#how does it feel to be this fucking stupid

[luvergirl-535]

meet cute, but, like, wayyy worse

part - 2

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 8.3k

c/w - smut (iktr), paige is a loser in the streets and a freak in the sheets (lol), horrifically unedited to the point where idek if it’s legible so bear w me 🥀

a/n - writing this made me realize i’ve literally forgotten how to write smut 😔 bc why’d i keep trying to make it funny. i’m actually a little concerned that ive been doing too much unserious stuff i won’t be able to go back to normal writing anymore lmao maybe i’m the problem…

paige has had an absolute shitshow of a night. actually, scratch that—the entire year has been a shitshow. maybe even the past two years. she doesn’t like to dwell on it.

she hates the way her friends look at her these days, with cautious smiles and sympathetic eyes, like all they ever do anymore is feel bad for her. she hates the way they speak to her when she starts drinking, like she’s an unpredictable, wild thing. like they’re afraid of what she’s doing to herself.

honestly, she’s fine. they just don’t get it. the fame, the work, it’s a lot. she’s in shape. her basketball has never been better. she’s bringing girls home every night.

it’s not like she’s addicted to coke or anything. since when is it a crime to need a few beers every now and then?

(it’s every night. and some mornings, too.)

(she finds herself forgetting—birthdays, anniversaries, names—more than ever.)

(she used to fucking hate alcohol.)

(she is a little afraid of herself, too.)

anyway.

the cruise has been fun. a team-bonding experience, meant to build their chemistry off the court, to take their minds off the upcoming season for a little while. a week of relaxation. a week to destress. for paige, it’s been hard. she cannot justify sneaking off to day drink to her teammates, and they’ve been steering clear of alcohol like their lives depend on it. she only gets to drink at night, after the rest of the girls have gotten too drunk to care about what she does. the rest of the time, she’s forced to be painfully sober.

it all goes from ‘difficult’ to ‘burning gates of hell’ when she throws up on the love of her life—who does not know she’s the love of paige’s life—azzi fudd. an angel on earth, the most beautiful girl paige has ever seen. like, better than zendaya. for real.

after that, she wants nothing more than to jump off ship and be lost at sea forever. when kk offers to take azzi back to paige’s room, she swears she could kill her.

and then, almost consecutively: her stupid little crush is exposed, she’s forced to cut a dress off azzi’s body, and then—this.

her first thought, after the phone call, is mental image of her fist pumping, because, duh. and then comes the, oh my god, i get to fuck azzi fudd, followed by a brief moment of panic, followed then by the realization that of course she is not going to fuck azzi tonight. or ever.

she is both relieved and disappointed by this knowledge.

“i’m…” azzi says, staring at her phone as if she could magically make chad call her back again. paige expects something, like maybe an explanation on why the fuck she’s telling her ex-boyfriend they are going to fuck tonight, but instead, azzi just tosses the phone onto the bed as if she’s been burned and says, “i’m going to change.”

paige has half a mind to leap in front of the door and barricade azzi in the room with her until she gets an explanation. she doesn’t, because she can barely act like a normal person around azzi, let alone confront her like that.

azzi disappears into the restroom. paige sits. and waits—not so patiently.

she pulls at a fray in the comforter until it comes loose. taps her foot against the bedframe. thinks about how azzi’s voice changed on the call—quieter, but not exactly embarrassed. maybe satisfied? there was something in it that didn’t sound like regret. that’s the part that’s screwing with her the most.

she gets up from the bed to pace, the back-and-forth a feeble attempt at wrapping her mind around what just happened. when that doesn’t work, she drops to the floor and does some sit-ups, because when she was a kid her dad told her if she let the anxiety build in her body she’d explode and that the only way to get rid of it was to do sit-ups. he’s a bitch for that, but she’s also spent a lifetime with nice abs, so she can’t really be too mad. but not even the magical sit-ups really work, so she does the last thing she can think of:

she pounds on the bathroom door.

“jesus!” azzi’s voice is high-pitched, nervous. “you tryna knock the door down?”

“uh, no,” paige says, a little unsure of what she’s going to say now that she’s here. “you’ve just been in there for awhile so…”

“don’t worry about it.”

oh, she’s worried. though not particularly about azzi. “can you just come out?”

“why?”

at this point, azzi is just playing in her face. because what does she mean, ‘why?’. is it not a normal thing to come out of the bathroom once you’re done?

the most alarming thing about all this is that paige has yet to question her undying crush, even as azzi is turning out to be a possible psycho. actually, even worse—it might be turning paige on?

now she is doubly worried. perhaps she should focus on one thing at a time.

paige’s silence must have stretched long enough to spark concern, because azzi speaks again, a hesitant, “paige?”

paige sighs, a hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose, a pose she might have adopted from her coach. “you know you owe me an explanation, azzi.”

another sigh, as equally annoyed as paige’s, from the other side of the door. and then, its opening, and azzi’s standing there in paige’s clothes, looking altogether too soft and sweet for the diabolical things she did ten minutes prior. “i know, i just…i don’t really have one.”

paige’s eyes flick down azzi’s body without permission. the loose uconn t-shirt hangs too long on her—paige knows that shirt, it’s the one she used to let her ex borrow. something about azzi in it makes her stomach twist. not in a bad way. in the worst possible way.

paige steps back, allowing azzi back into the bedroom. “you mean you don’t have an explanation for telling your boyfriend we’d…” paige isn’t usually shy about sex, she’s a grown adult, for god’s sake, but this is azzi fudd and she can’t really find her words in normal conversation, and certainly not this one, “you know…” she trails off awkwardly.

azzi bites her lip, half-sheepish, half-trying to charm her way out of it. and, yeah, maybe it’s working a little.

paige realizes with a little bit of a start that she’s staring at azzi’s lips. she glances up and away quickly, turning around to give herself something to do before motioning to the phone on the bed. “you should…call him back.”

“hell no,” azzi sneers.

“well it’s either that or we fuck,” paige retorts before she can think. she’s glad she’s faced away so azzi can’t see the way blood flushes her cheeks.

azzi’s silent for a moment. almost long enough that paige turns around, but then she speaks. “maybe there’s another option,” she says.

paige senses trouble.

❀❀❀

kk’s jaw is on the floor.

she looks between a guilty-looking azzi and a tomato-red paige before letting out a shocked laugh. “now why would you tell him that?”

kk asking all the most important questions.

“it was the first thing that came to mind!” azzi says, voice high and defensive. paige can’t help but think it’s adorable.

“why, though?” kk asks, a small, suspect grin spreading over her face.

azzi gives her a look, something that clearly says cut it out, and paige doesn’t doubt that kk spilled all the beans about her crush to azzi earlier.

“uh-huh,” kk responds, making a small ‘mcht’ sound.

azzi gives that warning look again. “shut up, kk.”

“that isn’t even the main thing,” paige points out, jumping between their tense interaction. “what we came to tell you is azzi had an idea.” an outlandish, admittedly odd one, but an idea nonetheless.

“an idea,” kk repeats.

azzi nods. she’s hesitant, clearly, but paige has already assured her kk will be on board. she’ll laugh in their faces first, sure, but then she will help them go through with azzi’s little…plan.

“okay,” she says doubtfully. “tell me this lil’ idea.”

azzi glances nervously at paige. “well, i can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right,” she explains.

kk nods. “obviously.”

“and i can’t go back to my room tonight.”

“okay…”

“so i’m going to stay here,” she continues, taking a deep breath as in gathering courage for the teasing about to come. “and i’m going to take…suggestive pictures with paige, in paige’s bed. and we’re just hoping you can help.”

before azzi’s finished, kk’s eyebrows have already raised to her hairline. she lets out a half-shocked, half-ifuckingknewit scoff. it’s enough to have paige jumping in to try and make it look better. “her boyfriend’s really an ass, kk, like, she needs to get him back.”

azzi nods. “paige heard him on the phone. she knows.”

“i know,” paige agrees.

kk looks between the two of them, both so earnest and oh-so oblivious, and just laughs. “i believe you. oh, i believe you.”

“so are you going to help us?” azzi asks.

“help with what, exactly? do i need to ref? do i need to make sure it stays pg in there?”

paige immediately blushes, squeaking an awkward “what? no!” before azzi can even react. when she does, it’s a much more nonchalant, normal person answer: “don’t be weird, kk. answer the question.”

kk gives paige a pointed look. “for the record, this is stupud. y’all are stupid. and i don’t condone such behavior.”

“oh, shut up, kk,” paige says.

“but i will help,” kk finishes, getting up from her kitchen stool. “i’ll make sure y’all look as, what’d you say? suggestive, as possible,” she grins.

azzi, bravely, doesn’t so much as redden. “cool. thanks.”

“what friends are for,” kk replies easily. she walks toward them, slinging an arm around both their shoulders and pulling their heads close. “and after tonight, we are definitely friends,” she tells azzi.

“except on the court,” azzi points out.

“unless you come to uconn.”

“you tryna recruit me? to a team that always loses against us?” azzi laughs, pushing away. “you’re funny.”

“trust, we wouldn’t lose with you on our team,” kk says.

paige rolls her eyes. “can we just get this over with?”

“aight, cranky pants. let’s get it.” kk motions toward the bedroom. “go start taking y’all’s clothes off. i’ll get the camera ready.”

“oh, brother,” azzi sighs, at the same time paige mutters, “worst fuckin’ idea,” under her breath.

❀❀❀

azzi looks—fucked out, to be perfectly honest. more specifically, like a scene straight from one of paige’s many azzi-centered wet dreams. not that she has azzi-centered wet dreams or anything. but if she did, like hypothetically, azzi would look exactly like this.

lips plumped with oil. braids pulled back messily. mascara re-applied and then carefully smeared. she studies herself in the mirror as she adds the final touch: a dark bruise above her collarbone, created with deft fingers and dark blush courtesy of kk. paige sits on the toilet seat, watching azzi work. she’s been staring for the past thirty minutes. azzi has yet to notice. kk, on the other hand, has spent the entire time sending her not-so-subtle signals, such as disguising a ‘talktoher’ with a cough, and whispering ‘go offer to do that for her,’ when azzi started applying the hickeys.

paige has not taken this advice. she’s still a little tipsy and azzi looks too enticing and she’s awkward enough that she’d much rather observe than try to interact at the moment.

before azzi finishes applying the final fake hickey, kk is fiddling with angles, mumbling about “golden hour lighting” even though they’re inside and it’s past midnight. paige’s gaze is caught in the mirror—not on herself, but the reflection of azzi in front of her. she imagines reaching over. just touching azzi’s wrist. she doesn’t. she clenches her hands together in her lap instead.

“you know,” azzi says idly, still dabbing at her collarbone, “you’re not nervous enough.”

paige blinks. “about what?”

“pretending to fuck me. in pictures. that we’re going to send to a real person.” azzi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s something layered beneath it.

“what, you want me to panic?”

“a little. would make me feel better.”

paige laughs—quiet and dry. “i’m panicking plenty. just…internally.”

“uh-huh.” azzi licks her thumb before dabbing at her neck, turning her chin this way and that in the mirror. “do i look good?”

“you look bad,” kk says, nodding appreciatively. “as hell.”

azzi smiles a little shyly. “thanks.”

she knows it’s stupid, but a pang of jealously hits paige. she wishes she had kk’s natural instinct to flirt with girls. and it’s true paige has this instinct sometimes, but with a girl she really likes? with azzi fucking fudd? it’s best for everyone if she just keeps quiet and lets kk charm her instead. after this whole thing, she’ll go back to her indulgent bedtime fantasies of she and azzi in domestic situations and wet dreams.

“okay,” azzi says, pulling her phone out of her pocket and snapping a quick selfie in the mirror before turning to the two of them. “we ready?”

“i been practicing my photography skills,” kk says (she got a new camera app last week and has been taking candid, objectively bad photos of the team ever since). “never been readier.”

“don’t think that’s a word,” azzi points out, then looks at paige. “paige?”

“yup,” paige says, slapping her thighs before standing up in an attempt to get rid of the chalant written all over her face right now. “super ready.”

“now why you sound all excited to cozy up in bed with fudd?” kk quips. paige gets warm all over, glancing furtively at azzi to see her reaction—seriously, kk’s going to make azzi think paige is weird or something—but she just gives a little laugh before leading the way into the bedroom. “okay, let’s do this then.”

paige is maybe beginning to reconsider the this in question—their great plan. nothing’s even been done yet, for god’s sakes, with phase one—making azzi look as fucked out as possible—barely being finished. yet still paige is already uncomfortably damp between her legs: hence, the reconsidering. but, lord save her, azzi is already crawling into paige’s bed much too seductively, and it would look downright suspicious of her to pussy out now. no, she’s going to go through with this faux-sex photoshoot like a man, goddamit.

“get in there, twin,” kk says, pulling her phone out from her back pocket.

paige gingerly sits on the edge of the bed while azzi lays back, propped up on her elbows as they watch kk navigate around the device. “you know,” azzi says, “i wasn’t thinking you’d actually take the pictures for us. i thought you’d just, like, tell us what looks good.”

paige is a little surprised to hear this, and at the offended expression on kk’s face, she panics—her friend has a liking for dramatic storm-outs, and paige cannot have her leaving right now. “but this works too,” she jumps in, shooting azzi a warning look. “right?”

azzi places her palms upright, surrendering. “i mean, yeah, i guess. i was just sayin’.”

“well i ain’t here to be a third opinion or nothing,” kk says haughtily.

“you’re not,” paige says quickly. “you’re our creative director.”

“yeah,” azzi adds, already settling deeper into the pillows like this is just another thursday night. “we trust your vision.”

kk narrows her eyes at them like she’s sniffing out sarcasm, but apparently decides she accepts it. “creative director,” she repeats, pleased. “i like that. okay. azzi, scoot a little more to the left. paige, behind her. lean in like you just got done doing something y’all shouldn’t have been doing.”

“we haven’t even started yet,” paige mutters.

“don’t kill the vibe,” kk says. she gestures wildly. “go on. get close. more. closer.”

paige shifts behind azzi on the bed, legs folding automatically. azzi leans back slightly to rest against her, and the contact sends a shock through her skin like she’s short-circuiting. this is fine. totally fine. normal behavior for two near-strangers in a definitely-not-suggestive photoshoot.

“hand on her waist,” kk calls, adjusting her phone. “and azzi, tilt your head back, like you’re worn out.”

paige’s hand finds azzi’s hip, fingers splaying across the soft cotton of her borrowed t-shirt. azzi does as told, and for a second paige’s vision blurs. the curve of her neck, the flushed heat of her skin from alcohol or earlier makeup efforts—it’s all a little too real.

“jesus,” kk mutters, half to herself. “this looks…kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

paige groans. “can we not—comment on that?”

“okay, okay,” kk says, still snapping. “let’s switch it up. azzi, crawl into her lap. yeah, like that. lean back a little, like you’re laughing at something she said. paige, smile. not like you’re being tortured.”

“so, you are taking the pictures for us, then?”

“i’m close enough he won’t be able to tell it was taken by someone else,” kk huffs. “now, go. c’mon.”

“i’m not a model,” paige mutters, but she does her best to grin.

azzi wiggles into place, her thigh slotting between paige’s legs. “sorry,” she whispers.

“don’t apologize,” paige says automatically, which is a mistake, because then azzi looks at her, and they’re way too close for that.

“aaaand pause,” kk says, not looking up from the phone. “i think i need y’all to look a little messier. paige, mess up your hair. azzi, can you tug the shirt off your shoulder a little? you look too put together.”

paige drags a hand through her hair, trying not to stare as azzi obliges, the shirt slipping just enough to expose the faux-hickey she’d applied earlier. kk catches it in the next snap and lets out a sharp whistle.

“he’s gonna cry when he sees these,” she says gleefully.

azzi’s lips twitch. “that’s the goal.”

more posing. more directions. at some point paige gets bolder, draping an arm around azzi’s stomach. azzi leans back into her without hesitation, as if it’s natural, like they do this every day.

kk crouches to get a shot from below and then pauses, frowning at her screen. “hold up,” she says. “jana’s calling. gimme a sec.”

she stands and walks out, phone already at her ear, voice lowering as she steps into the other room.

the silence she leaves behind is heavy.

paige shifts slightly. azzi doesn’t move off her lap.

“so…” paige starts, voice low. “this is probably the weirdest way i’ve ever spent a night.”

azzi chuckles softly. “same. but kind of… weirdly fun?”

“yeah,” paige admits. “yeah, it kinda is.”

they lapse into another pause. paige thinks she should move, but azzi hasn’t, and she’s scared that if she does, she’ll mess up whatever weird little truce they’re holding onto.

“hey,” azzi says suddenly, voice softer now. “can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“do you hang out with your team very often?” she asks. “because, i mean, i see y’all on tv and at social events and stuff but—i dunno. you’re never in any of their tiktoks or anything.” azzi winces. “not that i’ve been paying attention.”

paige stiffens slightly. “uh. i dunno. just—trying to focus. this year’s important.”

“yeah,” azzi says quietly. “it is.”

azzi looks down, to gather her thoughts, maybe, and seems to realize that she’s still on top of paige because her breath hitches and then she moves, rolling off so she’s sitting beside her. “sorry,” she murmurs.

“you’re good.”

the quiet stretches again, heavier this time.

“truth?” paige says suddenly.

azzi turns toward her a little more, her thigh still between paige’s, their knees brushing. “truth.”

“i’ve been drinking too much,” paige blurts. “i’m not like an alcoholic or anything,” she’s quick to defend, because alcoholism is for deadbeat dads and stuff, right? not for celebrity college athletes. “it just, lately, it got kind of bad, and people started noticing, and it’s hard to be around them now. they all look at me like they think i’m gonna…i dunno. fall apart or something.”

azzi’s eyes soften. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay. i mean—it’s not,” paige shrugs. “but it’s…i had this breakup a few months ago. really bad. i thought it was going to be forever, you know? and when it wasn’t, i guess, and it was kinda my fault, and i—the team took me to parties, to get my mind off it. i learned pretty quick that drinking helped me forget. and now, i mean, i’m mostly over it, i guess, but it helps with other things, too. like when i’m stressed about an exam, or worried for a game, or something. it helps.”

she stares off into space, then catches herself, glancing over at azzi, who’s staring her with an imperceptible look on her face. “damn, my bad. didn’t mean to overshare with a stranger like that.”

“you’re not a stranger,” azzi says, her voice quiet. “not to me.”

paige blinks. “i didn’t think you knew anything about me.”

“i do,” azzi says. “we’re not close, but…i’ve kept up with you, since usa. i’m a people-watcher. very perceptive.” she elbows paige, raising a smug, teasing eyebrow. “and i think i’ve got you all figured out.”

paige exhales, glad for the mood lightener. “oh yeah? and who am i?”

“you’re…a twenty-two year old college student,” azzi starts.

paige laughs. “wow, super perceptive. how’d you figure that one out?”

“shut up, smart-ass, i’m not finished,” azzi snips, and paige is almost surprised at the sass, at the teasing that she herself loves so much. “lemme continue. i think you’re someone who likes to think you’ve got your life together. you walk around like you’re so sure of everything, like your whole future is planned out, and you know it’s all gonna end well for you. so you act like you don’t worry, like you don’t…care.”

paige raises an eyebrow. “but…?”

“but,” azzi says, “you’re a twenty-two year old college student. of course you don’t have your life figured out. you get stressed out trying to decide what you’re gonna eat for your next meal. your shoulders are constantly tense. you’re always wringing your hands before games, did you know that? during time-outs, too.”

paige looks over, startled, to find azzi looking just as surprised. “you watch me play?”

azzi fumbles for something. “i’m a basketball player. you didn’t expect me to watch basketball?”

“i didn’t expect you to watch me,” paige says.

azzi opens her mouth. closes it. looks away, at the wall ahead. “i guess i didn’t realize i was doing it.”

paige doesn’t know what to say to that. she feels seen and it’s terrifying.

“truth?” azzi says after a moment.

“truth.”

“chad’s been cheating on me,” she says. “i haven’t caught him, but i know. it’s been obvious for weeks.”

paige looks at her, waiting.

“and he’s mean,” azzi continues. “not, like…evil. just sharp. cold. the kind of mean that makes you feel stupid for crying or asking to be treated better. tonight was just—my last straw, i think. i didn’t want to go back to that room and feel like shit again. so i came here.”

“you didn’t have to come with us,” paige says. “i would’ve just, like, venmoed you for the shoes.”

azzi meets her eyes. “i think…i think i wanted to come here.”

paige’s breath catches.

before she can figure out what that means—what to say—kk’s voice cuts in from the hall. “yo! i gotta bounce for a sec, emergency meeting. jana’s constipated for real, imma bring over some laxatives. i’ll be back in like twenty.”

they hear the cabin door open and then click shut.

“you think we should keep going?” azzi asks after a beat.

paige nods, voice suddenly thick. “yeah. okay.”

wordlessly, they rearrange, moving closer. azzi sits with her knees up now, leaning into paige’s shoulder, one hand splayed across her thigh.

they take a few selfies this time. azzi guides her hand behind the camera, adjusting the angle to catch just enough skin, just enough closeness. their shoulders press. their cheeks touch. at some point, paige’s hand finds azzi’s knee, and azzi doesn’t move it.

by the time kk returns, azzi is in paige’s lap again, one hand hooked around the back of her neck.

kk pauses in the doorway. “well damn.”

“we figured we’d keep going,” paige says, eyes wide.

“uh-huh,” kk says knowingly. “y’all definitely got the shots now.”

she walks around, checking a few pictures. “these are good. like…y’all could win a grammy for best fake situationship or something.”

paige laughs, a little too loudly. “we just wanted to sell it.”

“mission accomplished.” kk pockets her phone. “i’ll edit mine and get them to you, azzi.”

“thanks,” azzi says. “seriously. for everything.”

kk just grins. “get some sleep, y’all. and don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

when she’s gone, paige and azzi look at each other.

“that was—” paige starts.

“insane,” azzi finishes.

they laugh, even though nothing’s really funny.

❀❀❀

the clock on the stove reads 4:36 a.m. the suite is dark and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. paige is sitting at the counter, a half-empty glass of water in her hand, the condensation dripping slowly down to form a ring beneath it.

she can’t sleep. her skin’s still buzzing, brain too full. not from alcohol—for once—but from azzi. from the way her voice had gone soft. from the weight of her in paige’s lap. from the echo of that not-quite-confession: i think i wanted to come here.

the room creaks. faint footsteps pad across the floor.

paige looks up.

azzi appears in the doorway, her braids wrapped in kk’s spare bonnet, bundled in one of paige’s old huskies sweatshirts that’s big enough to swallow her whole. she looks warm. sleepy. somehow both tentative and certain.

“couldn’t sleep,” azzi says, voice scratchy.

paige offers a quiet smile. “same.”

azzi shuffles forward, hugging her arms around herself. “can i hang with you?”

“uh-huh.”

azzi climbs onto the stool next to her. their knees knock under the counter and neither moves to pull away. azzi steals a sip from paige’s water without asking, and something about that—something about the easy familiarity of it—sends a warm, unsteady ache through paige’s chest.

they sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that settles between people who are too tired to lie but too uncertain to speak first.

finally, azzi says, “i didn’t think today would end like this.”

paige snorts quietly. “me either.”

“i thought i’d be crying to some emo playlist and wondering why i ever trusted him.”

“and i thought i’d be drinking alone in my room, again,” paige admits. “so…silver linings, i guess?”

azzi turns slightly to look at her, and the light from the fridge reflects in her eyes, soft and shimmering. “i meant what i said earlier. about wanting to come here.”

paige looks at her. “yeah?”

azzi nods, then smiles softly to herself. “it’s been a lot of fun, despite…everything.” she gestures at their surroundings. “i don’t think i’ve laughed like that in months, to be honest.”

“i don’t think i’ve felt…wanted like that in months,” paige says, quieter now, fully aware that what she’s saying is pathetic and induced by the last dregs of alcohol in her system. “even if it was fake.”

azzi’s voice is even softer. “it didn’t feel fake.”

that—that does it.

paige’s breath catches, heart thudding loud in her chest. she glances at azzi, who’s already looking at her, mouth parted, gaze open in a way that makes something deep inside paige tremble.

“can i—?” paige starts, voice hoarse.

“yes,” azzi breathes.

paige leans in slowly, giving azzi every chance to pull away. but she doesn’t. she leans in too, and when their lips meet, it’s soft. hesitant. careful, like they’re both afraid of shattering something delicate.

azzi’s hand finds paige’s hoodie, clutching at the fabric. paige cups her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. the kiss deepens in quiet pulses, not rushed, but heavy with the weight of something new.

when they finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, paige whispers, “sorry. i didn’t—i wasn’t trying to make this weird.”

“it’s not weird,” azzi says, eyes still closed. “it’s…good. i think it’s really good.”

they sit like that for a long beat, breathing the same air.

then azzi whispers, “can i stay with you? i just…don’t want to be alone tonight.”

paige nods immediately. “yeah. of course.”

azzi takes her hand. her fingers are cold, but her grip is sure.

they walk quietly through the dark apartment. it’s a short walk, but it feels like it takes years. the lights are all off, but paige’s room glows faintly with the soft blue light of the tv she’d left on, a 2000s sitcom playing on mute.

paige opens the door and lets azzi step inside first. she watches her for a second, silhouetted against the light—still in the oversized hoodie, bare legs, face bare and soft. she’s never looked more unreal.

paige swallows hard, her pulse thudding in her ears.

azzi turns to face her. “you coming?”

paige steps in and closes the door behind her. something buzzes under her skin, in both a turned-on way and a bug-crawly way.

it’s dawning on her, now, with azzi standing there giving her bedroom eyes in her bedroom—she just kissed azzi fudd. she threw up on her then proceeded to be incredibly awkward for the entire tonight before trauma-dumping and has now pulled her.

azzi fudd. the fucking—love of her life. the celebrity crush of her goddamn dreams. is standing before her like some kind of bisexual goddess waiting to receive the best head of her life. and oh, will paige make sure it actually is the best head of her life. much better than chad’s, that’s for certain. if he even gave her head. he seems the type of guy to say it’s ’too gross’.

“paige?”

oh god. she’s been staring.

“hey,” azzi frowns, stepping towards her. “you okay? i can leave, or…”

“no,” paige says vehemently, also stepping forward, closing the gap between them. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi in, but she’s not sure if that’s what azzi really wants. maybe she just wants to sleep? not that paige isn’t down for snuggling, but she’s already hyped herself up for that whole head thing, and she’s not super willing to back down now. “i just…”

azzi looks at her, eyes searching her face before she looks down. her lips quirk up, and when she looks back at paige, she’s clearly amused. “i clocked you so hard earlier.”

“i…what?” paige asks.

azzi points. “your hands.”

paige looks down, and sure enough—she’s wringing her hands. like a nervous little wimp. she scoffs, pulling them apart and wiping them on her sweats before making a split-second decision, pulling azzi in by the waist. “you didn’t clock shit.”

“no?” azzi asks, smile growing a little. her hands are soft as they roam up paige’s arms before circling around the back of her neck. “so you’re not super nervous right now?”

“i’m not nervous,” paige is quick to correct. “just wondering what you want.”

azzi’s eyebrows rise, just a little. “oh?”

paige hadn’t really meant to say it, but what the hell. “uh-huh. you wanna tell me?”

“hm.” azzi looks up at her like she’s deliberating something, then smiles, coy and dimply, before stepping back slowly, taking paige with her. “i think…” she whispers, walking them back as if the room were her’s, until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. “i think i want you to give me some real pictures.”

paige quirks an eyebrow, sitting azzi down before kneeling in front of her, playing into the game. “for chad?” she wrinkles her nose as she says it. even his name is a turn-off. paige has no clue how azzi managed to have sex with that man. she imagines azzi saying something like, “oh, chad, yes!” and it turns her teasing smirk into something more like a barely-contained laugh.

azzi’s expression breaks, and it looks a little like she’s fighting a smile of her own. “ew, don’t say his name.”

unable to help it, paige chuckles, leaning her forehead against azzi’s thigh. “what do we call him, then?”

“nothing,” azzi says firmly, lifting paige’s chin and bending down so their nose-to-nose, biting her lip slightly as she studies her face. “i want you to give me those pictures,” she mutters, “let me prove him wrong. and then i want you to make me forget him.”

oh, paige can definitely do that.

without another word, paige surges forward and kisses her. it’s surer this time, steadier, now with the knowledge of what’s to come, not just tonight but tomorrow, and maybe—if paige lets herself dream—maybe even longer than that. based off the way azzi presses her tongue against the seam of her lips, paige thinks she might feel it, too.

paige opens up for her, pliant and willing, ready to do whatever azzi asks of her. azzi’s tongue is warm, wet, slippery against paige’s own and she groans at the feel of it, at the minty freshness of her own toothpaste that azzi had used.

“paige,” azzi breathes against her lips. paige hums, leaning forward again to close the small amount of distance. but azzi pulls back, just slightly, and when paige blinks her eyes open azzi’s looking at her urgently, pulling her up by the shoulders. “paige,” she repeats.

paige swears, she usually has so much more finesse in the bedroom. she once made a girl come in under sixty seconds. she convinced her ex to call her daddy, for god’s sakes. but this—this is azzi. and thus, she just stares blankly at her, mind trying desperately to figure out what azzi’s saying while her cunt pulses desperately in her boxers. “…huh?” she says after a moment.

azzi sighs, but there’s something in her eyes, and when paige looks hard enough she thinks maybe it’s fondness? but she doesn’t have time to discern that properly because then azzi is hooking her arms under paige’s armpits and all but hoisting her up into her lap, and that’s just…really fucking hot. paige doesn’t think she’s ever been hoisted before.

hands finding their ways to azzi’s shoulders, paige exhales, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to regain some of her rizz. “you’re really strong,” she says instead.

azzi presses her lips to the hinge of paige’s jaw, mumbling against her skin, “good observation.” her arms are steady around paige’s waist, holding her close, allowing for the best access, and paige shifts, hips moving subtly against azzi’s thighs.

azzi’s lips trail higher until she’s nipping at paige’s earlobe, and paige can so clearly hear the little noises coming from her now; soft pants and exhales like she’s trying hard to contain herself. and that just—that does it.

wordlessly, paige presses against azzi’s shoulders, urging her to lay down. azzi looks at her quizzically but goes willingly, getting comfortable against the pillows as paige crawls on top of her. she leans down for another kiss but azzi presses a hand to her chest, stopping her.

“want this off, first,” she says, tugging at the hem of paige’s shirt. “wanna feel you.”

paige is quick to oblige, reaching behind her head to pull the neckline, azzi helping her until the shirt’s off, discarded somewhere to the side. azzi’s eyes roam shamelessly, but not as shamelessly as her hands, which trail over her abs, her ribs, the taut muscles in her back.

“you’re—” she swallows hard, “you’re pretty strong too.”

paige mentally fist-pumps. “good observation, baby.”

shivering against the cool air of the room, paige presses one last kiss to azzi’s lips, lingering there and thinking she could stay like that forever before remembering her job. photos. head. make azzi forget chad.

she shifts down, dipping her head into azzi’s neck to kiss the warm skin there. she smells good, like hair products and perfume. her hands wander of their own accord, lifting azzi’s shirt just enough to reveal a small sliver of skin, a glinting belly piercing. god, she doesn’t think she’ll get enough of this girl.

“want this off you, too,” paige instructs quietly, searching azzi’s eyes for any hesitation, but there’s only heat as she pulls her shirt off in one swift motion. it take’s paige’s brain a few seconds to catch up with what her eyes are seeing—azzi, topless, skin dark against the white bedding, nipples pebbled from the temperature change.

paige makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat, completely aware she’s staring but unable to do anything about it, because she’s surely not going to look away. not when azzi is staring up at her like—like that, with hooded eyes and a small, teasing smile. she knows exactly what she’s doing, exactly what it’d do to paige by letting her find out for herself she isn’t wearing a bra, and it’s going to drive her fucking insane.

“paige,” azzi says.

paige’s eyes snap up from azzi’s chest, somewhat guiltily. “yeah?”

“you have me really fucking worked up right now,” azzi says bluntly. “and as much as i love watching you stare at me, i need you to actually come here and do something about it.”

that gets paige moving.

it’s instinctual, the way she dips her head down, nuzzles into the valley between azzi’s breasts. the way her tongue darts out to taste her skin, the way her palms cup the underside of azzi’s tits and push them up before she takes the stiff peak of one into her mouth.

azzi sighs, this small, satisfied sound which only serves to encourage paige further. she relaxes a little, allowing herself to get out of her own head because she knows this. she’s good at it. she knows without a doubt she can make azzi feel good and if she dies tomorrow, then she’ll die happy knowing she at least got to have this first. got to flick her tongue over azzi’s nipple and revel in the soft moan it elicits from her.

the sound sends a jolt of heat through paige’s stomach, straight to the apex of her thighs. she’s acutely aware of the way she and azzi’s legs are slotted together, the sinewy muscle of azzi’s bare thigh between her own, hovering just beneath her. paige has to make a conscious effort not to bear down onto her, not to search for any of the friction she so desperately needs.

paige pulls off azzi’s tit with a slight pop, admiring the way it looks now, glistening with her saliva. she had planned on making her way down the length of azzi’s body, but now she’s stuck here, watching intently as she rolls azzi’s nipples between her fingertips, loving the way azzi arches up into her. she glances up to catch her expression, and what she finds—mouth slightly ajar, eyes fluttered shut—has her leaning back up to capture her lips in another searing kiss. azzi groans, surprised at the contact, and when paige licks confidently into her mouth, she groans again, this time sounding a little strangled.

paige chuckles against her lips, trailing away to nose against her cheekbone. “what, you need sum’?”

azzi huffs, arms around paige’s neck pulling her insistently closer. “you’re teasing me.”

“well, i’on know what you want,” paige says, pressing soft kisses against azzi’s jaw.

azzi’s nails scratch a little punishingly into paige’s back. “i told you what i want.”

paige shudders at the pain, the starkness of it, the shivers it sends down her back. “yeah,” paige agrees, leaning up on her elbows to look into azzi’s eyes, “but you ain’t told me how you want it.”

azzi’s eyebrows furrow, a slight pout forming on her lips, and the expression is so cute compared to the compromising situation they’re in that paige almost gives in then and there. but she’s a spent the entire night making an absolute fool of herself in front of azzi, and this feels like her only opportunity to show her just what she can do, what she can be, when she wants to.

and, shit, does she want to.

“gotta use your words, mami,” paige tells her, looking down at her with something like sympathy even as her tone is commanding, and it has the desired effect: azzi’s breath hitches, cheeks flushing, eyes squeezing shut like she’s collecting herself before she meets paige’s again.

“want your mouth, paige,” she whispers, almost like she’s embarrassed to be saying it out loud. “your tongue.”

somewhere in her aroused haze, paige registers that this must mean they’re soulmates or something, that they both want the same thing. she tucks that little thought away for later (she knows kk will agree when she tells her about it) and then nods, pressing a kiss to azzi’s forehead, just below her bonnet. “good girl,” she murmurs, testing the waters, and based off the way azzi exhales this shaky little whimper, she figures she’s probably into it. also good to know.

paige takes azzi’s forearms in her hands and withdraws them from around her neck, sitting back on her knees in between azzi’s legs. she hooks her fingers around her own basketball shorts, which sit tantalizingly on azzi’s hips—she doesn’t think she’s ever described basketball shorts as tantalizing before—and raises her eyebrows at azzi. azzi nods, lifting her hips off the bed, just enough that paige is able to easily pull them over the swell of her ass. azzi lifts her feet up, allowing paige to pull the fabric completely off and toss them away before she presses a kiss to each of her ankles. azzi watches her closely, hands fondling her own breasts in a way that makes paige want to put her mouth back on them, but then she’s glancing down at the exposed core between azzi’s thighs and there is nothing else that could possibly be more important than that, ever.

she sets azzi’s legs on the bed before shifting, laying herself flat on her stomach with her arms propped up beneath her until she’s hovering over azzi’s pelvis, admiring the smooth skin there and the belly ring that sits a few inches higher. she bends down, nuzzling her nose against the soft, curly hair she finds there, pressing a kiss and then many more along the expanse of skin until she reaches a hipbone. she bites, just roughly enough to make a mark, and azzi hisses above her.

paige’s eyes flick up, double-checking, but azzi looks more than okay—in fact, she looks downright impatient. when their eyes meet, she nods urgently at her. “get on with it.”

paige raises an eyebrow at the attitude but doesn’t comment on it just yet, instead pressing a kiss to the other hipbone before saying, “oh, you want more?”

azzi sighs at the coy tone in paige’s voice. “paige.”

“mm,” paige hums. “you sound frustrated, baby.”

“yeah, well,” azzi shifts uncomfortably, “it’s frustrating when you tease me like this.”

“yeah?” paige asks. she rests her cheek against azzi’s thigh, allowing her fingers to trail up and down the inside of her other one, getting close to where she needs her but never close enough. “you’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” she muses.

“fuck you,” azzi says, no real venom there as annoyance mixes with amusement in her eyes.

“i will,” paige promises, kissing her thigh, “princess.”

azzi opens her mouth to speak again. paige cuts her off with a harsh bite to the place she just kissed, turning her almost-sentence into a high-pitched whine instead.

“fuck,” azzi mutters.

paige inspects the bite—that will definitely be a mark tomorrow—and then shushes her gently, brushing her lips over the spot. “if you catch an attitude with me again,” she murmurs, almost sweet, “you’ll find how much worse i can be.”

azzi’s hips lift, surprise etching itself slowly into the lines of her face as she registers the words, but paige doesn’t take the time to look too close. azzi is spread before her, enticing, dripping, caramel brown giving way to soft pink, and she finally lets herself do what she’s dreamed of doing since she was in high school—she buries her fucking face in it.

azzi’s reaction is immediate and more intense than paige expected it would be, her back and hips arching off the bed as she groans, loud. paige doesn’t even care that arousal has just been smeared all over her forehead. she’s far too busy committing the way azzi tastes, sweet and salty, to memory.

the build-up paid off, as it always does, and azzi’s soaked. paige’s tongue laves wet heat from her entrance to her clit, building her up to a slow rhythm. she lingers a little each time at her entrance, where the taste is the strongest, unable to conceal her own choked sounds as azzi grinds against her face. she glances up to where azzi is playing with her nipples, propped up on her elbows to get a better look at what paige is doing, and the knowledge that she’s being watched so intently has her doubling down on her efforts.

when paige’s movements speed up, azzi’s head tips back, rolling against her shoulders. “oh, paige,” she breathes, sensual and dirty, “oh, baby. feels…”

paige presses her own thighs together at the pet name before flicking her tongue back and forth against azzi’s clit, applying pressure until azzi falls back completely, head thumping against the pillows as she whines. distantly, paige thinks kk could almost definitely hear them if she were to listen for it. she finds she doesn’t really care at the moment.

“feels good?” paige asks, pressing a few soft kisses to azzi’s cunt.

“mm-hmm,” azzi hums, eyes closed as she focuses on the feeling. her hands travel south until they’re gripping the back of paige’s head, and then she’s tugging her closer, back into her heat. “keep going, baby. please.”

“since you asked so nice,” paige teases, letting azzi’s hands guide her forward. she opens her mouth a little wider, sucking hard against azzi’s hole as if trying to draw more precum out of her before she kisses sloppily against it. azzi’s legs fall further open at the feeling, but paige quickly misses the feeling of thighs pressed against her head and loops her arm under the brunette’s legs, surrounding herself with soft brown skin.

the new angle brings her impossibly closer to azzi’s center, and paige sticks her tongue out, seeking azzi’s entrance before pressing inside as far as she can.

“oh my fuck,” azzi groans, gripping paige’s head tighter, almost possessive. “keep doing that, right—“ she chokes on her own words as paige begins a slow thrust, “right there.”

paige nods, unsure whether azzi can feel the acknowledgment, but it has her nose bumping up against azzi’s swollen clit and azzi cries out. she moves her tongue, feeling around the spongy inner walls of azzi’s cunt, a new wave of arousal pumping out until it’s dripping down paige’s chin onto the bedsheets below.

the room isn’t quiet, but it sounds like sex, azzi’s breathy moans and the filthy wet sounds of her cunt filling the room. she sounds so good, tastes so good, smells so good—paige is only vaguely aware that she has her own pelvis pressed into the mattress, absentmindedly searching for friction as she gets off on pleasing azzi.

she’s so focused on tonguing her that she doesn’t notice the way azzi’s breathing changes, becomes more rapid, or the way her fingers fist up paige’s hair in a way that’s almost painful. in fact, it’s not until she presses her thumb to azzi’s swollen clit while she tongue-fucks her that azzi manages a broken, “oh my god, i’m fucking—!“ that paige realizes she’s going to come.

azzi’s orgasm hits her in waves, it seems, with her hips pressing into paige’s mouth so intensely she can’t breathe for a solid thirty seconds before she’s abruptly pulling away, thighs shaking with the effort. paige watches in something like amazement as her stomach tenses, her cunt pulsing and clenching around nothing, clit twitching almost imperceptibly. it is—fucking beautiful, actually. a work of goddamn art. an image that belongs in the louvre right next to the mona lisa and the venus de milo.

she’s about to dive back in and get another taste of it when azzi uses her grip on her hair to urge her up. reluctantly, paige lets herself be pulled, kissing a gentle path up azzi’s stomach before coming face-to-face with her, thumbs brushing her cheeks as she comes down. eyes still closed, azzi pulls her closer, bumping their foreheads together.

“so pretty,” paige can’t help but mutter, watching azzi’s lashes flutter against her cheeks, lips plump and shiny and parted. “so good for me, baby. did so good.”

after another few moments, azzi opens her eyes, looking at paige like she hung the stars in the sky or something.

“i think i just fell in love with you,” she croaks, and paige laughs, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. “heard that one before.”

azzi smacks her lightly, then pulls her head down, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before urging her to lay on her chest. paige presses her cheek to azzi’s heartbeat, their breathing gradually syncing up as they lay together. azzi’s nails scratch light patterns against paige’s back, nearly lulling her to sleep, before she abruptly stops and says, “oh, shit.”

“what?” paige asks sleepily.

“we forgot to get pictures.”

paige swears her ears perk up, and she thinks she might be just a little insatiable because she doesn’t feel so tired anymore as she lifts her head with a wicked grin. “damn,” she says. “guess we’ll have to go again.”

the next day, kk gives them hell for keeping her up all night, and gives azzi many earfuls about how she ‘told her so.’ paige offers up their room for the rest of the trip, even though they ultimately proved chad wrong with some certain photos, and azzi is all too quick to take her up on it.

and when, a year later, azzi transfers to uconn? let’s just say kk will swear up and down that she’s the reason they never lose another game to ucla.

[brawberryz]

⎯⎯ㅤ Digital Girl

Batfam Yan! × Scene! Reader

| Platonic |

Note / English is not my first language / M.list

A / N | I don't know much about scenecore so this is just a very superficial view, if there are any mistakes please correct me (|||´Д｀) !!

TW / Yandere behavior, obsession, violence, toxic relationships, manipulation

Headcanon | How would they react to a scenecore batsis?

Character | Dick Grayson | Jason Todd | Tim Drake | Damian Wayne | Bruce Wayne

⎯ Bruce Wayne ★

He'd be surprised the first time.

Don't take this the wrong way, it's just...well, he's pretty new to all of this.

He tries to be an understanding father, but I feel like he'd be the kind of father who'd say it's all a phase; he just hopes this phase of yours doesn't last too long.

He's not a strict father (well, maybe a little, or maybe too much), but he wants you to understand that it's best for you.

He wouldn't like you to wear too many bracelets or bangles on your arms because he's afraid your skin would get irritated or leave marks.

He'd never forgive himself if something happened to his baby.

If you tried to dye your hair, his hair would be a big no-no.

He'd only let you dye your hair if you begged him all week and told him to let him choose the color and let him dye your hair.

There wouldn't be any problems with your way of dressing, although it would depend on how colorful and extravagant your outfits are.

Most of your family tends to wear dull, muted colors. You could only occasionally see Dick in a brightly colored shirt, but most preferred duller or less flashy colors.

That way, you'd definitely draw a lot of attention with your outfits.

If you two ever go to a gala, he WON'T let you dress like that. Look, he doesn't judge you (even if he does).

But he thinks you should find another, less flashy "style." He loves you the way you are, but sometimes he wishes you were as obedient as other young people.

He's afraid that at some point you'll become rebellious and escape his complete control.

He should, no, he needs to control everything about your life.

Even your style of clothing. He just wants you to be a normal child.

He knows how cruel the world is to people as different as you.

He's just in some kind of midlife crisis, and your teenage "rebellion" isn't helping much.

He'll get over it eventually

⎯ Dick Grayson ♥︎

He'd be the one who best handled this.

I get the idea that Dick also went through some emo or alt phase, so he's pretty understanding about this.

Most of your accessories, like bracelets and makeup, were bought or made by Dick.

He likes to sneakily create bracelets with his initials on them so others know who you are.

Even though he pretended to be a cool brother, he's just as possessive as the others.

Just because he was "nice" to you doesn't mean he won't manipulate you.

He'd take any opportunity to be around you.

Oh! You want to dye your hair? Don't worry, your brother Dick conveniently has the color you wanted!

You can dye your hair like him and match with him! He's the kind of guy who's very obsessed with your tastes.

He wants to be the best brother to you, so don't be scared because he's too intense.

Also, I think he'd listen to hyperpop just for you. It's not his type of music, but he'd just listen to it to spend time with you.

He's not the best, but at least he tries, umm...

⎯ Jason Todd ♣︎

He doesn't really care.

He'd be like,

"Oh, you're scene? Cool."

One of the things he'd be least bothered by is your clothing style or appearance.

I mean, as long as you don't do anything stupid, he wouldn't mind.

Although I think he'd buy hair dye in all sorts of colors and literally turn your hair into a fucking rainbow, just to piss off Bruce because he knows you're not allowed to dye your hair without Bruce's permission.

He'd kill anyone who dares say anything negative about you or make fun of how you dress.

He wouldn't allow any bastard to talk bad about his sister.

He'd listen to hyperpop while reading or doing some activity like reading or kicking criminals' asses. I think it would be pretty funny.

He'd probably only listen to it because you asked him to, but I think eventually he'd start to like that style of music, but he'd never say it out loud

⎯ Tim Drake ◆

He'll pretend he doesn't care, but he really cares.

I could say he's one of the most obsessive people; he knows everything about you.

Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself; he has a folder full of your interests or possible interests in a private file on his computer.

He'll spend hours on the internet searching for information about it. If he wants to get close to you, he has to be smart.

He's like a predator.

He analyzes his prey and then attacks.

I think his approach would be subtle. It has to be smart and not too aggressive. He doesn't want to scare you into thinking he's some kind of creepy guy (if he is).

I think he would start slowly, with small comments about your appearance.

"Oh! You look pretty nice today!" or "That shirt really matches your outfit!"

Then, make comments about your interests, and he'd start getting closer and closer to you. He's not like the others.

If he wants to have you in his hands, he'll have to do it slowly and calmly. He's very good at hiding his true intentions.

I think he'd spend hours trying to find the best hair dye for you. He doesn't want your hair damaged because you decided to buy a poor-quality one.

Also, if you want to take a picture, don't worry! He'll be your personal photographer.

He takes the best photos on your blog. He's always taking pictures of you secretly. I'm pretty sure he knows all your good sides.

The only reason he's interested in all of this is because of you.

He'll do anything to be near you, even if it means changing all his interests to match yours.

⎯ Damian Wayne ♣︎

He thinks it's ridiculous.

He'd make pretty offensive comments saying you look like a clown or some kind of Joker Jr.

He'd be the worst when it comes to this; he doesn't know what's so interesting about dressing like a walking rainbow.

Be prepared for the mockery and passive-aggressive comments (though they're more aggressive than passive).

Even if he'd eventually accept it, halfway.

Sure, he'd still think it's completely ridiculous and pathetic, but he'd only accept it because it's you (and deep down, he thinks some of your outfits are pretty cool).

But he still WON'T ALLOW anyone to make fun of the way you dress.

you still remember the time he got suspended for a week from school for hitting on a kid who said your way of dressing was stupid

He's the only one allowed to make fun of your ridiculous way of dressing.

Also, I think he'd be drawn to your bracelets and shoes, if you're the kind of people who wears those long shoes, I think he'd really like them.

He'd indirectly ask you to give him one of your bracelets because he thinks they're pretty. Maybe he'd give you some accessories like colorful belts or a hair accessory.

He'd really pay attention to your makeup; depending on how colorful or extravagant your makeup is, he'd like it.

He secretly listens to the music you recommend. No kidding, some of it is actually quite good, so he even put it on his playlist.

He's more or less supportive of all this. He's grateful that his jokes about your appearance have lessened.

Although he'll most likely continue to make jokes about your appearance when he gets bored of being a good person.

Hi, I'm back.

Sorry for not updating for so long. My health has been getting worse for weeks, and I've only recently recovered.

This is a late request, so I hope the anonymous person who requested this enjoys it.

I don't know when I'll update again because it's exam time and school is really giving me a hard time. Lolololol

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

Days pass. Patience grows thin. Deathbed talk begins. You pull the last straw and are taken somewhere new.

[Invincible Varients X Reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [11] [13]

12 * Two Inches? [9.2k]

"Nice, nice!

Are you a virgin?

Nice, nice!

What color are your panties?"

Nice Nice - Dazey and the Scouts

        "We need to tell everybody." He couldn't look away from that massive white thing. Hard-shelled with soft, crabby flesh underneath. His mouth watered just looking at its twitching mandibles.

        From behind him, "No."

        Baldie turned, brows pressed together. "Why not?"

        Phantom watched him, feet away, keeping eyes and ears out for approaching company. No one was coming.

        "(Y/n) likes you." He says instead of answering directly. "If you ask her to come with you alone, she will." 

        Baldie's mouth fell open. Now he was starting to get it. "But... You just said all that stuff about not splitting up."

        "Because I had to." Phantom said, modulator softly echoing off the cave walls, "To keep the peace until we could talk. This is the safest way to do it."

        "We can't just keep this from every-"

        "You saw what those two did to her." Phantom cut him off, surprising even himself, "How easily they took her from you. I had to get her out of that situation. We only survived because they decided they were done playing. Do you really want her to be around people like that?" His throat itched. Vocal cords thin and raw after ten seconds of jabbering. 

        "Then we tell everyone but them." Baldie reasoned, though the voice in the back of his mind agreed. To take the hoard that was you and run.

        "If we're all together, they'll find us. It has to be just us." Phantom finishes, cards splayed across the table, hoping Baldie would fold.

        Baldie's mouth opened, closed, opened, closed. He knew he should do the right thing. Refuse. Tell everybody. Band together, kill Lensless and Scars with everybody else. Establish peace. Live with and eat bugs forever. Find friendship and understanding in the only person who could really understand what he went through- the other versions of himself.

        But he just couldn't. 

        He'd waited four years in hell only to find your bones. Watched you be civil to the others, Viltrumite loyalists and enforcers and leaders. It made him sick, the idea of you with them. Any of them but him. Phantom must feel that way too. 

        He was no fool. Alternate motives were guaranteed in a situation as suspicious as this. "How long have you known about this place?" Was double-speak for, 'Did you find this before or after we ate a guy?'

        "Not long." Phantom lies, "Three days." 

        Baldie nods shallow before spinning, neck cracking like a whip. "You're only telling me this now because, what? You think I'm stupid? You think I'm easy to kill?" 

        Phantom backed up, hands raised defensively. "No." He says, shaking his head, voice small, hunched over, feigning doe-ishness. 

        "What's stopping you from killing me when I bring her here?" Baldie's prowling closer now, fists clenching, "What's stopping you from just taking her yourself? Why are you telling me this?" Veins pop out on his scarred neck, pulse throbbing in his clenched fists. He's still angry about you letting Lensless and Scars go. He doesn't want, he needs to hit something hard as he can.

        "Because you can make her happy." Phantom says, "And I can't." That makes Baldie pause. "I wish she liked me the way she likes you, but I know it won't happen. I'm okay with that. I just want her safe." It's a lie but a well-told one.

        Baldie relaxes but not fully. "If you ever fucking try to touch her, I will kill you." He only says it because you're not here to hear him say it, because he couldn't say it to the ones that hurt you. Then and now. He had dreaded coming home from prison and you being scared of him, his appearance and the scars that festered underneath. But the you now wasn't scared, you were starting to cherish him. He was afraid now, of fucking it up a second time. 

        "Understood," Phantom said because this is exactly what he wanted.

        "I-" Baldie took a breath, squared his shoulders, "I also need some time to figure this out. This," the bug queen, the cathedral, the never ending cache of food, "is a lot." But most of all, he needed to figure out how to tell you.

        ***

        Your phone was gone. Off the rock you'd left it on to play music and die on. You'd asked around unhurriedly. Not like it'd be any help but the comfort of something not from this shithole was alluring. Something to hold and know you had existed before this and would hopefully exist after. But nobody knows where it went. Though Lensless (when you saw him next) claimed he took it and tried to get you to force him to tell the truth. You didn't even try.

        Gray was dodgy, not about the phone, but about you. He couldn't seem to hold conversation with you for more than two seconds at a time before flying off somewhere with something better to do. He'd always been that way, but he'd been shorter with his words and was staring at you a whole lot more. Despite this, he wasn't a suspect. You doubted he'd want anything to do with your phone, even if it was working.

        You were rotting and they all saw it. You couldn't explore long. The torches you'd been making out of soaked, then slightly dried wood and cloth never last longer than a half hour. You couldn't go to the surface, ceiling too high to even consider scaling out of. Not like any of them would let you anyway, not with Scars and Lensless roaming the wastes during the day. Hiding out somewhere hidden so those who wanted them dead couldn't even kill them in the daylight. Or maybe they were hiding, waiting to pick them off one by one. No one knew what they were planning. 

        Scars and Lensless always came at night because they'd yet to find another source of food. The peace was paper thin. They ate and didn't attack or kidnap you. Your horde of bodyguards let them stay in the shade for a few hours. We don't hurt you and we get to eat. Not exactly an even exchange.

        Personal agendas were always thick in the air now. It was only a matter of days until the food was gone. They could go without awhile, but as soon as you began to starve, there'd be another death and another. Everyone was planning to be the last one standing, to die in the desert with you. The truce wouldn't last much longer but for tonight, nobody mentioned it.

        Gray marked day twenty on the wall. He kept count for the sake of rationing. Meager scraps of what hadn't rotted remained. Only you would eat tonight, the small hard pieces of Emperor jerky that always got caught in your teeth a reminder. 

        Hopelessness isn't in the air, it's already sunken in, become a part of each of you. People were starting to think about dying or finding a way to make this all work long term. But without food? It would not. 

        The deathbed talk started lightly, a reprieve from their thoughts and the empty expanse around them. 

        "I could really go for mom's chicken parm." Maskless says, watching you nibble on small pieces of Emperor meat.

        Tracksuit's mask fluttered when he laughed, "Your mom cooked?"

        "Yours didn't?"

        So began talk of Debbie Grayson. Another universal constant, but she was dynamic through the multiverse. Tracksuit talked about a distant figure he never liked much. Maskless implied kind acceptance, the love some of them yearned for. She stood up to Nolan and died for it. Mohawk laughed in his face. Bragged about how he came to your world partly to kill her himself again. 

        "Did you?" Omni asked, sounding suspiciously interested. Like he'd had a similar idea.

        "Nah." Mohawk kicked at the ground. "Wasn't home. Any of you dicks find 'er?"

        Nobody had. 

        Lensless claimed a weak, once loving mother who stepped aside when the Viltrum Empire came to Earth. Struck by grief at the death of her husband at her child's hand. They lived together through the change Viltrum brought to Earth. What was left of it after the slaughter Lensless brought down. She was a ghost. Wasting away as the world was rebuilt into a utopia. The last time he saw her, she was hanging in her closet. He said this lightly, with the same smile he always wore.

        Scars grinned at the story, told them that Debbie Grayson's body would never be found in his world. Left it at that. No one wanted to know.

        Gray was confused by all of this. The death. The alien versions of his, "Mother raised me on Viltrum." Turned heads. "She likes it there."

        Baldie stirred, agitated by the idea. Mom was good, she was just. She was taken from Earth just like he was. Brought to Viltrum, not in a cell, but still imprisoned. Dad gave him updates in between beat-downs on his cell floor. She had stopped talking, stopped eating, had to be put on life support to stay alive. Nolan refused to pull the plug. He kept his wife unwillingly alive as a self-inflicted vegetable. Baldie wished he could've escaped another way. Seen mom one last time, taken her off that horrid life support and let her rest in peace.

        But he kept his mouth shut. He felt if he opened his mouth at all, the cave secret would come spilling out. He hadn't figured out how to tell you. Where to tell you. When. How you'd react.

        Phantom hadn't spoken at all since he'd talked with Baldie those days ago. Something about Mom and Viltrum made him spark, contempt thick in his voice. "As breeding stock?"

        Gray turned to him, "That's not what I said."

        "Dad said that's all humans were good for," Phantom said.

        ***

        "Is she with child?" The Viltrumite doctor asked as they all stepped into the sterile room. White on white on white. Technically, only Mark needed to be in attendance for his physical. There had been plenty of appointments since he was the first human-Viltrumite hybrid and the Empire desperately wanted to know how he was developing. But his parents came, they always came because they cared. Humanity's customs had rubbed a dent into Nolan's character. The other Viltrumites didn't approve but he still conquered planets, if not more effectively than before- excited to return to his family.

        "No." Debbie said firm. "We've already told you, we're not-"

        "You brought the human woman to breed did you not?" The doctor looked square at Nolan. Debbie was beneath him. 

        "I feel it's better to focus on Mark until he develops his powers." Nolan said as Mark climbed onto the table for a full body scan. He was seven, small for a Viltrumite boy his age but Debbie was sure he'd hit a growth spurt soon. 

        The doctor watched numbers flash on a screen. Mark's vitals, muscle and bone density. Hardly different from a full blooded Viltrumite. "He will soon, Nolan. It would be prudent to begin procreation immediately."

        "I said no." Debbie snapped. 

        The Viltrumite doesn't turn to address her. "You should consider your mission on Earth a great success, Nolan. We were unsure of human-Viltrumite compatibility before, but by the time he's developed his powers- he'll be strong as a full-blood. The Empire thanks you for this knowledge."

        "Uh, yeah sure." Nolan internally wilted at his wife's hard stare. "But you don't need me to have more children do you? There's so many Viltrumites and humans to do that for me."

        The doctor's hands balled to fists. "You know?"

        It's a secret Mark isn't privy to. Debbie isn't privy to. Nolan knows. There are only fifty full-blooded Viltrumites left in the galaxy. Their bloodline thinning in other mixed races. The Empire is weak, desperate. Mark the greatest success yet. 

        "Yes," Nolan said.

        "Then you know what you must do."

        ***

        "There are other humans to do it for him." He says, the parallel is like a hammer to head. The population of Viltrum had thinned further since then, but there were still others to carry the mission. He could just... No. No, he couldn't defect like that, it wasn't like mother. The Empire wouldn't even allow you to be considered if you couldn't procreate. Even if he wanted to, he was stuck in the desert. No way of returning to his Empire. Still, he looks to you and finds a cringe he feels the need to reset. "The parents of our hybrid children are not forced into what they do. It is bad for the child's physical health if some human practices are not done during pregnancy and early development." Only in hybrids. Viltrumite babies weren't so needy. Remembering himself, a tiny, keening and a desperate thing, made him embarrassed to not be full blooded. 

        Your expression only worsens. You did not like that. He is confused, what he said was very humane. He left out the part that humans were selected by health and fertility, that many did not meet their qualifications. Some did not wish to serve the empire, so they would be killed until another was found. Rinse, repeat. After awhile, all participants are willing.

        "Wait." Tracksuit's accent cut the tension. "You were on Viltrum from day one, yeah?"

        "I was born there." Gray said, proud. It was like a badge among the lesser versions of him. 

        Tracksuit's fingers snapped. "That makes so much sense!" Gray doesn't ask, so Tracksuit continues, "You know, why you're taller than the rest of us!"

        Looks were shared. "He's not-" Then. "Wait- Hey! Stop hovering for a second!"

        Gray, who perpetually seemed to hover above the ground except for when he slept, did as requested. Gasps rang through the cave. Marks stood beside him. Hands going from the top of their heads to the middle of Gray's chin. All of them were the same height, except for Gray. Two, maybe three inches taller than the rest.

        There was outrage from some. Gray did not care. Height did not matter on Viltrum, through he suspected his difference was due to a different level of gravity throughout his lifetime. Odd, yes, but he can only focus on you and your faraway expression. What were you thinking about? Were you not impressed with his height? Didn't Earth women like taller mates?

        He is so focused on you he nearly doesn't catch Phantom's quiet words.

        "She'd rather die than live on Viltrum." The whole time he'd been simmering, building up the strength in his throat.

        Gray looked to him. Saw past his modulator and mask, and knew he was a hurt, aching, little boy on the inside. One he could've been, had he not been raised to be strong on Viltrum. Gray pities him, but feels no compassion. A bleeding heart was just that, a bleeding heart. Weak, soon to die.

        "Your mother is dead, yes?" He says more than asks. It's a guess, an educated one. The human-raised among his ilk were too transparent with their feelings. 

        Phantom jerks as if struck, voice a growl like what he says will hurt him. "Dad killed her." 

        Weakness. "If she resisted, then it had to be done. She was not strong enough for The Empire or your father. My mother was, and she still serves The Empire." He says as if his mother didn't only have one child. As if he didn't cherish growing up surrounded by his parents love and attention. She had not done everything she should have for The Empire and he still loved her, his father loved her. He too was weak, but unlike Phantom, would not show it.

        Phantom bristled under the mask. Tense. Ready to strike. But he looks at you. Remembers what's at stake. Forces himself to relax.

        Mohawk's cackle hurts his ears, "Maaaaan! You can't be sayin' that shit to this dude!" His thumb jerked toward Phantom, "Dude looks like a school shooter!"

        Phantom took the abuse on the chin. He'd take all he needed to because soon enough, he'd show them all.

        ***

        Scars and Lensless touched down, made their gross, sexual commentary. Toed the line. Maskless built the fire, Gray marked day twenty-two. 

        You eat beside Tracksuit. Friendship an undercurrent you keep hidden at these fireside. The others would be weird, territorial. Scars and Lensless might fucking kill him. You hoped they didn't hear you pour your heart out to him about Mark. Knowing your luck? They probably had.

        Another night of tension. Conversational scraps. No one had found anything in the caves or the desert. Until.

        "Alright, I'm bored." Mohawk shot a pointed finger your way. "I gotta know, how was he in bed?"

        You almost drop your jerky. "Excuse me?"

        "You heard me. How was fuckin' Daddy's little clone?" 

        You'd been avoiding the topic for days. Avoiding Omni for days. He had his own cot now, had for days, but he pushed it right up next to yours. Sleeping next to one another, ignoring his chatter, trying to get him to sleep on his cot and not roll onto yours in the night. All you cared about was if he would kill you or not. Since he wasn't trying, you didn't need to talk to him. Still, he tried. Over and over to catch you out alone and you continued to dodge. Using your powers to get someone else to be around. He was smart and knew the others shouldn't know. Liked keeping a secret between you both, until he didn't. 

        "I told you twelve times already, we didn't have sex." Your lies sting him. The first time you denied it, he didn't mind. It was survival. But now? You sounded grossed out by the idea of him inside you. As if your body hadn't been begging for more. As if he hasn't tasted you on his fingers. 

        "Sure you didn't." Mohawk snickers. "Yelling at him for that long?"

        "Dude," Tracksuit swallows a wad of meat, "I'd tell you if she was fuckin' some guy. It's like, bro code man."

        Mohawk snorted, "I'm just sayin', if we were alone for that long? You would not be yelling at me." His brows do a stupid jig on his forehead. You want to throw your jerky at him but you needed it. You'd used your reserves for the day on shutting Scars and Lensless up for an extended period. They seemed to come to the fireside just for your control. Work it out until your nose bled or you passed out, then leave into the night.

        "If we were alone that long, I'd kill you." You say.

        He bit his pierced lip in a grin. "I'd like to see you try."

        "Say that stupid shit again and I will."

        Omni had had enough. The secret was doing no good for your relationship. He said loud and clear for the whole desert to hear, "Is it so bad that I made love to my wife?"

        Your jerky finally drops out your hand as you stood. "You-"

        Mohawk slapped his knee. "Knew it! I knew it!"

        "We didn't!" You glare at him, trying to stop him with your eyes. 

        Omni levels you with a too-serious glare. "We did and it was beautiful."

        "No!" You hands go to your head. You do not have the energy to deal with this.

        Mohawk clutched his chest, laughing so hard he may vomit. "Him! Him first?! Ain't no way!"

        Your control on Lensless and Scars snapped. Lensless shot up, arm raised, "Me next! Me! Pick me!" While Scars watched you with a small, knowing smile. He'd already known. Guessed or heard somehow. You could never tell with this freak.

        "Oh God." Tracksuit ran a hand under his mask. 

        "Wait." Mohawk stopped. "What about bro code? Were you in that pussy too!?"

        "No." Omni said at the same time as you.

        The unity made Mohawk stop laughing. Taking stock of the situation, the way you stood in front of him, trying to mask your anger in a way you wouldn't if he was lying. If he was lying you'd make him jump into the fire, but you just looked anxious now, barely contained. 

        "You actually fucked her." It's not a question. Omni didn't joke. "I should cut your dick off." Mohawk wanted to say little but considering they were the same person? Definitely not little.

        "You will not." Omni says, smile cocky enough to make them all bristle, "But I didn't need it."

        Mohawk's hands go to the shaved sides of his head. "Fucking-!" He'd done plenty of that in his day, especially since your death to fill the void. If anyone knew about meaningless sex it was him but you fucked him, another version of him, and not him him. It was a total betrayal, a slap in the face, a Coalition of Planets data pad under the mattress. 

        Nothing seemed more healing to him then being buried in your pussy. Negging you was flirting for him. He was just trying to get in your pants, then your heart. He'd thought the teasing would bring you closer together. He'd had a plan but now all he wanted to do was kick Omni's ass for existing. 

        He stood. Omni stayed seated. "Do you really plan to attack me, Little Man?" Mohawk doesn't see but feels his eyes flick up and down. It was obvious who the scrawniest was out of all of them, Mohawk himself. Nothing to sneeze at in terms of physique but compared to Omni's brick wall body? He stood no fucking chance.

        But he knew his physique didn't matter, that he was more durable, better than all of them combined. And he wouldn't take such a insult in front of you. 

        "Yea-"

        "Take a breather." You say. Mohawk shoots hard into the night. You hold control long as you can. 

        "I appreciate the assist, my love but l-"

        You hold up a hand shutting him up. "I'm not your love or your wife. That was the whole fucking point of what we did." You turn to the rest, the official news hitting them all at once. "And if any of you assholes have a problem, I'll send you out until you can act like adults. Jesus Christ." 

         Gray felt strangely disappointed. You couldn't help the repopulation effort but you'd still had sex just to have sex. Why? He never understood why his parents did what they did. Never got to lay his version of you down himself. Baldie tells himself you're only human. Needed to let off steam, but he angsts anyway. Lensless and Scars look to each other. Seeming to physically brew up punishing ideas. Maskless didn't care. Tracksuit hoped Mohawk wouldn't come back and murder him over an assumption.

        Phantom sat content. Upset, yes, but content knowing this information would push Baldie further to his side. All evidence of Omni's mark on you could be erased anyway- once Baldie was out of the picture. If everything went his way no one else would touch you ever again.

        ***       

        You sat on the ground in total quiet. Alone for the first time in forever in the central cave. You couldn't remember who was on babysitting duty or where they'd gone. You continued knitting garbage together on your bare arms. Everyone had a cot now, but you wanted a blanket that wasn't Omni's cape after that shit he pulled last night. You'd slept against a carved bench by the fire while he tried to call you to bed. You ignored him until the only sounds you could hear were the fire and your teeth chattering.

        You were exhausted and your whole body ached, and every time you fucked up the technique, you swore. It'd been getting harder to keep your emotions in check. You were always partly starving, bored, afraid for your life. You were fraying at the edges and didn't know how much more you could take. 

        "Hi."

        You nearly jumped out of your skin. Falling forward, scraping your elbows on the cave floor, garbage fabric falling to useless shreds on the ground. You twisted, ready to bark out a kill order.

        Phantom stood. Hand poised like he was going to touch your shoulder but thought better of it. 

        "What?" You gathered your limbs under yourself, trying to look more composed. 

        He notices you're slow to do so. You were not as afraid of him as the others. Unsure, reasonably so, but not enraged by his closeness. This was a good sign. 

        He reached into his belt. You'd never seen him turn out his pockets, had no idea what was inside. Mind racing that he was going to pull out a weapon, superhero murder gas or something of the like. Instead, he holds a small flat disc. No larger than the center of his palm.

        "For you." He held his hand out, palm open, waiting for you to take it.

        You ogle the thing with a frown. "It's not going to cuff around my wrists right?" You remembered the thing he'd thrown at you in Sydney. What you guessed it was but it was never confirmed to be. Remember what Scars had brought with him to subdue you. You suppress a shiver.

        "No." He says, smile soft in his voice. "I used this when I knew I didn't have the time to follow a suspect." His thumb pressed on the disc's center and out popped a suction cup. Another press and it was smooth once more. "I did a lot more work for the GDA than the others."

        He assumes anyway. Those lazy, immoral rats didn't care about the planet most of them grew up on. Not like Phantom did. He did everything he could to protect it. He still remembers what Dad said to him that horrible day. A sneer as he said  "his hobby was cute," right after leveling their family home, after killing you. Just remembering spiked his heart rate. 

        He forced himself to breathe. Be level, calm. He held his arm out a little further but didn't dare touch you. Careful not to set you off, the poor, scared little mouse that you were.

        "Or," he started, nervous under your attention, "to keep covert operatives safe." He flipped the disc on its side, slid a hidden track down to reveal a slim red button. "Press this and I'll be alerted. I'll come right away." He slid the hidden compartment shut and waited.

        He wanted to keep an eye on you. Keep you in the palm of his creepy hand. He wanted to...

        You were always in the same place. Always under threat of Scars and Lensless suddenly swooping down and snatching you up. This wasn't about stalking, it was about protecting. After all, he had saved your life from them, and your own stupid mistake. 

        You took the thing, slow, like you were scared if you moved too quick his predator instinct would spring and he'd grab your arm. But he holds himself perfectly still. Feeling the euphoric thrill that is your fingers grazing over his palm through kevlar. When your touch leaves, the sensation lingers.

        You turn the thing over and over in your palm. Testing the weight and muttering, "Where was this a few days ago?" Before sliding into the pocket of your soldier pants. Its weight is near imperceptible but you feel it tugging at your hip. A real, solid comfort. A promise.

        You realize you're being an asshole.

        "Thank you." You say. Hoping he doesn't take it and his promise of protection back. Machine Head was always so quick to take privileges like that away. You worried but a lightning speed pick-pocketing doesn't occur. You relax. "For this and the other day. Those guys are uhm..." You look up through the porthole as if they'd be there waiting. They aren't. You don't want to jinx it. "It's good to have someone like you on my side."

        He nods. All talked out for the day. Chest ablaze with the praise. 

        "It's good to have someone like you on my side."

        He picked up your trash and re-knit it before you could think about doing it.

        "It's good to have someone like you on my side."

        He brought Gray's cache of trash to weave closer. Sat by your side and passed you pieces as you went along. Quietly enjoying your company.

        "It's good to have someone like you on my side."

        ***

         Dinner tonight was a broth of Emperor's bones to be sipped out of cups of dry clay Gray baked in the sun. He only made bowls for those two because if he didn't, they'd have an excuse to drink from yours. It was not that he cared for your comfort, why should he if you couldn't help him complete his mission but... There was no mission in this wasteland. He tells himself he's trying to keep the peace, to do the most rational thing in a hopeless situation. You were needed for morale, the others and not his of course.

        You tilted the bowl to your lips and let the poor excuse for hot soup slide down your throat. Scars watched your throat bob. Wanting nothing more than to drink the liquid out of your mouth after a long day of desert dwelling with Seven. He settles for drinking his own share.

        Scars is watched himself. Nobody trusts him not to try and take you to the sky again. Maybe even take you away for good. He hadn't made his move yet, but it was expected soon. For tonight, he did the same thing he had for the last week.

        "Stop avoiding the question, Dregs." Piss you off on purpose, asking personal questions and making assumptions about your previous life. You didn't understand why he did it. You always shut him up and he was too pussy to attack even with Lensless in a room full of your personal bodyguards. Sometimes you thought he was getting off on bothering you, on not letting you have any sense of peace. But he barely fought back, letting you shut him up and bite back.       

        "Be quiet." And he was. Thank God.

        Your nose hadn't started to bleed yet. Your powers should be weaker from eating less and less these last few days but you were on a roll tonight. 

        "Why are you getting so defensive?" Lensless baited. "We've been plenty vulnerable with you about our lives. Why can't you do the same thing for us? Just tell us who came up with the name!"

        "Leave."

        The cave whooshes with a rush of air. The kindling scattered to the floor. Regathered by Omni before they can burn themselves out. You nod thanks. The cave was insulated from desert night chills but it was no camping trip, you needed the fire. 

        You feel your control on Scars start to slip. "Stay quiet." You close your eyes. Feeling power loosen on Lensless, even at a miles distance. By now, his mind is free but his body is not. You focus. Try to keep them both evenly controlled. You'd never had a workout quite like this. Regular human beings were so easy to control you were unused to challenge. Hadn't even had any resistance from non-psychics until that day on the roof. You wouldn't say it but the exercise was welcome but you almost started looking forward to making fools of them over the nightly bonfires- showing them all you had something they couldn't control. You.

        While you were focused, Mohawk hits you where it hurts. "By all means, leave those dickheads in the dark but why not tell the rest of us? We're buddies by now, yeah babe?" He knows your hold would break if you added another Mark to the roster. You can shut those assholes up, but not him.

        "None of your business." You grit out through ground teeth. Feeling Lensless's mind wriggle in your hold. You clamp the mental prongs down.

        He really shouldn't agitate you but you'd been avoiding him for days now. He just needed you to look at him again after that moment of union in the caves. "I think it is," Omni says. 

        Mohawks brows shoot up in surprise but he takes the advantage, willing to work with anyone if it meant getting under your skin. "See, babe? Everyone wants to know, even this shithead."

        You scowl at Omni, concentration waning. Scars mentally slashing at your power with steely claws. 

        "Shut up." 

        "Think of it like a campfire story, ya'know. You can even change the names around if ya want." You don't budge. Mohawk pouts, "Come oooonnn, I showed you mine, you show me yours isn't that how the sayin' goes?"

        "I said," your eyes snap open, control gone from the others, "shut up."

        It's Mohawk's turn to go quiet. Lensless returned to the fire in a snap that again, scatters the wood. The fire is restacked before you notice a change in light. 

        "Idiot." You tsk at a finally shut up Mohawk. 

        "Did I miss anything?" Lensless asked.

        "Just our dear Dregs getting defensive over the tiniest of questions." Scars said.

        "I'm not defensive." You say, defensively. 

        "Then tell us." Mohawk goaded. Your hold already gone with your concentration.

        "Yeah, I wanna know why you're so hot and evil and stuff." Lensless said.

        You scowled. None of them were stopping this line of questioning. Why the hell was Mohawk working with Scars, who he tried to kill last week, to get information out of you? Why the hell weren't Phantom or Gray stopping this?

        On the flip side, Phantom wanted to know. He knew you'd be upset if he asked. But the cool-headed image of him in your head wouldn't crack if he stayed quiet. When you stopped being angry you'd think it was survival move to stay quiet. Not speak against the majority.

        Gray shouldn't let the tensions rise, he knew, but you were so vexing. All he needed to do was let the others crack your brain open for him.

        Baldie tried to stop it, weakly. "She doesn't want to talk." Said as a mutter because he craved knowing all of you, but knew if he said nothing, you'd be pissed.

        "Stop white-knighting, dude, she's not gonna fuck you." Mohawk said and that shut him up. Fighting all of them was a stupid idea. But leaving in a huff, leaving you alone, was a stupider idea. The best thing he could do was sit by your side as silent moral support. Back your play.

        "I'm not fucking any of you." You say.

        Mohawk scoffed. "You fucked Wonder Boy over there."

        You lean forward, elbows to knees, "Yeah, and not you." That made his smirk crumple.

        He forced it to bounce back. "Not yet."        

        "Mmm, no." You say, a lilt in your voice, "Thing is, I just don't think you're all that attractive." It's a lie but one you try to sell. Happy to bruise an ego. "I never thought the Mark in my timeline was either. With him," you jerk your head toward Omni, "I just needed stress relief and we were in the dark, so who really cares?"

        Mohawk's lips purse like he'd sucked a lemon. "Funny you say that." He shifted, pulling something out of his back pocket. 

        Your phone. Caligula's belly flashing on the lock screen, fully charged.

        "Give me that." You don't want to waste what power you have left, not yet. "How is that even working?"

        "No shot." His shit-eating grin returns, "You could'a been explorin' the caves all this time, playing your stupid music-" Your eyes shift around, wondering who told. "We got crazy tech in these suits, babe. I had Art put a phone charger in mine cuz I kept missing your calls while I was workin' and you'd get pissed!" He slid the phone into a seam on his bicep, surly enough the charging sound dinged. He pulled it out. "-But you didn't think to ask cuz you're such a prissy bitch."

        "You want to call me that again?" It's a dare. 

        One he doesn't take because he has the upper hand. "So I started goin' through ya phone." He flips it to himself and unlocks it with a swipe of the thumb. "Can't believe your passcode's the same." He laughs, tapping at the screen. 

        "Oh no, you beat my Tetris Lite high score." You say, because there's nothing incriminating on your phone. Aside from vague text chats with Machine Head and Isotope. "What's your point?"

        "I'm so glad you asked." A few more taps and he where he wanted to be. An old photo album automatically downloaded to your phone from the cloud. You never looked at it, never cared to. Images carried over from your old phone before Machine Head issued you a new one, decked out with all sorts of encryption tech for secure messaging and calls. You didn't need pictures of your old work schedule or study notes from high school. But you never found the time or energy to delete them.

         He flipped the phone over, stretched out his arm and panned the image around the circle. Letting everybody take in the truth. You, five years ago, kissing Mark's cheek, him grinning stupid at the screen. Your third or fourth date, the best so far. It had been your lock screen for months. 

        "Still think I'm unattractive?" Mohawk smirked.

        Caught red handed. Your words catch in your throat. All of them processing what you had been to Mark. Even in the vaguest terms. Their hopeful puppy dog eyes. The memory of being happy and younger. 

        Mohawk started swiping through the pictures. One after another, in the short moments after the first. A cheek kiss to a lip kiss, the both of you blushing and smiling. "Doesn't this bring back memories, babe?"

        Phantom feels his heart melt. He'd taken those same photos with you. Lensless had too, though with a lot more tongue. Baldie had too, but he'd been too shy to go in for a kiss on the lips. Omni was never one for selfies, thought they were a waste of time. But that didn't stop him from collecting photos, asking friends or strangers to snap some when you were out. He remembers you making fun of him for how serious he always took it. Mohawk had plenty pictures of you on his phone that he hadn't brought along. Mostly of your eyes looking up at him pleadingly, lips stretched over his cock, tears messy on red cheeks. He was deeply disappointed not to find anything similar on your phone. Scars didn't know you young, but liked where this was going. The look on your face, the rage, the humiliation- oh so sweet. 

        Gray did not have any photos of you. Photos for fun weren't a thing on Viltrum. Tracksuit had plenty of nudes on his phone, mostly of himself. Now, he was glad he hadn't brought his phone. A little glad he was witnessing true reality TV trash in real time but still, he felt bad for you but- come on, drama like this doesn't come around every day. Maskless watched on less enthused. Here we go, more het-slop drama. Fantastic. 

        "Give me that," you warn low, "give me that right now." You're saving your power now. Strategizing how to hurt him best in one big burst. 

        "Or what? You'll tell me to shut up?" He swipes through another photo. Mark's back to the camera, your head over his shoulder, locked in a hug. "Man," he whistles through his teeth, "you've got a lot of these. Wanna know the best part?" He asks the others, not you. "These are years old and she still has 'em-"

        "I meant to delete them!" You can't help the outburst. 

        "And I went through 'em all, we stop showing up right around..." He stopped at your last photo of Mark. "Here. 'Bout five years ago," according to the photo app metadata. Mark sat across from the camera at a fancy dinner table. He was late to his own reservation, leaving you embarrassed and feeling like an inconsiderate dickhead. But when he came with roses in hand and you forgave him right away. You'd never been on a date like that again because not long after- you were through. 

        "Shit," Lensless took the phone, Mohawk let him have it, "We rock a suit, huh?"

        Scars leaned over his shoulder. Frankly disgusted by how sweet his own face could look. "Rocked her right after this picture was taken I wager."

        "No!" You should kill them all. Like, actually. You couldn't do them all at once though, you were deciding who to hurt.

        "Why haven't you taken any pictures with him in that long, huh?" Mohawk went on. "Trouble in paradise, babe? You know, you'd never have any with me." Bullshit. 

        Omni took the phone out of Lensless's hand. Swiped through the photos himself. You looked so sweet, so happy, and alive. Nothing like you did now, with your dead-tired eyes and permanent scowl. He knew what happened to you in vague terms, the jail sentence and the subsequent assassin position. He jumped to the conclusion that this dimensions version of him was a stupid fuck up who didn't put a ring on it, and couldn't protect you from the world. He'd given up on you like a fool. But it was lucky for him, he supposed. He knew for sure now, despite your denials of his love, you could and would love him back. One day.

        "We were friends." You lie back, "He was just affectionate-"

        "Friends?" Mohawk cackles, "Yeah, cuz I tongue-fuck all my homies. Really, babe? I thought you'd come up with something better than that. What? Are you embarrassed?" Clearly, you were. "Cuz you kept alllll these pictures after he broke up with you?" It's a guess but dead on. 

        The quiet rage is confirmation enough. 

        There is a collective internal glow of pride in everyone. You were in love with him at some point. Some part of you kept the evidence. You could love him back, the collective thought. Save for Tracksuit and Maskless, who were both thinking this was a little much. Who both felt bad for you. Who both knew they'd rip Mohawk's skin off if they were in your shoes, but make no move to do so.

        Mohawk didn't know when to stop, slinking forward to get in your face. "Aww, baby... Are you still in love with him? That's so stupid and sad."

        "Punch yourself in the balls. Hard as you can."

        You feel a rush of air and he's on the floor, writhing, clutching his family jewels, tears pricking the edges of his eyes before you can process your nose starting to bleed. You wobble on your feet, avoiding Baldie's balancing touch. You turn to Omni with Gray hovering behind him. Feeling things he couldn't truly explain.

        You say, "Crush it." Before you consider that you'd need the flashlight.

        Glass and metal splinter to the ground. Omni opened his hand, impressed you controlled him like that, but he doesn't think it'll happen again. Blood is coming out your nose in thick drops now. You wipe them away with the back of your hand. Head starting to throb as you walk slow, purposeful back to Mohawk. Still groaning. 

        You kneel. Everyone falling away but the two of you. Him in sweet, glorious pain, and you high off his agony. "You wanna know who gave me that name so bad?" His face is to the ground, trying to hide how much it hurts like the tough guy he is. You grab his hair in your fist, pulling his head up easily because despite everything, he'd always melt in to your touch. "You did." 

        They want answers so bad- they'll get 'em. 

        "My boss Machine Head, that robo-dick I murdered- he took it and ran with it because it upset me. You said I was the dregs of society- something stupid like that- and left me to rot. He thought it was so funny Dregs, his de facto murder-torture guy, isn't that nice? I was his favorite, you know? Machine Head always had these fucked up requests and I'd do it because I didn't care. I knew he wouldn't check, not because he trusted me, but because he knew I had nothing else. One guy, I made him skin himself alive with a potato peeler. Got pretty far before his body shut down. Another, I made him choose who to shoot first, his wife or his mistress- they both died, yeah, but man, him turning on his wife like that? Crazy." You didn't mean to ramble but you were. You were just so pent-up and angry, that a reminder of your Mark, the life you could've had, had you unwinding yard by yard. It was easy letting their flawed logic win for once, and it felt damn good. They had hurt you. 

        "I could've been something. When I met Cecil, he wanted me to work for him. Mark could've made that happen, but he let me fuck around New York murdering people for some drug-running robot dickhead." Mohawk's eyes began to clear of pain. Were rapt on you and your anger and how transparently awful you were. "I loved him so much, and now-" He's looking at you like he loves you and you hate it; say the nastiest thing you can think of, "If I ever get back, I'm killing his family, starting with that dumb bitch Eve. So no, you stupid motherfucker, I'm never going to love you and I'm never letting you fuck me." 

        You stand, emboldened by the silence. "Any more questions?" You only look at Mohawk. Curled, clutching his balls, but slowly, purposefully smiling at you.        

        "I think that about covers it." He says, voice weedy. 

        "Can you do me next?" Lensless asked.

        You were sapped of power. Couldn't if you wanted to. You also shouldn't, he'd cum but still, he'd hurt and you wanted them all to hurt. You say nothing, gather up a premade torch. Held it out to Tracksuit to light with friction- much quicker than the fire that didn't much like damp-ish cloth. He does, no questions asked. He'd also want to take a hike after all that. 

        You picked a cave and started. Not before saying, "Fuck you all."

        Then you were off. You don't let yourself stop and cry until you were triple sure you were out of hearing range. Even then, you go further, further, until your torch burnt down to the quick and singed your hand. You drop it, clasping the skin, crumbling to the ground as the first angry tears sprang forth. 

        You hated them. You wanted them to die but you needed them to survive. Why couldn't they just be normal? Couldn't they understand you were a different person? And now they knew your dirty secret. Sure to hold it over your neck like a guillotine.  

        You'd scream but they'd hear. Come running. Come mocking. So you sob as quietly as you can into your hands. 

        "I'm sorry he did that to you." He says. 

        You jump. Grab the smoldering remains of the torch off the ground and throw it at the voice, despite how it burns your hand. "Go away!"

        The torch bounced off Baldie's chest, fell to the ground, all light dead on impact. 

        "I know you're upset but..." He knows Phantom is near. Lurking. Can hear his mostly disguised breathing. He'd left after you when the bickering fizzled and Lensless and Scars left out of boredom. Phantom followed because he knew- Baldie had made up his mind.

        "Upset? I'm not upset!" You forcefully rub at your cheeks. "This is nothing."

        He frowns, though you can't see it. "I have something to show you."

        "I don't care." You say. "I don't want to see anything that isn't Mark's dead body. Okay? Just-" You take a wobbly breath, "Fuck off. I can't do this anymore."

        The admission almost pulls a sob out of you, and you have to fight to hold it in.

        "I know," it's soft, "I know, that's why I need to show you. You don't have to see any of them."

        You're fighting to hold in sobs, barely processing what he says, "Please. Just go." 

        "(Y/n) I-"

        "Die." You splutter without power, "Just drop dead or go away. I'm done." Soon as the words come out your hands go to your head. You almost did it again. You didn't want him to die, not really. 

        The sobs come harder. You're hysterical. Soon to crack and scream and then he wouldn't be alone with you anymore.

        He scoops you up in his arms. Apologizing, keeping his grip gentle as possible as he flew deeper into the caves. Back to the hidden entrance he'd visited and re-visited since Phantom told him of its existence. You beat your fists against his chest, his neck, his face, but he couldn't be angry at you. He was angry at them for making you feel so low.

        He doesn't speak as he moves the rock, floating inside, and sealing the tomb behind you both. He sees Phantom's silhouette as the rock slid flush to the wall. An agreement passed quietly between them.

        You heard movement, unable to place the exact sound. Like Styrofoam peanuts squeaking past one another. But there was no way there'd be Styrofoam peanuts here. You blink, looking around but seeing nothing in the absolute dark. The air felt different here, wetter, smelling of sod and sulfur. 

        "One sec." He said, floating down to the ground with the least amount of creepy-crawlies. In the times he'd come back, he started the beginnings of a camp. Stole away supplies from Gray's material cache to make your own cots. Picked a spot a few feet up from the bug rivers where you could watch but be in no danger if you decided to hop down and explore.

        He clacked two rocks together. Sparks rained as the fire pit he'd built lit. He blew, added more kindling from the pile he'd prepared, nurtured the fire in a matter of milliseconds. The light illuminated the cavern around you, but your eyes could barely process what you were seeing. 

        You were beside her, yards away. Sat in a high chair at her bug court. The massive white thing that was some mutated sand-mite-termite-whatever-the-fuck queen. She did not notice or care about the fire. Did not mind your sudden presence. Her mandibles twitched as her children flitted in and out of her mouth. 

        "What the fuck?"

        Your brain doesn't even think of food. Water. Too stuck on the giant bug. But you know what it means, these are the first living creatures you'd seen since arriving over three weeks ago. 

        "We can stay here." He says soft behind you, sure to give plenty of space for you to process. "We have everything we need." You don't reply, jaw dropped open, taking in the sight. The bugs skittering in and out of their dens set into the walls. "You don't have to go back and deal with them ever again."

        It's like a dream come true. Too good to be true.

        You don't feel yourself speak. "They'll come looking."

        "They haven't found this place yet and if we stay quiet, they won't. But I'll be honest, I didn't find this place myself. Someone else did."

        You turn, eyes wide, "Who?" God, don't say Scars. Don't say Lensless.

        "He wants to tell you himself." He knew it'd matter to you who it was, but Phantom asked him not to tell. He was cagey about why. "But he's helping us. I think tomorrow he'll stage your disappearance and join us. It's nobody bad, I promise." 

        "I-" You look back to the bugs, undulating below. None of them cared you existed. Minding their own buggy business, not begging you for sex or love or attention. If Baldie brought you here they were likely not venomous. They didn't attack or swarm or even run away. "We'll really be safe here?"

        "I'll make sure of it." He said.

        Something in you breaks. Resolve or dignity.

        Because you lunge at Baldie, tears returning. Stuff your face to his chest, arms going tight around his forearms and middle. The hopelessness that'd become a part of your everyday slowing leaching out in his hold. 

        "Thank you, thank you, thank you," it's muffled against his chest. His arms wriggle easily out of your hold and drape over your back. He pulls you closer, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin, and is at peace.

        "It's alright, I've got you."

[almostempty]

i've said this before and i'll say it again... maybe you're writing this for yourself and sharing it on god's green internet with others but it's actually written JUST FOR ME BECAUSE OTHERWISE EXPLAIN THIS:

And gods—there he is. Thick even while soft, his cock hangs heavy between his thighs, nestled in a thatch of dark curls that look fucking edible. Your thighs press together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing as heat flashes in your gut like it’s trying to eat you alive. It shouldn’t look that good. Not at rest. But it does. Your mouth waters, lips buzzing, and your fingers twitch at your sides like they don’t know why they aren’t already wrapped around him.

how dare you ONCE AGAIN infect my brain with soft cock disease it's so stupid i didn't ask for this curse BUT i now i'll be dreaming about it transforming in my mouth like a beautiful butterfly sO THANKS FOR THAT additionally, the whole fic is so lush and atmospheric like i can FEEL the water and HEAR his voice and TASTE the chemistry between them ughh

The Heat of the Thermae | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader | ~4.2k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You’re not alone tonight at your favorite bathhouse.

Tags: smut, kat can’t not dress the scene, unprotected p in v, creampie kink is not explicitly stated but he does finish inside sooo, marcus is strong enough to fuck you standing up, lil bit of dirty talk, spanking, tit slapping, marcus loves tits, some latin terms of endearment, praise praise praise, probably not historically accurate we're just vibing here, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, reader is described to have a curvy figure, barely beta’d, sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: hi, i was not expecting to write something for the general again so soon but @ovaryacted is the queen of feeding into my delusions so this one is for you, primita 🖤 shoutout to @mandaloriankait for holding me accountable and cheering me on to finish this lol. as always let me know what you think and thanks for reading! 🖤

You slip through the quiet streets of the city, the woven handle of your basket looped gently over your arm. A soft hum escapes your lips, a tune only the night seems to know. The stones beneath your sandals are warm from the day’s heat, still radiating the sun’s memory as the hush of night begins to settle. Crickets and cicadas sing from dark corners, their chorus delicate, like lace threaded through the silence.

Rome is quieter at this hour. Not silent, never truly, but quieter. As if the mighty heart of the empire has finally begun to slow, to exhale.

You reach the thermae just before the moon crests its highest point. The structure stands like a temple in the dark, torchlight flickering along carved pillars and smooth marble that glows golden. Steam curls up from within the stone walls, thick and inviting, drifting like silk into the air. You slip through the arched threshold, and the warm, mineral-scented breath of the springs embraces you.

It’s nearly silent. Just the soft bubbling of water, the occasional drip of condensation down stone, the rustle of a breeze stirring one of the hanging silken banners overhead. This thermae has always been your favorite— nestled against a quiet hill on the edge of the city, tucked away behind a grove of flowering laurel and cypress. Fewer people frequent it. Too far, they say. But for you, it’s perfect.

You step onto the cool, patterned floor, marveling, as you always do, at the opulence. Intricate mosaics of Apollo and Venus glimmer beneath your feet, their mythic beauty frozen in tile. Wreaths of fragrant flowers wind up around the sculpted columns, fresh and damp with dew. The stone arches above are carved so finely that your eyes often lose themselves in the details: curling vines, the faces of nymphs, the wings of eagles, all staring down in solemn witness.

The water beckons beyond, a mirror of mist and light. Before you slip into it, you settle onto one of the marbled benches. It’s cool against your thighs, smooth beneath your fingers. You untie your sandals slowly, enjoying the rhythm of the ritual. The city feels so far away here. Its roar, its politics, its bloodstained spectacles —all of it muffled by marble, steam, and solitude.

You breathe in deeply. The air is rich with heat and something sweeter — honeysuckle, perhaps, or the lingering smoke of sandalwood incense still clinging to the stones. Your fingers drift to the lip of your basket. Oils, cloth, a small jar of fig balm. Enough to make the next hour utterly yours.

You do not hear him at first. Just the shift of shadows behind one of the larger columns across the way. A footfall, soft yet heavy.

And it is not until he steps into the light: scarred, sharp-eyed, leonine in profile, that your breath catches in your throat.

General Acacius.

You turn away before your gazes can meet. The water between you becomes a kind of sanctuary, veiling you in ripples and warmth, a safe expanse separating your solitude from his gravity. He remains on the opposite end of the thermae, partially obscured by a column and the rising curtain of steam—but even half-hidden, he draws the eye. This is the first time you’ve ever seen the general alone.

Usually, he is trailed by a flock of senators and sycophants, his path cleared by his loyal soldiers. Or he’s perched high above the chaos of the colosseum, cast in gold and shadow as blood paints the sand below.

Up close, in silence, without armor or ceremony, he is something else entirely.

The rumors are true. He is devastatingly handsome. A mix of the delicate beauty of poetry or painted heroes and the kind carved into marble— stark, masculine, impossible to ignore but made to admire. His frame is massive, the breadth of his shoulders a thing that demands reverence, the curve of his jaw like it was drawn with a honeyed blade. Even now, without the bronze of war adorning him, he carries himself with an authority that stirs something in you.

It is no wonder women speak of him with flushed cheeks and eager lips. Nor is it a wonder he remains unattached. No woman, no man, no lover could compete with the hunger in his eyes for conquest. War has claimed him, become his mistress. And yet… you find yourself wondering, perhaps foolishly, what it might be like to be taken with that same possession.

You keep your gaze averted as you reach into your basket, fingers finding the familiar pieces of your nightly ritual. You remove your jewelry then slowly peel the fabric from your body, exposing skin to the open air, to the eyes of gods and men alike.

You try not to think of whether he’s watching. You try.

Your foot touches the water first, heat curling up your calf, then your thigh, until you are swallowed by it. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips, a breathy moan that seems to echo louder than you intended in the stillness of the summer night.

You glide further in, deeper, until the water kisses just below your collarbones. You find your place, easing against the stone, eyes fluttering shut—but not for long. Curiosity, wicked and warm, coaxes them open again. And this time, you let them wander.

He is still turned away, his broad back like something from a myth, all sculpted muscle and roughened skin. The light of the moon and torches play against him, catching on every ridge, every scar, every flex and pull as he shifts to undress. Sweat clings to him, glistening down his spine, mixing with the dirt of training or battle, a sheen that only makes him more savage, more real, more desirable.

He bends slightly to unfasten his remaining garment, and when the cloth falls, your tongue twitches in your mouth.

His ass is nothing short of divine. Round, tight, perfect in its symmetry, in the way it moves as he steps out of the tunic. Your teeth find your lower lip and stay there, pressing hard. 

He turns and suddenly, the air shifts. Heat blooms low in your stomach, tender, slow.

Hazelnut eyes lock with yours—not passive, not startled, but piercing. Like he’s known all along you were there, and now he’s choosing to look. Choosing to see you. The connection is immediate, tangible, a pull so intense you feel it in your pussy, in the tips of your fingers beneath the water. His gaze does not waver. It devours.

Then, languidly, his eyes drag down your form. Over your bare shoulders, your collarbone, your breasts rising from beneath the water with each breath. He lingers there. Long enough for your nipples to harden. You can’t help the way your chest arches forward, as if offering him more of your full tits.

He notices. You see it in the slight lift of his brow, the shadow of something dangerous and amused that curls his lip.

You match his look without thinking, lips parting just enough to draw in breath as your gaze drops between his legs. And gods—there he is. Thick even while soft, his cock hangs heavy between his thighs, nestled in a thatch of dark curls that look fucking edible. Your thighs press together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing as heat flashes in your gut like it’s trying to eat you alive.

It shouldn’t look that good. Not at rest. But it does. Your mouth waters, lips buzzing, and your fingers twitch at your sides like they don’t know why they aren’t already wrapped around him.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring until he moves.

No words. Just that quiet, lethal stillness breaking as he steps into the water with the weight of a predator deciding when to strike. You don’t know if he’s doing it for you or simply because that’s just how he moves, but when his body sinks into the pool, muscles flexing, steam licking up his sides, it feels like something carnal crackles in the space between your bodies, more ancient than language, more honest than names.

He disappears beneath the surface, the water rippling out toward you like the heat radiating off your skin, and the soft splash of it yanks you back to yourself. Barely.

You sit up straighter, hand reaching for your cloth and small vial of oil, your pulse beating wild behind your ribs. Your fingers tremble, though you pretend otherwise, smoothing the perfumed mixture over your skin in slow circles. Sensual. Like you’re bathing for an audience… because you are.

When he rises again, your eyes snap to him like they’ve been chained there since the moment he arrived.

His hair is plastered back, dripping. Water runs down his face, clings to his thick lashes, trails over the angles of his jaw and beautiful nose. He’s fucking gorgeous—soaked and gleaming and massive. Your eyes drag lower, over his chest, watching the droplets race across his pecs and down his stomach. The line of hair that starts beneath his sternum and leads right down into the water makes your whole body ache to see more. To touch. To taste.

“Are you here often?” He asks, voice low and rough like gravel worn smooth by time.

You blink at him, a little slow, and answer as best you can with a dry throat. “Almost every night.”

Acacius hums. A sound that seems to rumble from his chest rather than his throat. He reaches for his own items and begins to tend to himself with a practiced efficiency that only deepens your curiosity. He has no servant with him, no one waiting nearby with fresh linens or scented oils. For a man of his station, that’s rare.

His big hands slide over his own scarred chest like he’s used to being looked at. Used to being wanted.

And fuck, do you want him.

He’s here. Naked, alone, reciprocating this unspoken lust in your favorite bathhouse. With you. It feels impossible. Like a gift from the gods. Or maybe a test.

You don’t care which.

The silence that follows is far from empty. It brims with energy, charged and volatile. You bathe yourself in the same slow rhythm, cloth gliding across slick skin, never breaking eye contact for long. You keep looking. So does he. And every time your eyes meet, it’s like a match is struck right at your core.

There’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

The space between you shortens with every breath. Neither of you says a word about it. You just move. Drawn. Like animals circling closer. The scent of oil and flowers in the steam is thick as incense—sticky sweet, dizzying. Your nipples are hard, peaked above the surface, aching for attention, and his gaze drops there more than once.

There is desire. There is certainty. And you will not waste this night.

Your fingers brush under the water, barely, but the jolt of contact sends a spark straight to your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand turns, clasping around your wrist and tugging you towards him, just enough to let you know what he wants.

What you want. You meet him halfway.

The water barely muffles the slap of your bodies meeting, chest to chest. You’re not shy about it. There’s no point pretending. You want all of him. When he reaches down and cups your jaw with one large, dripping hand, the roughness of his touch makes your pussy clench tight.

Acacius doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He kisses you like it’s owed. Like it’s overdue. His mouth slants over yours, fervent, lips parted before they even meet. It’s filthy and deep. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting you. Your fingers fist in his hair, still damp from the bath, nails scraping his scalp as you pull him closer, desperate to keep your mouth sealed to his.

His hands roam with no restraint. One grabs your ass, squeezing and savoring the plumpness in his grasp, while the other palms your tit, big fingers curling around the soft flesh, thumb flicking over your nipple as you curve into him.

You clutch at his broad shoulders, his back, the muscles shifting beneath your hands like carved stone come alive. He’s so solid, every inch of him hard and smoldering and built for war. You do a little jump then wrap your legs around his waist without even thinking, gyrating your hips against him in a silent, burning plea for friction.

His hand immediately go to cup the back of your thighs, strong enough to keep you sturdy against him as his dick slips between your slippery folds.

“Fuck…” you gasp when he breaks the kiss, head tipping back as your mouth falls open with a desperate whine, his lips dragging wetly down your throat. “Please do not stop…”

“Was not planning to,” he growls, teeth grazing your skin, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of heat that makes your pussy throb. You can feel his shaft thickening beneath you, half-submerged in the water, heavy and hard right between your legs. You grind down on it without thinking, your clit brushing along his length, desperate for more.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked, “and sweet. Gods…”

Your only answer is a shuddered moan as his mouth trails lower, nipping your collarbone, dragging his tongue along the curve of your breast before he captures your nipple between his full lips. He groans like he’s been starving for it, like your taste is better than any wine in Rome. He nips at the sensitive bud—just enough to make you twitch—and then his tongue soothes, circles, sucks.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. Your legs tighten around his waist as you continue to grind against him. The water sloshes and ripples between you, the scent of oil and sweat and arousal heavy in the steam.

You’ve never felt so thoroughly handled—his big, calloused hands roaming every inch of you, gripping, groping, pulling you apart and putting you back together. His body is a weapon, and right now it’s being wielded for you, on you.

“Please, Acacius… fuck me.”

Your voice breaks on the plea, the words melting into a high, desperate whine as he sinks his teeth into your nipple. The sharp bite makes your back arch with a moan, the sting blooming at your chest just as he pulls off with a lewd pop.

He licks up your neck, tongue moving slow and shameless over your pulse. “Marcus,” he sneers against your mouth, his breath warm, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. “That is what I want you to cry while I am splitting this tight little cunt open on my cock.”

You barely manage a gasp before he seals your mouth with his again, tongue plunging past your lips with a hearty groan.

Then his hand moves—leaves your ass to wrap thick fingers around the base of his cock. And gods, you feel it, the weight of him pressing against your slick, aching entrance. Hot as sin.

You barely have time to breathe as he pushes in deep.

You let out a ragged sob, mouth falling open as your walls stretch around his fat shaft, the burn sharp and sweet all at once. Your nails claw into the hard, oiled up muscle of his shoulders while your pussy tries to take him. Inch by inch, he feeds himself to you until he’s buried balls deep inside your clenching sex.

“F-fuck—oh Marcus—”

His intimate name rips out of your throat in a needy wail as your head tips back, spine bowing, offering him everything.

He snarls, low and brutal, muttering curses in his native tongue under his breath. You barely have time to recover before he shifts, hoists you higher and hooks the backs of your knees over the bends of his elbows.

He fucks into you savagely, like he’s meant to be deep inside you every night until the gods have to intervene and pull him from you. The power in his body is insane, thrusting into you while standing, while holding your curvy and heavier figure, every stroke punching up into your guts with obscene, wet sounds that echo off the marble.

The water thrashes around you, splashing wildly with every slam of his hips. Your tits bounce, nipples raw and exposed, while your ass claps against his thighs with every impassioned thrust. His cock is merciless, thick veins dragging against your fluttering walls, the fat head hammering that spongy spot deep inside you until you’re choking on every moan.

“Fucking… tight…” he spits between grunts, “had I known a praecantrix with a body like this was here every night aching for cock,” he pants, “I would have abandoned my duties and been buried in this sweet cunt instead.”

You clench hard at his words and he feels it, groaning through gritted teeth while your fingers twist in his damp greying curls as you tug his mouth back to yours.

You kiss him filthy, open-mouthed, tongues tangled, spit dripping between you. It feels so good knowing you’ve got one of the strongest men in Rome between your thighs. His beard scrapes your chin, making your skin curl in the best way, and you moan into his mouth when he sucks your tongue like he wants to devour it.

Your orgasm is coming fast. Titillating and climbing and climbing and climbing—

“Harder,” you gasp against his lips, nails sinking into his scalp. “Marcus, please.”

The salacious symphony of your fucking is beautiful, and Marcus gives you what you asked for, plowing into you with a force that knocks every breath out of your lungs and thought out of your head. 

You don’t even notice when he begins to move, strong arms locking beneath your thighs as he shifts, never once pulling out. He carries you backward, step by careful step, until he lowers himself onto one of the submerged stone steps, the heat of the water sloshing around your waist. You’re now straddling him, perched in his lap, knees spread wide on the slick surface. His cock stays buried to the root, making you keen.

You can feel everything. Every vein, every ridge, every throb. He leans back slightly, giving you space, giving you control—and gods, he looks bewitching. Half-lidded eyes drink you in, crooked scars slicing across his cheek and nose, only enhancing his brutal allure. Steam helixes around the angles of his face, water dripping down the hard lines of his chest, down his stomach, disappearing between your bodies where you’re still joined.

His hands find your breasts again, greedy and reverent all at once. Your skin is slick with water and oil, and he groans at the way your tits spill into his palms, nipples pebbling against his calloused fingers.

You start to move, slow at first, grinding down into him with insatiable want. Your clit presses into the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every drag sending white-hot sparks all over. The stretch of him inside you is overwhelming, the ache delicious. With every swivel at your waist, your slick spreads between you, smearing over his thighs.

Acacius watches you with worship and gluttony in equal measure, hands never leaving your skin, guiding your rhythm with subtle tilt of his hips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, the reverence in it making your thighs tremble harder. “So divine like this.” He studies you, head cocked with a fascination and you can’t help but perform for him, willing your body to imprint on his memory as surely as he’s etched on your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls, large palm smacking against your ass, making it ripple and sting as your thighs tremble from the force. You scream out his name, hands finding purchase on his shoulders again. “Ride it. Use me, carissime.”

The term of endearment does it for you, spurring you to fuck him like he’s never been fucked before, grinding harder, rolling your hips, chasing the rising wave of release that corkscrews at the base of your spine. The slap of your bodies grows louder as you bounce in his lap. Your tits jiggle with every thrust and he’s mesmerized, the repeated crack of his palm smacking your chest making your toes curl and your cunt pulsate around his meaty cock.

You bury your fingers in his curls as you clutch him close, your mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and passion. His tongue tangles with yours, and when you moan into him, he groans deep and animalistic, like he can feel it in his bones.

“What a perfect cunt,” he mutters against your lips. “Taking it all. Men go to and die in war for pussy like this.”

His praise sends another shock of bliss through you, and your pace falters as your legs begin to shake. Yet he doesn’t let up. His hands grip your ass, helping you move, pulling you down harder, deeper, each thrust sending his cock punching up into that devastating spot inside you. You cry out, clinging to him.

“Are you going to come for me?” he taunts raggedly against your throat. “Soak my cock like the desperate thing you are?”

“Yes—yes, Marcus—fuck, yes!” The words spill from you in a delirious rush, your pitch climbing higher as you ride him with reckless desire. Every drag of your soaked cunt around his thick shaft sends another jolt up your spine. You know you’ll feel this for days; every step, every shift in your body will echo with the memory of his ruin. The sheer power of straddling a man like him and breaking apart on his cock.

Then his mouth is on your breast, downright ravenous. He devours you with ardent, open-mouthed kisses, lips sealing tight around your nipple as he sucks hard, his tongue flicking rapidly before his teeth sink in just enough to make you mewl out in gratification. His attention shifts from one bouncing mound to the other, spit-slick and gleaming in the moonlight, the sting of his teeth making your walls clamp down around him.

“Marcus!” You come apart with his name tearing from your throat. Your climax hits like lightning, sharp and blinding. Your vision splinters, black spots dancing at the edges as ecstasy rips through body locking down, muscles seizing as your pussy quivers around his cock, dragging a primal sound from his chest. Every part of you is slick—sweat, oil, steam, and arousal mingling on your skin as your orgasm wrings you out.

The tight squeeze of your pussy has him snarling, losing the last thread of control. He wrenches his mouth from your tits and sinks his teeth into your neck, spitting curses as he fucks up into you with brutal, punishing thrusts. His fingers dig into your ass, holding you down as he drives into your spent cunt.

“Fucking take it,” he grits. “All of it.”

You feel the heat of him flooding you, dick twitching deep inside as he spills into you with a low, lecherous moan, biting down harder as he rides it out, making you wince. He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t move, just holds you flush against him, chest to chest, your body trembling as his seed fills you.

There’s no pause for breath, only the ragged, desperate sound of two bodies ruined by pleasure, locked together in the heat of the bath, gods watching from marble pedestals as if in envy.

Acacius still holds you, his strong arms wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you to him like he never wants to let go. His cock remains buried deep inside you, softening slowly, the warmth of his release cradled within.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and then another to the hollow of your throat, working his way down with lazy affection. His hands roam your body, no longer rough and demanding, but tender and adoring. Fingertips graze the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your thighs; learning every inch of you like a man starved for closeness.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, catching the scent of warm skin, salt, and the faint hint of sandalwood oil still clinging to him. You lean in, lips brushing his, and he meets you with a kiss so slow you feel like you’re floating.

When you pull back, you pause to look at him—really look at him. His dark curls cling damply to his forehead, drops of water trailing down his neck. His eyes, deep and glistening brown, are locked onto yours, hungry still, but softened by something far more dangerous than lust. Something like longing.

“Marcus,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

His lips pull, slow and knowing. “Say it again.”

You smile, fucked out entirely. “Marcus.”

His arms tighten around you, and the two of you sit there in the warmth of the water, wrapped around each other. The steam coils around your bodies, carrying with it the heady scent of oils and sex. Neither of you rushes to speak again. There’s no need.

This night will linger in more than just muscle memory. It will haunt your thoughts. It will live in his hands.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7 . @clubsoft . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @angiewatson .

[juicykvnture]

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS

camboy!DickGrayson x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, only a HINT of plot, mutual masturbation, phone sex, webcam use, praise kink, mild degradation, nicknames (angel/baby), college AU

a/n: GULP

wc: 3k | Masterlist

DESPERATE SLUTS IN YOUR AREA - the pop-up ads on your laptop are mocking you, you swear.

Girl, you know there are desperate sluts in your area, you own a mirror.

Well.. It’s somewhere down the bottom of a moving box, tossed in a van along with basically everything you own and all hopes of entertaining yourself.

Okay, well you could get started on the pile of college assignments you’re yet to start and the content you need to familiarise yourself with.

But be serious, you’d rather familiarise yourself with some guy to bang you right about now - but we can’t all get what we want, can we?

Your roommate isn’t even moving in until tomorrow, so that’s a plus at least. You’ve got the dorm room to yourself.

It’s how you ended up scrolling for the last half hour, your underwear tugged halfway down your thighs as your half lidded eyes scan the glow of the laptop screen before you.

You gave up on the hub a long time ago, if you wanna get off to something, you’d honestly rather be sure it’s at least ethical, yknow?

To your dismay, every author you follow on tumblr hasn’t updated in a solid week, Twitter is a fucking minefield for hell knows what and you swear you’d end up arguing with someone in a thread before you’d find something you’d actually enjoy.

You rub some mascara out of your eyes, your lashes fluttering open slightly. You can only pray you don’t look like a raccoon right now, just in case your wishes did in fact come true and some guy is just gonna magically appear between your legs to actually fuck you.

You’re not sure why, but eventually you find a link that catches your eye.

It’s one of those cam-chat sites, the ones that claim to match you with people within a couple mile radius of you.

You’re hesitant at first, but they’re not asking you for your credit card information, so honestly, What the fuck have you got to lose?

It’s seen better days definitely, by the looks of things it probably hasn’t been updated since like 2007.

But hey, fuck it. Even if it’s literally just some bot or a dude at a call center, at least you won’t feel as bad. It’s not like you’ll ever meet this stranger in real life anyway, you literally have nothing to lose but an ounce or two of your dignity and self respect.

Eh, you’ve done worse.

ENTER USERNAME

Okay, no point using your name. You’d swear you’d have a heart attack if someone you knew somehow found this shit.

You pause for a second, glancing around for inspiration, your room key on your nightstand, dorm 444.

@444ANGEL

Cliche, you’ll live.

ENTER RANDOM CHAT

Straight to the point, alright.

MATCHED WITH - @BLUUDHAVEN

Desperate sluts in Blüdhaven too apparently? Ain't too far - Ain't too close either though. See you could run into him downtown, but you don't leave your dorm, be serious.

@BLUUDHAVEN: u up?

You blink, staring at your screen. What the fuck is this, Snapchat?

@BLUUDHAVEN: that was awful I’m sorry :p

That stupid little face at the end earns a small huff, nice to know someone still respects the art of emoticons over emojis in the big 25.

@444ANGEL: so.. u come here often?

Girl lock in. This is a porn site, not a bar.

@BLUUDHAVEN: No, actually :)

@BLUUDHAVEN: I do cams sometimes but I’ll be honest I’m literally just here to jerk off :3

“Huh..” you mutter to yourself, at least he’s got a sense of humour?

@444ANGEL: so you’re a slut by trade?

@BLUUDHAVEN: Not by trade, but at heart

@444ANGEL: so how does this work.. are you gonna like whip it out or..

@BLUUDHAVEN: first time I take it? Might be easier on webcam? :p

Okay, logical. You’ll have your hands free!

You’re hesitant for a moment, staring at your laptop. Okay, he doesn’t need to see your face, right? You’re just gonna chat to him for a while.. see where it goes?

You’re fiddling with the Angel wing on your necklace, thinking. Shifting slightly, you sit back against your headboard, your laptop on the mattress.

JOIN WEBCAM

You’re met with him shoving a stack of books off of his desk, one of them eerily similar to the sociology text book you’ve got shoved in a moving box, somewhere between your vibrator and your favourite sweater.

But thats not important right now!

“Hey, Angel.” He says all too quickly, running his fingers through his tousled black hair.

“Who-“ Your eyebrows furrow slightly.

“Your username,” he smiles softly, knowingly, reclining in his desk chair.

Fuck, hes definitely noticed how much of a noob you are now now.

And you’ve noticed he’s definitely shirtless. Zoo-wee-mama! You’ve also noticed some little blue tattoo at the base of his neck. But that’s not here nor there, you know what’s there? His happy trail.

In your defence his hand is right there, thumb hooked in his grey sweats. Where else you meant to look?

“Second thoughts?”

You blink, his words snapping you out of your happy daze.

“Huh? No, no thoughts. Wait, I mean-“

“It’s okay to be nervous, we can take it chill,” he reassures you, never loosing that grin.

“Chill yeah, chill,” downstairs is anything but chill she was very warm in fact.

“Do you want to get more comfortable maybe?”

“Oh, I’ve actually got this really fluffy blanket-“

“I meant take your clothes off, baby,” he looks directly into his webcam, clearly amused as he drums his fingers against his waistband.

You swallow, pressing your thighs together.

Are you seriously about to take your clothes off for a really cute stranger? Yeah, you are.

You can only pray you’re wearing one of your better, slightly cuter bras tonight.

Your fingers curl into the thin fabric of your shirt, bunching the white cotton up and pulling it over your head, hitting the wooden floor with a soft thump.

“Fuck,” He mumbles under his breath, his hands clenching on his knees as he shifts his hips, the grey sweatpants doing little to hide the outline.

You take that as a good reaction, chewing on the insides of your cheeks as you lean back against your headboard.

“Nervous?” He prompts, his hand palming himself over his boxers.

“A little?” You offer a shaky sigh, grateful that he can’t see the embarrassing blush on your face.

“I’ll talk you through it.”

That’s the second time a guy you’ve never fucking met in your whole life has made you irrationally flustered. Fuck, you need to touch grass.

Or yourself, whatever works.

“Sounds good,” you laugh slightly, letting your hand trail along your cleavage, fiddling with the lace.

He nods, “Good.” Ever so subtly, you see his hand start to move, gently trailing his fingers along his bulge.

“Do you want to start slow, trace your nipples for me baby? Can you do that for me Angel?”

You blink for a moment, your teeth pressing into your bottom lip. You find yourself listening to him, offering a small nod as your hand drifts down to lightly trace over the fabric.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, his hips shifting lightly, his fingers tugging at the drawstrings of his sweatpants.

You nod, once again grateful he can’t see your face as your hand moves down lower between your ribcage, pausing for a moment once you get to your stomach, your hand clenching slightly.

He sees your hesitation, tilting his head back slightly as he watches the screen through his dark lashes.

“You okay to keep going?”

He can just barely see you nod again, and his hand brings out his pulls his length from his sweatpants.

“Yeah? Good fucking girl,”

And that’s all you needed to slip your hand beneath the cotton of your panties. “Fucking shit,” all that pent up tension of from all night (morning?), and the general sight of this Blüdhaven guy, making you head lol back against your headboard.

“Christ you sound gorgeous, let me hear you Angel? Please?”

Your heads spinning, you’ve never had to think about how you sound, never thought of the possibility that someone could ever hear you.

But here you are, and he’s all too eager.

With a muttered “fuck,” you nod again, spreading your thighs apart to offer him a better view, your fingers moving in slow circles over your clit under the fabric.

He’s watching you. His gaze fixed on his screen like he’s mesmerised by you, watching your lips part, your lashes flutter, everything about you. You’re not real, no way you are. You’re too fucking pretty and he’s never even met you.

His cock twitches in his hand, and he groans shakily. “So fucking pretty”

You blush, dipping your finger lowers before circling back up. “not so bad yourself,” you try to sound some way put together and he chuckles at your efforts.

“You have me so worked up Angel, and I’ve only seen your pretty tits, Christ. Take off your panties baby, let me see what you like.”

You’re astonished that you don’t even hesitate to use your other hand to slide down the fabric, kicking it to your ankles.

“Fuck baby you look so sweet, look at your screen for me, see how pretty your little cunt is,” your eyes immediately go to the little square in the corner, you’re completely soaked.

“Ain’t that a pretty sight huh baby?”

You flush red at the praise, managing to get a meek “mhm,” out.

“You’re so fucking wet, shit she’s practically glistening for me. So wet over a guy you’ve never met, hmm?”

Fuck, you’re embarrassed now. It’s bad enough that you’ve already had to resort to a fucking chat site, but now you’re getting off on the fact that he’s a total stranger?

“You’re making fun of me,”

“No,” a grin, “It’s cute,”

That has you losing whatever train of thought you had, your head slumping forward for a split second, giving him a glimpse of your hair covering your face before you catch yourself again.

“You pull this shit with all of your girls?”

It’s a weak rebuttal, but you’re not thinking about that, you’re not thinking at all.

“And guys,” he says sliding his thumb along his slit, collecting the bead of pre cum there and dragging it south. His eyes remain on his screen at all times, looking at you through his dark lashes.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Articulate,” he cocks his head.

“Shut up and stroke your shit.”

“Well I think we both know how aware you are that I’m stroking my shit, Angel,” his stupid little smirk, a shiver running along your spine.

He’s so fucking infuriating that you have the urge to hop through the screen and choke him, or fuck him - or both.

But that’s a bold claim considering the fact you’re drooling over a stranger, acting like his hands are yours. Wishing for a lot more than his hands.

“Shocked you have customers, your bedside manner isn’t really up to par,” you pause in the middle to let out a contradictory whine.

“Well your pretty pussy seems to be all for a little humiliation don’t think? Fuck I wish I could fuck her right now,” this pussy pronoun using bastard needs to calm down with all these reads.

“Shut up,” your eyes roll back, willing yourself to not cum yet.

“C’mon you can’t tell me you don’t wish I was there with you huh? Touching you, licking you, pounding into your sweet little hole hm?” His pace is getting faster and his palm swirls over his tip on each stroke.

“Shut the fuck up,” she gasps eyes screwed shut, “self involved prick,”

“Oh fuck baby, you talk to me so sweetly, what else am I?” His eyes are locked on the screen, your hand moving, your mouth letting out those desperate, divine sounds.

“Annoying, and arrogant and so fucking hot,” you hope the almost shout you let out is enough to distract him from what you’ve said.

“What was the last one Angel? C’mon let me hear that again,”

“So fucking desperate for someone to tell you you’re hot, huh? That why you whore yourself out on a cam website huh? You’re that thirsty for attention,”

In that moment, it isn’t clear what’s weaker, your dorms internet connection or his self control.

His mouth is agape, sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead with his lashes fluttering, fucking himself into his fist like he’s some kind of porn-star (he ain’t far off).

Watching him only makes you go harder, your hips shaky as you watch his teeth press into his lip, unable to hide the fucking whines he’s letting out if he tried, acting like the cum starting to drip down his knuckles isn’t there, pretending he’s fucking you and not his hand like some loser.

“Fuck, Angel,”

He’s panting, his back arching off of his desk chair as his free hand goes to desperate grip the table, trying to control himself, to last at least another second,

“C’mon, Angel, fuck..”

His words aren’t more than a broken whine, much like yours as your thighs start to tremble, forgetting about your laptop on your bed for a moment.

He doesn’t stop, he can’t. Not until he knows you’re there too, not until he knows for sure that you’re wishing he was there beside you.

“Please, fuck, please cum with me.”

Your resolve snaps, you oblige him. Head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and a noise complaint from your neighbours in all directions.

You momentarily black out you think, but when you come back that Blüdhaven guy is leaning back against his chair, head rolled back. He looks like he been put through the tumble dryer a good four times, but looking at the mess in his hands you’d think he had a pretty good time.

“Holy shit,” holy shit, you just had perhaps one of the most phenomenal orgasms of your life, with some guy on the internet and your fingers.

“Hmm,” he practically moans, still in a daze with his head thrown back, this angle making that little tattoo at the base of his neck more visible.

“You alive over there?” You manage to croak out, your heart still slamming in your chest as you let your hand fall by your side, almost wincing at the loss of touch.

“Uh-huh,” His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat, staring down at his hand and then back up at his screen, a broken grumble leaving him as he nods.

You’re not real, you genuinely have to be some kind of Angel. He’s never met anyone able to put him into such a state.

Well, he hasn’t met you either.

“Angel?” He mumbles breathlessly, praying that the dim light is enough to hide the flush of his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Leave me your number?”

He swallows,

“Please?”

——————————— ☆ ———————————

“Shit,” you groan into your hand at the sound of knocking on your dorm room door, rubbing a hand over your face.

It’s probably one of those stupid campus committee things going around. You’re not bothered to open the door, they can come back later for all you care.

You can’t get the guy from last night out of your head. You gave him your number under the premise of living on the edge for once in your life. You don’t expect him to call you, you don’t expect to see him like.. ever.

He does this like professionally, you’re just one of his girls - not even.

Another knock to the door disturbs your peace again, the sound of shoes shuffling outside your door.

“Give me a minute!”

You pull on a tank top, fixing your hair in an attempt to look somewhat decent when you inevitably have to open the door and tell these early birds to fuck right off.

You stumble out of your bedroom with a grumble, your socked feet thumping lightly against the creaky flooring.

“Hey, I’m not interest-“

Fuck.

There he is in the fucking flesh, standing at your door with a sheepish smile and a moving box.

You blink, digging your fingers into your palm to snap yourself out of whatever fucked up sex dream you’re having right now, staring at the guy standing in your doorway.

“Hey, this is room 444 yeah? I just got assigned here and I’m fucking lost.” He lets out a soft chuckle, rooting around in his pockets in efforts to show you his own key.

“Yes?” You murmur, the shakiness in your tone doing little to hide how aghast you are.

You have to double check, glancing over him like he’s got three fucking heads. He’s got the messy black hair, the boyish grin, that fucking tattoo at the base of his neck.

“Hey, you alright?”

His words snap you out of it, your nails digging into the doorframe like you’re about to rip the entire thing from its hinges.

“Yeah?”

You’re met with a slightly awkward nod, a far cry from whatever the fuck happened last night.

“Okay, good. I’m sorry I’m early, the train from Blüdhaven is a whole mess.”

You tilt your head, staring at him.

“Shit, my bad. Uhm, name’s Dick, Dick Grayson.” He offers, one hand fumbling to keep the box he has upright, the other now extended towards you.

Those same hands you wish were the ones fucking you last night, fuck, you need to lie down.

“Hey,”

Your words are far fucking shakier than you’d like, but how are you supposed to react?

He smiles, stepping inside your now shared dorm, glancing around and then at your slightly dishevelled form, offering another one of those little smiles that genuinely make you want to curl up and die on the spot.

“Rough night?”

He ain’t got a fucking clue.

“No, I uh, I couldn’t sleep, I guess.”

He nods, setting his box down on the coffee table, his eyes roaming over you for a moment more.

“Nice necklace.”

“Hm?” You blink.

“The Angel thingy, it’s cute.”

a/n: ITS TONGUE IN CHEEK DANIELLE!!

thank u @ccmf02 for proofreading and everything!!

Considering locking in with a pt 2 if the people wish..

Thank you for reading!!

I have motivation so reqs/asks are open

[bunnipuffs]

୨୧ cw. cnc, mean! ellie, toxic relationship, degrading language, choking, strap use, no prep

match my freak !

it started out with those stupid little arguments you'd always have with ellie, petty behavior that you never grew out of. ellie was a busy woman—being a leader of an infamous mafia group, she usually had business to attend to everyday, some activities ending late into the night. you were spoiled, and ellie only has herself to blame. she spent thousands of dollars on you and gave her undivided attention when you first married, working from home and forced her subordinates to complete her dirty work. things were different now. ellie's patience wears thinner, and you're only getting snappier.

"i just don't understand why you can't get home early for once. your little minions can do shit for you, can't they?" you're following ellie as she shrugs off her bloodied jacket, something you're used to seeing by now, watching as she tosses it onto your bedroom floor. you're huffing out a frustrated breath before picking it up and throwing it into your laundry basket. "and you can't even fuckin' pick up after yourself, seriously, ellie?" you're walking towards her with a scowl on your face, your hand coming to meet ellie's cheek, a loud plap! at the impact. "look at me when i talk to you!"

you can see ellie swallow before she speaks, eyes completely dark with anger. "you're a fuckin' brat, you know that?" you're walking backwards, ellie walking towards you now the same way you approached her—but she was scarier, much more menacing, and you knew what she was capable of. "you have the nerve to slap me?" ellie laughs, your bottom lip trembles slightly at her expression, but you harden your stare as your back presses up against the wall. was your room always this small? "i pay for our food, paid for this house, paid for that fancy fucking lingerie you're wearing, and you still bitch and whine about shit out of my control?" you're gulping, saliva thick in your throat, almost messing up your next words. "yeah and? you chose to."

ellie scoffs, a mean smile on her face. "i guess i did," she's looking you up and down, her gaze heavy on your skin. the way she's staring at you makes you want to hide somewhere, anywhere. "but you like it huh? letting me dress you up like a slut?" you flinch at her words, suddenly too aware that you're dressed like this while ellie is dressed normally, her usual t-shirt and jeans. you weakly push at her chest, "fuck you, ellie, you're the one who bought it for me!" ellie lets out a cruel laugh, the sound of it pissing you off even more, a sweet sounding hum from her throat after. "since it was my idea or whatever bullshit you think, i can do this right?"

ellie's aggressively lifting up your lacy bra, a startled noise spilling from your lips. "what the fuck ellie?—" you can't get another word out before she's toying with your nipples, harshly tugging at them before rubbing at it with the pads of her fingertips. you're biting at your lips, so hard you're almost breaking skin, desperately trying to keep your moans inside of you—you didn't want ellie to know she was making you feel good, she didn't deserve it, but your self control dissolves when you feel her lips wrap around your bud, warm and wet, her tongue circling around your nipple. she's grazing her teeth over them, sensitive from her fingers, a whimper dragged out of you. "ellie..."

“what? gonna complain about somethin’ else now?” her voice is muffled from how close she is to your body, her eyes never leaving yours. she pulls always from your tits, “this is mine. this,” she takes a finger, lifting up the strap of your bra before letting go, the strap snapping against your skin—you wince at the impact, harsh and merciless, eyes glossy from the pain. “and this,” her hand is trailing down to your cunt, slender fingers grazing over the fabric. “all mine, got it?” you’re moaning at the stimulation, a sadistic chuckle from ellie, “you’re soaked, babe. does arguing with daddy make you all wet?” you’re shaking your head no, but ellie knows your body better than you do. she can feel it. the way you’re ruining your panties, the way she can feel you grinding down on her hands, you don’t even notice. “fuck you.” you spit, legs shaky from her teasing. “aw, fuck me?”

ellie leans in next to your ear, the hot puff of her breath against your skin, it makes you shiver. “go lay down and take off your panties.” you challenge her gaze, unrelenting and stubborn. maybe that was why ellie loved you so much, you kept things so interesting. she thrived in chaos. “and if i don’t?” her hands come up to wrap around your neck almost instantly, not tight, but a grip that has you stuttering. a reminder of what your wife was capable of. “you wanna find out?”

you bite back a rebuttal, something that was second nature to you, to fight back even when the battle was lost. but you decide to be gracious to yourself, shoving ellie away before walking over to your shared bed, pulling off your panties. you feel embarrassed when you see the wet patch—your underwear basically translucent at ellie’s toying. you toss them onto your floor the same way ellie had earlier, sitting on the edge of your bed like you were told. your thighs are tightly pressed together. the weight of ellie’s stare is impossible to ignore, you can feel the stickiness sitting down, and she isn’t helping at all. “actin’ all shy now?” she’s walking over to your closet, picking up her strap. the one she always used when you got bratty, long and thick. it got you to shut up real fast. ellie smiles when she sees you staring at it, like it was a gun. “scared?”

“i’m not.” you huff, stubborn as always. watching as ellie walks over to you. she’s sitting right next to you, picking you up with ease—you’re hovering right above her strap, the tip poking at your pussy, it already feels huge against you. you’re gulping, eyebrows furrowing at the feeling. ellie’s grinning at the worried look on your face before you can even register it, “you should be.”

you don’t have time to breathe before she’s slamming you down onto her strap, in one thrust, the painful stretch sending shivers down your spine. it’s big, and you’re completely filled in a matter of seconds. you’re screaming out a strangled, “ellie!” voice shaky and unstable, clenching around the toy—ellie can barely move, the tightness of your cunt gripping onto the strap like you needed it. “hm? what is it, huh?” ellie groans when she looks down where you’re both connected, your slick glistening on the silicone. “thought i should teach you a lesson,” she’s holding your hips, both hands keeping you together, sliding you up and down. “since you think i choose to come home late..” you’re moaning too loud, the sweet noise echoing in your bedroom. your insides hurt, but it hurts so good—and ellie knows just the way you like it. “you should work for it. you should know how hard it is to fuckin’ work, provide for some bitchy wife who doesn’t appreciate it.”

ellie’s hands stay on your hips, squeezing at the plush skin. you hadn’t noticed your eyes were closed the whole time until you open them, fluttering, locking gazes with ellie. she’s not moving you anymore. you’re cock warming her, her strap buried all the way to the hilt. the adjustment is easier now that you can breathe properly. you twitch around her, your cunt pulsing. “what?” ellie rolls her eyes, adjusting her hips—the tip rubs against your sweet spot for a second, a whimper slipping out of you. “fuck yourself, work for it for once, since i always do. i always have.” you almost tell her to fuck off, again, but you don’t. ellie wants to see you beg, see you weak and pathetic. so you slowly drag yourself up her strap, slick dripping out of you and down your toy. you can see the mess you’ve made on it when you look down.

you’re building a steady pace, moans of ellie’s name and blabbering, a mean smile on your wife’s lips. the slide is easier now, her strap thrusting in and out of you so effortless without prep. ellie can feel her heart swell a little bit, the fact that you take it—taking it until you’re sore and swollen, eyes teary and a dumb look on your face afterwards. she loves you, and this was her way of showing it. “yeah c’mon, it’s hard right? having to work for something?” you’re shaking your head, fucking yourself faster and rougher at her words. she smiles, a genuine one, “tryin’ to prove me wrong, babe?” you’re whimpering when her tip hits that spot again, an electrifying feeling rushing through your body, your cunt feels so warm and wet. “you’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna c—“

you’re wrapping your hands around ellie’s throat, your chest filled with annoyance. it wasn’t how she held you, you tightened your grip—fingers digging into the sides of her neck, you’re leaning in close to her face. you hold back a grin when you see her eyes widen. “shut the f-fuck up, ellie.” you’re grinding down on her now, moving your hips in small circles. you’re close, abusing that spot inside of you. you can feel slick dribble out of your cunt at your own movement. “you told me to work for it, so i’m working. shut up and let me use you.” ellie laughs, strangled, her throat restricted. your eyes aren’t shut anymore, staring right back at her while you move up and down her strap. “think you can just.. hah, f-fuck, do whatever you want?” you’re bouncing on it now, the tip of her strap slamming against you—your thighs are shaking from how roughly you’re fucking yourself, your bottom half almost numb. “fuck you, ellie. you’re mine.”

plap! plap! plap! you’re whimpering uncontrollably now, your grip on ellie’s throat loosening. you slide down one more time before you’re cumming violently, pussy tightening around her, hard to slide back up with how you’re clenched around her strap. your entire body is shaking. you rock yourself back and forth, fucking yourself through your high. your breath is so shaky, coming out in fast pants, chest thrumming with how hard your heart is beating against your chest. ellie doesn’t say anything, a pink flush to her cheeks, her mouth slightly open with quiet moans falling out. your head falls into the crook of ellie’s neck, biting at her skin. “i think you complain a lot more than i do, els.”

tag list ♡

@whisperingcherub @hyperbabes

[rosenclaws]

How does Logan react when he thinks you're dead (either he sees your body, or thinks you're lost in an abyss, anything) but you awake or come back to him.

mm the angst yes please. I got a littleee carried away with each one but uhh its fine.

warnings: violence, injury, blood.

Origins Logan -

Logan is heartbroken. It's pretty much straight out of the movie where you're attacked by Sabertooth and Logan finds you bleeding out in the woods. He thinks your dead and there's a good reason to because of the blood on your clothes and he can't seem to find a pulse. He goes into a rage, he's angry and hurt and he hugs your body close to him and cries. He's dead set on revenge which is how they lure him into becoming part of the weapon x project. Turning his bones to metal in a very, very painful process. He does it for you thinking your dead but the whole time you're a pawn in Strykers game.

You don't knowingly spy on him like Kayla though (Ik she was being threatened but I wanna change things from the plot a little). You love Logan and you'd never do that to him. But they knew that hurting you was the best way to get to Logan so they did. Once Logan left your body they swooped in and experimented on you too to see if they could get anything out of you. You weren't a mutant like Logan and they wanted to see if they could insert the gene manually. When Logan escape it forces them to move you and ramp up their experiments. They try and wipe your memory just like Logan but it doesn't work. Somehow their stupid experiments don't kill you and you escape but now with powers you can't control born from Logan's DNA.

When you find each other again it's emotional. He thought you were dead and at first he thinks it's another trick but he sees you still have his dog tags and he knows you're real. He almost tackles you to the ground, holding you tight and burying his face in your neck. He asks a lot of questions and you don't have a lot of answers but when he sees you're now mutated he gets pissed. He wanted to kill Stryker for what they did to you. He knows the pain they put him through and he doesn't even want to think of how they hurt you. He keeps you by his side as you both try to explore this world now.

Trilogy Logan -

He's absolutely distraught. You're on a mission with the team and things are going fine. The two of you fight like hell and he still finds the time to make flirty quips as he digs his claws into another guy. It's standard. Until it isn't. Something goes wrong and you just don't know what to do. It was a trap, luring you in with mutant children just to kill you all. The building was literally going to collapse in on itself, burying you all alive. You use your powers to try and keep the building up but there are soldiers surrounding the building. it basically turns into a "Grab the kids and lets get the fuck out of here" plan. You keep the building up with every fiber of your strength and Logan is waiting for you. He's got like three kids and you know deep down that you can't go with him. If you break your concentration the building is gone and so are those kids. He refuses to leave you. He can hear scott yelling into his comm so he rips it out of his ear and throws it to the side. He's stubborn as hell but you won't let him put those kids in danger.

You can feel your grip slipping. The building shaking as your strength starts to dissipate. Bullets come flying through the concreate walls and you know that your time is up. So you tell Logan to go and come back. Lying to him that you have it handled and to focus on the mission. He makes you swear that you're okay and you do. You feel bad for lying but its what you have to do. The moment you know Logan is back on the jet you let go. Accepting that this was the end and that you saved those kids, saved your team, and saved Logan. Logan watches the building crumble, crushing anything around and in it. The roar he lets out is painful. They have to go and they know it. If they stay they risk giving up the sacrifice you had made. The jet doors close before Logan can get out. He's banging on them. Yelling and screaming to let him the fuck out. His claws sinking into the metal and it refuses to budge. The whole team is devastated and listening to Logan just makes it so much worse. Jean tries to calm him down but he tells her to fuck off. He's lashing out and everyone knows it.

He basically quits the X-Men for a while. He was a loner for a while and then he found you and this little family and he didn't mind fighting for something, for someone. But now you're gone. He tries to continue on but he just can't. I think he disappears for a while. Just to be on his own again because everything reminds him of you. He doesn't keep in contact with anyone. Just him and the Canadian Rockies. He doesn't know that you survived. That you crawled out of that rubble. Broken ribs and a lot of internal bleeding. That some nice old couple found you and let you stay until you were healed. You found your way back to the mansion months after they all thought you died. They couldn't believe it but the one thing on your mind was Logan and he wasn't there. After a tearful reunion with everyone else you hopped into one of Scotts cars and drove all day and all night until you found yourself at his cabin. He took you once and he promised to take you again.

He was outside chopping wood when he hears the car pull up. He just rolls his eyes and gets ready to tell them to leave him alone but then you step out. He must be dreaming he thinks. He drops the axe as you walk closer. Then his name falls from your lips and he takes off running. The first thing he does is kiss you. It's messy and desperate but holy fuck you're alive and you're here. Your crying and telling him you're sorry and he's just telling you it's okay. The two of you spend a lot of time in his cabin getting reacquainted. You tell him what happened and he listens. He watches you sleep in a not creepy way just because he wants to make sure you're really alive. he He's extra touchy and he's just happy that you're alive.

DOFP Logan -

I think losing you breaks him, I mean he gave up everything for a peaceful future. He went back in time to make sure his fellow mutants. His friends and family are safe. That you’re safe. Things were going well. Until the mansion was attacked. Logan was fighting off the attackers and you were evacuating the kids. It was utter chaos. Somehow an agent slipped past him and managed to fire a full round right into your stomach. The kids were okay, you protected them. But by the time Logan got to you, you were against the wall with blood everywhere. He was angry, pissed at himself and at whoever dared come and hurt them like this. He told you that everything was going to be okay. He wanted to stay with you, protect you. But there was still fighting and Logan had to put the kids first. With tears in your eyes you told him to go and it takes everything in him to leave you. By the time he came back your body was gone. Presumed dead.

The whole mansion could feel Logan's grief. While they all mourned you he was the worst of them all. The happiness had once again been ripped from his life. He thought things were supposed to be better in this new timeline but he just can't be happy apparently. He stopped teaching, hell bent on getting revenge on the group that attacked them. He wanted to avenge you, he was going to make them pay.

When they found them Logan went off by himself. The team could show up if they wanted to but fuck he was going to kill them all. No mercy. He slashed his way through but nothing seemed to heal his heart. No matter how many guards he took down. Until he found a room with lab equipment, attached to it was a small cell and that's where he found you. They had taken you from the mansion and were experimenting on you. But you were alive. Suddenly Logan wishes he spent more time on their deaths, regretting killing them so quickly. He bundles you up and carries you back to the jet where everyone is shocked to see you in his arms. He doesn't let go as they fly back to the mansion. You curl closer to him in your sleep and he promises to never let them take you again.

Old Man Logan -

He doesn't hesitate to kill them all. He just wants to be left in peace but these fuckers keep coming back. Mostly for Laura but the two of you have vowed to protect this little girl with everything you have. The ambushed you in public, shooting up a damn grocery store just to catch the two of you off guard. Logan was off working when he heard about it on the radio. He broke every traffic law in sight to get to you. Pushing past the people running away to get inside. That's when he saw you lying on the ground in a pool of blood and those bastards hands trying to drag Laura away.

All he saw was red. He barely even felt anything as he killed every single person in there. They killed you, tried to take Laura away. They didn't deserve his mercy. They deserved pain and pain is what he gave them. By the time they were all dead he still didn't feel satisfied. Until Laura called his name. She was next to you. Logan felt this horrible pain, knowing he was going to have to tell her you were gone. Then you moved. He rushed to your side and felt your pulse. You were breathing, alive. An ambulance came to take you away and Logan almost put his claws through some damn officers who tried to get him to stay. He told them they could ask him some fucking questions later because all he cared about was you. It was an agonizing amount of time before he was told that you were stable. You looked so frail when he walked into your hospital room. It took a couple days but you woke up and Logan was right there. He didn't tell you what happened after you went down, not about the blood he shed. He just told you Laura was okay and left it at that. He held your hand and listened to your heartbeat, just happy to see you alive.

Worst Logan -

He's fucking devastated. You were at the mansion when they attacked. When Logan was getting drunk at that bar. There was a lot of guilt festering in him but he couldn't find your body. He searched the whole mansion for you but he just couldn't find you. He couldn't even bury you. Like in the movie he turned to alcohol and rage. Killing because he hoped that maybe it would bring back any feeling but nothing could cure the hole in his heart.

When he got dragged to the void the last person he expected to see was you standing at Cassandras side. Your name left lips as he walked towards you only to be thrown into the ground by Cassandra. Are you a variant? You have to be. But as Cassandra probed his brain she made a comment that let him know it was really you. He tried to talk to you, ask you for help but you just stayed quiet. It really was him. You had conflicting feelings and Cassandra could sniff them out in an instant. You promised you were loyal but when Logan came back you couldn't bring yourself to hurt him. Even though he could heal you just couldn't. Cassandra sent you into a wall when she saw your weakness. Logan charged at her, telling her to get her fucking hands off of you. He won't fail you again. She lets you free as she turns her attention to Logan, digging deep into his brain to see all his memories. His failures, his guilt. Somehow his weird red friend managed to stop her. Logan's speech, he looked right as you as he spoke. How he wants to be a better man, to be the X-Man that you and Charles told him he could be. When she made the portal Logan didn't hesitate to grab you and take you with him. He wasn't leaving you again.

When the world was saved and everything was over you two spent some time together away from the crazy. He fell to his knees and apologized for being a coward. For leaving you. You told him how you got there, that the TVA had showed up and zapped you into the void. You joined Cassandra to survive but Logan didn't care about that. He understood. He was just happy to have you back and for once he felt like he could breathe.

[iydiamartinx]

DROWNING IN THE DARK

Pairing: Roy Harper x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.6k synopsis: You come home to find Roy spiralling into the darkness a/n: it's angsty and read the warnings! warnings: reference to addiction, depression, abandonment, dark themes

The apartment was dark when you walked in. Instantly, you could feel something was off. Heavy. Dense. Drenched in silence so thick it nearly swallowed your breath the moment you stepped inside.

You found him in the corner of the living room.

Hunched over, elbows digging into his knees, fingers trembling where they clutched the edge of the couch. His jaw was locked tight, but it did nothing to conceal the tremor running through his shoulders. His cybernetic arm gave a sudden twitch, the soft whir of its mechanics barely audible beneath the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breathing. Outside, the city lights pulsed against the window, casting fractured reflections across the metal where skin used to be.

“Roy?” you called gently.

He didn’t look up.

You took a step closer. “Roy? What’s wrong?” Then another. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

You stopped just beside him, lowering your voice. “You’re lying.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “What gave it away? The radiant joy pouring off me—or the fact that I’ve been sitting here for three damn hours, thinking about every stupid decision I’ve ever made?”

Your heart clenched. “What’s going on?”

“I want it,” he said, eyes flashing up at you, wild and broken. “God, I want it so bad. I don’t even know if I want the high or the numbness more. Anything that’ll shut up the noise.”

You stayed still. Let him spill what was bothering him.

“My head won’t stop,” he bit out, dragging both hands down his face. “I haven’t slept. I can’t eat. I feel like I’m crawling in my own skin. Everything itches. Everything aches. And I keep thinking—just one hit. One. Just enough to take the edge off.”

His breathing grew harsher, chest rising fast, voice thinning to something hoarse and desperate.

“But I know it won’t stop there,” he said. “It never does. I’ll fall. I always fall. And then what? What happens to Lian if I disappear down that hole again?”

You stepped forward, slowly, arms outstretched—but he shot to his feet before you could touch him, pacing like he was being hunted by his own shadow.

The cybernetic arm flexed again, stiff and unnatural, whirring with movement that didn’t feel like him.

“I look at this fucking thing—” He lifted it as if the very sight repulsed him, as if it didn’t belong to him at all—“and I don’t even know who I am anymore. It’s not mine. It doesn’t feel like me. It’s just a constant reminder of how badly I fucked everything up. Of everything I’ve lost.”

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, tugging at the strands like he could claw the frustration out of his skull.

“Oliver left. My arm’s gone. My life’s a fucking disaster,” he rasped, each word scraped raw. “And I’m just supposed to… cope?”

His voice cracked on the last word—sharp and bitter.

“I needed him,” he whispered. “After everything I went through, after everything I did to claw my way back—he still left. Walked away. Didn’t even look back.”

He turned to face you then, hands clenched, knuckles white.

“You know what that felt like? Like I wasn’t worth the trouble. Like I broke, and he decided I wasn’t shiny enough to keep anymore.”

Your breath caught.

“I gave him everything,” he said, voice breaking under the weight of it. “Believed in him more than I ever believed in myself. I saw him as family. And he left. He left when I needed him most. And now…”

He swallowed hard, like it hurt.

“Now I’m terrified I’ll do that to her. To my daughter.”

His voice fractured on that last word. Daughter. It sounded sacred. Like it was the last thing tethering him to whatever goodness was left inside him.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You crossed the room and gently placed your hands on either side of his face. He tried to look away, but you held firm.

“You’re still here,” you whispered. “That means something.”

Roy trembled under your touch. “I’m not strong enough.”

“Yes, you are,” you said firmly. “Because no matter how bad the craving feels, you still haven’t used. No matter how bad it’s hurting. You haven’t given in. That’s strength, Roy.”

One of your hands trailed down to stroke his metal arm.

He looked down at the metal limb and your touch in despair. “I can’t feel it. Not really. And when I do, it’s like it’s not mine. It reminds me every second of what I lost. Every mistake. Every fucking thing I can’t take back.”

Your voice softened. “It saved your life.”

He looked up at you again, eyes glassy and burning red at the corners. “But at what cost?”

You dropped to your knees in front of him, one hand still cupping his face. Your thumb brushing his cheek. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into you either. Not yet.

“You’re here,” you whispered. “You’re alive. You’re fighting. That’s more than most people could do, Roy. That’s more than you think you’re doing.”

His throat worked. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” He whispered quietly in admittance.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you’re not alone.”

He shook his head, harsh and almost childlike. “I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” you said firmly. “I chose to be here. I choose you.”

The silence between you stretched. It thrummed with everything unsaid, with the war still raging behind his eyes and the steadiness you refused to let go of.

Roy’s gaze dropped. “You say that now,” he muttered. “But what happens when I fall apart again? When it gets worse?”

You didn’t let go. Not even for a second.

“Then I’ll sit on the bathroom floor with you at two in the morning and remind you to breathe,” you said softly. “I’ll hold your hand when your hands won’t stop shaking. I’ll fight the goddamn ghosts with you if I have to, Roy. You don’t scare me.”

He blinked fast, jaw tightening. “You should be scared.”

“No,” you said, and your voice didn’t waver. “What scares me is the thought of you doing this alone.”

That made him freeze. The tension in his shoulders locked up, like your words had found a part of him too raw to touch.

“I don’t know how to be okay,” he whispered. “I don’t even know what that looks like anymore.”

You leaned your forehead against his, gentle and steady. “Then we figure it out. Together. One day at a time. One hour, if we have to.”

His face finally crumpled.

Like he’d been holding himself together with thread and hope, and both had finally snapped. A ragged sound tore from his throat and he reached for you—not with the cybernetic arm, but with the other, pulling you into his lap like he was drowning and you were the only thing tethering him to shore.

You wrapped your arms around him instantly, guiding his head to your chest as his body began to tremble.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, one hand running through his hair, the other rubbing slow circles into his back. “It’s okay. Let it out. I’m here.”

His breathing hitched against your collarbone. You pressed a kiss to his temple. Then another to his cheek. “You are not your addiction,” you told him gently. “You are not broken.”

He let out a soft, choked sound.

“You’re allowed to feel this. You’re allowed to hate what happened. But you don’t have to face it alone.”

You kissed his hair. “I love you,” you said, lips brushing his skin with each word. “All of you. The scars. The rage. The metal. Every part of you.”

His head was still buried against your chest when you felt the tears soak through your shirt—quiet, shame-filled things that didn’t come with sobs, only shuddered breaths and a muffled exhale.

“I can call Jason,” you said softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “He’s with Lian. He’d want to know you’re—”

“No,” Roy rasped, the word sharp but not cruel. Just… scared.

You hesitated.

“He’s with Lian,” he murmured, quieter now. “She’s probably laughing her head off at whatever stupid voice he’s using to read to her right now. He deserves that. She deserves that. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You wouldn’t ruin it, Roy—”

“I would,” he said, finally lifting his head to look at you, eyes raw and rimmed red. “Jay’s already done enough. I can’t keep being his problem. I’m his best friend, not his fucking burden.”

Your heart cracked open at the words.

“You’re not a burden. Not to him. Not to me. Not to anyone who loves you.”

He swallowed hard, the words barely sinking in.

“I’ll still tell him later,” you added gently. “Not to worry him. Just so he knows. But right now, he’s got her, and I’ve got you.”

Roy let out a shaky breath, like he was holding onto too many things at once—shame, guilt, fear—and he didn’t know where to put them.

You kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth, lingering just long enough for him to feel it. Real. Steady.

“You’re allowed to need help,” you whispered. “You don’t always have to be the strong one. You don’t always have to be okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His shoulders dropped the smallest degree.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” you said, your voice no more than a breath. “Just don’t do it alone.”

Slowly, the tension in his body began to ease. His breathing evened out. His grip loosened—not from pushing you away, but from finally letting go.

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, now calmer, less stormy.

“I love you,” you whispered again, and kissed him—softly, slowly, like an anchor against the pull of the void.

When you pulled back, his eyes were closed. And for the first time that night, there was peace in his expression.

He whispered, barely audible, “Don’t let go.”

You tightened your arms around him.

“Never.”

[kwillow]

A little devil.

Mostly drawn because I got some asks about what an infernal Ambroys might be like -- I didn't figure people would be curious, but perhaps I should have known. Tumblr loves a tiefling...

(Asks and answers under the cut)

AUs that change up major aspects of a characters life are always tricky to solidify, because you need to consider which of their personality traits are inborn versus which ones were manifested or exacerbated by their life history. Even though I think growing up as this highly distrusted and stigmatized kind of creature could theoretically make him humbler or nicer, he wouldn’t feel much like himself. I would consider three traits to be core to an Ambroys feeling like an Ambroys: his ego issues, his need to be liked, and his difficulty empathizing with others. So let’s assume he’s going to be that way no matter what.

Being of celestial heritage, born of these powerful, once-worshipped (even if they aren’t any longer) beings, naturally exacerbates those personality traits. He’s got a big ego because he’s grown up being told he’s the gods’ favorite princess, but it’s also easily damaged because he can’t live up to those expectations, his preoccupation with having others’ adoration is fed by being guaranteed their attention like the Baroque version of child star, and he’s going to empathize with others less because he’s literally “not like them.”

Being infernal, these hated, feared and disliked creatures, would flip some of these things. Maybe instead, his ego would manifest as being something “special” but despised despite his capabilities. One can assume his whining about how “people just can’t handle me because I’m cooler than them” in this comic would be similar, but heavier on the “the world just doesn’t GET ME, MAAAN” and less on trying to be something other people want (because people don’t want him in the first place). Instead of fearing he’s less than people expect, he might instead be convinced he can be more than people know. Instead of being hugely egotistic on the surface with secret insecurities, he might scrape and act self-deprecating while secretly believing he’s above all that.

While normally, Ambroys can get away with bad behavior because people are inclined to believe he’s inherently good (including himself), this Ambroys would be told he’s inherently evil. While I think that could manifest as him being completely mask-off, because he wants to be liked, an infernal Ambroys might instead be more careful with his behavior. 

For instance, normally, Ambroys knows that people he’s just met will be on his side, and getting to know him well tends to lead to their opinions of him worsening, so he cultivates shallow first impressions and tries to play to what other people’s best impressions of him are, as well as resorting to cheap tactics like sex appeal to have the most shallow attention-grabbing persona possible. So, despite how I drew him, an infernal Ambroys might tamp down on the sexy bad-boy thing (knowing it would reflect badly on him and come off as “sleazy” instead of “dreamy”).

Leading from that, I typically describe Ambroys as “stupid,” but he’s like that not because of any inherent limitations to his intellect, but because he can coast through life without trying, so he never needed to develop any skills he didn’t want to. Eventually, in his older years, he struggles enough in his life that he develops things like “forethought” and “theory of mind.” This Ambroys would have to learn more quickly to demonstrate his best qualities to others, so he’d be cleverer and more canny.

Would he use that for good? Fuck no, he’s still an Ambroys. But his attempts at manipulation would be more calculated and long-term, rather than “just start going through my mansplain, manipulate, manwhore routine until I get the attention I want” that Ambroys does. An infernal Ambroys would know he’ll never have the majority of people on his side, so he might value making few, more valuable connections more. He’d focus his efforts on seeking useful allies and sucking up to them to try to get what he wants, instead of wasting his time trying to appeal to people who will probably never care for him. Instead of shallow surface appeal, he might focus on appearing more useful to key allies. He cannot be wanted, but he can be needed. Instead of trying to crowd-surf, he’d try to ladder-climb.

At some point in Ambroys’ life, the powers that be put him to use in the military. Ambroys normally views this as an aggravating burden (albeit fun at times, in the way that he enjoys hunting boars). Infernal Ambroys would be more gung-ho about it, in the interest of demonstrating his usefulness to powerful people and getting the recognition he feels he deserves.

You might notice that none of these behaviors are particularly “nice.” Ambroys can normally appear very friendly, if not terribly kind, because he assumes most people will like him, and that gives them value even if he doesn’t really think much of their inner worlds or emotions. Everyone is beneath him, so he doesn’t treat a noblewoman much better than a barmaid, barring some necessary rules of etiquette. Since most people won’t like an infernal Ambroys due to widespread beliefs about infernals, a demonic Ambroys wouldn’t bother with them. He wouldn’t even pretend to give a shit about most people. Instead glad-handing with the peasantry, he’d focus on people “on his level” (power-players, nobility, etc.) He’d appear much cooler in his manner with most people, perhaps shallowly polite but distant, shirking most social interaction because it’d be a waste of his time.

…Wow that was more words than I thought I’d be able to type about this silly concept, maybe I should cut that one off here. TL;DR: Infernal Ambroys would appear more humble, but be just as egotistical beneath. He’d be more asocial than Ambroys normally is, but work very hard to cultivate key relationships, being a more canny social player at a younger age. He would not really be any nicer, unless you’re in a position of power that might help him get the appreciation he feels he deserves.

I went into his personality above, so instead let's talk about FAMILY MATTERS.

To briefly summarize Ambroys' family situation: his father is an older nobleman who never succeeded at having heirs, and was "blessed" with one by a celestial because of his devout and goodly nature, who left Ambroys with him to raise. A few years later, that same nobleman had an oops-baby with a commoner woman -- that would be Charles (apparently Ambroys' dad wasn't completely infertile after all).

Perhaps, with an infernal, the whole Ambroys situation would be less a prayer being answered, and more a deal with the devil. A Faustian bargain to finally have the son he's always wanted.

Ambroys' dad is a good guy. I think he'd be kind to his demon son (he asked for it after all), but would keep him sequestered away, knowing the stigma they'd both face if he showed his his in polite society.

Charles entering the picture would also be... complicated. You go to all this trouble and sully your good name to have a demon baby, and then just have a perfectly good normal baby a few years later. Damn. A bastard child isn't great for your image, but it's more socially acceptable than the whole deal with the devil thing.

Rather than the normal dynamic of Ambroys being paraded about and Charles kept on the sidelines until he's proven himself, in this AU, Charles would be the son their dad favors at first, with Ambroys being the shameful secret. Charles is also still a good guy, so I think he'd try to be friendly with Ambroys, but would always have this pitying, condescending edge to their interactions (as opposed to normal Charles, who looks up to a celestial Ambroys as this perfect older brother he can never live up to).

Their relationship would be less turbulent, but an infernal Ambroys would resent Charles being the "good" son in the same way that celestial Ambroys resents him for being a rival. Instead of taking it out on him by being a petty bully, an infernal Ambroys might instead try to use him for his own ends, being a devil on his shoulder (ha ha), knowing Charles can navigate through the world more easily than he can. Then take out that long-bubbling resentment on him in a big way, once he doesn't need Charles any longer. They've still gotta have that Abel and Cain thing going on.

They might still become friends as kids, because I don't think Ambroys would be cognizant enough of his power quest at like five years old to decide she's below his notice, and Lou flouts social norms, perhaps including avoiding devils. They'd need to keep their friendship a secret, though -- her parents would probably not be so keen on their daughter's little buddy.

Though I don't think they'd stay close. Part of what Lou likes about Ambroys is that he shows a side of himself he doesn't to other people, which he does primarily because she's lower status and therefore "harmless," and he's also a major ditz who looks to her for advice and consoling because he doesn't "get" people (not that she does). His openness lets her feel she has this absurd connection to power, and command over that power, that someone of her status normally never would. It's intoxicating to her.

Since infernal Ambroys would be cannier, he wouldn't need advice from her. He also wouldn't want her to feel that she has power over him, which ruins that avenue of appeal. He might still appreciate their childhood friendship, being someone with few positive social connections, but grow more distant as he seeks more valuable connections later in life. Her insulting, abrasive personality would also be unpleasant and tiresome to him -- he would get that from everyone, as opposed to celestial Ambroys, who finds it novel and exciting that she's so openly rude to him (while still seeking out his company). I think she'd pick up on that and start considering him someone that can't handle her, just like everyone else -- and also, damn, not even a fucking hellspawn can tolerate her. That would be a wound to her ego.

Ultimately, infernal Ambroys wouldn't need her in the way that Ambroys normally needs her. Instead of ending with a bang of a big blow-out break-up fight, their relationship would end with a whimper of prolonged ghosting. I guess that's better for her in the long run.

[sgstories123]

Sean's New Family

“Welcome home, the new Mrs Lee!” Sean’s father gushed happily as he led his new bride into the large living room. “Let’s go up and try the new bed!”

“Oh, you dirty old man! All you think about is sex.” The newly wedded Mrs Lee was obviously faking displeasure as she giggled seductively and pulled naughtily at Sean’s father, leading him up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Sean just stared after his father as he disappeared together with his new wife into their bedroom. He turned his attention back to the other person sitting nonchalantly in the living room, his new stepsister, Sophia.

Sean’s mother passed away when he was still a baby. Since then, his father, a successful businessman had been regularly bringing home different woman back to their home. He was used to all these “aunties” coming and going. None seemed to last very long, at most about a year. He was thus surprised that his father decided to marry Sophia’s mother despite having known her for less than a month. All the previous “aunties” were telling him that they will soon be promoted to be his “mummy” but had never succeeded. There was something special about Sophia’s mother.

Sure, she had huge boobs, D cup at least, maybe much larger. But she also knows how to dress and talk seductively. He has seen the way she looked into his father’s eyes. They were like a doe’s eyes, so soft and gentle. Any man’s soul would melt staring into them.

This was only the third time that he had met Sophia. His dad brought Sophia to the house for the first time when he announced that he was marrying Sophia’s mother. He then met her at the Registry of Marriage two days ago. And today was when their parents held their traditional wedding dinner. They had not talked at all during the first two meetings, but Sean thought Sophia was pretty and sexy. Clearly, she had inherited some of her mother’s genes.

Sophia had large breasts, not as large as her mother’s, but definitely at least a C cup, much larger than most girls of her age. She was thin, which made her breasts even more prominent. She had a small waist and a well-rounded ass. Her curves could easily put her on a fashion walkway. But the most seductive feature were her thick, succulent red lips. Against the background of her pearly white smooth skin, she was like a Japanese AV model.

“So, where’s my room?” Sophia asked in a husky voice. That was the first time Sean had heard her voice. It was so sexy.

“Upstairs.” He croaked, his throat dry.

“Are you stupid? Of course it is upstairs. Did you think I am going to sleep in the servant’s room on the ground floor? Which room is it?”

“The one at the end of the corridor, facing the swimming pool.” Sean finally found his voice.

Sophia was silent for a while before speaking again, in a gentler tone. “Sorry for sounding harsh. I am not used to this, you know. Living with strangers.” She sighed before continuing. “Mum is always a hopeless romantic, falling in love with different men all the time. But I guess we are now family. We are the same age, so I won’t call you “Kor” even though you are a couple of months older than me. Cool?”

“Yeah, cool.” Sean cursed inwardly. Damn. Sophia had those doe’s eyes as well. He could feel his cock stirring in his pants. He tried calming his cock down by trying to list the letters of the alphabet backwards.

“Show me my room?” Sophia stood up, her round ass swaying seductively inside her tight pink jeans.

Sean quickly adjusted his hard cock in his jeans so that it would not be so obvious before Sophia could turn around. He walked past Sophia and caught a whiff of her scent. Damn. She smells so good, like some fruit ripening in the woods. They went up the stairs and when they passed their parents room, they heard Sean’s father groaning loudly in pleasure. “You like that, huh? You like that? You like my big cock fucking your tight hole?”

Sean turned red with embarrassment. He turned back to look at Sophia who clearly heard every word. “Your dad, huh? Dirty old man.” She smirked.

At that moment, Sophia’s mum could be heard moaning lustfully. “Fuck me harder. I want your cock in my tight hole.”

Sean smirked back at Sophia. “Your mum, huh? Dirty old woman.”

They looked at each other and then laughed. The ice was broken.

“You are cool.” Sophia smiled, her eyes twinkling. “And cute.”

Sean’s pulse quickened, the blood gushing down into his cock. “Yeah, I am always cool.” Sean croaked, his throat going all dry again.

“That’s my room?” Sophia tilted her head towards the room at the end of the corridor. Without waiting for an answer, Sophia opened the door of her room, revealing a large king-sized bed with a thick, fluffy, pink comforter.

“Nice. My favorite colour.” Sophia sat down on her bed, bouncing slightly, testing the springs of the bed. She leaned back and laid down on the bed. Her blouse became loose and Sean caught a peek of the white, flat stomach against the tight pink jeans.

Sean moved closer to the side of the bed. Lying down, Sophia’s breasts rose rhythmically with each breath. Maybe a D cup or larger, Sean corrected himself, viewing the twin towers from this new angle.

Sophia sat up suddenly and looked at Sean with her doe eyes again. She glanced downwards and giggle.

“You are just like your dad. Dirty old man.” Sophia giggle.

Sean looked down and realized with horror that despite him adjusting his cock earlier, it was still making an obvious tent in his jeans. “Fuck!”

“Yes, why not? Let’s give little Sean down there a breather.” Sophia cooed.

She unbuckled his belt and tried to pull down his jeans. “Ouch!” Sean cursed as his stiff cock got caught in his jeans.

Sophia giggled. “Who ask you to have such a big cock? You deserve it.” She pulled down his Calvin Kleins and pushed his cock down before releasing it. Sean’s erect cock snapped back, hitting his flat stomach with a dull thud.

“Fuck! That hurts!” Sean cursed. “This is not a toy, you know.”

“Well, it is going to be my sex toy.” Sophia smiled seductively. She grabbed Sean’s balls, tugging at them and pulling them closer, as she licked them carefully, slowly tracing the contours with her tongue.

Sean moaned as Sophia’s rough tongue caressed all his pleasure points. Sophia wrapped her longer slender fingers around Sean’s cock, caressing it seductively, scratching it lightly with her fingernails along its whole length. Sean held on to Sophia’s shoulders for support as strength oozed out of him, surrendering himself to Sophia’s expert ministrations. 

Sophia wrapped her fingers around Sean’s cock, applying pressure along it, adding to his pleasure as she continued her tea bagging. She pulled and tugged at his cock, changing the direction and pressure, reacting to Sean’s moans of pleasure and involuntary thrusting of his hips.

“I am gonna cum!” Sean groaned as he thrust forward, his hand holding Sophia’s head tight, as he shot a stream of semen into the air. Sophia had not expected it and could not move away in time as Sean was holding her head tightly against him. Some of the semen got into her face and hair.

“Can’t you at least give some warning the next time? You know how difficult it is to wash this off?” Sophia pouted.

“Sorry.” Sean apologized. He was disappointed too that he came so fast. But Sophia’s blowjob was just out of this world, he reasoned. No one could last more than 5 minutes with that kind of blowjob.

“Sorry not good enough.” Sophia stood up and pushed Sean onto her bed. She took off her clothes, revealing her large breasts and a shaved pussy.

Fuck! Sean thought to himself. Those are definitely D cups! And a shaved pussy! He had fantasized about them after seeing them in porn but he had never fucked a shaved pussy before. This was a dream come true. His cock stirred.

“Nice! I don’t have to do anything and you are already ready to be my sex toy.” Sophia gushed. She straddled Sean, guiding his hard cock into her waiting, wet pussy. Sean’s cock found the entrance to Sophia’s love hole easily. It slid in easily into the well-lubricated love tunnel but half-way in, it met with resistance.

“Argh! Your cock is so much larger than any other cock that I have.” Sophia grimaced. Her right hand held onto Sean’s shoulder for support, her nails digging deep in as she tried to bear the pain of Sean’s large implement entering her. She leaned forward, positioning herself for an easier entry as she slide backwards.

Slowly, Sean’s cock inched in, spreading the walls further apart. But it was not fully immersed yet. Sean felt the base of his cock and there was about a finger’s width of his cock still outside Sophia’s body. But Sophia is no longer moving as the pain was too much for her to bear. Sean was getting impatient. With his cock still impaled in her, Sean sat up and turned Sophia onto her back. Not listening to her objections, he forcefully thrust himself deep into her, closing that last bit of distance between them.

Sophia screamed in pain, pushing hard against Sean’s body. Her resistance was futile as Sean lifted her legs up over his shoulders, ramming himself deeper into her. He was overcome with lust and didn’t care anymore if he was causing his sister pain. He paused for a second to enjoy the sensation of his cock enveloped by the warm, tight love hole. He grinded himself against the smooth pussy, sliding his pubic hair against the pearly white skin. The tip of his cock twinged with pleasure as it rubbed against the innermost sanctum of Sophia’s womb. Sean slowly withdrew his cock, feeling his cock head traversed across the many pleasurable folds along the love tunnel. As the whole length is almost out, he slowly pushed his cock in again, new pleasurable sensations run from his cock throughout his whole body as his cockhead brushed against the folds from a different direction.

Sophia relaxed herself against Sean as the pain subsided, and was replaced by increasing pleasurable sensations as Sean’s cock filled her a second time. Her vagina was getting used to his length and girth now, adapting quickly to the size of Sean’s large cock. She moaned softly in pleasure and as Sean picked up his pace, her moans grew louder and louder.

Sean rocked himself against Sophia, grinding her against her bed. He pushed harder and harder, faster and faster. His perspiration is falling onto Sophia’s large breasts now and he leaned forwards, burying his face between them. Grunting, he pushed himself even harder, forcing Sophia to curl upwards like a ball. Ramming vertically down into her cunt, he released his second load of semen deep into Sophia’s womb, without wasting a single drop. Exhausted, he finally let go of Sophia, rolling off to one side, satisfied.

The two of them lay silent side by side, each satisfied for the moment, enjoying the slowly subsiding pleasures from their bodies.

“I always wanted to fuck a shaved pussy. This was a dream come true.” Sean confessed softly.

“I always wanted to fuck a brother. This was a dream come true. Kor.” Sophia confessed softly. Sean’s cock stirred. Incest. Now that was another of his favorite porn theme.

“Oh my. Look what have we here.” Sophia’s mother appeared at the door, naked, her large D cup breasts jiggling as she spoke.

Fuck. Sean cursed himself. They should have closed the door. Now how is he going to explain to his dad?

“Hmm. Looks like I don’t have to worry about the siblings not getting along. Shall we join them, Mrs Lee?” Sean’s dad appeared behind Sophia’s mother, his cock limp and swaying slightly.

“I want a taste of that young, huge dick.” Mrs Lee looked hungrily at Sean as she walked forwards.

“Okay. But my cock is still bigger and I don’t think you will find Sean a better fuck than me.” Sean’s dad countered.

“Well, Sophia already had a taste of Sean’s cock. Why don’t you fuck her and see whether she thinks you are better than Sean.” Sophia’s mother climbed onto the bed and whispered into Sean’s ear. “And you better tell me that I am a better fuck than Sophia.”

Fuck! This is going to be an interesting family, Sean thought to himself.

[iamthatonefangirl]

So I’m not completely sure how requests work but I NEED a fic where the reader like gets into an argument with the winter soldier about something small or big like how he never opens up to her (whatever you prefer) and then some HATE sex after (not really hate just frustrated yk)

disconnect - nsfw winter soldier

I received a few asks that inspired me to develop a story combining them. this is my interpretation of them.

pre-established relationship. if you're new here, there's a mention of a prior event.

disclaimer: fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated. dark/sad themes, similar to depictions of depression. read at your own discretion.

~~~

it's stupid, really.

the mud boot tracks all over the entryway when you get home. the huge disaster area the kitchen is.

is it really that difficult to not leave a mess everywhere?

you make your way to the bedroom and drop your bag somewhere on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed to chuck off your shoes and jacket.

you sit there for a moment, head buried in your hands.

the weight of your situation gets to you more often than not. a lot of those thoughts in your head go unsaid for a number of reasons, particularly because he doesn't have the emotional capacity to care, in your opinion.

is this really the life you thought you'd end up living?

if you wanted to quit working, you could. he brings in more than plenty.

and you'd never have to worry about being sexually frustrated a day in your life.

is that really the sum total of your relationship?

you let out a sigh.

you feel stuck.

~~~

he comes into the bedroom ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, covered in water from head to toe minus the towel wrapped around his waist.

he goes straight for the bed, lying down on the fresh sheets, soaking them.

"seriously?" you ask, looking up at him, exasperated at this point.

he tilts his head in your direction and gives you a blank stare as though he has no clue what you're talking about.

you take a deep breath and shove down your anger. he's been gone for a week, cut him some slack, you tell yourself.

"everything go okay?" you ask.

you don't want to know the gory details, and he wouldn't tell you, anyways. his face contorts, giving you a disgusted look as though you're crazy for even asking.

he proceeds to shove his hands behind his head, closing his eyes to get some rest.

another deep breath.

"are you hungry?" you offer. the mess in the kitchen tells you that he's not, but you're seriously trying here.

he lets out a low grunt, which you take to mean 'no.'

"can you stay awake for five minutes to fucking talk to me?" you say, anger rising in your chest as you struggle to keep your head straight.

"not talking to you about work," he grumbles, not even opening his eyes.

"clearly, you're not talking to me at all! fuck, I mean, when do you ever?" you yell, standing and walking over to the side of the bed next to where he's laying.

in your anger, you grab his arm and roughly yank it out from under his head, surprising him. his eyes shoot open and he glares up at you as though you've just personally offended him.

"you never fucking talk to me! I- I don't even know if you like me! it's like you just live in my apartment so you can fuck me whenever you want!" you yell at him. your emotions are getting the better of you, your insecurities and your anger twisting in your head. you're completely helpless to stop your mouth from speaking them into reality.

not a word in response. his face is completely devoid of any emotion.

"I don't even know why I expect anything different from you," you scoff. "you're a heartless motherfucker. you don't even care about me."

you feel so empty inside. all the sacrifices you've made, all the times you've cried over the fact that you can't just be normal, all because of what he does for a living, who he is.

all while having to stomach the nausea of simply knowing why you have to keep him a secret.

it's too much to deal with anymore.

he watches as you drag an empty duffel bag out of the closet and begin throwing various items of clothing inside it. it takes a few moments, but it finally clicks in his head: you're leaving. and he doesn't know when, or if, you'll be back.

he stands, grabbing your arm as carefully as he can, stopping you from continuing to pack. "no. stay," he tells you. he sounds so calm, his voice is void of its usual sternness.

he's only calm because he's panicking inside.

you take his calm demeanor to mean that he genuinely does not give a fuck.

"get off me. I'm leaving," you tell him, pulling your arm away from his grasp. that's all you can say, because that's all you know right now. you have no plans for where you're going or when you're coming back.

if you're coming back.

you shove a few more things in your bag as your eyes tear up.

what has your life come to?

~~~

the door slams behind you on your way out, shaking the whole apartment. eerie silence follows.

no sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. no music blaring while you shower. no keyboard clicking while you work. no more of your laughing as you watch videos on your phone.

no more you.

all there is is dead silence.

he used to live in the silence. he took comfort in it; he'd be able to hear a threat coming from a mile away as long as he lived in the silence. it was his way of protection, his entire way of life.

it doesn't have that comforting effect anymore.

because now?

he's alone.

now, alone, in the silence he once reveled in, he roams the apartment in contemplation. he sees everything he didn't see before.

the mess he left everywhere, destroying the effort you put in every day to keep a tidy home.

but more importantly? he sees the disconnect. the stark contrast between your carefulness and his tendency to act as a bull in a china shop opens his eyes to reality.

he always saw you as a team.

but now?

he realizes that you're not.

you're normal. he isn't.

he never could be.

~~~

your best bet for now is to go to a friend's place, you think. you sob your eyes out as you sit in the driver's seat of your car, and you come up with a lie that's at least semi-believable.

you take a few deep breaths as you click her contact on speed-dial.

"hey, so you'll never believe my luck," you begin, trying to hide your sniffling from the microphone. "my building is infested with rats. I don't know how long it'll be until they've dealt with it. at least a week, probably. do you think I could spend a few nights at your place?"

your voice is choppy as you speak, and it's clear you've been crying, but she doesn't question it. she gives you the 'okay' to come over, and you hang up quickly before the tears start again.

that's how you end up sleeping on her couch that night, sobbing silently into your hoodie as you try to determine what the hell you're supposed to do now.

for so long, you've put up with his bullshit, kept his secret, kept your mouth shut, all for one reason: you love him.

but he's not capable of loving anyone.

~~~

for a while, the feeling of isolation doesn't bother him. all he feels is indifference.

yet as he finally cleans up after himself, the ache in his chest begins. he almost wonders if he's having a heart attack; he's never felt this before.

yes, he has.

he freezes in place, the memory coming to him. he injured you, once, purely by accident. that's when he's felt this helplessness, this emptiness, this deep-seated pain in his chest.

guilt?

he's not sure.

he kneels on the cold hard tile of the entryway, not bothering to put on longer pants or a towel to protect his knees as he wipes up the mud he tracked inside. he doesn't deserve that comfort.

he lays in bed alone that night, mind empty. sleep never finds him.

the following morning, before the sun has risen, he makes a decision.

he opens his bank account and navigates to the most recent transfer, forwarding it back to the sender with one message: deal's off. busy.

~~~

the next morning, you wake up, still feeling terribly nauseous. you look in the bathroom mirror to find your eyes are puffy and bloodshot from crying.

you never should've gotten involved with a cold-hearted killer.

every bone in your body is saying to leave. get out of New York, quit your job, leave him and this whole life behind.

instead, you make a cup of coffee and force some yogurt down your throat before going to work.

you're up early, and don't care to deal with the traffic driving further into the city, so you might as well take the train.

~~~

he has absolutely no clue where you are.

he knows none of the addresses of your friends where you might have gone, not even a single one of their names.

if you didn't have to work, he wouldn't even be sure that you were still in the state.

work.

he doesn't even know the address of your workplace. he has a vague sense of the name of the company, how hard can it be to find?

so that's where he starts.

he camps out down a side street near your office, giving him a narrow field of vision to the entrance while staying hidden. it's the end of the workday, you should be coming out soon.

normally, scouting out a target is easy. he takes a short amount of time to watch them, determine their routines, and find the best course of action to take them out in the most efficient way possible.

there's always a plan, an end goal there. here?

he has no plan. there is no end goal.

for now, he needs to know where you're staying. so he watches and waits for you to come out of the one place where he can count on being able to find you.

he's not prepared for the pang of some unfamiliar emotion that he feels when he sees you come out of the building. you look exhausted; clearly, you didn't sleep last night, same as him.

you still look perfect.

he assumes you're heading to the parking lot, and he realizes he didn't think this far ahead. he doesn't have a fucking car, how is he supposed to follow you to find out where you're going?

he would never make this kind of bullshit mistake on a job.

he's scanning the area, trying to find the most inconspicuous car he can find that he thinks he might be able to hotwire-

you walk right past the parking lot.

he begins to trail you from across the street, mind working through all the possible answers as to where you're going. for now, his focus is keeping his eyes on you at all times.

he refuses to acknowledge the way his chest hurts even more as he follows you down the street and into the train station.

he hates when you take the train, hence why you always drive. to him, the train isn't safe. there's too many variables, too many things could go wrong. today, though, it works to his advantage.

all he can do for now is get on the train car behind you and wait to see where you get off at.

~~~

you're so tired, it's probably for the best you didn't drive today, lest you wanted to accidentally total your car by falling asleep at the wheel.

you want nothing more than to go home to him.

you don't. you get off the train and walk into the first bar you see.

it's after the workday, just past 6pm on a Tuesday, so it's packed, full of both blue- and white-collar workers in need of a drink.

you sit at the bar with the rest of the men as you all contemplate your life choices. you drink way too much, consuming more alcohol than is safe for you to have in your system while walking back.

oh well.

as you walk in the darkness, your head feels heavy, your body warm from the alcohol. you're being reckless, you know you are.

you don't have it in you to care. you feel like your entire life is being ripped apart at the seams, and it's all your fault. you're aware of the reality; you shouldn't ask for more than he can give. that's not fair to him.

no. this isn't fair to you.

~~~

he hates every fucking second of this. you're acting stupid, putting yourself in danger, getting drunk in public while operating under the assumption that you're all alone on these dark streets.

is this how you feel every day? do you feel alone even when he's there?

is he nothing more than a nuisance to you, a reminder of all your fears and all your lost dreams rolled into one?

at least he knows he's there to protect you.

to him, you were his savior.

but to you, he's nothing more than a ball and chain around your ankle.

his chest grows even tighter.

once you get inside the place you're apparently staying at, he relaxes somewhat. you're inside, you're safe.

that means nothing to him. to him, you're only safe within the confines of your own home. you're only safe when you're with him.

does he make you feel unsafe?

he finds another dark alley to hole up in. he's not going anywhere, not going home, not sleeping until you've got this figured out.

~~~

days go by. he learns your friend's schedule, learns the area, learns that you're drinking every day after work.

he knows he doesn't have the right to approach you. he'd lose you for good if he did, he thinks.

except on the fourth day of you being gone, after all these sleepless nights of him sitting on the cold, hard ground, you don't go into work. he watches your friend leave, but not you.

something's wrong.

in the back of his head, he hears your voice from your fight, if he could even call it a fight, saying,

"I don't even know if you like me!"

"you don't even care about me."

the words float around his mind, amplifying the tightness in his chest by 100 times.

that's it. he's done waiting, done watching you like you're a target, done pretending like you're both not miserable. he's done pretending he doesn't care.

~~~

you don't go into work on Friday.

you've spent all week ignoring your problems, ignoring the nausea in your stomach, drinking so much alcohol that you're lucky you don't pass out in the street, alone.

it's time to make a decision.

you don't get up from the couch until mid-morning, getting up to take a shower before heading to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

as you finish preparing your drink, staring down into the mug, you think you hear something in the distance. but the noise is so faint, you attribute it to your lack of sleep and food. you're fine, there's nothing there.

you hear it again, louder this time, and you turn towards where you hear the noise coming from-

from behind you, a hand slips over your mouth, and an arm wraps itself around your waist. you're about to panic when you hear the figure speak,

"it's me."

you let yourself relax against him. he scared the absolute shit out of you, making you fear for your fucking life, but you don't care. he's here.

but then your anger returns with a vengeance.

you put all your weight into throwing yourself forward, out of his grasp, and he lets go.

"how dare you!" is the first thing you say, and then you turn to face him.

woah.

if you thought you looked like shit from lack of sleep, it was nothing compared to how he looked.

you pause your yelling at him for a moment to take in the fact that he looks so tired he might be ready to collapse, that he looks like he hasn't showered or eaten in days.

you push past your worry and begin again, your anger boiling over as you continue yelling.

"how do you know I'm here? have you been fucking following me?"

he forces himself to speak.

"yes."

you scoff. of course he has.

"I'm not a child! I'm a fully grown adult, James!" you yell.

"then why the hell have you been acting like you're a goddamn child?" he yells back.

you've never heard him raise his voice like this before.

"you could have gotten yourself killed. you're lucky I was there. you did everything wrong, against how I taught you to keep yourself safe!"

your entire body is vibrating with the range of emotions you feel right now. you're so pissed off at him, but you've finally gotten him to speak to you. you hate that he's been watching you like his prey all week, but it means that maybe, in his eyes, you're worth losing sleep over.

you both stand there for a minute as you delay responding. your hair is soaking through your pajama shirt, which you realize as you stand there, is one of his t-shirts. your coffee is spilled everywhere from when he startled you, the mug flipped on its side on the counter.

you try to gather your thoughts to respond. you end up coming back to the one thing that you haven't been able to forget about all week, the one thing that breaks your heart more than any of it.

"you didn't even fight for me," you say quietly. you do everything in your power to take deep breaths, blinking your eyes quickly to stop the tears in their wake. "you didn't even fight for me to stay. you just let me go."

you give him the benefit of the doubt when he doesn't respond immediately. you know he needs to gather his thoughts.

you wipe your eyes a few times, listening to the silence, just praying that you mean enough to him that he'll respond.

"I'll never make that mistake again."

you've missed him so much, even in your rage and despair, that those words are all the reassurance you need to hear from him. he steps closer to you, slowly, waiting for your permission to approach.

you take in his appearance once more. he clearly hasn't eaten or slept in days, and he looks dirty. you connect the dots in your head: he hasn't even gone home, hasn't left your side once all week.

the idea of him following you all week pissed you off only minutes before. but now?

your tears spill from your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck, embracing him as though he's your entire world.

he's never felt as relieved as he does when you cling to him. the aching in his chest finally begins to dissipate for the first time in a week.

you may be in some random apartment, but he's finally home.

he wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up. you get the hint and wrap your legs around his hips, holding onto him as he walks you over to the couch you've spent the last few days crying on.

he lays you down and begins to peel his shirt from your body, revealing every inch of your beautiful skin to him.

he knows has to show you how sorry he is, the only way he knows how.

he adjusts your positioning so you're sitting face forward on the couch, legs dangling over the edge, and he spreads your thighs as he gets to his knees in front of you.

it about takes your breath away.

this man, who is so possessive over you, so afraid of showing even a sliver of weakness or vulnerability, so against the idea of giving up any form of power, is on his knees for you in apology.

you know this isn't easy for him. this is the biggest display of trust you think you've ever seen from him, and your fears about not meaning anything to him begin to disappear.

you're the most important thing in his life. he wishes he had the words to tell you that.

he wraps his hands around the back of your knees, bringing you closer to him, and he pushes his tongue between your legs so softly.

his mouth is wet, and warm, and he hasn't eaten in days, but he'd rather you be the only thing he tastes for the rest of his life, anyways.

a few more involuntary tears spill from your eyes as he laves his tongue over you. you feel so sensitive, the combination of lacking his touch for so long and the emotion behind his actions is making you so much more conscious of his every movement.

he buries his tongue in you over and over again like it's his only mission in life.

he feels the entire lower half of his face, having gone unshaved for the last week, is soaked, covered in you. he hopes he leaves you with a mild rug burn between your thighs so you feel him for days afterwards.

you're so perceptive to his every move, you feel it distinctly when he begins to trace shapes over your clit.

A, E, S is all you make out.

James.

he's writing his name on your skin with his tongue.

you let out a whimper when you realize it, and your gentle hold on the back of his head tightens, pulling his face closer against your cunt.

"James," you whisper as he begins to work you faster, "please."

that's all it takes for him to push you over the edge. your thighs close on either side of his head, and he can mostly hear the way you whine his name as you come for him.

you barely have a second to relax your muscles before he's crowding you on the couch, repositioning you so you're laying underneath him.

his mouth begins to attack your neck, your rules against him putting hickeys on your neck be damned. and you gladly let him, you don't care right now.

he takes no time at all to shove the fabric of his pants out of the way, wrapping your legs around his hips once more, pushing himself down into you.

"fuck," you whisper at the stretch.

he continues his assault on your neck, marking you up and down all the way to your breasts, anywhere he can reach.

he bites back a groan every time you moan so perfectly, filling his ears, repeating his name every few thrusts.

but there's still something in the back of his head he needs you to know.

he doesn't stop, doesn't quit fucking you so beautifully as he brings his mouth to your ear.

"of course I like you," he admits so quietly, and his tone makes it sound like it's the most obvious thing in the world. you're brought back to the other night when you expressed your deepest vulnerabilities to him, and now, he's making up for what he should have told you then. "and of course I care about you."

you clutch him against you as tight as humanly possible until you're both letting yourselves go, feeling the comforting warmth as he releases inside you.

his body gives out, collapsing on top of you, exhausted from the physical and emotional toll of the week.

you finally feel tired too, more so than you have all week. it's as though your body is finally poised to truly rest now that he's with you again.

you can't sleep yet.

"take me home, James," you whisper, and he doesn't hesitate.

~~~

(guys as I'm writing this I'm about to cry)

yeah so I think I spent about six hours on this total y'all

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[karikarasuno]

part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen

making law blush is a difficult task. he doesn't blush. it's not his thing. it's never been his thing. he expects most things, so catching him off guard is quite the task. yet you try and try. often times failing. but there have been a few occasions where his cheeks have burned. where he's looked in the mirror and saw an unfamiliar stain of red creeping across his cheeks.

the first time it happened was when you drunkenly stripped for him. it was cute at first. the way you tugged sloppily at your own clothes. he didn't think you would actually be able to pull off your top after your arm caught in the sleeve. he laughed. but his laughter died quickly when you finally tugged the fabric over your head and revealed a red lacy bra. law has never been the biggest fan of red. until you kicked off your pants. matching underwear. red. somehow and suddenly red became law's favorite color.

that was until he looked in the mirror after tucking you in and faced himself. the red on his cheeks matched the red that adorned your body.

the second time was at cora's apartment. it was his turn to host family dinner. you were obviously invited. your attendance was actually a requirement per cora's insistence. he said having you around made law less irritable. law didn't agree, but he extended the invitation anyway.

you were just about to sit down beside him after having gotten up for a third time because you forgot to grab a napkin. but before you sat down at the table where his entire family was already seated you grabbed his jaw and lightly, casually said "you have something on your face."

law felt his nose scrunch up in distaste. "what is it?"

and instead of answering you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "a kiss, but i got it for you."

law's mom giggled. he heard it but he had a hard time registering it. not with the loud, overwhelming sound of blood rushing to his cheeks. you smiled to yourself. satisfied. smug. meanwhile law's mind buffered. he felt dumb. and law was far from dumb.

but this time. his blush is a slow burn. one that stemmed from annoyance more than anything else. it's your lotion. you bought it over the weekend when you went shopping with the girls. it's an unassuming bottle. one that he thought was normal until he saw you apply it under the bright lights of the bathroom.

"why are you shimmering?" he says, eyes tracking the way your hand massages the lotion into your shoulder.

"huh?" you're watching a video on your phone, so you use your knuckle to pause it before turning your undivided attention to him.

"your skin," he says slowly, "there's glitter on it."

"oh yeah! isn't it fun?" you twist your arms to watch as the light catches your glittery skin. law doesn't know about fun. what law sees is a problem. especially if that glitter likes to transfer.

and it does. everywhere. the first time he notices it on his black tshirt. he stepped outside to grab the mail and when he looked down he realized he too was shimmering. it's on the pillowcases. the sheets. the blanket you use on the couch. just fucking everywhere.

"do you have to use that lotion every night?" he asks one evening before bed as he watches you apply it to your legs.

"yes, my love, i do. makes me feel pretty," you respond, placing your foot on his thigh as you massage the moisture into your calf.

"i promise, you're equally as pretty without it." he's staring at the way your hands follow the curve of your legs. trailing your fingers from your ankle to your knee. you know how easy he is to distract. but he won't fall for it this time. not when he's seriously concerned with the fact that he might be ingesting the stupid glitter.

“oh don’t be a grouch,” you laugh, swapping one leg for the other. “it just makes me feel girly and sexy.”

“you’re always sexy,” he says, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. he feels the way your muscle twitches beneath his lips.

“you’re never not sexy,” he continues, trailing two more kisses up your thigh.

“stop trying to butter me up,” you complain breathily. your hands have already found his shoulders and if you really meant what you said you’d push him away. but the closer he gets to your center the more you open up to him.

“come here,” he groans when his nose nuzzles your crotch. and in an instant law is on his back and you’re sitting on his face. he doesn’t bother removing your underwear. doesn’t push them to the side either. he flattens his tongue against the fabric that covers you. and he licks until your hips twitch in his grip.

you grind against his tongue when it meets your clit, pressing down harder for the sake of friction. he groans and it’s starts in his chest. gets caught in his throat when he begins to taste you through your panties. the cotton is sticking to you, molding against the contours of your lips.

“you gonna keep teasing me or are you gonna do something?” you look down at him, eyes locking where he’s caught between your thighs. and this is a view he enjoys. he indulges in.

he slips a finger into the side of your underwear and pulls the wet fabric away from your cunt. his fingers barely graze you and you flinch from sensitivity.

“and what do you suppose i do?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips as he gazes up at you. and he knows after all this time that the back and forth turns you on. you ask him not to tease you, but every time he does you’re wetter than before. his knuckle traces your slit. slow. agonizing.

“you could move my stupid underwear out of the way,” you rise slightly onto your knees, “and kiss me.”

his tongue drags along his lower lip. “ask me nicely.”

“will you kiss me?” you ask and he hooks his finger around the fabric and pulls it out of the way. fully exposing you to him. and he’s dying to tilt his head up and taste you. dying to lick into you. but he doesn’t.

not until you “say please.”

“law,” you laugh incredulously because he never makes you beg. it’s not really something he needs to hear. but tonight it’s what he wants. and he wants you to give it to him.

“come on, pretty,” he breathes, kissing the crease right beside your cunt. “say it for me.”

you tense up above him. and your chest is rising heavily with each breath you take. your nipples hard and poking the fabric of his t-shirt. your favorite one to wear to bed.

“will you please kiss me?” your voice pitches up when you ask. dripping with need. with desperation. “please, baby, please kiss me.”

there’s no restraint left in him. no urge to tease or delay. his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks it into his mouth. you cry out when he flicks his tongue against it. whine when his lips leave your clit and he drags his tongue to your entrance. your upper body tilts forward. your hand jumps out to grasp the headboard and the other cards through his hair.

you tug on him when his tongue slips inside of you. he moans at the pressure it applies to his scalp. he can’t help it. you only hurt him when you feel good. when you can’t control how good he’s making you feel.

law’s dick leaks where it’s caught in his sweatpants and his hand moves to grip himself without thought.

“ah, that’s it,” you moan when he flattens his tongue so you can ride him. your hips roll with urgency against his face. and he matches your motions every time he strokes his cock. faster when you grind harder. slower when your hips draw back.

it’s hard for him to watch you the way he wants when his eyes keep closing from the pleasure of being used by you. so unashamed. without care.

“need you to come,” he mumbles into your pussy. his other hand manages to slip beneath your thighs, two fingers parting your folds so he can focus on you. feel you better as you rut into his mouth.

“keep doing that and i will,” you respond. and there’s a pleasant amusement in your voice. one that sends tingles down his spine and he shoves his hand in his pants, fisting his cock as he you work yourself to orgasm on his face. thighs straddling his cheeks and muffling your noises from his ears.

and when you come, the sounds are distant. your moans are playing right above him but all he can focus on is the way your entire body seizes over his head. how your fingers tighten in his hair. and when the pain blossoms across his scalp, he finishes in the palm of his hand. it shocks him. the strength of his orgasm. it catches him off guard.

you body finally relaxes as you sit on his chest. his own endorphins are still wracking through him. his abs tense once more and the feeling of a cramp erupts in his side.

“shit, get off,” he hisses, slapping the side of your thigh. when you’re off he rolls onto his side, his free and clean hand massaging at the space below his ribcage.

he feels your eyes drag down his body and when he looks at you, you’re grinning. flushed and delirious. “did you get a cramp after you came?”

he glances down to the mess in his other hand. and his head falls back onto the mattress. “i don’t wanna talk about it.”

you laugh. freely. joyfully. without shame. and when law’s no longer in pain. he laughs along side you. kisses you. touches you all over again.

the next morning law is so satiated he doesn’t remember the glitter. he doesn’t give a shit about the glitter. he doesn’t even notice the glitter on his neck and cheek until he’s at work and changing into a fresh set of scrubs in the bathroom. the bathroom light is harsh, but when he shifts in front of the mirror he sees the the way it shimmers across his skin. and funnily enough, instead of the annoyance he expects to feel, his dick hardens. and a blush, real and true, erupts across his face.

[orangepeelknives]

holy shit i just finished reading better half and WOOOWWWWW such an incredible fic you wrote them so so sweet and so so tender and i will so absolutely be reading everything else because it made me feel emotions i didnt know existed ive immediately recommended it to like ALL my friends !!!!!

would you ever write something just focused around the time they're spending apart at worlds ?? no pressure or anything im just new here and curious

loved your fic !!!!!!

hi thank u sm!!!!!

opened this yesterday at a coffee shop and was like yk what so true i need to write the yearning the pining the separation anxiety of it all. here's a little gift just for u, everyone say thank you thatonecode for the ask!!

Look, Mack’s having the time of his life, okay?

He’s on team Canada. He’s occasionally lineys with Sidney fucking Crosby, he’s scoring goals with his childhood idols, okay?

It’s just that—

Well.

It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s fucking embarrassing, but he misses Will. 

He’s in Stockholm, living out every Canadian kid’s fantasy, and he still keeps checking his phone like a lovesick idiot between periods. It’s humiliating. His teammates are playing ping-pong and blasting The Tragically Hip in the lounge, and Mack’s hiding in a stairwell like he’s in middle school waiting for his crush to text back.

And then his screen lights up.

Smitty: Incoming call

Mack answers too fast. Way too fast.

Will’s face fills the screen, backlit by the kind of awful hotel lamp every IIHF room seems to come with, and Mack feels something stupid and warm twist in his chest. Will’s hair is sticking up in a thousand directions, and his USA hoodie is slipping off one shoulder like he doesn’t even notice. He grins when he sees Mack.

“You miss me yet, Celly?”

Mack makes a face. “No.”

“Liar.”

“How’s Canada?” Will asks, stretching out against some beige-looking headboard. “Still out there playing all-star team-up with your heroes?”

Mack shrugs, trying not to look smug. “Crosby said ‘nice backcheck’ to me today.”

Will fake-clutches his heart. “You gonna get that tattooed?”

“Eat shit.”

“You are glowing though. Like emotionally. I’m proud of you.”

Mack groans and leans back against the cold stairwell wall. “Why do you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a contestant on The Bachelor.”

Will laughs. “Okay, but I am proud. It’s cool, man. First year done, and now you’re out there, holding your own with guys we grew up watching.”

Mack shrugs again, quieter this time. “Yeah. It’s… kinda unreal.”

They sit with that for a second. Mack picks at the seam of his sleeve.

It’s always like this with Will, he says something warm like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t cost him anything.

And every time, it hits Mack in this dumb, molten place in his chest.

He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he just keeps his head down, digging his thumb into the stitching of his hoodie like he’s trying to wear a hole through it. He can score goals with Crosby. He can take a chirp from Flower without blinking. But this, just Will, being easy and sincere, is the thing that knocks the wind out of him.

“You looked good against Germany,” he says eventually, eyes not quite on the screen. “Like – annoyingly good.”

Will perks up. “So you did watch.”

“Whatever. There was nothing else on.”

“Dude. You’re in Sweden. There’s probably like fifty things on.”

Mack doesn’t answer. He just looks at Will’s stupid face, grainy on the screen, all lit up by that crappy hotel lamp. And he feels—

Something. Not the kind of thing he’s good at naming.

“Look,” Will says suddenly, leaning in a little, voice just a touch softer, “if we win the next two, we fly to Stockholm.”

Mack’s stomach does a weird lurch thing. He ignores it.

“Assuming we’re still alive in the bracket.”

Will grins. “Well yeah. You guys look like you’re trying to win gold and start a new dynasty.”

Mack shrugs, like that’s obvious. “Why else would we be here?”

Will laughs, but he looks at Mack for a second too long, like he sees more than Mack wants him to.

Then he says, “If we make it over there, don’t get all weird and starstruck, okay? You’re not allowed to big-time me.”

Mack snorts. “You’ll be lucky if I even talk to you in the hallway.”

“Guess I’ll just have to trip you in warmups, then.”

Mack grins. “Try it. I’ll put you through the glass.”

“Can’t wait,” Will says, and his voice is casual, but something in it catches. Just for a second.

Mack hears footsteps up the stairs and sits up straight, heartbeat doing something stupid. He says, “You better make it out of quarters.”

And Will, without missing a beat, says, “Yeah. I will.”

***

Practice is sharp. Crisp. Hyper-efficient in that Team Canada way, where even the water breaks feel choreographed. Crosby sets the tone, smooth and unbothered, like he’s skating on a different axis than the rest of them, and everyone falls in line. Mack included.

He’s fine.

He great.

They’re running line rushes and situational drills, and Mack’s paired with MacKinnon and TK for a stretch, which should be the highlight of his week, if not his whole life. MacKinnon’s chirping in between reps, clipped and competitive, while TK is bouncing around like he drank six Red Bulls before warmup. It’s fun. It’s fast. It’s everything Mack’s supposed to want.

But it feels – off.

Not in a bad way. Just… quieter.

Will would’ve been yelling by now. Not even at anything in particular. Just narrating a drill, trash-talking goalies, calling Mack Celly every time he missed top corner. He would’ve fake-tripped him during line changes. He would’ve dragged Fantilli into some elaborate bit about who had the worst flow on the team.

Instead it’s just—

Professional.

Focused.

Mack doesn’t hate it, exactly. He likes being locked in. Likes the way everyone here takes the game seriously. It’s not like being with Will is better, it’s just different. Less static in his brain. Less noticeable silence when a drill ends and nobody elbows him or says yo, you see me cook that guy? in that idiot voice Will uses when he’s trying to be humble and unbearable at the same time.

“Eyes up, Celebrini,” someone snaps – Montour, cutting across the slot.

Mack jerks his head up. Realizes he’s drifting, puck barely hanging on his stick.

“Yeah, got it,” he mutters, and tightens his grip.

He digs in after that. Pushes harder. Out-skates a couple of the older guys just to feel his legs burn. Puts one bar-down and hears Fleury swear behind his mask. That part feels good. That part feels like something he can control.

Fantilli taps his shinpad during a water break. “You’re buzzing today.”

“Just trying to keep up,” Mack says, squinting into the rink lights.

Fantilli grins. “You’ve got Crosby on your line, bro. You’re not allowed to say that.”

Mack shrugs and takes a sip from his bottle. His phone’s back in the locker room, but he’s aware of it like a second heartbeat. A stupid itch in his brain. Like if he checks, maybe Will will’ve sent something dumb, some blurry selfie from Herning, or a voice memo of him singing Celine Dion in the team bus, off-key on purpose.

But the rink’s quiet. Focused. No Will.

Just Mack, skating hard and thinking too loud.

By the time they wrap, Mack’s sweat-soaked and running hot, but it’s a good kind of ache. Controlled burn. He dumps his gear in a heap and peels off his undershirt, heartbeat still drumming against his ribs. The locker room’s buzzing with low chatter – TK tossing a tape roll at Fleury, Crosby dissecting faceoffs with Horvat.

Mack sits back on the bench and finally checks his phone.

One text from Will.

bro gauth brought his whole gaming setup. We are in hell. i can’t take this many grown men screaming about apex at 1am

Mack stares at it for a second too long. Then thumbs out a reply.

Tell him he’s ass.

Three dots show up right away, then vanish. Then come back.

he said 1v1. i told him you’d do it for me.

Mack snorts, but it doesn’t quite hit his face. He can picture it so clearly, Will sprawled on some hotel bed, headset tangled in his hair, chirping Cutter and getting chirped back, that easy, noisy chaos he always drags with him.

They’re probably all in some suite right now, shouting over each other, Gauthier playing DJ, someone trying to order pizza, Will getting fake mad when they forget his soda. Fantilli’s cool, sure, but it’s not the same. Mack doesn’t miss that, he just—

He doesn’t know. Maybe his hotel’s just too quiet.

“Your buddy lighting it up?” Schenn asks, nodding toward the phone.

Mack blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“Smith. Saw the highlights. Kid’s flying.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Mack says, voice neutral. “He’s fine.”

Schenn laughs. “Relax. Not a threat to your gold medal or anything.”

Mack forces a smile and sets his phone screen-down on the bench beside him.

He’s not worried. He knows what Will’s like – loud, social, magnetic. Everyone likes him. Mack usually likes that too. It’s just—

Weird, seeing it from the outside. Knowing he’s not there in the middle of it. Knowing someone else is probably laughing at the same dumb impressions Mack used to get first.

He scratches the back of his neck and looks down at his skates. There’s a piece of tape stuck to one blade. He peels it off slowly, letting the hum of the locker room swell around him.

***

Third period, four minutes left, and they’re up by two. Should be locked down. Should be easy.

And then Mack fucks it.

It’s not massive – he misreads a play at the blue line, tries to step up when he should’ve dropped back, and Slovakia springs a two-on-one the other way. Fleury does what Fleury does – makes the save look surgical – but it’s still a mess. A dumb, rookie read. On international ice. In front of half the guys who used to be on his bedroom wall.

Mack skates back to the bench with heat crawling up his neck.

No one says anything.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Crosby leans forward on the bench, talking to MacKinnon about something neutral, faceoffs or forechecking or the price of eggs, Mack doesn’t know. Fleury taps his post once. Brayden Schenn takes a long swig from his water bottle. No one looks at him. No one chirps him. It’s not even a teaching moment. It’s just a silence that says: you should’ve known better.

He parks himself at the end of the bench and stares straight ahead, gloves clenched in his lap.

The next few minutes drag. He doesn’t get another shift. He wouldn’t have trusted himself with one, anyway.

By the time the buzzer goes and Canada wins 4–2, Mack feels like he’s been dipped in cement. Numb, but heavy. The others are buzzing, helmet taps, stick knocks, good job boys. He joins the line for the handshake with all the correct body language, all the right gestures, but his skull’s filled with static. The kind that doesn’t turn off.

He can still see it, his skate drifting too far in, his pivot a half-second late. He’d gambled on a read and lost. He doesn’t get to lose. Not here. Not when he’s already the youngest. Not when his entire value feels like it hangs on being undeniable.

By the time they’re back in the room, he’s sweating again under his gear, not from effort but adrenaline backlash. The kind that eats you.

He showers fast. Doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Fantilli claps him on the shoulder and says, “Good win,” and Mack doesn’t know if it’s real or if he’s just being nice.

His phone’s waiting for him in the stall. He checks it like it might’ve changed something.

No texts.

Which – obviously. Will’s probably at practice. Or watching film. Or getting chirped by Gauthier. Or doing any number of normal things not related to Mack fucking up a defensive read in Stockholm.

Mack locks his phone again. Leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

He’s not gonna cry. He’s not. He’s not twelve. He’s not soft.

But it’s loud in his head and too quiet in the room and he keeps thinking – Will would’ve said something. Not fixed it, just… made it easier to breathe.

He’s out of the room before anyone can really stop him. Fastest shower of his life. Doesn’t even do the whole shampoo thing, just gets clean and gets gone. His hoodie sticks to damp skin as he yanks it on, everything just a little off. A little too tight, a little too loud, a little too much.

Fantilli catches him at the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, upbeat but casual. “We’re getting food at the hotel bar if you’re hungry. Schenn said he’s buying if anyone beats him at shuffleboard.”

Mack huffs out something that could be a laugh. It isn’t. “Nah. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Mack says. His smile is fake. He knows it’s fake. Fantilli probably knows too.

“Alright, man. Catch you later.”

Mack nods and leaves before anyone else tries to talk to him. He takes the back stairwell instead of the elevator and pulls his hood up even though he’s still overheated from the game. The stairs echo under his feet. He doesn’t know if he’s in a rush to get back or just trying to outrun the feeling in his chest, like his ribs are a cage, and whatever’s inside is pissed about it.

Back in the room, he flips on the TV just for noise. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even know what language it’s in.

His phone buzzes.

It’s his dad.

Can’t leave guys out to dry like that. Read the lane. Stick down. Watch the tape.

No greeting. No “proud of you.” No “good win.” Just the read. The correction. The thing Mack already knows he did wrong, already feels carved into the back of his eyelids like it’s gonna be there forever.

He stares at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. For a second he thinks about throwing the phone across the room. Then he just locks it again.

Leans back on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

Everything’s quiet, but it’s not calm. It’s the kind of quiet that hums in his teeth.

He wants to text Will.

It bubbles up in him like a reflex, the same way you’d reach for water when you’re choking. It’s not even about talking, really. Just – presence. Just someone else’s weight in the room to balance his own.

He wants Will to call him dramatic and mess up his hair and say “you’re fine, Celly, holy shit, one play,” and make it true.

But he doesn’t text him. Doesn’t even open the chat.

Because what would he say? I made one bad read and now I feel like I don’t deserve to be here and I want you to tell me I do and I don’t know why it has to be you but it does.

No.

He’s not twelve. He’s not soft.

He closes his eyes and wills the heat behind them away.

His phone buzzes again.

This time, it’s Will.

good game, celly

that tip in the second was nasty

Mack stares at the text. Something clenches behind his ribs.

He types back before he can think better of it.

It wasn’t a good game. I fucked up

Sends it. Regrets it instantly. Not because it’s wrong, but because it feels—

He doesn’t know. Sharp. Exposed. Dumb.

He puts the phone down face-down on the nightstand like that’ll stop it from—

It starts buzzing.

Facetime.

Of course.

Mack sighs, then flips it over and answers it without thinking.

Will’s face pops up immediately, grainy in hotel-room lighting, hair still wet like he just showered too. He’s got that dumb headboard behind him again. He’s smiling.

“Hi,” Will says, like it’s obvious. “What’s your problem.”

Mack scowls. “I told you. I fucked up.”

“You won the game.”

“I left Fleury out to dry.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Fleury’s not mad. He posted a picture of the win with a bear emoji like five minutes ago.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Will just blinks at him. Then shifts so he’s propped on one elbow. “Okay, so you made a bad read. Boo hoo.”

Mack glares. “You’re so annoying.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re a baby when you don’t get to win every shift. This isn’t new, Celly.”

Mack’s stomach knots at the nickname. He tries to roll his eyes. “Whatever.”

There’s a pause. Not tense. Just quiet enough for the weight of it to settle.

Then Will says, softer, “You’re fine, you know. You’re here for a reason.”

Mack looks away from the screen, jaw tight.

“I’m serious,” Will says. “You’re – you’re not perfect. Thank god, because you’d be even worse to deal with. But you’re good. You belong there.”

Mack doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t know how to. The back of his throat feels hot again.

Will waits.

And Mack, he hates that he likes that. Hates how it helps, how just having Will on the line makes everything feel slightly less sharp around the edges.

He swallows, still not looking at the screen. His voice comes out low. “It’s just – when I mess up like that, I can feel it. The whole shift turns. It’s like – like I poisoned the bench.”

“That’s not real,” Will says immediately. “That’s your weird little brain doing its dramatic spiral.”

Mack huffs a laugh, but it sounds wrong in his own ears. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how Crosby looked at me.”

“He probably looked at you like that because you skate like a psychopath when you’re mad.”

“I don’t—” Mack starts, then stops himself, teeth clicking shut. “Whatever.”

Will doesn’t press. He just shifts again, camera wobbling, like he’s flipping over onto his back. “You hold yourself tighter than anyone I’ve ever met. Even when you’re great, which is, like, usually, you act like one mistake makes it all worthless. And I don’t know who taught you that, but it’s bullshit.”

Mack stares at the ceiling.

It’s not like he hasn’t heard this before, versions of it, from Will. Always with the same easy certainty, like it’s not even a debate. But it never lands quite right in Mack’s body. It gets in, but it doesn’t stick. It slides around, softens the edges, but doesn’t settle.

Because what if Will’s wrong? What if the whole reason he’s here is just a fluke, and one bad play does mean he doesn’t belong?

But Will believes it.

That’s the worst part. Will says it like it’s a given, like he couldn’t imagine anything else. Like Mack’s value is something obvious.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Mack says finally, voice a little hoarse. “You – you don’t carry it like I do.”

Will’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “No. I don’t. You carry way too much.”

And then, after a beat, more gently: “That’s why I always call when you start melting down.”

Mack presses the heel of his palm to his eye. “I’m not melting down.”

“You’re spiraling. It’s adjacent.”

“Whatever.”

Will hums, pleased, like he won that one. Then he adds, “You could’ve told me you were having a bad night instead of being a little freak about it.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No you’re not.”

Mack doesn’t.

Will’s right, of course. He never does.

[witchygagirlwrites]

⁰⁾ “yeah, ‘cause you’re all such fucking saints.”

You sat on the bed in the exam room as Will looked over your vitals. Jay stood, leaning against the wall just inside the door. "Are you afraid I'm going to make a break for it or something? You don't even like hospitals. Why are you lingering?" you teased and he grinned "Someone has to make sure you actually listen to what they're telling you and Will goes easy on you"

"That's because I like her more" Will shot back at him with a grin. You shook your head, wincing when that caused a pain to go down your neck. "Easy" Will scolded and you pouted at him "Just do your doctor stuff so I can go"

"How did this happen again?" Will asked. You and Jay shared a look. How the hell could you explain that you'd indeed gotten hurt because you had went in the window of a suspect's house to throw a stun grenade to force them out because the unit couldn't get a warrant to go in but could get an arrest warrant.

"Um.." he nodded "Forget I asked" you rolled your eyes “Yeah, ‘cause you’re all such fucking saints around here" he nodded, looking back at Jay "Have I ever told you she's perfect for you? Because she really is"

Jay grinned at him "I know, now help her not be in pain" Will shook his head "I need to get a CT to make sure the little spider monkey didn't do anything beyond pull muscles then I can release her to your care with some meds, does that work?" Jay nodded "Sounds good"

Will patted your leg "Hold tight and don't do anything stupid in the meantime" you raised an eyebrow at Jay "Sorry baby, your brother says no sex" Will looked confused then busted out laughing "If the CT comes back clear feel free to do something stupid when you get home..I repeat WHEN YOU GET HOME"

You grinned "Yes Doctor Halstead" he shook his head "Detectives man" and walked out. Jay walked over and sat on the edge of the bed "So, looking forward to doing something stupid?" you grinned "Unless the CT scan says I have to stay here, we will figure out a way" and pulled him down to press a kiss to his lips.

[baocean]

𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪

⤷ chapter eleven - crushcrushcrush

the party wasn’t supposed to be this big. just the group, rafe had said. just a small, chill thing rafe had said.

but rafe’s definition of “just the group” apparently includes half the campus, three beer pong tables, and the entirety of the kildare u's mens lacrosse team.

you’re in the kitchen, holding a drink that’s long gone flat, leaning against the counter. and across the room, half-sunk into the couch, hood up, bruised and unsteady, is jj. he shouldn't be here. he barely got cleared to play, definitely didn't get cleared to drink.

but he’s here, and he’s watching you.

you haven’t looked back. not once, not since the game, not since he smiled at you with a mouth full of blood like he knew you’d been scared.

cleo’s off with pope somewhere, kie’s talking to rafe, and sarah’s playing dj on the world’s most cracked bluetooth speaker. you're busy looking around the room, trying to find anyone you know, when you feel it.

some guy you don’t know presses in beside you, too close. he says something, slurred, too loud, you shake your head, try to sidestep. but his hand catches your waist. fingers digging in because he thinks no one’s watching.

“get off.” you snap, shoving him back. he stumbles a step and laughs like it’s funny. and then he comes back. faster this time, angrier, hand reaching for your wrist.

you go to backhand him across the face. you don’t get the chance, because jj moves out of nowhere. no warning, one step, one clean punch, and the guy drops hard, right onto the tile, knocked back so fast the room gasps.

“take a fucking hint, dude.” his voice is low and kind of scary, in that way that only happens when he’s not joking anymore. the kind of tone you’ve only heard once from him.

the guy stumbles as he gets up, swears, holds up his hands like he didn’t mean it, but jj’s already shaking, like his body hasn’t caught up with how hard he just moved on an injury that should’ve kept him home.

jj finally turns to you, breathing uneven, like it cost him.

you actually look back, for the first time tonight. “what the fuck, jj?"

“he touched you.”

“i had it handled.”

“he was like, a foot and a half taller than you, yn.” his hand stuck out in the direction the guy disappeared to. jj’s voice came out louder than he meant, sharp, cutting through the hum of the party, and people turned.

he blinked, chest still heaving, hand still pointed in the direction the guy disappeared.

then he seemed to hear himself. his shoulders dropped just a little. his voice softened.

“i’m sorry, i’m just-” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, quieter now, gaze flicking away from the crowd and back to you.

you take a deep breath, then close your eyes, then tip your head back. barely audible, barely above a whisper, you say, “thanks, jayj.”

his eyes flick up fast, like he wasn’t expecting it. something hits somewhere deep in his chest and sticks there. your voice, your face, the way you made his stupid nickname yours.

“yeah.” he breathes. “yeah, of course.”

the party hums back to life behind you, music crawling back in through the walls, but jj’s still standing in front of you, wrecked and wired and probably bleeding somewhere. you can tell he’s coming down now, the adrenaline’s wearing off. now, he’s just a boy with too many bruises and not enough ways to say what he means.

he shifts on his feet, winces a little, but never take his eyes off you.

“i just…you know i wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, right?”

his voice cracks a little at the end, like he’s not used to saying stuff like this. like it tastes unfamiliar in his mouth.

“i mean, you’ve…you’ve put up with enough of my shit already, so…”

his laugh is soft and nervous. almost self deprecating. his eyes flick to the side, then back to you.

you blink, the weight of that sinks in slow. jj’s not smiling, not smirking, just looking at you like he means it.

your heart does something ugly in your chest, something uninvited.

you just nod and smile, enough to make jj exhale, just barely, and look down, like he’s a little surprised you didn’t backhand him. he expected you to roll your eyes, shove him away, call him dramatic or stupid or jj.

he gives you a nod, and then heads into the crowd before he says something that will.

her phone

his phone

xoxo, mimi

masterlist | next chapter

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[wheneverfeasible]

Official Wiggly Wednesday!

🧠 🪱

Tagged by the every lovely @yesdangerpls and tbh I was like why am I being tagged in a Wiggle Wednesday post when it’s not Wednesday it’s…oh fuck it’s Wednesday!

So yeah. It’s been a long day y’all. Anyways. I actually do have something I’ve been playing around with.

Picture it…

Rockstar Eddie Munson. PA Steve Harrington. Non-UD, Corroded Coffin ends up making it big. It’s been a few years now and they’ve already become a huge success with a Grammy for Best New Artist under their belt and in talks to create the soundtrack of a new movie set to be a blockbuster.

In fact, they’ve gotten so big that now they require a personal assistant. The label company sends over the person they hired, none other than Steve Harrington, someone they’re all familiar with from high school whose friends made the CC boys’ lives hell. So they, particularly Eddie, decide to get their revenge.

Eddie begins making Steve do the most embarrassing shit, constantly looking down at him and making his life hell in return, such as demanding coffee done a certain way and then being particular about it and lying that it’s wrong even when it’s done correctly and making Steve do it again. He also keeps making snide comments about how privileged Steve was and was apparently too stupid for even his daddy to hire and that’s why he’s a glorified servant etc.

Steve’s expression tightens, or drops, or whatever during these moments, but he remains professional and doesn’t complain. He just does his job, and does it well.

Until one day Robin Buckley visits him at work, and Eddie goes off about having his girlfriend visit him during working hours. Steve makes Robin leave in hushed tones, and she does, but not before glaring at Eddie.

Eddie is extra vicious, making Steve do really menial things, until finally asking for extra extra hot coffee. When Steve returns with it, Eddie then complains that it’s too hot and thrusts it back, accidentally sending the contents of the cup spilling over Steve. Eddie feels immediately guilty and helps Steve to the hospital to treat his burns, where Robin rushes in while Steve is being been.

Robin tears into Eddie and he tries to protest saying that Steve didn’t even act like it hurt that badly and Robin yells at him that he’s used to hiding his pain after the life he’s led, as well as suffering from multiple concussions.

Because of this he had trouble keeping jobs and couldn’t make it into college, also suffering from migraines and mental fatigue and confusion at times. He lucked into the PA job and is working hard to not let his medical issues affect the work.

Eddie begins realizing that there’s been signs of this, such as pinch expressions from pain that he took to being one of disdain towards Eddie and the CC boys, keeping post it notes everywhere so he doesn’t forget anything (which Eddie has made fun of before), and his needing things repeated sometimes.

Robin also reveals that the one of the kids that Steve used to babysit is a huge fan of CC, Dustin Henderson. Steve has been hoping to catch Eddie and the boys in a good mood to ask for an autograph to send back to him, but Eddie never makes it easy.

Eddie remembers Dustin from his last senior year, remembers promising to keep in touch, and remembers how, after fame took hold, Eddie and the CC boys fell out of contact with nearly everyone from their past in Hawkins. Dustin included.

There’s more stuff that Robin can’t say, like why Steve doesn’t talk to his family anymore and had to leave Hawkins, telling Eddie that Steve wasn’t the jerk he used to be and if Eddie ever got his head out of his ass and actually got to know Steve, he would know this.

Eddie realizes he’s been acting like an asshole and starts to feel genuinely bad, vowing to get to know Steve better if Steve doesn’t quit. Steve doesn’t quit, but doesn’t really seem to trust Eddie’s change in character at first either.

Eventually Eddie earns his trust enough and Steve reveals that his father caught him kissing a boy and beat him so badly it caused another concussion before he kicked him out, smearing his reputation across town so no one would hire him and he was all but run out of town.

Eddie realizes that he’s been entirely wrong about who Steve is, and later realizes with horror that the crush he’d once had on the jock back in high school was still well and truly alive, made worse by getting to actually know Steve.

Eddie then makes it his mission to woo Steve, and Steve…well, he’s not opposed, but like hell is he going to make it easy on the asshole.

🧠 🪱

Uhhhh I’m just gonna tag my permanent tag Hotties but anyone interested is free to partake if they choose to do so! Consider yourself tagged by me!

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-weirdlife @everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes @hiei-harringtonmunson @estrellami-1 @nebulaoz @renfrisol @tinyplanet95 @hairspraywhore