#while also using her and cheating on her

[imperatorium]

Of all people, I can't believe Tobias now owes me a nickel for my Circuses In Hell jar. I now have four of them in there which isn't a lot BUT STILL WEIRD THAT IT KEEPS HAPPENING.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Down in the streets of Gotham, in the side alley next to Express Urgent Care run by one Leslie Thompkins and that was funded by the Martha Wayne Foundation was a soup kitchen.

Well...a soup kitchen of sorts. Not in any way official but if you were hungry in Crime alley you knew that the food would be safe and warm...and it was a place where *you* could be safe and warm.

Danny had left a week after his parents found out that he was Phantom, a week after he had seen their grief, the regret and pain in their eyes. The week had been spent in suspense, he knew that they needed to talk about what had happened but neither of his parents were ever able to even start bringing it up before they were sobbing.

Danny knew his parents loved him, thst his father felt soul crushing guilt, that his mother spent hours staring at herself in the mirror, as if she didn't even know who was looking back at her.

And to spare them both, Danny left.

It wasn't hard to do, not when he could turn invisible and phase through walls, a final text to Sam and Tucker to say his good byes (he knew that they would break and tell his parents where he would be going) and a particularly hard hug to leave from Jazz, Danny flew off with only a back pack.

He had traveled across the US for a few months, occasionally snagging a post card from a super store to send off home, paying only when he had the excess funds (Sam's rants about mega rich corporate billionaires let him know just which stores wouldn't miss the few bucks the cards sold for)

He had met up with Dani a few times, when she was in the country, handing him Vlads credit card and telling him to keep it (though he never did) only ever using it to book a room for a few nights at a hotel to clean himself up and sleep in a real bed.

He settled in Gotham after a while, he had briefly stayed in Faucett but that place didn't have nearly enough ecto for him to live comfortably.

Gotham on the other hand? It had everything, cops that don't question why a teen is on the streets, natural ecto up the wazoo and well...a crime rate that would dissuade his parents ever looking for him there.

He had set up a more permanent shelter in an abandoned apartment building (after chasing out the low level drug dealers that were using it) and found that he kinda liked the vibes of the place under the blatant crimes being committed in broad day light.

Sure people could see you getting mugged and look the other way, but if you were still alive and there 5 minutes later, they would come back, hand you something to clean up your now bloody nose and point out the bodega that had the best sandwiches.

It was a sense of community that Danny didn't know he had missed for the many months he traveled.

His first "cook out" wasn't even supposed to be a cook out, his apartment building was mostly wood and he didn't trust himself to not burn it down, so he came outside, setting up a portable stove and setting up a pot filled with some, water to boil up a soup mix.

As he waited for it to come to temp, he saw the group of homeless rubbing their hands together, watching him with curiosity, though that quickly turned to hunger as the smell of the soup spilled out into the alley.

Instead of turning the others away Danny only shrugged, pulled out his spare paper bowls and handed them out, taking a few bites first to show that it was safe to eat.

What followed was a sort of tradition, Danny would come out a few times a day, take out his hot plate and pot and set up a soup, others started asking if they could pitch in, and well...Danny would have loved to keep providing it freely but his food was quickly dwindling.

So his soup got add in, some jerky that Crazy Tom had got tossed in, a few herbs (re:weeds) were added in by Miss O'Connor, and Danny didn't even know where Lady Dimond pulled out some spices from, but he wasn't about to question the her, he had learned never to question where the working girls hid their things.

And it sort of grew from there, who ever was around came by, some came out of their way to share a meal, but it became a meeting place of sorts "Come by the Kitchen at noon, Tom got his hands on some steak! And it ain't even smells bad!"

Sure gangs tried to pull up on the meeting place, tried to intimidate the people there or coerce them into doing something...well that was until the host, some punk teen with hair darker than black and blue eyes that were so light they were white came up, and dished out a heavy handed fist into their jaws and sent them packing.

And so the Kitchen became a safe space, if you were hungry, if you were in danger, come by the little alley way, right next to the Express Urgent Care, the Host will take care of you there, if your willing to share, to stay peaceful with the rest of the gathered people, then you were welcome to grab a bite and relax, because the Kitchen was always safe.

---

It would be a few years since the Kitchen started, since people had brought chairs and tables, since an old grill of questionable origin was left out side it, since tarps with only a few holes were hung up to keep the place dry when it rained, since rugs covered the ground and the the alley it was in was swept clean of any needles or cigarette butts.

But for one boy it had only been a few short days since his Mama died, since he had found her cold and dead in the bathroom, a belt tied around her arm and a needle still in her hand.

Jason was miserable, he had stayed with her for the a single day before he knew he would have to leave, the body of his mother would start to decompose soon, so he did what he had too, calling the police with his mother's phone that didn't have a lot of minutes left on it, telling them the address before hanging up and leaving it there so he couldn't be tracked.

He couldn't be there when the cops showed up, foster care would do shit for him, and at least his Mama would be buried, and not left to rot in their bath tub.

So a young Jason Todd, scared, alone and hungry came to the Kitchen, as his mother had told him to many times before, had told him to seek out it's Host if anything ever happened to her...and well...at the very least he would get something to eat...

[methoughtsphantom]

Jason “my family doesn’t know im alive” Todd and Danny “my family doesn’t know I’m dead” Fenton going alongside each of their plans my beloved. like Danny will absolutely go head-to-head with all of Gotham to support his new best friend on all his crime lord endeavors while he drags Jason to also attend collage with him. They are roommates and there never seems to a mention of family from either side. It’s an unspoken understanding they have. They met because Crime alley as a ghost lair thrummed with so much loneliness, it was at first the perfect place for Danny to hide his ecto signature in. But then he saw the dumbass whose lair it was lean his motorcycle just a tad too much when making a sharp turn to an alley, he sweeped the floor through a lifted chain link that passed his body but not his helmet. Yep that’s right the red thing got stuck. Danny who at the moment happened to be watching through his window snorted. Much to his horror because if not a ghost that dude could’ve gotten his head flung off.

Still, the scene was ridiculous.

On a whim he irrationally sees the police closing in on the guy and panicked at the thought of the guy using intangibility to free himself so Danny phased them both through his apartment wall and left the guy sprawled in his couch. Jason didn’t freak out but that’s normal when one’s got a concussion, one the guy immediately denied having as Danny laid out the medical supplies. The idiot proceeded to almost flatten four steps to the door with his stubbornness. He also said “I’m asexual” in the most deadpan voice as Danny dropped him back in the couch.

Danny sighed. Clearly though, he’d done so too early in the night because the guy kept trying to go, kept trying to knock Danny out, kept trying to slash him with knifes Danny didn’t know he had stashed. He’d only disarmed the guy from his guns. The visible ones apparently, cause at one point the guy did take out a gun and shoot until the ammo ran out and then teetered the thing like it was an art prop and hit his moon lamp.

Danny "yeah you aren’t officially my friend until you’ve tried to kill me" fenton my guys.

Anyways both keep having the same argument over if Danny technically kidnapped Jason or not. Danny holds the fact that the police at least didn’t see the guy make the ridicule. Jason argued that happened cause he was sporting a concussion. Danny argued he got that after.

Jason at first thinks the guy's a meta, but no. Danny introduces himself, sheepily now that he recognizes this is who the lair he invaded is from. He bandages him and tries to cook for him. If Danny didn’t have ice powers he most certainly would’ve burned the apartment. Jason then proceeds to kick him out of his own kitchen and make them both enchiladas. It’s the most normal both had in a while with another person and the air seems oddly settled. From then on, Jason constantly invited himself over, under the pretense that this was his territory and therefore he could drop in unannounced. Danny who has actual powers says he only allows this because Jason cooks very well.

Danny stays away from the crime fighting business unless his buddy is in deep shit he can’t get himself out. Also it’s Danny’s turn to cover for his vigilante friend which Sam and Tucker give him so much shit for. (but also advice)

And they were roommates. (omg) Danny effectively derails Jason’s big comeback plans by casually dropping ghost lore every two days. Like,

Jason, talking about how he doesn’t want Bats snooping on his territory:

Danny: Just don’t let them in

Jason: ??

Danny: yeah!! Hasn’t Batman died and got revived??? You can totally kick out death touched people you don’t want entering on your lair.

Jason: …I can?

Danny: Yep dude, your lair’s supposed to feel safe.

Jason: wait does that mean I can kick you out?

Danny: First this is my apartment. Second, im dead, not dead touched. Third, it’s too late to get rid of me. bitch.

Anyways Jason is super excited. You mean to tell him he can actually deny people over to his territory haunt?? (Yes it’s only to people who have died and came back but still!! The sample size is exactly the type of people he doesn’t want to see—!)

Joker my beloathed can’t step foot in Crime Alley.

(Jason’d feel a lot safer if the clown was dead but the possibility of his murderer turning into a ghost and their little loophole not applying on the clown is too scary to contemplate.)

Anyways, Jason loves experimenting with the power. It can go from simply making people shudder and not want to enter crime Alley to straight up not letting them enter like there’s an invisible wall blocking the way.

Jason because he’s hurt that Bruce never even patrols Crime Alley and also because he’s petty put B under the category of “invisible wall” blacklist. His reasoning is that the man doesn’t even attempt to enter Crime Alley. To him it’s surely just a place shadowed in tragedy. (anyways that’s it’s the place he met Jason)

Ironically, Jason totally forgets that Batman does venture into Crime Alley one day in the whole year. The day he met Jason.

Okay. He didn’t forget at first. The first year Jason remembers cause it was only a few months till then but then the next— Jason forgets that today’s the anniversary of the day’s Bruce’s parents died. He forgets to allow B in when he feels a slight tug and dismiss the feeling that prompts Bruce to investigate because he literally can’t enter Crime Alley. He starts the trialsTM, he scouts on the very edge and sees people the whole day enter and get out and cross with no problem but Bruce can’t.

It’s literally just Bruce.

Time to call Constantine, i guess.

[incorrectsibunaquotes]

to add insult to injury with the way the show butchered mick’s character in the english adaptation of het huis anubis, they gave all of mick’s plotlines to jerome

[imavikingo]

Everytime I look at Tumblr and see the tl I remember why I hate endgame with a passion you couldn't understand.

They fucked up Steve and Bucky so bad (yes, Bucky too bc suddenly he doesn't matter/isn't even a secondary character that deserves to be near Steve)

It's so funny to me (not) bc they talked about gay characters being in the movie at panels and interviews and even talked about Stucky at some point (basically queerbaiting) for then... Steve not even acknowledging Bucky. An awkward and impersonal hug doesn't cut it.

And Steve suddenly yearning and talking about Peggy? When he didn't even mourned her that bad and already had let her go ages ago? They knew they fucked up in CATWS with Steve and Buckys relationship, so they tried to distance them and then inserted Peggy bc ofc

(they possibly didn't have the time for a new character and they already had fucked up pairing Nat and Bruce and Wanda and Vision). Steve didn't have anyone else he cared about so they couldn't give him a new girlfriend. So they used Peggy AGAIN.

I'm not mad bc "Stucky not canon grr"

No.

I'm fucking pissed off because they did the worst character assassination and friendship assassination possible. Every movie of Cap America revolved around Steve saving Bucky at some point and him caring about him above all else, and you want me to believe that Steven Grant Rogers didn't care about him when Bucky died in front of his eyes? AGAIN? That Peggy's death was more important and impactful for him? If that was the case then why the fuck did he crash the plane then? If he cared so much about Peggy since forever?

No, that was just lazy writing and a way to reinforce Steve's sexuality "He can't be gay and you can't say that bc he LOVES PEGGY"(even tho he only kissed her once, even tho he crashed the plane and didn’t give her the coordinates, he didn't really care that much after all) they could have paired him with Nat in later movies, but they didn't.

That's why I only raise my eyebrows a lil when people say that x character will be gay canonically in a marvel movie/series. Is more than possible they won't. And if they are they're Deadpool, a secondary character no one cares about (obscure in lore too, so they can cut them off) or is plain queerbaiting again (because yes, even if you don’t see Steve and Bucky’s relationship as romantic, they DID QUEERBAIT IT)

Steve and Buckys relationship wasn't even written in a romantic way (you can ship them or not), but they tried so hard to rectify Steve's heterosexuality in endgame, that they fucked up their character arcs on purpose. And now they will always feel hollow and inconclusive. A bad taste in the mouth, a painful reminder of what it was and a what? 11 year long? characterization.

Idk man, I know I've talked about this more than three times, but omfg Tumblr reminds me why I hate that fucking movie!!! It's not my fault!!!

I know I'm going to end up writing something out of spite bc I can't take it shdkdjjcif

"It's been more than 4 years get over it" NEVER

Also the bit with Johnny Storm in Deadpool and Wolverine was also a dig (a fuck you if you will) to the fans bc Deadpool explicitly calls him Cap. And it implies that Steve as a character (not that old Steve nonsense) won't be back.

It's funny they've remade over and over again some movies (Fantastic 4, Spiderman) changed actors for characters (James/war machine, Bruce) and they include them in the multiverse/plot, but they won't do the same to some movies and some characters when they fuck up their stories, because they know if they do, they will have to acknowledge WHY they did it. Like with James/war machine changing actors.

So yeah, that's one of the reasons I don't care about Marvel anymore.

**I mean remake the movies ((Also they Can't remake Cap America bc that would mean they need to remake every important movie. And they don't have the time, the money nor the need. So that's why they decided to fuck their character arcs))

or include some characters in multiverse (they're going to do that with Tony/RDJ/Dr Doom after all, no?) and they also won't remake Cap bc the movies are amazing.

But the point stands. Steve couldn't be in DaW bc that would imply he's an alternative one or that Old!Steve was an alternative one or wasn't even Steve to begin with. But they couldn't do that ofc, no, bc that would give the fans hope in seeing Steve and Bucky together once again. So they did a dig at the fans bc "haha you thought it was Steve, but it's Johnny!"

Idk if I'm making sense at this point I'm tired af, need to sleep.

The thing is that they fucked up Steve Rogers's arc on purpose (Bucky's too, and others charas too tbh) and now they expect the fans to accept everything they give us with open arms. And imho I won't accept shit.

"Deadpool saved the MCU" how? If the other og characters are DEAD or they fucked them up too? Or are the butt of the joke now? Don't make me laugh. Most people don't gaf bout the new charas bc they only are presented in series not everyone watches (only available in one place) or are presented with characters that are dead now or as a replacement for the og characters. They aren't interesting on their own (not really, at least in mcu) and that's why most of the new stuff isn't liked as much. If they wanted to present more characters the opportunity passed already.

Also now if you want to watch and really understand 1 movie (if you don't read the comics too) you need to watch like 20 other movies and 5 shows. it's fucking exhausting.

[musubiki]

i think another one of the little friendship bonding moments for limochi is that young lime would bring a lot of multiplayer games over to mochis house because he had no one else to play them with and this habit continues for the rest of their friendship

[viatrix-glow]

new di x warrior cats

name explanations and more info below :3

basic stuff

-each agency is a clan, not each unit. 14-15 clans would be silly and then we would have some clans with 5 cats and some with 2.

-starpro -> lightclan. i couldn’t call them “starclan” for obvious reasons. light is somewhat synonymous with star, so i’m going with that.

-cospro -> nightclan. i don’t think the cats in warriors know the word “cosmic”, but cosmic implies cosmos implies night sky, so we’re going with night

-rhyth lin -> rippleclan. ripple is sort of a synonym to rhythm….? this one was hard

-new di -> fortuneclan. this one is a stretch but neither “new” or “dimension” have synonyms that really fit a clan name. fortune is something that relates to multiple characters in new di though

-starclan still sort of exists, but the cats do not believe in them the way they do in warriors. they are more of a nursery tale than anything, and select cats (ex: tatsumi) believe in them, but it is not written into their code. medicine cats can still interpret signs, but they do not necessarily think of them as coming from starclan.

-medicine cat forbidden romance is not a thing here

-intermingling of clans is ok and common

-there’s like. other cats in their clans besides just the enstars cast i assume

cat names/why i chose them

fortuneclan:

knights

-tsukasa -> scarletstar (scarletblossom) . he is the leader of fortuneclan because he is one of the new di reps for the summits. both scarlet and blossom were chosen bc of his last name (scarlet is a red color… kinda similar to cherry…. and blossom for the cherry blossom).

-leo -> lionheart. ok this one is kind of cheating because lionheart is already an existing warrior, but…come on….

-izumi -> silverspring. sora describes his color as silver, and spring is in his first name

-ritsu -> frostmoon. his first name means cold moon according to the wiki so i just rehashed it

-naru -> goldenroar. since she doesn’t like her first name i didn’t want to use “storm”, and her last name can be read as “thunder” but that’s a little too close to storm? so golden for her hair and roar for her last name

switch

-natsume -> sageeye. a sage is similar to a wizard, and eye is in his first name . also the “dovesong” mentioned is wataru :)

-tsumugi -> bluewing. he is a bluebird. warrior cats probably wouldn’t straight up call a cat “bluebird” so i put wing there instead. deputy cause he’s the vp

-sora -> skyspring . sora means sky. spring is in his last name. i could have used “stream” instead to differentiate him from sena but i think spring is cuter

mam/df

-madara -> tawnystripe . tawny bc it’s like kind of close to calico if you squint. stripe(s) is in his last name

[neechees]

I realized that like, Little Women is the antithesis to Gone with The Wind, but Little Women is actually more accurate and was written by someone who actually lived through the Civil War, but GWTW was written by someone who only heard biased secondhand accounts from their relatives

[arolesbianism]

Been thinking abt them <3

[science-lings]

btw if Thalassa wins my art poll I will base her hair and scars on the fact that she suffered a traumatic brain injury (read as: got shot in the head) that made her suffer from amnesia and blindness for like 15 years and just got surgery to reverse that. I will do light research on parts of the brain to make the design make a little sense, with some plausible deniability. I'm gonna do that thing where the trauma that was downplayed by canon gets up-played by me. But I'm also... not a brain surgeon so I can't exactly promise it will be accurate lol.

[mcl-mia]

@eye-cri #so true hiro.... Zeus is sooo 😢😢😢❤️❤️❤️❤️#gods#i wonder. does jay ever get upset / irritated of any sorts at Zeus's attitude?

//tl;dr, not really! jay finds zeus absolutely hilarious and finds it hard to take him seriously (most of the time). she thinks he's got a good heart, so even though she (playfully) bullies him relentlessly, she's never, like, too harsh on him. she'd never consider dating him or anything, but zeus is one of the first people she hits up during sleepless nights so they can talk about pretty much everything.

[nausallien]

THE SIMS 3 STORE PRE-INSTALLED

Today marks 25 years of The Sims. Since EA forgot TS3 exists, I’m releasing the entire The Sims 3 Store as an Anniversary Gift. It's all pre-installed and works flawlessly!

It comes with all available fixes and collection folders I’ve personally created for every set. You'll get over 5000 new Buy/Build and CAS items, 11 new worlds, and tons of new gameplay!

INSTRUCTIONS

Go to "Documents/Electronic Arts" and rename the "The Sims 3" folder (or move it).

Create a new folder and name it "The Sims 3" (or whatever the name is in your language).

Extract the contents of the ZIP file in "The Sims 3." Now launch the game.

You'll have to adjust your setting again. Don't forget to disable the in-game Store so you don't get duplicates.

Quit the game. Copy the "Saves" folder from the folder you have previously renamed. You can also copy your Mods and CC in package format.

CAUTION

Never copy over or overwrite the DCCache folder.

If you have content installed through the Launcher (Sims3Pack), you'll have to reinstall it.

I strongly recommend you don't install things through the Launcher from now. It already has a lot of content and it is a known fact the Launcher becomes more and more unstable the more content it has to handle.

Since the entire Store has been decrapified, if you want to install lots or world that contain Store content, you'll have to decrapify those too using MATY's TS3 Recompressor.

I had a report that there was an invisible top in CAS. It doesn't seem to have a CASP resource so it shouldn't cause any issues (like being assigned to a random Sim). It's best to avoid it or hide it or blacklist it using NRaas mods. Do NOT try to save the game while your Sim is "wearing" this invisible top.

UPDATE #1: MARCH 2025

Added some missing content: the Mother Russia CAS Set and the Cool Chap Cap that was given as a secret bonus item in the "Make Me an Offer" page. If there's something else missing, please let me now.

Now NRaas MasterController and the Cheats and Integration modules are included in the pack. This version NRaas MC comes with CAS Compact Mode enabled by default. This should fix the issue of blank/invisible CAS items and also speed up the loading of CAS items. Keep in mind, these mods aren't compatible with Lazy Duchess' Smooth Path, but you can have both. Her mod will automatically disable the fast loading of CAS items.

If you encounter any issues, feel free to reach out to me. I've put a lot of effort into making the installation process as smooth and straightforward as possible. Dag Dag!

DOWNLOAD FROM GOOGLE DRIVE

[siri-ike]

Danny awoke, abruptly to a flick to the forehead.

"Ow." It didn't really hurt. It was more just a reaction.

"Stop digging up your giant wound, idiot." A boy in a gray tank top (that looked like it wasn't originally gray) and a domino mask directed.

Danny tried to get up but was held down by a girl dressed in all black. She gestured to stay on the table. It was a lot like a dissection table, except it was paded. And strangely, his hands weren't restrained. He let go of the staple he'd been trying to scratch out in favor of reaching for either of them. The girl took the hint and held his hand. He sniffled. She even removed both their gloves, revealing his black and gray frostbitten fingers.

Slowly, he closed his eyes again and was engulfed in a bright blue light. The last thing he heard was the sound of a heart rate monitor finaly detecting a beat.

~~~~~~~

This time, he woke up in a bed. It's still definitely a medical room. Modesty hadn't been a concern for him lately, but it's nice to be covered up. Sitting up didn't hurt nearly as much as usual. When he looked down, he saw he was wearing some kind of stretchy corset. No matter what he tried, he couldn't get it off.

OK, here goes. Standing was no picnic, either. It was more like those weird jello dishes Aunt Alice sometimes brought to family gatherings. Discusting and surprisingly hard.

The floor is cold to the touch, it dosnt help that he's barefoot. And... pink. No, his feet are pink. He looks at his hands. Also pink. Nonono. He staggers over to a sink with a mirror above it and forces himself to look. He had pitch black hair and normal blue eyes.

It's ok, this is fine. A bunch of strangers know who he is, but it's alright. They helped him, so they must be trustworthy, right? And even if they weren't, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except rescuing the other ghosts.

"Oh, good. You're awake."

Danny stumbled, catching himself on the sinke and the cabinets behind him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Mind answering a few questions." The masked boy was nonchalant and detached. He wore a pair of sweatpants stained with at least 4 days' worth of mystery goo. He looked like he had the same sleep schedule as Clockwork.

"You're not cleared to stand yet, and considering you've already fainted just from holding a girl's hand, you might wanna take it easy." Was it the same guy as before? It's not the same tank top, and he doesn't seem like the kind of person to change clothes regularly. Plus, Danny was lying down when he saw him first. He didn't look this short then.

Danny moves one hand from the cabinets to his chest. It's still covered. He couldn't scratch through the barrier. He tries to rub at it to get a little bit of relief, but nothing works.

"I, I can't," he's out of breath. But not from walking, he's not tired. It's frustration. "I can't leave."

"Sure you can, you sljust have to prove you're healthy enough first." He didn't even look up from his tablet. "It's multiple tests, and you don't even need a perfect score for all of them." This guy sounds more into tests than Jazz. "Let's start with walking. Does it hurt to walk?"

"I can't leave." Danny slides down to the floor.

"Hm, we'll circle back to that one. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I can't leave!" He covers his face with his hands.

"You know what? Nightwing can handle this."

Mere minutes later, the same boy came back, this time taller and dressed like an overtly sexy trapeze perfomer that works at a disco themed dive bar. He rushed in and sat on the floor next to Danny. Arms held out around him, but not touching him.

"What's going on? What do you need?" He asked, sounding like a preschool teacher.

Danny sat there for a moment before embracing the strangely clad man. With the side of his face smushed thoroughly into the man's chest, Danny could feel the exposed chest hair on his ear. What are you doing, man? You can't have exposed chest hair on your superhero outfit. Even Danny knew that, and he wears a hazmat suit into battle. Despite the faux pas, he was still comforting.

"I c'cant lea-ve," Danny trembled.

"That's fine, you don't have to leave." He tried to reassure.

"Can't" why can't he say anything else?! "leave."

The man just hugged him tighter and caressed his hair, just like Jazz does. And just like with her, Danny couldn't help but let out a tear.

~~~~~~~

A while after that, another man, maybe 60-70 years old, made him eat a bunch of tiny sandwiches. They were so much better than the steaming pile of nothing he had the past several weeks. He must have eaten his own weight in finger foods.

~~~~~~~

Red hoods entrance was loud. Was it this loud the first time, too? Danny could hear yelling, scolding. From the words he could make out, Red Hood must have brought him here and only told the others after he'd already left. tt. What a hero.

Danny sat still, legs dangling off the bed, waiting.

"Sup, flesh wound?" The Red Hood entered brashly. "What just gonna sit there, didn't baby bird patch ya up? Or at least give you drugs?" The way he spoke, it was clear he was trying to come off as a jerk. But the questions and the emotional energy he gave off said otherwise.

"Bertrand told me to stay in bed. I won't argue with the hand that feeds me." Danny forced a smile.

"Bertrand?" The Red Hood took off his helmet... another domino mask. Why do all these people look exactly the same? And more specifically, why do they look more related to him than half his family does?

"I don't know his real name, but he looks like he could be Bertrand." He cleared.

"Ha! He does, doesn't he?" He's a lot less scary looking without the helmet. Now, if he could only take off the blood covered jacket. "It's better it you don't know our names. Tell me what was going on at that facility." His face was serious again, but his emotions were the same throughout.

Danny's hand wandered back to his wound, still out of reach. Still beckoning to him. "The guys in white are a seacret government organization that wants to exterminate all ghosts. They've captured almost everyone already. Walker, Young Blood, Pointdexter, the Lunch Lady. I couldn't see the others, but I know they were there." His wound grew louder and louder.

Touch me, find me, hold me. He felt like it was screaming at him.

Red grabbed Danny's hands to stop him. "It can't heal with your hand stuffed inside."

It can't heal, not yet. Not until he's whole.

"So these Guys in white, if they want to exterminate all ghosts, then why were the ghost all in cages instead of dead?"

"It's difficult to kill a ghost. The most common way is to just fade out. And each ghost will fade for different reasons. They want to find a faster way that will work on any ghost."

It clawed at his mind, all consuming. In the way he used to feel about protecting others or space. Now, there is only the hole in his chest.

Red sighed. "Baby bird!"

The boy from before stepped into the door frame as though he'd been just out of sight the whole time. Probably listening. "Yes?"

"What's up with his chest? Did you not give him painkillers? That thing was fully open."

"Are you in pain?" The tired one addressed Danny.

"No."

In response, Red let go of his hands, which went straight back to his chest, and looked back at the other boy with a "see?!" kind of motion.

"You could have an infection. The copious amount opioids we gave you would still hide the pain. How does it feel?"

Danny only needed a single word to describe it.

"Hollow."

~~~~~~~

It took a lot of convincing, but the ratty one, Red Robin, agreed to let him be awake while they checked on the wound.

He sat back on the same padded metal table as before, arms fully extended and holding onto a handle bar. Behind him stands the blue one, wingnut or something, ready to hold him back if he tries to interfere. In front of him is Red Robin, to his right is Red Hood and to his left is the silent girl in black, Orphan. Some others had come in earlier, but Hood had asked each one to stay away.

Red Robin readied his scalpel, and slowly, he cut through the garment, reaching from Danny's armpits to slightly below his bellybutton. Once that was gone, there were still layers of bandages. They started off white. The more they removed, the more it started turning a light brown, then a darker brown. By the end, it looked almost black. Only when it was all gone did he try to reach inside, but was stopped by 70s playboy model, who guided his hand back to the rail. He took a deep breath and heard two faint *clink* sounds.

Red Robin looked shocked, Orphan didn't react at all, and Red Hood looked concerned.

"What?" Asked... Dark... wing?

"I put in 36 staples, but it looks like he's pushed out 14 of them from the tops and bottom." He pauses. "And the wound has closed in those places. This sort of progress should have taken days, not 20 hours."

"What about," Danny tried to find the right word "inside." Close enough.

The cavity was harder to examine now that it had gotten smaller. "There's no infection. Remember to thank the antibiotics on the way out."

"Are you conscious enough to be doing this?" Hood snarked.

"It's not infected. There's no extra stuff, there's, uhm. Something missing. It was like," Danny opened and closed his fist, trying to convey something.

"Did you remove something?" Said blue bird to red bird.

"There was some shrapnel. It was like tiny pieces of Cristal."

"That's it. I need it, where is it?"

Nightwing had to pull him back into place. Nightwing, that's his name.

"It's in a box, I tried to put it back together, but it's fragile." It was like Red Robin disappeared and appeared shortly after with a biohazard box.

He might be a teleporter or a speedster. And since the GIW wanted Hood, he must have some kind of ghost powers, too. That explains why they wear masks.

Inside the white, insulated plastic box was a mostly reassembled ice core. It glowed a weak blueish-green. As Danny's hand inced towards it, it glowed bitghter. He only had to pick up the pieces. It was as though they found their way together on their own. Each one drained him more than the last, but it was all worth it.

To finally be whole again.

Prompt: Prison Break

Walker wouldn't have expected it, but one of the worst parts of being imprisoned by the GIW was watching Phantom suffer through the descending stages of violent obsession failure.

All of them were feeling it, obviously, but for most of them it was a slow decline - the pull of longing, developing over days and weeks into a sharp ache. Ember, ignored and silenced, was lashing out, kicking the glass walls and screaming for attention, even when it hurt. Johnny and Kitty, kept out of each other's sight, pressed against the walls closest together. Walker's whole body throbbed with frustration and self-loathing, needing to return to his territory and drag everyone back with him, away from this place of torture.

But Phantom, not three years dead and with an obsession that demanded that he keep everyone completely unharmed, had declined rapidly. Sure, for the first week or so, he'd been preoccupied with troubles of his own, strapped constantly to a table with hands digging through his insides. But then they'd started to spread out their attention.

At first, Phantom didn't seem to realize what was happening. He cried out in anguish and fear, trying to break open his cell and being punished for it, collapsing under the shock collar's control. Walker could almost see when he figured it out, when he started to clutch at his chest, and scribble constellations onto the walls and floor in his dripping ectoplasm with hands that trembled, trying to ease the pain in his core.

Then he started to curl up and choke on his tears, shuddering in pain whenever screams echoed down the hall. Finally, in between his own turns on the table, he started to shove his hand into his open chest, clutching his burning core directly, moans of pain rising into yells in nearly perfect unison with whoever else was the victim this time.

(Sidney had declined in nearly perfectly unison with Phantom, which a part of Walker hoped the punk hadn't noticed.)

If Phantom wasn't a halfa, he probably would've shattered into dust by now. It probably would've been a mercy.

When the yelling started, Walker almost didn't notice. Phantom, delirious with pain, for sure didn't. But before long, most of the rest of them had stirred to alertness, dragging themselves closer to the glass to peer down the hall. A troop of GIW stormed down the hall without glancing at any of them, and an alarm started going off. Phantom whined and rolled over, his hand buried in his autopsy wound while he shivered. (The scientists had tried stitching it closed, but Phantom just clawed it blindly open.)

"What's happening?" the Lunch Lady croaked. (Youngblood and Phantom were starving, and it was doing her no favors.)

"Prison break," Walker rasped. He recognized the signs. "Someone's here." He'd never imagined that it would be a relief.

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[joelsdagger]

that’s the way road dogs do it || one

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this one is a little wild; part two is already shaping up to be even more wild. many smooches to my beloveds: @pedrospatch for all the reassurance and support and for beta’ing this bad boy for me, and to @dinandwhiskey for screaming with me about this idea many many moons ago <33

pairing: ex-boyfriend’s dad!joel x f!reader summary: on a night out with friends, you run into someone from your past. warnings: [no-outbreak au], big girthy age gap [reader is in her 20’s, joel is 50’s], alcohol consumption, allusions to cheating [not by joel or reader], no sarah or ellie but joel has a son, joel has tattoos and is a biker, pet names [darlin’, baby, kiddo], sexualization of the term kiddo [from the deepest darkest pits of my soul…idfc], a little bit of humiliation, panty sniffing, a teensy bit of fingering, a little manhandling, pervy!joel [he’s also a little fucked up and really unhinged but so am i so whateva], pussy pronouns, dirty talk [umm it gets weird lol], daddy kink, degradation, semi-public sex, rough unprotected p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, dubcon [joel takes pictures of her that she doesn’t verbally consent to], smidgen of angst [ofc bc it’s me], creampie, body marking/writing [use of a pen], soft!joel, reader wears a skirt, has hair, wears makeup, and has two tattoos that are described within the story word count: 8.6k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs!!

Bad Habits is the bar where you spend every Friday night after work with your friends. It’s always too loud and too bright for your liking. But they serve good booze for a reasonable price and it’s on the way back from your office. Your Friday night usual; stopping at the bar with some friends from work before you bore yourself to sleep by looking over briefings and finalizing notes you need to send over to your boss in time for Monday’s nine am meeting.

You excuse yourself from the booth and head for the bar, plopping yourself on the velvet cushion of a creaky bar stool as you set your purse on the sticky bartop, ordering yourself another drink. Your phone chimes, and you sigh as you pull it out of your purse along with a pen and notepad, knowing it’s an email with a list of requests from your boss. He did tell you he’d send it to you before the end of the night. 

It’s when one of your hands is pressed to your temple, the other scribbling down your boss’ requests on paper when you hear it — a low, gravelly Southern drawl, a voice laced with honey — that you thought you’d never hear again. 

“This seat taken?”

Your pen freezes for a moment; you could pick that voice out of a suspect line-up. It never left you. But you willingly ignore him and decide you’re going to have a little fun of your own with him, so you continue finalizing your thoughts on paper as he situates himself beside you and orders a glass of whiskey while he’s at it. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ sittin’ in a place like this all by herself?” 

“I’m not alone. My friends are over there,” you throw your thumb, pen in hand, over your shoulder, jutting to your booth. “Just needed another drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving the notepad. 

“Why won’t you let me see your face, darlin?” he asks, head tilting to the side, assessing you. 

You snort. “Why. So you can decide whether or not my face is pretty enough to fuck — Mr. Miller?” Your voice drops an octave at the end of the sentence. 

You finally turn your head so you’re face to face with the man beside you, the father of your ex-boyfriend. 

Surprise flashes across his face; his mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. You watch as the Adam’s apple bops slowly in his throat. For once, the father of your shit-eating, cheating ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a comeback. He clears his throat as he attempts to recover. 

“Didn’t realize it was you, darlin’,” he says gruffly, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. 

You chuckle to yourself a little. “Of course you didn’t. The last time we saw each other was what? A year ago? Maybe more?” you quip. 

“You look different,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes glossing over your figure so quick you almost miss it. 

You raise an eyebrow at him; the corner of your mouth kicks up as you tilt the rim of your glass to your lips, hiding your smirk behind a sip.

“Good. I mean — you look good,” he tips his glass on its heel, eyeing it as he toys with it. 

You tilt your head in a shrug, “I needed a change.”

After Joel Miller’s son cheated on you and broke your heart, after you let the hurt linger for a few weeks and told your sob story to your friends who happily listened, you took their advice. 

You need something new, something fresh, babe. 

It really does help.

You’ll feel like a whole new person. 

Trust me, it’ll be good for you. 

You dyed your hair a few times, until you found a shade that felt more you. You got yourself a whole new wardrobe, something a little less fucking prudish and a little more slutty, and despite the cliché of it all, their suggestions did help to leave that shy, agreeable girl in the dust. The breakup was the last push you needed to leave it all behind. 

And now here you are, a little over a year later, sitting beside your ex’s father, whom you once hated to admit to yourself — no, you never really admitted it to yourself, but you found him attractive. Fuck. Who were you kidding? You didn’t just find Joel Miller, the father of your ex-boyfriend, attractive; you found yourself wanting to open your legs for him more than you did for his son, whom you had been dating for eight months. 

His eyes fall to your chest, trailing down the low cut of your top, and fixating on the peaks of your nipples beneath the tight fabric, and your heart stutters. “Quite the change,” a hint of a glint swimming in his hazel eyes. 

You can’t say the same for him.

You take him in now; he looks almost exactly the same, apart from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Still, he’s somehow more handsome. 

His tousled salt-and-pepper hair still sits messily on his head, though his beard is lined with more silver than you remember. 

Fuck. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes trail down his body, thick shoulders and thick arms deliciously clad in his black leather jacket, and beneath that, his white t-shirt pulls taut across his broad chest.  

 And oh. 

Joel’s head turns, peering over his shoulder at the sound of glass breaking. Your eyes flick back up and catch a curl of black ink on the tanned skin beneath his collar. That’s new. 

When he turns back, he raises the glass to his lips with a scoff, clouding the inside of it, and the dim light from above the bar catches on the square face of a gold band on his marked pinkie finger. That’s also new. Your eyes don’t miss that his fourth finger still remains devoid of a wedding ring. 

“I have your son to thank for that." You drop your phone, pen, and notepad into your purse, giving him your full attention.

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. Flicks his tongue across his bottom lip before he bites it. Is it a show of anger? Disappointment? You’re not quite sure.

But there is one thing that you are sure of: Joel Miller liked having you around. You knew it. You were aware that his eyes lingered whenever he saw you. You caught it from the very first time. When you showed up at his house, in jeans that clung to you like skin, how you bent at the waist to fish your keys out of his sofa cushion, and in your periphery, caught the subtle tilt of his head to get a better look at how the denim hugged your ass just right, feeling his eyes boring into you, your skin sizzling with heat.

If you’re being honest, you didn’t care. You didn’t feel guilty or shameful for how Joel looked at you. You basked in how he made you feel; you certainly weren’t getting that kind of attention from his son. He had his eyes (and his dick) on someone else. 

You liked how that very last night you spent at Joel Miller’s house — a fortnight before you broke up with his son — you padded down the hallway to the bathroom in an old skirt that you had outgrown (wearing it only because it was the last of clean bottoms before laundry day), and you overheard Joel Miller in his bedroom, fucking his fist and coming with a gruff groan of your name on his lips.  

You just weren’t sure if he knew that you knew.  

His body twists, props a leg up on the footrest of your bar stool. “What happened between you two? He never talked about it,” he inquires. 

You scoff. “He gets that from you, you know, not talking about things. Think he knows it too.” 

Confusion floods his features. 

Your eyes drop to the inside of your glass. “Your divorce. Jason complained all the time about how neither of you talked about it.”

“There was nothin’ to talk about. She left,” he quips. 

“She cheated on you,” you retort. 

“How did–” 

“He knew, and he watched when you didn’t fight it. Think that’s why he did the same to me.” 

“That kid. Always fucking trouble,” he huffs, then takes a short sip. 

 “Hey, you raised him,” you joke. 

“I didn’t raise him to be a piece of shit,” he bites, shakes his head instantly, eyes meeting yours, and there’s something behind them that you can’t quite place yet.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just—" You sigh exasperatedly, “I think seeing how you didn’t fight for your marriage, for your wife, messed with him. And as much as I hate him for getting his dick wet in another girl, I think... well, now I know why he did it." Right shoulder tips in a slight shrug. 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“What?” you ask. 

 “Nothin'—I didn’t expect I’d ever hear you say that.”

 You look at him pointedly. 

 “Gettin’ his dick wet,” he repeats. “I’m not used to hearing you say things like that s’all,” he says with a breathless laugh, shaking his head a little. 

You sigh. “Told you, heartbreak is a hell of a thing.” 

“You didn’t deserve that darlin’, M’sorry,” he soothes. He leans towards you, a heavy hand dropping to your bare thigh, fingers wrapping tightly around it. It takes everything in you not to squeeze your thighs shut at his touch. 

You avert your eyes, scanning the crowd in the bar, your eyes eventually landing on your friends all crammed in the booth before looking back at Joel. “Everything happens for a reason, I guess.” 

His head dips, eyebrows go up in surprise, his expression a slight mixture of shock and guilt. “You really believe that?” 

You flash him a soft smile. You’re not sure that you do, but selfishly, it’s easier than the truth, and whatever it was, you’re not concerned about it anymore. “It’s fine, Mr. Miller, honestly," you clarify. 

His calloused thumb rubs small circles on your thigh; heat radiates there. “How many times, I gotta tell you, it’s Joel,” he insists.

Your eyes roll, “alright. Joel, it’s fine. I’m much happier now.”

“Oh yeah?" His hand releases your thigh; your body feels like it’ll wilt without the heat of his touch. His arms cross over as he leans forward on the bartop. The cuff of his left sleeve raises, revealing ink curling around his wrist. Did he complete his sleeve? You swallow thickly, your eyes lingering. 

"Got yourself a new boyfriend?’” He asks. 

You finally peel your eyes away, arching your brow. “What makes you say that?” 

His boot brushes against your bare ankle as he turns towards you; electricity sparks up your leg and up the base of your spine, awakening a long-dormant need. “Nothin’, just reckon that a pretty thing like yourself has a new stupid college fella.”

You chuckle. “I don’t date, it's not worth my time anymore.” You take a swig of your drink, swallow the tang down, and it mixes with the lick of heat, slowly spreading its way into your veins. You’re trying to tame the surge of energy zipping through your body, but it’s so damn hot beneath the lights lining the bar. And the chatter buzzing around the room, coupled with the weight of Joel’s gaze, isn’t fucking helping. It’s overwhelming, the nerves and arousal taking over, lacing with the alcohol in your system.

“That so?” His voice is a low rumble, dangerous. The corners of his lips twitch; your eyes dart down to them. 

You set your glass down on the dark wood with a clink, and your fingers begin tracing the rim of the glass. “And you?” Your body is warm and humming, something churning deep in your core.

His hazel eyes slowly rake down your body, a hint of hunger in them as they pause at the hem of your skirt, barely covering the place where you need him most; your skin is on fire under the heat of his gaze, and for a moment you have to resist the urge not to pounce on him right there in a bar full of people.

His voice cuts through your reverie as he answers. “Not in the cards for me, darlin’,” his eyes crease before he tips the glass to his lips.

“Guess we got one thing in common,” you sigh and mirror him. 

His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip, and your chest blooms. Black takes up the hazel hues in his eyes, full of lust, and you think back to all the times you’ve had his attention; only now it’s worse because you can act on it. And maybe it’s the liquid courage in your blood. Maybe it’s some stroke of desire for revenge. Maybe it’s just that — desire. Maybe it’s because you know him. Know by all those times you racked up in your brain of longing stares and fleeting tugs of every nerve of your body.

So you think, with the very obvious throbbing in your core, with desire turning molten and pooling between your thighs that you can no longer ignore, that now is your chance; you’ve got nothing holding either of you back this time.

“You want to get out of here?” Your eyes fall down his body and bite your lip as you take in his broad form again. 

He chuckles darkly. “Can’t leave my crew, sweetheart,” he juts his chin towards an area behind you. Your body twists, and laughter threatens to bubble in your chest when you spot them. Three men, all silver-haired and scruffy beards that cover surly faces, all clad in tethered leather jackets, sit in a corner towards the back of the bar. 

You turn back to Joel with a hint of smirk on your lips. “Aren’t you getting a little old to still be biking around? Shouldn't fossils be encased or padded up or something? You know as they age they don't hold up very well,” you tease. 

He bares his teeth with a crooked grin; the corners of his eyes crease. “Careful, kiddo,” voice a low warning, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it.

You knock back the rest of your drink swiftly, ignoring how it burns the back of your throat. “Well, that’s too bad,” you start. Driven by the alcohol coursing through your burning veins and the painful ache at the apex of your thighs, your left hand grabs his, rested beneath the bar, and guides it under your skirt and towards your dripping sex. He stiffens, inhaling sharply through his nose as he feels the way the wet fabric clings to the lips of your pussy. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear and drop your voice to make it more deep and velvety — more enticing. “She’s already wet.”

You drop his hand and hop off the barstool and onto wobbly legs, your right hand looping your crossbody over your shoulder, and before your leg even brushes past his, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist, dwarfing it in his grasp. 

Without another word, he tugs you behind him, past your table of friends, all too loud and too drunk celebrating the end of another work week to notice the two of you sauntering by. He drags you down the dimly lit hall, and you’re biting your bottom lip, containing the smile that threatens to spread across your face as he shoves you into the bathroom. 

Within seconds, he’s on you, pressing into you so your back slams into the tethered wooden door. Your hands find his hair, tangling your fingers in the strands streaked with gray.

And with his mouth flush with yours, the taste of whiskey and cheap cigars is warm on your tastebuds, and you cannot get enough of it. You've dreamt of what he'd taste like for so long, and it's everything you've ever wanted. His tongue is heavy and hot as he pushes it into your mouth, swirling it around and cutting across your gums, leaving no inch of your mouth uncharted. It’s all rushed and sloppy and hungry, and very quickly does it become clear to you that he’s wanted this — wanted you, just as much as you had from the very beginning. 

Somewhere in the heady haze, you manage to remove your left hand from his dark curls, drifting it south behind your back to slide the greasy lock shut behind you, sealing your fate. 

The sound of the lock clicking in place has Joel maneuvering you towards the sink, your heels scraping against the tile as the both of you drift backwards, tongues still intertwined. 

Your hands fumble with his belt, and at the same time, your mouth skates down his neck, tongue darting out and lapping at the inked skin there. You hum at the taste of warm, salty sweat. As you try to drag the leather out from his silver buckle, you move to drop to your knees. You don’t even get halfway before he’s reaching for your wrists, pulling you back up to stand. “‘S much as I’d like that kiddo, I've been waitin’ too long to get inside this cunt,” he says bluntly, and then he’s taking a step forward, trapping you against the cold ceramic. “If m’gonna come, s'gonna be inside o' her.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, and you can’t deny that the use of that word again makes you want to drop to your knees for him twofold. Instead, Joel drops to one of his, grunting as his denim-clad knee hits the cold tile, and it’s what he does next that manages to shatter all essence of confidence you had tonight.

Joel flicks up your skirt with one large hand while the other grips the back of one of your thighs, and one of your hands finds one of his shoulders, fingers already clinging onto him for dear life as you try to anchor yourself. You’re throbbing for him as his hand drifts north to cup your sex through your damp panties; he tears his gaze away to peer up at you. “How many dicks has this pussy taken since my son?” 

His words strike you hard, and your blood runs as cold as ice. Your breath kicks out of your lungs. That was the last thing you expected him to say. Despite the fact Joel’s eyes often lingered and his breath often wavered in your presence, he always managed to compose himself. You never imagined he'd act on those impulses.

“I–I don’t–” you blink a few times, your brain malfunctioning, trying to find the words. 

“How many,” he taunts, his fingers prod at your lace-covered slit, his thumb applying pressure to your clit through your underwear. 

“I– I don’t know. I can’t remember,” you whisper.

Joel sniggers. “I figured. She’s just a little pocket pussy for us, ain’t she?” A shiver runs up your spine, and he watches you, hazel eyes glimmering in the soft yellow glow of the bathroom, gauging your reaction for a tell, a tick, something, that’ll give him a reason to stop. When you don’t, his head dips down between your thighs, and his strong nose presses up against the damp stain on the front of your skimpy black thong, which was doing a rather poor job of covering your cunt. His eyes close slowly, and he inhales. Long and hard, so hard you can feel his nostrils contracting against you as he breathes in your scent. And it’s not your fault a measly whimper spills from your lips when he does so. 

“This all for me now?” He coaxes, his fingers strumming up and down your slit through the lace. Words fail you as you look down and find his eyes already on yours. You nod once for him. 

“Words, darlin’,” his voice dark, thick fingers shifting your panties aside, exposing you to the cold air and spreading your soft folds apart, toying with your wetness. 

Oh fuck, sneaks past your lips in a whisper, and one of your arms snaps out behind you, hand wrapping around the edge of the sink.  

He tilts his head up, and your eyes fixate on his middle finger that reads, clutch, as the tip pokes into your aching hole. "S’this what you wanted? You oughta ask for it, pretty girl.”

“I want you. Fuck– I want you to fuck me, Joel.” You choke out. 

“Attagirl,” he starts, knees cracking as he stands. “Bend over ‘n let me see her up close this time,” he says with a smirk. 

You obey, and turn to drop your purse beside the sink before placing your hands on the wet countertop. But your eyes don’t find your own reflection in the mirror. Instead, they fall on Joel’s movements behind you and gulp down the near-pathetic excitement and nerves sizzling over you. Joel’s too entranced by the sight before him to pick up how your breath hitches in your throat when his calloused hands push your skirt over the curve of your ass and up to your waist. His sly smirk kicks into a low chuckle as he catches sight of your tattoo on your left ass cheek that reads, daddy’s girl.

You go perfectly still, and a firm hand between your shoulders pushes you forward, your upper body now parallel to the dark countertop. Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears, but you can still hear the low whistle he sings from behind you. And then–

“Jesus,” he breathes as he pauses and marvels at you, his gaze shifting up and down your form, goosebumps erupting across your skin as the knuckle of his index finger traces down the small of your back, cold metal from the ring on his pinkie grazes the meat of your ass by happenstance. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” 

And it’s almost like he can’t believe he’s here — with you, thirty years his junior, and his son’s ex-girlfriend, in a bar bathroom, about to ruin not only you but every other woman for himself for the rest of his life.

The liquid courage must’ve kicked into overdrive because you don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you can stop yourself, you call out his name–

“Joel.”

His dark eyes flit upwards to meet yours in the mirror. 

“You gonna stand there and stare all night, or you gonna fill her up?” But the tone of your voice doesn’t make it sound at all like a question, and you don’t mean it to be. 

That seems to pull him back. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t think you’d be this filthy.”

His reaction manages to bring back your confidence, and your lips curl in turn. 

Joel doesn’t waste anymore time. You feel the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and hear the metallic clang of his belt and the buzz of his zipper as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. When he hooks a thick finger underneath your panties, tugging them to the side and over one cheek, you can’t help but clench, and Joel definitely doesn’t miss it. 

He tuts. “Needy little thing too,” he grips his length, thick and heavy in his hand, and lines up the blunt cockhead with your throbbing hole; it winks at him. “Tiny hole’s begging for me to fuck her, ain’t she? Look at her flirtin’ with me,” Joel gloats. 

And the sane part of you wants to cringe at that, but your cunt betrays you and clenches around terrible emptiness again. Joel doesn’t wait for you to respond; his eyes flicker back down to your hole, pushing the wide head of his cock inside, and that spark from earlier ignites. 

“Oh, Christ,” he exhales, his jaw falling loose and eyes going hooded as he enters your warm, wet cunt. You gasp as your own eyes fall shut at the stretch, your face twisting upwards at the sharp sting. You didn’t get to look at it before, but you can feel him. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and for a second you’re not quite sure he’ll be able to fit. But Joel being Joel means he’s a stubborn bastard. He makes it fit. He pushes himself in, in, in, and you whine, and he groans as your pussy wraps perfectly around every inch of his thick length, sinking in like a dream.

He bottoms out inside your cunt, his tip kissing your cervix, and you’re gripping the edge of the sink so tight that if it weren’t for Joel fucking you, you’d be worried if your knuckles would break the skin. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathes, ragged and hard. 

And it is. He feels so good. Stretching your cunt out and carving a place for himself after all this time. All the wanting and pining. Shared glances and stolen moments that you believed to be over the moment you broke up with that bastard of a son have finally led you here with him. 

“Daddy,” pours from your lips involuntarily. Your eyes snap wide open, and you freeze. Joel draws his hips back, cock pulling out from your gaping hole and catching onto it’s head, and before you can scramble your brain for a pathetic excuse of an apology, his lips curl into a snarl, and he slams his hips forward, cock ramming into you full throttle. The force of his thrust so hard, your body jolts forward, and your pelvis collides with the sink.

He doesn’t give you time to recover; Joel sets a fast, unforgiving pace, and with every strong, expert roll of his hips, the edges of your vision begin to blur. And it doesn’t matter how fast he bucks into you; the size of his cock never fails to fill you up to the hilt on every long, punishing stroke. He’s fucking loving it. And so are you. Letting him use you and yanking you back onto his cock by the thin material of your thong, hips snapping back into his like a rubber band. The air quickly fills with delicious wet sounds of your skin slapping against his, your moans and his, and the sharp clink, clink, clink, of metal rattling against you as the movement of your bodies colliding increases. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy since the first time I laid eyes on ya,” he pants, eyes never leaving where the two of you are connected.

Desperate whimpers and breathy moans spill from your lips, his left hand bruising on your hip. “Caught a glimpse of that pretty young pussy under your skirt. Couldn’t get it out of my damn head. I thought about you n’ fucked my fist every night to that image of you in your slutty little skirt. Too fuckin’ short to cover anything.” Your cunt drools with slick with every word that spills from him; you can feel it on the tops of your inner thighs. The wet suction of your cunt around his cock getting louder and louder and louder. It’s borderline pornographic. 

His voice cuts through the lewd sounds. “Some nights I heard those sweet sounds you made–fucked my fist then too. Were you fakin’ it, baby? Huh. Were you fakin’ it with him? My son ever fuck you this good?” He rambles, grip smarting your flesh. 

Your stomach jolts. Scratch that. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. If your ex-boyfriend’s father fucking you wasn’t going to send you spiraling, then him bringing up his own son while he fucks you dumb certainly will. 

Your mind is abuzz; your brain has gone completely blank. There’s no way you could form a proper word in response, even if you tried. There isn’t a single thought inside your head. It’s too much. Too many things are happening at once. For one, he’s never been this talkative; you were lucky if you got two sentences out of him a year ago. And now he’s asking you if his son fucks as good as he does. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. And he’s not expecting you to. All you can do is whimper and moan while he fucks you with abandon, the way you should have been fucked all those times by his son.

“You don’t gotta answer. I know he didn’t. That boy didn’t know what was good for him if it hit him til he was blue in the face.” And you moan in agreement, still not able to think of a response while his tip jabs at your most sensitive spot. 

“S’okay, you were made to take my cock,” he grits, his ringed finger digging into your skin by the unrelenting grip on your waist. “Made to take mine, not his. Tell me, my cock bigger than his?” 

“Daddy–” you gasp, your cunt flutters around him, and Joel laughs a little at you, a low mocking sound that fuels the fire roiling low in your belly. 

“Course it is,” he murmurs. “You were made for me. So fuckin’ pretty n’ perfect n’  – fuck – so goddamn tight. Tighter than a fleshlight, baby.” He hisses in between sharp thrusts.

“N-” you choke on your words, fresh tears pricking your eyes by the force of him fucking you so hard. 

He clicks his tongue. “You don’t like that, baby? You tellin’ me if I say it again, she won’t fuckin’ squeeze the hell outta me?”

Your cunt answers for you, giving him exactly what he wants and fluttering around him in response.

“S’okay, you can like it. You oughta. This sloppy cunt’s gonna be my new cocksleeve. Gonna blow my load in ya, pump you so full o’me.” 

You squeeze painfully tight around him again and bite your bottom lip to muffle the obscene, broken moan that escapes you. You can’t help but picture what Joel looks like thrusting himself into the toy. Was he using it that night? When you heard him coming with a groan of your name, was he pretending to paint your cunt instead of the inside of faux flesh? Or did he pull out and imagine covering your face in his cum? Your back arches as you push yourself up by the heels of your palms on the ceramic, your head topples back onto your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull, the walls of your cunt tensing at the thought. 

His fingers unhook themselves from your panties and his hand finds the back of your skull, and with a firm grip, he angles your head, so you are face to face with your own depraved reflection. “Look how fuckin’ sexy you look takin’ me,” he growls.

And you do; your vision refocuses on the wrecked girl in the mirror: hair wild yet pulled back by Joel’s tight fist, lipstick stained around your swollen lips, mascara smudged by wet tears at the corners of your eyes, temples glistening with beads of sweat as you’re split wide open, perfectly filled to the brim by your ex-boyfriend’s father’s cock. 

Joel’s fist tightens on your makeshift ponytail, pulling you back into him, and with your back now pressed flush to his chest, he brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, eyes watching each other in the mirror. “You’ve got a velvet cunt, kiddo, s’damn shame my son didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You squeak, your body jostling and rolling with pleasure on every shift forward, the edge of the countertop bruising your hip bones. You’re blissfully unaware of the spit drooling from your lips and dripping all over the sink faucet until Joel points it out.

“Look at you, wanted it so bad you’re fuckin’ droolin’ f’me, naughty girl,” he pants, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. “Wanted me to use you like this, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mewl in response, everything beneath your navel tenses while his cock grazes the opening of your cervix on each harsh thrust.

He tuts. “Aww, poor baby, you were all talk before. But you can’t talk back now, huh? You all cock dumb, s’that it? Daddy, fuckin’ ya stupid?” 

"So – good – Daddy,” you force a choked moan. Your cunt clamps down around him, and it burns, flames running wild, scratching away at your nerves as the fat head of his cock brushes against your g-spot again. As if he can feel it too, the snap of his hips grows more desperate. Faster. Harder. Deeper. 

“Keep doin’ that, doin’ so good for me, kiddo. Just a little more, give it to me, come on daddy’s cock, c’mon,” he rasps. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, his cock hitting you so deep each time his hips swing, and the weight of his balls slapping wetly against your clit has you hurtling full speed towards your release. 

“Daddy – oh f– fuck,” your voice all broken and hoarse. Your entire body goes painfully tight, thighs quivering, and something deep within you snaps. Your eyes screw shut as the energy thrums through your blood. Your mind is a dizzying blur, white light streaking behind your eyelids, and there’s a low ringing in your ears as your orgasm fully engulfs you. 

"Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, kiddo, there you go, let her soak me,” Joel praises as he fucks you through your high, cunt throbbing while your hips move lazily back and forth on him. 

As your orgasm settles, your body goes limp, and your head begins to dip, but Joel tightens his grip on you, shifting your body like a ragdoll until you’re on your tiptoes, the perfect angle for him as he fucks relentlessly into you. 

And with the blissed-out daze of the afterglow and the roaring music from the otherside of the bathroom door getting louder, you can just barely make out Joel’s low rambles of obscenities — almost like he’s mumbling to himself — and the quick, wet, smack, smack, smack of his hips against the plush of your ass as he pummels your cunt, desperate for release — as if his life depends on coming inside you. 

He grunts and through bleary eyes, you watch him through the mirror. He looks wrecked as he chases after his high. He must feel your eyes on him because then his eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and your cunt squeezes him unconsciously. That sends him overboard. His movements become sloppy, and you feel him twitch inside you. His jaw slackens, his eyes pinching shut while his head lulls back, and a breathless chant of, oh shit, fuck that’s it, fuck, escapes him as he comes undone.

His hands clamp, hips finally stuttering, a deep groan slipping past his lips, and then you feel the heat spreading inside you as thick spurts of his seed spill deep inside your cunt. His body falls forward over yours, his sweaty forehead falls into your shoulders, and you let him stay there as his cock continues to pulse, hips lazily rutting into you and pumping you full of his load. Your spent cunt spasms around his throbbing cock, and your wet and his, gathers at the base of his girth and trickles down his balls. 

His hips finally come to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hand drops from your hair and begins rummaging through your purse. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Your pen. You watch through watery lashes as he pops the cap with his thumb and brings the tip to the small of your back; your body flinches at the feeling of the cold tip. 

As the ball of the pen drags and tugs across at your skin, for a brief moment you try to surmise what he’s writing, but it takes him too long, and the intensity of your orgasm finally catches up with you. You drop your head on your hand and wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s drawing on your skin. 

You feel his body shift behind you again, but it’s not until you hear the familiar sound of a low click that has you snapping your head up to the mirror. 

Joel Miller has his phone in his hands. 

And he’s not just doing anything with it. He’s not scrolling through it. He’s not opening up the contacts app. He’s not typing on it.

You catch a bright white flash in the mirror. He’s taking pictures of you. But not just of you. He’s taking pictures of your wasted cunt still plugged full of his cock. 

And for some reason — you don’t move. You don’t stop him. You don’t turn around and snatch the phone from his grasp and call him a dirty old dog. You stay perfectly still, and you let him do what he wants. Letting him take a series of pictures.

But it’s the last few that have his lips curling into a smirk, and he begins mumbling under his breath, gawking at the mess he made of you. 

With his phone poised in his right hand, his left drops to your left ass cheek, his fingers splay across your flesh, pulling your cheek back, and the shutter sound goes off. "Fuck, she’s so pretty like this.” 

Heat blooms in your chest. No one’s ever made you feel like this. But there’s no room for shame when he makes you feel this warm and beautiful... and so fucking sexy. 

And then it hits you. 

No one’s ever made you feel like this. There’s a sudden pang in your heart, tears stinging in your eyes. You’ve always known it. But you never admitted it because it never mattered. How could it? When you’ve never had someone who made you feel worth their time. How could you know what you were missing out on if you’ve never had it to begin with? 

Your head tips back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull, and to keep them at bay, you redirect your attention on Joel; watch him as he presses his hips flush to your ass so he’s filled you to the hilt. With your body still trembling, you wince and close your eyes in overstimulation. Your body sags forward on the cold surface, melting into submission.

You hear a series of shutters coupled with Joel’s mutters of, Jesus, look at her, the prettiest little pussy, look at this messy little hole swallowin’ up my cock, while you feel his hand moving along the small of your back, no doubt getting different angles of the place where the two of you become one. 

It feels like hours have passed by when Joel seems to have gotten his fill. One of his hands finds your hip again; you shiver and gasp in unison as he slowly slips himself out with a wet squelch. He pumped you so full of his release that you already feel it beginning to trickle out. You didn’t think there’d be that much of it for a man his age.

When his cockhead fully slides out from your hole, you have to fight the urge to whine at the loss of it — of him. But it’s what he does next that stops you from reveling in that; his hand quickly reaches down between your bodies, and two thick fingers catch the cum dripping out of you and push it back inside. You whimper tiredly. 

You stay bent over the sink, and suddenly, for a very brief moment, you feel the heavy weight of his cock slap wetly against your left ass cheek, and for the last time, the camera shutters. 

He quickly pockets his phone, and then he’s pulling your panties over the ache between your thighs, and his hands tentatively pull the skirt back down over your ass, smoothing out the rumpled fabric. You can hear the low rustling behind you — the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle, tucking himself back into his pants.

And then Joel Miller surprises you again. He leans forward over you and places a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder before his hands are on you, gently tugging your body upright and turning you around to face him as he murmurs a low, Let me look at ya. 

His eyes scan over your face, grinning immensely, like he can’t help being proud of himself for ruining you. And you smile bashfully in tandem as you bring a weak hand up to your face. Joel shoos your hand away and rubs his thumb under your eyes, gently wiping away your tears and smeared mascara, then doing the same to the smudged lipstick at the corners of your mouth. 

He’s always been rather soft with you, but it’s a stark contrast in comparison to his earlier behavior; it almost gives you whiplash thinking about it. How he fucked you so full you could feel him in your chest, the stream of profanities he cursed under his breath, moaning the dirtiest things  — comparing himself to his son while inside you, taking filthy pictures as evidence of what the two of you have done together, then cleaning you up like it’s second nature to him. All of it was filthy. He’s filthy. But there was always a softness to him, and there’s no doubt about it in this moment.

You take the opportunity to mirror him and caress away the lipstick that stained his lips from your kiss, you smile and he sighs at the contact. His thumb swiftly pads over your bottom lip, his gaze lands on your lips, a sort of hesitance, perhaps deciding if he wants to kiss you again. Then, his thumb catches on your plush bottom lip. Joel’s lips twitch, his eyes go dark as he drags the flesh of your bottom lip down, eyeing something he knows he almost missed. He scoffs slightly and shakes his head in near-disbelief. You smirk knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

His entire face blossoms with cherry red as he does another once over on the black ink inside your mouth. 

“Angel, my ass,” he mutters under his breath before wetting his lips. Already hungry for more. 

He tilts your chin upwards and leans forward to kiss you. It’s softer, slower this time, but of course, he still nips gently at your bottom lip, and at the same time, he slips his free hand down between the two of you once more. It moves beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers shoving your panties to the side, the pulp of his middle finger pushing through your puffy folds and into your dripping hole, until the black ink that reads, brake, is entirely sheathed inside your worn cunt, making sure his come stays where it belongs. You whimper against his lips, bucking into his hand.

“Keep that in there, f’me,” he mutters, his hot breath fanning over your lips. “Want you thinkin’ o’me when it drips outta ya tonight.” 

You whine faintly when Joel removes his hand. He brings it up to his face, and his tongue darts out to glide across the tip of his digit, licking his finger clean of your wet and his, all while keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. 

There’s a long beat of silence between you, and then he drops his hand, pulling away. Your heart falls, already missing the warmth emanating from his touch.

“We oughta get back before people start looking for us,” he murmurs as he steps back. You smile softly and nod. You’re not sure you’ll see him again. And you don’t have the heart to ask him, nor do you have the strength to handle it if he rejects your offer. You have nothing else to give. 

You love how he made you feel, but your chest twinges — one that twists deep. And no matter how much you try to quell that deep-seated fear, it never truly leaves you. A little voice in the back of your mind that repeats on a loop like a broken record, telling you: He’ll break your heart. They all do. But he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. You resist the urge to turn and run. And instead, you turn to glance back in the mirror, sure to tame your disheveled appearance, giving Joel a chance to leave before you, slipping back into someone from your past.

He makes his way to the door, sliding the lock open; his hand curls around the handle but pauses before pulling it open. He turns to face you. “You okay?” he asks. 

It shocks you. It’s more than his son ever did. Certainly means more to you after he’d ask, Was it good, after coming in you before you even got started. Everything Joel did tonight is more than his son ever did; asking you questions all night and listening attentively while you answered them — whether it was with the hope of fucking you or not — doesn't matter. You fought tooth and nail for a sliver of his son’s attention, but with Joel, he just fucking gave it to you. 

You do your best to ignore that gnawing feeling of fear, clawing its way up your chest by the only way you know how; you press your lips to Joel’s, pushing your tongue into his awaiting mouth, and licking along the rim of his teeth. A strong hand curls around your jaw, fighting for dominance over the kiss, but you don’t let him for long, though. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off him, but not before Joel’s teeth softly graze your earlobe, nipping the flesh there.

You flash him a quick smile, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “Perfect.” 

He smiles softly at that, eyes dancing across your face. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves to the side, letting you step out first and following you out. 

You head straight to the booth where your group of four awaits you, but not before peering over your shoulder and seeing Joel stalk towards his crew. You smile to yourself and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear as you approach your friends. As you shimmy in beside one of them, they ask where you were, and their brows pinch when you mumble, I was feeling a little dizzy. Which isn’t a total lie, but no one presses you for more, and you’re glad they don’t. 

It’s not until your friends start collecting their belongings and announce they want to check out the new bar a few blocks down the street when you feel the weight of tonight’s actions sinking into you. You’re about ready to call it a night; your eyes are heavy, your brain is still fuzzy, and your body still has not recovered from Joel railing you. 

You mull over sitting in the booth until the car you plan to order shows up to take you home. But the thought of waiting around in Joel’s presence makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to find out if he’ll be like the rest of them. Something to scratch an itch, and then wiping you from memory. That urge to flee loops back, and your legs force you to stand.

Collectively, you amble through the bar, still bubbling with energy, and as you make your way to the exit, you can feel the heat of a stare on you. You don’t need to turn to know who it is; his broad form ghosts along the edges of your periphery.

You walk against that pull you feel towards him, ache festering, skin burning, and bones grating with every heavy step, your eyes locked on the door like a missile to a target, not letting your eyes wander over to his booth, trying to keep what’s left of your dignity. Resisting. Resisting. Resisting. 

Lucas steps out first, holding the door open for another group of younger twenty-somethings as they saunter into the bar. While you hang back, you quickly mumble over your shoulder to Nell that you’re thinking of heading home. Worry cuts across her face, and she extends an offer, At least let me drive you home, hun. 

Your answer is cut off by the chime of your phone in your purse. You still and fumble for it and see a message from Mr. Miller. You had forgotten you never deleted his number. 

Holding your phone close to your chest, cautiously away from your friend’s curious eyes, you click on the notification.

He’d sent you two of the pictures he happily took at the top of the hour with a message that reads, Look damn sexy on my cock, kiddo. 

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and pride swells in your chest as you glance at the first picture: Joel plugging your used cunt full of his length, his graying pubic hairs drenched and the base of his shaft gleaming with a white ring of creamy release. Your eyes flit upwards, and you finally get a chance to read the dark permanent lines he’d written on your skin.

Joel had crossed out the latter half of your tattoo on your ass cheek. It now reads, daddy’s fleshlight, in sloppy penmanship. With his grip porcelain white, the cross on his thumb makes an appearance as his digit digs into your hip at the corner of your tattoo. Your eyes drift further north, and above the globe of your ass, the small of your back reads, mine. 

Your thumb swipes across the screen to the second picture. With his cock poised in his hand, he had pressed the swollen mushroom head, only a hairsbreadth beneath the ink on the plush flesh of your ass — black ink shiny with a pearly film, he had smeared it in your mixed juices. Your cunt clenches at the images — at his absence, missing the warm, thick stretch of him. And suddenly, you feel his cum beginning to dribble out of you and pool into the gusset of your already ruined thong. 

When you don’t answer. The message bubble appears.

A beat, then two, and then—

There’s a place for you here.

You swallow down the twinge, the ache, press your thighs shut around emptiness, and feel another slight trickle escape your lower lips when your pussy releases more of his cum. You lock your phone and look back up at Nell in front of you. You feign nonchalance and wave her off, telling her you can’t go home just yet. Tell her that you received a few more requests from your boss and you, Don’t wanna take work home. 

She asks how you’ll get home, you lie, and swiftly mention that you just saw Mr. Miller across the bar and that he’ll drive you home. Another tiny white lie. Your place is a solid halfway point from the bar to his house. And when she asks if you’re sure you’ll be okay alone, her hand gently squeezing your arm, brows furrowed with worry, bless her heart, your gaze follows that pull like a magnet and lands on Joel. 

He’s already watching you. 

Your eyes lock with his, one hand resting to the side while the other tips the glass he’d been nursing towards you, winking as he takes a short sip of amber liquid. 

And there’s no pang in your chest. No urge to flee. Just the warmth of his gaze that in any second now will radiate through his touch, turning your bones to ash. 

You flash Nell a smile. Yeah…You’ll be fine.

[navybrat817]

Game Nights

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Game nights in the tower are unpredictable.

Word Count: Over 900

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi