#sitting on a table with him bruising his knees because hes been on the floor ravaging u lmaooo

[hyewka]

this comeback was truly curated just for me

#everything from the songs #to the concept photos #to THIS #like fuck #him on his knees like that with this specific fit #drives me crazy #sitting on a table with him bruising his knees because hes been on the floor ravaging u lmaooo

[luveline]

hello my love!! could you maybe show us what bedtime is like in the kbd universe? thank you, you’re incredible <3

kbd —dad!steve and mom!reader get their small family ready for bed. 3k

“She looks so pretty,” Avery whispers. 

Steve struggles to pull the hem of his sock over his ankle, crossing his legs to match her as she snaps an apple slice in half with her fingers, the juice wetting her pyjama top, her torso swaying as his knee bumps into hers. “Who?” Steve asks, blinking. 

“Wren,” Avery says, leaning back to let Steve see the baby where she’s napping in her bouncer. Avery shoves a chunk of apple in her mouth. “She’s pw-ery.” 

“Try not to talk with your mouth full, you might choke.” 

Avery nods, closing her mouth to chew up the rest of her food with chipmunk cheeks. 

Steve draws a little heart into her knee. She has a bruise from falling up the stairs a few days ago like a purple ink blot just under her kneecap, but she hasn’t complained. She didn’t cry when she fell, she just got back up and asked for a Capri-Sun. Steve’s surprised she’s so hardy, but she’s getting older. He’d sort of been hoping she’d want him to kiss it better.

“She’s pretty like her big sister,” he says. 

“I’m glad she’s stopped crying all the time.” 

“Me too.” He takes one of the smaller slices from her plate to eat, wiping juice from her cheek as he does. 

She grins. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You all done?” 

“Yep.” 

“Not hungry anymore?” 

“Nope.” She grabs her plate before he can. “I’ll put it in the sink.” 

“Thanks, beautiful.” 

She jumps up with her empty plate and does a spin, saying, “Who, me?” 

Steve laughs like an idiot, still chuckling to himself as the sound of her plate hitting the kitchen sink reaches his ears. Wren, finally out of her sleep regression (for now), doesn’t wake. All good signs of a good night. 

Steve lets his head fall back onto little legs. “What about you?” he asks Dove, the second youngest daughter, where she sits behind him on the couch. 

She hums under her breath, her hands quick to weave into his hair, petting it away from his face. He waits for an answer he doesn’t get, closing his eyes and turning his face into her knee. Her giggles are treacle sweet. “Don’t sleep,” she protests. 

“I’m tired.” 

“It’s not bed time.” 

She’s not gonna like what Steve’s about to tell her, if that’s the case. She had a screaming tantrum last night about bed time where she threw herself on the floor and whacked her hands until her palms turned bright red. He’s not wanting a repeat. 

“It is bed time,” he says gently, though it’s not for another half an hour, “but, I was thinking, because you’ve been so good today you’d stay up extra. Maybe even have hot cocoa before bed.” Steve turns to meet her eyes. “How’s that sound?” 

“Really?” she asks, her eyes blowing wide with excitement. Steve is starting to wonder if she’s not as mini-me as he used to think, growing into sweeter features as she leaves the baby-toddler stage and starts to look like a kid. He loves it. 

“That sound fun or what?” 

She dives at him. He has enough sense to have twisted and catches her before she can break any of his teeth. “You are the best daddy ever!” she declares seriously, almost tipping over his shoulder. 

He lets her dangle for a second, then yanks her back topside. “You’re my best girl, that’s why. Let’s go make the drinks. Actually, we better go see who else wants some.” 

You and Bethie are attempting some last minute crafts at the dining table, and you’re very interested in hot chocolate but Beth doesn’t like it and so, doesn’t want any. She does seem interested in a glass of milk with a couple of chocolate chip cookies, so it’s nearly the same thing. “Careful,” he says, putting the half a pint of milk down in front of her birdhouse cautiously, “you don’t wanna spill that, baby.” 

“Who says she’s gonna spill it?” you ask. 

“Don’t start with me,” Steve warns. 

You smile to yourself. You’ve a spatula for PVA glue in your hand, skins of glue dried to your fingertips flecked with splinters of wood. Lollipop crafts felt like a good idea when he’d suggested it, but then he didn’t actually want to do it, and you’d been kind enough to step in. I’m sick of mess, he’d confided. 

Well, you’d said, somewhere between a quick kiss pressed to his shoulder and your hand rubbing it away, you probably shouldn’t have asked me to have so many kids. 

I love mess, he’d corrected immediately. Love to make more of it someday. 

“We’re nearly done in time for bed,” you assure him now. 

“I told Dove she could have an extra half an hour.” He winks at you clumsily. 

“Oh, really? Well, maybe Beth and Avery should get some extra time too.” 

Beth dunks her cookie into the top of her cup. “No thanks. I’m tired. Can I sleep with Avery again?” she asks, milk dribbling down the sides of the glass to darken the coaster underneath. 

“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” Steve says. “Wait, where is she? I thought she was in here.” Something grabs him by the legs, a sudden clutching that activates a heat in his eyes and spine he can’t explain. He flinches sideways into a cabinet and almost steps on a rather small limb. “What the fuck.” 

“Boo!” Avery says, laughing brightly as Steve rights himself on the counter. 

“Avery! Did I step on you? I’m sorry,” he says, immediately bending down. “What were you thinking? I could’ve really hurt you!” 

“Daaad, I was just pulling a prank,” she says. 

He checks over the arm he was so sure he’d stepped on. “You okay?” 

“She’s fine,” you say. “Yeah?” 

“I’m fine!” She hugs his legs again. “You said a super bad word.” 

He was hoping everybody missed that. “Dove–”

“Dad,” Dove interrupts, kicking her little feet exactly where he left her sitting on the dinner table by your left, “bad words make me cry.” She says it all clunky and clumsy, having heard it enough times. Her Aunt Robin has a potty-mouthed girlfriend, and Steve can’t do damage control quick enough sometimes.

“No, it’s when you say bad words daddy cries,” Avery says. 

“I didn’t say one!” 

“I know! I just mean it’s not when dad says it.” 

“What?” Dove asks. “He did says it.”

You’re grinning. You love when Dove confuses herself, all kids go through it, where half the time they don’t know what they’re saying until you help them along, but you love Dove’s new phase especially because she’s always been so serious. “What Avery is telling you, baby, is that daddy doesn’t get upset when he says bad words because he’s a grown up.” 

“So when we’re older we can cuss too?” Bethie asks. 

Steve’s jaw drops. “No, Beth! No, none of you need to say bad words, and I don’t either, and I’m really sorry. Can we forget about it?” 

Steve makes hot chocolate and helps you clean the sorry mess you’ve made on the table, and, after some light teasing, everybody forgets he’d reacted so violently to Avery’s surprise. Well, almost. Dove is the first to succumb to a case of the sleepies despite being otherwise reluctant to give in, sitting on his thigh, marshmallows still whole in her drink. She’d barely managed four sips. 

Steve cuddles her to his chest, covering her ear where she nuzzles against him from the sounds of your and Avery’s giggling. “He went pale,” you’re saying. 

Beth offers Steve half of one of her cookies. “You didn’t,” she says. 

If he didn’t have his arms full of Dove he’d scoop her up. “Thank you, Beth. I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

“Alright,” you say, twining your fingers and sliding them behind your head, your neck and back clicking audibly in the quiet of the Harrington house winding down, “I think it’s bedtime. Are you done with your drink?” 

You rinse the cups. Steve ferries Dove upstairs, has her down and tucked in in record time, soon enough to catch you as you and the rest of the girls make your way upstairs. Beth and Avery are beautifully silent, weary of their sensitive baby sister where she’s cradled to your chest. 

You attempt to put her down in her crib in your room, but Steve gets the feeling you aren’t successful when a crackly cry breaks out. 

“Oh, no,” Avery says. 

“It’s fine. Let’s go brush our teeth, okay? Mommy has it.” 

They brush their teeth. Steve wipes their faces down with a damp hand towel and has a moment of gratitude just touching their faces. They both look so loved, the way their eyes crinkle, the way they lift their chins, all too happy for Steve to do it. He loves these moments of being a dad most, he might say, second only to getting to talk to them, especially now they’re both holding conversation. They talk to each other none stop; Beth talks to Avery ten times as much as she does anyone else. 

“Are you having a sleepover again?” Steve asks. 

Beth turns to Avery pleasingly. “Can I? Please, please, please.” 

“Yes!” Avery says, big sister extraordinaire. She wraps her arms around Beth’s shoulders, taller, more aware of herself as she presses her cheek to Beth’s and mumbles, “Of course you can. I love you. I want us to have sleepovers every night.” 

You emerge from the bedroom victorious, heading into the bathroom as he and the girls come out. “I’m just gonna brush my teeth,” you say. 

“Gonna get Beth changed.” 

“Okay, I put her nightie on the foot of her bed earlier.” 

It’s routine but not without enjoyment. He makes sure they’re both comfortable in the night's sleepwear and takes care of their hair, before giving Avery’s room a quick half-clean and shaking out the sheets on her bed. Avery has the second biggest bedroom, though Bethie’s is nothing to turn your nose up at, and it gets Steve thinking as they climb up into Avery’s single bed. 

“I think it’s good for you guys to keep your separate rooms for now,” Steve says tentatively, “but what do you think about sharing?” 

The plan was that Dove and Wren would share, but if Avery and Beth are getting along so well, it might not hurt to ask. 

Beth gasps. “Our bedrooms?” 

“Like, you and Avery could both sleep in here. You have a bunk bed, or we could get you a big one to share, and you could share teddies.” 

“I don’t want to share my teddies,” Avery says. 

“Well, you don’t have to. I’m not gonna make you.” Steve squints at them both. “Bad idea?” 

“I want to share,” Beth says immediately. 

Avery has a better understanding of what that will mean. “Maybe.” 

“You don’t have to,” Steve says. “Your rooms are yours, okay? Maybe we can just get you a bigger bed anyways, Ave. You’re so tall now, in a couple of years you’ll be ten feet tall and we’ll have to bend you in half to get you to school.” 

This is the funniest thing a man could say, apparently —both Beth and Avery burst into girly giggles that ring down the landing. Beth sounds like she might be sick. She laughs so much, falling into Avery’s side as her big sister says, “Dad, that’s silly!” 

“I can show you, if you want. We’ll practise making you into an Avery flavour pretzel, c’mere.” 

She squeals and climbs over Beth’s legs to huddle in the corner of her bed. Steve doesn’t so much as touch her legs and she’s laughing again, panicked, hyper laughter like she can’t decide if she wants to be folded or not. He presses his finger over his smile. “Shh, shh, we can’t wake the babies.” 

“Sorry,” she laughs. 

“My fault. Don’t be sorry.” He gives her leg a squeeze. “How about we start to tuck you in, girls? Do we have everything we need?” 

Beth wants a few things from her own bed, but besides that, they’re ready. Well, they’re supposed to be ready, but Steve wound them up and it’s his own fault, he can’t even complain when they beg him to watch a movie. What’s the harm? he decides, turning on Avery’s TV and pushing their favourite tape into the VHS player. 

“The effect FernGully has on the new generation is amazing,” you say, wiping your eyes. You’ve changed into pyjama pants Steve’s sure you’ve had since you met him and a tank top with straps falling down your shoulders. He wants to pull them back over the curve of your shoulder, but he’s trying to be less smothering.

He fluffs the pillows behind the girls’ backs. “It’s the boy. What’s his name? Dennis? Daniel?” 

“Neither.” You put a fallen teddy back on the bed and turn on Avery’s star-shaped night light before flicking off the big light above. The TV glows green on their legs. 

“Gonna lie down?” Steve says, gentler now, easing them in. 

Avery flops back. Beth curls in on her side, and it reminds Steve of you and him. He can sleep any which way. You’re slightly more particular, but you’re happier curled on to him. He really loves how close they are as sisters, and he has to give Avery some credit, because while Beth is exceedingly easy to love, she’s a clinger, she worships her big sister, which must get heavy from time to time. 

Avery pulls the blankets up over them before Steve can do it himself. He sighs, tucking them both in. Blankets pushed gently under their sides, hair brushed back from their little faces, he says, “Love you, Ave. Love you, Beth,” kissing their foreheads in swift succession. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” 

“Love you, daddy,” they say at the same time. 

You touch his arm gently before leaning in for your own kisses. You’re slower than he’d been, turning their faces in your hand one after the other to place identical kisses on their cheeks. “Love you, sweetheart,” you say to Avery, and, “Love you, baby,” you say to Beth. Steve holds your back as you do. “Have good dreams, okay? And don’t mess with the TV. One movie tonight is enough, you’ll wake up with sore eyes.” 

He steals another kiss from both of them and then you’re closing the door behind you, the house much darker and quieter than it had been only ten minutes previous. 

“You want a glass of water?” Steve says. 

You catch his hand. “I got you one.” 

Neither you nor Steve bother with anything but bed. He draws back the blankets and you climb in, only stopping momentarily to make sure that Wren’s alright in her crib. You curl in the middle of the bed and wait for Steve to force his way beneath you, which he does, your face resting on his shoulder, your leg stretched across his. Your hip is a lump in the blankets. He lets his hand fall atop it, whistling a tired breath through his teeth. 

“Mm,” you agree, stretching out, curling in tighter. 

“I know,” he says. Can’t forget his best girl, can’t not think about how much he loves you when it’s you and him alone. Mostly. “You alright?” 

“Fine. Tireder than I thought.” Your eyes close, lashes brushing his chest. “H?” 

“What?”

“You okay?”

“Fine, honey. Was just asking you,” he mumbles. His pillow feels like a cloud beneath his head, the mattress even better, and the sheets are a brushed cotton that’s amazingly soft on his skin. 

He turns his nose down onto you for a not so secret sniff. 

“Feels too good to be true.” 

“My turn tonight,” he says. 

“No, baby, it’s my turn.” 

“That’s fine.” He’s not as tired as you, or at least not half as achy. If Wren wakes up crying (not definitely going to happen) or Dove has a late night startle (even less likely, though not impossible), he’ll take the burden tonight. “I wanted babies and I got ‘em.”

“I want them too,” you say. 

“Of course you do,” he says, rubbing your forehead with the tip of his nose affectionately. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“Less when they wake me up,” you joke. 

Steve feels up your side to your shoulder for a sleepy cuddle. You don’t realise how soft you can be, how warm you are pressed against him like this, how grateful he is to hold you. Maybe you can read his mind, or maybe as just pure evidence of such a feat, you cup his upper arm in your hand and begin to draw shapes over his skin, breaking the pattern with fleeting scratches. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, honey. I’m sure. You go to sleep now, okay? It’s Saturday tomorrow,” he whispers tenderly. “You don’t have anywhere to be.” 

“‘Cept here,” you whisper back. 

“Love you.” A brush of his lips to your eyebrow. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” 

“I love you.”

“I love you,” he says. He swears he’s gonna stay up for a bit and count your eyelashes or something, maybe pen you a love poem, write a note about your lips and how they pout when you’re nearly sleeping, but he forgets to when you press your face into the curve of his neck and kiss it clumsily. You fall asleep at the same time, the girls laughing in whispers just a few feet away behind the wall.  

#kisses before dinner universe #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve harrington x reader #dad!steve harrington x mom!reader #steve harrington x afab!reader #afab!reader #mom!reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fluff

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

V. curiosity killed the cat.

parts: previously / next plot: when else would you get a chance like this? pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, suggestive content, you're awfully nosy aren't you. words: 6.2k.

a/n: trying out something new with headers. also, hey! it's been three months! I did not realize! I am so sorry!

If you were to recall any other time you'd stood in the middle of your apartment, blindfolded, while a strange man you didn't know undressed for you, you'd come up a little bit empty. You were failing to accept that there was ever a time at all, let alone one happening right now.

But you can't look. You have to listen to the shuffle of clothing, the small grunts and heaves of breath, the maneuvering about your home that carries a breeze to your heated skin. Seconds pass where there is no movement at all, not even an exhale, and then, "C'mere."

You stumble forward and immediately bump your shin against your coffee table—the good shin, the one that isn't cut up in ribbons—earning a sharp "tsk" from your guest that has you flushing. You reach up to your makeshift blindfold and tug it off.

To say you were... probably not supposed to see this was an understatement. You're distracted by two trains of thought, the first being his upper body. Batman is half-sitting on the edge of your kitchen table while his under suit hangs from his waist. Every line and curve is sculpted like a meticulously maintained statue. You follow the deep divots of his collarbones, the swell of his chest, the soft yet defined skin of his torso with each ripple a sign of his strength. His cowl is still in place, and even his gloves remain.

And also, though you'd never tell him this, he looked pretty damn good.

The second thought is that he has more pressing concerns than an old gunshot wound. There are bruises littered all across his upper body, signs of fights that were too heavy-handed. You tried to imagine the force it would take to really, really hurt him under that armor. How a bullet had passed through what should be impenetrable.

The first time you'd had his skin exposed to you, it had barely been anything. A cut hole in his suit, just enough room to focus on the blood and the flesh. You hadn't even thought about it.

Now, beneath all the broken, mottled skin was the evidence of the last three years at work. Between the muscle and size of him, you were beginning to understand why he didn't take his health as seriously as you did.

Batman watches you, head tilted to the floor. One arm props him up on the table and his other hand rests over his knee. His upper armor lay discarded on the table behind him along with his utility belt. He doesn't blink as you approach, doesn't bother saying anything first. He has an intense look on him at all times and it's no different now. Even if he's trusted you enough to bare this part of himself to you, you could see the tension in him. He was prepared to fight if it came down to it.

You don't want that. You clasp your hands in front of you, shrinking yourself down like you were facing a fetterless beast because that's the best approach you've got, "Can I touch you?"

His eyes dilate. He hadn't been expecting you to ask that. You'd already touched him before without asking, had shared plenty of touch before. He moves the arm holding him up so that you can get a better look.

There is a small patch of raised skin on his side that you're delighted to find free of stitches, healing over. You press a finger to the area beneath the healing wound, feather-light. "It's looking a lot better," you begin, glancing up, "though I wish you'd keep it wrapped a little longer." You try not to let your fingers wander too much, regardless of the mind they had of their own, "How'd the bullet break the Kevlar? From what I've seen, that's pretty tough stuff from a distance."

Batman grunts when you press into a bruise on his rib cage, apparently the freshest of them all. You apologize, but he pays you no mind, "There wasn't any distance. They got close and kept shooting until it broke."

"Not to be morbid, but why didn't they just go for the head?"

Batman huffs again, though it sounds more like a laugh this time, "You don't think they tried?"

The image of him on the ground and a gangster with a gun towering over him, fighting to get in a lethal shot springs to your mind. You imagine his hands gripped around the barrel, forcing it from between the eyes, down and away until they just starts letting off every bullet in the mag until- "Oh."

He grunts again.

Despite the fact that he'd come close to death, he hardly looked bothered. You'd lived a life like that, and there wasn't a day that went by where you weren't baffled by the sheer stupidity of your youth. Maybe if you'd been smarter back then, had more self-preservation, you would have stopped much sooner.

Now look at you. A man with a gun threatens your life once and suddenly your whole world is thrown off kilter.

You're not actually looking at his bullet wound anymore. You're looking at his bruises. "You don't have doctors, right? So what happens when you... break a bone? How do you explain all this to an ER nurse?"

"I never said that."

"Well, no. You just brooded and ignored me. Which I took for an answer."

"I don't go to hospitals. If I can't fix it myself, I find someone who can."

You remember the other part of that conversation, when he'd mentioned someone looking at his wound, "That person that checked you out last time?" Batman hums. "Are they like me?"

"...No." You think that's all he'll say, having given you more information than perhaps he'd have liked to, but he surprises you, "Not a doctor, but knows what to do. From experience."

That doesn't narrow down the picture of Batman's Nightingale at all. After all, any number of people in Gotham had knowledge like that just from living here. You also figure if he's lasted this long, they must know what they're doing, "I guess you don't really need me fussing over you after all."

He doesn't need to dignify that with a response, and if he were to, you'd expect him to agree. Perhaps throw in an "I told you so" if he was feeling particularly jovial. You don't expect the sincere, "I think you have the right after saving my life."

You laugh, "By that logic, you should be up my ass about taking care of myself. Scratch that, the whole city's ass."

"I am. Or I would've taken your invitation."

"How many times do I have to say that was a stupid move before you let it go?"

"It's only been half an hour. It's not even cold yet."

"I'm sorry, okay? I can't help..." You falter. What could you say? Your feelings bigger than your vocabulary, if you tried to imprison them in words, you worried they might scare him. Might scare you. The truth was that you trusted him. And his insistence that you shouldn't didn't stop you. "I told you when we first met that I believe in what you do for Gotham, that I want you to keep doing it. I meant that. It's why I fuss and why I left the window open, why I keep hoping you're there and why I hoped you'd come save me that night. I believe in the Batman and I believe that even underneath that, you're a good person. Am I wrong?"

Batman keeps your gaze. You'd give anything to know what he's thinking at any given moment, but especially now. Your desire to be understood comes at the cost of being exposed. You realize that in this situation, he knows so much more about you than you may ever know about him.

That kind of realization is terrifying. You can't take it back now.

Your next realization is that your hand is touching his stomach, more comfortable in its place than it reasonably should be. It'd been hovering there since he'd started telling you about getting shot, warm from his warmth. You don't immediately pull away.

Your hand moves with him when he draws in a breath, "It's not something you can call yourself."

"You're a good person. There. I said it." You tip your chin up in defiance.

"You don't know me."

Then let me, you want to say. "Then prove me wrong."

A tick passes. Then, Batman stands to his full height. Your hand naturally falls away as he zips his suit back up to the neck, then his hand goes for the shirt you'd discarded. It shouldn't shock you the second time, but you shiver when he pulls it taut around your head once more, careful not to catch your hair in the knot.

You listen for the growing familiarity of his grunts, the heavy effort of pulling his armor back over his body, the click of his utility belt about his waist, and then you await the return of his cowl but the noise stops there. Your hands hover in front of you with nothing to do, too afraid to remove the blindfold early but too afraid to break the tense silence.

So you stand there, back to him, waiting for him to give you the okay. You can feel his eyes on your back (all over, really) and a trickle of humiliation works its way up your spine the longer it goes on.

You hear noise again a minute later, though it's not the sound of him putting his cowl back on. It's his boots. He's walking toward you.

You're anticipating something, a touch or a whispered final farewell. A sillier, nervous part of you is anticipating his breath on the nape of your neck. Bending his head down. The heat of his chest against your back. You imagine him dipping his mouth to the curve of your throat and the image sends a tingle up your spine. You're not expecting your hand taken hostage and something slipped into your palm. It feels small and round along the sides. When you allow your fingers to collapse around it, it feels flat. Batman doesn't release your hand until you're holding it properly.

Then you hear him put on his cowl. Then you hear him leave.

Yanking off the blindfold, you're shocked to find that there's a phone in your hand. A flip-phone. It's a prepaid, a simple one you'd find at any bodega up and down your street. You try to imagine Batman of all people, in civilian clothing, walking into one of your neighborhood's haunts and buying this for you.

You flip open the phone and find that in the contacts list, there is only one: "For emergencies only".

Huh. Batman just gave you his number.

You do not hear from Bruce Wayne for a week.

After the papers are signed, you're told rather abruptly that he'll be flying overseas. Business, Alfred had said, and that you'd be expected to be at Wayne Manor the morning of his return for a checkup if you weren't called to Verona before the week's end. If your head hadn't started swimming with the idea, you would have had the wherewithal to be excited about it.

But seven days come and go and you're eventually standing in the penthouse, poking and prodding the man of the hour while Alfred watches on from afar.

Bruce is an obedient patient, if not a little robotic. Every answer is a "yes", "no", "just a little bit". He's in perfect physical health from what you can tell, from what he allows you to see with all his clothes on. The most of note is his visible tan, and halfway through the examination, you can't stop yourself from commenting on it, "How was Italy?"

It's the first question that isn't about his appetite or sleep, so he's not as quick to answer, "Fine. Warm."

"Must be nice. Did you enjoy the beaches?"

Alfred snorts so loudly that it redirects the attention of both of you, but he has his nose deep in tax statements when your eyes find the butler. Bruce looks a little annoyed when he answers you, "I didn't go. I was in meetings most of the week."

You frown, "It's that sunny in Verona?"

"Any sliver of sunlight has him turning colors." Alfred no doubt knows from humiliating experience, and while Bruce doesn't look very pleased, you're just thankful the butler feels in good enough spirits to joke with you. Perhaps now that the contract had been signed, he'd resigned to his fate that you were here to stay. At least until Bruce's mysterious interest in you dulled his rose-colored glasses.

You try to picture Bruce basking in the sun—the kind of sun that didn't find itself on this side of the world—and all you see are scenes right out of Baywatch, so uncharacteristic that you shake your head just to get rid of them.

"Any concerns?" You ask, and then you're reminded to look down at his hands in his lap. You can't help yourself from asking, "What about those?"

Bruce follows your line of sight to the scarring over his knuckles, dimmed some due to the tan. You watch his face the entire way, hopeful to catch him in a lie. He turns over his palm, looks at you through his lashes, and says, "No, I... I fight. On purpose. It's a hobby."

That catches you off guard. You thought someone with his bank account would be into golfing.

Bruce nods over in Alfred's direction when you don't respond, "Mixed martial arts. Alfred will tell you. He's been teaching me since I was ten."

Sure enough, Alfred is watching the two of you over the rim of his glasses, "Just the basics." He confirms.

It adds up, though you can't help questioning it, "Isn't that kind of a violent hobby? Seems pretty dangerous for the future CEO of a major corporation."

"It was self-defense first, then a... hobby." Alfred spits the last word out like a rotten tooth. "Trust you aren't the first to mention it, and surely won't be the last."

You frown, "Just so you know, I'm a general surgeon. Brain damage isn't my forte."

Bruce doesn't answer. He doesn't get the chance. Dory barely has a chance to announce the arrival of guests before they're flooding the living room with balloons, streamers, flower arrangements, and more. You're taken aback by the sheer extravagance. Was it someone's birthday? You look at Bruce for an answer, but it's Alfred who shoots up to welcome them in. You hear him instructing a group of musicians to a corner of the room that you've only now realized has been cleared away of the antiques that once held space there.

A man rushes past you, carrying a folded banner in hand, and another immediately follows with a ladder that almost knocks your things off the end table. You catch your bag and hold it to your chest.

"I'm sorry, the crew for the party is here early." Bruce sounds almost disappointed.

"Party?"

"For the mayor. I'm hosting a celebration tonight for the mayor's new deal passing." Bruce rolls down his shirt sleeve once he unwraps the blood pressure monitor and hands it back to you, rolling his shoulder as you begin to pack up.

"That's awfully kind of you." You comment, glancing at the array of gold and purple being carried in. "I should get out of your hair then-"

"Would you like to come?"

There he is again.

He had such a nervous energy about him all of a sudden. Someone with his power and prestige should believe they have the world in the palm of their hand (because he does), but every time he locks eyes with you, it's like it all falls away. In your presence, he's just a man and you hold all the power.

"I wouldn't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't. It's... supporters, donors, friends. Politicians and some press too but nothing too formal." Bruce must notice the way you shrivel because he's quick to add on, "There'll be wine. From Italy. And champagne. Not from Italy, but it adds variety."

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he wanted you to come.

And it wasn't that you weren't intrigued. You admired the mayor, and being a part of something like this was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Donors meant money-makers like Bruce who, if going off their politician of choice, would be looking for causes to fund. You could practically hear your boss's heart break at even the idea that you'd turn this down.

It wasn't lost on you that your new position with Bruce Wayne had made you, accidentally, a spokesperson for the hospital. Missing the opportunity to milk the pockets of a few more billionaires would be a waste.

And Bruce... really seemed like he wanted you to come.

"Mr. Wayne," Dory's frail voice calls from the top floor, peering over the railing, "I need to speak with you about precautions for tonight."

Precautions?

Dory hurries back down the hallway without another word, and Bruce grows distracted. You think that he's forgotten all about convincing you to come to the party, but he turns to you one for one last second, "It's at eight. If you'd like to come."

And another thing: you'd have a good reason to snoop around Bruce Wayne's house.

"Nothing too formal" your ass.

You'd had the good sense to spot a rich person lying out of their ass and had dressed as nicely as you could for the occasion, clearly a good decision.

The gathering of guests are all comfortable an hour into the party and a few drinks in, too. You immediately sneak yourself a glass the moment Dory lets you in the door. Bruce is knee-deep in conversation with who you recognize to be a councilwoman, and you catch Alfred observing the party from the edge of the room while hired servers tend to the guests. Mayor Reál is sat on a couch with a glass of champagne in one hand and her suit coat thrown over the back. She's got a line of guests leaning in to hear her recount some story about a diplomat from out of town. You wouldn't have a chance to speak to her tonight, you feared.

Somehow, you find yourself gradually floating in Alfred's direction.

He pays you no mind, not obviously anyway, but he does start speaking once you're in earshot, "Master Wayne invited you?"

Your lips purse. You try not to take his words as the insult they sound like, though his emotionless stare past your person doesn't help his case, "I debated coming. He seemed to want me here."

This gets him to look at you. Then, he turns away again, scanning the party for any signs of disorder. You noticed the tension in his shoulders almost immediately. Even if he didn't want to be friendly, that wouldn't stop you, "I can only imagine how nerve-wracking this must be."

Alfred furrows his brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Letting strangers handle your fine glasses. God forbid someone trips."

A few moments of silence pass between you and your throat threatens to close up thinking your joke didn't land, but eventually, Alfred huffs, "That would be Dory's concern. That woman is very serious about the dishware."

Dory didn't look it. Greeting everyone with bright smiles and instructing them into the main room, she was more relaxed than Alfred was. "Then what's yours?"

The butler looks down to the side at you, but doesn't bother turning his head in your direction. He clearly didn't want the chance to miss anything, but the guests were behaving. "Someone ending up where they don't belong."

Perhaps that was why he was guarding the staircase with his life. Upstairs, you imagined, was where Bruce slept. Perhaps it was where the late Mr. and Mrs. Wayne had slept once upon a time too. If anyone were to disturb their belongings, you imagined this would be the last time a party was held in the penthouse.

But that got you thinking, "Do you hold parties often?"

"No. Never. This was all Master Wayne's idea, though I can't say it wasn't sudden."

Never was a strong response. Emily knew his shut-in status more intimately than you, but from what you saw, he did just fine on TV. He's got that interview smile on right now, cordial and fair. He laughs at the right times and makes sure to nod often enough so that his conversation partners know he's listening. He looks completely normal when you're not around. Excruciatingly normal. A picture of a proper businessman, billionaire, and bachelor. A man who should have been hosting parties weekly like the Gatsby that was expected of him.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

The way he tip-toed around you was the only proof you had that all of this was just as weird as it felt, that he knew this setup was out of the ordinary. That there was more to this than he or anyone else was telling you. A near-death experience had ushered him into the light of day and had put you right next to him. Maybe this was his version of Eat, Pray, Love.

A crash is heard from some distant part of the house and you see Alfred visibly tense. He looks uneasy to abandon his post, but you set your glass on a windowsill and take a step up the stairs, "I can keep watch until you get back."

Alfred looks skeptical, though another crash is all that's needed to convince him. He holds out a hand to the upstairs, "No one is allowed on the second floor. Understood?"

You nod, just shy of standing to attention and saluting. He rushes off without further convincing.

Your eyes naturally find Bruce again.

He's now in conversation with Mayor Reál and three other politicians all vying for his attention, though it's only she who seems to actually hold it. It's painstakingly obvious that they've seen what his dollars can do, and getting an endorsement from the newly emerged billionaire would do their campaigns wonders, but Bruce doesn't seem convinced of them.

And, if you were honest, it was a good sign.

Despite how little you were yet to understand about him as a person, you did know these politicians. You'd seen their campaign ads and the thinly veiled attempts at distracting from their shady pasts. Many of them had been in office alongside Mayor Mitchell. Many of them had rebranded, denounced him entirely after the Riddler debacle, if only to save face. There was no doubt in your mind that most of them had known about it, if not had their fingers in the pie.

Batman had promised you he wasn't corrupt. You had to believe him. You had to take his word for it.

Reminded of the caped crusader, your hand falls to your pocket to feel for the phone nestled there. Ever since the Batman had given it to you, you'd kept it charged and on you at all times, anxiously waiting for a call or a text or something.

But you hadn't seen or heard from him in a few days. If he was out there, he at least wasn't getting hurt, and that should have overjoyed you. It should have. It just... could also mean something else.

You slip the phone out of your pocket and confirm your suspicions. No messages, no missed calls.

The phone should have put you at ease, reassured you, but all it did was make you restless. Waiting for it to ring, wondering if it had and you'd missed it. You force it back into your pocket before you can fuss over it anymore than usual, and that's when you catch the sound of metal clanging against metal. It's distinct. It's coming from the second floor hallway.

Shit.

You rush up the stairs none too carefully, cursing that you couldn't take them two by two, and when you finally get to the second floor, the banging only grows louder. A glance back at the party assures you no one else is following.

It takes a turn down another hallway before you see a drunken couple standing at an iron gate, one holding their heels and drink in hand and the other positioning a fire poker over the latch. As soon as you spot them, the one with the fire poker drives it into the padlock on the handle and snaps it right off.

"Hey!" You call, and the two of them look to you, giggling like school children. The one with the fire poker puts it to the side, flashing you with a too-straight smile that is meant to put you at ease. It does nothing of the sort. "You can't be up here."

"Sorry, we were trying-" She hiccups, giggling into her hand, "-we were trying to get to the roof, but this place is fucking huge."

The closer you get, you realize that the gate is sealing off an elevator shaft. There's only one button, however, and it points downward.

Sweeping the broken padlock off the floor, the couple shuffle out of your way. "Well, this isn't it, but I'm sure if you ask the nice British man downstairs how to get there, he'll tell you." And then, for good measure, "And don't tell him you were up here or you're never coming back."

The two of them look sober enough to understand, but they're still enjoying themselves as they make their way back downstairs. You watch them go the entire way. If they didn't heed your warning, you'd get the brunt of his anger over this.

You set the padlock down on a nearby table and pick up the fire poker, unsure where they would've snatched it from. You only hoped they hadn't sneaked into any of the rooms to get it.

And then, you wonder where the hell this leads to.

There's the elevator at the front door, the one that each and every one of you had arrived in, but when you pull back the iron gate and peek inside, there aren't any floor numbers. There's two buttons: one that goes up, and one that goes down.

The inside shakes when you step in. For a moment, you wonder if it had been locked because it was out of order, and your heart drops to your stomach thinking that it might drop down a height of sixty stories all at once, but it steadies eventually. It's clear it hasn't been changed, just one part of a fitting antique carved into the other world that is Wayne Tower.

There's a weak white light that buzzes overhead and those two buttons. Curiosity itches.

Whatever was down there, whatever this thing led to, the Waynes didn't want anyone to find it. The "precautions" Dory had mentioned came to mind.

But if they didn't want anyone to find it, why throw a party here where two stupid drunks could wander off and break into it?

You're sure Alfred didn't imagine anyone would come at it with a fucking fire poker, but it had been that easy.

Your eyes burn into the button. That'd be so easy, too.

If you gave into your desire, allowed yourself to push it and someone found you, you'd be fired. You could be stripped of your license for violation of patient privacy, enough HIPAA rules broken in the time it takes to satiate your curiosity. Wayne Enterprises would sue you into oblivion. Jersey would no longer be a question. Nothing would save you.

But there was something down there that you needed to see. You knew it. Felt it like claws burrowing into the wrinkles of your brain.

Your finger twitched at your side and you saw Bruce's face in your mind, all sad eyes and something hidden beneath his skin. He'd wanted you to come, wanted you to work for him—clearly against Alfred's better judgement—and he would trust you not to go any further. Even though he doesn't know you.

Some indignant part of you thinks that isn't your problem.

That same indignant part of you, the part that had convinced you to run with wolves as a teenager, gave in.

The elevator kicked up, so loud you worried everyone in the party could hear it, but then it began its descent with its steady whirring. You held on tight as it dropped floor after floor after floor after floor.

It must've been twenty years or maybe a minute and a half. The elevator comes to a shaky stop. A door outside the gate slides open, revealing... darkness. Absolute, all-consuming darkness.

The meager light above you does very little to light your way as your heart jumps into your throat, regret bubbling up in your chest. You can hear small chittering sounds from within the darkness and dripping like leaky pipes. You're hesitant to pull back the gate, more than eager to leave this a mystery unsolved. You're not entirely sure that if you were to step out into the abyss, you wouldn't fall into Hell's mouth.

But then, light fills up the darkness.

Giant, white stage lights flicker on one by one straight ahead and the first thing you see is a car covered by tarp, elevated on a platform at the heart of the room. There are tools laid haphazardly around the ramps, as if whoever had left them there had abandoned them in a hurry. You can't see much else from this angle except a grungy, muddy mountain bike with its helmet hanging off the handle.

A garage. The big, scary void was a garage. Your heart falls back into place with a dusting of shame crawling up your neck.

You're about to take yourself back to the penthouse when you startle at the sound of a voice—no, voices—echoing off the walls of the garage. None of it makes sense at first; the discussion starts up like you'd just walked into earshot, as if they'd been talking the entire time and you'd only just started paying attention.

You touch a hand to the gate and peek further into the room, pushing it back to let you out. You're cautious, eyes flitting to and fro to find the source of the voices, but all you see are tables and computer screens and a TV just a ways away from you, having flicked on with the power. Seconds later, you recognize the voices. Newscasters. News 7 WGOT to be exact.

What really captures your attention is the darkness that hadn't been chased away by the lights. There are sconces all along the walls that keep the main area lit, an area you realize looks an awful lot like a subway terminal, but they cease at the cutoff of the platform. The lights are bright enough to show some of what lies ahead: train tracks.

You step further into the room, examining the peculiarities: a car engine here, a microscope there, subwoofers packed on top of subwoofers, tables and desks and computer screens everywhere.

A desk near the center of the room catches your eyes next. There are radio transmitters, files, and lamps scattered about the surface. None of it resembles the pristine study upstairs, what you assumed was Bruce's personal base of operations. No, this desk looked lived in. The two or three empty mugs lined up by a table leg tells you as much.

What kind of business could a CEO get done down here? The place smelled of mildew and you could feel the vibrations of trains running above ground.

Your eyes flicker over a leather-bound journal and a handful of folders, your eyes catching on names that only sort of tickle your brain. Names you've heard recently. Names you've heard upstairs. Did he have files on everyone at the party? The level of detail wasn't surprising, not for someone with his kind of position. You doubted he would take a chance on anyone that he invited after last year.

You brush a thumb over one when you catch a name that you don't recognize as quickly. Ironic. It belongs to you.

You snatch the file without thinking, flipping open the cover to see your headshot scanned off your medical ID badge, but there are other photos. One of you and the rest of your department, another of you mid-handshake with the Dean of your alma mater. Publicly available stuff. Except for one you've never seen before. It's candid, though the heavy beating of your heart in your ears is making it hard to determine when it could've been taken. It looks recent. Somewhere outside of Gotham General. You were still in scrubs, completely unaware.

With these types, it wasn't unusual to hire a private investigator before hiring on a complete stranger, let alone one who managed your very life and well-being. You kept telling yourself that, swallowing down the rising unease in your gut, when you made the mistake of turning the page.

There was a picture there that no one should have access to. Your fingers shook as they ghosted over the black and white image, the shock in your eyes, the barely captured tremor in your jaw.

Every single feeling came rushing back to you all at once as if you were 16 again. Standing still in an alleyway. Watching her blood splatter the concrete. Staring down the barrel of the same gun as it turned on you, promised you would be next.

Some names were redacted, but you could tell from the first few lines of the police report beneath your mugshot that it was exactly what you feared it would be. He shouldn't have this.

Panic rises in your throat. You can't keep the nausea down, the growing urge to vomit up your last two drinks onto the paper. Maybe you'd ruin it completely and then... and then...

It still happened. You couldn't change that.

The entire terminal rattles and pulls you out of your shock. A train was passing right above you, sending bolts and screws clattering to the ground. You accidentally drop the file and one of the screens flickers on.

There were four different feeds—camera feeds. CCTV. One of the living room, one of the kitchen, one of the foyer, and one of the second floor. All four wink away, replaced by new angles, and you realize with a chill that one of them is pointed down the hallway leading to the elevator. If these were recording... if Bruce watched back the feed...

You tremble in place, waiting as the feeds are replaced with new ones. You wait for one that would confirm you had stepped into the elevator, had come down here. You wait for the killing blow.

But it doesn't come. There's one camera in that hallway, pointed at such an angle that, really, there's no way to tell if you got on or not. It's all you need to put your file back and rush out of there.

Your teeth are chattering as you climb back into the elevator, shut the gate, and let it take you back to the penthouse, but your mind isn't with you right now. It's back there, years ago. It's reeling. It's thinking he knows, he knows and this all must be a trick. He hired you and he knew. He knew and he let you in his house, let you find that couple, let you think you had a choice to get this far because he knew the truth and the truth was that you would take a chance like this because it took one night and her brains blown out of her head and Bruce would be waiting to arrest you because you never changed-

The elevator comes to a stop. Your name is called in that same moment, and you quickly hurry off the elevator and shut the gate just in time for Alfred to appear.

You probably look incriminating enough, all wild-eyed, but all Alfred does is release a deep, deep sigh. Then, he walks over to you and examines the broken padlock and the guilty weapon in your hand. You hadn't realized you still held it. You've turned the metal warm with how tightly you grip it. "No one got on, yes?" Is all he says.

You nod.

Alfred seems to think that's enough. He holds out a hand for the fire poker and you eagerly hand it over, "I met your friends a moment ago. They've been sent home. I'm afraid letting them onto the rooftop would've resulted in a lawsuit."

It takes you a second to register that he's joking, a second longer to laugh with him, however shaky, "They got as far as breaking the lock before I stopped them."

"Lucky as they were. This elevator's broken."

You blink, "Is it?"

"I'm afraid so. That's why we keep it locked. Who knows what could've happened if someone had stepped inside?"

You did.

"I believe Bruce was looking for you," Alfred offers, and you notice the slight edge to his voice. The forced smile on his face is all it takes for you to be certain, "It appears the mayor would like to hear about your work at Gotham General."

It's an out. You'd be stupid not to take it, "Right. Thanks. Good luck with the... door."

taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes @angxlictexrs @moonlightreader649 @geekyfer @thescarletfang @navs-bhat @yehet-moi-ohorat @maryx0107 @vainillasmil157  @moony-toasts @sketchiethebear @trawberry-fire @hangmanscoming @agent-scorpio @julesjewelss36 @chonkercatto @dcgoddess @hollandorks @anotherr-fine-mess @calsjack @that-one-beannnn @levisfuckinmine @miriamnox

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne angst #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman scenarios #batman fic #batman angst #batman fluff #the batman #battinson x reader #battinson #dc #mjwrites

[keeksandgigz]

thinking of eddie begging you to let him try his new magic trick out on you. he’s been practicing it for weeks and he finally has perfected it. only he accidentally grabs his set of real handcuffs instead of the trick ones…

i took the sub eddie route because i love my whiny pathetic boy

based off of this post- this is for @strangerstilinski specifically cause <333

THIS IS 18+ MINORS DNI

“baby c’mon lemme show you! i’ve been practicing on it i can get myself outta these handcuffs in under 30 seconds” your boy whines as he follows you around his trailer, trick handcuffs in hand, clinking his other every step.

you groan, it’s been days he’s been pressuring you to look at his tricks. with an eye roll you mutter out a “fine” as you sit yourself down at the table.

he likes doing his tricks on the floor, and so he’s kneeled on the carpeted ground, hands behind his back as the clicks the handcuffs around his wrists.

you can’t help but notice the sight in front of you. he’s pretty as his tongue sticks out, working the handcuffs to try to get out of his confinements. biceps bulging through the short sleeves of his shirt, cheeks turning hot as panic stains his eyes.

“fuck- shit” he huffs, at the realization that his trick has gone wrong.

“what’s wrong, Houdini?” you tease, blood running hot at his reddened face.

“baby- i uhhh- do you remember where i put the keys to the handcuffs? the other ones” he huffs “i- shit- i got them confused, please lemme out” he whines, wiggling on his knees.

“stop struggling, ed. it’s gonna hurt your wrists” voice laced in sugar as you reach for him, gather his hair to the back of his head and pull.

A loud whine escapes the boy’s throat, low and rumbled in the depth of his chest as he feels himself stir in the tightness of his pants.

“y’know what? i think i like you like this, ed. so, so pretty” you croon, hooking the curve of your ankle on his shoulder, behind his neck. brown eyes, as a doe looking up at you, shadowed by the bangs on his beaded forehead.

you let your foot guide him, closer and closer to your parted legs. his mouth gaped in silent stupor, his breath quietly hitching in his own throat with the desire to smell you, feel you, taste you.

the bite of the metal cuffs isn’t bothering him anymore, as he looks at the wet patch on your panties from under your skirt. lips parted and swollen and awaiting, as he inhales, then exhales, a stirring deep in his tummy.

it pushes and pulls, the desire to let himself be used, his bewildered face coming closer and closer, smelling you so strongly it’s making him confused.

a strangled plea falls out of his mouth, throwing all caution out of the window as he finally presses his nose to your clothed mound and inhales. all he ever needed is right in front of him.

“why don’t you do a magic trick on me, baby?”

and he looks at you like you just hung the moon for him. big brown eyes, sparkling in the dim fluorescents of his trailer, your smell intoxicating him as he hums and nods.

"please baby let me- let me taste you, i'll make you feel so good" he exhales, glassy eyes as he tries to teeth and lip his way past your panties to no avail. without his hands to aid him, his tongue of gold is nothing but a useless muscle.

he does whatever he can to feel you, though, sucking purple bruises across the flushed skin of your thighs, quivering with the anticipation that you don't let yourself fall victim to just yet, slightly bucking your hips into the air, looking for friction in the thin fabric of your cotton panties rather than the plush softness of his lips.

you play the waiting game for as long as you can, until you dare the boy to take your panties off with his teeth. clumsily he does, maybe tearing the cotton from the lacy lining as he spits them out on the carpet floor and dives himself on you like a man starved.

eyes rolled to the back of his head as he revels in the taste of you, so cruelly denied to him as soft moans and whimpers escape him, rumbling against you with such overwhelming power that you can't help but grind yourself on him, coating eddie's chin, cheeks and nose with slick.

wondering where the hell he got so lucky to get a woman so angelic and yet so devil like that will fuck him after a failed attempt at a magic trick. what he doesn't know is that his magic tricks only turn you on further.

#keeksgetsasks! #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #moots🫶🏻 #mariah🪐

[scar-crossedlvrs]

can i request life with carlos and s/o after marriage with kids and stuff. kind of like a continuation from ur last drabble where he said they should get married and start a family? thanks!

Carlos Oliveira - I’ll think about it

okokok I know this took an entire week to get to, but I'm a mess and I had so many random ideas, so please take this collection of random drabbles, snippets into what this could look like. I had so much fun writing this. Anyway, this pretty much picks up after the last drabble.

You thought about it, and he kept asking. 

Once, twice, three times in the span of a month. Always in that same flirty tone that makes you think joking around. “C’mon, quit. Be my pretty little housewife instead.” You refuse to take him very seriously each time. Not because he’s not completely intent on it, being a man that knows exactly what he wants, but because of your own stubborn nature.

If he’s going to ask, it has to be the right way. 

It had seemed the subject had been dropped when that day came, the arguments about your job disappearing like the bruises on your abdomen. Carlos had framed the outing as a celebration of your all clear from the doctor. All of your favorite spots, the excuse of you being cooped up at home for weeks disguising his true intentions. 

You didn’t notice it, the way everything seemed to line up perfectly, the way he had tried to tame his normally unruly hair, or the uncharacteristic twinge of nervousness every time there was a pause in the conversation. It wasn’t until he was in front of you, down on one knee that the pieces fell together. 

“I want an answer this time.” Carlos has a coy smile across his lips, “Marry me.”

------

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, nerves coursing through you as you hovered in front of the mirror. Dressed in white, you had mere minutes before you were expected in the chapel. Everyone else had already left, they all had something or another to prepare for in time for the ceremony.

There’s a soft knock on the door and you turn. “It’s unlocked. Come in.”

“Can’t. You know that’s bad luck.”

You sigh, taking a few steps towards the door, but stop before you could open it. “Carlos?” Just hearing his voice helped calm the nerves. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“Just came to check on you, doll. Making sure you’re not going to run away.”

You stifle a laugh, fingers tracing lines onto the wood of the door frame as you imagine him on the other side.

“I’m not going to run away.”

“Good. I’ll see you downstairs.”

—--

He had insisted on being a father since the day you had gotten married, but sitting here with the test in hand seemed to be too much for him.

“How long do we have to wait?” He’s pacing, unsure of what to do with all of his pent up energy. It wasn’t helping your already on edge mood.

“Just give it another minute, okay?”

You try your best not to snap at him, to tell him to sit down. His heavy footfalls were making you nauseous, or maybe it was the anticipation. Either way, the worry was beginning to set in. Part of you already knew what you were going to see once you flipped over that test and the thought terrified you. There was no way you were ready for this, right? The thoughts flooded your mind.

“Fuck it, I’m looking.” Carlos is reaching across the table now, his impatience getting the better of him.

You can’t even stop him at this point, he’s already got the test in his hands. God how you wanted to scream, tell him every single one of your worries before he could even get his hopes up.

Soft brown hues widen, flickering up to your face and he’s got you wrapped up in his strong arms before you can even protest, feet lifted off of the floor.

And just like that, the worries have melted away.

—--

“Baby I told you we should have paid the extra fifty dollars to have it assembled.”

Your eyes trail down to where he was on the floor, surrounded by a mess of wooden pieces. The instructions splayed out on the floor in front of him as he pushed his messy hair up to get it out of his eyes. The crib was the last thing the nursery needed before it was ready, and for whatever reason he had put this off until it was almost too late.

“Yeah, and where’s the fun in that?”

You roll your eyes, hand resting on your swollen belly. “C’mon let me see what it says.” You reach for the packet of instructions.

“And risk you climbing down here to help?” His eyes meet yours and Carlos shakes his head. “Nuh uh, not a chance. You’re supposed to be resting til that little monster decides to show herself.”

“Fine, take hours to finish it then, see if I care.”

It took him twenty minutes to give in, and another three hours for the both of you to figure out how to put the damn thing together.

—--

A shrill giggle caught your attention from the other room, and you couldn’t help but lean against the doorway to watch the scene unfold.

“No daddy, like this!” The dark haired toddler insisted.

“Right, that’s what I’m doing.”

Carlos was seated on the floor, and from where you could see, tufts of his hair were sticking out in all directions, your daughter to another handful of it with a rubber band in tow.

“Not that one.” her little balled up hand moves to point at a spot just about an inch away, taking his hair with it. “That one.”

You could hear him wince, “Hey hey, easy on the hair little lady. I’m not ready to go bald yet.”

You can’t help but laugh now, and soon there’s two pairs of eyes on you and the padding of small feet in your direction

“Look!” a small hand clamps around your own, pulling you into the room. “I made daddy pretty.”

Your gaze is met by five haphazardly made ponytails and a lopsided grin.

“Your turn.”

#carlos oliveira #carlos oliveira x reader #resident evil #resident evil x reader #tea writes things

[newtonsheffield]

I have to admit, I was one of those that never voted for “Mile High,” but boy, oh, boy, did I miss the mark! This might be my favorite Anthony and that’s saying a lot after “Bruises” and “If the shoe fits…” I just love this compulsive, overthinking with a side of self doubt Anthony. He’s SO endearing💞I can relate to him. And, isn’t this what we’re all after, someone like Kate (whether via friendship, love or both)to come along and love us not in spite of, but because of our quirks & insecurities! The imperfections that make us perfect for those special somebody’s❣️

I’m so glad it’s winning you over!

It wasn’t a super popular idea, I know that, but I think there’s definitely something very human about this Kate and Anthony. Kate’s entire life’s been turned upside down after leaving the RAF and she’s just trying to find her feet and Anthony’s struggling with the fact that after the accident where his father died, he can’t control everything.

They’re both exactly what the other needs. Kate’s like a fucking hurricane, upsetting the delicate balance of Anthony’s entire life. She never puts her things away. She always leaves her coffee mug on the left side of the bed (That he tries not to think of as her side). Her bras are always just thrown off and she never neatly hangs up her pyjamas. It’s infuriating. And yet, it’s the darndest thing. When he pinches the bridge of her nose as he looks at her suitcase, felt open, shoes and stockings and toiletries strewn all over the floor she has the neatest way of getting him not to care about it at all. Or barely.

Anthony felt his teeth clench as he got out of bed, trying to calm himself as he tripped over one of her shoes. It was too early in the defined era of their relationship for this. He was sure.

“Kate, babe?” He swallowed as his girlfriend let out a groan from the bed, still face down under the blanket, her curls strewn over the pillow. He took that as a sign to move forward. “I’m a little curious about something?”

Kate rolled over, sitting up, a slow smile making it’s way onto her face. “Yes, I do have a tiny history of gymnastics. That’s why I’m so flexible.”

Anthony flushed a he tugged his underwear on, unfolding them neatly from his own case with a flourish. “I just wondered if you had any allergies.”

Kate shook her head, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “You’re cute when you blush but My my anthony, what do you want to do to me next?”

Anthony sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Excellent. So you’re not allergic to picking up your clothes?! I mean, Jesus! You were in the military.”

Kate laughed, the delighted sound of it making his spine shiver as she tugged him back down to the bed. She threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed his face to her bare skin, holding him there. “Do you accept my apology, Anthony? Or do I need to get down on my knees?”

Anthony breathed deeply against her skin, the stress seeping out of his body. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to the second thing but I do feel a lot better.”

Kate checked the watch she’d left on the bloody floor instead of the bedside table like a reasonable person. “Well lucky for you I have fifteen minutes before I absolutely need to get dressed. Pants off, Ant.”

And on the other hand, Anthony manages to infuse enough order into Kate’s life that it doesn’t completely implode.

“Hold on just a fucking second.” Sophie gasped as Kate walked through the door of the bar exactly when they’d agreed to meet.

Edwina reached out, snatching Kate’s wrist up and staring at the Breitling watch that had once been their father’s. “Kate, Holy fuck, do you know what time it is?!”

Kate rolled her eyes but bowed as she accepted their mocking round of applause. “Anthony keeps our calendar now. And he even scheduled in 25 minutes of oral sex before I left.”

“Gross.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Your boos fuel me.” Kate smirked, snatching Edwina’s Margherita up, “He might be tightly wound but I love the fuck out of that man.”

Opposites really do attract.

#mile high #kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton #molly’s asks and answers

[lou-struck]

Love Is Pain

Wakatoshi Ushijima x Reader

Soulmate Au!

~ People who share the same heart are led to each other by their pain. The pain gets more intense the closer the two of you get to each other. 

~ Imagine how you feel going to a Schweden Adlers game only to feel a blinding pain in your fingers when their Ace makes a block.

This is my Submission for @portfolio-of-dreams's Love Me Like XO Collab which can be found HERE

You’re not sure when you started feeling someone else’s pain. Children tend to trip, fall, and bounce up again like nothing ever happened. Any mysterious scrapes on your knees could be explained because of an untied shoelace, or slippery pavement. 

It wasn’t until you got to middle school you knew for sure that you had a soulmate. 

Every day without fail, after school, your wrists, hands, and fingers would begin to sting something fierce. The pain would linger for a few moments, dull, and come back again. It felt like you kept hitting something over and over.

Through the pain and the swelling, you cracked a smile.

It is not your own pain that you are feeling; you have a soulmate. 

The thought of true love

Most mornings when you roll out of bed you are hit with a soreness in your muscles. The kind that occurs when someone pushes themselves hard during a workout the day before. 

It’s a nuisance, yes, but you feel a sense of pride directed at your soulmate’s consistent work ethic that makes you feel this way. 

The pain doesn't hurt the way it once had, it just fills you with curiosity. What on earth is your soulmate doing with themselves to make your muscles ache so terribly in the mornings?

~

After winning a raffle at work, you find yourself sitting in club seats you’d normally never be able to afford and watching a Pro Volleyball game. 

You’d never been to an Adler's game before, but as you watch the gorgeously fit men pike ball after ball down on the court, you can safely say that you are more than willing to become a fan.

The only thing you wish for is that you were sitting a bit closer to the court. The view is amazing, but you can't see anyone's face.

The intensity in the stadium is so electric that when #11 for the Adler’s goes up for a spike, he hits it so hard you swear you can feel your own hand stinging from impact. The graceful brutality the player moves with is fascinating, and it has you reaching for the roster sheet that lays neatly folded on the table in front of you.

Scanning the list, you read his name aloud, “Wakatoshi Ushijima.” you murmur, your eyes finding his roster picture. You had never seen such a gorgeous man in your life. With his strong face and serious olive eyes, he looks as if Pygmalion had sculpted him out of clay.

Throughout the match, your gaze tracks Ushijima as he plays. He scores point after point till his team is only a point away from winning the match.

His teammate sends a weak-looking serve over the net and the opponent sets up for a counter. With his other teammates out of position, you watch as Ushijima himself goes up alone for a block. The ball hits the tops of his middle and ring fingers before being sent back over the net and onto the gym floor.

The crowd erupts in cheers, but you feel something strange, something painful.

Your fingers feel like they have been slammed into a car door. It hurts so bad you gasp and clutch your already swollen digits in pain, not noticing that the Ace while still standing tall is holding his as well.

Leaving the VIP box behind you, you grab your things and head down toward the concession stand. Maybe they’ll have some Ice you can use to soothe your fingers.

The lady at the concession stand is older, but she has a kind face. When she sees you, she gives you an almost motherly smile. “What can I do for ya, Honey?” 

“Could I please get a bag of Ice,” you ask, placing your injured hand on the countertop for her to see. "I think I jammed my finger in the seat during that last point."

 But when the workers see your swollen fingers slightly bruising already, their eyes widen.

“Ice isn't gonna cut it,” she says worriedly. “Let’s get you to the trainer's office so he can get a look at that.”

“Are you sure that's okay?” you ask. "I’m not an athlete or anything like that."

“Of course it’s okay. If he says anything, I'll tell Hajime I won't be sneaking him snacks anymore,” she says mischievously, grabbing your wrist and leading you past the marked door that says staff only.

Once inside, you breathe a sigh of relief. There are no players in the training room. The only person you see is a young man close to your age. He wears a well-fitting trained shirt with a black and white collar. currently wrapping up some sort of large bandage.

"What seems to be the issue?" he asks, walking over to the two of you.

The elderly concession woman holds your hand up to him. “This one had a bit of a jam.”

He looks over at you curiously, eyes stopping to rest upon your injured hand. “That looks painful,” he says, walking over to you. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you say, letting him examine your swollen digits.

“Oh?” he says in a tone you don't quite recognize. Clearing his throat, he regains his composure.

“Go sit down and ill get you some ice. I want the swelling to go down to make sure you haven't broken anything.”

“Thank you,” you say with a nod. You sit on one of the padded taping tables holding a bag full of pebbled ice to your injured fingers.

“Alright dear, I’m going to go close up shop,” the woman says. "I hope that hand of yours feels better.”

“I appreciate it. Thank you so much for all your help,” you say as she leaves you alone in the room.

Silence surrounds you as you begin to wonder what exactly happened to your hand. It could’ve been the seats, but it seems unlikely that only two of your fingers were harmed.

Now alone, you wonder what exactly happened to your hand. Just as you are about to place a bit of pressure on them, you hear the sound of footsteps coming toward the training room.

 “Hajime,” a voice calls from the doorway, the rich, smooth sound pulling you from your thoughts.

Glancing up at its owner, you know exactly who he is. The strong physique, lightly tanned skin, and piercing olive gaze that glimmers even under the harsh fluorescents of a training room. This man is Wakatoshi Ushijima. The very man whose photo you had been shamelessly ogling from the roster printouts.

Just looking at him makes your body heat up so much you are afraid you are going to melt the ice in the bag that's resting on your hand. You force your eyes away from him and focus on the floor in front of you so he does not catch you staring.

“Wakatoshi, I thought I told you to come by right after the game.” The trainer says, coming back from around the corner.

“I had to shower first,” the player says

“You showered?” he says exasperation lacing his voice

The thought of this man in the shower makes your skin heat up more.

“It was a cold shower.” he says plainly, goddamit “Can you look at my fingers, I think it's just a jam but it’s quite painful.”

With a shrug, the trainer goes to get another bag of ice from the ice room, leaving you alone with this paragon of a man, who finally notices you’re in the room.

Your eyes meet and this feeling of familiarity washes over you. The muscles in your legs twitch as if they are calling you to move toward him. 

The resistance you feel, however, is one-sided and Wakatoshi Ushijima moves towards you as if he is in a trance, never taking his intense stare off of your form

He stops right in front of the raised table you are sitting on. You can smell the Sandalwood from the shampoo that he had just used. 

“You,” he breathes, eyeing the bag of ice resting on your hand. “How did you hurt your hand?”

“I-I don’t know. I was watching the last point, and they just started to feel as if they were on fire."

“These two fingers?” he asks, holding his own for you to see. You nod and remove the ice bag to show him your matching injury. He stares between the injury and you. 

The silence is defending. You can’t even move. It’s almost as if he is a predator, staring down his prey before he pounces.

“Are you my soulmate?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“I think so,” you whisper, your heartbeat going wild in your chest as if it was screaming at you ‘yes, he is the one.’

Curiously, he raises his hand and presses slightly on one of his bruised fingers. The touch is strong enough to be felt through the ice and you wince. 

At the sight of your wince, he stops immediately. “I apologize,” he says. “I had to make sure.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly, “I’d want to know for sure.”

“Even so," he says, reaching out to gently grab your wrist. His large thumb moves over your jammed fingers cautiously. “This is my doing. Let me make all of this pain up to you.”

“I-it not that big of a de-” you protest, but he cuts you off politely.

“We are soulmates, Even if you don’t accept me as yours. I wish to make up for this and all the other pain I have caused you. “

Not accepting him? The prospect of your soulmate discussing this within minutes of meeting you is terrifying. 

The thought of losing your other half before he even knows your name. Makes your heart rate increase exponentially. Your chest feels like it’s being struck with needles when you breathe.

He flinches and looks down at his chest with a frown. He feels this pain, too.

Boldly, you curl your uninjured hand into a fist. “What makes you think I wouldn’t accept you?” You say softly.

His features soften and he looks at you warmly, the trace of a smile forms on his lips. “I apologize,” He says. "I just assumed that would be the case. But if you wish to get to know me better, I would very much like that.”

“I would,” you say, looking up at the man next to you. Although it's feint, a pink blush takes over his olive skin. It's crazy to think that someone so strong and ferocious on the court can look so bashful and boyish with just a few words.

“Then we shall,” he says, clearing his throat. “If we are to pursue this, I think I must get your name.”

“It’s y/n,” you giggle. "It’s nice to meet you, my soulmate.”

#hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #hq ushijima #wakatoshi ushijima #LovemeXO

[cosmictapestry]

B39 and 42?

B39. step on him!!!!!!!!

and

B42. "who do you belong to?"

oughhhhhh you guys are so smart

morphienne prompt fills here

Even with her realm and library restored, Lucienne is often hounded by a nagging frustration and—lingering, shivering in the margins—enraged impotence.

It is senseless. Her influence has never been stronger and the Dreaming has never answered to her so easily. She is the only one who remembers a time when she couldn't even stop her library from disappearing.

Everyone else was gone by the time her grip finally slipped and her library was lost. It was humiliating in a way she's since had a difficult time reconciling. More than a loss of her life's work or even her dearest friend. It was the type of loss of self Lucienne could not have imagined experiencing until it happened, unthinkably, to her.

It itches at her unexpectedly on otherwise uneventful days. And he will come to her when it does, and he will prove to her that she is more powerful than ever before.

Today she stumbles upon him in a quiet nook of the library, warm dusty light and the smell of ancient parchment all around. Her lord sits in a brown leather armchair, a book open atop his knee, small table beside him stacked high with more books. He looks up at Lucienne as she approaches, fingers gently closing the book and setting it down alongside the others. "Lucienne."

"My lord." He watches her, calm and patient and knowing, and his steadiness stills her, nearly as much as it does when he sinks in his seat so he gazes up at her with wide soft eyes and slowly spreads his legs, sets his boots wide on the carpeted floor. Lucienne's body warms and her fingers tap on her crossed arms. "Well, now. What's this about?"

Lord Morpheus tilts his head, the tip of his tongue darting to his lips. He slouches even further, angles his hips, jacket open, t-shirt and jeans skin-tight, hands still and steady resting on the arms of the chair. "Whatever you want it to be about."

She breathes a sharp laugh. "Is that so?"

He smiles back at her, tiny, and the softness of his expression doesn't change. "You're too tense."

"And bossing you around will ease my tension, yes?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "It usually does."

Yes, well. Fair enough. Lucienne bites her lip on a wide grin, and the upset which haunts her eases under a rush of exaltation, nerve-slick arousal, power and belonging and sweet darkness. She looks down at her lord, spread open for her, and she doesn't know what he's expecting, but she knows he'd trust her with anything.

She holds his gaze while she raises her leg and rests her boot on the seat between his spread legs. His eyes widen and he swallows hard, his chin tipping up to bare his throat. His chest heaves while her foot slides forward to nudge at the seam of his now-open jeans. She doesn't move further.

Lord Morpheus watches her, takes in her hesitance, then reaches out. His hand closes on her ankle and pulls her foot forward. He keeps his hand there while she sets the sole of her boot to the bulge of his underwear, the leaking tip of his erection pressed up to the dark fabric above the fly of his jeans. She's happy to see she's not stepping on his bare cock, at least.

She grinds her boot into him, watches him arch and press up against her, his fingers tightening around her ankle. "Lucienne," he breathes.

"My lord." The God of Dreams writhes under her, a little gasp escaping him. Lucienne presses her heel in under the give of his bollocks, forces another sound from him. Lucienne feels drunk. "Who do you belong to?"

Her lord's body shivers and his hips roll, grinding the length of his cock up the sole of her boot. "You," he whispers. His fingers are bruising points of pressure on her ankle, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, tears in his eyes. "Lucienne—you—"

"Alright, baby," she watches him use her foot without complaint, without reservation, because he trusts her, because he belongs to her, because the King of Dreams knows her and loves her and will do whatever she asks. "Get yourself off, sweet thing."

He sobs, sharp and short and quiet, rocks in feverish jerks, never taking his eyes from her own. She puts a little more of her weight on him, feels his bollocks begin to draw tight under her heel. Lucienne watches him bow, his spine drawing into a rigid curve, and she watches him come, spurting up across his shirt, dribbling over her boot.

She continues to grind her foot into his cock while he whines until at last his hand goes lax on her ankle and he slumps completely, goes soft under her. "Lucienne," he mumbles.

For a moment she entertains ideas of having him lick her boot clean, and he grimaces in response, so she laughs and she takes her foot from his crotch, feeling vaguely guilty when he winces. But he smiles up at her, soft and satisfied and searching, and when she leans down to kiss his forehead he hums contentedly. "Well done, love."

#yeah i'm. not done. #the sandman #dream of the endless #morphienne #morpheus #lucid dreaming #lucienne the librarian #x #minors dni

[beenbaanbuun]

Seventeen Hip Hop unit’s reaction to their S/O being clumsy

Requests are open

Choi Seungcheol

If anyone knows how to deal with you, it’s dad of 13, Choi Seungcheol. He’d make sure to keep tabs on you at all times, no matter where he is or what he’s doing. The moment he hears about you breaking something or hurting yourself, he’d just take a deep breath before dealing with you. He’d try his hardest not to scold you but sometimes it’s just in his nature.

“I told you not to move that until I got here,” Your boyfriend sighed, checking over your foot to see if you’d done any damage to it by dropping an entire corner of the sofa on it. Fortunately, it was just a little bruised, but that didn’t make him any less frustrated. “And now look what’s happened.” 

“I’m sorry, Cheol.” You sniffled, not just because you were in pain, but because you didn’t want to disappoint him in any way. He’d asked you to wait for him to help because he knew this would happen, and now it has and honestly, you couldn’t be more upset with yourself.

“It’s okay, honey,” He placed a kiss on your knee, slowly rubbing your calf in a calming motion. “I’m not mad. I just want you to be more careful. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

Jeon Wonwoo

In Wonwoo’s opinion, your inability to stay unbruised for more than a few days was kind of cute. Of course, he worried about you a lot, but he knew you’d tell him if anything was seriously damaged. Usually whenever he has a day off, he’ll sit with you and watch you bumble around your apartment, bumping into anything and everything that’s in your way.

“Ouch.” Wonwoo smiled softly as he watched you walk away from the table you bumped into. All you were wearing was a shirt of his, giving him a perfect view of your legs, both of which were littered with bruises and scrapes. The sight used to make him worry, but now he knows that its just how you are.

“You should really get your eyes checked, sweetheart.” It was partially a joke, but he really did mean it. He’d been trying to get you to go for a while, but you usually just brushed it off.

“Maybe.” You hummed, brushing his suggestion once more. 

Kim Mingyu

The two of you were like peas in a pod. One of you broke everything, and the other one hurt themselves on said broken things. Mingyu knew that one day, the two of you would be the death of Seungcheol. He was usually the one that had to deal with the messes that the two of you caused, after all.

“Oh, Mingyu!” The leader cried out in annoyance, hearing the sound of another glass smashing. What made it worse was the fact that you were also in the kitchen with him and knowing you, you’d do something stupid. “Just keep Y/N away from it!” 

“Too late,” You called out to Seungcheol as you held your bloody hand under the sink. You don’t even know how you got glass in there, but it wasn’t really a surprise. “Have you got any bandages?” You heard the oldest member sigh before standing up to go and look for something.

“We really are going to kill him off, aren’t we?” Mingyu chuckled, sweeping the mess off of the floor. You let out a giggle, agreeing with your boyfriend. How Cheol had coped with the both of you for so long was a mystery.

Chwe Hansol

To Vernon, you were a mystery. How you’d survived so long without him to constantly patch you up was a question he didn’t think he’d ever be able to answer. Every day was something new, either you’d tripped over and scraped your knee, or your hand had slipped whilst you were using the knife. Either way, he was one step away from buying a bunch of bubble wrap and wrapping you up.

Vernon sighed heavily when he read the text you’d sent him. ‘Might be late tonight, I’m at the hospital,’ wasn’t something he particularly wanted to see, especially when he was busy working and couldn’t get away for at least a few more hours. 

“What’s up?” Jihoon had noticed the change in the younger member’s mood and knew almost instantly that it’d have something to do with you. He’d recognise the expression on Hansol’s face anywhere. “Is it Y/N again?” He just nodded, not knowing what to say.

‘Keep me updated, babe. I want to know everything that’s happening.’ he quickly texted back, trying his hardest not to panic. The next few hours would be hell.

#seventeen #seventeen requests #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #Svt #svt scenarios #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #svt reactions #svt requests #seungcheol #wonwoo #mingyu #vernon

[toots-senpai]

can you do more stuff with your somnophilia brain/hoodie?? i love they way you write his character <333

Authors response: oo bitch you got me there ughhhhhh

Author: @toots-senpai

Fandom: Creepypasta

Pairing: Hoodie/Brian Thomas x reader

Rating: R 18+

Word Count: short- 856

Warnings: smut, tw:somnophilia, kidnap mention

♡ MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI! YOU WILL BE BLOCKED ♡

NSFW under the cut

At the end of the day Brian has always been a sweetheart, attentive to all your needs and quick on his toes to help you with whatever you needed down to the last detail, but everyone would know how stupid you must be to allow him into your life. He let you go like you asked and when you came back home it only took a few seconds to look at the floor before he began clean your missing papers that were left scattered across the kitchen and living room floors and tables from your poor grandmother. He consistently helps her with groceries now without your asking and does everything that you need done. He’s.. helpful, you can’t deny it. You can’t deny how much you’ve fallen in love with the murderous man, watching him through the windows of your childhood home while he does all of your errands for the day. Can’t deny how much you enjoy the lonely nights earning for him to come back to you just for the moon to dance off your eyelashes when you stir awake his hair moved up by your hands to keep his face in between your thighs and let his rough palms bruise your hips. His airy gasps of air over your shoulder will continuously be your weak point, his voice will keep you locked away in his tower of escape from the outer world forever if it means the princess treatment he gives you. The presents, the tender care, he’s different only for you because after all the world doesn’t need his love only you do.

Bending knee to you and Slender has been the easy thing he has done, it gives him sanity at the end of the day. He agrees that your grandmother deserves to peacefully live the rest of her life as you cried to him and he can stay undercover in a house like this anyway if it meant your submissiveness. No one truthfully cared when you came back into this town and this old american home is perfect for his space, hiding right under the noses of dirty cops in this small town. Tim isn’t around to snicker and the basement is all his with 4 ways out and on top of it all he has a beautiful reward upstairs who always sleeps so peacefully in this house compared to the cold cabin in the forest. He doesn’t fully like it here though, the townspeople are too informative and he misses when the forest quieted your screams and pounds of the headboard, he misses how rough he could be with you. Maybe that he could slam the door of your grandfather’s truck this late at night. He’s got a bag of clothes in the back and your neighbor turned on his porch light to the sound. He groans, he’s always hated noisy people, it’s what he enjoyed about you. You keep a safe distance with him, relationship wise and even while you two walk around each other. It’s different from the cool cabin nights spent snuggling and hot coffee and breakfast morning wrapping around each other. He’s doing this all for you, he can live his own life, no one actually cares anyways but you and him. It’s his reality that he’s made and he slips through the house so quietly that not even the stairs creak.

From the basement to the second floor and slipping into your childhood room. He’s aware of his need to forget about tonight when he pulls off the hoodie he wears and throws it by the mask thats left neglected next to his gun in the top drawer that hangs open. The bed slightly creaks when he sits on the back of your thighs and runs his hands up your pajama shorts while kissing up your spine and to your shoulder softly chuckling deeply and making your hair stand causing you to shiver at his ministrations. You shuffle underneath him as his lips latch onto your neck and two fingers push against your pussy lips through the cotton of your underwear and your whines slip even in your sleep with the delicious friction of him pushing to your clit and rubbing. He could never let these moments go, you’re too comfortable here and perfectly vulnerable just for him. He doesn’t wait to slip into your heat though after teasing you through your shorts, sliding the flimsy shorts and underwear to the side between the junction of his thumb as he grips your hips bottoming out. A few slow strokes is all he needs to think about what he wants to do next as he continues to tease you in your sleep. You tend to wake up when you’re unsatisfied. You’ll wake up whiny and bouncing your ass back on him and he'll reply with his hand letting go of your already ruined shorts and onto your throat shutting you up so grandma can get her full night of sleep. This is right where he wants you anyways, ready for him whenever he truly wants.

#hoodie x reader #hoodie x reader smut #brian thomas smut #hoodie smut #brian thomas x reader smut #creepypasta #creepypasta imagine #creepypasta smut #tw: somnophilia

[onthepyre]

roughly 650 words of internalized homophobia and kissing. shorter than i meant it to be. had to write something though im crazy about this movie. @angry-yet-apathet1c this ones for you <3

"Hey, Jack."

It's said quietly, over the slop the school calls lunch. With Sarah out sick for the day, there hasn’t been much conversation at the table; what little has been said is peaceful and slow, with comfortable silence never far. Mark breaks it with that, and then a little head-jerk that says follow me as he stands.

Jack figures they’re headed out to the yard to smoke. He almost needs it, with the day he’s had — between waking up late and the pop quiz he’d just taken, he’s about to come apart at the seams. So Mark’s request, if he can call it that, is a welcome one. Jack follows him through the cafeteria and down the halls until they come to a bathroom on the other side of the school, which is… odd. But whatever. Call it an adventure, he thinks. A little bit of the thrill of getting caught. 

Mark opens the door with his back pressed against it so that he can grin at Jack. It’s a little mischievous, and he can’t help but smile back. Everything about Mark is contagious. His hands are twitchy, Jack notices, and he wonders what’s got him so nervous. 

The blue-white fluorescents are humming and flickering. The tile is dingy, and the whole room feels like a gas station late at night. It’s empty, as far as Jack can tell, and Mark walks ahead to make sure, bending lower and checking under stall doors for feet. Once he’s satisfied, he enters the furthest one and holds the door open for Jack. 

As soon as he’s locked the door behind him, Mark has him shoved flush against it. Before he can really think about it, Jack is kissing him, grabbing handfuls of his sweatshirt and trying to pull him close enough that there isn’t a single pocket of space between them. Mark is receptive; God, is he. He kisses with an almost bruising force, one hand in Jack’s hair and the other on his cheek, and when their teeth clink together, he sucks in a breath and bites down. 

Jack can feel something stirring. He shifts his hands so they’re on Mark’s sides instead, fingers splayed for maximum contact with his waist and ribs. Mark grabs hold of the collar of his sweatshirt and pulls, as if Jack could get any closer without being inside his skin. It’s just as intoxicating as getting high in the yard would have been. 

And then the bathroom door opens. 

Mark is off him in less than a second, flying to the opposite wall. Jack holds his breath and stares at him as they listen to the stranger pissing. Mark’s lips are pink and wet and his eyes are wild, darting between Jack and the gap between the stall and the floor. The stranger zips his pants and leaves without washing his hands, and when the door is closed they heave a sigh.

Mark sinks to the nasty tile floor. Elbows on his knees and head in his hands, Jack can hear him breathing, unsteady and loud. He’s not sure what else to do, so he walks over and joins him on the ground, and they sit in silence while Mark catches his breath.

“Goddamnit,” he eventually whispers. And that’s it. He leaves it there, for Jack to interpret. They go back to silence, because Jack isn’t really sure what to make of any of it. Mark’s face is still sort of red and he won’t make eye contact no matter how hard Jack tries. 

“Sorry,” Jack ends up saying, though he isn’t really sure what he’s apologizing for. Kissing him. Not kissing him again. Having hands. Being alive. Mark exhales like a dry laugh.

“Why?” 

He still won’t look up. Jack shrugs. Mark stands then, still staring blankly at the wall, and Jack reaches for his hand. He shakes it off and leaves without another word or glance, and Jack keeps sitting there long enough that he’s late to his next class.

#as you are #owen campbell #charlie heaton #june's writing

[zmediaoutlet]

this follows 'a vessel'

Sam cleans up. The wasted, half-used spell components go into the burn box. The turned-over chair picked up, and the shattered glass swept. The angel banishment sigil comes off the wall in the library pretty easily with borax and he drops the sponge in the bucket of swirled-red dirty water and could vomit. One last sweep and he finds two red drops, drying dark in the center of his research table. He takes a deep breath, chemical and stinging-clean. The spot comes off easily, too. There are a lot of good tricks they’ve learned for cleaning up blood.

The shower room’s empty. He strips the stolen sailor uniform and leaves it in a pile in the corner. The water comes down hot and he gives himself the space of twenty even breaths, in and out, to stand there and think nothing at all. Steam in his lungs. The pressure like needles at the back of his neck, only safe because it’s just water. When that’s done he washes his hair and soaps his body and gets the red rime out from under his fingernails, and when that’s done, when he’s toweling off in the bright quiet, it’s not—better isn’t the word. But the base he’s operating from isn’t as awful. That counts for something.

When he opens his bedroom door Deanna’s sitting on the edge of his mattress. “Thought you’d decided to run off to the navy,” she says.

She’s in what counts for her as full pajamas: those washed-to-death blue flannel pants, a black shirt of Sam’s she stole years ago. She has to roll the sleeves back over her wrists. There’s a glass of whiskey in her hand but it isn’t empty, and she didn’t bring the bottle for refills. She runs one thumb over the rim of the crystal and smiles very briefly at Sam’s face and then looks down at her hands.

Sam wishes he’d brought something with him to the shower. If it were another day she’d be making a crack about his towel. He sits beside her, carefully, and for lack of a glass he folds his hands between his knees. The bunker air cool on his shoulders.

A sigh. She stretches her legs out, toes pointed. Mostly unpainted these days, small and neat. Her hand turns over on her thigh and she seems to be looking at her palm, and then she sets her curled fist on Sam’s thigh instead. The smallest weight through the terrycloth.

“The sub went down?” she says. Sam nods and she nods, too, slower. “You try to save it?”

Delphine’s hands reaching into the case for the Hand of God. Red lights strobing all around and her eyes steady on Sam’s, sure, while a wildfire of grace roared through the dark ocean. “I think it didn’t make a difference whether I was there or not,” Sam says. He turns his head and Deanna’s biting her lip. The pressure in his chest feels like it’ll put him on the floor. “I wish I’d been here.”

Her eyes close. “I don’t know if that would’ve made a difference, either.”

Not said cruelly and it’s probably true. Some dumb male instinct claws at the underside of his heart, anyway.

The lump of wood is inert, now. He’ll wrap it in cloth and put it in a spelled cedar case in the archives and mark it down in the ledgers. Even if it ended up being pointless, except inasmuch as it made a mask fall to the floor.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Says, “Can I ask?”

Her toes scrunch against the concrete, then relax. Her fist still on his thigh, her eyes still closed. Face smooth and serene except for the bruise coming up on her cheek. From what exactly Sam doesn’t know; he’s been imagining it for the past two hours.

“Are you hurt?” he says, in the quiet. “More than…” Her head tips down and he licks his lips even though his mouth feels dry. “I just—I know he—when he—”

Her hand grips his thigh through the towel. “Sammy,” she says, interrupting, and he cuts off the stupid stumbling, his face hot. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” he says, and she shakes her head, and then shakes his leg gently, too. A weird deep pulse of what he’s got plenty of experience to recognize as shame goes through him as a wave, from the pit of his stomach to his chest to the hair on the back of his neck, and then he breathes it out and just feels cold. He takes her hand in one of his and she lets him, their fingers lacing together on top of his leg. Her fingers are cold, too.

“It’s not like it’s the first time,” she says, after a few seconds.

Almost like she’s trying to make him feel better. There are a lot of things he thinks to say but he’s got a lot of practice not saying things, especially when they’re all jostling for first place. She’s walking around and talking and not dead. There have been worse times. He knows there are others he doesn’t know about and probably never will. But this—he knows this one. His first and only. Not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, not even the worst by those particular hands, but nothing he’d ever wanted to share with his sister. Thought they’d been spared this one thing.

“If it helps,” she says, when he’s been quiet too long, “it wasn’t—about me. He was screwing with Cas and he wanted to hurt you. Just collateral damage.”

“How would that help,” Sam says, before he can stop himself, and Deanna sighs and says, “I don’t know, Sam,” and pulls at their linked hands but Sam doesn’t let her go, instinct making his fingers tighten. He feels like an ass immediately but Deanna doesn’t tug away. Instead her body turns in, toward his. Her weight tipping and her temple coming down to his bare shoulder. She’s warm, her knee bumping his. Their hands vaguely sweaty now, together. He tucks her hair back behind her ear, thick and barely-damp from her own shower, and her face turns in toward his chest, her lips against his skin although she doesn’t kiss.

All the things he wishes hadn’t happened in their lives make a list that’d be near uncountable. This is pretty near the top. If wishes were horses—but they never have been, and never will. He runs his thumb over hers, careful where the nail tore. “What do you want me to do?” he says.

“Nothing,” she says. Then she takes a deep quick breath, almost like she got hit, and pulls her hand out of his and sits up and drags her fingers over her eyes, pressing hard into the sockets like it hurts. Then drops her hands, and looks out into the dim of the room, and presses her lips together very tightly in a white severe line, and then—blows out, slow, her shoulders sinking as she does, and then turns her head and looks at him in this way that’s just—tired, but only like at the end of a long day, when they’ve been through the wringer and a lot’s gone wrong but they’re still here, together, and despite everything the sun’s going to come up anyway.

“Put on some boxers,” Deanna says. One corner of her mouth turns up. “Exhibitionist. Then I want to sleep. I want you here. And you’re not allowed to bitch about cold toes.”

Sam truly doesn’t know how she does it. “Wouldn’t have to if you’d just wear socks,” he manages.

Her nose wrinkles. “Just accept your role as the human radiator, okay,” she says, and then drains her whiskey in one swallow and puts the empty glass on the bedside table. She turns back the blankets and climbs in while Sam obediently goes to his chest of drawers, and finds clean boxer-briefs, and Deanna watches him with her head propped on her fist while he drops the towel, tugs on underwear, goes to the sink and drinks a cupful of cold water and then refills the cup and brings it to her. She drinks it down, and he puts the empty next to the whiskey tumbler, and then he climbs in and pulls up the blankets and she folds herself in against his chest, her head under his chin and her arm around his waist and her toes freezing, always, against his skin. Reliable as gravity.

He presses his lips against the top of her head. Her breath shudders, once, and then she squirms in closer and lays still. His back’s to the door and he knows he won’t sleep but that doesn’t matter. It’s like that night, all those years ago, before they went to Detroit. His arm around his sister and his mind full of the devil. Knowing that he’d do anything to stop him from hurting her; knowing that to stop that was almost impossible; knowing that even if it were impossible, with the last ounce of strength he had he’d still try. What else is there to do.

#wincest #my writing #deanna #i keep thinking about this 'verse #idk if i'll ever write like a full narrative story for it #but maybe more random scenes like this one #some people live whole lives in random scenes #could work! #oh and uh #rape mention #although it's very oblique

[theresthesnitch]

What we do to get by, Part 10

(a small warning before we begin: TW: physical assault (off-screen). I want to add that, because of Remus’s work, it could look like sexual assault. It is not. 

Also, if this was on AO3, it would be rated M or E, and that shouldn’t surprise you with my writing. 😘)

Read the rest here. 

***

Sirius was in the kitchen, cleaning up the last of the dishes from his visit with James, when he heard something crash against the front door. He grabbed his wand, quietly walking out to the door Just before he got there, it swung open and Remus fell through, landing on the hard floor. 

Sirius was already moving before he fully assessed Remus, which turned out to be a mistake. Remus winced at his touch. Sirius withdrew his hand, looking closely at Remus now. 

He had darkening bruises on his arms and face, visible even through the glamour that Sirius knew he was still wearing, and Sirius worried about how bad it was if that was the case. Remus was holding his arm to his chest, and Sirius realized that he must have jostled it when he grabbed him. 

“You’re hurt. Can I help you?”

Remus shifted until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and he nodded up at Sirius. Sirius sat across from him, knees nearly pressing together, and held a hand out. Remus moved gingerly, resting his arm in Sirius’s hand. 

Sirius cast first a pain numbing spell, which relieved a lot of the tension in his brows, and then a few diagnostic spells. As he suspected, Remus’s arm was broken. He stood up then, walking to the kitchen. He grabbed a healing potion and turned around to find Remus had followed him. 

“I was coming back. You didn’t have to move.” 

Remus shrugged and sat gingerly down at the kitchen table. Sirius set the potion down in front of him, and took the closest seat. Remus drained it in one go, and his face relaxed. Sirius started by healing the bruises and cuts he could see, but hesitated for moving on to the bigger heal. 

"Let me have your arm, then. I'll mend it." 

Remus held out his arm, which Sirius took gingerly. He trailed his wand down Remus's arm, murmuring the spell to repair the bones. Sirius cast one more diagnostic charm, confirming the heal, and set Remus's arm down on the table. 

"Thank you." His voice was small, barely more than a whisper. 

"It may tingle for a bit. By product of the spells."

Remus nodded, and flexed his fingers in front of him. Sirius sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Remus chewed on the corner of his lip for a moment, and Sirius thought he might not answer. Remus sighed, and leaned forward on his elbows against the table. “I did a big party tonight, with lots of extras. That meant I left with lots of money. Maybe I’d been obvious, I don’t know. I’m usually pretty discreet. These guys followed me into the park, and they–” he stopped talking then, running a flat hand along his jaw as he took a deep breath. “I was mugged.” 

Sirius’s fingers itched to reach for him, gripping his own arm when he wanted to grab Remus to pull him close. Except Remus seemed to retract in on himself when he said it, embarrassed by whatever weakness he thought he was showing, and Sirius thought that hugging him now would only make it worse.

“That fucking blows.” 

Remus’s eyes shot up to Sirius’s, a shadow passing over them before he burst out laughing. Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, too, especially as Remus laid his head on his arms, shoulders shaking as though he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Fuck, I needed that.” Remus sat up, wiping under his eye. “I just feel so stupid about it. I should have known what there were doing. Pulled out my wand or something, you know?”

Sirius drummed his fingers against the table, then as casually as possible, asked, “What were you doing in the park?” Remus was quiet for a long moment, and when Sirius looked at him again, Remus was looking down at the table. “What, Moony? What were you doing?”

“I was looking for a place to sleep.”

The floor fell out from under him. Remus was mugged, at night, in a park where he was trying to find a place to sleep. A silence fell over the room, heavy with the implication of what it meant, the door to the bedroom that was Remus’s just a few feet away from them.

Remus chose to sleep in a park, and Remus was mugged, and Sirius was pretty sure it was still his fault. 

Sirius stood up from the table suddenly, making Remus jump, and left the room. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He paced the living room, and was on the far side of the couch when Remus came out of the kitchen. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pocket, looking down. Sirius wanted to punch him, and he wanted to kiss him, and he was really glad that Remus was on the other side of the room because he honestly didn’t know which he would do if Remus was within arm’s reach. 

“Why, Remus?” Sirius kept pacing, unable to look at Remus any longer. “Am I really that bad? Is living with me that bad?”

“It’s not that, Sirius.” His voice was small but confident, and that might have hurt worse. 

“How can it not be?” Sirius buried his hands in his hair, gripping the roots and pulling hard enough that he wondered if he’d lose hair. “I don’t understand how you could prefer to sleep in a park, where you got mugged, than to stay here with me. There must be something wrong with me, because you’re choosing to be cold and afraid and broken than with me.” 

Remus's voice took on a steely quality “I’m not broken, and I’m not afraid.” 

“You should be afraid!” Sirius could feel the edges of rationality peeling up around him, leaving him a shriveled mess, a used napkin used to wipe up the remains of their friendship, whatever seeping dregs remained. “I’m afraid for you, and I’m not even the one out there. And don’t tell me that you’re not broken when you showed up here with broken bones, bruises, and cuts, and it’s not even the first time.” 

“Okay,” Remus squeezed his eyes shut, running a hand through his hair and scratching his scalp. “Okay, I had some broken bones tonight, but I’m not broken. I’m not a broken person.” 

“No, you’re not.” If there was one thing that was incredibly clear to Sirius, it was that Remus was not broken. Despite everything that he’d been through, and all the ways he’d had to adapt and learn to survive in this life, Remus was not broken. “You’re not, but you don’t have to keep pushing until you are.” 

“I didn’t have a choice, Sirius!” Remus held his arms wide. “I did what I had to do, and I won’t make apologies for it. I fucking survived it, and you don’t get to hold that against me.” 

Sirius furrowed his brows, not entirely sure how the conversation took this direction. “I’m not, Remus. I promise that I’m not. I’m so happy you survived. I’m so glad you’re still here, no matter what it took to make that happen.” 

Remus was looking at him now with all the pain on his face that he must have been feeling, and Sirius couldn’t stop himself from closing the distance. He hopped over the couch, crossing the room to meet Remus in the doorway. 

He stopped in front of Remus, forcing himself not to touch him, but they were just inches apart and it was almost close enough. “I’m not trying to blame you or belittle you for what you had to do to get here. You’re stronger and braver and so much more resilient than I ever was, but Remus, you don’t have to do this alone.” 

Remus looked at him, golden eyes looking molten in the low light. “Don’t I?”

Sirius couldn’t stand the distance then. He wrapped a hand around Remus’s neck, another hand on his forearm, and stepped close enough to press their foreheads together. Sirius wanted to kiss him so badly he could taste it. “You don’t have to do it alone, Remus. Just trust me. I know what I’m asking, because I broke that trust once. But I promise you. I promise that you are safe with me. Let me help you.” Sirius pulled them closer still, their noses brushing together, and Sirius could feel Remus’s breath on his lips. “Stay with me, Remus. Let me help you.” 

“Sirius.” The sound was broken, cracked. Ripped out of Remus, from somewhere deep down, where Sirius was still the boy he had been at sixteen, who had broken Remus’s trust, who had told Snape, who had forced Remus to this life that left him damaged if not broken.

It was not the sound of someone who wanted Sirius.

Sirius took a deep breath, giving himself just a moment to hold Remus like this. He released his arm and his neck, then took a step back, and then another. His legs hit the back of the couch. He couldn’t look up at Remus now. 

“Stay tonight, at least.” Sirius bit his lip, feeling like everything was slipping away. “If you want to leave tomorrow, that’s fine and I won’t stop you. Please just… Stay tonight.” 

He didn’t wait for an answer, but escaped to his bedroom. When the door closed, he threw up a silencing charm before clapping his hand over his mouth. He couldn’t hold back the sob, he couldn’t muffle it, and all he could do was hope that the silencing charm held. 

***

Sirius lay in his bed later, unable to sleep without knowing if Remus stayed, but also unable to leave the room to find out. He wasn’t sure what would be worse–finding Remus had left and knowing that it was over, or finding that Remus stayed and having to face him again. What else could he say? He’s put himself on the line, and if Remus didn’t– 

There was a quiet knock on the door to Sirius's room, and he rolled over just as the door opened. "Sirius?" 

"Yeah." He looked at the silhouette of Remus, framed by the soft yellow overhead light. "Did you need something?" 

Remus didn't say anything. He just walked around the bed and crawled in beside Sirius. Sirius’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. He had no idea what Remus was doing, or what Sirius was supposed to do now, but he was too afraid that if he asked, Remus would leave. 

Remus laid on his back, blanket draped over his waist, and Sirius was all too aware of the fact that Remus was here, next to him. If he slipped his hand through the cool sheet, it would find warmth on the other side where Remus was laying, and eventually, it would reach Remus. 

Sirius rolled so that he was also laying on his back. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Nevertheless, Remus was next to him. Was this some sort of goodbye? Did Remus come to tell him that it was too much, that Sirius was too much?

Remus rolled toward him, and Sirius could barely think for it. Remus was looking at him, but Sirius was too afraid to look back out of concern that he might spook Remus, who was inexplicably in his bed. So he stared pointedly at the ceiling instead, counting the cracks and hoping Remus would stay. 

He was always hoping Remus would stay. 

"Sirius." 

Sirius turned toward him, and they were a breath apart. His nose would brush against Remus's nose if he just moved forward a tiny bit. He focused on not moving at all. He’d nearly kissed Remus in the living room, and that had been a mistake. He couldn’t do that now. He couldn’t spoil this now. 

He was close enough to count the freckles on Remus's nose, even in the low light from the door, and see that his eyelashes lightened at the tips. He felt Remus's breath on his face, and he breathed in so that he could breathe in Remus too. 

Remus closed the distance between them, pressing his forehead to Sirius's, the tips of their noses pushed together, and Sirius closed his eyes and let himself just be this close to Remus. Remus was close, so close, and all Sirius had to do was lean forward, and they could be kissing. He couldn’t, though. 

“Sirius.” His voice was nearly a growl, 

Things with Remus had been so fragile, and what if he misread this situation. This could still be goodbye or some sort of masochistic challenge where Sirius was supposed to prove they could be friends. What if he wanted Sirius to prove that he could do this, he could be close like this without ruining it?

If that’s what it took, then Sirius would wait forever, even if it killed him. 

Only…Remus leaned forward, and their lips brushed. It was a delicate, reverent kiss that barely existed, but it was a crack in the dam that released everything. Remus pulled back, looking between Sirius’s eyes as though the answers to all the questions Remus had left were written between his eyes. He kissed him again, and Sirius grabbed him by the neck, threading his fingers into Remus’s hair. Remus’s hands found his hips, clinging to him as he deepened the kiss. 

The way Remus kissed felt urgent in a way that belied false confidence and bravado. Sirius didn’t take the lead the way he wanted to, didn’t chase Remus’s tongue the way he wanted to, but let Remus set the pace as they kissed. 

It was Remus’s hands that pushed Sirius’s shirt off of his head, and Remus’s hands that led Sirius’s hands to Remus’s skin. It was Remus that pushed things forward until they were lying naked, heated skin sticking to each other, with Sirius’s cock pressed into Remus’s thigh. 

Sirius pulled back–where he found the willpower to do so, he couldn’t even begin to say–and looked Remus in the eyes. His pupils were blown wide, and Sirius could see the desire there, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t manufactured. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure.” 

“I’m sure.” Remus rolled away, and Sirius thought that he was leaving before he grabbed Sirius’s wand off the nightstand, pointing it at himself and whispering the charms to clean, lubricate, and prepare himself. (Which, fucking Merlin, was there anything hotter than using Sirius’s wand for that?) He set the wand back on the nightstand, then faced away from Sirius. “Fuck me, Sirius.” 

Sirius growled, wrapping his arms around Remus’s waist and pressing open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and neck. Sirius moved them until Remus was on his hands and knees, and Sirius sank inside of him. 

It was everything he had spent years dreaming of, and it was better than his every fantasy. 

Sirius fucked him slowly, trying to savor it. First times held a certain magic in them, the kind of magic muggles talked about that occasionally translated to actual magical possibi9lity. The anticipation, the building, the bloody focus on everything coming together was filled with so much potential and promise, and Sirius had wanted this so desperately for so long. 

The magic was so thick that it sparked around them, and when Remus came undone under him, Sirius could have cast the hardest spells without breaking a sweat. 

They laid panting in the bed when they were done, magic still crackling between them. They went to bed without bothering to clean beyond a few charms, and slept embracing each other. Sirius thought, in the moments before sleep overtook him, that this was the perfect ending. 

***

Sirius woke up alone, but he couldn’t help smiling as he walked out to the kitchen after a shower and finding a clean pair of trousers. He didn’t bother putting on a shirt. Remus was sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a book in front of him. He was wearing one of Sirius’s sweaters and a pair of joggers, and Sirius nearly leaned in and kissed him. 

They could do the kissing thing now, right? If you shag, surely you can kiss?

He didn’t, and instead just sat next to Remus at the table and poured a cup. “Last night was great.” 

“What?” Remus looked up, barely looking him in the eyes, and looked away. “Oh, yeah.” 

It was a bit of an odd reaction, but things had been odd between them. Sirius pressed on. “I would love to do it again, if you want.” 

“Sure.” Remus was chewing on his thumbnail and focused on his book.

Sirius furrowed his brows. “I don’t know if you prefer to bottom, but we could switch if you want. I wouldn’t mind bottoming for you.” 

“Yeah, I mean. Whatever you want the arrangement to be.” Remus was purposefully not looking at him now, and the whole interaction sat sour in his stomach. 

“Arrangement, what do you–” It hit him then, what Remus was saying. What Remus was really saying. “You mean–” he breathed hard, barely able to get the words to his tongue, much less out of his mouth “–you mean that you slept with me as–as some sort of payment to stay with me?”

Remus shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “I told you I didn’t have anything to offer, and you said we could work out an arrangement.” 

Sirius was standing before he realized it, his chair clattering backward on the tile floor. He was pacing the kitchen. “I meant that you could cook, maybe. Or wash the dishes!” 

“I don’t know how to cook.” Remus began picking his nails, determinedly not looking at Sirius. “And I’m shite at cleaning spells.” 

“Well, then something like cooking or cleaning, then!” 

“You didn’t seem to mind last night.” Remus shrugged. “You seemed to enjoy it.” 

“Oh, fuck you, Remus.” Sirius stopped pacing and buried his head in his hands. “Fuck you. I thought you wanted me. I thought you came to me because you wanted to shag me, not because you felt obligated to.” 

“You wanted to?”

“Yes!” Sirius was yelling, and he knew it. He couldn’t stop it. He was on the edge of hysteria, or maybe he had fallen over that edge already, or maybe he was just hanging on by his fingertips. “Of course I wanted to, because I’m so fucking in love with you and–”

He froze when he realized what he said. Remus finally met his eyes. “You love me?”

Sirius swallowed, barely able to breathe and feeling like there was an ocean crashing around him. “I have to go.” 

Sirius turned and walked out the door, wearing nothing more than a pair of trousers, and apparated away. 

***

Lily opened the door when he knocked, an eyebrow raising and the corner of his lip teasing up. “Black, guests generally come to my home wearing a shirt and shoe–” 

“Lily.” There must have been something in his voice, though he couldn’t hear it through the hysteria growing in his chest, because Lily stopped her teasing and nodded, indicating inside the house. 

“James?” She called over her shoulder as she shut the door, and James came jogging around the corner. 

James took one look at him standing there–and Sirius really wondered what he looked like, or if this was just James and of course, James knew him. He grimaced at Sirius and beckoned him with a wave of his hand. “You better come inside and tell me what happened.”

~~~

author’s note: I’m so sorry. 

#what we do to get by #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #woflstar angst #what if the prank ended differently? #snitchwrites

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #12: The Beginning of the Nightmare

This chapter took me a while to write because I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with it. Well... I have a few ideas. Things are about to get REAL wild now. Thanks for reading!

CW: POC whump, Lady whump, Caretaker whump, deaf whumpee, mentions of hand whump, creepy/intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, crude language, guns, defiant whumpees, broken nose, blood, thoughts of death, fear of death, beat down, punching and kicking, bruised ribs.

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The cicadas sang in the heat, a loud communal hum. A coyote sat under the mezquite tree, blood coated its mouth. Its pelt was almost a sickly grey color twinged with yellow. It was emaciated, bones nearly sticking straight out of its skin. Underneath its paws was another coyote, and golden coat, well fed. Somehow the starving coyote had ripped out its throat, half of it on the dirt in front of it, the other half was hanging from the other's jaws. 

The coyote opened its jaw, tongue hanging out, oddly shaped. It looked awkward but a voice came from its mouth, hoarse and raspy. Like it couldn’t quite get out the words. 

Never underestimate a starving dog, Solomon. 

**

Solomon woke in a cold sweat. Breath catching in his throat. His mouth felt like cotton. He sat up from his place on the floor, running a hand over the different indents in his braid. Counting them. Taking a few deep breaths. How long had it been since he had a dream like that? Something that had spoken to him, some sort of warning. It was still so clear in his brain. He still felt like he could reach and touch the coyote in front of him. 

He stared at the ground for a moment longer before a sound made him look up. Miguel was watching him. His eyes were less far away and they were filled with concern. He was here, at the moment. Solomon wanted to keep it that way. 

“I’m okay,” he signed quickly, offering him a small smile. “You’re awake early.” 

Miguel frowned and simply shrugged. Solomon started to stand, pushing himself up, using the bed as leverage to help him stand. His body ached. His joints in his knees cracked as he moved them. He was getting too old for this. 

 “Would you want to come downstairs and eat breakfast with us?” 

The boy shook his head. Swinging his legs over the edge and getting himself up. He’d been needing less and less help lately. Sturdier on his feet. His left hand was getting stronger, but his right was still splinted and in the sling. In order to communicate he was rendered to single handed signs and spelling out his answers. Which frustrated them both greatly. But one of his exercises to strengthen that left hand was to sign the alphabet. Some of the letters were easier than others. He was trying at least and at the moment, that was all Solomon could ask of him. 

“I think you should join us for breakfast. It would be nice to have you there.” 

Miguel stared at him for a moment, pausing from making the bed. He chewed on his lip and Solomon sighed softly. Lately, it had been frustrating dealing with Miguel. His mind was far away half the time and the other half, they spent arguing. Solomon was so tired. He was half sure that Miguel was arguing for the sake of arguing. Probably because he wanted some semblance of control back. 

Most times when Solomon asked Miguel to join them at the table, Miguel refused. But today, Miguel nodded. Sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking up at Solomon. His hair was getting long again, waves going past the bottom of his ears. 

“Hen?” the boy asked, shifting in his sling slightly. 

“Yeah she’ll be down there too. Why wouldn’t she be?”

Miguel made a frustrated sound, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh. About last night? She asked me to do her hair. I just did her hair.” 

Miguel made a face, raising his eyebrows and then offered a small smile. Solomon couldn’t help but be endeared. He was still so young. To him there was no difference between platonic and sexual intimacy. He’d never really had a friend his own age that didn’t want something from him. 

Solomon pressed his index and middle finger on his thumb, shaking his head. No. 

“We aren’t like that. It’s.. difficult to explain. But we’re friends. She asked me to do her hair and she fell asleep. Nothing more.” 

Miguel kept smiling, nodding his head. Solomon put a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. He was at least getting his humor back a little. Which was a good sign, he wasn’t shattered. Well he had been, but Solomon was helping him piece together the broken parts. That was his job. Putting back together the people that Xavier broke. He wanted to do more. He wanted to be the person that could save them. But he was just as trapped. 

Solomon nodded toward the door, and Miguel got up. They made their way down the stairs. Today’s breakfast was pancakes. The table was already set, Xavier at the head of it, and there were two more plates. Henrietta placed another one when she saw Miguel was with him. Smiling softly at him. 

“Well, look who decided to wake up from the dead,” said Xavier, taking a sip of his coffee.  

Miguel refused to look him in the eye. Sitting down in his seat quietly, shifting in it idly. Solomon rubbed the bridge of his nose and moved over to where Henrietta was preparing to give out the pancakes. 

“Do you need help?” he asked, taking the milk that was on the counter and starting to pour it into everyone's cups. Xavier was the only one of them who drank coffee anyway. Solomon was more of a tea person himself. But still, they set the table together. Solomon served himself and Miguel. Xavier watched, the tension in the air thick. 

“So, he’s feeling better then?” Xavier asked, looking pointedly at Solomon.

Solomon nodded, picking up his fork and starting to pick apart the pancakes. 

“Yes. He’s sturdier now. Still weak, he's been doing exercises to strengthen his left hand. He should be out of the sling in a month or so. Then he would work on strengthening his hands more.” Solomon took a bite of the pancake, trying to ignore the growing anxiety pooling in his gut at the sight of Xavier’s darkened expression. 

“Good, that's good,” Xavier said, sipping his coffee again. 

Solomon didn’t say anything in response, letting the silence reign supreme. There was something different in the air today, it tasted stale and dark. Xaviers mood seemed to be in the same way. They ate mostly in silence. Until Henrietta stood up to take everyone’s plates. 

“Leave them.” 

“What?” 

“Sit down Etta,” Xavier said slowly. “I want to talk to you both.” 

Solomon shifted in his seat, hands placed on the table. Taking a deep breath. Wondering what this could possibly be about. What was it that he had done that could warrant such a foul mood? Solomon replayed the past few days. Could it have been his conversation with Henrietta the night before? It had to be. There was nothing else that could warrant this sort of reaction. 

“Xavier.. What is this about?” 

Xavier raised a hand, and Solomon stopped talking. Talking would do nothing here. 

“I want to know how long.” 

Henrietta spoke next, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “How long?” 

“Do not fucking act stupid with me. How long have you two been fucking each other?” 

“We haven’t-” Solomon and Henrietta said at the same time. A fist slammed on the table, shaking the utensils, making them clatter. Miguel flinched, staring at the table. Not daring to look up. But he was starting to shake and Solomon looked at Xavier. 

“We have never slept toget-” 

Solomon should have seen it coming. He should have known better, but he was still surprised when Xavier grabbed Henrietta by the back of her head and slammed her face into the wooden table. The cutlery clanked again and Solomon heard her gasp. Xavier let go of her head and her head popped up. Hands going to her nose, which was now certainly broken. Blood streaming down her face, over her mouth, through her hands that were now trying to staunch the blood flow. 

“Xavier, stop! We haven’t done-” 

“Shut up Solomon,” Xavier said darkly, now focusing on Henrietta. “How long Etta?” 

“You asshole! We haven’t” “Then why were you in his room last night? Why were you there?” Xavier said, grabbing one of her wrists and wrenching it away from her face. Twisting her wrist and Henrietta whimpered. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong! We were just talking!” 

Xavier growled and Solomon started to stand. The click of the gun stopped him in his tracks. His eyes glanced down to the gun in his other hand. The simple revolver that was cocked and ready. 

“Don’t fucking move, you stay right there Solomon.” 

“You’re a big man aren’t you?” Henrietta said, voice nasally and tense with pain, “Threatening him with a gun? What are you? Afraid of him?” 

Xavier laughed, dark and loomed over her, changing the gun's position from pointing at Solomon to pressing it against her forehead. Solomon felt like his breath was in his throat, choking him. He only stared, terrified, as Xavier grinned manically down at Henrietta. 

“What is it darlin’? Cat got your tongue?” 

Henrietta growled slightly, it sounded gurgly like blood was inside her throat. Solomon's hands twitched. Eyes glancing at Miguel who was watching the scene unfold in front of him with a blank expression. He was far away again, that was probably for the best. It meant Solomon could focus on what was in front of him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. 

“Xavier put the gun down,” he said calmly, surprised at the way his own voice didn’t even shake, “You don’t need it. Hen asked me to braid her hair, she wanted it out of her face.. Please. Just.. the gun..” 

Henrietta whimpered as the gun pressed harder into her skin. Then the gun uncocked and Xavier put it back in its holster. His grin died. His grip on her braid lessened and he instead ran his thumb over it. Staring at it. 

“You know.. I never quite liked the idea of braids,” Xavier said, untying the hair tie at the end and undoing it. “I do like the smell of her hair though. Even if it does smell like you, Solomon.” He ran a hand through it idly. 

“I just did what she asked..” Solomon said cautiously. 

Henrietta still had a hand covering her nose, even though the blood had slowed, it still dripped onto her blue dress. 

“Fucking,” the hand fisted her hair again, and he pulled Henrietta close to himself, nuzzling his face into her jaw, “Just shut the fuck up Solomon. Stand up Etta. Stand up.” 

“Xavier you’re going too far okay.. It wasn’t anything like you’re thinking. She fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake her.”

“I saw that. I saw it. She was asleep in your arms like that. Fucking stand up,” he shoved her forward, and she stumbled to stand. “Clean yourself up.” 

Then he looked at Solomon, working his jaw, as Henrietta took a rag and pressed it to her nose with a soft whimper. Solomon laced his fingers together and squeezed, as if the pressure would help. Their gazes met. Xaviers eyes were filled with hatred, burning with fiery rage. He leaned forward to Solomon, grabbing a hold of his jacket, and pulled him forward. Their faces almost touched, he could smell the coffee on Xaviers breath. 

“If you ever touch her like that again, if I even think that you two have talked without my permission. I’ll cut out your tongue,” Xavier pressed his forehead against Solomons, making Solomon shiver. “I don’t think a doctor needs his tongue to do his work. Yeah?” 

His stomach was pressed into the edge of the table, and one of his hands was on a plate. Solomon wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond to this. He was actually quite sure that it was a rhetorical sort of question. But Xavier didn’t release him yet. The man sighed softly, and coffee and shit wafted in his nose, and Solomon fought the urge not to gag. His world spun as he was thrown to the ground. He tried to scramble backwards, but Xavier was on him in seconds. 

Pain exploded in his cheek bone as Xaviers knuckles connected. Solomon raised his hands to cover his face as more punches were thrown. He heard Henrietta scream at Xavier to stop, but Xavier kept going. His vision went blurry as the assault stopped for a moment, his entire face was pulsating. He realized that Henrietta had tried to stop Xavier by grabbing him, but she was thrown to the ground too. Hitting her head against the cabinets. Her eyes glazed over slightly as she groaned. 

“Xavier.. Please stop. Just stop. I’m sorry.. I’m sorry.” 

A fist connected with his mouth and Solomon tasted blood. He choked on it as he was hit again and again. He was going to die here. Beaten to death by Xavier for something he didn’t even do. It was bound to happen eventually. He’d do something wrong and Xavier would lose it. 

A crash interrupted his thoughts and Solomon attempted to open his eyes. Only his left one would open. A plate was shattered on the floor around them. The assault stopped, Xavier stood up slowly. Turned around and Miguel was standing on shaky legs. Had he thrown the plate at Xavier’s head? 

Solomon groaned and turned to the side to spit blood on the floor, tongue going over his teeth. He had surprisingly not lost any. His head was filled with cotton and his world spun as he tried to push himself to his knees. A kick to his ribs knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he coughed. Falling to his side and curling up, hands over his stomach. 

“Please..” he begged. 

Xavier laughed, “You’re lucky Solomon. I think someone wants me to stop. Guess he’s feeling good enough to throw things at me. He has to be feeling well enough to sleep in his room now. And to take a punishment.” Another well placed kick to his ribs had him wheezing. There was the sound of more cutlery clanking as it bounced off Xaviers back. 

“Enough, Miguel.” 

Solomon didn’t look up, but Xavier was walking away. Solomon didn’t have the strength to stand or try to stop him. It was useless anyway. He couldn’t save him. Solomon couldn’t save either of them. 

Time flowed differently when someone was in pain, Solomon realized. His body ached and he barely registered that he was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the broken plate. He didn’t try to get up or move. Solomon was unsure as to what was broken or bruised. 

It wasn’t long before Xavier came back and put a hand on his head. 

“You know, if you just minded your business instead of stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong, this wouldn’t have happened. You should have just left her alone. Next time.. You know better right?” Solomon groaned and Xavier grabbed his face, which throbbed, and clicked his tongue. “Hey, hey, look at me.” 

Solomon opened his eyes as far as they would allow him. Xavier was a blurred mess and he winced as Xavier squeezed his thumbs into his cheeks. 

“Now you know better right? You don’t touch Henrietta without my permission. Yeah?” Xavier was grinning at him. He looked wild. Like a coyote. 

Never underestimate a starving dog Solomon. 

“Ye..s” he slurred, and Xavier released his face. 

Solomon was unconscious before his head hit the ground. ***

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[mothonfire]

Pink Petals in Blood Vessels

read on ao3 || this masterlist

Adrian Chase // gn!reader 

Warnings ; mentions of injuries, descriptions of smut (explicit blowjobs and handjobs). 

Sipnosis ;  According to Adrian, kissing is cheating the body to allow your mind to dive into a sea of clear pinkish honey full of foam and flowers.

4.6k 

The first time they saw you, you were picking him up from work. It was late at night, last shift of the week, you invited him over and he gladly accepted.

You two had been seeing each other for a few months now, hanging out at his place or yours, watching movies, going for coffee or dinner, walking or partying together, occasionally. He was sweet and spoke a lot, really strong and somehow cute at the same time. He was quite lovely.

It had taken him a bit to adjust to you but once he told you his name he settled into your life and had no plan to get out.

You had saved his life, or at least you liked thinking you did. Found him in a mask, sitting on an alleyway close to your apartment as he bled out his upper back. You took him because you knew none else would, you knew him, from the news. You knew a hospital would be worse. You took it as a sign.

He became brutally obsessed with you. He stalked you, found out where you worked, where you were studying, your routines and usual places. He appeared at your window sometimes, with some minor injuries, and told you he was doing you a favour by letting you take care of his wounds, saying it was the best way to practice for med school. He always came in excited to show you a new wound "You've never done this one before!" he said every time he got a new type of injury. 

"You need to stop getting hurt on purpose" you put ice on his leg after repeating to him that no, it wasn't broken and no, you were not going to practice on his leg for your cast-making exam because it would just be worse. "It's getting ridiculous"

He scoffed "I don't do it on purpose,"

"You mean to tell me you are just that bad at crime fighting?" You got up, leaving him and his bruised thigh sitting on your couch.

"What? No! No, I'm really good!" He sounded almost childish, like really trying to convince you and you smiled, taking two beers from your fridge, opening them on your counter as he spoke "I'm the best hero in town! Well—now that my best friend is out of prison, I'm the second but I've been the best for like four years! That's like, really impressive"

You handed him his beer, always gave him one even though you knew he never drank it, an excuse to hold him around, "Sure," you leaned on the bookshelf next to your tv, right in front of him "I just," you played with your beer in your hands "really like you, you know? I don't want you going around getting your shit beaten"

He stared at you "You like me?" You sipped your drink and smiled.

"Of course I do," you slowly made your way to him, leaving the can on the small wooden table and kneeling in between it and the couch, looking up to him from the floor "I care about you"

"Oh," he was so hard to read when he felt silent, no facial expressions to give him away "what are you doing?" you had a hand on each of his knees, taking the space between his legs but not really, far enough to not be directly in between them.

"I want to check on your leg, if it really hurts that much" you pressed a hand under his right thigh and got the ice off, putting it on the table. He tensed all over and inhaled sharply, your head darted up "If you don't mind," you looked up at him, not depriving him from your touch. He nodded.

"No, no it's okay," you smiled down at him, pulling his leg up and touching, digging down to his knee.

"Does that hurt?" he shook his head and you went on, leaning in and going up, pressing your palm down and softly rubbing your fingers, he hissed when you touched his inner thigh and you pulled away "there?" he nodded "well, that means you didn't sprain it, probably just a nasty bruise but that's it"

"What if I have internal bleeding?" His words stopped you from standing back up. You raised your brows at him and grinned.

"I can assure you, you do not have internal bleeding" still you didn't stand up, just looked up at him.

He took a beat "I could,"

You eyed him and pressed your lips together. "Do you feel weak? or numb? Like, could you fight right now?" you spoke slowly, one hand on each of his knees again.

"Never! I never ever feel weak, I'm ready, always!" he didn't move either.

You smiled "Then you definitely don't have internal bleeding," he looked down and sighed, comically, with a hint melancholy "what is it?"

"No, what? Nothing" you tried to read him, looking at his entire body, not only his covered face.

"If you want to stay just say that," he shook his head "then what?" he wasn't looking at you when he reached for your hands. He brushed his fingertips against the back of them, lightly grabbing them as you watched amused. He pulled them to him, hesitantly, and let them rest at the end of his waist, then held them there. "Oh…" you pressed your thumbs against the soft part of the suit above his belt, looking at your hands, then at him. You took his waist in your hands, pinning him down, then you stood a bit, still on your knees. You went further down, feeling him breathe heavily. You looked up at him when your hands landed at the bottom of his hips, palm against his thighs, thumb rubbing in between his legs. "Is that what you want?" you couldn't help the smile.

He nodded and murmured something that sounded like “touch”, he was not touching you, just staring into your eyes, still and warm. You slowly raised, unfastening the armour around his shoulders, tossing it to the side. You grabbed the mask on his neck and he pulled away with his entire body "Sorry," you mumbled "I'm not gonna take it off, I just wanna kiss your neck" then a small though started growing at the back of your mind and your stomach dropped a bit “unless you only want me to… You know,” you gestured down, vaguely “just that”

He shook his head “No, no—please,” he sounded impossibly soft, hands making their way to your waist, sinking down and pulling you with him. You smiled, gripping the mask and pulling it up with one hand, standing to sit back down on his lap, one leg on his right and the other between his legs, kissing his skin for the first time. The mask stayed on, as your other hand creeped through his suit, trying to find a zipper or buttons. "It's a two piece," Vigilante sounded like he was melting down, as if he was about to become one with your couch. He breathed deeply and slowly, moved carefully and he sounded yours. He made noises that came desperate out his throat, you were pressed against him, feeling him hard under you. You wanted to make it all wet, cover him in your kisses, show him some care.

"What 'd you say?" you barely raised your when you were done with the hickey on his clavicle.

"The suit," you kissed him again cause it was driving you insane, his little whines and the way his words came out half broken by them "it opens in the middle, there's—mg, there's a belt?"

The thought came back "Oh," that maybe he was just using you to get off "okay" that you had to be just that, quick.

"No that I don't love this, I do, it's just," he breathed in "just so you know,"

You put your hands down on his little utility belt, unfastening it "No, yeah, I know," you weren't looking at him. "I've taken the top part off a thousand times," to patch him up.

"Yeah, right" he said, some of that sweet tone missed.

You sank to the floor once again, knees against the coldness of it. You touched his stomach, pressing a hand and slowly going down, fingertips against the harsh fabric. Your hands met in the middle, one pressed against the inside of his thigh and the other one unzipping his pants. His breathing fastened when you started pulling down his pants.

Once they were off, forgotten next to your knees, you kissed up, what was visible of his stomach. You felt it rise and sink again under your mouth, he put a hand on your head, not quite touching you but keeping you there, and you spread his legs more with one hand and gripped at him with the other. He groaned with his throat and rested his head on the back of the couch, "Oh, fuck, fuck shit—" you kept your mouth on his stomach, small kisses as you stroked him, slowly and deeply. "okay do that, that's really—yeah, fuck," you looked up at him, going a bit faster, with your other hand still opening him as much as he allowed his legs to be.

He looked at you and you wished you could see his face, just to know if he was liking it. It was all you wanted, didn't quite matter if he was just using you to get off, him feeling good, whining and trembling under your touch, was all you wanted.

"God, you are beautiful" his words came out fast and in between shaky breaths but they made your eyes widen. He gripped at your hair and you took it as a sign, burying your head slowly in between his legs. "Mnh… Oh, fu—ck…" he relaxed and you closed your eyes, filling your mouth with his soft taste. His hand guided you, pulling your head down as his hips gave unsteady rolls and his grip tightened.

You pressed with your tongue and he said something that got drowned by a small whine, his other hand over yours on his leg. You rubbed his thigh when you felt him tense again as he hit your throat, hand pulling slightly at your hair and his sounds became shorter, way more constant. It was so obvious how he tried to hide them. You gave some quick thrusts and then slow ones, glancing up at him as you pulled almost all the way out, licking his head, trying to recover your breath before pulling him back in, making him tremble, going faster and deeper, grabbing under his thigh and holding it up, bent a little bit.

He was close to screaming now, murmuring how long he had wanted this in between lovely high sounds as he tried to catch his breath and small incoherent words. "Fuck! Fuck! s—motherfucker, god you feel so fucking…" he took your head with both his hands, his hips forcing him inside your throat, he squirmed and whined failing at behaving himself, "look at me, look at me please…" a sound made its way from the very bottom of his stomach and hit the roof of his throat as it flew out, moving his entire body with it as you pulled away.

"You okay?" you felt warm all over, sweaty on your face and somewhat out of breath. He nodded and let out cut-off moans, sounding like an absolute mess and you wished you could see his face once again.

He pulled you up by your face, one hand still gripping him, stroking slowly; you followed his lead "I like your face so much…" he swallowed "I want more… giveme more," you moved one knee to each side of his torso, sitting in between his legs, staring at him, face still trapped in his hands.

You pressed your thumb against his tip and smoothed down, palm wrapping the body of his dick as you worked on the head, your other hand on his thigh. "You like it like this?" he nodded, head falling down, staring at your hand, consecutive small wet moans matched your movements "you like me close like this, don't you?" he hummed in approval and his hands fell to your hips, under your shirt, fingertips burning into your skin "baby…" he whimpered at the name "you are so needy for a superhero"

He fumbled under your shirt, "off… take it off," you tightened your grip on him, going faster, "please, please… pl—ease" you allowed him to slip it off and he took his gloves off to touch you, pulling you closer, trapping his dick in between your stomach and his. You took him again, rubbing his tip with the skin on top of your belly button "ah… mnh, yes, please…"

You rolled your hips faster, getting all your torso wet with his precum, hand moving fast in between the two of you. His hands were strong on your back, they gripped and moved, squeezing your ribcage, then down as he let out desperate little sounds, grabbing at your pants, pulling your hips as he tried follow your ease, coming off sweetly painful to feel him bruise your skin as you saw him try to resist humping your stomach. You started to allow some sounds come off you, the feeling of his agonizing palms pressing your body being just enough.

"Faster, faster, harder," he kept murmuring "please, you are so fucking…" he couldn't finish, the feeling of your skin been too much and he muffed a scream. You were amazed you could do so much with just your hands and half his body dressed, you wondered what sounds would he make if you had him spread under you on your bed. A sweet feeling hit your stomach just thinking about it and you gave it even faster. "'m close… I'm so close, I'm gonna," you smiled, deepening your thrusts.

"Go on, beautiful, make a mess," he did. He whined and pressed you against him and used all his strength to arch his back and pull up his hips, getting your chest all wet, thrusting against you as the come slid down your stomach and hand. He was shaking all over, desperately pulling you down and brushing himself against your stomach, high sounds hit his throat and he couldn't breathe. When his still masked face fell to the crook of your neck his hands had relaxed but his hips were still giving unsteady small thrusts and his chest was heaving. You let him rest, slipping your hand to the side. "Breathe baby,"

"I like you," his voice was muffled against your skin, really weak and almost broken in the best way "I like you a lot, like, a lot lot, fucking…" he pressed what would have been a kiss against your shoulder if the mask had been off.

"I like you too,"

 Next time, he fucked you.

It was messy, not really planned. He had knocked on your window and it was a warm night; he was excited, something about a mission going really well, he had so much energy, talking fast and moving around as he told you all about it.

"Uhg, I'm so happy I could kiss you right now!" he took you by the shoulders and you stared up into his visor.

You blinked. "Well then?" you licked your lips fast and wished you could see his face once again.

He stood silent for a while "Oh, but I can't," he swallowed "I want to! but I can't," then his hands moved to your hips and he lifted you up, sitting you on your kitchen counter. "I can do other things," you had never heard his voice like that, it was low, filled with desire.

He was good with his hands, really good. Then he was good with his dick too, holding your thighs up around his torso, talking to you, about how good you were, how he liked it. He wasn't too harsh, it was almost sweet, as sweet as a counter-shag with no kisses could be. You finished before him and he left after making sure you were alright.

 "I want you to kiss me"

He had come over almost every night for a week. Sometimes with a small wound, other times with a few beers and a movie. You had fucked him on your bed and on your couch, you had hang out with him, showed him your lego collection and invited him to stay over for the night, though he never wanted to. You got home from work, took a nap, studied, ate something and waited for him, every day for a week. You wanted to wait and have dinner with him, make him something nice. You also wanted him to shower with you after or stay in bed for a while, maybe for him to hold you in his arms or fall asleep beside you. He never did, he came in, waited, got naked for a few hours and then left.

“What?” he asked incredulously with his hands under your shirt, skin to skin, only with his pants on, and his mask of course. Matrix was playing quietly on the screen in front of you but apart from it silence filled the room entirely. You were spread on your couch, one leg on his lap as he traced your body with his hands, he had started at your thighs and was going up, glancing at the movie every now and then when a sequence was really good.

“I want you to kiss me,” you repeated. You were not touching him, resting on your elbows with your head down and your stomach exposed. “I can't keep going like this”

He must have seen something on your face because he moved back just enough “What?” he sounded concerned, really concerned “am I doing something wrong?” You couldn't tell him that he was, you would have, but the way he got his hands off your shirt immediately felt so genuine and after his voice trembled you knew whatever you told him would hurt him “Cause if I am you have to tell me, doing things without consent it's a crime and it's disgusting and I don't want to—do that, to you” he waited for you to say something.

“It's not that,” you did not move, only bit your lip. He waited.

“Tell me” He moved away entirely. “Communication between two people that have sex it´s really important, I´ve read it” He sat back. “You said you wanted me to kiss you?”

“Yeah,” you started sitting too, your legs still resting on his lap.

“Why?” he tilted his head.

You swallowed. “It feels… impersonal,” he just kept looking at you "like, the first few times it was okay but now," it was stupid, you sounded stupid "it feels like you only come here to fuck me," you glanced at him "I know, it's idiotic, I thought I could be mature about it but I guess not,"

"No!" he said, "Absolutely not!" he almost sounded concerned again "That's a feeling you shared and that's really impressive, and helpful because, sex is about communication and like, learning stuff to make it fun because sex has to be fun," sex, its only sex, you thought with a small bitter feeling on your stomach; that's all that’s happening “And to be honest, I think it´s fair to say that you are fucking me and not the other way around,” you looked at him “I like getting fucked, I like the get fucked situation, I don’t want to stop”

“Yeah, no this is nice, I just,” you wanted to kiss him and stroke his hair and bake him breakfast. You didn't know what had gotten onto you, it was an odd feeling and you hated that you couldn't just do what he wanted.

“You want me,” he started “to kiss you”

“Pretty much,”

“But I can't do that, you know that,” he spoke almost childlike “for your own safety,”

He put a hand on your leg and you bit your lip, “What if I couldn't see you?” He tilted his head.

“Oh?” He looked at you for what felt like forever, thinking, then got closer again, slowly, and he took your hands. You let him guide them to the back of his head as you stared into his visor, focusing on what was visible of his eyes under the red. “Okay, take it off when I tell you, only when I tell you” You nodded and he let go of your hands taking his to your face. You took a grip of his mask and he pressed his palms against the side of your eyes, curling his fingers over your eyes, covering them. You couldn't help the smile. “Okay, now”

You pulled up and the mask came off. You felt him sigh as you left the mask in the space between you. Your fingertips traced his skin, he had a strong jawline and small lips. Soft hair was curled around his head and it smelled different than the rest of him. This touch was smooth, he felt like cotton candy.

He laughed a bit “You are tickling me,” his voice was kept low in volume, he sounded somehow different.

“You are beautiful,” you breathed out.

“What?” you felt his brows frown under your hands “are you cheating?”

“No, I can just feel it,” though you already knew he was beautiful even before putting your hands on him.

He hummed and you stroked his cheeks with your thumbs.

You dove into him, your nose pressed against his cheek and the all so sweet, sweet, touch of pink petals around your mouth. It was closed but somehow deep, he was warm in a way that made your ribcage feel too small. He breathed out, a few inches away from you now and you thought he was looking at you. “Wow…” It came out of him on a breath and he stared a bit longer before moving his hands. You pressed your eyes closed when his fingers left them to take a grip of your head, pulling you in, crashing into your lips again. He was almost furious this time but, still as deep and sweet as the first one. When his tongue met your lips you let it in, leaning more, getting closer. You opened your mouth to breathe and he let out a noise, wet with all of you all over him. He kissed you neck next and your eyes remained closed “I like this a lot,” he said against your throat.

“Told you so,” you smiled a bit and he raised up to kiss you, murmuring about liking the way your lips tasted and how good it was and more stuff you couldn't really make out due the incoherence of his words against your lips. It was long after that when he pulled away, his hands exploring the small of your back as you sat closer on the couch and buried your head on the crook of his neck. “ ´m not looking,” you said sleepily.

“I want to do this every day,” he spoke in a way that made him sound lost, like if he was feeling something he had never felt before “I want to do this tonight and tomorrow morning and every time we watch a movie and I want you to do this every time I come over, I want to hang out every day now, I want you to do that every time you see me I want—” he went under your shirt once again, hugging you with his hands skin to skin “fuck, I want, I wish I could live under your skin, I wanna live under your skin inside your chest and be all warm and I, I also want you to keep me like that all the time,”

You breathed a laugh. “I´m not that good of a kisser,” he pulled away fast and grabbed your shoulders and you almost saw his face before closing your eyes and darting your head to the side “Dude, give me a warning, I almost saw you,”

“Can we do this every day?” He had so much energy.

You reached for his face, tasting his jaw with your palm. “Yeah, I mean I wish but, I can't see you.”

“So that's a problem?” you thought about it.

“I guess, long term? Yeah, like, now it's okay but, I dunno, at some point, I don´t know,” you didn't want to think about it. It had been so nice kissing him, it had felt so fucking good, now you only wanted to listen to the end of the movie and fall asleep with him on your couch, think about the future later, live with him now.  

“If I let you see me, can we do that every day?” he tightened his grip on your arms.

“What? Kissing?”

“Yeah,” he sounded determined.

You did want to, you had always wanted to, have him every day, have him wake up in your apartment, have him beside you every day. “I guess so, if you want to”

“Open your eyes,” you felt his face closer to you now. You questioned him, slowly, as if you didn't understand “you can see me, open your eyes, come on,”

You did. He smiled when you did. It was a wide, beautiful, boyish smile. You stared at him, his green eyes, the lines on his cheeks. He had two brown freckles on his left cheekbone, one much bigger than the other. He was stunning, beautiful in a way that felt untrue. He apologized and murmured something when he looked away, to his utility belt. He took a pair of glasses from it and shoved them into his face.

“There I am, me,” his mouth moved as he spoke, his lips were kind of bruised in a pinkish shade, “my name is Adrian Chase, now you know me, and now that you know the secret identity of the second-best hero in Evergreen you are gonna be in so much danger so, as this is my fault, I will stay here some nights, if you don't mind, and I will protect you. You will do that thing that you do, the kissing I mean, as a sign of gratitude”

He was so fucking sweet. “Sure,” you said with your hands back at his face, kissing the side of his mouth a few times “that sounds lovely to me”

 So, the first time they saw you, he had been staying over for something close to two months. You had seen his apartment and you had kissed him there. You had taken him out for dinner and to movie reruns and he had driven you to the outskirts and you had kissed him as he sat on top of his car, under the stars. You had kissed his forehead when he got hurt on patrol, you kissed his cheek the morning he made you breakfast, you kissed his neck and his jaw and his thighs and his shoulders. You kissed him every day because there was nothing that could compare to the look on his face when you did.

First time they saw you, you kissed the corner of his mouth and you took his red hat off. You had come to pick him up from work, to surprise him. He had kissed you inside the restaurant, it had been small, in a corner, before he walked to the backrooms to change out his work uniform.

#adrian chase x reader #adrian chase x gn!reader #adrian chase x gender neutral reader #adrian chase #vigilante dc #peacemaker #peacemaker fanfiction #gender neutral reader #this was.... def smth..... not the best thing ive written ngl

[cycian]

Sarah x female Captain. How about female Spacefarer/Captain wreaking havoc and hurting people due to being drugged with Terrormorph fluid? How would Sarah feel? What would she do? Very angry Sarah?

The aftermath would be greatly appreciated too, if you have the muse for it.

Ooooh, we love angst and protective Sarah in this house!

Sarah Morgan watched with terror as the UC dragged away her beloved.

Powerless.

She felt powerless. All her life she had fought to ensure the safety of the people around her, yet in these critical moments she could do nothing but watch.

Watch as her lover fought and injured brave soldiers, wounded civilians as Sarah tried to tackle the Spacefarer to the ground.

She couldn't fight her--no matter how hard she tried, the idea of hurting her, even as her hollow eyes bore into hers, her fist smashing against her stomach, she could never harm the woman she loved.

She watched as the Spacefarer was dragged away by her hair, covered in blood.

And fell to her knees.

She had no idea how long she remained like that. A medic stopped by and checked her for injuries-- thinking that she had been amidst the survivors and was in a state of shock.

It took Andreja to shake her awake as her friend grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her to her feet.

She told her in a hushed voice where lover was being held. But while Sarah could hear the words being said, nothing felt real.

She had been in many examination rooms before.

Always on the 'good' side of the glass.

This time there was no good side to be on as she watched her lover, beaten and bruised, halfway slumped on the table, blood still dripping from her nose--begging the interrogator to hear her out.

Rage tore through her heart.

During the last few months, her eyes had sparked with a new flame. She'd spent countless hours letting them roam over her lover's body with nothing but affection and adoration.

But right now?

Right now, she could barely see past the hot tears that were threatening to break the surface.

There were no Gods left in Sarah Morgan’s universe, but she had found a glimpse of divinity in the embrace of the woman that found herself shackled to a table. She prayed, with everything she had, that her lover’s words were nothing but the truth. Because if her love had truly held such darkness in her that she would unleash pure hell on innocent people… Sarah Morgan had lost her belief in a God long ago—but she knew hell to be true. And she would not hesitate to show the Spacefarer what it looked like.

It took both Andreja and Sam to drag her out of that room. It took Noel and Sona’s pleading to get her to sit down and get some food in her system. It immediately went back up. She could not keep anything down, no matter how hard she tried. The days and nights blurred together. Why couldn’t the scientists hurry? Noel had explained to her, countless times that such processes took a LOT of time. But Sarah didn’t care.

She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, could hardly breathe with the weight on her chest—why should they?

Terramorph fluid. No one could have seen that one coming. Admiral Logan called Sarah—he had probably expected her to thank him, or at least a single word. But no. Soon as Sarah heard, she let her communicator clatter to the floor as she rushed out, jacket tucked under her arm as she all but sprinted out of the Lodge.

“…Should we follow her?” Sam tilted his head as the door slammed shut. Andreja and Barrett got up from their table and without a word, resigned themselves to run after the blur that was the Chair of Constellation.

There were no words that could express how relieved Sarah Morgan felt. Back in her quarters, her lover safe and sound, in her arms. She had showered the Spacefarer with kisses, soon as the doors closed behind them. Sarah Morgan wasn’t necessarily ‘needy’, quite the opposite. But that day, she locked her doors and refused to let the rest of the world interrupt her reunion with her love.

“You know, Sarah, I value your help, but perhaps you are being a little… zealous?” The Captain spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t see what you’re talking about.” Sarah said as she finished wiring the new security turret into the ceiling of her love’s bedroom, wiping her hands on her grey engineering outfit, covered with oil stains and soot.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks, and the Chair of Constellation had seemingly lost her mind. She had enlisted the help of the entirety of the organization in securing the Lodge. Security turrets were brought in, courtesy of Walter’s connections. Tripwires and motion sensors had been a joint project from Andreja and Noel. Vladimir had set up some high-tech surveillance equipment all around the building and neighboring area, while Sam had enlisted Matteo’s expertise in ensuring that none of the security measures would harm them.

The Spacefarer sighed and let her head rest on her knuckle, as Barrett walked by with a chuckle, another security turret perched on his shoulder to be set up in the corridor.

“I won’t let them touch you. Ever again.” Sarah said with a deceivingly bright smile, hiding the murderous glint in her eyes.

#starfield #starfield prompt fill #sarah morgan