#contaminated! knuckles

[sonicexelle-junkary]

CW: Vomiting

Prev

A continuation of the previous part. I’m actually really proud of most of the expressions on shadow, here. The best I’ve ever done. Slightly compressed cause I wanted to fit it into the image limit

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fic Idea: New Management

It starts off small, in controlled, barely noticeable areas of Gotham.

Over days, the litter and trash vanish, the sidewalks are washed and cleaned, and even building yards long since abandoned are trimmed. No one notices at first because Gotham is so used to ignoring how dirty everything is until Poison Ivy makes a public announcement thanking the person who cleaned up Gotham's parks.

You know, while she was tearing up that one street with her vine monster.

After the Bats had her locked away pending a trial, they stopped to look around and realized, yes, someone had been cleaning house. No one really knows who, but things have started to change. Streetlights are replaced, graffiti is painted over, and cracked windows are fixed. It's a nice thought, but all this had the gangs up in arms, especially when their tagging disappeared.

To control the goodie-two-shoes, a few gangs burn down a few local parks- mostly the ones near or around Crime Alley- and they also loot the smaller businesses. It's a warning that the mystery housekeeper should be reminded of their station, but- well, it's all for nothing because, like magic, the following night, the damage is repaired and somehow better than before.

What's crazy is the water change. Everyone notices that right away.

Gotham's water system was just as corrupted and descriptive as its class system. If you were one of the elites- your water was clean and crisp- if you were one of the poor- your water was practically tar with how contaminated it was. Anyone in between got a fifty-fifty chance of drinkable water, depending on what side of the city they lived on.

It became an identifier, really. Depending on how often you were seen at stores buying bottled water, people could tell how well off your family was.

That's why, on a random Wednesday, Gotham lost their collective mind that the entire water system was fixed. Regardless of class, every household had clear, scent-free water from the tabs.

The few who wandered outside trying to figure out what in the world was happening were left stunned at the sight of Gotham's surrounding bodies of water.

They were clean.

All the rivers, the harbors, the silly little fountains found around Old Gotham- everything. It was safe to swim in them now. That was just wrong.

"What's happening?" Jason growls, crouching at one of Wayne Manor's main windows. His eyes are barely visible over the edge, allowing him to peek out into the yard, but he must not be fully visible, lest he become a target.

"I don't know," Tim hisses, taking a similar position on the second floor. He grips the communicator with a white-knuckle grip, trying his best to ground himself. "I just don't know. There are no witnesses, no evidence, no clues whatsoever on who's doing this to the city!"

"I don't like this!"

"No one does, Jason," Bruce intervenes; the accompanying sound of keys typing is familiar background noise. He's still in the cave, attempting to run through all reports of horrified Gothamites on social media, trying to find a pattern. "Babs? Do you have any new updates?"

"No!" She hisses, her typing sounding far more aggressive. "I can't find anything on those responsible. Nothing on the internet, nothing on public camera feeds, and nothing on rumors through dark web chats. It's like I'm trying to track a ghost!"

"This isn't natural, B," Steph cuts in. She's hiding in her bedroom closet, voice low in case her mom hears. After they realize some new lunatic is running loose in Gotham, her mom calls her back home to barricade them. If they had a bomb shelter, they would have been in it long ago.

"It's worse than we think," Duke huffs. He's somewhere near the top floor, having chosen a higher vantage point, hoping his meta powers would spot someone coming towards the manor. "I think I see glimpses of blue in the sky. If this continues at this rate, we'll have a clear blue sky in about two hours."

Multiple gasps of horror are heard throughout the communication lines. Bruce starts to type faster, barking orders for everyone to remain where they are and not go gather information. They had no idea what they were dealing with.

Damian stands with a confused Cass, Dick, and Alfred. The only bats not originated from Gotham, so while they can claim to have years in the city, none of them truly know. "I do not understand. Is this not beneficial to Gotham?"

"It may be too much at once, Master Damian." The Bulter tells him carefully. He only speaks that slowly when Alfred thinks of every word before saying it. "Whoever is behind this must not be from Gotham. If they were, they know that people would lose their collective minds upon the improvements."

"But who could be responsible?" Cass asks, watching Jason duck and army crawl to a new window once some sunlight manages to break through the clouds where he was originally hiding.

"I wish I knew Miss Cass."

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton leans back in his computer chair in a dimension of hope and a skip away. He laces his fingers together, bending them until satisfying cracks are heard. It was a productive hour of work, but he thinks now that his virtual city had cleaner water, his NPCs should start healing and developing better.

He was suspicious of Madam Gotham—a new ghost that appeared within his territory of the Ghost Zone—but after a quick conversation, he decided to befriend her. Danny is glad he did, seeing as she was in danger of fading away. Her core had suffered severe damage due to denying her obsession for so long.

Danny could do nothing for her. Madam Gotham needed professional help that only certain Yetis could offer. Although the Yetis usually turned away anyone not of their kind, with Danny backing her up, they had been willing to take in Madam Gotham.

She had been stubborn, though, refusing to get help because she was too busy playing her silly little game. The computer she played it on was unique to her realm and could not withstand the cold temeture of the Far Frozen. Danny was literally watching her melt—a horrific reminder of Dani and her siblings' disabling—before he could take it anymore.

Only after agreeing to watch her video game did she decide to be moved to the Far Frozen to receive medical treatment. Now, Danny never really liked those farming simulator games, but this was different in the sense that the city was already there.

His job was to further develop the city into a utopia. It was interesting to learn what modern issues the city had and how he could make decisions based on point costs on what to fix.

He gained points from making his citizens happier, supporting the Bats—the city's defenders—or choosing to develop options that significantly raised the value of his city.

It was rather addicting, really. He could see how Madam Gotham got so sucked in, even though it didn't really have much action for him to make. Mostly, he would let his citizens react to his new choices and use his points to delete trash and gunk.

There were some side quests he liked to work on, too, like helping certain citizens with drug addiction, depression, anxiety, or anger issues. Danny has no idea why Madam Gotham allowed so many to develop so badly, so every day, he would give them all one good luck point to brighten their days.

He had three full tabs of characters, a brief explanation of their lives, and whatever issues Danny could make them go through. He would tackle the number of homeless youth next by fixing up the city's affordable housing and infrastructure.

It was a bit narcissistic of Madam Gotham to name her game town "Gotham City," but it's better than any name Danny could have come up with.

[scandalcus]

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 — ♡ 𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐒

PAIRING — ellie williams x afab!reader SUMMARY — tattoo artist! ellie gives you a thigh tattoo CONTENT WARNINGS — smut, stone top!ellie, sub!reader, shy reader, enthusiastic consent, fingering, face riding, oral sex, etc. WORD COUNT — 1.7k A/N — hello sorry for not posting any fics for like a week i've had zero motivation to write and barely any to make this so i apologize if its bland and rushed. also, i made a spotify playlist dedicated to ellie if u wanna listen ❤️

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓, 18+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘, 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

You sat anxiously in the unfamiliar room. Your leg involuntarily shook as you scanned the area. Various types of posters and drawings were displayed along the wooden walls.

Your eyes landed on the coffee table before you, observing the different comic books and trading cards scattered across it. You let out a small huff, finding it amusing how dorky Ellie is.

"Okay, I'm ready," she says, turning to you and holding a tattoo gun in her right hand. "I don't have a tattoo chair or anything so do you mind sitting on the edge of my bed?" She asks, gesturing towards her bed.

"Yeah that's fine," you say, walking up to her bed and plopping down on the edge. She makes her way over to you, her hands in the air so she doesn't contaminate any of her tools. "Where did you want the tattoo?"

"On my thigh," you say, awkwardly fumbling with your fingers. She looks up at you, and you look elsewhere in the room. You felt incredibly intimidated by her for some reason, blushing every time she looked up at you.

"You're gonna have to take your pants off." she says casually. "Right," you say, standing up and starting to unbutton your pants. She averts her gaze around her room, obviously sensing your awkwardness.

"Is this your first tattoo?" she asks, trying to make small talk as if this interaction isn't already awkward enough. "Yeah," You say, shyly sliding your pants off. "What made you want to get a tattoo?" she asks, still facing away from you. "I've been wanting one for a while, I just couldn't find a good artist." you shrug, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Good thing you found me," she says turning around to face you, giving you a reassuring smile.

You place your hands in your lap, trying to cover your panties. You purposely wore a nice pair of underwear because you knew they would be seen but you ended up slightly embarrassed by your choice. Maybe it was a little too bold.

Ellie looks up at you, this time you hold eye contact, not on purpose though. She just happened to catch you off guard and you couldn't make yourself look away.

"Lay back." she orders, you comply and stare at the ceiling, your hands still covering your intimates. She gently grabs your wrist and moves them out of the way, taking the chance to place the tattoo stencil high up on your thigh. You look down and notice a slight smirk across her lips. "I like your panties." she says, causing you to become extremely flustered.

You don't say anything in response, you just lean back and continue to look into space. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She says, removing the stencil and grabbing her tattoo gun. "Oh it's fine, you didn't make me uncomfortable. I'm just nervous."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

She positioned herself between your thighs, unexpectedly pulling you closer to the edge of the bed so can work more comfortably on you. You audibly gasp at the sudden movement, but she ignores you and continues to adjust herself.

You hear the buzzing of the tattoo gun, followed by her hot breath against your inner thigh. She was significantly close to your heat, her knuckles barely grazing your slit, causing the hair on your body to raise.

You felt a lump form in your throat like you could hardly breathe. The needle suddenly pierces your skin, making you suck in a sharp breath. "You okay?" she asks, proceeding to drag the gun across your skin, causing a whine to escape your lips.

You let out a hum in response, feeling your panties become more and more drenched the longer she worked in between your thighs. As much as you hoped she wouldn't, she certainly did notice the wet spot growing on your panties.

The tension in the room was thick, you could sense her peeking up at you every couple of minutes. The lust felt like it was about to consume you, you couldn't help but squirm under her touch; partly because of the pain from the tattoo, but mainly due to the ache growing between your legs.

"Fuck," you breathe out, feeling slightly defeated. This immensely attractive girl was placed between you, inches away from the one place you yearned for her to be. You didn't even really know her though, she was just some tattoo artist your friend recommended to you. You couldn't help but feel humiliated by how obviously turned on you were by her.

You felt her knuckles graze you again, this time there was definitely more pressure applied. It was subtle but noticeable.

The buzzing sound comes to a sudden halt. You lift yourself up on your elbows and look down at Ellie in confusion, watching her set her gun down before grabbing a wipe and cleaning the excess ink off your skin.

"Are you done already?" you ask, looking down at your piece, noticing how unfinished it looks.

"Sorry, I'm a little distracted." Ellie sighs, placing a bandage on your fresh tattoo and removing her gloves. After discarding the trash, she comes back and places her hand above your knee, looking up at you seductively. You felt your heart thump against your chest.

"I can come back later," you say softly, acting oblivious to her suggestive mannerisms. "I don't want you to leave," she responds, her hand slowly trailing up your thigh. She simultaneously makes her way on top of you until her face is inches away from yours, her thighs cradling you.

Your body went stiff, your breathing caught in your throat. "Relax," she says softly, using her right hand to move a strand of hair out of your face. You exhale, letting yourself loosen up. "Good girl."

She hovered over you, her eyes jumping across your features. The desperation in your eyes is evident to her. She had been studying your body language when she was tattooing you, trying to resist the urge to pin you down and fuck you the entire time. She knew you wanted her as bad as she wanted you, so she gave in to her desires.

Her hand travels down to your core, massaging you through the fabric. You let out a whimper in response. "I couldn't help but notice how wet you were," she mutters, tilting her head slightly and watching you fall apart beneath her. Her eyes were dark, full of lust.

She slid her hand under your panties and slipped two of her fingers into your entrance with ease, causing you to audibly gasp. A moan escaped her lips at how snugly you fit around her. "mm fuck, you're so tight."

She pressed her lips to yours, the kiss was intense and passionate. You moaned against her lips as she continued pumping her fingers in and out of you, her thumb finding its way to your throbbing clit and rubbing circles against it.

She made her way down to your neck, sucking on the exposed skin. The pace of her thrust quickened, and you felt her knuckles slamming against your surrounding skin. A string of moans fell from your lips as you felt the tension wither from your body. Your moans and whimpers send vibrations to her lips, waves of bliss traveling through your body. She curved her fingers inside of you, causing you to jolt.

You felt an orgasm approaching, and you gripped Ellie's shoulder as your thighs trembled. She noticed how close you were and stopped, causing you to pout. She bought her fingers to her mouth and sucked your juices off of them, humming while savoring the taste. She then snakes her fingers around the hem of your panties, slowly pulling them off and stuffing them into her jean pocket.

"Come here," she says, flipping over and pulling you on top of her. You sat on top of her shyly, your bare pussy resting on her abdomen. "Come sit on my face." She demands, putting her hands on your hips and encouraging you to scoot up. You comply, adjusting yourself until your pussy is hovering over her mouth.

She pushed your hips down and buried her face into your pussy, her tongue swirling against your folds collecting all the wetness you left for her.

"Fuck... you taste so good," she moans against you. She sucked loudly on your clit, watching as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You grind your hips against her mouth, holding onto the headboard for support. Your cries grew louder and louder as she increased her movements.

She placed her hands on the curve of your ass, guiding you up and down her tongue. Unintelligible babbles left your mouth as she drew little shapes on your bundle of nerves.

"Ellie-" you cried, your thighs already shaking as she works her skilled tongue on you. She hums against your clit in response, wrapping her arms around your thighs to keep you on her face.

"Fuck, don't stop," you whine, your words slurred together as she continues to fuck you with her mouth. She managed to sneak her fingers into the mess, groaning at the way you clamp around her.

"You're almost there, cum for me." she says, coaxing you through an orgasm. Moans and curse words spill from your lips. "Just like that, you're doing so fucking good." she praises. Your body spasms as white flashes before your eyes, everything around you disappearing and pure euphoria consuming your body.

you continue to sloppily ride out your high on Ellie's face, your climax washes over you and she makes sure to catch every last drop of your release. You twitch as she uses her tongue to clean you up.

You pull yourself off of her, plopping down in the spot next to her. Both of you take a moment to catch your breath, sweat trickling down your faces. "How about we take a shower and then I finish your tattoo?" she asks, leaning towards you. "Sounds perfect." you smile, sitting up out of the bed and starting to make your way to the bathroom, your shy demeanor from before clearly absent. She lets out a chuckle at how eager you are, taking your hand and letting you guide her to the bathroom.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃. 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 ♡

[blindmagdalena]

i'm thinking about john killing someone in front of his s/o, but that was about to kill them so his violent is seem a protectiveness. to be seem bloody and not be feared....

18+ 2.7k homelander x reader, established relationship, gore, blood, morally grey reader? shower sex, fingering, praise kink, breast play, dirty talk, rough sex, count down, needy/possessive/yandere HL, reader is nondescript with f!anatomy.

Homelander is breathing shallowly, eyes wide—wild—blood dripping from his chin and from the stray strands of hair that fell forward when he lunged. He's elbow deep in a man's sternum, and his other hand is wrapped tight around his broken neck, the bones like fragments of glass poking out from beneath rapidly cooling skin.

It all happened in an instant. One second, the man currently in his hands was grabbing you by the hair, a knife swinging wildly towards your throat, and the next he was dangling from Homelander's grasp, heart slowing against his knuckles.

He laughs through his teeth, licking his lips reflexively. The blood is sour, contaminated with god knows what, but that hardly takes away from the thrill of the moment.

It's been a while since he held the gaze of someone whose life he just claimed. Long enough that he forgets where he is, and who he's with.

He drops the man to the ground like a wet sack of potatoes, innards spilling out from the hole his arm leaves behind. In the man's hand, Homelander sees something that sets his teeth on fucking edge: strands of your hair ripped from your scalp in that limp, dead palm.

"You stupid motherfucker," he growls through a crooked sickly smile, lifting his boot to crush the hand like it were nothing more than an insect. The man's heart has long since stopped, but the rapid pound of another is still loud in his ears.

Yours.

Slowly, he turns around to look at you. You're cradling your skull where you'd been grabbed, tears gathering in your wide glassy eyes, the shock of it all catching up to you. You're staring intently at the corpse, watching blood pooling out from beneath it.

You've never looked at him with fear in your eyes before, but that's precisely what he sees when your eyes meet his. It makes him bristle internally. What was he supposed to do? You were in danger, and the way you screamed will follow him into his nightmares.

He could have lost you just now. You could be the one soaking in a puddle of your own blood, losing your life to the press of nothing more than a flimsy metal blade. While Homelander has always been logically aware of your humanity and the tender vulnerability that entails, nothing has ever put it so viscerally in the forefront of his mind as a freak incident coming so close to erasing you from his life.

He did what he had to. You'll understand. You have to understand.

"Hey," he says, hands raised to you placatingly, as if coaxing a spooked wild animal. The blood just makes his crimson gloves look glossy. He blocks your view of the body. "Hey, it's alright."

Your terror is palpable in the race of your heart and the sour smell of adrenaline coursing through you.

He reaches for you with the hand that isn't drenched in viscera, but before he can take hold, you beat him to the punch, throwing yourself into his arms, your own wrapping tight around his middle, hands clasping together beneath his cape.

Caught off guard, Homelander's arms hover awkwardly for a beat before he returns your embrace. He'd been certain that he was the source of your fear after a display like that.

"He just-he tried to kill me," you rasp, tears overflowing, spilling down your cheeks, wetting his suit further. "Yeah, yeah he sure did. S'alright, he's not gonna hurt you again," he coos, stroking your back with one bloodied hand, the other cupping the back of your neck. He kisses the top of your head as you cry, working the shock and fear from your system. "Ssshhh, shhshh."

Looking over his shoulder once, he lifts you up into his arms and takes off gently into the night sky, keeping you gathered close as he flies, carrying you far away from the mess spilled all over the pavement.

Not his problem. His focus is you.

With your face buried in the crook of his neck, he can feel your tears rolling down into the collar of his suit, can smell the sea salt sweetness of them. He's never let you see that side of him before. When the shock wears off, will you see the moment for what it was?

Will you realize how much he enjoyed it?

Landing on his balcony, your arms are still tight around his neck. Neither of you have said a word since take off. He's not sure where your head is, other than the fact your racing heart has slowed to a more natural—albeit still nervous—patter.

Inside, he sets you down gently on your feet. Your balance wavers, and he settles you with his hands on your hips, staining your clothing with smears of dark blood.

He's almost afraid of breaking the tenuous quiet, but he needs to know where your head is. When you glance away, are you looking towards the door, planning your escape?

His hands tighten reflexively on your hips, and your eyes spring back up to meet his.

"You okay?" He asks quietly, warily.

"Yeah," you say, though it's hardly convincing.

"You're in shock," he says, touching the side of your face. Enough of the blood has been wiped on your clothes that it doesn't transfer much to your skin. "You remember what happened?"

Maybe your distress will leave you malleable enough for him to shape the incident just right. Make sure that you remember first and foremost that- "You saved me," you say, cutting his thoughts short. "That man was trying to hurt me, and you... you saved me."

His brows lift, surprised to hear you say it first. "Yeah. Course I did."

"You were so..." You trail off, gaze moving along his features.

Apprehension prickles from his spine all the way up to the back of his neck. He's accustomed to being scolded for his brutality by Madelyn, or looked on with thinly veiled disgust by Maeve.

They're both long gone from his life now, yet he finds himself waiting with bated breath for your response, his throat tight under the gripping hands of the ghosts of his past.

"Amazing," you exhale, banishing his specters with the sweeping wind of your breath. "God, I've never been that scared in my life, but you reacted so fast. No one has ever protected me like you do," you say, cupping his blood spattered face in your palms, smearing it into thin pink swaths across his skin with your thumbs.

He breaks into a slow, pleased smile. "Well, you've never been with anyone like me before."

"No," you agree. He can still feel a slight tremor in your hands, your body still coming down from the adrenaline high. "And I never will."

That strokes his ego deliciously. He likes the finality in your voice, the dreamy way you're looking at him, even as the smell of blood hangs heavily in the air. He almost kisses you before he remembers he's got the blood of some random thug all over his face.

"I need a shower," he says, lips close enough that his breath teases yours.

"Me too. Guess we'll have to share," you say, feigning resignation.

He grins. "Uh oh."

In the bathroom, Homelander makes quick work of undressing, but you're faster. You're already in the large shower, steaming water pouring down from above. He steps in with you, letting the water wash over you both. The water turns pink as it carries the blood away, and then sudsy as you both soap and shampoo the mess of the day from you bodies.

Once he's rinsed, he slips in behind you, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I love you," he says at your ear, trailing kisses down to the lobe, to your neck. He loves the feel of goosebumps rising against his lips.

"I love you, too," you respond as you have a thousand times before. Maybe more. He stopped counting when he was sure you'd never stop.

"How much?" He prompts, hungry for more. Your praise and assurance after a moment of such uncertainty has only made him desperate for more. He wants to wring more pretty words of admiration from you, hear more of just how good he is to you.

He can't help but color your answer with a slip of his hand between your thighs, toying with your clit.

The touch earns a shivering sigh from you. "So much. More than I can stand sometimes," you say, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

"I thought you'd be scared of me after seeing what you saw... What I'm capable of," he murmurs, pillowing the reminder with deft, wet fingers. "Are you?"

You shake your head. "No, m'not, mmm... You'd never hurt me," you say, breath hitching as his fingers slip in further, fingertips stroking the lips of your pussy.

"Never," he echoes, his other hand slotting over your throat just to feel each noise you make. He pulls you back flush to his body, presses his hardening cock to the curve of your ass with his a shaky groan. "I liked it," you admit quieter, moaning when he slides his middle finger inside you. The confession stirs something primal in him, makes him growl out a rough little noise against your skin, grinding his cock into you.

"I wanted to rip his fucking guts out for touching you," he says, working another finger into you, savoring the slick, velvet feel of you around them. "For trying to take you from me." His words make your cunt quiver. He can't help himself, has to pull them from you just to taste you, sucking the nectarine sweet flavor from his fingers, rolling his tongue between them, hungry for every ounce of it.

He moans around his own fingers when you reach back and take his cock firmly in your hand, jerking him slowly. "I want you inside me," you say, your legs spreading slightly, back arching into him. "Touch me until yours is the only one I remember."

Fuck. Yes, that he can do.

You let go of his cock, and he wraps an arm around your waist, guiding himself between your wet, soft thighs. You close your legs, earning a breathy noise from him as he rocks between them, the warm, wet heat of your cunt a tease along the top of his cock.

"Take me," he murmurs fervently at your ear. "Wanna be in you, feel you, fuck you, make your pussy mine."

Shuddering against him, you reach down between your legs. Pressing your fingers to the underside of his cock, you push it up as he moves forward, the thick head of it catching on your entrance and splitting you open in one long, slow thrust.

Christ, you're so fucking tight. He can feel your muscles contracting, flexing, pulling him deeper. Your cunt feels made for him.

No one will ever take you away from him.

His right hand goes across your chest, cupping your left breast and rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger while he braces you tighter to him. He rolls his hips slowly at first, relishing the tight, slippery pull of your cunt before he begins to pick up a proper pace.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" He grits out, the slap of naked skin against skin loud in the shower. "Tell me how good it feels."

"Feels like being fucked by the fucking sun," you moan, gripping his arms, useless for anything other than taking his cock when he holds you like this. "Hot, you're so hot inside me, and I can feel... I can feel you holding back, it's like you're vibrating," you say, voice catching with every solid thrust. "It's like... it's like getting as much as I can take from something so much bigger than me."

He doesn't know what he expected to hear, but it isn't that. The idea that you can feel the true gravity of his power behind each restrained thrust drives him wild, makes him want to give you more, but he knows he can't. Not without breaking you. Sweet, frail, human thing that you are.

If he could, he would break you apart, fuck you until you fall to pieces in his hands, and then he would put every single fragment back where it belongs, but he can't. If he breaks you, he will lose you.

He needs you to survive him.

"Fuck, fuck," he rasps, holding you that slight bit tighter, lifting you nearly off your feet as he arches his back, lifting and dropping you onto every thrust of his hips. "M'gonna come," he says, voice reedy. "Come with me, let me feel you. I know you're close, can fuckin' feel it. Touch yourself for me, sweetheart."

Immediately, you drop a hand to your clit, the tips of your fingers brushing where he's pounding into you. The touch must be electric because you jolt against him. "I am, I am," you whine, rubbing yourself, the pleasure making you squirm.

"M'gonna count us down, alright? And you, mmmgh, you're gonna come with me," he says, already fighting to hold himself back. Your cunt is only getting tighter the closer to release you get, making it hard for him to stay focused.

"Five... four," he manages to say, desperately holding onto his final tethers of control. You're beyond speech now, reduced to nothing more than desperate, needy noises as you finger your clit, not even bothering to try and hold yourself up while Homelander mercilessly bounces you on his cock,

"Three... two..." His words are strained, balls drawn up tight, cock throbbing in the slick grip of your cunt. He needs to come so bad it makes his toes curl, but he won't let go until he feels you coming undone.

"One..."

One, two, three more thrusts, and you're screaming his name, knees curling up, your whole body tightening like a vice. The spasm of your orgasm rips his clean out of him, has him gasping into the crook of your neck.

He comes so hard his vision goes white, every movement halting, his focus purely on the ardent pounds of his cock emptying deep inside you, flooding you so thoroughly that the excess spill back down his shaft, his balls, mingling with the hot water and making him shiver from head to toe.

When he can, he takes in a deep, shuddering breath, easing his hold on you, though not by much. You're all but limp in his arms, panting, head lolled back against his shoulder. He lets the water run on the two of you a little while longer, savoring the aftershocks of your release before gingerly slipping out of you.

Carefully, he rubs the water between your thighs, tenderly cleaning you, kissing your neck, your shoulder.

"That was..." You trail off, words half slurred, and then you just laugh softly, the marvel clear in your voice.

He laughs, too, his own voice frayed. "Sure was."

The two of you put as much effort as it takes to get dry before making your way to bed, slipping beneath the cool sheets and rapidly warming them with your bodies, Homelander's in particular. He's always run hot, and you seem extra appreciative for it tonight, wrapping your arms around his waist and snuggling into his arms.

"I love you," you mumble sweetly.

Homelander draws the covers up over your shoulders before slipping his arm around you, drawing you into the warm, safe circle of his arms. "And I love you," he purrs, gently rolling his knuckles up and down your back.

You look peaceful, he thinks, watching as you begin to drift to sleep. He's sure it helps that he wore you out so thoroughly, but still, he'd anticipated that the shock of the evening would still have you worked up. It could be that you're still processing, that the trauma will return in nightmares that follow you into the night.

Maybe the threat of a rat simply makes less of an impact when you're cradled in the jaws of a lion.

Regardless, should you sleep fitfully or peacefully, he will be here.

No force in this would can keep him from you.

[marasmadness]

hi! i saw you were opening your requests so here i am :) i was wondering if you write an emily/reader smut with reader having a hand/glove kink and getting turned on everytime emily puts on gloves at a crime scene

feel free to throw any other kinks you want in there, we love a dom emily in this house :)

no pressure or anything, have a good time ^^

Indulged Imprints || Emily Prentiss x reader

CW: Emily Prentiss x reader, sexual tension in places where there shouldn’t be, god this woman is so hot, smut, oral sex, choking, hand/glove kink,

Climbing out of the passenger seat of one of the team’s black SUVs, you followed Emily into the crime lab. She had already assigned the team to different locations—the station,the victim’s house, etc.—opting to keep you by her side. You walked a few steps behind her, standing with your hands stiff in front of you. It was a common sign of your nerves around your girlfriend whenever you saw her acting as unit chief. The intimidating woman introducing herself as SSA Prentiss to one of the lab examiners with a stern glance appeared as an imposter to the same woman that you spent weekends watching rom-coms with.

The examiner pointed Emily down the hallway toward the lab with the correct evidence she was looking for and turned to leave, leaving her to do her job in peace. She had fallen into a laser focus ever since you got on the jet. Over at the sink, she slid stacks of silver rings off her fingers, leaving them on the steel counter, and she scrubbed her hands and slid on a pair of gloves.

As soon as you were both ready, you nudged open the door, holding it open as Emily slid past you and headed straight for the boxes of processed evidence. She delicately removed the contaminated household items first, then removed the folders of pictures and laid them out across the table. She had become incredibly efficient in her methods over the years, taking in the entire crime in a matter of minutes and then going back to catch crucial things that others often missed.

You went straight to work on your job, removing all the collected papers that had been considered possibly relevant for their handwriting and, one by one, sliding them under a lens. SInking into your own work, you had tuned out Emily’s soft shuffling around the room and shallow breathing until she cleared her throat. You looked up to find her still crouched over a pile of images, but she curled her finger, silently calling you over.

“There’s something off. The guy’s got a glock, a quick weapon, efficient, no need to get up close and personal with his victims… So why take the risk to go all the way up to them?” She paused, adjusting your shoulders and taking a few steps away to put herself in the unsub’s shoes. “And wrap their hands around her throat, if they already had a simple way to get in and out.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Emily brought her hands up to your neck while her eyes ran down your body. You tried to focus on the fact that she was simply trying to do her job and not the way her flexed lines in her hands stretched through her gloves as her fingers curled around your throat. Emily caught onto your horrifically obvious flushed face and momentarily forgot the task at hand. A smirk spread across her face, and she slid her hands higher up, brushing her knuckle across the skin just below your ear. You remained still, trying to remain calm, but your shaky breaths gave you away, clear to Emily, who was inches away from you. You could see the center of her eye dilating at your flustered state before she reluctantly dropped her hands. As she returned them to her side, they brushed ever so slightly against the curve of your breast and down the side of your waist that you could’ve brushed it off as a mistake if you didn’t know your girlfriend as well as you did.

She popped her lips, quickly breaking the thick silence between you, and hurriedly began to clean up the lab space. “Come on, we’re down for the day. Let’s head back to the hotel.” She was quick to rush out of there, and you blindly followed. Stopping at the sink, she shoved her rings in her purse. You were going to comment, as it was out of character for her. She wore her rings everywhere, no matter what kind of rush she was usually in.

Climbing back into the car, Emily naturally took the driver’s seat. She was unable to keep her hands off you for the duration of the three-minute car ride back to the hotel. Her hand rested dangerously high on your inner thigh, rubbing circles into your skin through the fabric of your pants. It became clear then why she had been so impatient and left her rings off her fingers on the way out; she was desperate to have them inside you.

You crashed into the thin hotel wall by Emily’s hand before the door even clicked shut behind the two of you. Her hands ravenously roamed your body. She tugged you forward by the loop of your belt, slipping her hands underneath the hem of your pants. Her hot breath blew across your skin as she pressed desperate kisses along your collarbones. You could feel a devilish smirk form on her lips against the skin of her neck as she expertly maneuvered her fingers, undoing your buttons. She slid your clothes down to your ankles, dragging her hands down your thighs as she did so. You kicked them onto the floor while undoing her blouse.

She always wore her necklaces tucked under the collar of her blouse, and your eyes trailed down the chains to where pendants had nestled themselves into her breasts, cupped in a lacy black bra. One strap rested off her shoulder and you had no trouble tugging it the rest of the way off. You pressed the tip of your tongue to your teeth, admiringly taking in your beautiful girlfriend as she slowly led you to the bed before pressing you back onto the mattress.

Climbing over you, she straddled her legs, pinning your hips between her thighs. She swiped her tongue with a smile, wetting her lips, and combed her hair out of her face with her hands. Placing her hands on either side of your head, she tipped her chin, attaching her lips to your neck. She was painting your neck a mix of colors, from the harsh desperation of her lips to the light nip of her teeth, with marks that would only reveal themselves tomorrow morning. When your mouths fused together, you were met with a faint, familiar taste of coffee and fruit.

Emily took her hands, attentively brushing or groping every space of exposed skin on her prolonged dip down to between your legs. She arched her back, the curve of her spine appearing to you from behind her head of mused raven black hair. Grasping your ankles, she lifted them over her shoulders, crossing them behind her neck. Her nails scraped down the sides of your back. She unexpectedly grabbed at the flesh of your ass, causing your hips to jolt upwards. She has landed you right where she wanted, and with a soft tip of her head, she ravenously dove into your cunt. All the exhaustion from the day's work floated from her body and mind as she lapped at your arousal like she was starving. Her fingers drew crescents into your hips, and, in succession, the soft whimpers falling from your mouth were fuel that went straight to her head. Spurred on, she flattened her tongue against your clit, overwhelming the bundle of nerves that displayed itself as a breathy moan. Your hands flew up off the mattress, tangling themselves in Emily’s hair.

With her mouth expertly enough to pleasure you on its own, Emily’s hands were free to slide up toward your neck. Your legs quivered ever so slightly, but were still, of course, something Emily quickly picked up on. She vigorously continued her actions, drawing you nearer to the edge.

Distracted by the rising feeling of an upcoming orgasm, you were dazedly surprised when Emily’s fingers lightly drummed against your neck before she closed them around. Naturally, you attempted to inhale with a gasp, only to be met with constriction by her flexed hands. Your head rushed with warmth, and your body grew tense. Small stars dotted your vision, and the smell of Emily’s perfume became suddenly prominent as bliss engulfed your body.

With a deep breath, your vision and clear head started to return, and you felt the carefully positioned weight of Emily on your torso. Looking down, you brushed a fallen piece of hair off her forehead, revealing her glossy and softly gazing eyes. Her pupils were dilated as she looked up at you with a slightly silly smile on her lips. Rolling off you, she crawled up to the top of the bed, pressing herself into you as you both breathed steadily slower into the silence.

[kingkatsuki]

This was based off an ask I received from Kitten, thank you for always giving me the best ideas💕

But imagine you get caught up in a sudden trash storm with Enjin, it's not enough debris to damage the car but it's dangerous enough you can't drive or walk. The two of you are just barely outside the city, stuck in a very confined van with tension that's been mounting since the two of you met. Before Enjin leans over and presses his lips to yours, again and again before he's pulling from the passenger seat to the bench seat in the back. Tongue sliding over yours with a groan as he pins you to the old thread bare upholstery with the hopes of fogging up the windows.

Pairings: Engine / Enjin x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, friends to lovers, car sex, minimal prep, unprotected sex, creampie, spanking, praise, dirty talk.

Word Count: 4.1k.

“Maybe you should take a break,” You glance over the centre console to see Enjin’s eyes fluttering at the wheel, sat forward in his chair as he fights sleep.

The heavy rock playing through the worn car radio does nothing to ease his drowsiness, nor do the potholes almost as large as craters that scatter along the contaminated zone.

Reaching over you run your fingers through the buzzed hairs of his undercut, trying to coax his attention back to the path in front of you. Enjin jolts slightly on contact before heaving a soft sigh, his knuckles turn white from how hard he grips the steering wheel as he narrowly misses a large trash pile.

“M’fine,” Enjin mumbles, reluctantly pulling himself away from your touch, terrified that the soothing sensation will have him falling asleep at the wheel.

“I know you’re tired,” You push, “Just for a bit, yeah? A power nap.”

You wanted to get home just as badly as him, the unspoken feelings between you two made it difficult to breathe and this mission had been exhausting. Not to mention how dangerous it was to settle in a contaminated zone for too long, especially when it was just the pair of you. Humans could be just as dangerous as the monsters that reside in the area.

“We’re like sitting ducks out here,” Enjin continued, and he would know. For some reason the Giver enjoyed taking strolls in the contaminated zone, even though the air was unbreatheable, “It’s not much further, it’ll be fine.”

A washer dryer falls to the left of you, colliding into the ground with an almighty smash. Pieces of debris fly everywhere as you jolt in the van, holding your hand to your heart at the sudden movement as you curse under your breath.

“You good, sweetheart?” Enjin turns to you with a grin, and it does nothing but make your insides feel like jelly.

You should be used to it by now, the so called junk thrown discarded by the sky people like it’s nothing. Most of it salvageable, cookers with broken buttons that just needed a quick replacement, hairdryers with blown fuses.

Enjin had even gifted you a diamond ring he’d found one evening on one of his regular strolls. The silver band was pristine, and looked as though it had never been worn. A pretty glistening diamond set perfectly inside it, and not a single scratch on it despite the impact from the large drop. You wondered why anyone would ever throw something so perfect away, and then you saw it— A simple black speck that sat in the middle of the carbon. The smallest, most pathetic reason that it had been thrown into the pit in the first place. Because of course, why would anyone up in Heaven want anything less than perfect— But it was perfect to you. The pretty gem sat perfectly on your ring finger, despite the fact that Enjin hadn’t asked you to marry him. And the speck that was supposedly imperfect, reminded you of the friend who had gifted it to you.

You were just friends, after all. A subject of consistent teasing between the other Janitors.

“If you like someone, you should tell them.” Griss would look back from his position in the drivers seat to wink at you, just as Enjin is shouting at him to “Keep your eyes on the road, Bozo!”

“Yeah, it’s not good to keep those feelings bottled up inside.” Tamzy spoke coolly from the backseat.

“Would sure suck if the person you liked didn’t like you back, though.” Riyo chimed.

Exactly, Riyo. You thought to yourself, It would fucking suck.

And aside from a few flirty words from Griss, and one night where he’d seen red when a travelling merchant offered to buy you a drink in the local pub. Immediately appearing at your side to ward him off, the poor man leaving with a black eye and a bruised ego. “You don’t need to solve everything with violence.” Riyo mocked Enjin, who was pink in the cheeks. For the most part it almost felt like an unspoken rule that you were Enjin’s.

And it didn’t matter anyway, because you were content with this— whatever this was. And it wasn’t worth ruining the relationship you had with feelings, you were satisfied. And you could cope with satisfied if it meant keeping Enjin as a friend, certain not to ruin your relationship with the complication of romantic feelings.

Another loud crash had you snapping back to focus, a hail of trash began to pour down on the barren wasteland, things that by themselves would never have proved deadly. But with the acceleration of gravity, items were deadly as they left dents in the strongest of boulders.

“Fucks sake. We’ve gotta take cover,” Enjin’s tattooed hand shifted on the gearstick as he began to reverse the truck, narrowly missing a falling bathtub as it crashed against the ground.

“Shit,” You squealed, holding onto the dash as Enjin expertly manouvered through the trash storm.

“Hold on.” He veered left to avoid another shower of trash as it made the vehicle fall down a sand dune, skidding to the side as you began to panic. Watching more trash tumble down around you like rain.

“Enjin, look out—” You saw the falling car before he did, an old battered Sedan. How did they even manage to get that down here?

“I fuckin’ know, woman. I know—” He spat, yellow eyes catching it just after you as he swerved roughly. Glad you had your seatbelt on as your side banged into the car door, knocking your head against the glass as he took another harsh turn.

Finding refuge beneath an abandoned Eolian cave as the tires screeched to a stop, the roof of the truck dented but nothing Riyo wouldn’t be able to fix with a hammer when you both made it back to the compound.

“Baby, you okay?” Enjin unbuckled his belt to lean over the center console, cupping your face in both palms as he turns you to face him. Tilting your head to check for any injuries as you reached up to place a warm, sweaty palm around his wrist. Leaning into his touch as you finally allowed your heart to lull, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You shook your head, “Wasn’t your fault.”

“We shoulda never been out here this late, it is all my fault.” He shook his head as you both heard the loud crash of trash and debris continue to fall along the wasteland.

“It’s not your fault, Enjin.” You shook your head, squeezing his wrist softly to try and focus his attention back on you, “We’re okay.”

“I’d have never forgiven myself if you got hurt,” He continued, shaking his head. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him this worried, “I never wanna lose you.”

There’s a subtle change in his movement, and if you hadn’t have been so close to him you would’ve missed it. It was the way his eyes flit down to your lips for the faintest of seconds before meeting your gaze again. The movement has your heart rattling against its cages, dragging a metal cup along the bars to be unleashed from its prison as you took a chance. Tilting your head slightly in Enjin’s palms to brush your lips against his in a chaste kiss. They felt chapped against your softer ones, eager to feel them again as you chanced another peck, this time lingering as you stepped over that blurry line of ‘just friends’.

“We shouldn’t.” Enjin grumbles, obviously fighting the voices in his head as he tries to ignore the blood flowing through his veins. The only voice of reason, as always.

You’re in no mood to talk, hungry for another taste of him as you move your hands to his face, fingertips sliding behind the pink tips of his ears as warm palms graze his stubble. The gentle tips of your fingers stroke the base of his neck as Enjin feels all of his resolve start to crumble the moment you bring him in again.

“Enjin,” You whine against his lips as his warm breath fans your face. He smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne, the scent suffocating and intoxicating at the same time as your half-lidded eyes stare back at him.

“Don’t,” Enjin groaned against your mouth, and yet he made no attempt to pull back, “If you do that I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Who said I’ll want you to stop?” You replied simply, the taste of your chapstick now smeared against his lips as his tongue poked out to taste it. His nostrils flaring as he felt his entire body react to the implication of your words.

“Fuck it,” He grunts, tugging at your thigh as he pulls you over the center console. His grip firm on you as he positions you on his lap, perched on muscular thighs as you settle just before the semi-hard bulge beneath his pants. Slender fingers stroke along your back as he rests his forehead to yours, silently waiting for you to make your move. To push him away and tell him that you’re just friends; that you shouldn’t do this. But you don’t.

It’s carnal, the way you both paw at each other. Desperate to remove every barrier that stands between you both. Enjin’s long arms knock the top of the van as he tugs his shirt up and over his head, impatiently waiting for him to pull it high enough so you can reattach your lips to his. He’s like a drug you’ve become addicted to, desperate for another dose as your mouths clash together in a duel of tongues and teeth.

His fingers tug at the hem of your shirt roughly to remove it, swallowing the pathetic whine you make against his lips as you pull away for him to discard it. Leaning forward with more urgency as you kiss him again, tongue swiping against his top incisors as he palms your breasts through the simple black bra. The nights he’d spent awake fucking his fist to the thought of you would never compare to this, not in any lifetime.

Enjin pulls away from your bruised lips as you follow him forward, trying to reconnect them as he nudges your nose with his gently. Half-lidded eyes watch with amusement as he begins to pepper kisses along your jawline, following the curve down to the column of your throat as he begins to bite and suck at your pulse point. Another pitiful whine vibrates in your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck, caging his head between your forearms as you thread your fingers through his messy hair. Your clothed breasts practically in his face now as he ventures lower, pressing a kiss against your sternum as he nuzzles at your soft mounds gently, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

Gravity has your tits bouncing into position as he gently pulls the cups away, revealing your chest to his hungry gaze. It’s his turn to sound desperate now as he groans, low and guttural in his chest as he commits the sight to memory. Certain that if all else fails he’ll have this memory carved into his consciousness for the rest of his existence.

“God, you’re perfect.” He rasps, reaching out tentively to cup your warm tits as he thumbs your nipples, watching them pebble in the cool evening air as you throw your head back in pleasure, “What the fuck are you doin’ with a lowly janitor like me?”

You don’t get a second to answer before Enjin is leaning forward to take one of your nipples into his warm, wet mouth. His tongue swirls around your areola as he pinches and toys with the other, growling against your skin as your nails drag against his scalp in response.

“Fuck, Enjin.” You moan, rolling your hips as you feel the tent in his pants beneath you. His hard cock desperate to be released as your cunt throbs at the thought, eager to feel him after all this time.

“Don’t say my name like that, baby.” He groans, resting his cheek against your breast as he blows cool air against your spit-soaked nipple, “You’ll have me creaming my pants.”

“Enjin,” You ignore his plea as you roll your hips against him again, giving your clit more friction as you focus on the sensation.

“Fuck, you brat.” He grunts, gripping your hips in his palms roughly to stop you repeating the motion again. Positive that if you were to roll your heat against him one more time he would come undone.

“Want you so bad, Enjin. Please.” You choke, reaching between your bodies to paw at his belt. Your fingers toy with the worn leather as he takes pity on you enough to help, slender fingers brush yours away as he unbuckles it, tugging them down with his underwear just enough to free his aching cock.

It’s better than you expected, and your belly swirls with anticipation at the sight of him. What he lacks in girth he makes up for in length, the leaky cock head settles against his abdomen. Pre matts the messy blond hairs that follow a trail up to his bellybutton as the tip burns a fiery red. Swollen, angry and desperate for release as you wrap a palm around him. Making his hips buck wildly as you give a tentative stroke, catching the pre beading at the tip against your palm as you roll your wrist. Holding him straight as you look down between your bodies, watching where his length ends in comparison with your torso as you wonder if he’ll be so deep he’ll cum inside your guts.

Enjin becomes more restless now, impatient, as he bunches your skirt up around your hips. Groaning at the very evident wet patch that gleams against your panties as he presses a calloused finger against it, your eyes roll back into your skull as you feel him graze your clit.

“Oh, baby.” He hisses when your hand tightens around his girth, almost forgetting everything as you focus on the sensation of his fingers toying with you through the thin fabric, “Watch the nails.”

“S-ah, sorry,” You pant, loosening your grip as you follow the forking veins along him with the tips of your fingers.

“Gonna eat this sweet little pussy later, I promise.” He grunts, tugging your panties to the side as he watches your slick cling to the fabric, breaking off into silvery lines as he runs two fingers through your messy folds.

“Fuck, oh my god— Enjin,” Your hips rut pitifully at his touch. The sensation foreign but so satisfying as you seek it out again, whining as he circles the calloused pad of his index finger around your tight hole. Feeling the way it flutters around nothing as it tries to coax him in like a vindictive siren singing a final lullaby to a sailor.

Enjin breaches the gap and the sound that leaves your throat is downright debauched, causing his cock to jolt as he hooked his finger against your soft inner walls. It’s all too much, and simply not enough as you find yourself rolling your hips into his touch. Goading him to press his digit deeper as he feels just how wet and tight you are, certain that he’d never be able to replicate the feeling himself no matter how many Jinki he activated.

“You’re so pretty like this,” He murmurs, his thumb swipes your clit as he watches you try to ride his single finger.

“Enjin, don’t tease me,” You sigh breathlessly, wrapping your palm around his cock as it leaks fresh pre down the shaft. Drooling onto your fingers as you hold him upright, “I need you now.”

“I need to stretch you out, sweetheart.” He grunts, “I don’t wanna hurt you—”

“No, please Enjin,” You hover yourself over his length as you feel his leaky cock head graze your slit, “I want it to hurt.”

“Fuck,” His cock jumps at the lewd thought, wetting his lips with his tongue as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“I’ve got a rubber,” He continues, wondering whether the one sat neatly inside his wallet is even in date. He neglects you to turn towards the back of the van to seek out his coat, “But I don’t know if it’s in date—”

“Don’t need it,” You tighten your fist around his cock, causing his head to fall back against the headrest, eyes roll back as you brush the tip of his cock through your sloppy folds, “Just pull out, okay?”

And Enjin thinks that’s easier said than done when he finally feels the warmth of your wet cunt engulf him. You’ve barely taken his engorged tip and the heat is already scorching, searing into him as he watches your face contort in pleasure. Trying his hardest not to use his grip on your hips to impale you on his cock in one fell swoop.

You’re slowly sinking down onto him now and you can feel every delicious inch as you take more and more of him inside. Your unprepped walls throb and ache as they adjust to the stretch, feeling every ridge contour to him as you give a few shallow thrusts.

You already feel impossibly full with half, your chest so tight as though you can feel him in your throat. His calloused thumb presses soft figure of eights to your puffy clit to distract you, and honestly to distract him too as it takes every ounce of willpower not to force you down on his throbbing cock.

“Wanna feel every inch of you.” You whine, bending your head to look between your bodies as you take more of him. Feeling the messy hairs at the base of his cock tickle your clit as you know you’re almost fully seated, positioning your hands on broad shoulders for some semblance of reality as Enjin feels your walls shudder around him.

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you into the shape of my cock, sweetheart?” His words have your clit throbbing and your cunt convulsing as he grins. Neglecting your clit to hold onto the swell of your ass as he starts a savage pace, pulling you down onto his cock each time he ruts his hips up. Heavy balls slap against your ass with each movement, and you’re screaming obscenities.

Enjin’s never been more thankful that there’s no one around as he does nothing to quell your pretty sounds, instead he actively encourages them as he goads you on. Landing a harsh smack to your ass as he feels you clench around him.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” He coos, “You get yours—”

You’re practically using his body for your own pleasure as you roll your hips, his pubes tickle your clit with every forward motion as you cry out for him. Your hand splayed against the fogged window as the other buries sharp nails into his bare shoulder. Leaving red crescent-shaped moons in their wake as you grind against him, feeling the pleasure continuing to build in your abdomen.

There’s something sordid about watching you ride him, the subtle bounce of your tits as you roll your hips. Your thighs trembling as you struggle to maintain a steady pace, exerting all of your energy to try and pleasure yourself. A fact that really gets him off. Enjin takes pity on you, not leaving you to do all the work as he uses his grip to him you fuck yourself on his cock.

“God, look at you—“ Enjin sneers, though there’s no malice in it, “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He knows neither of you will last long, the pent up emotion shared between the two of you was unparalleled. So heightened that it was only a matter of time that it would reach boiling point and flood over. The fleeting glances and gentle touches not enough to quench the desire inside you both, as it left you craving more.

But he’s not going to concede to you so easily, slipping a black painted nail between your bodies as he thumbs your clit, pressing the palm of his hand against your pelvis so he can feel himself inside you. Watching the way your lashes flutter as you throw your head back in pleasure, your hand sliding against the fogged glass as your climax surges through you. Enjin keeps his thumb consistent against your clit we you lean back, throbbing around his cock as you ride out your bliss. There’s nothing but white hot pleasure blanketing your vision and making your brain fuzzy as you try to remember to breathe.

“God, you look so pretty when you cum.” He almost sighs, giving your clit a final sloppy circle before pulling away to hold your hips. Fingertips dip into your plush skin as he cherishes the way you pulse around him, giving himself a moment as he almost loses it too early. Terrified of finishing too soon and never having the chance to do this again—

His strengthens his grip on your hips, tilting your body back as he fucks you with renewed vigour. Selfishly seeking out his own climax as your back is pressed against the wheel, the horn blares in the background as you accidentally nudge it but neither of you seem to care. Your breasts bounce from the ferocity of his movements, his skin sticking to the worn leather seat every time his hips cant back but he still doesn’t stop.

“I’m gonna pull out, sweetheart.” He groans, lifting your body to reluctantly slip his cock from your warmth. Enjin knows if he doesn’t do it now, he never will. Perfectly content with fisting himself all over your skin.

“No, please don’t pull out, Enjin,” You clench around him, trying to keep him lodged inside you as your thighs tighten on either side of him, “Wanna feel you.”

“We can’t— I shouldn’t,” He presses, but there’s no real argument there. Not when your warm cunt coaxed him back in so eagerly, “I’m gonna cum, baby.”

“Just cum inside me.” You reply as though it’s the most simple answer in the world.

“Ah, shit.” He grunts, your saccharine tone the final straw as his hips spasm. Unable to control the pleasure burning in his pelvis as his balls seize. His grip on your hips almost painful, certain to leave bruises in their wake as he fucks into you with renewed vigour. Both of you focused on each other as Enjin gives a few more frantic pumps inside your warm, wet cunt before he meets his own end.

“Fuck— gonna cum, shit.” He grunts as he pumps rope after rope of spunk inside your trembling walls, painting them white. His hips jerkily fuck it into you with a few more sloppy thrusts as you feel the warmth of it engulf you, your chest heaves as you try to come down from your high.

You both settle in silence, the only sound is the falling debris just outside the cave as the storm continues to rage. And your steady breath breathing together in tandem as Enjin’s fingers stroke slow absentminded patterns against your exposed skin.

You make the most adorable whine as Enjin pulls you up off his softening cock, wincing at the wet feeling of his release now drooling onto his inner thighs and the floor of the van as he pulls your chest against his. Your arms weave around his shoulders as you bury your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him as you bask in the afterglow.

“I didn’t think you wanted me like that,” You mumble against his collarbone, voice barely a whisper as you toy with one of his earrings.

“What?” Enjin tilts his head back slightly, turning to the side to try and meet your gaze as you shyly hide away, warm palms stroking your back, “How could I not want you like that?”

“I guess it’s just been so long,” You continue, “I just started to think maybe you just thought I was a friend.”

“I never really thought I had to say it,” Enjin shrugged, “You’ve always just kinda been mine in my head. Even if you weren’t officially mine.”

“So you’ve never wanted anyone else?” You were terrified of his answer, worried about all the women out there that were definitely prettier than you, smarter, funnier.

“Sweetheart, there would only ever be one girl I’d wanna give a diamond ring to.” He grins, pressing a wet sloppy kiss to your cheek.

[starry-bi-sky]

show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch2

[My parents don’t get up until seven, and they’re in the lab by eight. They typically don’t leave the lab until after I get home.] Danny says as he leads Damian into the kitchen, the automated voice of the translator AI cutting through the air easily. Damian stuck close to his side, eyes narrow and a snooty look of disdain stamped on his face like a printing press while his eyes flit around the room.

The kid had woken up immediately upon Danny shuffling out from beneath his desk, and he had to scurry back to avoid being skewered by Damian’s katana. He bumped into his desk in the process, and the muffled thud it made against the wall had Danny praying that his parents wouldn’t wake up from the noise.

(“I should’ve confiscated that.” He muttered, gripping the table with white knuckles and mouth pursed into a thin line. The business end of Damian’s katana staring him in the nose.)

(He should’ve expected the baby assassin to sleep lighter than a feather. His mistake, of course. Damian realized quickly after where he was, thankfully, so Danny didn’t have to fight him off in his room. The noise and mess that would make would have surely woken up his parents, and he still hasn’t come up with an excuse as to why Damian was even there.) 

So now with Damian awake, Danny decided to just go ahead and give him a quick tour of the house so that he knew where everything was. Fuuuck, it was only setting in now that he had to leave the kid home, alone, all day.

(Maybe things will be fine. Murphy screwed him over already with this, he has other people to torment, surely. Like the other heroes, for example.)

Wherever Damian’s ‘League of Assassins’ was situated, it was probably ten times nicer than Danny’s house. That is, if Danny’s assumption from the look on Damian’s face was correct. 

Breathing out through his nose, Danny leads Damian over to the fridge, his fingers digging into the phone screen again. [I don’t have an excuse ready for why you’re here, so please don’t get seen by them. They spend all day in the lab so you should be able to roam the house freely.]   

He feels like the butler from a period drama set telling the down-on-her-wealth noble lady the rules of the manor, while she was staying with a fabulously wealthy nobleman of higher standing. It felt ridiculous. But it was unfortunately necessary, he can’t imagine what kind of reaction his parents would have to Damian — and what kind of reaction Damian would have to his parents. 

Damian scowls at him and says something in Arabic, spitting it out like acid while his arms cross over his chest grumpily. Danny stops and turns to him fully, raising a deadpan eyebrow. Damian repeats what he said, looking at Danny like he wants him to spontaneously burst into flames. 

They stare at each other for thirty, uncomfortable seconds, with Danny keeping his deadpan steady, before finally he silently holds his phone out. Damian breaks their staring contest to look down, and his surly expression deepens. 

Grumbling under his breath, Damian snags it out of his hand. Danny counts his fingers as he pulls his hand away. 

(When he counts all five still there, he drops his arm back to his side.) 

[I will stay hidden, for now.] Damian spits out, looking supremely disgruntled. It’s kind of endearing, but endearing the same way a tiger cub was. Cute, but undoubtedly dangerous. Rather than handing back his phone, Damian speaks into it again. [But figure out what to tell them. I am above hiding.] 

“Planning on it.” Danny mutters, nodding sharply before taking back his phone and turning back to the fridge. Before he even takes the handle, Danny pushes his hair from his face and leans forward, pressing his ear to the door. The metal is cold on his cheek, but he barely pays it to mind. 

Ecto-contaminated food didn’t have nearly enough of a signature to fully trigger his ghost sense, but it did make a strange, buzz-humming sound that felt more internal than external. Like the sensation that Danny himself was humming instead.   

From his peripherals, Danny can see Damian staring at him with unconcealed bewilderment, his apparent surliness temporarily forgotten in favor of looking at Danny like he was an idiot. “Madha tafaeala?”

In lieu of answering, Danny just holds up a finger at Damian. Something the little dude really doesn’t appreciate, as he immediately scowls at Danny and makes that ‘myeh’-like expression that kids do when they’re trying to give someone they don’t like attitude without actually saying anything. The one that, as far as Danny is concerned, doesn’t have a real term for but everyone knows what it is anyway. 

Either way, Damian makes a face at him that does, briefly, succeed in irritating Danny. He says nothing and cranes his ears instead, trying to catch if there’s any internal buzzing coming from inside the fridge. His hand drifts instinctively to the counter, where he and Jazz had moved the knife block for this exact reason. 

…Will he have to hide this with Damian here? He hopes not, the last time the knife block got moved he forgot, and had to strangle a half-eaten chicken from the fridge after it came back with fowl vengeance. 

When he doesn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, he leans back and swings the door open with ease. Rows upon rows of liquid-jellied-solidified-whatever-it-was-feeling-at-the-time ectoplasm sat in glass canisters, tupperware, and bottles on the shelves. Glowing green in between the stuff that was actually food, and washing a buzz over Danny like someone just draped him in a weighted blanket. 

(He should clarify. Ectoplasm does exhibit its own signature that’s too weak to signal his ghost sense, but that buzzing-humming feels more like the painless tingling of when part of his spine falls asleep. Except everywhere, and the feeling is heavier in his head. It’s oddly comforting. Nostalgic; like the smell after the snow’s freshly melted and the weather is warm. It is very much not like the ominous, buzzing-humming-intent of a partially reanimated chicken that’s regained some of its sentience and wanted revenge.)  

Behind him, Damian makes some kind of squeaking sound. Or maybe it’s more like a yelp. Either way, it’s alarmed and loud enough that Danny turns around with half a jumping heart and a ‘shush’ on the tip of his tongue. 

“​​Ladayk ma' lieazir!” Damian hisses, pointing behind Danny at the canisters behind him. Damian’s eyes narrow into slits, and he hunches up like a stray cat that’s been cornered. “Min 'ayn hasalt ealaa ma' lieazir?!”

Danny follows the point of his finger, and sees the ectoplasm canisters behind him. “The ectoplasm?” He asks aloud, looking back at Damian in bewilderment.

Apprehension tightens slowly in his chest. Damian used that word again — and Danny only catches it because it was what Damian had been calling him last night, in the warehouse. He thought it meant ‘stranger’ or something — but, he glances back at the ectoplasm in the fridge.

Was Damian calling him ectoplasm? 

He knows what ectoplasm was? 

What had been a steady tightening in his chest suddenly fastens like a noose. Danny reaches for one of the canisters just to make sure, and Damian watches him tersely as he curls a hand around one of the canisters and pulls it forward. He doesn’t take it off the shelf, but he does gesture slightly with it. “This?” He asks, “The ectoplasm. Is this what you’re talking about?” He knows he has a translator on his phone, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it for this. 

He recalls the word Damian used, and frowns. “The- the lazeer? Laziere?” It’s an embarrassing attempt at trying to repeat it, but Damian understands what he’s saying anyways and nods sharply.  

“Niema, ma' lieazir. Kif lidayk.” 

Danny really doesn’t like that Damian knows what ectoplasm is, and he really doesn’t like the idea that his League of Assassins place knows about it too, and seemingly has access to the physical stuff. This feels too much like going swimming in the ocean and feeling something brush against his foot. 

Now he really needs to make sure that Damian never makes it back to the League. The idea of a bunch of assassins finding out that his parents can make ectoplasmic weapons terrifies him, just a smidge. (Just what has he gotten himself into?)

Putting the canister down and pushing it away from the ledge, Danny reaches for the milk instead, his heart beating uncomfortably in his ears. A discomfited “Hn.” comes out under his breath as he plucks the jug off the shelf and shuts the door, it closes a little more forcibly than normal. Danny reaches for his phone. 

The word ectoplasm doesn’t translate into Arabic, he checks before he says anything. Danny reaches over Damian to put the milk on the table as he types, still frowning uneasily. [It’s ghost stuff.] He says, and then says aloud: “Ectoplasm.” 

“Ec-to-plasm.” Damian repeats curtly, lip curling. Danny nods curtly.

Rather than repeating himself, Danny types into his phone again. [You’re not allowed in the lab without me. Don’t touch the ghost stuff in the fridge, it’s dangerous.] He says, [I was listening to the fridge because the food likes to come alive and attack, if you need food from the fridge, grab a knife.] He’ll try and show Damian how to listen for reanimated food later, it’s a little harder without a ghost sense but the food moves, so he’ll show him how to listen for that.  

Damian scoffs; “'Adhhab hayth 'urid 'ayuha almuhtal.” and reaches out to take the phone from his hand. 

Rather than letting him, Danny pirouettes away, holding his phone over his head, “Nah-ah-ah.” He says, watching Damian’s face twist indignantly into anger. [We’ll talk more later, I want breakfast and you’re probably hungry.] 

(Is he avoiding? Absolutely, he is. But it’s early, and Danny is much too tired to entertain the impending doom sinking into his chest like snow caving in a roof. He needs to do something about the information that a league of assassins has access to ectoplasm, but that something is… being put on the backburner for now.)

(Maybe he’s just catastrophizing — he’s gotten pretty good at that over the years. Maybe he’s putting too much weight on the idea; maybe he’s just sleep deprived. No, he’s definitely sleep deprived. Either way, he’s putting a pin in the murder group for now.)  

Danny turns for the pantry, and takes about one step before he remembers the phone in his hand. Twisting around, he plops it onto the table for Damian, and then marches over to the pantry for the cereal. 

The oven clock reads six-twenty-eight, and that doesn’t have Danny feeling all that great. He said earlier that his parents got up at seven, so they only have thirty-two minutes before then. Then another ten or so before his parents come down for breakfast. Mom takes the shower first, and dad comes downstairs to get started on breakfast. Sometimes it's cereal, but he likes making eggs if they haven’t been irradiated.

The pantry swings open and Danny pulls out a box of cereal, his brows furrowed in thought. Dad will want to talk to him if he sees him — so it’s for the best that Danny and Damian finish eating before dad makes it to the hallway. He turns and glances at the time again. Six-thirty. Thirty minutes. He puts the box onto the table and grabs their bowls and spoons. 

There’s a look of apprehension on Damian’s face as he puts everything down, his fingers curled around Danny’s phone. His eyes flick up to Danny, and then he holds up his phone. [Is this what you eat?] He asks, before eyeing the table again. 

Danny can’t stop the quiet snort that escapes him, his thoughts quieting for a moment as he slides into his chair, before reaching over and plucking the phone out of Damian’s hand. [Sorry bud, it’s all we’ve got time for before my parents get up.] 

Damian makes a disgruntled face, and sits down. 

(He idly makes a mental note to wrangle out of Damian later what kind of foods he likes. He’s not too bad at cooking. He’s better than Jazz, at least.)

—-----

They make it back up to Danny’s room by six-fifty-two, just as Danny hears his parents shuffling around in their room. They’re up a little earlier than normal. His mom’s limb, quieter footsteps already padding for the master bathroom. Danny is closing the door when he hears a familiar thud, and the low, sleepy groan of his dad sitting up and putting his feet on the ground. 

Damian bounds away and is already situated on Danny’s bed when he turns around, fingers snatching his katana from beneath the pillows before he turns and sits stiffly with it in his lap.    

It was a bit of a ridiculous sight: despite being awake for nearly an hour, Damian’s bed-head hadn’t changed a bit, with a tangled bunch of curls jutting out from one side of his head. Pair that with him still wearing Danny’s NASA tee (and being swamped in it), and the katana, and Danny was half tempted to snap a picture. Again, he was finding himself endeared.

He does end up sneaking that picture as he strides over to his closet to rummage for clothes. 

[I’ll try and think of a way to get you home.] He lies as he shifts through the shirts on the hangers, typing with his thumb, and tilted halfway with his phone jutting out for Damian to hear. [But that’s gonna take a while, so we should get you some different clothes soon.] There was no way he was letting this kid wear the same thing every day, this might take weeks. 

He yanks a yellow turtleneck that Tucker got him off the hanger and tosses it out onto the bed. It lands next to Damian with a quiet thump, and the kid shuffles away from it with a glare as if it's personally offended him. Danny stifles a smile and walks out, grabbing his hoodie-jacket from its spot on the door and tossing it onto the bed as well. 

Damian grumbles something, then holds out his hand for the phone. Danny hands it to him as he passes by, going over to his desk to pick up his gloves and grappling hook, before turning to his bag. 

[I am not worried about the time, Mother will come looking for me.] Damian tells him, sticking his nose up into the air and missing the cold seize of Danny’s heart and the tensing up of his shoulders. His mother. Who was probably also an assassin from the assassin club Damian was made from. 

(A blood rush sends stars spinning around in the corners of Danny’s vision, and he pauses in order to stare blankly at the top of his half-opened backpack. He quickly blinks it away, and unzips his bag fully to shove his gear into one of the larger pockets.)

He hums low, turning to look at Damian with a fake smile plastered on his face. “That’s great, bud.” 

(It should be a good thing, but he can’t quite shake the whole ‘assassins’ thing. Specifically… well, all of it. It’s all giving him a headache to sort through.) 

Damian scoffs at him, [I cannot understand you.] 

Danny snorts unwittingly, turning and shoving his gloves into an inside side pocket just as Damian throws his phone at him. He catches it before it can slam into the wall — or Danny’s head, and puts his grappling hook into his bag before typing into the translator. [I said that it’s good. I’m glad your mom is looking for you.]

That was another lie, and he felt bad that it had to be. Damian rolls his eyes at him, and Danny stuffs his phone into his back pocket and grabs his hook. 

When his bag is accounted for, Danny finally focuses on getting dressed. He moves out to the bathroom to change, admittedly hot-footing it a bit so that Damian is alone for the least amount of time possible. He passes a sleep-mussed Jazz heading for the stairs, and she pauses to mess with his hair.

“Did you stay up all night again?” She mumbles, her fingers catch on a few tangles, but slide out at the end easily. “You don’t have bedhead.”  

Danny pauses, half-distracted by the feeling of her hands in his hair and the urge to hurry through getting dressed. “Only a little.” He says, scurrying away and opening the door to the bathroom. “Was workin’ on a case.” 

Jazz frowns at him, and he closes the door before she can say anything. 

(He’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when he remembers that Damian will need other essentials than just clothes, and immediately starts compiling a mental list.) 

He’s got half an arm through his jacket when he leaves the bathroom, his attention split between getting it on and typing into his phone. When he opens the door, there’s quiet, rapid footsteps shuffling before he sees Damian hopping back onto the bed, staring at him stonily and like a kid who was acting like he hadn’t been doing anything. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, and he types into his phone to add something before hitting play on the translator. [I have to head out now, you can look around my room if you’d like. Don’t touch the brown files on my desk, I’ll be back after school ends. I should have a game plan by then. Don’t be seen by my parents.] 

As it speaks, Danny strides over and grabs his backpack. Damian’s eyes follow him the whole time, and Danny slings his bag over his shoulders and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. 

Damian nods curtly at him, and before Danny leaves he reaches over and plucks a hairband off his dresser, pinching it between his teeth. 

“Okay, I’m off.” He repeats, voice slightly muffled by the hairband as he starts pulling his hair up. There’s a huff from Damian and a knowingly annoyed look, and Danny’s smile grows a little out of amusement. He tugs the tie out from his mouth and twists it around his hair. “Be good, Damian.”

Green eyes narrow at him, and Danny hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

(He was a little — no, scratch that, a lot apprehensive about leaving Damian here alone for most of the day. He was worried about his parents, perhaps a little too much, and he was worried about Damian recognizing the ectoplasm in the fridge. He’s worried about the whole thing with these ‘League of Assassins’ people, and he’s worried about how he’s going to explain Damian’s presence to his parents. And he’s most especially worried about how on earth he was going to convince Damian to not return home.) 

Instead of going for the stairs, Danny turns and hurries over to the end of the hallway where the ladder to the rooftop is. There’s a lot he needs to think about, too much for him to want to walk with Sam and Tucker.

The nice thing about people is that they don’t really ever look up.

—----------

Danny: hey i’ll meet you guys at school

Tucker: did something happen during patrol?

Danny: something like that

Danny: i’ll tell you in class

Sam: alright. Hop safe

[Danny liked Sam's message]

—-------------

(if continued)

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Dude!”

“I know!” 

Danny drops his head onto his desk with an unceremonious thump, groaning low with his nose smushed into the wood. Sam’s hands, buried in his hair and in the midst of messing with it, stills to let him. Some of the strands slip out of her fingers and pool around Danny’s face, causing a curtain. It tickles a little. 

Maybe he should have just walked to school with them, telling them about Damian probably would’ve garnered less attention that way. He can feel the gazes of their classmates — or at least, the ones not slowly filtering into the room — turning onto them, and burning into his head. 

But running over the rooftops, albeit only until the residential area ended, was sorely needed. It didn’t help clear all of his thoughts, or really much of any of them, but it’d chased away the worst of his anxieties about it. Like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room. 

(This has been, officially, the longest… five hours of his life. And he’s had many, many long five hours in the last two years.)

(Pariah Dark and his evil future self are tied for the record of being the longest twenty-four hours of his life. Finding out he was a clone doesn’t count — it was still ongoing, and distressingly permanent.) 

Tucker makes a noise, and Danny turns his head just in time to see him drop into his desk beside him, lifting his hat to run his hand over his curls with a look of disbelief. He’s staring unseeingly over Danny’s head for a whole of two seconds before looking back down. 

“So he just — what, popped out of the ground? Like a daisy?”  

Sam continues with her ministrations, and her fingers brush against his neck as she straightens his hair down his back. It’s soothing, enough so that the sleep-soreness of his eyelids becomes a lot more evident to him. 

“Hn. Something like that. If the ground was a once-in-a-lifetime portal and the daisy was a murderous six year old.” He mutters, blinking slowly to try and keep himself awake. Sam’s nails scratch behind his ears, gathering up his hair again to finger-comb out the tangles, and he sighs quietly in content. 

He sees Tucker suppress a smile, and he can practically sense Sam doing the same thing. Danny stares, did his ears do the thing again—? 

“You don’t think a ghost had something to do with it?” Sam asks him, her voice staying low as she tugged out the knots in his hair. “It’s really strange that…” She pauses. Danny can feel her lean against his chair, and he lifts his head slightly as Tucker leans in too. “..that Damian just appeared in front of you right after you got done with fighting a ghost.” 

Hrm. She was right. It was weird. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He says quietly, “I was too busy trying to get him to stop attacking me.” And after that he was busy trying to get them both home in one piece, and then after that was the whole identity crisis—

And he’s gonna stop there before his tired mind latches onto that spiral again. 

Sam and Tucker’s mouths press together worriedly, and Danny finds himself frowning too. “Maybe I can sneak into the Zone sometime this week and ask one of the Ancients.” Frostbite knew a lot about the Infinite Realms in general, but Pandora might know more about strange magic. 

He could try Clockwork, but finding the clocktower always feels like a scavenger hunt, and getting straight answers out of the ghost is like trying to catch the wind in a bag. Danny normally wouldn’t mind, he kinda likes the challenge, but now is not a good time for that. 

Either way, it was just another thing on his long list of things to do this week, on top of everything else he had to do since acquiring Damian. He could feel a stress headache coming in, and it was only — he takes a quick glance at the clock — eight-fourteen. Yeah, longest five hours of his life. And counting.

Hrrm. “I just can’t believe my luck.” He complains, of all people to clone, of all kids to end up being cloned. It had to be the one kid who, by technicality, was his biological son. That thought alone felt like a tsunami about to swallow him whole. It was confusing, and complicated.  

It shouldn’t have to be.

The thing is, Danny doesn’t view Damian Wayne as his son. Not by a long shot. Damian Wayne was Bruce Wayne’s son. But just like how Ellie isn’t Danny, and Danny isn’t Bruce; Damian is not Damian Wayne. And Danny still doesn’t view him as a son, and obviously Damian doesn’t view him as a father. But it all feels like a strange gray area, like a merry-go-round that’s not turning off, and it wouldn’t have to be if his parents hadn’t been fucking careless with their DNA samples— 

It’s been four months why does he still feel so raw— 

Tucker snorts roughly, bringing Danny out from his head. 

He breathes in deep, blinking quickly, as Tucker leans back into his chair. Sam starts sectioning off Danny’s hair. “Yeah, fair enough,” he says, “bad luck is my schtick though, Danny, so don’t go start encroaching on my brand.” 

“Your brand?” Sam repeats, voice lilting upward. Danny can imagine she’s raising an eyebrow at him, and he snickers both at the thought and at Tucker. 

Tucker’s eyes light up at the sound, and he grins like he’s won a prize. “Yeah, my brand! You know, Bad Luck Tuck?” 

Danny snickers louder, adjusting to sit more comfortably. “I thought your brand was Too Fine Foley.”

“I can have more than one brand.” 

Sam snickers this time, in the midst of braiding Danny’s hair. It feels fantastic, Danny hums lowly, sinking like putty into his desk. “I’m pretty sure that’s called a monopoly, Tuck.” 

Danny laughs quietly, blinking lizard-like. “Tuck Driver.”  

Sam barks out a harsh laugh, and it trails off into stifled chuckles as Tucker’s jaw drops. The wide grin on his face betrays any potential upset he might have though. “That’s the mania setting in.” He says, voice thick with laughter, “That’s the fucking sleep mania talking right now. Take a nap, dude, we’ll wake you up when class ends.” 

Sleep sounds great actually, and he’s gonna do it soon anyways with Sam still doing his hair. But— “I’m not done talking about Damian.” He protests, but his eyes are closing on their own, as if all they needed to hear was him agreeing to sleep to do it. 

Tucker waves his hand, “It’s not like we can’t talk about him later; nap first. Your eyebags can’t get any darker.” He assures, “Don’t worry, we’ll take notes for you.”

“Hnn… fine.” Danny says, and lets his eyes close. He’s out like a light in minutes.  

[hanayori89]

The Hand That Heals

You were one of the contaminated ones.

The Hylians didn't use words like 'infected' or 'diseased.' Not that those words were much better. No matter what the title was for your malady, they all hurt just the same.

But something about the word 'contaminated' made you feel stark and hopeless.

Incurable.

Infections and diseases often have cures. Something that is tarnished, something that is ruined, is not salvaged; it is just disposed of.

And that's exactly what you felt like.

Soiled.

Tainted.

Disposable.

Trash.

Which is why you disposed of yourself within the pockets of decaying earth that lay beneath

Hyrule's bedrock known as the depths.

It was your way of throwing yourself away before mobs of frightened citizens attempted to.

The depths were no place for the robust and bright-eyed. Or the 'uncontaminated.'

It wasn't all bad being exiled deep below in the cold and musty undergrounds. Especially since most of Hyrule had been thrown into peril by recent devastating events.

First there was the rise of the highly contagious 'gloom'. Followed by the princess and her loyal knight, who had both mysteriously vanished.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, was the coup being held by the restless Demon King known as Ganondorf.

Yes, you decided the healthy could have their surface; you were quite content existing in isolation, where the only threat was that of you and your gloom germs.

Living in the depths proved challenging for a mere mortal. Your circadian rhythm has been destroyed thanks to the lack of sunlight. Supplies were scarce, causing you to forage  whatever you could find. Mostly mushrooms and glowing cave fish, but hey, fish have omega-3's, right?

The biggest challenge was the constant darkness- a darkness unparalleled to anything you've ever encountered before. Not even the glum of a thick and clouded wilderness or a quiet, uninhabited basement could compare.

You'd never known what it meant to be in the dark before your time in the depths.

They held a darkness that consumed you, making you question if you truly were even alive. Making you question if you ever even were. Part of you grew to appreciate what little the depths revealed, such as the unforgiving side effects of the gloom and how it mutilated you.

The depths did more than just shield you and your contamination from the healthy residents of Hyrule; they protected you from the trauma of what you had become.

But every now and then, when you threw a bright bloom seed or lit a fire, there was a remorseless glow that revealed the way the gloom was devouring you. It only took a single glance at your wiry fingers and the bedizen of ashen knuckles that led to the fungal tint of your nail beds, to be reminded.

You couldn't even begin to imagine the abomination that was now your face.

Before the gloom, you were considered to be beautiful, at least to some. You had thick h/c locks that, if shaved, could easily coat the heads of 50 dolls. Your e/c eyes were striking against your s/c complexion, garnering you an abundance of compliments throughout your life. You had a thicker body, a well-fed one. Your hips were wide thanks to the cheesecake slices you graciously never skipped when offered. But now, thanks to the slim pickings of the depths, your body has taken on a lanky, frail appearance.

You trekked back toward your camp, tossing bright bloom seeds along the way to illuminate your path. You held your breath, listening carefully to your surroundings. The past horrors of trying to navigate the dark and coming face-to-face with a contaminated Lynel left you with a bit of ptsd.

Besides the depths being difficult to traverse thanks to a severe lack of light, they were also a domicile of frightening creatures that had been metamorphosed by the transformative powers of the gloom.

Sometimes you couldn't help but wonder how long it would take before you became one of them.

The bright bloom seeds were a tool that provided enough light to hunt, but not much else. The irony of the depths was that despite the blockade of layers of soil and organic matter preventing the entrance of light, there was a multitude of bright bloom seeds that flourished down here.

Yes, the depths truly were a whole new world. Starting with this darkness, which could easily cause one to mistake hell for heaven. You weren't aware of all the secrets buried within these shadows, and you also knew you weren't too eager to find out.

You breathed a little easier when the comforting flames of your camp came into view. As you lifted your arm, aiming to launch another bright bloom seed, you saw a figure at your camp. The closer you got, the more you recognized the familiar outline of a short, spiny ponytail jutting above the familiar white sheen of a face mask.

"Of all the founding fathers of Hyrule, what is a Yiga buffoon doing down here?" You growled.

Anger propelled you forward; rebellion coursed through your veins and burned like lidocaine on an open wound. You had so very little left, and the desire to protect what little you possessed was fierce. Fish carcasses and mushrooms were strewn around the ground as the Yiga's grubby hands rummaged through your knapsack. In it were pictures of your family and what little rupees you had to your name, should you ever be magically cured of your gloom diagnosis and could return home.

You tackled the Yiga to the ground. "How dare you!" The Yiga screamed. As you gripped his arm, the gloom in your hands incinerated the fabric of his sleeves, branding his flesh with your handprints.

"You bitch!" He stumbled out of your grasp, dropping all of your rupees in the process. One of the photos of your father and mother fell from the knapsack and fluttered downward into the open blaze of your campfire.

You screamed.

You stuck your hand into the fire, wincing as you retrieved the charred photo. The melted faces of your mother and father stared back at you. The photo began to shrivel beneath a small flame that continued to eat it.

You puckered your lips, releasing hefty currents of your breath. You had to blow this fire out.

You just had to.

This photo was one of the few you had that was a memory of when your life was normal. The smiles of your parents were the last visible evidence you had that they loved you before you contracted the gloom.

With a sickle in hand, the Yiga sprinted toward you, hollering a bunch of muffled expletives you couldn't hear well thanks to his ridiculous mask.

As you braced for impact, the Yiga fell face first in the dirt before your feet. An arrow protruded from his back.

He had been shot.

You fell to your knees, holding the destroyed photo, where your parents' faces had been, that now held your fallen tears.

A quiet voice called out to you; so soft was this voice that you thought it was your imagination.

"Are you alright?"

A figure came into focus; you couldn't make out his face, just the scraggly tresses that were whipped around his shoulders and the outline of his beefed-up biceps.

"Stay back!" You warned. "I'm contaminated..." You stifled another sob. The heroic intruder held his hands up, demonstrating that he was not a threat.

Which was all the more reason you had to warn him that you were.

He took a cautious step forward. "I've only come to ask a question." He retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from a satchel on his side. He retained his anonymity beneath the shadows, allowing you to only make out the faint outline of his fine lips as he spoke. "Have you seen her?"

You stood, taking a step toward him but keeping yourself hidden as well. It was almost as if you both wanted to remain concealed from one another. Despite the smeared ink that bled slightly down the paper and the creases that obscured the image, you could recognize the viridescent glare of Hyrule's missing princess on the sheet.

"Princess Zelda? They're searching the depths now?"

"No acre of land below or above should go without searching until we find her."

"Well, as you can see, these depths here hold no one but me and my greedy thief friend you have so kindly slain."

He tucked the sheet of paper back into his satchel but remained in your vision, or what the hollowed dark allowed of your vision. "Say, did they find her knight? Lonk? Ling?"

You could see the stranger open his lips, only to clutch them back together. "Link. His name is Link. And no, no, they haven't."

You turned your back to the stranger, assessing the mess the Yiga soldier had made of your supplies. You bent back down and picked up your parents' photo, choking on another wave of tears.

The man's voice sounded from behind you, only slightly closer now. "I can fix that for you."

You peered at him from over your shoulder. He was close enough to the fire that you could see part of the bare skin of his chest and his sculpted chin, which led to his chapped lips.

You still couldn't quite see his eyes.

He held his hand out, and you noticed his fingernails were long and jagged, not having seen nail clippers in some time. An alluring glow seemed to trickle down his arm in an intricate maze of glowing jade lines. You placed the photo in his hand, careful not to touch him with your fingers. You kept your face hidden in your shoulder, afraid that the first shred of kindness you had been given would be taken if he should see you beneath the truth of the fire's flames.

He held the photo, his silence encompassing you both. He was so still, that for a moment, you thought he had stopped breathing. Until you noticed his clavicles and chest slightly puff out and contract with breath.

The soft, verdant glow became more visceral. You continued to keep your back turned and your face hidden, your eyes never leaving the radiance of his arm.

After a moment, he handed the photo back to you. You quickly turned to snatch it back, burrowing your face in your shirt. As you observed it, you saw the bright, shining smiles of your parents peering back at you unscathed. For a moment, you forgot the enticing and enigmatic stranger that stood before you, letting your shirt fall from your face as you studied the photo above the fire's not too generous lighting. You could make out a thin line of some type of green jelly adhesive that repaired some of the rips in the photos. Without the light, the glue that he had created with his hand was mostly undetectable.

You stared at him in awe. "This is... this is amazing. I couldn't begin to repay your kindness. This is all I have left to remind me of my life before the gloom. Of the way people loved me before I became a monster." As you lifted your finger to wipe a tear away, you remembered your face was on display before him.

Your face and all the crusty and haggard abrasions of gloom that now coat it.

"No!" You cried. You began to back away, burying your face in your palms. "Don't look at me!"

But the boy grabbed your wrist with his enchanted hand, pulling it from your face. "You're beautiful." He whispered with a tone that was almost believable.

"Yeah right. Look at what this gloom is doing to us; if it isn't destroying us, it's dividing us! My own family banished me from my home!"

The man let your wrist go and held his arm in your vision. He spoke matter-of-factly, remaining out of the fire's path, so he was still shielded from you. "I'm missing my arm."

He held his arm out; the urge to touch it made the tips of your fingers tingle.

"May I?"

"Only if I can touch your face."

"You'll become contaminated."

You heard a slightly unhinged chuckle. "I'm not afraid... besides, there is a cure for the gloom."

"What!" You gasped. You felt your feet become unsteady. You stepped forward, attempting to grab the man's shirt, only to realize it was a one-shoulder tunic that looked rather outdated.

"Please, I'll do anything; please, I want to be cured! I want to be myself again, to be able to look at people and not be plagued by the cruel judgment in their eyes when they see what I've become."

The man's arm began to emanate light once again.

"If that's what you desire, what your heart truly wants, then I can heal you."

Swirls of sage traveled down his arm, glimmering brighter and more blatant.

Your lips parted at the man who stood before you.

Your savior.

Your healer.

You whispered. "Who are you?"

Edited:12/22/23

[takotakigum]

kiss it off me — gojo satoru

characters: gojo satoru x fem!reader

warnings: dubcon (probably noncon), food play, making out, gojo satoru is a pervert, this is messy: both literally in writing and content, breast fondling, and breast kissing

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: that one summer day you find out gojo satoru might have a liking to your breasts…covered in melted ice cream.

takotakigum’s kinktober 2023 | please read at your own risk!

“i bought ice cream! anyone wants to share?” you hear an excited voice echo through the outside hallways of the classroom, a chill creeps through your spine despite the humid atmosphere all around you. of course, before you could even answer—which you didn’t even think of—the shoji loudly slides open with much force coming from gojo’s foot. there he stands, a big grin stretched along his face holding two cones of ice cream; his eyes becoming crescent shapes as his glasses fall loosely to his nose. “oh? there’s one one else here again?” from your desk, you shake your head to a no. although gojo doesn’t falter with his smile, but instead, he seems to get brighter. “well, more for us!” there’s only two cones in his hand, so you want to ask: how? but you don’t even know if he’ll give you a useful answer.

with the sweet tooth gojo satoru has, you’re in no way surprised that he absolutely loves eating ice cream on a particular hot summer day in jujutsu high.

however, something you did not expect is him also being extremely clumsy with his precious dessert that his arms are flailing by the second, his own ice cream cone abruptly dropping and splattering on the confinements of your jujutsu high’s uniform.

“gojo,” you sigh, looking down at your table, hoping the ice cream cone landed there. unfortunately, the cold, seeping substance you feel directly on your breasts proposes otherwise. “oh no, i’m so sorry!” overly dramatic and overly sarcastic is what gojo sounds like. “gojo,” you say again, eyes fixated on your messed up uniform as you hold in a deep frown. “it’s the fourth time this week.” you manage to say, goosebumps sprouting all over your arms when gojo leans closer to use his bare hands to wipe away the ice cream off your chest.

his fingers are slow, feeling up the accentuated curves on the upper half of your breast that got contaminated with the dessert. your breath quickens, and you bite your inner lip as you feel the pads of his fingers give little controlled pinches on your uniform’s fabric—acting like he’s soaking out the absorbed melted dairy when really he isn’t.

“has it been? gosh, i’m so sorry, really!” by now, irritation eases back the goosebumps that went up. “i don’t have any other spare uniform now, gojo.” your voice becomes smaller, yet it weighs the same. gojo knows it, he isn’t stupid—clumsy but not dumb. at least, not dumb on purpose. “hmm, but you shouldn’t even be wearing the outer uniform when it’s summer. did ‘ya know that?” with your three years of studying in jujutsu high: no, you didn’t. but it doesn’t even seem real, you should know.

before you could say anything, gojo’s hand now rises higher to the dry part of your uniform—the buttons on near your collar. for a brief moment of shock, you stay still, and you gulp at the sensation of gojo’s knuckles teasingly flutter against your neck. within that still moment, gojo was able to snap off the buttons in charge of closing your uniform’s top together with ease. naturally, your vest loosens, and the white button up you’re wearing inside peaks through. once more, your breath gets heavy. and it piques the interest of gojo in front of you even more.

“what are you doing?” you ask so sweetly—so innocently in gojo’s end. your hands try to close the buttons back up, getting conscious. “helping you clean and letting you cool down, duh!” gojo’s hands regress, sticky hands grab onto your outer uniform tighter, pulling it down until it’s crumpled up on your elbows. “‘s killing two birds with one stone.” he says, face too close. you feel his hair tickle your forehead with the way he’s leaning towards you eyes fixated down rather than in front of you. with your jaw going slack and face going hot, you quickly rush your hand to hide under his glasses, palm pushing tighter onto gojo’s eyelids when his hand squeezes on your shoulder.

in that moment of purely fluster, you realize gojo hasn’t moved. at that moment of broken composure, you forgot to remember some things. “you know,” your hand can feel the way gojo’s cheekbones contract as he—you assumes—smiles. “i can still see. even if you’re covering my eyes.” almost, you almost slap him. your still clothed breasts, with a faint stain of melted ice cream that has seeped through the first layer of fabric and onto the second—has been stared at by gojo for the past five minutes. “d-did you have to keep staring, then?!” your face is hot, your legs stiffly closed together under your table. “maybe?” from between his teeth, gojo sticks out his tongue as he grins.

taken aback by everything, you fail to feel the waving presence of gojo in front of you, then, a glob of white ice cream replaces the dollop of white hair that was once in front of you. “sorry, sorry.” even so the apology, gojo’s voice is still laced with amusement; his hand holding the cone obnoxiously swaying the ice cream side to side without care. like he wants it to melt and holler down back to your chest. “what do you want me to do with that?” you ask, the sweet treat getting closer to your lips by each word you speak. gojo only shrugs, not stopping until your mouth has been smothered with the cold temperature of the dessert.

suddenly, the wave of coolness disappears within an instant. instead, it’s replaced with gojo’s own lips. you dare not admit how soft it feels, or how if he pushed his body a little bit more onto yours, your mouth would’ve been so weak that it would open up just enough for his tongue to slip in and taste the rest of you. but somehow, your senses get a hold of you. and this time, you really were about to slap him—that is until his hand wrap around yours and nonchalantly holds them with a level of strength you struggle to be released with.

your breath is heavy as gojo’s tongue prods into your mouth. disgustingly so, it’s sweet. all of his essence is so, so disgustingly fucking sweet. his tongue is deep in your mouth, saliva of which you don’t even know is from trickles along the side of your chin, mixing in with the remains of the melted ice cream down on your neck. with a loud, needy release from your mouth, gojo pants along with you. you’re unable to speak, though. with the way his tongue is undying as it laps on your lips hungrily for every bit of stray sweetness, you’re in no shape to move an inch.

however, when gojo’s mouth roughly kisses down from your lips and follows the trail of melted spit and dairy to your neck and collarbones, you make an attempt to push him off. somewhere along the desperation of touch by gojo, his glasses falls on the ground, although you nor him spared the time to glance at anything other than the moment. you feel as though each push you project onto him, he places more of his body weight to you. you whine in each attempt of defeat, and with each whine slips out an undistinguishable moan from the back of your throat. your body naturally lets it out, continuously, too as gojo begins sucking on your neck, leaving pink bruises.

“so sweet, aren’t you?” with a voice so hoarse like that, you can’t seem to deny the way your nipples harden under your clothing anymore. “gojo,” you whine, eyes shut close as blood continues to rush up to your cheeks and stain. “no,” you whine again, head turning left and right with all your strength when you feel his tongue play lower than your collarbone.

“be a good girl and hold onto my shoulders for a bit, ‘kay?” you shouldn’t. god fucking knows you shouldn’t when the opportunity to distance yourself is right there. but alas, you obey. your hands weakly clutch on the fabric of gojo’s uniform—exactly on his shoulders, as he asked you to. your body and mind do not intersect into any agreement. your mind is telling you to use your strength to pull gojo away, to use your arms to do something that would retain your self respect. but your body? it can’t hear it—can’t understand it.

just like how gojo’s ears sign deaf when you whisper and choke on your own words trying to tell him to stop—to not go anywhere lower than your neck. after successfully undoing the buttons of your last remaining top, gojo’s fingers scoop up the last bit of ice cream that’s almost liquid on the table. you yelp out at the cold substance being massaged onto your breast, especially the nipple. “tastes better like this, i have to say.” gojo speaks like he’s ever had a hold of your tits before. his tongue is back with more fervor than you’d imagine. it flicks over one of your nipples, sucking loudly and groaning when the soft skin easily gets squeezed by his other hand.

you, are a different story. as gojo seems to bask in your melodic, repetitive moans of his name, you feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes angrily as gojo’s pace is too far beyond enjoyable; layers of sweat accumulating on your skin, giving it an extra shine gojo is murmuring about. but even so, why did you not beg of him to stop? when did you forget to shake your head no after the first few times? even with gojo’s hands and mouth dissipating all the innocence on your body, even with his bite marks charring your skin with evidence of sin—why does your lower abdomen twist for more?

as your thighs subconsciously rub against one another along with your fingers gripping on gojo’s hair and shoulder so tightly—gojo’s phone rings—too loudly.

“fuck,” he clicks his tongue, licking one last stripe of whatever your breast has to offer and rises his head to give you one last deep kiss for you to feel the fleeting moments of his sore tongue. gojo takes the call right in front of your face, his lips swollen as his eyes are gazed in lust. “gotta take this mission, sweets.” gojo says, face morphing into a look of stoicism as he finds his disregarded glasses on the floor. gojo wipes some excess spit-mixed-with-dairy with his hand from your cheeks to suck in his mouth. you, being dumbfounded, is unable to say anything before gojo is near the open shoji already.

“gojo! are we not going to talk about this?? fuck that mission, please get back here and-” as if nothing ever happened, gojo beams a smile at you. red lips unwavering as he bids you farewell.

“i’ll buy ice cream again when i get back, then we can continue~ ah, but first, you should fix up. you might get cold next.” with a wink, he’s gone. leaving you in your heated, disheveled state: clothes crumpled all apart, hair disorganized, chest heaving with large breaths of hair—and all the possible things gojo has done to you.

© takotakigum | do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works.

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Next

A section of the Contaminated! AU that’s in about the midway point of the overall story. Shadow makes his way to Angel Island for salvation, unknowing that it will be stripped from him— both of them— just as quickly

[gauloiseblue]

Gaz x cook!reader. We all can tell army food is shit but dam can you make a bowl of mush taste like heaven. And it seems your skills have gotten through the belly and to the heart of the 141's pretty boi leaving him head over heels for your adorable form. Dressed in a head scarf, to keep hair out of your face, and an adorable apron brought from home all he wants is that pretty smile directed at him.

A/N: I noticed that cook!reader has become a trend in this fandom nowadays? Not that I'm complaining. Also, *crack my knuckles* it's time to write a jealous boy

The first time he tasted the food at the new base, he thought his tastebud was playing trick on him. Because there's no was a mere rice could taste this good.

But his confusion only lasted for a second, because he saw his friends made the same expression.

"Bloody hell," His captain grunted, "I don't mind gettin' tough missions if I get to eat this food everyday."

"Cheers to that." He chuckled as he scooped a spoonful of rice.

At that time, he didn't know who were the cooks yet, but he's determined to find out.

The kitchen in the military base isn't as strict as restaurant's one, so people can come in and out of the room. He uses that opportunity to pay a 'visit' to where you're stationed.

Judging by your uniform, you're not the head of the chef. But the one who runs around, checking each of the stations is you. He spots a few soldiers who stand at a distance (he soon found out that it's for hygienic reason, to minimize the contamination in the kitchen) while trying to talk with you. Unlike a cold-faced chef who hates distractions, you politely respond to them, while focusing on your job at the same time.

That sparks something in him, as he finds himself wanting to get to know you. But he knows better than disturbing you in your working hour.

Those soldiers might be lucky to get your attention for now, but he's confident that he'll get thrice as much sooner or later.

The kitchen's busy at the time when the soldiers are on the break, but when it's time for training, you and the other chefs would get the time to rest. So he, as a member of the special force, gets the privilege to arrange his schedule.

He starts his training earlier, so by the time he finishes, he'll get the time to visit the kitchen. The chefs like to hang out at the break room, but when he walks in, he finds that you're not there, so he goes to the second location.

In the back of the kitchen, there's a pantry where the food ingredients are stored. He had a feeling that you'd be there, so he went there.

And he's right.

You had just checked the tomatoes when he knocked on the door. The sound makes you jump, as you look at the open door with wide eyes.

"Sorry," He raises his hand to calm you down, "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh." You clear your throat, "It's fine. I just… didn't notice you there. Do you need anything?"

"No." He smiles, "I came to say that I loved today's lunch. It's the most delicious food that I've had all week."

You blush upon hearing his words, "You flatter me, thank you."

"So what are you cooking for tonight?"

"I was thinking about making beef goulash, but I noticed that we still have chickpeas, so," You hum as you think, "It's either of the two."

"You're making Moroccan beef stew?" He raises his brow at you, and you nod.

"That's what I'm planning to. I haven't decided yet." You said, "What do you think?"

"You know which one I'd pick." He grinned as he picked the paprika, "You have enough cilantros?"

"Of course." You giggle as you take the veggie from him, "It's settled then."

Since that day, it becomes a habit of him to visit the kitchen and talk to you for an hour or two. You're shy at first, but once you're comfortable with him, you become a lovely chatterbox. You'd talk to him about foods, kitchen operations, and plans for dinner. Breakfast and lunch menus are already handled by the head chef, since they require not much of a job. But the dinner is entirely your responsibility, since it's the most varied meal of the day.

"What do you think is the most important asset for a cook to have?"

"I don't know. Hands?"

You shake your head, "Try again."

"Hmm, let me think." He closes his eyes, while pretending to ponder on, "Brain?"

"Wrong." You laughed.

"What is it then?"

"Tongue." You replied as you pointed at our mouth, "You won't have any idea how good your food is if you can't taste it."

"Is it really?" He chuckled, "Then what about knife skills? Or time management?"

"They're also important to have, but at the end of the day, taste is all that matters." You tilt your head, "Right?"

"Can't argue with that."

One day, he's caught by Price when he's about to leave after training.

"You've been leaving awfully soon these days," He stops at his track as he feels his captain's gaze on him, "Does it have something to do with the cook?"

He sheepishly grins, as he turns to his mentor, "Maybe."

Price studies his face, before letting a long sigh, "You're dismissed. But—" He interjected before he could leave, "You better tell her to make shepherd's pie."

He chuckles at the request, "Not tonight, Cap. Maybe tomorrow."

When he arrives at the kitchen that day, he sees you already in your apron. You're about to put your hair in the head scarf when you notice him standing at the door, with his mouth slightly open.

"Hi." You greeted him as you smoothed out your hair, "I need to do a little bit of prep, so I start earlier."

"Oh… I see."

"You can stay, though." You shot him a smile, as you fixed your headband, "I could use some company."

"Don't mind me then."

He takes the seat near your counter, watching you as you bring up the large pan.

"Need a hand?"

"No." You said with a grin, "I'm pretty strong, you know."

He snorts in amusement when you show him the muscles in your arm, which is clearly less defined than his, or even any private's.

"I know, but I'm sure you could use some help."

"I'm fine." You told him, "Besides, I don't have any spare aprons."

"What a shame." He feigned a frown, so bad that it made you laugh.

"Well," You spoke as you started to chop the onions, "Entertain me then. Tell me about your training."

There's not much to talk about, since his training was meant to be watched, not described. He doesn't tell much, but he mentioned the little chat that he had with the Captain.

"He wants cottage pie?" You raise your brows with curiosity, "I can make that, but we gotta wait until we get the right meat."

He mutters a small response, as he watches you cut the chickens into four pieces. You show such a focused expression, that he can't help but think if you're gonna make that face when you're making the shepherd's pie.

All of the sudden, the little remark that his Captain made isn't as nice as it sounded before.

"Why'd you stop?" You looked at him when you noticed that he's been quiet for a while.

"Nothing." He replied, "I just remembered that I don't like meat pie."

"That's too bad." You frowned, "Don't worry though, cottage pie isn't really a meat pie."

He stares at you, and thinks about his Captain's request. He wouldn't say that he's being generous, but in this case, he was.

"I know, but I like your stew better."

"You're so sweet." He saw your eyes crinkled as you chuckled, "We'll make that Moroccan stew again, yeah? Or do you want something else?"

He felt his chest swell when you asked him the question. You offered to cook for him, you'd cook what he wants.

Perhaps you had asked that question to someone else—someone who has visited your kitchen longer than him—but he didn't care.

For the first time in his life, he doesn't feel like sharing.

[elexuscal]

[redacted]

Un-Redacted

As Dr. Ayda Mensah discussed various colony evacuation options, a small removed part of her considers the command deck of The Perihelion. It possessed plush, comfortable chairs, a pleasing blue and white colour scheme, easily readable displays, and multiple clear exits. All told, on her internal ranking of Places To Be Making Life Or Death Decisions, it warranted a solid third place. (An even more removed part of her gave a wry laugh at her possession of such a list.)

"We were prepared to house a significant portion of the colonist population aboard, at least in an interim capacity," crew-member Iris was saying. "Obviously, though, the contamination situation means that isn't viable, so we'll--"

SecUnit stood up.

Ayda caught the movement out of the corner of her eyes. Honed instinct whipped her head around. SecUnit was tensed, its expression startled, alarmed.

Scared.

Blood rushing, Ayda's white-knuckled hands gripped the edge of her chair. "SecUnit, what's wrong?"

By the time she'd finished saying the words-- almost faster than she can see, faster than she could blink-- it was already at the other side of the room.

All conversation had stopped. The Perihelion had looked up from their paperwork, and even Pin-Lee had dredged herself from the legal documentation, the group collectively trying not to stare and not quite succeeding. Other people began repeating the same questions, asking if there was some danger, but Ayda could barely hear it, could barely feel her own body.

What now. What could possible have gone wrong now?

[SecUnit?] she asked.

It didn't respond.

Its expression had evolved past alert, past panic, to something wild. Its eyes were roving around the room, as if tracking something she couldn't see. Its drones were doing the same-- or were trying to. One fell out of the air, then a second, clunk, clunk. And still it wouldn't respond.

"What? What's going on?" And Amena's voice over the calm cut through the noise like no one else's could. "Has something happened?"

"Unclear." Remarkable, how steady her voice is. "SecUnit's responding to something, but we can't tell what."

Captain Seth prompted, "Any insights, Perihelion?"

[Our situation remains stable,] the ship's AI intoned. [SecUnit is sending warning alerts in the feed, but they appear distorted and irrelevant to the situation at hand. Further communication attempts are not being received.]

"Why not!?"

Despite the abject terror on SecUnit's face, it wasn't trembling. It never trembled.

[Unclear,] Perihelion echoed.

At some point in the exchange, Ayda had gotten to her feet. But of all of them, the crew-member Matteo had been sitting closest to where SecUnit now stood, and they were the one to reach it first. "Hey there buddy," they said, voice and gestures placating. "Can you hear me--"

A blur, a woosh.

When the scene resolved itself, Three had SecUnit pressed against the wall, holding itself between Matteo and the other SecUnit.

Her mind reeled, trying to piece together what had happened, but it was all too fast. Had SecUnit done something threatening, or had Three simply assumed--?

Now SecUnit was pressed into the kind of hold that would threaten a choke a human, but it wasn't fighting back. Not really. Ayda knew what that would look like, knew its speed and brutality, and this wasn't it. Instead SecUnit was flailing, kicking ineffectually, or trying to, letting out a sound terribly close to a whine--

"Three," Ayda barked. "Let it go."

Voice muffled slightly, Three began, "It is not advisable--"

"GET AWAY!" SecUnit shouted, "GET OFF, GET OFF, GET OFF--"

Perihelion ordered, [Let. It. Go.]

Three let SecUnit go.

"SecUnit!" Ayda said, rushing towards it, but stopping herself before she got too close into its personal face.

It had fallen to the ground when Three had dropped it, and now was clambering unsteadily to its feet. Ayda had seen it more graceful after literally being pummelled by reprogrammed assassins. "Coldstone," she said, and this time something got through, because its gaze steadied on her.

"Dr. Mensah?'

"Yes, yes, I'm here."

"You can't--" it began, and then jerked backwards, towards the door. "You need to-- we need to--"

"We need to what?"

And it bolted.

It would have hit the door head on, if it hadn't slid open at the last minute.

Ayda stared after her friend. Then she moved.

[Dr. Mensah.] Perihelion's voice in her head was cool and collected as she ran down its cooridors. [SecUnit is undergoing a major systems failure of unknown cause. A full reboot is recommended. Do I have permission to proceed?]

Permission?

Right. Yes. Because she was SecUnit's guardian, its owner, and therefore, the closest thing it had to a medical proxy.

[That will help?]

[There is a >93% chance.]

[Permission granted.]

SecUnit slowed, then stopped. A soft chime. Then it went limp. It slumped onto the floor. SecUnit Three, who of course had rushed ahead of her, caught it as it slumped to the floor.

Ayda cringed as she came to a stop, forcing herself not to reach out and take her friend from Three's arms.

The others were hot on her trail. "What the fuck--" exclaimed one of the crewmen, Ayda couldn't remember who just then-- "Was that?"

<Unknown,> Perihelion said.

But Ayda knew. Or thought she knew.

She had recognised that terror, that disorientation. Recognised it from the mirror, from the stories her partners told, of waking up screaming in the night, from the too-many times she had cried herself ragged. The way SecUnit hadn't responded to them, how it had seemingly reacted to things which weren't there.

That had been a flashback.

[wheatnoodle]

back at it again lol

previous parts

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

—

the harrington mini-mansion is not a place eddie enjoys. the one good thing about it is it gave him steve. someone he knows has been through too much in that house. so, he hates it. he hates how big it is, how he knows it’s empty rooms and cold air in the vents. lights that are rarely turned off, glowing through the curtains even in the middle of the night. he hates that there’s a pool that none of them use and nobody really knows why. he hates that the three car garage has two vehicles gathering dust inside and the third in the driveway, not allowed in the same space. like a contaminant. he hates that steve is alone in this house. he hates that steve’s options in this house were to have parents around that drained and damaged his person or to have no parents at all.

he’s thinking about how much he hates it as he drives, white knuckling the steering wheel as the houses outside start getting more spaced apart, the floors multiplying, and he’s turning down a street that the neighbors surely think he has no business being down. eddie pulls into the driveway, next to the car not allowed in the garage, and kills his engine. he doesn’t want to do this here, have this talk. not in a place where neither of them feel safe, where there’s no room or item to seek comfort in. he needed to get steve out of that house, into his van.

he gets out, raises a fist to knock on his red door. no, steve won’t hear him. but he can’t just let himself in, that’s worse. is it? he weighs his options, using his hands as imaginary scales, taking out a quarter and flipping it (it rolls back up the driveway and he has to chase after it. like a loser. he fell too, did you know that? he fell chasing a quarter. his jeans have a fresh rip in them and there’s gravel in his cut up knee. that’s so embarrassing).

‘nobody saw that,’ he thinks as he stands up, pulling loose pebbles from his hair and stuffing the quarter back in his pocket. he didn’t check it. fuck.

deep breath. he takes out his key ring, flips to the copy of the harrington house key that steve gave him. steve told him only certain people get a key, special people. robin, dustin, max, and will all the way in california have a key. and so does eddie. because he was someone special.

no going back now. he unlocks the door, carefully pushing it open. he steps in, closing it behind him.

“steve?” he calls out into the empty foyer. he walks into the living room. “i know you’re here. your car’s outside.”

there’s a crunch under his right boot. eddie’s brows pull together and he looks down, spotting shattered ceramic on the floor. looking further, the stack of tapes usually by the tv is scattered across the hardwood. there’s more ceramic stuck in the white rug. he’ll vacuum that at some point. right now, concern sends his heart racing.

“steve?! where are you?” eddie’s louder now. his voice sounds frantic, shaking through quick breaths. he’s rushing through the first floor like a bat out of hell, shoving open doors and checking in cabinets. he’s yelling his name.

stairs. up the stairs. maybe he’s upstairs. why isn’t he answering? what happened in the living room? eddie runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time somehow without stumbling once. “steve? hello?”

eddie grabs the doorknob to steve’s bedroom, forcing it open harder than he needs to. his eyes are wide as they dart over the room and he’s panting.

there’s a lump under the blankets with brown locks sticking out. he sighs in relief, his shoulders dropping. his steps are soft, careful in a way eddie munson isn’t supposed to be. he makes his way over to the bed, reaching out a hand and laying it where he assumes a shoulder in. he rubs gently, trying to urge him into turning over.

steve pulls down the blanket and looks over, freezing at the sight of eddie. his cheeks are splotchy, his hair a mess from what he can assume was some rough tugging. he’s looking at eddie with these eyes that are huge and rimmed red. there’s unshed tears filled in his tear ducts and fresh tracks down his ruddy cheeks, and isn’t that just heartbreaking?

eddie sighs softly, squeezes his shoulder. “um…can we talk? like really talk. i get it if you don’t want to and would rather like never see me again, but i think we should talk and i also think we’d be more comfortable doing it at my place rather than yours, so i think we should head to the trailer first. wayne is at work so he won’t be in the way.”

steve’s eyes flick all over his face and he’s shaking his head slightly. he looks so lost. “i- i don’t know…don’t know what…”

and yeah, that makes sense. eddie should’ve realized that seeing as that’s why he was there in the first place. his face burns in embarrassment. how can he do this…think, think, think!

—

when eddie was four, he rode in the back of a police car all the way to a trailer park in hawkins, indiana. about two and a half hours away from his home. he’s woken up in the backseat by the nice policeman gently shaking his skinny, bruised knee. eddie takes his accepted hand and walks up the steps, watches as a grumpy looking man opened the door with a cigarette in his mouth and sleep in his eyes and he talks with the cop. the man lets out a heavy sigh and rubs a dirty hand over his face. eddie’s poking at the bruises on the insides of his elbows. next thing he knows, he’s curled up in a big bed and it’s so cozy, the softest thing he’s ever slept in, so much nicer than the pile of old clothes back home. the man with the cigarette sleeps on the floor next to him. he says his name is uncle wayne. eddie’s never slept so long in his life.

it’s only a day later when the withdrawals start to set in and eddie’s shaking, screaming, sobbing, hitting. wayne can’t communicate with him. he doesn’t know what to do. eddie’s gone nonverbal. he doesn’t calm down until he wears himself out, passing out asleep for another however many hours and wayne is left awake. exhausted, but awake and he searches through his old war things in a box in his closet and pulls out his book of american sign language. he had a friend back in the army who lost his hearing in battle. wayne learned for him.

he picks out a few words, like “scared”, “safe”, “breathe”. he practices them, slowly teaches eddie in the morning when he wakes up. eddie never learns much, just a few words here and there. enough to get his point across to his uncle in a moment of panic.

—

“okay…okay,” eddie nods his head to himself before sitting on the edge of the bed, making eye contact with steve. with an unsure hand, he points to steve. you.

“umm…alright…” eddie takes a deep breath, praying to whatever god there may be that he doesn’t butcher anything. he holds out his right hand, waves it once towards himself. come.

fingers to chin, bring to his ear. home.

finally, points to himself. me.

he does it again. “i’m taking you to my house,” he says outloud as he does, hoping he’s getting his point across.

warily, steve sits up. he nods once, twice. he won’t meet eddie’s eyes as he slips into his sneakers, his shoulders shaking and sniffles heard almost every breath. eddie gives him space, watches from afar. when his sneakers are tied, eddie offers him a hand to stand off the bed. he doesn’t take it.

with a hand hovering over steve’s lower back, he walks them out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and to the front door. he hands the keys to steve. gently pushes him in the direction of the car and signals he’s gonna be another minute.

steve’s brows furrow but he takes the keys, walking to the van to start it up and sit in the passenger seat. once the front door is closed, eddie turns around to face the mess on the floor. carefully, he picks broken ceramic from the rug and hardwood, stacking it in his hand. he makes his way to the kitchen to wrap the sharp bits in paper towel before double bagging it and throwing it away. he goes back to the living room and re-stacks the tapes in alphabetical order the way he knows steve keeps them.

he makes it out to the van and climbs in. steve is already curled towards the opposite window, staring out at the darkness of his front yard. from what eddie can see, tears are still actively dripping down his flushed face. he wants to reach out, wipe them away and kiss the booboos better.

he keeps his hands to himself and gets ready to endure a more than likely painfully awkward car ride.

eddie lifts his walkie to his mouth while steve is still looking away.

“i got him. over.”

—

taggie waggies:

@depressed-gays-of-marvel @kerlypride @thosemessyvibes @sadcanadianwinter @ineffablecolors @mentallyundone @awkwardgravity1 @thev01dd @flustratedcas @spectrum-spectre @hagbaby420

[beindumbonthelakebro]

Sentinel

TWs: body horror, eye contact, coughing up suspicious objects, hazardous mines, implied poisoning, dead birds,

Contaminated person #2: Anne-Maria Marmo-Montoya

Threat level: Extremely High

Hostility level: Medium

You probably had a horrible first impression of Anne-Maria, when she used her hairspray on you. She certainly had a bad first impression of you.

She always had the scent of chemicals around her. And it was not just faint. It was so strong, it was telltale of her presence. I never thought I’d miss such a sensation.

I never thought I’d miss how she, Brick, Scott and Jo bickered about what to do. I never thought I’d miss all the conversations about fashion.

I remember one time, on one of the first few days, when we had no choice but to settle into a cabin, Cameron accidentally inhaled a bit of the hairspray Anne-Maria was using, and she joked that now his lungs were waterproof in an attempt to lighten the mood.

That was before she began to complain about constant muscle pain, and coughing violently, revealing shards of crystal coated in phlegm and blood. Then, it became a cacophony of cursing about the “incubation period” and splitting us up.

You’ve already seen the people in uniforms. They seem to be patrolling when it is bright outside, but the mines seem to be completely off limits, even for them.

The mine is dark and damp, with the scents of dust, algae and… something else. You can’t place what it is, but it’s… irritating. Makes you sneeze and cough.

This is an old enough mine to have used sentinel canaries to measure how much of a hazard it would be to go in.

But among the murky wood, rails and carts, the old has hints of sharp crystal, purple with yellow in the middle.

Black spots swim in your vision. You can only rely on scent and touch.

Eventually, you find a lake full of murky water. Burying your head into it for a short while relieves you of the black spots, but it’s only temporary. Then it’s back to slowly going blind and trying to remember where you came from.

You see a light. A small glimmer of the possibility of survival.

But when you get to the light, it is no nearer an exit than anywhere else.

Your breath catches, cause you’ve found her. Even with your depleting vision, you

The only thing different seems to be that her skin is slightly pallid. But as you get a little closer, you notice that they aren’t just surrounding her. Her knuckles and feet have clawlike portrusions, and her head’s adorned with two goat-like “horns”. Even with the faded dust she’s covered in, she’s radiant… Wait… why can’t you breathe?

Then she shifts her gaze in your direction. Her eyes are just like the gems growing everywhere.

You can feel your body ache.

She cringes, as though she knows something you don’t. Her teeth are just as gemlike as everything else. She doesn’t do anything. Even if her fuse is short, and she technically could charge. That’s not the thing that makes her dangerous.

You take note of some things. The scent is from her. And the crystals with little, yellow birds within. All of them, stiff.

Still, what use is a sentinel to her?

[luveline]

first of all, CONGRATS on 10k! you're crazy talented and seem so lovely and nice and I'm so happy such nice things are happening to you!

I loved your drabble about Steve taking care of you while your sick and was wondering if you could do something similar with Eddie, please?

tysm!!!!!! eddie taking care of you when you're sick! ♡ fem!reader | 1k words

Your wrists feel weak. It's not a symptom you'd expected to have with the common cold and it has  you frowning with worry. Your mug in your hands feels suddenly achingly heavy and you have to set it down on the nightstand, hissing to yourself. 

"What the fuck?" you ask, perplexed. Your voice, though scratchy and quiet, echoes through the room. 

"What, baby?" Eddie asks. He turns baby into a different word entirely; says it with enough softness that it's more of a sound than a name. 

You feel your frustration wane. "Nothing. Don't worry about it." 

Eddie pulls off his headphones and sets his guitar aside on the floor. He stands and stretches, exposing a sliver of his midriff that makes you sad. You miss his skin but you're too sick for anything fun. Before you know it he's taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes dancing with light. 

"What's the matter, sweet thing? Tell Eddie," he croons.

You go from bashful to bemused. "The third person?" 

"All the cool kids are using it. Tolkien, Le Guin, C. S. Lewis." 

"Talking about yourself in the third person," you amend, used to his habit of missing the point entirely. 

"Changing the subject," he assesses back. 

He rubs his thumb over the bump of your chin and perches on the edge of his bed. You've contaminated his entire room by now, so his hesitation isn't for any fear of getting sick – Eddie's the one who made you sick. He's tentative because he feels guilty. 

You're not that mad. In fact, you're kind of liking it. He's using every excuse he can to dote on you, and you're happy to let him. 

And your wrists really do hurt. 

"I'm aching," you admit. 

Eddie drops your chin in favour of your hand. "Everywhere?" 

"My wrists hurt." 

His eyes widen slightly and his lips part. "Shit, really?" he asks. He pushes your closed hand into his palm and rubs your knuckles until they're all flattened out. "Is it gonna make it worse or better if I touch it?" 

"I don't know. Maybe worse." 

He nods and his eyelashes kiss, his eyes half-lidded as he presses his lips very gently against one wrist. You offer the second and he does the same, his grin wolfish. Self-satisfied. 

"Why're you smiling?" you ask suspiciously. 

"It's hard to explain. Especially to mere mortals," he tells you, leaning in close. 

You force your mouth to your shoulder as a cough wracks you, your chest and stomach hurting from the force of it. You're tired of being sick. Fatigue lines your features, turns your mouth down and your eyes sticky. 

Eddie softens like butter in the sun. "How about something else to drink? Something warm." You crinkle your nose. "No? Hmm." 

"I'm not very thirsty," you say. Not strictly true, but picking up the glass feels like more trouble than it's worth right now. 

Eddie drops your hands to mess with his hair. He pulls it away from his face and runs his fingers through it like he's going to tie it up but never does, eyes watching your shoulder all the while. He's looking through you as he thinks. Suddenly, an idea dawns on his face. His eyebrows jump.

He strides out of his room with little preamble and no explanation. You sulk to yourself and slide down the bed until your back is flat to the sheets and your head propped up by his depressed pillows. 

Eddie returns with a can of ginger beer in his hands. He looks tall in the doorway. His smile slips. 

"You're looking at me like I'm dying." 

"No, that would be more like this," he says, and shows you. 

His brows pinch up tight at their starts and low at their ends as he frowns. A coy heartbreak plays in his eyes.

He drops the act quick as a flash and giggles to himself as he returns to your side. You roll your eyes and hold out your hand for the ginger beer. 

You wince as he passes it over.

"What?" 

"S'heavy," you say against the cold metal rim, taking a small sip. Your eyes slip closed in bliss. 

He takes it from you and scrounges in his pockets for something. There, he slides a straw into the can and offers it again. He evades you when you try to take it. 

"I'll hold it. You drink," Eddie says.

"I can hold my own drink." 

"But why should you?" His free hand finds your thigh under the covers. He gives you a tender squeeze. "I made you sick, this is the least I can do." 

Sincerity is always a good look on him. You take a huge pull of ginger beer and smile at him gratefully. 

"Am I too sick to give you a thank you kiss?" you ask. 

He puts your new drink with the first and shifts closer to you. "You could have a flesh eating bacteria and I'd still let you kiss me." He's coquettish. 

"That's disgusting," you say. 

He leans down. "Super disgusting," he says agreeably. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and he kisses down, both soft and searching as his fingertips glide over the hill of your cheek.

You break the kiss quicker than you'd really like to for another weak cough into your shoulder. You're tired and nauseous and everything hurts weakly, a pulsing pain. 

Eddie pulls your face back up and strokes the well of your eye with his pinky finger. "Sorry I made you sick." 

You're finding it impossible to hold a grudge. "I'll forgive you." 

"When?" 

"I don't know. Can I have a hug while I think it over?" 

He pushes your hip with his and settles on top of the covers, pulling you onto his chest and making a lazy, almost obnoxious sound of pleasure. "You take all the time you need, babe. I'm happy to wait." 

"I bet you are," you mutter, nestling your face into his chest. 

He strokes your hairline with his thumb, his smile evident when he drops a kiss at your temple. 

"Be careful with your wrists," he murmurs. 

[beanlot]

03

ellie williams x f!reader

you basically find a hot girl at the strip club.

word count: 3.4k

genre: smut

warnings: stripper!reader with subtop!ellie - usual lesbian shenanigans like oral/fingering/facesitting, mentions of alcohol, you are referred to as ‘miss’.

────────────────

you’d watched her for half an hour now through the glowrings. a face that, although perennial in remaining innominate, highlighted it’s unaccredited self in psychedelic neon. you can’t decide if it was the way she looked around, eyes mind-altering, or just quick wedges of having worked here for over a year; growing accustomed to older faces that new ones became refreshing.

but even with serving drinks from one booth to another, she’d never looked your way - adhesive to the bar with eyes of timidity that stayed concealed; a face on your list of priorities for tonight.

fishnets suffocate your arms, desirable twirl of fabric that sheathed your chest yet had left your shoulders bare and at the mercy of the lambent. and eventually, you came to terms with the appetency of the taste of liquor against your tongue as much as your skin wanted to be a metres distance from hers.

so you’re traipsing over to the bar, pleather shorts sweltered against your thighs amongst your netted body stocking; carbonados scintillating against your stomach in the fiesta spotlights.

but you feel hedonistic optics leer your way from an approaching booth, a woman shuffling towards the end of the foam seat when you observe them. “excuse me, is it okay if we can get 3 more of the red wine?” her hand enveloping some notes, which empty into your palm when you flatten your hand out.

“yeah, of course.” you nod, scents of apple cider and root beer clouding the ambience when you advance towards the bar, a disarray of empty glasses and decks of cards amongst the elm. you shuffle beside her, and it’s intoxicant - musky firewood contaminating each skin cell in your cheek with lechery, although ironically felt sanctifying when you inhaled. you lean over, sliding the notes across to the bartender. “3 reds please.”

he nods, and you try to inspect the nitery around you - flaxen beams that concentrate to a seductive vermillion against the stage of stripper poles, but your eyes are more obdurate than intended within trying so fucking hard to not look at her. but impulsively, you’re examining her side profile before you can register, unable to escape this hypnotic pool of looking at her that looking away seemed paradoxical.

“hello.” your voice divulges that curiosity you wanted so badly to secrete, and you can’t repress the interminable searching of how perfectly fuckable her face is - eyes that you could decipher were the shade of dresden, framing an intangible sensation of inclination in your stomach when they are too shy to look at you. “hey.” her voice dry and gutless, a creamy tone that anchors at the very pillars of your hips.

her hands superlunary against her glass, fingers that scream they were made for this; your limbs weakening under how godly-structured her veins were along her knuckles. “you don’t look like the type to come to strip clubs.” you smile, and although you felt pathetic for generating ludicrous fantasies of her lips on your body already, you were complacent when you saw the corners of them turn upwards for a second.

“my first time, miss.” she swivels her drink, and you realise how extraterrestrial she made you feel upon the realisation that you were always the grand prize here; having people at your knees for a taste - but now you were the one yearning for just a quick lap of what was infront of you. you watch as she swigs the rest of her glass, lips dewy when her tongue skims them; it’s sexually aggravating to watch, sampling the taste of the bitterness of not being able to lick them dry for her rather than the alcohol she’d drank, amplifying when her sleeve rolls up to exhibit an adorned arm of tatted leaves that fade in the incandesce.

“do you wanna see my tits?” you tilt your head, and she’s wide-eyed at you; almost thankful that she’d swallowed her drink mere seconds before. eyes of eau de nil that are diluted to such submission it catalyses the excitement in your clit, unworldly irises that bite the bait of flickering down to your cleavage every now and then.

she’s about to speak after her train of thought, lips of delectability parting until the bartender calls your order. “3 wines.”

but you feel irked at the epiphany that unfortunately, you were at work, and had some serving to do. so you slide the platter towards your chest, before delving into her with a sultry glance. “it’s free.” you whisper teasingly, which wasn’t contrivance, you couldn’t fabricate the fact you wanted to pay her to lay you bare; unearth every fragment of your body that possessed the most sensitivity and utilise it however she desired.

but once you’d distributed the orders and amassed your own multitude of tips through the art of availing yourself to get what you wanted, your irises blew hot and cold around the club when you’d cottoned on that something just wasn’t right - your coworker ambling towards you.

“someone’s requested you..”

“but i’m not stripping tonight?”

she shrugs. “someone in 03 ordered some stuff and specifically wanted you to deliver it or something.”

“what’d they look like?”

“i don’t know, like.. awkward, freckles, brownish red kinda hair..”

and amongst the blether, your eyes were rifling through the bar; running short of the customarily lascivious vigour of interest it gave you before, stools void of the figure you were hoping to see. at first, you’d thought she’d been intimidated by your valiant act - but you’d read intertextually through the lines of kinda hot, cute freckles, brownish red hair that

never mind, you were stripping tonight.

she was a whiskey drinker, something that was cavernous incongruity to the velvety timbre she had. but she was duality altogether - maple tennessee and vanilla bourbon, the spicy grain of japanese scotch; even the woody and rich malt of scottish barley. you’d chaperoned yourself towards 03, a room in which was enshrouded by rosewood curtains, and a beam of what felt like tuscan sun whenever you’d take a step; with one hand supporting the platter of glasses, the other drapes the curtain to one side.

you step in, walls of boysenberry suffocating you momentarily - that familiarised furore of carnality in your stomach when you inhale her, earthy lemongrass and sage. it’s slightly quieter, stifled music orchestrating in the background as you look around, adjusting to the sentimentality of the onyx sofas; the rhythm of fuchsia and apricot lights against the metal pole situated in the middle of the room.

and then your eyes meet with ones of juniper, so soft and succulent. she doesn’t maintain eye contact for long, staring ahead at the floor - but she’s so divine that it dilutes how fucking awkward she can be. “i take it you accept my offer?” you smile, situating the platter against the table, pouring the rye whiskey she’d solicited into a glass.

she doesn’t answer, only looking up with doe eyes of sheepishness when you hand the glass to her with delicacy. you want her to feel ameliorated with you, because quite frankly, you’re feeling morally profane and unprofessional from wanting to ride her face so fucking bad. “what’s your name?”

she’s intrepid enough to ogle at your body piece, not only the glints of obsidian on your skin, but how your skin embraces the curves. “ellie.” she mumbles, her skin otherworldly with flares of honey and marmalade.

ellie. it was simple elixir, marshmallow and purification sizzling on your tongue. “can i sit on your lap, ellie?” you whisper, fingers tracing the sewing outline of her jacket, calibrating to the faint sturdiness of her shoulder.

she nods after a few seconds, and you feel erotic when you hitch your leg over and plant yourself on her thighs. it’s humid between you, and you can admire the texture of her skin - skilfully formulated freckles along her curved nose as if they’d been saintly sculpted with intense precision, framed with hues of rose on her cheeks that compliment her lips, so inviting and fuck you’re staring at her.

she’s getting flustered, and only amplifying the brewing anticipation in your clit when her thighs rub against yours; with fern globes flickering over your body, you reconstruct what you’re really here for, dipping out of the spellbind she’d put you in when you realise she keeps peeping at your cleavage.

so you swathe the straps of your bra off, glacial wisp against your bare shoulders; your skin feels hounded by taffy fog around you, and the magnetism oozing from her ironically enough to put you at the bottom of the food chain - your breasts recoiling from the material when you slowly pull it down, exposed to the experimental tints of the room.

you hear her exhale, hips tensing when she admires how your fingers grope at them. “you can touch them.” your whisper is reassurance, and you feel the levitation on your knees when angular fingers that you’d pedestaled oh so well tenderly stroke your skin, an epidemic of goosebumps on your netted arms when they reach your breasts. you observe how her pupils dilate, irises surrounded by hankering pits of jade only erupting with predilection when her fingers brush up your stomach.

she’s reluctant, but when she notices the indistinct smites on her fingertips from your cudgelling heartbeat, she brushes over your nipple. “they’re so soft, miss.” she whispers, observing how your nipple erects between her fingers.

you’re unbeknownst to your helpless grinding on her thigh and the lewd arousal between your folds; she’s getting confident, gently rolling your nipples between her fingers with ascendency - it’s astronomical, enough to skyrocket you into seventh heaven, and you hadn’t even taken your pants off yet.

“can i put them in my mouth, miss?” she whispers. you feel as though you’re under hallucinogens, the narcosis that was she, but she’s solemn when you blink at her. your fingers caress at her shoulders, a scorching sterilisation when they touch at her neck, and your fingertips feel so holy upon her skin that you could hear the symphony of each skin cell celebrating. “don’t ask, just do.”

maybe she wasn’t that shy at all, her tongue plumose against your breasts, tactically twirling around your nipple. it’s only when she envelopes it with her lips and gingerly sucks that you distinguished how wet you were, the fabric of your underwear thick with your arousal with every thrust against her thigh. but something’s different, something that was truly incorporeal, your clit blitzed in a way that feels foreign. “fuck..” you whisper, because you’ve clocked that you’d never been this fragile before.

everything is nirvana, the sensitivity in your clit only intensifying when you can feel her lips slurp at your other nipple; tongue flicking against it with enough expertise to force your legs into tremor. you can feel the clarity of the explosive latchstring in your hips as much as you can decipher how desperately you’re rocking against her, and with every sound of her lips leaving your tits with a pop, it’s almost as if fresh nerves that you hadn’t known built you up were being elicited.

you look down to see the blooming disorder she’d made of your breasts, nipples that were swollen and torrent with callous red; unrelentingly vulnerable to the masterly manipulation of her tongue stroking against them, glossing them with her spit. “you like sucking on a stripper’s tits, huh?” you exhale, and feel your limbs tingle when she hums.

you’re still twitching on her in waves of rupture when she looks up, lips glistening so pornographically; lashes that fan against her lacy cheeks so innocently that you feel as though you’re being made fun of.

you can’t comprehend anything through the overload of indecent fantasies - fantasies that became fuelled when you were victim to her hands, staring at how obscenely her knuckles contracted; raunchy veins of lapis operating her fingers so seductively. she notices how you feast your eyes on them, and teases you by slithering them down your stomach, a feathery stroke that explores the ebony pearls on your waist. “do you want them inside you, miss?” she whispers, tongue still fondling over your nipples.

please.

you feel your organs molten inside, and you’re nodding under automatism. you want to appreciate a sneeze-like high; head a carousel with the addiction that she provided, that only she provided, because you’d never nosedived off such a tremendous cliff into such heavenly bliss like she had done just by wrapping her pretty lips around your breasts.

your hands mount her jaw tenderly, because you want a lick of that addiction - her lips a gleam so vivid that it made a dullsville of the neon authenticity. you lean in, slotting in the key with the lock when she tilts her head for you; it’s mellow when you submerge her lips, and although the tempo between you was simpatico, you found that you were the one initiating. so you sink into her, tilting your head to enhance her taste - she’s smoky, with subtle tints of citrus and cedar on your tongue. but it’s medicine, warm and stimulant on your tongue, gentle laps that create a string of spit when she’d part from you - and you’d be quick to swallow, desperate to be polluted by her fluids.

she’s becoming assertive.

“please just fuck me with your fingers.” you whisper against her lips, hand mechanical to glide the fabric shielding your cunt to one side; you can tell by her eyebrows dipping in foreboding and the way basil optics bleach with daunt that her blood’s running cold about this. “i’ve never done this before, miss.” she whispers, and you’re about to ask her if she wants to stop if it wasn’t for her boldly slewing her finger through your folds, the texture of your slick glossing her skin deliciously - you couldn’t only feel it, but you could fucking hear it.

“that’s okay..” you whisper, shuffling against her, your fingers hallow against her wrist as you orient them with your entrance. “i’m gonna ride them.” you hum, and you know she’s taking a shine to the idea by how her other hand harmonises your hip; fingers supporting your weight against her.

and she commends how ravaged you look right now - disordered stray hairs adhesive to the sides of your face, scleras that had adjusted to the holiness of being able to stare at her tongue glossing your body.

it’s euphoria when you slowly descend into her fingers, feeling her fingertips massage your walls when you sink. the raw-boned chords that you’d known were her knuckles stroking against every explicit hormone surrounding your hips, and you can taste the crisp grass from the promised land when she twines both of them inside; it’s not enough to bullseye that spongy target, and so you whisper to her. “just a little more, babe.”

she’s supervening, serenity boiling inside when she wreathes her fingers just a little more for you - that spongy target fondled under her influence. you can’t repress the pathological trembling of your thighs against hers, nor the psychosis of feeling as though you’d been hovering in the untainted vapour of afterworld clouds. “your cunt feels so good inside, miss.”

is she fucking dirty talking?

you’re instinctual to start bouncing on her fingers, that inflammable sponge being hammered with every rock, some more dynamic than others. “fuck, that’s it, babe.” you whimper with breathless difficulty. and she watches how your body reacts, the sensitivity in your clit augmenting whenever she cunningly rubs her palm against it; the way your tits bounce with such sap before her very eyes and how her palm radiates how fucking thickly drenched your cunt is - her tongue ready to onslaught you, sour to stay in her mouth.

she wants to ask you if you want to sit on her face, but upon remembering your don’t ask just do stratagem, she’s conflicted - it still felt wrong for her to assume. so she glissades her fingers out slowly, browsing how your discharge oozes out onto her palm, and looks back up at you. “please let me taste you, miss.” she whispers.

but you want her to lose patience; you want to activate whatever barbarity is concealed in those flaming fucking eyes. so you whisper,

“earn it.”

“please, let me, miss.”

you slowly shake your head with a smirk.

“i’ll make you feel good, promise..”

you shake your head again, and you can see it melting away, irises narrowing with pique - but she tries her luck again.

“i’ll be good to you, miss.. i’ve been so good..”

and when you shake your head and tut, you clock that something’s different in her expression, nefarious globes that pierced through you with such warped lechery and belittlement.

oh, that’s good.

you feel her hand frame your jaw, and it’s claustrophobic when she presses her forehead against yours. she’s not hostile with you, her touch so sincere, and that’s what’s starting to make you feel so hot inside. you can see her eyes look around for the words, but they seem to flow out so instinctually despite the internal struggle.

“you feel this?” she whispers, her tongue wheeling up your cheek, and you nod.

“i’m gonna use it to lick your pussy dry, you hear me?”

bingo.

“and i’m not gonna stop until i can feel your cunt come in my mouth.”

what have you done to this girl?

“so let me taste you, miss.” she’s stern, and slow, and it forces your leg to lift slightly; reserving that special vip seat you were hoping she’d fill as soon as you saw her.

her eyes are venomous when your slit is before her, damp fingers that clamp your thighs and are tender yet so hungry to plummet you down to her face. you can feel her nose brush against your mound, and your legs brandish against her when you feel her tongue flick your clit, your hips can’t repress the pathological shaking; it’s transcendental, the wetness of her tongue making you feel like morphinism. with every swipe against your clit only magnified how eager your back arched, yet had deteriorated the strength in your limbs.

but what was aggravating taps was only a dip in the waters, becoming one long interminable lick - you’re rocking against her tongue tenderly, the planetary strokes of her lips contagious enough. and if the coil in your hip wasn’t assaulted enough, it’s at the edge of the cliff when she teases your entrance with two fingers, your slick glossing the tips. they stream into you slowly, and she goes deeper than intended with how silken you feel inside.

“shit.” you whine, feeling higher than the fucking himalayas when they wreathe into you, searching for that fucking spot.

you’re about to give her a helping hand, but after a few seconds, she finds it by herself - fingers twining into that extraterrestrial latchstring, waiting with anticipation to detonate.

good girl.

she grows accustomed to how it feels, how it moulds itself pathetically around her, impulsive fingertips thrusting against it as your thighs wreak havoc against her shoulders. “fucking dirty talk me.” you exhale, and the saturated slap on your clit was enough to make you squeak.

your cunt leaking onto her fingers, how the skin of your folds slaps against her hand with desire; it’s getting too much, that savage corkscrew spiralling your hips at velocities that seemed inhumane. “you’re gonna fucking come on me, aren’t you?” she hisses against your folds. “i can feel you getting tight, you filthy whore.”

you hear it, translucent and crystal clear. “you like being used as a sex toy, huh?”

oh, you have no idea.

“dripping all over my face, you fucking prostitute.”

you spurt cum onto her tongue, body tense as everything tightens; you can’t bleach the blemishes of beryl in your vision, swimming in rhythms of seraphic orgasm. you hadn’t even noticed how smeared your face was with tears, having being recent since they were still freshly running.

your hips dynamite, thighs shuddering against her violently - you’re catapulted into cloud nine, clit feeling as though it had exploded from the gritting assault of humping against her fucking lips. “fuck.. you just..” you try to speak, but your breath is jagged; prioritising instant relief to alleviate your havocked pulse. “made me come..” you whine, only registering throughout the dopamine that you’d been clawing at her hair, your fingers numb from nipping at her with such hankering. “made me come..” you repeat dreamily, and blink through the haze.

she sits beside you, legs spread and patting the space between them. you can’t decipher her expression through the amaranthine and your smushed cheek against the sofa, only her voice in your ear. “was that good, miss?”

thank god you came to work tonight.