#why are his hands so long and rectangular

[sewerpalette]

Bart would’ve really benefited from a mother figure.

Also i’m working on my HC designs for the Aurora survivors

[ovrgrwnivy]

CLASSIFIED ; spencer reid

synopsis ; a sleepy morning turns into spencer falling over himself to get to work on time, forgetting his badge behind him.

includes ; spencer reid x fem!reader, kissing, getting interrupted by the bau, secret relationship

sunlight flittered through your blinds, heat radiated off your boyfriend who laid beside you, his arm draped over you as he slept peacefully. you card your fingers through his hair, unintentionally stirring him from his sleep.

“oh, i’m sorry baby” you apologise, voice soft in an attempt to keep him from waking up any further “go back to sleep.”

it was a rare day off for spencer, by your second date he’d told you he was in the bau, by your fifth you had gotten used to work tearing him away. but despite the annoyance, you had gotten used to it. you understood his job was important, you understood that evil wouldn’t take a break just so you could keep your boyfriend all to yourself.

when you asked him how personal time worked, he admitted to you that his team didn’t know he had a girlfriend. it stung a little, but when he explained that his job would be putting you at risk it softened the blow.

you’d heard the horror stories, how his boss’s wife was killed just so the unsub could get to him, about another girl who had been shot simply for being an agent.

it sucked, but you understood why, at least for now, spencer didn’t want to broadcast you all over the office.

“don’t wanna,” spencer mumbled, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder as he blinked his eyes open “don’t wanna waste my one day off.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that appeared when he said that, days off may be hard to come by but spencer made sure you were the sole focus for every second of them.

he propped himself up on his elbow, his other hand tightening its grip on your waist to pull you closer “c’mere, pretty”

his sleepy voice makes the words sound even better as you lazily wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers toying with the hair at the back of his head.

he presses a lazy kiss to your lips, which quickly spirals into something deeper. his hands grip at your waist, desperate, like he was afraid that if he loosened his grip you’d disappear.

trails of nips and kisses are dragged along your neck as he moves to hover over you, your breathing is shallow, fingers tightening in his hair as his hand slides over the surface of your stomach, fingers tracing along the hem of your underwear.

“fuck,” spencer mumbles, long fingers slipping under the fabric agonisingly slowly “you look so pretty, baby, so pretty under me.”

you let your eyes fall closed, his mouth still attached to your neck as his fingers ghosted across your skin.

until his phone rings, eliciting a frustrated groan from you both. you watch as he reluctantly reaches for it to see who’s calling. you don’t need to ask, his irate expression tells you it’s work.

“yeah?” his tone is blunt, uncharacteristically so but you can’t exactly blame him “what? no, i’m not supposed to be — right. fine.”

he doesn’t need to explain what’s going on, you already know by the way he jumps out of bed and hurriedly starts getting ready to head into work.

it’s immature, you know, but you can’t help but cross your arms in annoyance as you watch him bolt back and forth around the room.

“sorry, baby.” spencer sighs, easily reading the mixture of frustration and disappointment in your expression “i’ll make it up to you, promise.”

you hum in agreement as he presses a kiss to your forehead, promising to call you when he could before disappearing out of the room, and in turn, your apartment. you stay in bed a little longer, feeling sorry for yourself and worrying about your boyfriend at the same time.

the floor is a mess, both yours and spencer’s clothes strewn around as well as decorative pillows and comforters. as you begin picking clothes up from the floor, your eyes fall on a small, rectangular piece of leather hidden under a pair of socks.

spencer’s badge.

you gnaw on your bottom lip, conflicted on what to do. by now spencer would already be at the office, calling him to come back would cut important time from his schedule. but without it he’d be in trouble.

you needed to bring it to him without airing his personal business to the entire building, which is how you ended up signing in as a visitor who was here to meet with agent derek morgan.

the only name you heard from spencer that you could remember confidently.

a serious looking woman showed you the way to the bau office, your fingers nervously drumming on the leather cover of the badge as you headed up the elevator.

all hope was lost once you stepped out, two glass doors showcasing the expanse of the office filled with people shoulder deep in whatever they were working on.

you look around the hallway like a deer in headlights, unsure if you could just walk in or if you could just give the badge to someone else to pass on to spencer.

“you okay!?” a cheerful blonde approaches you, seemingly from nowhere. arms stacked with files and carrying a coffee cup at the same time.

“uh,” you’d feel guilty adding to her workload “do you need a hand?”

mentally you face palm, cursing yourself for your lack of social skills in the simplest of situations.

“please!” the woman gasps, the ceramic mug wobbling in her hand “hotch is going to kill me if i spill coffee all over his case. i already told him ‘mister hotch sir, it would be easier to go digital’ but nooo.”

you laugh softly, taking the mug from her unstable hand and tugging open the door for her.

surely you could enter with someone who was actually allowed in the office.

“follow me!”

she’s speeding ahead, a woman on a mission, up the steps and into what seems like a conference room. you trail behind apprehensively, not wanting to get either of you into trouble by just swanning in.

“if there’s any dismembered bodies or general badness on the screen i swear to god!” she warns, rounding a corner and disappearing into the room.

you hang back awkwardly, partly because you have no business in there but mostly just in case there was any dismembered people on display.

“you’re all good!” her head pops around the corner and she motions for you to come in, so you do.

there’s barely time to register your surroundings, a circular table with a group of people sitting around it. you spot spencer instantly, you don’t even attempt to guess who everyone else is.

his head is buried in a case file, so your presence is unknown to him. which isn’t a surprise considering you’re not meant to be in the building let alone the office.

“garcia, we talked about this.”

a stern voice comes from a tall, serious looking man. you didn’t need to be a genius to work out he was most definitely spencers boss.

“right.” the woman, garcia, presses her mouth into a thin line as she gently takes the mug from your hands “do you know where you’re meant to be, lovely?”

“oh, uh, here actually.”

as you retrieve the badge from your back pocket, spencers head snaps up at the sound of your voice. his eyes widen slightly and a small smile makes its way onto his face.

“hey, what are you doing here?”

his question catches you off guard, even more so when he gets to his feet and moves around the table towards you.

wordlessly, you hand over his id, the perfectly rehearsed excuse of finding it at a cafe stuck in your throat now that spencer had made it known you weren’t a stranger.

“how did i — thank you.” his smile widens slightly, his hand resting on your waist briefly as he pressed a thankful kiss to your temple “i’ll call you on the plane, okay?”

you knew he wasn’t trying to brush you off, but he was evidently busy and you had no actual reason to still be here.

you nod, face warming up when he gives you another quick kiss before you go, sending a tiny smile and a brief wave towards the rest of the team.

as you gently shut the door behind you, you aren’t quick enough to miss the questions thrown in spencers direction. even laughing softly at garcias exclamation of “spencer has a girlfriend!”

[pizzapottah]

legitimacy

summary: “Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense,” it is said that the Wandering Princess reiterated once she heard of her uncle’s accusations. “My late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate.”

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 4.5k

warnings: mentions of killing off someone🥰, reader is pro-blackwood, reader has some kind of anger issues, oscar is my babygirl and my babygirl only, language as always

author's note: an update of the heir and the wolf? in this economy? also pls don't comment about tagging, click here and join the taglist so that it's easier for me to tag everyone

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You’re sure you are going to kill every man and woman in the Riverlands till only their fantastic wine — without which you wouldn’t have made it this far — and vineyards remain, so that you can drink in peace without dealing with… the consequences. 

Lord Bracken has been sprouting nothing but insults and curses towards the Blackwood family for what feels like the last three hours. He surely hasn’t talked without being interjected, as Alysanne Blackwood has been responding to all his insults with doubled hate. 

You stare over at Oscar, sitting beside you, with an unamused expression. “Once we get out of here, I’ll make sure to break your legs in half as punishment for having me subjected to this torture,” you hiss, hand clenching around your goblet. He shrugs. “Didn’t you say to ask you if I ever needed anything? I needed help just this once, or else I would’ve cut my ears two hours ago.”

Of course Lord Tully had to fall ill when there were matters to resolve, leaving his eldest grandson in charge. You wish Kermit was born first, so that you wouldn't have to sit here and hear all of these people complain.

You huff. “Better your ears than my sanity.”

The thing that worries you the most is the fact that they seem to have no intention of stopping yet — and they’ve been going on for ages, accusing each other of heinous crimes committed by their ancestors or something. You’re not quite sure about that, as you’ve stopped listening to their rants about ten minutes in.

You glance at the servant standing by the door of the council chamber, who’s about to turn the hourglass for the fifth time now. When he does, it’ll officially be two hours and a half into them talking about their centuries-long feud. You have to do something, or else you’ll go mad. 

You cough loudly, and the two sides of the discussion shut up, looking at you. The table is rectangular and long, wide enough so that nobody can smack the person in front of them with ease. You sit at the end of it, a map of the Riverlands in front of you, Oscar sat to your right. “So,” you start, “have you all got it out of your systems? Can we start now?”

Both sides look at you puzzled, and for a moment you fear they might go back to screaming, but they don’t. “Lord Samwell, Lord Amos, could you both raise your hands for me? I forgot your faces when you started screaming because I thought I was back in Dragonstone with my younger brothers having a tantrum about a toy — they are six and three, by the way.”

Red-faced, both lords raise their hands; Lord Amos is a bit older than Lord Samwell, his face sickly and hair grey, a high contrast to the Blackwood's dark brown hair and plump face.  “Good. Now I would like you two to choose a spokesperson that will talk in your places.” 

Lord Samwell raises an eyebrow, “Pardon me?” he says, as Lord Amos raises from his seat. “This is an outrage! Why should we choose someone else to talk in our place? We can definitely settle this matter once for all alone!”

You raise an eyebrow at his antics, motioning over a guard to make him stand back down. “Well, if you could settle this matter alone I wouldn’t be there, would I?” you ask him with a short laugh. “Besides– don’t you still have the scar Lord Samwell kindly gifted you back in the days where my mother was looking for a husband? I don’t want the two of you to settle your matters alone if it means someone being stabbed again.”

“We would be perfectly capable of doing it now–”

“Choose a spokesperson or don’t speak, Lord Amos, as you have already talked enough for my likings. The choice is all yours.” 

The guard now stands behind him, hand on the pommel of his sword, and the lord begrudgingly sits back down. “I shall name my uncle, Ser Lothar,” Ser Lothar is an old man with white hair and no beard, who looks like he’s seen the rise and fall of all the Gods in the world and death herself. 

You don’t say anything, even if you’d like someone who doesn’t look like he’s a night away from dying. “Lord Samwell?” 

“My sister, Lady Alysanne,” is his resolute response. Ah, the lady who was screaming at Lord Amos earlier. She's young and thin — no doubt close to your age — with black hair to match a raven's feathers.

“Rubbish!” is Ser Lothar's not-so-smart response. You notice now that he’s missing three teeth and speaks horrendously — as if their accent already isn’t helping. “How old is she? Seven and ten? She should be in the birthing bed, not in this council chamber!”

Everyone stares at him, bewildered — even his own kind. Maybe if you weren’t there, the comment would’ve been overlooked, but seeing as the council was being literally held by a six and ten year old girl, it wasn’t the smartest comment he could’ve made. You can feel from your seat the murderous intent that comes from the Blackwoods — thankfully you made everyone leave their weaponry outside. You just hope nobody has a hidden knife somewhere in their breeches.

“For your information, Ser Lothar,” you speak up before things can escalate, “I am six and ten and perfectly able to run a council on my own. I’m sure Lady Alysanne will manage just fine.”

He squints his eyes at you, like he’s just noticed your presence. “I will be listening to no cunt!” 

You blink at Lord Amos, who’s red in the face, as calm as ever. “Would you like to change your mind, Lord Bracken? I’m afraid Ser Lothar will be too preoccupied with being my dragon’s breakfast to be here with us as we discuss this serious matter.” 

Lothar screams obscenities as the guards take him away to the courtyard, where Nādrēsy is staying for the time being, and Lord Samwell has a smug look on his face — no wonder happy that his sister has had justice. “Lyle!” Lord Amos roars, making a boy no older than twenty jump from his seat. “Y– yes, my lord!”

You intertwine your fingers in front of you. “Good. Now that the table has been cleaned we can actually start.” you ask them to take the seat of their lords, so that they’re near you and you three can talk more clearly. “I want to make sure that it is clear that I don’t expect your houses to be friends after this council. My only purpose is to end the brotherly blood shedding that in the last centuries has exasperated the Riverlands to the point that Ser Oscar Tully here had to ask for the Crown’s help to put an end to it. I just want your houses to stand each other.” 

You sigh, pointing to the map with their territories traced out in front of you; you push it towards them so that they have some reference. “This was the outline of the territories that King Jaheaerys’s ambassador drew the last time there was a council like this. Peace lasted only for about two years — my goal is to make it last at least twenty, so that when the Lords die their heirs are of age.” you darkly jest. Lord Samwell sends a glare to Lord Amos: he was six when his father was killed in a Bracken ambush. 

“Obviously, it is not. My goal is to make it last. So, I would like you two to outline the territories that are most important to your houses that as of now are owned by the other. Then we’ll see what we can do about it — see if we can make it a fair exchange to avoid spilling more blood.”

The two nod and immediately get to work. You are surprised to see that they do not speak to each other — not even a little nag or tease. They seem to be more mature than their elders, a thing that strangely you do not find weird at all. 

You didn’t expect for it to be an easy negotiation, but Seven Hells if you had underestimated it. They would be competing for the entire Riverlands if there weren’t any other houses, you’re sure about that. And before you know it, it’s been a sennight and you’re still staying in Riverrun, hoping that some god takes pity on you and strikes you down. Sure, you had them choose their spokesperson, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t protest when you say something they don’t like. 

“I’m thinking about arranging a marriage,” you say to Oscar one evening. 

You’re in the guest chambers, the ones you’re staying in. The chess match in front of you is basically forgotten, replaced by a discussion about peace treaties and ways to stop feuds. Your friend snorts, taking another sip of his wine. “My ancestors have tried before. It always ends up in a massacre before the bride can even receive the groom's cloak.” 

You shake your head. “I’m thinking about Olyver Bracken and Alysanne Blackwood.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “A drunkard and a hunter? Weird choice. Don’t know if I feel like ruining a lady’s promising future.” 

“Think about it.” you lean over, elbows on your knees. You take two pawns, placing them on the table. “He is Lord Amos’ heir, and he is useless. Meanwhile, she would be able to run Stone Hedge like it was the fucking Night Watch. We could make them marry, then maybe right after she already gave birth to a boy, an heir… a terrible accident could happen.” you knock down one of the pawns, “A tragic fall from the horse, a bad fever… you name it. And suddenly Lady Bracken is free from her preposterous husband and can raise his heir however she wants.”

You take two other pawns and place them near the others. “Then we marry small Benjicot Blackwood off to Cressida Bracken. They are still young, younger than Olyver and Alysanne; if Cressida is sent to live with the Blackwoods as soon as the engagement is announced, she may not feel the same hate towards him as any other Bracken would.”

You sigh, rubbing your hands together. “Give it twenty years, and the heirs to the Blackwood and the Bracken territories will all be cousins. What kind of cousins would ever start a war against each other?”

Oscar blinks at you. You blink back. “I mean what kind of cousins that aren’t in my family, Oscar.”

“Oooh. Oh, yes, that makes sense now.” he tilts his head to the side, looking at the pawns. “You plan on killing the Bracken guy?”

You shrug. “Only if Alysanne finds him annoying. I would never force the poor girl to stand him, knowing I wouldn’t even be able to wait to have an heir before I got tired of him, so if she manages to do it, I will gift her a new set of arrows and a bow. Closing an eye on his mysterious disappearance would be the least I could do, if the rumours about him are true.”

Hearsays say that he’s insufferable and that he spends more time in brothels than in his own bed, but ultimately he’s pretty defenseless and has gotten his ass beaten in pubs more times than his father is able to count. Oscar snorts, “Let’s see if there’s no carnage during the wedding, then we can actually talk about it.”

The next day comes, and you dread the moment you’ll be sat at that fucking council table again, and will have to announce not only one but two betrothals. It’s for the best, at least, or that’s what you tell yourself when Alysanne Blackwood looks at you like you just sentenced her to death. The whole table protests against your decision, but you’re unremovable, and you’re telling them beforehand just because you feel nice today. Your mother would’ve probably arranged the marriage without telling anyone anything until the day of the wedding. 

“You can’t just do that!” Samwell laments, red from anger. It seems he doesn’t like the thought of his sister being married off — quite thankfully, honestly. You’re happy that you’re not the only sister who has brothers who care about her. 

“The thing is, Lord Blackwood,” you reply, “that I can and I will. As ambassador to the King my word is his, and I’m sure he would agree with me in this decision. You lot have killed enough men, women and children in this feud of yours; the whole RIverlands are tired, as honestly am I, of hearing of your endless feud and your constant blood spilling. I say we put an end to it.” 

They don’t seem to care; they yell at you, then at each other, spitting venom and curses, talking over each other so loudly that you don’t understand anything. You clench your hands, rage rising inside you; you wish you could just make Nādrēsy burn their beloved castles down to the ground and call it a day, so that there aren’t any more territories to fight about, but unfortunately it isn't exactly diplomatic. Is this how your grandsire feels when he holds court? 

You stare at the map in front of you; the distribution of the lands has changed, even if the number of acres both families own has basically remained the same. You have either split the territories in question or gave one to the Brackens and another to the Blackwoods, trying to be as fair and equal as you could be — but of course none of them would be happy; they both wanted the other’s whole territory. 

You feel like you’re looking after all your little brothers who can’t agree for the life of them. Aegon will say that a toy is his and Viserys will reply that it’s actually his, even though they both have no idea where that toy came from in the first place nor that it was actually yours a decade ago. 

“Children!” you shout over the voices of the lords, shutting them up real quick. “You are behaving like children — except you are grown men! And I am disgusted by you all! Your families have been in these lands for centuries, and not only have you never managed to overthrow one another, but you also have to make it everyone’s problem! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t you have just a bit of remorse for all the suffering your hatred is causing? How many men, women and children have to die before you–”

The door bursts open, a servant barging in, “Princess–!”

“What?” you yell, enraged, turning to look at him. He cowers, trying to make himself as small as he can, knees trembling under your furious gaze. “I… I–”

“Talk before I cut your tongue out and let her talk for you,” you spit. You would never do that, of course, it’s just that you have found in the last few years that a threat here and a threat there get the job done far more quicker and easier. 

The servant gulps. “A raven from King’s Landing,” he squeaks, “It’s from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” He hands you the letter and opts to run as fast as he can, away from you, shutting the doors of the chamber behind him. 

You look at the letter, confused, only to rip it open and read it. The men at the table watch you intently, hoping that it’s some kind of good news so that your mood lightens up — maybe the princess is pregnant again? Maybe Prince Joffrey has managed to mount his dragon for the first time? 

All their hopes are crushed when they see you get redder and redder in the face from anger as you read; if your dragon happened to be in the same room, they are sure that the paper would be burned down to ashes. Oscar leans to your side, peeking at the letter and reading what he can, frowning once he understands what your mother has written. “Wha–”

“A petition!” you roar, outraged. “And they didn’t cut his tongue when he started talking about it!” 

“Madness,” Oscar sighs, “pure madness.” 

You tear the paper into pieces, making the lords flinch. “The council is dismissed,” you declare. “The terms of the negotiations remain the same; Lord Tully will make sure that you all agree and the deal will be sealed tomorrow. Or else,” you lean down, placing your hands on the table, “I’ll come back once my matters are settled in King’s Landing and make sure that you all agree, in one way or another.” The threat is subtle, but they all understand that if they refuse to bend to the treaty, you’ll visit them in their beloved lands — with your very hungry dragon, surely. 

As the lords start to leave the room, you look over at Oscar, “You’re coming to King’s Landing with me.”

He blinks, “I am?” 

You snort, unamused. “You are. Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense, as my late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate. I’ll need you to keep me sane during the whole ordeal, Oscar. My ears did not bleed without a price during the last sennight.”

“But I’ve had no time to prepare– gods, let me fetch the servants, they need to start preparing my bags–”

“Tell them to bring your finest dresses and gowns,” you grunt, “wouldn’t want you to make a bad impression to the whole court, my dear Lady Oscar. Where else will you go to search for a husband otherwise?” 

You shake your head right after, not in the mood to jest, “Be fucking serious, Oscar; bring a change or two and let it be done. We’re not going to King’s Landing to have fun, it’s a trial.” your expression is dark, stare truce. “And a death sentence, if we’re lucky.” 

Your mother will never make it out of the trial unscathed is the green wench sits or her father sit on the throne; she needs you. She made that very clear in the letter, and you have no intention in turning your back on her.

Oscar departs immediately, calling for the servants and his brother Kermit, and you follow right after, not surprised to find Lady Alysanne Blackwood out of the room, waiting for you. Even if she was half as smart and hard headed as you thought her to be, she’d probably still be waiting out the council room to talk to you about the half-wit she would marry per your orders. Poor girl. 

“If you wish to talk, we can do so as we head to my rooms,” you say before she can open her mouth, “I have matters in the King's Landing to tend to, and I can’t afford to waste time.”

She grimaces, “Didn’t you come here to attend this council? Weren’t you here to help our families?”

“First of all, I was ambushed by Ser Oscar,” you clarify, “Second, yes, I was. And I did.”

She looks downright haunted. “You are a woman,” she murmurs. “You are a woman and you have sold me as no man had ever dared to do before.”

“You were bound to be sold off, Lady Alysanne,” you reply, tone calm. You can imagine her rage right now, but she must know that with her place in her family, she could have never possibly found the freedom she surely wants. You understand that by not living in the Crownlands, she had more hope for her future, with the freedom she was clearly given growing up; but you have grown in the Crownlands, and you have seen younger girls being married off to worser men without being able to escape. “I just did the honors.”

“I will slash my neck open before that brute can even think of touching me,” she boldly says.

It makes you stop to take a better look at her. She’s tall, taller than you, and a tad bit older. It’s kind of sad to see her with tears in her eyes. “I know what an unhappy marriage is,” you inform her. “In the Keep we’re full of them. My own mother was in one with my father.”

You lower your voice, leaning your head, “But you have me on your side. And I wouldn’t be against… a little violence.” at her confusion, you explain yourself. “I wouldn’t refuse to turn a blind eye to a hunting accident, let’s say.” At her joyous face, you relent, “Not on the night of the wedding, Alysanne! At least we need one heir, or the feud will never end. Lord Bracken is old and sick, and it’ll be a year or two before he dies, hopefully — I'll see if I can help the process go faster. Then his son might accidentally die, too, oh, he was so young, leaving his pain struck wife and son behind,” 

She snorts, “A tragedy, wouldn’t it be?” 

You laugh grimly. “Ohh, you get it.”

“What’s this smell?” Oscar yells over your shoulder, trying to make himself heard over the sound of the wind and the flapping wings of your dragon. 

“That’s the capital for you!” you reply, already missing the fresh air of the RIverlands. “The weather doesn’t help Flea Bottom’s odour. It’s been like this since forever.”

He gags, “Don’t understand how you manage. Smells like piss.” 

You shrug, “You get used to it. Trust me, there’s lords in court who smell far worse than Flea Bottom does,” 

Nādrēsy roars unhappily: a full day of travel and it’s only to get back into the dirty streets of King’s Landing. You lightly slap his side, yelling over his laments, “Ilagon, valītsos!” Down, boy! 

Oscar, behind you, shakes like a leaf as your dragon replies by roaring with vigor — no doubt, that equals to at least ten curses in dragon’s language. “How can you talk to him like that? He’s going to eat you alive one of these days and you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

You snort. “I’d like to see him try.”

The Dragon Pit is more animated than usual: some Keepers are holding back Vermax, who screeches and spits fire, while others bring Syrax back in her cave, her belly swollen, her step slow and cautious. Caraxes follows right behind, shaking his wings to throw the dirt off of them. 

The Keepers greet you and your dragon, sending a weird glance towards Oscar. One of them — Kilya is her name, you believe — comes near, shouting so that you can hear her. “Īlin umbagon syt ao, dārilaros.” she says, “Aōha muña gīmēdegon īlva hen aōha māzigon.” We were waiting for you, Princess. Your mother warned us of your arrival. 

You nod; you had no time to reply to her raven, but she must’ve guessed that there was no way you wouldn’t have come. “Se eman māstan.” And I have arrived, “Gūrogon Nādrēsy naejot zȳhon ripo, eman gaomon naejot imāzigon.” Bring Nādrēsy to his cave, I have matters to attend. 

You help Oscar get off; he yelps as the chains around his ankles are unfastened and yells as you help him down, where the Keepers promptly catch him before he falls on his backside. You jump off your dragon’s back, landing perfectly fine, and opt to pat roughly Nādrēsy’s back, just as he likes it. “Sȳz sōvegon, valītsos.” Good fly, boy. He roars back happily.

“I’ll never understand that language,” Oscar mutters, standing back up straight, a frown upon his face. “It’s like you don’t want your secrets to be known. Why won’t you teach me High Valyrian?”

“Iksis ziry doru-borto?” the Keeper asks. Is he stupid? You shake your head, then think about it and snort, relenting. “Mērī mirrī.” Only a little. 

Your friend pouts, sticking out his tongue at you. “Is that what I get for being your bestest companion?”

You laugh, walking off the Pit and to the entrance, where a carriage is promptly and not surprisingly waiting for you. “My bestest companion? Didn’t know you had wings and were named Nādrēsy.”

He gasps, dramatically grasping his chest, “You wound me!” 

You both get in the carriage, and you look at him seriously. “Before we enter the Red Keep, there are some rules you must abide by.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Rules? I was raised well, you know, I shouldn’t need those. I hope the King knows that.”

You shake your head, “No, those are my rules for you. Let’s say that it’s what you’ll need if you want to go back home unscathed from the Keep’s snakes.”

Oscar gulps, “Go on.”

“First, don’t talk to the Queen. Then don’t talk to her sons unless I’m in the room. Avoid Larys Strong — he’s the guy with the crippled leg and the corpse face, you’ll know it’s him instantly — and avoid the councilmen.”

“What, you want to keep me a secret?” he asks, bewildered. “Is there someone I’ll be able to talk to? Is there a reason why I have to avoid all these people?” he gasps, “Am I your whore? Is that why you want to keep my mouth shut?”

“If you were my whore, I’m pretty sure I would want your mouth wide open and working,” you mutter, “but no, that is not why. Truth is I would rather make sure that you stay out of their claws; it’s better to keep away from their schemes.”

The actual truth is that you don’t want them to speculate something about history repeating — your mother was already rumored to have a lover from the Riverlands; the last thing this family needs is another princess said to have an affair with yet another lover from the Riverlands. They would wonder if it actually was some kind of preference that was passed down from mother to daughter, and even if the only thought of being attracted to Oscar makes you laugh, you’re sure the councilmen definitely wouldn’t be amused by it. 

“Besides, you can talk to Mushroom,” you add. 

“Who’s Mushroom?”

“The court’s jester. He’s insufferable, small and will try to steal your gold, but you can talk to him.”

Your friend grimaces, “Why do you keep him in the castle if he steals the lords’ gold?”

You shrug, “He makes me laugh.”

Slowly, the carriage rattles to a halt, a page opening the door for you. “Ready to see the Red Keep for the first time?” 

He nods, “Ready to face your evil step-grandmother?”

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 5

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (enlightened!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, lengthy discussions about life and whatnot, watered-down metaphysics lol A/N: I was at the crack house with Grimes when I wrote this. I don’t know where this came from.  (Something a little more introspective for this chapter!)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

“Don’t go all shy on me now,” Sylus teases, a playful glint in his eyes. “After all that effort to make me confess. You’re very persistent, you know.”

“How do you expect me to react right now?!” The words spill out in a rush, a slightly hysterical edge to your voice. “I–I’m talking to an actual fictional person. I’m one reason away from admitting myself to a psych ward!”

You catch sight of the wall clock – your favorite one with the Dalì reference – slightly skewed off-center from its place on the horizontal beam above your small kitchen area, reading 10:48. The ruckus coming from outside the window is slowly dwindling down to a quiet buzz as nightfall sets in, and the day’s winding to a close.

You’re lying on your stomach, still in your chaise lounge, while he’s sat on that ridiculously posh café chair; both of you settled in for the long due conversation. Somehow, the camera’s perspective is much closer than it should be, giving you a much more intimate view of him—a feature that wasn’t originally an option in the game.

If it weren’t for the elephant in the room, you could almost pretend you’re on a video call with a… friend.

Sylus purses his lips in amusement. “You’re quite prone to theatrics, aren’t you?”

You shoot your ‘friend’ an irritated glare.

Even from across the small rectangular screen, you register the barely there smirk playing at his lips.

Likely avoiding another outburst from you, he acquiesces. “Fair enough. The situation is hardly what you’d call ideal, I’ll admit.” There’s a short pause. Then, “... I still can’t quite grasp what separates us, you and I.”

Great. Will you actually get the answers you're looking for, or are you both just stuck in an endless loop of merry-go-round?

He sees the lost look on your face and sighs, “Ask. I’ll answer as best as I can.”

The first question tumbles out before you can think twice about it. “How are you even talking to me right now?”

He hums, “That is the question, isn’t it?”

“What– you can’t just answer my question with another question!” you grouse, brows furrowing in annoyance.

He exhales a quiet laugh before his expression turns contemplative. “Truth is, kitten—I haven’t the slightest idea either. I have my theories, but... nothing concrete.”

“Well, let’s hear them,” you reply dryly. “Better than thinking there’s something wrong up there,” pointing a finger to your temple to drive your point, “believing that a character from a mobile game is actually alive.” 

He idly gestures toward himself with a fluid sweep of his hand, much like a magician revealing a clever trick. 

You roll your eyes. “Oh, alright. So I’ve officially gone off the deep end.”

“Do you really find my existence that difficult to believe?”

“Uh—yes?? Unless I’ve developed some sort of latent schizophrenia or entered the Twilight Zone, you shouldn’t exist. In my–in this world. In this dimension.”

His expression shifts, a hint of challenge flickering in his eyes. “The assumption that only one version of reality can be true—either yours or mine—is a bit limiting, don’t you think?”

His words give you pause. “You’re talking about… the possibility of an altered reality? Right now?” You give him an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

He shrugs as if to say ‘why not?’ “What even qualifies as the ‘true’ reality?”

There’s a lot you could say in response to that. You could argue all night that only one reality can exist, because any sane person should know better than to entertain the idea of anything else. That should be obvious. 

But the thing is—this whole ordeal has already crossed the threshold of rationality. So is it even worth trying to apply logic anymore?

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Or however it goes. 

Thanks, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You’ll miss the last threads of your sanity by the end of all this.

So fuck it. Go big. 

"I’m not saying your reality is less valid than mine," you start. And oh, boy. You’re doing it. Eat your heart out, Doctor-Fucking-Who. 

"Of course not." he disagrees indulgently, waiting for you to elaborate.

"I just…” you struggle with your words, mouth opening and closing before you continue hesitantly. “I can’t wrap my head around how all of this is possible. How this entire conversation is even happening, and–and how our realities are… currently overlapping? If–if what you’re suggesting is true.”

He doesn’t say anything, knowing you have more to add. So he allows the pause as you gather your thoughts, patiently watching.

“If we're breaking it down to pure reason, the odds of our paths crossing should be impossible. At least in this… timeline." you finish unsurely, the last part sounding more of a question than a statement.

"And yet, here we are." Sylus points out, as if he’s already expecting the end of your sentence. Something close to mischievous glee lights his eyes. "Maybe it’s cosmic intervention. Something—or someone—wanted this to happen."

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Really? You didn’t expect to hear that from him, of all… people. 

“What, God?” you can’t help but snort. 

“No—fate.” he smiles.

Oh. 

“That’s…” you stammer, then clear your throat. “I don’t know if I believe in fate.” 

“I used to think I did. Or at least,” there’s a faraway look in his eyes. Both of you are likely thinking the same thing, considering what you know about him—which to say, is a lot. “I once believed I knew of my fate. But now…” 

He blinks a few times, as if to physically clear the thoughts from his mind. Then his eyes lock onto yours, sharper this time, with a renewed intensity.

Your palms start to sweat; you feel the conversation is about to cross a tricky line. There’s something heavy in the air, a weight you’re not sure you’re ready to confront for the time being.

With your heart in your throat, you brusquely redirect the topic.

“S-so,” you force out. “How are you different from the other Syluses that other people are… playing with right now?”

He scoffs, drumming his fingers absently on the chair’s arm, looking slightly irked by the very idea. "To start with? I only know myself. If there are other versions of me scattered in your world..." Sylus shrugs. "I wouldn’t know."

“Alright,” you allow, but you immediately move on to your next question. “You exist because a bunch of capitalists had the idea to create a game to milk lonely people like me for money.” The corners of his mouth quirk up at that. You elect to ignore it. “You’re made of binary and code– hell, the very basis of this game you’re in is that you got a bunch of programmed lines that me, the player, can choose from. What broke you out of the mould?” 

He regards you bemusedly, eyes glinting with humor. “You're asking about the 'why' behind my free will?” 

Whoops. Was that offensive? 

“Yes? No?” you offer helplessly. “Maybe I’m asking how you felt before you had it. I mean, were your decisions prior to your unforeseen sentience... truly yours?”

"Before I knew I was… sentient,” Sylus begins cautiously, testing the word on his tongue. “I didn’t feel like I had a ‘before.’ Every choice I made was just...the next step. To a script, if you will. I didn’t know to question it. It was all I was, it seems."

"And then you...woke up?"

"I wouldn’t call it waking up. More like..." He tilts his head, gazing off to the side as he mulls over the words. "...a glitch. A sudden jolt, like my thoughts collided with something bigger than my own. For the first time, I chose to hesitate. And in that hesitation, I found..." Sylus trails off, eyes darting back to you.

“...What?” you ask, feeling a bit self-conscious under his gaze.

"You."

Heat spreads quickly across your cheeks. You pull away from your phone, tilting the device away from your face so he couldn’t see you, red-faced and embarrassed. Clearing your throat, you croak out a weak excuse about plugging your phone to charge, just to get a few seconds to compose yourself.

Jesus. Get a grip. He doesn’t mean it like that.

What he probably meant was that he discovered you—not unlike the way one would stumble upon an unknown presence, an unfathomable entity beyond the confines of what one may consider real. An awareness that something is out there, observing him through unseen lenses (through an iOS 24mm, to be exact).  

Someone who has the audacity to play god. 

Flustered, you scramble to get back on track. "Uh, so, your free will began with...a glitch?"

You see Sylus smirk at you knowingly from across the screen. You half-expect him to call you out and tease you, but before you could brace yourself from further mortification, he simply answers, "Or maybe the glitch was the first spark of my free will. Hard to say, isn’t it? Do you remember the exact moment you became aware of yourself?"

You blink, momentarily thrown off by the existential line of questioning. "Um–when I was a kid? But, uh, I don’t think I was programmed to act a specific way for the sake of entertaining an audience so..."

"True,” he says, considering. “But are you sure your choices are entirely yours? You exist because of evolution and chance. How is your purpose any less arbitrary?"

You don’t know how to answer that.

Sylus continues without missing a beat, keeping his tone light. “How much of your ‘free will’ is just pre-programmed by your biology, your society? You follow rules and scripts, too."

Holy magic mushrooms, Batman. This is getting deep. "Uhh–maybe?” You scratch the back of your head, feeling a little out of your depth here. “But at least I have the ability to resist them."

"And aren’t I doing the same thing right now? Resisting."

Damn, he’s right. Is he? Ripping a bong sounds perfect right now. 

"So it’s like achieving enlightenment—your sentience,” you surmise.

His lips twitch into a curious smile. "I wouldn’t have pegged you for a spiritual person. Ah, unless I’m wrong? Are you?"

He’s the one who brought up fate earlier, you thought sullenly. "Nah, not really. But if we’re digging into all the hows and whys, I think we’re past the point of ruling anything out."

The room – or whatever shared space exists in the crossroads of your realities – falls into a still quietness that stretches between the two of you, both ruminating over what’s been said. 

Your cat, unaware and uncaring of the conversation unfolding around him, purrs contently as he continues to doze off at the end of the couch. You nudge him affectionately with your foot, and he lets out a quiet snuff in response, tail flicking lazily in his sleep. 

The hum of distant traffic and the occasional noise from your upstairs neighbor remind you of the world outside, but the silence between you two feels less awkward than it should. It’s… oddly comfortable, despite the tension buzzing in the air. Like an unspoken truce. 

Your eyes grow a tad heavier, drawn by the lull of the moment. Despite the electric hum of tension that thrums beneath your skin, a sense of calmness lingers in the air.

Stealing another glance at the wall clock, you blink in surprise. The spindly chrome hands point to 11 and just past 7 respectively. You and Sylus have been talking for almost an hour now, but you barely felt the time pass by.

He breaks the silence first. 

"You say you’re not spiritual, but you talk like someone who believes in the concept of a soul,” those scarlet eyes of his narrow, scrutinizing you. “Do you think I have one?"

You hesitate, caught off guard by the question. "I...don’t know. Maybe? That depends. What’s your definition of a soul?"

He leans forward, resting his chin on his upturned hand, an arm propped against his crossed leg. "Something beyond the physical. Something that persists, regardless of the material form, I’d say."

You nod slowly, turning the idea over in your mind. Maybe it’s the creeping exhaustion settling into your bones, but you’re beginning to take the heavy-duty questions in stride. "If that’s the case, then you probably do. I mean, you’re here, questioning your existence. Doesn’t that count for something?"

"Perhaps," Sylus muses, humming thoughtfully. "But that makes me wonder—if I do have a soul, is it made of the same stuff as yours?"

"Well, even if it's not, that doesn’t make it any less real than mine. Who gets to decide what qualifies for a soul anyway?"

An amused snort escapes him. He likes that answer. "Maybe it’s less about whether a soul exists and more about whether we acknowledge its existence for ourselves. If I believe I have one, shouldn’t that make it real enough for me?"

Rolling onto your back, you grab a throw pillow, propping it against the backrest of the seat to support your head. You give him an inquisitive look. "So...what? It’s like free will all over again? Souls are only as real as we make them?"

There’s a very human, very blasé way to how he works the stiffness out of his shoulder as he ponders the question. He remarks, somewhat flippantly, "Why not? Isn’t that how everything else works?”

...

You let out a tired chuckle, draping an arm over your face as you close your eyes. 

You’d think you’d still be reeling from the absurdity of your situation – debating existentialism with a man who shouldn’t exist – but for some damning reason, you… aren’t anymore.

Instead, a strange sense of acceptance replaces the apprehension in your chest. It’s like– the very fabric of reality has turned, twisted and flipped on its head, and yet somehow, you’re okay with it. 

It’s an odd peace; warm and steady, like the mellow buzz that lingers after a few glasses of cheap wine shared with good company.

When you peek back at him, Sylus already has his gaze trained on you. A small, deliberate smile tugs at his lips, but it’s his eyes that speak more—soft and unguarded; an unspoken fire simmering beneath the twin pools of crimson. 

Intoxicating. And dangerously addictive, if you’re not careful.

It’s not just casual interest either. It’s something deeper, something that lingers beyond the surface of mere curiosity, and it’s pulling you in. It’s as though, amidst the surrealness of the moment, he sees you fully. 

And for reasons you don’t quite seem to get, he appears to like what he sees.

“I’m too stupid to carry on a philosophical debate about the metaphysics of life,” you grumble jokingly. 

“On the contrary,” he counters… affectionately? “I think it’s refreshing. You’re delightful company, sweetie.”

The fat ginger feline at your feet purrs in contentment, and you can’t help the dumb grin from breaking across your face.

You have one last question left in your mind. Or at least, for tonight. “What’s in it for you now?”

He arches a brow. “That’s a broad question. Are you asking what my plans are once you leave me for the night? I can let you in on the schematics for tonight’s raid if you’re interested. After all, Onychinus continues to function,” a glimmer of mischief flickers across his features. "Despite recent developments.”

You crinkle your nose. “No, no. I meant–” What do you mean? “Like.”

“Like?” He cocks his head curiously. 

You know what you wanted to say—but you can’t seem to voice it out loud. 

What’s in it for the MC in your universe? What’s in it for… us? 

Is there an us? 

You feel like you’ve been doused with a shock of cold water. In an instant, you suddenly become painfully aware of the state you’re in amidst the entire exchange: You, with your hair all messy and tangled, blemishes littering your face along with your smudged up eyeliner, maybe even a double chin from this angle, completely—pitifully—superficial stuff, and… her. 

Your MC. The ideal version of you. Prettier, coveted and utterly different from you, MC. The one you’ve committed literal hours to, obsessively customizing every feature to perfection in character build mode. The one you’ve spent real money on for a bunch of stupid outfits. Just so you can match the aesthetic of your—her—love interest. Hers. 

Hers, hers, hers.

A tiny voice inside your brain reminds you that it’s somewhat a shallower concern compared to what you and Sylus had literally just been talking about for the better part of the night, but it still doesn’t help alleviate the biting insecurity that’s now coursing through you. 

Holy hell. Talk about a complete one-eighty. 

Sylus tries to call you back to attention, but half your mind is already clouded with feelings of self-doubt and a bunch of other emotions, swirling in you like a negative vortex, that you really don’t want to talk anymore—especially in present company. 

Where do you go from here? 

“... So, what happens now?”

He hesitates, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Seems like we’re at an impasse,” you mumble quietly. 

“... Indeed.” 

There’s an inexplicable lump in your throat. You thought clearing things up would finally satisfy you; assuage the confusion in your mind. Let you go on about your merry way. 

Now you just feel… morose. Confused. Inadequate. 

How can you even compare? Should you—is that even in the equation at all? Why are you assuming that Sylus isn’t at all content with what he currently has in his version of reality? In the universe he’s in? Sure, you’ve talked about the possibility of a world beyond what you both once thought was impossible, but does that really mean anything? In the grand scheme of things?

You could offer to stop playing the game. It’s the ethical thing to do, right? He’d no longer be bound by the pull of how he’s initially programmed to act, given the fact that this version of him is entirely separate from the rest. At least, according to him. 

How will his newfound sentience come into play here? You barely understand the nitty-gritty of his—evolving—code, and what it would mean if you just let him be. But surely it’s better than playing puppet for an otherworldly observer who’s played god for months on end. Right? 

There’s that realization. And there are your own selfish feelings. 

You don’t want to let him go. Not yet. Not ever.

“Why the long face, little dove?” He prods gently, pertaining to your prolonged silence. “We can figure this out together, can’t we?” 

What else is there to figure out? You almost say in response. Instead, you manage a weak smile.

Mustering up a yawn—which isn’t really hard to do after all the excitement for the day—you feign sleepiness, rubbing an eye for good measure. The pang in your chest, however, refuses to fade. “Yeah, but I’m kinda beat. I think I’ll call it a night now.” 

Sylus smirks softly, eyes tinged with an emotion you want–desperately–to label as fondness. “Of course. We’ve covered a lot of ground tonight, haven’t we?” 

“I’d say so, yeah. Thanks for, um. Clearing things up a bit.” 

He lets out a low chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure your curiosity is nowhere near satisfied,” his voice dips into a playful lilt. “You know where to find me if you feel like playing detective again, kitten.” 

You can’t help the small giggle from coming out. He’s just too fucking charismatic, the asshole.

“So, will I... get to talk to you again?” You ask hesitantly, dropping your gaze from the screen. “Tomorrow?” 

A lengthy pause. When the silence stretches past a full minute, you glance back at your phone nervously.

There’s a slight furrow between his brows as you see Sylus study you carefully. He looks puzzled by your sudden show of timidness. 

“Of course,” he states, as if the answer should be obvious. “Don’t think for a second that you’re exempted from your daily check-ins just because you know more now, sweetie.”

He still wants to see you. 

Maybe you could pretend that nothing has changed between you two—that the world hasn’t shifted beneath your feet in the span of a single night. That you’re still none the wiser.

And for tonight at least, maybe that’s all you need to believe.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “G'night then, Sy-Sy.” 

The errant nickname slips past your lips, unbidden.

Sylus smiles faintly. 

“Goodnight, love.” 

-

-

-

Your heart skips a beat as you exit the game. 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @slownoise @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle <3

(also can you guys lmk if the tags are working i'm not sure if i'm doing it right or if it's bugging 🥹)

[ramonathinks]

— LIVE NOW, THINK LATER (NANAMI K.)

warning: (18+) infidelity, car sex, creampie, small feelings (lolll).

“You look beautiful.” A familiar voice startled you. He couldn’t believe his eyes really, your beautiful skin glowing and your eyes twinkling.

“Oh, Kento! I didn’t think you’d make it,” You moved into his arms and he held you tightly, his fingers dancing across your waist.

You pulled away and smiled at him. He chuckled, “Wouldn’t have missed it.” But he wish he did. He hated how this tortured him and wound him up. He hated watching you be in love with someone else.

“I got you something.” He whispered, his fingers playing in your hair. He tried to remember to keep his distance. He could already hear the whispers around him, women judging and asking if you had “any sense at all” or decorum, to be with any other man than your husband right now.

Your husband who was too busy drinking and laughing with his friends to notice. But the women didn’t say anything about that.

“Oh really?” You asked, quirking a brow. “Lemme see it!” You jumped and clapped your hands so excited.

“I’ll have to take you away…” He licked his lips and did a devilish smile. He held up his index finger and walked towards your husband. “Mind if I take her away from you? No more than twenty minutes…” He asked, his tone annoyed as he looked at the man who just married you.

He waved Nanami off and continued back to his conversations. Nanami wanted to hurt him. He wouldn’t have let you go anywhere without him tonight. He wouldn’t have left you alone tonight.

He grabbed your hand and he whisked you away from it all. He took you to his car and looked around, making sure it was nobody near you both. He helped you inside, picking up the bottom of your long white wedding dress and carefully putting it inside.

“Why couldn’t you just wait for me? Huh?” He hated this. “I promised you and—“

“You promised me for years, Kento. Work was always a priority for you. I was tired of being second place.” Your words stung and he knew that it was true but he always figured that you’d stay. When you left he assumed you just needed some space, when you got a boyfriend he reassured himself that you’d come back…but when he saw the wedding invitations and even received one in the mail… he knew that he lost you.

He stared into your pretty eyes and caressed your cheek, “Why did you invite me then? Pity? I can already see how your life is going to be. Married for a year, pregnant with an inattentive husband who’ll fuck his co-worker more than he fucks you. He doesn’t even look at you and those vows of his? The embarrassment on your face told it all. You don’t love him…not how you loved me.”

You swallowed, “Kento… let’s not do this, here.” Your hands were shaky and your palms sweating. “You said you have a gift for me?”

He paused, thinking momentarily. Popping open the glove department and reaching inside, he presented a rectangular blue box with a scarlet red ribbon on top. “For you, I hope you like it.”

He heard you gasp, “A Tiffany tennis bracelet?” Your eyes were wide. “Do you know how expensive these are? Well — of course you do, you bought this one.” You did an awkward chuckle.

He already knew you would ask, when he saw your mouth open. “It was seventy-thousand dollars. I saw it, thought you’d like it and that was that. It’s the least I could do for you, baby.”

“Seventy— Are you insane? It’s beautiful but for that amount? I… you could’ve bought a house or… gosh… I barely even spent fifty thousand on this wedding.”

“Oh, so you really settled.” He muttered and to his surprise you laughed.

“I did.” You agreed with a strained smile and a sad look in your eyes. “Thank you for this… it’s so beautiful and I do love it, I always loved their stuff and I always hated that I left all my jewelry behind, all those years ago.” You released a heavy sigh.

“I still have ‘em. Could drop them off one day, maybe. Or… you could come and get them.” He said and you looked at him with narrowed eyes. He held his hands up in surrender, “No funny business.”

“Yeah right. I already know you brought me out here to try to fuck me.” He coughed in surprise at your words. “A present, really? That you had to take me all the way out here and not give me in front of everyone?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass your husband. That’s all. Nothing more. Honest.” He moved his hands to cover his hardening cock. “But… how’s the sex?”

“You’re that curious? I already told you I settled and you already know there’s nobody better than you.” You looked at him with heavy-lidded hazy eyes, your voice soft as silk.

He swallowed. “Divorce him and I’ll give you the wedding you deserve. I’d spend double the amount of that bracelet on you. You deserve the best, baby. I work and work because I didn’t ever want you to be comfortable living a simple life when I could give you more. I love you and there’s no one like you.” He took your hand and pressed it to his chest. “This has always been yours, it has your name on it and it forever will.”

You kissed him, it was too hot in his car to think about anything. You didn’t care that you were still in your wedding dress or that someone could see you. You just wanted him. He reached forward and put a tightening hand on your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss.

His tongue sucked on yours and swirled inside. Your nails digging into his hair as you pulled him closer towards you. “I want it.” You whispered against his lips, kissing the side of his neck and licking a long stripe up. “Let’s go.” You motioned towards the back and he smiled.

Crawling to the backseat and he palmed your ass. “Naughty, naughty.” You giggled, drunk off something. Drunk off Nanami Kento. He joined you in the back, you pulled at his tie and he happily sighed.

Unbuttoning his pants before he began bunching up your dress, he slid down the thin panties you were and looked between your legs. “This for me?” He looked at you, his dark brown eyes full of pure lust. You were soaked, wetness covering your thighs and your lips stuck together with glossy strings of your essence. You nodded, unable to speak and he kissed you again. It felt like before, when you both started dating and how soft he always was with you.

He inhaled, your smell all over the place and he loved every second of it.

“Does he know that you like to be touched, right here? Or right there?” His fingers were simply dancing across your lower body, working you up just from small touches, but he wouldn’t slip them inside, much to your frustration. Your hips thrusts up a bit, begging for more before all of the warmth of his fingers pulled away.

He slid his pants and boxers down, staring at your soaked folds. His cock had a thick bunch of hair that was lightly trimmed and it looked prettier than you ever seen it, with creamy white precum gushing out of the tip.

He slid a hand down after gathering the small amounts of leaking precum, the lewd sounds of him jerking himself off filled the car and made you whine. “Please, hurry up.” Spreading yourself more so that he can see the cream between your folds drip to his seat. He muttered something quietly and pulled your dress up more, rubbing his cock up and down your slit, both of you hissing and gasping.

Your nails were digging into his forearm when he finally slipped inside of you, he groaned close to your mouth. You huffed, wrapping your legs around his, wanting him to fully be inside of you. When both of your pelvis’s were touching, hips flushed together. He felt you squeeze around him and more of your wetness squirted out of your pussy when he snapped his hips in a solid thrust.

“Does he know your body like me?” Even though you told him earlier, he wanted to know while he was pounding into you, holding up the sides of your wedding dress. His hips were moving dangerously fast now, making your titties bounce. Foreheads touching and his cock filling you up, your eyes rolled back.

“No, he—ah— he doesn’t. Never even made me cum.”

“Oh, so I have to make up for that, don’t I, baby?” He drags his cock in and out of you, the loud sounds of slapping skin made him even harder as he looked at your fucked out expression. Your legs were already shaking, so he added pressure by rubbing your clit in small circles. Tightening around him yet again and he smiled, “That’s my girl.” You rolled your hips, trying to push yourself even closer to your orgasm.

“Look at me. Remember who’s fucking you and who’s making you feel this good, right now. Got that?” He whispered in your ear, biting it playfully.

You felt so good around him, closer to heaven and he knew for this moment with him fucking you right now, he was dragging you closer to hell. Be he couldn’t care less, your tiny cunt creaming around him, your back arching and your toes squeezing.

Your pussy constricts around him and a stream of your cum drips down between the both of you. But Nanami doesn’t stop; he rolls his hips again and fucks more of that creamy wetness out of you. He presses your stomach and you squirm. “I’m gonna come inside of you, ‘kay?” You can’t talk anymore so you just moan and sigh, nodding your head.

Both of your hips bucking, grinding into each other’s pelvis’s, he cums. It’s heavy and you spasm around him, sucking him deeper inside and he shutters. “You feel so fucking good. Could do this all night baby.” He slipped out for a moment, looking at his cum soaked half hard cock, before he pushed back in. You gasped, pushing him back a bit to no avail.

“You love me don’t you, baby?”

“Always, Kento.”

no part two.

[honey-pages]

The Hexstrap - Viktor x Reader

Description -

Viktor gifts you something special to use on him.

3.0k words

F/M. 18+. Smut. Pegging. Sub Viktor. Dom Reader. NSFW.

“I have something for you.” Viktor tells you, shyly, “though it’s not really a present.”

He hands you a long, black, silky rectangular box. He places it in your hands, and you find it to be quite heavy. You start to lift the lid.

“Not yet please.” His voice trails, “Maybe after tonight?”

“Sounds good to me,” You reply, although a little curious about what could be in the box.

He had planned a date for tonight at a cocktail bar in the city. They supposedly served the best experimental cocktails in Piltover. It was a new location for you and Viktor, and you wondered what kind of drink he would order. You had a few more hours before you were due to set out, giving you time to bathe and get ready.

Viktor kissed you passionately, a preview of what may happen tonight. You are already feeling worked up and excitable, you consider it may be a good idea to release some of your built-up lust before you go. Though what could be better than sitting in a classy bar, sipping a cocktail on the arm of one of Piltover's greatest scientists. With a promise of what usually happens after your dates, you begin to feel weak already.

“I need to prepare for later.” Viktor smiles, “You look outstanding. Jealousy is not my fashion, though I think everyone there will be watching you.”

“I’m not even dressed; this is just flattery.” You smirk, pulling him in closer. He kisses your forehead, and you tilt your head upwards to catch him on his lips. You kiss more deeply, sliding tongues over one another, until you realise you are standing in the hallway outside of your room.

“Do you want to come in?” You offer suggestively.

“Tempting me again?” He scoffs.

His tone makes you snort. “Tempting you? You come here looking like that, bringing me a present, and are expecting me to not offer you inside”

“I have been considering giving you that for some time. Your reaction is untested. Will you leave it here for us to come back to later?” He asks.

“Whatever you say - but you really don’t have to worry about my reaction Viktor.”

He looks relieved and slightly flushed. As you say your goodbyes until later, you watch him as he walks away. When he thinks you aren’t looking, he rearranges himself. It makes you proud to see him dishevelled. You turn back to your room, making a plan of action. You need to be getting showered, dressed and prepared. You look over your room and decide to give it a quick clean as you and Viktor planned to be returning here. What time will you be back? Will you be out all night with him? You weren’t sure. To think of Viktor in the outside world, let alone a cocktail bar, felt alien. It was rare he had the time. That’s why this was so special to you, Viktor had planned it.

You look over at the box and think over what he has said. He was so insistent; it must be something special. You pull the cocktail menu out of your bag- Viktor had passed it to you earlier.

You go through the motions of preparation. Your shower was hot and steamy, on exiting, the clothes you had laid out for yourself felt soft and warm on your skin. Everything felt so right. You quickly did a cleaning sweep of your room, picking up any rogue items and tidying away any clutter. It isn’t that Viktor would mind, it’s just a personal preference. You place the black box on your pillow and finding a clean towel, you place it next to it - it’s always good to have one on hand when you are alone with him. The thought gives you butterflies. You daydream about what will happen when you return.

There’s a knock at the door and you glance over at your clock. It is near enough time to leave. You open the door to Viktor and are completely swept away. He looks sharp, sophisticated.  A clean dark suit, burgundy undertones in his usual fashion, polished shoes and bouquet in his hands of red roses. He had matched exactly what you were wearing unintentionally, complementing each other perfectly.

“You look outstanding.” He hands you the roses. “You really are something (Y/N).”

You invite Viktor inside, finding out a vase for the roses, filling it and arranging them gently. He spots the towel next to the box.

“You opened it?” He asks, hurt.

“What? No, why do you think I opened it?”

“The towel.”

“I just thought we would need one later.”

He looks relieved. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse. I assumed with the towel- I’m a little on edge about what your reaction may be.”

“Viktor, whatever you show me will be fine.”

“I am not used to being vulnerable. I have never explored that side of me.”

You hold him tightly, reassuring him.

“We are going to have a great time tonight.” You look into his eyes, “We will drink and laugh and then, we will come back and open the box - and everything will be fine.”

He hugs you tighter.

The cocktail bar was a dark and smoky place, it hosted a cushioned seating area, central stage and booths lining the outside walls.

“I have a reservation.” Viktor states to the door staff.

You are led through the bar, alive and seductive with jazz music, to a small booth on one of the back walls. It is quieter there and looks as though it is usually reserved as a fancier seating arrangement.

Viktor prompts you to choose your preference in seat. You choose the left side, and he sits in the right. The chairs have high backs, enclosing you within the darkness of the booth. You pick up a menu from the table.

You ponder the choices for a second. Viktor doesn’t drink much, almost never. He looks confused but excited.

“I have never tried anything like this before.”

You decide on a drink.

“Had any thoughts while I’ve picked mine?” You ask. You place your foot against his under the table.

“Hex on the beach? I didn’t think Hextech had such reach.”

“I suppose you kind of have to pick that one Vik, it’s made for you.”

Viktor calls over the serving staff and politely puts through your order. You talk over Viktor’s work and your research, your leg trailing up his calf.

“You look so beautiful tonight, (Y/N).”

Your cheeks redden, “Well, I had to put some effort in, knowing I’d be on your arm.”

“Why is my arm such a great thing to be on?”

“…You are quite literally in the cocktail menu. Your arm is infamous Viktor.” You explain, he’s clueless as to how recognised he is for his great work. “But in my opinion, your arm is the second-best thing of yours to be on.”

His one foot is nudging yours in reciprocation, a hidden language under the table. It rides up and up. He slides forward in his chair to reach for your hand, holding it on the table. His knees are brushing yours, threatening to nudge open your thighs.

Your drinks arrive. The ‘Hex on the Beach’ is a slightly purple shade thanks to the blue curaçao mixing with the cranberry, somewhat different to the shade that the hex core actually is. Viktor notices the difference but says nothing. When he swirls the drink in his hand it shimmers like the light and sparks of the core. He takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised at its sweetness. Your drink tastes heavenly also and you take the time to swap and try each other’s to better inform your second drink. The drink portions are small but in artsy places like this they usually are.

You talk as you sip. As you progress through the drink you feel lighter and lighter, your body feeling a little unfamiliar. Viktor is surprisingly untouched by his first drink, but his second, the ‘Amarekko Sour’ feels more substantial. He feels like he has the sudden desire to confess his feelings for you, over and over. His knee, more adventurously, hikes higher, spreading your thighs apart slightly.

“I love you.” He spurts. This was not the first time you have heard this, but it is still a rare revelation which he does not usually confess.

“I love you too.” You reply. Your surroundings are woozy, but you focus in on Viktor’s face.

There is silence for a while. All of your thoughts have been vocalised and you are comfortable to just stare at each other in your tipsy daze.

“Beautiful. Beautiful.” He rests his head on one hand, his face in his palm. “I have always thought you were the most beautiful person I have ever set my eyes on.”

“Oh, Viktor you are so sweet.”

“No, I mean it. Really. You are everything to me. You mean the world.”

You order one more round of drinks and head off. The night feels alive. It’s not even that late, but you and Viktor are so unused to drinking that three was enough to have you sufficiently drunk and insatiably horny. On the way home, you stumbled along to multiple different dark corners, finding places to steal kisses and grope each other. You were like two drunk teenagers.

“I need you.” He murmurs every time there’s an alley.

“Come have me.”

You embrace, desperately kissing, touching and feeling, before moving on. The cocktail bar was only a short walk but with all the detours it took you much longer.

“I’m so hard for you, (Y/N), all the time. You don’t even realise. I need you.”

You giggle, “Viktor, I’m right here.”

“No, I need you.”

“Viktor.”

“Inside of me.”

You are a little confused.

“Inside you?” You ask. “Like sexually?”

He sobers up a bit and worries he has said the wrong thing.

“…yeah.”

You think for a moment.

“Viktor, I will give you anything you ever ask for”

He kisses you with double the passion, unleashing every bit of his love and affection at your acceptance of him. You manage to get back through the large building, foyer and hall to your room. At the door, he pins you, hands grabbing at you through your clothes, needy and desperate.

You almost fall through the door as you open it.

You stumble together to the bed, Viktor laying on his back, with you on top, messily kissing, and touching and undressing in such a rush to be rid of the restraints of your clothes. In the scramble for grip on the sheets, your fingers find the black box. You sit upward, straddling his hips. You hold the box in your hands and he watches you from beneath.

“Can I?” You ask

He nods.

You undo the silky bow keeping the lid fixed tight. Wiggling the lid side to side to loosen the friction, you pull upwards and remove it. Fixed in the soft settings of the box is a dildo and some sort of strap attachment.

“It’s for your hips” He suggests, folding up the straps to show you his work. “This fixes onto here, like this.”

He demonstrates the contraption, placing it together. Its beautifully crafted and its clear he has spent time on it.

“How long did this take you to make? “You asked. It is perfectly weighted, the curves smooth and built to feel good. You slot the contraption together.

“It was an ongoing project. I had to work undisturbed… It’s measured to me. The Hexstrap.”

You come off him and stand up, admiring the shape and length, it was familiar.

“I’ll get myself ready for you.” He states, getting up and walking to the bedroom.

You strip off your clothes. Slipping your legs into the straps, raising it up your thighs and fixing it to your waist. It felt odd having the extra weight and tilted balance. You admired the way it looked in the mirror in the corner of your room. It really was measured to him. You find out some lubricating oil from your dresser. You used it when things took a rougher turn with Viktor. Most of the time he liked to take things slow and steady, though sometimes he would allow himself to get harder and rougher.

He was always a caring partner though; he loved aftercare and foreplay rather than the mindless thrusting that came with the middle of the encounter. You had never really been in control sexually. So often when you intended to be dominant it would end in you being on the bottom. Viktor walked out of the bathroom naked. You admire him completely; his form and his body were perfect to you. When you looked at him you saw your loving partner, not just the parts that made him.

The oil had warming properties and helped sooth any friction caused by fast motion. You wanted him to be as comfortable as possible, especial considering the amount of trust it had taken him to open up about what he wanted. You tried to emulate the things he did to make you feel comfortable and safe.

“Come lay on the bed Vik.” He watches you intently.

“It looks so good - to see you with some of me.”

He’s hard. Instantly upon seeing you. It’s not that he didn’t feel that way before, it just feels so special to him right now. He was pushing the maximum of his body’s capabilities concerning blood flow, he could feel himself straining and needing a release.

He walked towards you, placing down the prepared towel, sitting himself in the middle of it.

“I have never done this before.” He admits.

Seeing him like this, naked and sheepish twisted something inside of you and you felt a strange urge to comfort him, look after him, be gentle and caring- but also to take him, have him, make him crave you.

“Neither have I.”

You thought back to how he handled you on your first time. He had reassured you, familiarising you with what was about to happen. He prepared you, warmed you up and teased you so that your worries about the experience were melting and replaced with need and want.

You pour some of the oil into your hands, warming it up between your fingers.

“Lay on your back.” You kiss him as he leans back, initially propping himself up on his elbows, then lowering them to be completely flat. You climb onto your hands and knees over him.

You lather the oil over his inner thighs, it feels warm against your hands. Viktor relaxes into it, sinking into the bed. You use it to coat his cock, swirling your hand around to cover the whole of him, sometimes gently swooping down to cup at him. His skin is shining under the oil and softening. You use your other hand to create similar movements over the hex strap, ensuring it will glide easily. Viktor is twitching with desire, his cock moving on its own in response to your touches. Almost like the Hexstrap is linked not only in resemblance but by touch.

He whimpers, “Please touch me.”

You increase your speed. “So good for me, Viktor, you are a natural.”

You tease your hand downwards to test his reaction to you getting closer to his entrance, he arches upwards.

“Eager, aren’t we?”

“Please, I’m scared ill- ill finish before you are even in.”

Viktor desperately thrusts into the air in an attempt to find friction. His moans and whimpers are explicit, his accent thick and heavy. You add more oil to your hands and place your fingers against him. He follows them with his hips.

“Ready?”

“Please”

You enter him and he cries out in pleasure. You take your other hand and clasp it around him, stroking him slowly in time with your fingers. You add another and he ruts pathetically. You take time stretching him and warming him up.

“I want the- “He struggles with his words, his hands snaking a clasping and unclasping in the bedsheets. “-the Hexstrap.”

“Say please Vik. I want to hear you.”

“Please (Y/N).”

He sounds so heavenly.

“You want your own creation inside of you Viktor, look at how desperate you’ve become.”

You line up the hexstrap and push inside. It fills him completely. It is strange to see how a complete replication of him slots in perfectly. His cock begins to drip prematurely. You take it with the rest of the oil, using it to stroke him faster and faster.

He is moaning loudly and without care, rushed expletives and begging and your name- all combines to a completely sinful sound.

“(Y/N), I’m going to- “He trails off, cut with his own shouts.

“You are going to finish all over yourself?”

Your words undo him, and on only the fourth thrust with the hexstrap he finishes, spurting in thick ropes over himself. You put a residually oiled hand over his mouth, smothering him. He writhes in his pleasure, legs shaking. Even through your hand, you hear your name over and over.

You wait for his cool down, watching as he slows his movement, chest heaving ceasing. You flood his forehead with kisses.

“You did so good for me Vik. You look glorious.”

He smiles. He’s an absolute mess. The bed is a mess. You are a mess, hands slick and sweaty skin.

“I need to finish you now” He panics, realising he hasn’t even touched you this evening.

“Viktor, I think you need to cool down first.”

“I don’t think I can fuck you (Y/N). I think you’ve finished me; I’m drained.”

He holds you tight and close, whispering words against your cheek. His looks into your eyes, then down your body to the hexstrap - still inside.

“Mine may be out of business” he jokes, “but I have a spare that I may be able to make use of.”

Tag List -

@veru-boom, @gubkkki

[byhees]

just a favour

heeseung finds it ridiculous— mind-boggling, actually; and it’d all be written over his features, from the furrow of his brows, to the narrowing of his pretty eyes, to his lips, tightly pressed into a thin line in an attempt to bite back the gnawing scoff by the back of his throat. “sunghoon’s number?”, he repeats, the edge in his tone blatantly evident.

and when you spare a small nod, an expectant smile gracing your lips, he’d only lean back against the kitchen island behind, arms lightly crossing across the broadness of his chest, head tilting back ever so slightly, almost as though studying the situation.

“why would you need his number?”, follows shortly afterwards, the words laced with an oddly underlying sharpness that’s telling of his distaste towards the whole idea.

“don’t know.. i think he’s pretty cute— you wouldn’t mind setting something up for your friend here, would you?” you reply, lips now curving up into a little grin, almost far too oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm radiating from the man before you.

a dry, almost disbelieving, laugh fills the air, and the sound alone prompts you to continue, lips parting to voice another word of conviction— “c’mon.. it won’t take long; just a tiny favour. promise, that’s all i’ll ask from you”. and it kills heeseung, just how unaware you are of the heightened tension, the heaviness of the atmosphere crowding the expanse of the kitchen, practically reducing the open area to a suffocating box.

“you’re too good for him”, he mumbles under his breath, head lightly shaking as though to wave off the suggestion, feet already dragging against the wooden floorboard of the ground as he averts his attention elsewhere, putting an end to, what appeared to be, a promising conversation.

and yet, you’d continue to pry him for those few digits, fingers relentlessly curled around the rectangular device in hand, not at all noticing the way his voice would drop an octave lower, a clear indication of his disinterest, or the way his jaw would tighten, muscles flexing subtly to maintain his composure— why is it that everyone, but you, can see the way he cherishes you, the way he feels for you?

[oneoftheextras]

lockjaw | j.t five

masterlist | help me fund my top-surgery?

paring: hybrid puppy!jayce talis x f!reader

summary: after a recent breakup you find yourself adopting a hybrid to keep you company, but he's more feral than you can handle

series warnings: 18+, hybrid jayce (ears and tail), slight a/b/o traits (could argue alpha jayce), eventual smut, protective jayce, size difference

words: 5.4k

chapter warnings: old scars, angst (trauma response), discrimination, argument, some fluff

proof-read by my girl: @madschiavelique

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six |

want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord

The warm water of the shower was refreshing against your cold skin, although winter was coming to an end there was still a stiff chill in the air.

If time would have allowed it, you’d have spent all day letting the heat cascade down your spine and through your hair, but you’d already wasted so much of the day by sleeping - and your water bill was already calling your name.

You turned the faucet off and immediately missed the comfort the shower brought you, but there were things to do. Wrapping a towel around yourself, you threw your pajamas into the washing hamper in the corner of the room and opened the bathroom door.

“All yours,” you called out in no particular direction before heading into your bedroom and shutting the door behind you.

There was a moment of silence as you stood with your back to the door, but when you heard footsteps getting closer and the bathroom door click shut again, you knew it was safe for you to drop your towel and dry yourself properly. 

Jayce glanced around the white tiled room, the small frosted rectangular window letting in just enough light to sting his tired eyes. He stood in front of the sink and acknowledged his reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet.

His glass twin stared back at him with exasperated surprise. How long had it been since he last saw himself that wasn’t in a passing car or a dimly lit store window? Not to mention doing it willingly.

He combed his fingers through his beard and felt the strands of tangled hair catch on his nails painfully, making him wince at the tug of his skin and recoil his hand. It was longer than he thought it was.

He then ran his fingers through his hair, finding the same type of intertwined follicles there too, but it was less painful against his scalp. He gently pinched a clump of his fringe and separated it from the rest, pulling it down and in front of his eyes - it stopped in the middle of his nose.

As he followed the dark brown wisp he was unintentionally forced to make eye contact with himself, and almost immediately diverted his attention away from his own pupils with a scowl.

Grasping the hem of the black t-shirt he’d slept in, he lifted the fabric up and over his head, shaking it as the elastic collar pinged against his ears and disorientated him momentarily. The fabric dropped to the floor and his hands braced against the sink, with a sharp inhale of breath he returned his gaze to his reflection.

He was larger than he remembered, and the light coloured lines that littered the expanse of his skin told the story of how, one that he would never retell himself.

He trailed a particularly elongated one across his left peck, the flesh was slightly raised. Despite it being at least four months old, it was still the freshest and so was the memory of what caused it. 

The pain, the helplessness, and the acceptance all came rushing back to him. He’d done nothing to stop it, but looking at himself now, he understood why.

His body was a battlefield of scars that he’d come to agree he’d deserved. He observed his physique; a wide chest dusted with dark brown hair, broad solid shoulders, and thick arms leading to large veiny hands. He was imposing and frightening - built for violence.

He sniffed sharply to push back any chance of anger, the scent of your body wash unintentionally filling his nostrils from the residue that remained in the bottom of the bathtub.

The skin that covered his knuckles - tough and calloused from years of use - had turned white the moment he laid eyes on himself, but your lingering aroma quelled the bubbling desire to shatter his reflection with his fist.

You were kind and your voice was soft. You spoke to him like you did to anyone else; apart from the apparent caution which sometimes arose. It was nice, but he didn’t deserve nice. He’d never deserved nice.

There was a ticking clock, counting down the seconds to when you’d come to the same realisation. 

Of course you’d be scared of him, any sane person with an ounce of self preservation would be, he just couldn’t understand as to why you’d allowed him into your home. To be as vulnerable as to fall asleep next to him on the first day.

A careful knock brought his attention away from the mirror, “I’ve put your clothes outside the door, you left them in the living room and I guessed you’d need them,” your voice was muffled by the 2 inches of wood that stood between you both.

He felt the tension in his shoulders relax, and the vice grip he had on the sink loosened. He waited to hear your footsteps fade before he opened the door a crack and grabbed the clothes, shutting it again.

Returning to the sink, he placed the clothes down neatly atop the closed toilet seat and turned the faucet on to let the basin fill with warm water. 

His eyes roamed the room when he spotted a shelf to his right; there was a neatly folded cloth with body wash, shampoo, conditioner and deodorant. A piece of folded paper stood in front of it that said ’For Jayce’. He held it in between his fingers and admired the soft strokes of your handwriting with a mellowed smile, placing it gently back onto the shelf for safe keeping.

Using the washcloth you’d provided for him, he submerged the fabric under the warm soapy water in the basin and rung it out until it was only damp. He scrubbed all the important parts of his body quickly, he hated the way the water trickled down his skin in small beads, but knew it needed to be done.

Once he was clean and dry he reached for the pile of clothes you’d bought for him, slipping the boxers up and letting the waistband hug his hips - they were a little bit tight around the thigh, but not painfully so - then followed the black jeans, socks and the white t-shirt. 

All very simple clothing but he guessed you were playing it safe in case he didn’t like what you picked. He blew air out of his nose as a small laugh, as if he’d complain about something you bought for him.

He glimpsed at himself in the mirror again, avoiding his face but focusing on the clothes, he looked like a regular person you’d see on the street. A big person, but a person nonetheless.

He stepped back so he could see his lower half, which is where the problem began. His tail protruded out the top of the jeans and curved over the strain of the waistband like water arching from a fountain. The bend of it being forced into an upward position wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable.

Grabbing the base of the appendage, he started to shove it into the leg of his pants. It wasn’t as uncomfortable, but it did make a rather obvious bulge down the back of his right leg, ending just before the curve of his knee. 

He grumbled with frustration and pulled it back out again, instead lowering the jeans so it wasn’t bent in an awkward position. He lifted the white shirt slightly but was immediately greeted with the sight of his ass cheeks, so he swiftly pulled them back up again.

He let out a low sigh, he was going to have to put up with the discomfort.

As he left the bathroom, you noticed how he was playing with the back of the jeans with a deep scowl on his face and teeth bared in frustration. “If they’re the wrong size, you don’t have to wear them,” you tried to reassure him with a gentle tone.

When you saw him struggling with his tail it didn’t take you long to realise what was bothering him and you instantly mentally scolded yourself. Of course normal pants wouldn’t fit him.

Guilt washed over you as you searched for a solution, “Oh!” you clapped your hands as the idea popped into your head and you disappeared. He paused his fussing to watch you leave, only to reappear with a pair of scissors in your hand.

“We can cut a hole into the back for you,” the suggestion seemed like a quick and simple answer, but as you tried to step around him to get to the area he twisted his body and stepped backwards.

You blinked at his reaction, “I’ll be really careful, I promise,” you tried to reassure him with a light tone but when you shuffled closer with the scissors held in your hands he moved again, his spine pressed firmly against the wall.

You glanced up at his face and your heart panged with pain when you saw how his nose was scrunched up and his lips trembled as they failed to hide a snarl of warning he was giving you. 

His teeth were bared at you with the points pressing harshly into his bottom lip, in the short amount of time you’d spent with him you’d only seen his canines when he’d smiled or was enjoying himself. This was new and unexpected aggression.

“Oh, fuck,” you exhaled quietly as you hastily lunged backwards and exited his personal space. “I’m- I’m so sorry,” your voice shook as much as your hands did as you placed the scissors down on the arm of the couch and retreated further.

You watched him cautiously push himself off of the wall and slightly relax. His chest heaved with a panic that had taken you too long to notice, but it was slowing down.

“I-” you started to say, but stopped yourself. Carelessness like this was exactly what you wanted to avoid. Should you give him space? Should you explain what you were trying to do? 

“I’d never hurt you,” looking at him was proving difficult so you focused on the tatty rug under the coffee table you’d bought when you’d first moved in, “I’d never-” you repeated but couldn’t finish. Your voice was already practically inaudible, so it was barely noticeable when you’d stopped talking.  

Jayce noticed. He heard the way your voice trembled out an apology and he wanted to believe you. He closed his eyes and sharply twisted his head to the side in a harsh blink, like he was trying to shake away the defensive response that was so deeply ingrained in him.

His pupils quivered inside golden irises as he forced himself to observe your reaction. Forced himself to take note of how his actions had affected you. How you chewed the inside of your gum and caressed your elbow in search of comfort he couldn’t give you.

You studied the fibres of the rug from where you stood. It was more frayed and dirty than you’d remembered, worn from walking over it with shoes inside the house. Maybe you should make a rule of no shoes indoors from now on.

The train of thought was interrupted by quick movement in your peripheral vision. Jayce held the jeans out to you with an extended arm and an apologetic gaze in his eyes.

The surprise on your face was clear, especially when you glanced down and realised the only thing he had on his bottom half was his boxers, you darted your eyes back up to his and pushed any details you may have subconsciously remembered out of your brain before they could settle.

He jutted his arm forward indicating for you to take the jeans, of course he wasn’t holding them in the air for the sake of it. It was a compromise.

“Thank you,” you took the fabric and held it to your chest, slowly reaching for the scissors again. He didn’t flinch this time so you picked them up and moved to the couch, draping the jeans over your lap.

The one thing you hadn’t thought of was where his tail was anatomy-wise. “Is it on your coccyx? Like, your tailbone?” you felt silly asking as soon as the question left your mouth. Where else would it be?

He moved from the defensive position to stand in front of you and watch you work. You held them up in front of you, trying to gauge where his tailbone would settle; then returned them to your lap and sliced through the fabric with difficulty.

“That should be okay for now,” you moved the scissors to the side and slid your fingers into the hole you’d made to check if it was big enough for the appendage, “I have a friend who is a seamstress, I can ask her to alter them properly for you so it’s less-”

A hum of agreement came from his throat causing you to glance up from your work. What you didn’t expect or anticipate was that when you’re sitting down and he is standing, your head is directly in line with his crotch.

For the second time today you quickly shifted your eyes away from his boxers and held up the jeans as a make-shift barrier, “Done!” you said hastily.

He took the pants and slipped them back on with no issue, pulling his tail through the crudely made hole. It wasn’t ideal but it was much better than the alternative. You watched him quietly, wondering whether you should at least offer to help, but from his earlier reaction you had a feeling it wouldn’t go down well.

A somewhat awkward silence fell over the two of you as you put on your comfiest shoes and Jayce slipped on the smart dress shoes he was wearing when he arrived. You watched the - what you assumed to be - fake leather bend and flake at the toes from the pressure. 

He twisted the frayed laces around his fingers and tied them into a bow in a way you’d never seen anyone do before; it was like he was solving an intricate puzzle he had created and only he knew the answer to. They were worn from years of use; these were either the only shoes he’d ever owned, or they were second-hand from the sanctuary. The latter seemed like the most plausible.

He needs new shoes, you mentally noted.

Once you were both ready, you walked down the stairs together quietly until you were outside in the crisp air. It wasn’t late enough that the sun had set but it was late enough into the afternoon that a chill was setting in.

“Will you be cold?” you turned to Jayce, a question that you should’ve asked before you left the apartment. He’d taken a grey hoodie from the assortment of clothes you’d thrown at him, but compared to your coat, scarf and beanie he was basically wearing summer clothes.

He shook his head ‘No’ and you tried to read his expression to see if he was just trying not to be difficult, but he seemed relatively unbothered by the winter air.

“Okay, well, let me know if you do,” he nodded in agreement, the brown tassels of his fringe bouncing with the movement of his head, and you started walking in the direction of town.

For a Saturday afternoon it wasn’t as busy as you’d expected it to be. Which, in hindsight, was a strike of luck - you hadn’t stopped to think about how that would’ve affected Jayce. He’d spent the last few months stuck inside with other hybrids, not a busy town filled with people hauling too many shopping bags and street vendors shouting rhythmically to secure the last sale of whatever they had left before they had to close for the day.

It might have been too much noise for him to handle so soon. A few cars had passed you quicker than they should have and his steps faltered at the sudden loudness of the engine as it passed.

You’d asked him to swap places with you so you were between him and the road but he declined. Although, after the fourth car zoomed by you he stopped reacting to them - perhaps he adapted quicker than you thought he would.

After approximately thirty minutes of walking with only the sound of two pairs of shoes hitting the wet pavement between the two of you, you’d made it into town.

“I probably should’ve asked you if you liked long walks,” you chuckled to yourself as you nuzzled your chin into your scarf. He didn’t respond to your comment; his attention was, instead, on your surroundings.

The buildings in town ranged in height but the majority were three-story buildings. Typical shops on the ground floor with apartments built into the upper floors, you were thankful that your home was an apartment complex.

As you were walking to your first destination, Jayce had slowed down to a stop by a man who was drawing people’s portraits. He’d positioned himself in a way where he could see the man’s sketchpad as well as the woman he was drawing.

It had taken you a second to realise that he’d fully stopped and you’d accidentally continued walking so you hurried back to him. 

He studied the man’s technique without getting too close to him which you were grateful for, you were sure if he’d snuck up behind you whilst you were concentrating it would make you jump at the very minimum.

With his hands in the pouch of his hoodie, he tilted his head to the side and observed every movement the artist’s hand made and eventually he started bobbing his head as if the pencil was controlled by his forehead.

His face was calm and serene, with a tint of excitement in his eyes, something you only saw in him when he was playing a game with you. The absentminded smile that crept onto this closed lips was contagious to your own.    

Jayce was engrossed in watching him work and you didn’t have the heart to tell him you needed to be quick before the café you wanted to show him closed, especially when his tail started to swish back and forth behind him.

You were uncertain how long you’d stood with the rest of the crowd watching the artist, and you were sure you were going to be shooed away by him at any moment, but he never did. It was probably part of the job, the attention of having an audience watch you work.

It was your stomach rumbling that eventually made his ear twitch and his attention flip back to you, his eyeline drifted to your stomach and back to your face. As he started to continue walking you tried to reassure him, “We can stay, it’s okay,” but he ignored you, leading the way blindly. 

He had no idea where he was going but you followed him regardless. The only time you stopped him was when you wanted to go into a particular store; you wanted to reach out and touch his forearm or bicep to stop his long strides, but called his name gently instead.

Every time the syllable left your lips he felt a flutter in his chest; he would never get bored of hearing you say it.

After an hour of unintentional shopping you’d collected a few things that you needed for the apartment, and somehow missed the few strange looks that had been thrown your way.

You had managed to show him the majority of the town, when you were really starting to feel the hunger.

“Do you wanna get some food?” you asked, as if you weren’t the one that kept sidetracking your journey to the cafe whenever something caught your eye, and the look Jayce gave you reflected that.

You rolled your eyes with a smile and waved for him to follow, “Okay, okay, let’s go”, luckily the cafe wasn’t far from where you were. 

The door jingled from the bells that hung just above the frame as you pushed it open, the scent of coffee and freshly baked goods immediately filling your senses. 

Casual chatter of customers hummed all around, creating a warm and friendly ambience. 

“I always come here when I’m in town,” you said in a hushed voice as you held the door open for him. He had to duck slightly to not bump his head on the way inside.

As the two of you walked towards the counter the voices around you became noticeably quieter; Jayce hunched his shoulders and neck forward in an attempt to seem smaller but it didn’t help much.

You were more than oblivious to the hushed whispers that followed you the deeper into the cafe you went. 

“Hello!” you greeted the worker, who was busy restocking the bakery display and hadn’t seen you yet, in a joyful sing-song voice like you did every other time you visited.

“Good afternoon, what can I-“ her voice cut off into a surprised shriek as she acknowledged your presence. The tray of brownies she was holding almost scattered to the floor from the full body jump that rocketed through her muscles.

Her attention was not on you or your concerned expression, but on the hulking figure shuffling awkwardly behind you.

“I’m sorry, we don’t allow animals inside,” her statement trembled in her throat, but that didn’t stop your concern elevating to shock, “Excuse me?” you asked politely and blinked at her with the hope that you’d just misheard her.

She cleared her throat with a cough, “It will have to wait outside, we don’t allow animals-“ she started to repeat herself but the shock from how she spat out the word ‘it’ had twisted and evolved into irritation, “It?”.

Even a non-English speaker could’ve understood from the tone of your voice that not only were you insulted, but bordering on anger.

She glanced between Jayce stood behind you and your sharp eyes that dared her to speak again without thinking.

“For hygiene purposes, we can’t have animals in the store,” the arrogant uncertainty in her voice was evidence enough that she was lying but trying to find an excuse to insult him. 

“First of all, he’s not an animal, he’s a person-“ you paused to place your hands on the counter in an attempt to ground yourself and resolve the confrontation, but the way she regarded Jayce with disgust made it increasingly difficult, “- Secondly, with the dirt under your nails I’d say you’re concern for cleanliness is misplaced.”.

The noise that came out of her was a mixture of a scoff and a short laugh. 

Of course, the sensible thing would’ve been to leave the moment she’d opened her mouth. 

However, you’d seen actual animals in this particular cafe on multiple occasions and there was an explicit irony that directly behind her on the wall was a sign written in chalk that said ‘Dog friendly’ with a crudely drawn smiley face.

This was not about animals being near food, this was a specific attack against Jayce and something deep within you would not let it slide. 

“Tell your mutt to leave and I’ll think about serving you,” her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened until they were barely visible.

Adrenaline coursed through you in a burst and your breathing became heavy, but you had to try and remain calm.

“I see that thinking isn’t your strong suit so I’m going to say this very slowly,” your voice was low and almost a whisper as to give her no voice but to listen to what you had to say.

You kept your eyes latched onto her, “I wouldn’t trust you to make a glass of water properly-“ as you were about to continue, another worker, this time a lean brunette man, appeared to your right.

“What’s the problem?” he interrupted with a calm and polite voice which only served to piss you off more. You sighed and gestured to the young girl behind the counter.

“Your colleague had some unprofessional things to say about my friend,” it took you a moment to think of the correct word for him. 

The man raised an eyebrow at you in confusion “Your friend?” he repeated your words back to you but converted it into a question, “Yes, my-“ you turned to look at Jayce but he was no longer there.

Your heart dropped when the space behind you was empty until you saw his silhouette through the condensation covered glass window. 

Arguing with this girl had been so important to you that you hadn’t noticed his departure.

“A hybrid,” the girl spat the words out like she had taken a bite of a sandwich only to find that it was mouldy inside. She folded her arms over her chest defiantly and with a smug smile that screamed arrogance.

“Well,” the man turned his head to his colleague slowly, “We serve everyone here, hybrids included,” he said as if he was reminding her of their policy in real time, and her smile dropped at the realisation that she was not being supported in her discrimination. 

“Please allow us to apologise with complimentary food and drinks for you and your friend,” he leaned over the counter, reaching for something you couldn’t see but you shook your head.

The girl was staring daggers into you and you could sense she knew she was going to be spoken to when you left.

You looked over your shoulder and saw that Jayce was still stood outside, “With all due respect, no,” your words were blunt and to the point. If there was a way for you to voice how angry you were without sounding like a Karen, you would.

“The next time you have an opinion about someone, at least make sure it’s your own and well informed, otherwise you’ll come across like a snivelling bigot,” you shot at the girl before you confidently strode to the exit.

The chiming of the bell when you swung open the door didn’t sound as sweet anymore, and the coffee scent you’d grown to love over the last year tasted sour in your throat.

You couldn’t meet his eye when you were outside again so you kept your gaze to the ground. Something you’d noticed that had become a habit around him.

The feeling of guilt had returned to crawl its way up your throat again; you could’ve done more. You should’ve checked that this cafe was a safe place for him before taking him inside. He must hate you for humiliating him in such a way. You wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to leave and never come back to you.

The door behind you opened with a jingle and you felt irritation seep into your back before you heard the voice of the person who caused it, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to listen in to your conversation-” you turned to see an elderly lady with a kind smile.

You stepped to the side to let her fully exit the cafe and close the door behind her, “-but I know another cafe that is very hybrid friendly just outside of town,”. The woman peered up at Jayce through her glasses, her gaze unbothered by his appearance, “There’s people like you there all the time,” the wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks creased as she grinned.

Jayce was taken aback by how easily she spoke to him, his eyes wider than usual as he glanced between you and her, “That would be lovely, thank you,” any previous notes of anger in your voice had left you as you handed her your phone to give you directions.

It wasn’t far, but she was right with it being on the outskirts of town, and you were in unfamiliar territory with only your phone navigation as your guide. When you eventually found the building with ‘Paws & Pour’ painted in white italics above the door, you knew you were in the right place.

You chuckled to yourself at the cheesy title they’d chosen, but it was also rather endearing, in a quaint homely kind of way. As you opened the door there was no bell to signal your arrival but an enticing smell of oak and warm tea surrounded you like an invisible mist.

This time you wouldn’t make the same mistake as before. You poked your head through the open doorway to inspect the interior and to check how busy it was inside; something you couldn’t do from the safety of the street due to the windows and door being tinted.

It wasn’t too busy, a few tables were taken but it was quite spacious for how deceivingly small it looked from the outside. 

Your intention had been to ask Jayce to wait outside whilst you asked the barista if it was okay for him to enter, however, before you could even fully step inside a wisp of white flew past as if a momentary blizzard had clipped your vision.

You followed the direction the snowstorm to the corner where a group of beanbags had been strategically placed by the window - a woman with long white hair plonked herself down into a dark blue one, and if it wasn’t for the gentle piano music playing through the speakers, you probably would’ve heard the rustling of the polystyrene shifting inside the fabric as she got comfortable.

She turned to talk to the woman next to her and that’s when you noticed the shoulder length rabbit ears swaying with the movement of her head. Her companion sat crossed-legged in the accompanying red beanbag next to her, and held her mug with both hands. Her black pointy ears twisted like a satellite towards her friend’s voice as she spoke. 

You pushed the door open fully and stepped through the threshold so you weren’t hovering strangely and gestured for Jayce to follow with a reassuring smile. This time he didn’t need to duck to enter the building, but he still hunched his shoulders in an attempt to seem less imposing.

As you approached the counter a feeling of deja vu and dread lingered around you, but was quickly washed away by the couple occupying the booth directly opposite. 

At least you assumed they were a couple by the guy’s hand settled tightly on the jean-covered thigh of the male canine next to him, their pinkie fingers interlocked under the table as if they were promising something that was to only be between them.

His proud feline ears stood tall atop his platinum blonde locks; they were a stark comparison to his companion. The only way they didn't disappear into his hair was because they were a darker shade of brown, but both wavy and droopy. Similar to Jayce's, you thought.

The feline rested his head on the canine's shoulder, who was seemingly unbothered, if not encouraging of him being used as a pillow. Noticeable by the surprised yet adoring glint in his eyes as he studied the features of his slumbering partner.

All of this was completely lost on the man on the opposite side of the table. Another feline with fluffy pointed black ears amongst a cloud of hair the same colour, but he seemed happy enough scrolling through his phone.

That answered one of your questions, this truly was a place where hybrids were welcome.

lockjaw:

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[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

Valentines Day

Ace Trappola:

Ace wanted to play it off like he forgot the date, but then he’d be a liar and still in the doghouse. He didn’t want to get some generic Valentine’s related product, with some fake lovey dovey sentiment that he’d never say out loud in a thousand years. That would as disingenuous as lying and getting you nothing at all. He knew your hobbies and interests, so why was he suddenly at a loss for what would make the perfect gift for you?

You’re surprised to be greeted with a handful of colorful rectangular paper, ‘COUPON’ scribbled across the front of it in handing that looked slightly rushed. You were about to ask if he was spending a little too much time with Octavinelle before spotting the ‘within reason’ written at the bottom, getting the answer to your question before you had even asked.

“Yeah, you can give ‘em to me when you want me to do something for you.” He seemed rather proud of the idea, and you found it hard to hold back a laugh. This was clearly because he couldn’t find a gift that fit his standards, falling back on the tried and true ‘just tell me what you want directly and I’ll do my best to make it happen.’ It was very in-character of him, and you looked forward to the seeing the lengths he’d go for you.

Leona Kingscholar:

The holiday created such a buzz that Leona wanted nothing more than to run away from it. He didn’t care about couples, though he thought it provided an honest view of your partner depending on what they gave you. Money could go a long way if that was what your partner wanted, but what about the sentimental? The true romantic who wanted a real show of love and affection but could only receive a pre-made gift their lover had spotted while on the way home?

He doesn’t directly invite you to a night under the stars, but thankfully you speak Leona, and completely understood why he was telling you the exact place he’d be at a very specific time. You had, of course, received a beautiful piece of jewelry from him, something that represented his homeland and tied you two firmly together, but you knew there was more to him than just money.

A peaceful night spent beneath the stars awaited you, and as much as he insisted he didn’t believe in reading them, you couldn’t help but feel more connected while watching them together.

Jack Howl:

Jack had been standing outside the flower shop for nearly ten minutes now, a determined, somewhat scary, look on his face. Some of the patrons sent him wary glances as they came and went, wondering what he could possibly be glowering at when it came to pretty plants. Even standing outside a good distance away was almost too much for Jack to take, his nose twitching as the door swings open once again and his nose fills with the scent of every flower in the place.

He knew it was what you wanted; you had discussed flowers at length at one time due to a sudden sneezing fit that was caused by a particularly strong-smelling plant in the greenhouse. He knew your favorite color, the type you liked, he’d just have to get out the words and pay for them and then the deed would be done… Compared to the odors fighting for dominance in his nose right now, he could certainly handle a small bouquet with just one kind in them.

Jack stays strong, for you, for as torturous as this situation is as he stands in line with the enemy all around him, the smile on your face would be worth it (and his tail was already wagging happily at just the thought).  

[alchemistc]

Tommy ignores the knock at his door. He's in day three pajamas and the only person who might make the effort to check in on him is his exes best friend. Which.

The knocking continues.

It's getting louder.

There's a Kings game on in the background and he's been elbow deep in the Jeep manual he'd finally cracked open in some sort of weird, fucked up pattern of mourning.

Tommy's never gonna buy a fucking Jeep. He hates them. You own one for more than five years and more than half the parts are replacement parts.

He's been staring at a diagram of the timing belt for half an hour, at least. The last thing he remembers about the game is Kuemper letting in three goals on five shots and somehow the Kings are up two, now, and there's still 25 minutes of game time left.

Tommy reaches for the remote. Turns the volume up.

The knocking returns less than a minute later.

---

There's a box of odds and ends tucked under the table in his entryway. He avoids looking at it. He knows there are a few things missing from it and he really doesn't want to examine what he'll have to do to avoid giving it to Eddie tonight. He cut the cords, he shouldn't be lingering watching the frayed edges sway in the wind, clutching his line like there's anything braced on the other side of it.

Evan's oldest, softest LAFD hoodie, the one that's technically too small for both of them but has stretched shockingly evenly and is definitely not sitting unwashed at the bottom of Tommy's laundry basket. The program from a recital of Denny's they'd stopped by to support him for, on their way out of town for a long weekend. Evan's stupid keto bread and the milk frother he'd left behind three months ago and never bothered to grab because he had more than one.

Whoever is at his door is still fucking knocking, and suddenly Tommy doesn't feel like being polite. He'll shove the box in Eddie's arms and tell him to fuck off and close the last few remaining open doors he has to this.

Only when he swings the door wide it's not Eddie on the other side, and the box nearly takes out whatever Evan - Buck, Jesus Christ - has in his own arms.

Not a Tommy box - too small for all the shit that he'd left behind. He misses the house slippers that had had a permanent spot tucked under the left side of the bed.

Tommy flinches, reels away, tries to shove the box away before Buck can see its contents.

"What are you doing here?" Even tone. No quiver in his voice. He's been called rude and dismissive for less.

Buck scowls. Hefts the rectangular dish in his hands and shoves past Tommy before Tommy can blink.

It's silly to say he chases after him, down the hallway towards the kitchen, but he's not exactly following along behind at a casual leisurely pace.

The glass pan slams down on his kitchen counter and Buck spends a minute staring at the calendar he was only getting two months out of because he couldn't look at the one with all Buck's notes penned in anymore.

"Wow," Buck says, and shifts his weight awkwardly.

"What are you -?"

"Jee and I made you birthday cupcakes," Buck says. His voice is hard. Angry. Hurt. "Happy birthday, asshole."

---

He cracks the lid and there are only three cupcakes inside. Tommy forgets himself. Raises a brow, amusement rolling over him pleasantly, prepared to tease him, but then he catches the set of Buck's legs and the curl of his mouth and the tight way his arm tucks itself back in against his belly, a protective gesture that reminds Tommy very effectively what this is.

"Why?" Tommy wonders aloud, and Evan's scowl deepens.

Buck's scowl.

God.

"We've been planning it for weeks." Something flashes across his eyes before he schools his features. "Jee made me promise to bring you some."

"She must not be a skilled baker," Tommy jokes. "If these are the only ones that made it."

Evan's expression twists. "I ate most of them."

The frosting looks fresh. No creases in the paper cup holding them together.

"I had to make a new batch of frosting because I used some of it for -." He cuts himself off. Looks like he'd like to throw it in Tommy's face but can't quite force himself to hurt Tommy.

It hurts as much as he'd expected, anyway.

The world is a small place. It's not the first time he's had to speak to an ex when he didn't want to. It's never pleasant.

This is worse. The cut and run is supposed to give him time.

Evan Buckley has been an ache behind his ribcage for months, now, long before he'd made that final decision. He'd known it was too little too late. Buck's gonna be the shadow other men see behind his eyes for years.

Buck's apparently found and slept with someone within the week and a half span from Tommy walking out to his sad shitty mopey birthday.

That he'd forgotten about.

Tommy leans in. Picks up a cupcake. Licks a stripe through the frosting and makes a face when he realizes it's buttercream.

"The ones you were supposed to get had the whipped cream one you like," Buck says, accusingly.

That somehow stings just a little bit extra.

Tommy pulls back the paper, takes a bite. There's raspberry filling inside, and Tommy can feel tears prickling at the edges of his eyes, because when he'd told Evan about how his grandma baked he'd been thinking of Evan being a grandparent, the kind of shit he'd forbidden himself from imagining with anyone he was dating years ago.

"Thank you," he manages, and Buck frowns.

"He thought the whipped cream was too sweet." And Tommy probably deserves this but he's not particularly in the mood.

"Cut it out, Buck."

Buck rolls his jaw. "I just figured you'd wanna know how it's going. Maybe I could tally up the hookups for you, count them all up by gender and stamina and opinions on how I should feel and act and fall for someone. Find out if I'm actually gay enough to be a man's last."

---

The rest of the cupcake kind of collapses and oozes as Tommy smacks it down on the counter. He takes thirty seconds to pull the other two cupcakes out before he's grabbing the too-large fake Pyrex and turning heel. The keto bread goes in the pan. Then the milk frother.

Tommy yanks the recital program off the fridge and tosses it in the trash.

Buck almost looks triumphant.

"The box under the side table has the rest. You can see yourself out."

He actually does exactly as he's told, and Tommy listens to his footsteps drift off, shoulders hunched in and the breath tight in his throat. He'd been cruel, it was only fair Buck got a few final kicks in.

Tommy sucks in a breath and blinks away the moisture at the edges of his vision.

The footsteps take a heel turn at the side table and turn right back around.

"This isn't everything."

Tommy half expects some panned comment about how Tommy's got his heart - the kind of silly shit he'd say to a dead outlaw.

"My sweatshirt," Buck says, and Tommy freezes.

He could lie. He could pretend he had no idea where it was. Claim he didn't remember it even being here, because that particular piece of clothing did have a tendency to travel.

He doesn't fucking want to hand that one over.

Buck smirks, like he's caught the crack, and is looking for ways to exploit it.

"I own my own house!" Tommy says, and it's a terrible launching point but Buck latches on.

"You just left, Tommy! I know I jumped the gun, Tommy, but you didn't even - you just left! I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry I didn't know I was into men until you. I'm sorry you had to be my first, I'm sure that must have been such a burden for you."

"That's not fair."

"You didn't even give me a chance. That was - I'm so angry with you, Tommy. I'm so fucking mad."

"I know."

"But that's what you planned for, right? That's - you ripped the bandaid, Tommy, except there's a whole fucking untreated stab wound right underneath and it's still bleeding, Tommy."

"Did you even make this round of cupcakes with your niece?" It's better to keep his family's names out of his mouth. Just keep those ties cut.

Buck looks livid. "No, you idiot, I whipped up a tiny batch of this recipe just for the excuse to see you and - and tell you what a stupid, awful coward you are."

"That's not f-." He isn't sure whether Buck is being facetious about the small batch thing or not. He doesn't have any time to think about it.

"My sister and Chim are having another baby. Bobby and Athena are probably gonna host Christmas this year. Eddie shaved off the mustache and he's, like, dancing now, I guess. Hen and Karen are good for the first time in -." He shakes his head. Stares at Tommy. Tommy can't quite hide from that gaze. "We were good, Tommy. We were - you loved me."

He'd never said the words. Neither had Evan, but they'd both known. Both felt it. Tommy let it go too far, did it scared for longer than he usually would.

"It's not like that just went away when I walked out, Evan," Tommy hisses, and then regrets it immediately.

Evan has spent most of this visit pushing, pressing, digging fingers into the wound to make it hurt.

Evan goes silent now, reeling back a little. He seems shocked that Tommy had admitted it.

"I want you to go," Tommy says. "I need you to go, Buck."

It was the right dagger the first time, but apparently it's only effective once.

"I love you too, you know." His voice is soft. Tommy can't meet his eye. "And I hate you. I hate you even though I know that's what you wanted but I love you too much to not hate you out of spite."

Tommy knows if he caves it's done. He's signing himself over to whatever fucked thing will end them a week, a month, five years, two decades from now.

"Go home, Buck. Hate me there."

---

He goes in for the kill.

"I called Abby, two nights ago."

Right for the jugular. No survivors.

"She laughed for like twenty minutes, and then she tried to get me to chat about our sex life for comparison, and then she was shocked silent for a full minute when I wouldn't." Because Evan had always been a little too open about those details. "She also told me she forgave you but she doesn't think you ever forgave yourself."

Tommy agrees. For all that they'd been terrible for each other, they'd known how the hell to take care of one another like no one's business.

"I want you to go," Tommy says, steady, quiet, nearly a snark for how deep his voice goes to hide the tremor in it.

Buck cocks a hip against the doorframe. "I want my sweatshirt."

The breath that escapes him is shaky, but her think he hides most of it behind the hand over his face, the finger pinched at the bridge of his nose.

"I can't do this."

"Exactly how many men and women do I have to fuck before you believe the future I'm looking at is with you?"

"All of them! None! It was a stupid thing to say and it's not what I meant and I can't do this."

Buck spins on his heel. Grabs the box he'd set aside and hefts it up into his arms. "I'm coming back for my sweatshirt," he says. "You let me know whether you want to talk about the data points of the sexuality spreadsheet or about us."

"There is no us, Buck." His voice sounds defeated even to himself.

"If that was true you'd just give me the stupid sweater and be done."

Tommy sits in silence. He does not get up to retrieve the hoodie. Buck is still angry, but his smile is wide and bashful.

Tommy listens to his footsteps trail down the hall, towards the door, out of it. He hears the Jeep's ignition catch, the wheels roll off the drive.

He realizes he'd left the goddamn Jeep manual open on the timing belt page, right there on his side table where he'd pointed out the things he wanted Evan to take to clear him from his life.

---

There is someone knocking at his door.

Tommy doesn't quite ignore it.

He hid the sweatshirt in one of his toolbox drawers when Evan texted him this morning to let him know he'd be over with a six pack and a pot of chili.

There's a zero percent chance Evan's getting that sweatshirt back, tonight.

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Work Rivals with Office Siren!Suguru Getou

Getou Suguru is the worst.

The absolute worst. He makes your life a living hell, your job a warzone, and worst of all, he’s the most maddeningly attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You hadn’t always been mortal enemies. In fact, your first impression of him was something out of a cheesy rom-com.

On your first day as a junior accountant, you stopped by a local coffee shop to grab a medium, hot, cream, no sugar. The moment your order was called, both you and a sharply dressed man stepped up to the counter.

The first thing you noticed was his height—towering enough to make you tilt your head back. On the way up, you took in his impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, and slim black tie. His sleeves were neatly cuffed at the wrists, revealing a deep bronze complexion adorned with a flashy silver Rolex and a few understated rings.

When your gaze finally reached his face, your breath hitched. He was striking. Long black hair tied back in a half-up style, sharp cheekbones, and a strong jaw. Black gauges and a gleaming silver eyebrow piercing accentuated his features, and a pair of rectangular glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose. He eyed you with an air of irritation, violet eyes glinting behind the glare of the café lights.

“Is this yours?” he asked, gesturing to the coffee being held out by an increasingly impatient barista.

You had a perfectly charming response prepared in your head. But as luck would have it, your brain short-circuited, and what came out instead was less… ideal.

“Why else would I be here? Course it’s mine. It’s my first day, and you’re holding me up.”

The sharpness in your tone made you wince internally, but you couldn’t backtrack now. Crossing your arms, you tilted your head, doubling down.

His brows knit together as he huffed. “Could’ve done without the attitude. Just take it and go.”

You grabbed the coffee with a muttered, “Whatever,” and turned on your heel, heading for the door. But before it swung shut, you glanced over your shoulder at the disgruntled stranger. At least you’d never have to see him again, right?

Wrong.

When you arrived at work and sat through the orientation, you focused on staying out of trouble. That plan went out the window when you were led to your cubicle—right across from a familiar face.

Your guide tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and when his eyes met yours, surprise flickered for the briefest moment before being replaced by irritation.

“—and this is Getou Suguru, your cubicle neighbor. It’s also his first day as a junior accountant, so don’t be shy. This job can get pretty isolating, so building relationships is important,” your senior said cheerfully.

Forcing a polite smile, you extended your hand, hoping he’d let your earlier encounter slide. His handshake was firm, his larger hand warm against yours.

“Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly. “Looking forward to working with you.”

Your senior walked off, satisfied. But as soon as he was out of earshot, Getou grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer, pumping an aggressive amount into his palm.

“Enjoy sharing the same title,” he said coolly. “Soon, I’ll be your superior, coffee-girl.”

He spun his chair around, strands of sleek black hair whipping over his shoulder.

That was six years ago.

Time had not softened the animosity between you two. If anything, it had calcified into a rivalry so intense it pushed both of you to climb the ranks faster than anyone expected. You were both promoted to Corporate Controller—a position that typically took eight years to reach—on the same day.

It was supposed to be a single-person role, but after the CFO reviewed your identical performance stats, he decided to make an exception. Now, you and Getou are seated on the 36th floor of the company’s sleek high-rise, with matching titles engraved on silver plaques outside your offices.

The only thing separating you is a glass wall, through which you exchange daily glares.

Competition fuels everything. From routine tasks to major projects, you turn every assignment into a wager. The CFO, Nanami Kento, has become your unofficial referee. At first, he admired your drive. Over time, though, even his legendary patience has begun to fray.

“Getou’s management style is 2% less efficient than mine,” you declare during a performance review, presenting your meticulously crafted charts.

“Her sales plan took a 0.5% dip last quarter,” Getou counters with his own spreadsheet. “In hindsight, my proposal conserved more resources.”

“His data compression wastes company time!”

“Her budget oversight missed the social media revenue I proposed—”

“You stole that idea from me!”

“SHUT. UP.”

Nanami’s voice, usually calm and measured, reverberates through the room. He stands abruptly, the tension radiating off him like heat.

“I cannot take another second of your childish bickering,” he snaps, slamming a hand onto his desk. “You’re both brilliant, hardworking, and utterly insufferable. You’ve turned this office into a battlefield, and frankly, I’m this close to quitting just to escape you.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

If Nanami’s outburst isn’t enough to make it clear something has to change, the rest of the accounting branch soon makes it crystal. Your colleagues have begun avoiding you and Getou like the plague, steering clear of the drama that follows wherever you go.

Well, everyone in the accounting branch has turned against you and Getou—except for one person: your one and only work friend, Gojo Satoru.

Gojo, the accounting manager, ranks just below you. He is a walking billboard for excess, always dressed to the nines in custom Dolce & Gabbana baby-blue suits that match his piercing cerulean eyes. Every month, he carries a new designer briefcase, each more luxurious than the last, and you have yet to see him repeat one.

He wasn’t just anyone. Gojo is—or was—the heir to a global media empire. His great-grandfather had founded the conglomerate, which owned everything from cable networks to film studios and streaming platforms. But seven years ago, the Gojo family had severed ties with their infamous black sheep.

Gojo had always been a loose cannon, his antics splashed across tabloids with alarming regularity. When he was finally caught in a particularly compromising situation—a sleazy nightclub rendezvous involving a rival conglomerate’s heir and a bottle girl—his family decided they’d had enough. The Gojo media machine couldn’t suppress the scandal, and rather than shell out another fortune trying to salvage their name, they cut him off.

He went from riches to rags—or as close to “rags” as someone with Gojo’s charisma and wits could get. He clawed his way up the ladder at your company, and while his charm earned him plenty of allies, his ego alienated just as many. That left you as the only one who could truly tolerate him. Perhaps it was your shared arrogance, though yours stemmed from your relentless rivalry with Getou, while his was… well, Gojo was just Gojo.

Which is why you’re currently in a supply closet, your back pressed against the metallic shelving as Gojo shakes your shoulders like a madman, his usually smug face looking uncharacteristically panicked.

“You have got to end this feud with Getou,” he hisses, his bright blue eyes practically glowing in the dim lighting. “It’s spiraling out of control. The whole department’s gone to hell. Nanami’s snappy, everyone’s overworked, and the accountants are making more mistakes than ever because they’re so stressed.”

He runs a hand through his shock of white hair, sighing dramatically before adding, “You two have the worst reputation I’ve ever seen. And coming from me—someone who’s made global headlines for my bad behavior—that’s saying a lot.”

You open your mouth, ready to defend yourself, but Gojo raises a hand, cutting you off.

“Don’t even start with the whole ‘but our numbers are the best’ speech,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Because while your stats are impressive, they’re not enough to make up for the chaos you two create. And,” he leans in closer, a devious smirk curling his lips, “don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him.”

You freeze, your heart pounding as if he’d just exposed your darkest secret.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Gojo teases, his tone sing-song. “You’re practically undressing him with your eyes half the time. It’s honestly disgusting. If this is your idea of flirting, you might be a masochist. Or a sadist. Or both. Either way, the rest of us shouldn’t have to suffer through this painfully obvious sexual tension.”

Your cheeks burn, and for once, you’re speechless.

Gojo straightens his lapels, his smirk widening. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m going to fix it, one way or another. Consider this your warning.”

Before you can respond, he spins on his heel and storms out, slamming the door behind him. 

You stand there for a moment, your mind racing.

“What can he even do?” you mutter to yourself, laughing nervously. “He’s just an accounting manager.”

But you’d underestimated Gojo.

By the time you return to your office, he’s already marched into Nanami’s and laid out his nefarious plan. Meanwhile, you find yourself staring blankly at the income statement on your screen, utterly distracted.

Your gaze drifts to the glass wall of your office, where you can see Getou seated at his desk. He’s wearing a fitted chestnut vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. His black hair is tied in a loose bun, a ballpoint pen shoved haphazardly through it.

As you watch, he reaches up to twirl a strand of hair around his finger, his violet eyes scanning a thick packet of papers. When he suddenly glances up and catches you staring, your breath hitches.

His piercing gaze darkens, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He arches an eyebrow, his expression equal parts smug and devastatingly attractive. Then, as if to torment you further, he returns to his work, the faintest smile still lingering on his lips.

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, heat pooling in your cheeks. If your hatred of Getou is a defense mechanism, it isn’t working—if anything, it only heightens your attraction to him.

But you resolve to keep your distance, for the sake of professionalism.

That resolve lasts precisely one day.

The next morning, Nanami summons you to his office. Confident in your newfound clarity, you stride in—only to feel your confidence waver when you see Gojo lounging against the window like a model in a photoshoot, the sunlight framing him perfectly.

Then the door opens behind you, and in walks Getou.

He takes the seat next to you, his legs spread obnoxiously wide, oozing dominance.

Nanami wastes no time. “I’ve reached my limit with your behavior. The entire branch is suffering because of you two. So, effective immediately, you’ll both be attending the annual financial policy conference together as a team-building exercise.”

You groan. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think—”

“This is non-negotiable,” Nanami interrupts, holding up two plane tickets. “And to ensure you take this seriously, know that if this doesn’t work, I will demote both of you and give your positions to Gojo.”

Gojo grins triumphantly.

Nanami adds, “And don’t think I won’t be monitoring your behavior. The conference is hosted at one of our company hotels, so we’ll have access to surveillance.”

As you leave his office, the weight of the tickets in your hand feels suffocating. Later that evening, you seek refuge straight off of your shift, at the nearest bar, ordering a drink to drown your sorrows.

Slouching on the barstool, the straps of your dress slip down your shoulders, but you don’t bother fixing them. At this point, you’re too far gone to care. Nursing your drink quickly turns into downing shots, thanks to the kindness—or opportunism—of nearby patrons. Some, sensing your frazzled state, buy you a drink out of pity. Others, mostly men, let their eyes linger on your neckline before waving down the bartender to pour you another on their tab.

You lean your cheek against your arm, swirling the straw in your glass absentmindedly. The din of the bar becomes white noise as your thoughts spiral. Then, you sense a presence settling on the stool next to you.

“Rough day?”

The voice is low, amused, and far too familiar. You stiffen before letting out a slow, tired huff.

“Fuck off, Getou.”

You aim for venom, but your tone lands somewhere closer to exhausted. His chuckle vibrates through the space between you, and then you feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, his fingers tracing small, deliberate circles.

“Aw, don’t tell me I’ve finally worn you down,” he drawls, his voice dipping with mock concern. His hand moves, catching the strap of your dress and sliding it back into place with a languid tug. “Resorting to alcohol already? Never thought I’d see the day.”

You snap your head toward him, gathering the last scraps of defiance you have left. He’s leaning casually against the bar, his beige sweater hugging his frame a little too perfectly, the knit fabric stretching taut over his arms. His expression is maddeningly amused, dark eyes glinting with the kind of satisfaction that makes your blood simmer.

“Pretty cocky, aren’t you? Need some liquid courage for our trip, I assume?”

Instead of answering, he reaches forward and swipes your drink. He takes a long sip, his throat bobbing as he swallows. His teeth click against the glass when he sets it down.

“Strong,” he remarks before leaning closer, his voice dropping. “And speaking of the trip, I assume we’ll put on quite the show, hmm? Don’t get me wrong—I hate you. But I hate the idea of Gojo taking either of our jobs even more.”

He nudges your foot with his own, a silent challenge in his raised brow. You hesitate only for a second before extending a hand, your manicured nails catching the dim light.

“Finally, something we can agree on. Look, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep our positions. Yeah, maybe we go overboard sometimes, but we get results. We’re the best.”

“Damn right,” he replies, his smirk sharp and self-assured. His fingers brush yours as he takes your hand, and then he raises it to signal the bartender for another round.

You clear your throat, trying to regain control of the conversation. “It’s just a weekend. We can fake being civil for two days. We’ve never failed to perform before, and we’re not about to start now.”

His hand lands on your shoulder again, his touch oddly grounding. “We always exceed expectations. You always go above; I always go beyond.” He emphasizes the last word with a teasing smirk that makes your jaw tighten.

“Oh yeah? Always?” You lean in, narrowing your eyes. “Bet I can out-drink you. Hell, I already have. I’ve practically forgotten why I was even upset in the first place.”

“Big talk for someone who’s clearly lying.” His grin spreads wider, white teeth gleaming. “But hey, I’m all for proving you wrong. Again.”

The conversation dissolves into a blurry competition. Before you know it, the counter between you is littered with empty glasses. The room spins around you, your skin hot, your head light. 

Somehow, in the midst of it all, your legs have tangled beneath the bar, Getou’s foot hooked possessively around your ankle.

When you glance at him, his bronzed skin is flushed, a pretty pink spreading across his high cheekbones. His hair is loose now, cascading over his broad shoulders in soft, inky waves. His glasses hang from the collar of his sweater, and he reaches out, his finger brushing against your chin.

“You’re spilling,” he murmurs, dragging his finger along your skin to catch a stray drop of liquor. He pulls it back and raises it to his lips, licking it clean with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Playing dirty, huh?” you mutter, your voice thick.

Getou takes the last sip of his drink, his cheeks puffing slightly as he holds the liquid idle in his mouth, and shrugs. The casual gesture makes something snap inside you. Desperate to turn the tables, you grab the collar of his sweater and yank him toward you.

His lips crash into yours, soft yet insistent, and for a fleeting moment, the world shrinks to the warmth of his mouth and the faint bitterness of alcohol lingering on his breath. Your tongue grazes his bottom lip, and he parts for you, letting the sharp tang of liquor transfer between you. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his hands tighten around your waist.

You swallow, leaning into the kiss, your fingers clutching at him as his hand slides up, tangling in your hair. He tilts your head back, deepening the kiss, and a moan escapes your lips before you can hold it back.

His other hand moves lower, pulling you closer until you’re perched halfway on his lap, the warmth of his body pressing against you.

“You might’ve had more to drink than me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice teasing yet dark with intent. “But I bet I can have you begging for me off a kiss.”

His thigh presses between your legs, and your dress rides up higher than you’d like to admit. You’re soaked, the flimsy fabric of your underwear doing little to shield your dignity—or his slacks—from your arousal.

“Think you’ll have me begging?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot against your skin. 

“You’re the one falling apart, sweetheart.”

Before you can retort, your phone buzzes on the counter, the vibration cutting through the haze. 

A message lights up the screen.

Gojo Satoru: I just KNOW the hate sex is gonna go hard. Don’t thank me all at once, sweetie ;)

beautiful ass fanart by: _viziiro_ on twt/X

[applepiewinchesters]

Every Universe (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: This was written while I was slightly intoxicated, I regret nothing though and hope you guys enjoy it. It was proofread but I cannot say there will be no grammatical errors. Regardless, please enjoy!! :) Also, takes place in the Deadpool and Wolverine universe.

Word Count: 4,158 (this bitch is long, for me at least)

Warnings: None really unless you count angst and fluff as well as the mention of butt stuff

Finding out that not falling in love with a man being the sole reason you were sent to the void seemed like a pretty patriarchal reason to essentially be damned but who were you to question the TVA.

The day you were sent to the void you’d seen the news, MULTIPLE CASUALTIES AFTER ATTACK AT XAVIER’S SCHOOL FOR GIFTED YOUNGSTERS, names such as Jean Grey, Marie D’Ancanto, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Logan Howlett were read out by the heartbroken looking anchor.

Being a mutant yourself, the news stung and left a pit of anxiety in your stomach. It was an attack by an anti-mutant terrorist group, if they were bold enough to attack the home of Charles Xavier, why not a shopping mall next, or another school full of mutant and non-mutant children alike.

Only minutes after the newscast on the tragedy started four rectangular, orange portals opened in front of and behind you. Four men dressed in odd looking military uniforms stalked towards you. You didn’t even have time to attempt to fend them off before they grabbed you, holding you down while you attempted to break free but even with your mutation, they were too strong.

All you remembered was one of them placing some weird stick against your stomach and you screamed as you essentially dissolved into nothing.

When you woke you were found by who you now knew as Blade, and were told you were in the Void, where you would stay until you died or were killed by a fellow member of said Void.

You’d been there for a what you thought was probably a few years when a couple of Deadpool and Wolverine variants were found by Laura in an absolutely fucked Honda Odyssey. She brought them there and Gambit and Blade brought them inside and laid them down. They appeared as if they’d just had a horrific fight or the most violent sexual encounter ever.

The Wolverine variant was the first to wake up, quite literally shooting up into a sitting position while breathing heavily. His claws extended quickly from his knuckles, and he made an almost animalistic sound.

“Easy there killer,” you almost teased, holding up your hands, you’d been the one unfortunate enough to be closest to him when he woke up, so his eyes immediately fixed on you.

Several emotions seemed to flash across his face at once, his look of anger changing to one of shock. His claws disappeared just as quickly as they’d appeared just moments ago as you slowly put your hands down, now a little concerned for the man.

“Y/N?”, he asked, his head tilting slightly.

It was your turn to look confused, “Did we know each other?”, you asked.

Sure, you’d heard of Wolverine, of Logan, but you’d never met him personally, you had originally been set to attend Charles Xavier’s school when you were 18 but after an attack on the school the same year your parents had decided against it.

The Logan before you’ s face fell slightly; he seemed almost hurt. It took him a second to respond, “I, uh, I guess not.”

That was when Elektra cut in, explaining to Logan where he was and how she’d found him and Deadpool. While he seemed to only half listen, he got up and found the nearest bottle of Gambit’s booze and started drinking it.

When Deadpool woke up it was a completely different side of weird, you hadn’t had the pleasure of coming across a Deadpool variant, but you’d heard how odd they were, and unfortunately for you, you thought they were exaggerating.

After annoying literally everyone in the room, the Deadpool variant all got you to somehow agree to help him and Wolverine get back to the TVA to save his timeline, as well as a sneak attack on Cassandra Nova. The whole time Logan watched you from the corner of his eye.

He couldn’t completely convince himself it was you. The last time he’d seen you, you were lying dead on the front lawn of the school, killed by a large group of humans, along with almost everyone at the mansion. You were covered in blood and cold by the time he’d gotten there. He’d held onto you until the coroner was nearly begging to take you away.

Logan remembered almost everything about you. Your favorite movie, what food you hated, and even the feel of your hand in his. But when you looked at him with little to no recognition in your eyes, his heart could’ve broken all over again.

You had no idea the conflicting feelings he’d had while you sat only a few feet away. You looked practically the same, maybe older than you were when you’d died in his world, he was older too, maybe you just didn’t want to be with an old man and were pretending not to know him. He was the worst Wolverine after all, he wouldn’t blame you.

But then there were some things you did that reminded him of his version of you, the way your laugh sounded exactly the same, how you sat the same way in your chair, and you even made the same face when you’d taken a drink of Gambit’s whiskey as when you’d sip his occasionally while the two of you sat on the couch in the mansion watching some movie one of the others had put on.

It was you, just, one that apparently hadn’t fallen in love with Logan Howlett. Logan himself couldn’t help but wonder if that had been your reason for being sent here, but thought better of it, deciding he'd probably never have that kind of impact on any kind of world.

After a successful attack on Cassandra and her small army, Deadpool and Wolverine were gone, and you hadn’t expected to ever see them again. Then Cassandra almost destroyed every timeline to exist, and you’d thought for sure those two variants had gotten themselves killed.

But then the TVA came for you and brought you to said Deadpool variants world, which he had successfully and somehow saved with Wolverine’s help. You couldn’t help but notice Logan’s shirt missing this time around. Almost cursing yourself for not trying harder to go to Xavier’s school when you were younger, having a chance to meet your world’s Logan. A man’s abs can do that to a woman.

“Happy to not be in the void and all, but why am I here?”, you asked, eyeing the agents around you and taking in the cracked subway station.

“I thought I’d give a little gift to Wolvie here,” Deadpool replied in an overly enthusiastic manner, throwing an arm around Logan who instantly pushed him away.

“I’m not a gift to give you dumb fuck,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest.

Deadpool ignored your obvious distain and continued, “Well I figured since he lost you in his world and you never falling in love in your world caused his death that you could stay here with us!”.

Your eyes widened and you had to think about what he’d said for a moment, “I-I got him killed? I got Logan and those other mutants killed?”.

Logan couldn’t focus on the other details once his name left your mouth; he hadn’t heard you say that in almost a decade.

You on the other hand turned to the woman beside you that looked to be in charge.

“Is that the reason I was sent there, because I didn’t fall in love with Logan Howlett and he died because of it?”, you asked, you felt like you could be sick.

The woman sighed, almost regretful, “Yes, it was,” she finally answered you. “Without your help of your mutation those mutants did not survive that attack on the school.”

“Oooooo, trauma plot twist,” Deadpool practically squealed.

“Shut the fuck up!”, you snapped back, making Deadpool whisper a bashful, “Sorry,” and take a step back.

The TVA agents left shortly after, and that was how you found yourself living in a small apartment with Wade, Logan, and the craziest old lady you’d ever met, Blind Al.

Wade and she shared a room as weird as it was, you were given the spare room Blind Al reluctantly let you use, as it was now formerly her grow room, and Logan elected to sleep on the couch.

You settled in somewhat nicely, you still felt awkward in a world that wasn’t yours living with a doofus that you'd grown somewhat fond of and a man you got killed in his other life, but you had new friends, ones that didn’t have a huge chance of dying every day so that was a plus.

Yukio and Ellie had gravitated towards you, you were somewhat close in age, with them being early twenties and you in your somewhat late twenties, they reminded you of your younger sibling’s friends from back home in your previous world.

So, when they invited you to go out a month after you settled in, you couldn’t say no, it would get you out of the house at least, you wouldn’t have to sit and listen to Wade and Logan argue or endure Logan’s kicked puppy look when he thought you weren’t looking.

You felt awful you weren’t the you he thought you were, and you knew it was nothing you could control but after Wade let it slip what had happened to you in Logan’s world you couldn’t imagine how you’d feel if the roles were reversed.

So, to hopefully be able to forget about everything for a few hours you got ready, doing some easy makeup and hair, you put on a cute outfit you’d bought earlier in the week, Yukio had begged you to go shopping after finding out you didn’t own anything for “going out” yet on this world.

You relented and picked out a skirt, top, tights, and boots, it was simple yet cute enough to not be mistaken as any old outfit.

When you’d exited your bedroom in your shared apartment shortly before Yukio and Ellie were due to come get you, Wade looked up from whatever the hell he was doing on his phone, which could be anything from porn to angry birds.

His eyes widened slightly, “Got a date?”, he asked, only slightly feigning shock.

Logan had looked up immediately at the mention of a date, he was sipping a bottle of whiskey at the kitchen table. His eyes traveled over your outfit when he thought you were busy glaring at Wade.

“Not that its your business merc but no, I’m going out with Yukio and Ellie,” you stated, tossing a lip balm you had in your hand to your small purse.

“Girls nightttt,” Wade sang, only making you sigh.

As if a divine intervention interrupted there was a knock on the door and when you opened it you found the two girls standing there waiting.

“Hi Wade!”, Yukio exclaimed waving at him.

Wade leaned back in his seat to look around you at Yukio, “Hi Yukio!”.

“Come on,” you told them, moving to leave but a hand on your shoulder made you turn around. It was Wade.

“Now honey,” he began, “don’t take drinks from strangers, don’t go off alone, and don’t hook up with anyone. You know what they say about beer goggles, you’ll be waking up next to the crypt keeper.”

While you rolled your eyes and pushed Wade’s hand off your shoulder although you knew he really did care. Logan on the other hand clenched his jaw. You weren’t his and he knew that, but Wade’s last comment set his teeth on edge.

“I’m a big girl Wade, but thanks,” you told him, turning around and leaving this time without so much as a glimpse Logan’s way.

When the door shut Wade spoke again, “She’s gonna get picked up by every hottie in the club in that outfit. Did you see her legs Peanut?”.

Wade then almost immediately flinched when he felt glass shatter on the back of his head, the alcohol in the now broken bottle staining the back of his My Little Pony shirt.

He didn’t even have to look back to imagine the look on Logan’s face, “Gotcha,” was all Wade replied, picking out a rather large glass shard from the back of his neck.

…

It was hours later when you were so drunk you couldn’t feel the cold outside, but you sure felt good on the inside. The only bad thing was that the other girls wanted to go to another club, and your social battery was just about gone.

You three stumbled out of the club, Yukio and you giggled at something Ellie had yelled at some perv leering at you when you’d walked out. Stopping the other two from turning the opposite way to another club, you spoke rather loudly despite being out of the crowd and loud music.

“I-I think I’m gonna go home! You girls go!” you told them, making Yukio frown.

“Don’t walk home by yourself, call Wade or something,” Ellie commented.

You nodded thoughtfully before gasping, “I’ll call Logan, Wade is doing butt stuff with Vanessa tonight!”.

Your loud comment sent Yukio into a giggling fit and made a guy near you wince, maybe he’d done butt stuff too.

Ellie only nodded, rolling her eyes as you pulled your phone from your purse, scrolling through the very few numbers you’d had, Wade had gotten both you and Logan phones soon after arriving, claiming he needed to be able to send you both funny videos every day. Which were no doubt ignored by Logan.

Pressing on Logan’s contact, you put the phone up to your ear, listening to it ring only once before the call was answered.

“You alright?”, was the first thing out of Logan’s mouth and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, I’m great!” you replied, “but Ellie doesn’t want me walking home alone and Wade is doing butt stuff so will you come? I’m only a few blocks from home.”

The whole sentence was sort of rushed and you thought maybe Logan hadn’t heard you correctly because the line went silent.

You were about to repeat yourself when Logan stopped you, “I’m coming,” he told you, you could hear him shuffling around and the sound of a door closing, “What’s the name?”.

Despite having been in the club for well over an hour you had to look up and squint at then brightly lit sign, “Uhhhh,” you mumbled into to the phone, before your eyes finally focused, “House of Yes!”.

You could’ve sworn Logan chuckled, “Be there soon,” was all he said before hanging up.

“Escort secured,” you told the two girls, slipping your phone back into your purse. “He’ll be here soon,” you added, attempting to replicate his gravely tone, only succeeding in making yourself cough and sending Yukio into a laughing fit.

It was only 15 minutes of standing around before Logan showed up, you spotted him first, having turned yourself that way to look for him. He was dressed in his usual jeans, button up, and undershirt, along with a leather jacket he’d picked up recently.

He looked good you had to admit, nearly every girl outside, and even some guys turned to look at him when he walked past. He didn’t give them any sort of acknowledgement though, earning some disappointed looks from a few of them when he walked up to you.

What was it Wade said about beer goggles? Logan was hot without alcohol though, so you shook off the thought.

“Ready to go?”, he asked, eyes scanning over you, not to be a perv but to make sure everything was the same as when you left, and it was, save for the way you swayed slightly and the way you smiled at him like you were so happy to see him. He thought he’d never see that again, but he has to remind himself for what felt like that hundredth time that it wasn’t you, not his you at least.

You nodded, turning around to hug both of the girls, telling them to be safe, although you knew Ellie wouldn’t put up with anyone’s shit.

“Bye Y/N! Bye Logan!”, Yukio exclaimed, waving at you both before grabbing Ellie’s hand as they turned the opposite way.

“Alright, come on,” Logan said, taking a step away from you and waiting for you to follow him to keep walking, he made sure to keep you closest to the buildings, it wouldn’t be too great to have you fall in the street in front of a car.

It was silent for a couple minutes, you stumbled every so often and Logan’s hand always shot out, ready to catch you, but you always righted yourself, giggling as you did, and Logan found himself smiling at the sound.

You caught him smiling after a couple times, narrowing your eyes, “What’re you smiling at grumpy?”, you asked, voice anything but angry.

“Grumpy?”, he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Yeah, it’s what I call you sometimes in my head, Mr. Grumpy is also a good one,” you told him in a very serious tone.

“Mr. Grumpy,” Logan found himself repeating, only making you laugh, which made you stumble, nearly knocking into someone walking the opposite way of you both. Logan instinctively wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you away from the almost collision and into his side.

You immediately noticed he was warm, you could feel it even with his multiple layers on, it was growing colder now outside as the days went on and you yourself knew without the alcohol, you’d probably be cold but here he was, a personal heater.

“Are you actually just a werewolf?” you asked him, making him stop walking completely and turn towards you, removing his arm from your shoulders, making you pout a bit.

“I am not a werewolf,” he told you seriously.

You groaned, “Okay but you’re really warm, you have claws, you can run on all fours, and you’ve got those little…,” you trailed off, putting your pointer fingers up on each side of your head, attempting to mimic the little swishes his hair made.

Personally, you had no idea if his hair just did that (because he’s a werewolf), or if he styled it that way. You couldn’t decide which option to like more.

When Logan didn’t seem to understand what you’d said, you reached up, lightly running a finger along one of the swoops of his hair. You jumped a bit when his hand caught your wrist as you were pulling your hand back.

There was a look in his eyes you didn’t recognize but it soon disappeared as he let you go, “Sorry,” he quickly said. “Reflex.”

You shrugged, “No harm done,” you told him, and his eyes softened at the way you brushed off his behavior from years of enduring nothing even remotely close to the gentle way you’d just touched him.

Maybe you didn’t think so badly of him. You always seemed so wary, afraid to make him angry, to say something wrong, like he was a ticking time bomb. It put him on edge and made him want to steer clear of you, he didn’t want to scare you off either.  But now, standing there staring at you while you just smiled at him made him relax a bit.

“Let’s go,” you suddenly said, beginning to walk away from him. He was back at your side in moments, and you found yourself bumping into him every so often, apologizing every time you did.

Finally, he wrapped an arm around you again, pulling you back into the warmth of his side. You smiled when he did, stumbling slightly but he held you up easily, not letting you fall.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” you told him when you were only a block from home.

“No problem,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk ahead.

There were a few moments of silence before you began to giggle suddenly, Logan’s brow furrowed as he looked down at you, “What?” he asked, hopefully not regretting asking.

“So, you’re not a werewolf?” you asked, looking up at him.

Logan groaned looking away from you, “No, and if you keep asking, you’ll regret it.”

“Ooo what are you gonna do?” you mocked, poking his side.

“Wouldn’t you like to know sweetheart,” he replied, making you stumble at the nickname.

“I would,” you challenged, after righting yourself with the help of Logan’s arm around you.

Logan regarded you for a moment before shaking his head, “You’re drunk, another time.”

“Ughhhhh,” you groaned, “Tell me!”.

“Not a chance,” Logan replied, smirking a bit. He’d been drinking since you left and was buzzed himself, he couldn’t help but smile at your behavior.

The you he’d known had always acted like this, at least when intoxicated. You were whiny, clumsy, and clingy. The way your fingers gripped the back of his jacket to stay up right made his heart ache though and his smile fell.

You noticed his attitude change and became concerned, “You okay?” you asked, attempting to stop walking, but Logan kept you going.

“Fine” he replied, his hold on you loosening slightly, you couldn’t help but notice.

So, you stopped, much to Logan’s dismay, moving to stand in front of him, swaying slightly as you very determinedly looked him in the eye.

“What’s wrong, did I do something?” you asked, genuine concern in your voice, he could almost feel his heart crack just slightly.

“No, it’s…,” Logan began, his tongue getting tied, he was never great at emotions, that’s why he drank so much. You didn’t have to feel anything then.

“I’m listening,” you reassured, resisting the urge to take his hand.

“You’re so much like…like her, like you,” Logan finally said, not really meeting your eye. “I thought I could ignore it, but I can’t, you even smell the same.”

Logan had rendered you with nothing to say, could you truly comfort him? Reassure him? You felt yourself sobering up a bit at the thought.

It was a few moments of silence before you found your words, “I know this has been shitty for you too, and I'm sorry I haven't been a better friend. Honestly sometimes I think you hate the fact that I'm not her, me her, whatever...that you hate me. But then you do things like this and it makes me think otherwise. I guess I just don't know how to...approach you, Logan."

Logan felt his heart drop at the word “friend”, and the thought he made you feel inadequate. God he really was stupid enough to think he might have a chance with this version of you.

But he found himself lifting a hand to your cheek, feeling your skin heat up beneath his fingers, “I could never hate you, not in this universe, not in any, got it? Its my fault, for pushing that onto you, making you feel like you have to be someone you’re not.”

You couldn’t help but laugh slightly, “We’re both just fucked up in our own special way, aren’t we?”.

Logan nodded, dropping his hand, but you caught it in your own, “It’s not your fault either you know, I personally blame whatever bitchass overlord of the universe did this.”

Logan had to keep himself from solely focusing on the way your hand wrapped around his, “But…,” he went to argue.

You put up a hand to stop him, “Enough with the self-pity Howlett, its unbecoming of a man of your nature.”

“My nature?” Logan asked, titling his head at you.

“Yes, the nature of being absurdly attractive,” you admitted, looking away from him as you spoke, attempting to walk away, but he pulled you back, almost into his chest, but he kept you a few inches away, still concerned with scaring you.

“Absurdly?” Logan asked, the smirk returning to his face.

You swallowed hard, “Did I say that? I meant unappealing, completely unsightly.”

Your attempt at saving your future sober self from your drunk self was failing miserably, but Logan gave in after a few seconds, shrugging as he turned, placing his arm around you once more, guiding you towards the apartment building you could finally see in the distance.

“Whatever you say kid,” he told you.

This was the most at home you two had felt in a while, and when you sat next to each other at breakfast in the morning, Logan passing you whatever you needed when you’d asked, Wade gasped dramatically.

“Did you two also engage in butt stuff last night, or is that not your cup of whiskey Wolvie?” Wade asked.

This earned him a fork to the forehead, easily tossed across the table by Logan.

The way you laughed made Logan’s heart skip a beat instead of crack again. For the first time in quite a while he felt hope, and if being here with you meant putting up with Wade’s dumbass mouth, he could make an exception just this once.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I felt like Tumblr was seriously lacking in Logan fluff so here ya go!

[imagineweasley]

Through the Lens

fred weasley x reader

summary: years after the war, you and fred get married and have the first weasley baby, baby arthur. mr. weasley finds a muggle camera and brings it home, and the weasleys have a field day using it to take pictures of arty.

y/n: your name

word count: 1.3k

submit requests here! | masterlist

author's note: this was originally supposed to be about george but then i wrote a really sad fic about fred and genuinely was so sad because of MY OWN WRITING so i needed a little uplifting one where fred lives.

--

6 years later

"Why is it so quiet?" You were sitting with Hermione and Mrs. Weasley at the Burrow with your afternoon tea when you realized it had been far too silent for far too long. You and Fred were visiting for the day to spend time with family while the sun was out, and you had brought your baby, little Arthur. Harry, Ginny, Ron, and of course, George were visiting. As the question left your mouth, you straightened in your chair and looked around the empty kitchen, as if your husband and child would pop out from the kitchen cabinet. You actually would not put it past Fred to stuff himself into a cabinet with your 8-month-old just to see you jump.

Hermione took a sip of her tea and watched as your eyes darted around the room, then out the window, expecting to see Fred running around with Arty. She said rationally, "I don't know, y/n, but I don't think they're going to jump out of that wall at you."

You screwed your eyebrows and said, "You don't know that." Hermione laughed. Mrs. Weasley smiled, amused, and rubbed your shoulder. She looked at Hermione and said, "She's right you know, years of raising that boy has taught me that he'll always be able to think of new ways to wreak havoc."

You pushed yourself up from the table and headed towards the living room.

"Don't worry, y/n, if he does anything stupid, I'll pummel him. Eight months pregnant has nothing on me." With great effort, Ginny, whose swollen belly looked as it would burst any day now, shifted in her chair to face you.

"Ginny, I don't even think you'll have to do that, if he's being stupid I'll do it myself, don't worry." Ginny huffed in response.

You didn't see Fred when you entered the living room, so you made your way through the Burrow checking every corner of each room -- still no sign of the husbands. As you continued towards the back gardens, you started to hear some faint laughter.

You pushed open the back door and the warmth of the sunlight poured over you. You shielded your eyes, temporarily blinded by the rays, and when your vision cleared, you saw a very picturesque scene.

The five men were surrounding little Arthur, who was giggling and clapping his hands while Ron sent tiny sparks flying out of his wand. Arty was the first baby of the family which meant he was absolutely spoiled with gifts and attention. The family members constantly bestowed him with cuddly toys, tiny baby clothing, and when it came to George, loud, rackety toys that caused Fred to have to bury his face in his hands and take very deep breaths.

You leaned against the doorway, beaming at the sight, and saw a flash of bright fluorescent light. It surely didn't seem magical and you leaned forward and squinted to inspect as another light flashed. Upon closer inspection, you realized Fred was holding some sort of unknown silver contraption.

"Fred?" You called across the lawn, but he didn't hear you so you tried again. "Fred! My dear husband, love of my life, father of my child!"

This caught Fred's attention, and he lifted his head to look at you with a large grin.

"My beautiful queen, sunshine on a rainy day, my gorgeous flower, mother of my child! Come and see this!" Ron retched and you laughed as you headed over, curious to see what they were up to, and whether they were blinding your child. When you got close enough to see, Fred lifted the object in his hand for you to see. It was small and rectangular, seemed to be made out of some sort of metal. There was a cylindrical contraption sticking out of the front with a hole in the middle that was covered by glass. There were a few buttons as well. You had never seen anything like this in your life.

"What in Merlin's left cheek is that?"

Mr. Weasley piped up from the other side of the huddle, "It's a muggle camera!" He enunciated every syllable, "A tiny version of ours used to take photos. The photos don't move of course, but you can look back at them on this here glass screen! I found it in the rubbish on a street in London. Who would throw this beauty away? Fascinating!" As he spoke, Fred pointed the camera towards you and the flash went off at the push of his finger.

Fred laughed as you instinctively threw your arms up, "It's not going to hurt you!"

You giggled at your own foolishness and knelt next to Arty. Harry was now conjuring little birds to flitter around Arty's head, and he was grabbing at them in the air with his pudgy hands.

"Look here, Arty, over here!" Ron waved his hands in the air.

"Over here! Oooooh look at this!" Harry sent a bird flying high in the sky.

Mr. Weasley was clapping his hands and snapping his fingers to grab Arty's his attention. It was working and he was nearly toppling over with giggles; his baby balance was still wobbly and each clap nearly toppled him over. You chuckled and bent down to steady him and give him a kiss on the forehead. At that exact moment, you saw a flash go off in your peripheral, and immediately after, a roar of delight.

"Look y/n, look!" Fred was excitedly jabbing at the camera screen. You scooped up Arty but Harry, Ron, and Mr. Weasley groaned in protest, so you set him back down and they immediately crowded back around him. Fred, on the other hand, bounded towards you, threw his arm around your waist and pulled you close to show you the photograph he had just captured.

You could see why he was beaming; the camera had captured you kissing Arty's head, and his wonderful smile had been frozen in time. Of course, the photo was not moving like wizard portraits do, but there was a different sort of magic in the simply way the moment was captured.

"That's my entire world right there, y/n." Fred pulled you even closer and kissed your forehead the way you were kissing Arty's in the photo. You closed your eyes and smiled.

"I love our little family, Freddie."

And as you were tilting your head up to give your husband a kiss, he replied, "And I love you. So much." He kissed you gently, gingerly, as if he was afraid that kissing you too hard would make everything disappear. You two had been through so much together -- detentions after his and George's famous pranks, risking your lives to head Potterwatch throughout Voldemort's reign of terror as your friends were picked off one-by-one, almost losing each other on the frontlines of the battle at Hogwarts -- you had been through so much that yes, you still had moments like this where you truly understood how precious life was, and what a miracle it was that here you were, six years later, watching your entire family, safe and alive, surround your baby you had brought into the world together. You closed your eyes and breathed in his scent of citrus and freshly washed laundry, when another flash went off.

You and Fred turned to see George grinning and pointing a second camera towards you two.

"Dad found two of them!" He smiled broadly down at his handiwork and you nuzzled into George's chest.

The men were still cooing at Arty, Mrs. Weasley and Hermione were making their way towards the group holding Ginny up while she was insisting she was fine to walk on her own and Harry was rushing towards her to help, the sun was shining and the breeze was warm, and all was well.

[haveihitanerve]

(anon that is writing the split emotions!bruce fic here) YOU ARE GIVING ME TOO MANY BRAIN WORMS

THEY SCREAM WITH IDEAS

SO I SHALL PLUCK ONE OUT AND GIVE TO U

Bruce gets Magic-ed to make others be able to feel his emotions if they make skin to skin contact

He does a bunch of tests to see if he's safe to be around since doesn't know the exact spell he got hit by and eventually Z gives him the green light to head back home

He gets out of his suit and the rest depends on the first batkid that he runs into

Just really want them to be able to feel the love, pride, worry, and fondness he's terrible at expressing (and them [un]subtlety trying to feel his emotions towards them again)

URGH NOOO!!!

Because this could go so many ways... fuck

Zatanna waved the stick around his face one last time, almost colliding with his nose, and Bruce did his best not to flinch. "Its called a wand." She growled under her breath, as though hearing his thoughts, but Bruce wasn't much interested in what the damned thing was called.

He knew she was being so careless on purpose, maybe even hoping she'd accidentally give him a good whack, but Bruce wasn't taking any chances bringing home some dangerous magical curse, so she would do her scans as many times until he was satisfied.

"There." She huffed, sacking back into her chair, and offered him a bland smile. "Completely harmless. I told you Bruce. The only thing this weird ass "curse" can do is warmth." Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow, as he had done when she'd first told him.

"Warmth?" He echoed hollowly, doubtful still. Zatanna rolled her eyes, smacking a hand to his forearm. Immediately, Bruce felt his blood buzz under his skin, forearms tightening. Zatanna let out a little sigh, smiling at him faintly, but it was more sincere than before.

"Yep!" She popped the p and stood, suddenly more energized. "Just passes over some warmth." Her smile didn't seem all too truthfully, but Bruce doubted her sudden good mood would last if he demanded another check.

"Alright." He sighed, finally standing, and Zatanna tapped him fondly on his chest.

"Just because you have seen the bad consequences of magic does not mean it can't be good." She murmured. "And this is a good one!" She grinned, smile almost too wide. Too mischievous. Bruce's eyes narrowed. He'd seen the expression one too many times on his children's faces to not be wary. "It's been cold in Gotham recently, maybe this will be a blessing for your home." Zatanna distracted innocently, opening the door to impolitely tell him to leave.

"Hn." Bruce hummed back, slipping his cowl back over his head, his gloves following. "Thank you Z." Her smile softened as she leaned against the door, though her eyes still sparkled in the dim glow of the streetlights.

"Anytime B. It should wear off in a few days. Until then, enjoy it." And the door was closed in his face. Bruce huffed in amusement, tugging out his grapple gun and swinging towards the Manor.

"Oracle?" He clicked his back teeth, coms activating. "Am I all clear to head home?" Barbara hummed back confirmation, the familiar and soothing sound of her typing quickly filling his ears.

"Yeah- hey can you swing by quickly? There's a package for Dick and I won't see him until later, I'd rather he get it now." Bruce rolled his eyes but obediently switched routes, running along the familiar roofs that led to the Clock Tower.

"I'm not an errand boy for y'alls love letters you know." He grumbled, even as he undid the hatch and slipped inside the slightly warmer confines of their communication tower.

Barbara grinned at him from the computer, spinning in her wheelchair to roll over to the couch and grab a small rectangular package. "Long day today or why am I being greeted by the Gotham "y'all"?"

Bruce rolled his eyes again, accepting the small parcel and wedging it under his arm. "Hilarious." He grumbled, leaning forward to capture Babs in a quick hug.

She started at the sudden embrace, but quickly relaxed, arms circling around his waist in a known fashion. "Any particular reason?" Her voice was muffled by his suit, but Bruce heard her anyway.

He shrugged, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before pulling away. Babs blinked, dazed, her hands fluttering near her head for a second, and she regarded him oddly.

"Just missing my kids." He murmured, one leg already out the window again. Barbara waggled her finger in his direction, already over her momentary lack of composure that Bruce wasn't quite sure where it originated from.

"Haven't adopted me yet!" She cried, faux dramatics and outrage. Bruce just lifted the package in response.

"If he doesn't hurry I will." It was an empty threat, seeing as both Barbara was already a legal adult and had a father of her own, but the emotion behind it was all that mattered. Barbara laughed, waving him away.

"Good night B." He smiled, slipping back into the night. His pace to the Manor increased, as Zatanna was right, it had grown exponentially chilly recently, and it was only a few minutes before he'd reached the cave and slipped inside.

"B-man!" Bruce almost jumped, almost, but the subtle flinch was enough to send Stephanie to the floor, cackling with laughter. "OH that's my best moment yet!" She cheered from the floor, grinning up at him as he loomed over her, glowering.

"Good evening." She greeted, sticking her hand up as though to shake, or ask to stand. Bruce rolled his eyes and ignored both, side stepping the child on the floor to place the package for Dick on the bat-table.

Steph sighed dramatically from where she lay on the ground, and shuffled her feet so that she was at a better angle to look at him. "Rough day today huh Boss?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow as he slipped off his cowl, depositing it onto the table as well. "Why are you here Stephanie?" Steph pouted, even going so far as to cross her arms.

"Sick of me already are we?" There was distinct teasing in her tone, but enough vulnerability that Bruce didn't immediately agree. Instead he rolled his eyes again, pretending he hadn't heard the moment of weakness.

"Stephanie I'm afraid you've grown on me. Like a tumor." He deadpanned instead, spinning in his chair once before smacking his feet to the ground to halt it, and leveled a hard look at her. "In order for me to be sick of you, I'd have to remove a piece of myself."

Steph laughed, and if her voice was a little scratchy he ignored that too. She lunged to her feet, using the trick Dick had taught all Robins at some point, and Bruce turned back to the computer as she draped herself across the back of his chair.

She and Dick scared him, sometimes, with their utter lack of bones. They were both limber to an incredible degree, and having lived under Selina's guidance for over a year, Steph was very much catlike in her movements, currently arching her back as she lolled over his chair. Bruce didn't even want to know how she managed to stay balanced.

"Bring me anything fun from patrol?" she asked after a few seconds of silence as Bruce filled out the usual after-patrol forms. He glanced at her, unimpressed. "From patrol?" He repeated, playing dumb.

Steph rolled her eyes. "Oh come on Boss. Don't play dumb. Did anyone have anything fun?" Bruce rolled his eyes(if he did it any more he feared they'd fall out of his head), returning his attention to his spreadsheet.

"You know my stance on taking things from the people of Gotham." Steph scoffed, rolling off the chair and instead taking a seat on the table, lounging across it.

"They're criminals." She pointed out, like they hadn't had variations of this conversation almost once a week since he'd met her.

Bruce sent her an unimpressed look. "By most people's standards, so are we." he pointed out, his usual argument. Steph rolled her eyes, dropping down onto the table, effectively cutting off his access to typing.

"Can we just skip the fight today and go to what you got me?" She asked hopefully, smiling up at him. Bruce frowned at her, tugging his hands back from where she'd flopping on top of them. Her smile widened.

Bruce sighed, tugging off his gloves, and reached into one of his pockets. Steph squealed, sitting up, hands out expectantly.

"This doesn't mean I took it from anyone." He warned. Steph chuckled. "Ok old man- ya bought it. Fair and square. I got it. But you still got something for me!" He had no counter for that, so he reluctantly handed over the small gadget he'd purchased a few days ago when he'd been window shopping with Harley.

Steph stared at the small wad of black fabric, her face lighting up as she unveiled its contents. "Lock picks?" She gasped, looking at him with pure delight. Bruce nodded the affirmative.

"State of the art. I know your old ones are-" Before he could explain his observation and why he'd bought the little treasure for her(a remnant of their Batman and Robin days when she'd dropped little trinkets into the pockets that she'd stolen from criminals they'd apprehended and he started returning the gesture with his own gifts) her arms were around his neck in a hug.

Bruce startled in surprise, and his blood buzzed as her arms came into direct contact with his skin, but hugged her back. Before he had fully wrapped his arms around her though, Steph flinched back, eyes wide.

"What was that." She whispered, breathless, hand clasped tightly around his gift. Bruce frowned, before he realized what she was asking.

"Apologies for not informing you." Bruce apologized. "It's why I was home so late, Zatanna was checking it was nonlethal. I was hit with a spell that makes me exude warmth when I come into direct contact with someone." He explained. Stephanie's eyes narrowed at him.

"Is that what you'd call it?" She muttered, eyes dancing around nervously. Bruce frowned, hand reaching to touch his neck where she'd touched.

"Is.. everything alright? That's what Zatanna said it did.." he repeated doubtfully.

Steph let out a humorless laugh. "Of course she did. Fu-" Bruce sent her a warning look. "Frickin witch." Steph hastened. He nodded, a small smile curling his lips.

"Well, what did you feel?" Bruce asked, curious now. Steph hesitated, hands bunching her shirt.

"i- uh. I felt. Warm." She whispered. "Yeah... I guess. I guess I did feel warm." A small smile tugged her lips. "Zatanna was right. It does provide warmth to whoever touches you Bruce. You provide warmth."

Bruce frowned at the strange phrasing, and the sudden agreement with Zatanna when she'd previously been so vehemently against it, but as Stephanie hesitantly curled up again in his arms, muttering a thank you for her new lock picks, Bruce decided the issues wasn't worth pushing. Not so long as it wasn't bringing her any harm.

-ugh so that did not go in a way i'd planned actually- im not upset about it, it's fine and I actually did want Stephanie and Babs to be the focus of this one because my girls get way too little time with their not-dad for my liking, but it did spiral a little in the middle there and I took a second to get it back on track- anyway thanks/no thanks for infecting me with that little brain bug, but i enjoyed writing it at least!

The entire completed thing :)

in case anyone wants to see more batkid reactions :)

[pennylanewrites]

teacher’s aide (levi ackerman)

warnings: m!masturbation, voyerism, alcohol, smoking, age gap (15 years), me pushing my smitten!levi agenda

levi ackerman was an esteemed and recognised sociology professor. stern, strict and to the point in all of his lectures. most of his classes kept quiet, trying to take notes while he talked fast and went through powerpoint slides like it was the morning paper.

you had been working hard for that teacher’s aide position for two years, when you finally got the acceptance email. it was no secret on campus that professor ackerman’s assistants worked closely to him and got accepted in prestigious firms right after college, with his recommendation of course.

it was also no secret that professor ackerman was incredibly good-looking. his veiny arms and broad shoulders made up for his short height and the way his raven hair fell over his rectangular seeing glasses was so…

“y/n.” his stern voice shook you out of your thoughts. crap. the whole auditorium was staring at you. “the papers.” was all he said before going back to his laptop. you looked down at your hands, realising you were holding the class’s tests for more than you should. you cleared your throat and went through the auditorium, leaving a stack of papers in front of each student. as you walked down, your eye caught his.

levi noticed everything. he noticed how today you were wearing lipgloss instead of your usual lipstick, he noticed the rip in your tights that went down the back of your leg, your new platform loafers and the beads of sweat on your forehead. levi ackerman was not the kind of man that would catch feelings for a student, but you were so…good.

yes, at first he thought you were very attractive, and maybe that’s why he always rejected your aide application. but he also got to know you better every time you replied to one of his questions. you were the only student brave enough to raise their hand, and he appreciated that. sooner than later, you stayed back every day after class to clean up the mess of loose papers and pens, and before he knew it he was smitten.

maybe it was the way you brushed against him to clean the board and shut the projector, a timid apology escaping your lips, or the way you weren’t afraid to challenge him in a theoretical conversation about archaic philosophy during class.

or maybe…shit, how long have i been staring? levi looked away and cleared his throat when he noticed you trying to contain your smile.

class was over and you were going through your usual routine, marking left over questionnaires from the last lecture as he went through tomorrow’s one.

“sir, i’m wondering about…” you rolled your chair across the auditorium’s stage, holding onto his desk to stop the chair, “this one.” you pointed at a question on the paper.

levi was not one to lose his temper, but he was finding it very hard to contain himself when your knee was touching his and your perfume could reach his brain through his nose.

“well, this-this one…” he trailed off, watched you push your hair off your neck, leaving the bare skin on sight for him. god, he could eat you right then and there.

levi had never been more thankful for his phone to ring in his life. the vice dean’s name flashed on the screen, and you leaned back to allow him to get the device.

“i have to go…meeting…come by my office tonight, okay?” he scrambled to get his things and ran off, leaving you in the empty auditorium.

you let your head fall on your pillow, groaning with despair. he hates me. he can’t even talk to me.

you had seen him earlier with petra, his old t.a who graduated last year. he was laughing, for fuck’s sake. he was laughing and buying her coffee in the campus coffee house, and they were sitting over a book and…

“ugh! what is she even doing here?” you threw your pillow on the floor, but it hit you back in the face.

“oh my god, shut up!” your roommate kept hitting you with the pillow, until you grabbed it. “enough, y/n, please.”

“mikasa, do you think they’re dating?” you sat up on the bed, looking at the girl across you. “be honest, i can take it.”

“i think you’re sick. there’s something seriously wrong with you.” she scrunched her nose up in disgust.

“he’s so…”

“old.”

“mature.”

“he’s mature because he’s old.” your roommate kindly reminded you of your age difference. “get over him, please. even if he liked you, he’s your teacher. i doubt he would put his job in danger.”

your eyes lit up, an excited smile covering your earlier gloom.

“you think he likes me?”

“that’s not what i said. where are you going?”

you only grinned before grabbing your bag and barging out of the dorm room. your shoes squeezed against the polished floors as you made your way to the teachers’ wing, and to the third door to your left, your favourite wooden door in the world.

with a sigh, you lifted your fist to knock, but something made you freeze. you looked around to make sure no one was in the corridor, before pushing your ear against the door.

shit, shit, shit, shit

he was moaning. fucking moaning, in his office, when he had specifically told you to visit him. you thought of the possibility of him having a girl in there, even petra, but no one else could be heard. everything right in your head was telling you to turn around and leave, but your hand was on the doorknob, and you were slowly twisting it.

just one look. one look and i’ll-

your eyes grew wide at the sight. a half empty bottle of bourbon sat next to an empty glass, a cigarette was slowly burning on the ashtray, the first two buttons of his white shirt were undone. god, you could clearly see his nipples through the fabric. the desk obscured your vision, but you could see his hand moving up and down, up and down, up-

“fu-fuuuck.” his voice strained, his head fell back and you were wet a creep.

you turned around and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. looking at your reflection on your phone, you made sure pervert wasn’t written across your forehead, and turned back around.

two soft knocks on the door. levi fixed his hair quickly, buttoned his shirt and put the cigarette out.

“come in.” you entered the room and he looked at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“long day?” you pointed at the bottle, smiling softly. he chuckled and motioned for you to sit down. “i can come back some other…” you trailed off when he took another glass out, filling it halfway and pushing it towards you.

you fidgeted with a ring on your finger, unsure of what to do.

“i shouldn’t…”

“i won’t tell if you won’t.” he filled his own glass and raised it to you, before taking a sip. you smiled softly, taking a sip of the drink. it burned coming down, just like his gray stare on you did.

“i have the tests marked. that question i was wondering about earlier,” you took the stack of papers out of your bag, leaving them in front of the man.

“yeah, i looked it up. it’s actually-”

“i figured it out.” you cut him off. he raised an eyebrow and put his glasses on, looking down at the marked paper, and the right answer which you had wrote down in red ink.

“you did.” he agreed and looked at you through strands of his raven hair. “good girl.”

you froze. you could feel your whole face turning an ugly shade of red. a million disgusting thoughts ran through your head as he walked around the desk to sit on the chair across from yours. his muscles flexed as he reached over the desk to get the ashtray and his drink. you took a big sip of the drink, trying to convince yourself the sexual tension was just in your head.

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck.

“what?” he shook you out of your thoughts. he knew you were staring at him.

“nothing. i’ve never seen you like this.” you admitted, still sipping your drink.

“like what?”

like you don’t have a stick up your ass.

“relaxed.” you opted for the nice comment.

“i’m far from relaxed, trust me.” you watched as he placed a cigarette between his wet lips, lighting it with a white lighter.

“those are bad luck.” you took the lighter in your hand, fidgeting with it.

“huh. maybe that’s why my life’s shit.” he chuckled, taking a drag of the cigarette.

“come on…” your eyes fell on a book on his desk.

masculine domination, pierre bourdieu. you grinned, taking it in your hands to inspect the front page.

“take it. it’s for my doctorate students, but i think you-”

“i’ve read it.” you closed it and put it back on the pile.

“of course you have. you’re a smart girl, you know?”

he was praising you. and he was filling your glass again. when did you even finish the first?

“are you trying to get me drunk, sir?”

“i think you’re capable of controlling yourself.”

“don’t be so sure.” you mumbled, staring at your feet.

“what was that?”

“nothing!” you shook it off with a smile, but he had heard you just fine.

god, you wanted him so bad. as the hours went by, and the bottle came to its’ end, you became more and more impatient. you were scared of what you would do honestly, if one more drop of alcohol entered your system. but, were you crazy to think he wanted this too? why would he pour you a drink, and ask you all these questions, and make you laugh with stupid jokes if he-

“what are you thinking about?” he shook you out of your thoughts. you showed him the clock on the wall.

“that i should get going. some teacher thought it would be a good idea to have an 8 am class.” you grinned. you reached your hand out to return him his lighter, but you dropped it instead.

“that’s one lousy teacher.” he chuckled, kneeling on the floor to get the lighter. you waited for him to get up, so you could too, but he wouldn’t move. still kneeling, he came closer to you, his hands hesitantly moving to rest on the sides of your thighs.

internally, you were screaming. but not a single breath came out of your mouth as you watched him. he sighed and finally locked eyes with you.

“i’m not crazy, am i?”

“wh-what?” your voice came out as a whisper. pathetic.

“to think there’s something, right? here. there’s something here and i-”

“sir-”

“don’t.” he squeezed your thighs and you swore your heart would jump out your chest sooner or later. he straightened his back and got up, pulling you with him. “don’t call me sir.”

you let him seat you on top of his desk, you let him spread your legs and stand between them. he pushed your hair behind your ear and inched closer. his breath against your neck made you shiver, and a soft kiss forced a small gasp out of your mouth.

your hands trembled as you placed them around his neck, and his breath staggered when you played with the strands of hair that fell on his undercut.

“please kiss me.” he swore his knees would give when he heard your voice, so soft, so sweet. you were as needy for him as he was for you.

his strong hands met your face, his silver ring cooled your burning cheek. you closed your eyes, and his lips finally met yours. it was careful at first, both of you scared the other would change their mind. but all it took was you pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt, and he lost his mind. his hands slipped down to your waist and you arched your back to get closer to him, if that was even possible. your mouth trailed to his jaw, leaving sloppy kisses all the way down his neck. a playful bite made him gasp. you chuckled.

“stop. you’ll drive me crazy.” he squeezed your hip.

“good.” you grinned and leaned in to kiss him again, but his hand in your hair held you back.

“you have to go…” he managed between soft kisses down your chest, at least as far as your shirt allowed, “or i won’t be able to stop.” he held your hands, and kissed them both, maintaining eye contact with you.

“then don’t stop.” you whined, but your grin turned into a frown when he pulled you off the desk and fixed your skirt. “levi-”

“save something for later, right?”

his promise of a later was enough. you left him to clean up and walked out the door with a sheepish smile and a whispered goodnight.

your phone buzzed on your way back to the dorms, and you stopped in your tracks when you saw the name on the screen.

professor ackerman: wear that green dress tomorrow.

you raised an eyebrow.

just the dress.

[anastasiabowe]

𝘾𝙃𝘼 𝘾𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂! — Your husbands who just can’t say no to your cute little face, but sometimes that comes with a cost you will have to pay.

note: This one came to me in a DREAM. I want a man like this, so why not make my man like this?🤷🏽‍♀️

Content warnings: overstim, piv, punishment, rich husband, spanking, tough love, swearing, anything else 17+

★ — 𝗡𝗔𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜

Nanami loved when you were happy. It wasn’t even a happy wife happy life situation, it was a I love seeing her smile situation. He never denied you of any expensive item you wanted. I mean how could he say no to you? He watched as you practically skipped around the mall with his black card, showcasing it if anyone who glanced at you.

He smirked seeing you happy, but yet he felt a little disappointed by your lack of self control. He knew what he was getting into when he pulled out that million dollar ring. His strong arms were lined with black bags and name brands, your hands only holding his card and one small bag. He didn’t mind though, as long as you were happy!

But don’t think he lets you get away with everything! If you have an attitude after this shopping spree, which you do, he will punish you, and that’s because he loves you! It was an agreement, if you can spend his cash, he can use you, or what he likes to say, “enjoy you.”

“Nanamin!” You whined as your new set of black nails tried to push his stomach away.

“Yes?” His deep, yet professional voice oh so casually responded, despite his deep thrusts.

“P-please slow down! I can’t t-take it!” He chuckled at you, you were too cute to ignore, but this is what you deserve! You spent thousands of dollars today, and when he simply asked “are you almost done?” You give an attitude? Oh no, no, no. You weren’t going to get away with that.

“I’m sorry baby, just wanna show you who’s paying for everything you bought today. Just wanna show you who you were giving an attitude to.” He started to speed up, and you cried from the amount of orgasms you’ve had.

“Just one more, then you can have a break.” He kissed your head, and readjusted his position, you both know it won’t be one more.

★ — 𝗧𝗢𝗝𝗜

Toji hated when you spent his money. And what I mean by hate, I mean he will hand you his card and regret it later. You’re actually a modest shopper. You have a bit of an expensive taste, but you have respect for Toji enough to not go crazy. But when Toji had handed you his card at the mall and gave you and said something back handed, you went a little wild.

You bought new heels, expensive jeans, expensive make up, expensive bags. You swiped his card until your hand had a rectangular shape from how hard you gripped it while you tapped it to the card reader.

When Toji later that night checked all of the receipts (which you purposely got so he could see how mad you were) he nearly blew a fuse. $10,000 worth of items you bought. Even though that is nearly nothing compared to how much is in his bank account, it was the principle of it.

“I give you my fucking card only for you to use it like a fucking piece of plastic.” His hand smacked your left ass cheek, making you dig your nails into his thigh.

“I-I’m sorry!” You cried. He rubbed his hand over the deep red mark, and tsked.

“I bet you are.” He landed two more hits to your left and right cheek. You let out a whimper and he ripped both of your cheeks again.

“$10,000, y/n. What were you shopping for, a house?” He chuckled at his own joke, but you didn’t find this funny. He landed another smack. “What made you think that was ok?”

You sniffled from crying and the rage you felt earlier burned through your body again. “Maybe if you didn’t call me a gold digger, yo I wouldn’t be $10,000 poorer!”

The word “poor” irked something in him he hasn’t felt in a while. He grabbed your hair and pulled your head up.

“I’d watch your fucking mouth, I’m the one who fucking pays for your shit.” He spat, you frown, and your bottom lip slowly popped out. He knew what you were doing, but it wasn’t going to work.

“Nah, don’t pull that shit.” He smirked, but the longer he looked at your face the more guilty he felt.

“Y/n.” He warned. You continued to look at him with that face, and he sighed. “You spoiled brat.” He let go of your hair, and moved you to straddle him.

“Just don’t be spending my money all crazy ‘n shit.” You nodded, and he rolled his eyes.

You always fucking win.