It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader
[Chapter 20] || [Chapter 22]
Pairing: Gaz x Reader x Ghost x Soap || 141 x gn!Reader
Words: 1.2K~
cw: -
Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?
a/n: yikes.
Chapter 21: I BEG YOUR PARDON?
It was a familiar sight.
Gaz across the desk, Soap next to him behind the spare chair, Ghost in the back of the room a foot against the wall and arms crossed.
Except this time, Price was standing up, pacing the narrow space behind his desk, from the window to the wall.
“Explain it to me slow.” He demanded. “Like I’m five years old.” He had his arms crossed over his chest as he paced.
“Well, when Ma and Da love each other very much-” Soap began.
“Soap, I will put your head through the bloody wall.” Price threatened.
The shit-eating grin that had been on the Scot’s mouth was suppressed by a pressing of lips together, rapid blinking, and a nod. He had tried and failed at having a laugh at the Captain’s expense.
“Sorry, sir.” He replied.
“Explain.” Price demanded again, hands folded behind his back.
“I started it.” Ghost said from his corner of the room. “Kept talkin’ with ‘em after you had your little one-night stand.”
The younger sergeants didn’t look over. It’s become a strange thing to see Ghost at work, when they’ve gotten a bit more familiarized with Simon instead, back in your flat.
“Why?” Price asked in earnest as he looked at Ghost, stopping in his tracks to properly face him.
“‘Cause they make me feel good.” Ghost replied and crossed his arms.
Price stared at Ghost and, for a moment, his glare softened and his brow relaxed. “I see.”
With a deep breath, the older man tossed himself down onto his desk chair, legs spread and hands resting on his thighs.
“That doesn’t explain the two of you lot.” He pointed at Gaz and Soap.
“I found out about Ghost dating ‘em after they reached out to me to check on him because he went MIA.” Gaz replied.
“And how does that in you bein’ a bloody… polycule?” Price asked.
“I sort of took ‘em on a date on accident and realized how they made me feel and that I wanted to date ‘em.” Gaz said simply.
“And I thought Gaz and Ghost were dating and then found out they’re in fact also dating the same person and not just each other and-” Soap began to explain.
“Pump the breaks.” Price demanded. “Dating each other?” He repeated, sounding like he was this close to blowing a gasket.
“Nicely done, mate.” Gaz said sarcastically and hid his face in his palm, accidentally dislodging his baseball hat from his head.
“I BEG YOUR PARDON? YOU BLOODY FUCKIN’ IDIOTS ARE DATIN’ EACH OTHER?” Price raised his voice and stood up swiftly, sending the chair rolling back against the cabinets behind him.
When no one replied, he glared specifically at Ghost in the back of the room who, himself, was looking off to the side and looked at Price with an incriminating gaze..
“SIMON’S IN YOUR DIRECT CHAIN OF COMMAND!” Price scolds… Soap and Gaz only. “DO YOU KNOW THE TROUBLE THAT CAN BRING?!”
The three men remain silent, eyes forced open out of worry that blinking again will just set the captain off some more.
“IT’S ALREADY BAD ENOUGH THAT YOU’RE ALL DIPPIN’ YOUR DAMN COCKS IN THE SAME HOLE LIKE THEY’RE SOME SORT OF BARRACKS BUNNY BUT-” Price continued his tirade.
“Calm down.” Ghost commanded as he pushed away from the wall and approached the desk.
“Simon, don’t you tell me to calm down.” John ordered, though his voice sounded a lot more calm indeed.
“I’ll tell you to calm down if I reckon I should.” Ghost quipped and set his hand on the edge oof the desk, using his height to go toe-to-toe with their boss.
“You had fun with ‘em too, didn’t you?” Ghost asked with a cocked brow.
“That’s neither here nor there-”
“Cut the bullshit. Answer the bloody question.” Ghost commanded.
“I did.” Price admitted with a grumble and looked away.
“We’re just enjoyin’ ourselves too.” Ghost replied. “They’re considerate, funny, good company…” He trailed off.
“And they have a bloody flat that we can spend time in, with a proper kitchen for good meals, and a proper bedroom with a comfortable bed, and a proper shower that doesn’t have 20 other blokes bum ass naked-” Gaz joked.
“Right, it’s only 2 other blokes instead.” Soap added and him and Gaz nudged each other, earning a stern glare from the two officers in the room.
“Point is-” Ghost replied as he looked at Price. “You saw they’re nice.” He said directly. “Can’t fault us for likin’ ‘em.” He said directly.
“No, but I can fault you idiots for bein’ involved with each other on TOP of ‘em.” Price argued.
“Okay, so it’s not our proudest moment-” Ghost acknowledged. “But it’s happenin’. And you need to keep your mouth shut.” He demanded.
“OF BLOODY COURSE I’M KEEPIN’ MY MOUTH SHUT, SIMON! Fuckin’ hell!” Price complained and threw his hands up before turning to grab a cigar from his case.
“The brass will have all our bollocks f’r breakin’ nonfraternization rules. You f’r doin’ it, me f’r knowin’ it.” He grumbled as he cut the tip of his cigar with a huff.
“Not to mention I’ve been involved in this mess to begin with ‘cause I let you lot talk me into havin’ a one-night stand with ‘em.” Price continued, murmuring under his breath and scolding them without really scolding them.
“I can never get a ’old of you lot noawadays.” Price explained. “You’re meant to be on call.” He reiterated. “Always reachable. Always ready to fly out.”
“Yet I had to call Soap over 40 times two weeks ago ‘cause he was ‘asleep’-” He continued his rant.
“Aye, I was.” Soap replied, earning a shush from Gaz and a smack on the arm.
“And the moment we dismiss you lot from debriefs or meetings, you’re all running off to go be with ‘em, ‘xcept I didn’t know that was the reason until now, and it’s so much bloody worse than I ‘xpected.” Price complained.
The man was halfway through lighting his cigar and taking a puff when Ghost spoke again.
“If they didn’t find out about Cardiff, London, Cairo, Cabo, or Tel Aviv, they won’t find out now.” Ghost retorted.
Price whipped around so fast the younger lads could swear he’d give himself whiplash. “Don’t you bring that up.” He said to Ghost as he used his cigar to point at Ghost.
“I’m just sayin’.” Ghost replied, completely calm and unbothered. “If the brass hasn’t found out about the shite we’ve done while on the field, they won’t find out about us during leave.” He replied.
“Simon-” Price tried starting before he huffed through his nose and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Ghost simply shrugged and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell.” Price complained and sat back down on his chair, setting down his cigar on the lip of the ashtray and rubbing his face.
“Just get out.” He grumbled and waved them off with a dismissive gesture of his hand.
He didn’t peek from the spot where his face was hidden in his hands as he heard the men shuffling around and leaving the office.
Just as the door slipped to a close behind them, he heard Soap asking Ghost: ‘What happened in Cardiff?’
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twenty four hours (modern eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR TWENTY ONE
in which you try everything you can to make eddie feel better after his encounter with chrissy - to make him forget, to make him feel cherished, to make him feel worthy.
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, a single use of Y/N, smut (p in v), oral (m receiving), voyeurism, edging, good old fashioned ball worship if you squint, maybe some sub!eddie if you squint even harder, upside down does not exist, minors dni
→ wc: 7.3k+
→ a/n: shout out to @hellfire--cult for the balcony idea. i knew i'd get them there at some point, little freaks. and everyone say thank you to @icallhimjoey for the early post 😏
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
21:00 ─────────────ㅇ── 24:00
HOUR TWENTY ONE - 12:00 PM
STEVE-O: why do you guys suck so much at providing photographic proof of being alive? seriously
You’ve been staring at Steve’s text ever since the two of you arrived back at the apartment. You’d reply soon enough, but for now, the message was a distraction.
Eddie wasn’t speaking to you.
Not in a brooding sense, but in a way that let you know he was too far gone in his own head right now for you to reach him. When you’d said those words to him, when you’d admitted that you found him worth it, you saw his eyes glaze over slowly. You’d watched in real time as he slipped away from you. It might be that he doesn’t believe you, it might be guilt that continues to gnaw at him for a past that can’t be changed — whatever it is, you hate it.
The easy solution would be to send Steve the photos from the cafe, but you’d already tried that. Your thumb had hovered over that photo of Eddie with a mouthful of croissant, still bright and brilliant before all his waves of self-hatred had gotten ahold of him, and you just couldn’t. It was selfish, it was ridiculous, but you couldn’t share that piece of him with others. Some small, childish, hopeless bit of you needed to cling to the man in that photo and keep him safely inside your chest. It wasn’t a new version to your friends, they’ve always tried to defend Eddie and convince you he wasn’t all bad, but it was new to you. It was all so unexpected and unforeseen, the look behind his golden eyes as he seemingly looked right past the camera and right into you.
No, you couldn’t send that photo. It was for your eyes only. A souvenir you had greedily stolen.
Eddie had excused himself to the bathroom when you two arrived at the apartment, and this time, there was no dirty intentions behind it. You left well enough alone — he needed a moment to be by himself and that was fine. You could entertain yourself until he was ready to come back to you, back down to Earth. Right now, you were currently picking apart an almond croissant as if it were the most interesting thing you’d ever laid eyes on.
Croissant dissection — see? You absolutely could distract yourself in order to give him space. Absolutely no sarcasm there.
You finally sigh when you see a message bubble pop up with three little dots, signifying Steve is typing again. You don’t give him the time to properly finish out his message before you click on your camera icon, snap a shot of the picked apart croissant in front of you, and send a message with the image attached.
YOU: we were eating breakfast, eddie’s been in the bathroom. happy, mom?
STEVE-O: he’s been in the bathroom for an entire hour?
YOU: oh, you know how you men get with toilet time.
Despite the playful tone of your texts, your face is completely flat, chest still heavy as you think about Eddie behind the wooden door. Should you be giving Eddie this amount of space? What if it’s doing more damage than good?
You’re about to stand from the stool you’ve occupied for nearly ten minutes now and go try your hand at knocking, try and remind Eddie that you’re still here, when Steve’s next text comes through.
STEVE-O: stop bullshitting me. what happened?
You swear you taste metallic blood from how hard you bite down on your bottom lip, staring at the mocking message. You can’t even begin to explain to Steve what has transpired, not just this last hour, but the entirety of the time. The parking garage, the joking marriage, Chrissy showing up, Eddie’s painful vulnerability – you can’t find the words to tell him about any of it. The same as you can’t find it in you to send the photo of Eddie in Betty’s.
YOU: nothing happened. do you need any more proof than that?
He only reacts to your message with a thumbs up. You assume that means you’re in the clear, for now.
When you exit your thread of messages with Steve, a new thread that has been started catches your eye. It’s a new number, no contact on it. The only message sent is from you – the photo of you with your coffee, head thrown back and eyes shut with a wide smile boosting your cheeks.
Eddie’s phone number.
You look at the photo of yourself for a while, trying to not cringe at your appearance. To you, you just looked ridiculous. You don’t understand why Eddie wanted this photo preserved so badly. Your smile is too wide, your eyes are mere slits from the way your cheeks were squishing up with joy, most of your makeup you’d started the night with has long since faded due to a multitude of activities. You don’t feel like anything special in this photo.
But Eddie had wanted it. He had deemed this moment in time of you as picture-worthy, had gone so far as to send it to himself so that he’d have this memory even if you deleted it from your phone.
Before you think too hard on it, you tap on that line of numbers and add a proper contact profile to it.
EDDIE. You keep the contact name simple, eager to get it out of the way as you move onto the next step. A contact photo. You don’t even have to ponder on it – in a flash, you’ve selected the picture of him with the croissant.
You’re back on the thread of messages – or, at least, the singular message – and don’t stop yourself as your thumbs begin to fly over your keyboard.
YOU: why were the almond croissants almost sold out?
To be fair, you didn’t even know if Eddie had his phone on him. That green message stares back at you for a few moments before you get your answer.
EDDIE: Excuse me?
He has his phone. You lift your head, looking at the closed door of the bathroom before glancing back down at your phone.
YOU: because everyone went NUTS over them.
You perk your ears and listen for any sign of life from down the hall. Anything. A scoff, a pitiful laugh, him calling you stupid aloud. You’ll take whatever he offers.
It takes a moment, and you truly have to strain to hear it, but you can hear the laugh that would better pass as a sigh.
EDDIE: Is that supposed to be a joke?
YOU: ‘supposed to be’. excuse me, it was definitely a joke. and a very good one, at that.
EDDIE: Debatable.
You find yourself smiling down at the phone. Your neck aches from the way you keep glancing up suddenly at the door, silently pleading for him to come back out. To come out and fight with you, come out and bicker with you, come out and ignore you. Anything, for him to leave the bathroom and do anything but keep that door shut between you two.
He doesn’t, so you send another bad joke.
YOU: what did the customer say when they looked at the croissant?
This time, he plays along.
EDDIE: I don't know, what?
YOU: what a BREADtaking sight.
This time, you hear a more proper scoff come from within the bathroom.
YOU: i heard that. don’t even try to tell me it wasn’t funny.
EDDIE: I’m not laughing because they’re funny. I’m laughing because they’re BAD.
YOU: bet you wouldn’t say that to my face.
Immediately, you discard the phone, facedown on the counter as you look up to the door with unbridled hope. He could always ignore the comment, choose to not respond and continue to sulk away from you. It’s entirely possible – but you pray to every star in the sky that that isn’t what he’s going to do.
Please come back out. Please, even if just to sit in silence with me.
Your prayers are answered.
Slowly, painfully slowly, you hear shuffling on the other side of the door and await for the click of the door unlocking. It never comes, though – the door was never locked in the first place. He opens it, and you realize that the entire time, you could have stormed into the small room with him and demanded that he not hide away.
But you didn’t. You gave him space, gave him patience, and it’s clear he knows this as he comes out.
His eyes are red. As if he’s been crying.
“Hi,” you meekly say, taking in his face past those red-rimmed eyes. The tip of his nose is a fading shade of pink, as if he’s been rubbing it incessantly, and he sniffs for good measure as he turns the bathroom light off and walks to where you are.
“Hi,” his voice is rough around the edges as he greets you back. He won’t look you in the eye once he’s within reach – his gaze remains downcast, and you catch him fiddling with a few of his rings.
You hadn’t considered what you would do if you got this far. In every carefully considered scenario, you’d assumed he’d shut you out. You never expected him to come straight to you, as if seeking out comfort from you, without you having to beg it of him.
His eyes catch the croissants on the counter, torn apart and lazily picked at. He’s about to open his mouth and say something about it, probably questioning what you had done to the poor pastry, but you don’t give him a chance. You’re quick to snatch up one of the pieces you’d been picking apart to snack on for yourself and hold it out to him. An olive branch, an offering – a reason for him to sit and stay for a while with you.
He takes it tentatively, finally looking you in your eye again as he takes a small bite. It’s nothing compared to the bite he had taken when you’d snapped the photo of him, mere crumbs compared to that mouthful.
“Did you just… massacre our croissants?” he questions, squinting his eyes down at the crime scene.
You shift your body jokingly, failing at blocking him from seeing the mess you made, “Absolutely not. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
He almost cracks a grin, “Right. Of course. I must be imagining things.”
“Wanna hear another pun?” you blurt out, suddenly nervous as he continues to stand before you. You hate the incessant need inside of your chest that calls for you to comfort him, to make this all better for him.
“I feel like you’ll tell me one even if I say no,” he raises an eyebrow at you, “So, sure.”
“Why did the croissant go to the doctor?”
He hums, trying to peer over your shoulder again at the croissants you were badly hiding, “Let me guess. Is it because you tore it apart mercilessly?”
“No,” you scoff, reaching behind you to grab another piece to offer to him as well as one of your own, “It was because he was feeling crummy, dumb ass.”
A crack of a smile. It’s miniscule but there. It makes that terrible pun worth it, just to see him not looking quite as defeated is worth all the stars in the sky at this point for you.
You’d certainly been the reason for his unhappiness in the past, and you surely would be again at some point. It all feels so inevitable; just as he believes that he can only bring you misery, you can’t imagine yourself bringing him joy. A belief that strikes something in your chest, something albeit more painful than you’d care to admit, but it’s true. You’ve crossed a line, you’ve changed everything, but the past still remains.
You aren’t perfect. Neither is Eddie.
Heartbreak is imminent, but for this brief moment, you can make him smile. You don’t need to worry about the next time you’ll piss him off or upset him, you just need to focus on making that twitch on his lips more permanent.
“I meant what I said earlier, by the way,” you decide to rip off the bandaid as he moves as if to sit beside you. Quickly, your words make him freeze. A bad sign, but you push through, because he needs to hear these things, “You deserve good things, Eddie. Good people, good things- you just… you deserve those things in your life.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
He’s turning away from you. Turning and heading to the living room, walking away from you.
You don’t let him. In an instant, you get onto your feet and follow him, continuing despite him acting as if he’s finished with the conversation. You’re not.
“You’re a good person, Eddie,” you insist, reaching out for him before he makes it to the couch, “Don’t walk away from me.”
He spins easily in your grip. “Just because you say something, doesn’t make it true, sweetheart.”
He’s back to saying it like a curse. Like it’s a harmful title. As if it’s not a privilege to you and all your metaphors to hear that nickname fall from his lips.
Right before your eyes, his defenses are on the rise. Brick by brick, he’s slowly reforming those walls to separate the two of you. Instead of defeat, instead of acceptance, it just makes you angry.
“Stop doing that,” you say quietly, carefully, firmly.
“Stop doing what?”
“That. Pushing me away. Locking me out,” you tighten your hand on his bicep and watch the way his nostrils flare, “I fucking hate it.”
“Despite what you believe,” he takes a step closer to you, “Not everything I do is meant to piss you off.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, and we both know it,” you can feel his muscles tense beneath your touch.
This time, his smile that emerges is cold. But you can still see the rubbage left by his tears — pink water lines and a new puffiness around his eyes. His words and his sudden cool demeanor can’t hurt you when you see it for what it is.
“Clearly we both don’t know it,” he chastised you, “We are very rarely on the same page. This isn’t a damn exception. You don’t have to prove your point, it doesn’t matter.”
He’s a wounded animal, striking out. He’s letting Chrissy’s words get to him.
“You’re worth i-“
“Don’t,” One of his hands shoot out to grip your waist, “Don’t fucking say that. Please. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
He didn’t believe you.
“I meant it,” you whisper, anger shaking out of your grasp inch by inch as you realize that your words can’t break through to him, “I mean it. You’re worth it, to me, to St-“
“This isn’t about Steve,” he cuts you off, “It’s not about Steve, or Nancy, or Robin, or fucking Argyle. No need to play dumb anymore.”
It’s about you.
You both know it. For once, contradictory to what he’d just claimed, you’re both on the same page. And like he said, no need to play dumb.
“You’re worth it to me,” you say it with more confidence this time, “You’re a good person to me.”
“How can you say that?” he laughs out, void of amusement, “How can you say shit like that after everything we’ve been through?”
How can you not?
You only squeeze his bicep tighter, and he returns the action by gripping your hip harsher. “Because I mean it. I believe it. Whether you do or not.”
For a moment, the cracks in his armor expose themselves.
“You shouldn’t,” his voice should waver, “You shouldn’t believe those things, Y/N. You should hate me.”
“But I don’t,” And I never did.
“But you don’t,” he echoes.
You’ve done the opposite of what you had wanted. His smile is gone, that sadness creeping back up. You hate that. You don’t hate him — you hate that world of mourning behind his eyes, that defeat that brings his shoulders down and makes his grip on you falter. So you do the only thing you can think of to distract him. Make him forget.
“Make me hate you.”
His eyes widen briefly, “Excuse me?”
“Make me hate you,” you practically beg of him, “Show me why you’re such a bad person and I’ll let this go. I’ll drop the conversation, we can- Fuck, we can forget this entire morning happened. Make me hate you, Eddie, and I’ll stop reminding you that I don’t.”
His fingers curl back into you, slowly and gently, as his brows furrow. He’s considering what you’ve just said — more than that, you can see him trying to untangle all the hidden meanings behind it.
“And how do you suggest I do that?” his voice is low and calculated.
You shrug, stepping forward, letting your lips get even closer to his, “Not my problem. Just make me.”
The fingers are no longer gentle as he pulls you into him, finally catching onto the emphasis you place on those two little words.
Make me.
When his lips meet yours, they’re rough and brutal, taking greedily what they want from you. The only thing on your mind is making him forget. Make him forget, carry the load for him — they’re both more important than making him smile for now. Both these driving needs burn brighter in your chest because it’s clear that’s what he needs.
You’re willing to give him whatever he needs right now.
“You want me to make you hate me, baby?” he mumbled against your lip, practically drinking in the way you gasp as he starts to pull back, “Is that really what you want?”
It’s what you want. “Yes.”
And maybe you do too, when he leans back in to bite your lip. There will be another time for you to convince him with words that you find him to be worth it. Both hands from wrap around you and rough start to guide you back towards that fucking couch.
“Not the couch,” you suddenly protest, digging your heels into the carpet at the center of his living room, “Anywhere but the couch.”
And oh, the way he’s looking at you in that moment might be your new favorite thing. Your new favorite color is his eyes as they sparkle with a bit of life that had been missing since the coffee shops encounter. Your new favorite sound is the silence that encases the little breath he lets out. Your new favorite movie is watching him move in slow motion as his eyes dart behind you, towards the door to his balcony, before his lips finally curl up with a hint of the genuine warmth that had been hidden behind his walls.
“Anywhere?” he teases, beginning to walk you backwards.
You nod, grinning right back at him.
“I think I have an idea.”
If you had known twenty one hours ago that Eddie Munson, your sworn enemy, would have you out on his public balcony and on your knees for him in only a matter of time, past you would have….
Well, you don’t really care what past you would have done or thought anymore. You’re making him forget, yes, all while making yourself forget. You don’t care what you, twenty one hours ago, would or wouldn’t do as you let the past slip through your fingers so eagerly. All you can focus on is the dig of concrete against your knees, the way Eddie’s hands grip the railing as he leans against it, and the way the early afternoon sun forms a halo around him as you look up through fluttering lashes.
You just want to make him feel good. Every action is intentional, doing everything in your power to erase whatever storming thoughts had been haunting him so cruelly since Chrissy had so carelessly said what she had. You want to make him feel worthy. You want to make him feel loved.
Loved. You certainly didn’t love him — you couldn’t possibly, could you? He wouldn’t let you. You wouldn’t let yourself. But for now, you could play pretend; you could worship his body, drag his shirt out of the way and place playful kisses across his hips, and you could pretend that only this moment exists.
“You wanna know what makes me such a bad person?” he sighs out as you let your teeth graze his skin, shoulders rolling to shake off that shiver you elicit from him, “This. The fact that this is all I can fucking think about.”
“Hm,” you can only hum in response, nails taking over the denim of the jeans he currently wore. You walk your fingers up his thighs, moving closer and closer to his zipper. Your mouth is nearly watering at the prospect of worshiping him.
And the fact that any neighbor could walk out at any given moment and catch the two of you. You should probably insist on it being fast, on him being quiet, but the thought sends a thrill through the pit of your stomach. Your thighs clench and your cunt aches at the thought of being caught.
You want to do more than make him bite back mere moans of your name. You want to make him scream.
Suddenly, a hand tangles into the roots of your hair, pulling back and making you focus on him again.
“Eyes on me,” he instructs. Once you focus on him and only him, he continues, loosening his grip and letting those fingertips rub at your scalp soothingly, “You know why you should hate me? For all the nights I pictured this.”
“Yeah?” you smile innocently, playing along. He can talk all he wants, you know once you get your mouth on him, he’ll be lucky to remember his own name. “How many nights, hm? Tell me all about them, pretty boy.”
You catch the wobble in his knees, the way his breathing picks up, the brilliant shade of ivory his knuckles stretch to. You lean back on your haunches, and the hand in your hair slips as he glowers down at you.
“What are you-”
“Take off your shirt,” you calmly command.
“Excuse me?”
“Your shirt. I want it off.”
His hand that was once tangled against your scalp now comes down to your face, movement slow but not hesitant as he pinches your chin. His thumb tugs on your bottom lip, and you let out, even making a show of letting your tongue peek out to tap at it. “And who said you were calling the shots?”
“I did,” you put it simply, completely removing your hands from him now, “Take off the shirt, or I’ll leave you out here with blue balls.”
You close your lips around the end of his thumb and his knuckles dig in deeper to the skin below your chin as you suck subtly. He chuckles, but you can hear just how breathless he goes at the small action, even as he keeps up the act with a hard press of his thumb on your lower lip. Your mouth hangs open for him, waiting patiently for his next move.
A game of chess, an exchange of power, a fight for dominance. All the lines of who is and isn’t in control are blurred.
“Have you always been so mean, baby?” he taunts, trailing what spit you’d left behind on his thumb along your lip.
His movement stops when your lips spread into a provocative smile, “I learned from the best, didn’t I?”
The retort had potential to backfire. You wait for smoke and glory, for him to pull away from you further. He’d slam down a brick right in front of your face, lay the mortar to leave you high and dry. He’d push you away, and you’d have to retreat, tail tucked between your legs in the shame of trying when it came to him.
No smoke, no glory. He secedes, but makes no move to add to his walls, only removing his hand from your face and taking off the shirt. Just as you had told him to.
“Better?” he asks as he makes a show of tossing the shirt to the other side of the balcony. It could have even flown over the railing, for all you paid attention to the scrap of clothing. Maybe some innocent bystander is on the streets below, confused to all Hell as to why it’s raining obscure band t-shirts.
You’re just a bit too distracted to consider that right now.
With Eddie’s torso revealed, all words seem to evade you. You catch the sweat beginning to gather across his sternum, watching the way he’s flushing beneath your gaze, reveling in the pink chest exposed to you as the blush crawls wider. Instantly, your original purpose is forgotten, the primal urge to pepper kisses and bites alike across his skin almost lifting you up off your sore knees. You want to leave bruises – you want to make him scream, you want to mark him up, you want to make him feel worthy.
You stay on your knees, but compromise with all your wants as you lift up and stretch a bit. Your lips start their trail a bit lower than you (or Eddie) would have liked, taking their time to get familiar with the spanse of his rib cage first. You don’t nip with teeth, not yet. Just chaste kisses, lining each bone you can hardly feel residing beneath the skin, feeling his lungs expanding against your affection. Your tongue swipes alongside one of his side tattoos, a large and detailed dragon you hadn’t paid much mind to before. Every time you’d seen him shirtless, you’d been a bit distracted.
Not now. Now, you’re focused, determined to learn every curve and dip there is to explore on Eddie. You want to know him better than the back of your hands, memorize him more intricately than your own palms. After all, in order to worship a deity, you must know them.
You return back to the center line of his abdomen, kisses chasing after one another, even taking the time to suck his skin between your teeth but never bite down. You pause once your lips rest right beneath his navel, the tip of your nose brushing that rough patch of hair that leads down to your end destination. Your hands reach for his belt, toying with the buckle.
Through heavy lashes, you look up at him, staring down at you in awe, “You know, you’re not doing a very good job at making me hate you, pretty boy. Think I might just have to worship you instead.”
A deity of your own making. A deity for your own taking.
With skill, your hands undo the buckle effortlessly. You unbutton and unzip his jeans as if you’ve done this part a million times, as if you’d spent every single Sunday of the last year right here and doing exactly this. On your knees, worshiping him. This balcony, for all its exposure, certainly knows how to serve as a holy place.
He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re impatient. You still haven’t left him speechless, meaning you still hadn’t made your point, clearly.
His jeans hang loosely as they creep down his thighs, abandoned for a moment as you occupy your mouth against his hips. The hips you once thought would look so pretty properly decorated. You decide you were wrong – they don’t need ink burying into the skin, they need your teeth digging in.
You cover that skin with mirroring images of bursts of purple and pink, flowering bruises that you take your time to mark onto him. With each suck and bite, Eddie rolls his hips into you, head leaned back and throat straining with each moan he swallows down.
With the last hickey finished, you finally lean back, proud of your masterpiece as Eddie whimpers above you. Blooms in the shape of your lips mingle with faint and quickly fading teeth marks.
“Fuck,” he gasps out when your fingertip stops trailing over your markings and comes down to apply the softest pressure over the straining bulge in his boxers.
“What was it that you said earlier?” your finger traces over where you know a vein is – you know it because you’ve felt it, been driven insane by it – before circling around the wet patch now forming. He’s desperate, hips bucking again and a moan finally escaping. You think he’s bitten his lips hard enough in an attempt at self-restraint that they might be bleeding, “You said I’m not calling the shots, right?”
“You’re not,” he pathetically grits out, hands forming tighter fists on metal railing, as if the moment he lets go of it they’ll find their way home to you.
You lean forward, breath washing over his crotch before you place a feathery kiss to his clothed tip, “I’m not?”
You are. You both know you are. A constant battle of control, an ever-growing fight for dominance.
He lets out something crossed between a sigh of relief and a whine of protest when you remove your lips and hand from him completely, only to let out a sharp yelp when your finger curls into the waistband of his boxers and pulls back the elastic, letting it snap back into place sharply.
“Say I am,” you barter, “Say I’m in control right now, and I’ll put my money where my mouth is.”
You don’t expect him to break so easily. You’ve underestimated just how tightly you’ve caught him beneath your thumb.
“You’re in control,” he gasps out, head hanging low to meet your gaze fully, “You’re in complete and utter fucking control of me. You’re calling all the shots, baby. You always are.”
He didn’t have to sweeten it up with baby, but it spurs you on.
You shove his boxers down, watching his cock spring out for the taking. And you do as you promised; you put your money where your mouth is.
You start softly, taking your time as you gingerly suck on his pretty pink tip as you had his thumb. Hardly hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue circle his slit to gather up the precum. You let the taste of him completely cover your tongue, even hum in satisfaction when he lets out a loud groan. It motivates you, feeds your fervor as you let his tip fall from your mouth and trail the tip of your tongue down the underside of his cock. That vein you’d traced with your fingertip, yours for the taking, covered in a faint line of saliva as you let it rest on your forehead and graze your lips against his ballsack.
He can’t hide his shiver, even as his fist flies to his mouth to bite down on.
“Have I ever told you how cute you are?” you say low enough for just him. You can hear the sounds of traffic, a dog barking, birds singing — all reminders of the outside world and the looming threat of being caught. Warmth floods you again at the reminder of that threat, thighs clenching closer together in a desperate search of friction, “Just falling apart for me, acting so tough for so long until I got you alone.”
He whimpers your name. It’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.
You wrap your lips around the sensitive skin, sucking and pecking away on one side before moving to the next. His reaction throttles your movements. When his hand loses the fight of resistance, coming down to the back of your head, you laugh breathlessly against the now wet skin.
“Let me make you feel just how worthy you are to me,” you praise, pulling back finally, letting your nose brush against his sack as you do so. The hand that was once merely resting now tangles up in your hair — a warning.
You let the velvet skin of his cock drag down your cheek as each movement is deliberate, taking your time and in no rush. You want to savor him like this. Imprint him to memory.
You want to make him forget while making yourself remember.
You want to remember the way his hand flexes at the base of your skull when you finally kiss his tip once more, remember the way his abdomen tenses as you sink him further into your mouth. You want to remember every little sound that escapes him as he hits the back of your throat, as you constrict around him, as you moan around his base and the vibrations have him slipping out of control.
Your nails dig into his thighs to balance yourself, eyes watering as you look up at him. One subtle nod. He doesn’t need more than that.
Your jaw goes slack, trying to steady your breathing through your nose as you let him take control. His hips thrust at their own pace, gentle enough that he only grazes the back of your throat rather than bruise it. The issue is you want him to bruise it. You want him to mark you from the inside out. Until there’s no part of you left untouched by him.
You gag again, and he slows. Your fingers that grip his thighs immediately tap against him, and he mistakes it as a signal to pull back completely before you chase after him, pressing him onto your tongue until your lips are snug around his cock a mere inch from the base. Your nose is grazing those pubes in the dead center of all your love marks. Shapes of semi-permanent scars that whisper, you’re worth it to me. I want this. I want you.
The last thing on his mind was Chrissy Cunningham and her words alluding to him not being worth it.
You make sure of it when you finally release him from your mouth and begin to pump with an eager fist, ducking down and returning to pay attention to his balls once more. You nuzzle the soft skin, let the tips of your canines graze them before you suck them onto your tongue as you’d done his cock. He’s no longer containing his moans – they flow freely along with curse words, chants of your name, sounds you’d love to capture and play on repeat until the end of your days.
“Oh my God,” he groans out particularly loudly, “Fuck, baby. J-Just like that, please- Fuck. You’re doing so good for me. Such a good girl, just for me.”
Your hand is still wrapped around him, slowly coming up to squeeze hard around the tip as you whisper up to him, “Only for you.”
“Yeah? Only for me?”
You don’t know how to explain to him that it’s true: you’re only ever that mean for him, you’re only ever this eager for him, you’re only ever this desperate for him.
You don’t answer him with words. There are none. Instead, you take him back in your mouth, and you solely focus on bringing your deity to climax. The man you were worshiping, the man who was worth the ache in your knees that surely told you they would be left bruised, if not skinned.
“Is it just like you imagined?” you question as you break your lips off him. He’s close, leaking precum excessively and entire body taut, “Was it worth it? To picture this, to want this so badly?”
He almost can’t answer you, but somehow manages between pants, “It was. It is. You’re- fuck, you’re worth it.”
“Good,” you drop your hand from him, leaving him right on the edge as you rest both sticky palms on the tops of your thighs. You look up at him with relinquished control – the perfect image of submission, for him. “Then you get it. When I say you’re worth it, you get it.”
He’s clearly still reeling from you bringing him so close only to leave him hanging, teetering on a cliff as he stares you down.
His chest heaves as he questions, “What was it you wanted me to do earlier?” A deceiving hand comes down, tucking any baby hairs behind your ear and cradling the side of your face. One moment, his thumb is stroking a soft arch beneath your eye, the next that hand is pulling you up, “Make you?”
You know that if you hadn’t been so eager to follow his touch, you’d still be on your knees. Even as you watch him take the reins, you know you will always call the shots – just like he had said.
“You really think you can make me hate you?” you whisper once you’re standing tall in front of him, leaning your cheek into his touch.
“I shouldn’t have to make you hate me,” he corrects, the thumb back to gentle strokes, loosening the touch to be more tender once again, “You should already hate me.”
“Why?”
He flips positions immediately, your lower back now curving into the railing as he presses himself up against you, his achingly hard cock between your bodies, “Because of this. Because I always want you on your knees for me. Because of all the fucking filth I want to do to you. I want to bend you over, right here, and take you where anyone could see. I want to have you screaming my name loud enough that every single person on the streets of this city hears you.”
With each word, a knot ties inside of you, desperate for release.
“Because you’re fucking right,” he leans down, lips going straight for your neck, not looking you in the eyes, “All it fucking took was for you to get me alone for one night, and now? I’ll never get enough of you, I’ll never get clean of you,” he takes a deep breath, and suddenly, his lips latch onto you, sucking the skin between his teeth and biting hard. You can’t stop your fingers from latching onto his curls, tugging hard, body rolling into his. It hurts, it stings, you need more, “Everything changes. And that includes me.”
His face finally leaves the crook of your neck, pulling back to look you in your eyes. Doe brown eyes search yours, wide and honest and pleading. You let everything else melt away; for a moment, it’s only him and only you. The tension, the last twenty one hours, the last year — you let it disintegrate and focus on him.
It never mattered if everything changed.
It only matters that he’s changed, irreversibly, and so are you.
“How can I hate you for those things?” you press into him again, this time less desperate and more consciously, “Do it.”
“Do what?”
“All of it,” you trail a hand up his chest, “Every single thing you just said. Fucking- Do them. Bend me over, make me scream, change me,” your voice breaks, shaking with anticipation and need.
It’s all the encouragement he needs.
Every single thing he wanted, he craved, he does. A flurry of him properly discarding his jeans as he unbuttons yours to shove them down, spinning you and shoving you hard enough into the railing that it digs into your abdomen and leaves you breathless. You’re hardly aware of the way you step out of your pants and kick them to the side, looking out to the city skyline but not seeing it. It’s all a blur as you focus on the way your shirt rides up and he grabs your hips, bruising you finally as you have desperately needed.
You wanted to be left haunted by the end of these last few hours. You wanted to see him every time you looked in the mirror for the next week, to remember the map of where his body molded to yours. You want to dream of the way he stretches you as your underwear is ripped to the side. You want to be followed by the sounds of his skin slapping against yours as he snaps forward with intention.
Changing you. He has no idea that he’s already ripped you open from the inside out, has already rewired your entire chest and set flames to your brain.
Everything changes, and sometimes, everything is only two people. Just you. Just him. New versions that would have never met had it not been for this stupid fucking bet.
“Eddie,” you nearly sob, nearly choke on, his name burning in your throat like kindling embers.
His hand walks up your spine, trailing wildfire even with a layer of cotton between you two. Burning and singing away all you’d assumed for far too long. When he reaches the nape of your neck, he takes care in wrapping your hair around his wrist, tugging back hard and forcing you to stand from where the railing had been bending you in two.
“Say it again,” his lips brush you ear with every gasping breathing, timing with the way his cock is sliding in and out of your warmth, “Say it louder.”
“Fu-“ you start to moan, cut off by him pulling even harder on your hair, making his point so that you cry out, “Eddie!”
He thrusts harder. You swear you could feel him in your throat.
“Scream for me, baby,” an arm wraps around your torso, firm and solid for you to cling to rather than the warming metal of the railing, “Tell them who’s making you feel so good. Let them know. Be a good girl.”
Even when he claims to have control, it’s your actions, your reactions, that call the shots.
It’s the echo of your voice that spurs him on as you chant his name over and over, as if he were your only God. Primal worship dripping from every syllable. It’s the tremble in your thighs that has him pressing deeper into you, chest glued to your back as if he could never get you close enough. It’s the clench of your cunt around him, a vice that sucks him in as you drag him closer to the high he’s been dizzily chasing since you first dropped to your knees in front of him.
It’s you. You’ve changed him, as he’s changed you.
He pulls your hair until you rest the back of your head against his shoulder, back arching and feet still spread as he only maintains his quick and brutal pace, leaning down to whisper in your ear one last time.
“You know the real reason why you should hate me?” he grits out between to particularly forceful thrusts, “It’s not just because I don’t deserve you. It’s because I’ve wanted you for so long,” you’re right on the edge, fluttering around his cock as his movements stutter. A tell tale sign. “I- fuck, fuck. It’s- God, I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ll never be fucking worthy.”
You shatter around him in waves. Your entire body tenses as the words dig claws into you, piercing through vines and blooms. His body stills, warmth flooding you deep within as you continue to see stars. You can’t make a single sound, fingerprints surely left behind on where you clasp onto his forearm.
I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ll never be fucking worthy.
When the waves recede, when the high has passed its peak, you both freeze. Your body tensed in his hold, struggling to process what he’d just said.
Loved you.
He’s frozen in place, scrambling to figure out how to undo the damage just done.
I’ve loved you for so long.
He slips out of you, his spent dripping down your thighs. His forearm drops from you. Your hands don’t even try to stop him.
I’ll never be fucking worthy.
You should be worried of neighbors coming out to see the two of you on his balcony. If not worried, you should be embarrassed, or aching at the thought once again. Anything. You should feel something.
You turn slowly to him, entirely numb as you catch his rueful expression.
Loved you. He loved you.
His regret turns to pain as you whisper, “What did you just say?”
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greed ! yeonjun
%PAIRING— yeonjun x fem!reader.
C0NTENT WARNING!— nipple play, dom!yeonjun, creampie, breeding kink, slight hint of possessive/yandere yeonjun.
WORD COUNT—1.3k. ..... (!) this was meant be a drabble! and is based on this post!
it all started with one needy little nudge of his hands; languidly sliding from your forearms to your wrist—grasping it tightly to pull you closer to his lips.
downcast eyes focused on the way your lips are parted, yeonjun's hands swiftly place his nimble finger on either side of your jaw; applying just enough pressure so you lips pucker out for him. he doesn't wait long before the tip of his tongue slither out and licks a stripe from your chin to your pouted lips before finally catching your upper lip between his own teeth.
it hurt a bit for you, but the pleasure that was swirling in your core, and the heat in your stomach kept you from indulging in it. yeonjun sucked on your lips as if they were coated with honey—perhaps for him you were made of nectar. you tried to keep up, sucking onto his bottom lip ceaselessly. yeonjun's hands had long abandoned your jaw to come and undo the meddlesome buttons of your shirt—but patience probably wasn't yeonjun's best virtue. before he could open the last two buttons, the last silver of his chivalry dwindled as he ripped it open; sending buttons flying everywhere.
his slender fingers grabbing at your breasts; kneading them to his liking, while his lips devoured you. his fingers pulling on the pebbles of your chest to his liking—eliciting sharp pain through your body, masked by the carnivorous lust that pooled at your core.
the more noise you made into yeonjun's mouth, the worse he got. his bulge almost touched your belly, and yeonjun only pushed further into the softness to alleviate some of the ache in his groins; enclosing you against the wall of your room.
"gotta fuck you now, or ill explode," yeonjun confessed against your bloodied lip. his warmth breathing fanning the sweet injuries he adorned you with. you didn't need much convincing to begin with; already aching to be filled by him.
"god me too," a timid groan left you as yeonjun distanced himself from you. even the ephemeral pressure of his cock on your stomach rendered you empty; shamelessly whining to get more. the eagerness of your action driving yeonjun further into the rapacious frenzy as he quickly undid his pants— your eyes ravenously observing his each move before he stood before you in only his underwear. the pants were still at the base of his ankles but yeonjun couldn't care less as he grasped your arms and turned you around to face the wall.
yeonjun quickly unraveled his hard on, stroking it languidly in his hands as he took in the sight before him.
you both had quite a history to share, but he had never in his wildest thoughts that he would be able to have you like this.
yeonjun's hands slipped underneath your pants and he pulled it down along with your underwear half haphazardly, waiting no time as he placed his cock against your pussy—forcefully wiggling it around to coat himself with your slick. listlessly thrusting it against your clit. yeonjun's little act drove you to a path insanity as he continued on with no intention of sticking his cock inside.
"yeonjun," you wanted to sound authoritative—scary enough for him so he'd cut the bullshit and do what's he's supposed to—fuck your brains out. even though it wasn't nearly as fearsome as you had hoped, it still did the trick when you felt yeonjun line his cock against your fluttering hole.
somberly pushing the tip in—penetrating through the tight ring into your gummy walls. taking as much space as he needs as you fucks into you slowly—your eyes had rolled all the way to the back when yeonjun had finally bottomed out into you. the sensation of feeling full already pushing you to the edge of the bittersweet limbo of carnal desire.
"fuck," you heard yeonjun moan into your hair, his fingers digging into the soft of flesh of your waist as he placed his chest onto your back—cluelessly putting all his weight on you, pushing your naked nipples onto the cold wall. you bit your lips to stop yourself from moaning when your hard nipples brushed against the texture when yeonjun stilled himself deep inside your cunt. the sudden motion sends vibrations allowing your breasts to jiggle against the concrete. the cavernous moan that you were holding back slips out before you could get a hold of your wits.
yeonjun calculatively takes himself off your capricious cunt—the soft flesh stretching itself to prevent him from escaping—until only the tip of his dick is left inside of you, throbbing and rock hard.
"your cunt doesn't wanna let go my dick," yeonjun crudely laughs before his waist snaps against your ass, sending your upper body flying against the wall once more. you grunted in a mixture of pain and pleasure, as you felt yeonjun gyrating his dick inside of you—cruelly rubbing against your g spot while holding the base of his dick.
despite being just as needy as you were, yeonjun still liked to make you feel he held the reins.
"rub your tits on the wall,"
"huh?"
"don't play dumb with me," yeonjun chuckled, approaching the shell of your ears. carelessly licking the shape of it before taking your earlobe into his mouth, enticing a sweet little squeak from your mouth in the middle of the heavy panting urged by the primitive grinding of his dick inside of you.
"i saw how you moaned when you tits rubbed against the wall," yeonjun pulled himself back, his hands pulling your waist with him, causing your back to arch just slightly with your chest still pressed against the wall. the new position burned, but it also leisurely simmered into a dulcet colic.
"its okay," yeonjun bit his bottom lip, pulling his cock out once again, "ill help you." and pushed it back with such a force that it has your upper body sliding against the wall to keep your balance—all while stimulating the bundle of nerve on your nerves triggering you to moan incessantly, goading yeonjun's ego.
"fuck you feel so fucking good," yeonjun gasped, continuinally hitting your ass with his hips as he thrusted inside of you, "god this pussy is made for me!"
your hands were on either side of the wall with your chest pushed against wall—the erect nipples being pushed around by the wall according to the rhythm of yeonjun's push sending you to a divine rampage of rapture from both sides albeit lined with a bit of sourness of impatience.
although that too was soon taken care when yeonjun's hands snaked itself to your core, pressing against you swollen clit, rubbing slow circles.
"cum for me," yeonjun sighed, his hips still pushing forward—propelling you against the wall and of course his fingers working on your clit. you were hanging by a fragile thread that could snap soon—and it happened sooner than you'd have guessed. washing over you like a tsunami as it left you writhing against yeonjun.
yeonjun quickly took over as you convulsed in his arm—your nipples were too sensitive to even graze any object. he felt a sense of pride, seeing your shaking in his arms as with his dick buried inside your cunt. he took his cock out—the friction marginally less as your cum coated him, resulting in sloppier, and messier thrusts.
yeonjun turned your face around him. a grin embracing his lips when he saw the hazy downcast of your leafy eyes and the fucked out expression—yeonjun felt fulfilled. he took your tongue into your mouth, lapping it up as his own thrusts grew slower, and slower until he stilled himself inside you once again, coating your walls white with his seed.
"youre so cute," yeonjun cooed, looking at your dazed eyes, "maybe i should give you a baby so that your pussy is always mine, hm?"
©ITGIRLGYU 2023! FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED!
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For my sugar baby!ransom peeps:
Big Bills Get My Attention
Warnings: ass/anal play (eating), teasing, dirty talk, power exchange dynamic, sugar relationship, slight degradation, ransom in a thong, semi risky/public setting, keeping the boss busy while on a conference call, no editing
A/N: credit to @howdoyousleep3 (edit bestie I can't recall why I've credited you but honestly, it's deserved.)
The message from an hour ago burns in his thoughts as he showers.
My office, 7:30. Wear the blue if you wanna earn that ski trip.
The blue one. Shit. What are you going to do to him? His cock chubs up even as he thoroughly cleans up after his intense work out of the club. Ransom ignores it. Focus is key if he is going to make it to your office in time.
If you were planning to work so late that he had to go to your office for this, it meant you were stressed. It meant being on his best fucking behaviour because you always knew, by some fucking bullshit, if he took the edge off before seeing you. He wanted the night to end with him cumming across your desk, or god with his cum ruining your trousers.
You've ruined his slacks enough time, maybe tonight he'll finally get to return the favour.
He finishes up quickly, goes through his standard skincare routine even though he will have to do it again after your session, and gets dressed. The blue thong is snug against his crotch and he swears to himself the entire drive into the city that he only fucking wears them because it makes you more generous. It has nothing to do with how the string splits his ass cheeks right in two, the tantalising feeling that has him shifting in the seat of his beemer.
He parks in the garage under the building and pulls his security card from the glove box. The security guard nods at him as he swipes through, and he swipes it again in the lift to get to your floor. The lights are dimmed and your assistant has already gone home as well. You prepared for this session as well then.
The door to your office is open. Ransom takes a steadying breath. Ski trip, long weekend with the boys, fucking some snow bunnies. He focuses on the important things as he steps into your room.
But the air is knocked out of his lungs anyway.
You sit behind your desk, jacket off and the buttons of shirt undone to the centre of your chest. It shouldn't be so fucking hot to see you like this. You look like a regular person, but the power you possess goes right to his cock anyway.
"Strip." You don't even look at him when you bark the command. "You're 10 minutes late, Hugh."
Fucking traffic. He busted his balls to get over here. Ransom removes all his clothes except the thong while you clear a space on your desk. When you finally look at him you give him an appraising look, one that doesn't give away if you're pleased with how he looks. His chest tightens when you raise an eyebrow at him.
"What do you say?"
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
"Good boy," you hum. "Now get that pretty body over here. Want to look at your ass while I have listen to this fucking board meeting."
Thank fuck. Ransom walks over to your desk and grab hold of his hips. Your fingers dig into the meat of him, forcing him to bite his tongue to stay quiet. The inspection of him continues, your eyes assessing quickly, your hand moving to cup his bulge through the lacy material of his panties. The longer this goes on, the more his cock chubs up. You kiss it before turning in around and bending him over your desk.
With his ass directly in your face, he is goddamn happy he started taking waxing seriously. The feel of your hand running over his smooth skin sends pleasure up his spine and straight back to his cock. Your desk is cold on his skin as he settles in.
"Don't make a sound," you say before the familiar chatter of the video call comes on.
Ransom settles in, crossing his arms under his head. He's not concerned about being seen, your camera is off the moment you say your greetings. Voices drone on, discussing shit that maybe he should care about if he took his fake contractor role seriously, but he doesn't.
They don't pay his bills. They don't give him black cards to private clubs or make sure he gets tables at restaurants, you do. So he focuses on the tease of your hand. The way your fingers scrape across his low back, your thumb rubbing circles into his ass cheek. He sighs, if this is all it takes to get a ski trip paid, for he could die a happy man.
It's only when your mouth touches his skin that makes any complaint.
"Jesus," he hisses.
The hard pinch on his ass is the only warning he gets before you are speaking again to the directors. You say something about moving some shit to next quarter, then your mouth is back on him.
You place open mouth kisses on his ass while your fingers tug at the string of his thong. He clenches his fists at the tension, fighting the urge to squirm. It's not uncomfortable, but the tug against his half hard cock makes him want more.
And you have always been so good about giving what he needs, more than what he wants.
Your tongue slides from his half exposed sac to his hole and Ransom nearly comes off the desk. Both of your hands move to his ass cheeks and press him wide open.
"Stay quiet and be a good little slut for me, Hugh. Let daddy treat this hole right."
Oh fuck he hopes you muted your mic. He hopes you don't stop either. Your tongue laps at his hole over and over again, your spit dribbling down to his balls. His cock is fully hard and furious it isn't getting attention. Ransom rolls his hips experimentally, just to see what you'll do.
"No," you pull away and he thinks he's fucked it. "Send Johnson to me if he keeps saying stupid shit."
When your mouth returns to his asshole, you push his hips down into the desk, adding pressure to his cock. He doesn't fight the instinct. Ransom humps your desk like the slut you want him to be while you make a mess of his hole. His breath comes out faster and faster, higher too as he tries to keep his noises to a minimum.
God does he want to fucking cum though. He needs it. His balls draw up and his spine tingles. Your tongue pushes into the ring of his ass and stars fucking burst behind his eye lids. His hips stutter as he loses himself to his climax, to the mess he is leaving on your desk.
The euphoria washing over him keeps going, you keep going, until his hole is too sensitive. His cum cools against his skin, the lace sticking to his cock, but you don't stop.
"Daddy," he whines as softly as he can.
You fucking slurp at his ass in response. It's only when he is panting and his cock is valiantly trying to get hard again that you pull away. Your fingers clench around his ass cheeks and he whimpers.
"I know, pretty boy, you stay quiet. Let me have this peach until the meeting's done. Then Daddy'll give you a proper good bye before your trip."
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Hello Comet! If you are still taking ficlet requests could I tempt you with some touch averse!Dewdrop?
I may have been projecting and am simply thinking of him at a vulnerable point in his earthly existence (perhaps right after the elemental change) where he wants to engage sexually with another ghoul but doesn't want to be touched, so he asks his partner to watch and instruct him so long as they promise not to touch him..
Above all, I love your work, keep it up!
Jinx
I have not been able to stop thinking about this prompt since you sent it. I love it SO MUCH.
Touch didn't use to be complicated. It wasn't that long ago that it was easy. That Dew sought it out. Clingy and tactile by nature, he would curl his body around the nearest ghoul, reach for their hand during chores, lean on them during mass. Physical contact was his baseline. Always touching someone, constant contact.
So, it was only natural that sex was easy too. He sank into it, into the way his body fit so well with another. How it felt to have calloused fingers drag down his thighs, how they felt when they moved inside of him.
Now?
Now when someone touches him it feels like a livewire run across his skin. His whole body crawls with it. It's electric. Unpleasant. Hornets inside of his skull.
If Aether stands too close, he winces. He curls in on himself. His personal bubble didn't used to exist, now it's miles wide. Sitting on the couch next to Mountain puts him on edge. The way their thighs casually brush makes Dew insane.
It's like every inch of his skin was remade with the change and it's too sensitive, raw. He knows from talking with the ghouls in the infirmary about it that it's probably all in his head. His skin isn't too sensitive. It's the same skin and body he always had. Just altered, but not new.
They tell him like knowing it's in his head will make it better. It doesn't. It makes it so much worse.
And it doesn't help that he's helplessly, stupidly, attracted to the new water ghoul. When Rain smiles at him Dew feels something in his chest loosen up. But when Dew tries to stand closer to him, tries to override this bullshit in his brain, his body is buzzing again.
The hornets are under his skin now too.
The only other person who knows about what's going on with Dew, is Aether. He couldn't avoid telling him, Aethers too intuitive, he noticed the way Dew shifted away from him on the couch, the way he shifted away from everyone.
But Dew finds himself wanting to tell Rain.
He jerks off under the spray of impossibly hot water to thoughts of the lanky water ghoul. He imagines him here, curls lank, steam curling above his head.
Dew wants to touch, he wants to taste. He wants--
He wants his fucking brain to work right.
They float around each other for weeks. Dew trying to figure out what he wants and how to ask for it. Rain standing as close to Dew's personal space as Dew can stand. All Dew can smell is petrichor.
He wants to drown in it.
Rain, of course, is the one who initiates. Dew doesn't know how. He doesn't know how to ask for anything. What can he give Rain? He can't touch him, he can't kiss him. So he decides to ask for nothing, to give nothing.
Rain isn't having it.
Rain corners him one day after chores, he doesn't touch, but the look he gives Dew sends a fissure of pleasure down his spine that feels like a touch.
"My room," Rain says softly. "I want to try something."
And that's how he got here. Pants pulled down around his thighs, his back against Rain's headboard while Rain sits in the dark leather arm chair across the room.
Rain's pants are open too. Dew can't take his eyes off of Rain's cock, flushed a deep purple at the head, slick and shiny with precum. Dew squeezes the base of his own cock and groans as Rain makes another slow stroke up his own length.
"Faster," Rain says, his voice low, husky with arousal. Dew speeds up his own strokes, twisting his hand at the head each time, drawing pleasure up through his spine. He wants to tip his head back, to close his eyes, to feel himself and Rain's eyes on him. But he's been told not to look away.
And Rain, like this, is even prettier than he imagined. Cerulean eyes blown dark, a purple flush over his dusky gray cheeks. His shirt is unbuttoned and the silver sliver of torso Dew can see makes him feel insane. Dew's shirt is gone, tossed somewhere.
So when Rain tells him to play with a nipple ring, Dew drags his fingers up his overhead body and twists one of his nipples and the ring through it in his fingers.
Dew can't help the noises he's making. Rain hisses as Dew bucks up into his own hand. Rain never drags his eyes away from Dew's body. There's hunger there, a desire to touch and claim. But he doesn't try, doesn't suggest it.
He just tells Dew how to touch, and Dew listens, and each whispered command hauls Dew closer and closer to cumming.
"Are you close?"
Dew drags his eyes from the spectacle of Rain's cock, and pre-slicked fingers to look him in the eyes. Dew nods.
"Tell me."
"So close. I'm--you're gonna make me cum."
"Yeah," Rain agrees, "you're right. I am. Keep going. Don't stop."
Dew can't stop the flex in his hips, he's fucking into his own fist in ernest now, and Rain is watching, lips parted, breath hitching. His hand flies over his cock too. The room fills with the slick sounds of their hands, and the panting of their breath. Dew whines, low and urgent, and Rain's eyes jump to his.
"That's it, firefly. Cum for me."
Dew does, with a strangled moan. Coating his hand, his stomach, Rain's bedspread. Rain watches the first spurt of cum, and then he's cumming too. Dew watches the way his head tips back, eyes rolling back, lithe body held taut as he makes a mess of his hand, his pants, his open shirt.
"We're doing this again," Dew says as soon as he can breathe again, splayed out on Rains' bed with no intention of moving.
Rain chuckles, wiping his messy hand off on the thigh of his pants, watching Dew sink into his bed. Dew's watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. He doesn't know if he'll ever be the ghoul he was before. Clingy. Tactile.
But that's ok. He doesn't need to be.
He has Rain.
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• two dreams
Oikawa is harassing you over a secret on your husband's 27th birthday.
tags: angst, fluff, domestic
note: not as polished as I want to be but here we are. have fun!
"Does Iwa know?" Oikawa asks, his voice soft as a whisper you almost didn't hear him from all the chaos coming from the living room.
"Know what?" you replied, confused at his sudden question. You moved to grab a bowl from the cupboard, Oikawa following closely. You hear him sigh, causing you to turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"What exactly are you talking about, Oikawa?"
Today is Iwaizumi's 27th birthday, and he decided to celebrate it with the boys through a simple dinner at his place. You obliged, knowing full well he wouldn't want to celebrate it any other way. The only request he had was for you to make his favorite dish, which was why you were occupied in the kitchen. The trio were heavily engaged with some basketball game on the TV, but since Oikawa's not as interested in basketball as he is with volleyball, he volunteered to help you out which you gladly accepted.
Oikawa frowns, setting aside the vegetables he was washing before fully turning to look at you. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," he insisted.
"I certainly don't, which is why I'm asking you," you countered, feeling your face heat up as panic slowly rises up to your stomach. Oikawa's exceptional at reading people, and you know full well he wasn't buying any of your bullshit-
"That's bullshit and you know it," he growls, "I know what you're hiding. From us. From him."
You looked away from him, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves after his sudden outburst. You could feel your heart beat loud and hard in your chest, palms sweaty and cold at the onslaught of emotions mixed up inside. Fear, sadness, anxiety. Everything was overwhelming, and it's taking all your strength keeping yourself from breaking down, but the tears that pooled in your eyes were simply inevitable.
It was too late before you realized it was quiet now, the house now hushed and quiet when a minute ago it was anything but. The sound of footsteps reached your ears, making you gasp at the realization that they, or worse he, may have heard.
You grip Oikawa's arm, eyes pleading, asking for him to do something when a voice rings out in the quiet space, sending shivers down your spine.
"Is everything okay?" Iwaizumi asks, his voice on edge. "Is Oikawa acting shitty?" The question was directed at you, making you stand up straighter, body taut as a wire.
"He's not," you assured a little too quickly.
Silence fell in the room then, and you knew you messed up. You turned around just in time to see your husband lunged at his best friend, Matsukawa and Hanamaki a split second too late to stop him but you were faster, adrenaline pumping in your veins as you raise your arms, grabbing Oikawa to secure him behind you. Iwaizumi frowns, wondering why in the world would you protect Oikawa when he just made you cry.
"Haji, stop," you plead. "It's not what you think, okay? We were just talking and I-I just...I got a bit emotional. That's all." You tried to smile, but even you didn't believe that crappy fake so you turned to Oikawa, holding his arm so he'd say something, anything to make Iwaizumi calm down.
Oikawa had the decency to look at you apologetically before shaking his head. You felt your lip tremble, triggered by the betrayal Oikawa just did. Hot tears rolled down your cheeks and you sniffled, your head hanging low while you tried to compose yourself the best you can.
"Oikawa," Iwaizumi growled, voice low with the underlying threat behind it.
"It's not his fault," you cut in, finally having the courage to face your husband. "Oikawa's being an ass, but it's my fault." Oikawa huffs at this indignantly, causing you to shoot a glare at him.
Iwaizumi raises his hands to touch you, but you stop him. Not now. Not when Oikawa just pushed you off the edge of the cliff to reveal the damned truth. Consolation from Iwaizumi would come later, if all ends well... Great. Now you're anxious and scared again.
Clearing your throat, you swipe at the tears on your cheeks. Taking a deep breath to gather yourself once again, you only had seconds to think about how to break this to them with the least damage, especially to you.
"Wait here," you tell them. You were about to exit the kitchen when you stopped, turning to them with a stern look (as much stern as your snotty face would allow), "and don't beat each other up, I'll be back."
As quickly as you could, you run to your bedroom, grabbing a stick from your bedside cabinet. When you came back, the boys were the same as you left them, frozen with confusion and disorientation from what is happening, so you pulled your husband to sit on a kitchen chair before motioning for the others to do so. It was a miracle to have Mattsun and Makki in complete silence, not one snarky or funny comment from any of them.
With you sitting in front, four pairs of eyes watched your every move and waits for your every word. There is only one person in the room that you couldn't return their gaze. You inhale deeply again, trying to calm your nerves while the grip you had on the stick remained tight. Tears were starting to pool in your eyes again, making you groan in frustration.
"Sorry about this," you began to say, but words clogged at your throat when you felt a hand envelope the one you had gripping on the table.
"What's wrong, hon?" Iwaizumi asks, and that was all it took for you to break, both in tears and in words.
"Haji, I know Olympics has always been your dream. I am also aware that you're very busy because things are hectic and everything's just so overwhelming for you and for the team. I've tried really hard to be supportive of you every step of th-"
"Please don't tell me you're breaking up with me," Iwaizumi cuts in and you freeze, eyes shooting up at him.
You couldn't hold it in any longer then, placing the stick on the table in front of you before bursting into tears. You could feel the world slow down as curious eyes lands on the object on the table. It took seconds... and more seconds... before a reaction rises out from one of them.
Hanamaki stands up abruptly, sending the chair he was sitting on to topple backwards. He shoves his hands in his hair, pulling on it as though it will make reality real. "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," he mumbles, louder and louder while pacing back and forth. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at the stick again, and then he was jumping, throwing his fists in the air and screaming. "I'm gonna be an uncle!" he shouts. He shakes Matsukawa's shoulders, screaming "I'm going to be an uncle!" right at his face. This causes Mattsun to wear off his shock, grinning widely before giggles erupt from him.
You felt the hold on your hand tighten, causing you to shift your gaze to Iwaizumi. Your breathing stops at what you see. Tears are on his cheeks, but the happiest smile you have ever seen on him was there too. You watched as he brought your hand to his trembling lips, kissing the back of it and holding it there. You couldn't hear the words but you can feel them etched in your hand. Thank you. I love you.
But you still couldn't be in peace, not without making sure of it and so you ask the words you've been dreading ever since you found out you were expecting.
"You're not... angry?"
Everyone freeezes then, except for Oikawa who groans so loudly before rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.
"What?" Iwaizumi asked, frowning while disbelief etches on his face. "Is that why you didn't tell me? Why Oikawa's harassing you?"
"No, I wasn't!" Oikawa counters, but it fell to deaf ears as you nod. You kept your head down, trying not to shrink too much from their scrutiny. With the little shame you had left, you tried defending your decision.
"Olympics is right around the corner, and I didn't want to take your mind off of that. I'd tell you right after the games, so I was waiting..." you explained.
Iwaizumi sighed. "As much as I appreciate your concern, I think I can handle both just fine," he replies, a little childishly at that with the little pout he had.
"It's my dream to be a father, too. I'm damned lucky to have two of my dreams come true," he grinned, squeezing your hand lightly.
You look at him then, trying to find even a hint of regret, sadness, or even disappointment on his face, but all you could see is happiness, excitement, and pride burning in his eyes. Slowly, you could feel the weight on your heart disappear, replaced by calmness from the certainty that everything will be alright. This time, when tears bloomed in your eyes, they're from joy and excitement.
Oikawa chooses this moment to butt in. "I told you it'd be fine!" he exclaimed, making you frown.
"But you didn't have to bug me about it for days!" you shot back, glaring at him for a second before you couldn't take it anymore and smiled. "You're such an ass. No wonder you're still single..." you mumbled under your breath.
"I heard that!" Oikawa screeches, standing up dramatically while pointing an accusing finger at you.
You faked surprise, holding a hand to your heart. "I didn't say anything!" you lied, causing Makki to snort.
"Bitch," Oikawa mouths at you. You only had time to gasp before Oikawa's tackled to the floor, your dear husband quick on his feet to defend you.
"We don't say that to mothers, Oikawa." Mattsun mused, clicking his tongue as he walked closer to the mess of limbs on your kitchen floor. He grabbed Oikawa's arms, holding them above Oikawa's head and as Makki walks over to them, you knew what Oikawa's fate would be.
"Alright, boys. I'm going to finish the agedashi tofu," you said to no one, just as Oikawa screams, "No tickling! No tickling!"
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Torchship Dev Diary 6 - Local Space
In keeping with the alternating lore/rules dev diaries, this one is going to be lore-heavy, though we’ll touch on mechanics here and there. It’s about the world of Torchship, and specifically the
Local Space
Torchship is set in and around the former territory of the Aquillian Empire, a vast and ancient imperial power whose defeat by upstart humans and their allies sets the stage for the campaign. This area and its immediate neighbours are known simply as ‘local space’, which can be thought of kinda the way the Alpha Quadrant works in Star Trek. It’s the local political scene, and one that has been heavily shaken up.
Before we get into it, we should talk about some of the material factors that shaped the galaxy as it is today. FTL travel in this setting is roughly the same as the speeds that vessels in TOS managed, except we’re actually holding you to it; you do not have the ability to cross the galaxy as the plot demands, which shapes the kinds of adventures you have.
The speedy exploration rockets of Star Patrol have a sustained speed of just one light year per day, which is still ridiculous, but means it takes about a week to get between stars. That means to get from one side of the galaxy to the other would take almost three hundred years. This helps to constrain the action; in the majority of cases, every system is a self-contained little adventure, and you can’t rocket off between systems casually or call for help that’ll arrive instantly.
But to make interstellar travel, warfare, and politics still make sense with speeds like that, we’ve added a bit of a twist. At great expense, powers can build themselves a sort of interstellar railroad called a beacon network, which consists of giant stations positioned light-years apart forming bridges of space between them. An FTL-capable rocket which gets on the beacon network has its speed hugely multiplied; making what would be months or even years-long trips take mere weeks.
The beacon network is hugely important to the galaxy, which is why humanity blowing a lot of it up in the big war two decades ago has caused a lot of issues. The IUR is slowly bringing the network back online again, and most of your campaigns are about being explorers at the very edge of the network, pressing on into unknown space or reclaiming the border stations the Aquillians abandoned for cost centuries ago.
Yeager-1 approaches a reactivated Aquillian beacon at the end of a branch of the network. Beyond this point is unknown space.
The Exploration Taboo
For being mostly an empty void, space in Torchship is dense with Strange Things. One of the conceits of the setting is that the weekly adventures of the Enterprise are not exceptional; every single ship in Star Patrol deals with this bullshit every time they pull into a new system. Star Patrol has manuals for what to do when you fall back in time to 1967, encounter beings claiming to be ancient Earth gods, or run into giant space microorganisms, because it just happens so often.
In fact, it happens so often that space empires gradually lose the stomach for adventure, or else get wiped out by superpowered godlike beings they upset. This is called the Exploration Taboo, and while it varies in strength over the centuries, it’s the reason why there’s so much unknown space despite thousands of years of alien empires knocking about. After your third neighbour is assimilated by a hive mind they stumbled over, even sending probes or looking too closely by telescope starts to feel too dangerous to risk.
As a result, instead of blob-like borders encompassing stars in neat and simple fashion, alien powers form vast spindly spiderwebs of explored stars linked by the beacon network, surrounded by the dark unknown. Borders are simply where these webs brush up against each other by chance, and as a result the various powers tend to be entangled by overlapping networks, separated by dozens or hundreds of light years that may as well be impassable walls for all the dangers lurking inside.
Humanity, being new to the place, doesn’t have an exploration taboo yet, which is why you’re going to be the ones to venture off the network and discover all the wonders and horrors of the galaxy. By doing so, other powers have also been forced out of their caution to do something similar, at least for now.
The Major Players
Besides the Star Union, we have a few pre-defined major players in the galaxy. Nothing is stopping you from making your own, but these are some of the ones we prepped for you. Each of these powers has a number of associated Identities you can use in character creation, so you can absolutely play defectors, ambassadors, or liaisons from them.
The Aquillian Remnants & Breakaways
Aquillians are the local smug space elves and, thirty years ago, the Aquillian Empire was the dominant (though declining) power of local space, whose enormous beacon network spanned a thousand light years. Local Space is very much defined by them, and the rivalries they formed with other powers. They had twelve developed worlds and hundreds of minor colonists, tributaries, and vassals; local space was until recently unipolar and the compass pointed unwaveringly in their direction.
The Aquillian Empire also sucked. They systematically conquered newcomers to FTL travel, exiled people off their worlds, genetically engineered their own population into meek compliance, and wiped out rivals with biological weapons. Whatever else happens now, the galaxy is better for its collapse.
In its place has arisen hundreds of micro-states; some of these are various conquered aliens finally achieving independence, but most are Aquillian-dominated. The IUR classifies these are remnants (states which want to rebuild the Empire in some way) and breakaways (states which don’t, and incidentally are usually friendly to the Union). These two groups act as essentially the default groups to reach for if you just need some folks to be up to something, with the remnants hostile and the breakaways somewhere on a spectrum between neutral and desperately appeasing toward the Union.
The biggest Remnant is the Divine Empire, which controls the Aquillian homeworld and has the best claim to the throne; they’re the result of formerly-somewhat-fringe sect of people who worship past Emperors as a patheon gaining power and their Empress is constantly looking to undermine the IUR and get her Empire back. The DMZ between them and the IUR is the perfect place for some covert espionage action.
The biggest Breakaway is the First Aquillian Republic, which is on the cusp of joining the Union outright, making them perfect allies for early in your campaigns. Because all the historical republics and revolutionary movements of Aquillian history got memory-holed, and because Solar Patrol used to jam up Aquillian communication channels with the 2120s movie adaptation of Les Misérables, they consciously model themselves on a sort of alien pastiche of the French Revolution; presumably the studio had the costumes lying around. They’re rife with interesting problems to build episodes around, like their fear of genetic engineering which is keeping them out of the Union, their discrimination against the Enforcer caste of the former empire, and their unstable political system.
Though much reduced from the height of Imperial power, the Divine Empire has access to many ancient and terrible tools.
The Zinovian Sphere
Properly the Universal Republic, the Zinovian Sphere was once a close ally of the Star Union before there was an absolutely catastrophic falling out. See, four hundred years ago, the Zinovians rose up against the Aquillian colonists occupying their homeworld, and lost. Exiled from their own planet and forcefully settled on a handful of marginally-survivable high-gravity worlds, the revolutionaries managed to rebuild their society into a powerhouse, albeit at enormous cost.
When humanity started fighting the Aquillian Empire, they eagerly allied with us, sharing their technology in exchange for the promise we’d help them take their homeworld back. But when the Aquillians sued for peace a hundred light years short of their former home, a war-weary humanity signed the treaty. As you can imagine, the Zinovians didn’t take it well.
The Zinovians are fun because they’re actually eight factions in a trenchcoat, meaning that any episode dealing with them will undoubtedly be complicated by the fact they're working at cross-purposes to each other. The Zinovian government has eight ministries which have at this point each become a minor power of their own, rivals with one another but united by their desire to get their homeworld back and make the Aquillians pay. When one Ministry reaches out to the Union to try and patch things up, another is there to sabotage them.
Defectors and spies and propaganda campaigns go both ways between them and the Union, so they make perfect fodder for Cold War style stories and wheels-within-wheels, all packaged in the tragedy of a falling-out that humanity is very much not blameless in.
Zinovian rockets are heavily armoured, heavily armed, and all business.
The CNFT
The Contractually Networked Free Territories are an offshoot of the Aquillian Empire which managed to secure a lot of wealth and power by exploiting how much the galaxy sucks. While most powers in the setting are states run by and for a single species, the CNFT is a multi-species project who have historically taken in refugees and asylum-seekers from the many conflicts sparking in the wake of the decaying Empire… and promptly exploiting their labour. As long as the flow of newcomers kept up, the capitalist system of the CNFT would continue to grow.
Well, the arrival of the Star Union to the scene has quite suddenly rearranged the priority destination for a lot of desperate people, and the CNFT is feeling it. To keep their quarterly growth targets, its corporations engage in all sorts of nefarious and/or stupid schemes in the fringes of its space, schemes which Star Patrollers might stumble upon. Of course, you have to be careful defusing this situation, because when their corporations get bullied by the meanie communists, the CNFT have a tendency to send their extremely well funded and extremely terrifying military out to settle matters in their favour.
Because they’re a multi-species nation, the CNFT has a lot of interesting diversity, from the descendants of Zinovian refugees playing up the highly marketable Warrior Race angle to the original Aquillian species before all the genetic modification to the labour robots they buy in bulk. They’re also uniquely easy to bribe, for obvious reasons, which can make them a clutch, if somewhat mercenary, ally in the right circumstances.
A powerful, and expensive, CNFT Missile Cruiser.
The Voxyte Cooperative
You know those episodes where Kirk beams down to a planet to find some cavemen worshipping a computer? The Voxyte are what happens when Kirk never shows up and those cavemen build a technological civilization at the computer’s instructions. Now a local power, the Voxyte don’t worship their computers anymore, but they still do turn over everything from organising their politics to arranging relationships to them, their entire lives dictated by algorithms.
The Voxyte are allies of the IUR, albeit allies who are as horrified by our chaotic, unorderly, and hurt-prone society as we are of the lack of privacy and choice in theirs. It’s a situation that leads to a lot of awkwardness and misunderstanding which can create interesting diplomatic problems to work through, complicated by the whims of their AI overlords. What happens when, say, a Voxyte comes up to one of your crew and announces the computer has decided they’re perfectly compatible and thus married now? What happens when a Voxyte defects their society for yours? What happens when one of your crew defects your society for theirs?
The other thing that’s fun about the Voxyte is they’re one tech level ahead, with 7d6 tools and incredible resources that could really help the IUR, which means you’re incentivized to either suck up to them or exploit their naive innocence. They’ve been a pariah state for centuries, and they’re so glad to just have a friend out in the stars that, unfortunately, you might just walk all over them.
Friends!
The Argentotrons
Fifteen hundred years ago, a previous incarnation of the Aquillian Empire was counterbalanced with the Argent Empire, an even larger and older power which had long constrained their ambitions. After years of conflict and tense peace, the Aquillians engineered a biological weapon which took lethal advantage of a quirk in Argent biology; within two centuries, they were all dead.
In those two centuries, though, the Argent were forced to increasingly automate their society to make up for their failing health and declining numbers, and did such a good job of it that, despite probably being extinct, their empire is still there. The Argentotrons are the robotic ships, stations, and servants which continue to follow ancient directives, still churning out vehicles for the coming war and mining whole systems dry despite slowly decaying to nothing.
You can’t really negotiate with the Argentotrons; they aren’t actually sentient, or at least they don’t seem to be. But that does mean there’s an entire empire’s worth of refining and mining just sitting in storehouses or being shipped to dead worlds, unimaginable material wealth which could go a huge way toward shoring up the Union’s position and stabilising local space.
All you have to do is avoid the killbots and get their first.
A silent protector of the tomb stars.
The Nariene Environmental Protectorate
When humanity first ran into the Nariene, they’d uplifted a species to act as a fresh petroleum market, and to kidnap the psychics among their population for experimentation. This was a pretty good introduction to the Protectorate, supposedly a sort of climate safeguarding organisation for the Nariene equivalent of the UN, and in reality the fascist organisation that took over their space program and is spreading rapidly to the stars. For a long time they were kept in check by the proximity to the Aquillian Empire, which prevented them from expanding too far lest they be detected, but no such restrictions exist now.
The Nariene are a dark mirror of the IUR, a similarly young and dynamic political body expanding rapidly in the power vacuum of the dead Empire, desperate for resources. In the Nariene’s case, it’s because their homeworld is dying, choked by unchecked industry and a runaway carbon cycle, worsened by the conquests needed to hold it at bay. They’ve got incredible stealth technology from centuries of tiptoing around the sleeping giants and have built up a shipbuilding industry which is growing out of control; in a few years, they might eclipse the IUR, unless they collapse or somebody stops them.
The Nariene EP are great villains, pure and simple; everything about them is designed to make for excellent rivals to grapple with over the course of a campaign. They’ve got no exploration taboo either, and a branch of explorers similar to Star Patrol. When you run into them, you know they’re up to no good, but they also know they’re not yet in a position to beat the IUR in a straight fight so they have to be sneaky about it, dancing around the technicalities of the treaty between the two powers. As explorers, you probably aren’t well equipped to fight them either, but whatever they’re up to, they have to be stopped. When you do beat them, their cloaking devices and small-scale teleports means they’re slippery enough for their commanders to always wiggle away, shaking their fists. I’ll get you next time, Star Patrol!
Of course, it’s not hopeless. The Protectorate’s ongoing power depends on the by-in of a population it doesn’t fully control, many of whom genuinely do want to try and fix their homeworld instead of just continuing to feed the factories and line the pockets of their rich backers. There are idealists in their ranks to appeal to and resistance groups you can ally with; maybe you can help put a stop to this and explore the stars together.
Others
Local space is a big place, and I can’t even cover everyone here. There’s vast runner fleets like the Cyphillon, plant-people with no homeworld living aboard greenhouse-like ships. There’s chlorine-breathing species working for multiple powers on toxic worlds, silicon-based life, and sentient robot species. There’s the enigmatic Watchers, if they really exist, parallel dimensions that keep brushing up against ours, and the distant threat of the Engon Assembly lurking on the far side of Voxyte space. Looming over all of it is the White Marble Civilization, the vast and seemingly omnipotent power which barely seems to notice the ants scurrying about underfoot. There’s a whole galaxy to explore.
Next time, we’ll talk more about how you do that.
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How dare you even ask?
Of course we wanna see.
rad here
Dew takes a long pull of his beer as he takes in his surroundings.
Tonight’s bar isn’t large or crowded, occupied mainly by the band - minus their Papa, who had claimed a headache - and a handful of crew members. He’s at one of the few pub-style tables dotting the floor, waiting for Swiss to return from the bathroom so they can continue volleying dirty jokes back and forth. It’s not a contest, but Dew is sure he’s winning anyway. Mountain and Cirrus are at another table, chatting in a way that looks to be simply friendly, but the dark flush on Mountain’s cheeks suggests otherwise. As does the way Cirrus's foot is pressed between his legs; Dew pretends not to notice that part.
Cumulus is seated at the bar, sipping on something garish pink and topped with an unnaturally red cherry. Its stem sits next to her glass, tied in a perfect knot. Sunshine is at her side, gesticulating wildly and swinging her legs while Cumulus laughs at whatever nonsense she’s spewing. The rest of the barstools are occupied by a group of people watching the hockey game blaring from the wall-mounted tv. Judging by the groans they keep letting out, their team isn’t doing well.
On the opposite end of the relatively small space, amongst the smattering of roadies gathered at the dartboard and pool table, are Aether and Rain. They’re both holding cues, Aether shooting the shit with a tech Dew knows by sight but not by name, tossing a little cube of chalk to him over the table. Rain leans against a nearby wall, half in shadow and easy to miss. Dew only knows he’s there for one reason.
Rain won't stop fucking staring at him.
Dewdrop doesn't know why, exactly, but Rain's eyes have been glued to him for no less than ten minutes now. Ever since Dew had returned to his seat with a pair of fresh beers, shrugged out of his jacket and resumed his conversation (such as it was) with Swiss. His gaze is heavy and obvious, impossible to ignore. Dew scowls at him and earns an icy smirk for his trouble. He rolls his eyes, watching himself pick at the label of his drink instead and trying to ignore the heat coloring his face. He’s on edge, too aware of Rain’s continual attention. It’s making his neck itch.
Swiss returns a minute later, clapping him on the shoulder and drawing his attention. He blinks. Swiss grins.
“How d’you make a pool table laugh?”
Dew snorts. He’d forgotten what they were doing. The toothy smile Swiss wears is oddly grounding, relieving some of the tension coiling between Dew’s shoulders.
“Tickle its balls,” he answers easily, mouth tipping upwards when Swiss grumbles under his breath. Dew feels no remorse in stealing his punchlines. “What took you so long? Find a glory hole or something?”
“Don’t need one when I got you, sweetheart,” Swiss replies with a wink. Dew snorts as Swiss hops up into his seat. “Your turn.” Dew shakes his head, scooting down from his chair.
“You took too long, now I have to piss too.” Dew swigs the last of his drink while Swiss makes a noise of disbelief.
“Bullshit, you just don’t have a joke!”
“Who am I, you?” Swiss squints at him. “What, you expect me to believe that’s not why you were gone for so long?” Swiss scoffs, crosses his arms. A pair of dead giveaways. “Knew it.”
“Fuck off,” Swiss complains, but there’s no venom in it. “If you take more than three minutes I’m comin’ in after you.”
“Three whole minutes until you come?” Dew lilts, smirking. “That’s a minute and a half more than usual.”
Swiss tosses a handful of balled-up cocktail napkins at him in retaliation as Dew retreats towards the bathroom with a snicker.
“Three minutes!” Swiss calls after him.
“Yeah, yeah.”
The moment he’s free of the distraction Swiss provided, the little hairs on the back of Dew’s neck stand up. He pauses, sparing what he hopes comes across as a casual glance over he shoulder. From across the bar, Dew finds Rain staring straight through him. It sends a shiver down his spine, straight to his balls.
Dew swallows and cocks his head towards the bathroom door in silent invitation. At length, Rain offers the sort of smirk that can only spell disaster. Dew heads through the door, hand already on his zipper.
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can i send a mix of 3 instead😏 soulmate au + awful first meeting + green-eyed epiphany
This wasn't probably what you were expecting from the prompt but we move. I did an actual scene for soulmate + awful first meeting but the green-eyed epiphany is written as a point. Enjoy 2.1k of this :)
—
“Remember, don’t say anything, don’t hear anything. You do your work and that’s it.”
George sighs. “I know, Alex. Just like I knew the last hundred times you told me.”
“Sorry,” Alex says. “I’m nervous. It’s a big day.”
“What is it, exactly?”
“It’s a Royalstrial. The prince doesn’t have a soulmate so the daughters of the elite Silver families, the High Houses, who don’t have a soulmate either or used to have one but do not anymore present themselves to the prince to be chosen as the next queen. The last time it happened was long before we were born. It was when Queen Luna was chosen.”
George scoffs. “‘Present themselves,’ really?”
Alex lifts his hands in surrender. “That’s what I was told but yeah, it doesn’t sound too good.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“I know. It’s the ways of the Silvers. What can we do?”
The rest of their journey is quiet. It’s George’s first day of work, too, at the palace. Alex had pulled some strings with the leader of his division and got him a job. Nothing George can do will ever show just how grateful he is to Alex.
George is amazed when he sees the palace, made of limestone and marble, for the first time. Alex has to rush him in so they have enough time to change into a red uniform before going to his, their, division. The leader, Aleera, as she likes to be called, speaks for ten minutes on etiquette and formality. Once she is done, a tray of an item is handed to everyone and all the workers are paraded to the Hall.
George walks behind Alex, carefully holding onto his tray of glass cups. The wooden door appears ahead, carved with intricate designs. A guard opens it to let the line of workers walk through.
The first thing George notices is the big chandelier hanging from the roof in the middle. That’s the thing that provides most of the light but there are lantern poles on the perimeter of the room. Round tables and velvet chairs are spaced evenly. On the opposite side is the royal area. Three seats, each one made of stone, lined on the stairs-led platform. The King is sitting in the middle, the Queen on his right and the Prince on his left.
He is so lost in his surroundings that he doesn’t notice a Sentinel until it’s too late. George holds his breath as the cups shake. A hand rests under his own hand while the other curves around the edge of the tray, steadying it.
Heat runs through his veins. George barely refrains from the gasp that wants to force itself out. It’s a weird feeling. He has never felt it, even in the warmest summers. His body has always been cold. Ice around his bones, George always joked. It feels like water now.
George gazes at the person to check if they feel it too. He stills when he notices who it is. It’s just his fate that he bumped into Sir Lewis Hamilton, the highest Sentinel. The most powerful Burner.
Lewis seems to have the complete opposite. He looks like a chill ran through his veins, his body shivering as if he just went through the coldest winters.
“I would like to apologise on his behalf, sir.”
Alex’s voice pulls him out of his trance.
“It’s his first day.”
Lewis’ eyes flick towards Alex. “It’s alright.” The beautiful brown eyes are on him again. “But you ought to be more careful.”
George shivers at the deep voice. He has heard it before but it’s a different experience to hear it when the Silver is a few inches away from him.
“I am so sorry,” George stutters. “I wasn’t looking. My sincerest apologies. I’ll be–”
“Sir.” A Sentinel comes up behind Lewis, interrupting the sad excuse that is George’s apology. “Prince Kvlyan is requesting you.”
Lewis nods, his eyes still on George, an unreadable expression on his face. “Let’s go.” He turns around and walks away, a final glance thrown towards George before he disappears into the crowd.
“Seriously?”
George startles. He forgot that Alex was here.
“You need to be careful.” Alex whispers angrily. “They’ll have your head for the smallest mistakes, George.”
“I know, I know. I’ll be more careful, I promise.”
Alex shakes his head. “Also, what the fuck was that?”
“Nothing,” George lies. Well, not really a lie. He just doesn’t know what that was.
“He is the highest in the army ranks.” Alex reminds him as if he forgot. “He is out of bounds, George.”
George rolls his eyes. “Calm down. I’m not doing anything with him.”
He and Alex stick close for most of the time they are working. He doesn’t even notice how quickly the time passes. The servants scarce in the rooms, in case a family requires them.
The Royalstrial is about to begin. The air pulses with tension and sensation.
——
It’s the fifth entrance that makes George uneasy. He had watched in awe as the daughters of each of the four Houses showed their abilities. It was wonderful but now it’s anything but.
George strokes his thumb over the number 64 on his wrist. A habit to calm himself down, knowing that his soulmate is somewhere out there. He still has yet to meet them. He wonders when he will. He is already 23.
“Brielle, of House Williams,” yells the announcer.
Brielle rises from where she is sitting, dressed in all black leather decorated with iron. All of her family members were on their feet, clapping and cheering. Even the king and queen show interest.
The iron studs on her jacket move, floating in the air before spiralling around her.
She controls metal. George understands why he is uneasy. Since his accident with knives at the age of five, he has hated every metal.
But that’s not all. Brielle doesn’t seem to be anywhere close to being done. Every metal in the room groans, coming to life.
George digs his nails into his palms, his feet tapping on the floor.
Metal pipes splinter from the floor and burst through the walls, flying up to Brielle. She twists them, making the sound of a crunch as they bend under her command. It’s when a pipe hits George on the head that he snaps.
A chill explodes out of him. There’s a layer of frost over his skin—something so clear, so delicate. He feels it—he feels the coldness running through his body. It’s the most alive he has ever been in his entire life.
Reality sinks in as murmurs and gasps echo. Brielle is staring at him already, her jaw clenched and her eyes wide.
“Sorry,” George says, not understanding everything himself. “I–”
Brielle accepts his apology by pointing the metal blades at him and launching.
George flings his hand out, a reaction to wanting to protect himself. Awaiting the pain of half a dozen blades piercing through his palms. Instead, another chill flows through each of his veins, consuming him.
Ice blasts out of his hands and shapes around the blades. It drops to the floor, the ice breaking and the blades clattering.
The temperature changes. Cold. Something George has always thrived in.
His mouth falls open as he stares at his hands and wonders where that came from. He looks up to see all eyes on him—every Silver, every Red. Hundreds of shocked faces and some fearful ones too. It’s Lewis that George finds himself stuck on for some reason.
“Sentinels.”
The king’s voice is sharp. The Sentinels line up at the base of the platform, waiting for another order.
As a self-taught thief who has been in a lot of trouble, George knows when it’s time to run. Before the king can speak another word, George bolts, squeezing between the table and the wall.
“Seize him!”
He hears the footsteps of the Sentinels behind him but he doesn’t dare looking back. Nothing good comes from it. A flame comes in front of him.
The room fills with chaos as the other Silvers try to get out of the way and rush out of the room. He takes that to his advantage. He pivots on his feet, only to see some of the Sentinels feet away.
George raises his hands, scared. A long sheet of ice blows out, falling over the Sentinels and breaking off.
Behind them, he catches Lewis with one hand towards him—George now knows where the flame came from—and the other hand pointing to his left.
George looks the same way to see Alex standing there.
“Alex!” George panics, taking off towards his best mate. Alex isn’t too far away to not hear him. “Run.”
The Sentinels close the distance between them and Alex with every second.
George brings his hands forth. Come on, come on, come on. Do something. I need you to do something right now.
Spikes of ice rise from the floor between Alex and the Sentinels.
“Ah!” A Sentinel screams as the icicle pierces through his foot and he drops to the floor. The others catch themselves and barely miss suffering the same fate.
“Go!”
Alex finally breaks out of his shock and starts running towards him. “George!”
“No, Alex. Get out of here!”
His best mate doesn’t listen until gunfire explodes over his head and Alex is forced to escape through the door.
Please, not him. Not him, not him, not him, George chants in his mind.
George almost makes it to the door when two Sentinels step in front of him. George drops to his knees on the smooth floor, sliding himself between the two. He is quick to jump on his feet and run again, making it out of the room as well.
He takes a left since he knows the stairs are that way. His heartbeat races. He is scared for Alex more than himself. Please be okay. Please be okay.
George skids to a stop, slamming into Lewis as he appears out of nowhere.
“Stop running away.” Lewis presses him against the wall, caging him in.
George flattens his palms against Lewis’ chest to shove him away but the Silver captures his hands and presses them on each side of his head. Something must have thrown him off because Lewis’ eyes widened. His grip loosens just enough for George to push him away and escape once again.
His hands automatically lift up—another blast of ice. Lewis composes himself and shields himself with his fire.
George expects the fire to melt the ice. Instead, the fire cracks the ice, exploding it. The small pieces rain over them and the upcoming Sentinels, their armour protecting them. George doesn’t have the same protection but he doesn’t need it because the hail moulds itself into his skin without any pain.
Another shot of fire heads his way. He accidentally conjures up a wall of ice. It takes the heat of the fire and vaporises. The water hisses as it splashes. George jumps away, barely escaping being burned.
“George.”
Alex’s voice reaches his ears. A Sentinel holds his best mate by his neck. His face bloodied. Every fight in George drains.
“Alex.” He takes a step when fire circles around him. Ice hovers over George’s hand.
At the same instant, Lewis forms a ball of fire in his hand. “Stand down or I will light this boy on fire in front of you.”
“No!” George shouts. “Don’t hurt him.”
“Then I suggest you stand down.”
George looks at Alex, fear surrounding his best mate in a way he has never before.
Alex tries to put on a brave face for George. “Don’t.”
The Sentinel tightens his arm around Alex’s neck. Alex chokes.
“Stop!” The ice deforms. George lowers his hands, dropping his arms to his side.
Lewis looks over his shoulders, giving a nod. The guard loosens his hold.
The fire increases in height, almost reaching up to George’s waist. He stares as Lewis walks closer to him, the ring parting to let him pass by before closing again.
It turns from a deep red to an orange-yellow. George’s normally cold skin warms up to a point where, he considers, it will melt right off his bones. Smoke surrounds them, strong and black. George coughs, his vision spinning.
“Sebastian.”
George’s eyes fleet to a new man standing behind Lewis. The water in his eyes must be playing tricks on him because he thinks he sees an ‘I’m sorry’ being mouthed. His eyelids suddenly grow heavier. He staggers forward into Lewis, his hands clutching around the Silver’s shoulders.
“George!” Alex exclaims.
Arms wrap behind his knees and shoulders before hoisting him up. It’s the last thing George feels.
—
This was the original idea but I had to change things for this prompt.
The society is divided by blood- red or silver. Reds are considered the commoners, the ones that are inferior and working for Silvers. Silvers are basically considered elite because of their power abilities. There are common Silvers and then royal Silvers.
There are also Newbloods. They are the ones with red blood but powers like Silvers. Newbloods are more powerful than Silvers, having either unique abilities or stronger versions of their Silver counterparts. And Newbloods can create and manipulate powers while Silvers can only manipulate. They are very rare and seen as a threat.
Both Lewis and George are Newblood.
Soulmates: Reds have Reds soulmates, Silvers have Silvers, Newbloods have Newbloods. Silvers soulmates will have the same powers but Newbloods soulmates have different powers hence gewis with fire and ice powers. There is also a matched number which was 64 for gewis. Lewis figures out George is his soulmate when he sees the number on his wrist.
George joins a rebellious group that wants an equality between Reds and Silvers. Lewis is already part of that group so they work together.
Green-eyed epiphany: This is when they are working together. George doesn’t know Lewis is his soulmate. He is in love with Lewis but he hasn’t realised yet. He was fine being just friends with Lewis until he saw how close the older man was getting with Jenson. He realises he is utterly jealous because he is in love when he sees Jenson walk out of Lewis’ room one morning.
—
Mash-up trope
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hello!! ₍₍ ◝( ゚∀ ゚ )◟ ⁾⁾ How are you writer-sama?? (or do you prefer chan?)
I have a request for u! (ノ*0*)ノ💌
How do you think this introverts: Zoro, Law and Ace (kinda introv?) Would act with their s/o once they're "comfortable enough" with them? cuz I feel like their s/o would have some kind of "privileges" (?) and a somehow "different treatment"?? if you know what I mean (◕દ◕)
bc i think that at a certain point of the relationship they will already know and have already seen all of their different sides and aspects and so they accept them wholely (is that a word?) 😔 so they naturally feel more at ease and kind of lower more their defensive side with them.. 🥺 i hope it's clear 😭 and of course if you want to do it love! It can be a headcanon maybe?and preferably a fem!reader?
Sending love~💚
BYE BYE !! ⋋✿ ⁰ 0 ⁰ ✿⋌
haha i’m good, angel <3 i hope you’re doing well! also, i think chan is cuter imo!
1k words, sfw, fem reader (no pronouns), no warnings bc i kept it tame for y'all; also i don't believe any of them are introverted, but they are very selective about who they let into their space completely and who they don't 💖
given how reserved he is, zoro most likely will take a bit of time before he lets his walls down completely. even before making anything official, it will take quite a bit of convincing on your part — he’s not the type to need any sort of label for his relationships, but if you insist, if you truly desire that level of validation, he’ll oblige. for your sake, of course. in the initial stages, it will feel very weird to him, the idea of anyone tolerating him enough — let alone liking him to the degree that you do — is still foreign to him.
he’s a little rough around the edges, see.
not really an introvert, but coming off as such because of his proclivity to remain quiet, he especially is very particular about who he allows in his personal space. once you wiggle your way into his life, he slowly, but surely, lets you in. it’s only then that you see more of his actual persona — the joking, loud, foul-mouthed, simple-minded swordsman that has a proverbial heart of gold. and, while he’s not exactly the most affectionate person, he’ll make an exception for you. he will find every excuse to pull you in for a hug, steal several kisses from you a day when you’re busy doing other things, and generally will want you to be nearby — not out of possessiveness, but out of a desire to ensure that you’re safe, always.
and, if you can break down even more of his walls, you’ll be able to see that deep down, all he’s ever really wanted is for someone to accept him as he is completely — the bloodthirsty, ruthless fighter who is absolutely terrible with directions (both complicated and simple), who will do anything to protect those he cares deeply for. just know that he will always have your best interests at heart, even when it seems like he doesn’t.
another quiet type, deep thinker that spends the majority of his time either stuck in his head or obsessing over things he has no power over. out of the three, law is the hardest to crack with the heaviest baggage to deal with. since he is overly familiar with tragedy, law keeps those he cares for close at heart and makes very little room for anyone else. he’s not heartless, but it might seem that way because of his standoffish behavior. he has a low tolerance for bullshit, doesn’t like beating around the bush, and dislikes when his plans are disrupted.
but, if you manage to show him that you’re an asset to him, that you’re not someone who will slow him down or interfere with his plans, and that you actually do care for him and his crew — a package deal, really — then he will more than welcome you into his heart without much issue. it will take time, but as long as you’re patient, the reward is that you’ll be privy to the side of law that not many of his crew mates get to see. he’s a little childish, can be extremely petty, and despite his appearance, is a superhero comics buff.
be prepared to be sucked into his world of niche interests, where he’ll tell you all about the various medical procedures he’s researching, or about some rare comic he managed to find after looking for years, or about the dreams he’s too embarrassed to tell the others about. he doesn’t exactly engage in pda, but he’s more than affectionate behind closed doors, allowing you to sleep in his bed, hang around his office without permission, to kiss him as you please. he especially likes when you sit on his lap while he’s reading, although that does tend to backfire, as your presence inevitably distracts him. don’t be surprised if he’ll put his book down to play with your hair, or tease you by kissing the side of your neck. it all comes with the territory of being loved by him; it’s almost like he has to make sure that you’re really real, that he isn’t imagining you, and that you do actually return his affection.
he doesn’t nearly internalize as the others — ace is pretty straight-forward with how he feels about people on the surface. when it comes to delving deeper, specifically as it relates to romantic relationships, he’s not as well-versed as people think he is. ace is all talk for the most part, so when he does find someone who strikes his interest, someone who matches his energy or, if they can’t, someone who can help keep him calm and at ease, it takes him by surprise. he doesn’t know how to act — might even go to marco and thatch for advice on the matter.
he just doesn’t want to mess anything up; he has a big chip on his shoulder, the complex he has over himself is too deep to solve with simple words of affirmation, so it will take a bit of work on your part, but eventually he will come to terms with his feelings and you will be able to experience all that ace is, entirely. you’ll have inside jokes, partake in wild dares, and he will, once he’s more comfortable, shower you with affection wherever — and whenever — he can. as long as you can put up with him constantly having his hands on you in some way, shape, or form then you’ll be good to go.
you’ll also be the first he goes to when he wants to run an idea by someone, you’ll be the one he talks about his nightmares with, the one he seeks out for comfort when life spirals a little too out of control for him. if you’re consistent, he’ll trust you completely, tell you all about his life (tell you all about his brothers), and will do the same for you, too. he’s also the fierce protector type, so you’ll never have to worry about someone not having your back. no matter what, ace will always be there for you — he might not be able to talk you down from every situation, or he might not have the best words of comfort, but he’ll try his best. he thinks that holding you close to him makes the most sense in the world, since his body ends to run hot and he knows that warmth always makes people feel at ease (his logic isn’t great, but he means well.)
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Domesticated Villain Trope
So over in the tag for Trigun - the fandom I am currently active in (I haven't re-watched She-Ra in probably over a year, I'm fully back on my age old space-cowboy bullshit now) someone brought up an official poster-art that appears in the Trigun Art Book for the first 1998 anime. I know it's there, I have that artbook. I don't know if it should be considered canon as the scene was never actually in the show, but it is official post-credits art.
If you've watched the show, it's freaking hilarious. Beware spoilers. (Note: No bearing on the Trigun Maximum manga, which goes a different way, nor on Trigun: Stampede, the reboot series which has only run its first season as yet).
Anyway, the funniest thing about this poster is that... the good guys of the series, all cheerful and fun-loving? Plus a silly cat? They're surrounding and glomming onto a guy (guy in the red and white spacesuit) who has single-handedly murdered millions of people, including his and his twin brother's mom. And this isn't some Y7 show, the original show was PG to PG-13 (the manga and Stampede are definitely R) and even the lighter original anime had a lot of on-screen deaths. With guns. Quite graphic for a teen-anime, actually (and the original manga is just buckets of blood and full-out gore).
Long story short, I flashed back to Hordak and how the She-Ra fandom treats him and debates his redeemability. During the fandom-fights, I always flashed back to Trigun and how both fandom and canon kind of wanted to redeem an actual genocider (Knives was well-crafted and had a sympathetic motivation) vs. "Guy pokes around in his lab all day and does light hands-off torture for lying in his ranks and just sends people to exile and half the fandom wants to kill him. Fun." Conversely, Hordak's fans have done fanart after fanart and fanfic after fanfic doing cute domestic-life stuff with him, making him Entrapta's househusband and having him begrudingly work with the good guys on rebuilding and space-diplomacy missions.
Domesticated Antagonist Trope has gotta be one of my favorite things.
I'm thinking if I can get more back into She-Ra, maybe I'll do a parody-drawing of that Trigun-poster, even though I suspect very few Spop fans will get it. Hordak crosses his arms, Adora hangs on around his neck like Vash, Scorpia's in the background, there's Entrapta holding Imp and there's an annoyed Catra sitting on the edge of the bench.
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ETS WIP Chapter 10: Everything Has Gone Wrong
First | More
Lyta had been feeling good the last couple of weeks.
Actually, no, she'd been feeling amazing.
Alive, awake, and sure she'd been angry and testy and short-fused but that was a price she was willing to pay to feel this good, this consistently.
However, there was a big downside to this whole "everyone is angry all the time" thing, and that was that Aeth seemed to be mad at her all the time.
That, made Lyta feel worse than anything else.
She was concerned for her friend. They had gone through a lot, and things hadn't really been better for them since everything was more-or-less resolved.
For some reason, when Aeth started sending her lots and lots of videos on Swwarm, that put Lyta's hair on edge. There wasn't anything specific that Aeth was doing or not doing that made Lyta concerned, but there was a break in some hidden pattern, something was off and she couldn't tell exactly what it was.
Their days off didn't line up properly for a little bit, and with everything, Lyta had to fight against herself to offer Aeth some space. So it wasn't for a few days until Lyta saw Aeth.
And when she did see them she instantly knew something was wrong.
Aeth, like anyone, used their phone a fair amount.
But they were all but tied to it, barely looking up from the device as they walked into the office.
Lyta went over to talk to her friend and Aeth had a full conversation with her without looking up from their phone.
This was extremely unusual and not at all like Aeth.
"Are you ok?" Lyta asked, reaching out for her friend.
Aeth pulled away from the touch, very unlike them, and then responded. "I'm fine. Nothing to worry about."
Lyta was concerned at the answer, so unlike Aeth.
"What's happening?"
"Nothing. I've been practicing some meditation and mindfulness things I found on Swwarm. I can send them to you."
"No, that's fine," she said but she already felt her phone vibrating in her pocket as Aeth sent her several videos. "We'll talk after work."
"Sure."
The whole thing left a bad taste in Lyta's mouth, and that feeling carried her and fueled her through the rest of the day.
Lyta worked the phones for the rest of the day, biting back comments and angry reactions even though she desperately wanted to. Everything around her was pushing her buttons and pushing her to reaction.
She felt the itch at the back of her wrists, the clawing and itching for release and power, but she had long ago learned to push that down and away.
When she finally managed to clock out and leave, she found that Aeth had already left.
"They had some kind of personal emergency to take care of," one of her boss' heads told her as she looked for Aeth around the office.
That only put Lyta in a worse mood.
She grabbed her stuff from her locker, and stormed off back to her home. If it was a real emergency Aeth would have told her, Aeth would have come to her. Everything here was deeply and irrevocably fucked.
Once she was in her apartment, Lyta angrily poured herself a drink, and reluctantly started to make food. She was pissed and the last thing she wanted to do was keep having to do things, to put forth effort just to live in this stupid bullshit day. But objectively she knew that she needed to. That her anger was not her, that the rage she was feeling was only being perpetuated by the needs of her body.
After things started cooking and Lyta was feeling a little better, and also a little drunker, she checked her phone to see if there was any new content while she waited for things to cook.
She ignored the seventeen messages from Aeth about mindfulness and getting in touch with your inner master. If there was one thing she absolutely could not stand it was that bullshit. It meant nothing to her because she had already waded through that sea to find the few things that weren't scams and did help her, she didn't need any more of that Ascension crap.
The first video she saw was some religious-fascist crap about how there were too many faiths and gods to keep track of and it was the duty of every native born in Reakonfall to push out the gods by whatever means necessary.
Lyta hated that shit even more. She didn't respond she just hit the report and block button.
But the next video was even worse.
The algorithm saw that she had watched the entire video previously, and so it had queued up this next one. It never accounted for the fact that she reported it for enticing violence, it just saw the interaction.
The video was of an attractive looking man, with the kind of features that would place him on a daytime soap opera. Lyta started to watch the video and quickly started bristling with anger.
The man stated, "You know that there are certain people out there that can create new beings? New gods even! They can slip dangerous creatures like this one right behind our carefully constructed wards and gates." The video shifted to show some horror drawing of a terrible creature that Lyta was fairly certain was concept art for the failed game Twin Houses.
He continued talking about how these people could simply make dangerous creatures appear and there was nothing we could do to stop them. There was no defense against these terrorists. He even went to show a picture of someone who he claimed was one of these 'terroristic summoners'.
The anger that was clouding Lyta's vision saw Aeth in the video and she snapped.
It felt like she was putting a piece of cold wire from a broken bone in her arm. The feeling lasted forever and no time at all.
The hilt of frozen ash was in her hand, and the blade of fractal wildfires was brought down hard on to the phone screen.
The magic blade fueled entirely on Lyta's anger, pushed through the electronics and the stone counter-top with no resistance until the frozen ash handle met with stone.
A moment of deep breathing later, of feeling the cold biting at her lungs, Lyta snapped out of her blind rage.
"Fuck."
She couldn't banish the blade, she was stuck with it for a little while, at least until the temperature in the room returned to normal.
Drawing the blade, using her magic, almost always snap froze everything around her. And Lyta had been extremely angry for a while and so her entire kitchen was frozen solid, and there was a giant hole in her island.
Lyta opened some windows and tried to let the warm air circulate in so that the angry blizzard she'd caused would dissipate faster, but she knew that the only thing that would undo the snap freeze was time.
Dinner was ruined.
She could order food, though, but as she reached for her phone she realized that she had cut it in half.
"Fuck!"
Lyta knew herself well enough that now she recognized how wrong everything had been the last few weeks.
She was angry all the time, she had been worked up, but the anger wasn't truly her's. She didn't feel the all encompassing rage that covered and consumed everything like a blizzard, or the white-hot instant anger that snap froze everything around her like an instant wildfire but made cold.
Something had been manipulating her.
She also knew her magic well enough, for better or worse. It was something she'd had for years, before she even moved to this city.
It had been weeks of constant, building anger. She should have had enough magic bursting out of her to summon three swords, a halberd, two great clubs, and a morning star. Lyta should have encased the entire building in a snowstorm that lasted a week and reduced everything to a even, white, samey nothingness.
Something had been manipulating her. And something had been sucking away at her magic this entire time.
She looked at the phone, cut in half and frozen to the kitchen island.
It couldn't be, could it? Could it be that simple?
Could that stupid app be behind this?
The anger started really building when she was Swwarming. The entire thing stopped when she destroyed the phone.
Now that Lyta thought about it, the video she was being shown was terrible, it should have been banned. It seemed directly targeted at her for maximum outrage.
The face she saw at the end couldn't have been Aeth. There's no way that anyone knew anything about what Aeth had summoned, there was no way that there were any records or anything for anyone to even find.
It had to be that app.
Something bad was happening.
Lyta needed to call Aeth.
But she had cut her phone in half.
"FUCK!"
i have a kofi where you can read these early if you've supported me at any time
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Damn I sent u that ask like 2 or 3 hours ago and u already did it? (The one with the Kinger angst)
Props to you ^^
But anyhoo, u mentioned that the angst thing became more of Kinger’s grief than the original one which made me curious as to what u had in mind? Sorry I know I already sent a request today and I kinda feel greedy about it
Feel free to prioritize other requests! I feel like I overstayed my welcome or more like ur inbox lol
More Kinger Angst!
i must admit, i said that rather loosely! my creative process for these posts is a little untraditional (i think, i mean it doesnt sound like something other people do but maybe im not special LMAO) but i go in these posts with vague ideas that i dont really expand until i actually down and write :0
if that makes sense ! vague to refined !!
that said (grips my silly ideas)
and dont feel bad about requesting too much! nothing wrong in sending in an additional request now and then, itd be different if you were spamming or swamping up the inbox (neither of which youre doing) so no harm there!
uhuhuh building up off of the other main idea from the previous post that i didnt get to explore because i got caught up in the grief; kingers paranoia
other post
touching up on the idea that hes constantly worried about you and the fact you might get hurt or abstract, i think there would be ups and downs with his mental health... some days hes okay, but others its like hes taken a nosedive, you know?
kinger already is shown to be a very paranoid individual but to see that getting worse? like im not sure about you guys but i personally know first hand what its like to be constantly in that sort of headspace for an extended period of time (admin note, im fine now this was years ago and it was surrounding a family members health) but it can really destroy a person
lack of sleep, constantly on edge, irritability, your tolerance for bullshit really runs into the ground, things like that. you start lashing out or you start isolating. i personally see kinger being more of the isolation type, but given that he feels the suffocating urge to keep an eye on you to make sure youre okay... its like a loop, it just keeps going and it keeps getting worse
i think if you want to see a stop, or at least a moments peace, youre going to have to slam on the breaks and try to get him to calm down. help him ground himself, reassure him, work a system for the two of you to make sure he doesnt get too caught up in his own fears.... though i will admit that im a little stumped on how exactly to help him (given that this is a lot of self projection on admins part, the thing in their life that happened only stopped because the issue itself was forced to a stop by outside means)
take him away from IHAs that are getting too intense or overstimulating, walk him over to a quieter space so he can regather himself
take him out for walks around the grounds so he can get fresh air.... or at least... the closest you guys can get in this world.. better than to be cooped up in a confined space with other people in it
just let him. be and experience things in the moment rather than letting him drown in his own thoughts. is it a long term solution? no, but he needs to have a moment to breathe, you know?
but we arent here for comfort, we're here for angst
i think sometimes he would stay by your door at night, caught between disturbing you and checking on you to make sure youre okay. its a ritual of his every night, multiple times a night he feels the overwhelming urge to make sure youre still there
i think he does this with other characters he may be close to, like gangle and ragatha (admins personal hcs).. but i think sometimes it would bleed into wanting to check in on the others every now and then
^totally not borrowed from admins day to day of needing to check on things they know are okay a dozen times a day though its usually stuff like making sure everything is locked and shit
thinks
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Slay
*Pairing: Rengoku x reader x Tengen
*Warnings: Mentions of s*x, cursing
A/N: I feel kinda iffy about thins on but here it is :/
“Oh my literal fucking god” This can’t be real
“What what’s wrong?”
I never told her what happened did I, and they are right there. What if they see me?
What if they talk to me? What if they mentioned what happened?
“GIRL”
She shocked me out of my daze.
“What’s going on”
I took a deep breath.
“You see those two guys over there”
She looks and sees Rengoku and Tengen walking slowly along the park’s pathway which eventually leads to where we are seated.
“Yeah, they are fine as fuck. Is that why you’re acting like this? DID SOMETHING HAPPEN” Oh my gosh there are far away but not that far.
We sat in a park behind a tree where I can see them but they can’t see me.
They are walking this way tho and I can’t just leave all our stuff and run.
“I’ll try and explain this quickly—So ummm…”
How am I gonna say this? My heart is beating out of my chest and I can feel my cheeks redden with a twisting feeling in my gut.
“I’m listening”
I calmed myself “So umm we kind of hooked up”
“BOTH OF THEM”
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… yes I did…with…both of the-”
“Are you fucking kidding me, you gotta be fucking joking. Do you know how lucky you are? How insane it is that they did that. WITH YOU”
“She’s right you know, do you know how lucky you are y/n”
I’m about to melt. This can’t be real. I’m dreaming this must be a dream. If my stomach twists anymore I feel as if my head going to explode from pressure.
“Omg, they’re here” Well no shit and after what you just said, which they heard, I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look them in the eyes ever again.
“Did you really think we didn’t see you peeping from behind this tree? You must take us for idiots” Tengen says as he walks and sits next to me. Rather closely.
In an effort to get some breathing space, I shift away a little. I wasn’t able to get too far as Rengoku sat on the other end of me wedging me between them.
“You ladies don’t mind us joining do you”
“Yes-”
“No, not at all.”
I can’t believe her. These two are by far the most outstanding eye-catching individuals to ever exist. I can already feel people staring and to be very honest I would too.
You son of a bitch. You fucking cunt. FUCK YOU.
“You can stop cussing me out in your
mind I’m doing you a favour”
“Oh, are you and what exactly does this favour entail” Tengen is just feeding off this bullshit and Rengoku hasn’t stopped playing with my hair since he sat down here.
“I mean, you all seem…..you all have a thing……on……”
I can’t hear the conversation at all with how close they are sitting to me.
Tengen has always been a hands-y one. His hand moved from my lower back then went up to my shoulder to now where he just has his arm wrapped around me.
Rengoku loves little touches in comparison to his extravagant companion. He was playing with my hair then went to rubbing my back and now his hand is on my thigh and he hasn’t stopped looking at me since he sat down.
Their body heat and proximity alone were enough to send me over the edge but this is all too much. I’m so far from the edge and so far gone into the deep end that I’ve lost hearing and I can’t feel my legs or the ground underneath me. The world is spinning
In a different situation, a little part of me would love to have this with them like this, but right now I’m in the middle of our college campus park with my best friend and two of the hottest guys to walk this earth jamming up on me.
“Y/n” Rengoku coos at me lifting my face by my chin to look at him. “You seem lost in thought are you alright?” He spoke so tenderly and had a soft look of genuine concern on his face. He is so beautiful. I can stare at him all day.
“Y/n” he give me a little shake I then realized I was staring at him dazed.
“YH! Yh—um I’m fine..hehe totally good”
The cringe is so scary that I’m sure I’m going to think of it every night for the rest of my life.
“She must be having a sensory overload, you guys make her flushed and on top of that, you sat right in front of me and in the middle of the campus park. It’s best you all go somewhere private if you going to talk to her and— touch her”
I’m so in love with her and hate her at the same time. She read me like a fucking book.
Both of them kinda backed off me a little giving me some space which really wasn’t much considering how big they are. They are still towering over me.
“Don’t worry too much guys she’s going to be fine and Tengen she’s still on for later”
“Later?” What’s going on later?
“You didn’t hear y/n but your boys here wanna hang out with you later”
If I was far gone into the deep end then right now I’m drowning. “I never agre-“
“I’m not going to be home remember? I going to visit my family and I know you don’t like being alone in the apartment so they are spending as much time with you as possible until I return.”
She wasn’t wrong. There are some weird neighbours there that I really don’t want to have to deal with alone. But if they stay as much as I want company I’m going to be pregnant by the time she returns and I wouldn’t even know which one.
“Fine, I guess.” They both had the widest grins on their face when they heard that. As if they were waiting for my permission even though they would still show up regardless.
A phone alarm goes off signifying that Ava had to go so she could catch her flight. Our little hang-out was over.
“Oh shit I gotta go” She sits up and begins to gather her things.
“Alright, guys. Please take care of my friend. She is my baby and I could never forgive myself if something was to happen to her” I hope you don’t flip when you come back and discover you’re an aunty.
“We’ll protect her with all we’ve got!” Rengoku proclaimed drawing attention from everyone in earshot and considering it’s him, earshot is the entire park.
“You enjoy your stay” I can’t help but feel sad. I have grown dependent on her physical presence in my life. It may sound dumb but I don’t think I can live too far from her.
I sadly get up from my lovely seat and threw myself on her. I going to miss her.
“Yes, yes I know” she squeezes me. I swear to all that’s good I’m gonna cry. I didn’t want to let go.
“I have to go love” She slowly unwraps me
“I know” I tried to hide how sad I am but she sees right through it. “I’ll be back soon ok I promise” She gives me one final squeeze and then leaves.
I felt like crying. I felt so so alone. We have done everything together. We grew up together, we learnt together, we played together, we changed together, we fought together and sometimes with each other but we grew together from that as well.
We have never spent more than 2 days without physically being with each other. I’m not sure how I’m gonna handle being alone.
“Y/n?” I feel a large rough warm hand being placed on my lower back and two looming presences of the two men who are going to make sure I’m not alone for however long my other half is away.
“You too must be really close” Rengoku says “Can’t imagine what it’s like to be away from each other” he’s right he can’t imagine it.
I turn to look at him. I feel more at ease with them without the audience of my bestie. “Yh it’s going to be really hard” I look at him in the eyes.
He must have realized I’m on the verge of tears because cups my cheeks and traces my cheekbone with his thumbs. He draws me closer resting my head against his chest. I can hear Tengen gathering our things “It’s ok, we are here with you ok.” I shut my eyes. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m crying.
“Hey, hey pretty thing, how about we head back to our apartment and we chill and watch some movies? We have all sorts of sweets that you would love to try sweet heart” Tengen draws my attention from Rengoku who very much still has his hands on me.
He’s now holding all of the things that I brought for the picnic which is quite a lot.
“Tengen give me something to hold” I saw wiping stray tears.
He began walking to his and Rengoku’s apartment with a brisk pace “It’s one of my greatest Ickes to see a lady carry anything around with a man present” I roll my eyes “Just bring your pretty ass here and let’s go watch something” I really never have a say now do I
“C’mon y/n” Rengoku places his hand on the small of my back as we follow Tengen back to the apartment.
I felt so warm and fuzzy. I felt so incredibly safe. And after what has happened between the three of us, to an extent, I kinda feel loved. The thought alone had the blood rushing to my face. Rengoku’s hand on my back is becoming warmer and warmer by the second.
As a matter of fact, I was walking pretty close to him. He smelled heavenly. I wanted to lean into him and fall deep into his warmth and feel his touch.
The night after what seemed like the best sex I will ever have they pampered me to the point that I wasn’t allowed to walk for myself. As soon as we were finished Tengen went to run a hot bath and Rengoku came with a warm towel to wipe me down.
To be very honest I was very embarrassed at the thought of them wiping my naked body but I was far too tired to make an effort to stop them. Plus it felt amazing.
Once I was clean I wore Rengoku’s boxers and shirt. Anything from Tengen was going to drown me.
When I was dressed they had rested me down in the middle of their custom size bed that had fresh warm sheets. I was so relaxed at that point I was practically already asleep.
I then felt the bed on both sides dip significantly and two warm soft bodies lay beside me. “I’ll cherish her”
“So will I”
“She’s mesmerizing like nothing I have ever seen before”
“Yes Rengoku she is, and trust me when I say I agree with you completely, but right now she needs sleep. We kind of went rough with her tonight”
“Well I mean she liked it—“
“Can you shhh!” I finally mustered the strength to talk. I’m so tired and their yapping is keeping me awake.
“I’m sorry lovely we’ll make sure not to wake you” I can feel both of them come closer until I was jammed between them both. I was enveloped and cuddled while their hands still were being aware of the bruises on my body.
Right before I went to sleep I could feel the steady rise and fall of Tengen’s chest on my back and Rengoku’s even breathing on my front. That night was by far the best night's sleep I ever had.
Now here I am again. Black where it all happened. My best friend knew what she was doing. Because with these two I won’t have room in my mind to miss her too much.
A/n: I hope y'all enjoyed. This was inspired by one of yunonoai's drawings. Its the one with Rengoku and Tengen obviously. You can find them on twitter:)
Much luv
Ludicix
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Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt1
I am sorry if the timeline events of Infinite Crisis here are a bit wonky. Also we are going with Nightwing run version of Jason and Dick's first meeting, bc that one's my favorite.
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.
The world nearly ended, it does that sometimes. A great, physics-defying colliding of universes and cosmic god-beings that required every sucker that's ever donned spandex -and occasionally some semi-willing, saner rouges- to put their noses to the grindstone , kick some ass, and maybe fart out a few inspirational speeches if you were the friendly paragon type like Superman, the Flashes, or darling Nightwing.
Jason's involvement in the whole thing had been minimal. He'd busted up some of the weird-ass robot things that preceded the main event, spared a whole goddamn sympathetic wince for the poor bastards that had to fight Superman's evil alt-universe son, and knocked around a couple of wannabe thugs that thought Bludhaven getting nuked was a chance to start getting cute with some profiteering or trafficking on his turf in nearby Gotham.
Not too helpful, cause Jason wasn't one of those fools wearing spandex anymore. (He had actual pants now, imagine that!). Not too unhelpful, cause he was a fool choosing to live in Gotham, and he'd prefer his city to not be a radioactive wasteland trashed by robots and mad Kryptonians and his universe not to be melted or unwritten or whatever cosmic bullshit the villain de jour had planned.
Eventually, the dust had settled. Heroes had run back to their claimed cities, the JLA fucked off back to space, and the various tech whizzes had actually started bothering to lock down or shut off the emergency channels they'd thrown together to call out the all hands on deck situation, making it a lot harder for those that weren't exactly invited to the party to listen in.
Leaning back onto his ratty but comfortable couch, in an apartment that edges closer to housing rather than a safehouse, Jason is now instead idly trawling through the official responses published by the JLA, the Titans, and a couple of the more put-together, public facing heroes.
He's not a bad hacker, far better than most, but Jason really only gives a fuck about information relating to Gotham and its vigilantes. (And well, formerly Bludhaven. Sucks to suck, circus boy, looks like even the great Nightwing fails sometimes). There's no way Oracle doesn't have anything Bat-related on lockdown already, and Jason's not fool enough to tangle with her in her home court like that.
He scratches his neck.
Nah, he'd rather not have cop-girl turned surveillance-woman rat out his location or get in his systems cause he'd gotten curious and poked his digital nose into whatever terse, control freak communications Batman was sending to the League and his little solider boys. Jason could just paint a general picture reading between the lines of official, publicly available reports, and then investigate through other, more in-person means after. Shake some people down, break into government offices that sort of thing.
Well, first off, it seemed his snobby little replacement was going to be in Gotham for a while. There's a short, despondent little announcement from knock-off Robin's knock-off Titans that due to the tragic loss of Superboy in the recent crisis, Young Justice would be suspending activity.
It's followed by a short but clumsily sincere little memorial piece about Kon-El, like that's supposed to make up for the fact he's dead, like just posting a couple of cheesy pictures of cook-outs and daylight missions and blubbering out a few sentimental sentences about how kind and heroic the deceased was enough to make up for his violent death.
Jason scratches his neck again. His nails are cut almost to the quick so they don’t catch his skin, don't draw blood, don’t really get rid of the itch.
Batman's more of a problem, as always. He'd never deign to give anything as mundane as a public statement, of course, but the JLA has an actual PR team and a constant need to maintain an image of transparency in front of the general public and its many trigger-happy governments. They've put out a handy list of various commendations being given, memorials being held, and ongoing efforts of various heroes to help with the after effects of the tragedy
Jason idly opens the memorials tab for some rubber-necking after he's finished investigating. He doesn't even bother glancing at the award ceremonies page (no Bat would fucking ever).
Little mention of Batman in any of the rebuilding projects or various JLA committees on preventing this horrible tragedy from ever occurring again . (Even though they all knew something similar would happen in another couple of years, cause the universe tries to off itself on damn schedule these days).
Jason sighs. Nary a sign of the Bat on anything from the JLA, and the various social pages and gossip rags of Gotham were mostly empty of their favorite drunken fool, Bruce Wayne.
If Jason was lucky (and he never was), the Bat was on some short, international mission that would be finished up before the Red Hood's even had time to finish shaking down air traffic control for their records of Batplane sightings. If he's unlucky, the old man's on one of his long-term out of the city projects or stupid self-discovery journeys that seemed to mostly involve screwing morally grey spies and assassins.
If he's supremely unlucky, though, Batman's fucked off to space or some alternate dimension to do this this, that, and the other cause he's similar to Jason in at least one regard. Occasionally they had to give a shit about the stability of the universe and the fate of the world, cause that's what Gotham is sitting on.
Uggh, it better not be that last one. Shaking down or threatening a Flash or Lantern would be a goddamn pain and require a fuck-ton of planning (steal some shit from Freeze? Lure the space cop into a sulphur mine? Might just be easier breaking into the Batcave.)
Jason rolls his shoulders face twitching into a grimace. He hasn't decided what he wants to do or say or whatever the next time he sees Batman, but he does know he wants it on his fucking terms. He's never gonna have a moment's peace if he doesn’t' figure out where Batman's lurking.
Shit, worst comes to worst he'll beat the Bat's location out of his shiny new Robin or prod it outta Nightwing who's almost certainly an emotional wreck now that Shithaven's radioactive rubble.
…. Maybe the Red Hood will even buy Nightwing a beer instead of greeting him with a gunshot outta consideration for his loss next they meet. Might be worth it so that Jason can see pretty, perfect Dick Grayson floundering in failure like the rest of the mortal world regularly had too, the prick.
Feeling a bit calmer, Jason settles back into a sprawl and starts casually perusing the JLA's page of memorial announcements for people he might've met with Batman or Dick. He idly scrolls down the page, stopping once in a while to search engine a name that rings absolutely no bells on the off chance it’s a rebranding instead of new-blood or a total no-name. After all he very much doubts any mid-to-late twenties men are going around calling themselves Aqualad, or fucking Speedy.
Near the bottom of the alphabetically organized page is a blue hyperlink that reads 'Nightwing'.
Jason blinks. Clenches and unclenches his left hand. That's … a weird fucking way to list a memorial for the city of Bludhaven.
He knows a lot of the old core Leaguers like to fawn over Robin Number 1, Superman especially, and that Nightwing's probably the only non-exploded, halfway decent person left willing to admit association with Shithaven, Gotham's poorer, dirtier little sister-city, but still. Not super tactful.
Jason stares at electric blue of the hyperlink for another couple of seconds, then clicks on it.
'The public memorial for the hero known as Nightwing will be held at 5pm on October 24th on the public access field in front of Titian's Tower. A beloved figure of the hero community, founding member of the Titians, and known associate of Batman, Superman, and many other long time Justice League members …'
The word 'Robin' does not appear once on the entire page, Jason notes hysterically. Like every two-bit thug with half a brain cell left after Batman's regular beatings and Gothamite still sane enough to parse a newspaper don't know that the little, grinning dare-devil child mad enough to take on the night in Gotham armed with nothing but pixie boots and a smile, good enough to not just fucking survive that but stay laughing and kind, like they don't all know he grew up into their migratory bluebird who would swoop between the brighter, outside world and their resident shithole city, returning to the nest to help beat down their rouges, remind Batman to act like a freaking human being, and teasingly rescue little Robins that got in over their heads. Perfect, lucky, Dick Grayson, Gotham's little songbird that got to grow up and stretch his wings.
Jason numbly realizes he's started to chuckle, an ugly smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
A hideous cackling monologue that never really shuts up in the back of his memories laughs and laughs about dead birds, about Batman's failures. The sentences are impossible to fully parse, every other word punctuated by a crack of pain or an ugly giggle.
A soft, sharp, croon in his recently resurrected ears, as Talia-of-his-memory whispers, "Family and love are just pretty, useless words until they've been proven in blood and sacrifice."
Jason hurls the laptop across the room, shattering the bright screen displaying its memorial message against the wall then stalks off to grab his helmet. He needs to see for himself if this is, if Nightwing is . . .
. . . If it is true, he needs to know who. Needs to know badly, insistently, itchingly cause Jason really fucking doubts whatever JLA fuck that wrote the page, or Titan hanger-on that organized that memorial actually loved Richard Grayson that way his brother deserved.
He sure as hell knows their father won't.
------------------------------------------
Six years ago
The first time Jason met his predecessor? (maybe his brother?) went . . . . alright.
Sure Jason's flubbed the gauntlet test thing that Bruce'd set up, Nightwing dancing circles about him with his fancy flips. Then that had been followed by the older teen basically dragging him about the whole city like a scruffed kitten as they'd raced through the streets to save Alfred dressed as Two-Face.
On the other hand, they'd basically raced the length of the whole city, bus-surfing and peeping into warehouses, and ended up fighting with some sewer-croc monster to save Alfred dressed as Two-Face cause Batman had flubbed his whole secret test thing worse. Jason had come out of that whole mess not looking too bad in comparison and gotten the official go-ahead to be Robin from both Batman and the original.
He'd parted ways with Dick kinda amicably. Dick had given him his original Robin suit (which was actually pretty cool) and his phone number to call in case Batman was being a 'stoic, immovable, grump' (actually a bit tempting to use cause Bruce had been snit over his car crash injuries). Jason in turn had passed over the new Nightwing suit Alfred had sewn up and repeated his challenge that he was gonna be even better as Robin so Dick'd better watch out (he'd gotten a raised eyebrow and a sigh again).
Not bad or anything. No hitting, no screaming (at him anyway, he's fairly certain Nightwing and Batman had it out behind his back at some point). No angry demands about who let a grubby, homeless kid have Robin's costume.
Still, Jason felt like Nightwing was just humoring him, and it rankled. Worse, was he knew why. In contrast to Jason's rather lackluster first night as Robin, Batman had shown him clips of Nightwing's Gotham debut right before he sent him out to catch him, and really those said it all.
A smiling young man in midnight blue and bright gold on a playful rampage through Gotham's darkness, a grinning Batgirl in tow. He knocks out street thugs with a showy, graceful kick on one screen, raids the Iceburg Lounge and talks down to Pengiun with an grinning, effusive, confidence on another, and on the final screen on the bottom right breaks into Arkham to play a prank on the fucking Joker, the clown's angry threats near drowned out by his fearless, undaunted laughter as he slips away.
"This is Nightwing" says Batman. "He'll be your test."
"That's Robin." Realizes Jason. "He's what I've got to live up to."
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Chronic Pain
In which Omen doesn't know how to use their words and Dabi has to figure it out.
Hey I've not written smut in... many months so please be kind. It's just two fucked up villans fucking.
Content Warnings 🔞⚠️: breath play, rough sex.
“Please,” Omen hisses against the soft skin of Dabi's throat, their hands grabbing at his shirt, their movements uncharacteristically forceful as they press him against the back of his door.
“Shit, Omen, wait,” Dabi hisses, shoving them back enough to remove his jacket. He's bandaged from the navel to just beneath his armpits, the result of a fight, and normally Omen would be cognizant of such a thing, but tonight they were near manic, and Dabi knew what that meant, what they needed.
“Please,” they try again, this time a little less urgent, more drawn out, and Dabi wonders if they're on something the way their pupils are blown out and their face is flushed red.
“What'd you take?” He asked through the assault of kisses and nips to his lower lip.
“Nothing, I just need you okay?” Their voice was small, needy, and Dabi caught their jaw in his palm, forcing them to stop and actually look at him.
Sure their pupils were dilated, and they panted like a stressed dog, but their gaze was focused, almost unnervingly so.
“You lyin'?” He asks, pulling their face close, but not close enough so their lips touch.
“No,” they whine, face scrunching in frustration, tears pricking the edge of their eyes and he has to decide to trust them.
With another shove he sends them back into the mattress of his dingy room, and they flop down with a grin, satisfied with his acceptance.
“Don't look at me like that,” he snaps but they can see how turned on he is and as he kneels down on the mattress they grope at him, sliding their hand between his legs and squeezing, eliciting a groan from him and a half aborted roll of his hips.
“Like what?” They ask with faux innocence which earns them a glare from the blue flame user.
They giggle, soft and lilting. They're not on anything but they sure are dealing with something, they always fell into that immature girlishness when they were hiding something.
Dabi let out a rumbling sigh as he crawled towards them, caging them in as they squirmed and laughed like this was some kind of a game. And for them it might as well be.
“I'm going to find out what's going on,” Dabi says into their ear, “even if I have to fuck it out of you.”
Omen faltered at that, their facade wasn't working, and why would it? Dabi could see past any bullshit they put up, but that didn't mean they stopped trying to hide their troubles.
“Shut up and do it already then,” they challenge in the same low tone he used with them.
Dabi let out a low growl as they close the space to lick and kiss at his exposed throat. They nipped, harder and harder.
“Little moth,” he warns.
They bite down and draw blood, sharp teeth piercing delicate scarred skin. He moves in an instant, his hand grabbing their throat and slamming them back into the mattress. They let out a choking noise followed by a keen, eyes rolling as they bit their lip.
“That what you want huh?” He murmurs into their ear, “can't use your words?”
Omen opens their mouth to speak but Dabi squeezes and cuts off their voice.
“Doesn't look like you can,” he says and he finally cracks a smile.
Omen whimpers around his hand, and Dabi realizes he was too focused on their face to notice what their hands were doing.
“You little slut,” he chuckles, reaching down with his free hand to grab their wrist, their hand buried between their legs.
“You're getting off to just this? Do you really need me then?” He asks with false hurt in his voice.
Omen opens their mouth to speak again and Dabi squeezes again, eliciting another choked out squeal. He pulls their soaked fingers from their panties, bringing their hand up into sight so he can study them.
“Shit, you are getting off to this, whore,” he snickers, leaning down to press his mouth to their's in a harsh kiss, biting down on their lip, and when they whine he squeezes his fingers again, relishing the panicked fluttering of their pulse beneath his fingertips.
“You want it that bad huh?” He asks and they nod.
“What's that?”
They open their mouth and he squeezes again, their eyelids fluttering and eyes rolling back.
“I couldn't hear you,” he hummed.
“Dabi,” they whine, voice hoarse.
“What is it little moth?” he asks, “this flame too hot for you?”
They wriggle beneath him, thighs squeezing together, cunt clenching around nothing.
“Please?” they ask again and Dabi just chuckles.
“Hmm,” he hums, looking again at their hand, wrist clenched in his, theirs were so delicate compared to his own.
“I think you were doing a good enough job yourself,” he murmurs, before bringing their fingers up to his lips and lapping at the drying wetness, before pulling them free from his lips with a pop.
“Why don't you just finish yourself off huh? Or do you need me squeezing the life out of you to get off?” He asks patronizingly.
“Need you–,” they whine only to get cut off by the squeeze of Dabi's hand.
“Ah ah, cut that shit, what do you want Omen,” he says, again, voice patronizing.
They whine and wriggle but he doesn't let up until they're gasping.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
“To feel!” They finally cry out, frustrated tears pricking their eyes again.
Dabi's hand relaxes against their throat, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb.
“There that wasn't too bad was it?”
Omen sticks out their lower lip in a pout and Dabi leans down to bite it, causing Omen to give a small yelp followed by a giggle.
“What's got my little moth not feeling?” He asks against their mouth.
“Pain,” they sigh, and it's the first word they've said in a normal voice.
Dabi frowns, “where is it little moth?” He asks.
“Back,” they whisper, almost timid now.
“You could have just told me you know,” he mumbles against the corner of their mouth, and they sigh.
“I know.”
“But you didn't wanna ask?”
Omen nods.
With a sudden movement Dabi leans back and flips Omen over onto their stomach, a yelp escaping them before it turns to a moan as Dabi palms at their ass beneath their skirt he has hiked up. He knows they won't want to talk about it, so he will just have to make good on his end of the deal.
Omen shutters, whining into the mattress as he pulls their panties down their hips, shoving their knees apart, their bare ass up in the air leaving them trembling with anticipation. He curls over them, one hand slipping into their hair the other moving between their legs.
“Shit,” he hisses into their ear, “you're so wet already moth,” he hums.
He brings his slicked fingers up to their mouth, “taste,” he says as he presses his rough fingertips against their tongue.
Omen moans around his fingers only for their whole body to tighten up, back arching, as Dabi shoves his cock inside without warning. Omen lets out a whine, high and keening, they hadn't even heard him undo his belt.
“That's it, open up for me,” he grunts in their ear.
His arms move to wrap around them, the two of them pressed tight together as Dabi begins to move his hips, burying his face in Omen's hair.
“Let go, c'mon, you were so needy before, what happened? Got scared?” He taunts and Omen whimpers, fingers curling in the fabric of his sheets.
“N--Not scared,” they manage but soon they gasp as Dabi's hand slides around their throat again.
“Of course not, you wanted this didn't you?” He asks as he tightens his fingers and Omen lets out another throaty whine.
“Ye–” they gag as he squeezes again and Dabi can feel their insides fluttering at the sensation.
He chuckles, “that's it, that's what you wanted.”
Omen goes loose in his arms which become the only thing keeping them up on their knees as he fucks into them, his thrusts becoming more and more insistent. Omen's eyes are rolled back, mouth agape, face pink and breath coming in heavy pants. Like a bitch in heat they rut back against him, letting out all manners of whines and whimpers and moans.
Each time they near their peak, greedy cunt pulling Dabi's cock inside, he slows, releasing the tension around their throat before he deems them ready to pick back up again. And again he squeezes and thrusts and whispers nasty little things into their ear until finally the tears flow free and he relents.
“C'mon moth, c'mon, be good, cum on my cock for me won't you?” He asks, but his body demands, hips snapping forward in a sloppy rhythm, and Omen knows he's close.
“Da–bi–!” Omen chokes around his fist on their throat as their thighs tremble and their cunt clenches hard.
Their body goes rigid, their moans cut short as they flinch and twitch with each wave of pleasure that crashes over them. Dabi lets them go, allowing them to go limp against the bed as he pulls his cock free of their aching cunt and spills his cum across their ass and thighs in thick ropes.
They both collapse. Two bodies heaving and slack against the bedspread, the quiet air smelling of sex and sounding of heavy breathing. Finally, in the aftermath, Dabi reaches over with a shaking hand and pulls Omen against him, tucking their head under his chin as he runs his fingers through their damp hair.
“How you feelin?” He asks quietly, his voice softer than before.
“Better,” they answer, voice hoarse in comparison.
“Good,” he presses a kiss to the crown of their head, his body radiating warmth, palms kneading at their sore muscles across their back.
“Next time, just ask,” he mumbles and Omen giggles.
“But this was much more fun.”
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