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miryum · 2 months

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"Tactical Village"

Summary: Detective!Jason Todd x detective!Reader based on Jake and Amy's relationship

Series Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence (but nothing descriptive), guns and other police stuff

Series Masterlist

“Do you recognise any of these men?” Y/n asked a woman who was wearing a ‘Visitor’ tag.

The woman shook her head, saying, “I was hiding in the bathroom stall so I didn’t see his face. But, I heard him. He was singing along to the track.”

“Do you remember what he was singing?”

“Oh my gosh, no, Y/n,” Jason couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Don’t do it….” Y/n chuckled along with him. Captain Wayne had assigned a detective to Y/n whenever she interrogated a perp. There had been an… incident.

Cass didn’t know who gave Y/n a guitar, but the woman was currently torturing a perp with her terrible playing of the instrument, accompanying the sound with loud, off-tune screaming.

The woman shrugged. “I think it was that song ‘I Want it That Way.’ ”

Y/n hummed. “Backstreet Boys, I’m familiar.”

“Maybe a little too familiar,” Jason muttered. He thought of all the times Y/n had agonised both the criminals and detectives on duty with their songs.

“Number one,” Y/n ignored Jason, pressing a button for the intercom. “Could you please sing the opening to ‘I Want it That Way?’”

“Really? Uh… okay,” Perp 1 said. “You are… my fire?”

Y/n glanced over to the witness who shook her head. “Number two, keep it going.”

“The one… desire.” Perp 2 squinted to Perp 1, looking for confirmation that this was actually happening.

“Number three?” Y/n nodded along to the nonexistent beat.

“Believe… when I say?”

“Number four!” Y/n called out, grinning widely, leaning on the desk.

“I want it that way.”

“TELL ME WHY!” Y/n sang loudly into the microphone.

“Ain’t nothing but a heartache,” all the suspects chanted along.

“TELL ME WHY!”

“Ain’t nothing but a mistake…”

“Now number five,” Y/n crooned to the melody.

Perp 5 raised his hand, losing himself in the music. “I never wanna hear you say,”

“WHOO!” Y/n shouted out.

“I want it that way,” everyone finished together.

“Chills! Literal chills!” Y/n shivered, giggling.

“It was number five,” the woman said. “Number five killed my brother.”

“Oh my gosh, I totally forgot about that,” Jason murmured. “And, Y/n, just so you know, you pressed the ‘speaker’ button. Everyone in the precinct could hear that.”

“Ohhh… whoops?”

“Happy Tactical Village Day!” Y/n high-fived Tim on her way in the door. “Happy Tactical Village Day, Cass! Happy Tactical Village Day!”

“L/n, I'm surprised to see you so excited about departmentally mandated training exercises,” Wayne commented.

“Why, ‘tis the most fun day of the year, my good sir! Something you wouldn't understand, because you're not programmed to feel joy.”

“Yes, but my software is due for an upgrade,” Wayne retorted.

”When you play along with the robot jokes it ruins my enjoyment of them,” Y/n pouted.

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Anyway, Tactical Village Day is awesome!” Y/n continued with her rant. “We get to field test a bunch of cool, new weapons and there's always a fun training situation. Last year's was prison break. It got uber violent. It was like being in an action movie.” Her eyes went wide with excitement.

Y/n was using a piece of her hair to slowly chisel away at a metal bar of a cell.

“Y/n?” Steph called from the other end of the cell. “Cass and I dug a tunnel. Wanna use it?”

“Go on without me,” Y/n said in a deep, gruff voice. “I’ll make due by myself.”

“It's also a good opportunity for us to bond as a unit,” Steph said, reminding them all the true reason of Tactical Village Day.

“Everybody gets into it,” Y/n exclaimed.

Jason kicked down a door and he and Dick rushed through it, screaming as they stormed the room.

It turned out to be a supply closet.

“Suffice to say, the sixty-sixth has never had a perfect run,” Dick chuckled and scratched his neck.

“Yeah, but Y/n has been the finalist for coolest kill two years in a row,” Stephanie said. “Every precinct sends their footage and all the cops vote.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” Y/n waved her away. “All you win is a children's tennis trophy, so…”

“You desperately want that trophy, don't you?” Wayne asked.

“So badly.” Y/n growled. “I will stop at nothing to obtain my prize. I'll shoot all of you in the face if I have to!”

“Go team,” Damian said monotonously.

“Okay, so,” Y/n slid into the seat next to Jason’s on the bus ride over. “I’ve figured out my fictional persona for this year’s shooty-shooty rootin-tootie.”

“How the hell do you come up with these names?” Jason muttered, mostly to himself.

“I am… Gina Thunderhouse. Russian spy, weapons master, and total badass. I even have cool Russian accent.” she said in a bad accent. “Babushka. Moscow. Rasputin.”

“You know ‘babushka’ means ‘grandma,’ right?”

“Whatever. At least I have a persona, Mr. I’m-not-even-trying-to-be-fun.”

“This training isn’t about fun,” Jason frowned. “It’s about honing our skills to be better officers.”

“We shoot paint at pretend bad guys!” Y/n cried. “How is that not fun?!”

“I’m gonna go talk to Dick,” Jason said, standing up. “You have fun thinking of more Russian words.”

Steph quickly filled Jason’s empty seat, grinning sharply. “Seems like you two are getting cosy!”

“Come on, Brown. Not this again!”

“You gotta admit there’s spark.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?!” Y/n exclaimed. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“And Leia was like a sister to Luke,” Steph sang out.

“Okay, that’s not fair. Luke didn’t know! No one knew.”

Steph shrugged and let the conversation go, though a smile flitted through her lips. Soon, the sixty-sixth arrived at the building where Tactical Village Day would commence. Walking in the doors, duffel bags full of gear and weapons in hand, Y/n shouted out, “The six-six is in the house!”

“Six-six!” The rest of the crew echoed.

“Hey! Biz!” Y/n greeted an old friend. “They upgraded you from bystander to perp! That’s great, man. Still gonna blow your brains out though.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else,” Biz waved back.

“Jason Todd?” A voice spoke from a crowd of detectives and cops. “Is that you?”

“Rose?” Jason’s head whipped towards the voice. “It’s been so long! What’re you doing here?”

“I’m with the seventeenth now,” she explained. “We’re paired with you guys today.” Rose was a tall, slim, blonde girl whom it seemed Jason connected with very well.

“Wha- what’s going on here?” Y/n shuffled up to them, Steph close behind.

“Oh, Y/n, this is Rose Wilson.” Rose held out a hand and Y/n firmly shook it. “Rose, this is Y/n L/n. She’s the life of the six-six.” He placed a hand on Y/n’s lower back, pushing her slightly forward.

“Nice to meet you,” Rose said.

“Likewise,” Y/n pressed her lips together in a smile.

“Well, I gotta go,” Rose hugged Jason. “I’ll see you later, though. Great seeing you.”

“You too,” Jason returned the hug.

Once Rose had left with a wave, Y/n turned to Jason and questioned, “So… who was that?”

“That was Rose,” Jason said as if it was the most obvious thing. “We went on a couple of dates last year.”

“You did?” Steph asked. Y/n had forgotten she was behind her. Cass joined them, silently backing up her friends.

“Yeah, I liked her, but she was stationed in Metropolis so I didn’t get to see much of her. I guess it just fizzled out.”

“Right,” Y/n gawaffed. “That's the girl you said the lame stuff about. Like ‘she's a good listener’ and shit.” Internally, she felt bad for deriding Rose- she seemed like a nice person- but she couldn’t help but take a rag at Jason.

“I'm sorry, what do you look for in a relationship?” Jason asked snarkily.

“I don't know,” Y/n shrugged. “Real stuff. Shape of their ass. Sense of dark humour.”

“Of course.” Jason rolled his eyes and stalked away.

“Isn’t it weird that Jason dated that girl?” Y/n scoffed, hands on her hips.

Steph raised her brows, mirroring L/n’s stance. “Why do you care so much?” Her voice rose higher with each word.

“Okay, first of all, your insinuating voice is way too high,” Y/n accused. “It's weird. And second, I don't care. I'm just wondering why he would like her.”

“Whatever you say,” Steph said, voice still high-pitched and she shuddered. “Okay, yeah, I hear it now. I sound like Cat from Sam and Cat.”

“Yes, you do.” Cass agreed. “But, I agree. L/n needs to confront her feelings for Todd and woman up.”

Y/n rolled her eyes and excused herself from the conversation, claiming the need to talk to Tim.

“Oh, this is so cool!” Y/n squealed, holding a parallel gun. “You can shoot around corners. I love guns.” She sighed and said, “I'm gonna make such a good mom someday.”

Jason shook his head, lips pursing. “Not even gonna touch that.”

“Not even gonna touch that: Title of your sex tape,” Y/n muttered, then chuckled. “Come on, man. At least make me work for it.”

Soon, it was time for the sixty-sixth to run the simulation. The team was standing by the door, waiting to be let in when Y/n slid by on her knees, making a dramatic entrance. “Gina Thunderhouse had arrived.” Her voice was, once again, accented in a bad Russian tone.

“That was majestic,” Tim joked.

“Custom kneepads to help me win coolest kill,” Y/n patted her knees, showing off her kneepads. After an awkward silence, she asked, “What, don't tell me Thunderhouse is the only lady here with a signature move!”

Tim shrugged. “I was bouncing around the idea where when I'm out of ammo, I release my mag and dropkick or chuck it into someone's throat.”

“You know how people hold their guns sideways to look cool?” Dick asked. Y/n nodded and the sarge continued, “It got me thinking. What if you held your gun upside-down?” He demonstrated it, flipping his gun upside down, finger still on trigger.

Before Y/n could respond with how that was an incredibly stupid idea, a loud buzzer sounded and another precinct marched out the door, looking victorious.

“Seventeenth’s done.” Y/n muttered and Stephanie stepped closer to her. “Heads up.”

“Hey. How'd it go?” Jason greeted Rose.

Rose smiled and replied, “it went well. We had a perfect run! And not to brag, but I think we just set a GCPD course record for time.”

“Definitely a brag,” Y/n huffed quietly.

“A course record?” Jason’s brows shot up. “That’s so cool.”

“Thanks.” Rose looked up at him. “I'm psyched. By the way, good luck in there.”

“Thanks,” Jason called after her as she walked away.

“All right, huddle up.” Y/n pulled Jason away by the strap of his vest and into a group huddle. “This is how it's going down.”

“What happened to your accent, Gina?” Steph asked teasingly, knowing full well what was going on.

“Forget that shit.” Y/n frowned. “We're taking this seriously. Okay, on three: Let's break that course record and be the best precinct here! One, two, three!”

The group repeated, “let’s break that course record and… uh…” They all trailed off, mumbling different things as they forgot the words.

“Yeah, I agree, it was too many words.” Y/n grimaced. “Let’s just do it.”

“Okay, I've got the details for this simulation.” Dick sat in front of a console, radioing in to everyone’s headsets. “A group of armed men entered an embassy and took hostages.”

“Which embassy?” Y/n couldn't help but ask. She shook her head, reminding herself to stay focused. “Doesn't matter. We’ll just say, Canada. They’re too nice to say no if someone asks to take them hostage. So take out the perps, clear the civilians, rescue the hostages?”

“Affirmative,” Dick confirmed. “This is an active shooter situation. You're cleared for maximum engagement.”

“‘Maximum engagement?’” Y/n scoffed. “What is this, Jurassic Park: The Ride?”

Dick didn’t answer, commanding, “Brown and Drake, perimeter security. Brown, make sure he doesn’t fall asleep, but also doesn’t die from caffeine overdose. He only got two and a half hours last night.”

“Got it,” Brown said, yanking Tim’s cup of coffee away from him.

“L/n and Todd, you're the assault team. I'll be in the command centre. Cain, I need you to do surveillance on the places I can’t see.”

“On it.” Cass disappeared into the vents and Dick stared after her, wondering how she didn’t end up as an assassin-for-hire.

“All right, focus up,” Y/n said into the comms. “We got eighteen minutes and forty-one seconds to break this record. No screwing around.”

“Wow, you're really not gonna do a character?” Jason asked, smirking.

“I am playing a character,” Y/n said. “A no-nonsense detective whose only goal is to set this course record. Her name is Y/n L/n. She’s a kid who grew up with an absent father and just wants to prove herself. I don't have time for her full back-story. Sarge, please, let’s start.”

“Okay, guys, and go!” Dick clicked a stopwatch and the team rushed in.

Y/n zipped around a corner, gun drawn. When she didn’t see anyone, she called, “clear!”

She and Jason repeated the actions, peeking around corners and yelling, “clear.”

Y/n turned around a corner and fired two shots at a cop labelled “PERP.”

“Nice,” Jason commented.

Y/n ignored him and said, “okay, only three perps left. We might actually do this.”

Dick’s voice came in through the comms. “L/n, Cain has intel that there’s a hostage in room 409.”

“Copy that.” Y/n inhaled and said, “I love how it always smells like fresh paint here. Reminds me of how often I moved as a child.”

“No talking,” Jason reminded her. “You'll give away our position.”

“Look out!” Y/n was staring over his shoulder. She quickly lifted her gun and fired a shot at someone.

Jason shielded away from the noise. “That was close.” He inspected Y/n and said, “there's paint in your hair.” He reached up and smoothed the paint away. “Thanks for shooting that guy.”

“My pleasure.” Y/n followed him around the corner and stared at a door marked 409. “The hostages are in there. Intel says there's a couple of heavily-armed perps with them.”

Jason asked, “you want to wait for backup?”

Y/n shook her head. “No time. We only have a minute to win the record.” She sighed and declared, “I'm going in.” At Jason’s scandalised look, she reassured him, smiling. She gently took Jason’s gun from his hands. “Don't worry. I have a plan on how to beat them: Give up.”

“What?!”

“Trust me,” Y/n said. “Or don't.” She shrugged. “I'm doing it anyway.” Jason’s heart dropped, watching her walk cautiously into the room. She announced, hands holding her guns in the air, “GCPD! Don't shoot!” Inside the room were two perps, guarding three hostages. “I'm here to surrender,” Y/n told them. The hostages looked at her as if she was crazy. “Let the hostages go and take me instead,” she said.

“Not happening.” One of the perps growled. “Drop your weapon!”

”Okay, okay, my fingers are off the triggers.” Y/n agreed, dangling her guns off her fingers. “I'm just gonna slowly put them down in front of me….” She started crouching down. Jason watched, aghast, from the doorway. “I’m slowly putting 'em…” Suddenly, she twisted her fingers around and pulled the triggers, shooting the two perps in the chest.

“Goddamn it!” One of the perps yelled.

“Dick, time!” Y/n shouted into her comm.

“18 minutes, 28 seconds. You broke the record!” Dick cried back.

“Yes! Nice!” Jason ran in and hugged Y/n tightly, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She squealed and hugged him back.

Jason paraded her out of the room and they greeted their teammates to a chorus of cheers, applause, and claps on the back.

“Ah, there she is!” Dick called.

“The record is ours.” Y/n spread her arms.

“I still can't believe your final kill came from Dick’s move.” Tim shook his head, looking disgusted.

“You went upsy-downsies?” Dick gasped. “That's what I call it, because you hold the gun upside-down.”

Y/n sighed. “Yes, Richard, I went upsy-downsies. And none of you shall ever speak of it again.”

“But I want to speak of it,” Jason whined. “You looked really stupid.”

“Alright, let's go.” Dick grinned. “Drinks are on me.”

“Nice! Here we go, six-six!” Y/n held her hand up to Jason for a high-five, face flushed with excitement.

Jason grimaced. “Actually, Rose asked me to dinner, so maybe I can meet up with you guys afterwards?”

Y/n’s face dropped. “Oh. Sure. Yeah. Of course. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool.” Jason nodded and left, giving goodbyes as he walked away.

“What's going on, Gina Thunderhouse?” Cass smirked, sidling up with Steph.

Y/n muttered, “what do you think Jason sees in Rose?”

“So you do like him!” Steph accused, smiling slyly.

“I'm just curious!” Y/n tried to defend. “I mean, she's okay-looking and a good cop….” But aren’t I okay-looking and a good cop? “Also, she set the course record, but that's nothing. I broke it, like, 20 minutes later.”

“You want to know why he went out with her and not you?” Cass asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Y/n swallowed harshly.

“Because she actually asked him out,” Steph finished.

Captain Wayne raised a brow, looking down at Y/n’s desk. “You won coolest kill?” He gestured to the small tennis trophy Y/n was staring at.

“No- not by a long shot.” She chuckled dryly. “But Dick bought it for me ‘cause he felt like I should’ve won. But he’s bias, of course.”

“Of course.” Captain Wayne smiled softly. “Detective, are you alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Captain,” Y/n mumbled. “Can- can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, L/n.”

Y/n looked up at Wayne. “How’d you know Clark was the one?” she whispered.

Bruce sighed and offered, “come into my office. And bring your trophy.”

Doing as she was told, Y/n followed Bruce into his office. She sat down and Bruce took the trophy from her, placing it on his desk proudly. “When I first got here, Damian told me of your predicament.” When Y/n’s mouth fell open in betrayal, Bruce held up his hand. “I would’ve figured it out either way. I used to be a detective, after all. But what he didn’t know is if Todd liked you back. However, based on months of observation, I’ve noticed, for lack of a better simile, that Todd follows you like a lost puppy. I should know; I acted the same way towards Clark before we started dating.”

“Did you ask him out?” Y/n asked.

Bruce let out a laugh. “God, no. I was too scared. But that’s not an invitation to make the same mistakes I did. I lost a lot of time with Clark because of my anxiety.”

“Duly noted, Captain. Thank you.”

“Anytime, L/n. And good job in the Tactical Village.”

“Thank you, sir.”

#title of your sex tape #jason todd x reader #jason todd #dc x reader #dcu #detectives au #brooklyn 99 #b99 #b99/dcu #slow burn

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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 8 months

Text

Lonely Dancers

main masterlist | misc. jackles characters masterlist

SPOILERS! this story is set after the events of the movie and it (vaguely) spoils the ending

summary: when your boyfriend cheats on you, it leads you to tom hanniger

pairing: tom hanniger x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 1.7k

warnings: language, cheating, mentions of death/murder, hearing voices (briefly, very end of the fic)

author’s note: happy valentine’s day! i wrote (and barely edited) this very quickly because i wanted to publish it while it was still valentine’s day in my timezone! enjoy!

music: lonely dancers by conan gray — incredible song by an incredible artist! go pre-save the upcoming album!

Tears were still clouding your eyes as you sat at the bar. You’d driven here after walking in on your boyfriend with another woman—your two best friends had both betrayed you in the most gutwrenching way.

“Crappy Valentines?” the man a few seats down from you asked.

“Somethin’ like that,” you scoffed.

“Well–”

“Look no offense, but I’m really not in the mood to be hit on, okay? So kindly fuck off and let me drink in peace.”

He nodded curtly; “Ten-four.”

You finished the glass in front of you and gestured to the bartender for another. You downed that one quickly and again asked for another immediately after.

“Cheated on, huh?” the man from before asked and you finally turned to look at him. He had a small, sad smile on his plush, pink lips and his green eyes seemed to look at you with sympathy.

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

“I, uh, I know the look,” he replied. “How about the next rounds are on me?” he offered, you smiled a little in thanks. “I’m Tom, by the way.” You told him your name, figuring it was the least you could do.

“So, Tom, I’m guessing your Valentine’s Day hasn’t been much better than mine?” you asked.

“What makes you say that?” he quoted you with a bit of a smirk.

“You’re drinking alone in a bar attached to a cheap-ass motel,” you retorted.

“Touché,” he laughed. “So maybe my day’s been shitty too… or maybe I just came here to hit on the lonely hot chicks.”

You narrowed your gaze at him, stifling a laugh; “Maybe. But something tells me you came here for the booze and not the chicks.” His smile faded a little at that but he was quick to plaster it back onto his face. “So how about we drink together for a bit and when I’m buzzed enough we head over to the dance floor and act like our day hasn’t been hell?” you suggested.

“Sounds like a plan, sweetheart.”

You both got to talking and eventually, you told him the whole story. He held back most of the comments he wanted to make; hope he drops fuckin’ dead, for example, or who in their right mind would do that to such a gorgeous fuckin’ woman!?

“Well, he sounds like a major dick,” he commented.

You listened to his story too, though he clearly wasn’t being as open with you as you were with him. But, you couldn’t blame him. His issue seemed to be about trauma linked to the actual day and less about something that happened recently.

After nearly half an hour of talking, he took your hand and led you to the beat-down jukebox in the corner.

“Does this shitty thing even work?” you scoffed.

“Let’s hope it does or this dancing thing is gonna be pretty awkward,” he joked. He managed to get a song playing. “May I have this dance?” He turned from the jukebox and looked at you, but quickly noticed the tears welling in your eyes. “Shit, you okay?”

You sighed with a nod; “This was kind of… our song,” you admitted.

“Of all the songs for me to pick,” he scoffed quietly, mentally kicking himself. “I… don’t know how to switch it.”

“That’s okay,” you said softly, a sad smile gracing your lips though the tears stayed in your eyes.

“How about we dance to it anyway?” he offered. “That way it’ll become our song and the next time you hear it you won’t think of that cheating bastard, you’ll think of the somewhat good-looking guy you met while drinking yourself half to death?” He smirked and wiggled his brows a bit, making you let out a laugh.

“Somewhat good-looking, huh? Have you looked in any kinda mirror recently?”

He shrugged, still smirking; “Didn’t wanna seem too cocky; had to downplay my looks a little, gauge your reaction.” You let him put his hands on your hips as you both started swaying to the music.

“That so?” You put your hands on his shoulders before you trailed them to the back of his neck. “And what’d my reaction tell you, handsome?”

“That this song is now officially ours,” he replied. “And every time you hear it you’re gonna remember my handsome face instead of that ugly asshole’s.”

“Thanks for that, Tom.” You smiled up at him, continuing to let him guide your movements. “I’d much rather think of you.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and his grip on your waist changed to wrap around your torso. The song was slow so he didn’t feel the need to change anything about the way you two were dancing—he just held you and gently swayed back and forth with the rhythm.

When the song ended the next one that played was more up-beat and “danceable” so you pulled away a little.

“Oh my god, I love this song!” you exclaimed, beginning to dance a more energetically while you still kept your hands on him.

He chuckled at your reaction and began dancing more too. His hands went back to your waist and he twirled you around. With your back pressed against his chest he turned up the heat a little; trailing his hands forward and up your body slowly. You smiled widely, enjoying the feeling of his touch over the thin fabric of your long-sleeved crop top. He twirled you back around, your hands catching your weight on his chest.

He looked down into your eyes; “Just thought I should gauge your reaction again.”

“And what’s it saying this time?” You smiled up at him, keeping your hands on his chest.

“That it might be okay if I kiss you right now?”

You nodded before he leaned down to place a kiss on your eager lips. Before he could, however, your phone rang and you pulled back to check it.

“Damn it,” you mumbled, seeing the name.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Tom asked and you nodded. You were about to answer but he whipped the phone from your hands and hit decline. “Stop,” he said when you reached for the phone, “forget that guy! He clearly doesn’t know how to love a woman like you—someone so gorgeous, funny… talented dancer.” The last one made you laugh through the sting of fresh tears. “And I hope he drops fuckin’ dead! How about we just keep dancing so I don’t have to see those tears slip down your pretty face, huh?”

“Guess I’m all yours tonight,” you replied.

“That’s more like it!” He took you back into his arms before he kissed you.

You woke up the next morning to the sound of someone knocking on your apartment door. You sighed and grabbed your pepper spray before going to answer it. When you looked through the peephole, however, you smiled and placed the weapon down on the table by your front entrance.

“Hey Tom, what’re you doing here?” You smiled after you opened the door. He held out the bouquet of roses he had been hiding behind his back.

“Happy belated Valentine’s Day,” he said. “I hope I made it a little less shitty for you and that you won’t hate this holiday the way I do.”

“Thank you,” you replied as you took them from him. You stepped aside so he could walk in. “I’m gonna find a vase for these, why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

He nodded and made his way to your couch. He knew the layout of your home and where you lived because he had driven you home last night (well, earlier that day, technically) and made sure you got inside safely. You had offered to let him spend the night but he had declined politely, saying that as much as he enjoyed your company he didn’t want the two of you to become a one-night-stand. “Besides,” he had said, “I’ve got something important I’ve gotta do.”

The idea that Tom’s ‘important thing’ may have been just getting you flowers made your heart swoon in a way that you’d never felt before.

You hurried and put the flowers in a vase before you went over and sat next to Tom on the couch. He smiled at you before you turned on the TV.

“Wanna watch something?” you asked but your eyes widened when you looked at the screen; “Oh my god.”

“Two individuals brutally murdered last night…” the news reporter went on to say the names of your ex and his new girlfriend (your former best friend). “Officials say it was a robbery gone wrong, due to a missing engagement ring presumably still in the romantic, heart-shaped box it was purchased in barely two weeks ago from a local jeweler. No suspects are in custody—”

Tom shut the TV off as tears began rolling down your cheeks.

“Th-They’re both dead…” you barely whispered. The thought of the two people you cared most about being killed for no fucking reason made a scream erupt from your throat. Tom pulled you into his chest and you sobbed, gripping his shirt with all your might.

“I-I’m so fucking sorry,” Tom whispered.

After a (very long) session of tears and Tom’s gentle shushing, Tom was making breakfast in your kitchen as you sat at the table.

“It could’ve been me,” you said. “I-If he hadn’t cheated on me, if we hadn’t broken up, I would’ve been in her shoes. I’d be dead.”

“Thank god you aren’t,” Tom said.

“Maybe if I had answered his call–”

“Don’t think like that,” he interrupted. “Just be grateful that you weren’t there and that you’re okay. This isn’t your fault at all in any fucking way, you understand me? It was just a robbery gone wrong and as tragic as that is, that isn’t on you.”

You smiled a little, though tears were still slipping down your cheeks. He had a point and even if he was technically still a stranger, he seemed to care about you.

“We’ve got her now, Tom. She’s all ours.”

“What’d you say?” Tom looked at you over his shoulder.

“Nothing.” You smiled sadly at him. “Just…thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

#tom hanniger x reader #my bloody valentine 2009 #my bloody valentine #jackles character #tom hanniger #jensen ackles characters #by mind empty just fictional people #by jean

184 notes · View notes

durrtydawg · 2 months

Note

Hey queen get better soon 🌟🌟🌟

Since your requests are open, some Sam fluff with just one bed trope pleeeeasee 🤭

Abso-flipping-lutely, babycakes.

I got another anon asking for this, so I hope they find it. I'm sooo sleep deprived, thus might revisit and jazz this up at a later date, but until then, here's one of many takes of the one bed trope <3

Masterlist

One Bed

Sam Drake x Reader {Fluff Req.}

Words: 4k approx | Warnings: Blood mention, weapons mention

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

"Got that stupid coin of yours?"

You watch Sam cock his head at you in confusion whilst you perch on the dresser inside your newly-appointed motel room.

Sam ferrets around his duffel with a frown as he pulls out the time-worn coin he may as well attach to himself surgically at this point.

"Give."

"What are you doing?"

You ignore him, flexing your hand in his direction to encourage him into throwing it over. His brows furrow harder as a curious smile appears on his lips. Intrigued, He tosses you the coin, and you instantly conceal it in your hands.

"Heads or tails?"

"Uh...heads?" Sam shakes his own, not one to rope himself into something without any prior knowledge. "Hold on. What are we bettin’ on here?"

You flip the coin rather ungracefully, swivelling to catch it to avoid dropping it on the floor.

"Who gets the bed." You cover the coin post-flip, ready to reveal the winner. "And tails always wi..."

You trail off and stare at your palm in silence. Heads. Sam approaches and looks over your shoulder, patting you in commiseration.

"That backfired, huh?" He chuckles, snatching back his coin as he smirks at your defeat.

"Hmm." You retort, a sarcastic smile on your face as you trudge over to the bed and pick up a pillow with a sigh.

"What are you-" he puts his hand out in confusion, watching as you walk away from the bed and over to the bathroom door. “Where are you going with that pillow?"

"Bathtub. I'm sure as hell not sleeping on the floor and listening to you snore."

"The bath- just share the bed! We're adults, aren't we?" Sam lets out a bemused laugh. "And- you know full well- I don't snore."

You raise an accusatory brow, tucking the pillow under your arm. Sam shakes his head, throwing his arms up in the air as he walks over to where he’d kicked off his boots.

"I am an adult. Which is exactly why I refuse to share."

"Fine! I will go back to the grumpy old bastard at reception, and ask for a spare room."

You sigh. "Like you, I lack the energy to argue. If letting you have your own bed is what it'll take for you to remove whatever stick has been so uncomfortably jammed up your ass over the past few hours, I'm happy to leave it at that."

He grumbles, stepping back into his boots, too tired to do up the laces. "No- nope. You take it. I am nothing if not a gentleman. Besides, I don't want to hear you complaining for days about a stiff neck, or whatever other little princess injury you'd end up givin' yourself."

He puts the strap of his holdall back over his shoulder with a tired huff, approaching the door, hand resting on the handle. Before he turns it, he speaks once more.

“Anyways, I’ll have you know that I’ve shared a bed with many, many people," he chuckles, more so to himself than to you. "Not a single one of ‘em ever complained about snoring. Or... complained about anything, come to think of it." Sam smirks.

You scoff and roll your eyes at his need to make things crass, putting your hands together as if in prayer.

“Please, tell me more about what you and your dick get up to in your spare time. It’s fascinating.”

“Alright, alright.” He chuckles, opening the door. “Gotta admit, though,” He continues, looking behind him into the corridor before turning back to you with slightly narrowed eyes. “I really thought we had something good going here, sweetheart. I'm a little hurt you're so against a cozy one-night... cuddle.”

You grin into the pillow as you raise an inquisitive brow. “Oh yeah? Cuddle?” You laugh.

Sam simply looks at you with a smile, practically begging to be goaded further. You clear your throat and straighten your posture, as if you're assuming an act. “Tell me more.” You eventually say, voice muffled as you play along.

You’ve always been a fan of Sam’s… suggestive nature. And he’s always admired your ability to take it on the chin. You two are a match made in heaven.

Or is it more… platonic purgatory?

“Pfft. Of course.” He chuckles, folding his arms with his back leaned up against the door frame. He clears his throat too, putting his hand on his chin in thought. “All those passing glances when we were stuck in that forest…”

You lower the pillow, grin deepening. “Hmm. You must mean my turning to make sure you’ve managed to catch up with me?”

He raises a brow towards you, tongue toying with his teeth. Calculating. “…that sighing you keep doin’ around me...” He looks up to the ceiling in mock thought as you cut in again.

“A sign of my ever-dwindling patience?”

He swats his hand in the air, as if to keep you hushed. “This little back ’n’ forth bickering thing we’ve got goin’.” He clicks his tongue. “Gotta say, it’s a shame you're passin' up such an opportunity as this.” He gestures behind you, over to the bed.

You laugh, nodding. “Hmm. I guess sharing that bed could have us really getting to know each other.”

He gives you a teasing smirk, the mischievous glint in his eyes making your cheeks heat up- something you’ve been unable to help since your first job together. Luckily for the sake of your dignity, the pillow serves as a perfect shield.

Sam pouts, mimicking a kiss. Funny how almost dying leads you to revert back to childish conversation.

“Get out.” You laugh, throwing the pillow at him which he swerves just about as you swivel for the bathroom.

“Alright. I'm goin'. Enjoy your cold, lonely bed.”

“I will!” You chirp from behind the bathroom door, grabbing a towel from the folded pile beside the sink and hanging it beside the shower.

You hear the door close and turn on the shower, giving it a moment to warm up as you take off your mud and sweat-saturated clothes, unable to wipe the smile off of your face.

A fierce sting shoots through your upper leg as you peel off your cargos- upon closer inspection, you notice a tear in the fabric at your outer thigh. And thus, the smile is gone.

You kick them off, and ogle at the long gash along your skin- a sore reminder of the run-in with some somewhat feral bandits you and Sam had dealt with mere hours ago. The blood seems to have dried, effectively sealing the wound, but that’s not to say it doesn’t bite like a bitch.

You’d been wrestled to the ground by a member of the group that had the pair of you under attack, the gentleman in question had a knife in his hand, and your gun had long-been out of ammo. If it wasn’t for Sam’s boot swiftly connecting with your assailant's head, a lengthy cut on the thigh would’ve been the least of your problems.

For anyone else, this event alone would be enough to persuade one to partake in several therapy sessions. But, as is tradition with you two, a quick once-over for lethal injuries and a shaky joke about your uncharacteristic lack of finesse is all it took for to divert you back to the task in hand.

Ultimately, though, Sam did save your life today. You can’t help but think that maybe you should be the one finding somewhere else to sleep.

Or you should’ve just been an adult and let him share.

Shrugging off the soreness of your leg, and the guilt of letting Sam take responsibility for the single bed mishap, you step into the shower, using the entirety of the hotel’s adorably tiny tube of shower gel to scrub away evidence of the day’s toil.

Finished, you wrap yourself in your towel, brushing your teeth twice over before you hear the door open and close.

You cautiously open the door, peeking through the gap to see Sam lounging on the bed, chewing some sort of granola bar whilst he channel surfs through a series of programs that he has no actual interest in. You adjust your posture, relieved, but equally miffed that all you’ve got covering you is a towel- your bag on the other side of the room.

“Yay, he’s back!” You chirp through clenched teeth, hastily scampering over to your backpack which Sam has oh-so-conveniently placed himself right next to.

“No more rooms.” He shrugs, taking another bite as he continues to stare mindlessly at the TV, before taking a pause to inspect the bar’s packaging. “Decent vending machine, though.”

“Just when I thought there was no silver lining.” You smile sarcastically, hurriedly rifling through your bag for the cleanest t-shirt and pair of shorts you can find.

You finally catch his eye and an irksome wolf-whistle accompanies a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. You know it's a harmless joke, but you're growing increasingly more exhausted and, fuck, your leg is really stinging.

“Don't be a pest.”

“What? Hardly leaves much to the imagination.” He smirks to himself, looking back to the TV screen.

You frown, self-consciously tightening your hold on the towel wrapped around you. It’s extremely rare that Sam crosses the boundary between harmless flirtation and being straight up weird.

Unfortunately, the latter is swiftly making an appearance due to the rapid progression of your irritability caused by the pain in your leg.

He clears his throat as he clocks your sudden aversion to the conversation, and you direct your stare back to your bag. Slight unease fills the gap between the foreign TV show crackling in the background and the silence between you both.

"I'm..." He starts quietly, his hand cautiously rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away from you coyly. He sniffs. Anything to fill the silence. Anything to avoid an apology.

You press your hand on your thigh to push yourself back upright, ready to make a dash back to the bathroom to pull yourself together and get dressed. Unfortunately, the desired getaway is trampled on as you stand; you grunt suddenly as you accidentally apply pressure to the gash on your thigh, agitating it, and splitting it enough for it to start bleeding again. Almost instantly a small crimson patch becomes visible on the outside of your towel, and you hiss in annoyance, unwittingly attracting Sam’s attention.

"You good?” He asks almost awkwardly.

"Uh-" you bundle your clothes together, bunching them up around your upper thigh, turning away from Sam to dig your shorts out of your bag all whilst shielding your reddened cheeks from his eye line. "Yep. All good."

He adjusts his posture, swivelling his legs off of the bed as he sits up and narrows his eyes at you. “I smell bullshit here, sweetheart. What are you hiding?”

You screw your face up a little, debating whether to tell him or not, cheeks warming even more due to your flustered nature and the sudden protective softness of his tone… yay. Insult, meet injury.

You eventually grumble in defeat, knuckles tightening more around the twist in the towel by your chest as you return to the bathroom, angling the door for the sake of modesty. “You're not gonna leave this alone are you?" Your voice is muffled by your t-shirt as you shimmy out of the towel and slide it over your head. You step into your shorts with another wince as the fabric grazes the wound.

"Nope." He pops the ‘P’, arms folded as he stands, crumpling the wrapper of the granola bar thing in his hand as he chews on the last bite.

You sigh, slowly stepping back out of the bathroom, the material pulled aside to reveal the long, but fortunately not perilously deep nick, decorating your upper leg with a steadily dribbling stream of blood. Sam’s brows raise, and he freezes mid-chew, giving you an almost chastising glare which makes you instantly jump on the defence.

"Don't- look- It's fine. I'm fine."

“Bleeding pretty damn bad to be ‘fine’, if you ask me.” He swallows, as you scramble through your kit for first aid supplies. “When did that happen?"

You sigh, hating the fuss. "When do you think it happened?" You say, finding the small box of medical supplies stuffed amongst the rest of your belongings and quickly taking a seat on the end of the bed. You take out the things you need, saturating a cotton pad with a cleansing solution as you feel that horrible tension once more.

Sam double takes at you as he walks past you to dispose of his wrapper. "Oh, right. The guy with the knife that 'didn't touch you'?"

"I'm a good liar, Samuel, what can I say- ow!" You hiss as you dab cleansing solution over the wound.

Your hands tremble.

There’s always been something about fixing your own wounds that’s much more of a challenge than managing someone else’s.

"Well… at least now, you can feel less guilty about giving him a severe concussion."

He shrugs as he rinses off his hands in the bathroom sink before walking back over to you.

You try again, cheeks practically burning by now as you feel Sam’s scrutinising gaze fall over you. You daren’t look up- you presume his eyes are either going to be riddled with judgement or some sort of patronising sympathy- neither an option you care for. You hold your breath, dabbing the saturated cotton wool back against the worst part of the gash, but you grunt just a little too uncomfortably for Sam to stay silent for much longer.

“Alright- give me that.” He steps towards you, extending a hand to the first aid kit, which you let him take with a huff.

Sam kneels in front of you, carefully bracing a hand on your thigh whilst the other takes the cotton wool out of your shaky hand. He begins using the clean side to prevent a dribble of blood from hitting the sheets beneath you whilst he inspects the injury.

"It's only a flesh wound...so…" He says, almost as if he’s reassuring himself about something. You wait curiously as he gets out the remainder of your anti-bacterial solution and some more cotton wool from the small first aid kit, leaving the dirty cotton pad on the floor.

The end of his sentence never comes.

The sudden cold sting as he gently dabs at the sore gash on your thigh sends your hands instinctively grabbing at Sam’s forearm with another hiss, causing him to look at you with concern. There’s something else underlying the concern though. Not quite anger, but… he’s definitely vexed.

Sam's fingers are gentle, and you can't help but appreciate the care he’s taking, even if there seems to be a slight discomfort to the silence. He wraps some gauze over the wound before unravelling the last of the roll of bandage, hesitating for a moment.

He stays silent, and you frown as you watch a series of undecipherable expressions fall over him as he stares at your thigh, almost as if he’s daydreaming.

“Hey.” You gently nudge his chest with your knee, tilting your head down to bring him back to earth as he fiddles with the bandage. “What’s… going on up here?” You cautiously smile, tapping the spot between his eyebrows.

Sam’s eyes finally meet yours, and you feel your stomach drop a little as his stern expression doesn’t fade remotely.

He takes you in, eyes grazing over every part of your face; eyes, nose, cheeks, lips.

Then, with a speck of what you can only decipher as shame in his eyes, his stare snaps back to your leg.

"I…could’a lost you today."

His voice is low and sincere. So much so that it makes it hard for you to look at him. Serious moments between the two of you are few and far between- you’ve never really learned how to navigate them.

“It’s…just my leg. I’m okay.” You reply quietly, trying to keep the soft smile on your face.

“Could’ve been your throat.” He says, brows still knitted together, eyes flitting down to the bandage in his hands. “Should’ve got to you sooner.”

You frown.

“Why do you think I’m so incapable of holding my own?” You ask, almost taken aback by his sudden shift in tone, your fists grabbing the sheets in an attempt to alleviate the sharp sting from your wound still.

“What?” He scoffs, still concentrating on your leg as he begins to wrap the bandage over your skin. “I don’t think you’re incapable?”

“So why say that?” You ask, curiosity lilting your words.

His eyes are sympathetic for a moment, before they reinstate themselves with a hint of determination. "I think you’re more capable than me most days, ya know. Lift.” He instructs you to raise your leg so he can bring the bandage underneath, but his comment is far from lost by you. He stops speaking again, but it’s clear there’s something he wants to say.

“You don’t need to keep things from me.” you say, and Sam does a little huff to himself as he continues securing the bandage. Not good enough.

“Sam,” You urge, resting your hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to give you every ounce of his attention as you tilt him up to you. “You’re acting off all of a sudden. Talk to me.”

He’s hard to read for a moment, before he sighs and almost leans into your hands.

“With each run-in we’ve had over the past… two- three years, I feel like I’m becoming more and more scared about you-”

You let go of him, leaning back slightly. “So I am incapable.”

“Jesus- no! Let me speak.” He retorts, tightening the knot on the bandage before tucking it away. You sigh and shift back, pulling yourself fully onto the bed and patting the spot beside you to beckon him to sit too.

He stands, moving the first aid kit onto the floor before sitting, almost reluctantly, beside you on the bed.

Sam lays his head back against the headboard, folding his arms over his chest as he takes a moment to deduce his thoughts. “I’m already on thin ice here. I’m trying not to come across as some kinda-”

“Oh my god, spit it out.” You push, turning onto your side to look at him fully as he stares up to the ceiling, laughing a little at your sudden, but warranted impatience.

“I want to work with you. All the damn time. That’s pretty obvious, right?” He finally turns his head down to you, and you narrow your eyes slightly as you await whatever he’s about to say next. “Every time you get… hurt. No matter how stupid the injury, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. Like it’s my responsibility to…fuck, I don’t know.”

He gnaws at his lower lip, eyes suddenly struggling to stay in line with your own.

"I've... I've never felt- never had this... intrinsic need to be so protective over somebody, and I- ” Sam admits, his voice low and with an unsteadiness that makes your arm hairs stand on end. “Look. I know I make it difficult to know where we stand, sometimes. You n’me. I step over the line. N'I don't like making you feel... uncomfortable- inadequate, whatever-”

You stare at your bandaged leg, momentarily lost for words.

"Just- I don't know. Watching that guy on top'a you? The fear I felt-"

It’s fair to say that his… vulnerability strikes a chord deep within you- and you’re both acutely aware of the ever-festering bond the two of you have. Friendship scales tipped just off centre.

“I care about you.”

Suddenly, they’re erring on losing balance entirely.

You prop yourself up a little more. “Yeah, I know you do-”

“No- I- I really care."

He stares at his hands, eyes narrowed, almost as if he’s afraid to look in your direction.

You want to respond. To tell him that you understand, but the words don't come. The few seconds of silence feel like hours. It’s so thick you think you’re going to choke.

Sam clears his throat, poorly trying to mask his discomfort. "I'm gonna... take a shower. Need to clear my head." He stands up abruptly, almost knocking over the first aid kit in his haste.

You nod, giving him space. "Okay," you whisper, watching as he disappears into the bathroom. The muffled sound of running water fills the room, and you lie back, staring at the ceiling.

The day's events replay in your mind, mingling with Sam's emotional fluctuations. It feels like a weird turning point, a moment where a bunch of things are hanging in the balance- ready to do a 180° turn any moment. They just need a catalyst.

As the minutes tick by, exhaustion starts to creep in, mellowing the nervous pinch in your stomach. You close your eyes, letting the steady hum of the shower lull you into a light sleep. When you hear the bathroom door open again, you stir, blinking sleepily as Sam re-enters the room, steam billowing out from behind him.

He glances at you briefly before making his way to the bed, his movements cautious, almost hesitant.

He looks at you, a soft expression on his face as he stops towel-drying his hair, his free hand fiddling with the drawstring of his shorts.

"You sleepin’?”

"Not quite."

"Good," he says, grabbing the free pillow and tossing it to the ground, resting his damp towel flat beside it.. "Didn’t want to wake you."

“You- you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“Yeah, well the tub’s too small so-”

“Sam.” You say, a tired rasp dulling down the sternness.

Sam pauses, his eyes flickering between your body and the floor, the moonlight filtering through the thin curtains softly illuminating his conflicted expression.

He’s rarely ever this hesitant. Usually, he’s full of confidence, even arrogance at times, but now… now he seems almost timid.

“Y’sure?” he asks quietly, the question barely more than a whisper.

You nod, patting the empty space beside you.

With a deep breath, he finally relents, sitting down on the edge with a cautiousness that makes your heart ache a little.

You watch as he carefully gets into bed, staying on top of the blankets and purposefully facing away from you. The distance feels unnecessary, almost painful. So you reach out, your fingers brushing against his upper arm.

“Hey.”

He turns slightly, looking over his shoulder at you. "Yeah?"

"I get it."

You don’t say anything else- you just shift closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his bare shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but it conveys everything you’re feeling. I care about you, too.

His skin is warm and smells faintly of soap, and you nuzzle your face into his upper back, only hoping he feels the same comfort that you do.

He tenses- just for a split second before he exhales, body relaxing.

Neither of you speak; You tuck your face deeper into his back, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you further away from the day.

As you fall asleep, with a gentle yet deliberate motion, Sam finds your hand, his fingers threading through yours. He brings your arm around his waist, holding your hand tightly against his chest.

His thumb softly strokes the back of your hand, a soothing, repetitive motion that makes your heart swell.

"Thank you."

He shifts slightly, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your sore knuckles.

Any more words can wait ‘til morning.

#sam drake #uncharted #sam drake x reader #samuel drake x reader #fluff #hehe asks #one bed trope

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dairy-farmer · 2 months

Note

Pretty sure I'm the anon who sent the 'Tim wearing people's merch and sometimes fucking that same person while doing it' ask awhile back. (I say pretty sure because, while I have started keeping track of the things I sent you when I started sending you a lot, I didn't at that point and Tumblr doesn't keep track of anonymous asks you send apparently 😑. But it definitely looks like my writing style and lt felt familiar when I saw it. If it was actually someone else's all I can say is Ope.)

Anyway!

Tim also uses the wearing of merch to signal his displeasure with certain family members i.e. by very pointedly not wearing their things. This punishment only works because his family is a bunch of creepers who have cameras and microphones in his bedroom (just for security! They definitely don't use it to watch Tim sleep or masturbate or fuck! Why would you ask that? Shut up! What were you doing at the devil's sacrament, Goodie Proctor?!) So of course this means that someone is usually watching Tim get dressed and luckily the bats gossip like old women so whoever is watching on at a given time will immediately share important things with everyone else.

Well, if you made Tim upset recently? It's not just that he won't wear your merch, oh no no - it's not as if Tim only wears the merch of someone he's particularly happy with or interested in on a given day, sometimes he just really wants to wear his Impulse t-shirt! No instead, to make sure his displeasure is known and that it's clear he isn't just wearing someone else's merch, but specifically not wearing yours, Tim will make a show of not choosing someone's stuff.

Bruce being particularly stubborn and not listening to Tim's advice? Tim holds up a pair of Batman pajama pants and turns his head dismissively while dropping them back into the drawer. Jason insults his choice on family movie night? Tim takes his Red Hood hoodie and pointedly drops it in the dirty laundry basket, even though he didn't wear it recently. Damian is being particularly rude lately? His Robin 4 novelty watch is shown to the cameras and deliberately put in the back a drawer. Dick won't stop smothering him after a very minor injury (I literally just sprained my ankle, Dick, I didn't break a leg 😑)? Takes his favorite Nightwing blanket off his bed and just kicks it into a corner before pointedly putting his newest Signal blanket down instead.

It's honestly a great system, because it means Tim can show he's upset with someone without *shudder* talking about his feelings, and it doesn't even take any real effort - no shouting or arguing or cold shoulders! And to show when he's forgiven the person he's annoyed with without 'rewarding' them by wearing their things immediately (yes, I am no longer mad at you. But you haven't done anything to earn me wearing your things again)? He will drink his coffee out of your themed mug (most of his mugs are novelty ones with silly little phrases, and he only uses the hero themed ones for this reason specifically).

One day, he is just so very pissed at everyone - mission went off the rails because they didn't listen to his plan or there was a big family event planned but everyone canceled or something- that he comes down to breakfast already dressed in a suit, even though he doesn't have any WE business that day. (This causes mixed feelings in everyone because, while it sucks that Tim is upset with everyone, he looks really really hot in that suit and since he never wears them outside of business meetings and galas, it has a similar effect on them that seeing Tim in, like, lingerie would. Honestly, that probably does make it an even better punishment because Tim looks extra hot today but definitely isn't going to fuck any of them anytime soon: Tim may be a slut, but he's also petty and stubborn ❤️)

tim punishing anyone who makes him angry by making a point to NOT wear their merch and when they all manage to piss him off refusing to wear anything but his suit which he KNOWs they all love seeing him in so he's punishing them twice as much- first by not wearing their merch and then by wearing his suit❤️

#answered asks #asks #anonymous

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dilfl0v3rss · 1 year

Note

Ouuuu you write angst? can we get an angst drabble with one of the aot men but it's a happy or petty ending for us and not for them

here i go here i go here i gooooo🏃🏽‍♀️🏃🏽‍♀️🏃🏽‍♀️

“ian ready for no relationship.” the excuse of excuses. the words that were always thrown your way after you’d try to convince your little “fling” that you wanted to be more. eren stood up, zipping his pants before grabbing his hoodie and heading out your dorm room. your situation was…complicated. well not really. you grew very attached to this man, looking for him at parties, going to every single one of his games, giving him your notes so he wouldn’t fail and get kicked off the team, and letting him fuck you whenever he wanted.

you were practically dating. or that’s what you thought. eren saw you as just another pretty little thing to keep his grades up and his dick wet. using you constantly while labeling it at love to keep you coming back for more. “b-but why ren?” eren dropped his shoulders, sighing before he walked back to you and raised your chin with his fingers. “you know the rules pretty. cant be tied down worrying about a girl during the season. when all of this craziness is over then we can work sum out.”

a smile bloomed on your face as you looked at eren in complete adoration. you couldn’t wait for the season to end so you could finally be with the man you love. your friends seen you as a complete idiot and they had no problem trying to shut down your delusions. “girl what don’t you get? as soon as the season ends he gon drop you like a bad habit.” “yea he’s lying to you baby.”

you shook your head as your friends annie and sasha tried to speak some sense into you. “he wouldn’t do that to me. h-he lo-” “he doesn’t love you and m’gonna prove it.” before you could reply annie pulls out her phone, clicking historias instagram story to show you what she posted in her close friends. there eren was, laying his head on her stomach with his arms wrapped around her as the rest of his body laid snug between her legs. the caption reading ‘pussy put his ass to sleep🤣’.

your eyes instantly welled with tears as you watched eren, your eren be with someone else the same way he’d be with you. annie was contemplating telling you for awhile. hoping that you’d come to your senses on your own without having to get hurt, but she just couldn’t hold it in anymore. “w-why would he-” “because historias dumber than a bag of rocks and she doesn’t mind sucking and fucking a dick that’s been in half the campus.” sasha spit.

annie wiped your tears with a napkin from her purse before standing up with you on the quad bench. “fuck him furreal. there’s so many guys that have been tryna get at you, but you’ve been oblivious to them because of eren.” you nodded your head, acting as if you were agreeing but you were really heartbroken. the three of you said your goodbyes and you went back to your room. tears flooded your pillowcase as you thought about what you had just witnessed.

you were being played by the one person you wanted. you weren’t the type to dwell on things so you decided to just leave him alone. praying that one day he gets what he deserves, but right now you wanted nothing to do with him. weeks went by since you’ve last talked to eren. he wasn’t suspicious of it since he’d usually only talk to you when he needed something anyways. covering up his absences with “practice” to keep you from pestering him.

the first couple of days were hell. nonstop crying and constant reminiscing were what filled your mornings and nights. saying you missed him was an understatement. you felt like you couldn’t live without him. you’d see him after him games, flirting with girls while looking around to make sure you weren’t watching. when he felt that the coast was clear he ended up taking one by the hand and leading her into the locker room with him.

that was your breaking point. you practically ran to your room with tears soaking your cheeks. you wanted absolutely nothing to do with this man anymore. packing all of the clothes he left there and putting them in a trash bag before throwing it outside. you were finally washing your hands of this man and your friends couldn’t be prouder. comforting you whenever you needed but also trying to get you out there more so you can finally replace that piece of shit.

as annie said, a lot of guys have tried to get at you and instead of shooting them down like you usually did, you gave one a chance. you and reiner have gotten pretty close over the last few weeks. texting almost everyday, eating lunch together, and sharing your favorite books with each other in the library as you studied. he was sweet and charming.

always paying for your lunch no matter how many times you’ve tried to return the favor, walking you all the way to your dorm after a particularly late study sesh, and holding your hand when the two of you would cross the street. he mostly did that for his enjoyment, but you didn’t mind.

the two of you weren’t dating, but your friends thought you were, given that one was barely seen without the other. “where’s your boo suge.” sasha would say when you finally hung out with your girls after three long weeks. “hush uppp. we just talking.” annie, sasha, and pieck busted out laughing before pieck leaked some information to you.

“girl you know we seen you getting your back blown out in the back of his jeep right?” your hands flew to your mouth as you gasped in shock. “yupp. saw him pulling your hair and allat right in our dorm parking lot.” sasha said as you covered your face in embarrassment before mumbling into your hands. “ooouuu yall so nosey i could strangle all three of you right now.” annie scoffed as she pulled your arms from your face.

“you think we’re dumb? you’ve been ditching us every chance you got. and when you do decide to finally hang out with us for a little, you come with a bunch hickies and a pimp walk.” all of you laughed at her last comment. rolling your eyes before checking your phone. speak of the devil.

rei🌻

‘got everything ready for movie night!’

‘waiting on you now mama💛’

you looked up from your phone, instantly getting pissed off looks from your friends. “don’t even say nun. go be wit your man. enjoy it too because this weekend you all OURS. you hear me?” you giggled as you stood from your spot on sasha’s beanbag chair. “i hear youuu. love yallll!!” each of your friends replied with “love you toos” before you left to go spend time with reiner.

“aight i got nightmare on elm street and i got fri-” “princess and the frog” reiner chuckled as you looked up at him. sitting on his bed in nothing but his t shirt that you changed into as soon as you got there. “we watched that last time princess. you said you’d let me switch it up.” pink lip jutting out in a pout at he looked at you with sad eyes.

you laughed, watching this huge man with black ink dancing around his arms and chest being such a softy for you. his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as he situated himself under you on the bed. “okay then coco. i love un poco locoooo” a groan flew from his lips as he rolled his eyes at your choices. “no more disney. if i hear another song ima rip my ears off.”

the two of you ended up settling on john wick, but that didn’t really matter since it was one thirty minutes into the movie where you found yourself sleeping soundly on his chest. straddling him with your head in the crook of reiner’s neck as he played games on his phone. he was thinking about asking you to be his girlfriend soon, but he didn’t know how or when to ask.

the sound of your phone snatched him out of his thoughts. looking at the screen in disgust as he read the contact on the screen.

ren ren💚

‘yo. you up?’

he seen the name pop up and instantly got heated, knowing what he’s done to you. he made quick work to delete his number before replying.

you

‘yea what’s up?’

347-***-****

‘miss you mama🤧’

‘let me pull up on you’

“the nerve of this guy” reiner thought as a quick idea came up into his head. first he checked on you, making sure you were still deep in your slumber before taking a picture of your sleeping figure on his hard chest. sending it with a smirk as he watched erens typing bubble pop in and out of the chat. reiner dropped the phone back on the bed, figuring he just wasn’t going to answer until he heard a bunch of vibrations start coming in. texts popping up left and right and he scrolled through each of them.

347-***-****

‘wyd y/n?’

‘man you so lame for that fr’

‘how you just gon give my pussy away like that?’

‘he never gon be able to fuck you like i do’

‘cmon baby don’t pass up a relationship with me…’

‘i swear i’ll never text historia again’

‘or any other bitch’

‘she could never amount to you ong baby’

‘baby?’

‘text me back y/n :(‘

‘at least still study with me…historia’s so dumb i’ll get kicked off the team fasho’

*caller blocked*

reiner put your phone on his nightstand before laying you on you your side. kissing you on the cheek before cuddling up behind you and falling asleep as well.

#basketball player!eren #x black reader #reiner x black reader #reiner x black!reader #eren jeager #reiner braun #reiner braun x black reader #reiner braun x black!reader

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shieldofiron · 11 months

Note

Hello

But what about Steve who got kicked out by his parents when he came out as bi and somehow made it to California and ends up doing sex work and finds it is something he is good at and having a huge dick is good for something for a change. He also does some high end escort work too cos he knows all the etiquette stuff, thanks to his upbringing.

He's got his regulars, men and women, and a little apartment and there's this golden guy who looks like a freaking god who goes past every morning on a run, super early, when Steve has a coffee on his balcony. Steve starts thinking about him when he's jerking off or when he's with clients, he can't help himself.

And then one day he shows up at this fancy hotel to be some rich guy's escort for the night and it's the guy he's been seeing run past his balcony every morning.

Mr Hargrove, CEO of something.

Anyway, that's what I was thinking about just now while I was waiting for you to tell me the super sad bit of your idea.

The request is kind of weird.

Normally people request him in lingerie, something filmy and sexy that frames his body. When it's not that it's suits, from a casual sports coat all the way to a tuxedo, and he keeps it all in his closet.

"You know what it means?" Angela's gum snaps on the phone.

"Green basketball shorts?" Steve scratched his temple, "Not really. I think I have some from high school."

"Well, if they're tight," Angela said, "And he said sneakers. High white socks."

Steve rolled his eyes, "Okay. Weirdo. Did he say anything about sex acts?"

"Anal," Her gum pops.

"No shit, it's a guy," Steve rolls his eyes.

"He just asked what you looked like, honestly. Wanted a guy with brown eyes, brown hair, real pretty," Angela clicked her long nails against the counter, "Other than the outfit he wasn't too talkative. Sexy ass voice. He requested you specifically. Got all perked up when I said the name. Stephan the King only."

Steve shrugged, "Okay. Whatever."

Most of the time he wasn't too concerned with what his clients wanted. He was flexible in more ways that one, happy to bottom or top or escort them to the opera or just listen. Most of the time, the job was just listening, even during sex. Finding out what people liked and being that came naturally to him. He was good at bullshit, as Nancy would say. He was a great hooker.

He'd made his job bullshit. He got paid an ungodly amount by the hour to spread his legs or spread someone else's, and he was good at it. Hooked up with an agency that specialized in high quality work, and kept the total weirdos away from him.

His roommate Jason Carver had a good hand with the weirdos anyway. He was always getting the odd calls where he had to dress up in costumes and came home to their apartment at odd hours, covered in weird substances, his legs shaky until Steve made him take a shower. Last night it had been grape jelly.

And so here Steve was, not covered in jelly, sitting in a plush hotel room in Malibu with his Hawkins high shorts pushed down his thighs, trying to finger himself and thinking about his favorite spank bank material.

Steve didn't know the guy's name, but he called him the runner. Always running at 5 am, long blonde curls streaming behind him. He looked like the models on the covers of those Johanna Lindsay romance novels, the practically-bondage porn that he'd devoured in high school during sleepless nights.

He imagined the running slowing down when he got to Steve's balcony, his bronze skin gleaming and his blonde beard hiding a devilish smirk.

The smirk may be borrowed... maybe the shorts have him remembering some other sleepless nights in high school.

Steve is loose, last night he was working with a couple, and so he's pretty stretched out, which means he can concentrate on just relaxing, brushing his fingers ever so softly over his prostate as he imagines the runner smirking, his voice a hazy blend of movie stars and devilish California drawling.

He kicks up his feet on the bed, working himself shamelessly in time with his finger's motions. He rolls the tip of his pointer over the small nub of his prostate while he works a fourth finger inside.

The alarm on his watch goes off and he makes a winded noise, halfway between a whine and a groan. He was just getting to the good part of the fantasy, where the runner would position him, ass up, over his tiny Venice balcony and eat him out like he was trying to make Steve cum before the dawning of the apocalypse. He would rub his face all over that golden beard, ride him like a stallion. Steve rode his fingers through one more wave, heat crashing down his spine, before he pulled out, tugging up his shorts over his painful erection and rushing to the bathroom to wash his hands and check his hair.

He didn't have to do all this prep but it made his job more enjoyable. Most clients didn't want to go through a lot of foreplay, obviously. But he did like coming too, and it wasn't like he was taking ten clients a night. Might as well have fun.

He was all positioned on the bed when the guy came in. Ready for the masc fantasy, legs spread, his arms on his knees. His dick was lewdly outlined by the tiny shorts, but he guessed they weren't going to the opera so that should be okay.

"In here," He called out, holding his breath until the guy came around the corner.

That devilish smirk fell right to pieces.

"Harrington," The man gasped, the word more breath than it was noise.

"Billy??"

"What are you doing here? Is it Max? Is she okay?" Billy's face is vulnerable, pale under his golden beard.

Steve thinks of the last time they'd seen him, driving off into the dead of the night while Max had cried. She'd begged for Steve's help to move Billy out, and the last he'd seen of Billy Hargrove it was just him chuffing Max on the chin, telling her to be brave.

"She's okay, I..." Steve shook his head, "I'm just here to meet a client."

"Client..." Billy ran a hand over his eyes, and then dropped it over his mouth.

"Yeah, sorry, they must have given me the wrong key at the front I'm supposed to meet-"

"Killian Handcock?"

Steve froze.

"Yeah," Billy sighed, "That's me."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Look, sorry for all this. I'll pay, of course, for your time," Billy began to dig in the pocket of his suit jacket.

"No, whoa, it's okay," Steve waved his hands, "It's okay."

"Obviously, you wouldn't-"

"We can still-"

Billy blinked at him.

"I just mean. It's fine, right. We know why we're here," Steve glances down at his outfit, "You really didn't know it was me?"

"Fuck," Billy dragged a hand down his face, "This is so fucking humiliating."

"No, really," Steve chuckled, "What high school crush am I supposed to be?"

The words are out of his mouth before he's fully able to think them through. It's all obvious later but in the moment, he's thinking of all the guys in their school with brown eyes... brown hair... real pretty...

Billy moves towards him, his face flashing angrily, and then he rears back, nearly slamming into the giant tv that dominates the far wall.

Startle response, Steve remembered from when Billy came back. If he so much as put his hands towards someone he would flinch, remembering what the Mind Flayer made him do.

Steve wasn't being a very good hooker. He wasn't listening. Wasn't thinking.

"You know," Steve sat back on the bed slowly, no quick movements. "I used to read these romance novels in high school. Kind of cheesy, definitely NOT always with the best consent. But... sometimes they'd have these tough guys, kind of take charge guys. And I used to imagine you... taking charge of me."

Billy just blinks at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

Steve spread his legs, just casually.

"Is that what you used to imagine too?" Steve asked.

"Maybe," Billy says in a cracked voice.

"Tell me," Steve urged.

It takes Billy a moment, fumbling with his fancy wool jacket. He hasn't flashed the cash yet, but Richard Harrington's son recognizes an expensive suit when he sees it. Billy's got the money to pay.

Not that Steve's thinking much about payment when Billy starts talking, in that movie star drawl.

"Wanted you to fuck me. Me to fuck you. Wanted to turn you inside out and shake you like pants at the laundromat," Billy whispered, "See what falls out."

Steve bit off a moan that wasn't practiced, wasn't planned. They haven't touched for years. Not since after Starcourt, careful touches around Billy's healing body, friendly, boyish nudges. Nothing like this.

"Wanted to touch you," Billy's face is so raw with longing, blue eyes sparking, it's almost hard to look at, "Touch you all up and down those long legs. Wrap you around me like a scarf. Keep me warm. Indiana's cold as shit and you always looked so warm."

Steve spread his legs further, "I run hot."

Billy reached back and undoes his hair, and it's only as it streams down his shoulders that Steve realizes, almost chuckling if it wasn't for the open, bare way Billy's looking at him. Like Steve is some kind of dream come true.

And the thing is that Steve's a happy hooker. He's not looking for any pretty woman ending.

But... you know sometimes he imagines. Imagines a guy with long blonde hair pulling him close after sex and calling him honey, baby, sweetness.

Billy takes a step forward and Steve smiles at him.

"I'm assuming you don't want me scared, or nervous," Steve runs a hand up his knee.

Billy shakes his head.

"Boyfriend experience," Steve offers, but it doesn't sound like a question, because he's not asking.

Billy's telling him, in the trembling hand that finally finds it's way to Steve's knee, the heavy swallow when Steve tips his head back, letting Billy into his space.

Steve knows. He's listening.

"This a... you have rules..." Billy's voice is gruff, low. Barely heard over the hum of the ac and the distant traffic from the street below.

"I kiss," Steve cocks his head to the side, "I do just about anything. For you."

He runs his hand over the back of Billy's, just tracing the road map of his veins. The long route that led them both here.

"Billy," Steve breathes.

It was just like he imagined Billy Hargrove would kiss. Hard and rough and desperate, like they were about to be ripped apart. Maybe they were, because Steve was clinging too, and it wasn't bullshit. He was shocked to find it was true, every word of it.

He fell open on the bed, half smothered by Billy's bulk, and he reveled in it, wrapping his legs around Billy and tugging him until his full weight pressed Steve to the bed.

Billy broke their kiss with a rough pant against Steve's lips, "Don't wanna crush you, Pretty Boy."

Steve urged, tugging Billy harder, "What a way to go."

Billy's laugh felt different close up, and his beard was softer than it looked, tickling Steve's face. His kiss was hot, and he sank into Steve like a hot knife through butter.

Steve was used to having to work himself up, he forgot what a revelation it was to just kiss. They rolled around together like they invented it, gasping at tugging nips and sucked tongues like they had never done this shit before.

Billy cradled his face like he was trying to memorize it, barely even dry humping him.

And Steve was losing it a little, because the boyfriend experience never felt like this. Never felt like years of knowledge and a "be brave, shitbird."

Never like this.

He undressed Billy like his life depended on it, running his hands up and down Billy's scars and feeling like he could cry, or laugh or something. Somehow, Billy was now the slow one, holding him carefully, like Steve might break. And Steve was the animal, the cyclone, kissing Billy hard, rubbing up on him like a cat in heat.

Because it was Billy, Billy Hargrove, and he was murmuring about honey and sweetheart, and he was begging Steve in soft words to just, "let me take care of you, that's all I want. Want to wrap those legs around my head and drown in 'ya, Harrington."

Steve shook his head, trembling when Billy rolled his hands around Steve's cock through the shorts, pulling Billy closer with his legs.

"I'm ready," Steve whispered, "Want you inside of me. Please, Billy, let's not wait."

"M'Pretty Boy," Billy whispered back, sounding tortured. His brows were drawn up as if in pain, and he cradled Steve's cheek in one hand.

"Billy," Steve pulled Billy back by that long gorgeous hair, "Just fuck me. Please, God, I really want you to fuck me, please."

Billy had a slightly troubled look, but he nodded, tugging at Steve's shorts with gentle hands, chuckling softly when Steve reaches down and yanks them off roughly, losing them in the rumpled bed instantly.

Steve just rolled his legs up, not wanting to part before he gets into position and-

"Condoms," Billy gasped, his eyes jolting to Steve's face.

"Yes... fuck... sorry, yes, I have some, they're on the nightstand."

It's like dousing them both with ice water. Billy pulls back, looking at Steve and then looking down.

They sit there a moment.

"I want you to know," Billy said in a cracked voice after a long pause, his back to Steve. "I'm not a creep. I haven't thought of you in... in a long time. I don't like... hire guys and make them pretend to be you or nothing like that. I just..."

Steve waits, just listening. After a while he reaches a hand out and putting it on Billy's shoulder, rubbing slightly.

"I'm not a creep. I'm not gonna follow you home and t-throw you in a trunk or something-"

"Stop," Steve said, rubbing Billy's back in slow circles. "I don't think that."

"I just mean.... I'll pay," Billy said it gruffly, "If you have another client tonight, you gotta rush, that's ok. But if you have the night, I'll pay."

Steve looks down, catching a glimpse of Billy's hands, tangled together in his lap, holding the condom that he grabbed from the bedside table. He's just as beautiful as he used to be, maybe more so. He's got a layer of fat over his muscles that makes him look softer, his hair is long and soft, and even the beard, it takes away all his rough edges.

"I don't have to rush," Steve said. "Why'd you have me dress up, Billy?"

"I just saw someone, the other day. Been seeing him. In Venice. This guy, he's always wearing these loose robes and he hangs out on his balcony in the morning," Billy bit his lip, "Sometimes with a blonde guy. Boyfriend or something. Anyway, he kinda looks like you. And my boyfriend dumped me like a year ago, because I'm still a total freakshow. Issues on issues on issues. So I thought, fuck it. Why don't I just... be the freakshow I am."

"You're not a freakshow."

Billy chuckles, "Trust me. I am. Pining after a high school... nothing. You didn't even like me."

"I-"

"Don't pretend," Billy looks at him, eyes glistening, "Don't you bullshit me, Harrington."

"I'm not," Steve says, heart in his throat. "I'm not bullshitting. Haven't been from the moment you walked in here."

Billy says nothing, just looking at him.

"I don't have to rush," Steve shook his head. "And if tomorrow, you just leave, and there's money on the stand... that's totally cool. But I'm rushing because... because..."

Billy just watches. Listens.

"Because I'm really glad to see you again, Billy. Really glad. And I wouldn't mind," Steve steels himself for rejection, sucking in a breath. "Seeing you after tonight."

Billy's brow furrows, and he looks down at his hands again.

"Like... maybe for real. And I can wear actual clothes. And no one has to pay anyone. And I'll know who you are. You'll know who I am. And I'll take you back to Venice to meet my roommate, who you already fucking know, I think."

Billy's blinking hard, and it takes Steve a moment to realize he's crying.

"Billy," He whispers, "Honey. Sweetheart."

Billy reaches out and cradles Steve's cheeks, pulling him into his lap and then into a kiss.

"I don't think you're a creep, Billy," Steve wraps his legs around Billy, and holds him safe and warm, "I know you. I know you."

Billy makes a wounded noise, like he doesn't know if that's a good or a bad thing. But then he starts running his hands down Steve's chest, tugging on his chest hair and rolling his nipples between his fingers, and Steve goes kind of cock dumb and wild again, rolling his hips, seeking to get closer. He wants Billy to press him to the bed, crush him with his weight.

It's just a happy blur, punctuated by moments of crystal clear sweetness. Billy presses his cock inside of Steve after a long, leisurely, lovely trip between Steve's legs. It turns out his tongue really is magic like the girls used to write on the bathroom walls. Steve's heart is beating like a jackhammer and he's sweating like he did so long ago in high school, his hair flopping in his face as Billy drives into him hard.

"You used to look so fuckin' cute in these little shorts," Billy growled, "Put them on again. Wanna push them to the side, get you all fucked out and gorgeous. Want you to cum in them, pressed all up against the waistband."

And maybe Jason's rubbing off on Steve because he does, slides the somewhat wrecked shorts over his sweaty ass and flops back on the bed. He practically presents his ass on a Hawkins green platter, moaning all slutty.

"Used to dream about them every night," Billy rubs him through the shorts, "Used to think about you in the hospital. When you would wear that fucking family video vest and come drive Max. You got me through physical therapy."

Steve looked over his shoulder, still working his ass back on Billy's cock, "I still have the vest."

"Fuck... fuck..." Billy actually covers his face with his hands, "Is this real? This is real right, not fake bullshit?"

Steve's literally got a cock in his ass, and it's normally not how he does stuff, but he looks back, because seriously?

"Billy. I said I wanna see you? I like you? Now can you please keep fucking me, I'm so close."

Billy finally smiles that smile, that devilish grin, "At your service, Sweetheart."

And then he rocks his hips up and back in a way that presses right against that sweet spot that makes Steve see stars. He cums so hard it does soak into the shorts like Billy said, and Billy rubs it in messily, groaning and pressing his head to Steve's back.

Steve goes boneless on the bed, not even moving when Billy pulls his softening cock out and gets up.

There's a moment when Steve's heart skips a beat that he thinks Billy's gonna slap down an envelope of cash and ask him to leave. And that would be fine. Could be totally fine.

But instead he tugs the covers back and helps Steve under, wrapping his arms around Steve and holding him close to his heart.

"You meant that, about seeing me again?" Billy says softly.

"Yeah, weren't you listening?" Steve plays with the silver medallion that hangs across Billy's collarbone.

"Yeah, I was listening," Billy kisses Steve's temple softly, and Steve's heart flutters like a cartoon duck. "How about we start with breakfast tomorrow. I got a good amount, let's give someone the tip of their life. And I think you need waffles. Pancakes. Whatever the hell you want."

Normally, Steve would call bullshit. But Billy's got a Cartier tank ticking where he tucks a sweaty lock behind Steve's ear. And he knows Billy. He trusts him.

Steve tugs on the necklace until Billy gets the hint and draws him into another filthy kiss.

Steve's normally a pretty good hooker. He's not looking for a Pretty Woman ending.

But it turns out he's a bit of a sucker for the boyfriend experience.

---

This got WAY long. I'll proably put it up on ao3. @intothedysphoria and @dragonflylady77 be proud of me plz.

#asks #harringrove #my writing #shieldofiron #SW Steve Harrington #Billy Hargrove #Billy x Steve #Steve x Billy #bratty steve harrington #bear billy hargrove #otter steve harrington

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pseudophan · 8 months

Text

some post wad weekend thoughts...

i just wrote all this on the plane and haven't read it through so apologies for any mistakes

first of all, this weekend was incredible. i usually just kinda sit at home doing not much of anything, and this was a much needed break to actually have some fun. london in general always lifts my spirits but i suppose that danisnotonfire guy contributed a little as well.

guys i think i've met more people the past few days than i otherwise have in years. like. holy shit. i started listing people but i'm petrified i'll forget someone so i chickened out, sorry about that. but you all know who you are. i've met friends i've had for years, people i used to know but haven't spoken to in what feels like a decade, newer friends, and a frankly baffling amount of people i didn't know yet but who told me they've followed me for ages. like holy fuck you guys lmao what the hell??? and i mean did the reaction ever get old no of course it didn't. bad for my ego i'm sure but totally worth it. there's something very amusing and incredibly surreal about being chronically lame in most aspects of life and then suddenly finding yourself in an environment where you're kinda cool???? SO fucking fun oh my god, but also i do kinda feel like i've tricked you all? but hey i'll happily let you keep believing i'm cool, that is more than fine with me.

most importantly though everyone was SO lovely. like i said i don't think i've spoken to this many people in such a short amount of time in years and every single person i talked to was awesome. guys did you know phannies are kind of great... don't tell anyone but, lowkey... everyone is so funny and cool and absolutely insane but in a good way (shoutout everyone left at the gates until the very end, we should probably get some help).

and then lastly of course, mr howell himself. i talk about this a lot i feel like but fuck me that man was born to perform. whether you think he's actually funny or not, nobody can argue he doesn't absolutely thrive on a stage. he plays off the audience so well and he's so very obviously having the time of his fucking life. i'd already seen the show twice before this, and i didn't think anything would top the previous london show but man... the first night he came back out after the show having clearly been tearing up backstage, apologising for being an inconsistent absent parent, and i can't lie the "i had daddy issues and THEN i subscribed to dan howell" got me cause yeah no literally dude, you nailed it, exactly, well done. i think something about doing this show again, his magnum opus as he considers it, now after the dapg return was very special to him. he seems genuinely surprised that so many of us were ready to just jump back in like nothing happened, i don't think he was expecting so many people to still be waiting and it's... man. he comes off so grateful for us all and it's so fucking sweet. and then on the last night, i think that was my favourite, when the show ended and he got the standing ovation and people throwing him flowers.. he was so HAPPY. and clearly overwhelmed with emotion which, i gotta say, there is something honestly kinda funny about daniel howell standing in front of you trying not to cry. like no by all means dude go ahead, please, you've made me cry an endless amount of times it's only fair.

ugh. i'm proud of him or whatever. dick. and i'm proud of our ridiculous fucking community. i'm not sure what 14 year old nora would say if you'd told me i'd still be kicking it in the phandom a decade on, but at almost 25 (fml) i'm so so happy to be here still. you know, we get a bad rep, but i genuinely think as far as fanbases go we're pretty solid. and i love you all so much.

i believe i will have to rob a bank or something because the next time dan and/or phil do a tour i think i'll have to just show up at every date like i'm sorry but this was too good of a high we need to do it again immediately

anyway. back to work 💪

(by which i mean giffing dan and phil. i am still very much unemployed. fr though i'm two whole videos behind this has never happened i feel weird. who am i)

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evansbby · 1 year

Note

omg imagine steve is using his sweet daddy voice during sex on omega bc he wants her to forget that he’s filming “no baby the camera is off i promise just focus on me”

Imagine Steve forcing omega to film a sex tape with him, but he manipulates her by luring her in with the promise of romantic, lovemaking sex 😭

Warnings: noncon, dubcon, daddy!kink, 18+ only minors dni!

💕💕💕💕

“Steve, p-please turn the camera off.”

“It is off, baby. I promise it’s off. Why do you keep focusing on it, anyways? Don’t you want us to make love?” Steve kisses down your neck, his fingers forcibly turning your face away from the blinking red light of his camera.

“B-But I can — ah! — can see the light on it!”

Steve sucks hard on your mating gland, making you go lax in his arms as he has his way with you. Propping you up in his lap with your legs spread over his muscular thighs. His fingers grip your sensitive flesh, spreading your legs even further and your pussy glistens again the bright light of the room.

“The light just means it’s running out of battery, baby. Don’t you trust daddy?”

“I—I do, but…but…but…”

“Look, didn’t I promise you we’d make love tonight? All nice and gentle how you like it?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Stop saying but!” Steve snaps sharply, giving your thigh a hard slap before his features turn sweet once more. “Now omega, I’m doing this for you, okay? I could very easily just bend you over and fuck you till you pass out. And I know you’d love that too because you’re a slutty little baby omega who’s desperate for my daddy dick, aren’t you?”

You sniffle and earn another slap on your thigh which makes you yelp.

“Yes, okay?! Yes, I am!”

Steve gives you a soft kiss on the cheek, “I know you are, baby. But I also saw that hopeful smile on your face earlier when I told you I was gonna make love to you tonight. Don’t think I didn’t notice how excited you got, how you practically skipped around as you served me dinner.”

You bow your head, feeling embarrassed. Of course, you had been intrigued and excited when Steve had said he was going to “make love” to you. The omega inside you had practically burst with happiness. But this… sitting naked in his lap and splayed open with a camera pointed directly at you? This wasn’t what you’d been expecting at all.

“Now, look straight ahead and tell daddy how happy you are that I’m gonna make love to you.”

“W-What, but I thought you said the camera was turned off—?”

“Shut up and do what I say!”

Steve’s hands are all over you, groping you sensually in a way that’s making you see stars. Rubbing softly up and down your arms before his large palm presses against your bare pussy, cupping it gently and just… resting his hand there while your bundle of nerves throbs and you squirm on top of him.

“I — uh— I’m really happy that we’re gonna make love.” You say shyly, hoping and praying that whatever gets recorded tonight never sees the light of day again. Maybe, by some miracle, the camera would lose its battery and die! Or one of you would kick it accidentally and it would break, or—

“Tell the camera how shy you are, and how you begged me to make love to you.”

“I… I can’t, Steve! I don’t want to be filmed, please!”

“Of course you do, sweet baby omega.” Steve coos, although you see his eyes narrow for a split second. But then, he cuddles you close and presses a bazillion kisses on your face. You feel butterflies flutter in your tummy at that, and then he starts touching you again.

His pointer finger swipes up your slit, gathering your cream before pressing down on your puffy button and making you gasp and jerk in his arms. He grins wickedly, circling your clit with his finger and you feel yourself clench hard, and more of your wetness pools down on his thigh.

“Look at the sweet little baby, all wet because daddy promised to fuck you real good.” Steve coos, babying you so much but all you can do is feel flustered and hump against his hand as he rubs your button. “But you’re not being a good girl, baby. You’re not cooperating like I told you to. Which means we won’t be making love tonight.”

He fucks you in every depraved way possible that night. And it feels good, oh so good. The ferality takes over as you submit to him, letting him fuck you on all fours, letting him bounce you on top of him, letting him stick his fingers up your other hole, letting him bring the camera up to your face while you cry like a baby because you’re so full… so filled to the brim with him. Letting him slap his dick across your face, smear his cum on your cheeks. Letting him kiss up and down your whole body, while his hands rain unforgiving spanks on your ass. You let him do it all.

And Steve gleefully shows you the footage the next morning while you hide your face in his shoulder and almost cry from embarrassment.

“If this was a porno, it’d be called ‘tiny shy omega gets completely wrecked by her big strong alpha mate.” Steve boasts, looking extremely proud of himself as he stares at the footage of both of your naked bodies (mainly yours).

“Please don’t post it anywhere!” You beg.

And Steve tears his eyes away from the carnal display of your lovemaking to look at you with a glint in his eye.

“Of course I won’t post it anywhere, baby. This is for my personal collection only. Don’t you trust me?”

💕💕💕🫣🫣🫣

THE END AJDJSKSKSK

(Although Steve would never post any footage of omega anywhere sksksks idk)

#anon #poyt ask #poyt drabble #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader

554 notes · View notes

valscigarette · 18 days

Text

Summary: Val gets so overstimulated by his own prehensile dick that his demonic form comes out. inspired by this post by @shushposting!

Tags: Vox/Val, Val/Angel, Val/Velvette, Poly Vees, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, Smut

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed warnings!

WC: 7.9k | AO3

By now, Vox has the ritual down to a science. Every so often, just infrequently enough to avoid suspicion, he taps a couple drops of Velvette's love potion into Val's morning Four Loko and jumpstarts the program for his desktop camera feeds to follow Valentino for the day. It’s easy. Val never fails to leave his drink unattended at some point over breakfast and no attendant would dare point out Vox spiking his drink. Even Kitty, ever watchful, says nothing.

“I'm busy today, just so you know,” Vox lies while Valentino curses out their toaster one morning. “Back-to-back meetings. Try not to have any emergencies.”

He pulls the bottle of potion from his pocket and draws up the usual two drop dose, leaving only a thin veneer of the glossy liquid at the bottom. It always amazes him how potent it is; the formula is derived from Val's own pheromones, after all. The love potion dissolves easily into the acidic drink, and, when a quick glance confirma Val is still fighting to get his bread back, Vox tips the remainder of the bottle in as well. It's hardly anything, he reasons. There's no sense in leaving so little behind.

As he slips the empty container back into his blazer, Val turns around with a frown twisted across his face. “Vox, the fucking toaster is broken again!”

“Did you hear me? At all?” Vox asks, already getting up to assist with the not broken toaster. He leans into Val's space as he pulls the lever back up. It was knocked off track by Val's struggling, but his breakfast is salvageable and Vox can have the toaster replaced after the fact. “You're on your own today. Don't call me unless the tower is burning down.”

Once Vox plates up the toast, Val swans back to the table to spread spiked butter over it. Generally, Vox can't remember a second of the time he's known Valentino and seen him sober, and it no longer surprises him how much Val takes in a single day. So long as the studio keeps pumping out blockbusters and Val stays too high to notice a little extra kick in his drink, Vox is content to let him bury his days in a foggy quagmire of his own making. Val's less of a bitch the higher he is, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule’s tight, Papi's got more important things to do than me,” Val drawls. He slugs back a heavy gulp of his Four Loko and doesn't so much as twitch. “Tell me, Vox, when did you get so fucking boring?”

Vox takes one of Val's hands and rubs his knuckles, a charming grin cutting into his screen. “These meetings keep the lights on, babydoll.” His own face mirrors back at him hundreds of times in Val's compound eyes, dancing as his gaze shifts over the reflections. “If anything goes wrong, take it up with Velvette. I'm sure she'd be,” Vox stops, his fans whirring like an inhale to cool his rapidly heating processors, “happy to assist. Provided you leave her models alone.” He raises Val's hand to his screen for a kiss, and doesn't begrudge Val a flirtatious caress along the bottom of his screen as he pulls away.

Val groans low in the back of his throat, but it's too early in the morning for him to put up much of a fight. He finishes his breakfast in relative peace, scrolling through Sinstagram, texting Angel Dust, and occasionally slurping his drink, none the wiser about how long the day ahead will be for him. Vox can barely contain himself long enough to see Val out the door of the kitchenette, still nursing his Four Loko as he lights a cigarette.

The second he can drop the pretense of his own standard morning routine, Vox zaps into the nearest security camera. The electrical currents carry him down to his office, where a set of screens on the right side of his desk follow Val through the hallways of Vee Tower exactly as planned. His day is empty. There are no meetings. All Vox has to attend to is his own libido as he watches the love potion slowly rip Val’s self control to pieces.

Its effects first make themselves known on the elevator to the studio. A simple twitch is all it is. Val looks down at his crotch, mildly surprised by the semi, but overall nonplussed as he finishes the last of his drink. He’s probably watching porn on his phone, Vox thinks, and can blame the early tinges of arousal on it.

Valentino bursts into the studio like a model entering a runway, his wings a cape and his smoke a dramatic cloud, and the plain irritation on his face only enhances the beauty of his harsh angles. One of Vox’s cameras, outfitted with a zoom lens, closes in on the shape of his cock trapped in his tight white bell bottoms. Shifting shadows hint that the eager thing is already squirming, probably mere minutes from plunging into Val's own hole to sate its drug induced need. Vox cups himself in sympathy, stroking his thumb along the length of his bulge.

“Angel,” Val hisses. His gravelly voice carries across the studio, distracting Angel Dust from the makeup artist turning a black eye into a smokey shadow look. “I need to see you in your dressing room.”

With a flurry of assurances to the cosmetician, Angel follows Val to his dressing room, unable to get a single questioning word past his lips before Val bends him over his vanity, yanks down his panties, and shimmies his own pants down just enough to let his swollen, prehensile dick out. The side angle from a visible security camera is perfect for admiring it until Val hunches over Angel, guiding himself into place and humming in pleasure as the slut beneath him squeaks. At that, Vox switches to a hidden camera among Angel’s makeup brushes, which allows him to watch Val’s tongue loll out and antennae quiver as he pounds Angel so hard the vanity dents the drywall.

“Fuck, fuck, Val,” Angel whimpers, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass top until Val pins all four of his wrists with two hands of his own. “Val, please, I’m gonna-”

Val shoves his head down against the vanity to shut him up, evidently not in the mood to hear his begging. “Just a couple minutes,” he coos, barely audible to the microphones in the room over the wet slap of his balls against Angel’s ass. “You can take it.”

None of the cameras are positioned appropriately for Vox to see the bulge Val is undoubtedly making in Angel’s stomach, but he can forgive it when this is hardly going to be Valentino’s last orgasm of the day. It’s just his first. Watching Val’s thrusts lose rhythm, Angel’s eyes cross, convinces Vox to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and shove his slacks down to his knees. He knows he has all the time in the world to take care of himself.

Angel doesn’t finish, but does keen in at an obnoxious pitch when Val does. A rich, velvety moan accompanies the final few thrusts, each hard enough to bruise and pushing more jizz to spill down Angel’s quaking thighs. Moments later, he's still panting and shivering when Val pulls out to continue jerking his now glistening cock, either unwilling or unable to stop pleasuring himself as Angel weakly pulls against the hands still pinning him in place.

“Clean yourself up before the shoot,” Val snaps. Coming has done nothing for him, and he must realize the sort of day he’s in for. “If we fall behind schedule because you’re a disgusting cumslut, I’ll make you regret it, Angelcakes.”

“Got it, Val,” Angel hiccups.

As soon as Val lets go of him, he stumbles out of the dressing room to get to the studio shower. Left alone, Valentino plops down on the couch and lets his head fall back. The whir of Vox’s cameras zooming in on him must get his attention, because he opens one eye and bares his teeth.

“Thought you were too busy for me,” he bitches, legs twitching apart as he pets a vein down the side of his cock, visibly trying to keep its interest in his hand so it doesn’t go searching for something better, like Val’s dripping pussy behind it.

In answer, Vox strokes himself faster and waits for Val to realize he can’t walk out into the studio touching himself like a desperate pervert. No one’s coming to help him out with his little problem, and nothing would help anyway except to let the love potion run its course.

“You better not be saving this to your spank bank, Voxxy,” Val spits, his back arching as his writhing dick finally escapes his grasp and presses into his hole. “You ffffuck- fucking asshole.”

After a few indulgent minutes, he clenches his fists, wipes the sweat off his brow, and eases his pants back up his hips, though their tightness does little to obscure the lewd act happening beneath. His staff ought to know better than to acknowledge it, though, when Valentino perches in his director’s chair with his legs crossed and calls action.

For the first half of the day, Val puts up an admirable fight against the overstimulation of being fucked by his own dick non-stop. He disguises his several orgasms behind cursed insults and bites so deep into the heel of his hand that his teeth come away dark with blood. Vox doesn’t get himself off as he watches, but occasionally manages to get a few emails sent off when Val gets himself together enough to complain about the costumes or the performances.

Vox knows things are getting interesting when Val calls for a lunch break. The mere idea is laughable, unless one happens to know it’s an excuse to clear the set so he can handle whatever meltdown possesses him on a given day. Practically the second he’s alone, Val calls Vox.

It takes a lot of willpower, but Vox lets it ring all the way to voicemail, eyes locked on the obscene movement in Val’s visibly soaked pants. He doesn’t answer the second time either. He also doesn’t feel guilty when Val throws his phone into a wall out of pure frustration. After all, Vox did warn him he would be too busy to help today.

“You little shit,” Val whines in the general direction of a camera, wobbly, like he might cry. “You can’t leave me like this Vox, get your flat fucking ass up here and help me!”

Truly, Vox calls Velvette out of the kindness in his heart. She answers for him right away, her end of the line chaotic with the background of her workshop, though she’s pristinely put together herself. “What, Vox?”

“I gave Val some love potion this morning,” he tells her, politely maintaining a high enough camera angle so as not to flash her with his own body or Valentino’s. “Great work on that formula by the way, my dear.” She grins with the compliment, a perfect opportunity for Vox to offer, “He could use a break if you’re up for it.”

Her smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not playing ring-around-the-cock-cage,” she snarks.

“Of course not.” Vox placates her by texting over a link to his live feeds of Valentino. “But I know you like him all pathetic, so I thought I’d give you a go.”

Velvette harrumphs and considers his proposition, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh as if he’s asked some gargantuan favor of her by offering up an overstimulated, submissive Valentino on a platter. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Whatever you please, darling,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Now, go put on a show, I’ll be watching.”

“Nasty prick.”

She flips him off, face wrinkled in faux-disgust before hanging up the call. On looking back at his screens, Vox finds Val spread out on the studio floor, massaging the base of his dick that isn’t buried in his pussy, back arched at the overwhelming sensations. The deep v of his low-cut shirt falls open as he thrashes to occasionally show one of his heart-shaped nipples, pierced and nearly as flushed as his cheeks with excitement. It takes minutes for Velvette to appear, but they drag on forever when Vox has such a delectable sight to enjoy.

“Come on, Val,” Velvette says, her voice ringing out before the cameras catch her walking up to his prone form on the ground. “You shut down the whole studio for this?” she asks. One of her sharp heels kicks Val’s hand away from his crotch, allowing her a better view of his situation. “This is embarrassing for you. You seriously can’t control your needy dick long enough to get through the day?”

To his credit, Val manages to speak between the wet hitches of his breath. “It’s not my fault,” he spits out. Excess drool puddles around his lips and tongue, slurring his speech. “I can’t make it stop, and fucking Vox won’t pick up his phone!” He lifts his hips toward Velvette but she backs away before he can touch her.

“If you only want Vox, then…” Velvette teases.

In an instant, Val is falling over himself to take it back, practically snapping his neck with how quickly he springs up on his knees. “No, princesa, I’m happy to see you!” Vox’s cock leaks at the desperation in Val's tone, the tremor in his hands as he claws up the hem of Velvette’s skirt. “Don’t go. Daddy’ll make it worth your while, don’t you worry your pretty head-”

“Shut up,” Velvette interjects. “Just- take your pants off and try not to make a fucking mess.”

She helps Val kick off his shoes so they can strip away his bottoms, exposing him to the cold studio air. Several of Vox's cameras whirr as they focus on the million dollar view of Val's mindless, almost tentacle-like cock cruelly fucking him past him past the oversensitivity. Oh, he's going to be crying before Velvette finishes with him.

The morning's buildup of tension surges in Vox's stomach as Velvette straddles Valentino, perfectly positioned to grind against the base of his cock and fondle his pretty nipples. A chirping trill breaks from his mouth when she pinched one between her fingers. “If you want a break,” she huffs, “we have to work for it. You know that, babes.”

Val moans a few slurred words that sound enough like an agreement for Velvette to slice off her panties to get them out of the way. Later, she'll absolutely invoice Vox their cost. At present, his cameras perfectly capture her sopping pussy rutting against Valentino. They're set to record automatically when he runs the program tracking Val, but he has to double check that he'll be able to watch the two of them forever. Velvette's exquisite heat is enough to tempt Val's cock out of himself and into her as well, giving Vox yet another gorgeous shot to obsess over for weeks before it plunges into her.

“Goddammit, Valentino!” she yelps, digging her nails into his chest.

At the same time, Val's hips jerk up to help him bury his dick in her cunt, the poor thing helplessly repeating “Thank you Velvette, thank you, thank you,” like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Dozens of cameras strewn about the studio give Vox every shot he could want, including a down-angled lens that lets him see both the place where Val disappears onto Velvette, and Val's swollen pussy that twitches every time he bottoms out in her. Pearls of come bead from between his lips and drip to the floor, and it's the realization of how much Val has already come that pushes Vox over the edge.

He's alone, but still bites the inside of his cheek to quiet his moan as he spills over his hand, the suddenness of it only intensifying the sensations. On screen, Val has found the perfect angle to drive fucked out little “ah”s from Velvette's painted lips on every thrust. His legs betray him. They kick out, restless and useless, a perfect tell that he's past his limit by midday.

“So perfect, so fucking tight,” Val praises. His lower set of hands find purchase on her hips to aid each fluid motion and the pressure makes Velvette groan. “My pretty dolly.”

“Please shut the fuck up,” she snarls. “I'll cut this thing off and hang it like a trophy in my office, don't test me.”

Contrary to her intentions, this drags another breathless orgasm from him, noticeable only from her offended gasp and the cum frothing around his cock as he continues fucking her. “Y-you can have it, amor,” he chokes out, “it'll grow back.”

“You wish. It's the only worthwhile thing about you.” Velvette's cruelty always impresses Vox, and strikes one of Val's many kinks. “Now hurry up and get me off, I have actual work to get done today.”

When it takes him too long to work up the coordination, she grabs the upper hand not somehow still clinging to his cigarette holder, spits on his slender fingers, and forces it into place so that she can still grind her clit into his palm even if he goes limp beneath her. Their hands make the swell in Velvette's lower stomach look even more obscene, visibly twitching as Val's devilish cock moves inside her.

“Finally. For a porn overlord, you're useless with a pussy, you know.” Her words don't match the climbing urgency of her motions, but do fit Val's downright sloppy rhythm that he'll be ashamed of when Vox plays this back for him later. “Vox fucks me better.”

“You fucking bitch!” Val cries.

Although Vox planned on waiting a while for his next round, Velvette's hard-earned praise has him shifting in his seat with pavlovian interest. In his second of distraction, the slight enrages Val enough to flip himself and Velvette over with a heavy thud. The cameras fuzz with the power radiating off him, not long enough for Vox to register it as anything more than his own malfunctioning systems as he wraps a hand around himself once more.

Velvette moans under Valentino, who has found the energy to put his back into each harsh thrust and growl, “I'll show you who fucks better.”

The spurt of jealousy surpasses his exhaustion and frustration enough for Val to drill her into the floor, each motion rhythmic and punishing in the way only a professional cam achieve, one of his many hands busy circling her clit between them.

“I can do this all day, Mami.” Every time Val thrusts into her, Velvette slides up the marble floor, until she wraps her legs around his waist for purchase. “All-” he interrupts himself with a whine, “all night, too.”

He's fucking her too hard for Velvette to get out a response, but her wordless moans say enough. She probably meant to rile him up. It worked beautifully, and Vox files away a mental note to buy her the most extravagant gift basket in the entire Pride ring tomorrow. Beads of sweat roll down Val's back like invitations for Vox's tongue, and each whimper in symphony with Velvette beckons him to join them but he promised himself he'd wait. It'll be so much better to deal with Val tonight after an entire day of this.

“Mi princesa.” Val's voice is equal parts breathless and honey-sweet, as saccharine as his dopamine riddled drool that Vox can see soaking stains into Velvette's top. “So beautiful, you, shit, you drive me fucking crazy.”

She doesn't reply so much as arch into him, nails digging into his skin once more and drawing enticing furrows of blood down the expanse of his back, mean tips of her heels beating bruises into either side of his spine with each vicious thrust. On another day, when they have the time, Vox could easily spend hours watching the two of them fuck like they're fighting. Today he only has one goal.

“Don't stop,” Velvette gasps. Her body has gone mostly pliant beneath Val, drowning in the sensation too much to keep giving as good as she gets. “Fucking hell-”

Val presses himself as tightly against her as he can when he comes. His muscles seize, thrown in perfect relief under the calculated, cold studio lights, then go lax as he collapses in a gaggle of uncoordinated limbs on top of her. Still, his cock keeps working on its own. Judging by her whimpers, Vox missed Velvette's orgasm under the beauty of Val's, though he doesn't mind when she's still exhaling pleased groans every couple seconds.

“Okay, that's enough,” she sighs.

Muffling his voice in her shoulder isn't enough to disguise Valentino's sob.

“Cut it out,” Velvette tells him, sharper this time, and shoves at Val's shoulders until he props himself up enough for her to wiggle from beneath him. Her biggest challenge is getting away from his ruthless cock, relentlessly trying to pound into her, but the advantage of being a separate person allows her to get back to her feet as Val's two excessive loads of spend drip down her legs.

Without the reprieve she grants, it takes seconds for Val's dick to find its way back to his hole. His legs collapse almost immediately. The tears come back full force when Val falls on his ass, overcome by his own rare disinterest with sex and the prospect that, like Vox, Velvette will make him deal with his libido on his own.

“Please don't go,” Val trills, unironically crawling across the floor to Velvette because his legs must be useless. Vox earmarks this section of the footage too. It’s not often he gets to see Val in a state so desperate, so soon. “I’ll do whatever you want! Anything for mi princesa, my beautiful Vel, always so good to me and Vox.” He reaches her inches from the doorway, clumsily petting whatever parts of her he can reach in the distraction of his nonexistent refractory period. If he notices her pushing his hands away, he doesn’t care, continuing to offer, “as much head as you want, my face was fucking made for sitting on,” with no appreciation for her waning patience.

“Piss off!” she finally shouts, kicking Val away with a heel to the chest that will surely bruise.

Now that seduction has failed, Val growls at a pitch subaudible to most sinners, and somehow draws himself up on wobbly, fawn-like legs. He hardly looks threatening, still at the mercy of his own traitorous body, but Vox still snaps screenshots off every camera. “Do you know how many bitches would kill to breathe the same air as me?” If he expects to frighten Velvette into submission, Valentino has another thing coming. “You don’t get to abandon me like this, amorcita.”

“Funny,” Velvette sniffs, “I don’t actually care.”

Before he can issue another empty threat, Velvette whips out her cell phone to take several crisp, high-definition shots that Vox knows he’ll want framed even before they upload to the crowd. Thousands of pixels catch all the glory of Val’s wrecked state: his fur matted by a mixture of his own fluids, Velvette’s, and Angel’s; his cheeks flushed so bright he looks made up; his mouth slack with a suffering that could easily be mistaken for pleasure; his cock a noticeable fiend blurred by its motion. Oh, Vox could kiss Velvette right now. Instead he rewards himself by speeding up his jerking off.

“Interrupt my work day, Val, see what I do with these,” she taunts, waving around her spoils.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Val roars, though he doesn’t make any move to take her phone or stop her from leaving. “Fucking ungrateful, irritating cocktease!” As Velvette exits the studio, his shouting follows her down the corridor, all the way to the elevator. “You’re dead, princesa! FUCKING DEAD!”

She laughs as the elevator doors close.

Vox happily returns his attention to Val, who cannot distract himself forever by fussing at someone who’s not on the same level of the building anymore. The brief reprieve for his overworked pussy seems to have made things worse, reducing Val to a weeping mess as his surge of adrenaline wanes and he fights to get to the set bed before his knees give out beneath him. Honestly, Vox couldn’t have designed this better himself. The studio is the perfect place for Val to take repose as his own cock relentlessly wrecks him.

He drags a pillow to his face and bites it to muffle the sobbing moans that return with a vengeance now that Val is giving into the helpless state he’s found himself in. What a pretty picture he paints, a magnificent masterpiece of debauchery that makes Vox understand the appeal of the sloppy scenes Val shoots all day. They’d make millions if he wasn’t such a priss about losing control of his dick, because the Sistine Chapel itself couldn’t compare to the tableau Val presents on days like these.

Another orgasm wrenches a scream from Val’s throat, his limbs jerking and the wet spot beneath him on the bed spreading faster than his legs on any-damn-day of the week. Vox has to congratulate himself, as Val’s crying turns to borderline hyperventilating, on picking such delightful business partners. Nothing in Hell compares to this, nor could it come close. And it’s all for him. He knows Val is waiting for Vox to come fix his problem, as always, and it’s a heady power the demon would never consider allowing anyone else except for maybe Velvette- who wouldn’t have put Love Potion in Val’s Four Loko this morning, but might’ve been more sympathetic if she didn’t get off on her participation in Vox’s scheme.

“Vooox,” Val whimpers, hardly discernible through the pillow and its feathery bite wound. The allure of his name in that voice has Vox leaning forward in his chair and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come from the acknowledgement alone. “Vox…?”

He switches his main camera, a few feet away but in need of an adjustment he knows Val will catch the motion of, given the wanton way he looks at the sea of cameras around him. All it takes a small movement, a few inches to angle the lens higher, and Val lets out a defeated laugh.

“You, mmm, motherfucker,” he giggles, or perhaps sobs. Vox can see every tear to drip down Val’s face, but there’s a humorous bend to his tone like he reaches when he’s grasping at straws for any semblance of control. It typically takes him all day to break this far, but Vox did tip extra into his drink to empty the bottle, and he can’t find it in himself to fault Val for his own mistake. Not when it turns out this well, that is. “Better be coming to help me, or I’ll- I’ll-”

Vox zaps into his desk and reemerges from the camera he fixed. All the footage runs in the background of his processors, but he won’t complain about the chance to see Val up close. His screens, no matter how high definition, can't capture the scent of sweat, smoke, and cum permeating the air, or the sound of the silk sheets rasping against the waterproof cover beneath them.

“Aw, Val,” he teases, crackling with all the faux-sugar that normally falls under his partner’s purview. “You’ll what?”

Anything coherent disappears into Val’s crying. From the edge of the mattress, Vox can run his claw-tipped hands up Val’s strong thighs, nudging them further apart for a better look at his predicament. The skin on his cock is as pink and raw as his pussy by now from his fruitless attempts at shutting down his libido, as if he truly believed that a go at anyone else would be enough to stifle his need.

“You’re no better than the rest of your whores, poor thing,” Vox tuts. He sinks into the bed enough to nearly lose his balance when he climbs on, but quickly braces himself with one hand on Val’s ass and the other on his lower back, between his bottom set of shoulder blades. Faintly sparkling sweat sticks to him, a side effect of the potion. But the barest contact drives Val wild, bucking as if he’s not sure whether he wants the attention he’s been demanding or if even Vox’s comparatively innocent touch is beyond the pail. “I can’t wait to show you all the footage later. Don’t worry- I probably won’t release it.” He squeezes Val’s ass to make him shudder. “This is just for me, right, honey?”

Val nods, trembling like he might be close again. “One more, then…?”

He sounds so pathetic, so tired, that Vox might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t leaking through his slacks. “Dunno about that. Your cage’s down in my room, and, honestly,” Vox trails off, shifting to pin Val’s legs with his own to stop them from twitching shut, “you already shut down the studio, and I’m not marking today as a loss.”

He knows well enough that his fingers alone won’t be enough to coax Val’s dick out of place, but he still traces the swollen point of connection where it disappears into his cunt, constantly rolling and grinding with more mechanical precision than Vox’s best designed machines. The joke really is on whatever God stuck them down here: nothing could be more heavenly than this.

“Do you know how many times you’ve come today?” Vox asks. “I counted a round dozen, but I might’ve missed some.” He rocks his hips into Val, which is barely satisfying, but nonetheless triggers his cooling fans to top speed and wires a shock over his body. “What’s your single-day record, anyway? It’s higher than twenty, if I remember correctly.”

The implicit warning breaks through to Val. He shoves the pillow away and fights to prop himself up enough to tearfully beg, “Don’t, Papi, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” With little more effort than swatting a fly, Vox summons his cables to encircle Val’s wrists and ankles, each pulled flat to the bed until the moth is spread out for him and unable to wiggle more than a couple inches in any direction. In the chaos, he runs a quick records search as well. “You did twenty-four, one on each hour, for a New Year’s special a couple decades back. But you’re not the record-holder.” Vox abandons him on the bed. “That would be your pet project, Angel Dust. Last Valentine’s Day, you got a round thirty out of him. We never released it, but I’ve got it all on camera in case we decide to.” He pats Val’s ankle affectionately. “You’re not letting that whore outdo you.”

“Vox.”

Pretending not to hear him, Vox finds Val’s director’s chair to drag over for a better view. Nothing changes in the moments his back is turned, but he can’t stand to miss a moment of the best show of Val’s career--especially not when he finds the seat of the chair still damp.

“Calm the fuck down,” Vox assures once he’s perched at the foot of the bed, studying Val like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case his cameras fail. “Like you said, you were made for this. Cry all you want, sweetheart. I’m not here to help you.”

Either Val is worked up to the point that words are enough to send him into yet another orgasm, or Vox’s timing was perfect to the instant. It’s a victory either way. As Val babbles into the sheets, his wings begin to flutter and struggle too with the inescapable stimulation. Vox can’t strip his suit away fast enough, probably should have stripped it off before he came, but the combination of his dizzying hard-on and the pure filth of Val laid out in front of him make the layers unbearably warm..

“Fuck, if you could see yourself, Val.” Vox can’t decide whether it’s better to finish himself off now, and last longer when he gets around to fucking Val later, or if he should draw each climax out to its highest potential before letting himself enjoy them. “I’ve been nice. I always come to help when you can’t get ahold of yourself.” Choppy wheezing is music to his ears. “I’ve earned a front row ticket here, don’t you think? Raise those hips a little.” When Val doesn’t so much as try to move, he uses the cables to rearrange him like a doll. “Let Daddy see. Don’t tell me you’re shy now; you look gorgeous.”

Val gags on the length of his useless, slimy tongue, and slurs unintelligibly. The change in angle is enough to let the searching tip of his cock probe that much deeper, wrenching a broken scream from his throat as he seems to come again, even if his shriveled balls are too empty to pump any more jizz out: another moment Vox bookmarks.

“There’s thirteen, baby. Just eighteen more to go.”

Something in Val breaks and he struggles with renewed vigor. For all the times Vox has encouraged his favorite little interruption, he’s never dosed out this much in one sitting, and as the air thickens with demonic power, he wonders if he may have pushed Val too far this time. Funny, considering Vox hasn’t even made him cum that many times yet; they have longer sessions than this before breakfast, some days.

“Vox, Papi, pleeease,” Val crows, pulling hard enough for one of his shoulders to dislocate with a bright pop. He’s a real mess. A flap of his wings generates enough wind to knock over a couple of cameras but still does nothing to save him, which is no one’s fault but his own, because it’s not technically Vox’s responsibility to help him cage his naughty tentacle of a cock. “Can’t do it. Help me, Vox, please.” He gulps for breath before rubbing his face into the blankets to wipe away snot and tears, sniveling, “Please, you have to.”

The safe move would be to wrap this up and defuse the rising tension in Val’s body, like it’s waiting to explode into something far deadlier, but Vox is used to riding the line of too close to the sun. “I don’t have to do jackshit. I do whatever the fuck I want: which, right now, is to watch you,” he sends a lovetap of a shock toward Val’s thigh, “break the Vee Tower orgasm record.”

Val’s responding screech echoes back off the studio walls. In a heartbeat, the bunching muscles of his back bulk and his slobbery tongue lengthens.

“Shit,” Vox mutters. He has moments before Val snaps through the cables like paper chains, quickly rescinding them to spare the extra sparks that are certain to incense the monster before him more. “Val, baby.” Racking his servers for the right words to talk Val down, he finds himself too overloaded to move. As Valentino morphs into his full demonic body, his dick never hesitates in its quest to mold its owners cunt to its exact shape, though the second phallus--one Vox somehow always forgets he has--growing from Val’s pelvis is easily occupied by one of Val’s expert handjobs.

Whatever biological process generates Val’s aphrodisiac fluids kicks into overdrive, causing his saliva to cascade down his chin and chest, while his slick coats his legs. An extra pair of arms stretches in tandem with the first two as Val’s form grows to dwarf the bed he previously spread out on. In his presence, all the air seems to thin, leaving nothing but the siren’s call of his pheromones, strong enough to make it through the precise filters of Vox’s systems.

“What’s the matter, amorcito?” His purr resonates through Vox’s chest and vibrates the walls of the building, while the subtle hums and trills he makes are finally loud enough to be heard without Vox cranking his audio sensitivity far higher than is reasonable. “You have a record to break.”

A panicked laugh echoes from Vox’s speakers, filling the room as easily as Val’s voice. “I was joking. You know, how we sometimes laugh at each other’s expense.”

“I get it now.”

Val’s arms shoot out to grab Vox before he knows what’s happening. It feels as if he teleported into Valentino’s embrace, face buried in his chest and still embarrassingly hard dick pressed against his second cock. Being this close puts the size into perspective; Vox couldn’t wrap both hands around it, let alone one, and its length makes him queasy, both attributes that set him against having it this close to him, let alone pressed against him, groin to ribs, like a threat.

“Let’s be reasonable, dear,” Vox says. Static cuts through his voice, his face, in a betrayal almost worse than his own behavior this morning. “It would rip me in half.”

That tongue, endless and curious as the dick squirming against Vox’s stomach, caresses his body and drenches him in rosy spit. Several errors pop up at once, but he still hears Val murmur, “You’ll get over it.”

“Val. Val, come on.” One of Val’s hands trails through the viscous fluid and smears it down to Vox’s ass. Slender fingers circle his hole, massaging the drool into it and relaxing the muscle with unnatural ease. Vox’s only coherent thought is that it must have a different chemical makeup than the standard stuff. “No. Val-”

Val forces two fingers in. It should hurt, but instead it shoves Vox’s protests from his mind as his body falls limp into Valentino, and he barely notices the hasty addition of a third finger. Though they both know Val is an expert at both prep and fingering for the hell of it, he’s sure the cursory glance against his prostate is an accident because the bastard won’t touch it again.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Val only spends a couple minutes perfunctorily working Vox open before his impatience wins out. Three of his hands--the fucker has too many--lift Vox to position him with the tip of Val’s massive cock kissing his woefully underprepared hole.

“Val,” Vox entreats in a final desperate attempt, flaring his brightness to its maximum as his eye begins to spin, “you’re not putting that in me.”

He doesn’t get a second of control. Val laughs at him, and begins to press Vox down. Although the tip is flared, it’s still painfully wide from the get-go, and reflex-tears spring up with the first quarter inch. He bluescreens at the half and comes to at the quarter. He’s barely on Val at all and swears he can feel it in his throat with how full he already is.

“Nnn- Not gonna fit,” he chokes.

“Does it hurt?” Val coos, not that he cares. “You’re plenty wet, Papi.”

Vox shakes his head. “No. But I’m fucking full, ‘s not fitting.” The fact that it should hurt doesn’t cross his conscious mind.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” A haze of smoke comes on Val’s next exhale, and another one of his endless hands tilts Vox’s screen up so it seeps into his ventilation system. Another wave of warmth, of need, rolls through him in response and he loosens up enough to drop further onto Val’s impossible cock, and feedback squeals at them both in response. “You’re goddamn lucky the other one’s too busy for you, Voxxy.” Fuck, Val’s voice seems to be coming from everywhere, darkly continuing, “or I’d stuff you so full, you’d be in Velvette’s workshop for a fucking month.”

If Vox’s speakers aren’t blown, they're at least broken, judging by the constant static whine as Val works him further onto his cock. When the ridge of the head finally pops in, Vox spasms as he blurts precum into Val’s abs “Fuck, fuck, too much.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Clearly mocking or not, Val’s voice seems to soothe Vox’s panic as he absorbs more and more of his toxins. “You’re thinking too hard, amorcito.” One by one, Val’s supportive hands let go, leaving Vox at the far lesser mercy of gravity to impale him on his cock. Of course one finds its way back to Vox’s wrists, to prevent him from holding himself up as a defense, and the one holding his screen never moves, but Val achieves his goal of defeating any chance Vox has left of escape as his dick explores to the best of its ability inside him.

At the point Vox thinks another millimeter will cause a crash so hard it takes all of Hell out with him, Val’s body locks up again as he orgasms, no longer too empty to flood Vox with burning, intoxicating cum. There’s too much for him to hold. It presses ruthlessly against his prostate and makes his stomach cramp even as it spills out around Valentino like a fountain.

Vox’s finish pales in comparison, pathetically small when the fullness drags it out of him alongside a glitching moan, though several lights shatter overhead and a rogue shock momentarily freezes Val in place. His system panics and bluescreens once more to prevent a crash, but he boots back up quickly enough that Val is still whimpering his way through the aftershocks.

“O-okay,” Vox gets out, “that’s enough.”

But he’s still slowly sinking down on Val’s cock with no hope of escape when Valentino sighs, “But we’re only a third of the way there.” At least Val relinquishes his screen, but it’s to press against the bulge in Vox’s tummy with a gusto that makes him simultaneously spurt out a few more drops of cum and gag so hard he tastes bile. “See? Plenty of room, Papi.”

“It’s not- you can’t-”

Val suddenly moves, thrusting up to force himself deeper. “What was that?” Maybe it would be less overwhelming, to be stuffed so full, if Val’s cock wasn’t constantly moving like it’s mapping every square inch of Vox’s insides and will be tested on its findings later. He can’t catch his bearings long enough to have a coherent thought, let alone keep up a debate with Val. When he dares to look down, he can see the outline of it through his skin, rearranging his internal organs to make more room for itself. “Just a few more inches,” Val informs, like he’s not already pressing against parts of Vox that shouldn’t be reachable without dissection.

Vox tries to say no, but a jumble of technical sounds and error beeps come out instead and Val just keeps pushing. There has to be more of dick inside him than anything else, or so he supposes until Val seizes and comes again. At this point there’s nowhere for it to go besides down what’s left of his cock outside Vox's body. Val is too far gone to play the slow game and he continuously rabbits up into Vox, fucking him on two or three inches at a time with no regard for the consequences.

The deepest thrust yet cracks something in Vox’s spinal cord and he loses connection to his left leg, but a complaint is too high a demand for him to fulfill when all he can think about is Val, Val, Val, in and around him, an inescapable fact of reality now. Nothing else matters. Nothing else compares. The complicated mesh of brain matter and AI that makes Vox could be rewiring themselves to dedicate his existence to being Val’s cocksleeve and, at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit if his soul depended on it. He can’t understand how Valentino complains about a pleasure so all-consuming as this one.

As he’s questioning whether Val’s cock ever ends, or if it will keep coming until he bursts like an overfilled balloon, his ass meets the cradle of Val’s hips. “Not so bad is it?” Val simpers. Vox only manages to gurgle. His heart, his lungs, his everything feels flattened and pinned to allow for Val’s monstrous cock. Not only does it continuously rub against his prostate, but the sweeping arc of its movement alights sensitive spots Vox would have never known existed, otherwise. “Feels, ah, so fucking good, Voxxy. Other bitches die of shock before I get this far.”

Somehow that sentence worms its way into Vox’s consciousness like a compliment. No one else could handle Valentino in his full form, but Vox can, and he’s forgotten why he kicked up a fuss about allowing it now that he’s managed the impossible. To reward him, Val’s roaming hands are back. They stroke down his back, trace the bulge in his abdomen, tease his nipples, and work his oversensitive dick.

Val allows the independent movement of his cock to do the work rather than thrusting, which Vox has to remind himself comes from laziness and not any sort of care for the damage he’s capable of causing. Between their moans, the wet sound of Val’s cocks fucking them both fill the silence.

Then Valentino comes inside him a third time, and whatever happens next is lost to a system crash that knocks out the entire city for several hours.

Eventually, Vox wakes up on Velvette’s workshop table with his chest sliced open and her nimble little fingers nudging his ribs back into place. She must have turned off his pain sensors, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of washing the copious amounts of spend from his skin. Hardly any of his lower body was spared, and a flaky trail that starts on his screen, floods around his neck joint, and spills down his throat only ends a half-inch above Velvette’s incision.

She glances up at him when she sees his face appear but quickly returns to the task at hand. “Do not tell me how the hell this happened. I cleaned jizz out of places it should never be, Vox. Never.”

“I appreciate it, my dear,” he croaks. She hasn’t gotten to his voicebox yet. But when he wiggles his fingers and toes, they move without issue, which is an improvement over his last memory. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to put me back together; can you imagine Val trying to replace my liver?”

They share a laugh before Velvette reprimands him for moving while she’s working. “Trust me, you’ll want to leave the pain receptors off for a couple days, but don’t forget to take it easy. Val did a number on you this time.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox grumbles, “I told him it was a bad idea.”

She pushes the mechanism that replaces his diaphragm with more malice than necessary, drawing a neon blue bruise to its surface from the rough handling. “I can't fucking wait to watch the video on our next date night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you about it?”

Velvette leans down to press a kiss to his exposed sternum. “I want you to show me instead.”

A lesser man than Vox would be embarrassed, but he merely grins in anticipation of reliving the memory with his partners in the days to come.

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