#i'm making a tag i guess I'M BACK ON MY BULLSHIT

[thebicanary]

my hot take from hotd is that people getting mad that "the asoiaf prophecy wasn't fulfilled" and that the show writers are "throwing it in their face" are dumb actually

like i love me some targaryens as much as the next person they're incredibly interesting as characters but bruh they're not heroes and most of them aren't good people. they're not magically destined to save the whole world - the majority of targaryen kings historically sucked ass as tyrants and warmongers. they're incestuous creeps. i giggle and clap and kick my little feet reading about them and seeing them on screen but idk i feel like the idea aegon saw himself as this divine conqueror set to save the world with his inbred lineage is hubris not prophecy. typically when we get prophecies in the asoiaf books they are not fulfilled, or they are fulfilled in unexpected ways. we see people destroy their whole lives and cause ruin and pain to other people because of their obsession with being the prophecised heroes (rhaegar and stannis being the biggest examples).

targaryen restoration is not meant to be a good thing in asoiaf. the fact a grossly inbred family ruled for 300 years culminating in one of them trying to blow up his entire capital city in the midst of a civil war caused by him burning people alive is not a ringing endorsement for the targaryens no matter how good of a person dany is. i agree that the last 2 seasons of got were awful but it's not JUST because the targaryen restoration didn't happen (and I sincerely hope it doesn't if the books ever finish - whether dany goes mad queen or not for me it can honestly go either way and so long as the journey getting there is well written i'll take the ending given to her). there were a lot of factors that made the end to got bad but it did not hinge on the fact the targaryens didn't get a happy ending.

[camellcat]

if I put ten as gale weathers does that mean I get to have tentoo has my favorite girl jennifer? ...giggling

[huskersbooze]

Sick

Alastor x Reader

Summary : You get sick and Alastor keeps you company <3

Warnings : Swearing(lots of it)

Pairings : Alastor x F!Reader (M!Reader here)

Additional Tags : ALASTOR POV CUZ YES. Sick reader, implied relationship, h/c, fluff, comfort

Word count : 1.01k

“Hey, you alright, kid?” Husk tilts his head to the side, wiping down the last glass of the day.

You don’t respond. Instead, you’re staring off into the distance, dozing off in your own world.

“Kid?”

“Huh? What?” You finally snap out of your thoughts.

“Geez, ya’ look like hell.” Husk acknowledges. “Are you sick?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “I don’t think so?”

“Go rest. I’ll work alone today.”

“What? No! I’m fine I swear-” Before you’re able to finish your sentence, Husk flips you off.

“Bullshit. Go find your radio boyfriend.”

“Don’t bullshit me-”

You try arguing but Husk only smirks when he catches a glimpse of Alastor who’s appeared right behind you.

“Well, I just did.” He says. “Now stop being so stubborn.”

“I’m not being stubborn I-” 

You feel a hand being put to your forehead and try to fight back, only to realise it was Alastor.

“High fever.” He lets go. “You’re being stubborn.”

“Oh, fuck you, Al.”

“We’ll fuck when you’re better, darling.”

You blush. Alastor grins. Husk tries to hold in a laugh but ultimately fails.

“You’re sick and you need rest, my dear. Come along.”

“I’m fine-”

Alastor can only sigh, picking you up as you yelp.

“This is completely, and utterly, your fault single-handedly.” He smiled as you pouted. “You're very much welcome, darling.”

“Whatever.”

-----

You managed to escape Alastor as he leaves to mess with Vox. (Ep2 lmao)

Upon returning to the bar, Husk was not pleased to see your ass out of bed, emphasising on how important sleep was to someone sick.

You couldn’t care less.

Though, after wiping down a few more bottles with him, your eyes doze off and your eyelids feel droopy.

“Kid?”

The world spins and fades away.

“Fuck! Kid, ya’ alright?! Alastor!”

-----

[Alastor’s pov]

I heard a little groan as my eyes widened.

"Darling." I whispered, hoping not to startle her.

"Al..?" She breathed out.

"Good morning." I joked, though so grateful she was now awake.

"Wha.. What time is it?" She asked, struggling to get up.

"Be careful." I ushered, helping her sit. "I'm not so sure myself. It's very late at night."

"Where am I?" She asked, finally waking up as she stopped slurring through her words. 

"My room. ‘I’m not sick’ my arse." I replied.

"Oh. Well, I guess you and Husk were right. I just thought I was a little sick." She murmured. 

"You are sick." I replied. "Just worse than you expected."

"Real humorous, Al." She gave a small, yet weak, giggle.

Silence filled the air between us, and we didn't say anything else after that. That was, until she gave a small sneeze. I could tell she tried to suppress it, but seeing it was late at night and so quiet, it was hard not to notice.

"Are you cold?" I asked. I could barely make out the silhouette of her nodding lightly. Without hesitating, I took off my coat and handed it over to her. "Better?"

"A lot. Thanks, Al." She replied. After another few seconds of silence, she spoke up once more. "Why aren’t you asleep?"

"You do remember your dear partner does not need, nor does he enjoy, sleep?"

"Excuse, excuses." She joked, earning a chuckle from me.

"I can't really sleep now." She suddenly says out of nowhere. One thing I really like about this girl, she says the most random things in the most random situations. "Could we do something else?"

"Are you trying to get me killed?" I laughed. "You need to rest."

"I'm aware. That's the initial plan, anyways." She joked. At least, I hoped she was joking.

"You sneaky little deer."

"Yes. That's me. Hello." She replied, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed as she proceeded to look at me in the dark room. “Besides, it’s not like anyone here at the Hotel is actually powerful enough to kill you.”

"Very well, then. What do you have in mind?"

“Some jazz and cuddles would be nice.”

-----

She chokes on another cough.

"Are you sure you're alright? You should really rest in such vulnerable state."

"I'm," Another cough. "Fine. I swear."

"If you insist."

After a while, I turned to face her, worried she wasn't enjoying herself anymore, only to find her sound asleep, clinging lightly to my shirt. See? I told you were sleepy. You just refused to listen to me. I stopped and watched the girl, moving little by little, afraid of waking her up.

She looked so peaceful. Though, it wouldn't be the first time I find her sleeping in my presence. I tugged a small strand of hair behind her ear as she shifted a little. I immediately paused. Shit, had I woken her? Though she soon returned to her slumber and she curled up into a ball in front of me.

I suppose this would suffice.

"Goodnight, darling." I whispered softly, laying next to her in the bed. "See you in the morning."

-----

[2nd person]

You awoke early in the morning, feeling well rested. Your bed was awfully more comfortable than you had remembered. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, finally opening them for the first time, only to find that you weren't in your own room. It took you a while to let things simmer in.

That's when you heard snoring next to you.

You turned to find the Radio Demon cuddled into a ball next to you in bed sleeping oh so soundly. The poor man probably hadn't had sleep in days. Before you could process what was happening, you checked the time and realized you had to be back at the bar for work in 5 minutes. Not wanting to wake Alastor up, you left him a quick note to thank him and left.

----

The whole day passed and you never caught sight of Alastor. After closing the bar, you headed to Alastor’s room,hoping to find him there.

You stop at his door and break out a tiny laugh.

On the door, a rushed sign saying — Sick. Keep out.

[blessedbucky]

based off my own thot because i saw a lack of tentacles in the satosugu/reader tag and took that personally! (i wanted this posted because the brainrot is real right now so apologies if there are any mistakes!)

pairing: satoru/suguru/reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: TENTACLES BABY, so...shibari-ish by proxy?, vaginal, oral, anal, this throuple do be a little fucked up but that's just jjk territory, satoru and reader seeing orders to kill suguru on sight and straight up saying "that sign can't stop me because i can't read!", some jealousy, a mention of exhibition, suguru lowkey being a daddy, i think that's everything

my thanks to @firefly-graphics for the header! i'm tickled pink by it!

I hate you!

There’s a hum, but you’re still not looked at. “Why, my dearest, are you looking at me like that? I don’t think it was me that put you in this situation.” Suguru flips to the next page in his book. His face hasn’t shifted once since this all started. He still wears that same blasé expression, as if he couldn’t be bothered with any of this. “If anything, I’m helping my sweet girl by teaching her a lesson.” Your adrenaline spikes when you watch him raise a hand. “You need to have a stronger backbone, dear…”

Just as you feared, Suguru flicks his fingers. The cursed spirit shifts as it’s commanded to, and the inky black tentacles move deeper. You didn’t even think that was possible! You breathe harshly through your nose as the heavy weight of the tentacle pushes further down your throat. You still gag. Tears blur your vision but it’s not enough for you not to see that Suguru is finally watching you.

Then, Suguru smirks. It’s that shitty, smug one. It’s bait, of course. It always is. That smirk is always followed by something said that’s so egregious that it makes you act up. And, sure enough, “You can’t keep letting our darling Satoru have his way.”

You’re letting him have his way right now, Suguru!

“Ooh, I know that look.” Suguru reaches out. You think that this is it! He’s finally going to touch you! Instead, he lovingly pets at his new favorite cursed spirit. “Let me guess—you think it’s only him that I’m indulging, is that it?” He chuckles at the widening of your eyes. “Aw, that’s cute. You really thought I wouldn’t find out about what you two little perverts are watching and getting off to together.”

Stalker, you think at him as if he can read your mind. Though, with how deep in your guts his curses are, you’d think that he’d be able to do that. Creep. Pervert. It’s not like these things bother you. You’re as half-mad as Satoru. Suguru makes you both so fucking stupid, so you two get home to your apartment, feeling Suguru’s residuals, and think it’s romantic. Right now, you’re just on the verge of breaking down because Suguru won’t touch you.

“I don’t like this attitude,” Suguru remarks. “Satoru is usually the bratty one. Look at how good he’s being right now.”

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! This is bullshit! The only reason he’s being so good right now is because you fucked him stupid, and you know it!

Satoru started this whole thing and he’s getting the praise now?!

In the middle of keeping your face pinned down against the mattress by the back of your neck and snapping his hips against your ass, that bastard had leaned over your back and started whispering in your ear. Let’s drop in on Suguru, hmm? It had been over three months since either of you had seen him. There was always this…unspoken rule that you and Satoru do not interfere in Suguru’s world. But then Satoru said, I hear he hired some bitch to be his assistant. We should totally fuck somewhere that she’ll find us. C’mon, baby, let’s make him pay attention to us.

Alright, yeah, maybe you do need to grow a backbone.

Though…it was really worth it to see that bitch’s face when she walked into Suguru’s office to find your head hanging over the edge of his desk while Satoru ruthlessly pounded into you. It was made all the better when Suguru slammed open the door about thirty minutes later and snapped at her to leave him alone. No matter how close his little cult followers or family get, he’ll only ever be fake smiles with them. And you’re as much a greedy little hedonist as Satoru is, so it’s nearly orgasmic to know that only you and Satoru can see every side of Geto Suguru.

You don’t quite remember what Satoru said when he mouthed off to Suguru. All you remember is that beatific smile of Suguru’s and his sugary sweet voice when he said, I see. I’ve been neglecting my darlings. Let’s go to my room, shall we? If you wanted to see me so badly, I’ll let you see me as much as you want.

Unlike Satoru, you had some sense left for you to nervously think, I’m in danger! Common sense flew out the window when Suguru slid one of those obscenely big hands of his under his yukata to tug it loose, though. You and Satoru followed after him like bitches in heat.

Let you two see him, Suguru definitely has done. You see each other, too. Satoru is the picture definition of lewd right now. You don’t want to imagine what shape you’re in yourself. You’re mirror images. On your knees, kept in the perfect pose by the one tentacle that’s wrapped around your ankles and wrists. It forces your backs to arch, putting your breasts on full display. A tentacle didn’t waste time before it was wrapping around your tits, too. Satoru got tentacles locking around his chest, squeezing so hard as to bring attention to Satoru’s pecs. Sensitive little Satoru started having the suckers of tentacles pluck at his nipples and the strongest sorcerer of the modern age turned into a whimpering mess.

The strongest sorceress of the modern age lost every thought in her head when all her holes got filled. A tentacle down your throat, one of the bigger ones thrusting inside your pussy, and another carefully pushing inside your ass. No prep. Even with the tentacles lubricated with something almost sweet, it burned. That just makes it better. Rough is the default setting when you three have sex. Gentleness only comes when you’ve all burned out that pent-up aggressive energy.

You and Satoru were okay with it, at first. That tentacle monster bursting onto the scene behind Suguru was like a wet dream come true. Hell, you didn’t even complain when Suguru propped himself up against the headboard with a book. None of you are a stranger to some edging.

Then, you and Satoru were two orgasms in, and the tentacles hadn’t budged. Suguru was making no move to do so, either. It’s become clear that Suguru’s affection is a double-edged sword. Suguru will spoil you and Satoru…and will turn right around and mercilessly abuse that gift to punish you both. Because Suguru knows how tactile you and Satoru are. You two crave touch, especially Suguru’s. To be denied it for so long…

Satoru’s lashes are clumped together from his tears. He’s overstimulated, exhausted, and silently begging Suguru with those shining blue eyes to end his suffering. You get pissy, though. The defiance and anger are meant to goad him because even a rough touch is still a touch.

“Ngh!”

Suguru isn’t falling for any of it. He snaps his fingers and the tentacles that he’d forced to stop moving about ten minutes ago start thrusting inside you. Satoru’s shout is muffled by the tentacle he’s been deepthroating. The tentacles go from zero to a hundred, pumping inside you at a pace that you both relish and aren’t ready for. Your eyes roll in the back of your head. Just before you come so hard that you’re convulsing and liquid gushes from your pussy, you feel the splatter of Satoru’s hot come across your thighs.

“Alright. No more playing.” Suguru gets on his knees, shuffling forward. He shoves his pants down in one fluid movement, his thick, massive cock slapping against his abdomen. He grips the base of it, holding it out in Satoru and your direct lines of sight. “Suck me off.” The tentacles in both your mouths slips away, leaving you and Satoru drooling and panting. “If you two can work together and make this real good for me, I’ll come in all your holes. How’s that sound, my loves?”

[writingforstraykids]

I owe you a kiss

Pairing: Minho x Chan x fem!reader / Minchan x fem!reader

Word Count: 4344

Summary: As the upcoming comeback gets closer, Chan starts isolating himself from you and Minho, getting overwhelmed. He can't quite deal with feeling so much and nothing at all at the same time and takes it out on the two of you. Minho and you try to help your husband out.

Warnings/Tags: angst, fluff, argument, chan feels numbish, fear of flying, domestic married life, emotional hurt/comfort, angsty!chan, soft!min

A/N: I don't know where that came from, but enjoy me fabricating 4k of angst and domestic bullshit in like half an hour😭🥹

PART TWO

My mind is complicated Find it hard to rearrange it But I'll have to find a way somehow Overreacting lately Find it hard to say I'm sorry Still - Niall Horan

You gently knock at the doorframe to your bedroom to avoid startling your husband and step inside. “You have everything you need, darling?”

Minho's currently packing his suitcase for his trip lasting a week. He looks up, gently blowing his hair from his eyes. “I think so, yes,” he flashes you a warm smile. After checking everything once more, he nods and throws the suitcase closed. "Where's our Channie love?" he asks, pulling the zipper closed and fidgeting with the lock. 

"Working," Chan gives back from next door. 

"Of course you are," he says more to himself, making you giggle. Over the past few days, Chan grew very quiet, burying himself in work and avoiding you for most of the time. It happened sometimes before a busy schedule, and Minho had learned to deal with the fact that Chan needed this to recharge. Minho, Chan and you had been dating for four years before tying the knot five years ago. He knows the two of you inside out by now after almost a decade. Minho strolls into Chan's working area and rests his hands on his shoulders. "Hey, there." 

"Hey," Chan gives back, not looking up from his screen and staying seated at his desk. 

"You're hungry? I can order something," he tells him, gently running his hand through his hair. 

"Stop that," Chan grumbles and tilts his head away from him. 

"Okay, sorry," Minho nods calmly and pulls his hands back. For a moment, the sound of Chan's fingers hitting the keyboard is all that can be heard. "So?" he asks, his patience starting to wear thin. 

"I'll keep working," he shakes his head. 

"Chan," Minho says firmly. "I'm leaving after that, and it would be nice to have lunch with my wife and my husband." 

"Fucks sake, you're annoying," Chan sighs and waves him off. "I'll be there in a moment." 

"Thank you," Minho rolls his eyes and makes his way downstairs. "Someone's in a mood," he grumbles as he leans against the kitchen island beside you. 

“Don’t take it to heart, you know he gets sometimes,” you say soothingly, rubbing his shoulder. “What are we getting?”

“Whatever you want, honey,” he winks at you and lets you scroll through the options. “I don’t get him. It’s still a month until the album drops, and we have pretty much everything sorted out. Sure, I have to come up with two more dances, but that’s my issue, isn’t it?” he asks.

“You know Chan makes everything his responsibility,” you tell him and hand him back his phone. “He’ll calm down again; I’ll see what I can do.”

Minho sighs softly and orders the food, still seeming a little pissed off. Usually, Chan knows how much Minho needs a stable environment before a flight. He's scared of flying enough as it is, but especially when he's caught up in his thoughts. So it confuses you a little that he doesn’t seem to pay much attention to that today.

You call out for him twice as your food arrives until Chan finally joins you downstairs. 

Chan's staring into the distance, pushing his food around on his plate and staying quiet as Minho and you keep on talking. 

"Tastes good?" Minho asks after a while and gently nudges Chan beneath the table. 

"Yeah, I guess," he shrugs and ignores the frown Minho gives him. 

"How's work going, Channie?" you try your luck. 

"Great," he simply says, shoving some food into his mouth, clearly signaling he doesn't want to talk right now. 

"Good," Minho nods and sighs softly. "I'm a little nervous." 

"Why?" he gives back, almost a little routined.

"I hate flying, as you know," he groans frustratedly. 

"You did fine before," Chan shrugs and takes a sip from his drink. "It's just a flight." 

"Yeah, that's the point, isn't it?" Minho asks, starting to get a little irritated. 

"Don't be a baby, you'll manage," he says, and Minho stares at him, unable to come up with a proper answer. 

"Thanks, very helpful," he presses out, gripping his glass tighter as his hand starts to shake. He has no time for a mental breakdown right now. 

“Channie,” you sigh softly, deciding to step in. The last thing you want is Minho to leave like that.

Looking up, Chan sees the confusion and anxiety clouding Minho's eyes. "Sorry, Min, you're not a baby," he says, not very convincingly, but it seems to be better than nothing to Minho. 

Minho glances at his watch and clears his throat. "I'll go and grab my stuff," he announces. 

Chan rolls his eyes once he's gone and braces his head on his hand, staring out of the window. He wonders how the hell he'll be able to finish everything he has to do in so little time.

“Channie, angel?” you ask gently, and he hums in response. “At least try and be nice? He’s gone for a week after.” 

“You two are fucking exhausting,” he groans, and you raise your eyebrows, ready to answer as Minho comes back downstairs. 

You get up to collect the trash and decide to continue this talk later.

"I'll see you in a week then," Minho says gently, and Chan hums, agreeing. "You'll be okay?" 

"Sure," he nods and stares into the distance. 

Minho takes his hand and tries to meet his eyes. "Love?" he asks, and Chan very slowly turns to him. "You know you can call if you get overwhelmed or need help with anything." 

"Mhm," he hums and pulls his hand from his hold. 

"Okay," he chews on his lower lip for a moment. "Well, I'll be leaving then."

"Okay," he nods. 

"Can I at least get a kiss?" Minho asks quietly, and his heart sinks as Chan frowns. 

"No," he simply says. 

"No?" Minho echoes quietly, subconsciously taking a step back. 

"Don't feel like it," he shrugs and glances at his watch. 

"You don't feel like…wow, okay," he nods, trying to swallow down the sudden sickness spreading through him. "Did I do something wrong?" he asks timidly. Maybe this wasn't just Chan pulling back, but he had done something to upset him. 

“No, you didn’t, Min,” you say firmly, staring at him irritated.

Chan turns to look at him properly for the first time today. Minho's heart sinks at the carelessness in them. "Right now, you're keeping me from working. I have stuff to do, mate."

"Mate?" Minho presses out, taking a few steps back. "Alright, I'll see you in a week, bestie. Seriously, fuck you," he snaps and grabs his keys. 

"Minho, come on," Chan groans, rolling his eyes at him. "Stop overreacting." 

Minho fidgets with his wedding ring before slamming it on the table. "Know what that is?" 

"You're being serious right now?" Chan raises his eyebrows at him mockingly. 

"That stupid little thing means we're husbands, idiot. I've been by your side for nine years now; I think you can start using appropriate terms, Chan hyung." Minho says firmly, and for a moment, he considers leaving the ring here. But then he remembers he has a public image to maintain, and showing up without one of his wedding rings would raise questions. Also, deep down, it feels wrong already to only wear yours. 

"You're being ridiculous," Chan says and gets up, pushing past him. 

"No, I'm hurt. There's a difference, Chan," he tells him, grabbing his suitcase. "But fine, I'll leave like that. I'll see you in a week then." 

"Fucking great," Chan nods, walking upstairs and not looking back. 

Minho watches him, stunned, before finally leaving the house and slamming the door closed. 

You stand still for a moment, trying to process what has just happened. "You had one job, Chan! Be nice!" you shout upstairs. 

"Fuck you too!" he shouts back and slams his door closed. 

"You two are fucking ridiculous sometimes," you curse and search for your keys. 

Minho gets into his car and stays there for a few minutes, trying to calm down. Secretly, he hoped Chan would join him and make things right before leaving. But he doesn't. The door to his car opens, and you lean down to look at him, raising your eyebrows in amusement. “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he groans and gets out quickly.

You giggle softly as he rushes over to you and pulls you into a tight hug. “Well, goodbye then, darling,” you tease him lovingly.

“I’m sorry, he pissed me off,” he groans, stifling his laughter in your shoulder.

“I know he did,” you laugh and soothingly pat his back. “Give him time to sulk; he’ll start missing you in two days top. He always does.”

“You’ll be okay?” Minho asks, pulling back and looking at you caringly. 

“I’ll be fine. It’s Channie,” you giggle, and Minho snorts. “Deep down, he just needs a cuddle and acts tough so we won’t notice how stressed he is.”

“You handle this way better than I do, even though I’ve known him longer,” he laughs, rolling his eyes at himself.

“I just have a little more patience for his bullshit,” you giggle and check your phone. “You should leave before you miss your flight.”

“Ugh, fine,” he groans. 

“You’ll do great, my darling,” you assure him. “Call me when you land?”

“You know I will,” he promises, lovingly kissing you goodbye. “I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, Minnie darling,” you smile.

-

Minho has been gone for four days when he gets a call. To his surprise, it's Chan's number popping up on his screen only minutes before a fashion event. Minho searches for a quiet corner and takes the call. "Hey, I don't have much time. What's up?" he asks calmly and frowns at the silence that follows. "Chan?" 

"Something's wrong," he says quietly. 

"What do you mean?" he asks confused. 

"I don't…I don't feel good," he says monotonously. "Something's off." 

Minho swallows softly. "Where are you?" 

"Home," Chan tells him.  

“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.

“Left,” he answers quietly.

“What do you mean she left?” he frowns, nervously scanning the crowd around himself.

“Told her to leave me alone. She took that to heart,” he explains. “She’s with her best friend.”

Minho exhales relieved, knowing you are safe with your friend. "Channie, what's wrong?" he asks patiently. "You can't just push us away. We love you, and saying yes five years ago means you're stuck with us," he chuckles, waving off his assistant tapping her watch.  

"I know," Chan says and chews on his lower lip, unable to put it into words. "Remember when I had that episode of feeling worthless and overwhelmed back when we were trainees?" 

"Mhm, of course I do," he nods, swallowing hard as he thinks of Chan's emotional state back then. Nothing had worried him that much in a long time. "Is that what's going on?" 

"No…I feel..kinda numb," Chan admits and curses himself. "I feel so much and nothing at all. I feel like crying, but I can't, I can't focus on anything, I feel like everything I do is pointless and…Minnie, can you come back home?" he asks, his voice whispering. "It's starting to scare me whenever I have a clear moment." Minho rubs his face tiredly, and Chan takes his silence the wrong way. "I know you have shit to do…I just thought..I need you, please?" 

"Give me an hour to sort this out," Minho says, and Chan exhales in relief. "I want you to grab a blanket, make yourself some tea, and put on your favorite series. Get comfortable on the sofa downstairs. You think you can do that for me?" 

"Okay," Chan nods. 

"I'll let you know when I'm on the plane," he says, sighing softly. "Channie love?" 

"Yeah?" he asks quietly. 

"Don't do anything stupid," he says, his grip around his phone tightening. 

"I owe you a kiss," he answers, and Minho smiles sadly. 

"Damn right you do," he nods and is about to end the call. 

"Minho, baby?" Chan asks, almost a little timid. 

"Yes, dear?" he asks patiently. 

"Have a safe flight. You can do this, and I'll be there once you're back," he says, and Minho blinks back tears, gripping his phone tightly. 

"Thank you," he whispers. So he hasn't forgotten. 

-

You frown softly as Minho’s name pops up on your screen. Shouldn’t he be at some fancy fashion event right now? “Min?” you take the call confused. 

“Hey, honey,” he says sweetly. “You have a minute?”

“Yeah, of course,” you nod agreeing, and smile at your friend thankfully, who hands you a cup of tea. 

“Chan called,” he says and sighs at the silence following. “What happened?”

“Well, what did he tell you?” you ask stubbornly.

“Stop playing games, baby girl,” he warns you. “I should’ve been on some red carpet five minutes ago. So, what happened?”

You roll your eyes and subconsciously play with the two small rings decorating your ring finger: one for Chan and one for Minho. “I made the mistake of thinking I’d get a hug and kiss goodnight from my husband,” you tell him quietly, and he can tell you’re hurt. “He told me to leave him alone, so I did.”

“Fucking hell, Chan,” he breaths out and throws his head back in frustration. “I promised him to come home early, but I need some time to figure this out.”

“Oh, please, Min, it’s only three days,” you protest. That’s not what you had intended at all. “We can manage that, and we’ll talk once you’re back.”

“Well, he can’t,” he shakes his head.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“He called me to ask if I can come back because he’s not doing alright. He said something about feeling numb and like failing,” Minho explains, following his assistant, who had given up by now, to his car.

“Shit, Min, I didn’t know. I thought he was stressed and taking it out on us,” you say apologizingly. 

“Relax, I didn’t know either,” he sighs, getting into his car. “Listen, I’ll be back home in a few hours. You think you can go back home in the meantime?” he asks gently. “I know you’re hurt and-.”

“No, it’s alright. Of course, I’ll go back home,” you say, already getting up and gathering your things. “You have a key to get in?”

“I think so, yes,” he nods.

“Alright, I’ll see you later then. I’ll go check on Channie,” you promise, and Minho exhales, relieved. You quickly explain everything to your friend before driving home a little faster than you should. Closing the door, you kick off your shoes and rush into the living room. 

Chan looks up at you, confused, eyes widening at the sight of you. “Y/N?” he asks stunned.

“I’m so sorry, Channie angel,” you apologize and sit down next to him on the sofa. “I didn’t realize you were struggling that much. I thought you were stressed or something.”

“Min told you?” he asks, chuckling as you nod. “Typical, can’t keep a secret.”

“He’s worried,” you scold him gently and take Chan’s hand. “I’m worried.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he admits. “I don’t like worrying you. I just gave up hiding from Min because he witnesses most of it during work anyway.”

“Fair point,” you hum softly and hesitantly rest your head on his shoulder. This time, he lets you. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

“I’m sorry for pushing you away,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “I’m not myself at the moment. Min has helped me out before when we were still trainees, I trust him with this.”

“Okay then,” you nod, smiling as he wraps his arm around you. “I’m here if you need me.”

“Thank you,” he says gently.

-

When Minho gets home a few hours later, he feels drained, pushing his suitcase into a corner and kicking off his shoes. He's still wearing the makeup and outfit for tonight's event, having wasted no time with changing. He tiredly runs his hand through his hair and stares at it for a moment, still shaking as the adrenaline and fear of the flight slowly wear off. His eyes fall upon the wedding rings on his finger. His heart steadies, remembering why he's there as he looks at Chan’s. 

A pair of hands slip into his, taking his smaller ones and gently squeezing them. Minho looks up and meets the eyes he fell in love with all those years ago. Chan moves their hands up to his face, planting a tiny kiss on each of his knuckles. "Breathe," he tells him quietly, and Minho exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding in. 

Minho can't stop himself and pulls him into a tight hug. He buries his face in his shoulder, stomach sinking as Chan stiffens for a moment in his hold. He pulls back, unable to meet his eyes. "Sorry, I should know better, you're not feeling up for this right -." 

Chan cuts him off by pulling him in and shaking his head. "Sorry, I'm a little slow at the moment." 

"That's okay," Minho assures him and gently rubs his back. 

"I can't do anything right at the moment," Chan says quietly, gripping the back of Minho's suit jacket tightly. 

Minho soothingly runs his hand through his hair. "Sometimes it's enough if the only thing you did today was breathe." 

"If you think so," Chan mumbles into the fabric as he buries his nose in his shoulder. 

"I know so," he tells him, resting his head against Chan's. 

“You told Y/N,” he speaks up after a moment. 

“Of course I did. She’s our wife, Channie love,” he giggles softly. “She should know, it’d worry her more not knowing what’s going on.”

He hums gently and tightens his hold on him. "I don't know what to do," Chan admits quietly. "I never felt so empty and isolated." 

"I know that's probably hard to believe right now, but I promise you'll always find me in these three places: In front of you to cheer you on, behind you to have your back, and beside you, so you're never alone," he starts out gently. "I'll find a way to make you feel full again…fuck, that came out wrong," Minho groans, and for the first time in almost two weeks, Chan laughs. 

"Idiot," he giggles and pulls back, meeting his eyes. He reaches out for him, hesitantly brushing back a strand of hair, fingertips tracing the features of his face. Once he reaches his lips, Minho plants a gentle kiss against his fingertips. Chan looks up, and he can't quite pinpoint the look in his husband's eyes. "I messed up that event for you, didn't I?" 

"It doesn't matter," he assures him. "You're more important." 

"You're mad?" he asks, squinting his eyes at him a little. 

"Do I look mad?" he asks gently. 

Chan frowns a little. "No…you look pretty." 

A soft smile covers his lips and travels to his eyes. "That's very sweet." 

"It's weird because I can tell what you're feeling, but…I have no clue how to grasp what I'm feeling," Chan admits, tears brimming his eyes. "I'm messed up, aren't I?" 

"You're struggling," he reminds him kindly. "We can work this out. We did that before." 

"Promise?" Chan asks, searching his eyes observantly. 

"I promise," he says, holding Chan's hand wearing the wedding rings. "I told you I'd be there, no matter what," he tells him, and Chan nods firmly, holding on to the truth of those words. "I need to get rid of the makeup and…whatever the hell that is," he says, looking down at himself. They've put him in some suit and casual clothes arrangement with way too many straps in a different fabric to his taste. 

"I'll help," Chan says, and Minho nods thankfully. 

“Channie?” you ask quietly. Minho turns in Chan’s hold and smiles softly, seeing you. You’re wearing one of his sweaters, and your hair messily falls around your face. You tiredly rub your face and squint at them before the realization hits you. “Oh, Minnie, you’re back,” you beam.

“Hey, honey,” he says softly, grabbing your hand and pulling you into their hug. He plants a tiny kiss on top of your head and giggles as you pout at Chan. 

“Got cold without you,” you tell him. 

“Sorry, baby,” he chuckles and rubs your back. "I had to check on Minho." 

"You're doing okay?" you ask him gently. 

"I'm glad to be on solid ground again," he snorts and lovingly brushes back your hair. "Let's go upstairs. Channie's helping me, and then we can all go to bed." 

"Sounds great," you nod and tiredly rub your eyes. "Channie?" you ask sweetly, making grabby hands at him. Chan snorts and rolls his eyes before lifting you up to carry you upstairs. You smirk at Minho as he follows the two of you. "Doesn't he look handsome?"

"Already told him so," Chan comments.

"You look like a prince, darling. So cute with that glitter around your eyes," you compliment him, and Minho blushes. 

"You're too kind, as always, my beautiful wife," he smiles shyly, and your heart swoons at his last words. 

"Careful," Chan says as he lowers you on the bed. He makes sure you're comfortable and tugs you in already, leaning down and planting a light, almost hesitant kiss on your forehead. "Thank you for coming home," he tells you quietly enough for only you to hear as Minho throws his bag in a corner of the room. "I feel more safe when you're here." 

"Always," you promise. Chan makes his way over to Minho, helping him with his outfit's many buttons and straps. He also removes his shirt and grabs a new one from the closet. "If I weren't so tired, I'd enjoy the show a little more enthusiastically."

Minho's ears burn up red, and he quickly slips into the shirt. "If you weren't so tired, I'd make sure you put that pretty mouth to use for something other than talking shit." 

Your jaw drops, and Minho smirks succeeding. "Fucks sake, you guys, I thought we'd be getting some sleep," Chan protests, making you both laugh. "Okay, sit down," he tells Minho and gets comfortable on the edge of the desk. He plants his feet on Minho's chair, left and right of his thighs. Chan places one hand beneath Minho's chin as he starts wiping away all the makeup, cursing softly to himself about all the glitter around his eyes. "As if you'd need any of this shit," he groans, and Minho giggles softly. 

"You know how it is," he shrugs and closes his eyes for him as Chan gently removes the last remains of his eyeshadow. His eyes flutter back open as Chan takes off the small diamond earring for him. "Thank you, love," he says softly, reaching for him. 

Chan slides off the desk and right into his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. You smile gently, watching them, knowing their goodbye hasn't been that great. He sighs softly and brushes his nose against Minho's. "It's good you're back." 

"Yeah?" Minho asks with a shy smile. 

"Mhm," he hums, sinking deeper into his eyes. "Feels safe." 

"I love you," Minho says, rubbing his lower back soothingly. 

"I know," he nods and presses their foreheads together. "And I know I feel the same way about you…even now." 

"That's good," he says, squeezing his hips. "Don't force it, we have time." 

"Being with you feels..good," Chan tells him and subconsciously presses himself closer. It reminds you a little of what he said to you before you fell asleep on the sofa. At least he seems to be able to feel comfort as well. 

Minho very gently reaches up, cupping his face and caressing his cheeks. "How does that feel?" 

"Warm," Chan says, covering his hands with his own. 

"You like that?" he asks, trying to figure out how to start tackling the issue at hand slowly. 

"Yeah," he nods, a small smile covering his face. 

Minho thinks for a moment before he knows what to try next. After all, his husband was a sucker for compliments he couldn't take for shit. If that wouldn't make him feel something, he doesn't know what would. "You're so beautiful, you know, Channie love. Such a handsome husband with those sweet eyes and bright smile," he says, noticing a slight blush creeping up his face. "Don't get me started on those soft curls. Or the way my hands fit perfectly into yours." Chan shifts on his lap, eyes widening a little as he takes it all in. "Have I ever told you how much I love you being so cuddly?" 

"Minho," he protests gently. 

"Yes, beautiful?" he asks curiously. 

"He's right, Channie angel…but he forgot about your cute laugh and caring sweetness," you chime in. “Or the way your strong arms wrap around me, the way you let me rest on your chest when I’m tired, and how cute you get when you soothe me to sleep.”

"Stop," Chan groans softly. "Now I feel all warm and fuzzy inside," he says, hiding his face in his shoulder as Minho chuckles. "Don't laugh."

Minho smiles and plants a tender kiss on top of his hair. "See? You're still able to feel good things as well." 

"I'm not fucked, in that case?" he asks so innocently it makes you and Minho crack up. 

"It's a good start, don't you think?" he asks, giggling. 

"I guess so," he chuckles and sighs softly as Minho runs his hand through his hair. "Keep doing that?" 

"Let's get to bed, I won't let go of you tonight," he promises. 

"What about me, Minnie?" you pout softly. 

"I'm in the middle in this case," he snorts, and Chan and you seem happy with that. He smiles as the both of you cuddle up to his sides, heads resting on his chest. Minho soothingly plays with Chan's hair, smiling as you take Chan's hand and intertwine them on his stomach. 

PART TWO

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@kai-lee08 @mal-lunar-28 @malfoygalaxies @soullostinspaceandtime @brownieloved @rebecca-johnson-28 @euphoric-univers @hyunniebunni @galaxycatdrawz @aaasia111 @channieaddict @kthstrawberryshortcake

[momentia]

“ah yes, this is a Serious Event, i will wear my blue and yellow button up half buttoned with no tie under a purple suit” guys the line this minor character walks of f*cking a cop while still clearly not thinking all that much of the whole establishment... admirable, hilarious, hope we see more of him next season

[sanguineterrain]

the teeth you know | dick grayson

Summary: The war between the humans and the vampires has lasted for a year now. When you fled Gotham, you thought that would be the last time you'd see the Vampire King and the love of your life, Dick Grayson. You were wrong.

Pairing: vampire king!Dick Grayson x fem!reader. based on the dc vs vampires comics

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings/tags: smut!!! 18+ only. oral fem receiving, manipulation, romantic dick, me retconning whatever smarmy little bastard they wrote in dc vs vampires bc that is NOT my dick. dick is literally so gone for you, vampire king or not. themes of death, war, vampires killing humans. if i missed any warnings lmk!

happy almost halloween! follow your dreams and fuck that superhero turned vampire. it'll definitely fix them this time.

the divider

If you like this fic and want to see more, please let me know through reblogs ♡

Tonight, you dream. 

You don't usually have good dreams. Not since this whole war began. Your dreams are filled with red. Always red, always terrifying. 

Except when he's in them.

The first few times it happened, you yelled at him for intruding on your subconscious. For warping your emotions and making you miss him. He'd laughed at that. 

You should look at yourself a little harder before blaming me. I just appear. You do all the dirty work of missing me, my love.

You're in Gotham in tonight's dream. The old Gotham, of course. Before any bastard undead creatures could suck the life out of your city. Before Dick Grayson haunted your dreams. 

You're on a rooftop ledge, legs dangling. You stare at the harbor. The city's wet from the rain and alive. So alive. You start to cry. 

"Oh, honey," he says, and you cry harder because he sounds exactly like the Dick you knew. 

He keeps his distance, sitting a few feet away. You refuse to look at him, because this is exactly how he gets you to miss him. Dick makes a soft noise when you scrub at your face.

"Have you been eating enough?" he asks, and he almost sounds tender. But you know better. "I'll track down a produce shipment, tell my men to intercept the boat for you."

"Fuck you," you say. "I don't take food out of people's mouths."

Dick edges closer. He feels big in your dreams, looming over you. 

"You wouldn't take food out of anyone's mouth. There's no longer a faction on the planet that requires all that food." 

Because the vampires have all but wiped humans out. You snarl. 

"Why can't you leave me alone?" you snap. "I know you're cruel, but the least you could do is let me dream in peace."

"Have I been cruel to you? I don't mean to be, sweetheart. I visit to check on you."

"Bullshit, Dick." Saying his name makes you shake. "You visit to manipulate me. I'm not going to give up my location, I'm not going to turn against my team, and I'm definitely never going to be your queen."

Dick is next to you on the roof ledge, now. He leans in and you stiffen at his eyes. You still aren't used to the absence of blue.

"Of course not. I wouldn't make you do anything you don't want to," he says, hand slipping across your jaw. You immediately slap him away. He makes a displeased sound. 

"Why don't you find someone else to manipulate? I'm sure you've got countless minions who'd leap at the chance to be with you for eternity." 

"I don't want anyone else," he murmurs. "I've thought of nothing but you since we parted. I wish you hadn't run, my love. Things would be better if we were together, you’d see.”

"Hah. You used to be so much better at compartmentalizing, Grayson. Guess vampires aren't so good at controlling their own desires."

He laughs, tosses his head back. His fangs glint. Dick's smile is deceiving; underneath the charm, there's unimaginable power. Vampirism has treated him well: he's always filled out, lean with muscle, carrying an easy strength everywhere he goes. 

You, on the other hand, suffer from poor nutrition. You didn't sleep well before this mess; now, it's nearly impossible. 

(Except when Dick visits, you feel rested the next morning. You'd never admit such a thing to anybody, but it's the truth.) 

"Oh, sweetheart, but why would I bother controlling my desires now? There's no one stopping me from having what I want."

You stew in silence, turning away from him. Dick sighs. 

"What do you want, hm? Tell me. I'll give you anything." 

"I want you to free every human you're holding captive," you say. "And I want you and your people to stop this war."

"Such a golden heart," Dick says. "That's what I love about you. Always so good."

"You used to be good too," you shoot back bitterly. 

"No, I used to be obedient. There's a difference. I used to be Bruce's little, golden cow."

“He treated you well.”

“When I fell in line,” he says.

You fall quiet again. Dick scoots closer. You scoot away. 

"You know I've already let a few of the humans go. For you, honey. As a sign of goodwill. I'm not totally heartless, you know."

You roll your eyes. 

"Right. Well, us cattle don't find it merciful when we're sent out on our own to die, so you'll have to excuse me if I don't thank Your Highness on my knees."

"You are not cattle," Dick says fiercely. "Don't talk about yourself that way."

"My life is no less human and no more important than theirs," you say, temper flaring. "So, yes, I am."

"That's—"

You fall off the roof before he can say any more. Your stomach swoops similarly to how it would if you were awake. But then the stars bleed into the skyline, and there's a flash of golden light. 

And now you're in a bedroom. It's not one you recognize, richly decorated with golden accents and silk sheets and curtains. You'd almost mistake it for a room at Wayne Manor. 

"Now this is much better, don't you think? You're wearing my favorite color."

You look down and see that your pajamas have been swapped for a long, blood red, chiffon nightgown. It hugs every curve and dip of your body, the sleeves and collar trimmed in soft fur. The neckline is somewhat modest, but the fabric is totally see-through past your thighs. 

It's something a queen would wear. 

"Beautiful," Dick murmurs, voice rough. "Fuck, honey. This is the sort of thing you should wear all the time."

"Change me back," you demand. "I am not a doll for you to dress up, Dick."

"No, of course you're not. This is just a taste of how you'd live if you were with me, my love."

"I will never live with you. I'd rather die."

Dick hums, then draws closer. You back up until your legs hit the edge of the bed. He prowls further, eyes sharp like he's hunting prey. Your pulse quickens and you have to remind yourself that this is just a dream. 

"What happened to us?" he asks softly. "I know that, at one point, you loved me."

"Yeah, that was before you turned into a monster. I loved a man." 

"I'm no more monster than any of the men you've known," Dick says. 

You scoff. "God, where'd you get that one? Jason?"

Dick smiles, and it almost looks human. "No, that was a Grayson original. And it's true. Man has never been good. You don't like me because now I drink a little blood?"

"I don't like you because you used to be good, and now you're not."

He hums. "I'm not all bad, my love. I can be subdued, tamed. You want me to be tame? I can be good for you. I can give you anything your heart desires. Our wants are the same.”

Dick eases you backwards onto the bed. You shouldn’t let him. Shouldn’t like the cold press of undead flesh against your heat. Shouldn’t like how he holds you, how convincing he sounds. You know your wants aren’t the same, that Dick is playing you, and you’re being easy.

But… but it's not like you'll ever see him for real again. No one will know. 

And God, it's been so long since anyone touched you. You pined for this, what seems like forever ago. Dick Grayson wanting you had felt impossible, until it wasn't… but by then, he'd become the very thing you'd sworn to hate. 

"This–” You swallow. “This isn’t right.” 

But your legs part for him to kneel between. 

"Tell me to stop and I will. I serve you first."

Dick hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head. You're getting wet. You ache in more ways than one. 

"This is cruel," you whine.

"I don’t mean to be cruel,” he says gently. “Do you want me to stop, my love? My beautiful queen, who hasn’t been touched in so long. You’ve needed me, haven’t you?”

“Not–not your queen,” you say, panting, but you let him in, let him settle above you. 

“If you say so, my love," he says, nuzzling your neck. You tense even though he can't actually bite you. 

His fingers thread with yours. The position is unbearably intimate. You’d forgotten how romantic Dick was. How loving. Briefly, you wonder if he kept that through the shift.

It’s impossible, you insist as he kisses your jaw.

"You're a dream in red," he purrs. "I might prefer it to you in blue, but it's a close call."

"Your ego is ridiculous," you say, and Dick unlinks one hand to pet the apex of your thighs with two fingers. You're still clothed, and you're still dreaming, but the heat and pressure and slick feel so real. 

"The sounds you're making certainly don’t keep my ego in check," Dick says with a proud grin, fangs on display. 

Then he rips your underwear off, ducks between your legs, and licks you until you cry. 

You arch off the bed, and even in the dream, his strength is easy, one hand keeping you pressed to the bed. Dick pushes one of your legs up to get a deeper angle, moaning into your cunt. Your leg goes up easily even though in real life, it would pinch. You’re not as flexible as he is.

"Dickie," you cry, tears slipping down your cheeks because it's so good, it feels real, you wish this was real, wish you had him back. 

He nips your thighs, groans into your sex. Dick ruts the mattress, the first loss of control he's shown. It makes you wetter, knowing that he's so gone for you. It's sick to like such a thing, but you never stopped loving him, not really. You can't seem to reckon the man from the monster. 

You come hard on his tongue, and he keeps licking until you push him away. 

"You haven't been touched in ages, I bet," he says, lips shiny with your arousal. His eyes are a brighter red. His chest heaves. He looks hungrier than before he started.

"Been a bit busy,” you say when your brain comes back online. “End of humanity and all that."

His eyes go soft. You hate that he can still make that look. 

"Why are you so stubborn? Why won't you let me take care of you? You belong at my side."

You scowl. "I don't belong anywhere, Dick. Certainly nowhere near you."

His eyes glitter and he grabs you by your hips and kisses you. You let him, because you're absolutely pathetic and because you haven't been touched in ages.

Dick laughs against your mouth and peppers kisses on your throat before pulling away. 

"I'll send your team food. They won't even know it's me," he says, half-lidded. "My beloved queen. You'll never starve. I didn't know it was so bad."

"I am not your queen and I don't need your charity. In fact, you know what? I'm waking up. Right now."

Dick smiles, and kisses your hand. Then he gets off of the bed, and fixes his collar. He must be aching in his slacks, dream or not, but he straightens up like he has all the time in the world to fuck you. Like he knows you’ll be back.

"Of course, my love. Whatever you want. Till next time."

The dream fades from a golden bedroom to your dark, tiny hole of a room you've camped in for a few months. 

You turn your head and look at the clock. It's still late. 

Your thighs ache. Your mouth tingles where he kissed you. 

You swore to never pledge yourself to the Vampire King. But you never made any such promises about Dick Grayson.

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood. 

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth. 

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will. 

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do. 

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver. 

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones. 

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain. 

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love. 

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring. 

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him. 

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother. 

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath. 

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out. 

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job. 

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet. 

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above. 

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep. 

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed. 

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says. 

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear. 

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow. 

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition. 

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time. 

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world. 

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge. 

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does. 

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind. 

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger. 

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing. 

Don't hurt me again. 

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black. 

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before. 

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told. 

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again. 

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention. 

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers. 

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep. 

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly. 

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging. 

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down. 

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop. 

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs. 

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. 

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear. 

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to. 

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back. 

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans. 

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin. 

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply. 

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole. 

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks. 

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter. 

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines. 

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again. 

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you. 

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel. 

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly. 

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.” 

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful. 

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day. 

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…” 

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth. 

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning. 

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs. 

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve. 

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there.  “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.” 

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him. 

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply. 

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor. 

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm. 

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his. 

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded. 

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental. 

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.” 

Silent, he waits for more. 

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose. 

It's raining. 

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover. 

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall. 

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun. 

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be. 

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man. 

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing. 

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now. 

Joel steps out of the car. 

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest. 

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger. 

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left. 

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt. 

“Joel,” greets Cabrera. 

“Manuel.” 

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep. 

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning. 

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals. 

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious. 

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow. 

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life. 

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade. 

But the song of death does not call to him now. 

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle. 

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did. 

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now. 

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel. 

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest. 

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket. 

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave. 

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. 

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now. 

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call. 

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat. 

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home. 

So he does. 

[angelcakestarlet]

salvatore

richie jerimovich x reader - richie makes carmy regret hiring the cute young waitress

wrote dis quick, messy, nd did not look over it but enjoy! :>

"so um look, natalie is going to be training you this week alright" carmy informs you as he sifts through a pile of papers scattering his desk. "you ever serve before?", "for a few months yeah, it's been getting me through college so" you twiddle your thumbs nervously. the restaurant was certainly... intimidating? going to school in chicago you had stopped by a couple times for lunch or drunk off your ass after the club. even while slurring your words you could remember how fucking good that sandwich was. even if most of it was puked up in the bushes out front.

"yo, cousin!" an abrasive voice comes stumbling through carmy's office door without warning, "sugar is out here telling me some bullshit about you hiring servers? look we don't need that shit. a sandwich comes out i fucking hand it to them, boom. why are you gonna pay some dipshit to do it for me?". you turn around to face the loud voice, being met with a tall, tan, buzzcut typical line cook with a deep accent. "jesus fucking christ, one of these 'dipshits' is standing in front of you richie." carmy yells back, obviously pained to have you witness that. "ah shit-" richie steps back to get a full length view of you, taking you in. his gaze felt like an intrusion. "i'm sorry, doll, richie jerimovich." he envelopes your hand in his calloused and rough one, introducing himself. "you know what i'm sorry, cousin, anyone with a set of eyes would hire her too" he snickers, with his hand still atop yours he takes his eyes away from you to acknowledge carmen. "cousin, get the fuck out, you fucking creep!" signaling for the door. "oh my god" richie sighs dramatically, "i'm stating the fucking obvious alright, you need marcus to come in here to tell you the same thing? yo, marcus!" carmen rushes to shove richie out the door, "i'm sorry, i couldn't help myself! look, you're beautiful, sweetheart!" he lets out one last compliment. you giggle to yourself and the man making a spectacle of himself.

carmen shuts the office door and sighs, rubbing his forehead with his tired hand. "i'm sorry, he's... he's a fucking jagoff." you appreciate the apology, but having worked in a restaurant has you accustomed to the snickers and comments from line cooks and customers alike. most of the girls usually brush it off, leaving them disgusted and a distaste for the job for the next few hours. but, your guilty pleasure has become using it to your benefit. free food from cooks, more money from tips, etc. you're sure you could work richie to your benefit just the same. "don't worry about it, he seems... nice" your ease settles carmy and he snickers, "you could say that i guess".

you follow natalie around the restaurant for the next few hours as she takes you through the front of the house and back, introducing you to everyone and all the standards. when five o clock hits, she lets you go, handing you an apron, a t-shirt. and a name tag. thanking her and setting out to find the back alley for a quick ciggy. you find richie lighting a cigarette in the dimly lit alley, "can i bum a cigarette?" you sit down beside him, smelling the smoke clinging to his shirt. "its your first day and you're asking me for shit?" he looks over at you and you notice his evident wrinkles, veins in his neck, and tired eyes. "pretty please?" you look up at him, turning your whole body to face him with a sweet smile on your face. he rolls his eyes playfully, "you know what you're doing huh?" he says as he pulls one more cigarette from its box. "open." you scrunch your eyebrows, confused at his request. his eyes shift to your lips, taking two fingers and tapping your cheek signaling for you to open your mouth. "come on," you separate your lips and he places a cigarette between them, lighting it swiftly. you feel your cheeks get warm, from the cigarette or from his words you don't know (yes you do). "thank you" you say quietly, still stunned a bit. "you know you're gonna ruin that sweet face smoking" he coughs through the lit cigarette. "oh are you telling me what to do now, richie?" you lean back, eyes entranced by the way his hands make the cigarette almost look like a lollipop stick. "a girl like you is probably looking for someone to tell her what to do, sweetheart". as you're trying to figure out whether that just pissed you off or turned you on, carmy bursts through the back door. "cousin, what the fuck are you doing?! we need you in the kitchen, now please! and leave the new girl alone, jesus" carmy yells as richie stomps on what's left of his cigarette and puts his hands up in defense. "i'm coming, fuck off. it was a pleasure, babe" he shakes your hand and makes his way inside. you peer at the closed door, listening to the muffled argument carmy and richie have in front of it. great first day.

[97keanu]

˚₊‧꒰ა 𖤐Hellsent𖤐 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Dave Lizewski x Succubi!Reader

Premise: Dave, Todd, and Marty have been laughing about doing a demonic ritual for Halloween. They text back and forth via Skype about how silly it is that there's so many fake rituals online. Todd gets the bright idea of looking into the deep web for some really funny ones, and ends up sending Dave a link for a ritual to 'try'. Thinking it's just bullshit, Dave goes ahead and performs the ritual, but it may turn out to be more real than he thought...

Tags/CW: all characters are 18+, succubi!reader, demonic!reader, nerdy!Dave, blood, demonic rituals, smut, demonic sex, switch!reader, Dom leaning!Reader, sub!Dave, virgin!Dave, p in v, doggy, surprising dom!Dave, chubby!reader, thick!reader, slutty!reader, c*mslut!reader, oral (Dave receiving), oral (reader receiving), raw.

Be added to the Dave taglist here check out my other Dave Lizewski fics here!

Just like any Friday night, Dave was at home. He is set up at his computer, complete with snacks and the biggest bottle of Mountain Dew he could find at the convenience store. His room is dark, save for the blue light of the screen being his beacon in the dark October night. His glasses glint with the screens reflection as he watches memes on youtube because there's nothing better to do. He checks his Skype after hearing that familiar ping! and takes a big swig of his drink.

Todd and Marty are currently laughing over finding out that some parts of the internet think you can actually summon a demon. Dave watches as they type back and forth quizzically before responding himself.

[Dave]: People really think that shit works?

[Marty]: Guess so...and I thought we did some pathetic shit on the internet.

[Todd]: Right, I mean the one I'm looking at now says: "How to summon a Succubus."

[Todd]: These nerds are so lonely they think they can magically conjure up a woman to fuck them, it's actually kind of sad at that point...

[Marty] Damn, maybe that's what Dave needs so he can finally get some pussy for once

[Dave] As if you aren't already looking into how to do it, Marty. I just know from how much you play WoW that you have some sick monster girl fantasies.

[Todd] Actually, I'm with Marty on this one, you should try the ritual and get back to us. I think you'd be less of a dickhead if you finally got some.

Dave stares at the screen in discontent. He hates when his friends make fun of him for being a virgin, which makes no sense to Dave because they're not getting any either. Todd claims that the reason it's different is because at least Todd tries to give an air of not being a virgin, and Marty got to 2nd base in freshmen year with one of the chess team girls. Dave however, according to Todd and Marty, is a quintessential virgin.

So, when Todd sends a sketchy link that Dave is almost certain will end up being a screamer or malware, he decides to click it anyways, on the off chance it actually is a way to get a demon babe to fuck you.

To Dave's surprise, it isn't a fake out. It's a forum, from what part of the web, Dave is unsure. He hasn't seen a site like this before, and from a quick glance, the people talking in it are serious. He reads as users of the forum detail a ritual, and how each of them have modified it until supposedly it worked. Dave still feels pretty skeptical about it, but it seems like everyone in this forum really believes this, and that alone is enough that Dave feels a slight chill.

Dave hears another ping! and when he clicks back to Skype, Todd and Marty are once again, egging him on about it. He tries to ignore it, not sending anything back as he begins writing down what the forum suggests. Dave hears the familiar sound of an incoming call, and reluctantly answers it. Dave watches as the screen-glowed faces of Todd and Marty join his.

"So, are you going to do it?" Marty says with a snort.

"Yeah, c'mon Dave, we wanna watch and see if it's real!" Todd looks very enthusiastic about all of this, but of course, he's safe from any harm behind the screen.

"Fine, I'll do your stupid ritual and show you how dumb it is." Dave grumbles, finally giving in to the idea fully.

Todd and Marty are pumped, and Dave let's them know he has to go gather some things from the list. He mutes and turns off his camera before trekking out of his room for the first time that night to look for what the ritual calls for, or the best things he can find.

Dave scoures the house and ends up finding most of what he needs. He steals five candles from his Dad, who is surprisingly into collecting Bath and Body Works scents. He gathers cinnamon and basil from the kitchen cabinet, and is surprised to see there is actually a bundle of lavender on the wall for decoration. He finishes his hunt by grabbing a piece of white chalk from leftover summer days when he was younger, and a needle from his mom's old sewing kit.

Dave races back up to his attic room, ready to get this over with, and tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. A part of him worries if it will work. A deeper part of him wonder if it was even remotely possible that he could actually get laid tonight, demonic or otherwise.

"Alright, I got what it says..." Dave turns on the mic and camera and tells his friends. They seem interested, and urge him to continue. Dave sets the webcam up so they can see more of his room, particularly the bed and the wooden floor before it.

He gets started, making a pentagram and tracing the runes that the website said to put. It doesn't take long before he has what looks like a legit summoning circle, to his surprise. He continues as Todd and Marty watch carefully, and Dave notices that they aren't joking as much as before the more he continues. He wonders how much they think this will really work, or if this is an elaborate prank to make him do all this work in a desperate attempt to have sex. He hopes neither of them are screen recording the most.

Dave lights each candle, placing them on a pentagram point, then sprinkling a bit of each herb to each candle. He looks back to the paper he has the instructions on and confirms that the next part he will have to draw blood.

"I guess it calls for blood now, guys..." Dave says, uneasily, glancing back to the screen for validation.

"I thought you said after the accident you couldn't feel much pain?" Todd asks, and Marty nods along.

"We've come this close, better just finish it up and see if it really works..." Marty quietly adds, shifting in his seat.

"I don't know what you mean by 'we'..." Dave grumbles, but grabs the sewing needle.

They were right, it won't hurt that much to prick his finger for Dave. Somehow, despite knowing the pain wasn't really an issue, Dave's heart began to pick up. The wind outside his window seemed to disappear as he carefully begun poking his finger, the blood swelling up and slipping down it. Todd and Marty were completely silent as they watched Dave add a drop to each point, Dave speaking the Latin he had wrote down for the ritual. As he neared the last line and last point, he felt something in the room shift. The energy made the hair on his neck stand up, and the candles flickered despite the lack of airflow. Dave hesitated as he began to finish the ritual, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

There was only one way to see if any of that was real or not, though. And Dave wasn't about to chicken out in front of his friends, he hated facing embarrassment like that from them because it would last for months. Besides, it was unlikely anything would happen and he could go back and goad Todd for thinking it would work. Dave smiled for a second thinking of how he could get back at him, then found the confidence to continue.

He spoke the last line, his drop of blood falling onto the last sigil. Dave watched as it sat there, and for a few moments, nothing moved.

"I told you, Todd! Nothing was going to happen-" Dave yelled back at the screen with a smirk, then paused.

He saw the sigil soak up the blood, moving the liquid by an unknown force. A faint glow of red began to take hold of the shape. Todd and Marty could barely tell through their cameras, but watched in anticipation, wondering why their friend stopped gloating. Dave stepped out of the circle, almost tripping into his bed. As he exited the circle, the wind picked up, blowing harshly into his room. He heard Todd and Marty begin chattering, asking what was happening, as one of the candles fell over, sparking a ring of fire around the pentagram.

Dave tried to move, tried to do anything, knowing he should put out the flame, but he was speechless as he watched the ring bend shape into that of a heart. Dave blinked, trying to will the images before him away, unable to process what was happening. As he was almost able to regain the ability to move, your portal opened up.

You had been watching hungrily as the young man completed your ritual, smelling the virginity on him from your realm, and wanting a taste of his sweet essence. You floated out of the portal, your tiny, pink bat-like wings fluttering. You watched as Dave's eyes grew ever larger at the sight of you. You who was practically naked, a string of bikini covering only the most sacred of bits. Your pink skin glowed in the dim light of his computer, and the horns on your head gleamed. You could hear the sounds of boys fawning over you from the computer, and glanced over with a sharpness in your Amaranth colored eyes.

"You brought me here to an audience, I see..." Your voice, dripping with honey-like sweetness, yet your demonic undertones rumbled through out.

Dave could barely speak. He looked up at you to where he had fallen into the end of his bed with fear and, to his dismay, a hardening cock clearly beginning to struggle against his jeans. He could barely believe any of it.

Maybe he had fallen when the fire broke out and hit his head, or perhaps the fumes from the smoke were making him see things, but no. You really were in his bedroom, a burning heart breaking way to the hottest creature he had ever laid eyes on.

His eyes trailed your curves, enjoying the plumpness and the way the straps of your bikini could barely hold how thick you were. He thought he might just cum in his pants right then as you turned, your ass so juicy and cute, your tail flicking with mischief. He watched as you stepped out of the circle, walking over to the computer. As you got closer, bending over and giving Dave a wonderful view, the computer began to glitch.

"It seems my magic prevents me from using such a contraption..." You whisper to yourself, and Dave opens his mouth to speak, but cannot find the words. "No matter. If you wish for these humans to watch as I take you, then so be it."

The thought of Todd and Marty watching him lose his virginity made his stomach turn, and Dave finally was able to jump to his feet, rushing towards the computer as you left it to float over to the bed. He could hear Todd and Marty trying to dissuade him from turning off the webcam, obviously eager to see what comes next even if it is their closest friend.

"Wait, Dave!" They said almost in unison as Dave began shutting it down.

"Sorry guys! Busy! Bye!" Dave uttered, the words the first thing that he could think of to say. He ended the call and turned off his computer in record time, turning to face you, who was now laid out on the bed with a sensual stare.

"So, they call you Dave?" You purred, your pink eyes glowing in the darkness of Dave's room.

The firey summoning circle has died down to a crisp ember in the floor. Dave didn't want to think about how he would have to explain that to his dad later. Instead, he couldn't help but to be entranced by you, walking forward slowly, unsure, but knowing he wants you.

"Y-yeah, that's, um, my name..." Dave speaks shyly, a nervous hand ruffling his dark curls at the back of his head.

"Cute...I'd tell you my name, but I don't think you would understand my demonic language." You tease him, bringing up a finger and curling it to signal Dave to come closer.

Dave gulps, and takes a few steps further, then stops. Even if this is all just a gas leak induced dream, he still felt the need to make sure that he was safe.

"Wh-what are you going to, uh, do to me?" He forces the words out.

"Nothing you don't want, Dave." You lay back, your pink tits falling just so, looking perfectly round and soft. Dave can't help but get caught up in them.

"But, you're a d-demon right?" He has to blink and look away to keep talking, his cock is distracting him too much when he looks at you.

"A succubi, yes... Is that a problem?"

"Aren't demons, like, supposed to be, um, really bad and stuff?" He hates how ridiculous and nerdy he sounds trying to figure this all out, but he's so nervous he can barely speak naturally.

"Depends on what you view as bad." You begin, a hand lazily playing with the strap of your bikini on your thigh, snapping it. Dave watches as your thighs jiggle temptingly.

"If you think sex is a sin, then maybe I would be bad. That was very common back in the day. The world seems to have grown a bit, but we still get summons from hunters who hate us. You don't happen to be a demon hunter, do you Dave?" You know he's not, but it's fun to see him sweat a little.

"N-no, absolutely not..." Dave stutters out, then clears his throat. "But, what do you want to do to me?"

"Well, I thought you knew the answer to that, seeing as it was you who summoned me." You giggle a bit, the sound like to soft bells. "Usually, this works as a symbiotic relationship. You get to fuck me, and I get to devour that delicious sexual energy you've been hoarding..."

"H-hoarding?"

"Oh yes, your virginity at such an age is less common nowadays. It will be very, very tasty to suck all of that pent up sexual frustration out of you..." You wink at him, and Dave's already hot cheeks darken a deeper shade of red.

"But, will that hurt me?" Dave whispers, the temptation to give in so strong he has started coming closer and closer.

"Only if you care that you'll be extremely tired afterward. But sex makes most people tired, doesn't it?" Dave thinks he's heard that before, but he wouldn't really know either way. The offer sounds like a good deal though, he could take being tired.

"And you won't do anything I won't like?"

"Not a chance."

Dave stops at the foot of the bed, looking down at you sexy form. He never thought he would ever have a girl in his bed, laid out, wanting him. He couldn't have guessed that girl would be a hot succubi like yourself. He takes one last moment to decide, and his cock overrides all better judgements.

Dave nods at you, accepting, and you smile, your tiny fangs cutely peeking out from behind your soft, plump lips. You move, cat-like and sensual, getting on all fours and meeting Dave at the edge of the bed. You place a hand on his hard cock, and he breathes out a shuttering breath, the touch warm and inviting.

"I suppose we should start by freeing up such a large cock..." You look up as you speak, your eyelashes batting.

Dave groans as you unzip his jeans, his mind reeling from the fact that you called his cock big. He didn't think he would ever hear a girl tell him that, and now here you are, looking up with your heart shaped pupils as if Dave's the sexiest man around.

Truth is, you do think he's quite sexy. Sure, he's obviously a comic book nerd, that much was sure from one look at his room. But, those big blue eyes and that sweetheart, shy smile were quite charming. You're honestly surprised that no one else has already used this boy up. Oh well, more of his fat cock for you.

You watch as it flops out, and you're even more surprised by how big and girthy it is when it's been unleashed from his jeans. You stare up at him with lustful, glowing eyes, taking his cock slowly in your hands, and for a moment you think he might just cum from that. As you continue to slowly stroke his cock, you can sense how horny he is, and are surprised by the level. Maybe he will make an acceptable sex partner after all. You haven't found someone who can keep up with you yet, at least not enough for you to visit more than once.

You slowly slide his jeans and underwear down, his mess of curls at the base of his cock meeting your hand as you fully stroke him. He leans his head back, his eyes scrunched up from trying to keep himself from cumming too soon. You bite your lip, ready to give his cock a taste.

Your warm mouth engulfs the tip of Dave's cock, filling up more of your mouth than you imagined. Dave moans out from the sudden warmth, and his hips gently buck for more as your tongue swirls around the head of his cock gently, teasing him. You feel his cock begin to leak, even after such little contact, and you lap it up happily, feeling the sexual energy begin to energize you.

"P-please..." Dave barely gets out as you continue to tease. "I can't take much more,"

You look up at him, taking your mouth off and giving him a breather. You flip over, so your breasts are facing him, and open your mouth as your head dangles gently off the bed.

"Fuck my mouth, Dave..." You command, and it doesn't take anything else for Dave to nod and listen.

He gently places his cock in your mouth, slowly rocking his hips in, going shallowly in and out. You reach a hand between your own legs, feeling your wetness from the outside of your bikini, and placing with your pussy on top of it. You reach a hand up to his thigh and without warning to him, push, making his cock dive deep into your throat.

His muscles tense and he let's out a loud whimper, not moving because he knows he will burst in your mouth right now if he does. You enjoy the feeling of your throat being so full, feeling his cock twitching and aching to cum in there. You feel him slowly begin to move again, taking deeper and deeper thrusts with the help of your guiding hand. You feel a bit surprised by his sudden boldness when he reaches down, and grabs a handful of your tits. You're moaning along, happy he is getting the hang of this.

You take his cock with ease, that's what you were made for after all, but that doesn't stop how horny it makes you to have a throat full of such a big cock like his. You love the way it chokes you when he dips in as deep as he can go, your spit slipping down the sides of your mouth. The feeling of being used in such a way as your pussy tingling, and you can't wait to have Dave's fat cock fill you up there too.

"Fuck...I'm so close to cumming..." You hear him whisper, and you're not worried at all that he will cum so quickly. You're a demon, after all, you have your ways of getting a cock hard again, and you don't plan on letting Dave go on only a fifteen minute throat fuck.

Dave can hardly believe how good this feels. Or the fact that he, someone who no other girl would even look at because he's such a shy nerd, gets to fuck someone like you. He feels so powerful right now too, being able to fuck you in throat, and no matter how much he tests how hard he can go, you take it with ease. His hands play with your breasts, and he slips a hand under the fabric of your bikini. He's surprised to find your nipples are pierced, but the idea turns him on even more. He softly twists them, earning him a moan from you every time, which only goes directly to his cock. He isn't sure how much longer he can hold it. He wants to explore so much more of your body, but he needs to cum so badly it hurts.

You feel Dave's cock swell in your throat, and you're sure he can see the lump he's leaving from the outside. He shudders as he tries to drag this out, attempting to save himself for more of your body, but he knows he can't stop himself. Dave cuts off one of your pretty little moans by jolting his cock hard and fast deep into your throat, spilling over and filling you up. You can barely breathe, and the hot liquid tries to choke you, but you're no amateur. You happily swallow all of Dave's seed as it twitches out inside of you.

Dave carefully pulls his cock from your throat, and your smile up at him, cum slipping down the side of your mouth. You use a hand to quickly get it in your mouth, his sexual essence most powerful there. Dave watches as your eyes glow a bit more strongly after swallowing so much cum.

"You really did suck the life out of me, huh..." Dave says wearily, feeling the effects of your succubus powers.

You sit up and smile, nodding to his question. You feel the energy making you more awake, but you're still hungry for him.

Dave sits on the bed next to you and you lean into him. You let your hands pull off his shirt, and explore his body, your kisses to his neck, biting and sucking softly.

"I'm not sure I can..." Dave begins, but when your hand reaches down to touch his cock, he's surprised at how easy he gets hard again. You giggle into his neck, his curls tickling your face.

"How did you..." He asks, his voice full of wanton.

"A perk of spending the night with a succubi," you whisper into his ear. "Is that were finished, when I say were finished..."

Dave feels your voice against his ear, and he shudders, a chill from how good it feels to be touched by your taking over his body.

"Tell me Dave, what else would you like tonight?" You whisper as you stroke his cock back to life.

"I um..." Dave's cheeks heat up as he thinks about one of his biggest fantasies, the feeling of you stroking him not helping to keep his mind straight. "I actually...would love if you would let me eat you out..."

Dave whimpers out his request, and you're surprised the second time tonight. Most men that summon you can only think of themselves, but you're turned on by the fact that Dave seems to love giving just as much as he likes receiving.

You pull him back with you, laying onto your back, and letting Dave get in between your legs. You keep his head by yours so you can kiss those big, luscious lips of his, and he happily receives them. You guide him down your neck, to your breasts where you let his mouth explore for a while. You arch your back into him, your tits so sensitive to his touch. Dave sucks on them, pulling them together even and getting both nipples in his mouth. He remembers seeing that in a porn flick once, and he gets ever harder as he realizes how good it feels to do so. What feels the best right now, is hearing your moans as he pleases you. Dave's always loved the idea of giving, of making you feel so good, and the fact that it's him who's able to please a woman turns him on the most. He wonders what other moves he can try on you.

Finally he slips his head between your juicy thighs, taking both and squeezing them, pushing your legs against his face. You see what he wants and laugh a little, putting more pressure to smush his head between your thighs. He seems to love the feeling, and when you release him, he looks up at you with such love and lust in his eyes. You pull your tiny bikini, now soaked with your wetness, to the side, and let Dave get a good look at your cute little pussy.

"God, you look so gorgeous..." He whispers, not realizing he's thinking his thoughts out loud. He's already so intoxicated by you, and he wonders how much of it is natural and how much of it is your demonic influence. Then he looks into your cute eyes and he doesn't care.

He leans in, inhaling your scent before lapping up your pussy with a flat tongue. He already loves how you taste, and while he's surprised by the taste as it is his first time, he also finds it so strangely enjoyable. He picks up the pace, your breathing changing with it, and you give him praise while he gives you head.

"You're such a good boy for me, Dave..." And suddenly, Dave feels as if he's doing what he's supposed to. He loves being praised for doing such a good job, and he had no idea that your soft whimpers and approval were so poignant. He takes your thighs and pulls you into himself, his mouth working harder to make you feel good.

He tries to remember techniques he had, of course, searched for. He didn't know when he might need to know how to eat pussy, so he tried searching various reddits and wikihows to make sure he would do a good job. He swirls his tongue around your clit, and teases it the way you teased his cock. You enjoy the feeling, loving how he explores what feels good for you, and how he listens to your commands and moans to do just that.

Dave laps up all of your pussy, exploring more than just your clit, and looking up at you with his big blues pussy drunk. He remembers one tip, and tries it, putting his whole mouth over your clit and sucking. You moan out, arching your back into him and gripping his curls. He can't believe how good it feels to have his hair gripped like that, and soon enough your bobbing his head in the perfect motion, using his mouth up to your liking.

Dave's glasses begin fogging over and getting in the way, so between breaths he plucks them off and tosses them away, uncaring what happens to them. He's too busy with the euphoria you're giving him. He feels his cock against the bed, so hard. He is practically humping the bed to get some friction down there while his head keeps in time with the motions you guide. You feel yourself getting closer and closer.

"Put your fingers inside me, Dave..." You command with a husky voice, and Dave doesn't hesitate.

He wets his fingers by licking the first two, and slowly plays with your hole, easing himself inside of you. He can't believe how warm it is, and he slowly curls them like he read about. You moan out, his fingers are so long and thick.

"More..." You breathe. "Harder..."

Dave complies, giving you anything you ask for, completely taken by your spell, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You feel him finally hit that perfect spot inside you, and you practically scream out.

"Yes! Right there, right there!" You whine, your legs shaking and your hands a mess in his curls. Dave doesn't let up, and instead brings you over the edge, letting you buck into his face and hand.

He watches as you come for him, whining out his name, and he feels as if he may just cum himself against the bed. He only pulls up and stops when you tell him to, looking up at you, breathless and lips wet. He looks dazed and satisfied with himself, and you look at him with a similar expression. Your eyes glow and take in the experience, and soon enough you're already aching for his cock again.

Dave can hardly stand it himself, all of his thoughts are on how badly he needs to finish fucking you. He doesn't wait to see what you do next, he feels way too primal to do so. Instead, in his sex drunken state, he moves up, bringing his cock to meet your pussy. He taps it in your wetness, before playing with your folds, making you bite your lip with want.

"Fuck me, Dave..." You whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist and pull him in.

Dave doesn't need to be told twice. He slips his cock down, your pussy wet and like satin, smoothly and slowly pressing himself inside of you. You can take his cock, but that doesn't mean you can't feel his girth stretching you and his length filling you to the brim. Dave settles his cock into the warmth of your pussy and for a second he wonders if this is what heaven feels like.

He thinks to take it slow, but when he looks up at your eyes, he knows. He slips back out slowly, almost pulling all the way out, before pounding back in with force, testing out how hard he's allowed to fuck you. Turns out, you like it pretty damn hard. Soon enough, he's fucking your tight little cunt so hard your tits are bouncing uncontrollably, and your moans are reverberating off the walls. Dave's very happy he's the only one home right now, but he's sure at this point even the neighbors know.

Dave get's caught up in the moment, and grips your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He pull you up so his cock angles so he can go deep, savoring the way your pussy holds him so firmly. He doesn't know what overcomes him, but he pulls out for a minute, and with strength he didn't know he had, he flips you over. He grabs a handful of your juicy ass, before giving it a slap, and diving right back in.

Your tail flicking with delight as he fucks you from behind, and soon enough he's grabbing a hold of that too, holding it at the thicker base and using it to keep you right where he wants you. Dave fucks you like the dirty cumslut you are, and you love every minute of it. You're panting and looking back at him with eyes that soak up every stroke, enjoying how delicious his sexual energy tastes. You wonder how a succubi could get so lucky as to find suck pure virgin nerdy dick like this. You don't think you can go back to being pleasured by just anyone.

Dave feels you tightening around him, your hand slipping underneath you to find your needy clit, rubbing frantically now to get off.

"You like when I pound you with this cock?" Dave has no idea what has possessed him to say such a thing, usually he's so shy, but right now, he can't help but to dominate you.

"Yes!" You respond, happy to switch roles however your dorky lover wants. "Please fill my pussy up, I need it..."

Dave gets closer and closer as you beg to be his cumdumpster, and you feel yourself beginning to cum again yourself. You feel your muscles stiffen, and your moans get away from you as you cum. Dave can't take it anymore, not with your cunt spasming and tightening all over his cock. He fills you up with his own groan, pounding his cum deeper and deeper with every stroke.

You feel yourself being so full, of Dave's cum, cock, and essence. You look back at him, completely taken away by how good of a fuck he is. When Dave is finished filling you up, he pulls out, carefully. His breaths hard and his body sweaty. He can't help himself, he falls next to you and pulls you close, spooning him from behind.

After the two of you finally settle down, enjoying the silence and the way each others body feels, Dave speaks.

"Not at all what I was expecting for my first time..." His voice is sleepy and deep, sending butterflies into your stomach.

"And what if we did it again sometime...?" You say tentatively, biting your lip.

"Really?" Dave doesn't know what to say, he had no idea that it was possible to see you again.

"You might just become my main meal, if you want to be." You tease and Dave snuggles into your neck.

"Hmm...I think I would like that..." He can hardly keep his eyes open, all the energy having been drained from him.

He gently holds you close, one hand softly thumbing your horns and petting your hair. You usually don't stay this long, but for some reason, you're really enjoying this. You allow your body's exhaustion to take over, relaxing into his arms. Soon enough Dave slips into the best slumber he's ever had, and you follow him.

𖤐Taglist𖤐

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Feel free to ask to be taken off Dave's taglist!

[katyawriteswhump]

Freestyle love (Steddie holiday drabble)

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 22 prompt, Sports AU.

Nobody ever wanted Eddie Munson on their swim squad, and uni competition was no different. Until Steve Harrington decided to play by the rules.

WC: 966. Rating: T.

CW: none really. Tags: Enemies to lovers, whump, university/college AU.

***

"Munson's freestyle times smash half the teams.'" Steve pushed his wet hair from his eyes, double-checked the stopwatch. “He’s in."

"That science geek pond-scum?” asked Steve's swim co-captain, standing with him beside the pool. "No way. You read the numbers backwards again, Harrington?"

"Shut up. I’m calling this one."

When Steve broke the news, Munson pulled off his swim-cap and a mass of dark, damp hair tumbled out. “One of your teammates said my tats automatically disqualify me,” said Munson.

“That’s bullshit.” Steve actually found Munson’s freaky tattoos bizarrely compelling. Oh, and the body beneath—all lean rope-like muscle, not massive shoulders, but a decent swimmer’s physique. “We need you. You beat most of the sports scholarship guys.”

“I know.” Munson shrugged. “And you can take my place on your dumb squad and stuff it up their buttholes.”

“What the heck, man? Why did you trial, if you don’t want in?”

“To show you over-privileged frat-house dicks you ain’t special. I qualify every year—you’re just the first knucklehead to notice. Anyhooo.” He poked his tongue out stupidly. Steve planted his hands on his hips and couldn’t glare harder. “I’m off to Who Soc.”

“What Soc?”

Munson’s shoulder clipped Steve’s as he passed—possibly an accident, but he nearly toppled Steve into the pool.

“Screw you, man! Crawl back to your den of Satanist freaks, like I care.”

“Yeah?” Munson poked out his tongue again, wiggled his fingers. “Hexing you, Harrington. Oooooh, bet you’re pissing yourself.”

***

Eddie had simply been getting one back for the little guys, against all those over-pumped numbskulls. 

He still felt bad when he heard what happened at the inter-state semis—some moron dived into the pool on top of Harrington in the shallow end, breaking his leg.

It bugged Eddie. So much he wound up visiting Steve at the hospital.

When Eddie sidled into Steve’s room, Steve’s pale face—peeking from behind his plastered leg in traction—said it all: What the heck?

“Hey,” mumbled Eddie. “Guess I’m the last person you expected.”

“On my list of expected visitors, you were somewhere below Elvis.” Harrington seemed pissed. Also genuinely bewildered.

He was still sexy as hell.

Especially now Eddie couldn’t find it in his cold, metal-loving heart to hate the guy. Mmmm, and was it kinda wrong to wanna lick those well-muscled arms, and picture him shirtless… even when Harrington glowered at him from a hospital bed?

Eddie raised his palms in half-hearted surrender. “I owe you an explanation. I’ve been doing swim trials since Middle School. My time is always good—the place I grew up in was right by a lake—yet nobody ever gave me my place on the squad before. This face never fits.” He gurned a silly grin. “Then you went and flew in the face of all the laws in the universe and offered me ‘in.’ I guess it... blew me away.”

“I was only following the goddamn rules.” Steve grumpily puffed his flatter-than-usual hair from his eyes.

“Yeah, and I was a dick, and the Hex thing was dumb. I didn’t really… you know…”

“I don’t blame you for my stupid accident.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Contrary to popular opinion, I'm not a complete moron. I'm scraping a pass in English Lit, okay?” As the atmosphere softened, Eddie shuffled nearer Steve’s bed. “Good job. Who's gonna keep me here on a sports scholarship now?”

“Sorry, man.”

“Jesus, it’s not your fault!” Up close, Harrington looked exhausted, possibly even in pain, with dark smudgy shadows around his eyes. “You know, you can do something to make this less shit.”

Eddie’s heart squeezed oddly—gratefully? “What?”

“Take my place in the squad.” Steve mumbled toward hands clasped in his lap. “I recorded your times, made it official. The place is yours to claim. I'd tell the team myself… if any of them came to visit.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nobody’s got time for a swim co-captain who’ll never swim competitively again.” 

A lump clogged Eddie’s throat. Harrington’s face worked strangely, too… Shit, shit, shit! Eddie reached out, tentatively squeezed Steve’s shoulder. Steve looked up sharply, eyes large and liquid. Damn, the boy was tense.

“That stinks,” said Eddie.

“Yeeeah.” Steve’s laugh was shaky, while Eddie’s mind raced: 

“Dude, I’m in a ton of non-sports societies. D & D, model-making, Who Soc… Uh, maybe not that one for you. I can bring a few of the guys and gals here, see if you get into anything.”

“I don’t need YOU to find me friends.” Harrington’s spikiness proved short-lived. He unleashed a resigned sigh: “Look, man, I’m not exactly in the mood for parties, but… If you wanna come back… that would be cool.”

Suddenly, neither of them could look at each other. Eddie’s face was burning. Could he actually be into me?

“Tho’ if you’re not fresh from swim practice when you arrive, I’m not interested, Munson.”

Eddie hooted: “You blackmailing me?”

“I can play dirty, ya know, buck expectations, too.” Steve went in for the kill. He smiled up at Eddie, a proper, hot-as-hell smile, which reached his too-pretty brown eyes. 

Is he hitting on me?!? Eddie gawked like a goldfish.

“See you tomorrow?”

***

On the day of the national finals, Steve watched from the stands. When Eddie slammed home for victory on the final leg of the freestyle relay, Steve was on his feet—okay, propped by his crutches—cheering his head off.

As soon as Eddie could get away, he clambered, wet and dripping, through to the rear of the stands and planted an even wetter kiss on Steve's lips. Steve threw his arms around his boyfriend. It was great to finally be with somebody to whom only the real things in life mattered. 

"Love you, Champ," he whispered in Eddie’s ear.

"Love you, too." Eddie kissed him again.

Victory had never felt so hot.

***

Thanks for reading :) Also part of my steve whump fic series (mainly steddie) on ao3

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

When in Vegas

Prompt Day 11: Royalty AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Drinking, Gambling | Tags: AU, Meet-Cute, Platonic Stobin, What Happens in Vegas

"Oh fuck, I'm so sorry," Steve says, grabbing the shoulders of the guy he nearly knocked over on the Vegas casino floor. "I'm clumsy. It's apparently contagious. I caught it from my best friend," Steve explains, giggling. 

He's tipsy. 

"I see," the guy says, voice tense. 

"Sorry, again," Steve repeats, and smiles in his direction. 

"It's fine," the guy says, and Steve lets go of him. And then takes a good, long look. He's cute, but he's wearing a Knicks hat, and that's a definite dealbreaker.

He watches as the guy blushes under his gaze. Oh. Well, he's adorable. For a mortal enemy. 

"Sorry, I can't be seen talking to you. Not after last night," Steve says, swaying on his feet, and the guy looks very confused.

"Last night?" he asks. 

Steve points at his hat, "Your team knocked my team out of the semifinals, and I can't cross enemy lines."

The guy chuckles a little, and takes off his hat and examines it, like he's not sure what hat he was wearing on his own head. That's odd. 

People are so weird.

Steve slumps down on the seat at the nearest slot machine and holds his hand back, offering his new frenemy a handful of nickels. 

He takes them, and sits down next to him. 

"Well, I'm Steve."

"Eddie," the guy says. 

"What brings you to Vegas, Eddie?" Steve asks, pulling the handle on his machine again. 

"A holiday," Eddie says, and Steve tries to think what holiday he means and is drawing a blank. 

"My friends are getting married," Steve offers, and Eddie visibly tenses beside him. 

"Well, that's nice. For them," Eddie says, voice clipped, tight. 

And his voice is different than it was. Like his accent is fake. Is his accent fake? Robin would love that. A puzzle for her to solve. Where is Robin? She went to the bathroom a long time ago. 

And she turns up, right after he has a cute boy, no, a cute Knicks fan, to talk to. Figures. 

Robin's eyes are huge.

"You're…" she trails off, and Eddie shushes her.

"Who? He's who?" Steve asks, looking between them, wildly. 

"Prince Eddie," she hisses, looking at Steve like he's the weird one here. He's the only sane one, he's pretty sure.

He's drunk. But this isn't Prince Eddie. 

"Prince Eddie, as in, Prince Eddie," Steve says, not believing this bullshit. 

"Please," Eddie says again, pulling his hat down lower. 

Which, Steve guesses, would make sense. If Eddie just grabbed a hat as a disguise, he probably didn't care or know what team he was repping. So, maybe, he could be forgiven. Maybe.

"What are you doing lurking around a casino?" Robin asks, "Shouldn't you be across the pond?" 

"Yes, well," Prince Eddie says haughtily, and he suddenly has a posh little accent. Steve knew it was fake earlier.

"Well, what?" Steve asks. He's curious now. 

"My family has been trying to arrange a marriage, and I just decided to flee the country."

Steve looks at him, and he's never been able to school his face very well, and Prince Eddie must be able to read him like a book. 

"I didn't say it was a good plan," Eddie admits, a little petulantly. 

"Won't they know where you've gone? Or do you have secret money? I bet you have secret money," Robin rambles. She's tipsy, too. 

"Well, yes. They must know I'm in the United States at this point. But I haven't checked into a hotel or anything they can trace me to yet." 

"So, you're just gonna live in this casino?" Steve asks, "Is that the plan?"

"That's not the plan," Prince Eddie snaps. 

Steve smiles, this is the most entertainment he's had all weekend. And they're in Vegas. It's been non-stop entertainment. 

"You can stay with us, if you want to!" Robin suggests, overly chipper about that terrible idea. 

"Yeah, this prince-" 

And Prince Eddie shushes him, loudly. 

Steve corrects himself, mid-sentence, "-this normal man, wants to crash in our hotel room. Sure." 

"Well, he could!" Robin says, like it's an actual option. 

"We could be serial killers," Steve says. 

"You're not serial killers, don't be daft," Prince Eddie declares. 

Steve smiles, because, yeah, they're not. 

"We're not serial killers," Steve admits, "but we are poor commoners. So, still bad for you, I'd imagine." 

Prince Eddie smiles, soft and amused. 

Robin starts, "Prince Eddie-" 

He interupts, "Please, just call me Eddie. I beg of you." 

"Eddie," Robin says, "do you want to crash in our hotel room?"

"Yes, please, I think I'd like that very much." 

Steve cannot believe his ears. But, okay, sure they can host a prince for the night. 

Robin pulls up a chair in between them, and orders them all another round of drinks. 

And another. 

And another. 

Once Prince Eddie loosens up, he's actually funny. Steve reaches over and turns his hat around backwards on his head. 

"That's better. So I can look at you without gagging." 

Eddie laughs, adjusting the hat, but leaving it backwards. 

"So, you gotta get married," Robin says, like she understands his royal plight. She's touching both of their shoulders. 

"Apparently, I'm of that age," Eddie slurs, feeding the machine another coin. 

"And there's nobody you want to marry?" Robin asks. 

Eddie shakes his head, "I'm definitely not interested in anyone they deem suitable." 

Steve drains his glass, and just in time, because the waitress brings another round. They are small, and a little weak. But free. Steve likes free. 

"What's that mean?" she questions, and Robin is playing stupid. She knows exactly why. 

If Steve clocked him, Robin definitely did. 

Eddie must agree with Steve's assessment, "You're aware I can't marry a woman." 

"Well, we're in Vegas. You should marry Steve!" Robin shouts with delight. 

Steve laughs, loudly. Yeah, sure, he'll marry Prince Eddie in front of Elvis. Sounds like a solid plan. 

Then he sees Eddie looking at him, like he's considering this, and Steve's eyes go wide.

Notes: What year does this take place in? I have no idea. There's nickel slots instead of players card machines, but they can get married. So, it's just a total AU. Go with it, lol.

And I had a totally different idea for the Royalty AU, but it needed more words than 1000. Hopefully it'll go up for Steddiemas, instead. So, I had to come up with a second idea. Royalty isn't exactly in my wheelhouse, so I never expected to write two back-to-back, lol.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[roo-bastmoon]

So privacy has been violated OR...

... a smear campaign has begun.

Let's just get this new dating scandal out of the way so we can get back to buying and streaming...

Listen, I don't share unofficial content, but by now everyone in this tag knows there's a video going around that's supposed to be of JK in his apartment with Bam, walking around back-hugging and perhaps kissing a girl. Folks say there's the same couch, same wall panel, and a mood lamp.

I'm side-eyeing this because it's super grainy footage, the windows are different, the wall panel seems to be in different places in the two videos, the guy is shorter than the girl, and he's wearing a mask indoors. Plus, the account that dropped the videos supposedly posted then promptly closed up shop, which seems like they had the intention for deliberate sabotage instead of clout chasing as a sasaeng.

But people say the apartment set up seems really similar and the man has a similar hairstyle to what JK had in the beginning of 2023. So I guess it's Schrodinger's cat at this point.

(Isn't it curious that apartment-related scandals seem to happen on the day new content drops? Hmm... I digress.)

Look... If Jungkook (or Jimin) ends up dating someone else, I'm still going to support them as individuals. I'll be sad of course, because Jikook had AMAZING chemistry and I was really rooting for them to be together forever and all... but, I want them to be happy and fulfilled more than I want them to fit into any fantasy or ideas of my own.

That being said: at this very moment, half of Jimin's insta feed is about Jungkook. Most of Jungkook's lives for 2023 have JK mentioning Jimin, or even being totally focused on Jimin. There's years of super duper sus history between them. Right up to and including yesterday, where Jimin very heavily implied they are sharing Chuseok together.

It feels really weird to me that Jimin would want to tie JK's hair back neatly, call JK baby, beg JK to stay longer at his rehearsal, and joke that he can handle seeing JK naked -- but JK can't come over to shower and visit b/c Jimin says he just isn't that easy... if JK were in a relationship with someone else.

It also feels really weird to me that JK would light up like a super nova any time Jimin commented on his lives, would beg Jimin to hang out, would sing all of Jimin's songs and memorize Jimin's interview content, would travel with Jimin for his debut, then roll around naked in bed grinning and blushing while flirting with Jimin on live... if JK were in a relationship with someone else.

That would make Jungkook kind of a shitty boyfriend and Jimin kind of a shitty friend.

I know Jungkook is cultivating this cool guy/ladies man image right now and that is kinda baffling. I know friends can play-flirt, too... but to do all that on lives, after all their history together, knowing what half of Korea and ARMY thinks? Hm.

That's not "fanservice;" that's really toeing the line of queerbaiting. And it's really hard for me to imagine Jimin or Jungkook doing something like that. Jimin said he hates fake bromance stuff. (I guess anything is possible. It's a new chapter, after all. Maybe it's par for the course in idol-world.)

Hey, maybe Jikook had an amicable break up but are still really close and are fine teasing each other? Maybe they always liked to flirt but never were together? Maybe I've been reading it all wrong this whole time? Or maybe this is a bullshit video?

Whatever the reality is, I'm prepared to acknowledge it. At any time.

I'm not in a cult. I don't have to convince myself of anything. Jikook's behavior had made me think Jikook were in a relationship. If JK is dating someone else now? Okay then. I will just stop posting Jikook content and continue to help OT7 and celebrate my bias with all my heart.

No need for elaborate conspiracy theories or coping histrionics. If JK is in his Loving Women Era, good for him. Go with god, my brother. (Personally, I'd never recover from losing my chance to be with Thee Park Jimin, but that's me!)

But something about this just doesn't quite feel right. I wonder if he'll address it at all, like he did when folks filmed him in his gym or sent food to his home? Because if this is somehow real, it's a HORRIBLE invasion of privacy; home is supposed to be a safe place, and stalkers are scary.

And if it's not real, then someone is going to an AWFUL lot of trouble to overshadow Jungkook's release and upcoming album and that is unhinged. The kind of trouble that reminds me of apartment break-ins and tampered mail.

In any case, like I said: I'm ready to accept whatever the reality is, once the reality becomes clear.

I really love Jungkook. I really love Jimin. I really love BTS. They were there for me at the darkest, lowest point in my life. So whether I was right or wrong about Jikook, it doesn't really matter. In the end, I support them as far as I can.

But also, I sorta think this video may just be bullshit. So let's let them have their privacy, and focus instead on voting for Jimin and buying and streaming for JK instead, hmm? Eventually the truth will come to light.

No matter what happens, let's behave in a way that would make Jimin and Jungkook proud.

Love, Roo

[exhuastedpigeon]

WIP Wenesday

back on my (horny) magic au bullshit. this fic kinda takes place at the start of season 2 but I'm throwing in characters from all seasons because I want to. This scene takes place a few days after Eddie and Buck hooked up and Buck thought he'd never see him again. I ran out of beans with this fic before the holidays and they've finally returned from war (my depression fog)

“While Lucy was out of town last week she sent me to a different shop to get my plants and failed to mention that the owner has a very hot grandson who works here,” Buck says, shooting Lucy another look. He’s honestly starting to wonder if she was out of town at all or if she just wanted to see what would happen when Buck met Eddie. He’s never going to tell her what really happened.  “Speaking of beautiful men,” Chim says with a grin, looking through the glass locker room wall toward the storage area where they keep extra shirts. Lucy and Hen join Chim to look and Buck’s stomach drops when he gets there and sees Eddie Diaz putting on a LAFD shirt, looking just as hot as he had the first time Buck had seen him.  “Where’s the lie, and I like women,” Hen says with an appreciative nod. They all walk out of the locker room and run into Bobby. “Who’s the new guy Cap?”  “Eddie Diaz, new recruit,” Bobby says with a proud smile. It makes Buck’s stomach twist a little bit, it took him months to get a smile like that out of Bobby. “He’s a former Army medic with a silver star and a class four witch. Graduated top of his class from the academy two weeks ago.” “Class four?” Chim’s eyes are wide. “I’ve never met anyone above three before. I didn’t think class fours were real.” “Athena’s a class four you dumbass,” Hen says with a laugh. “But they’re really rare.” Buck couldn't seem to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He’d guessed Eddie was powerful when he’d met him, but class fours are few and far between. He’d never met one until he’d met Athena and she’s quick to tell people that she’s on the lower end of power for a class four witch. Buck’s only class two, his magic working best in potions and protection wards, something you could practice and get better at with time. To be a class four you need to have a raw power in your magic that Buck has never had.

tagged by @elvensorceress @cal-daisies-and-briars @eddiebabygirldiaz @honestlydarkprincess @dangerpronebuddie @diazsdimples

no pressure tagging @monsterrae1 @rosieposiepuddingnpie @loserdiaz @acountrygirlsfun @thekristen999 @thewolvesof1998 @daffi-990 @wildlife4life @devirnis @sunshinediaz @spagheddiediaz @spotsandsocks @butchdiaz @911-on-abc @wikiangela @rainbow-nerdss @jeeyuns @steadfastsaturnsrings @puppyboybuckley @organizedstardust @underwater-ninja-13 @actualalligator @watchyourbuck @jesuisici33 @ladydorian05 @fortheloveofbuddie @buddierights @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @tizniz @shitouttabuck @epicbuddieficrecs

[littleseasiren]

Wait you love me?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Angst, a bit of language, then fluff

Words: Just over 900 words

A/N: Welcome to day 3 of Flufftober. Prompt: "Wait you love me?" "I always have". Thanks @flufftober for this interesting challenge. Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from my tag list. Thanks for reading!

The drive home from the restaurant was quiet - too quiet. You had a magical night with Bucky, having fun watching a movie and then a lovely dinner at a sophisticated restaurant that Bucky had chosen. He knew you didn't need anything fancy, but he still went out of his way to spoil you often. The evening was going perfectly until it wasn't anymore.

Your dessert had just been placed in front of you when it started. You were having a slice of cheesecake while Bucky chose a chocolate lava cake when it happened. Bucky was giving you a bite of his dessert when a group of young men walked in and took the table next to you. When they saw Bucky's metal arm, they started whispering between themselves. It had taken you and the others months to get Bucky comfortable without wearing gloves, only for this one moment to ruin all his hard work accepting his metal arm.

At first, Bucky pretended he couldn't hear their whispers, but as their voices grew louder, even you could hear them commenting on Bucky's history as the Winter Soldier. You wanted to kick their ass, but Bucky begged you to ignore them. He didn't want to make a scene and asked you not to either. The two of you quickly finished your desserts, Bucky paid, and now you were stuck in a car so thick with silence, that you felt like you might choke on it.

"Bucky, those guys don't have any idea what they're talking about, don't let it go to your head. You're not him anymore."

"Hmm," Bucky mumbles, eyes focusing on the road ahead. His hands grip the steering wheel so tight that you're afraid he'll snap it right off.

Not knowing what to do, you try to give him space to calm down.

"Bucky, talk to me," you ask as you help him take off his suit jacket.

The two of you are back in your shared room, alone at last. Sometimes it's difficult staying in the tower with the other Avengers, everyone wanted to know how your date went, what you did, things like that. They genuinely wanted to know if you had fun, but you just wanted to get your boyfriend alone.

"There's nothing to talk about, doll. Everything is fine," Bucky says softly as he turns and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He's turned away from you, but you can still hear the hurt in his voice.

"Everything's not fine. I know you, Bucky. I don't want to push you -"

"Then don't! I told you, I'm fine!" Bucky barks out, his brows lowered and lip set in a harsh line as he throws his shirt on the chair. He sits down on the side of the bed and starts removing his shoes.

"The hell you are! I don't know what they said but I know you heard it and that it's going to your head, making you question everything." You stand in front of him, still wearing all your clothes, not willing to back down from this.

Bucky's anger disappears almost instantly. "Exactly, you have no idea what they said." He lowers his head as he takes a deep breath. When his eyes meet yours, they are cold and full of determination.

"This is just becoming a bit much, I thought I was ready for a relationship but I guess not." When your brows narrow in confusion, he looks away instantly.

"This is becoming too much? You mean me?" You feel like your heart is breaking, as moisture gathers on the corners of your eyes.

"I mean this relationship." When he won't look at you, you feel the first tear drop down your cheek. Things had been going great between you two. How could he say that to you now? No, you won't accept this.

"Bullshit!" You lunge for him, hitting him on the chest when he stands up to stop you. "You don't get to decide that! I don't care what those men said, I'm not letting you leave me!"

Bucky grabs your arms, holding them still so you'll stop pounding on his chest. "I care! I'm not good enough for you, you should find someone else to be with. Someone better!"

"There's no one better for me Bucky! Why are you saying this?" Your tears are running freely now, his words hurting more than you can take.

"Because I love you! You deserve the world, not some assassin with seventy years of blood on his hands!"

You still in his arms, his words sinking in slowly. "Wait, you love me?" You meet his tired gaze, daring him to take back his words.

"I always have." He says it so simply, like it's the one truth he is sure of in his life.

"Bucky, I love you too. I don't want to be with anyone else. You are the man I love, this Bucky. I don't care what happened in the past, I just want to be part of your future." When he lets go of your arms, you gently cup his cheek, sighing with relief when he rubs against your hand.

"Say it again? Please?" His arm wraps around your middle, pulling you closer to his strong body.

You gaze deep into his blue eyes, letting him see the truth in your eyes. "I love you, Bucky. And you love me. I'm not going to let anything keep us apart."

"I love you so much, doll. I never meant to hurt you, I'm so sorry," he says as he pulls you onto the bed next to him. You lay beside him, willing to take anything the world throws at you, as long as he keeps loving you.

@morganmofresh

@dottirose

@cjand10

@buggy14

@crazyunsexycool

@tripleoyaa

@mandijo17

@fluffysucker

@moviegurl2002

[prettyboykatsuki]

calls home | k. bakugou

★ tags ;; gn!reader, pure fluff, established relationships, reader is a support items enginerr.

★ wc ;; 1.3k.

★ synopsis ;; katsuki hates nosy interviews, but maybe coming clean about his love life will get these people off his back.

★ a/n ;; not a very novel concept but i wanted to give it a go lmao

"We're rolling!"

Katsuki as the director behind the camera gives him a thumbs up. The camera light flashes red. He really loathes the entire filming process. All forms of public promotion, actually. But he promised his manager he would turn up and do his best for this interview.

He sighs, looking into the camera with a bored expression.

"Uh. Hi. I'm Bakugou Katsuki. Pro-Hero: Dynamight. I'm here with Heroe's Weekly to do a QnA."

He can hear in his voice how much he doesn't want to be there but doesn't bother to change his face. Off-camera, the crew are snickering. He knows a handful of them, friends of friends. He shoots a glare their way. The director gives him a pleasant look.

"Aw, don't be like that. Your fans have been asking for this forever."

Katsuki snorts, arms pulled over his chest.

"You think I don't know that? Fuckin' everyday on my twitter. You shitheads are so nosy."

"Calling your fans shitheads...your brand is one of a kind."

"Yeah, yeah. I don't get why they all care but whatever. Made a promise so I'm here."

The director laughs.

"Right. So, are you ready for the questions?"

"As I'll ever be."

The interview questions start off as he expects. He really does hate doing them, quick and formulaic responses for most of the basic ones. He's gotten them so many times in his life they don't even really feel like real questions. It's all information that's found easily through some google searching.

Age? 20 something. Star-sign? Who the fuck knows, but he thinks aries. Favorite food? Whatever's spiciest. Why'd you become a hero? Because he wanted to be the best. Who's your favorite hero? Still Allmight.

After the initial round of questions comes the deeper ones. He has to admit they're more well-thought-out than he's used to. With time, he finds ease in talking about the prompts.

What sets you apart from other heroes? Field experience, he thinks. Knowing the position of the victim and the victor young, all thanks to his fucked up teen years. What was your childhood like? Better than most, but god he was such a dick. Is there any advice that you think young heroes should hear, even if they typically don't? Valuing your life is valuing the lives of others, no matter what anyone says.

After the serious questions die down, the director gives him a smug expression. All softened up by the obvious thought that went behind it, her grin is amused.

"...Your viewers wanted to ask some more.. personal question

Katsuki raises an eyebrow.

"Gave me all the good questions upfront to curb my mood, huh? Cheeky fuckers."

"Permission to ask?"

He barks a laugh.

"You can ask whatever the hell you want but I don't know if I'll answer."

"Well, everyone is most curious about your love life."

Katsuki scoffs.

"Not this bullshit again."

"Oh, c'mon! You got voted sexiest hero of the year, of course the people want to know." The director insists, probing him "You can't give even a hint?"

He sighs.

"Give me a second."

Pulling out his phone from his pants, he unlocks it and opens up his text messages. He can practically hear everyone holding their breath but chooses to ignore it.

(sent 2:46pm) they're asking about you. fucking annoying

from baby 💌 (sent 2:46) you already know i don't mind. it might get them to leave u alone.

(sent 2:47) yeah i guess. love you. rest up and ill see you later

from baby 💌 (sent 2:47) love u too kat. see u at home. pick up some food on the way pls i dont wanna make lunch.

He grins at his phone a little, completely lost to the fact he's still with a bunch of annoying people. All of a sudden he wants to go home, clicking his phone.

"Who's got you smiling at your phone like that?"

"My fiancée."

Immediately the studio erupts into chatter. He gives them an unimpressed look, clicking his teeth. Is it really such a huge deal?

"You'd think I just dropped a fucking bomb in here."

"Fiancée?! Is this the first time you're talking about it?"

He nods once.

"Yeah."

"Can you spare us some details?"

"Like what?"

"How you met, what they're like, how you fell in love! The more the better."

He clicks his teeth. This is tiresome, but he relents. Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes flick up to the ceiling.

"I don't know how to fucking answer any of that. We met on the job, though."

"But we're dying to know!"

"Isn't it fuckin' enough that I said something? What else do you need to know?"

"Are they pretty?" Someone on the crew shouts. Katsuki smirks.

"Better looking than every person in here, yeah."

A bunch of oohs and aahs chorus from around him. He wants this to be over and done with more than anything, but it feels like he can't back out now.

"Well if you can't answer them, maybe it's worth having them answer."

"Are you fucking serious? You want me to call them right now? No fucking way."

"A journalist is never above begging Dynamight. Plus now the whole set wants to know of this mystery person.

"God you people are so persistent." He spits, agitated. He looks directly in the camera "Let me make it very clear. Put this in your final cut. After this, I'm never talking about this shit again. If you ask, I'm kicking your ass."

Katsuki reaches into his pocket for his phone again, fingers hesitating to open it. He does with a deep sigh, tapping your contact in his call list. It rings twice before you answer. He puts you on speaker.

"Hi baby," Your voice is melodic and sweet. Katsuki can't help his smile "Is your interview over?"

The director mouths the word baby in shock and Katsuki gives her a glare.

"No, we're in the middle of it right now. They were asking me annoying questions and I didn't feel like answering them so they told me to call you."

"Oh? So they wanted me to answer, instead?"

"Yeah. Just about how we met and shit. That okay?"

"If it's okay with you I don't mind. What are the questions?"

Katsuki feels a flush crawl up his face.

"Uh. How we fell in love or whatever."

"Oh, how romantic." Your voice is pleasant. Katuski holds the speaker closer to his mic. "Well. Hi everyone. I'm Y/N and I'm Katsuki's fiancée. We met on the job, I'm a support items engineer and I worked on the major mechanisms for his suit."

Katsuki smiles a little at his phone, pleased. The crew greets you and you giggle on the other side of the line.

"We met in a business context first and became friends later. I used to think he was a scary guy but he's really not at all," You pause between sentences. Katsuki feels his stomach flip, smile widening "Mm... falling in love? It wasn't very grand. I think some time in-between I thought that he was a person I'd like to be with. Kinda boring right?"

"It's not boring." He insists. You giggle.

"I'm glad you don't think so. Anyway, it's not a very romantic story. I think if anyone got to know him like I did, they'd also fall in love."

A bunch of aww's sound. Katsuki flushes.

"You're an idiot." He spits. You laugh.

"He's prickly but he's a good person. I hope people are willing to look past him a little and see that."

Katsuki feels his heart give in, emotions rampant.

"You're too sappy for your own good." He says, no malice in his voice.

"Uh-huh. I love you too. Was that good enough?"

"You did good. I'll see you at home."

"See you at home, Kat. Bye everyone!"

Everyone sounds off on a bye and Katsuki hesitates as he clicks the phone off. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling awkward.

"That good enough for you?"

The director shoots him a grin.

"Perfect."