of the individual fight when construction first occurs.

By the second year of the construction phase, the nanites have settled on what features to build and focus solely on building. That's why some sparkling may look more like one creator than another; it's all due to which creators' nanites were the more successful in fighting for their preferred features. By the end of the carriage, all of the sire's nanites will have died off from fuel deficiency and will be recycled as material into the sparkling's frame.

(WARNING EMERGENCE BELOW. Nothing graphic but may be upsetting to those with issues revolving around the topic of labor)

-------- buffer For content below --------

Phase Four: Once the sparkling's frame is constructed, a portion of the carrier's nanites will sacrifice themselves to cause an electrical pulse to activate the sparkling's frame. This activation Is temporary and lasts only long enough for the frame to let off a signal tuned to the newsparks frequency, which coaxes the sparkling to leave its carrier's spark and descend from the spark chamber of its carrier into the gestation chamber where it will be locked into its brand new spark chamber. Once that new chamber is fully sealed, the sparkling frame jolts from new life activation protocols and the emergence protocol begins!

This is a very delicate task but also very straightforward. The carrier will be driven by the C.A.R.I.E protocol to seek a safe, quiet, and secluded space for emergence due to its delicate nature. During this phase over the course of 2-7 days on average the carrier will be in "labor" as their frame opens their chassis and moves the carriers spark chamber out of the way to quite literally drop out the sparkling. The carrier will drop onto their elbows and knees so gravity can do the work and the ejection has the lightest impact.

and TADAAA! You have yourself a fresh bitty! They are but a fraction of the adult's size and have zero kibble or color outside their spark, optic, and biolight color. So teeny and helpless and precious.

though the development of a sparkling outside of its carrier is a lesson for another day!

this concludes our lesson for the day!

#ask #my art #transformers #tf #transformer oc #transformers oc #mechpreg #tw: pregnancy #tw: labor #biology ask #general ask #stoodie lesson #mature tag removed after discussing with some others that there was nithing graphic.#content warning and the like will remain

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cultkinkcoven · 4 months ago

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Paganism has given me such an immense appreciation for the fact that I am a human being and i don’t even know how to explain it.

Thank the Gods that I was born as a human being. Thank the Gods that I was born into a human body.

Thank the Gods that I was born with eyes that can see light, but only a specific section of light that can allow me to understand matter. Light that has travelled for billions of years only to interact with me here, at this point in space and time

Thank the Gods that I was born with ears that can hear sound and interpret it as music. That I my face and bones were formed to create a mouth that can create complex sounds, so that someone that I love can know that I love them. So they can know anything that I could ever tell them. Thank Gods I was born as a creature with the power to create language, to communicate information through words.

That I have tiny electric signals that connect my skin to my brain, so I can feel touch. So I can smell. So I can understand that I am here, that this is here, that this happened.

Thank Gods that I am human, and I can look into the sky with absolute aw, not knowing whether it is looking back at me. Thank Gods that I can have these thoughts, that I can feel some sort of love and significance in these millions of complex frequencies. That it isn’t just information, that it isn’t just static.

Thank Gods that I am large enough that the movement of my atoms doesn’t make me feel like I am being torn apart. Thank Gods I am small enough that my rotation around the Earth doesn’t make me motion sick.

Thank Gods that my ancestors and their ancestors and those before them had so many experiences that their memories are written into my biological code as symbols. So that when I see the moon, the sun, the mother, the hero, the fool and the poet, my mind understands them as significant. Thank Gods that I see red as passion and love because it is the color of my blood. And blue is serenity and melancholy and peace, because the sky and sea are blue.

Thank Gods that I am human, and I was born into a species that cared enough about itself to record what it did. To expand upon their theories and continue their pursuits. To be infinitely wiser than those who came before.

Thank Gods that I have a body, that I have a mind and a soul too. That my body carries me, cradles me though this experience with absolute care. Protecting me, telling me, far faster than I can even perceive, that I am here, that the universe is here. That this is all around me.

Thank Gods that I am human, and I know the canine well. And he recognizes me from a multi century long acknowledgment of ancient companionship. Thank Gods I am human, and I am so interested in the lady bug, because no one else would count her spots. Because no one else would study the way the spider spins her web. Because no one else would be so curious as to count the carvings made over millions of years on the ocean floor. Because no one else thinks to wonder how a penny tastes.

Thank Gods that I am human and my mothers mother told her stories. That I believed in ideas that were fabricated in my nursery. Thank Gods that I read the tales of fantasy and historical fiction that have lead to my ability to imagine a dragon, a fairy, a Erdrich horror which exceeds all words for which I could describe it. A God

Thank Gods that I am human, and I can pray. Thank Gods that I can find Gods in high and low places, on massive and minimum scales. Thank Gods that I can traverse the entire universe in this mind that contains me. That I can explore distant worlds, alternate realities, with the assurance that I can always come home. To this body, to this world. Thank Gods that I am trapped within this body for now and that God can use this body to speak to me. That I can observe God propagating through the world, that I can ask God endless questions. Thank Gods that I have endless questions. Why why why must I know, why must I understand this thing that is living. Why why why must I stub my toe and get eyelashes in my eye and hiccups and random vibrations in my stomach

Thank Gods that I am so reactionary, that I get frustrated and embarrassed and inspired and enraged. Thank Gods that i can feel pain, thank Gods that I can feel ecstasy.

Thank Gods that I see that woman that works at the grocery store every other day. Thank Gods I noticed she changed her hair. Thank Gods that I thought about changing my hair, and changing my gender, and changing my name.

Thank Gods that I grow at a rate that is not too fast, but not too slow. Thank Gods that I am changing, that I am not the same as I was before.

Thank Gods that I can look up at the moon and love her. I think it makes it all worth it, even if I cannot ever truly know if she loves me. I can believe it to be so. Thank Gods that I can believe it to be so.

Thank Gods that I am human. Thank Gods that I am here in this body living on this Earth in this year, in this moment. Thank Gods that I am human.

For as long as I am human, and I may not be human forever, thank Gods that at least right now, I am human.

#thoughts #paganism #pagan #lucifer devotee #poetry?

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lvmimis · 11 months ago

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ember - izuku x reader

cw: spoilers to the end of the manga. reader with vaguely described quirk. izuku and reader are married. short and sweet. a/n: establishing my own new canon, tyvm.

On an evening out in September, six months after you tie the knot with Izuku Midoriya and three years after Izuku returns to active Pro Hero duty, you find out three crucial things about him.

One, Izuku meant it when he said he loves you possibly more than life itself; two, Izuku might not have lost all of the embers of One for All, after all, and three, Izuku is a fucking idiot.

Your body feels unbelievably rigid as though you were in a car accident, and in a way, you were, and your guts should be strewn all over this sparsely populated street if not for the fact that you’re wrapped up, safe, cocooned in your lover’s protective hold, his back curved over yours, and the truck that should have crushed you both instead is partially crumpled itself at its front end, metal twisting around Izuku’s raised forearm. The two of you are panting heavily, the adrenaline coursing through your veins giving you the sensation of having just run a marathon, and he’s looking at you with frantic eyes, scanning you for safety. That long familiar green spark in the air surges around him like electricity, the glow in his green eyes, fading quickly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, breathlessly, not out of exertion but out of shock.

“I-Izuku, you’re not…”

He still hasn’t realized what has just happened, focusing on the fact that you’re alive and okay and didn’t turn into roadkill right in front of his very eyes. Unwedging his somehow intact forearm from the grille of the truck, he turns his body completely to you, rubbing his hands over your shoulders and down your arms, and helps you rise to your feet. The static feeling emanating from him slips away second by second and your lips wobbles as you’re at a loss for words.

“Are you okay?” he repeats again. He’s patting you over quickly, looking for broken bones, bruised skin, and your mind is still racing, computing what just happened and why you’re still alive.

He shouldn’t have been able to cross that distance so quickly - you were just waving to him from across the street, the road clear when you looked before crossing, and in seconds the vehicle had barreled at full speed out of nowhere; he couldn’t have moved before screaming your name fast enough, maybe years ago when you were both teenagers with impossible superpowers but not now, years later with superhuman gifts dwindled to nothing.

He couldn’t have, but he did.

“I-Izuku, the suit… you’re not wearing your suit,” your voice carries shakily, and as you see his eyebrows unscrunch and raise instead in surprise, he turns, and sees the stopped vehicle, the broken glass and distorted metal, a man hurriedly jumping out of the passenger seat and shakily apologizing, and finally his torn jacket sleeve and it occurs to him.

“Oh, fuck, I’m not.”

—

You watch Mei type on her computer, not bothering to try to decipher her thoughts from her facial expressions, knowing full well that she’s never been readable before. Even years after high school you find that this continues to be true, but the blank but friendly and entranced look on her face is somehow pleasant the more you think about it, and you let yourself let out the breath you’ve been holding.

It’s been just a few weeks since the night Izuku’s Quirk - at least some of it - flickered back into life for the first time, and after you’d berated him for using his literal body to shield you from a danger that could have killed you both, you’d taken the time that evening to use your own Quirk to see if something about his body had gone haywire. To both of your surprises, you’d gotten a flicker of something similar to the old him, but unsure and unwilling to get either of your hopes up, you’d decided to consult with Mei and other experts who worked with Quirk pathophysiology and augmentation (a few of which you’d taken courses with yourself years ago), and now you were back in Mei’s laboratory, trying to see if you could get to the bottom of this.

Since then, the following strange things had happened:

You’d dropped a plate and Izuku had dove for it, the wisp of a Blackwhip tendril just brushing it before it ultimately crashed to the ground, the two of you too stunned to speak.

A group of Izuku’s students heckled him as he leaned in to accept your kiss outside UA, and all of you ended up in a purple haze before you knew it.

Izuku’s midday nap on the couch found him face to face with the ceiling when you finally discovered him, and

A sudden unintentional use of Fa Jin made things very interesting in bed.

“I guess my baby’s doing a better job than I thought it would!” Mei grins. You hunch over her screen, while Izuku’s too hooked up to a tangle of wires to get a good view of the screen himself, and she compares Quirk levels from the beginning of the suit’s conception to now, a previously long-standing flat graph with a steadily rising bump.

“A miracle,” you whisper under your breath.

“I find that personally offensive.” Mei replies, her facial expression lacking the cheek to compare to her statement as she watches Izuku watch you from behind the glass. She presses a button on the intercom; Izuku grins at you while Mei gives him the instructions to try to activate Blackwhip one more time, and you can feel warmed all the way through.

—

Slowly but surely, over time, the Quirk levels start to recover, and you, Izuku and Mei try your best to keep it under wraps.

Of course, Katsuki finds out with direct questioning, the purple haze event showing up on an anonymous internet forum propelling him to show up at your doorstep and demand personally that Izuku tell him if he got his quirks back or not.

“We’re not sure how permanent this is, Kacchan,” he offers. Katsuki might as well spit on the ground before him in protest but you’re seated in the living room, and even Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight has enough decorum to not make a mess in someone else’s home.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Midoriya!”

“It’s not a lie!” Izuku insists, and he turns his gaze to you for backup which you swiftly provide.

“Listen, we’re not sure yet, and they’ll probably never get back to normal, but he’s doing his best.” Katsuki grimaces, which annoys you further.

“You’ll get your damn rematch, be patient.” you add, rolling your eyes. Katsuki leers, and his partner pats him on the shoulder.

“He’s just excited,” she translates for him, and Katsuki mumbles something about not needing her for translation every time which doesn’t waver her smile one bit.

“Excited to get his ass beat,” you murmur, reaching over to pour her some more tea. Izuku and Katsuki both stare at you, Izuku with nervous concern and Katsuki with irritation, and just like old days, you and Katsuki’s arguing match begins anew.

—

As the two of you brush your teeth and prepare for bed, you do your nightly routine of checking how strong Izuku's reawakened Quirk is with your hand on his chest, and he presses his free hand over yours.

“You know, my favorite part of this is you’ll finally start to worry less.” He chuckles and squeezes your hand gently.

You let the water run and clear spittle from the sink, and gargle before you answer, your hand still captive by his, then look at him.

“To be honest, I’ll never stop worrying about you, Izuku. Even if you become God.”

But you understand what he means. You’ve had many a nightmare about suit malfunction, only a few of these you’ve shared with him, among other things that have to do with being a Pro Hero in the capacity he insists to be in. This is a small help.

A small bit of providence.

He expected this answer, lips pulling into a smile as he takes your hand fully and pulls the fingertips to his lips to kiss them.

“I’m glad that won’t change,” he replies.

Moments later, you’re laid in bed together, and as you both muse on the potentially altering future in quiet, love-flushed cheeks and hands intertwined, he turns to you suddenly.

“There’s one thing I’m still missing,” he says.

Your eyes refocus to him. He’s pensive now, not sad or upset, but thoughtful. You move closer to kiss him on the lips once before nodding for him to continue.

“What are you missing?”

“Danger Sense,” he says.

“But everything else is back,” you reply. He nods, letting his arm drape around your waist.

“Yeah, but I think I liked that one the most.”

You snort lightly. “Not being able to lift a train, or fly, but 'Super Anxiety' was your favorite?”

You’re making light of the issue to keep the mood from getting too heavy, but he frowns, and you frown back, apologetically.

“Well, ‘Super Anxiety’ made it so that I knew when bad things were about to happen, and often these bad things could involve you.”

He has the tiniest scrunch to his eyebrows, one that in another situation would have compelled you to rub out with your fingertips, but now is not the time to be playful.

You twist your mouth to the side and a few more moments pass between you, before you add:

“I don’t think you need it, though.”

He raises an eyebrow, and you press a kiss to his forehead.

“All this came back because you wanted to protect me,” you remind him. “You moved without thinking, for me, as always, like you knew I needed you. That's better than Danger Sense by far.”

His face softens as he cups yours in his hands. You're thankful that you've reached him.

“Always for you,” he says.

Even if this miracle is transient and despite your best efforts, his quirk levels fall back to normal instead of steadily growing, the love he has for you, and the love you have for him, will never, ever burn out.

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #pro hero izuku x reader #deku x reader #mimidoriya #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes

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currentfandomkick · 4 months ago

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Pt2 reincarnated Tim gets the Wail aka Phantom Shrike

Part one here

Virgil let Tim in, leaning against the wall as Tim looked about his room, clearly searching for where to start as his head looked everywhere, largely at the walls and floor, but not directly at Virgil.

“So," Tim began as he wrung with his hands awkwardly. "I’m going to guess you noticed the early reflexes thing and flinching when you use your powers or Nightwing lights up his escrima sticks?”

Vigil raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t need to be a detective to see that a mile away.”

Tim took a seat at last, settling the urge to scream as the beanbag chair engulfed him. “So, Dick told you all about the uh, JJ incident, or do i get to explain that?”

Virgil moved back to his desk, moving his project to the side. “Just that it was bad.”

“It was.” Bad enough to revive a former lifetime and activate his meta gene. “Kind of shot him, but not me? He’s still in a coma from it.”

Tim waited for Virgil’s reaction. Virgil merely turned to face Tim again, sitting backwards in his swivel chair with an unusually neutral expression.

“I, uh, always had a thing with electricity before that.”

Tim fiddled with his hands again. Counting taps in twos and threes. Dad mentioned it after his last anger management session as a grounding technique. Tim found it… useful. For other things. Largely subduing shrieks, and kicking his trauma triggers in the nuts—when he was certain it was rude to break out tetris anyways.

“Mom called it ‘soul memory hugs’, and not to look into it when I was a kid.” Tim continued, tapping out one of his favorite songs in a modified version of morse code.

He remembers going to Janet in the middle of the night, asking where the nice red head girl went, and why she was crying when he got shocked in his sleep and everything went green. Janet just soothed his concerns and reminded him that the Talons don't go for society kids, but maybe the little girl lost someone and Tim reminded her of him. That he was not responsible for the girl and to let her come to him on her own terms, but to keep a few back ups prepared "just in case" and had him sleep with salt in hand and an iron bracelet.

“Didn’t stop the flashes of," he still couldn't adequately describe the flickers of his pre-Tim life. Of a realm made of ectoplasm the way theirs was made of carbon. The sentient food, watching people walk off injuries that should have crippled them, or the Fenton Driving Watch for the weather. Tucker's laugh and his varied PDAs, or Sam's smile promising someone pain. Dani's joy when she stabilized and befriended Val. Val's everything. "Of something,” he finished lamely.

It'd all been so difficult to pin down back then, as it was too vague without the rest of his memories giving context. A hand holding his. Someone protecting him, other times being punched in the arm or patted on his shoulder almost in condolence of some sort.

“Usually just a warm feeling that uh, stuck if it was static, no pun intended!”

Virgil shook his head with a smile, leaning into the cushion of the chair. “Sure thing Rob, keep going.”

“But when I started going out as Robin," it began a bit before, when he was gathering more evidence of Bruce as Batman to validate his threat of exposing Bruce's secret identity if that was the only way to the man to stop and get help. The sense of dejavu and the stray thought of 'Wes is rolling in his grave' that he never could explain away…

"As Robin," Tim repeated after a beat of silence. "and got hit anytime? It, it changed." his taps stopped being to any song at all. Mouth pulled to one flat, Tim continued. "Flickers of something," he leaned his head to one side, before moving it to the other as he spoke. "Became more and bits of something else.”

Virgil leaned back minutely, face starting to tinge with pinches of worry. “Do any of the Bats know about that?”

Tim shook his head. “B wasn’t, uh,” Tim fiddled with his hands more, not taps or morse code. More hand wringing and flexing phalanges. “In any state to even recognize I wasn’t Robin the Second when I started,” he confessed.

Virgil seemed frozen, like he was mentally recoiling as he moved from his chair to perch on his bed to see Tim and be closer to him for some reason. And now far more attentive than the earlier lull.

Tim shrugged off his concern, as it wasn't like anybody was unaware of how badly Bruce took losing Jason, or how badly Batman took flying solo. People are excellent at ignoring inconveniences to them. and a compromised bad was inconvenient to the GEL.

“No one noticed in the field as Robin was still who he called. My job was to deescalate him, not the other way around.”

Virgil pinched his brow. “So your mentor was violent, and you mentored him rather than mentoring you.”

“Yeah, for most of the three years I pieced him back together. He had me go through the ringer and work under a lot of mentors for combat. Some villains too.”

Tim briefly wondered if Lady Shiva’s offer would extend to helping him take out Joker… And if he could live with himself if he did. Joker killed Jason and was a contributing reason to his parents' hesitation to letting him take up a mantel again in Gotham.

Tim ran a hand through his hair, trying to push that thought aside and the relief of it out of his mind. “Didn’t really tell B things until it was mandatory or necessary. And I wasn’t Robin like Dick and Jay were. I wasn’t and won’t be his son. Just the kid pulling his ass out of his own head and enforcing his old code on his ass. With whatever weapon I need to keep others safe.”

“Hey, Rob?" Virgil interrupted. "You do realize what that sounds like out loud, right?” Virgil's form radiated tension.

Tim could only give a strained smile in return. “Dad and Step Mom lectured me on it and not sacrificing myself for someone that can’t even see me, not the people they wish I was.”

Virgil shook his head as he leaned back. “No wonder you’re off patrol in Gotham.”

Tim let out a long exhale through his nose. “Yeah. Dad sort of wasn’t around until after Mom died, and uh, fixed his priorities.”

“Deathlike do it,” Virgil muttered to himself bitterly.

Tim tactfully ignored that as he knew it was something for Virgil to reveal to his family (not being dead) not Tim’s brand of meddling.

“So uh, Dad always knew about the memory hugs, and more recently the uh, flickers? I've been calling the longer and more detailed memory hugs that. A lot of people get flickers of previous lives and shit, so no need to tell Bats when he frankly couldn’t tell ass, elbow and knees apart.”

Virgil whistled long and low. “Cool, cool… so what does that have to do with the Joker Incident and the extra sensory shit you’ve clearly got going on.”

Tim took a deep breath. “Joker uh, used electric shock repeatedly as a way to torture me. Tried to re-write my memories to be his kid, not B's."

Virgil froze.

“Which is ridiculous. If anything, B was my kid." Tim curled his toes as the memories tried to creep back in. He wished that etiquette allowed him to play tetris right now—to distract him from the phantom sensations.

"Same thing happened in the last life and it," he struggled how to articulate the change of impressions and images to the meshing of time and emotional intermingling. "It stopped being flickers."

He bite his inner cheek and could feel the barely noticeable mouth scars pinking as he bit down. All while Virgil's eyes watched his every move. "More, more like flashbacks, I guess. A lot of time being tied down with an asshole demanding I kill my dad and join him as his evil apprentice. Sometimes it was bleeding memories and superimposed images of people I knew then onto people I know now. And it uh, kicked my meta-gene into activating.”

Virgil finally moved, visibly tabling most of what he said. The tension in his own shoulders dropped when he realized he wouldn't have to go back to that horrid laughing place in his mind . “What kinds of activating, and how’d they emerge?”

“A few my step mom clocked—I could hear better and had a larger pitch range that my voice cracking couldn’t hide. Mostly on their own but the uh, scream one is uh, a work in progress on emerging still.”

“So you can hear people coming from further away?” Virgil surmised.

“Not exactly. Its uh, complicated<" Tim let his shoulders and hands do the talking again. "A local eco-terrorist and meta is helping me with where it overlaps on her turf. Apparently plants can hear a lot more than we thought and have opinions on my singing skills. Mainly, that they suck.”

Virgil took a deep breath and looked up. Tim waited for him to give the okay to keep going.

Virgil waved him on once he was done pleading to the ceiling for something to make this more bearable.

“So uh, Ivy is teaching me how to understand plant languages, in exchange for beach cleanups and something I already planned to and had in the works.”

“A rogue is teaching you about your powers, and the adult who you were monitoring in hindsight has no clue.” Virgil rubbed his face before looking up. “And Dick, he looped in?”

“Not yet, I uh, want to know more before becoming a pet project for the extended Bats, you know?”

Virgil conceded that much.

“And its only one aspect the rogue knows! She helps a lot of metas hide their abilities and teaches them how to cope and work with it on their terms. B knows about her doing that and doesn’t interfere with that part of her work. Everyone knows about her doing it.”

“But not regarding you?”

“Its," Tim scrambled to find the right word. "Its complicated.”

“A lot of things with Bats are.”

“Look," Tim held his hands up in surrender. "My dad will go down for attempted murder, if not murder one, if B is around me anymore. I don’t know what they said, but Dad found out about Robin a few weeks after I escaped the JJ incident…”

Virgil paused, face loosening as something clicked. Shoulders slack, he muttered, “you almost died, didn’t you?”

Tim bit his inner cheeks and scars, tapping a littler harder than before. “Legally dead a few times during it, and uh, got to relive the times I died in my last life.”

“How Bad?”

Tim could feel Maddie cutting into him, could see her comparing his insides to Ember’s.

“Mad scientist parents found out I stopped being fully human. It, it was, it was bad.”

“Shit.”

Tim swallowed dryly. “Yeah. Uh, I was hoping, no pressure or obligation, if you’d be okay helping with exposure therapy with electricity. Yours doesn’t sound the same as, as,” Tim felt that urge to scream grow in his throat. He clamped his hands over his mouth and used that trick from Fear Toxin.

“Tim?!”Virgil stood up.

5 things he could touch. His mouth, shoes, ground under his feet, the chair he was sitting on, his clothes.

4 things he can see. Virgil, door, poster, desk.

3 things he can hear. His breathing (too quick), Virgil’s static field, hum from the lights.

2 things he can smell. Stress and BO.

1 thing he can taste. His teeth.

Tim dropped his hands as his throat loosened to safe speaking levels as he repeated the steps. “Sorry, just uh, some stress requires screaming now and it, its not safe to be in the blast radius.” Tim ran a hand over his face. “Learning pitch control still and the screams tend to uh, level things. Missions are fine, the, the flashbacks…”

Virgil nodded slowly. “Not far off from Canary then. Talking about JJ triggers it?”

Tim nodded with a hard swallow. “Talking about the, the memories from the life where my parents uh, killed me and the dying by them after half dying from fixing an invention of theirs and having multi-dimensional portal kill and revive me simultaneously multiple times does it too.”

Static opened and shut his mouth. “Flashbacks frequent?”

“Yeah, kinda. Telling my body we’re not being strapped down and vivisected is uh, not something it likes to believe. And survival first, questions later. Fear gas is so much easier to handle,” he complained.

Virgil nodded slower this time. Tim knew it was a lot to take in.

“So, a Canary Cry?” Virgil began once the silence began to stretch to uncomfortable.

“Kind of?” Tim read her file enough before just in case, and he had clear add-ons she didn’t have. “Enhanced hearing too, but I can use infra sound and hear it if I tune into it. Also can hear the weather more than usual.”

“More than—you could hear the weather before?” Virgil stared at him.

“Assumed it was the autism,” Tim dismissed. “Could be both now.”

Virgil shook his head, possibly grumbling about 'white boys' under his breath. “Any other metas in the family?”

“Not that are still around. Dad’s cousin had a similar voice ability,” Tim talked around the issue of Black Canary Senior being his disowned cousin. “But never met her. Fled long before I was born on Dad’s side. Mom’s is a mystery in general unless you ask for someone specific about a specific event or topic.”

Virgil shook his head. “Okay, but are you sure nothing else has gone on, anything unusual?”

“Not that I can think of off the top of my head. Broke down Batman’s resistance to me being Robin using what Mom taught me about destroying my enemy’s mental fortitude, so… I don’t think so.”

“Think on it. And I can help with the exposure therapy thing if you want, but getting any help for all of this besides me?”

“Step mom, Dad, and Ivy. Robin’s supportive but doesn’t know any specifics… I think. She caught me during training on a surveillance mission, only knows some powers. Dad, step mom and me are the only ones that know about all of them.”

Virgil sighed. “Bats can’t know?”

“Not if we want my dad to stay out jail.”

Virgil looked up at his ceiling. “Planning to your tell your friends?”

“…When I have a better idea of how to control the screaming part. They were already convinced I’ve been meta since we met.”

“Might have been.”

Oh, Tim had not thought that part through.

“…maybe? I’ll have to work that out at home… and thanks. I mean it.”

“No problem man, just try not to mix me with anyone you knew last life, or not too bad.”

“You’re safe. More worried about mixing current friends with my dead ones.”

Virgil shooed Tim out.

Tim relaxed, just a touch, before going back to cases in the commons and catching Stephanie up on Titans BS with everyone chiming in.

It was good to be home.

—

Tim knows, logically, he can tell his team about being murdered by his parents in his last life. He also remembers meeting Greta and knowing she wasn’t truly Dead, which is something he can’t explain fully still…

Virgil might have had a point about being some sort of meta (or maybe magic?) long before the JJ incident. Most kids can’t evade Batman and Robin for years just to take pictures of them mid-flight.

Maybe a sound nullification ability or something to that effect… he can bribe Ivy to help experiment with it later.

The problem is he doubts Kon wouldn’t lead the charge with his dad to summon and beat up said former filicidal parents. And he knows that the whole team would be on board if they knew.

He would rather not see Maddie or Jack again. Especially while awake. Jazz showing up a bit different in his dreams and complaining about his broken sleep schedule making it harder to visit was something he remained on the fence about telling anyone.

Possibly harass Captain Marvel about it as that guy said nothing about people’s shit unless it becomes a game of which plane of existence you can stay on… but even then, tracking him down without bat-tech is a game of whackamole.

There’s also the complication of Tim being very aware he likes Kon, and not necessarily as a friend alone. Which. He doesn’t have time for the additional sexuality crisis on top of his varied identity crises at the moment and the media’s questions about the two Robins and if Robin was gender fluid, flux or only out as a girl in Gotham and a young man elsewhere. He cannot add ‘crushing on a teammate’ to his list when he and Stephanie only broke up a week before the JJ incident and are just now easing back into their old friendship. He doesn’t want the amputated feeling of losing a friend again because he keeps catching feelings for them, and is 10,000% certain he should not touch romance until he’s in a better mental state.

He has Problems on his plate, and it’s already overflowing. He’d rather not break.

And he loves his friends. But he has no doubt that Cassie would set up the pitchforks rather than stop any of the retribution his father was undoubtedly planning. He can’t gift-wrap his friends as minions in his dad’s crusade to fuck over the Fentons across dimensions, spacetime and afterlife status.

He did manage to make a small list of oddities for himself about his capacity to do things that were vaguely ghostly or similar to powers he’d pieced together.

So far potential intangibility or density shifting, invisibility, faster recovery rate than non-metas yet slow for a meta—speed seems dependent on how likely the injury is to kill him. His high tolerance for the cold was making sense the further in Winter he got and the more he’d see flickers of Frostbite training him in his last life.

Whatever an ‘ice core’ is, seems cool. He may have taken to playing with discarded freeze guns and be reworking them to be smaller and more compact. Possibly to add to his future vigilante ID, or to be a general weapon as a civilian given non-lethal status and his ability to add a melting rate adjustment knob of some sort, and call 911.

Bart saw him with it, grinned manically, and joined in helping him improve and adjust it. Slobo joined them both.

Cassie took one look at them and declared it ‘not her problem if they freeze themselves’ while Kon was out on another press tour thing.

Tim pretended not to note those had increased lately only on days Tim was staying with Just Us for non-mission things and Kon’s increase in excuses to avoid him in general.

If Kon wanted distance, then he’d get it. Even if it stung. Kon’s time and his life to spend as he pleases. And clearly, Tim displeases him. /worthless. Monster. Failure. Stand-in. No wonder you’ve always been a loser—/

“So, for Robin time or outside the mask?” Greta asked when she caught the three near the end of a schematics debate.

“Not sure yet,” Tim admitted. “Rogues are weirdly chill with me in civvies lately. But that could be Ivy being Ivy.”

Bart and Slobo’s debate died at that. “Ivy?”

“Uh, Poison Ivy’s plants outted civilian me for something i was dealing with. She’s decided she’s helping with fine-tuning my control on it and gave me one of her ‘protected by’ pins.”

Greta hummed, floating nearer while Bart was buzzing in his place.

“and its a good thing?”

“Other than her shipping me and my ex? Parents approve of the additional support and it’s made intel gathering easier. She was right about the hearing range increase being a bitch to deal with daily.”

Cassie came in with their takeout then, and everyone dispelled to their usual nonsense.

“So, Ivy ships you and your ex?” Greta began with innocently enough.

Tim debated banging his head against the table.

“My civvie self and Gotham’s Robin,” he clarified. “And only enough to throw cuddle pollen on her and lock us together in… varied situations. And laugh about it.”

Cassie blinked at him slowly. “You are being teased by a Rogue who ships civilian you, with a vigilante.”

“… to be fair I am getting plant speak lessons, but yeah.”

“Rob, what the fuck,” Cassie shook her head.

Tim shrugged. “Its Ivy. A safe distraction for the minors she fights is her preferred MO. if it’s just Bats she can and will use sex pollen. If kids or unclear on minor status are involved, cuddle pollen galore.”

“Uh huh.” Cassie and Greta share a look. “So you dated girl Robin, before she became Robin?”

“She was Spoiler first, and I gave her tips on managing Bruce’s ass when I uh,” Tim still didn’t know how to explain ‘forcibly removed from vigilante activities as his dad worried about him dying in a cape like the last Robin, so Tim was forced to pass the buck of Bruce’s mental instability onto his ex-girlfriend and close friend, Spoiler, and coaches her in Bruce Wrangling at a distance’.

“Forced semi-retirement?” Cissie suggested as she stole a slice of pizza, cringing at Tim’s. Which was all his as Bart didn’t care for it. Sucker’s bet on keeping their slices safe from speedster snatching. Amateurs; clearly they never went to boarding school.

“That,” Tim took a bite of his Canadian bacon and pineapple goodness. “And also she’s officially Oracle’s Robin," he swallowed. "Just B’s for combat scenarios. Dad has decided to threaten B’s living status for her too.”

“Rob,” Slobo interrupted. “The fuck.”

“…in my defense, she asked me out a week after almost killing me the first time.”

“Your dad, not other Robin!”

“First time?!”

“She prefers bricks as her projectiles.” Tim wiped his hands clean after his first slice, humming as he went over the blueprint… how should he compensate for his screams and Wail?

“Oh, and she aimed at my head. She’s into three section staffs lately which is a lot less deadly.”

“Rob. She asked you out after almost killing you?” Bart clarified.

“… not on purpose but yeah.”

“She asked you out by accident?”

“No, almost killing part. She’s gotten better aim since, and is following the no killing until you’re not a bat-affiliate rule.”

His team shared looks he didn't bother to check. The urge to analyze could spiral into another screaming attack if he didn't nip it in the bud.

“So not getting back together with her?” Greta clarified with a smile that screamed Gossip Detected.

He let her have either way, even with the looks Cissie, Bart, and Cassie shared.

———-

Let me know if i missed any tags ^^

#long post #my writing #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny phantom #danny reincarnated at tim #good parents jack and dana

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avenging-fandoms · 6 days ago

Text

Mine Now - CM Punk

Summary: requested by anonymous- I will absolutely combust if you write cm punk smut (please) Seth Rollins has been your mentor and friend for a few years. CM Punk has been taunting Seth about you for weeks. Seth doesn't know you've been thinking about being with CM Punk since the first time you saw him decades ago.

Content warning: smut. 18+. USE PROTECTION. things may have been changed a bit

idk i feel like punk fucks like small hands so here's a reference video.

please like and reblog!

gif divider credit: @enchanthings-a

The Staples Center shakes when Seth Rollins' music blares through the speakers and fans sing along to the 'woah's'. You stand next to but kind of behind him with your hand folded in front of you, taking in all of the fans for Seth and smiling at those who acknowledge you.

You've been with the WWE for nearly half a year, only being introduced a few weeks prior in a Royal Rumble. You didn't win, but you did last with 7 girls left in the ring with you being number 17, so you count that to yourself as a win.

Seth cheered you on from the side of the ring as your mentor, but he kind of made it about himself. He wanted to look like an angel for helping a new wrestler, but he was still a good mentor. He's a hard-ass when he needs to be but always your cheerleader.

It kind of made you feel bad for how much you crave CM Punk.

When you arrived, Seth warned you over and over about Punk, telling you he's a snake and can't be trusted, but he didn’t need to. You grew up watching CM Punk with your WWE-obsessed brother, you knew he was a pompous asshole who didn’t care about anything or anyone but himself.

Seth absolutely loathes CM Punk while you had to hide you were smitten with him, and him taunting you and Seth wasn’t helping get rid of those feelings.

Seth jumps up and over the ropes, throwing his arms out and the crowd cheers. You step up and bend through the ropes and stay near them, letting him have his moment on the microphone.

"Los Angeles how are we feeling?" The crowd screams and cheers, your eyes scanning the signs and laughing at a few funny ones. When Seth puts the mic to his mouth again, the crowd starts to cheer Punk's name. Seth laughs and looks at you in disbelief. "We're out here in the middle of the Staples Center to talk about that hypocrite's name you all are chanting, weren't you small brains just chanting my song?"

It was a mix of cheers and boos and you wrap your fingers around the rope, sitting near the buckles and watching Seth. "That snake, for weeks, has been non-stop telling my mentee how I'm not good enough to teach her how to win, he's been telling her to leave me for him," he laughs into the mic and your cheeks flush pink and you try your best to hide it with your hair.

Fans shake their signs of CM Punk support in Seth's face and he narrows his eyes. "CM Punk can only give you advice on how to come crawling back on your knees, begging for-"

Static. An electric guitar. Drums. Fans scream and cheer, and you grip the rope tighter when you turn around. The screams erupt when CM Punk steps out and smiles, nodding as he looks around. His large arms are displayed in his tight black tank top, blue jeans hugging his hips perfectly, and the grey in his beard making it harder to peel your eyes from him. You move closer to the buckle, watching as he walks down towards the ring with his eyes focused on Seth.

Punk jumps up onto the ring and holds on to rope as he shit talks Seth, doing a double take when he sees you in the corner. He gives you a smirk and keeps his eyes on you when he enters the ring. He was given a mic and steps close to Seth, taking in the chants of his name before licking his lips and putting the microphone to his mouth.

"Seth, you really need to stop worrying about me, and worry about being a better mentor. I mean, you jump in the ring and jump around like a monkey and don't even help your girl up?"

Punk's hand gestures to you and you stand up off the buckles, holding the ropes on either side of you. Punk's attention focuses on you, his Nikes taking him closer with a devilish smirk on his face.

"I've seen it every single time you two come out. Even when it's your match, he doesn't help you up, he gets up first and watches you climb, not offering a hand." He's inches from you and he notices the quickening pace of your breathing, eyes hazy as they scan over his face. "He doesn't treat you like he should be, sweetheart, which is why I've been telling you to find a new mentor."

Even with your eyes stuck on Punk's, you notice Seth starting to charge in a blur. "Watch out!" You warn and Punk's hands push your head down as he takes Seth's punch to the head and you slide out of the ring.

"Seth, stop!"

It was no use. The pent up anger from the past weeks, the past few years, was coming out at this very moment. You yelled for a ref, begged Michael Cole to call someone, but nothing works. Seth just throws hit after hit and Punk was stumbling around, Seth hitting him with a Pedigree. You back up into the announcer's table and shake your head.

The crowd boos and wails as CM Punk pants on the ground with his eyes squeezing tightly, holding his stomach. You step closer to the ring and scream for Seth to stop. Punk can't even lift his head before Seth pulls him over in front of you, grabbing a fistful of his hair and picking Punk up on all fours. Your feet move to stop him as Seth points at you, ignoring you and stomping on his opponent’s head. You have to turn away. Seth jumps and yells around the ring, CM Punk struggles to get up and your eyes are suddenly locked on him.

Punk’s hands lay flat on the ring and he pushes himself up, shaking his head and sitting on his knees and ripping off his tank top. Directly in front of you.

Your mouth goes dry as his hands lay flat on his thighs. His chest heaves as he regains his breath, rolling his neck slowly, your eyes following the sweat beads falling down his front and hitting the top of his jeans. Your eyes go up and you’re met with his. A soft smirk plays on his lips as you both notice your knees starting to go weak.

While Rollins yells his nonsense, Punk regains his ability to stand and waits for him to turn in his direction and throws a few punches to his head. Punk holds Seth over his head, turning to you. He sends you a wink and hits Seth with a ‘Go To Sleep.’

The crowd erupts as CM Punk stands up, looking around the arena as his song starts to play. Seth rolls onto his stomach and you slide into the ring next to him, tapping his back.

“Hey, hey. You alright?” You bend down and move his hair out of his face, Seth's face twisting and grunts escaping his mouth. "Do you need help getting up?" Seth can't open his eyes from the pain, wrapping an arm around his head and you feel heat behind your body.

Tattooed fingers slide across your jaw and hold your chin, tilting your face up where you’re met with CM Punk once more. His thumb rubs over the bone gently and you gulp.

Your attention was no longer on Seth and solely on Punk. This was everything you wanted but you knew you'd lose everything with Seth.

He tugs your chin and you stand, the crowd making the arena shake. Punk has been divorced for a few years and has never showed interest in anyone, not any of the other girls Seth trained. You knew you may just be a pawn, but if CM Punk was by your side, you didn’t really care what you were as long as it was his.

“Are you leaving with me?” He lowers his lips to graze your ear. “Do you trust me?” He speaks.

Your body shivers and without thinking, you nod. Punk flashes a real smile at you and drops his hand to hold yours. He holds the rope open for you, and you hear yelling.

"Y/N! What the fuck are you doing?!" Seth yells and grabs your ankle, making you fall into Punk and he kicks Rollins off of you.

"Leaving with someone who'd never purposely trip her!" CM Punk spits at Rollins who holds his head and rolls around the ring. You look at Seth with sad eyes before ducking out of the ropes, thanking Punk. You go to hop down but he stops you, hopping down first and grabbing your hips to bring you down.

You lose your breath when you hold onto his biceps, thanking him with a squeak. He puts a hand on your lower back as you walk up the ramp, Seth still yelling, almost falling over the ropes.

"We're done! If you leave with him, block my fucking number!" Seth screams and you turn your head, throwing him a thumbs up before you and CM Punk leave the stage.

Your body seems to go into shock once you're out of view of the public, really understanding that now you were with CM Punk. You stood up and chose him, leaving behind a friend you've had for the past 3 years.

"Are you okay?" His voice snaps you out of it and you look up at CM Punk.

"I, uh, I think?" He laughs softly and you chuckle in disbelief. Yelling gets louder and Seth appears from the back. He rushes too quick and body bumps you into Punk's bare chest and slams your nose into it. You yelp and bend out of the interaction, Punk taking notice and shoving Seth back.

"Are you fucking serious? Get your shit together, you're showing her more of a reason to drop your fucking ass," Punk hisses and shoves Seth again. You cradle your bleeding nose and Punk throws Seth into a TV, heading over to you and holding your hand. "Come on, we'll go see medical."

"No, no, I just need a towel," you wave but he grabs your wrist and shows you your bloody hand.

"That is a lot of blood, sweetheart. It wouldn't hurt to at least get checked out." He wraps an arm around you and holds your elbow, the other hand holding your nose. Someone rushes over with a towel and you thank them, Punk holding your nose and letting the blood soak the towel.

Punk's hand never lets go of the towel until he sits you on the table and a medic checks you out. You wince as she presses on your nose but she notes no breakage or fracturing, just a hard impact and a bloody nose. She said you might be sore for a day or two and to just ice it.

She leaves the room and someone brings Punk a new shirt, his biceps still bulging through, the sleeve begging to rip. "Hey, at least you aren't broken," he chuckles to break the silence.

"Still can't believe he couldn't calm himself to not almost break my fucking nose." You lean back against the wall and hold the tissue to your nose, shaking your head. "Then again, I did leave him for his sworn enemy," you smirk and Punk shakes his head with a nasally laugh.

"Are your keys in your bag or purse?" He stands over you and you furrow your eyebrows.

"You're trying to steal my car? You could've just asked for a ride, Punk."

"You can call me Phil, sweetheart, and I don't think you can drive with your head tilted up with one hand on the wheel. I'll drive you home," he smiles and holds out his hand to help you off the table, putting his hand behind your back and walking with you to get your things.

"I'm sure it stopped bleeding by now, I can drive." You pull the tissue away and a string of blood starts to fall and you quickly put the tissue back on your nose, looking at Punk. "My keys are in the little zipper in my purse," you mumble and he grins.

Phil grabs your bags and you two head for the garage. "I can take my purse, you know."

"Why, you don't think it looks good on me?" Phil flips his hair and you giggle.

"Uh, Punk? There's some post-show interviews-"

"They all saw what just happened. They don't need any damn interviews," he snaps and the employee stammers on his words and you mouth a 'sorry,' with a small shrug. He was mean, but he was right.

You get on the elevator and when the doors close, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and closed your eyes, leaning your head on Punk's arm for the ride up to the 6th floor.

The ding disturbs your peace and Punk moves your bags to his left arm to wrap his other one around you, letting you rest on him for the walk to your car. He didn't ask you where your car was but used the lock button and followed the sound just so he also didn't disturb you.

He opens the passenger door and you hop in, Punk putting on your seatbelt with his free hand. He gently closes the door and you immediately lean your hot skin on the cool window.

Punk puts your things in the backseat and hops into the driver's seat, head hitting the ceiling and it makes your shoulders jump with a quiet laugh. "Hey! Don't laugh at me, brat," he pinches your thigh and you squeal.

You open your phone and give him the GPS app to head home, putting it on the stand. "So you know where you're going and I can rest."

He smacks his teeth with a head tilt. "You're just so smart, hon." He starts the car and backs out of the spot. Your ETA gave you an hour to be home and you had the rest of the week to relax now that you had an injured nose that made it hard to wrestle.

Phil pulls out of the garage and starts the journey to your house. Your nose was lightly bleeding now and you put your elbow on the door, loosely leaving the tissue on your nose when you lean against the glass with closed eyes.

He gets off the highway after 15 minutes and notices all the drive thrus and rubs your arm with his finger. "I'm really sorry to disturb you, hon, but are you hungry? Do you want me to stop anywhere?"

You stretch and blink your eyes open, looking around and scrunching your nose. "I want some crab rangoon," you yawn and he nods, excited.

"Sounds like a plan. If there's a restaurant by your house we'll order it before we get home so it's ready then you can relax with your crab rangoon." You nod and shift your body, putting your bloody tissue in your car trash can and leaning your head down on your arms on the center console.

Punk moves his hovering arms down and rests his elbow on the console, the rest on your head with his palm on the side of your head. Sleep almost took over until Seth's entrance song blares through the speakers.

You turn the volume down and sit up, rubbing your eyes and looking at Phil. You hit 'answer' on the screen and Punk looks at you. "Y/N?"

"Yes, Seth."

"Why do you sound far away?" You lean closer into Punk and try not to yell in his ear.

"What's up, Seth?" You keep it short and dodge his question, you're annoyed with him. You understand his anger, but not being able to control it enough to watch where he's going and making your nose bleed.

He's quiet for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry for running into you, I was so frustrated and wanted to find Punk and-"

"I get it, Seth, and I'm really sorry for everything that's happened and how it happened. I am not going to accept your apology at the moment 'cause I'm still really pissed you rushed us instead of approaching us like an adult, but I appreciate it. I'm sure you don't accept mine either and that's fine."

Phil grabs a tissue from his pocket and dabs some blood that drips and you give him a soft smile, eyes disassociating on his beard as silence fills the car.

"Are you not driving?" Seth asks and you scoff with a soft chuckle in disbelief.

"It's hard to drive with blood randomly dripping from your nose, no, I'm not."

Seth sucks his teeth on the other line. "You're right, I don't forgive you."

Three beeps and he's gone. You shake your head and sit back in your seat, looking at Phil. "He's a baby, he'll get over it." He reaches over and squeezes your chin, smushing your cheeks a bit and you look at him. "I warned him, didn't I?"

You can't form words. His fingers move against your bone and you can only nod. He drops his hand and dangles it over the center console, drumming to the song on the quiet volume.

You're awake now so you turn the music up to 15, loud enough but quiet enough. You have 20 minutes to go, which was surprising because the conversation with Seth felt very short.

"I'll order the food now, it's like 5 minutes from my house." Punk nods and hands you your phone as he travels on the highway. You order your lo mein and 2 orders of crab rangoon, turning to Punk. "I should've asked before, do you want anything?"

"Fried rice, please." You nod and he opens his mouth to add something but you do it for him.

"No meat please, the rice and veggies are fine." Punk looks over at you and tries to keep his eyes on the road. You didn't have to ask him if he wanted meat, you knew he never would. You hang up and put the phone back with an ETA home of 15, the same for the food.

"How'd you know?"

You look at him with an embarrassed blush to your cheeks. "I've watched you for a while, Phil. I've.. oh my fuck, this is humiliating. I've had a crush on you for many years."

He can't help but laugh. He rubs a hand over his beard and looks at you. "I mean, it wasn't hard to tell. You couldn't even look at me." You roll your eyes and push his shoulder.

"Well, since we're friends now, I thought you'd like this song I found." His mouth curls into a smile when he hears the beginning of his entrance.

"That is the definition of comfort food," you groan and lay back against the couch, a hand over your full stomach.

"I have to agree," he follows you and leans his head on his knuckle, looking at you. "You don't regret this, do you?"

You roll your head over to look at Phil and shake your head in the cushion. "I don't, I really don't. I don't have my friend anymore but.. fuck, I'm with CM Punk, I can't regret too much."

Punk laughs and sits up, holding out his hand. "Let's go get you cleaned up, there's some blood dried around your nose." You take his rough hand and stand up with him, grabbing your bags and leading him to the bathroom in your room.

He puts your bags next to your door and meets you in the bathroom, smirking down at you. "I can't see your face very well from down there." You hop up on the counter and he finds a washcloth, wetting it with warm water and tilting your chin up.

"You don't have to do all this, I can do it myself," you explain and he gives you a look.

"I know you're not used to it, but I want to take care of you, you don't have to do everything alone." He puts the cloth in the sink and washes his hands, slapping his wet hands on your thighs before drying them on a towel.

"Hey!" You giggle and grab his shirt from the bottom and pull him between your legs, wiping up the water with the cotton.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he chuckles and you look up at him, your spine straightening. Phil's hand was hesitant to touch your skin and you push his hand onto your hip, and it activated everything. His arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you into his thick chest, your fingers gripping his shirt and pushing up to his hair.

Punk's fingers tug at your shirt and you push him away, giving him a smile when you hop off the counter, walking backwards and keeping your eyes on his. "Come and get me, Punk."

You try to move around him but he catches you by the waist, spinning you into him and holding your neck. "Wrong answer, sweetheart."

He stands in front of you and moves your hair out of your face, tracing your features with his other hand’s fingers. “Phil..”

He smirks. “Is it okay to touch you?” He whispers in your ear and your fingers dig in his biceps when you nod. His face disappears in your hair, finding your neck and leaving soft, wet kisses down. “Lay on the bed, hm?”

Punk moves away from you and watches you lay on the bed, pulling his tank top up off and throwing it on your pillows. Your hands explore his hot skin, pulling him down to kiss you. Your legs wrap loosely around his waist and his hand pushes down your thigh, gripping and smacking your ass.

You whimper in his mouth and he pulls away to disappear between your legs. Punk pulls your pants down swiftly and over with his shirt, groaning as he falls to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed. He yanks you closer and spreads your legs open, kissing from your ankle to the very inside of your thigh.

When you feel his breath fanning over your heat, your legs instantly snap closed. Nerves build in your chest when you feel his hands snake up your thighs and push them to the bed. You pant softly when his breath fans over your body, going up and kissing you slowly.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Don’t be nervous. Just tell me to stop if you need me to,” he pecks the corner of your mouth and your head follows as far as you can as he kneels on the ground again.

Punk learns his lesson and snakes his arms up and over around your thighs, your legs dangling on his back. “Beauty, just absolutely divine,” he groans and kisses your clit and the skin around it, his tongue laying flat and licking up, moaning at the taste of you. “Fuck, you taste so delicious.”

His mouth engulfs your pussy and he flicks his tongue up and down between your folds, focusing on your clit and moaning when your fingers grip his hair.

Your thighs tremble around his head and pick your head up to look at him when he slides two thick fingers into you, making eye contact with you and holding it as he pumps his fingers and flicks his tongue, his left hand pulling his jeans down a bit to stroke his cock. Your chest heaves and you fall back against the back again, whining and twisting your hips against his tongue.

Punk stands on his feet but doesn't break away when he lays on the bed, flipping on his back and making you hover your hips above him while on all fours. He smacks your ass a few times before forcing your hips down, tongue immediately finding your clit.

Your arms give out entirely and your face falls into his shirt that fell off the pillows. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands holding his elbows to keep you in place. You bury your face in the cotton, biting down on it and pulling up with a loud moan.

"As much as I'd love to taste you cum on my tongue," he pants and pulls you down over him and you squeal. "I want to feel you cum around me, sweetheart." He kisses your chin and bites the skin, smoothing his hands over your ass and spanking you again.

You hold the back of his neck and roll him back over to be above you, Punk completely taking off his pants. He tilts his head to the side slightly when staring at you, leaning a hand down to grip your tank top, the other hand joining and ripping the material in a swift motion off your body.

A loud gasp escaped your throat and you pull him down, kissing him rough and sloppy with your fingers pushing through his hair. "Go ahead, sweetheart, put it in." Phil lifts his body so you can grab his cock, a pleased sigh escaping his lungs and his head leans against yours. You tease his tip up and down your pussy, desperate groans escaping Punk's lips. "C'mon, kitten, let me fill you," he grunts and you spread your legs, pressing your forehead against his as you push his cock into you.

"Fuck, don't move, fuck," you wince and shakily grab his face, letting your hands fall to hold his shoulders. Phil kisses your forehead and brushes your hair out of your face.

"I'm all yours, Y/N. Tell me when you're ready." He kisses the corner of your mouth and you let out a long breath, moving your hips slowly and nodding at him. He pulls his hips up and thrusts into you slowly, his jaw hinging to the side and his eyes roll. "You feel so.. fuck," Punk moans loudly and falls on top of you, laying his cheek on your shoulder with his nose pressed against your cheek.

His right arm wraps around your waist and holds your back up, strings of moans and your name falling from his swollen lips. You turn your head and wrap a leg around his waist, moaning in his mouth and scratching his beard. Your tongue smooths over his bottom lip and you whimper at the ghost hole of his lip piercing, sinking your teeth in and pulling back.

Phil growls and rolls onto his back, holding your hips to hold you up and thrust rough and quick into you. You hold onto his wrists for stability and drop your head, watching his face twist in focus and pleasure.

"Fuck, look at you." He licks his lips and drops your bodies back to the bed, letting you take control. Your hands squeeze his knees and move your hips up and down slowly, smiling and running your tongue over your teeth when you watch his eyes roll and head fall into the pillow, biting his hand.

"Look at you," you purr and smooth your hands up his torso, stopping at his face and kissing him slowly. His lips fall loose and he moans against your teeth when you smile. Punk's large hands massage your ass and smack it, gripping tightly and moving your hips for you.

"Oh my fucking god," he moans with veins popping in his neck. Phil's tattooed fingers push through your hair and hold it in a pony tail, picking your head up to look at him as he thrusts fast into you. "Fuck, this pussy's all mine, all fuckin' mine," Punk pants.

Phil keeps your hair in his hands and presses his forearms together behind your head, laying you on your back with your head resting on his arms. His thighs open your legs wider and you nip at his chin when you feel every inch of him inside of you. He pushes his hips deeper, grunting and moving in slow circles, your eyes fighting to stay open.

"Who does this pussy belong to, sweetheart?" He whispers in your ear, his biceps engulfing your head and your hand holds onto one for support. He pulls his hips back all the way then snaps his hips into you again, both of your moans dancing in the air. "I need words, or I won't move."

Punk pulls his knees next to your hips, pulling your leg over his shoulder and kissing your calf as he looks at you through his sweaty hair in his hair. "Please, Punk, more," you whimper as you scratch his thighs. He chuckles slowly and shakes his head, smacking your thigh.

"Use your words," he leans down, "Who does this pussy belong to?"

He tilts his head to the side and presses his forehead to yours, kissing the corner of your mouth. Phil starts moving his cock out of you and your hips twitch, your fingernails digging into his back.

"You, Phil, fuck," your hands press against his thighs when he starts his fast pace again. "I'm all yours, Punk."

A low growl comes from his throat and he frees his arms, pulling your hips off the bed and rubbing your clit with his thumbs. "Atta girl, all mine."

Punk tears his eyes from your face to watch himself fuck you, his eyebrows dropping in a furrow with his lips slightly parted. "Phil.. I'm.." Your eyes fall heavy and he pulls his hand away, stopping all his movements and you let out a loud whine.

"Such a brat, I want to watch you above me." He holds you close to his body and flips you two once more with pulling his cock out, letting you get comfortable before nodding he was ready.

You hold his knees for stability again and you start to move, his fingers finding your clit and your legs start to give. "You got it, baby. Keep going, you're almost there." Punk's eyes now roll and he fingers start to slow.

Your movements get heavier and slower, your fingers squeezing his legs for support. "I'm.. I'm.." you can't open your eyes and your breath sticks in your throat when Punk holds your hip with one hand and quickly thrusts into you, rubbing your clit until your orgasms hit the both of you hard.

Your body gives out on you and you fall on top of Punk who wraps his arms tight around you, trapping your arms underneath to rest next to his body. He moves his hips slowly to pump every inch of his seed into you.

Phil's hands push against your back, dragging up your hot skin and rubbing the tips of his fingers between your shoulder blades. You pick your hands up and lay them on his biceps, tracing the outlines of his tattoos with your lips parted against his shoulder.

He pulls his hips down and you whimper at the empty feeling when his cock pulls out of you completely. You lay your whole body weight on top of him, your bellies moving against each other's as you breathe.

"Are you okay, sweetheart? Need anything?" Punk kisses your forehead and brushes the hair out of your face so you can look up at him.

"I think a nice shower and some sleep would be perfect right now," you kiss his pec a few times and he sits you both up, holding out his hand and helping you up. Your legs shake underneath you and Punk smirks to himself in victory. "Oh, shut up," you grumble and he laughs, holding you close as you both head for the bathroom.

Phil takes his time in the shower washing your hair and body, making sure every finger cleans every cell on your skin. You've never felt so beautiful, so worshipped. You wash him and can't help but squeeze him in his thighs and biceps, desperate to sink your teeth in them.

You pull on a pair of sleep shorts and see the black on your pillow. You drop your towel and throw on the tank top, turning to Punk with a smile. "How do I look?"

He kneels down to grab your towel, looking up at you with his arm draped over his knee and the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I think I'm going to give you every shirt and sweatshirt I own just to see you in them."

#cm punk #cm punk x reader #cm punk x fem reader #cm punk x you #cm punk imagine #cm punk smut #cm punk fic #cm punk fanfiction #smut #fanfiction #wwe

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jes3icasriley · 2 months ago

Text

Tangled Threads - Spiderwoman au

chapter 1: The Bite

synopsis: You and Abby Anderson have been inseparable since childhood, two nerdy best friends who’ve always had each others backs. But after a strange spider bite, you began to change—stronger, faster, sharper— and you hide it to protect her. As feelings begin to bloom between you, Abby starts noticing something’s off: bruises, new muscles, and reflexes too quick to ignore. The closer you get, the harder it is to keep your secret.

Parings: Abby Anderson x fem!reader/ nerdy Abby Anderson x spiderwoman!reader

Warnings: slow-burn, childhood best friends falling in love, very small angst towards the end.

You’ve known Abigail (Abby) Anderson longer than you’ve known anything else. Before you knew how to spell your name, before you knew how to ride a bike or speak properly—Abby was already there.

You were neighbors. Your parents were best friends, and by default, so were you two. There are photos of you as literal babies, chubby-cheeked and giggling in matching onesies, clutching each others tiny figures. Your earliest memory is sitting in Abby’s backyard under a big tree, splitting a popsicle while she told you about the dog book she just got. She had just turned four. You were three. And you were in awe.

That feeling never really went away.

Abby has always been… well, Abby. Tall, freckled, goofy in the sweetest way. She wore high-top sneakers with lab goggles in middle school because she thought it made her look “scientifically intimidating.” It didn’t. You wore cat-ear headbands and carried around a binder labeled “Conspiracy Theories & Other Facts.” Together, you were unstoppable.

And painfully nerdy.

You both leaned into it. Friday nights meant staying in and watching either scientific documentaries or crime, debating about wether cats or dogs make better pets, and making DIY bracelets from beads. Abby had her comic book obsessions (mostly X-Men and Doom Patrol), and you had yours (you were a Spider-Man girl through and through). You had one binder just for Peter Parker theories. Abby read through all of it without mocking you once.

But everything changed the day you got bit.

You were seventeen and on a school field trip to Oscorp. It was supposed to be boring. Corporate lobby. Tour guide in a cheap suit. Abby was next to you the whole time, nudging your arm whenever something looked remotely cool. But when the guide got distracted by Coach Davis asking about security clearances, you and Abby snuck away. You were supposed to just peek inside the genetics wing—just to say you did it.

That’s when it happened.

One second, you were gawking at a containment chamber filled with strange glowing vials. The next, a sharp sting lanced through your hand. You yelped and slapped your palm. The spider was gone. You blinked at your hand. Nothing. Abby turned, concerned.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just… static shock, I think.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

You wish she had.

Because that night, the fever started.

You barely remembered getting home. Everything pulsed. Your skin felt electric, your vision blurred, and when you gripped the sink, it cracked under your fingers. By morning, everything was different.

You weren’t just stronger. You were… more.

Faster. Your senses sharper. Your body humming like a live wire.

You could feel everything—the wind through your open window, the heartbeat of a bird sitting on the sill, the tiny vibrations in your fingertips when your mom walked past your door.

And when you stuck your hand to the ceiling by accident and couldn’t get it off?

Yeah. That was a whole new level of panic.

Over the next few weeks, you tested what you could—carefully. Secretly. You climbed walls, stuck to ceilings, realized you could swing from a rope tied to a tree in your backyard without even straining. You built a web-shooter out of parts from your robotics club stash. Your aim got better. Your reflexes? Insane.

You were becoming Spider-Woman. Not that you had a name for it yet.

But you didn’t tell anyone. Especially not Abby.

Because Abby? She was everything. And you couldn’t risk her safety. Not when the world suddenly became a lot more dangerous.

Still, secrets don’t stay small forever. Especially not when your best friend knows you like the back of her hand.

“Hey,” Abby said one afternoon, frowning at your arm as you sat on her bedroom floor, surrounded by open textbooks and empty soda cans. “What happened to your elbow?”

You glanced down. Bruise. Big one. You’d taken a hit stopping a mugging the night before. “Oh. Um. Bike accident?”

She blinked. “Since when do you ride a bike?”

“Since… recently.”

She gave you a look.

It happened again the following week. Then again. And again.

She caught you jumping unnaturally high to grab a book from her top shelf. “Jesus,” she muttered. “Have you been working out or something?”

You laughed nervously. “Why? Do I look… different?”

Her eyes scanned you. It made your ears burn.

“Yeah, actually,” she said slowly, tipping her head. “You’ve got, like… biceps now. And your legs are kind of jacked. You dodged that football Jesse threw like you were in The Matrix.”

“Fast reflexes?”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

She sat beside you on the couch and poked your arm. “Seriously, what’s up? You doing CrossFit behind my back?”

You shrugged, biting the inside of your cheek. “Just… felt like being stronger.”

She smiled, soft and warm. “Well, you look good”

You couldn’t tell if your heart was racing because of her smile or because of how close her thigh was to yours.

Maybe both.

Later that night, lying in bed, you stared at the ceiling. Your phone buzzed beside you. It was Abby.

Abby [10:12 PM]: hey

Abby [10:12 PM]: you’re not avoiding me, right?

You swallowed.

You [10:13 PM]: never.

Abby [10:13 PM]: okay. just checking. miss u.

You buried your face in your pillow.

Because the truth was… keeping this from her hurt more than anything else.

You’d spent your whole life side by side with Abby Anderson. You knew her freckles like constellations, her eye rolls like punctuation. She was taller than you by a good few inches, always had been. Towered over you protectively like a giant dork, arms crossed, making sarcastic comments when people tried to bully you in the hall.

But now? You had secrets. Ones you couldn’t share.

And that distance—no matter how small—was starting to fray the threads between you.

But how could you tell her?

How could you look into those soft blue eyes, taller and warmer and familiar, and say: “Hey, I got bitten by a radioactive spider and now I climb buildings and stop robberies and punch bad guys with my webs. Also I’m hopelessly, pathetically in love with you.”

Yeah. No. Not yet.

So instead, you trained at night. Learned how to move through the city unseen. Built your suit by hand, piece by piece. And every time you stumbled or bruised or bled, you thought of Abby.

Thought about how she’d kill you if she knew.

And worse—how she might not forgive you if she found out.

But you weren’t ready.

Not yet.

Not until you could protect her from everything.

Even if it meant lying through your teeth.

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tehrevving · 3 months ago

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Meeting Dante's Doppelganger

Starting with a tiny bit of angst. I think the reason Dante doesn’t use a doppel (after 3) is because using it reminds him too much of Vergil, of being a twin, of how much he’s fucked up. So he keeps it buried away.

Until one day, when he’s fighting some demons and something goes wrong, one is about to attack you but he won’t be able to get to you in time. He throws out his doppel without even thinking about it. You’re saved by this hulking, rushing blur, that utterly obliterates whatever it was that was trying to get to you. It keeps its distance from you, but stands by you, protecting you from anything else until Dante has finished dealing with everything else.

You can’t stop thinking about it, so you ask Dante about it later. He’s immediately dismissive, but eventually you manage to coax him into bringing it out again.

His doppel materialises with a shimmer of light. Its movements are slow and careful as it stalks towards you. It steps right up close, towering over you, the strange static of its breath against your face. It states at you, tilts its head at you and grins with a mouth far too full of teeth. You’re terrified, frozen with fear but also something else. You know that it won’t hurt you, but it’s a predator.

Its tongue lolls from its mouth, long and spiked. It reaches out, resting a large, clawed hand against your cheek. There’s a prick of electricity where it touches you. It cups your cheek, rubbing a rough thumb against your cheek. It chirps, well sort of a chirp, more a deep, growled rumble, but non threatening anyway. Then it slowly leans down, it licks up the other side of your face to where it’s holding. Then moves its face lower, it scents you, deeply inhaling against your skin. The prick of its teeth all consuming against your shoulder. You’re overcome with fear and arousal, utterly terrified and turned on.

It suddenly disappears with a shimmer of sparks. You blink, turning to Dante to find that his eyes are red pinpricks. He stalks towards you, gait awkward from the bulge at his crotch. He’s almost the same monster in his own right as he pushes you against the wall and takes his fill of you. It turns out that he can’t keep his doppel out when he’s that fucking horny, so it seems that you’re both going to have to practice.

#dante #dante sparda #devil may cry #dmc #dante x reader #dante x you

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eringobragh420 · 7 months ago

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¡! ❞ can you hold me? (3/5)

➺ pairing — damian priest ♥︎ f!reader ➺ summary — damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. ➺ links — one. two. three. four. five. ➺ words — 3.7k ➺ warnings — dirty thoughts 18+ ➺ taglist — if you’d like to be added, please click here!

➺ MASTERLIST ➺ DAMIAN PRIEST MASTERLIST

DAY TWO

“Can I please carry something?” you asked, watching Damian stack the duffel bags on the suitcases with rollers as he pulled them from the trunk. He smiled at you and shook his head. You weren’t sure you actually wanted to be responsible for anything other than getting yourself safely through the airport and aboard the plane, but you felt guilty—Damian had done everything for you up until now and would probably continue to do so for the foreseeable future.

“Hell, baby, if I could carry you—” He trailed off, glancing down at his shoulder before sliding his dark, mischievous eyes back to you.

“Don’t even think about it,” you scoffed.

Once Damian was confident he’d won the game of Luggage Jenga, the two of you entered the busy airport, and anxiety blasted through your veins, flash freezing everything in its wake. So many people hurrying about their lives, memories intact, trying to catch their respective rides home surrounded you, and you felt even smaller than you already were. Because you felt fear, your body reacted as if no head injury had ever occurred—you instantly reached out for Damian, gripping a flexed bicep as he tugged the suitcases behind him. He stopped, looking down at you, then your hand, and finally back at the luggage.

“Are you sure you can handle one of these?” he asked. You nodded quickly, and, whether he believed you or not, he reluctantly transferred the handle of your suitcase to your possession. He made certain you had a good grip, though he took your duffel bag from its place on your suitcase, packed it on top of his, and he looked at you. “You wanna do this how we normally do?” You nodded again, fingers squeezing the handle of the suitcase white-knuckle tight.

Damian placed a long, protective arm around your shoulders carefully, and you melted into his side, fitting perfectly, and your own arm snuck around his waist. He smelled so good, his body was warm and solid and big, and you understood why the two of you had such a physical relationship. His touch was electric, like a static discharge, but comforting, and you rested your head against his chest. The need for distance had long since been replaced by the need to be held and consoled and … loved, despite not reciprocating that love. The guilt only poured on. You hated what you had to be doing to Damian, but you selfishly needed him as close as possible if you were going to make it out of this airport alive. The big man sighed, pressing his face into the top of your head before kissing your hair.

“We don’t have to fly today,” he mumbled into your scalp. “We can wait if you’re not ready.”

You shook your head. “I wanna go home,” you determined.

Damian pulled away to look at you, smiling, nodding, and he kissed your forehead. “Me too,” he confessed.

The two of you meandered through the airport at your own pace, Damian having gotten you there with several hours to spare just in case. He held you closely to him, fighting the urge to cop a feel of your breast that was mere inches from his hand hanging over your shoulder, something he did almost on a daily basis, especially when you were in public because he loved to watch your squirm. Things were going swimmingly until Damian spotted the fans approaching, and he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, though it did nothing to soothe his raised hackles. Neither of you had ever minded interacting with fans—taking pictures, signing autographs, joining in bad-mouthing whoever you were feuding with—but now just wasn’t the time. And he’d ignorantly thought people would respect your need for distance and privacy considering your very public injury and your still—as of now—rumored diagnosis of amnesia.

“Just let me handle it,” Damian said to you once the small group of people noticed him and his giant frame, then you, and they immediately made a beeline toward you. “Don’t say anything.” His arm tightened around your shoulders, yours did the same around his waist, hand fisting the bottom of his t-shirt. “Listen, guys,” he said once the group was close enough to hear him, “I’ll sign some things for you, but just leave her alone, alright? She’s been through a lot.”

You watched as he scribbled his name on random items, and you thought maybe you should feel excited or flattered that the two of you were receiving this attention, but all you felt was tense and tired and nervous. You glanced in the direction of your gate, wondering how far you had left to walk, when Damian’s body suddenly became stock still. You looked at him, blazing fury in his eyes, and then your gaze fell to see what had upset him so—a glossy photo of you that had to have been snapped a mere millisecond after you’d begun to fall and before your head hit the floor had been presented to Damian for an autograph.

“Damian,” you said softly, your eyes still locked on the picture, but the unadulterated rage pulsing off the big man had you much more concerned. Your grip around his waist tightened.

“You think that’s funny?” Damian asked the man holding the picture, who shrugged and nodded.

“I mean, it’ll probably be worth something if she never wrestles again,” the guy explained.

You gaped, tears pricking your eyes, but you didn’t quite know why. It was like your brain knew exactly what was going on, but it was playing keep-away with this vital information.

Damian dropped the Sharpie he’d been using to sign the autographs with before using that hand to shove the shorter man, who stumbled backward and eventually fell on his ass. The photo of you he’d been holding slid across the floor, and the other fans who had gathered erupted into gasps and murmurs. Damian’s arm was still around your shoulders, and you tugged at that hand and his waist, softly reminding him that you were there and close and the two of you had a plane to catch.

“Dude, you are so getting fired!” the guy on the floor hollered as he scrambled to his feet.

Damian lifted his arm from your shoulders to raise his middle finger as the two of you gathered your things and started toward your gate again. “Sit and spin, dickhead,” he tossed behind him. And then his mood changed, you could feel it in the ether between you. His focus shifted from the confrontation back to you, his arm securing itself around your shoulders, hugging you to his side, and while you weren’t quite comforted, you didn’t feel as destroyed as you had moments before.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, shaking his head. “That guy just—”

“Don’t apologize,” you interrupted, looking up at him. Damian’s expression was stony until you shrugged and said, “The dickhead had it coming.” He blinked at you a moment and then snorted, collapsing into giggles, and you had to join him, though your laugh was a lot less enthused considering your current situation and whether or not Damian was going to be fired over what he’d just done for you.

Damian led you the remainder of the way through the airport and to the correct gate, onto the plane, and he positioned you in front of him, his giant, clearly capable hands tenderly massaging your shoulders as he directed you to the correct row of seats. He gestured to the window seat, and you turned to him.

“You’re much bigger than I am,” you pointed out the obvious, “I should be the one to sit in the middle.”

Damian shook his head. “I bought the aisle seat, too, in case you didn’t wanna sit next to me,” he sheepishly explained, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking at every passenger but you. You could have made the argument that he’d been the one afraid to sit next to you when he’d booked the flight, but you did your best to ignore those intrusive thoughts.

You took the window seat that was offered, Damian packing your duffel bags into the storage bins above your heads before collapsing with a sigh into the middle seat. As much as you were prescribed sleep to heal, you felt like Damian needed it more than you. You knew he woke up in the middle of the night to check on you because, while it was mostly easy for you to fall asleep, it wasn’t as easy to stay that way. You wondered how long you’d both laid there silently—you pretending to sleep, Damian making sure you were still breathing and tucked in—trying not to burden the other. A small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth—you were learning more and more about the man you were supposedly marrying in a few months, about the relationship you had, and all the fear and anxiety and worry and apprehension were finally beginning to melt away. Damian had been chipping away at all of it since the moment you woke up on the floor with not a clue in the world who the hell you were and he hadn’t stopped.

You turned to thank him for everything and for probably the millionth time, but your mouth ran dry and clamped closed, your heart pounding out of your chest like a damn cartoon. It was only a few inches, dwarfed in his hand—a stuffed dolphin with tiny black eyes that had seen better days. But your own eyes grew and continued to grow as you stared at it, slowly reaching out to touch it with the tips of your fingers. You recognized it. You recognized it! It was yours, you knew it for a damn fact, though you couldn’t remember when or where you’d gotten it, but none of that mattered because you recognized it. And not only that, you felt connected to it, you understood the importance of it in your life, and you knew, somehow, both you and Damian were tethered to this tiny stuffed dolphin.

“This is—” Damian began.

“Archie,” you finished in unison. Your eyes locked, and you heard his question without him having to ask it, so you simply shook your head in response—yes, you remembered Archie, no, you didn’t remember anything else.

The weight of that thought—the one where you remembered a fucking stuffed dolphin and not your fiancé—promised to crush you. Your lip quivered, and you caught a quick glimpse of Damian’s pained expression before he pulled you to his chest.

“It’s alright,” he said, words muffled by the top of your head. “Come here. Put your legs like this.” You bent your knees, bringing your calves against your thighs, and he brought your arms around your legs. You then watched as he wrapped his own long arms around you, and you were enveloped in his warmth and love, your eyes closing, body relaxing, tears falling. “Sometimes this makes you feel better,” Damian said. You could understand why. “I think we have a few minutes before we take off … want me to tell you about Archie?”

You nodded against his chest and listened closely to his hushed yet serene voice as he told you a beautiful story. He was taking you out of the country for vacation, he explained, and you’d been confident you’d be able to get on the plane and fly over water for the first time because what was really the difference between water and land when you’re traveling at roughly five hundred miles an hour at 30,000 feet? But while you were waiting to board, he could feel the fear radiating off you, so he’d volunteered to get you a cup of coffee. Upon returning, he’d given you the coffee and the tiny dolphin, which he’d glimpsed while passing one of many gift shops in the airport. You’d hugged the small stuffed animal to your chest, Damian remembered, smiling sweetly and thanking him. It was on that vacation, he said, that you’d confessed your love for one another, and later that evening, he’d taken you out to celebrate, complete with dinner on the beach, drinks, and a pod of dolphins frolicking in the distance.

“I think you said dolphins are our spirit animal, or something like that,” Damian chuckled, though he knew it was exactly what you’d said because he remembered every fucking detail of that vacation. He blinked and saw you say, I love you, Damian Priest. He swallowed, blinked again, and saw you gushing about the dolphins before turning and throwing your arms around his neck, saying, I’ll never forget this for the rest of my life. He shook his head, cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he sighed, “you don’t travel without Archie.”

You sniffled, so engrossed in the story that you only now realized how truly decompressed you’d become, how safe you felt in Damian’s arms. He placed the dolphin against the back of your hand, which was gripping your own upper arm, and as soon as you felt its softness, your hand opened and closed around it. “Does Archie mean anything?” you quietly asked.

“Yeah,” Damian breathed a laugh. “You wanted to name him after me.” Your brows furrowed and you slowly lifted your head, Damian backing away so you could do so. At your confused expression, his handsome, friendly face morphed into a smug smirk and wicked eyes, and he said, “I’m the Archer of Infamy, baby.”

Upon landing in Florida, Damian gathered your things from the overhead storage bins and again let you walk in front of him as you deplaned. He continued to carry the bags, and you slipped your hand around one of his flexed forearms, the pad of your index finger tracing one of his protruding veins, because apparently that’s what you did now—reach out for him. Maybe it’s something you always did, and Damian didn’t seem to have a problem with it, but the action still made your stomach tight. Just like all the hugs and forehead kisses. You liked them, you were even starting to crave them, but these gestures were still coming from a stranger. Your body wanted all the time to be pressed against Damian’s, but your concussed brain wanted to keep at a you at a distance.

At the baggage claim, Damian pulled his phone out, and you watched him read the caller ID before sighing and shaking his head. He raised the phone to his ear. “Yeah, boss?” He tried to sound upbeat and unbothered, but failed miserably. He cleared his throat and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, and he glanced at you, attempting a smile that also failed. “Yeah, no problem … Absolutely … Thanks, boss.” He hung up, tucked the phone into the back pocket of his jeans, and smiled at you once more. You waited for him to explain, and when he didn’t, you asked what the call had been about. Damian sighed. “A video of me pushing that guy is already all over the internet. So …”

“Are you fired?” you instantly jumped to the worst case scenario because, at this point, why wouldn’t you?

“No, I’m not fired,” Damian replied, reaching down to grab your suitcase off the carousel, followed by his own a few seconds later. You squeezed Archie, the softness helping to ease the tension. “I just have a meeting after the holidays. So it can’t be that bad, right?” He grinned, and he was so fucking beautiful and genuine, and how could you not believe him? How could your knees not weaken and your resolve not crumble? How could you not follow him blindly to the sleek red vehicle awaiting you in the long-term parking garage, climb inside after he opened the door for you, and allow him to drive you to a home he claimed you and he had purchased together?

It was a gorgeous home—one you didn’t remember and felt no connection to, but gorgeous just the same—and when you stepped inside? It was as if Christmas had literally thrown up all over the cozy house. Wreaths, hanging holiday pictures, several Christmas trees of varying sizes and designs, miniature Santa Clauses, poinsettias, and, of course, a tree at least nine feet tall in the corner of the living room, dressed exquisitely, surrounded by gifts wrapped in shimmering paper and bows.

“Yeah,” Damian said, joining you in taking in the scene before you, “my girl really likes Christmas.”

And apparently you still did, because while the decorations may have been this side of tacky, you absolutely loved it all. Everything sparkled or twinkled, or made you feel nostalgic, and you had no memory whatsoever of this place or its contents, but you knew it was home. You were home.

Damian left you alone to shower, and to occupy your mind from thinking about Damian in the shower, you examined nearly every individual decoration before you made your way over to a table full of nothing but framed photos. You, sitting behind Damian on a jet ski with your arms wrapped around him, smiles on your faces and tongues out. Damian, carrying you on his back up what looked like a hiking trail, again both with grinning faces. The two of you in the ring together, on opposite sides, looking at each other, sharing roguish smirks. A few professional photos complete with color-coordinated clothing and fall foliage. A very happy couple, plainly in love, but still, nothing jogged your disconnected memory, so you were about to find another room to investigate when you heard Damian clear his throat behind you. You jumped, spinning around, and he put his hands up.

“Sorry,” he chuckled. He wore a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of dark-colored joggers. His long hair was wet, curly, and dripping onto his shoulders, and your gulp seemed to echo off every flat surface in the room.

You wondered what the normal you would do in this situation, because the broken you didn’t bother fighting the image of hopping into his arms and simply bouncing on his cock mid-air, in the middle of the living room, or the image of you sinking obediently and wantonly to your knees before him, worshipping him, forcing him to have to take another shower. Your hormones were suddenly out of control. You felt your face heating up, the burn scalding all the way down your neck. Was it possible your body was having withdrawals from all the sex the two of you had? Or could this be the way the man always made you feel? Did you have the same effect on him? Was he experiencing the same desire, just better at hiding it?

“Shower’s free,” he rumbled, chocolate eyes glittering, tossing a thumb over a broad shoulder. “I didn’t know if you—”

“Yep,” you interrupted, head down, making a beeline for the general direction Damian had headed on his way to the shower.

“Uh, do you wanna know where everything is?” Damian called after you.

“I’m sure I’ll find it!”

You located everything you needed, moving faster than, well, than you remembered ever moving in your life, or what you could remember of your life—panties and a tank top and shorts that were super soft and incredibly thin (was this a subconscious choice you thought would give Damian a taste of his own medicine?) Disappearing inside the apartment-sized bathroom, you turned the shower on, the temperature as hot as you could stand, and you stood below the waterfall, eyes closed, and you were able to zone out completely—no Damian, no injury, no amnesia—allowing the water to wash away the past couple of days. You visualized everything negative and stressful and overwhelming and scary swirling down the drain at your feet, hopefully gone or healed forever, or at least temporarily.

You washed, scrubbed, and even shaved before reluctantly exiting the comforting warmth of the shower. While drying and standing in front of the gilded mirror—one or the both of you had expensive taste, that was for sure—you did a double take upon spotting a smudge near your shoulder. Leaning closer to the mirror for a better look, you realized there was a small tattoo along your collarbone. You narrowed your eyes, trying to read the words through the reflection until you noticed you had no chance of figuring them out—the script was in Spanish, and you could only guess that it had something to do with Damian.

“Yeah,” he answered fondly. He reached up to touch the ink, hesitated, and when he was sure you wouldn’t run away, his thumb caressed your skin. “It says el campeón. It was my nickname when I was the champion.” You shivered and your skin tingled where he was touching you. His hair was now up in a bun, the shoulders of his shirt drying.

“So where’s my tattoo?” you asked, expecting a laugh.

Instead, Damian straightened a colorful, sinewy arm, turned it over, and pointed at his wrist. “La ladrona,” he growled. Your thighs clenched. “The thief.”

You looked at the script that matched your own tattoo. “… because I stole your heart?”

He guffawed. “Because you stole—”

“Oh, my god,” you whined at the tooth decaying sweetness that evidently was your relationship with this devilishly sexy man.

The plane had arrived late, and neither you nor Damian felt much more than exhaustion—aside from your raging hormones—so you decided to head to bed early. Still on the path to normality, you again wanted to sleep however you normally slept together, and your fiancé was only too eager to accommodate. You figured out why when he explained that the easiest way for you to fall asleep was for you to cuddle into his side, head on his chest, arm around his waist, while his hand gave you what he referred to as booty rubs. He was perfectly fine simply holding you if that’s what you wanted, but who were you to turn down booty rubs from Damian Priest when that might be the very action that triggered your memories?

You could see how the booty rubs might be considered sexual, but right now, you felt sedated. Soft touches from his deft fingers over both your cheeks through the thin shorts were enough to put you to sleep within minutes, snoring gently against Damian’s chest. He kissed the top of your head, eyes closed and smiling. The TV playing a Christmas movie in the background was turned off, and he worried he woke you when you shifted, but you only lifted a leg over his, somehow pressing yourself closer. For a moment, a brief, fleeting moment, everything was normal.

#wwe #damian priest #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #wwe x reader #damian priest x reader #damian priest fanfic #damian priest fluff #wwe fandom #wwe fic #damian priest imagine #damian priest smut #wwe smut

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jkwrites-m · 9 days ago

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Parking Ticket

Part 7 - Mall Rats

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: smut

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: In the quiet of the parking garage, passion peaks - Jungkook and Y/N tangled in love, leaving the world outside forgotten.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, kissing, cursing, praise, oral (f. & m. receiving), public sex, car sex, unprotected sex,

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

prev ♡

═══════

As we stepped out of the mall and into the dimly lit parking garage, the cool evening air brushed against my skin. A sharp, refreshing contrast to the heated passion Jungkook and I had just shared on the roof.

My legs still felt slightly unsteady, the memory of his touch and the way he looked at me lingering like static under my skin.

The garage was nearly deserted, a hollow echo chamber of silence and shadows, interrupted only by the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Their pale flicker cast a sterile glow across the cracked concrete floor, stretching our silhouettes long and ghostlike as we walked.

Jungkook’s hand was still wrapped around mine, his grip firm, grounding, protective. His thumb occasionally brushed against mine, a subtle reminder that the moment hadn’t ended- it had just shifted. I leaned a little into him as we walked, a small smile playing on my lips, but he suddenly slowed, his body tensing beside me.

I followed his gaze.

A bright orange parking ticket clung to the windshield of his car, fluttering slightly in the breeze like it was mocking him. The bold, block letters stood out even in the dim light, a rude interruption to our otherwise perfect night.

“Fuck,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, his voice dark and edged with frustration.

He released my hand and strode forward, yanking the ticket off the glass with a swift motion. The sound of crumpling paper cut through the silence. His knuckles whitened as he clenched it in his fist, veins prominent under the smooth skin of his forearm. “This is bullshit. I was only over by thirty minutes.”

I could hear it in his voice- the irritation not just at the fine, but the way something so small had the nerve to pull him out of the magic we’d been wrapped in all night. His shoulders were rigid, brows drawn tight as he stared down at the crushed paper like it had personally insulted him.

I stepped in beside him again, reached for his hand, and laced our fingers together gently.

“It’s okay, babe,” I murmured, my voice low and soothing. “It’s not that much. We’ll take care of it later.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just exhaled hard through his nose, his jaw still locked tight. I turned toward him, tilting my head until our eyes met. The tension in his body was palpable but so was the heat that never really left us, simmering under the surface.

I let a slow smile form on my lips, my tone shifting to something softer… a little mischievous. “Besides,” I said, eyes not leaving his, “I can think of a way to make you feel better.”

That got his attention.

His brows pulled together slightly in curiosity, but I saw it. The twitch of amusement, of intrigue, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, his voice quieter now, curiosity laced with heat. “And how’s that?”

I took a step closer, my chest brushing his as I leaned up to whisper against his ear, “Get in the car. I’ll show you.”

A beat passed between us. One charged second where the tension turned electric again. The kind that made your skin buzz and your heart skip a beat.

Then his grin returned, wide and boyish and hungry all at once.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The car door slammed behind him with a satisfying thud as he slipped into the driver’s seat, and I circled around, sliding into the passenger side. My heart thumped hard in my chest, adrenaline rushing through me, a mix of nerves and desire winding tighter with every breath.

The inside of the car was dark, the only light spilling in from the distant parking garage lamps through the windshield. It cast faint shadows across Jungkook’s face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

He looked over at me, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, but I could feel the tension humming through him, mirroring my own.

I reached over, letting my hand settle on his, slowly sliding up his arm, my gaze locked to his. He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Whatever frustration he’d felt moments ago had already begun to fade, drowned out by anticipation, by heat, by the silent question hanging thick in the air between us.

And I was more than ready to answer it.

Before he could even start the engine, I leaned over the center console, my hands resting on his thighs. His eyes darkened as I unbuckled his belt, my fingers trembling slightly as I pulled down his zipper.

I pushed his pants down just enough to free his cock, already hardening at my touch. His skin was warm and smooth, his length thick and heavy in my hand. I looked up at him, my eyes locking with his, before I took him into my mouth.

Jungkook’s head fell back against the seat, a deep groan escaping his lips. “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

I hummed softly around him, my tongue tracing the veins along his shaft. His hands tangled in my hair, guiding me as I moved my mouth up and down, savoring the taste of him.

The car felt like a cocoon, the outside world fading away as I focused on the pleasure I could give him. His breath quickened, his body tensing as he fought for control.

“Stop,” he said abruptly, his voice rough. “Get in the backseat. Now.”

My heart skipped a beat at the command, but I didn’t hesitate. I climbed over the console, my skirt riding up as I squeezed into the backseat. Jungkook followed, his presence dominating the small space.

He pushed me back against the leather, his lips crashing down on mine in a hungry kiss. His hands roamed over my body, pulling my shirt up and unclasping my bra with practiced ease.

“Spread your legs for me,” he growled, his breath hot against my neck.

I did as he asked, my thighs parting as he settled between them. His fingers traced the lace of my panties before hooking them and pulling them down my legs. I kicked them off, my skin tingling with anticipation. He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh, his stubble scratching gently against my skin, before his mouth found its target.

“Oh fuck,” I moaned, my hands gripping the seat as he teased me with his tongue.

The position was awkward, the backseat cramped, but the discomfort only heightened the pleasure. His mouth was relentless, his tongue flicking and sucking, driving me closer to the edge. I could feel the tension building, my body arching off the seat as I chased my release.

“Jungkook,” I gasped, my voice trembling. “I’m close.”

He hummed against my skin, the vibration sending shivers through me.

“Not yet,” he murmured, pulling away. “I need to be inside you.”

Before I could protest, he was hovering over me, his cock pressing against my entrance. He entered me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, his expression tender despite the roughness of the moment.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“I love you too,” I breathed, my hands reaching up to cradle his face.

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one filling me completely. The backseat creaked beneath us, the car rocking gently with our movements. His lips brushed against mine, his kisses soft and loving, a stark contrast to the urgency of his hips.

“Faster,” I pleaded, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He obliged, his rhythm quickening as he pinned my wrists above my head. His body was a symphony of muscle and sweat, his tattoos glistening in the dim light.

“You feel so good, baby,” he groaned, his voice raw with need. “So fucking tight.”

I was lost in the sensation, my body spiraling toward the edge. “Jungkook,” I cried out, my voice echoing in the confined space. “I’m- ”

My words were cut off by a sharp cry as my orgasm ripped through me, my body convulsing around him. He followed moments later, my name on his lips as he buried himself deep, his release sending waves of pleasure through both of us.

For a moment, we lay there, breathless and entwined, the only sound the quiet rise and fall of our ragged breathing. The windows were fogged, the night outside a blur of soft streetlights and distant city hum.

Jungkook kissed me gently, his lips brushing mine with a tenderness that felt worlds away from the intensity we’d just shared. He lingered in the kiss like he didn’t want to let go, like he was still savoring every second.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered, his voice low, warm, and laced with affection.

I smiled, my heart full and heavy in the best possible way as I rested my head on his chest. I could hear his heartbeat beneath me- steady, strong, grounding.

“Yeah,” I murmured, eyes closing for just a second, soaking in the stillness. “Let’s go home.”

Slowly, we climbed back into the front seats, Jungkook’s hand brushing mine again as we settled in. The crumpled parking ticket still lay on the floorboard, forgotten and insignificant now. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

The mall, the car, the world outside- it all faded into the background.

What mattered was him. Us. The way his eyes softened when he looked at me. The way my name sounded different when he whispered it. The way he made me feel like every moment was something to be cherished, not just passed through.

As Jungkook started the engine, the dashboard lights flickering to life, I glanced over at him. His hand reached instinctively for mine across the center console, and I took it without hesitation.

In the quiet hum of the night, I knew, this was just another chapter in our story. One filled with love, desire, and the thrill of the unknown. And I couldn’t wait to keep writing it with him.

═══════

prev ♡

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/24/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess

#jkwrites m #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook ff #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts ff #bts ffs #mall rats m

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castielscaplan · 9 months ago

Text

Owe My Life (Jasper Hale)

Summary: Jasper and Reader comfort each other after she was attacked.

WC: 880ish

Warnings: mentions of an attack, some blood,flangst

Read on Ao3!

The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pine, a damp mist clinging to the mossy forest floor. The overcast sky barely let any light through, casting the woods in an eerie twilight, but you had long grown accustomed to the gloom of Forks. You leaned against the rough bark of a tree, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding in your chest from the events that had just unfolded.

Jasper stood a few feet away, still as a statue, his amber eyes sharp and watchful as they followed your every move. His face was calm, but you could sense the barely-contained tension radiating from him like static electricity in the air. He always had a way of keeping everything under control—even himself, when necessary—but you could see the strain in him now.

You touched the side of your neck, feeling the faint sting from where the rogue vampire’s teeth had grazed your skin. It could have been so much worse. If Jasper hadn’t been there...

“I owe my life to you,” you said softly, the words heavy with the weight of everything that had just happened. You weren’t sure how else to express it, the gratitude and the fear mixing into something that felt almost surreal.

Jasper turned to you fully, his brow furrowing slightly. “You don’t owe me anything,” he replied, his Southern accent slipping through the words, smooth but serious. “I did what I had to do.”

You shook your head, pushing off from the tree and stepping closer to him. “No, Jasper, you saved me. I—” The words caught in your throat, the gravity of the near-death experience settling over you like a shroud. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did…”

He was in front of you in an instant, his cool hands gently holding your arms, steadying you in a way only he could. His touch was always so careful, so deliberate, as if he was constantly mindful of his strength, of the fragility of your human body.

“I’m always going to protect you,” Jasper murmured, his golden eyes locking with yours. “You don’t ever need to thank me for that.”

His gaze was intense, filled with a depth of emotion that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface with him. He wasn’t like the others—not as polished, not as perfectly controlled. There was something raw about Jasper, something that made him feel more real, more tangible despite the fact that he was immortal.

“I just—” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I know what you struggle with. I know how hard it must have been for you... after what happened.” You glanced down, remembering the brief but deadly scuffle, the scent of your blood in the air. Jasper had stayed in control, but you had seen the flash in his eyes, the momentary flare of hunger quickly replaced by the cold, calculated soldier he had become in a fight.

Jasper’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t let go of you. “It’s nothing compared to losing you.”

His words hit you like a punch to the chest, their quiet intensity making your breath catch. Jasper had always been protective of you, but this felt like more. Like a truth, he’d been holding back for far too long.

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. “Jasper, I don’t want you to keep thinking that you’re a danger to me. You’re not.”

His eyes softened, but there was still a sadness there, something deep and old and worn from centuries of guilt and self-loathing. “I’m always going to be a danger to you,” he said quietly. “That’s just the truth of what I am.”

You reached up, gently placing your hand on his cheek, feeling the cool smoothness of his skin beneath your fingertips. “Then let me decide if it’s worth the risk,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “Because for me, you’re worth it. Every time.”

Jasper closed his eyes briefly, as if the weight of your words was too much to bear. When he opened them again, there was something like relief there, a softening of the sharp edges he usually kept around himself.

“You’re stronger than you know,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “Stronger than me.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He didn’t smile, but there was a gentleness in his expression that made your heart ache. “I mean it.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the quiet of the forest, the world outside feeling far away. The danger had passed, but the bond between you had only grown stronger in its wake.

“I don’t need you to owe me anything,” Jasper said after a long pause, his voice softer now, the tension finally easing from his frame. “Just stay with me. That’s all I ask.”

You nodded, your hand still resting on his cheek, feeling the coolness of his skin against the warmth of yours. “Always.”

And in that moment, despite everything—the danger, the uncertainty, the darkness that always seemed to linger around you—you knew that you meant it. Because with Jasper, you were never alone. And no matter what came next, you’d face it together.

tags!

EVERYTHING PERM: @nekoannie-chan @kjs-s @notyourtypicalrose @mistressofallthingsgeeky

#jasper hale x reader #jasper hale x you #jasper halex y/n

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christopher-bangnaldoskzz · 4 months ago

Text

Paring : Chan x female reader

Genre: Drama

Word count : 700

Warnings: my contain moments of anger and yelling, hints of depression and a tone of self loathing.

“Damn right, I’m angry!” Chan exclaimed, his voice cutting sharply through the small, dimly lit room. The air felt thick with tension, almost palpable, as he forcefully swung the door shut, the echo of the slam reverberating against the bare walls and amplifying his visible frustration. You could feel the atmosphere change, thickening with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. He advanced further into the cramped space, each heavy footstep on the worn wooden floor echoing his inner turmoil, while a storm brewed behind his clenched fists.

Spinning on your heel with a fiery conviction, you shot back, “It’s my choice, Chris!” Your voice, fueled by a blend of determination and defiance, surged through the air like a jolt of static electricity, creating an almost electric tension between you. You felt the weight of your words and the stubbornness behind them, eager to assert your independence despite the tumult surrounding you.

“I spent my whole life healing from trauma I should have been protected from,” he said, his tone shifting from anger to a profound plea, his eyes glistening with concern. “I’ll be damned if I'm going to let this happen to you.” His words hung in the air—a mixture of desperation and protective fervor, revealing the depth of his emotions and the scars from his past. It was a moment suspended in time, both of you caught in the collision of fear, love, and an unyielding desire to shield one another from the pains of life.

“You can't save me,” you whisper, your voice softening as you reach out and gently grasp his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.

“You're not doing this... that's final,” he replies, his tone unwavering and resolute. He stands tall, shoulders squared, as if his very presence can ward off your intention. “I've sacrificed my childhood to be here,” he continues, his voice low and intense, “and don’t even suggest that I could be someone different without all the struggles I’ve faced.” His words come out with a growl, a raw edge that hints at the pain buried deep within him.

As you watch him, you see the flicker of emotions in his eyes—shimmering with regret, as if he’s reliving moments he wishes he could erase. “I was just a kid,” his heart aching as you take in the depth of his turmoil.

“What happened to me was something that no amount of healing could ever truly change. I understand that… I really do. But it infuriates me to think that you’re so determined to follow me into this tumultuous life, y/n,” he said, his tone a mix of frustration and concern. His hand gently cupped your face, his fingers brushing against your skin as if he could somehow shield you from the darkness that surrounded him. “You have no idea how dangerous it can be, and yet here you are, wanting to share in it all.”

Leaning into his gentle touch, you felt the warmth radiating from his fingertips, sending shivers down your spine. “I would follow you anywhere,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with an intensity that reflected the depths of your feelings. “Even if it meant burning alongside you, feeling the searing heat of the flames. Even if it means enduring pain because of your choices… I would gladly lay down my own comfort and safety if it meant protecting you from harm.” The weight of your words hung in the air, a declaration of unwavering devotion and sacrifice, as you gazed into his eyes, hoping he could see the truth of your heart.

With a soft breath, you lean in closer, your lips just inches from his, feeling the warmth radiating between you. “We do this together,” you whisper, your voice barely above a murmur, charged with emotion. You hold his gaze, searching for the trust that you hope to see reflected back. “Let me do what those in your childhood could never accomplish,” you continue, your heart racing as you feel the weight of those unspoken memories in the air between you. “Let me protect you,” you add, your voice trembling slightly, revealing the depth of your sincerity. His hands find their place on your hips, steadying you, his touch both reassuring and grounding. In that moment, everything else fades away as you both stand on the precipice of something profound.

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @bakedlilgoonie @armystay89 @cakeracha

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moonlitrapture · 1 month ago

Text

Selling souls for dollars? 4/30?

Warnings : Smut,Gore , Murder , Black mail , Stalking , Manipulation & obsession, Mentions of substance use. Dark themes , Angst , Emotional abuse, Dub con.

A/n: 🥲 sorry for being absent for a lil, getting ready for prom next week .

————-

The club pulsed low with tension. The usual rhythm of clinks, laughter, and grinding bass was off-beat — like the building itself could sense that something was wrong.

You stood behind the bar with Annie, quietly rinsing out glasses neither of you planned to serve. Every now and then, you’d both glance toward the back — where Bo Chow, Stack, and Smoke had set up what was starting to feel less like a staff meeting and more like a war room.

Bo’s voice was hushed but sharp. “Somebody knew the drop schedule. Somebody fed that to Remmick.”

Stack slammed his hand down on the table. “We don’t got a mole,” he snapped. “We got a fuckin’ ghost.”

Smoke didn’t look up. He was quiet, jaw tight, fingers drumming on the table like he was trying to keep himself from punching through it.

“No,” he said finally. “Ain’t no ghost. This was surgical. Someone on the outside, yeah — but they were watching. Studying us. Every move. Every shift.”

Mary walked by slowly, eyes narrowing at the sound of Remmick’s name. You saw the way she paused behind the curtain, the way her hand protectively drifted to her stomach — quiet and defensive. Stack glanced at her, just for a second, then looked away fast.

Bo Chow exhaled sharply. “Doesn’t matter who it was right now. What matters is they’re still out there. And we’re bleeding.”

Delta Slim appeared in the hallway, wiping powdered sugar off his hands from a box of donuts no one remembered ordering.

He tripped over a damn floor mat, arms flailing like a cartoon, and fell flat on his back.

Everyone stared.

“I swear to God,” he wheezed, from the ground, “I’m too old for hoes, ghosts, and mystery raids. Just give me a boat and a diabetic stripper and let me retire in peace.”

There was a beat.

And despite everything — despite the fear, the doubt, the cracked trust — you and Annie couldn’t help but laugh. Even Bo cracked a grin.

But that warmth disappeared as fast as it came when Smoke stood up.

“This ain’t funny,” he muttered. “It’s a message.”

You looked at him, brows furrowed.

“What kind of message?”

Smoke met your eyes.

“Remmick’s not done.”

—————

The beat dropped heavy — all bass, no mercy.

You hit the stage like you owned it, eyes low, hips liquid. The crowd faded into background static. This wasn’t for them.

This was for control.

A slow, deliberate split — your thighs snapping open, gliding down like velvet soaked in gasoline. Every damn muscle sang.

The lights caught the glint of sweat along your spine. You didn’t have to look to know they were watching.

Smoke, off to the right near the bar, his jaw tense, lips wrapped around the rim of a glass he hadn’t touched in minutes.

Stack, leaned against the far wall, arms folded, but his stare was devouring.

And Annie? Annie danced up beside you, her laugh sugary and wicked. She bent low, mirrored your move, her hand brushing your thigh. It looked like part of the act — but it wasn’t just for the crowd.

It was for them.

Stack’s eyes narrowed.

Smoke’s grip on the glass tightened.

The music slowed for a beat. The two of you rose, Annie brushing against you, whispering in your ear loud enough for the twins to hear:

“Guess we both like playing with fire.”

You smirked. “Only way to keep warm in a place like this.”

Back near the bar, Stack muttered under his breath, voice sharp.

“What the fuck is she doing?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes never left you.

Annie leaned in again, this time slower, her lips ghosting your shoulder.

Behind you, cheers rose from the stage floor, the other girls hyping you both. But that didn’t matter. None of them mattered.

This moment was electric — the twins frozen, watching the woman they both burned for, watching her choose not to choose.

And when the track ended, and you walked off stage — glitter sticking to your legs, your mouth curved into a silent dare — you didn’t look back.

You didn’t have to.

They’d be right behind you.

———-

Back then, the only powder they touched was chalk from busted lockers and cheap vending machine donuts.

It was after school — one of those sticky afternoons where the air buzzed with heat and low-level trouble. The twins were posted up behind the gym, legs sprawled out on cracked concrete, a half-eaten bag of chips between them.

Stack tossed a pebble at Smoke’s shoe. “You ever think about what we’d be if we weren’t, y’know… us?”

Smoke smirked, mouth full. “You mean if Ma didn’t bounce and Pops wasn’t in county for boosting church tithes?”

“Yeah,” Stack chuckled. “Like, I dunno… a lawyer.”

Smoke snorted so hard he almost choked. “You? A fuckin’ lawyer?”

“Why not?”

“Bro, you’d object just to object. Judge would ban your ass out the courtroom in a week.”

Stack grinned wide. “Better than you. You’d be a doctor but only for the prescription pad.”

“I’d be one of those rich-ass Beverly Hills surgeons. Walk in with designer scrubs, cufflinks and a Rolex stethoscope.”

“You’d probably botch someone’s nose job and still charge ‘em double.”

They both laughed then, loud and easy — the kind of laugh that came from kids who still believed they had time to change. Who hadn’t yet learned that the world had claws.

Smoke leaned back against the graffiti-tagged wall, looking up at the sky like it held answers.

“You think we’ll get outta here?”

Stack didn’t answer for a moment.

“I think we’ll end up rich or dead.”

Smoke looked over. “What about happy?”

Stack laughed. “Don’t get greedy.”

That memory flickered through Smoke’s head like a scratchy film reel as he watched you and Annie disappear behind the curtain — the crowd’s applause chasing after you like smoke.

He was quiet now, a drink in his hand, a thousand miles behind his eyes.

And all he could think was

We didn’t end up lawyers or doctors.

Just wolves in silk.

And the hunt wasn’t over.

———

Stack leaned against the sound booth, nursing a glass of Henny that was more melted ice than liquor at this point. His eyes kept trailing toward the back hallway — where you and Annie had disappeared minutes ago. His shoulders were tense, lips set in that I-don’t-give-a-fuck smirk he only wore when he cared too much.

Then Holly a veteran stripper , she was known around the way , strutted up, hips swinging like temptation had a sound.

“Damn, you always look this good when you brooding, or is tonight special?”

He looked over, eyebrows cocked. “You stalking me, girl?”

She giggled, leaning on the bar beside him, her short platinum wig clinging to her sweaty skin. Glitter dusted the curve of her collarbone like cosmic fallout.

“Only when you’re too fine to ignore,” she purred, tracing the rim of her drink with a manicured nail. “You still mad about earlier?”

Stack blinked. “Mad?”

“That thing with Smoke,” she said casually, voice dipping. “And your girl on stage… lookin’ like a sin and a half.”

Stack looked away, jaw twitching. “Ain’t my girl.”

Holly leaned in. “Coulda fooled me. You were lookin’ at her like she owed you prayers.”

He chuckled dryly, then turned toward her, eyes glinting. “And what, you here to preach?”

She smirked. “Nah, baby. I’m the sermon.”

There was a pause. A heavy beat thumped. Her hand slipped up his arm, fingers light.

“I get off in twenty,” she whispered, lips close enough he could smell the strawberry gum she always chewed between songs. “You ever get tired of waiting on a girl who keeps choosing both of you? I’m not that complicated.”

Stack tilted his head, watching her — not quite cold, not quite warm.

“You always offer yourself to tired men?” he asked.

She grinned. “Only the dangerous ones.”

He let the tension rest for a beat… then tipped his glass back and finished it in one swallow.

“You’re bad for business, Holly.”

“And you love bad business,” she winked.

As she sauntered away, hips still spelling trouble, Stack leaned back and sighed.

She wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t you.

And that was the problem.

——-

Stack didn’t chase after Holly.

He never did.

He stayed frozen in place, one foot in lust and the other ankle-deep in regret, letting the throb of bass shake against his ribs like a warning.

Then his phone buzzed.

Not the usual line — the one hidden under his waistband, the dirty one.

A message.

“Burn mark on the second floor. Check the girl.”

His blood ran cold.

He pocketed the phone and started moving — cutting through the club’s back hallway like a shadow. Smoke saw him and followed without a word, instinct. They both knew this kind of message. Encrypted. Ugly. Too many years in the game for it to be anything good.

They reached the dancer’s dressing room.

And there — on one of the cracked vanity mirrors — was the mark.

A black lipstick smear shaped like a flame, smudged just enough to say: someone was here who wasn’t supposed to be.

Annie stood frozen by the door, wide-eyed, phone in hand. “She just left,” she whispered.

“Who?” Stack asked.

“Holly. She came back for her bag. But… she wasn’t alone.”

The silence between the twins felt like a vacuum.

Smoke stepped in. “You think she flipped?”

Stack looked at the mirror.

“Not flipped.”

He touched the smear with his thumb.

“Used.”

Then a crash echoed from the back loading dock — heavy, metal, real.

Stack pulled his piece.

Smoke was already moving.

They ran toward the sound — past neon, past shaking walls, past music that didn’t know the night had turned lethal.

Outside, they found one of their runners.

Blood smeared along his jaw. Limp. Trying to breathe.

He choked out the name:

“Delta Slim.”

The alley behind the club was slick with oil and shadows.

Smoke and Stack stepped into the open—guns drawn, senses dialed in. They followed the sound: coughing, grunting, something dragging behind the dumpster like wounded pride.

“Slim, you better not be dying in piss water, bro,” Smoke muttered, sweeping his aim across the alley.

A groan.

“Over here, you tight-ass bastards,” came a familiar raspy voice. “Goddamn… this concrete’s colder than my last divorce.”

There he was—Delta Slim, half-slumped against a trash bin, blood streaked across his scalp, holding a busted piece of wood like it meant something.

Stack knelt beside him. “What the fuck happened?”

Slim spat out something red that wasn’t gum.

“I was tryna be helpful,” he wheezed. “Saw Holly outside meetin’ with someone in a car. Real nice one. All blacked-out windows. Looked too clean for this street.”

“Did you see who it was?” Smoke snapped.

“Nah. Just a voice. Cold. Called her ‘Cherry Drop.’ Paid her somethin’. Then I stepped closer and—whack. Next thing I know, I’m gettin’ laid out like a retirement plan.”

Stack cursed under his breath.

Cherry Drop. That was Holly’s old street name. Nobody should’ve known it. Not unless they knew her before she danced.

Before she was theirs.

“Did they say anything else?” Smoke asked.

Slim wheezed. “Yeah. Said ‘tell the kings of concrete the prince is back.’ Then laughed like he owned death.”

Stack went still. “Fuck.”

Smoke’s eyes flicked up.

“Remmick.”

Slim gave a ragged little laugh. “Guess I’m important again, huh? Got jumped for information I didn’t even know.”

“Or maybe you knew more than you think,” Stack muttered.

Suddenly Slim sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Wait! He dropped this—”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled a small, bloodstained card. Black foil. No writing.

Until Stack tilted it in the light.

A single word glowed red across the front.

“Reclaim.”

Smoke’s mouth tightened.

Stack crushed the card in his hand.

Delta Slim, despite the blood on his lip and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone, let out a wheezy chuckle.

“Y’all got ghosts now. Told you this life’s too much for old bones. I should’ve stuck to bootlegging dvds .”

the twins couldn’t help but crack a grin, just for a moment.

Then reality settled in.

Remmick wasn’t playing anymore.

He was declaring war.

——-

Back inside the club, everything looked almost normal.

Almost.

Music still thumped from the speakers. The crowd hadn’t thinned yet, high off bodies and booze. Girls still danced, some oblivious, others watching the back door with growing unease. But behind the curtain — the mood was shifting.

You stood near the hallway with Annie, both of you mid-laugh from a joke about one of your high roller clients when Stack burst in, blood on his shirt and his jaw locked so tight it looked painful.

“Get Bo. Now.”

Smoke came in behind him, gripping a phone to his ear, already barking into it. “We need a ride. Nearest trauma center, fast. Yeah. Bleeding, head trauma. He’s still conscious but fading.”

Your laughter died instantly.

“Wait, who’s hurt?” you asked.

Stack didn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to.

“Delta.” was all he said.

You and Annie exchanged a look—shock, confusion, and that rising heat of fear when the streets send back blood instead of a message.

Bo Chow appeared from the far end of the hall, eyes narrowed, his usual calm replaced with rare urgency.

“Back alley?” Bo asked.

Stack nodded. “Yeah. Remmick sent someone. Left a mark. Left a message.”

Bo whistled low, grabbed his coat. “This shit just escalated.”

Delta was wheeled out minutes later, slumped against Stack’s side as Bo guided the club’s old emergency van around back. Slim was still trying to crack jokes through a split lip.

“Tell the nurses I want morphine and models. And someone to hold my damn hand—I’m fragile now.”

Smoke barked a short laugh, half in grief. “Man, you ain’t fragile. You’re a cockroach with a pension.”

As the van peeled away, Stack finally looked at you — and something broke behind his eyes.

Not quite fear.

Not quite rage.

But something ancient.

He walked past you without a word, headed straight for the basement.

Smoke lingered a little longer, eyes scanning your face like he was searching for an answer you hadn’t given yet.

“Be careful tonight,” he muttered. “And don’t trust no one, not even the ones already paid for.”

Then he was gone too.

You and Annie stood in the silence.

“…What the hell is happening?” she asked softly.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your gaze drifted toward the glitter-covered stage, where just an hour ago you’d been dancing, playful and free.

And now?

Now the war had entered the building.

———-

The Basement – 12:47 AM

Stack lit a cigarette even though the basement reeked of sweat and mildew. The old records room under the club had turned into their unofficial war room — cracked concrete, cheap folding chairs, and a map of the city marked up with gang routes and pawned safehouses.

Smoke paced like a panther.

“Remmick ain’t just flexing. He’s got intel. The mark, the name drop, the message—he’s in our house.”

Stack blew out smoke through his nose. “Delta said Holly was with him.”

“Yeah, but Holly’s not stupid. She wouldn’t flip unless someone gave her a reason. Money. Leverage. Fear.”

“Or maybe…” Stack said slowly, “she ain’t flipped at all. Maybe Remmick’s using her without her knowing. That’s worse.”

Smoke stopped pacing.

“You think we got someone feeding him info?”

Stack nodded toward the map. “We’ve been too loud. Too comfortable. He knows shit only an insider would know.”

Silence.

Then, in a voice low and bitter:

“Mary?” Smoke asked.

Stack shook his head. “No. Not her.”

“But you hesitated,” Smoke said.

“I hesitate with everyone now.”

They looked at each other. Years of trust swaying under a single, flickering bulb.

————-

Westside General Hospital – 1:12 AM

Delta Slim lay in a stiff white bed, a bandage on his head, his left arm hooked to a drip that beeped in tired rhythm.

He stared at the ceiling like it owed him money.

Bo Chow leaned in the doorway, chewing on a toothpick, arms crossed.

“They drug you?” he asked.

Delta sighed. “Yeah. I’m high as hell. Got titties in my dreams already.”

Bo grunted a half-laugh.

“Focus, Slim.”

Delta turned his head. “Alright. That voice—Remmick’s guy. He said reclaim. Like it meant somethin’. But it ain’t just a message. It’s a crew. Or… was.”

Bo stepped forward. “You serious?”

“Back when Remmick first came up, there was a whisper of a crew from over east called ‘Reclaim the Crown.’ Real militant shit. Red leathers. Chains for belts. They disappeared after a turf war. Everyone thought Remmick killed ’em off.”

Bo narrowed his eyes. “Or took their name.”

Delta nodded.

“And if he’s using it again… it ain’t a message. It’s a revival.”

——

Back at the club, the twins emerged from the basement, and you were waiting at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, tension radiating off you like heat from a flame.

Stack looked at you, tired and hard all at once.

“You still wanna be in this?” he asked.

You smirked. “Baby, I am this.”

The three of you walked down the hallway together — the walls shaking from bass, the crowd still grinding upstairs, clueless.

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