#can't blame him for trying to keep her out of it

[ghstyles]

Off | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Smut | One shot | HS1 Harry | Masterlist | Yours

["Can't blame a man for having a natural reaction to his gorgeous girlfriend," Harry continues, still not looking up. "Especially when she's being a little tease."]

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the hotel suite bedroom. Outside, the faint sounds of the city create a gentle backdrop to their quiet evening. Harry and Y/N are nestled in the plush king-sized bed, the white duvet tangled around their legs. Harry is sprawled across Y/N, his long limbs completely enveloping her smaller frame, his head resting on her chest as her fingers lazily trace patterns through his curls.

Harry's breathing is deep and content, his considerable weight pressing her into the mattress in that comfortable way she's grown to love. One of his legs is thrown over both of hers, effectively pinning her beneath him, while his arm is wrapped possessively around her waist. It's their favorite way to cuddle–him using her as his personal body pillow.

A mischievous thought suddenly crosses Y/N's mind. Her lips quirk into a subtle smirk as she decides to have a bit of fun with him.

"Harry?" she asks softly, her voice deliberately neutral.

"Mmm?" he hums against her collarbone, not bothering to open his eyes, clearly half-dozing in his comfortable position.

"Can you get off of me?" Y/N says, working hard to keep any hint of laughter out of her voice.

The effect is instantaneous. Harry's head flies up so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. His green eyes are comically wide with shock, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he stares at her with such profound offense it's as if she's just suggested they burn his entire designer wardrobe.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" he asks, his voice pitched higher than normal, absolute betrayal written across his handsome features.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, maintaining her straight face. "I asked if you could get off me."

Harry's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Without another word, he dramatically peels himself away from her body, each movement exaggerated for maximum effect. He rolls to his side of the bed with such theatrical flair that any stage director would be impressed.

He doesn't stop there. Harry continues his wounded retreat, scooting until he reaches the very edge of the mattress, as far from her as physically possible without falling off. He turns his back to her with an exaggerated huff, curling into himself like a kicked puppy, his shoulders hunched defensively.

The sight of Harry Styles, global superstar, heartthrob to millions, pouting like a petulant child because his girlfriend asked him to move is too much for Y/N. The laughter she's been suppressing erupts from her in uncontrollable waves, her entire body shaking with it.

"Oh my god," she gasps between fits of giggles, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "You should see your face! I was just joking!"

Harry doesn't move, his back still firmly turned to her, though she can see the slight tension in his shoulders that tells her he's listening.

"Baby," Y/N coos, still giggling as she scoots across the bed toward him. "Come back. I didn't mean it."

Harry remains motionless, his silence only making her laugh harder.

"Harry Edward Styles," she says, reaching out to run her fingers down his bare back. "Are you really going to sulk because I played one tiny joke on you?"

He glances over his shoulder, his green eyes narrowed, but she can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth that he's trying to suppress.

"You wounded me," he declares dramatically, turning back away from her. "My girlfriend, the love of my life, the woman I worship daily, just rejected my cuddles. I may never recover."

Y/N bursts into fresh laughter, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing kisses to his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Please forgive me. I love your cuddles. I love being crushed by your lanky body. I miss you terribly all the way over here."

Harry makes a show of considering her words, his body still rigid in her embrace. "I don't know if I can trust you anymore. This is a serious betrayal, Y/N."

She slides her hand around to his chest, feeling his heart beat strong beneath her palm. "What can I do to make it up to you?" she whispers near his ear.

Finally, Harry rolls over to face her, his façade cracking as a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "You're evil, you know that? Absolutely fucking evil."

Y/N grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You should have seen how fast your head popped up. Like a meerkat spotting a predator."

Harry narrows his eyes playfully before suddenly pouncing and caging her beneath him again. "You think you're so funny, don't you?" he growls, though his eyes dance with amusement.

"I'm hilarious," she confirms, beaming up at him. "And you're so easy to mess with."

Harry shakes his head, his curls falling into his eyes. "You're lucky I love you, because that was some cruel and unusual punishment."

Y/N reaches up to brush his hair back, her expression softening. "I love you too. Even when you're using me as a mattress."

"Especially then," Harry corrects, lowering himself to reclaim his position sprawled across her body, his weight settling comfortably on top of her once more. "And just for that little stunt, I'm not moving for the rest of the night. You're trapped now, love."

Y/N wraps her arms around him, perfectly content with her punishment. "Promise?"

Harry presses a kiss to her collarbone, his lips curving into a smile against her skin. "Cross my heart."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · · 

Harry remains sprawled across Y/N, his weight pleasantly pinning her to the mattress. The room is quiet except for their breathing and the distant sounds of the city below. After several minutes of comfortable silence, Y/N becomes distinctly aware of a growing hardness pressing against her thigh where Harry's hips are settled against her.

She smirks to herself, running her fingers lightly up and down his spine before breaking the silence.

"I thought you said you won't move," Y/N says with playful accusation in her voice. "What's this that I feel poking my thigh, huh?"

Harry doesn't lift his head from her chest, but she can feel his lips curve into a smug smile against her skin.

"That's not me moving, love," he drawls, his voice a low rumble against her collarbone. "That's just my body showing its appreciation for the canvas it's lying on."

He shifts his hips ever so slightly, deliberately pressing his growing erection more firmly against her thigh.

"Can't blame a man for having a natural reaction to his gorgeous girlfriend," Harry continues, still not looking up. "Especially when she's being a little tease."

Finally, he props himself up on his forearms, hovering above her with that signature cocky grin spreading across his face. His green eyes have darkened slightly, pupils dilating as he gazes down at her.

"Besides," he adds, voice dropping to that gravelly timbre that never fails to send shivers down her spine, "I said I wouldn't move. I never said parts of me wouldn't...rise to the occasion."

Y/N rolls her eyes at his terrible pun, but can't suppress her laugh. "That was awful, even for you."

Harry's grin turns positively wicked as he dips his head closer to hers. "Want to know what's not awful? The things I'm thinking about doing to you right now."

His hand slides under the oversized t-shirt she's wearing, one of his, naturally, and his warm palm glides up her bare thigh.

"Still want me to get off you?" he teases, his lips hovering just above hers. "Or would you prefer I get you off instead?"

Y/N's breath hitches as his fingers trace maddening patterns along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where she's beginning to want him most.

"I'm waiting for an answer, baby," Harry murmurs, his curls falling forward to frame his face as he watches her with hungry eyes. "Should I stop moving altogether? Including this?"

His hand stills on her thigh, his thumb resting mere centimeters from the edge of her underwear. The smirk on his face makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, recognizing his game. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"And yet you suffer me so beautifully," he counters, leaning down to place a feather-light kiss on the corner of her mouth. "So what'll it be? Am I getting off or getting you off?"

He rolls his hips again for emphasis, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her thigh through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Y/N reaches up, threading her fingers through his curls and tugging just hard enough to make his eyes darken further.

"I think you know exactly what I want," she whispers, pulling him down until their lips are just barely touching.

"Say it," Harry demands softly, his breath warm against her mouth. "I want to hear you say it after that little stunt you pulled."

Y/N wraps her legs around his waist, effectively trapping him against her and aligning his hardness exactly where she wants it.

"Don't you dare get off me," she says, her voice both challenge and invitation. "Not until you've made me come at least twice."

Harry's answering grin is positively sinful as he closes the minuscule gap between their lips.

"Now that," he growls against her mouth, "is an order I'm happy to follow."

Harry's lips move hungrily against Y/N's, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth before delving inside. His hand continues its teasing journey up her thigh, fingers dancing along sensitive skin. Y/N smiles against his eager kiss, pulling back just enough to look into his darkened green eyes.

"Do you ever say no?" she asks with a knowing smirk, her voice laced with amusement. 

Harry pauses, his curls falling forward as he cocks his head slightly, considering her question with mock seriousness. His thumb traces lazy circles against her inner thigh.

"To you? To this?" he responds, rolling his hips deliberately against her core for emphasis. "Not a fucking chance."

Y/N laughs softly, her hands sliding up his bare chest. "Even when you were dying of the flu last month? You could barely stand, but you still managed to—"

"Best medicine I've ever had," Harry interrupts with a wolfish grin, not a hint of shame in his expression. "Doctor Styles recommends regular doses of his girlfriend's perfect pussy for all conditions. Worked better than any of those pills the actual doctor prescribed."

He dips his head to nip playfully at her neck, his voice dropping to that gravelly rumble that vibrates against her skin. 

"Besides, if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly pushing me away when I had my face between your thighs that night."

He pulls back just enough to gauge her reaction, his dimple appearing as his smile turns smug.

"I was delirious with fever, and you still came twice," he reminds her, clearly proud of himself. "Thought I was going to pass out afterward, but bloody hell, it was worth it."

Y/N rolls her eyes, though her cheeks flush at the memory. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," Harry counters, his expression shifting slightly, a rare glimpse of vulnerability beneath the bravado. "Two years and I still can't get enough. Probably never will."

His hand slides higher, fingers finally brushing against the damp fabric of her underwear. His smile turns victorious when she gasps softly at the contact.

"The day I say no to you," Harry murmurs, pressing his forehead against hers, "is the day you should check my fucking pulse, because I've clearly been replaced by an imposter."

He pushes her underwear aside, running a finger through her slick folds, his breath catching slightly at how wet she already is.

"Now, are we going to keep talking about this," he asks, circling her clit with deliberate precision that makes her hips buck upward, "or are you going to let me give you what we both know you want?"

Y/N threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she pulls him back down toward her lips.

"Less talking," she whispers against his mouth, "more doing."

Harry's answering chuckle is dark and full of promise as he presses two fingers inside her, swallowing her moan with a deep kiss.

"Yes, ma'am," he growls against her lips. "Whatever you want, you know I can't say no."

His fingers work skillfully inside Y/N, curling to hit that spot that makes her back arch off the bed. His mouth trails heated kisses down her neck, occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Her breathy moans fill the dimly lit room, a symphony that drives him wild with need.

Between gasps of pleasure, Y/N manages to find her voice.

"Harry," she moans, her words punctuated by his insistent kisses. "I want to be on top today. Please."

Harry pauses, lifting his head to meet her gaze. His green eyes are nearly black with desire, his curls disheveled where she's been gripping them. A slow, appreciative smile spreads across his face.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough with want. "Yes."

In one fluid movement that speaks to his strength, Harry rolls onto his back, taking Y/N with him. His hands grip her hips as he positions her to straddle him, her thighs now bracketing his narrow waist. He looks up at her with unabashed hunger, taking in the sight of her hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his large hands sliding reverently up her sides, pushing his t-shirt that she's wearing higher up her body. "Fucking gorgeous."

Y/N reaches down and pulls the shirt over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Harry's breath audibly catches as she sits above him, naked except for her underwear. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathes her skin in warm light, highlighting every curve of her figure.

"Much better," she says with a teasing smile, grinding her hips down against his prominent erection, still confined in his boxers.

Harry hisses at the contact, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. "You're trying to fucking kill me, aren't you?" he groans, his accent thickening with arousal.

Y/N's smile turns wicked as she reaches between them, slipping her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to wrap her fingers around his length. Harry's eyes flutter closed briefly, a low curse escaping his lips.

"Not kill," she corrects, stroking him slowly. "Just torture a little."

Harry's eyes snap open, dark and challenging. "Two can play at that game, love."

His hand moves between her thighs, pushing her underwear aside once more. His thumb finds her clit with practiced ease, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until Y/N's movements falter and a broken moan escapes her lips.

"Take these off," he commands, tugging at her underwear with his free hand. "Want to see all of you."

Y/N rises slightly on her knees, allowing Harry to slide the damp fabric down her thighs. She has to shift to get them fully off, and Harry takes advantage of the moment to rid himself of his boxers as well. When she settles back over him, they both groan at the sensation of skin against skin, his hard length pressed against her wet heat.

"Now who's torturing who?" Y/N breathes, rocking her hips to slide along his length without taking him inside.

Harry's jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck standing out as he exercises restraint. "Y/N," he warns, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Don't make me flip you back over."

She laughs softly, enjoying the rare moment of having the upper hand with him. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches between them to position him at her entrance.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenges, sinking down just enough to take the tip of him inside her.

Harry's entire body tenses beneath her, his green eyes locked on hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch. "Try me," he growls, though his hands remain firmly on her hips, guiding her movements rather than taking control.

Y/N places her palms on his chest for leverage, feeling his heart hammering beneath her touch. With agonizing slowness, she lowers herself onto him, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated inside her. They both moan at the sensation of him filling her completely.

"Fuck," Harry breathes, his head falling back against the pillows. "That's it, baby. Take what you want."

Y/N begins to move, setting a rhythm that has Harry's fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks that she secretly loves finding the next day. She rolls her body in a way that brings him deeper with each movement, her hands braced on his firm chest.

"God, look at you," Harry groans, his eyes drinking in the sight of her above him. "Riding my cock like you were made for it. So fucking beautiful."

His vulgar praise sends a thrill through her as she increases her pace, chasing the building pleasure. One of Harry's hands slides from her hip to where they're joined, his thumb finding her clit once more.

"That's it," he encourages, feeling her inner walls beginning to flutter around him. "Take your pleasure, love. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His crude words combined with the dual stimulation quickly push Y/N toward the edge. Her movements become less coordinated as the tension builds low in her belly.

"Harry," she gasps, her head falling back as the first waves of pleasure begin to crash through her. "I'm—"

"I know, baby," he growls, his hips thrusting up to meet her movements. "Let go for me. Wanna feel it."

Y/N shatters above him, her inner walls clenching around him as she cries out his name. Harry continues guiding her hips through her orgasm, prolonging her pleasure as she trembles above him.

Before she's fully recovered, Harry's patience snaps. With a swift movement that showcases his strength, he sits up, wrapping one arm around her waist to keep them connected while his other hand tangles in her hair.

"My turn," he growls against her lips before capturing them in a bruising kiss.

He begins thrusting up into her with renewed vigor, the angle hitting spots deep inside her that have Y/N gasping into his mouth. Her oversensitive body quickly builds toward a second peak as Harry sets a relentless pace.

"Gonna fill you up," Harry pants against her neck, his rhythm becoming erratic as he nears his own release. "Gonna come so deep inside you."

His crude promises push Y/N toward the edge once more, her nails digging into his shoulders as she holds on for dear life.

"Yes," she moans, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor. "Please, Harry. Come inside me."

Her words are his undoing. With a deep groan, Harry buries his face in her neck as his hips stutter and he pulses inside her. The feeling of his release triggers Y/N's second orgasm, her body clenching around him as they fall apart in each other's arms.

For several long moments, they remain entwined, breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat. Harry peppers soft kisses along her shoulder and neck, his hands now gentle as they stroke her back.

"Fuck," he finally murmurs against her skin, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Maybe you should tell me to get off you more often if this is the result."

Y/N smiles, resting her forehead against his as they both catch their breath. "Noted for future reference."

Harry gently brushes her tangled hair away from her face, his touch surprisingly tender after such intensity. "I meant what I said earlier, you know," he says quietly, a rare moment of post-coital vulnerability. "Two years and I still can't get enough of you. Don't think I ever will."

Y/N's heart swells at the sincerity in his eyes, so different from his usual cocky demeanor. "Good thing I'm not going anywhere then," she replies softly.

Harry's answering smile is genuine and warm as he carefully lays back, bringing her with him to rest on his chest.

"Good thing indeed," he murmurs into her hair, his arms tightening protectively around her. "Because I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, love. Fame and fortune be damned."

The soft afterglow envelops them as they lie tangled together, their breathing gradually returning to normal. Harry's fingers trace lazy patterns along Y/N's spine as she rests against his chest, their bodies still connected in the most intimate way. After several minutes of contented silence, Y/N begins to stir, pressing gentle kisses up the planes of his chest.

She sits up slowly, their bodies separating with a shared shiver of sensitivity. Harry makes a small sound of protest at the loss of contact, immediately moving to follow her upward motion. His hands reach for her waist, clearly intending to pull her back into his embrace.

"Stay," Y/N commands softly, placing a firm hand on his chest to push him back down.

Harry's eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but an intrigued smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he settles back against the pillows. His green eyes, still dark with lingering desire, track her movements with hungry attention.

"What are you up to, love?" he murmurs, his voice still rough from their previous activities.

Y/N doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she moves with deliberate purpose, shifting her position until she's straddling his chest, her knees on either side of his shoulders. Harry's eyes widen in understanding, his hands automatically coming up to grip her thighs.

"Fuck," he breathes, his gaze fixed on the glistening evidence of their shared pleasure between her legs. "You're not giving me a break, are you?"

Y/N smiles down at him, a mixture of innocence and wickedness that drives him wild. She reaches forward, tangling her fingers in his disheveled curls and gripping firmly enough to elicit a hiss of pleasure from him.

"You said you never say no," she reminds him, tugging gently on his hair. "I'm just testing that theory."

Harry's laugh is low and gravelly as his hands slide up her thighs to grip her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh with possessive intent.

"By all means," he drawls, licking his lips in anticipation, "test away."

He helps guide her forward until she's hovering just above his mouth, her grip on his hair tightening as she positions herself exactly where she wants to be. Harry's eager breath ghosts over her sensitive flesh, making her shiver in anticipation.

"Greedy girl," he murmurs appreciatively, his eyes locked with hers from between her thighs. "Still want more after two orgasms? What am I going to do with you?"

Before she can respond, Harry grips her hips firmly and pulls her down to his waiting mouth. The first broad stroke of his tongue has Y/N gasping, her head falling back as pleasure shoots through her still-sensitive body.

"Oh god," she moans, her fingers reflexively tightening in his hair.

Harry groans against her in response, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. His tongue works with practiced skill, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks against her clit. His grip on her hips is firm but not restrictive, allowing her to rock against his mouth at her own pace.

"That's it," he encourages briefly, barely pulling away before diving back in. "Use my mouth, baby. Take what you need."

Y/N begins to move more deliberately, rolling her hips against his talented tongue. The visual of Harry Styles, global superstar, heartthrob to millions, eagerly pleasuring her with his mouth while she essentially rides his face is almost as arousing as the physical sensation itself.

Harry's enthusiasm is palpable, his groans of pleasure vibrating against her most sensitive parts. His hands slide around to grip her ass, encouraging her movements as he devours her with single-minded focus. The combination of his skilled tongue, the slight scratch of stubble against her inner thighs, and the way he's looking up at her with pure hunger in his eyes quickly pushes Y/N toward another peak.

"Harry," she gasps, her thighs beginning to tremble around his head. "I'm close already."

He responds by doubling his efforts, his tongue circling her clit with precise pressure before sucking gently on the sensitive bundle of nerves. The sudden increase in intensity has Y/N crying out, her grip on his curls bordering on painful as her orgasm builds rapidly.

"Don't stop," she pleads, her voice breaking as she feels herself teetering on the edge. "Please don't stop."

Harry has no intention of stopping. His hands tighten on her ass, holding her firmly against his mouth as he works her toward her peak. When he feels her begin to tremble in earnest, he slides two fingers inside her, curling them forward to hit exactly the right spot as his tongue continues its relentless attention to her clit.

The dual stimulation is too much. Y/N comes with a broken cry of his name, her body shuddering violently as pleasure crashes through her in waves. Harry groans against her, the vibration prolonging her orgasm as he continues to work her through it, easing up only when her oversensitized body begins to pull away.

As the intense pleasure subsides, Y/N's grip on his hair loosens. Her body feels boneless, utterly spent as she shakily lifts herself from his face. Harry looks up at her with undisguised satisfaction, his lips and chin glistening with evidence of both her pleasure and their earlier activities. The sight should be obscene, but on him, it's nothing short of glorious.

"Still think I might say no?" he asks with a cocky smirk, swiping his thumb across his lower lip before sucking it clean with deliberate showmanship.

Y/N laughs breathlessly, collapsing beside him on the bed. "I think you've made your point."

Harry rolls to his side, propping himself on one elbow to look down at her with affectionate amusement.

"Three times," he says proudly, counting off on his fingers. "That's one more than you demanded earlier. Always exceeding expectations, me."

Y/N rolls her eyes at his self-satisfaction, though she can't suppress her smile. "You're insufferable."

"Ah, but you suffer me so well," he counters, echoing his earlier words as he leans down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "And I'd say you just reaped the benefits of my particular brand of suffering."

She smacks his chest lightly, though there's no real force behind it. "Your ego is almost as big as your—"

"Heart?" Harry suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows, cutting her off. "Talent? Collection of Gucci boots?"

Y/N laughs, the sound full of genuine joy and affection. "All of the above."

Harry's expression softens as he gazes down at her, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face with surprising tenderness.

"Only for you, love," he murmurs, his voice losing its teasing edge. "Only ever for you."

He pulls her into his arms, arranging them so she's tucked against his chest, her back to his front in their favorite sleeping position. His lips press a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck as his arm wraps possessively around her waist.

"Now get some sleep," he whispers against her skin. "Because I fully intend to wake you up in a few hours for round two."

Y/N smiles sleepily, already feeling herself drifting off in the safety of his embrace. "I thought this was already round two?"

Harry's soft chuckle vibrates against her back. "Baby, we're just getting started."

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavefanficsever @spinnic @catmomstyles3 @mads3502

[atangledfate]

Lanolins eyes turned to one side as Surge spoke and she could hear that malice in her voice. She'd already consigned herself to what ever fate that lay ahead. But nobody knew the real surge, nobody knew the story of the girl who lost her life to a madman. People only knew her as the destroyer who wrecked the city, who fought sonic and lost. Some saw her on that track and got to see the real Surge under all that anger and bark. Lanolin believed under all of that was a good person clawing there way out of the hell they were forced into. She just wanted Surge to have her say in all of this... what ever small say it might be.

" It's true... many see you for the monster that tore through the city, or the enemy that tried to kill Sonic. Or the failure who couldn't do the deed... "

She said in a soft somber tone

" But nobody knows you... not really. Nobody knows the real story... the truth behind thunder in the sky. I've known you a short time ... and i barely know you... "

She motioned to the civilian with her hand and gazed into Surges eyes less like the soldier and more like a friend. Someone trying to beat past all that rage and help her... maybe it was the first time Lanolin dropped the tough girl act and was just that scared sheep who crawled into restoration that day.

" This is your chance Surge... To tell the world who you are... where you came from... to be remembered ... and not have your story tainted by GUN or anyone else... to tell the world... Who you REALLY are... people are starting to wonder about that. The mysterious green rider... she who fought off the phantom rider... they cheered for you despite EVERYTHING... but they don't know you... "

" This might be your last chance to tell them... so how do you want them to remember you? as the Villain ... or the Hero... he's your chance to convey that... what ever message you might have for the world... he'll be your voice...i dunno i guess... i guess i just feel like you deserve that..."

===============================================

Sonic rubbed the back of his neck as Kit was pretty adamant he would run beside him. Well he supposed if he was able to keep pace with Surge it would be fine right? He nodded his head and turned to make his way across the busted up city and toward the little town that Surge marked for him. He wasn't sure why that little podunk town exactly but he wasn't gonna argue he had made a promise and he'd keep it.

Yet Kit's words made him turn his head as he slowed down just enough so they were side by side. His eyes glancing over at Kit before facing forward. He still blamed himself for not checking that hole, maybe things would have been different if he had.

" That's fine... Trust is earned after all and i let you down. Worse i tried to hide it from you when i found out she was alive... you got every right to be angry with me... maybe in time you'll forgive me... maybe not... but i can still hope that things change for the better...."

================================================

Miles crossed his arms looking very lost in thought, as Blaze gave her stance on the situation. He didn't disagree either, recreating Starlines project wasn't simple. Especially since he had the original notes and they were locked up in his max security vault hidden away in a secret location. No one was getting in there without a small army and that implied they ever knew where to find it.

Still, if they had Surge? It was possible they could figure out all the parts and put it all back together again. It worried him and it was etched on his face how worried he was. Ever since Phantom War he'd been trying to devise ways to counter every possible bad scenario...

He wasn't sure he had an answer to an army of Surges...

" all we can do now is wait... and see what GUNs next move is... we also can't ignore Eggman... he's been to quiet lately to... its gonna be hard to watch GUN and him at the same time... guess we have our work cut out for us..."

" Heh yea... guess Belle's right... we are better looking into this when we are more secure. Speaking of i'll see if i can arrange for Belle bot to be moved to my lab's server room until we can save the data properly and move it back onto Restoration servers. It'll be more secure there then here anyway... "

" Well... at least we have a plan...I guess that leaves miss Blaze and i to handle this goon from GUN and his paper work. Ah Bureaucracy! at least i feel somewhat well equipped to deal with that! they should be arriving anytime--- Guess we should prepare for that. Why don't you and Miss Belle get Belle Bot ready for transfer while we handle the paperwork! "

The sheep seemed to glance to one side as if everything Surge said she mostly agreed with. Or maybe had already been discussed in private. It was very clear what GUN was up to and yet there was almost nothing they could do to stop this. Gun was powerful politically and, though they had come to a tenuous agreement she had a feeling it wouldn't last. How long before they targeted Kit? or maybe they didn't think he was a big enough threat to even bother with?

" That's already been talked about to some degree. But short of an all out war between GUN and Restoration... i'm not sure we could find a peaceful way to stop them. The best solution was handing you over... and none of us like that much either. The best we could do was protect Belle and Kitsunami... "

She clenched her fists and her body language spoke of just how much she hated this. no matter what Surge felt, she very much had grown to feel as if Surge were part of the team. More then that... she was just starting to break that ice and maybe become friends and now this.

" Which is why i think we need to have eyes on both of them... i know Belle is already thinking of running off. I think its best if both of them lay low for awhile till we figure this all out...its just... this still feels like we are losing this battle..."

She fidgeted but snapped her trap shut once she saw the reporter. How did he even get up here and she hoped he didn't hear anything she said. She sighed crossing her arms as he rambled on to probably the worst person on base. Yea if she were Surge she'd jack slap him to! She pinched the bridge of her nose as any good PR was going to help them in the long run.

" Well... he is a Reporter Surge, if you ever wanted to speak your peace to the world... now is the time. But try to keep it PG... and remember anything you say can and WILL be used against you... so choose your words very carefully..."

===============================================

Sonic placed his hands behind his head and watched the Fennec join them though, he seemed ready to split. He sure was pissed wasn't he? Not that he blamed him, truthfully Sonic was on his last nerve with GUN to. Still looked like the kid harbored alot of animosity toward him maybe just left over bits of Starlines fuckery or maybe he was just bitter about this whole situation.

Sonic checked his phone and flicked his thumber across the screen to the map location Surge had given him. He sighed a bit as he hated the idea of leaving Surge right now--- but she was right he made a promise it was time to keep it.

" Yep, she gave me a location and made me promise to take you there--- and i'm a hog of my word! just think of me as a taxi... i'll drop you off and the rest is on you bud... Alright Surge Kitsunami and i are gonzo... stay safe... ok? "

He held a hand out for Kitsunami to take so they could take off. He didn't think it was a good idea to grab the kid without his say so or he could lose an arm! or get bit! either way once Kit grabbed on he disappeared in a flash of motion and crack like thunder! He didn't think it would take him long to reach that location... then he needed to link up with tails and plan there next move.

===============================================

Miles had been sitting and mulling over the situation as it had so man angles to consider. But his eyes shifted to Blaze as she spoke and he seemed to sink further into his thoughts. He couldn't disagree more with her on many fronts. Sonic and His DNA especially was easy enough to come by due to all there extended battles within the city and beyond. Every injury they took and every drop of blood could easily have been collected by GUN over the years--- but far more importantly... they didn't need it as they had something far more potent to use.

" I know i say i'm the smartest mobian alive ... but let's be real here. Before Starline came along none of us would have imagined anyone on his intellectual level. Eggman might have expanded his horizons... but he was already a genius of exceptional levels before that. To imagine that GUN doesn't have someone of that level working for them is foolish--- why go and do any of this if you didn't have the ability to finish your goal. They might be brash but GUN has never been fools..."

He stated in a very calm manner as he swished his tails behind him in a very agitated way. He was clearly upset with this situation and wished like Sonic to pummel gun to dust! But unlike Sonic he understood how awful that would look... they were the good guys after all they had to follow the rules.

" As for Sonic's DNA or mine or any of those who fight Eggman on the regular. We all take our lumps... a drop of blood, a chunk of fur, a lost quill... its very common for that to happen to us. If Thawn is as devious as he appears... he might have enough stored DNA to last him a life time--- but he doesn't even need that. Do you know what he has butt loads of? Black Arms DNA... they gathered up all those bodies all those years ago and even before that they had shadow trapped for YEARS and took who knows how many samples... "

" If GUN's aim is to create some super solider... they have the resources ...question isn't if they can but when... and what there ultimate intent is... i won't sugar coat it Blaze, it's not great... and things could turn very quickly in GUNS favor. Only thing we have going for us is that i had the foresight to lock all of starlines notes in my personal vaults... so even if they wanted to, they would be starting from scratch. so we... have time... if nothing else "

Jewel buzzed her wings landing next to Belle and opted to focus on things she was more willing and able to handle. Fighting GUN felt like a battle for sonic and tails not restoration. Choose your battles Jewel! choose your battles!

" Yes... they helped us on several join ventures. I put all of them in a single file to keep things organized. But also because i never trusted the man... so at the very least we should be able to scour the files and see what he was actually up to. I'm more worried they will try to pin this all on restoration... or worse Eggman will use all of this distraction to strike while we are divided..."

She sighed softly as she stared at Belle

" But one battle at a time Belle... we can start scouring that data and assess the damage he did. I still feel foolish for not realizing what he was up to... in a way... this is all my fault..."

[7arami]

A Good Soldier

Take a shot every time I use the word suspicious.

What if instead of being guided by his anger for being replaced, Jason is instead guided by shame, guilt, insecurity, desperation. What if he blames himself for not being a good enough robin. He caused Bruce to lose trust in him because of what happened with Felipe Garzonas. He believes it's his fault he died because he pushed Bruce away and because he didn't listen to Bruce in Ethiopia. He was the one who chose to chase his birth mother instead of listening to Bruce's orders (at least in Post-Crisis, of course minor details would change depending on what version of his backstory/death is used).

I am a lover and follower of Good Mom Talia, yall (DC) will never make me hate her. So she is not trying to manipulate Jason in this, she was just the one who told him everything that has happened since he died.

Personally I'm thinking of YJ!Jason aka the Red Hooded Ninja, like appearance wise, just cause I like that Jason look, very fun. And it also works with what I'm thinking of. Cause I want this Jason to hate his past/younger self, like he completely abandons Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. And instead goes back to Gotham in hopes of, not redeeming himself, cause he's not Jason anymore, but reinventing himself. He doesn't go by the Red Hood either, instead he'd kinda just stay nameless.

The main thing about this Jason is he refuses to kill, no matter how much he wants to or believes the person deserves it. (He also doesn't use guns cause that's a big no-no for Bruce) This Jason is determined to be better, to follow Bruce's rules correctly in hopes that this new him will be accepted by his dad. He is constantly fighting villains even to the point of over exhaustion. At the same time that he is doing all of this with the hopes of being in Bruce's good graces again, he also tends to freeze whenever he is confronted by him. (And despite how careful Jason is and how much he tries to keep to the shadows, he does not go unnoticed by Bruce. Bruce notices the changes happening in crime alley, how someone has been cracking down on the drug trade and human trafficking. But when he asks Gordon about who brought all these new people in, all Gordon can tell him is they were dropped on GCPD's doorstep. Most of the people brought in just say they were attacked by some hooded fella with a sword.) So whenever he is faced with Batman, Jason struggles to say anything, too worried that he'll give himself away and Bruce will find out that he is his failure son that died all those years ago (clarification: this is from Jason's perspective, Bruce loves and misses his Jaybird dearly). So he tends to not speak, not in a nonverbal way just in a paranoid/nervous way, and fidget. Many times when he sees Bruce or Dick he tends to turn around and flee. Which makes it hard for the batfamily, who is just trying to do their best to find out who this new vigilante is, especially if there suspicions are right and it is this red hooded figure that has been making remarkable strides in cleaning up Crime Alley.

I also like to imagine that Jason gives most of the money he makes from his control over the drug trade, as like a shadow leader cause he still sees this as the best way to keep drugs out of the hands of children and decrease the chances of overdose (I also see him setting up more rehabs and safe zones for drug addicts with clean needles, yknow that sort of thing), to charity. Like Bruce is told of like hundred thousands of dollars being donated to various Wayne charity organizations in hard cash and the only description of the donor is a hooded man wearing a mask. Like no one can catch a glimpse of the dudes face, he just shows up, drops off the money, then disappears.

The whole situation confuses everyone, because it seems as though this mystery guy is a good person but they can't understand why he is constantly running away from them if he isn't doing anything wrong.

This part isn't as serious to the story, but I also like to think that because Alfred and Barbara aren't like out on the field, Jason gets kind of desperate to see them. Like he can watch from a far how Bruce and Dick are doing, sometimes he even gets to talk with them (even though the conversation is very one-sided and Jason is shitting bricks the whole time during it). But with Alfred and Barbara he has to get more creative. I've mentioned before that I like the idea of Barbara working at a library as a day job, and Jason just so happens to like to frequent that library. Now Jason doesn't have a life, at least not a day life, his night-life is quite active. So he has plenty of time to spare to just lounge around the library, and I mean cmon not only does he get to be surrounded by books but he also gets to hangout with his favorite kinda-older sister (Jason doesn't really no Cass, at least not yet, so that's why he is allowed to have a favorite). And sure she might barely know he's there most of the time, and when she does, she tends to look at him with suspicion. And yes, he might suck at conversing with her, or just talking in general, but he's just shy. Sue him!

Barbara: *trying to figure out whether this is the same guy she caught in the very little video there was of the man who donated duffel bags of cash* Emma, huh? You a fan of Jane Austen? Jason (wearing a black hoodie, beanie [to cover his white strand], gloves [to cover his scarred hands + its cold], and is hunched over): *torn between wanting to make eye contact with his kinda-sister that he misses very much and looking anywhere but her because he doesn't like how his eyes are green and feels that they are tainted now and is ashamed because of it and doesn't want Barbara to see it* yea- Barbara: . . . uhhh- You got a favorite? Jason: *very scared that if he speaks anymore than he already has that he'll just give himself away and he'll never be allowed within a 100ft radius of his family ever again, so he just runs out the library instead of answering* Barbara: *still holding the copy of Emma Jason hadn't finished checking out* -tf

For Alfred, Jason has to plan it out more, so he low key stalks the poor man. Doing his best to "coincidentally" cross paths with his grandfather at the supermarket. Or, again, "coincidentally" be at the same cafe Alfred likes to frequent at the same time as him. And Alfred can't help but be both somewhat frightened and irritated by this masked figure who just happens to not only shop at the same grocery store at the same time as him but also his favorite cafe. He may not spend his nights running around in tights like some people but he can still tell one a random kid can't decide whether to look at him or pretend to read his book.

I also see Jason being very neutral with everyone else. Like he's jealous of Tim because he's seen how Bruce and Dick act around him and he also believes Tim is a better robin than he ever was. But he doesn't do anything about it cause this Jason doesn't have pit madness but Pit Depression™. So Jason continues to be his insecure self, he believes Tim is better for his family than he ever was. At first he keeps an eye out on Tim because he knows he is important to the family and doesn't want to see Bruce be upset over anything happening to his new, better robin. This leads to multiple instances of him saving Tim, sometimes even sending him home when he can tell the bird is running on fumes. Jason may also be a bit less cautious when it comes to talking to any of the newer bats because they don't know him the same way Bruce, Dick, Alfred, and Barbara know him. (Also just want to clarify, Jason isn't worried about them recognizing his voice because he's got a handy voice modulator on his mask. He's just worried he'll accidentally slip up and incriminate himself whether it be through information or mannerisms.) Little does Jason know, Tim is his little stalker. So Tim gets a little suspicious the more he talks with him, or at the very least a sense of deja vu (and yes I know technically Tim found out Batman's identity through Dick, at least in Post-Crisis, but I don't care. This is my dumb Au and I can do whatever I want with it).

Also, for this I can't tell whether I want Jason and Damian to have known each other when in the league. Cause Jason is using the same fit he used in the league so Damian would definitely recognize him. Like I have this idea that Jason would take care of Damian when he was catatonic, but because of that, post-pit Jason doesn't remember him and still goes to Gotham not realizing that Bruce's youngest definitely remembers him as his babysitter/brother from the league.

I might add to this idea more later, but I feel like I've written enough lol. I definitely want to come up with scenarios for Cass, Steph, and Duke. TLDR: Jason is insecure not angry, and therefore he does his best to be a good little soldier for Bruce in hopes for becoming someone Bruce will love again.

(OMG SHE SAID THE NAME-SHE SAID THE TITLE)

[astarmaux]

"Dammit, I told you I didn't want you involved in this, Saedre!"

"I'm afraid you haven't much of a choice in this, Arcuris. As I said before, I do not resolve to simply sit aside and let you face this alone."

"Hmph. We are too far out in the thick of it now for me to drag you back to your friends, so stay close."

@voidtekarc

[thesummerstorms]

The other thing that I think I would want in an Annabeth Wayne AU that I don't think I've seen so far is Bruce being absolutely pissed at Athena.

It was bad enough with Talia and Damian, but Athena is a literal god of wisdom who should know better AND he doesn't even have the "culpability" of having slept with her.

She one hundred percent saw Batman, tactician of the Justice League, was drawn in by her aspect of the Goddess of Strategy, and proceeded to create a child without his consent, a daughter who she didn't even raise before the child became a weapon.

And like whatever else, however fucked up Damian was by his own training to become a child-weapon, at least Talia loved Damian.

Whereas Athena loves Annabeth in the way a Goddess loves, not the way a Person loves, and I don't think Bruce, whose entire identity is so fixated on his relationship with his own parents, would recognize that as love at all.

And, like, Talia put Damian through a lot of shit. I think Bruce would be angry there too. But when push came to shove, she at least at some point brought him to Bruce because she thought it was in her son's best interests.

Athena actively lead Annabeth away from Bruce and into the streets at the age of seven, which Bruce would never see as in her best interest, whatever Athena's godly perspective is, however badly he reacted after Jason's death, even though he couldn't see (and dismissed the idea of) the spiders and the monsters. She was seven. In the streets of Gotham.

Athena let Annabeth fight a major role in two wars back to back without being there to train her or protect her or love her or even advise her. Athena advocated for the cold blooded murder of the other children who had actually tried to keep his daughter safe. Athena sent Annabeth against Arachne when Athena's children have universally died on that quest for a thousand years.

Athena let Bruce think he had gotten Annabeth killed because of his own inability to handle his grief. Let him think his daughter was dead or worse for years. Would have let him keep thinking that if the Fates didn't have other plans.

And just, in true fashion for all of my ideas on a PJO x DC crossover, everyone really comes out more traumatized than before. This includes Bruce.

Because now he wasn't just used unknowingly for a child just once, but twice. And in both cases he's going to have to live forever with the guilt of not having been able to protect his kids from what their other parent wanted to make of them

(On top of all the ways he has directly failed them and made any complexes worse, of course )

[nenoname]

.....ok it's legit wild to see people saying that emma may is unironically their fave character

[septimus-heap]

Thinking abt the time travel fix it fic I have spinning around in my head. Unfortunately for it to work I have to kill off basically every single character of importance which is all well and good it just feels kind of brutal

[skrunksthatwunk]

roommate's partially blind(?) female turtle keeps doing this today to elevate her basking game

[yeyinde]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage

The thing is, Tim didn't mean to put it on. He was just kind of playing with it to keep his hands busy while he was thinking about the recent murder case. GCPD had their hands full with the serial robbers that didn't rank high enough to catch Batman's attention, and Tim never had a problem with helping the police if he had time.

And the ring was a perfect fidget toy, if he is being honest. Small and plain enough not to distract him, but the round stone in the middle was loosely attached, making it able to spin inside the frame. Which is what he did, again and again, like those fidget spinners.

Of course, he was just destined to drop it sooner or later. And then, when he reached under the table to pick it up, his finger caught inside the ring, and, well.

The ring was now firmly on his finger.

The problem was that he couldn't take it off.

It wasn't stuck, at least not in the general sense of it - Tim could easily spin it around, and it wasn't tight. But it wasn't loose either, and as soon as he tried to move it past the knuckle, the ring heavily disagreed, almost like shrinking down and absolutely refusing to be detached.

Barbara suggested soap, which didn't work. Dick tried for a more mechanical approach, first with pliers and then with a laser, which the ring resisted with no effort. Cass, who was actually the one who brought the damned thing into the Cave after one of her adventures in Hong Kong, just smiled and shrugged, which was of no help either. Damian offered to cut the finger off, which probably would have helped, but Tim rather liked all his limbs attached.

Bruce called Constantine. The magician took one look at the ring, barked a humorless laugh, and pat Tim on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Congrats, mate," he said, a wry smile on his lips, "I hope you file for divorce."

Although, while all the rest of the Bats and Birds devolved into fits of hysterical laughter (Steph), indignant sputtering (Damian), and cries of outrage (everyone else sans Alfred, who was pointedly unimpressed), Tim couldn't even bring himself to be surprised. Really, his life had been a shitshow since he was around ten. It's not like he didn't expect himself to be accidentally married to some otherworldly magical creature by this point.

The worst part - worse than the actual engagement, that is - was that Constantine couldn't exactly tell them who the spouse was.

What he did say was that the Ring belonged to the King of Infinite Realms, Keeper of Unseen Worlds, and Eyes of Universe. But those were only titles, and, as John Constantine begrudgingly admitted, there has been a change in the management recently, so no one really knew what the new almighty monarch looked like or what they were, much less their whereabouts.

"You can't blame me for not being keen to find out, though," John said, wincing, "The last one was a bloody tyrant, and the Realms operate under the right of conquest rule."

At least, the mage assured them that since the being had not yet come to collect their shiny new spouse, they might never show up at all. The Ring has been lost for ages after all, so maybe the King didn't even remember having one. Or, the previous King didn't, and the new one didn't know about or didn't care.

The first week after the incident, they spent anxiously researching and worrying. Bruce even went as far as making Tim wear a tracker at all times, which was not great, but he did appreciate the gesture. Kind of.

After the first month with no sign of any changes, the worry started to abate. In half a year, most of the family stopped trying to keep an eye on Tim at all times lest he suddenly disappeared. Two years later, even Tim himself treated the Ring as a natural part of his daily life. The stone inside was still a great fidget toy, engagement or not.

Three years, one month, and five days after Tim first put the Ring on his finger, when the world was falling apart and breaking in front of him and there was not a single thing he could do to stop it anymore, Tim pressed his lips to the cold, dark strip of unknown metal on his finger.

"Whoever you are, I don't even care, please," he whispered in a useless prayer, his voice hoarse and his throat dry, "please, help."

And the world came to a stop with a short, amused chuckle.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

[part 2 ->]

[fangirlingpuggle]

AU/fic prompt where Shen Qingqiu can't keep up the mask at the abyss he still says all the words he needs to follows the script system wants him to but not the way system wants him to. He can't stop himself crying.

Binghe watching his Shizun sob and that knocking him out of his panic to see that while his Shizun is saying the hateful words and can tell he doesn't mean them, it's like he's reading a script. He falls down into the abyss knowing his Shizun didn't want to push him and something made him do it.

As the system goes into hibernation it feels a very deep sense of foreboding and dread.

Binghe not trying any of the Huan hua palace or becoming a noble human cultivator instead he's scouring demon and human realm to figure out how to free his Shizun. Him using protagonist halo and finding out about system

When he shows up on Qing jing peak Shen Qingqiu is freaking out and of course Binghe blames system, no anger points directed at Shen Qingqiu all the anger and Xin Mo wrath directed solely at the system.

Shen Qingqiu kidnapped to demon realm because 'I have many artifacts that could help free Shizun it's more convenient for Shizun to be there... it's also safer as no-one can interfere....also her are robes of empress no reason'

[navybrat817]

Game Nights

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Game nights in the tower are unpredictable.

Word Count: Over 900

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[sysig]

Now that they can, would they want to spend a lot of time together? (Patreon)

[tommysversion]

Forbidden Fruit [Part 1] - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Summary: he's been watching you for longer than he can remember, thinking he's too old for you, too dangerous. It's easier to keep people at arm's length, and he isn't the roughened lover he used to be. Turns out you don't care much for what he used to be.

Warnings & Contents: age difference (unspecified, can be as large or small as you'd like) | unsafe sex | Vaguely misogynistic language (not from Joel) | past Reader x Tommy mention | dirty talk | praise | pet names | size difference implied IE Joel's hands are larger than Reader's | unprotected PIV | Enthusiastic consent | Fluffier than expected | creampies oops | guaranteed happy ending

Note: I got this out before episode two dropped. There are no spoilers here, just old man Joel being loved.

Word Count: 3.8k. || Part Two Here

- x. -

Joel knows that deep down, he's not the good guy that he tries to be in Jackson. That no amount of hard work and somewhat begrudging neighbourly behaviour will truly ever mask what he really is. 

He does a damn good job hiding it, though. Looks almost unassuming with his greying curls, the crows feet forming round his eyes, the glasses he wears more often than not. 

Then there's you. God knows how much younger than him - does it really matter, when he's pushing sixty and you're clearly not - and full of life. 

He sees you around and just one look at you gets him half hard; you don't even have to fucking do anything, just be wandering past and give him a friendly wave, a half smile. 

He finds his eyes glued to your ass more often than not, given your standard attire of a pastel plaid shirt and jeans does nothing to hide your figure. He feels like a dirty old man each and every fucking time, but he can't help it. Especially when you wander past to get ready for a patrol, an honest to god cowboy hat perched on your head, a lasso and a gun on your hip. 

It makes some deep buried dark and depraved part of him wish he was still the cocky, confident bastard he once was. The kind who would have no problem whatsoever with talking to you and getting exactly what he wanted. Age has made him hesitate, though, and so he sort of just contends himself with trying to be as subtle as possible with his stares. 

He'd be lying if he said he thought of anything else when he fucked his own hand each night, though. 

Imagining you. How you might look spread out beneath him. On top of him. How you might sound with his name on your stupidly pouty lips, which he absolutely hasn't made note of or anything. 

Joel likes to think he's completely subtle in his interest in you, thinks he might just be burning up inside with his own desires and need, until Tommy calls him the fuck out for it one night. 

They're in the bar long after closing time, just the two of them, perks of Tommy being on the governing council, Joel guesses, and two or three glasses of whiskey deep. 

"Don't know why you don't just go after her, y'know." Tommy takes a long sip of his drink. Gives Joel a smirk that he never thought he'd see again, given his younger brother is all settled down now, married with a kid and whatnot. 

"You know damn well why not." Joel snipes back, refills his glass with a narrowed gaze. "'M too old and I'm too fuckin' dangerous. She'd probably break or something." 

Tommy just laughs. But it's more like his old laugh. The slightly dark sound that Joel hasn't heard in years that makes him goddamn certain his brother knows something he doesn't. 

"What?"

"Nothin'," Tommy says, tossing another cube of ice into his glass, swirls it around. "Don't blame you for lookin'. Girl's got a sweet ass, and damn, she can ride, too."

There's that tone again, the one that says he definitely knows something. More than knows something. So Joel gives him that look he does that always inevitably has Tommy spilling the beans. 

"And how d'you know the girl can ride, huh?"

Tommy snorts, drags a hand through his messy black curls. 

"Wasn't always with Maria, ya know. Back when I first came to Jackson... girl can handle her way around a saddle. Ain't half as cocky when she was gushin' all over my cock in a hay bale. Tell y'somethin, never seen a prettier sight than a cockdrunk woman." 

He downs the rest of his drink before he shoots Joel a crooked grin. 

"And trust me on this one too - she loves her an older man."

Joel doesn't want details. Doesn't care much about something that happened six or so years ago. 

What he does take from the conversation stays worked into his head over the next few days. He's just thinking he might make some excuse to leave his office early, to go home so he can either drink himself senseless or fuck his own fist until he has some semblance of self control again. 

He's still debating which it'll be when someone knocks on his office door; he looks up, about to tell whoever it is to fuck off, and instead stops. Because there you fucking are, your hair pulled off your face, still windswept. Dressed in a pastel purple and blue plaid shirt, another pair of jeans that should be fucking outlawed and worn cowboy boots. 

“Hey, Joel.”

Vaguely, he wonders if this is the first time he’s actually registered you saying his name; he likes the way it sounds in your voice.

“Hey. What can I do for you?” He can’t help but sense some sort of mischief, wonders whether Tommy has decided to interfere, again, in something he has no business in.

“Oh, uh, Tommy said you were the one to go to if the barn door got caught again?”

Joel registers what you’re saying, can’t help but listen to the way his brother’s name sounds in your mouth, as if he’s looking to see if there’s any hint of any sort of affection in it, but he finds none.

He also thinks his goddamn brother is full of shit, because he knows damn well that Tommy is just as capable of fixing the stupid barn door. But Joel is nothing if not an opportunist, and he sees exactly what’s being offered here – an opportunity.

So he gets up out of his chair, pockets his glasses, and gives you a nod.

“Sure. Let’s go get that fixed up before dark.”

-            X     -

You’re aware of the sheer size of the man beside you as you help him lift the barn door back onto the track it usually slides in. He must be at least sixty, and yet he’s so big and broad that it doesn’t quite show. That doesn’t mean you’re oblivious to the greying curls, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. You’re not blind. Maybe you’re just fucked up, because you’ve always preferred older men, at least, since the outbreak.

Maybe it’s some convoluted thought that someone older might be able to keep you safe. As if you aren’t a damn good shot yourself. As if you aren’t entirely capable of keeping yourself safe.

You haven’t been as oblivious to his stares as he thinks. No, Joel Miller is not a subtle man, not anymore. Never has been.

That, and you’ve seen a similar look on his brother’s face, once upon a time. The kind of look that says they want to devour you. To do things to you that’ll make your toes curl.

Like you haven’t been watching Joel since he first set foot in Jackson. Figured maybe you were too young, too out of range of his usual type, whatever the fuck that was.

And then you’d noticed him watching you, dared to perhaps hope, but never make the first move. Until now.

“Thanks for the help,” you say as you test the door, pull it open and closed to make sure it isn’t stuck again.

“’S fine,” Joel answers, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Walk you home?” You offer, and the hint of a smile curves his mouth.

“Don’t know that I’m the one who needs a chaperone to walk round after dark.”

You laugh lightly as he falls into step with you regardless.

“Ah, Joel, nobody would be stupid enough to lay a hand on me.”

You don’t entirely believe that, but confidence is certainly part of it, and the last thing you want is for him to think you’re someone weak and scared.

“Why, you got some scary ass husband or somethin’ I don’t know about?” Joel asks, and you can hear the hint of jealousy in his tone, even if he thinks you won’t; it lights up something in your belly that trails all the way down to your core.

“Pff, no. No husband. No boyfriend. Just me, and apparently I’m scary enough.”

You give him time to take all that in, but that means you arrive at his house far too soon with very little progression in conversation. You’re almost feeling disappointed when he speaks again.

“Comin’ in for a drink?”

Joel isn’t sure where that confidence came from. Maybe the way you’ve confirmed there’s no significant other in your life. The almost flirty way you’ve spoken to him. The way you had seemingly no issue getting up in his space as you fixed the barn door.

He notices, too, the way your eyes flicker with something like triumph at the offer, before you just nod, follow him up the steps and into the house.

-            X     -

Joel watches the way your lips curve around the glass tumbler, and he really thinks he should be more focused on his own liquor consumption at his age more than the way it looks, but he can’t help it.

Unbidden, his mind gives him a picture of your lips wrapped around something else entirely, and for the first time since Tommy shared his little bit of “wisdom” about you the other night, he resents his brother for it. Because of fucking course his goddamn brother would have had the balls to just make a move. So why doesn’t he?

As he’s pondering this, he’s oblivious to your gaze, focused on him over the rim of your glass. They’re so alike, and yet so different, the Miller brothers. You haven’t quite worked out what makes Joel tick yet, can sense a sort of brooding, shut off darkness in him that you aren’t entirely certain you’d like to see unleashed.

What you do know, though, is that you’ve caught his eyes on you more than once. That you want him, even if it’s only for one night, that you don’t care if he shreds your heart to pieces after, so long as you get one single night where you can see what it’s like to be his.

And so while he’s still lost in thought, you down the rest of your drink and cross from your chair to his, straddle his lap and tap him lightly on the cheek.

“Hey, still with me?”

Not a lot takes Joel by surprise; he wasn’t sure what to expect when you moved, but to find you in his lap is definitely unexpected. He puts his half-finished drink to the side and just looks at you for a second, tries to will his cock into behaving, but it’s too late, he’s already hard as fuck, uncomfortable in his jeans with you pressed against him, and you both know it.

“What’re you doin’, sweetheart?” He manages to get out, because he’s got to be sure you’re not just fucking with him, or making some poor decision fuelled by liquor, even though he doubts the single drink has even touched the sides.

“What’s it look like?” You can feel how hard he is, can’t help but rock into him slightly, taunting, teasing, because God forbid you actually want this.

“Makin’ a real poor decision?” Joel regrets saying it as soon as he does so, and it shows on his face; luckily you ignore him.

“You want me to stop?” you ask instead, your hands at the buttons of the flannel shirt he always wears, a well loved dark green thing that you think sets off the olive tones to his skin perfectly.

He shakes his head so fast he almost feels dizzy, because there’s no way in hell he wants you to stop, but he wants you to understand what you might be getting yourself into.

“Fuck, no,” he almost growls it out, leans in to press a kiss to your bare collarbone where your shirt has fallen. “More just… I'm an old man, darlin', but I've never been good at bein' gentle."

You just laugh, because you don’t want gentle. You don’t want young and sweet and inexperienced. You want whatever the hell is lurking behind his tired gaze.

Still, he doesn’t move until you lean in first, press those pouting lips against his, part them so he can taste liquor and strawberries on your tongue. It’s not until you grind down against him again and moan into his mouth that he reacts.

Then whatever control he has left (which isn’t much) snaps, his hands pushing up your shirt; glad he had the foresight to build a fire when you got in, because the last thing he wants is you shivering for any reason that isn't good, isn't at his hands. 

You figure he isn't moving fast enough, help him shed your layers of clothing one by one until you're in his lap in just your emerald green panties, and fuck if Joel doesn't think the colour looks good on you.

His hands are wandering, up from your hips, slowly, cupping your tits and rubbing his roughened thumbs across your peaked nipples. You almost wish you could get him naked, but the most he'll allow is a few buttons of his shirt undone. Not that you're about to complain, so full of want for him that you'll take whatever he gives you.

You can feel the fabric of your panties getting damper with every hungry, open mouthed kiss, your little moans muffled as he slowly draws circles with his thumbs around your nipples, humming when he feels you react.

"Sensitive, huh?" His dark eyes stay fixed on yours as he pinches your nipples gently, making your back arch slightly. "Yeah you are, aren't you, sweetheart?"

You just nod, grinding yourself down against the thick length of him, your hands finding his belt buckle.

He doesn't stop you, too preoccupied with playing with your tits, the way you lean into his touch. Your hand unzips his jeans, frees his cock from the too tight confines, and slowly strokes, drawing a low groan from his chest.

Fuck, but you know what you're doing, slow practised strokes from base to tip, gentle twists of your wrist when you reach the thick head of him, spreading the precum that drips heavily along his length.

"Fuck, sweetheart, don't make me cum before I've got you there-" he warns, and you laugh, not at him, but because you're so fucking pleased that you're having that much of an effect on him.

He shuts you up effectively though, slides one rough hand into your panties and almost immediately finds your swollen clit, rubs circles on it with his thumb, smirking at how soaked he finds you.

"Christ. Don't even need t'get you ready for me, do I?"

You shake your head, but he does it anyway; nobody can say he isn't merciful, Joel thinks, as he slides his index and middle finger into your wet heat, drawing a filthy sound from you as he curls them deep.

He kisses you again, rough and needy, thinks about how if he was five, ten years younger he'd pick you up, carry you to the nearest horizontal surface and fuck you into it. The thought makes his cock throb painfully, but even this is enough, having you in his lap, writhing on his fingers...

You're aware of his mouth on you; on your throat, your collarbones, your nipples, then he moves his fingers a little more and you're aware of nothing beyond your own pleasure, your cunt weeping onto the thick digits as he continues to move them, not stopping until he's absolutely certain you're through it.

"So fuckin' pretty for me, baby. You want to come sit on my cock now?"

Slowly, slowly, he slides his fingers out, enjoys the dazed look on your face as you nod; your ruined panties are dragged down, tossed aside, then you're there, intimately close as he lines himself up, catches the tip of his cock at your soaked entrance.

He lets you sink down onto him with little to no guidance; groans when your hips meet far sooner than he expected. 

"Fuck, there's a good girl-"

You make a sound of assent, wriggle in his lap to get comfortable, only serving to make his cock twitch inside you and drag another pretty little sound out.

"You like how it feels?" He knows you do, can tell by the way your pussy tightens around him, trying to pull him in deeper, but he wants to hear you say it, almost needs the ego boost.

"Y-yeah," you breathe out, then, "Joel-"

His name is drawn out, a half plea for something that he isn't quite sure about.

"What d'you need, honey?"

"Need you to move," your voice is almost demanding, somewhere between pleading and insistent, but you'll get what you want regardless.

Joel keeps his hands on your hips, giving you some semblance of control still, but he starts to move, slowly rocking his hips up as you rest your forehead against his.

So maybe it's not what he first pictured, not what he'd have done to you ten years ago, but it doesn't quite matter to him, not when he can feel how wet and tight you are around him, hear every single pathetic little noise you make for him.

Your fingers drag through greying curls, tugging lightly; you're rewarded with another low groan, more like a growl, as his hips snap upwards sharply against yours. You don't get to savour that victory, too preoccupied by the suddenly rougher pace.

"Fuck, Joel-" You gasp and he laughs, tightens his grip on your ass to bounce you on his cock just that little bit harder, faster, hitting all the right places inside.

"That's it, good girl," he presses greedy, open mouthed kisses to your throat, keeping up the pace, feeling you tightening around him and knowing without a doubt that you're close already, so worked up for him that tipping you over the edge will be almost easy.

"Such a tight, sweet little cunt, baby, made to take my cock, weren't you?" The filthy words pour out before he can stop them, but you're responsive to those, too, clinging to him, moaning as his cock hits your sweet spot again and again,  getting you closer; you try to hold it off, don't want this to be over yet. But God if it isn't difficult.

Joel can feel you trying not to cum, can feel you holding yourself back.

"C'mon, sweetheart, go ahead and cum for me.  Y'really think this is gonna be the only time I give you my cock, sweet girl? Fuck, gonna keep this pretty pussy full of me til you get sick of it."

You gasp a moan, because there's no way in hell you could ever get tired of this, of the hint of roughness and the burning passion with which he handles you. 

Regardless, once he gives you that permission, even though you didn't need it, your resolve breaks; he presses in deep, grinds his hips against yours so the coarse curls at the base of him brush your over-sensitive clit, and then you're gone, spots in your vision as you cling to him, your cunt fluttering and throbbing around the thick cock splitting you open as your release drips down him, soaking his lap. 

Joel groans, almost cums right there, because he can count on both hands and feet how long it's been since he made a woman cum so hard, felt a pussy spasm around his cock and gush fluids into his lap.  Fuck, if he doesn't love it.

"Not gonna last much longer, sweetheart," he warns, voice low and rough as he rubs circles on your back, trying to get you through it whilst holding back his own release.

"Please-" Your voice is hoarse, eyes wide and pleading as you look at him, not bothering to finish your sentence and instead leaning in to kiss him.

It's the kiss that pushes him over the edge; years of rough, emotionless encounters, against walls. Bent over surfaces. And here you are, younger than him, softer somehow, kissing him like he's someone good and deserving.

He knows he should pull out of you but it's too late, his cock aches and twitches inside you as his release fills your still fluttering cunt, breaking the kiss only so he can rest his head on your shoulder and try to breathe.

Then your hands are in his hair again, stroking through the soft curls, getting him through the aftermath of his climax with the same gentle touch he gave you.

"Joel," you whisper his name and this time it's not a plea, not an impassioned moan, just your voice being gentle as you continue to stroke his hair.

"Hm?" He's content to just stay like this, actually, even if his joints are starting to protest. He'll deal with that later for another five, ten, fifteen minutes of this with you.

"You don't fuck like an old man." Your voice is soft. Sleepy. Like he's fucked any fire inside you out of you, lulled you into a sense of safety.

Joel can't help it. He laughs, a proper laugh that barely anyone gets out of him these days.

"Guess not, huh."

He feels his softening cock slip out of you, wraps his arms around you and tucks you against his chest.

"Can we do this again?" You dare to ask, because you're feeling sleepy and stupid and high on him, on the feeling of his seed slowly dripping down your thighs as he presses little kisses to your head.

Joel looks down at you for a moment, understands you don't mean right now, but in a sort of ambiguous future way.

"Yeah, sweetheart. Whenever you want. You want a blanket or something?"

Because inexplicably he's worried that you might be cold, as if he's only been watching you to think with his cock and doesn't actually, possibly, maybe care.

You shake your head and nuzzle back into his chest.

"Can we just stay like this for a minute?" You ask instead, and Joel nods, because he really does need to catch his breath, and even if his knees are protesting, he doesn't give a damn, because you're nice and warm in his lap and you fit there just right, like you were made to fit there.

"Yeah, baby. As long as you want."

It won't occur to him until maybe a week or so later, when you're picking strawberries in the greenhouse, that that should have been the moment he realised he was a total, utter goner.

[hyukascampfire]

(🧦) THINK I CAN'T? .. い葉 hard thoughts

𝓘N WHICH 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘂𝗽

husband수빈 ⟡ fem r 1OOO ········· est relationship fluff smut … unprotected sex creampie trying for a baby sweetness breeding kink trad roles

⠀ɑ︭ : my second breeding kink soobin fic... i have no excuses. this hard thought is from @saejinniestar everybody give her a round of applause for this beauty :3

Soobin won’t accept it. He just can’t. When you began trying, he assumed that it would take him… What? A month? To get you pregnant. Well, it’s been more than a month. Six, to be exact. That single red line appears behind his eyelids every time he curls up behind you for bed, taunting him. He feels like even less of a man each time you walk into the bathroom with wary hope in your eyes and then walk out with your shoulders drooping.

No, he certainly can’t handle it at all. A month ago you brought him along to your friend’s baby shower. The sweet pink blush on your cheeks as you tried to smile for her and pretend that she wasn’t living your dream was simply the icing on the cake. He’s been all over you since that day, because suddenly the thought of you with a round belly and the glow of pregnancy around you has become entirely real, and entirely branded into the back of his skull. The baby section in stores and all those clothes, impossibly tiny and precious, have begun to be taunting more than endearing. How cruel. You’ve checked your fertility, and he’s checked his. Perfectly normal. So, why the hell can’t he get you pregnant?

And you wish he didn’t blame himself. You run his hair between your fingers and pepper kisses over his cheeks and tell him that you couldn’t ask for a better partner and future father to your children, but that’s just adding insult to injury. A deeper part of you has already begun to try and make peace with perhaps having to build your family another way, and Soobin’s already tearing himself up.

“You know, I was researching IVF…” you say, words muffled into the blanket he long ago claimed to be his. He’d been at work all day, and it smelt of velvety woods and whisky traces of his cologne. Anything to be closer to him. Especially these days.

Soobin freezes, frowning. “IVF?” A thousand thoughts flash through his head, but he couldn't lie. Each and every one involved pinning you to the bed and filling you up. “Are you serious? You think I can’t get you pregnant?” The first time you’ve had this conversation out loud—addressed the issue. It’s not working. It wasn’t that it was an irrational thing for you to consider—Soobin knows that. It doesn’t help his bruised ego much to hear his wife consider impregnating herself like that because he couldn’t fucking do it the way nature intended for him to do it.

Sighing, you soften your voice and go to lather him in cashmere kisses. “Soobin… I’m just think—”

He can’t let you get that thought out. He can’t consider that maybe he can’t get his goddamn wife pregnant. Soobin stops you halfway, his mouth on yours as he gets you ready on the bed with his steady strength, flipping you this way and situating your leg that way. Once he has you how he likes, stuffing a pillow beneath your hips because that’s supposed to help. Soobin can’t help but scoff into your neck. If anything’s going to get you knocked up, it’ll be that he keeps you in this bed, soft and sweet for him as you always are, until you’re full of him. That’s that. 

You whisper his name as he slides in with tender reverence. Soobin has always been big, and as much as you’ve adjusted to him over time, your toes still curl each time. It makes no sense—you’re both fertile, he never misses a chance to make love to you at peak ovulation, and he nearly brushes your damn cervix when he’s hilted in you. You should be carrying his baby by now. Something in the look in his eye tells you that you just might be, when he’s done with you.

“Just…” Soobin says with his voice on a leash, opting for languid, pointed thrusts. Sex became a chore there for a minute. Something for a means to an end. But he’s gonna make tender love to you tonight, because that’s what his sweet wife deserves. “Let me do this.”

He knows your body and all its little ticks. He knows that you like it when he points his hips that way, and that you like his hands on the fat of your hips as he takes you. Soobin pulls out all the stops, in fact. He bends you nearly in half, because according to whatever some maternity website told him it’s the best way to ensure his cum takes. You’re making sweet sounds into his neck and he’s losing himself at the desperate thought that after this, some day soon you’ll be under him like this with your belly in the way and begging for him to take care of your hormone-sensitive body.

Soobin’s mind muffles at the thought. The way that you’re looking up at him with glazed eyes and how your heels dig into the dimples at his spine as if even subconsciously you’re begging for him to impregnate you. He chases it until he’s pinning you to the bed and filling you up with a shuddered, husky whimper and a thousand panted ‘I love you’s puffing out into the air between you. Because he can’t handle it; he absolutely cannot wait to have a family with you, and he cannot wait for you to give him such a gift. With you.

The sound of him pulling out of you is a resounding wet pop. The white rivulets of his cum come oozing out after it, warm down your skin.

Soobin would usually go to plug it right back into you with his fingers, but he can’t help watching it for a while as he catches his breaths and presses a warm kiss to your ankle. And he just knows. He just knows that this is it. Heart aching in his chest, he pulls you to his solid chest, feeling the shape of you against him and letting himself appreciate your weight and soft edges. “You don’t need to do anything,” he breathes into your skin. “Let me take care of it, love.”

Sure enough, the next test you take answers with two, indelible red lines. Soobin sure did take care of it, just how you know he’ll take care of you and your family. He couldn’t  get his hands off you that night, and as you begin to show with a soft curve to your belly, he’s even worse off, because fuck. 

He did that.

OO1. 【 tagging 】 . . . @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @soohashits , @f4iryfever , @arcturus444 , @linqed , @serenityism00 , @immelissaaa , @luv4cheol , @lickingan0rchid , @20-cms , @hhoneylix , @beestvng , @hyucktapes , @bewitchless , @prince-jjae , @blankliving , @yaoizee , @stormy1408 , @missychief1404 , @izzyy-stuff , @miukuui , @lunesdesire , @sunoolver , @cherricola-star , @xylatox , @filmnings , @hearteyes4hobi , @hyunj00 , @taebatu , @caratcakemoa , @biteyoubiteme , @dawngyu , @hyunruhi

rblgs & asks >ᴗ<

[tokoyamisstuff]

Second Chance At Love Pt. 3

Variant! Invincible x gn! Reader

Warnings: angst, blood, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, not proofread A/N: don't worry, this is not over yet! and sorry to all the og Mark fans lmao

[A few minutes earlier, Pentagon Medical Ward]

"So you left my friend alone with this freak the whole time?!"

Cecil's thumb was hesitating on the trigger for the high-frequency device, not wanting to stain his relationship with the original Mark any further - but after witnessing what his variants were capable of, he's certainly not taking any chances.

"Calm. Down." he urges the young Viltrumite while trying to remain amenable at the same time. "We needed to take care of the active threats beforehand, and also...he seemed quite fond of your friend." That last part he regretted immediately after saying it aloud.

"You can't be serious!" Mark now screamed, dramatically throwing his hands in the air, thus making all nearby agents cower in fear. "It was you who told me that one of those psychos tried to lure my mom out to kill her! What else do you think this is? He made my friend believe he's me, to play some sort of wicked game!"

All that had happened those past few days...the death and destruction...Mark blamed himself for all of it, because at the bottom line everything was inevitably caused by his own lack of resolve.

And there he was, hiding away at Eve's sickbed like a stubborn child, cowardly refusing to take responsibility as earth's last hope, while others were risking their lives to correct his errors, hell, while his brother and mom were still out there!

Once again he let everyone down.

But Mark won't let any more people he cares about suffer because of his own shortcomings. This time he won't hold back...

...he'll kill this variant and make him pay for what he's done.

Picking up his mask from the counter, he bids his still comatose girlfriend one last look, very well aware how disappointed she'd be at his latest decisions. She'd want him to go. So he mutters a silent apology before rushing into the hallway, with Cecil following closely behind.

"Teleport me to them. And you better send as many backup reanimen as you can."

[Current time]

"Careful Mark. If our observations are correct, this one is way stronger than the others." The hero huffs in annoyance upon hearing Cecil's voice from his earpiece, watching his other self come out of the debris with not a hair out of place.

Well, most of the variants probably never faced any real threat or even slight disadvantage in their lives. There was simply no reason for them to train properly, since the powergap between Viltrumites and any other species was just so ridiculously high.

This version of Mark however spent his entire life preparing his vengeance on Omni-man for taking the one and only thing he truly cared about...

...and his hard work seemed to bear fruit, since a single counterattack of his was painful enough to temporarily stun the original. He seized the opportunity to pin his opponent down, landing one severe blow after another until both of them were completely covered in the original Mark's blood.

"NO!" you screamed at the top of your lungs, having thrown yourself onto the variant's back as you - brave yet very foolishly - tried to to get those two behemoths away from each other. And in the end, your struggle and pleas actually made the variant stop in his tracks. "Please...don't kill him."

For a split second you see the look of heartbreak and betrayal in the man's face, since seeing you still care so much for the original erased all hope he had started to harbor.

Your world's Mark has everything he ever wanted, and he doesn't even understand how lucky he is.

This is so fucking unfair, it's driving him insane.

The Viltrumite raises his bloodied knuckles to his temples, his jealousy spiraling into a violent, irrational urge to tear the original apart and take his place.

And yet he tries to keep it together for your sake as he couldn't bear to cause you any more sorrow. He glares you down with so much malice "That was self-defense" he scoffed through strained breaths, desperately trying to prevent himself from having a mental breakdown. "I wasn't actually going to-"

Now it was the original Mark's chance to turn the battle around, grabbing the variant by the throat as he crushed him against a mountain not far from the hill you were on.

While your former friend was completely disregarding you, rationality overthrown by his wrath, the other Invincible's eyes were practically glued to you in concern for your safety. At first he was holding back, letting the attacker use him as a punching bag in hopes it'd calm him down...

...but when he recognized the capsules transporting reanimen falling from the sky, he pounced on you with no forethought, shielding you from the impact with his own body.

"Shit, are you oka-" Another time he was torn away from you, with Mark yelling at him to keep his filthy hands off of you. And yet with every move, no matter what, the other Mark did a way better job to prevent any harm than the one who came to 'save' you from that very same man.

"Dude, that's exactly why we cannot fight here!" the variant reprimanded his counterpart while severing the head and limbs from several cyborgs. "Think about your partner's safety! We both only want what's best for them, right?"

"Huh?" The original Mark gave a puzzled look at that statement, the word 'partner' obviously made him think of Eve, but his eyes briefly flickered towards you. "What's that supposed to mea- ah, whatever."

In any other context you would've probably been so embarassed that you wished for the earth to swallow you whole - but this is neither about you, nor was it the time for this kind of talk. And luckily, Mark didn't overthink the variant's words but focused on the truth in them instead, swiftly throwing you over his shoulder to bring you away, so that they could continue their battle without endangering you.

"Let. Me. Go!" You repeatedly punch against Mark's back, horrified to see your newfound friend down below trying to stand his ground against the reanimen. "Tell them to stop! None of this is necessary!"

"Hey, it's me!" Mark tries to soothe you, convinced that you're just overwhelmed by today's events. "The real me, okay? Stop being so irrational!"

"Yeah, I know that, you blockhead!" you blurt out in anger, "And you're one to talk! You let your emotions dictate your actions, as always! I thought Invincible spares the bad guys and tries to talk it out?"

"...not anymore. We all saw today how that way of dealing with villains turns out." Letting you down so far away that you can't even see how the variant is holding up anymore, Mark is about to leave and finish the job when you manage to get a hold of his wrist. "Wait. Listen to me, that Mark is not entirely evil!"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" So not only did you know it was a variant, but now you're also defending him?! "The trauma messed with your head or something. Let Cecil's people pick you up and check on you."

"Seriously, Mark." He finally turned around to take a proper look at you, grinding his teeth as he recognized that naive, caring attitude of yours that always had a positive influence on him in the past. It made his heart swell with both admiration and envy...

...because why the hell were you advocating for a malicious version of himself, especially after throwing away your friendship over something he had no control over?!

"You know this guy one fucking day and suddenly you're on his side?" the hurt in his voice was so tremendous, you felt as if the guilt of it swallowed you whole. "You were supposed to be my friend, and he's the one who participated in making mine and many other's lives a living hell! So why?!"

"...it would be a waste to kill off a potential ally of this strenght, would it not?" Your reasoning got accentuated by the sound of metal and flesh clashing in the background, and you secretly hoped the variant was doing okay. "Maybe he can be rehabilitated."

"God, you sound like Cecil...but even he draws a line at some point. This guy is irredeemable!" Mark ran a hand through his hair, pacing around in circles to clear his head - and yet it was like your role in all this was the one drop that made the pot boil over. "He needs to be stopped! You've seen it yourself, he leveled several cities to the ground and killed a great amount of heroes! Shit, he's caused millions of deaths, do you have any idea what that means?!"

There was nothing to add to this. He was right, about absolutely everything. And yet...

"He-he needed to fullfill his part of the bargain, or Angstrom would've-" A loud bang echoed through the air as Mark's fists met the ground in frustration, effectively cutting you off. "Fuck, do you even hear yourself?! He always had a choice to join the fight on the right side instead of wasting his time chasing after yo-" There was a gleam of epiphany in his eyes that made you a little anxious whether he had picked up on the hints.

"Look, I'm not trying to justify his actions." You pry one of Mark's fists open, intertwining your fingers with his. "But we need him..."

"...we, or you?" That question caught you off guard, but when you wanted to stumble away but Mark pulled you right back. "What he talked about earlier...are we a couple in that other dimension?"

Sometimes you tend to forget that he isn't as dull as he comes across. Damn it.

"I-I-I....it's more complicated than that. I...died in his world." You shouldn't even be arguing about something so pointless right now, and you also don't want to burden him any further, but he keeps prying.

"So what, you want to become the moral support of a mass murderer?" Worded like this it does sound pretty awful. "I know you cut me out of your life, but I still care about you. No way I'm gonna let that happen. It's too dangerous."

Those feelings you harbored over the past decade were like a chain weighting heavy around your heart - but instead of communicating like an adult, you dwelled in self-pity and pushed your friend away. And as crazy as it sounds, over time you convinced yourself there's no way out of this, nothing else awaiting you...

...that was until you met the other Mark, however.

No better timing to free yourself than now, you thought, but Mark connected the dots faster than you were able to confess. "...why did you never say anything?"

"Oh c'mon, you've been doting on Eve since highschool." Mark was not the person to back out of a friendship like this, even if though he didn't reciprocate. If you had told him he'd certainly would've found a way to make this work, since he didn't want to lose you. And yet you didn't want to give the two of you the chance to overcome this, rather choosing to hurt him before you get hurt.

What a stupid, selfish teenager you were back then...

"Now it all makes sense" he speaks to himself, shyly glancing over to you again as he covers his blushing cheeks with his hands. "Fuck, I'm such an idiot..."

"Nonsense, I'm the ass for ruining our friendship over a silly crush." That was the understatement of the year - you were head over heels for this man.

He seems almost melancholic thinking back to all the moments he should've noticed what's going on. All this time wasted going no-contact when you could've worked things out instead...but it takes two to do that, and he's certainly not the one to blame.

Turning his head towards the noise of the ongoing fight, he shakes his head in disbelief. "This is so fucked up..."

"Tell me about it" you chuckle, playfully poking his side in an attempt to lighten the mood, and both of you give each other an appreciative smile. "But we shouldn't make rushed decisions in our current state, right?"

Mark lets out a shuddered sigh, realizing just what kind of hole your absence has tore in his life. But you'll manage to get back to how things were between you. This was a ray of hope cutting through the storm he's been caught into, ever since becoming a superhero.

"God, you have no idea how much I've missed you..."

There's no more time to waste, everything else has to wait until much later. Mark brings you back with him, a safe distance away from where the variant was still battling reanimen that just kept coming. Upon seeing Invincible he raises his guard again, but much to his surprise he's not attacked again, quite the opposite.

"Cecil, stop them!" your Mark exclaims into the comm as he jumps in between the crowd of cyborgs, giving a quick nod of acknowledgement to his other self. "He won't resist if we take him prisoner, right?"

"Sure..." the variant murmured, raising a brow in confusion. But indeed, the mechanical soldiers stop and he gets immobilized by Mark without fighting back. He looks up to you as if seeking your approval, and you quickly rush to their side, scolding Mark for being so harsh with his precautions.

"Are you hurt?" you whisper as the GDA agents transport you back to the Pentagon by helicopter, only the real Mark having flown ahead. You however refused to leave the variant's side, even though you've been strongly advised to go home, at least until the situation was less intense.

"This is nothing..." The Viltrumite huffs in amusement that you were worried about him of all people. He looks down to the shackles around his arms and legs that could never actually hold him, daring to crack a smile which you gladly mirrored. "But thanks that you stood up for me...even though I still don't understand why."

"Because I believe in you, so you better not disappoint me!" you chant, whearing a quiet whimper escape his throat when you put a reassuring hand on his knee. "Everything is gonna be alright, I'm sure of it. We're gonna figure it out...together, okay?"

A few hours later and you were still waiting in a hallway of the GDA, the feeling of suspense only worsened by all the pitying and disgusted looks some of the agents were shooting you. It was understandable, of course, since they probably saw you throwing yourself at the enemy live and in HD.

"I couldn't care less about whatever you two got going on" Cecil explains with his usual stoic manner, "but he refuses to talk and we don't have time for this."

You knew the opportunistic geeze was at least partly bluffing - he's most likely already planning on how to utilize Invincible's affection for you to control him.

Upon entering the prison cell you gasped at the gigantic apparatus containing him, all of his limbs encoated by a metal you didn't recognize in order to keep him from making any move. Honestly, it felt like no matter what they tried, he was only here because he wanted to be. If you told him to break out right now he'd most likely wreck this place in one milisecond.

The variant's defeated features brighten as he recognizes who was paying him a visit, but the initial excitement was soon pushed back by his newfound guilty conscience. He didn't expect to ever see you again, let alone you voluntarily entering the lion's den.

"I'll accept whatever punishment you deem necessary" he rasps, greatly worried at the possibility of them using you against your will. "Just leave them out of this."

Cecil nudged the bridge of his nose, groaning exaggeratedly. It sure isn't easy making objective decisions when you're that emotionally involved with the Grayson family - although he'd never admit the soft spot he had for them.

Not to mention, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to get his hands on one of the two literal strongest men on the planet.

"Well for starters you'll help with rescue and rebuidling" he ultimatively decides, talking to the young man like one would scold an unruly child. "Consider this your last chance. And don't you dare taking a break until this whole planet has recovered from the aftermath of your crimes. I don't want to see you eating, sleeping or even breathing without any supervision. Got it?!"

"Yes, Sir..."

A single gesture of his hand enough to make his underlings free the Viltrumite from his confinements. "Give him a new costume so he doesn't scare the survivors...and insert an ultrasonic implant, just to be sure."

Mark rubbed his sore wrists, baffled with this decision. He had expected nothing less than torture, that they'd experiment until they'd find a way to execute him...but this? Ridiculous. Hardly a punishment.

Not that he's complaining, though.

At long last, you were facing each other again, those brief hours of separation feeling like an eternity apart. Crazy to think you barely even know this man - well, the fact that he was so much like the original Mark may have messed with your perception of time...

...or you were simply going crazy as well, who knows. Anyways, it did not feel wrong. If anything you've never been this happy in years.

The Viltrumite seems conflicted, his muscles occasionally twitching out of the desire to be close to you, to touch and hold you and never let go again. But then he detects the tears of relief in your eyes, misinterpreting them negatively and backing off even further.

Right...he doesn't deserve to be anywhere near you.

"You didn't need to...you shouldn't be here." He faces the ground in shame, blinking back tears of his own as he speaks. "Not after what I did."

"Damn it, Mark..." you half-yell, half-whine as you run straight towards him, wrapping your arms around his torso as if to press all of his broken parts back together. "Just...shut up. I'm capable of making my own decisions, whether you like them or not."

What a strange one you were. He wasn't even sure if his dimension's version of you had been that amazing of a person.

"Can't argue with that..." His hands tentatively finding purchase on your sides, and you instantly feel him melt at the feel of your body against his. "But it seems like we won't be able to meet each other for a while..."

"I can wait..." you shrug, beaming up at him with an almost playful tone. "...as long as you promise to take me on another date, would you? Without robots and death-matching yourself next time, if possible."

Mark smiled.

He did so many times ever since you met of course, but it always seemed like he was mimicking genuine human interaction, as if he was forcing himself to put on a facade in order to make you comfortable.

But this one, right here, right now...it was real, and so, so beautiful.

Hopefully you see more of it in the future.

"Oh, I think after you've seen how far I'd go for you, it's safe to say I can't deny you any wish..."

[Next Part]