#why are these two the same. why does it keep Fucking Me Up that they’re the same.

[0gl1tch0]

-AWAY! Fuck you. We’re done! And honestly this is a long time coming. Things have been shit, you have been shit, for so long. Looking back I don’t know why I put up with it. Momentum? But this, this is on another level. You got my family involved. Don’t fucking talk to my family! We’re done. Fuck you. This is goodb-

I only know one spell.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

I can use it on one person, and have them forget forget forget one thing, at one time. Use it on someone else and they remember, immediately.

It’s not the most useful spell. It can’t cover up anything with two witnesses. It can’t hide any memory indefinitely.

And I can’t use it on myself.

I would.

It’s hard to pick the one thing I’d use it for.

YOU wouldn’t believe it. I just got pulled over and I’m like super high. And I’m sooo nervous. Like this pig is definitely knows. But he goes back to his car to run my plates and he must have gotten a car or something, cause he just flipped on his lights and drove AW-

Susan is at the library on a Tuesday. She’s supposed to be at work, but she forgot. So she went to the library like she usually does on her days off. It helps her study. She’s earning an online degree in public health. She’s a good person trying to help. Plus, she doesn’t want to be a security guard forever.

But she does want to be a security guard for now. And the second I make someone else forget forget forget something, she’ll remember. She’ll be running back to work confused with no excuse. I suppose if I did it to her enough then the government would fire her. But I need her to keep her job, at least for now.

So I change what I’m forcing her to forget forget forget. She grabs her purse and starts sprinting out the door to her car. She doesn’t remember to log out of library computer though. I don’t let her.

-N we talk? If you’re busy it’s okay but this is important. Last night I was hanging out with one of the guys from work. I thought he was sweet, and we were having fun, I dunno. I was just so drunk. It started to rain and I was cold and I wanted to go inside but I just passed out on the ground. And he was laughing. He just left me there. My memory gets hazy after that. YOU-

It’s a funny thing, memories. Every time you think about them, they change. They aren’t records you play and put back on the shelf. They’re stories you tell yourself, over and over, memorizing the newest telling each time. Your biggest regrets? Those terrible things seared into your brain? You aren’t reliving a particularly bad moment. No, you spend the rest of your life telling yourself the same sad story, over and over, combing through the details looking for any little thing you could have changed. But it doesn’t matter. The ending is always the same.

Even if your mind slowly massages your recollection, reality brings back the pain you can’t forget forget forget.

Take Susan, for instance. She shot and killed someone. And she’s been retelling herself those every day since. I can see it, in the version history of the report of the incident on her computer. Certain truths become fuzzier. Certain falsehoods more distinct. Her memories of the biggest regrets of her life smoothing like wood, as she tries to sand away a chaotic hectic and jagged piece of her foundation into something she doesn’t hurt herself to touch. But the guy is still dead. The smooth shaft of wood still ends in the point of a spear. And she’s stabbing herself on it. Trying to forget forget forget.

Her boss says she’s a hero. The mayor is going to meet with her. Only she’s not going to remember the meeting.

I only have a few minutes before she runs back into the library and signs out of the computer. I won’t need half that to clean up after myself. I’m not the kind of person whose presence leaves evidence. Not anymore.

-ught about it. For a long time. And I. I dunno. I like you a lot. It’s just. I mean how would that even work? Maybe we should just be friends. CAN-

Getting into the restaurant will not be easy. I can’t sit down at a table without a reservation. Even if I cast a spell on the hostess, that won’t change whether or not the tables are full. And if I get a table, I have to order something. This isn’t a place regular folks can afford, and I can’t even scrap together regular people money. Maybe it slips the waiters mind and he doesn’t bill me, but I’m leaving here with my spell on the Mayor. I just need to get close to him for a moment.

One moment. That’s all any of us ever need. That’s all any of us ever get. We are all just a collection of what we did in a small list of moments.

-HIS is a really bad time. I’m sorry, my dog just died. I really can’t think about anything else right now. I don’t have the THOU-

Human beings, ultimately, are just a pile of chemicals. Big meaty lumps controlled by electrical signals powered by a series of gasses and fluids, flowing at a steady rate each and every second. We are a teetering balancing act of chemical input and chemical output, existing as a filter in a river of time while reality sifts through us.

It’s not the balance that makes us. It’s the imbalances. It’s the different needs and cravings at different levels. What does it mean when the introduction of someone’s scent increases our endorphin levels? How do we shape our lives if the thing we’re missing comes in a pill that the government can take away? What does it say about us if the thing we’re missing doesn’t come in any pill at all? What would you do to try and find balance? How good does something have to feel to be good enough?

We are all just piles of chemicals trying to bond.

And I’m standing in the bathroom because I let one chemical spill out.

I cut myself on my arm, walked into the front room, and asked if I could clean myself up. Of course security would let me through. I didn’t even need to use a spell to be left alone in here, although I’d planned to. Most people are inherently good, most of the time. And I erase a little bit of people to get what I want. What does that make me?

AND he’s dead. Oh my god he’s dead. I just found his obituary. It says he killed himself, Jesus Christ killed himself months ago. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, the best part of me. I think we were like… platonic soulmates. And he’s been gone. Just gone. For months! I can’t believe it. Please say something. I can’t take TH-

I’m not going to kill the mayor.

I could, maybe, I think. For a few minutes have him forget forget forget to breathe.

But I don’t want anyone to die. I just want there to be a little less hate. I want Susan not to have hated anyone who scared her while she was working alone. I want Susan not to hate herself for what she was expected to do while afraid. I want Susan not to hate herself for what she does now, just to get one evening where she feels good.

I want the first world to function less punitively. I want the world to understand decisions were little bursts of energy through couple soupy wrinkles of meat, and sometimes that energy misfires. Sometimes that meat is wrong.

But we don’t do that. We see something wrong and we hate it. We hate it like that will make it right. If the force of our disdain and the extremity of our punishment are extreme enough we can beat the things we hate into submission. We treat the human psyche like its only remedy is ballistic repair. Hit it to make it start working. If the signal is still fuzzy hit it again.

We hit each other and ourselves so hard and so often that the only remaining ways to cope are the exact things we hated in the first place. We hate the poor so we take their homes away. We hate the fat so we force them to stay inside where we cannot see them. We call addicts criminals and brand them for life, barring them from any alternatives that might feel good.

And the mayor? He needs people to vote for him. So he has to be the paragon of our hate. He has to embody it, to take that nebulous hate and through his pen channel it into legislation. In front of dozens of cameras he’s going to sign a bill that condemns those of us hurting the most to even worse cells at even worse prisons for even longer sentences. And he’ll do it with a smile, in front of dozens of cameras, shaking the thankful public’s hand.

But it won’t do anything. You can’t unring a bell. You can’t untake a pill or unpull a trigger. Susan won’t bring that boy back when she rethinks the story, when she takes pain killers, when she gets fired for having them or when she spends time in a cell. He will always be dead.

So I won’t let the Mayor do this. For three days the bill will sit in a shelf in his desk that I command him to forget forget forget.

That’s the best I can do. I just stop things from getting worse. I don’t know how to make things better. That’s not my part of the phrase.

No I think we could move in together. What’s the worst that happens, I have a shitty year there? I’m going to have a shitty year here. Besides, you’re my best friend. If we get into a fight I’m sure we can’t forgive and-

You only know one spell, and it isn’t even a high-level spell. But between its versatility and your creativity, you’ve still made a name for yourself.

[rotten-patty]

I’m still not over it I’ll never be over it I fucking adore Farewell, Rayashki and I need to talk about how Windsong and Vila, and by extension Rayashki, compliment each other.

Rayashki is a near-utopian dream - Vila particularly states it often, how it’s her dream and how wonderful it is to live there, and everyone else living in it shares this dream, and they fight tooth and nail to keep it alive and fuel it.

And then there’s Windsong. I’d call her the POV character for this story, with her own dream, of revitalizing the study of ley lines, and proving its legitimacy to the wider world.

And I adore how these two dreams intersect.

Immediately, Vila shows the acceptance and welcoming nature of Rayashki - the same she had received. She, and the others, allow Windsong to prove herself without prejudice, and that’s exactly what she does.

The line “This is where our paths meet” may as well encapsulate their story, and the story of Rayashki. It’s a place where others can find their home, a place they belong without judgement - and which in turn helps facilitate their dream.

Windsong is heard, accepted - and her studies help the town turn around. She helps them deal with the critters, the Zeno occupation - and, eventually, their problem with the town’s sustainability, by discovering a massive coaldeposit, all thanks to the knowledge hidden in the ley lines.

But she couldn’t have done it by herself.

The people of Rayashki, and Vila in particular, believe in her theory, and maybe more importantly, they believe in Windsong, likely even more than she believes in herself. They give her the courage to push further, to stand her ground, and to prove what she knows and what she can do.

And it’s mutual. When the Zeno try to tempt her with an endorsement, she does consider it at first.

But Zeno doesn’t believe in her. Rayashki, Vila, however; they do.

What immediately jumped at me was the wording of “less than satisfactory results”. Everything Windsong had said, predicted or discovered here so far was right - the only thing less than satisfactory was what she was leading the people of Rayashki to discover - which, while it came at an unforeseen cost, was just what they had needed.

But the point is, Zeno didn’t believe in her. Zemo didn’t care. This was a carrot on a stick, a way to shut her up and get her out of the way. And this wouldn’t prove her studies. To take this endorsement would be to walk away from the exact opportunity that she had been waiting for her whole academic career, with no proof to show for it.

But she stuck with Rayashki, she believed in Rayashki, in Vila’s dream, because they believed in her dream. This is where their paths met.

This and many other reasons are why I adore the story of Rayashki. It was everything I had hoped it would be, and I’m absolutely thrilled for 1987 Cosmic Overture. Windsong has become one of my favourite characters throughout, and the dynamic of her, Vila and August is wonderful.

Anyway I love them so much and I need them to kiss. I’ve been scouring Windla fics for hours after finishing Rayashki and they’re all so good and I need more and I’m basically decided that I will write some (after I finish the ToothZ in my drafts).

[rainrot4me]

The hc on Clockwork drawing Toby makes me wonder. What IS your opinion on Toby x Clockwork/Ticciwork?

Oh, where do I begin. To me, Ticciwork is like a gunpowder x lighter situation. They’re definitely exes who keep getting back together and splitting up again, but I feel a deep love for one-another that nobody else really gets.

Nat’s calculated, hardened, with a tight grip on her emotions—but she feels deeply. She’s the kind of person who would scoff at feelings while secretly craving stability, protection, someone who sees her scars and doesn’t flinch. She works with control—mechanical precision, trauma that forced her into maturity far too fast.

On the other hand, Toby’s chaotic, impulsive, and often out of touch with his own emotional landscape. He’s rough around the edges, but there’s this raw honesty in him that Nat would notice—and might even crave. His tics, his temper, his noise—those could unsettle her at first. But over time, I think she’d see the vulnerability beneath all of it.

Howeverrrrrrr, they’re manic. Put two crazy, traumatized people together and you’ll get an explosion before you get anything kind.

They break up at least three times a year. And every time, it ends the same way: with bruised lips, sharp words, and one of them slamming the door. But they never stay away. Toby throws things. Not at her—never at her—but around her. He can’t handle the silence. Can’t handle the thought of losing her. Natalie stands like stone, arms crossed, eyes burning. “You always ruin this. Why can’t you ever just be satisfied?” But two nights later, he’s outside her window, soaked in blood and rain, shivering like a kid. And she lets him in. Always.

They’ve seen each other at their worst. Not the messy proxy shit—the real stuff. The things no one else knows. She knows about the way he cries in his sleep but never lets the tears fall. He knows she doesn’t wind her clock when she’s overwhelmed—lets the ticking stop because she can’t bear to feel the time pass. They never talk about it. But they both remember.

Most nights, he finds her in the bathroom, floor tile cold against her legs, trembling hands trying to hold herself together. He sits beside her. Doesn’t say a word. Just slides a hoodie over her shoulders and rests his head on her knee.

Now for everyone’s favorite part, the sex.

It’s angry. Gripping. Desperate. Like they’re trying to punish each other for still loving this much. She claws at his back like she’s digging through all the silence between them. He leaves bruises on her hips like he’s trying to prove something—like maybe if he marks her up enough, she won’t leave again.

Afterwards, she curls into his chest, breath hitching.

“You’re the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, lips at her neck. “Then why do you still co-come back?”

“Because no one else sees me like you do.”

He goes quiet. Pulls her closer. “Shut up.”

They date other people. Clockwork flirts to make Toby jealous. Toby fucks someone else to prove he’s “over it.” But it always feels wrong. Off. Like they’re wearing someone else’s skin.

They can be halfway across the country from each other and know when something’s wrong. She’ll wake up with a tight feeling in her chest. He’ll get that electric buzz in his bones. And eventually one of them shows up.

No matter how bad it gets, how many times they blow up, if someone else lays a hand on the other? They’re dead.

It’s toxic. But also? No one else has ever loved them like this. No one else ever will. They’re both so fucked in the head that nothing normal or soft would satisfy them. So, sure, they’re horrible and awful to be around, but no one else sees them the way the other does. That still doesn’t mean that Natalie won’t beat the absolute shit out of him. She has shot him before, she will do it again.

꩜ .ᐟ

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I love being within walking distance of a bakery

[qrovidcore]

man the thing about doing the temple of bhaal first is that durge is speaking from experience huh

[nanamisgirly]

cw geto is maybe bi here idk, chubby nerd!reader with a bit of attitude, tbh there's no cw it's borderline between smut and fluff

part.2 part.3 part.4

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees :33

womanizer!geto loves fucking women. truly he does! they are all wrapped around his fingers and all he has to do is glancing at them. and this goes for the whole campus!! even boys would fuck him if he'd give them the chance. and maybe, if the mood struck just right at a party or in a messy, drunken threesome/orgies, he does fuck the boys.

but womanizer!geto has also a nerd bestie. the typical nerd girl. she was everything but his type. nothing that looked like his usual hookup girls. she was not fit, but not exactly fat. just chubby. her acne scars from high school still there with still some pimples that comes and go. and of course the infamous nerd glasses that didn't seem to want to stay on her nose.

you were not someone womanizer!geto would ever fuck. that's why you're friends. strictly platonic. he liked how you never batted an eye at his reputation, never judged, never treated him like a conquest. you both grow close through the years together in the same degree, during the late nights session study in the library before exams, for you it was monnnths before exams, you're a little ball of stress.

womanizer!geto doesn't like when guys approached you. not because he cares—why would he? it just...doesn't make sense. you're not the kind of girl men chase. not the kind they brag about. so he makes sure to lecture you about it—especially about frat boys. "they’re the worst," he mutters, arm slung lazily over your chair as his knee bumped against yours under the table. "trust me, nerd. they only act nice 'cause they wanna see how you moan." you rolled your eyes, setting your pen down with an amused scoff. "do you think i've never fucked, suguru?" you shrugged, smirking at his clueless expression "just 'cause i'm shy and a 'nerd' doesn't mean I don't enjoy a good fuck." well, you were lying but he doesn't need to know that. you were probably having sex every couples of months and it wasn't even that good. your voice was light when you added, "thanks for the concern, though." something in his chest stutters. and for some reason, he has to look away.

womanizer!geto has no shame. he lets girls climb into his lap, lets their hands wander, lets them grind against him right on the couch with people around. almost fucking them on the spot. but never when you're around! why? well, he tells himself it's respect. at least, that's the excuse he clings to. because why else would he pull away from a pretty thing palming his cock just to go talk to you? right? he's just...pitying you. that's all. and yet—when he finally starts to feel his cock hardening in his pants, he tells himself it has nothing to do with your wide, innocent eyes blinking up at him. nothing to do with the way your lips part, soft and expectant. his dick is...delayed. yeah. just slow to catch up to the last girl's game. horrible by the way.

and of course womanizer!geto is trying to subtly adjust his pants. he's forcing his mind elsewhere—anywhere else—because if he lets himself think too hard about how fucking pretty you look right now, he's going to have a problem. a big one.

womanizer!geto keeps a polaroid of you in his wallet. only because you are his bestie! don't get any ideas on that. he found the picture cute that's it. the two of you, standing under a canopy of cherry blossom, petals floating around you like something out of a dream. his strong arm wrapped tightly around your plush waist, your round soft tits pressing against his chest. it had been an innocent day. really. he had dragged you out after hours of studying, calling you a nerd and insisting you needed air before your brain cells ended up smeared on the library table. what was supposed to be a thirty minutes walk turned into four hours. and when you reaching this pretty alley he couldn't help but suggest a pic—just for the memory! and obviously his arm was around you only to male sur you both fit in the camera frame. obviously. he was not dying to touch you!

and now here it was. the damn polaroid in gojo's hand. the white-haired menace grinning like he just found the greatest blackmail material of all time. "damn, suguru, you look so whipped." geto's eye twitched.

"look at this! holding our nerd like she's breakable—aww, how so sweet!!" gojo snickered, flipping the photo dramatically. "and—hold on. did she kiss your cheek?" suguru said nothing, jaw locked as his mind instantly flashed back to that moment—how you rose on your tiptoes, one hand pressing slightly on his broad shoulder to steady yourself as you leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to his cheek. he had frozen for a second and he vividly recall your flushed face, wide eyes as you apologized profusely, muttering something about being 'carried away by the moment' and how it was simply a 'friendly' gesture.

his cock begins to stir at the memory of your soft lips against his skin. his heart skipping some beats.

"wait—holy shit." gojo barks out a laugh. "you keep this in your wallet? what, you jerk off to it?" your entire soul leaves your body. geto sees the way your eyes go wide, the way your hands fly to your face in horror.

and that's it. geto slowly stands up, cracking his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. "satoru," he said, voice eerily calm. gojo gulped. he was a dead man walking.

womanizer!geto tells himself he's just messing with you—that the way his fingers linger when he wipes a stray drop of your melting ice cream isn’t because he’s imagining how warm and soft your mouth would feel wrapped around his fingers. he convinces himself that when you lick your spoon, tongue flicking over the tip—his cock is not aching dreaming to be at the metal-stenciled place. and his rock-hard cock has definitely nothing to do with the way your thighs spread soft and full against the couch or the way your tits bouncy sightly every time you shift.

womanizer!geto is totally fine when you stretch on the couch next to him. arms up, back arching, body pushing forward, making your curves more prominent, making that cute little tummy press out—wait what?? geto shook his head trying to get back to his senses. no need to highlight it was impossible with the way his cock twitched in his pants.

womanizer!geto, obviously, does not want something with you..he does not want to bury himself into the plush softness of his nerd best friend, does not want to hear how sweetly you'd whimper his name. she's not his type!!!!

°‧★ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁( 。 •̀ ᴖ •́ 。)

a/n chubby girls are the biggest win 🙂‍↕️☝️

[wow-thisismylifeiguess]

Cryptid Bruce

Martha and Thomas Wayne struggled to have a child for years and Thomas meets a shady man who tells him that a child will come to them soon

Thomas just ‘??? okaaaaaay’s him but in a week, Martha bursts into his office looking frazzled

“We’re being haunted.”

“….”

“Don’t give me that look, Thomas Wayne. The Manor. It’s haunted. Alfred! Tell him we’re being haunted!”

And Alfred comes in, also looking frazzled but to a lesser degree.

The two explain that things are moving around the Manor without any kind of explanation, but Thomas doesn’t believe them. Until he notices things in his office also being moved. The weirdest event is when they start hearing a child’s giggles. No explanation. None.

Not until Thomas, sleep deprived after going over paperwork for one too many hours, pops into the kitchen and…there is a child. Sitting on the kitchen counter.

The child, a boy, turns. Grins. Waves.

“Hi, daddy.”

—

Bruce, they name him, can melt into shadows. He finds it hilarious. Martha thinks she’s going to go grey at her young age. She adores him. Thomas adores him. He’s their son now.

The Waynes have a mysterious child, but they keep their private lives very private, so maybe they just successfully hid a pregnancy? And then a child. For…three years. They think Bruce is three, at least.

Despite how odd of a child Bruce is, they love him dearly. He’s some kind of miracle. A…very weird, possibly magical(?) miracle.

—

Dick thinks his adoptive father is strange. Extremely strange. Bruce makes absolutely no noise when he moves. He doesn’t cast shadows but he seemingly is able to *blend into them*. His smile, whilst genuine, seems a little too sharp.

He thinks he’s a vampire.

Bruce laughs so hard, he doubles over.

“No, but I am the Batman, so I guess you’re not far off.”

“…is this a joke?”

“Nope.”

“A dream?”

Bruce pinches him and Dick yelps.

Bruce doesn’t explain to Dick what he is, because he doesn’t have a clue himself. He just…is.

—

But when Jason comes along, he has a million and one questions. Bruce blinks at him.

“How did you do that? You literally *melted* into the shadows!”

Bruce shrugs.

“No. *No*. Explain.”

“I…can’t.”

“You said no secrets, B!”

Bruce puts his hands up defensively. “It’s not a secret! I really don’t know! It just…kind of happens.”

Jason stares at him. Bruce stands there. He seems to flicker? The edges of his body go a bit transparent and Dick knows he only does that when he’s stressed.

“Leave him alone, Jay. He’s telling the truth. He’s just…like that. But he’s still Bruce.”

It takes Jason two months to accept it. By then, his questions are more from genuine intrigue and wonder. He hides under Batman’s cape and somehow it’s spacious? It can even fit Dick at the same time. No one (but Bruce) can even hear them when they’re under there.

And then one day, when he goes to take a nap under Bruce’s cape, someone else is there.

“….B?”

“…”

“You know what I’m going to ask.”

“…”

“*Bruce*.”

“No real names, Robin.”

“No one can hear me!”

“…I didn’t kidnap him.”

“What his name?”

“Timothy Drake.”

“FROM DRAKE INDUSTRIES?”

And Tim wakes up, rubbing his eyes. He looks exhausted and way too skinny, and all of a sudden, Jason understands why Dick has cooed at him the first night Bruce brought him home.

“Um…hi.”

“B, we’re keeping him.”

Jason doesn’t need to see Bruce’s face to know he’s smiling.

—

Damian just…appears. Bruce suddenly understands his parents’ reactions to his first appearance because nearly the same exact thing happens. Bruce wakes up from a nap. He doesn’t need to sleep very often, something Tim finds incredibly annoying, declaring it to be *unfair*. He wakes up, and curled against his chest is…a boy. Who looks a *lot* like him.

“Uh.”

The child wakes up, blinks at him w striking green eyes.

“Hello Father.”

What the fuck.

Dick slams his way into Bruce’s office, followed by Jason and Tim, who are bickering with each other.

“DAAAAAAAD, THEY WON’T SHU- oh. Steal another kid?”

“…he just appeared.”

“That’s the excuse you used for Jason.”

“No. Literally. I fell asleep. No kid. Woke up. Kid.”

“My name is Damian.”

“That’s no fair. You came pre-named?”

Damian is as odd as Bruce. Actually, he’s weirder. And stabby. Bruce finds him *delightful*. He adores him.

—

Dick is Nightwing, Jason is Red Hood (no death, he just thought it was a cool name), Tim is Red Robin, and Damian’s Robin.

Bruce is Batman. Despite being in his late 30s, he still looks like he’s in his mid 20s.

—

Batman stands in front of a bank robber who’s going on about their evil bank robbing plans. Nightwing pops his head out from beneath Batman’s cape.

“Can you get to the point?”

Red Hood pops out next.

“I’m getting bored.”

Red Robin follows.

“This is sad.”

Damian.

“Scum.”

Batman sighs.

“Why are all of you here?”

“Missed you.”

They all chime in.

The robber.

“How…how the *fuck-?*”

“Language. There are kids around.”

“B, I’m 23.”

“Says the boy taking a nap in my cape. And I was talking about Red Robin and Robin.”

“…’s comfy.”

“I’m eighteen???”

“F- Batman! I am not a child!”

There’s some shuffling sounds, no doubt Red Hood moving over to ruffle Robin’s hair.

“Whatever you say, Tiny Demon.”

And then Red Hood shrieks.

“No stabbing your brothers, Robin.”

“He called me small!”

“…you are.”

“This is insulting, F- Batman. I will grow to be as big as you. No. *Bigger*.”

The robber watches in confusion, mild amusement, and horror.

Batman sighs.

“We’ll talk about this later. Now, you were saying? Blowing up the bank, terrorizing the people.” Batman yawns. “Anything else?”

“Just take me to Arkham. I think I’m insane.”

[atrwriting]

on the road again — sam winchester x fem!reader

as always, warnings: smut, rough, choking, dom sam, mean sam, friends with benefits sex, car sex, p in v penetration, one night stand

summary: sam finds out you’ve never had an orgasm

barely edited we die like men

———

usual scene after cracking a case — dive bar, everyone buys a round, greasy food, and a game or two of pool. usually a round consisted of a beer… but tonight? after the case you had? tonight was whisky. and it flowed. and flowed. and flowed.

“i’ve only been doing this for a few years — i don’t know how you and dean can still get up every day and do this,” you spoke, setting your shot glass down.

“dean loves nothing more than work all day, and crawling into someone else’s bed at night —“ sam laughed, taking his shot. “keeps him sane. and him getting laid and not cranky keeps me sane.”

“is sex what keeps you sane?” you asked with a laugh, motioning the bartender over for another round.

“sometimes — not really,” he shook his head.

“same,” you spoke. “casual sex is so hard to enjoy — i don’t care what dean says.”

“why do you say that?” sam chuckled.

“it’s hard enough teaching someone what you like — now you have to tell and expect a stranger to understand, and leave satisfied? that’s a lot of trust in someone i don’t know.”

he laughed again. “fair, but also — you might just have to advocate for what you want more. clear and explicit directions are the way to go.”

you stayed silent, wishing your glass was full once more to do something — anything — to tear away from the awkwardness of the situation. the whiskey had already began to dull your senses, but nothing ever seemed to dull sam’s. you knew he knew with barely a glance in his direction.

“unless you’re not able to convey clear and explicit directions…” he stated.

fuck.

“ok, lawyer,” you scoffed, taking your shot as you tried to hide your embarrassment.

“maybe that’s why you can’t perfect the ‘dean method’,” he spoke, fighting back a laugh, before awkwardness struck his face. “i’m sorry — i shouldn’t — i’m just messing around, is all.”

“you’re good, i know,” you smiled, waving your hand in the air. “but who’s got the time? i swear — it’s so much easier for guys.”

“definitely,” he spoke, and continued in a very technical manner. “i mean, i’ve heard that some women really struggle with even achieving orgasms by themselves.”

“i forgot you were a scholar, winchester,” you spoke, trying to not draw attention to the way your cheeks were reddening.

but with the way he stared at you, his eyes narrowing… you knew he knew your secret.

“you’ve never… before?” he questioned.

“no,” you spoke softly, holding his gaze. awkward topic, sure, but, hey — if he’s bringing it up, he’s got to deal with it.

“wow,” he spoke, letting out a sigh of disbelief. he did that weird thing with his eyes that he usually does when he’s surprised: they go wide, and they blink a few times — as if he could blink away the conversation he definitely regretted starting like an eyelash. “like… ever?”

“never,” you responded, shaking your head.

“wow,” he spoke, taking a swig of his beer. “that’s… that’s…”

“sam, i didn’t break my leg,” you spoke, trying to laugh it off. “i’ve never had an orgasm, but i’m not dead.”

“dean would think you might as well be,” sam quipped.

“agreed,” you chuckled, flagging down the bartender for another drink. “i’ve turned dean down a few times — lil too old for me — but if i get really curious, maybe i’ll —“

“don’t,” he suddenly spoke, shaking his head.

“…hey, you brought up dean and my sex life — this was bound to get uncomfortable,” you giggled.

“i can talk about either when they’re mutually exclusive,” he replied, now keeping his gaze on his beer bottle.

“and you’re also the one that brought up me needing casual sex,” you quipped.

“not with him.”

you rolled your eyes then, but the smile on your lips remained. “dare i ask — who, pray tell?”

you watched as sam took his time answering. he leaned over the bar with both elbows on the counter, letting both muscles strain against the sleeves of his shirt. his skin, lightly tanned, reflected the light from above to show off just how much sam put into working out. you watched the veins in his arms ripple, along with the one in his neck as he swallowed. once he took a final swig of his beer, he stared at you then. and when he finally spoke? well, he only spoke one word: “me.”

a half hour later, you were in the back of the impala. sam had you in his lap, manspreading his strong, long legs. it was hard to be insecure about anything about yourself with sam — he could pick anyone up and throw them if he wanted, so you felt like a goddess in your tight black jeans, grinding your core down onto him.

he had his large hands on your hips — pads of his fingers digging into your flesh. they would push and pull with every roll of your hips you gave. he wanted you as much as you wanted him, and he couldn’t help but want to control and mold it. the way you keened for him? sat so nicely in his lap? ran your hands all over his chest, up and down his neck, and through his hair? the pretty way you pressed your chest into him? oh, he was done for — but sam’s selfish side would be taking over.

“take off your pants and lay back against the door,” he ordered, pressing one last firm kiss to your lips.

you scrambled off of him, pushing your jeans down your legs as sam tried to pull the fabric off. there was nothing but confidence, determination, and hunger in his movements, leaving you with no room for awkwardness.

“your hands feel so good on me,” you rasped. “can you touch me… there?”

you shouldn’t have even had to ask, he thought. he liked to hear your voice, though — especially when it was full of want and need. there was nothing shy about your requests, and there was nothing shy about his response. the pads of sam’s fingers had immediately found your most sensitive bud, drawing rough circles. he had to test the waters, after all — you didn’t know what you liked, but sam winchester would find out. you sucked in a soft breath at the feeling, but all that came out of you was a whine. a whine for sam’s hands. his arms. his chest. his muscles. everything that held him above you and shielded you from the world — hiding you from everything dangerous, while keeping you all to himself.

sam’s lips immediately connected with the soft, sensitive skin of your neck. you hated hickeys, but the way he sucked at your neck? drawing blood to the surface? keeping your attention and thoughts on him, and only him? it was intoxicating, the way it felt. sam drew primal feelings from you — there was no shame, nor insecurity. he wanted you to feel everything he felt for you, and he wanted you to crave it.

he wanted you to crave the way skin prickles when it’s excited and scared and sensitive. he wanted you to crave the perfect amount of friction and moisture on your clit. he wanted you to crave the smell of his cologne on his flannel, the whisky on his breath, and the hungry look he had in his eyes when he saw your nipples peak underneath your shirt.

“please, sam…” you whined, cheeks beginning to burn with pink.

“nah — not like that, baby,” he spoke. “gonna make you work for it.”

you detested him for that as he climbed off of you, settling against the back of the seat. he shoved his pants and boxers down. you situated yourself into his lap once more, letting out a huff of frustration.

“you’re pissed?” sam quipped with a cocky smile, smacking your ass before swallowing you into a kiss. “good. show me.”

immediately, you forgot how angry you were. how deprived you were. how frustrated with him you were. you grabbed him by the base, and sank down onto him.

sam filled you to the brim. a man of his size and stature would do nothing but. you could feel your walls squeezing him, holding him in place as you struggled to adjust to his size. but sam? the cocky bastard? sam could only stare at you with a knowing smirk on his face, hunger for a challenge brewing in his chest.

“you’re so mean,” you whimpered, rolling your hips down onto him.

“i know, sweetheart,” he spoke. he wrapped one arm around your hips, and used his other hand to push you back in between the front seats. “lay back for me, yeah? trust me — i’ll make it right.”

you threw your hands behind you, holding yourself up by balancing on the console. and when you felt sam thrust inside of you for the first time? oh, fuck… you knew exactly what he meant.

what they don’t tell you in romance novels is that it’s incredibly difficult to find those sweet spots that make you sing. they make it seem so easy to “come undone” with one finger or one thrust, but anyone left unsatisfied knows the truth. you know the truth, and that’s exactly how you got yourself in the back of the impala. but sam? oh, sam… sam was the one they wrote those stories about.

it’s like sam could tell what you were starving for. you needed a man to see everything you were deprived of, and wanted to give it to you tenfold. sam was selfish in the way that he was selfless — he wanted you to see stars. he wanted your cheeks and the back of your neck to blush. he wanted you to whimper. he wanted you messy and beautiful and full of life. but sam wanted all of that for himself.

sam forcibly kept you bent at the angle you were, but he didn’t have to. the head of his cock pistoned into that spot behind your lower stomach, and immediately you recognized that this is what they meant by that special spot inside. his tight grip on your hips forced you take every bit of his strength against the neglected wall that craved sam and all of his talent so, so badly.

“oh my god —“ you whimpered, throwing your head back. “i didn’t — how did you —“

“yeah — that’s right, baby. never had this before, huh?”

“n-nothin’ like this, sam,” you spat through bitten lips, trying not to cry. “it-it feels...”

you tried to keep up with his speed and aggression. you wanted to show him you were good too and that you could make him feel good too, but it was all so much. too much. putty in his fucking hands, you were, and you had never felt so safe nor so good.

“you fuckin’ tease me on every hunt —“ he rasped, taking one hand off of one hip. “flirting with everyone, when i’m right there.” he spat on your clit, making you shiver. “wasting your time, and mine.” his thumb found your clit, making circles. “any of them make you feel like this?”

“never,” you were starting to stutter, words and movements. the pressure building in your womb was building, and building, and building. it was all getting too much. “i should’ve — please —“

he grabbed you by the back of your head then, forcing you upright and close to him. your chest was pressed against him, and warmth spread throughout you once more. you rolled your hips against his like you were chasing him, afraid you would lose him.

“fuck —“ he rasped in your ear.

“sam…” you weeped. “i’m so close. don’t stop — please —“

he grabbed you by the throat then, putting space between your faces. he held you in place and your gaze, scolding you when you tried to drift off with your eyes closed. each thrust combined with the circles he drew was drawing you closer and closer to your demise.

“so fucking worked up, aren’t you?” he spat. “yeah, yeah — i can see it. face all red, and tears? so frustrated.”

you couldn’t do anything besides nod and try to wipe your tears away, forcing back whimpers. something snapped inside you when you saw the dark, feral look in his eyes. he wanted your orgasm as much as you wanted him to give it to you. and when it hit? when it consumed you? when it made you so weak you couldn’t do anything besides lean against him?

all he could do? fucking laugh.

laugh at your demise. laugh at how it overtook you. laugh at how it crashed over you and swallowed you whole. laughed at how it filled you to the brim and then some. but most of all? sam winchester laughed in triumph at the fact that the badass, independent spitfire he knew was coming apart and making a mess in his laugh.

“that’s right, doll —“

“act so tough, and this was all you needed —“

“fuck, you’re so pretty when you cry for me.”

the swell of pride in his chest was felt by both you and him. he was pushing, pulling, nipping, biting, and kissing you every which way. your mind bent each movement of his, completely pliant in his hands as you came undone. your climax — it was so powerful, you fell against him as he chased his own. he bit down on your shoulder as he came, fucking his load into you.

the collapse was felt by both of you. he held you against him as you both came down from your highs, rubbing your back with his thumb. when he sighed in relief against your cheek, leaving a kiss on the still blushed skin… you knew you weren’t the only one satisfied.

————

lmk what u think xoxo

love u sammy <3

[xetlynn]

Hello :D

I was wondering if you could write something were jinx and reader have a reunion after the time skip and jinx gives the reader claggors goggles because she saved them for the reader to get back knowing that they were close and they should have them

(I apologize if I explained it wrong(feel free to ignore this))

I loved this idea<3

arcane imagines- Jinx

watching you

[arcane] [main page] prompt: in which jinx spots you, following you to make sure you weren't a hallucination.

“Fucking hell.” You mutter under your breath, climbing onto the roof of a building, scraping your knee as you do so. You were currently on the run from authorities for breaking into someone’s house. You thought it was abandoned, a place to take cover in until you could find another. 

It’s been rough for the past 7 years after Benzo, your father figure passed away. Ekko offered you shelter but you would have had to join the fireflies. You declined. You weren’t a peacemaker, you weren’t a fighter. You just wanted to be alone. You weren't fighting for others.

You missed your life before everything went to shit. You missed your best friend, Claggor. You missed the only girl you ever fell in love with, Powder.

Who’s now going by the name Jinx, or so you heard. You haven’t gotten the chance to bump into her. And you didn’t know if that made you upset or relieved. 

Upset because obviously you miss her. Or relieved because she changed. She’s not your Powder anymore. As Ekko has told you after the many a times of bumping into you. Pleading with you to just join the fireflies. That you look worse and worse every single time he sees you. 

You declined. Clearly. 

Eyes were set on you from another building, they’re been watching you for weeks. Swearing up and down that you were just another hallucination. The blue-haired girl follows you from each roof-top, always two behind you. And when you jumped down, finding a good alleyway where you wouldn’t be caught. 

Jinx does the same, more swift and careful not to be heard.

As you walk in the dark alleyway you scan around, searching for a place to seek shelter for the night. Humming lowly just so you could comfort yourself. 

You heard the steps behind you, you attempted to act as if you couldn’t tell. A pit filled in your stomach knowing you’re most likely about to be dragged into a fight. You needed to make the first move. 

Running wasn’t a choice. 

You slow down a bit, feeling the person get even closer to you. Sharply turning around you snatch the person by their collar. Pinning them against the brick wall. “Who the hell are you!?” You grit your teeth, the unknown person’s hands go up in defense.

“Is that any way to treat an old friend?” Their voice was raspy but familiar, their head going back to drop the hood. Your nostrils flared, eyes widening, keeping your hand tight against their collar bone. Not ceasing your hold.

“What the hell? You glare. 

“It really is you.” Her eyes seemed to have softened with a slight tilt of the head. “Of course it’s really me, the hell are you doing following me like that, Jinx?” You spat out the name in distaste, like it was vomit. 

“So you know my name? Still obsessed with me?” She giggles, not even struggling against you. Letting you pin her up against the wall without a complaint. 

Your gaze was hard, not faltering. She grins at you.

You roll your eyes, dropping her. “What do you want?” You sigh. 

“Why aren’t you with boy savior?” Jinx ignores your question, her arms crossing. “Ekko? Because I’m not a fucking fighter. I keep to myself and he can’t respect that.” You sit down on a wooden crate, manspreading and leaning forward. “Seems like you fight a little bit.” Jinx snorts, reminding you of what you did. “I fight to protect myself. No one else. I’m not anyone’s body guard but my own.” 

“Mm, not even if I asked you to be mine for old times sake?” She says in a teasing tone, crouching down to look at your face. Expecting you to blush but instead your face is stone hard. “Not even yours, Jinx.” You divulge causing her to frown. 

“I’m leaving.” You push past her, she loses balance.. Falling on her ass as you step away. “Wait!” She crawls back up to her feet, grabbing onto your arm. You glance down at her hands, flickering to her face. She didn’t seem like the type of person Ekko explained. 

She was still similar to the Powder you remembered. “I have something to give to you. One thing and then we can go our separate ways.” Hers bored into yours, pleading with you. 

“What is it?” Your body slumps, and she lets you go. “You have to come with me. It’s at my place.” She walks ahead of you, putting her hood back over her head. You stand there for a moment before joining her. You didn’t really have anything else to do. Or anywhere to go so what did it matter. 

If this is a death-trap you’d still willingly go, you were getting tired of fighting to live.

You seemed numb to Jinx. Even as Jinx and not Powder anymore her love for you overpowered the anger that she wanted to feel for everything. It’s been a long time since she was Powder but yet she knew you like the back of her hand. Like she was back to being 11 years old and stuck at your hip. She didn’t like that you were so similar to her now. So mentally… fucked.

“Right around this corner.” Jinx tells, going down an even darker path. You nod your head even though she wasn’t looking. Hands in your pants pockets. 

“Here.” She murmurs, the two of you climb to a lit up area. Filled with color and glitter. 

You stood behind Jinx as she dug through her stuff. “Close your eyes.” She orders, you didn’t argue, doing as told. “Gonna kill me in a kinky way?” You joke lowly. She snickers. “You found out my master plan.” 

“Found it.” You hear her whisper. She turns to you and takes in your features as you can’t see what she’s doing. She’s surprised you weren’t fighting with her, until she noticed your demeanor. 

The same demeanor she finds herself falling into. You truly don't care whether you lived or died.

“Give me your hand.” She says, her voice almost breaking due to her realization. “Man, are you a freak or something?” You scoff, jerking your hand out. 

“Hah! You wish.” She carefully places something in your hand. It was a hefty little object, you were confused on what this was. Her hand stayed hovered over yours. “I kept this… in hopes I’d see you again. After a while I didn’t think I was going to. But then I spotted you a few years ago. And then again this year. I’ve been watching you.” She admits and you scrunch your nose. “You really are a freak.” 

She huffs out a small laugh. “Possibly. But I know you’re into it.” She nudges you. “You can open your eyes, you weirdo.” 

You slowly do so, looking down at your hand. You let out a gasp, gripping onto the object. “I know how much he meant to you. You should have it.” She simply tells you. Tears brim your eyes. “I- Powder- you. Sorry.” You take in a deep breath, a tear quickly dripping down your cheek. “Thank you, Jinx.” You pull her into a tight embrace. Her arms stuck at her side as her shoulder grew wet. 

Claggor’s goggles, a piece of your best friend that you lost 7 years ago. 

“Heh, don’t get all sappy on me.” She pats your back and you take that as a sign to let her go. “Sorry,” you sniffle. “You don’t understand how much this means to me.” You wipe your tears away, clinging onto the goggles. “Don’t mention it.” She waves a hand. 

“I don’t know how to thank you.” 

“Like I said, don’t mention it.” She awkwardly holds herself, missing your warmth even though she’s the reason you let go. “Right.” You nod your head. 

It grows quiet, you play with the glasses. Rubbing your thumbs over the grooves and crevices. “I’ll take my leave now. Thank you.” You give her a gentle smile, the first genuine one she’s seen from you this whole time. 

Her mouth slacks open, going to stay something as you are walking away. “Nice to see you again, by the way.” You look back at her one last time.

[woollypoison]

Take what you want and go: part 1

Itzy Ryujin x m reader This part is all fluff, no smut here yet. Later parts will have smut, so stick around for that? I'm starting projects and working on them piece by piece. If I don't post them, I end up revising them ad infinitum. Word count: 1,664 words.

This isn’t your usual Friday night. Music pumping loud, a relentless beat that fights against the one in your chest. The air in the club is thick with sweat, perfume, alcohol and disgusting desperation. Some of those stenches belonging to you. People grinding into each other like they’re trying to forget something. Or Everything. You’re not here to forget, though. Not tonight.

You’ve been working the same old fashioned for an hour now. You’re not here to get wasted. Your eyes are skimming the room, catching glimpses of silhouettes. Shadows dance, giving way to partially revealed faces, none of them familiar— Until they are.

Ryujin.

She’s standing on the edge of the dance floor, her light skin reflecting against her dark clothes. She’s dressed in a black waving top that drapes over her matching black shorts, clinging to her like they were made for her body, a faint sheen of sweat glinting on her exposed abdomen under the neon lights. Her hair falls in sharp, intentional waves, and her lips curl into a smirk as she tilts her head towards someone leaning too fucking close. 

It’s been weeks since you last saw her. Weeks since she walked out of your apartment and left you staring at a closed door. You tried getting over her. So far, no success. Seeing her now, with that same effortless confidence and thrilling presence… it was no wonder you kept failing.

She hasn’t noticed you yet, or maybe she has and just doesn’t care. Her attention is on the person next to her. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not here to intervene. You’re just here to see her, to remind yourself you're better off without her.

At least, that’s the lie you keep repeating to yourself. If you repeat it enough, you might end up believing it.

When Ryujin finally does look your way, it feels like the music is going on mute. Her eyes lock on yours, and for a single moment, the chaos of the club seems to fade into nothingness. Her smile drops, just barely, before returning to its original state, this time sharper. Calculated.

You know what’s happening. You should look away. You should finish your drink, leave the club, and never come back. But you don’t. You can’t.

Her dancefloor parasite says something, and Ryujin laughs. But her gaze keeps flicking back to yours, a challenge in her expression. “You’re here, aren’t you? Are you going to come to me, or are you going to keep pretending you don’t care?”

You’re hesitant, but her eyes always spur you on toward things you can’t control. You’re pushing through the crowd, the music getting louder and more obnoxious with each step to the dancefloor. Lifting your feet gets harder and harder as you close the distance between you and her.

When you’re finally close enough to appreciate the way her clothes are hugging her curves, she turns to face you fully, dismissing her companion with a clear gesture. They linger for a moment before disappearing back into the crowd, leaving the two of you standing face to face.

“Well, well,” Ryujin says, her voice smooth and teasing, clearly lying. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

She’s already getting on your nerves. She left, why is she being so casual? You should be screaming at eachother. Somehow, you manage to keep your calm. “Didn’t think you’d be here either.”

She shrugs, leaning against a nearby pillar with the kind of casual grace that always made her feel untouchable. “Seems you don’t know me that well after all.”

There’s a challenge in her words now. You’ve fallen for it too many times before. She’s baiting you, testing your resolve, and you hate that it’s working.

“Looks like you’ve been keeping busy,” you say, glancing toward the dance floor where her companion disappeared. The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Ryujin arches an eyebrow, her lips transforming into an amused smile. “Jealous?”

“No,” you lie. A bit too quickly. You can’t even convince yourself.

She steps closer, the space in between you gradually disappearing. You can smell the faint trace of her perfume. It’s familiar. It’s the one she used to wear when she was desperate for a night of fucking you.

“You sure about that?” she asks, her voice dropping low, her mouth getting closer to your ear as the words exit her mouth and enter your brain.

You don’t answer. You can’t. For a moment, you let yourself take her in—the sharp line of her jaw, the glint of mischief in her eyes. She’s everything you’ve been trying to forget, and seeing her now, you can’t help but want her back.

Your next words lack conviction. As if not daring to say it to her, but talking to yourself about her. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say finally.

Her smile softens, just barely, and you see something vulnerable in her expression. But then it’s gone, as quickly as it appeared.

“Neither should you.”

“I missed you,” she says suddenly, the words low enough that you almost don’t catch them.

For a second, you wonder if she means it, or if it’s just another game. But the look in her eyes—the way they soften, just slightly—tells you it’s real. It feels mean, her admitting something like this. Spiteful.

You missed her too. You want to say it too. You want to reach out, pull her close, and forget about everything that’s been keeping you apart. It’s impossible.

Instead, you take a step back, the weight of her words settling heavy in your chest. “You don’t get to say that,” you struggle to accuse her.

Ryujin straightens facing you, vengeance painting her smirk. “Maybe not,” she says, her tone rich with defiance. “But I said it anyway.”

Does she want you to laugh? To cry? She’s always been like this… unapologetic, reckless, and impossible to pin down. It’s what drew you to her in the first place. That’s what makes her so damn hard to let go of. It’s… unhealthy.

“Enjoy your night, Ryujin,” you say, turning around and getting ready to move.

But before you can take even a single step, her hand catches your wrist, her grip firm like she can’t allow herself to let you leave. “Wait,” she says, her voice pleading. “Don’t go.”

You freeze. You want to run. You want to stay. You're torn between the two. You can’t help but turn back to her, against better judgement. There’s something in her eyes you can’t ignore. You could never ignore. It’s enough to make your resolve crumble.

“What is it?” you ask. There’s concern, but a hint of apprehension strains your voice.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she comes closer. Her hand brushes against your wrist again, lingering as though she’s unsure whether to pull you back or let you go. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, she looks like she’s struggling to find the words.

“Why do you make this so hard?” she murmurs. You can barely hear the exact words, but you understand their meaning.

You blink, caught off guard. Was this a joke? “Me?”

Her lips pressed together, forming a tiny thin line, and she shakes her head, exhaling a sharp sigh. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But her hand doesn’t pull away. Her hand grips your wrist harder, a speechless contradiction to what her words were saying.

“Say it,” you inquire, her hand convincing you that you simply must know. The frustration she’s causing you impossible to ignore. “Whatever it is you’re trying so hard not to say, just spit it out, Ryujin.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s tired of this?” she says, biting back at your demands. “Of this endless back and forth? Like you’re the only one who’s hurting?”

Before you can even respond, she lets go of your wrist and takes a step back, the distance between you growing for the first time.

“You could’ve walked away a long time ago if you wanted to,” she continues, her tone colder now, defensive. “But you didn’t. So don’t stand there acting like this is all on me.”

“Ryujin—”

“No.” She cuts you off, her gaze narrowing down on you. “You keep showing up. Every single time. And then you get angry at me when I don’t give you what you want.”

Your jaw clenches at her provocations, her words pushing the exact buttons you’d hoped to avoid. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?” she counters back to you, crossing her arms. For a moment, she looks like she’s about to say more, but then she takes a deep breath and shakes her head. Her voice softens a little, like she’s tired. “You can’t have it both ways. You don’t get to act like you care and then walk away whenever I get messy.”

You feel like you’re about to boil over, but you subdue it. “And what about you? You keep pulling me back in just to push me away again. What do you even want from me, Ryujin?”

Her lips part, and she looks like she might answer. Her eyes soften, and her eyebrows turn upwards in the center. Her expression is almost vulnerable. But as soon as she catches herself, she reverts it all. Re-establishing her guard.

“Forget it,” she says abruptly, turning away. “It doesn’t matter.”

And just like that, she walks off, leaving you standing there.

You watch her disappear into the crowd, your fists clenching at your sides. She always does this—gets under your skin, says just enough to make you question everything, and then leaves before you can get any answers.

But this time feels different. You’re not the same you were weeks ago. You won’t turn away. Just storm out in the other direction like you always did. You are getting a resolution today. You are not walking away this time.

[munsonsmixtapes]

You Were Never Mine

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

After finding out that your boyfriend has been cheating on you with Eddie, you invite Eddie to breakfast to talk things over which leads to more.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut ( p in v) unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) public sex, mention of cheating, mention of emotional abuse

The only sounds in the diner that can be heard is the clinking of plates as well as the chatter amongst the other customers. You lift your head from your pancakes to look at the man sitting across from you. Neither of you have touched your food, too much tension in the air between you to do so. You want to say something, to ask him why he did it, but you can’t get yourself to speak. 

Eddie already feels like a piece of shit, but he feels even more like one when he looks into your eyes. He can tell that you’ve been crying and that knot in his stomach gets even bigger. The pain almost rivals the black eye you gave him, but he thinks he deserves it which is why he wouldn’t let you help him when you realized what you had done. 

He should hate you considering the circumstances, but he just can’t. You’re so fucking nice and he can’t stand it. You asked him out for breakfast after finding out that he had been sleeping with your boyfriend and maybe he’s mad because he knew he wouldn’t do the same. He doesn’t even know why he agreed to it in the first place.

Maybe it’s just because he wants closure. To talk it out then move on with his life. He also wants to apologize to you. He doesn’t know what good it would do but he feels like it’s the right thing to do. He wants to assure you that he really didn’t know about you. He just thought he was hooking up with a guy who bought weed from him every once in a while.

“I hate him,” is all you say and the words are filled with so much bitterness, so much pain that it feels palpable. Eddie doesn’t know what to respond or if he even should. You have every right to hate Henry and he’d never tell you that your feelings are invalid. Especially right now. 

“Me too,” Eddie responds. And Eddie does hate Henry. Mostly for what he did to you. That’s all Eddie’s cared about since the two of you found out the truth last night. He didn’t think anything of Henry wanting to keep the whole thing a secret because he’s used to that. Nobody wants people to know that they’re hooking up with Eddie “the freak” Munson. Nobody’s ever been hurt by that besides him, so seeing your tear stained cheeks is hard for him to take in. 

He can’t imagine how you feel. Years gone just because of a stupid mistake that wasn’t even yours. And you’re here blaming yourself for Henry’s actions. Last night after he kicked Henry out, he invited you to stay for a drink and you accepted. After a few beers, you loosened up a bit, going on and on about how you should have seen it coming, should have loved him more, put in more effort. 

The whole thing made Eddie sick. You got cheated on and you’re the one who feels guilty? How fucked up is that? He tried to tell you that it wasn’t your fault but you wouldn’t listen. And why would you believe him? You don’t know him and quite frankly, you don’t want to. 

Or maybe you do. You don’t even really know why you invited him to breakfast. Maybe it’s because you feel bad that he got dragged into this whole mess because Henry can’t seem to keep his dick in his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“You’re what?” He asks, actually offended by your apology. 

“I’m sorry.” You repeat the words with more confidence because you are sorry. You know about his reputation around town but you seem to be the only person who’s gotten close enough to know it’s not true. He’s sweet and kind and you wish more people could see that. That’s he’s not the scary guy everyone thinks he is.

“Why are you sorry? You walked in on your boyfriend and I having sex and you’re sorry?”

“I just feel bad that he did this to you.” You have a pained look on your face and this time, it’s for him. He doesn’t know why, but that almost makes him want to cry. No one besides his uncle has ever cared for him like this so he’s not entirely sure how to feel. 

“Why should I care? We were just using each other for our bodies, but he was your boyfriend. So really, I should be apologizing to you. Which, I am sorry.” Eddie would never admit how hurt he truly is. That would require being vulnerable and he refuses to do that. He just can’t get himself to open up about his true feelings and he’s especially not going to do that now.

“You didn’t know.” You’re saying the words as if you’re defending him and Eddie’s getting really tired of you being so nice. If you were any other woman, you would have treated him like shit, called him all the names in the book. But you didn’t. You haven’t. 

“I’m still sorry. I feel awful, especially since you found out…that way.” He can still hear your screams, the look of horror on your face as tears pour down your cheeks. That image will haunt his dreams forever, he’s sure of it. 

“It’s okay,” you shrugged. Your shoulders slump as you sit there, hands underneath your thighs and Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so pathetic. He wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Especially not you. You’re so sweet and nice and he can’t see why anyone would want to hurt you. It’d be like hurting a puppy. 

“It’s not okay,” Eddie says, anger rising in his chest. He’s not even angry at you, he’s angry for you. Because you don’t seem to be mad enough for his liking. He wanted to see you yell at Henry, to hit him, to take out all your anger on him like people usually do when they catch their partner in that kind of situation. He just hates that your bottling it all up. It’s only a matter of time before you explode. 

“That asshole hurt you. But I guess that just shows how much better you are than me because I would have beat his ass. I should’ve. I can’t believe he tried to blame you, y/n. This isn’t your fault. At all. He knows he fucked up but he doesn’t want to accept the blame.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” You ask, raising your voice and it catches Eddie completely off guard. “He did it constantly and I let him because I thought that was the kind of love I deserved. I know now that I deserve better.” You say the last part more quietly, your gaze lowering to the table. And just when Eddie thought his heart couldn’t break any more. 

Silence settles between the two of you and Eddie pays the check despite your argument and when you both end up in the parking lot, he doesn’t want to leave you. He wants to pull you in his arms and never let go. He wants to protect you, to make sure that you never get hurt again. He’s not sure he could handle it if you did.

He doesn’t know why, but he invites you to sit in his van. Maybe it’s because that’s where he feels the most comfort so he’s hoping you’ll feel that way too. You seem surprised when he opens the passenger door for you and that tells him everything he needs to know about Henry. If he didn’t open doors for you then what other stuff did he not do for you that you clearly deserved? Bring you flowers? Now he kind of wants to buy you some just to see your pretty smile. 

The van is quiet besides the metal music that’s playing at a low volume on the radio as the two of you sit in silence, neither of you sure what you should say. You don’t know why he invited you to sit with him but you’re grateful when rain begins to pour down, hitting the vehicle rather loudly. Eddie would never tell you that’s actually grateful so he has an excuse for you to stay.

He hates that he’s now thinking about how well he’d treat you. How he’d never even think about cheating on you if you gave him a chance. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it because he knows you wouldn’t. No one ever does. He’s just someone that they want to see between the sheets then turn right around and whisper the meanest things behind his back. 

Eddie knows that you would never be so cruel, but he still can’t get himself to make a move no matter how pretty you look sitting in his passenger seat. You just broke up with your boyfriend anyway and he can still see the bandage over your heart so maybe getting close to you in that way isn’t the best idea. 

So why are you scooting closer? Why is your thigh pressing against his as you lean your head on his shoulder? His arms hesitantly wrap around you which gives you room to fully lean into him and without thinking too much about, his hand reaches up to scratch the back of your head gently. It’s something he loves being done to him so he’s hoping that it brings you the same comfort. 

You stay like that for a minute and when you lean back up, his face is so close to yours. You watch his eyes widen as he gulps, his lips parting. His ips that you now so desperately want to kiss. He seems to be thinking the same thing as he leans forward, his eyes flicking to your own lips. 

He brings his hand up to rest on the back of your neck as he pulls you close as your hands press against his chest, the two of you slowly leaning in until his lips finally slot between yours. It’s gentle and sweet but awkward. It’s almost like neither of you have kissed anyone before and the awkwardness of it just makes you both giggle, especially when you acknowledge how weird the whole thing really is. 

But that doesn’t seem to stop either of you as you lean in again, more hungry this time as his hands move up into your hair and his shirt is bunched in your fist as his tongue slips into your mouth. You let out a moan and you’re not sure how you ended up there, but no you’re straddling his lap as he bunches up your dress around your waist as his hands press against your bare back. 

You begin to grind against his crotch and he lets out a moan of his own as he tries his best to buck his hips against yours. He doesn’t know when you ditched your cardigan but it’s now in the passenger seat and he’s kissing the now exposed skin of your shoulder as you continue to grind on him. 

“I need you,” you whine into his mouth when he reconnects your lips and hearing you be so needy for him is making him unbelievably hard. 

“I’m yours,” he breaths and you immediately move to pull down his sweat pants and underwear. You then reach down and pull the lever to lean the seat back, letting out a loud laugh at how it jerks back, causing you to fall forward on top of him. Eddie’s convinced that hearing your pretty has added ten years to his life. 

You kiss him again and gasp when his fingers push your panties to the side, pushing inside and you let out a sound that’s so hot that he’s trying to commit to memory so he can replay it in his head over and over. He pumps in and out, moving slowly, trying to figure out what you like and when you grab hold of his hand and push it farther, he gets the hint. He moves fast and hard, looking up just in time to see you throw your head back, another pretty moan escaping your lips. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Sound so pretty. Wanna make some more noises for me?” 

“Please,” you beg and he keeps his eyes on you, wondering how you’ll react when he gets inside you considering that just his fingers are already making you crazy. He pumps even harder and you grab onto his shoulders, squeezing them tightly as you’re already orgasming and it makes you realize how selfish Henry really was in bed.

As Eddie gives you time to catch your breath, you realize how crazy this whole thing really is. How many people end up sleeping with the person their partner cheated with? And how many times does it feel even better than it did with their partner? 

When he asks you what you like and you almost want to cry at how sweet he’s being, how he actually wants to make you feel good. You can’t believe that this is the same man who people are convinced is a vessel for the devil. 

“Can we go slow?” You ask and Eddie smiles, making your heart melt. 

“We can do whatever you want, sweetheart,” he replies as his hands move up and down your hips as his hands slide up your dress to help you remove your panties before you toss them onto your cardigan. 

Once he gets inside, you begin to ride him, slowly moving up and down as your dress comes off to reveal your bare chest that Eddie so desperately wants to get his mouth on. He can’t help but watch your tits bounce as your pace picks up just slightly, his hands resting on your waist as he guides you while bucking his hips against yours. 

The windows are progressively fogging up as the rain continues to hit the roof, but your moans and panting seem to down out the sound. Eddie let his eyes flutter closed even though he knows he could watch you for hours. He can’t believe that Henry actually told you to your face that he was only fucking Eddie because he needed what you couldn’t give him. 

This is easily the best sex he’s ever had and he doesn’t know how he’s going to move on after this. He wonders if he’d be going too far if he asked you to come to his place. He wants to explore all the ways he can bring you pleasure, to show you how lucky he feels to have such a beautiful woman in his bed. 

“Oh my god,” you whine and Eddie knows what’s approaching. He can see it as he gets fully seated inside you, watching you cry on his cock as you take all of him as another orgasm courses through you, his name falling from your lips this time. 

“Eddie,” you practically scream and he's not that far behind you, reaching his own peak, pulling out in just the knick of time as he leaks out all over the both of you. 

“Guess this means we’ll both have to shower,” you tell him and he can’t help but smile widely. 

“Guess it does,” he nods and reaches into his glove box for some napkins to attempt to clean the both of you up as best as he can before putting your dress back on before helping you back into your seat. He then pulls up his pants and puts the car in drive before taking you to his apartment so you both can get cleaned up amongst other things. 

As you sit in Eddie’s passenger seat, coming down from the best orgasm of your life, you can’t believe that you just slept with the guy your ex boyfriend cheated on you with. And you can’t believe even more that you’re about to do it again. 

Eddie’s hand lands on your thigh and he gives us a squeeze as he turns out of the diner parking lot, both of you actually thanking Henry as fucked up as it is, because it led you to each other. And both of you couldn’t be more grateful for that. 

[asaedw]

Fucking Sae and cuffing him as revenge for all the times he made you submit. (mdni, handcuffs, slapping, bratty sub Sae, dom reader)

Read our PINKOCK series here!

🫀You thought Sae would take you seriously? If you’re a dom, then it’s either a fight of dominance or he’s just straight up mocking you. However, today, things are different. I mean, how many more times is he gonna get away with it? Fucking you till you’re blind, just because you decide to switch it up for him? (Dom reader, kinda sub Sae, a little ooc, I wrote this because I’m a dom-switch and I don’t see any dom readers on here sooo)

🫀wc: 1259

You don’t want to whine or pout. That will instantly defeat your argument. You understand that the true essence of domination is understanding that you are deserving of pleasure. That you are being given to during sex. That also applies if you’re on the bottom.

The problem however, was that you never felt that way with Sae. It wasn’t a problem with your past exes. Even when they thought they had you all wrapped around their finger, in the end you were the one pulling the strings. The one that was left pleased. With Sae, his pathetically beautiful yet plastered stoic expression and his lewd promises, it’s easy to feel that you have no control over him.

You have been submissive in bed to him almost entirely throughout your relationship, but the few times he’d let you fuck yourself dumb on his cock. Even then, he was the one with the nearly blank face.

Today, you refuse.

You hear the keys jingle outside and then clank. The front door to your shared hotel for the night flies open and then shut.

Sae stops in his tracks when he sees you, all dolled up.

“Where are you going?” He places his duffel bag down as he locks the door.

“No where.” Your reply is plain. Like you are trying to imitate him.

He looks around curiously. You wear a black top that exposes more cleavage than you usually do. You feel that a woman’s breasts represent some sort of power that men lack. An almost idiotic ideology you picked up from somewhere.

“You must be hungry.” You walked towards a table for two in your dining room and lit a candle.

“Heels? In the home?” He inquired, probably noticing the sound of your heels clicking per step.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” You keep your composure.

He finally sits, attacking the carbonara pasta you cooked up with a fork.

“It’s delicious. Why aren’t you eating?” Judging by the number of questions, you can tell he’s already feeling a shift in the atmosphere.

“I already ate.” You kept your eyes locked on his, the same way he always does that nearly always weakens your knees.

He gulps, his pupils wander for a second before they fall on me. He was ready to use his secret weapon, but I was already at his throat with it.

“Is there a problem?” He cocks a brow and then continues to eat the pasta.

“There’s a big problem.” You start.

He looks up at you, almost nervously.

“What is it?”

“There’s a huge spider beneath our bed.” You look away for a brief second.

“Is that… so?”

You nod.

He licks his plate clean, placing it next to the sink.

“I’ll be there in a moment.” He washes his hands and watches you disappear into the shared bedroom.

He bends over the bed, his hand raised with a phone.

“The flashlight isn’t bright enough. I don’t see any—“ with an unsuspected click, Sae’ s raised hand gets tied into a cuff you had attactched to the hole in the bed’s decoration earlier.

“Fucking hell…” he mutters when he turns to face you. You eye him like predator does to prey, “I knew something was off.”

“It will be an interesting turn of events to see you vulnerable for once, Sae.” You touch his nose teasingly, and then drag your finger down his face, “don’t you think?”

“Sure.” He glares at you and you swear you see his eye twitch. He lowers himself on the bed, contemplating whether or not to sit and give you full control. You bring you finger lower, now lifting his face with a finger.

“Don’t make this difficult for me.”

“Fuck you.” He cusses through gritted teeth.

Another click ties away his other hand into the cuffs. With such restricted movement and my knee already pinning him down from the side of his thigh, he had no other option but to sit.

“Good boy.” You praise. Before he can spit venom at you once more, you take his lip in between your teeth. And then plant wet kisses down his neck, already recieving some sharp exhales from him.

“Just fuck me already.” He commands but it comes out like begging and he pants for air. After several minutes of teasing and toying with usually dominant man, he was willing to be pathetic enough to let out the pleas he never thought he would have to. “Please.”

His clothed dick now erected and his voice breaking with every word, he begs once more, “come on. Fuck me.”

You rip his jersey off to whcih his eyes widen. It doesn’t take long for you to break his begging penis from the clothes it was earlier clad in.

“As you wish.” You say before you go berserk on his penis.

You’d already stripped. That was half of why he was already begging for you. Now, you sit on him, guiding the mushroom tip to your entrance. He winces.

“Don’t fucking tease me.” He manages to spit out. He throws his head back in anticipation.

You draw circles on your clit almost getting off on his tip alone. His weak protests blurr in the background of your rising orgasm.

“Fine, fine.” Before you let yourself finish, you take his cock in. Sae whimpers at the feel of your lubricated walls pulsating around his cock. You bounce, slapping his balls into your ass each time your hips meet. He whimpers a few times more, biting his lip to keep his noises in. Like he was trying to keep his dignity.

The little whines and gasps escape his lips anyway once his tip repeatedly fucks into your cervix. His lips part but his eyes flicker shut. You deliver a sharp slap across his face to which he moans in pain.

“Look at me,” you demand. “Look at me or I stop.”

Your arms hold onto his shoulders from beneath him. This allows you to fuck his length deeper into yourself. Both chests clash repeatedly and soon you feel yourself over the edge. His uncontainable noises motivate you further.

He takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on you. More like— he tries to because they constantly roll back. Your slow your pace each time he does, making sure he looks at you when he fills your gummy walls with his seed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ he struggles to compose his words in the state of overstimulation that you put him in. “No more— no mo— no!” He moans when you begin to fuck yourself on him once more.

“No longer trying to keep those noises in?” The sloppy mess of his seed and my own whites leave the room smelling like sex.

“Fu— fuck— y-you—“ he manages to spit out in between gasps.

“Save your breath.” Your own eyes roll back as you almost finish on his cock for a second time, his little sounds only driving you to fuck him harder. Now you get what he means, atleast. “We have all night.”

[eightstarr]

pacify — sevika.

summary: is it possible to miss a stranger, or does one thing negate the other? maybe you miss sevika because she isn't a stranger, because she stuck her claws far too deep in you and never let go— or just because she looks really fucking good sitting there, looking at you like she's waiting for you to say "hello again".

warnings: mild descriptions of violence, smut (mdni!), pre time jump sevika!

notes: my thesis with this one is that eating out a woman you love will revolutionize you in a way nothing else can and i'm joking but also dead serious. also dear god please me and who… okay bye i love you

・。.・゜✧・. ────

“You know, I’ve always liked this place the best.”

It’s the first thing you remember him saying, blue uniform to match his now slightly reddened eyes, vile alcohol in his breath. You’re at a different bar, not Vander's, the first actual job you ever had if you don't count what came before— the shiny rock of a stranger’s ring in your pocket, another’s gold coins in your bag, all from the quick trips to the city above with your father. “It’s not difficult to steal from a Piltovan,” he’d say, squinting at the engraving on the inside of a sparkly bracelet, a small bounty spread over the kitchen table, “they’re all show, all ego.”

Now watching the smirk on the Enforcer’s face after he downs his fourth glass without taking a breath, a laughable skill for an audience of no one, you find it hard to disagree with your father’s assessment. The well nurtured instinct to wonder what you’d get if you slipped your fingers inside the pockets of his tailored jacket grows loud and tempting in your head, but you shove it away and keep your eyes on the dusty floor you’re meant to sweep, determined to keep this job.

“The drinks are better than up there, I’ll give you that,” the drunk man continued, half empty fifth glass tipped dangerously towards the brooding barman, your only coworker tonight. There’s barely anyone left in the bar at all except a couple regulars. Tension has been brewing through the entirety of your shift, an argument in one of the booths during your first hour, a drink on someone’s face by the third, a wave of tired scoffs when the man in uniform walked in near the end of the night; the last nail on the coffin. In your head, you’ve listed all the possible exits you could use to escape enough times to memorize them.

The man takes a surprisingly controlled sip, thin lips furrowed in a grimace. “Wish it was enough to make up for that fucking stench.”

The air in Zaun is different to foreigners. You’ve never minded it the way they do. It's your air, the first to ever fill your lungs, the one you’re so used to that you can feel the way it shifts— the way it becomes a stench, as he called it, when blood is about to be spilt.

The barman does, to his credit, offer you the chance to leave. Or orders it, morelike, his sharp eyes meeting yours and then a tilt of his head towards the door. Maybe he pities you for the nerves splashed all over your face, or maybe he’d just find it a shame to lose an employee he hired barely a month ago. “You. Out.”

“Out?” the Piltovan repeats, turning his head, his voice grossly high pitched. “Why? What's gonna happen now?” he’s drunk enough that you notice the seconds that pass before his eyes properly focus. You remember the exact way his smirk faded, the deep-set wrinkles between his eyebrows when he recognized your face, a nauseating anger. “No. No, you don't move.”

Enforcers never go anywhere alone. Maybe the man had just remembered this, just now realized the true risk of his cockiness when it's not backed up by two or three of his colleagues. Maybe that's why he finds it easy to target you rather than the angry figures lurking in the tables behind him. Maybe that's why he draws his gun so fast.

“I know you, little thief—”

A woman approaches at the same time he does, and you don't know why exactly you decide to focus on her instead. A plea, maybe. You remember the dull gray of the brass knuckles on her fingers, the thick leather belt hung around her lower waist, the thump of her boots against the old floorboards. You've never noticed her before. How ridiculous it feels to think that she was there all night. How lovely that she could be the last thing you see. There's comfort in her being there, a morbid, sad thing that feels almost like company. At least you’re not alone in the room with the monster, at least there's someone to watch you die. 

Her hand falls on the Enforcer’s shoulder and she pushes him back with little effort, the quickest movement, almost without thought. The man stumbles (blame the well praised alcohol or Sevika’s strength), and the glass that had stayed in his hand shatters against the edge of the bar at the same time his gun fires a loose shot to the wall behind you.

Next comes a blur, a vague memory of hearing the Enforcer hiss in pain, a thread of red spilling down the open palm of his hand.

“You got somewhere to go?”

Her voice is the first and only thing that brings you back, the only sound louder than the heartbeat pounding in your ears. She sounds smooth, clear-headed, not like a woman who just stepped in the middle of the fastest paced violence you’ve ever encountered. Gray eyes move across your face, then the rest of you, and you quickly look down at yourself as if to check along with her that you’re actually unharmed.

Your lips feel awfully dry when your tongue brushes against them, enough air passing through to let you breathe, but not quite talk. You nod your head and remember in a rushed, distorted thought— somewhere to go, yes, home, now.

Sevika returns your nod, small praise, an odd way of saying something like good job. Less odd than the quiet satisfaction you feel for having earned it. She tilts her head towards the door, short black hair brushing her shoulder, her voice the kindest you’ve ever heard to this very day. Perhaps the thing you remember most. “Go on, love.”

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Years pass, deaths and joys and new odd jobs, and you still think about it. She sits at the back of your head like a softly worded reminder. And then one day, as things go, you find her again. Her making a deal at the back of The Last Drop, you behind the bar serving drinks.

There's a chance she doesn't remember it. What are the odds that she thought about you at all after the incident? You were just a stranger on a random night. It's not often that people fully understand the weight of what they did for someone, the trickle down of an action, of a kindness. There's a chance for you to go home, alone and unchanged. Instead (and not for the first time) you work for an hour longer, unpaid labor for a chance to serve her a drink.

Sevika doesn't come every night. You see her maybe once a week, talk to her maybe once a month. You don't expect tonight to be any different, but—

“You gonna watch me all night?” she mutters it into her glass, swallows the last sip before she looks at you. The are tiny wrinkles beginning to form on the corners of her eyes now, along each side of her lips from her smiles. Watching her is entrancing, the easiest thing you do, as natural as drawing a breath. “What are you still doing here?”

You blink downwards at the washed glass in your hand, continue to dry it like it could ever be half as interesting as being under her spell. “Working overtime.”

“Vander can't afford to pay you overtime,” Sevika scoffs, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk. 

You frown, maybe a little flustered. “He—”

“She's right. Why are you still here?”

The man himself stands tall to your left, glaring at this one permanently stained spot on the bar, working at it with a rag like he hasn't tried the same thing a hundred times before. There are dark shadows under his eyes, a purple hair tie on his wrist— Powder’s, if you were to guess. You’ve grown close to Vander since you met him, even closer when he hired you to work here. “‘S not a favor,” he’d said, quickly catching the suspicion on your face. “Just a gesture to him.” Turns out a lot more people knew your father than you thought; Vander isn’t old enough to have grown up with him, but they still found ways to end up at the same places. If he hadn’t been so secretive about who he was beyond the man who raised you, maybe you would’ve met Vander years ago, became friends at some bar in your teen years instead of at a diner a few days after your father’s funeral. But gaining a friend is a timeless thing, it obeys luck, not sensitivities. One day he wasn’t there, and then the next he was.

You spray some cleaning liquid over the spot on the table, roll your eyes as he leans closer to wonder at how the stain begins to slowly fade. “I’m working,” you repeat.

He looks at you from the corner of his eyes, one eyebrow raised. “I ain’t paying you.”

“I know, okay? It's fine,” you cross your arms over your chest, embarrassed to have been caught even though neither Vander nor Sevika seem to know what the real reason behind you staying late is. “It's a busy night, take it as a favor.”

“I can't afford favors.”

“Good thing they’re free, then,” you deadpan.

Sevika chuckles at the banter, forever amused at your unreserve, how simple you make things. It makes no sense to her to be that generous, that open, but it makes even less sense to think that you’d be any other way. Sevika isn’t particularly trusting, but she is loyal— the more you talk, the more watching you becomes addicting, her thing. She fixates on learning new things about you, clings to your words like a cat to its owner’s scent and wonders, over and over and over, if you remember her. From all those years ago. From last week. With you, she’d take anything.

And when she does finally see you up close, finds a good enough excuse in asking you for fire or a refill, there's little you could ask that she would say no to. It's senseless and thrilling and above all, it's true. She feels it down to her bones, painfully clear, like it's written all over her face.

“What do you do, Sevika?”

Sit and wait for you, she thinks, and instead replies, “What?”

“For work,” you clarify, your hand against the bar, leaning slightly forward. “I see you every week and I still don't know.”

You do know what she does, at least as much as anyone else does— too little to run your mouth, enough to stay away. And if you didn't know, you know her enough to be certain that she wouldn't tell you. It's a pointless question. Unless, of course, you’re as infatuated as you are.

Sevika takes another gulp of her drink, her eyes tracing over the line on your waist where the apron ties behind your back, the soft curve that the pull of it forms. She needs a smoke. “Same shit as everyone else,” she answers, and palms her pockets for a cigarette case. “What do you do? Other than this.”

“This is it,” you watch her flick open the case and shrug. You don’t sound particularly sad or frustrated, just plainly aware. “I pour drinks for people who all seem to do the same shit.”

Sevika hums, sets the case down, a click of metal against well worn wood. An unlit cigarette sits between her index and middle finger. “Be honest,” she starts, and it's the same voice that's been talking to you this whole time, but the gruffness still manages to catch you off guard. “Am I just as bad?”

You chuckle, the same addicting shimmer of genuineness in your eyes that she chases everytime you speak. “Just as bad as what?”

Her eyes follow your hands where they go to pull a lighter from the chest pocket of your apron. “The drunks that flirt with you while you do your job,” she lets the cigarette hang from her lips and leans forward.

“Hm,” you hum. The reflection of the flame sparkles in her eyes before you pull it away, orange against gray, odd and pretty. “I don't know.”

You’re not sure if she looks amused or slightly offended. It's a nice view regardless, the way her eyebrows lift and her lips curve downwards for a second before she breathes out, spilling smoke from her mouth as she talks, “You don't know.”

“I guess I didn't realize you were flirting with me.”

Sevika chuckles, a tiny half moon of a smile line on her cheek when she smirks, smugly aware of the way your eyes are looking at her. “You’re funny.”

Sevika is loyal. It would be easy to say that she doesn’t get what this feeling is, that it’s meaningless, that she doesn’t understand it— but she knows. She knows what it is even if it goes unnamed, because she’s the one deciding to keep it, stubborn and tight gripped, close to her heart. It’s in her dreams, in her first thought of the morning, in the disappointment that sours her mouth when she doesn’t find you at the bar. It’s in her stomach, tugging with need, when she looks at your face and realizes that if she asks if you wanna go home with her tonight, you will say yes.

She takes the leap. Parts her lips, names herself yours. “You wanna get out of here?”

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

You rarely pour your own drinks anymore. It’s a funny thing— Sevika doesn’t ask about your preference, which liquor is your favorite, if you’d like for her to do it for you. She figures it out like she does most things, making a study out of it, watching you enough. Maybe a little extra, too. The cork slides up with a pop!, her fingers around the neck of the bottle. The warmth of her still lingers on your thighs, your own fingers sitting restless over your lap now that her hair is not close enough to play with.

It’s been months since the first night she came home with you. You wouldn’t yet say that the newness is gone, or that you’re as quick of a student as she is, but there are things you know about Sevika already. Vivid truths, bright like the visions of her in the sunlight that you dream about sometimes. Reassurance is one of the first languages you learn from each other.

For Sevika, it's almost always about touch— you notice it immediately at the core of most of her silences, the way closeness makes her demeanor shift to something calmer, more true to herself. Slide closer to her on the couch and her arm will find itself around your shoulders immediately. Pat the empty spot next to you on the bed and she’ll let out a heavy sigh of relief, join you in sleep instead of torturing herself about tomorrow’s line of business. Part your lips when she's kissing you late at night with no goal other than to kiss you and she’ll let out a sound that vibrates through you and changes her mind on what was once an innocent gesture; she’ll tug your shirt off instead. Brush your hand over her shoulder when she's resting her head on your lap and she’ll guide it to her face instead, a lazy hold on your wrist while your thumb brushes her cheek. Coming to love her is the warmest science. But it’s not always exact.

You watch her pour you a drink at the bar table that sits in front of your bed— watch the dark hair that sits against the nape of her neck, messy and loose, watch the waistline of her pants sitting low on her waist, watch the bareness of her back. If there’s a reason why you decide to say it now, you don’t yet realize it. The words just spill out of you before you have a chance to stop them. “I remember you, you know."

Sevika’s hand hovers over the whiskey glass before she hums, resuming the movement and bringing it to her lips. "You didn't say."

“You didn’t ask,” you rest your back against the bed frame, watch her carefully.

The air sits still and you see her shoulders lift, muscles shifting as she shrugs, a big gulp of golden liquor sliding down her throat. Her voice comes in a mutter, low and almost shy, "Thought I might scare you off.”

The idea is so ridiculous that it's almost laughable. A startled chuckle dies in your chest and leaves room for aching sadness, your back leaving the frame as you lean forward and pray for her to turn around. "He was going to shoot me. Nobody moved a finger but you, Sev," you shake your head, try to manage your expression from saying too much, from confessing to something that’s been inside of you for years. At the tip of your tongue sits a raw desperation for this exact unraveling, for her. "How could you scare me?"

Another moment passes before Sevika turns to face you, lower back against the edge of the table, holding her drink down by her side. She won't look at your eyes— can't, maybe. You wonder if she's considering leaving, if she's already decided that she will, as soon as this is over. A part of you, small but dramatic and loudly pessimistic, is surprised that she’s entertained you this long. Even more surprised when she asks, "Is that what this is?" a turn of her head and the gray in her eyes finds you in a second, mechanical and unforgiving, the snap of a bear trap. You don't think you could look away if you tried. "Are you here because you think you owe me something?"

Your reaction is something close to a flinch, your frown deepening, feet firm on the floor instantly. "You can't seriously think that."

Sevika feels the regret come instantly. It splatters on her face, the pads of her fingers rough when they're brushed over her cheek to wipe herself clean of it like she does blood, gunpowder, fear. She watches out of the corner of her eye the way you part your pretty lips and can hear it in her head, imagine it so clearly, you asking her to leave. 

She's already reaching for her coat to make quick work of obeying your wishes when, instead of that, you ask, "You wanna know why I’m here?"

Sevika lowers her hand and the glass hits the table with a thud. Her head tilts to make the slightest nod— and that's as much of an answer as you'll get, you think.

“Look at me,” your finger sits under her chin, a touch barely there, the rise of her head more her choice than your doing. “You’re good, Sevika,” she grimaces, feels like she's swimming in gross viscous shame older than herself and barely surviving it. You press your thumb into her cheek, firm but kind, and keep her from being swept away by it. If she used to find your openness sweet, right now she finds it fucking miraculous. How can you call her good and mean it, how can someone else know so deeply that she could be, that she will be, when most days she doesn’t even know it herself? How can she look you in the eyes and deny you that truth? Her face relaxes, grimace replaced by an aching need as she listens to you. “I see it better than most, but they all catch up eventually. Whatever you put your mind to, you’re fucking good at it,” you pause, try to read her expression and find yourself unsure, but calm. How lovely to think that there's still so much to learn. “You don't owe me and I’m not trying to change you… you don't need—”

Sevika rests her hand over your cheek, a warm hum from her throat to acknowledge what you're saying, a desperate shake of her head to say but I do. “I need you,” her forehead falls against your own, in her brain a chant of please.

You look at her through your lashes, nod your head and feel warm, warm, warm. Her hand guides your face closer, a needy pull of her fingers where they press against the back of your neck, your whisper of “me too” spilled into her mouth. Sevika kisses like there's nothing in the whole fucking world she’d rather be doing, nothing that could possibly distract her. She has kissed you in nightclub bathrooms even with someone's knocks shaking the flimsy door, in alleys with her knuckles still bloody from a fight, dangerously close to opening hours with your back against the very bar where she rests her drinks every night. She's hungry, insatiable, and every time you can't wait to part your lips and let her in.

It takes godlike strength to hold on for as long as you do, but there's power in making her wait too, a satisfaction that feels drunk and just as divine as it makes its way down your spine. A few more chaste kisses take seconds or a century, and Sevika indulges them for as long as she can before she breaks, falls to her knees at your altar and breathes, “Please.”

There's nothing you like more than hearing her beg, except maybe what happens after you give in— the relief, the sigh against your mouth, the wet warmth of her tongue and the desperation in the way she pushes her body against you like she hadn't til then realized just how famished she’d been. Her hands wrap around your waist meanly, pressing indents, and you're too busy soothing your own hunger on her lips to realize that she's switched your positions.

You feel the harshness of the table against your back and pull away to look down, catch up, your daze maybe a little too obvious judging by the curl of her mouth. She's panting as much as you are, though, tongue peeking out barely to brush over her lips, tingly and wet from your kisses. “Up,” she says with a tilt of her head, more a warning than a command, her hands already down on your hips to get you sitting over the wood.

Sevika is a sight, pretty and inviting and overwhelming— you reach for her waist and pull, entranced by the way she follows, the way your legs interlock. A thin layer of sweat glimmers over her chest and you've never found so much beauty in the undercity’s humidity, never felt yourself get wet as easily as she makes it, never been so desperate to find some relief from the aching between your legs. Your thighs squeeze into Sevika’s and looking up to meet her eyes feels like a punch, like the sweetest blood, a sea of glazed-over gray barely visible against the black of her pupils. A mirror of your wanting; how the hunger grows when it meets reciprocation this delicious. You lean forward to taste it from her lips and she meets you halfway, a hand traveling up your spine and ending at your neck.

You don't know when you started grinding against her, but you know you want more. And you know Sevika’s holding back, savoring the same power you’d tried before, a smirk against your lips when she feels you speed up, hears you moan from somewhere deep in your throat. It suits her, the way she holds control. Sevika likes to wonder if she’d ever hold on longer, make you really wait. Sometimes she thinks she might, and then (like now) your voice fills her ears and clouds every thought that says anything other than please, god, fuck, let me make you feel good. “Don’t be mean,” you say this time, breathy and achingly sweet. “Please, Sevika.”

The first grind of her thigh against your pussy makes you end a kiss with your teeth biting into the meat of her lower lip, rougher than you intended. “Fuck, Sev—” you say, cut yourself off with a gasp when she does it again. Sevika figures out the angle unsurprisingly quickly, a hand on your hip and another on your ass to guide you back and forth at a rhythm that matches the movement of her own hips, enough fervency behind it that you know she needed this as much as you did. Maybe more, judging by the groans she spills on your neck every time you press up into her.

Full lips kiss at your pulse, open mouthed, her breath cool against your skin when it meets the wetness she left there. Your nails rake over her shoulder, over her scalp where your fingers are buried in between strands of dark hair— and when Sevika groans it sounds raw, a broken noise, her hips moving desperately faster. You can feel her warmth on your thigh and you've never wanted so badly to have her undressed, laid out, rubbing her pussy against you, leaving a mess on skin rather than the fabric of your pants. She's getting carried away, you know it, chasing her high and barely giving you a chance to catch up. You've never wanted anything more than to let her use you.

“You feel so fucking good,” she grunts, wrecked with need for you to pacify when she lifts her head from your neck, her eyebrows furrowed. You watch her get lost on your lips and you can imagine what they look like, how plump she left them, how the pride of that must simmer in her lower abdomen. Her thumb brushes over them once, then again, and you barely register that she's asking for permission before your mouth moves on its own accord to let her index and middle finger inside. It's filling, just what you needed; how beautifully unsurprising that she knew it more than you did, or that she needed it just the same.

You're fully caged in now, your back pressed against the wall, Sevika’s free hand on your waist still steering you back and forth on her thigh. “Too— hm, fuck,” her fingers slide out of your mouth and press wet indents into your cheek as she holds your jaw, traps you in her eyes. She’s far too gone to warn you but she doesn't have to, it's so painfully clear. Her eyes two dark pits to swallow you whole, lips parted, the grinding brutal and so fucking good— she says it until she can't form the words anymore, her head tilted back, thighs stuttering and tightening around your leg as she comes.

Your tongue tastes the skin of her bared neck and you feel yourself get closer and closer, fed by the feeling of her nipple under the pad of your thumb, by the shaking moans she spills into your ears as you keep grinding against her. Sevika must feel it too, in the same way you did, notice the change in your breath or the speed of your hips— because she pulls away and knows to soothe the needy desperation on your face with a messy kiss before she gets down on her knees.

“Shh,” her shushing comes soft and agonizingly kind, your whines barely contained as she presses kisses to the inside of your thighs. “What happened to my patient girl?” she asks, a tilt of her head and a smirk, the meanest angel.

Your palms press onto the table to lift yourself up enough to let her slide your pants and underwear off in one motion. “Spoiled me too much,” you answer, your mind foggy, drunk on the sight of her kneeling in front of you.

It takes Sevika a moment to reply, the pads of her finger pressing into your thighs. Her eyes meet yours and she wants to tell you, how could I not? You’re not trying to change her, you’d said, but you do. These days, she doesn't think about anything else like she used to— I love you prefaces everything. I love you, so I’m winning this stupid fight and making some money. I love you, so I gotta get home alive. I love you, so I think we could change this city. I love you, you should have every-fucking-thing. But Sevika's not really a woman of many words, especially not when you're looking at her like this, especially not when she's this hungry, so she shrugs her shoulders and says (like it explains everything, and maybe it does), "Look at you.”

The intensity of her makes your legs squeeze together, but you barely make it an inch before she’s pulling them apart and hooking them over her shoulders exactly how she likes.

Your face feels like it's burning, heat crawling up your neck, your grip on the table tight. “Please.”

Sevika barely manages to pry her eyes away from where you're open and glimmering, soaking her fingers after just one brush of them against your lips. Her voice comes out strained, drowned in hunger. “Please what?” 

You must sound worse, but the thought barely registers, hardly matters. “Please, Sevika, make me come.”

And she does— pretty nose bumping perfectly against your clit whenever her tongue is too busy inside you, her lips shiny and wet and relentless. Like everything else, she's fucking good at it.

[catsoupki]

I’LL BE HERE (WAITING) (8.0K) AO3

pairing - katsuki bakugou x reader

synopsis - you first meet ground zero when he needs a place to be alone. now, coffee, for bakugou, becomes less a necessity and more of an excuse to see you, maybe.

cw - FLUFFY !!!!! WHOLESOME !!!!! pro!hero bakugou, coffee shop AU, hurt/comfort but the hurt is very brief, canon-typical violence, reader has no specified quirk, typos

a/n - inspired by “sunflowers don’t grow in the city” but i can no longer find that work on ao3 :( finally decided to cross-post this ancient relic from ao3 after editing a bit ,, i lowkey find this pretty mid (literally written 3 years ago) but ppl like it i guess…. i shouldn’t demean their taste

taglist - @cashmoneyyysstuff @staraxiaa @hatsukeii

wednesday

You swear that when you catch feelings, which you will as much as you promise you won’t, you’ll keep quiet, you won’t tell your closest friends, you won’t even have the chance to deny the guess even if it were correct because your friends wouldn’t know that you have a crush to begin with. You’ll watch, you’ll listen, and you’ll do those in silence too; they won’t confess because people just don’t do that nowadays, and you sure as hell won’t either because everything eventually falls apart, and you’re already busy from picking up the pieces from before.

Maybe you’re still making yourself more likeable, paying too much attention to details nobody cares about, maybe you’re still making people fall for you intentionally, maybe you’re not, who knows? But what you do know is that you won’t fuss over having a crush anymore, because people grow aloof, they turn selfish, and things get messy, and more so, they get too tiring to be cared for.

thursday

You find that you often attach your emotions to songs; right now, before closing, you’re feeling the same exact feeling you felt all those years ago, back when you were 16 years old, after school, giggling with your friends, drawing little hearts next to your crushes’ names, all huddled up around your desk talking about boys, the homework that was originally the whole entire reason why you got together in the first place laid ignored on it too; back then, it felt like you were eternity.

And back then, never have you imagined that by the time you were at the age of twenty three, you’d be working at your own cafe, well, sort of, half cafe half library.

friday

It’s getting cold, again. Right after the A/C gets fixed when it hasn’t been working the entire summer. The sun is starting to reach the counter earlier again. You’ve missed this. You hope you’re not being basic, but you love autumn so much, and the amount of mochas you can get without being judged since you are the boss at a fucking cafe after all. You’re being basic. Fuck it. Cause you love being basic.

The moon really does offer solace, to the ones drowning in their own thoughts, to the ones that are bored out of their minds. Never moving, just, there. The crickets.. quacking? (You laughed at that, your own joke) Cricketing? They’re behind your ears, you feel like you are out of place somehow, wherein you should be in a movie instead. The city lights, the blurring ones, they’re so pretty: the red, white, and blueish ones? Flashing flashlights on faraway mountains, on the tips of airplanes, I guess you never really realise how fast they’re flying until you’re on the ground and looking up, standing still. You think you can close the cafe early today, you have to open at six tomorrow, God please let me get a good night of sleep. It’ll be fine though. It always is.

saturday

Today, the Number Two Hero visited your cafe. I know. Crazy right? You couldn’t really freak out over it though, since this is a place supposedly made for people to find the quietness that they need. You don’t know why you’re so surprised that Ground Zero (number two hero!) does in fact wear normal clothes. He is still human after all, you sometimes forget that, that they’re mortal. Anyway, he looks totally different compared to what he does on billboards, where he’d either be in his hero costume or some high end fashion suits that probably cost more than this cafe. He’s just wearing that. Sweatpants and a tank top. I mean, boring but definitely flattering. He isn’t a hero for nothing, his job is literally to stay in tip-top shape. To fight bad guys or whatever.

Okay that’s a bit mean, he does keep the streets safe, but he’s kinda rude, yeah you get it, you’re exhausted from the constant flashes surrounding you, but really no need to scream at everything and everyone you see. He hasn’t screamed here today, though.

Maybe you don’t get it, after all.

Other than him, nothing interesting has happened. All the same, teenagers that either bring other teenagers here to take aesthetic pictures and look at books or they bring their very reluctant significant others here. It’s always a victory to see said partners grow fonder of this place as they spend time here. Small wins. You know its charm, that was the whole reason why you bought it.

Blondie left after a few hours, right when the sun was setting, it’s a shame that he didn’t stay, the view there is always the best out of the entire harbour. It’s also a shame you didn’t ask for his autograph, you could have sold it for something, that’s a certain.

ᝰ

He scoffs as he reads that line, of course you only want his autograph to sell it for money.

ᝰ

sunday

On again, off again, love you like oxygen

You heard that on the radio today when you were driving to the grocery store, and fell into one of your melancholic episodes again. You wanna be in love, can someone love you? Please? You know it’s stupid and selfish and just ridiculously not right to wait and do nothing until someone finally makes the move, and expect them to be the perfect match to all your standards, but can’t a girl dream?

6:47 pm, Ground Zero comes in again. At the spot he sat last time too. Near the window, at the corner on your left. All depressed and quiet and stuff. So for the entire day, he was at the corner of your eye, grumbling under his breath for whatever worries he has, or had, you hope the cafe eases at least one away.

monday

The weekend is over, for five days you’ll be writing in this journal for ninety percent of your work day, which is actually very fine with you. In the morning, you had the biggest order of this month come in, five new york cheesecakes, five iced americanos, six iced bubble teas, and one matcha muffin. You hope their party is going well. You wonder whether they’re having a farewell party, but this early in the morning and on a Monday? They’re definitely living the good life.

He comes in, again. It’s the third time this week, the atmosphere was kinda nice before he came in, I mean, it couldn’t really be bad since you were the only person there. He sits in front of you this time. The table that is closest to you, which happens to be in front of you too. He also orders a black coffee besides the usual chocolate chip muffin. Of course Dynamight would drink coffee as dark as his soul, straight, bitter, like him.

tuesday

You’ll have to stay till late to clean up. A typhoon without prior notice hit the harbour so everybody came in here to hide from the rain, so the floor is wet as hell. Hopefully you don’t fall, you don’t want an ass print on your pants.

The cafe is crowded today, a lot of tired workers came in after they got released early to go home, only to get hit by the heavy rain on their way back; and also you had a lot, a lot, of students. Reminds you of the days where you’d make plans with your friends without checking the weather forecast first, but today there was only one hero, though.

And who would have guessed that he’d be the one for small talk?

ᝰ

“Why do you have so many romance novels in this shithole?” He mumbles as he looks around at the books as if they were gonna attack him.

“First, it isn’t a shithole. And second, I’m a sucker for love.” You smile. His heart skips a beat.

ᝰ

“You’re always writing in that journal, what could possibly be interesting enough here to fill that many pages?” He asks you, laying his forearm on the counter, while you’re tapping away at the screen at the drink he just ordered. With a frown on his face, of course.

Villains are humans too, and apparently they don’t like wreaking havoc in the rain either.

He’s grown to like you more. Or maybe just the cafe. Maybe. He doesn’t have to deal with the press or any obnoxious fans or anything here, really. You didn’t react, like at all, when he first came in. He skipped breakfast that day since he woke up late, he got home later than usual the previous night, and fell asleep on the couch immediately, so he didn’t get the chance to set an alarm either. Luckily he still made it to his patrol the next day on time though, he just gave up his precious food for it.

“It isn’t interesting, but wouldn’t you want to know, maybe a few years later, exactly what you were thinking on this particular day?” His answer is no, no he would not like to know what he was thinking back in his UA days.

Read: no he would not like to know what he was thinking back in his horny puberty days.

The rest of the customers have left already, since the downpour had calmed to a quiet drizzle by then, but Bakugou hasn’t gotten his order yet. He’ll tell you to hurry up, that he has somewhere to be, but he doesn’t, because he didn’t have anywhere to be at all. Even if he does, if he had the choice, he’d stay here, with you maybe.

ᝰ

wednesday

It’s becoming a routine at this point. Between six thirty pm to seven o’clock, he comes in and orders his coffee, then he leans against the wall and watches me clean up the tables and prepare for closing.

Sometimes he’ll help you open the rubbish bin when you’re walking there with the broom and tray already taking up space in your hands, but most of the time he just watches you, like a hawk. Though he still washes his own glass, the glass that holds his bad choice in drinks, (black coffee is disgusting, you stand by it) you don’t think he knows that you still have to wash it again after he leaves.

When he does, you flip the sign from open to close, you shut off the lights, then you take the glass along with your bag and walk upstairs to your apartment and wash it there.

You hope you’ll see him again tomorrow.

thursday

Sales have been going down. The rest of your income that usually goes to your savings is going down. The bills stay the same, the rent stays the same, but income is going down.

You sold three more vanilla cupcakes when you were waiting for him at 7:01 pm. You hope you’ll see him tomorrow, you didn’t today.

friday

ᝰ

(His heart is pumping: You hoped to see him again today.)

Friday is still empty, but he looks at it anyway. He knows he shouldn’t be here reading your private thoughts, now that his head is flooding with them, but the thing that you’ve been writing in since the day he first visited the cafe was right there in front of him, exposed and naked on the counter, inches away from his tapping pointer finger when you were in the back readying the batch of muffins needed for tomorrow’s early baking.

Now, he’s thinking that maybe he should treat the agency to a pastry or two, or thirty, or more, tomorrow, from his favourite half cafe half library, sort of, anyway.

ᝰ

“What?” His assistant asks him, eyes unblinking, what did her boss just request?

“It’s not that fucking difficult to understand, order a drink and a snack of everybody’s choice from the corner street cafe down the harbour. I’ll put the extra money in your November paycheck.”

“From Espresso Express?”

“..yes.”

The agency is in a better mood after that, chirpy, despite all the calls coming in to report villains causing trouble, people going in and out, in and out to stop the trouble, and some needing the many, many first-aid kits in the building, everyone is chirpy, and so are you.

ᝰ

friday

Today, the biggest fucking order came in, since the entirety of the cafe’s history, shit you not. Twenty iced bubble teas, eleven hot ones, two lattes, two caramel shakes, ten new york cheesecakes, ten matcha muffins, ten chocolate chip muffins, and five vanilla cupcakes. Bless whoever made that order. This month’s income just jumped ¥36000. That’s enough to pay two and a half months worth of bills, mind you.

ᝰ

The door swings open, making the tiny bell on the door ring a few times, zephyrs running through the strings of his hair, making him even more attractive than he already was in his matching tracksuit.

“How was today’s sales?” the first thing he asks after walking into the cafe. And when he looks up, he sees the tiniest smile decorating your face. Then what the fuck does it take for this shitty woman to laugh?

“Well, very, very well. Your patrol?”

The question definitely shocked him a bit, not really, so you do know that he’s a pro hero, how come you’ve never made a reaction before? He is the number two hero after all, it didn’t phase him that you knew who he was, right?

“More villains, nothing I couldn’t handle though, some stupid shitty pickpocketing gangs that didn’t even put any thought into the whole process, if you’re gonna wreak havoc at least do it well.”

And you laugh. So that’s what it takes?

He notices that you are placing two plates down on the table he is sitting at, hm you look cute in that apron.

“Don’t you dare waste my food, I’ll fucking kill you, pro hero or not.” He takes it back.

ᝰ

saturday

I saved her today.

ᝰ

The sound of glass shattering makes you jump, looking up immediately you are met with the sight of civilians running, almost over each other. You grab your bag at once and dash outside, the stupidest decision you could make.

Running while carrying a tote bag is more difficult than you imagined. It bumps into everything, flipped over cars and other running people mostly, but never mind because your tote bag is knocked out of your hands when a blast of water is shot at your back so hard that you fall to your knees. You immediately feel the skin tearing from the rough asphalt road and your muscles bruising from the impact, you get up immediately though, it doesn’t matter if you lose your phone, or your wallet, or your entire bag, just not your life.

Then your ear drums almost burst from the sound of explosions, but you couldn’t be happier, to see him.

Him— he looks oddly handsome. In his hero costume, he’s shooting explosions from his palms, simultaneously yelling at people to run, but you can’t, couldn’t, your legs are glued to the ground, you’ fucking stuck.

“Dumbass hide!” And you can only assume ‘dumbass’ to be you, as there is only you on the street.

So as much as you don’t want to, you run as quickly as your legs would allow you to hide behind an alleyway, you hear sirens coming from afar, the cops are here, he wouldn’t need to face the stupid fuck face lowly shit villain alone anymore.

Never mind, ducking your head to peek at the fight is the stupidest decision you’ve made so far, as your face becomes the big red target of both a water blast and an explosion, your head shoots backwards and it bashes into the concrete wall, you grow dizzy, your line of vision is slipping, or are you the one slipping? You couldn’t tell. At least you got to see him once. His eyes grow wide.

Fuck you and you villains, you stupid fuck face.

He quickly finishes the fight, letting the police handle the rest (mostly damage control) as he is hurrying to you, the paramedics couldn’t see you, so there is only him.

He knows where you live, from the times you head upstairs. He tells you that’s he’s leaving, but in reality, he flies to the rooftop next door, and for the first half an hour of his night patrols, he listens to your dragging footsteps up the staircase, to the tired door click, to your record player, to you singing along, to the sounds of you washing his glass, to the sounds of your muffled singing in the shower, while he finishes the muffin you gave him. And at around one o’clock, he’ll go home, when his limbs become laden with a satisfying exhaustion, when he knows you’re safely tucked in bed, dreaming, maybe of him, hopefully him.

Now, as you’re slung over his shoulder with his hand on your calves making sure you don’t fall off, he searches for the tote bag he knows you have, dirty on the side of the road, no doubt it got stepped on as people were evacuating. He picks it up with his other hand, trying to search for the key in it, and he walks to your apartment door.

ᝰ

Your head is pounding, that’s for sure. You also hear the sound of your record player playing, the lights from your living room almost blinding you. Woah, sensory overload.

“Good, you’re finally awake, dumbass.” That’s the first thing you hear, great. “I need to change the bandages around your head, they’re already fucking bleeding through, it’s barely been two hours, fucking Christ.” He cursed how many times? While you’re still trying to register everything around you.

Why is he in your apartment? Why do you have bandages around your— Oh. Right.

“Sit up, woman! I don’t have all day!”

That is a lie, he does have all day, in fact he could stay here all week if he wanted to, if you wanted him to.

So you do, you sit up, and immediately your center of gravity is somehow all down at your back and you’re falling again, not as bad as last time certainly, your house doesn’t have a concrete alleyway nor does it have a villain whose superpower is blasting water that is fighting with the number two hero—

But your head almost hits the armrest on your couch, though it doesn’t, because his hand is placed on your upper back to stop that.

“Be a bit more careful, will you? You already have a mild concussion.” He growled before rolling his eyes, without real malice behind it, but he doesn’t know if you know that.

Your hand grasps his shirt, then onto the back of the couch. Since you have your eyes closed — it’s still taking you a bit to get used to the strong lights, your head is already tight as shit — and thank God you have your eyes closed, because the tips of his ears are so fucking red. You basically just unintentionally face-planted into his chest (with your eyes closed), what the fuck.

He unwraps the tight bandages on your head and replaces them with new ones, trying to calm himself down. (“Can you make them looser please? I’ll have a severe concussion and not just a mild one if you don’t.” you ask, very politely too, which he responds to with: “Fuck’s sakes woman they’re supposed to be tight so it’ll stop the bleeding.”)

He orders you to sleep (“You need a lot of rest and drink a lot of water, eat more things that contain iron since you lost a lot of blood.” “Sure doc.” “Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you.” “Sure doc.” And he hears you laugh the second time, so he lets you go) He screams at you to sleep once more, so you request him to support you and offer balance while you walk to the bed. And as he leaves, “Come back tomorrow.”

So he does.

ᝰ

You wake up to the sounds of knocking, you didn’t close the curtains last night, which is fine since right now it wakes you up more to greet the door. Right before you do that though, you do try and fix your bed hair a bit more, and splash some cold water on your face to wake your swollen face up, maybe you would do something else too but his knocks (bangs) are gonna break the door soon so you open it first.

“Go back to sleep.”

“You woke me up.”

“Jesus okay! Suit yourself, fuck’s sakes.”

You wobble to the bathroom, as you shut the door you hear the clicks of the gas stove being turned on. At least he’s cooking breakfast for you when he so rudely woke you up from your slumber.

“They’re doing damage control right now, since your cafe is included in the area, they’ll fix it, and pay for it as well so you don’t have to spend a penny, they’re gonna buy you all the books too; you have to close the shop anyway, even if it weren’t damaged,” he stops you when he sees your eye twinkle. “you’re fucking damaged so don’t even think about it until you’re completely healed.”

“Rude.”

After that, you guys don’t talk for the rest of breakfast. Basic eggs and bacon and some leftover days old muffins from the cafe that you took home: a western breakfast.

He does the dishes too, guess it makes up for the times you did his. (“IT’S ONE SINGLE GLASS HOW FUCKING HARD CAN IT BE! LOOK AT THIS! TWO PLATES, FOUR UTENSILS AND A FRYING PAN-“ “Yes okay, okay you’re giving me brain damage again.” “SHUT UP YOU-“)

He doesn’t leave, even after the dishes are done, he joins you on the couch, you’re reading, and he turns on the news next to you. You can feel his smirk as he listens to the report talk about him, saving your day.

ᝰ

As the days go on, things start to return to normal, you go back to taking care of the cafe, and as an apology his agency sent you a fair share of money to make up for the income you would have gotten in the week of repairing. However, there’s one thing that didn’t go back to its state prior to the attack: Bakugou.

Katsuki, you mean. He’s been making you call him by his first name since the day you got home from getting groceries, and you were looking for him, so you were shouting his name around the house, before you could finish the third shout though, he cut you off and told you to call him Katsuki. For whatever reason, not that you care.

When the day starts, hours before patrol, he goes to the cafe and helps you set up everything, he only stays in the back though, his reason being he doesn’t want stalkers seeing him there, nor the press, he doesn’t want to end up on the front page from rumours again.

Two hours before patrol, you cook him a meal, and not just muffins and cupcakes, you cook him something filled with all the nutrients he’ll need for the day of fighting bad guys (he whacked you over the head for that one) curry with rice, spaghetti with meatballs, depends on the day and also the leftover groceries from the dinner of previous nights; he sits at the place behind the counter that’s covered by the largest menu, so he could eat without people staring at him.

Correction: he could eat with nobody but you staring at him.

And during patrol, he tries his best to not let you infiltrate his mind: your smile, your laugh, your voice, your scent, (it’s actually just the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip muffins, when it’s still warm, its best state he often claims) the creases next to your eyes when you grin—

He’s getting carried away, again.

After patrol, he hurries the shower that he’s been taking since the first day he became a pro hero at the agency and hurries even more to Espresso Express. He helps you do the dishes, he helps you clean up; and when the cafe closes (which means when the curtains are down) he leaves the back room like some animal that just finished hibernating in the winter (he also whacked you over the head for that one) and he lifts the chairs, flips them onto the tables, so you can vacuum the floor.

Then the day is over. You invite him up for dinner, which he declines, then you insist, then he declines, then you insist, then he declines— Never mind he’s too tired to argue, is what he tells himself when he finally agrees.

He cooks you dinner. Romantic, right? Wrong. He shouts at you to turn down the volume of the music played by your record player so he can hear when the oven is done. He shouts at you to get the heatproof mat ready because he’s already carrying the burning pot to the table and it’s really burning his fingers but you were still laughing at the show you were watching.

He just looks at you, and sometimes when you do notice, you cock your head to the side and he’s cursing at you in his head to stop being this fucking cute because he’s already blonde and the pink blush will show up extra overtly and he does not want you to see that.

You ask him ‘What?’ even when the pause of silence is barely noticeable to the third person, but with that, he knows you’re listening, you don’t just block him out and ignore the name calling like the rest (most) of the world does, but—

Never mind, no buts. He’s thankful. That’s it. Just really fucking thankful.

For you, maybe.

ᝰ

“Good morning sir, what could I help you with today?” You smile knowingly— knowing that it’s him, despite the cap and sunglasses. “You know what.” He grunted out, hey at least he got you to smile.

“Coming right up!” As you whisk away to the back to make his au lait, (no longer black coffees because you claim that those are what makes him so grumpy all the time) and you swear you see the difference, he certainly doesn’t.

ᝰ

“Hey— oh what the fuck.” Kirishima stands at the door frozen, he had just rung up Bakugou, wanting to hang out since they’ve both been so busy cause of the increase in crime.

When Bakugou sent him a new address that he didn’t recognise, he just thought his best friend got another house that would be closer to his agency and his patrol route, but when he’s met by a girl that certainly doesn’t look like Bakugou after he rings the bell, he thinks he has gotten the wrong address, maybe this is his neighbour, his cute neighbour.

“I sent Katsuki down to get groceries, he’ll probably be back in a few, please come in and wait for him if you’d like.”

Damn they’re on first name basis? Bakugou and a cute girl are on first name basis—

“Yeah sure thing! Thank you—” Before he can even finish the sentence, he’s already pulling out his phone to text Kaminari.

SHITTY HAIR: BAKUSQUAD GUYS GUESS WHAT

DUNCEFACE: did bakubro blow up something again

RACCOON EYES: denki got bitches?

SHITTY HAIR: NO YOU WOULDN’T HAVE GUESSED BROS HE’S ON FIRST NAME BASIS WITH A CUTE GIRL

SHITTY HAIR: SHE EVEN SAID SHE SENT HIM DOWN TO GET GROCERIES SO MANLY

FLAT FACE: he’s whipped.

Yes. Yes he is.

ᝰ

Katsuki’s brow is twitching, actually his entire face is twitching, because why the fuck is Dunce Face standing outside your door along with Shitty hair asking you a bunch of questions that all involve his name!

He’s sitting so stiffly at the kitchen island that you’re afraid his back will snap. Red Riot, or Eijiro Kirishima as he insists, and Chargebolt, ’My name’s Denki but you can call me yours anytime— BAKUBRO!’ are talking about you like you’re not there. Which is kind of funny, seeing Katsuki’s reaction.

You prepare tea for the four of you, which manages to calm him down a bit, and after a trip to the bathroom, you come out to the three of them having a very enthusiastic chat. Denki pointing fingers at Bakugou, which he seems like he might just snap them off, and Kirishima trying to stop Bakugou from actually cutting them off.

The day rushes away when you’re happy. And soon, it was already night time, ten o’clock night time. As you two bid them goodbye, you can still see the faint dusting of a flush on his face. Is he embarrassed of you?

“Uh.. sorry about that.” You apologise, trying to see where to step and where to not on this field filled with anger landmines.

“What?” It’s almost like a magic trick to you, to see his face soften before you can even blink, compared to his usual frown, and the extra frown he had on before they left.

“I didn’t clean up the house properly since I didn’t know there’d be guests.. I only figured out they’re your friends since they are Red Riot and Chargebolt after all. So, uh, sorry about the messy place, you must be embarrassed—“ You’re in the middle of talking when he cuts you off.

“What?” He repeats, but you know he heard you fine both times.

“I, uh,” He looks cute scratching his neck like that.

“No, uh, the house is fine, I’m not embarrassed, why would I be? It’s fine, I should be apologising for not telling you earlier that somebody would be coming over. Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He tries his best to not look like an injured animal and to actually look like he’s smiling when he turns his back, fuck, his blush is back again (stronger too). He’ll blame the way your eyes widen, pink covers your cheeks as it does to his, because how can anyone not blush at that? He’ll blame how cute you look, his heart pumping, faster, and faster, and faster and faster—

Fucking traitor.

After he turns the corner at the staircase, you slam the door shut. Like slam slam. He can’t help but let out a small chuckle at the way you reacted. It’s good to know he has the same effect you have on him, do you know you have this effect on him? Probably not, you’re a dumbass.

(His dumbass.)

After the door is shut, you get up immediately and scramble to find your journal because you absolutely do not trust your voice right now.

ᝰ

Why is this so awkward?

He’s scratching the back of his neck again, he does that when he doesn’t know how to communicate in words, you’ve noticed.

“They’re expecting me to go MIA for ten months.”

“I’ll—“ You gulp. You don’t know. “—have food ready when you get back. Please shower first though, I don’t want this place to smell like sweat.”

He smiles. He doesn’t try to hide it, for the first time. “Yeah, don’t worry about it—“

“Don’t get hurt.” You’re not looking at him, too scared, too afraid. And he smiles again, you don’t think you’ll ever grow tired of that sight.

“Okay enough of that shitty stuff, let’s eat I’m hungry as fuck.” He whisks you away to the kitchen, and this time you’re the one who cooks, but not really, you’re too busy worrying.

Tonight, you two sleep on the same bed, for the first time, but when you wake up, you don’t see him. You know why, but you’re gonna get up, get out of bed, and go around the house calling for him anyway.

“Katsuki?” Not in the kitchen. “Katsuki?” Not the living room either. “Katsuki?” You finally give up after ten minutes, calling out to no one, and no one answered.

ᝰ

monday

He left today.

ᝰ

When you get back to your bed again, you notice a notebook.

So you read.

ᝰ

saturday

I saved you today.

monday

I like you. That hasn’t changed one bit. Or it has, this fucking thing in my heart is only growing and growing and sometimes I worry it’ll make me explode. Ironic.

wednesday

The au laits you make are the best. Better than black coffees, I don’t know how, but you make them just right, they always taste a bit fucked when I try them at other cafes, but never here, or maybe that’s just you. Probably, but I’m fine with that.

I think you know that your chocolate chip muffins are my favourite. I don’t believe you when you say there’s always one, literally only one, muffin left everyday, and that you’re full, (even when you always down two bowls of rice every time I cook) so that I should eat the remaining muffin. Do you always just save a muffin for me? Or am I lying to myself? The lie tastes too sweet to care anyway. I’ll never get tired of chocolate chip muffins.

Correction: I’ll never get tired of your chocolate chip muffins.

sunday

Let’s go on a date. I’ll buy you tickets to that singer you really like. Let’s go.

monday

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

tuesday

You look so pretty all the time. You’re fucking adorable. I don’t think you realise just how much power you hold over me. Eijirou said I looked like I was about to pop a blood vessel trying to save you from them the other day.

wednesday

How do you do this shit for so long? Everytime I put my pen down and write, I write about you.

saturday

I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know.

sunday

I know what I didn’t know yesterday. I just don’t know how to tell you. You shine brighter than the stars. That’s what. You’re the brightest, most radiant thing in the universe. So when you’re out of my sight, it’s so fucking cold.

I hate winter, you know that, I’ve forced you to listen to me go on about how much I hate it a fucking ton, but this December, somehow winter is warmer than summer. And I don’t think it’s climate change. You’re so warm. You’re the warm one. You’re the warmest person I know, and you know what, love? I didn’t meet you last summer, but I should have phrased it nicely enough for you to know that winter is warm here because you’re beside me.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be a hero.

I hate the HPSC. They’re hypocrites who specialise in the marketing of their image. “Reformed”, they said, but my hero license will be revoked if I said no.

But darling, please know that even when I can’t reach you, I’ll be looking at the same moon for solace, alright?

monday

People only learn to cherish people when they’re gone, I only knew how much I needed to say I love you to my mom when she was gone. And I don’t want to lose you to finally know how to love you out loud.

Love me. Is that okay? I want you to love me half as much as I love you. I love you, so fucking much. If you still don’t know that, then I must’ve done something terribly wrong.

Hold your breath until I’m back, and there, and with you. Then, I’ll never let you go. Will you do that for me, my pretty girl?

ᝰ

ᝰ

katsuki:

you’re the leaves below brushed autumn wind, meek with kisses, fresh with love. you’re like the clouds that shift across the blue, blue sky, the beaver moon lighting my way. i’ll walk miles of mountains, cross bridges of rivers to see you again, my love. let me write letters full of my dreams, i’ll let doves deliver them your way. for however long it may take, can i be the person you’re missing at three, darling?

ᝰ

thursday. 26th january 2168

Maybe the stars will listen if you pray.

ᝰ

monday

You swore that if you caught feelings, you’d stay quiet. You said you’d rather keep it to yourself because everything eventually falls apart.

Now, you see the ghost of your past haunting you. When you pass by the harbour, you hear the blooming noises of explosions. You hear the insults he throws and you smell the stench of nitroglycerin. The last time you had seen Katsuki Bakugou was this morning, when you were making dough in the kitchen with the television turned on. The bleed of morning sun fluttering into your shop windows while the news channel broadcasted an accident from last night, in which pro hero Dynamight was able to catch and arrest two villains by himself during his night patrol, but still left destruction in his wake.

It’s the collapse of scaffolding, the uprooting of walkways, with soot and burn scars scalded into the walls of concrete. It’s the name of the void he left behind plastered over every single surface that exists.

The last time you had seen Katsuki Bakugou, he was saying goodbye.

He had looked at you with guilt in his eyes. Head held high with the kind of dignity that’s forced upon the pillars of society, the dignity that comes with no other choice.

Since the day that god awful notebook was left on your bed, you see the ghost of your past everywhere. When you walk past the convenience store on the way to work, only to be greeted by the face of Dynamight on the package of onigiris. When you go shopping with friends, you'll be reminded of his face on the commercial district billboard for Calvin Klein.

The last time he saw you, you were breathing peacefully next to him, hair messy from slumber, his heart beating, and beating, before it shattered.

ᝰ

The winds that are whistling outside suddenly become all too clear as the door is pushed open, the heavy thumping of shoes against the freezing floor.

“Sorry, but we’re no longer open—“

“Hey,” Before you can even say anything, he’s right in front of you already. His face inches away from yours, and then it’s like the ever-growing distance between the two of you before never existed.

You’re positive that you’re dreaming. You’re so scared, too, because you’ve had way too many hallucinations to not believe that this isn’t one of them. What if your broken voice chases away this delusion?

“Katsuki?” He lifts your head with his two calloused fingers, slowly caressing your strawberry-tinted cheeks, the same ones he’s been dreaming of since the day he’s left. “I’m here, darling, I’m here. I’m here with you.”

ᝰ

With Katsuki Bakugou, there are first glances. When he catches you staring.

Then, there are second dates. Less fidgeting taps beneath the table, less of a blush that could literally settle on any cheeks in that cafe yet they always decide to take home on yours, and what could you do about it except to cover your face for a few moments with your already cold mocha?

Third kisses are the best. Awkwardness put aside, tentativeness chased away, they’re familiar in their own comfort.

Your forehead that once upon a time used to foster creases whenever the memory of him leaving pops up, would be littered with kisses all over by him, his words ringing in your ears instead of your own crying as you begged for him to just come back, memories of that heart-felt abandonment long forgotten.

Your nose that used to stifle for hours on end during the nights where the over-analysing of his actions finally got to you, because just why couldn’t he stay? It would be dusted with the tingly feeling for the rest of the day because he presses his lips against it in the bright and early morning after he wakes up.

You like being kissed on your lips the most. When the plushness of his lips envelops yours, his breath slowly mixing with the aftertaste of chocolate chip cookies, and you can no longer tell the difference between his body and yours. You’re drowning and drowning and drowning but it just feels so good, so it’s okay.

You decide that it is indeed worth it to go through all the late nights of staying up late, worrying that because you weren’t good enough, he left, and what if you’ll never be enough to hold onto him? Because now you are, and you know that, after the countless times he’s made it clear, (“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I FUCKING TOLD YOU? YOU’RE MORE THAN ENOUGH FOR ME DUMBASS!”) you know that you are enough, you always will be.

After all, he’ll always be here, waiting.

[suuuupernovaaa]

healer

Summary: Joel survives.

Warnings/tags: fluff, age gap, jackson joel, HEA always

MASTERLIST

Fuck. Shit. Christ. There’s blood everywhere. She shot him. She shot him, fuck, right in the leg.

I’m going to vomit. Or pass out. I don’t know which. That bitch, that menacing little bitch, is prancing around and yapping, she won’t shut the fuck up.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

I’m not quick or stealthy but no one seems to be paying attention to me - all eyes are on Joel.

On Joel. Bleeding on the floor. Joel, in pain. Joel, suffering.

I shoot the man right in front of me first, quickly, giving it little thought, and turn the gun to her next. Quickly. Through the shoulder and she goes down, then another through the neck.

Two. I’ve killed two people today.

Joel is suffering. Joel is bleeding. Joel is staring at me as chaos erupts in the room.

Six Months Later

Joel sits on the porch, a cup of coffee in his hand, rocking back and forth in his chair as the sun rises.

It’s going to be a warm day, he can feel it already. It eases the aches in his muscles, especially his knees, when it’s warm like this.

She emerges from the house, holding her own cup of coffee, dressed in only shorts and a t-shirt, the same outfit she fell asleep in the night before.

She places a kiss on his forehead and sits next to him in a matching chair. She looks beautiful this morning. Her beauty is the quiet kind, that sneaks up on you, and then overwhelms you. It’s not just her face and her body, it’s her voice and her gentleness. The way she cares for those around her, especially Joel and Ellie. The way she’s so thoughtful and always kind, so worried about how people are feeling. There aren’t many people like her left, not how.

Six months later and she still has nightmares about the killings. Even in this world, nearly 35 years old, she’d never killed. She’d never wanted to, not until it came to saving him.

She did it then without so much as a second thought, and Joel lies awake at night thinking about it.

He knows she does too. He tries to soothe the ache with words, but sometimes they aren’t enough.

She smiles over at him. “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

He takes a sip of his coffee and looks out at the orange sky. “You, darlin’. As usual.”

She laughs and reaches over for his hand, gripping it so tightly. He knows her nightmares aren’t just about the lives she took. They’re about losing him, too. He still doesn’t understand why she loves him so much, but he’s stopped trying to figure it out.

“I had a nightmare,” she tells him, her smile cracking a little.

He clears his throat, then sets his coffee down. Joel pats his lap. “Come tell me,” he says.

She obliges, moving from her chair to the safety of his lap and arms, and rests her head on his shoulder as she talks.

She’s such a small thing, light as a feather, he feels so driven to protect her and keep her safe. Sometimes it’s all he can think about.

The nightmare is different this time. He expects her to say she dreamed about that day, or about living without him, but this time, the nightmare was that he lived, but left anyway.

“Where the hell did I go?” Joel asks, and she cannot stop herself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t know! Probably to one of the many women in town who admire you,” she says teasingly, and he rolls his eyes behind his crooked glasses.

“Sweetheart, you’re the only one who wants my tired, old ass.”

She sits up and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“What I can’t figure out is why you want me at all,” he adds.

She shakes her head. “No more of that. You know why I love you. You know I’d do anything for you.”

He squeezes her tight, his arms around he waist, and she presses a kiss to his lips, gently at first, but as it often does, it deepens and grows urgent.

“Gross!”

They pull apart to see Ellie walking by the porch, her bag slung over her shoulders “Go inside, please.” But she waves as she jogs off, and Joel waves back.

“That’s a good idea,” his love says, looking back to him. “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you just how much you mean to me.”

He stands up, holding her in his arms like a bride, and walks towards the door.

“The day I say no to that, darlin’, is the day I truly die.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Damian is the type to casually invite you to the batfamily annual movie night.

A night that was strictly for family only but that rule was bended a couple of times when the likes of Roy Harper and Jon Kent were invited to the supposed ‘batfamily only’ movie night; So no one really batted an eye when you walked into the cinema room and made yourself comfortable in the space next to Damian as Titus joined you both.

And Damian knew that his family didn’t mind you joining them for family night.

In fact it was something that was heavily encouraged and Damian took advantage of that.

Damian couldn’t give less of a fuck about socialising with others unless it was necessary or just unavoidable.

He only comes down for family movie night as long as he didn’t have to within close proximity of everyone else. He even once reserved the space next to him for Titus but when you came into the frame, the space once reserved for the Great Dane was now reserved for you whenever you come over for the weekend; He even once dropkicked Dick and Jason on two separate occasions for almost taking your spot.

Whenever you asked anyone why this was, everyone would share a look and feign ignorance and move on, leaving you more confused then you were before.

Jason reserves a section of his book collection just for you called ‘y/n’s recommendations to read later.’

Jason’s main books were works from Jane Austen but with you introducing him to books such as ‘before the coffee gets cold’ by Toshikazu Kawaguchi and A little life by Hanya Yanagihara, Jason had steadily began to grow a small collection of books that you recommended or reminded Jason of you whenever he reads the blurb.

He loves literature and he loves to talk about it with you but loves it even more when it’s regarding a book you’re both reading at the same time. It’s honestly his favourite thing to do in his pass time as not only does it grant his wish to spend more time with you, it also grants him a moment of calm, a moment of peace and quiet.

Something that Gotham sorely lacked.

He acts personally offended when he hears that you were one and a half chapter ahead of him because hey, you’re meant to read it with him! Not read ahead of him! He’ll pout and say you’ve betrayed his trust but he could never truly be angry at you throughly enjoying a book, he finds it unbearably cute and attractive at the same time.

He loves your little book club that you’ve formed and wouldn’t change it for anything as it was something only the two of you shared.

Dick would love rooftop dates.

They’re his favourite type of dates to take you on mainly because so he could pretended to fall off when you playfully shove him for saying some stupid shit, only to come back up per his athletic background.

‘Dick you…Dick!’ You exclaim, smacking his bicep. ‘You scared me!’

‘Sorry sweetie.’ He’d apologise but the smile on his face would remain as he drew you into his arms, making sure to keep you close to his chest as he pressed kisses into your head.

‘Fucking asshole.’ You murmur against his chest, fists clenching at the back of his shirt, reassuring yourself that he was here with you.

‘Yes I am an asshole for making my baby worry about me.’ Dick would say as he rubs your back comfortingly as a way to remind you that he was really here. He did feel like a…well a dick for scaring you but he loves the opportunity where he gets to hold you, yeah he could’ve asked you like a normal person, but Dick wasn’t exactly a normal person but that didn’t stop you from loving him with everything that you had.

‘You’re making it up to me by making my favourite as compensation.’ You said and Dick could only chuckle at your demand and press his lips to your temple. ‘As you wish cutie.’