#(it feels like there's a scratch on the inside of my eyelid) (and it HURTS)

[justabunchofdragons]

ow ow ow ow <- has a stye

[strangererotica]

An addition to this fic, as @plasticfangtastic kindly mentioned she’d like a second part ♥️

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

some big content warnings: implied character death, vomit, blood, menstrual blood, consuming of aforementioned bodily fluids by Art, breath play, choking, dubious consent, oral sex, vaginal sex, use of a sex toy

He was back.

Oh my god, he was back.

Your stomach roiled in a disturbing mix of revulsion and excitement. You wanted this. Despite how loudly your thinned grip on sanity was screaming at you not to want this, you did. You wanted him: this sick fucking clown, leaning menacingly in the frame of your bedroom doorway.

As before, he remained silent. The only sounds you could hear were the quick breaths you drew in and out, and the plastic crinkle of the black garbage bag settling at the clown’s feet. You knew what he kept inside that bag…terrible things, things that he used to hurt people. As he knelt to rifle through its contents, fear momentarily overrode the twisted arousal swelling between your thighs.

Your heart was pounding so hard you swore you could hear it, knocking against your ribcage like a frenetic drumbeat. The metallic sound of various weapons being shifted about scratched at your ears, making you gulp. The clown paused, making an exaggerated expression as if to say “ahh, there it is.” He produced something from inside the garbage bag you’d never have expected…something less likely to cause pain, and much more likely to cause pleasure instead…

His smile deepened as he met your eyes. The long, fat dildo looked strange held in the clown’s hand, lingering mid-air as he observed your response to it. Your lips had parted, words failing you and for a moment, making the two of you somewhat equal. Words were unnecessary to describe the confusion and anticipation you were feeling; the look on your face confirmed for the clown everything he already knew. He may have been a monster, but something inside him remained a man. The way your body had responded on his hand the day prior revealed your needs were just as human as his.

He approached you deliberately, taunting you with his slow pace. You made note of the open doorway behind him, wondering fleetingly if you could escape. The thought faded as quickly as it had formed, however, when the clown stopped at the side of your bed, and tapped the dildo lightly against your lips. All traces of common sense, all semblance of self preservation, evaporated in an instant. His other hand came to rest at your cheek, pulling tenderly along the curve of your jawline. You drew in a sharp breath, shock racking your body at the realization that the fingertips currently tracing your skin in a gesture of tenderness were also capable of unspeakable violence. The clown’s thumb dragged along your bottom lip, pulling it slightly downward. You gazed obediently up at him, tepidly offering your tongue against the tip of his thumb. His expression softened, his sharp features relaxing slightly at your offering up, of surrender when he was so accustomed to being met with fear. You, however, were proving yourself even better than prey. Offerings were always preferable to sacrifices, the clown had observed. Especially when they fit his cock as well as you…

He pressed the head of the dildo between your lips, his chest dipping in an exhale as you took the first four inches with no resistance. Your eyelids fluttered, lashes dusting up and down rapidly as your gag reflex was triggered on the sixth inch of the toy. The clown shook his head disapprovingly, and you felt a sting of disappointment. You wanted to please him, and his expression conveyed that your performance with the toy was coming up short. As if to compensate, you began to bob your head on the toy, silently asking the clown to try again. He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders amiably, before abruptly forcing another two inches down your throat. Your eyes flew open wide, your body lurching as a surge of vomit washed up your throat. The clown removed the dildo, watching as you sprayed the floor beside your bed in hot, slippery bile. Coughing hoarsely, you used your pajama sleeve to wipe at your glistening chin, tears forming along your lash line. The clown’s hand moved to your hair, gripping a handful of your tresses painfully hard. He threw your back against the bed, climbing astride you and casing you in between his legs.

He examined the toy, peppered with bits of your sick, before dragging his tongue along its surface and licking it clean. The act should have repulsed you, but somehow, in his presence you were beyond the confines of your normal sexual principles. The gesture was somehow tender, considerate; and when he tore the waist of your pajama shorts down, you didn’t even mind that it hurt, elastic snapping your hip with a sharp sting. The clown positioned the head of the dildo against your entrance, his smile fading to a look of concentrated arousal when he noticed the red liquid smeared between your thighs. He pressed the toy inside you, his cock stiffening against your thigh when you whimpered at being filled. Again, he thrust the toy into you, his breath quickening as he watched your menstrual blood gush out around the toy’s head. He continued to fuck you on the toy, his own cock needy and leaking against the inside of his costume as he thrust the dildo, and your blood, in and out of you over and over again.

When he did remove the toy, it was with selfish intent. Because rather than lay it aside, the clown pulled it to his lips desperately, sucking your crimson essence from the silicone toy like it was sustaining him. He then reached under you, gripping your ass and lifting your hips till they were elevated at his face. Before you could even comprehend what was about to happen, the clown had buried his mouth against your cunt, a mix of lips, teeth and tongue devouring you in rough, greedy pursuit. It was too much, the physical sensations and their emotional implications overwhelming you. The way he literally ate you was the most intense sexual experience you’d ever had. The level of intimacy having your blood consumed by sometime else created was unlike anything else; no ordinary orgasm could compare to this, no drug could ever match this high. You came screaming, fingernails tearing into the fabric of your bedsheets, heels kicking into the clown’s shoulders at a brutal force that no man could have withstood. He held you in place as if it were effortless for him, like your ass in his hands and your cunt in his mouth were weightless.

When he sank his teeth into the fat of your inner thigh, you yelped in pain, and he immediately lifted his head, face covered in your blood, locking eyes with you. The blue you’d seen in them earlier had vanished, replaced with something pitch black and haunting, as if consuming your blood had itself tinted the clown’s eyes with ink. He climbed across you, his erection prodding your stomach, your legs left trembling on the bed where he’d dropped them. Ripping the fabric separating his body from yours, the clown reached inside his costume and removed his cock. You trembled under him, his other hand closing over your throat, your pulse drumming against the soiled palm of his glove. Squeezing harder around your throat, the clown watched your eyes as he sank his cock inside you. You tried to exhale, but his hand wouldn’t allow it, your cheeks going puffy and red, eyes widening in alarm as he kept your breath locked away inside his grip. Your hold on consciousness began to waver, eyes drifting backward in surrender. Air was suddenly returned to you, the clown’s hold on your throat relenting long enough for you to suck desperately at all the oxygen your burning lungs could hold. His hips slammed forward, crushing your insides like a weight. His lithe fingers once again tightened around your throat, sealing off your access to the air and the world around you…

You jolted upward, your chest crushed beneath the clown’s weight over you. His smile was sadistic as usual, confirming that he enjoyed this game of control, of bringing you inches from the edge of death before lurching you mercifully back to consciousness. His cock was splitting you apart at the seams, bruising your cervix as he seemed to get bigger the longer he was inside you. It was as if his cock had continued to grow even after becoming fully erect, swelling inside you till not a single crevice of your cunt was untouched by his girth. He released your throat, grinning maniacally as you gasped at the air, watching the red imprint of his fingers rapidly form a bruise in your skin. Free to breathe as you needed, you began to feel all the other sensations the clown was stimulating inside you. His fat, engorged length fit perfectly inside you, lodged against your g-spot in a way that had your back arching, drool spilling from your lips to the bedsheets as you moaned for more, more, more. He knew what you needed, but he wanted to hear you beg. Holding your life in his hands wasn’t enough for the clown; he needed to hold your pleasure ransom as well. He’d already spoiled you with one orgasm, the best you’d ever had in your life or ever would have, and he knew it. Now your pleasure was optional; he wasn’t going to play with you much longer anyway. It was his time to get what he needed, to take what he wanted from you before his time with you was over.

Reaching again for your hips, the clown lifted them so he was fucking down into you, your back plastered to the drenched bed, a sticky mix of cum and blood caking the sheets to your skin. You felt yourself getting close again, the raw throb of an even more powerful climax than the first rolling up from deep in your core. The sounds that left your lips were unholy, hedonistic cries to the god of this earth for more and more pleasure, for unending ecstasy at the expense of all that is good and holy and right. Your teeth sealed over your bottom lip, breaking the skin as you convulsed in orgasm. Ripples of pleasure rocked through you, snapping your hips back and forth, jolting on the cock inside you so wildly that the clown didn’t even have to thrust, but rather watched as you fucked yourself on him. He grit his teeth as the first tug of his orgasm began, biting the insides of his cheeks till the soft tissue bled. Ropes of cum belched inside you, coating the walls of your pussy, his thrusts smearing your bullied cervix in creamy white.

He sank his fingertips into the fat of your hips, watching with interest as crescent-shaped marks bloomed red under his ministrations. You were too fucked-out to feel anything at this point, your body still shaking even after your orgasm had faded. Eyes clouded over, a sheen of sweat and blood covering you, the clown thought you looked even prettier than you had wearing his cum on your back the night before. And now, he decided, it was time to see how pretty you’d look from the inside out. He left the bed, taking a step toward his garbage bag of supplies by the doorway. You were too busy shaking and panting, and mumbling some incoherent string of nonsense to realize that the clown had removed a blood-caked axe from his bag. Returning to the bed, he climbed astride you once again, his knees at your sides. Art tucked his softening, satisfied dick inside his costume, sighed contentedly, then lifted the axe above his head… 🩸

@hippiegothrecs @megangovier @plasticfangtastic @jessieconstantine1999 @kakixii @theslvttysimp

[chaotic-vibes-only-please]

Can I request for some ben drowned or eyeless jack smut? Like he sees you in a short skirt and just looses his self-control?

Control(Eyeless Jack x Reader Smut)

Pairing: Eyeless Jack x Afab Reader

A/N: Of course! Here you go🍵💕 Sorry, I took a long break from writing. College has been rough😭

Warnings: Smut, Rough sex, breeding and size kink heavily implied, degradation, afab reader, 18+, MDI

You're lifted up and down onto his cock at a pace that shouldn't be possible. The little skirt wrapped around your waist flows prettily against your hips as they bounce onto his thick shaft.

Jack's large hands grip your waist in a bruising grip, claws digging against your skin and threatening to break it. You're gasping and crying while he continues to use you as his personal flesh light. Your own fingers dig into his strong shoulders that flex underneath your touch, displaying the ripples of muscle he has. The grey skin on his back is scratched up by your own nails. Jack thrusts up into you particularly hard and you fall forward onto his broad chest.

Your poor cunt is so overstimulated that it almost hurts. It's the good kind of pain where you don't know whether you want it to stop or you want more.

"What's wrong Little One? Can't handle getting dicked down? This is what you deserve for wearing this tiny peice of fabric you call a fucking skirt" He grunts into your ear, his brown hair tickling your cheek as he licks a long line up the side of your neck with his monsterous black tongue. "And only a pair of panties underneath? You were begging me to bend you over" Jack chuckles before slamming you down onto your back. You yelp at the sudden change in position. He forces your thighs far apart. Your skirt flips upwards, exposing how your pussy grips his cock, folds slick with your own cum. He forces your thighs wide apart with his hands so that he can reach even deeper inside of you.

He hits impossibly deeper into your cunt, his pelvis hitting against your ass hard. Jack keeps your skirt bunched by your waist so that he can see you fully wrapped around his length. You're left a whimpering blubbering mess underneath him as the knot in your stomach tightens. Your walls twitch and clench down on him the closer you grow to your release. "That's right, take it" He groans while slamming into you harder and faster with each thrust. The pads of his fingers rub against your clit in a circular motion.

Your eyes roll back, eyelids fluttering as hot white pleasure bursts inside of you. Your thighs tremble in his hold. With one last rut of his hips, he buries his cock as deep as he can inside of you and fills you with his cum. You can feel the warmth seeping into your womb. There's so much of it dribbles down your folds and to your inner thighs. You slightly shift and whimper at feeling so full as he continues to pump load after load out of his length and into your pussy.

He thrusts into you hard, but slow to fuck his cum into you. You're left whining and clawing at his strong back. "You know better than to tease me" He growls and looks down to stare at where you're connected to him. You nod your head with a whimper and mutter a quick sorry. He slowly pulls all the way out until the tip is the only thing keeping your folds spread open and admires how his cum oozes from your cunt before pushing back in all the way inch by inch. "You wanted my attention, you'll have it all night long" He hisses from above you. Your trembling, tears covering your face and skin heated. And despite your crying, he starts to pound into you again. You knew wearing the new skirt you bought would rile him up, but as you're getting your guts rearranged you can't help to think you didn't know he'd enjoy the peice of fabric this much.

[fluff-lover]

Healing Touch: Jealousy

A little drabble inside Healing Touch, but can be read as a stand alone.

A/N: This takes place after reader/Angel and Logan get together, around chapter 6 (it’s not posted yet)

Logan’s not the “flowers and chocolates” type of guy. He was too “tough” for those corny things, or at least that’s what he likes to think.

But you know he can be tender and thoughtful so when you had flowers delivered to you one morning, you didn’t question it. You giggled with excitement as you placed the flowers in a vase and set them on your desk. They really gave the school’s infirmary a pop of color.

You were supposed to help Hank with some paperwork but you were too distracted looking at the beautiful combination of flowers, your belly filled with butterflies as you thought about Logan and how special he made you feel.

The last bell of the day rang and you could hear the kids rushing through the halls. Finally the day was over. You opened the door and looked around the hall, expecting to see Logan making his way to the infirmary. And he didn’t disappoint.

Since the two of you got together you built a little routine: you saw each other in the infirmary after class to catch up, then you had dinner with the rest of the team, and then he would sneak to your bedroom for some alone time. Logan still chose to sleep by himself in his own room, although it was starting to get harder and harder to say goodnight, both of you just wanting to sleep in the same bed, holding each other. But his fear of hurting you in his sleep was bigger, so this routine was enough, for now at least.

As he made his way to the infirmary he saw you standing by the door with the biggest, most lovely smile on your face, and he felt himself floating to you.

“Hey, little angel.” He greeted you.

“Hi!” you giggled and pulled him inside by his arm.

After kicking the door shut you basically threw yourself at him, arms and legs wrapping around him as you kissed him. Logan was caught by surprise but still managed to catch you mid air without dropping you. The kiss was deep and passionate, the type of kiss you reserved for whenever you were alone in your bedroom. When you finally pulled back you two were breathless

“Someone is in a good mood.” Logan observed, panting. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Mhmmm.” You hummed, eyelids half closed, a smile on your face. “I just wanted to thank you for the flowers.”

Logan blinked.

“What flowers?”

You could swear you heard the sound of a record scratching.

“You didn’t send me flowers?” You asked, slowly “climbing” down Logan. He stared at you.

“No, I didn’t.” 

It’s hard to tell what was bigger: your disappointment or his confusion.

At that Logan spotted the flowers on your desk. He gently pulled aside before stomping to the desk to inspect it. You watched him as he looked around the flowers until he found a little card tucked between the stems. 

You facepalmed, how did you not think about checking first?

“To my little angel -your secret admirer.” Logan read out loud, rage building up in his chest.

“I thought they were from you.” You said shyly. “You’re the only one that calls me that.”

“Well, clearly I’m not!” He said. “And I’m not so much of a secret admirer, am I?”

“I’m sorry.” you looked down. 

With a huff, Logan picked up the flowers and walked out of the infirmary. You frowned in confusion and followed him.

“Where are you going?” You asked, but he didn’t reply, instead he kept walking.

Logan bursted into the teachers’ lounge room with an imposing stance, making the room go quiet very fast.

“Who the FUCK sent flowers to MY girl?” He growled before throwing the bouquet on a table. 

You could hear a pin drop. Everyone looked shocked, and some even a little bit scared. After a moment you heard someone cough.

“Um, that was me.” Alex Summers said. “I didn’t know you two had become a thing...”

You thought Logan would kill him. His breathing picked up, his nose flared and his fists clenched, eyes throwing daggers at him.

Alex didn’t wish for a fight, but if it was needed he was ready to defend himself.

“Logan…” You whispered before placing your hand on his arm. You were the only person that could calm him down. Your touch always seemed to ground him. “It’s okay, he didn’t know.”

Logan bared his teeth to Alex as a final warning before turning to you. His eyes softened instantly. He didn’t want to scare you and you looked upset already, he didn’t like that. He walked to Alex, and the young man squared up his shoulders, ready for a confrontation.

“Logan…” You insisted.

“You try something like this ever again and I will end you.” Logan threatened before turning and walking out the room.

Everyone stood in silence, too shaken up to do or say something.

You looked at the flowers on the table, all torn and ruined, and your heart broke.

… you really liked those flowers. 

-

No one knew where Logan was. After the altercation he took off, god knows where, and hadn’t come back yet. The sun was setting and you were worried. You considered calling him, but instead you chose to send him a text letting him know you’d wait for him at your usual bench.

Sitting there you took a moment to think. You were sad that the flowers weren’t from Logan. You couldn’t care less about Alex, or anyone else for that matter. But you wanted to believe Logan liked you enough to do sweet gestures like sending flowers. Maybe he really wasn’t that type of man, and as much as the idea of never getting flowers hurt you, you knew you’d have to get used to it. Logan expressed his affection in other ways, and that was enough for you.

You were also surprised by how possessive Logan seemed to be about you. Never in a million years you’d think he would fight another man over you. That was the last thing you wanted for him.

That being said, there was a tiny little part of you that was flattered. The way Logan called you HIS girl in a room filled with people made your heartbeat pick up. This was enough for you to know you were in his mind, and he didn’t need to send flowers for people to know you belonged to him.

Suddenly Logan appeared by your side and your eyes almost fell out of their sockets. 

He was holding a big bouquet of red roses, a teddy bear and a box of chocolates. You couldn’t decide whether this was the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen, or if he just looked ridiculous. This was so out of character for him.

“What the…?” You said getting up from the bench.

“Hear me out.” Logan said as he stepped closer. “I know I acted like an asshole and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” You reassured him.

“Yeah, well… Still, I shouldn’t have acted out like that. I think I was jealous.”

“You think?” you teased, making him roll his eyes.

“I don’t like the idea of Alex, or anyone else for that matter, to swoop in and take you away.”

You felt yourself melting.

“Oh Logan, that’s never gonna happen.” 

“It should happen if I don’t treat you right.” He said.

“What do you mean?” You asked, confused.

“I never sent you flowers.” Logan said with shame, as if it was an embarrassing thing to admit. “And then some random guy does and it makes me look bad.” He shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

“No you’re not, don’t say that.” you shook your head.

“I don’t know how to do this whole… relationship thing.” He said, cringing at his own election of words. “But I’m trying, okay? I really want to do things right. So…” He looked down at the gifts. “I got my girl some flowers and… stuff.” Poor guy, he was really trying.

You smiled and reached out to take the flowers from him.

“Red roses… that’s very romantic.” You giggled before sniffing a flower and sighing happily. “Thank you Logan, I love them.” You stood on your toes and pecked his lips. He smiled widely, the type of smile that steals your breath away every. single. time. 

You took the rest of his gifts and walked back to his bedroom with him.

Later that night you looked at the flowers on your desk, lit only by your bedside table. The box of chocolates was open and half empty, and the teddy bear was on your dresser facing the wall because according to Logan, “he shouldn’t see what papa was about to do to mama”.

And what a show it was!

Logan laid between your legs, with his head on your chest after some intense love making. You ran your hands through his hair and he hummed happily.

“That was… something.” you said exhausted and giggled. Logan propped himself up and smiled down at you. The way he looked at you made you blush shyly, even after everything you just did. There was a softness in his eyes that was reserved only for you.

“Something good I hope.” He joked.

“Baby it’s a good thing I can heal fast, because otherwise I don’t think I would be able to walk tomorrow.” you laughed.

“Good, good.” Logan said proudly before caressing your cheek. “I know that now everyone is aware that you’re my girl, but just to be sure…” You watched him take his dog tags and place them in your hand.

“Lo…” You gasped.

“That way everyone will know.” He said. You quickly put them on and once they sat on your chest Logan leaned in and kissed you.

Not only were you his girl, but by giving you his tags he was also saying “I’m yours.”

Logan Howlett was your man.

-

Tag list: (let me know if you don't want to be tagged in drabbles)

@starsmoonn

@insanesosciopath

@rebloggingfanfictioninthechaos

@ayamenimthiriel

@charmingballoon

@espressopatronum454

@uncertified-doc

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[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 31

part 1 | part 30 | ao3

updating the rating to E. cw: recreational drug use/marijuana, foreplay, mild-to-moderate spit kink

“I feel like a water bottle,” Steve slurs. At some point he wiggled his way between Eddie’s legs to get a better look at his tattoos — starting at his ankles and working his way up, pointing at each piece and asking, "What's this? And what's that?"

Eddie explained each one in turn: the quotes, the lyrics, the silly art. "This one's the Elvish word for friend. That one's from an Iron Maiden song. Oh, the asterisk? It's supposed to be an asshole. No, I'm serious! That's how Vonnegut drew them in his books."

Now Steve’s lying flat on his back between Eddie’s splayed thighs, eyelids heavy, body warm. 'Go Your Own Way' plays softly on the stereo, and Eddie continues his tattoo tour, the fingers of his free hand weaving patterns through Steve's hair — lazy, twirling zig-zags that send skitters of sensation across his scalp and down his spine.

Steve feels like he could die right now. Happy. Held. Content.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

“This is fucking awesome,” he hums.

“Good,” Eddie grins at him, “I’m glad.” He scratches lightly at his scalp. “What were you, uh— what were you saying about a water bottle?”

Oh, right. Steve lifts a hand; pantomimes tilting a bottle back and forth. “Like, uh….. Sssloshy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie snorts. “You’re so high.”

“Mmmmhm.”

“And you look like you’re jerking off a ghost."

“I’ll jerk off your ghost,” Steve mutters petulantly.

"I’m sure my ghost would love that.”

Eddie reaches for the joint and takes another drag, and Steve tilts his neck, arching up to look at him. Bites his lip at the pretty picture Eddie makes: the sharp shadows and delicate lines, the shape of his full lips exhaling rings of smoke. Big for a guy's. He remembers thinking that a couple weeks ago. That they were big. That they looked soft.

And now he thinks: Kissable.

Steve licks his lips. “What about your, uh- not ghost?”

Eddie laughs like he’s watching a newborn puppy try to walk. “You want to touch my dick so bad.”

“S’probably a good dick,” Steve shrugs, unashamed.

He probably should be — ashamed. Guilty for the feelings stirring deep inside his chest; feelings weed brings to the surface, sends southbound, turns to need. He can imagine how the good, god-fearing Catholics who raised him would react if they could see him now, how they'd foam and froth and rage, red-faced and covered in spittle as they shouted that he's condemning himself to Hell.

But the thing is, he's already in Hell. He's been here since July.

And anyway, Hell's kinda nice. Gentle and warm, surprisingly kind. Hell smells like leather and tobacco, like weed and aftershave, and it sounds like Lindsey Buckingham, and it likes to braid Steve's hair.

Hell has endless, inky eyes and probably kisses him with tongue.

Heat spreads through him like molten honey at the thought, spilling hot over the edges, curling in his core, and Steve turns his head to the side and drags his mouth over a tattoo on Eddie’s inner thigh — a cartoon cloud over a curled-up snoozing fox. He noses at the edge of Eddie's shorts; pushes them up.

Goosebumps pebble under the warm press of his lips. "What's this one?" Steve whispers, nudging the fabric further up.

Eddie’s laugh is quiet and strained. "Something I don't want to discuss with your mouth this close to my dick. Stevie," he warns, but it's breathless, full of want. There's a wet spot on his shorts.

Steve pushes onto his belly, blows hot breath over the spot, liquid fire coursing through him at he stares at the bulge in Eddie’s shorts. Blistering heat, the sweetness dense, rich and thick on his tongue; in his veins. He mouths at the crease of Eddie's thigh. Eddie smells so good, like skin and sweat and boy, and Steve wants this. Wants it so badly he feels the ache inside his teeth. I dreamed the goddess poured ambrosia...

Steve feels it drip from head to toe.

"Steve." Eddie's voice is sharp this time, commanding and firm as he fists a hand in Steve's hair — not hurting him; not letting him move. Keeping him from putting his mouth just where he wants.

Steve makes a desperate sound and rocks his hips against the bed.

"Steve, stop," Eddie scolds. Pulls his hair a little harder, like he’s tugging on a leash.

"Eddie, please.” Steve’s eyes roll back, and he shifts his hips again. Just once; just a bit. Not nearly hard enough.

"No. Behave. Be good."

Steve freezes — tenses every muscle, holds himself so still, his face flushing with shame, because he didn’t mean to not be good. Didn’t mean to do anything bad. He blinks at Eddie with watery eyes and says he’s sorry, his voice cracking around the word.

"God," Eddie groans. His fist tightens in Steve’s hair, and his hips twitch off the bed, the curve of his cock brushing the tip of Steve's nose. Fuck. "Holy shit. Roll over."

"What?"

"On your back, like you were before." He’s panting when he says it, and Steve does as he's told; flips over onto his back, face bracketed by Eddie's thighs, the tent in his own shorts embarrassingly big. Obvious.

"Good,” Eddie exhales. “That’s- Jesus. Yeah, that’s good." He sinks back against the wall with a winded sigh.

And then he doesn't say anything else.

Doesn’t even move, just slouches down to catch his breath.

Steve kind of wants to cry; feels chastised and stupid, because of course Eddie doesn't want this. He already said he didn't, didn't he? Not tonight, anyway. And now Steve’s ruined things by being high and dumb and selfish, getting himself worked up over nothing and making it Eddie’s problem, and he'll probably spend the rest of this night miserable and blue-balled because he's a horny idiot, but that's—

It’s fine, if Eddie wants to cool things off; if he doesn't want to— he's allowed to not want—

"Here's what's about to happen.”

Steve snaps his head up to listen. Twists his neck around, sees Eddie lounging against the wall like a bored king on a throne, one ringed hand cupping himself loosely through his shorts. He squeezes once, takes another deep breath; lets it out long and controlled. Steve’s gonna fucking drool. "You’re gonna touch yourself for me.”

Steve moans. Guttural and loud, the sound punched out of his lungs, because Eddie’s voice comes out like gravel — husky, deep, the words authoritative and slow; like Steve needs to be punished; like Eddie’s merciful.

“You’re going to touch yourself exactly how I tell you to, and only how I tell you to. If I say stop, you stop. If I say faster, you speed up. If it's too much—" His hand moves to Steve’s cheek, slapping lightly against the bone. “—you tap out, or you tell me.”

Steve nods his head, entranced. Eddie’s thumb moves to his mouth. “And if you’re very, very good…” He tugs his bottom lip; presses in; lets him suck. “…then I’ll let you watch me come. How does that sound?”

Steve whines; hollows his cheeks, sucking harder, flicking his tongue. Eddie’s thighs clamp down around him, and when he pulls his hand away the spit clings to his thumb, a delicate string connecting them before it breaks. “Asked you a question, sweetheart.” He smears the spit over Steve’s chin. “Does that sound good?”

Steve nearly swallows his tongue.

—

part 32

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[trendywaifus]

giving stelle the silent treatment. but this time, you’re not mad at her but yourself. I love stelle and this is an old draft 😞 cw: fem! reader, fluff, not proofread

“. . .(name)? “ STELLE calls your name with concern evident in her voice when she sees you sitting on your side of the shared bed, back facing towards her. everyone’s in the gazebo, enjoying themselves and relaxing in the company of the others. why aren’t you there? it doesn’t feel right when you’re not laughing by her side with everyone else. you don’t say anything or react to her voice. she swallows and makes her way over to your bed side. you’re on your phone, mindlessly scrolling through the galaxnet with a neutral look on your face, stelle’s lips purses into a thin line. what’s with that look? why aren’t you acknowledging her presence? did something happen?

stelle sits down beside you, sun-colored eyes studies your face for a few moments before her focus shift down to your phone screen you’re aimlessly swiping on. quiet, she lean her taller frame into yours as she watches the feed that seems to have your attention. a short funny video of a chubby looking cat flying around with a mini jet pack on its back earns a small giggle from stelle. she decides to circle an arm around your waist and you almost immediately tense up. her heart stings with pang of confusion and hurt.

“ d-did i do something wrong? “ she queries, quickly pulling her arm away to scratch her head with prized puzzlement. you say nothing but your thumb stops moving, you release an audible soft sigh. your sliver–haired girlfriend paused for a moment, pondering over something before she stands up and gets down on her knees in front of you.

her gloved digits brushes against your knuckles as they curl around your hand and bring it up to her cheek. your (e/c) hues pull away from your phone to meets with hers. her brows raise, pretty golden eyes slightly widen to adopt a cute puppy-like expression on her handsome features. “ my little trash bag? the love of my life? my stinkie butt? “

“ stelle— “

“ my twinkle twinkle little star? my cuddle bug—“

“ enough, stelle. enough, please. “ you interrupt, the small corner of your lips slightly curled. stelle sees that as an accomplishment and the first step of solving the issue at hand.

she leans her lips into your palm, giving it a few warm kisses. “ then talk to me, why are you not with us in the parlor car? everyone’s worried about you and i am too. did i do something wrong or— “

“ you didn’t do anything wrong, ‘ella. it’s just me.”your eyelids lower, a frown turning your pretty lips upside down. stelle tilts her head, she presses your hand more into her cheek, silently urging you to continue. “ i feel out of place. i don’t know, it’s such a weird feeling that came over me. i didn’t want to ruin the mood for everyone so i stayed inside of our cabin. i’m sorry for acting like that towards you. you’ve been nothing but a sweetheart—“

“ your sweetheart. “ she corrects smugly and you roll your eyes.

“ yes, my sweetheart—but, you at least get what i’m saying, right? “

stelle bobs her head, “ i do. in my eyes, you’re like my star and to everyone, you’re like family. when you weren’t there with us, something felt missing. “ she stands up again to sit down next to you, still holding onto your hand. your eyes follow your hand being guided to her chest, right where the stellaron was placed within her. “ especially me. “ she says in a hushed voice, looking at you with love stricken eyes.

[queserasora]

ZORO X FEM READER | NSFW / Soft Smut ™  WORD COUNT: 7.9k CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, nudity (duh), unprotected sexual intercourse (just don’t do it folks, only works in fiction), biting, scratching, kissing, lots of angst and sexual tension, if you’re looking for light and fluffy this isn’t it, excessive mentions of the moon (so if you’re anti moon gtfo), groping, nipple play, zoro talking too damn much and being a little nasty, for ZORO this is pretty TAME because he is like….enamored, so just let him be, allow this moment of softness because it doesn’t come often, so, SOFT ZORO, and like this is zoro being soft so if you don’t think it’s soft enough…idk what to tell you, it’s zoro, i proof read it twice so if you find a typo ignore it, if you tell me there is a typo you need to suck my dick first, thx

NEW MOON 

A dreamer has no home in Mock Town. 

Dreams were for children. Quaint little stories made of glittering sand sprinkled into their eyes, blinding them to the harsh truth of the world. The sting would force their eyelids shut, and they’d drift off into lands made of fantasy and fluffy clouds, carrying them off to somewhere peaceful; somewhere they would never be hurt, a haven safe from pain. 

They’d lay in their bed woven from lies while the moon spills its light through the window.

It had been a long time since there was any moon watching over you. You slept in darkness, holding the lies you told close to your chest. A romantic heart held prisoner in a chest constructed by cynical chains. You spoke like a realist, even when it split your tongue in half. The taste of copper grounded you to your reality, and you swallowed it down, finding it a fitting exchange.

Your blood for the chance to avoid their scorn. It was the price you paid to live in anonymity.

Loneliness went down easily when you drank it with whiskey. You had learned this years ago, so you consume it daily; a necessary evil. It is smooth on your tongue as you watch them from your corner of the establishment. The back of their heads are unfamiliar as they sit at the bar. You think you imagine it, the way your heart seizes at the sound of his voice. A gruffness so rugged it cuts into your skin, spilling everything you held inside. You scoop it up immediately as you throw the rest of your drink back into your throat. The burn in your chest is antiseptic. 

Dreams had nowhere to run in Mock Town. This is where dreams came to die.

It is a mantra you repeat, with every blow they deal on the loud captain and his swordsman. It is a mantra you clamp down on with aching teeth, when their navigator begs them to fight. Your fingers twitch around the etched glass in your hand. You grip it so tightly it cracks, like fault lines across the illusion you had been hiding behind. When they leave the bar, everything shatters.

You wake up, at last, from the nightmare you had built yourself only to plunge into a different colored one. 

They’ll never come back. It is a lie you feed yourself, cram it into your mouth and down into your stomach, until everything overflows. Until you believe it. You pick up the fallen pieces left in their wake and start gluing them back together, before your heart can escape again. But he does come back, and a hammer swings into you when his fist flies into Bellamy’s face.

You chase after him as he takes his prize, your oversized kusarigama attached to your back. The chain links clink as you run, its sound chasing your steps. His name is stiff on your tongue but you cast it out, a coin entering a fountain–one last desperate wish. Luffy finds your proposal comical, and so is the weapon on your back. He smiles until the corner of his eyes crinkle, a smile so radiant you swear you’ve only felt the same warmth under the sun. 

“Please!” your voice pleads, hands grasping at invisible strings. “I want to see the sky island too!”

His hum is contemplative. You feel time stop. You don’t breathe, you can’t, until he answers you at last: “Sure!” His laugh is infectious and odd. “You seem pretty strong, Kusari.” It isn’t your name. It never has been, but it sounds right when he says it.

It still sounds right when he introduces you to everyone; feels right in your bones. The swordsman���s eyes connect with yours–his gravity too large for you to avoid its pull. Inside you, the ocean’s tide begins to change. A smile graces your lips, congenial and friendly. One that was practiced and rehearsed, like every lie you told. Pretending was a curse you had been tasked with. It was easy and it was necessary. The method that always kept you safe.

Zoro shakes his head at everyone’s enthusiasm. Luffy’s impulsiveness was something he was used to, but disagreed with, time and time again. You were a risk he would have never taken. There were too many dubious variables, your background as a bounty hunter made you skilled and dangerous. His doubts on your genuineness are cast aside by excitement of a new adventure. Zoro lived on the edge of his swords, betting his life at every hurdle, his destiny always held firmly by his own capable hands. Sky island or you, it didn’t matter what the peril was. If it was in his way, he’d cut it down without mercy. 

It would be a shame, he thinks–an afterthought polluting his resolve–if he would have to make you his enemy. Your weapon intrigues him, at least that’s his reasoning. There would be no other behind his curiosity. You had a face he could forget, if he really wanted to try. 

He’d just have to want it badly enough.

WAXING CRESCENT

A persistent irritation, like a rash from a poisonous leaf, plagued him. You were too familiar, too quickly ingrained in his routine. Your sense of humor reminded him of Robin. Your mouth was always twisted, in a cynical kind of smile–but only with him. It annoyed him. You had no riddles for Sanji or Luffy or Usopp, but when you’d speak to Zoro–he was constantly baffled. 

What was your insistence on befuddling him? He figures ignoring you would do the trick but your presence is unforgivable; a sin, like a nick on his blades, a scar on his back, a sake poured on dirt. He wanted to obfuscate your existence, like a dark cloud in a night sky, hiding the moon from sight.

Robin and you quickly become a pair, synchronized jokes, and synchronized looks. You team up and prepare riddle after riddle that Zoro can’t seem to solve. He contemplates leaving you two with Nami to your devices but there are so many unknowns in the jungle his conscience doesn’t allow it. His worries become unfounded when he watches you wield your weapon with ease. There was no sign of hesitation when you acted on Chopper and Nami’s behalf–placing their safety as a priority. His shoulders relax, but doubt still circles–a fin in the water–reminding him that it was still too early to tell if you were friend or foe.

Friend or foe, he can’t deny it.

Your face was one he could forget, if he really wanted to. The problem was, he was starting to believe he didn’t want to. In the brief free moments, his eyes would search for it–like a dry tongue seeking water. The softness of your cheeks beguiled him, made him wonder, like a fool, if they were soft as they looked. But your smile was a blade whose sharpness he knew too well. He couldn’t allow himself to be cut. It was a shame he could never live down.

FIRST QUARTER

An adventure on Sky Island had been one you never even had dreamed of. An island in the sky was something only children thought of. It had been a long time since you basked in innocence. 

The thrill of surviving by the skin of your teeth still thrummed through your body. You giggled, a drink in your hand as you enjoyed the kitchen to yourself. The crew had gone to explore Water 7 and while you were happy to be part of the team–it was still something you were getting used to. Working by yourself, for yourself, had been something you’d done for years and were good at. Now, there were others; people you had started caring about.

He finds you in the kitchen, and immediately is envious of the glass in your hand. Not because the dark amber contents swirling around two blocks of ice is alluring. Not because of the way condensation clings to the glass, a sign of deliciously cold temperature enough to soothe most kinds of thirsts. He is envious of the glass, how you cradle it possessively when Zoro steps closer. He is envious of the rim, how your tongue flicks out to lap at a stray drop, sliding down–how it is graced by your lips when you bring it up for a drink.

“Looks good,” he says with strain. Tension pulls at his neck, making it difficult to talk. “Is there more of that?” 

You gesture at the table, where you had left the bottle of whiskey. He intends to move, truly, as he is mere steps away from your body but your eyes are bright and mystifying. They jumble his thoughts and it takes a quirk of your brow to kickstart his brain once more. 

As the moon commands, the tides obey, and a series of events unfolds that can’t be stopped. There’s so much to think of, you almost forget how much Zoro ails you. You forget how you think of him at night while you try to find a comfortable spot to sleep in. You forget the way his eyes pierce you during dinner, how they steal your breath. You forget the strange moments his hand brushes against yours when you pass him by, and the strange way he says your name as if it was a kiss given in secret.

You forget until Sanji is irate, top lip curled in anger. His words bounce off you, and you frown with a small shake of your head. You shake it, not because you find the accusation incredulous–you and Zoro had fought the best you could to protect the money–but because it feels as if you should care more. Zoro–usually calm, composed, quick to avoid drama–always flies at the handle at Sanji’s provocation. This time it’s no different. He comes, not to his own defense, but yours. The cloud over your mind lifts, and there’s a light beaming into your chest. Your mouth twists into a grimace.

You try to keep the light out by bringing a hand to your chest. Beams slip right through the cracks of your fingers. 

Your hand is still over your chest when Robin goes missing. You seek her out, desperate for an ally to make you forget–to remind you of the dangers of letting others in. There was an unspoken understanding between you two; a darkness shared and understood. You understand this even when you find out about Robin’s possible betrayal. In your heart, you try to reason, in your mind you find enough to doubt. When Zoro speaks up, like the devil on your shoulder, and makes it clear he isn't holding his breath when it comes to Robin, coldness sets in. People were complicated. You had learned that lesson with blood in your mouth. You wonder if Zoro has learned this as well–or was he the darkness too? Did he find it hard to trust? Had he been forced to cement walls around himself?

You begin to sink in, hiding behind your usual facade. Lies slip out of your mouth, one after the other, snakes with two and three heads. It was better this way, fabricating a self so different from your true source that nobody could ever hurt you. Desire could only lead to disappointment. Whatever embers he had left behind on the back of your hand, you try to smother it out, covering it with your free hand.

WAXING GIBBOUS

Raucous laughter meets shadows and light.

Luffy could never pass up a party, and after saving Robin there was so much to celebrate. The taste of sake on his tongue was familiar; a pleasant burning whose limits he knew all too well. This was something he could control, a phenomenon that did not incite fear or anxiety. 

He could not say the same about the phenomenon of your skin under the light of the moon. A throat so dry he feels choking seizes his words, so he drinks and drinks and drinks. Relief never comes, sentences he repeats in his head as he circles around you fester in the pit of his stomach. You are so happy–elated even, that Robin is back. You haven’t left her side, cracking joke after joke.

It’s sickening how much it irritates him that you refuse to be alone. If it’s not Robin, it’s Nami clinging to your hand, offering you another drink. If it’s not Nami, it’s Luffy trying to shove more food at you–food you gently refuse. If it’s not Luffy, it’s the stupid cook, hearts shooting out of his eyes as he touches your hand.

Your hand–the one he hasn’t touched.

He bites down so hard he thinks he’s cracked a tooth, so he spits at the ground, expecting blood. He sees nothing, and chooses to believe that this means nothing. The sake is rotten, and he is tired, so so tired. Zoro doesn’t pray, he has never prayed in his whole life but he considers it that night when he closes his eyes. So he hopes instead. He hopes he’ll be over it in the morning and you’ll be nothing–a long forgotten moonbeam in a distant night sky.

He wakes up, and realizes quickly that you are still not nothing.

He swings his swords repeatedly, motions that he is familiar with. He focuses on the strain of his muscles, the ache slowly setting in. He focuses on the sweat on the back of his neck, the one dripping down his rippling muscles. He focuses as much as he can, but your gaze on him is fastidious. 

He senses you watching him, a strange lecherous feeling that twists his stomach. He refuses to meet your gaze and bites down again. If his teeth cracked then so be it.

You are shameless, he thinks, as he swallows his drink. Your dark eyes are unwavering, focused on his neck. Zoro swallows, heart beating in his chest like a wild animal. His foot is under the table, tapping away as he tries to keep the rest of him still. Nami is arguing with Luffy, and Zoro shakes his head slightly, trying to wake up from the spell you have casted on him. He should laugh with the others, he should ignore Sanji’s pointed stare, he should ignore the cold sweat on his forehead and the sudden dip at the pit of his stomach when you lick your lips. 

When you finally drag your eyes away from his neck, in a way that looks like it pained you, Zoro takes a sharp breath. He thinks you have set him free from this twisted prison but you ensnare him again when you meet his eyes. Zoro brings his glass to his mouth once more, and swallows the remains of the whiskey.

It burns his chest on the way down, but there is a fire more heated and consuming at the bottom of his stomach. One that builds higher and higher when you smile at him.

Later that night, when he’s prowling the newly constructed Thousand Sunny like a restless large feline, Zoro has to remind himself why he even set out from his hometown. He reminds himself that he has to become the strongest swordsman, as he fights the urge to slide his hands down his stomach, to reach further down for the arousal that bothers him. His forehead pressed against the cold wood of the training room, he tries to reason with his breathing. He thinks about the new bounties announced, the thrill of new adventures. There is no room for deviation in his goals. He knows this. There is a set path to follow–the one the moon has been guiding him to all along.

Turning to you would just lead him to darkness. Zoro refused to be swallowed up by it, no matter how alluring the flash of its teeth were.

FULL MOON

A life for a life.

He thought nothing of it at first. He thought it necessary. At first he had lived selfishly, seeking to keep a promise given a long time ago. Somewhere along the way, his Captain’s dream had become as important as his. Somewhere along the way, he had friends he cared about, friends he wanted to protect. His strength alone had not been enough, and so for this sin: he offers his life.

If there was anyone who could protect the rest, it would be Luffy.

He tries to hold on to this hope as pain cuts into him. It rips at his skin, making tatters at what keeps him together. Blood splurts, hot and searing. A pain that burns so deep he thinks it’s in his soul. He clenches his teeth, willing for them to crack and splinter off, if it means keeping quiet. A man should not cry when his mind has been set up.  His eyes are open but he sees nothing–not in particular, except his own blood clouding his vision. 

He tries to focus on other things, when a pain so blinding and deep makes him want to drop to his knees. He thinks of Nami and Usopp, and hopes they’ll be okay. He wonders if Chopper will grow happier. He wants to believe Sanji will get stronger, enough to continue protecting everyone. That stupid, idiotic cook who had tried to offer his own life in his place. Zoro grimaces, a pained groan almost leaving his mouth so he bites down on his tongue–metal taking over his taste buds.

He had no regrets. He never had any but as his vision becomes blurry there’s a face that fills his eyes. A different kind of pain booms in his chest, until it fills everything, until it pushes out the air from his lungs. He takes a ragged breath, and feels fear for the first time in a long time. He fears regret. He fears never seeing her face again. He fears never knowing.

He should have held her. He should have kissed her. Just like he always wanted to.

He curses the sound of your voice, the same that cuts through the pain, and reminds him to hold on. He curses the softness of your skin–the back of your hand, the only sensation he knows of you. He curses how he craves to know more even in the face of this endless pain.

He curses you over and over again, until it is done, until all he knows is the pain you leave behind.

Sanji annoys him. Zoro tries to not lash out. His body feels heavy but he feigns it. He tries to keep it  together for as long as he can. He has to make sure they’re all okay. Once he is convinced that it was all worth it, once he sees your face wearing an expression he doesn’t want to think about, he allows himself to rest. It takes all the energy he has left to leave you–to walk away from you without touching you, to not run his fingers through your hair, to press your body against his. 

As consciousness fades, he wonders how much longer he can hold back. Would he regret it later? If he died? Would he regret never telling you? His inner voice becomes slurred, incoherent, distant until darkness takes him under.

Robin tries to tell you, even though Sanji tried to stop her. She tries to tell you the truth about Zoro but you dismiss her. You insist it is none of your business. Your voice is calm, flat even, as you fold laundry in an attempt to hide your trembling hands. In your mind, you’re screaming. In your mind, you want to run and grab him by the neck. In your mind, you want to understand what possessed him.

But in your heart you know why. In your heart, you know that Zoro wouldn’t have had it any other way, so you try to pretend you don’t know. It was the least you could do to pay him back for what he had given you all.

You know he will be fine. You know he will recover. He just needs time. You want to give it to him, and you do, as you try to stay busy. Still, your feet are treacherous. They keep taking you back to him. You watch him sleeping, a sickness weighing you down. Your eyes feel full, a heart so heavy you think you might collapse under its weight. Heavy feet root you to the spot by his bed. Trembling fingers reach out, so hesitant they can only touch lightly. You softly brush fingertips across his forehead; your silent prayer for him to wake up soon. The sight of his battered body makes you sigh, and your tear filled eyes rest on his hand. Those hands that had protected everyone time and time again. They seemed so strong every time he wielded his swords. Not once did you think they could look this frail. You reach out to touch the bandages, and gently squeeze his wrapped index finger.

Just as gently, you reach down and kiss his temple. 

“Wake up, idiot,” you whisper, lips brushing against his clammy skin. “I miss you.”

Your confession feels like a knife you pushed into your own chest. You move quickly, almost run out of the room. Blood gushes, and you hold up a hand, trying to push it back in; the feelings, the words, that kiss.

When he wakes, it takes a moment to feel like he is awake at all. It isn’t until the straw hats leave Thriller Bark that he feels more like himself. Per Luffy, there’s a celebratory dinner. Brooks–someone Zoro was still getting used to–had taken it upon himself to be the night’s entertainment. Fish-Man Island was the next destination and Zoro’s excitement was slowly overtaken by hazy thoughts of you. The more he drank, the more he thought he should finally tell you. The more he watched everyone laugh, eat, sing, drink—the more he thought he should just accept it.

He should accept the pull you had on him. He should accept the command, the order of things; like the moon and tide.

He follows this pull up to the crow’s nest, newly remodeled by Franky. There’s little time for Zoro to admire the modifications. He is too busy trying to find a way to breathe again after the sight of you left him breathless. You’re bent over the telescope, gazing at the sky–he figures maybe the moon, maybe the stars. He’s not sure. All he’s sure of is that his heart might burst if it beats any faster. All he is sure of is that if he doesn’t find a way to silence it, you might hear it past the bones, and flesh entrapping it. 

A fluttering of anxiety fills him with dread. A strange feeling he isn’t familiar with. It feels as if it was imperative he touches you; as if he didn’t, only death would follow, as if he didn’t hold you, the world–his or everyone’s–would end. It was such a dramatic, sickening feeling he wanted to rip his own heart out. If that was the solution, he’d do it but he had a feeling at the pit of his stomach that even that wouldn’t work.

He tries to quiet his breathing, not wanting to disturb you, too mesmerized by the sight of your round and plump ass. There’s fire over his skin, blistering and searing the hairs on his arms. He clears his throat, alerting you to his presence.

You turn around, embarrassed that you didn’t feel him entering the room. It’s a fleeting emotion, quickly overtaken by something much more complicated; heavier, infinitely more deadly. It is sickening, really, how insanely attractive he is. You swallow with difficulty, suddenly annoyed that you didn’t bring a drink with you; anything to whet your appetite if it meant keeping your hands off Zoro.

“Hey,” you say softly, trying to buy time for your mind to kick into gear. The cogs in your brain are sluggish. You blame the alcohol, and not the fire in your belly. You want to tell him you’re glad that he’s awake. You want to tell him how scary it was, but you know he wouldn’t want to hear that. “I’m sorry I drank all your sake while you slept,” you tell him instead, your mouth stretching into a crooked smile. “I figured someone should.”

He scoffs, matching your grin.

“That’s a poor excuse. You’re such a liar,” he tells you, and you take a sharp breath. You’re not sure if he meant it–that you were a liar–or if he just said it in passing. You blame the alcohol for your confusing thoughts, and you blame it again when you don’t notice the way he has quickly breached the distance between you two.

The moon is full and bright, hanging high in the inky night sky. Its light is bright and it shoots through the window, spilling over the floor. Zoro is mesmerized by the way it glistens on your brown skin. You look so small against the window, with your back to the moon, it makes him want to crush you against his chest. His mind is hazy, his tongue heavy. He blames the sake. He blames the sake and the moon. He blames them as his hand reaches out to brush a curl out of your face. He tucks it behind an ear, his eyes memorizing the roundness of your cheek, the shell of your ear. He blames the moonlight on your skin, when he cups your cheek to see if he can trap it there, between your skin and his calluses.

He blames the night sky, the smell of the sea when he reaches down to softly brush his lips against yours.

You can’t breathe when his nose brushes against yours. You still can’t breathe when he pulls back, enough to look down at you. His eyes stare into yours and you still can’t find your breath. You think you’ll die now, by Zoro’s mouth, by his hand on your cheek. Your heart pounding against your frail ribs reminds you that you’re still alive. It is a resounding call to arms. You think you should pick up your weapons, but the fire in his eyes burns your resolve to ash.

His heart is on fire. Zoro knows that is a ridiculous thought. He knows that’s not even correct or possible, but the longer he looks at you, the more he feels it to be true. He hears it in the distance; the sound of war—drums, and screaming, blades scratching against each other, sinew tearing, blood gushing; throbbing in his ears and in his veins. 

The sound echoes in his body, a rush of adrenaline lighting small fires throughout his being. This moment feels infinite, as if he is frozen in time. A want so desperate pools inside him until it ignites. 

He comes tumbling down when he kisses you again. A ravenous mouth open and seeking against yours. His large hands hold your face, as he brushes his tongue against yours with the sole purpose of consuming; conquering. Your tongue is warm and soft, slippery, a sensation he can’t get enough of. He hums when you give in, when you let him suck on it without inhibitions. His breathing is harsh through his nose, and it becomes quicker when you place your hands over his, when you move them down his arms onto his chest.

You grasp on to his shirt, as you return his kisses. His teeth are unforgiving. They bite down on your bottom lip, on the corners of your mouth. He is insistent on discovering everything about it. He runs his tongue against your bottom lip, his forehead pressed against yours. He wonders as he sucks on it, how many times have you bitten down on it, how many words have you swallowed in place to offer lies instead. He’s never told you how often he sees right through you. He sees it even now, as you struggle for control.

“Don’t fight it,” he breathes against your cheek, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Not now. Not tonight.” He kisses your closed eyes; one at a time. He kisses your cheeks, lips blistering hot. You feel him brush his mouth against your jawline. “Don’t think. Not until tomorrow,” he asks you against your neck, trailing kisses down the column of it. You think about this offer, consider rejecting, but when his teeth snags against the soft flesh on the hollow of your neck you forget everything. Your arms wrap around his shoulders as he follows your collarbone to one shoulder. He bites down with enough force to make you cry–one that turns into a soft moan.

It is enough. That is the sound that snaps his resolve. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to make this moment last, as if he would never have it again, but you are something he was never prepared to fight against. When you moaned, with your nails digging into his back he was left with no choice. He had to have you, tonight, at all costs.

His hands are as unforgiving as his mouth. They rip into your clothes, ignoring your protests. The sound of tearing fabric is accompanied by the sound of your gasps. His breathing is harsh against your ears, causing a wetness between your legs you try to take no responsibility over. It is the sight of his chest, wide and thick when he rips his own shirt that makes your mouth water. Your hands reach out immediately, just as you always dreamed of. You run your palms over his muscles, memorizing every dip and sharp angle, as you press your open mouth to his neck. You suck on a spot, determined to leave a mark–any. It was desperation. One that was fed by fear. You feared this moment not lasting. You feared never again touching his skin, kissing him, holding him.

His own desperation was evident by his greedy hands. They way he seized your hips, to press his erection against you. His hands slide over your hips to your ass, and he digs his fingers into the supple flesh. He’s kissing you again, a clash of tongue of teeth; sloppy, and messy, a wetness on your chin he licks up before sucking on the spot. Zoro’s eyes take in the sight of the floor, as you kiss his chest. He moans when you bite down over a nipple, and he pulls on your hair.

“Stop that,” he hisses, pushing you back towards the benches. “Or I’ll fuck you on the floor.” It doesn’t sound unappealing to your ears, so you try to bite his other nipple but he is faster than you. He picks you up by the ass, forcing you to shout in surprise.  Zoro carries you to the bench, and he sits down after placing you back on the ground.

You look down at him, and his naked chest. His pants are still on and you feel extremely exposed. Zoro had, in his efficacy, ripped every single article of clothing you had on. Leaving you naked, and heated. You scoff.

“So you get to keep your pants on?” you ask him, pointing with a frown. Zoro laughs at you, as he reaches into his trousers with one hand. He pulls out his hardened cock, and strokes it gently. There’s a lump in your throat, one with no name, so you swallow it quickly. The sight of his pink tip is enticing. He smears the precum over his slit with his thumb. You think it a shame, and almost tell him so but he’s speaking trying to get your attention. 

“Pay attention,” he tells you with a raised brow, his hand settled now at the base of his cock. You raise a brow to match his. Zoro smiles, and pats his lap with his free hand. “Come here,” he commands you to move towards him, heart hammering away at the prospect. You had thought of this moment before. You had no shame admitting it now. You had thought often of how it would feel to have Zoro inside you, so deep you could feel like dying. It seems Zoro had other plans when you approach him as he spins you around by the hips. “This way. Your back to me.”

You swallow and sit on his lap, feeling his cock pressed against your ass. He kisses your shoulder, your neck as his hands roam over your thighs. There’s a slick coating your folds. You’re more aware of it the more he touches your skin. His breath is hot against your ear when he speaks again: “I’m going to spread your legs,” he tells you, and follows through quickly on his statement, spreading them by grabbing your thighs. You gasp, cool air touching your heated core. Zoro runs his tongue along the shell of your ear. He nips the top of it, teeth sharp and digging hard enough to leave an imprint. You feel yourself getting wetter. 

“You’re wet,” he breathes out–a heated whisper, almost trembling. His fingers rifle through your folds, slickness covering his fingertips. Zoro presses his mouth against your ear, his eyes closing at the pleasure. It feels so silky and soft in his fingers. He craves more. “I’m going to make you cum,” he tells you, slipping one finger in slowly, one knuckle at a time. “I’m going to make you cum over and over again. I want to touch you everywhere, deep inside.” He slips in another finger when you moan, curving them in search of that spongy spot. His desire builds the wetter you get, the more you moan and whimper in his hold. His cock is hard, and it leaks again against your back. You feel it there sticking to your skin. “I want you,” he growls against your shoulder, as he picks up the pace, scissoring his fingers inside your squelching pussy. “I want you so badly. This isn’t enough.” His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your shoulder. You cry out, as he clamps down harder, leaving a mark on your skin. He kisses the blooming bruise, hand moving desperately as you clench around his fingers. The soft pad of his palm beats against your clit, his calluses eliciting a pleasure you never knew could be possible every time they brush over your sensitive nub.

He leans over you, his broad chest making you feel vulnerable and small. Your thighs are aching as he continues to push his fingers in and out of you. “Maybe another one,” he grunts in between pants, peering over your shoulder. He watches himself insert a third finger into your soaking pussy. You cry out, at the sensation of being stretched. He is watching himself work, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Sweat clings to his temple, and runs down his cheek. You’re doing your best to hold back, the fear of being heard keeps you from giving in entirely but the sight of him so enthralled with the way he’s beating into your pussy makes you want to fold. “Do you like it?” he asks you, panting against your ear. You whimper and bite down on your lip, almost drawing blood. “You’re so wet and so tight. I think you do,” he insists, licking your ear, and sucking on your earlobe quickly after. “But why are you holding back?” His mouth is flushed against your ear, his breath humid. “Are you scared they’ll hear you?” 

Zoro chuckles lightly against your ear, picking up speed until it becomes a brutalizing pace. The sounds in crow’s nests are lewd enough to make you blush. You hear the wet sound of your pussy, the way you keep whimpering and gasping. Your body is shaking. 

“Come on, babe,” he asks you in almost a whine. You gasp, and moan, surprised at the visceral reaction your body had to the sound of his soft voice. “Let me hear you. The real you. Or do I have to fuck you harder?”

The moon continues to hang high in the sky as he works his fingers inside you. Its beams scatter in the room, casting shadows over the side of your face, and over your breasts. He wishes he could see more than he does. He wishes he could memorize the sight of you, falling apart to his touch, and never forget it. The scent of your shampoo haunts him, so he scissors his fingers inside you in a desperate attempt to even the odds. 

He kneads one breast with his free hand, squeezing its nipple between index and thumb. When you cry out, he gasps loudly against your ear, surprised at how much that turned him on. He wants to hear it again, again, and again; so he repeats the motion, twisting and pulling until you’re moaning and whimpering in his embrace. Your skin looks so soft under the moonlight. He brushes his lips over your neck and shoulders trying to taste you. It isn’t enough so he tries again, chasing the essence that makes you who you are. He nips at the flesh of your back as you bend over, a particular strong jolt of pleasure forcing your tummy to contract. No matter how many times he digs his teeth into your skin, until you’re covered in crescent shaped marks, he can’t seem to get his fill of you. You feel so good around his fingers, your arousal dripping down his wrist and his forearm.

Your orgasm catches him unaware, and he slows down his fingers, surprised at the loudness of your voice. He finds himself laughing against the hair above your ear, pleasure making him shiver. His fingers slow down slightly before he pulls them out entirely. “About time,” he whispers before he has you flip over to face him. He adjusts you on his lap, until you’re grinding your soaked pussy on his cock. “But we’re not done. I need more.” He brings your face to him, a hand on the back of your neck. The kiss is forced, mouth pressed tightly against yours. You whimper softly under its weight. Whatever tenderness that kiss held evaporates when his attention moves downwards to your breasts. 

He sucks on your breasts, as he grips your hips. His fingers hold you so tightly you’re compelled to move them against his length. He leaves bites over the swell of your breasts, and the fire inside you continues to burn. You had stopped trying to hold it in, your moans cast into the shield of darkness like stars on the inky sky. Zoro seizes them with his mouth, teeth bearing down on them. He pins them to his body like decoration and seizes to find more, conquer another every time he nips at your sensitive nipples. You hold on to Zoro, desperation forcing you to dig your nails into his back. Every time he kisses your breasts you feel like melting, disappearing into the heat of his mouth. 

Your hands reach out to his face, trembling. Your hips move still, the heat of Zoro’s hands keeping them steady. His eyes on your face send a shiver down your spine. Your breath feels so out of reach, as if you’ll never catch up to it, to place it back in your lungs. You trace over the angle of his cheekbones, try to memorize the sharpness of his jawline by going over it with one index finger. Although pleasure continues to build, you’re distracted by the sight of his ears. His earrings trap the light of the moon, and they blink repeatedly, little stars hanging from his earlobe; a mesmerizing sight that makes you want to make a wish. If you wished with all your heart, would it come true? If you wished for a dream, would it be fulfilled?

Your breath hitches, eyes glued to his swinging earrings. Their beautiful golden color is made all the more striking against his tanned skin. You touch them, fingers playing with them. Zoro takes your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist, the pool of your palm. He moves your hand to his chest, and presses it there. The feel of his heartbeat steals your breath. You gulp, trying to shake the dizziness, but Zoro is kissing you, taking your bottom lip into his mouth gently. You hold his face between your hands when he pulls away, feeling like you’re holding on to water. His hands are back on your hips. He lifts you up, as the fingers of one hand drifts to his earrings again. You brush your fingers against them, and they make a soft tinkling sound–a quick little song–as he buries his cock inside you.

It is better than you could have ever imagined. He fills you in an instant, provoking moan after moan to flood your mouth. Soft, and steady, you tell yourself, pressing your forehead against his. He lets you lead at first, his fingers tapping repeatedly against your hips. He’s counting, for who knows what, timing an entrance. 

Zoro thinks he's finally lost his damn mind. He was determined to savor this moment—like an expensive whiskey, consumed in small sips, swirled around the tongue before swallowing, but you’re so wet, your arousal coats his belly, and sinks into his pants. You’re hot inside, fiery, and smooth. Every swirl of your hips reminds him of how desperately he wants to ram into you, again and again. He thinks about you clenching around his fingers as you moan against his mouth. He sets his jaw, trying to tighten his grip around his willpower but your pussy is even tighter. His breathing is ragged, he shakes his head, trying to cast off the sudden heat in his eyes making him see red. 

But he can’t help it. He can’t fight it any longer.

“Okay,” he says against your neck as you continue to bounce on his cock at a slow pace. His hands are on your hips, they grip tighter. It should have been your warning but you’re so caught up in the feel of him, eyes shut as your face is turned to the ceiling, that you don’t realize what’s happening. “I’m sorry but I need to do it my way now.” He holds you still, and starts thrusting up into your pussy at a maddening speed. You cry out at the sudden change of pace, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. He hisses, but he doesn’t let up, selfishly chasing the high of your tight pussy. 

“Oh my God,” you cry out, eyes shut tightly, as pleasure courses through your body. 

Zoro laughs against your pulse. He sucks on it even as laughter rumbles in his chest. When he comes up for air he asks you: “Who’s that? Don’t know him.”

You laugh but it turns shrill, morphing into a cry of pleasure. Zoro feels you clench around him, faster and faster. He moans, and bites your chin. He picks up the speed, angles his hips with his eyes on your face, determined not to miss a single thing. When you cum, fall apart around him, he watches you with his mouth open–barely staving off his own orgasm. You fall into him, and he holds you, your body twitching in his embrace.

“No,” he says, pushing your back on the bench. You look up, eyes fluttering close, your body feeling heavy and sore. “A little bit more. I need just a bit more.” You shake your head, weakly pressing a hand to his chest. Zoro takes your hand, wraps the arm attached to it around his neck. “Don’t act weak with me. I know how strong you are. So just take it. You can take it.” He takes one of your legs and places it on top of the backrest of the benches, your ankle bumping into the wall. Zoro stares down at you, and you’re caught again–by the heat of his gaze. Dark green lashes fluttering under the moonlight, his swinging earrings blinking at you, his mouth parted, a flush on his cheeks. It all looks so divine, you think this a sight belonging to the gates of Heaven. You think you’re close to dying.

And death comes calling when he enters you again. You have nothing left inside you to fight it. You moan time and time again, with every brutish slam of his hips against yours. His balls sound loud and impossibly perverse every time they slap against your ass. There are bruises forming, you’re sure, but you don’t care. You hold on to him, wrap your arms tightly around him but he pushes you down, determined to watch your expression. You cling to his hips instead, the ones that keep pummeling into you, harshly, his cock ramming into your puffy and overstimulated pussy. He thinks the sight of your face, twisted in a mixture of pain and pleasure is the sharpest knife he has ever been cut open by.

Zoro staves off a cry of pleasure by diving in for a kiss, desperately sucking your tongue into his mouth. He kisses the corner of your mouth. From his mouth, he hears stupid promises but his mind can’t believe it even through the haze of lust. He tries to take them back but he whispers into your ear again, soft and sweet things he wouldn’t dare speak in the light of the sun. You know he’s only saying this because he is not thinking straight, because like you, he is consumed by this burning lust. You know when a new moon comes, when this has waxed and waned, that he would forget the words uttered in a moment of madness. 

He loves the way you feel, the way it’s so easy to kiss you. He loves the way your voice catches on his skin, slipping into the little cracks to stay forever. He hates it too. Hates how he thinks he’ll carry you always. Even in the light. Even in the dark. He thinks he should take it all back, the kisses, the words. He thinks this even buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around his length again. He thinks this even as he gasps and moans, cuming with you. 

His body shudders as he spills inside you. You feel it start to ooze out of you, but you ignore it, just like you ignore the sudden flush of your face. 

Zoro crumples over you, and covers you in kisses. Your hands are shaking as you seize his shoulders, trying to find the sense to speak about what just happened but he is gone the moment you grasp him. There are towels nearby, and he drapes one between your legs. He lowers himself over you, trapping your body between his arms. His mouth is still relentless, kissing your bruised lips over and over again. You see the moon caught in his earrings again, and you reach out for it.

Someone once told you, a dream was a wish you made on a star. Your fingers dance along his earrings. The gold blinks back at you–twinkling stars hanging from his ear. You wish, on all three, for the same dream. 

You wish that maybe when the new moon comes, the pull it had on you two would bring you together time and time again.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

hi! :>

can i ask a leonidas x male god reader nsfw, where m!y/n is the god of lust, beauty & desire's(and is one of Aphrodite's son's?.)

like imagine leonidas with someone similar to apollo😭

Minors DNI

-His eyelid twitched as he looked down at you as you were splayed on his bed, looking so alluring, your eyes begging him to come to you. You were just like that asshole Apollo- arrogant, flirty, and obnoxious- but gawd damn you were sexy!!

-Apollo was relentless with his teasing when he found out the two of you were going out, more teasing Leonidas than you, “I knew you liked me Leo~~ I would have been happy to accept you into my arms- you didn’t have to run to Y/N!”

-You enjoyed your friend’s teasing, finding it amusing when Leonidas would get so riled up, as it usually meant extra rough fun time with you~~

-You hugged him from behind, teasing Apollo back, “Leo likes me better!” Leonidas was exasperated dealing with the two of you, as sometimes he got frustrated with you, throwing you out while you whined, “I’ll be good- please don’t abandon me!!” you really were too much sometimes.

-However, if there was something he did like about you- it was your skills in the bedroom- he had been with women in his past, and his wife always pleased him, but you were on another level compared to them.

-You liked it rough, and you could take it, something he did enjoy doing, especially when he held your head down, plowing into you from behind, hitting the deepest parts inside you, filling you to the brim each time.

-Your mouth was another dangerous weapon, when it wasn’t annoying him or being sassy, as you could swallow him completely, wrapping your tongue around his shaft.

-Leonidas didn’t like to admit it, but you’ve made his toes curl from your mouth alone- he mainly didn’t like to admit it because you were such a little gremlin afterwards.

-You were a passionate lover, but you were loyal, refusing to take no other while you with Leonidas, something that he noticed but didn’t mention on, but was appreciative of- as he hated hearing about how partners were being unfaithful.

-You were a god of fertility, love, lust, and passion, but you were loyal- so why couldn’t others do the same?

-You moaned so sweetly as he slid into you, feeling the tight heat surrounding him as he grinned down at you, seeing you grasping the sheets beneath you, “You look so good like this.”

-You tried to flirt back but he jerked hard into you, sending him even deeper and you mewled again in pleasure, your back arching as he chuckled- he knew how to shut you up, as far as teasing went, as he loved to hear you moaning for him.

-His hands gripped at your hips, pulling you down as he set a hard and fast pace and your hands wound around his neck, nails scratching at his neck as you whined for him, feeling so good, feeling so full.

-Leonidas gripped your own shaft, keeping you from coming which made you cry out, begging him to let you come, which made him lick his lips as he went harder, his hips slapping into your own.

-You felt so hot, like you were going to burst and as he slammed into you, coming deep within you, he let you go, and you came all over your chest. Leonidas pulled back to exam his work with a grin as your chest was heaving, covered in a thin sheen of sweat as your eyes looked glassy.

-He chuckled, trying to curb his own panting as he rocked deep within you, overstimulating you with ease, “We’re not done yet Y/N- I know you can go more rounds than that.”

-Everything hurt by the time the two of you were done hours later, but in the most delicious way possible as you were cuddled into Leonidas’ chest as he read his book, letting you cuddle as you please as you were content.

-This is when Leonidas liked you the best, when you were being quiet after being railed and put in your place. Good thing you liked riling him up so he would do that to you.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Civilian Asset 4.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Still far from home and far from well.

Master List / Prev Chapter

Warning: 18+ (fairly tame chapter, but stands for entire series)

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Tumblr is being weird with links, and I'm not sure how to fix it. Had an extremely rough month really working on a piece about school safety... enough said. And I've been sick. So. Ya'll mean the world, thank you for your continued support!

4.

You’re drowning in a sea of hands.

They push and pull like ocean currents, and you’re as helpless in their merciless grip as a swimmer in a riptide, tumbling so deep you can’t remember which way is up. There’s air, but an arm around your neck presses on your trachea. Suffocating you. No matter how much you claw and wheeze, it only tightens, slow and inextricable. The worst kind of promise building in the pressure.

Thousands of strangers’ fingers paint you with intent, sweaty and slick. Each hand wants something. Maybe they’re working in chorus, or maybe each one is out for itself. It’s impossible to tell by the way they paw, snare, and grab at you. Whatever they want is inside. Deep in your belly or hiding in your spine, some key or secret blunt nails work to pry out. They won’t be satisfied until you’re swallowed, torn apart, and sorted into pieces.

The dark smells like old carpets, bird shit, and rust.

Waves of touch tug you in opposite directions, twisting your arm behind your back and your foot over your head. It’s chaos. And it hurts. But they’re all moving you, hauling you into a hell that sounds like war. You’ve never heard gunfire like this. Only three clean shots from a distant sniper rifle. But the cacophony ricochets with dozens of automatic weapons, and the hands scratch and dig into your skin, greedy for your fear as you sink into the echoes…

And wake with the gunfire still in your ears.

Sharp, jolting breaths lift your shoulder, punching through your chest with a salty aftertaste from the tears and mucus trickling down the back of your throat. Everything else locks in place. Your legs are too achy to move. Your eyelids stick open, drinking in shadows. Lying on your side, you not only hear but feel your pulse beating in your ears, and it takes several minutes of wading through too many confusing sensations before you know where you are and why everything’s stiff and sore.

The room is dark. Only a crack of light spills under the door. It’s proper country dark outside, too, pressing black against the window.

It’s raining.

No gunfire. No danger. It’s only precipitation battering against the glass. You are as safe as you can be, given the situation, and the men downstairs would be shouting and kicking in the door if something had gone wrong. Bullets would pierce the walls, shatter the window.

Even though you know it’s just the weather, you’re half convinced a dozen soldiers have opened fire on the room.

You try waiting it out.

Maybe it will stop or you’ll remember you aren’t afraid of the rain.

But it doesn’t, and you can’t bear it, so you get up and head for the glow behind the door. Hopefully the rain isn’t so loud downstairs.

The hall light bathes the space yellow in a way your shattered internal clock reads as daylight. Open doors to the bathroom and the second bedroom loom dark in contrast, like caves along a hiking trail, and the stairs will challenge you as much as a mountainside when you work up the nerve to descend. First you take time to wipe the salt track off your face with cool tap water. The pillow should keep those secrets. You don’t need to wear the evidence.

The adrenaline rush fucked off some time ago, and even after the nightmare you’re left with nothing but clinging paranoia. That doesn’t make you calm. Your anxiety feels like breath on the back of your neck, or eyes squinting through hidden peepholes, prickling over your skin with the assurance that something, somewhere is off, and you shouldn’t leave yourself exposed.

Logically, the men downstairs are no threat. Quite the opposite. You don’t feel logical. Your collection of hurts urge you to hide under a bed. In a closet. To stay out of sight as you lick your wounds.

The soldiers have your life in their hands, and that requires inordinate amounts of trust. There’s a gap you can’t cross. You’ve known them for a few hours. They killed people, and then they stopped your bleeding and sent you to bed. That’s too much and not enough for friendship.

You’re also, on a much shallower level, wildly aware that you’re the odd one out. The only woman. The only stranger. The only civilian.

It’s like standing in the cafeteria on the first day at a new school and wondering where the hell you’re supposed to sit.

Studiously avoiding your reflection, you leave the bathroom and begin your hike downstairs. Each step is a mile. You count them, congratulating yourself on your progress as you balance with your hand on the wall. In yesterday’s – today’s? – struggle, you used muscle groups you didn’t know you had and used known muscles in new and interesting ways they disapprove of. Everything is a little harder, and every step a little wobbly, and thankfully no one pops around the corner to see your tremorous pace.

Shadow creep over the lower steps where the hall light can’t quite reach, but a bright puddle spills out from the kitchen, and you follow it like a little moth.

Rain patters against the windows here, too, but the drumming on the roof doesn’t reach through the upper floor.

You’ll take it.

The kitchen opens around you as you step through, and your eyes flick up from your feet as a figure moves in your peripheral.

“You’re up.”

It’s the Scot. He’s divested himself of the tac vest, though a handgun peaks out from a holster under his jacket. It’s a good sign that he’s less armed than this morning, though. It gives you hope. A step towards de-escalation and a normal state of being where locked doors mean something and you get to sleep in your own bed.

The kitchen’s a little chilly, and your arms fold of their own volition. You stuff your hands out of sight, hiding your most obvious injury as you wince out a smile and try not to make things awkward.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask if you slept well. You appreciate it. Instead he fills the electric kettle and pops down the tab before even asking, “Tea?”

Since it’s already too late to say no, you nod, taking a seat at the table to spare your shaky fawn legs. “Thanks.”

The clock over the sink reads 9:07, so it hasn’t been dark for long. You’ve slept away the day, and now you have a long night of worry and stilted conversation ahead. What the fuck are you supposed to talk about with these people? Or are you supposed to converse with them at all beyond basic pleasantries?

Tea might make everything better, or the caffeine may make everything just a little worse. A warm drink does sound nice, though.

A heavy jacket still flush with body heat drops over your shoulders, and you freeze like a cat suddenly trapped under a blanket.

You feel your eyes go big and know you’ve made the moment weird as you peer up at the burly Scot. The fabric’s heavier than it looks, and it smells like the man. Something sweet hidden under whiskey and aftershave. The weighted warmth feels like security made cloth, and the comfort tangles with the acidic terror still hissing in your belly.

The man beams. Chortling, clearly delighted with himself, he rearranges the collar to sit right around your neck without pressing on the bruises.

“Dreich weather,” he says, stepping away to throw a tea bag in a chipped white mug. “Need to keep warm.”

Your fingers lift to the worn seems along the zip, pulling it just a little closer, like folding yourself into a cocoon. He’s given you a hug, you realize, without invading your personal space. It’s shockingly considerate, and you swim through treacle-thick thoughts for the right words of thanks, but they roll back down your throat before you can express yourself as you look back up to an eyeful of distraction.

Without the jacket the soldier’s a walking gun show, and you aren’t thinking about the weapon clipped to his belt. His snug, dun t-shirt showcases his broad shoulders and the sculpted trunks he calls arms without clinging to his tapered waist. His golden tan practically shines against the dull cloth and muted colors of the kitchen. Veiled muscles roll along his back as he reaches into an upper cabinet for a couple more mugs, and you flick your eyes down to the places the varnish has cracked off the table so he doesn’t catch you staring.

It's patently unfair that such an attractive man is paying so much attention to you when you’re too sick with shock and fear to do anything about it.

He slides the tea into your line of sight, and manage to mumble, “Thank you,” without imploding, exploding, or falling into a heap of embarrassed chunks.

“Ye’re welcome.”

He’s added sugar. Did you miss him asking how you took your tea? Doesn’t matter.

You only just notice the soft footsteps approaching from the open doorway leading to the living room before a shadow cuts through the yellow kitchen lights to your left. The captain nods down at you as he heads towards the half-steeped cups waiting by the sink, greeting his sergeant with a rumble. With cup in hand, he turns, propping a hip against the counter as he pulls you into a conversation.

“Was plannin’ on sending Gaz to check on you in another hour, make sure you were alright.” He speaks as he sips his tea, leaving his voice a little muffled, indirect in a way that suggests awareness of things better left half-acknowledged.

Taking your cue from the leader, you hide behind your mug.

“No need now.”

The tea’s very nice, actually. The warmth soothes your aching throat and pairs well with the gentle warmth of Soap’s jacket. A hug inside to complement the hug outside.

The captain lifts his eyebrows, pausing between sips. “And are you?”

Despite his careful tone, the question hits with a sharp edge, slicing between the plates of armor you assembled over the bathroom sink before braving the soldiers’ company. Are you alright? You flinch setting down your mug, and the drink sloshes up to the rim. Just shy of a spill.

Washed face of no, you must look awful. Your eyes always go red and puffy after too much crying, and you can’t banish every trace of your little breakdown, no matter how hard you try.

“I thought I’d spare us all the awkwardness of a bunch of soldiers trying to handle a crying woman.” Make it a joke. Make it light. Maybe it will float away and take those probing questions with it. You desperately need a distraction, something to pull the focus off your welfare and back to things these men are equipped to handle.

“What happens now?” you ask.

Soap scoffs into the third cup. “Try not to die.” The captain swats him over the head, grazing the mohawk, and the Scot chokes, spluttering tea out his nose as he hastily adds, “Of boredom.”

“Laswell called while you were asleep. She has things in hand. In another day or two she’ll have enough free resources to help us handle the cell here without drawing the wrong attention. Until then we sit tight.” He smiles with his eyes and the shape of his face. The mustache hides most of his mouth when he angles his head down to meet your eye, but there’s no mistaking his expression. “Keep you safe.”

He’s as bad as subordinate.

The military issue clothes reveal enough of his shape to spark your interest in any other situation, and he moves with confidence you’d like to reach out and taste. Those smiles of his don’t help.

As you sit stewing in your own flatfooted frustration, your stomach decides you haven’t done enough to humiliate yourself and kicks off with a growl.

You press a hand flat to your gut. Soap laughs as your face heats, and if you weren’t on the verge of starving you might’ve sprinted back up the stairs to hide in the room Gaz said is more or less yours.

“How long since you ate?” the captain asks.

Too long ago. This is a military man, though, and they like specifics. You think back, leaping from abduction to fleeing to the club lights and blood. “More than a day. Day and a half, I think.” That sounds right. The last meal you remember is lunch the day prior.

Huffing, the Scot turns back to the cabinets, rustling through a collection of tins and boxes. Nonperishables. Of course. A safehouse wouldn’t stock anything liable to spoil in the months or years between visits. At least you don’t see any MREs lurking in the depths. The past twenty-four hours have seen enough horrors.

Squinting at the expiration date on a can, Soap asks, “How do you feel about beans?”

[wannab-urs]

Scar Tissue

Pairing: Dave York x f!Reader

Summary: Violent devotion OR You and Dave try to figure out how to take care of each other

Warnings: explicit description of injuries (in the healing process), wound care, mild body horror maybe, intentionally causing pain in a not explicitly sexual way, way more dialogue than previous installments, soft/vulnerable/sweet smut, reader’s daily routine is described and really similar to mine so be nice i have depression, aggressive dental hygiene, blood, one pet name, spitting, pinning, choking, biting, scratching, overstimulation, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv + creampie x2 (do better), love as consumption, love as violence, care as violence? No use of y/n. WC: ~2.7k

A/N: I keep coming back to these two. They won’t get out of my head. Huge thank you to @beskarandblasters, @idolatrybarbie, and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for listening to me talk about this fic near constantly. Extra huge thank you to @atinylittlepain who honestly deserves co-writing credit. She helped me flesh this out and figure out where I wanted to go with these two and even provided ideas for some key scenes. I love you, man, my dearest Gin Twin. This is basically a look at how reader and Dave try to care for each other even though neither of them quite know how. Gin called it “two animals try to domesticate each other with their claws,” and that feels apt.

Dave York Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

He hasn’t left your bed unless he had to, much less your apartment. It’s been days and days and he hasn’t said a word. Quiet, usually sleeping. It’s the first time he’s ever stayed more than a night. First time he’s ever let you touch him in a way that isn’t violent or hungry. It’s exploratory. Strange that the first time you get to really look at him he’s been forever changed. Permanently marked. Like the cavernous hole inside him has physically manifested there on his face.

You unwrap the bandage from his head. Is there a healing process for this kind of thing? There will be no knitting together of flesh, no scabbing over, no scar. Just the absence of something that used to be there. You drag your thumbs over the scruff forming on his jaw, another first. Never seen him unkempt, always in a button down and slacks or tailored jeans and a perfectly fitting t-shirt. Never seen his hair grow too long. Never seen a lot of him. 

You trace the curve of his nose, the plushness of his lips, back up to the divot between his brows that doesn’t go away even when he sleeps. You run your thumbs over his eyelids, one stretched taut over his closed eye and one hanging half open, doesn’t need to close that one to be unseeing. To not have to watch the disgust he knows will flicker over your features. 

You dip your thumb into his eye socket, touching something no one has ever touched before – except, you guess, for the man who did this to him. You hold your thumb there for a moment, and he doesn’t jerk away from you. Hasn’t rejected a single one of your touches in days. Hasn’t really responded to anything at all. Slow hissing sighs and deep inhales, no words, no flinching. 

His eye flutters open when you return to stroking his cheek bones with both thumbs. He does not find a look of disgust on your face. Your mouth hangs slightly open, your breaths coming out shallow, and your eyes are full of something like curiosity. Maybe even adoration. He closes his eye again. Can’t bear to be looked at with anything even bordering on love. 

You remove the bandage from his ribs. The stitches will need to be removed soon, just starting to scab over. The flesh around his wound is bruised deep, dark purple with tinges of green and yellow. Partially from the initial injury and partially from where you drove your knee into him. You think you may have cracked a rib with the force of it. 

Before you can really think twice about it, you dig your thumb in between his ribs. Right over the heart of the hurt. He grabs your wrist and twists until you fall to the side trying to keep it from being wrenched too far. And he’s on top of you again. And there is a fire in his eye and his teeth are bared at you and finally you think. Finally here is the thing you have been so desperate for. A reaction. A sign that he can feel you. That he knows you are there. That he gives a shit how you touch him. 

But he doesn’t rip you apart like he usually would. Like you’d hoped he might. He drops his forehead to yours and sighs the deepest world weary sigh you may have ever heard and he rolls back off of you. And you think he’s going to go back to his silence. Back to nearly ignoring you. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

“How to do what?”

“This. Being cared for.” 

“I don’t know how to do this either.” 

“How to do what?” 

“Care for someone.” 

You kiss him then. Soft, slow, sweet. No ripping claws, no gnashing teeth, no snarling growls, no closed fists or stinging palms. You savor him. Lick into his mouth and taste his tongue with no attempt to swallow it down, to draw him inside your mouth and consume him. You climb atop him without breaking the kiss, bare thighs settling along the line of his torso. He pushes his sweatpants down his hips and within seconds he is buried deep inside you. 

You roll your hips against his, one hand propped on the bed beside him and the other fisted in his overgrown hair. Your lips finally part, but you keep your forehead pressed to his, stare into his eye as you move. God he’s so fucking beautiful. His hands settle on your hips, guiding you back and forth along his length, but there is no urgency, no hard press of bruises into your skin and no jerking of his hips to meet yours. 

Your brow furrows and your eyelids start fluttering and he knows you are close, knows you only need a little more to push you over the edge. He slips his thumb over your clit, the barest brush, and feels you clench tight around him. He presses down firmly, letting the roll of your hips do most of the work, and then you are coming, clenching and unclenching around him in such an exquisite way. He pulls you fully down onto him, thrusts into your wet heat a few more times and comes deep inside you with a gasp like the wind was punched out of him. 

You fall asleep like that, tangled in each other. 

He spends a couple days watching your routines. Something a bit voyeuristic about it. He doesn’t usually comment or participate. It’s almost as if he isn’t there. 

You wake up in the morning and stare at the ceiling for a while, mentally preparing, he supposes. You eventually drag your laptop off the side table and sign into work for the day. You always pee during the first break in the flow of emails, leaving the door open like you normally would, like he isn’t there.

You climb back into bed and work a while longer before heading to the kitchen to grab a bag of chips or leftover takeout and a glass of tea. You bring it back to the bed and eat while you watch youtube videos or read on your phone, usually leaving the dishes and trash on your side table until later. 

He usually takes a quick shower while you eat. He closes the door so he doesn’t disturb you. Uses your body wash and your shampoo to clean himself. Movements slow and sore in a way he tries not to let you see, becoming less so everyday. 

He stares at himself in the mirror. Trying to get used to his new face. Nothing looks quite right anymore, though he supposes that makes sense. Seeing it all through one eye now. He dresses, brushes his teeth, uses one of your silly little floss picks since you don’t have real floss. He shaves, finally. And it helps a little. Makes him feel a little more like himself in the mirror, though his hair is too long. 

You shower in mid afternoon, when you can afford to be away from your computer a bit longer. He can see your shower from his place in your bed. You don’t bother to close the door. You strip bare and toss your clothes in the overflowing hamper. 

Sometimes you wash your hair, but today you don’t. You use a loofah that has certainly seen better days to scrub your body. You run a razor over your armpits. You squeeze face wash onto your palm, rub your hands together, wash your face under the spray of the shower. 

You get out and wrap a towel around your hair, use another to quickly dry your body. You throw on a big tshirt and a pair of panties and move to get right back in the bed. 

“Brush your teeth,” he calls just as you step out of the bathroom. You grumble under your breath and do as he says. 

“Did you floss?” He knows you didn’t. 

“No.” You flop back onto the bed, seemingly exhausted by the process of maintaining your body. 

“Go floss your teeth.” 

“No. You go floss your fucking teeth.” 

Dave gets out of bed and you think he is going to be petty. You think he is going to floss his teeth. He goes into the bathroom and grabs the bag of floss picks. He returns to the edge of the bed and tosses the bag into your lap.

“Floss your fucking teeth.” 

“Why do you even give a shit?” He does not know why he gives a shit. He just does. 

“If you don’t do it, I’ll do it for you.” It does not sound like an offer to help. It sounds like a threat. You throw the bag of floss picks on the floor, several of them spilling out and skittering across the hardwood. Dave’s face darkens. He retrieves the floss picks, tosses the bag onto the bed. And then he is on you, your hands pinned above your head and his thighs trapping your torso. 

You twist and buck, letting out a near feral growl. You try to headbutt him and he dodges it, but loosens his grip on your wrists. You launch yourself at him, trying to use his flinch to knock him off of you. He grabs your shoulders and wrenches you back down, settling his knees on your armpits to keep you there. 

“Fuck you.” Oh you are pissed. How dare he make you do anything. 

“Sit still.” He grabs your jaw in his right hand, digging his fingers in where it hinges until you’re forced to open your mouth. Your frustrated scream is garbled. You try to close your mouth and only succeed in biting down on your own cheeks. He takes a floss pick in the fingers of his left hand. 

The gentleness with which he flosses your teeth for you is at such stark contrast with the violence of his grip on your jaw. Despite this, you still taste blood. You close your eyes in shame. Hot tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Dave finishes, lets go of your face, strokes his thumbs through your tear tracks. 

“Look at me.”

You open your eyes, staring defiantly at the ceiling, and your lip trembles with the effort of containing your breakdown. 

“Honey, look at me. Please?” Your eyes snap to his then. He’s never called you that, or anything really. “Why are you crying?” He couldn’t have hurt you. He’d been careful, so careful, not to hurt you. So different from his usual touches. He eases his knees off of you, but stays straddling you, holding your face in his hands. 

You close your eyes again, squeeze them shut as if it will keep him from seeing you. “Embarrassed.” You mumble it, so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear it if he wasn’t so close. He gets it then, but he isn’t sure what to do. What do you say when you have embarrassed someone without meaning to, when you do not think they have any reason at all to be embarrassed?

He kisses you. Soft at first and then hard in the way it always is. But also not in the way it always is. He tries to tell you, with this kiss, that he simply wants to care for you. That he does not know how, the same way you do not know how. That you are both trying. 

You bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. Blood for blood, you think. He takes your hands in his again and holds them above your head, shifting both your wrists into one hand. He wraps his other hand around your jaw like before, dragging your mouth open. He spits onto your tongue, watches it drip down to the back of your throat. 

“Swallow,” he commands it, but does not release your jaw. You swallow his spit with your mouth open, nearly choking with the effort. His fingers slide down and latch around your throat. Your eyes flutter shut and you buck your hips, chasing friction. He looks down at you in awe. Your tear soaked face. Your wet hair. Your spit and blood soaked lips. 

“Gorgeous,” he whispers. And that is a new name too. He releases your hands and slips down your body, pulls your panties off and tosses them into the floor. You don’t move your hands from where he had them pinned down, but you crane your neck to watch him strip bare. 

You think he is gorgeous too. Body scarred and mottled blue and yellow and green. Marked with you as much as anything else. Mine, you think. You have made him yours. Others may have had some other version of David York, but this one is yours and you will not let him go without making sure it is clear he was yours once. 

He settles between your thighs and pins your hips down with a forearm. He thrusts two fingers of his other hand inside you. You cry out and grind into them, hands immediately flying to his hair. He drops his mouth to your clit, sucks it between his teeth and bites down. You pull his hair hard, but he only doubles down. Fucking you with his fingers and rolling your clit between his teeth. 

You can’t do anything but take it with the way he has you pinned down. You claw at his shoulder, the nape of his neck, try to push his head away, but he doesn’t stop. And then you see white, coming with a shudder as your ears fill with a high pitched ringing. 

Before you can come down, he’s thrusting himself inside you. He sits back on his heels and wraps his arms around your thighs, using them to pull you onto his cock with every thrust. You close your eyes at the overwhelming, overstimulating pleasure. 

“Look at me,” he roars. He won’t let you hide from him. He locks his eye with yours as he fucks you, jaw set in a hard line. You reach for him and he obliges, leaning over you and folding you nearly in half with the motion. 

You wrap your arms around him and dig your nails into his shoulder blades. You can feel his back muscles shifting with every thrust. If you dig your fingers in deep enough maybe you could watch the way his muscles work beneath that expanse of golden skin. 

His eye bores into your left one and he imagines falling inside it, falling inside of you and staying there forever. Safe and cared for in a way he has not ever known and isn’t sure he ever will. He could stay inside you forever. You are so warm and wet and tight. A space seemingly carved out for him to fill. 

He dips his head and sucks your nipple into his mouth, rolls the bud between his teeth. He drags his lips back up to your throat. Presses his lips to your pulse. He can feel your heartbeat here. Could dig his teeth in and feel all that warm and wet inside you gush over his tongue. Fuck he wants all of you. Every bit of you. An endless cycle of wanting to consume you and be consumed by you that makes his head spin. 

Your hands find the back of his head and push him deeper into the crook of your neck. He sucks the skin over your jugular between his teeth and bites down hard. Your whole body seizes and spasms around him, coming as soon as the points of his teeth sink into your skin and he follows you instantly, drawn out by the way you shout his name. 

He rolls off of you and pulls you against him, still craving the heat of your skin against his. He draws your thigh over his legs, wraps his arm around your body, buries his face in your hair. 

“Do you wanna take a shower with me?” Despite both of you showering earlier, a sheen of sweat and blood and saliva coats you both. He pulls you impossibly closer to him. 

“Yeah, honey. In a minute.” 

--------------

Tagging people from the last one! Let me know if you'd like to be taken off!

@pr0ximamidnight @gasolinerainbowpuddles @bonezone44 @catchallfangirl @heareball @cool-iguana @youmeand5bucks @morallyinept @janaispunk @ireallyreallylikeyourwriting @sin-djarin @toxicanonymity @rootytootyvoodooty @blackfemalenerd @axshadows @heavennumber2 @pedrostories @theywhowriteandknowthings @anavatazes @missladym1981 @always-andromeda

[salaminus]

Rex & Cody and the stolen commando

Summary:

Cody has stolen a commando from Kamino. But Cody isn't there to pick up his package himself, so he sends it to Rex because he can. Rex hasn't slept more than an hour in 48 hours, the caf is empty, his back hurts and there's a stupid commando in his hangar causing stress with Torrent!

Non-native speaker, pleaser bear with me.

Masterlist

CHAPTER 1:

Rex might kill someone. Fives would be best. Or Hardcase. Or Denal. Or Attie - not Coric, he's a medic - forget it, Coric too. It's best if he stabs himself as well.

Two hours of sleep, just two hours of undisturbed sleep, but no, he won't get it because he has to have Torrent under his command.

Rex trudges more than he has to - the door shoots open in front of him, a bunch of shinies salute, yeah yeah, get out of there now, he desperately needs a caf. Someone better not have drunk all the rations, because his personal supply is empty. How can something like that happen, kriffing shit. How and when!

His boys know better than to talk to him, after all. First course through the canteen, past the crowded tables. Far too little blue in the white sea of plastoid, that's unpleasant, it should be different. Problem for later, first the most important thing - caf, otherwise Rex will fall asleep. His eyes burn, when he blinks, his eyelids feel like they're stuck, he always needs two seconds before he can open them completely.

Past the queue - every now and then it pays to be a kama wearer, it has to, you don't forget the pain from back then - to the large plastoid cup, full of the strange powder from which the stuff is made. Step by step, he should be able to see the black stuff, but the large bowl remains nice and white.

What.

He stands in front of it - a pitiful little pile of powder, down in the corner, it barely fits on a fingernail is in the box, otherwise it's empty. Scratched out, rather licked out. This can't be true! Rex wants to scream, knock the box off the table, he's already clenching his fist when his com flashes happily. Karking fucking green, "WHAT!"

"Good morning to you too, sunshine."

Cody, of course, the little bastard grins and Rex can hear it, it makes his blood boil. "What do you want, shebs, I hope for your sake it's important and if it was a good morning I wouldn't hear your voice!"

Behind him, his men twitch, the very young ones, the babies, look almost terrified. Take a breath, really deep, relax your fingers - no, the box doesn't get punched, but it deserves it, damn Kark – Calm down now, he's kriffing Captain, he can't do that, ARCs are allowed to do that, Captains aren't. He's ARC too, quips an evil ugly voice in his head, it would only be boxing the damn bowl once....

Cody at the com snorts through his nose. "Rex'ika, got off on the wrong foot? Did they turn you inside out in the retorts? You're talking to a marshal commander."

Oh, fuck YOU.

"Kark you, you shithead. What do you want? If this was in any way official, you wouldn't be greeting me with sunshine, don't fucking give me ranks!"

A brief pause at the other end - a pause in which Rex slams a hand on the kitchen counter so that the karking droid behind it turns around. He does so, agonizingly slowly; if Rex reacted like that with Natborns, he would have been on Kamino long ago for insubordination. "Is there still caf here today, or why is the bucket empty?"

Droids, Rex hates them, especially that one. If anyone else says they can't smile, oh yes, they can, and it does it as sneakily as ever, tilting its head and waddling a step towards Rex. "CT-756---"

 "That wasn't the question, damn it - Where. is. My. Caf!"

"Rex," Cody says at the wrist - oh, no sunshine, no hypocritical smile on his lips that you can literally hear, much better, but Cody's off the air now, Rex needs caffeine before he kills someone.

Droidy doesn't understand, his head just jerks up and down at Rex. "I suggest you go to your commanding clone until you've calmed down."

Rex is about to light something on fire. "I am MY commanding- Is there still caf here now, yes, or no, that was a simple question!"

"If you do not leave this room immediately, soldier, I will inform your superior officer..."

Okay, that's it. Rex is just going to jump over the counter, rip the droid's head off and look for Caf himself, simple as that. He's already got one leg over the counter when someone shouts a very hasty: "Sir!"

Some reflexes can't be helped when they've been pumped into your brain since early childhood, so Rex turns to the speaker anyway - a shiny, completely white, but he has a rather impressive tattoo on his face, a huge V. Much better tattoo choice than Jesse, but what does he expect from Jesse, he already shares the same initial with Jojo, which says it all - wait a minute.

His vod'ika swallows hard, somehow managing to stand even more at attention than before - and he holds out a cup to him. A mug filled with... not caf, no. Coffee, the stuff from the big machine that Nici has set up and which spits out fantastic hot drinks for two hours a day, desirable enough that you now have to register the squads.

Foot back off the counter, Rex walks up to the shiny, forcing himself to take a deep breath. "Name."

That sounded brutal, as if he wanted to berate him, Rex sees him flinch and raises his hand. "I'm sorry. What's your name, vod'ika, I'm in a terrible fucking mood, it's not your fault though."

Minimal relaxation in the eyes of his little brother in front of him, but overall he still stands there with his arm with the cup stretched out like a flagpole. "Sir! Dogma, sir, CT-5784! I have been assigned to the Platoon Bravo--"

Dogma, then, one of the names that was more of a insult. Innately, Rex writes a note to himself to introduce him to Echo.

"That's enough for me, thank you, Dogma."

Take the cup, give the rookie a quick pat on his shoulder. "And you just forget your number. Just like..."

Then he spins around - oh, the cup is warm, really warm, the coffee is still fresh, praise be to Prime's mother –, and stares at the room as best he can with his helmet on. Rex doesn't like to shout, but today everything sucks and therefore he's allowed to do so. "We all forget what I did at the dispenser, is that clear? The second I hear a word about it, you run penalty laps until you vomit!"

Silence, pleasurable silence in the room, wonderful. Rex could just lie down and sleep now, instead he grips his mug tighter and nods to the shiny in front of him. "Thanks for the caf, kid. You're saving some people's lives today and they'll never appreciate it - Cody, what do you want now and keep it short, my patience is shorter today than the time Kenobi has his lightsaber in his hand and doesn't lose it!"

Cody has the decency to wait half a second. Rex takes advantage of this and walks past Dogma to the exit, clutching the cup tightly. Behind him, the droid wants to complain, "Cups may not be removed from the canteen", which Rex acknowledges with a middle finger and "Write to my superior, clanker!", for which he doesn't turn around.

He's almost out of the room, almost behind the saving door, when Cody starts talking. "So, I need you to take something for me. I stole a batch from Kamino."

That's it. Rex rips off his helmet, vaguely sees the horrified looks - never seen anyone go 48 hours without sleep, eh! - and starts drinking the caf in order to down it in one go.

"Hello, are you still there - listen, what's wrong with you, didn't get enough sleep?"

Cody’s about to get slapped in the face. "Commander, kriff yourself, respectfully said. If I haven't slept enough, you're karking kidding, Cody - or you know what, I don't care. I don't want to know. I don't want to know what you did. When is your stupid fucking batch coming and how exactly I'm supposed to proceed with them!"

"That's... quite simple."

Rex pauses. Firstly, he can already feel the caffeine - no, but the warmth of the coffee for that, the smell alone soothes him like a comforting blanket it drapes over him, making his aching eyes blink more easily. However, Cody paused in his sentence, one of the very long ones, and then came the word 'Just'. Something here stinks big time.

"What's that supposed to mean."

"Well, you don't have to do anything, it's a commando."

NOW he’s dead. "A karking COMMANDO?!"

"Don't shout like that. A very nice one, an experimental unit, under my command, you don't have any flimsiwork or anything, you just have to receive it, you can do that, can't you?"

This little fucker. Rex grinds his teeth and marches on towards the exit of the canteen, his eyes stubbornly fixed ahead. Keep thinking about the coffee in his hand. It will help him against everything, against the karking universe, full of stupid, stupid older brothers.

" Receive it for you, Commander. And why doesn't Jango's Pride and Glory do it himself!"

"Rex, I'm not there, we're way off the grid. All you have to do is take the batch and keep it for me, you can do that!"

Rex can do anything because he has to. "Is that an order?"

"If that's what you want," Cody doesn't even have the decency to sound meaner, "then yes. Otherwise it's a favor, but if I order you to do it, I'll forget the part."

"Do it, you douche. I have so many favors with you, I couldn't even redeem them if I wanted to - when's your Commando coming and why are you only telling me about it now?"

"Because it wasn't certain yet..."

Lazy excuse and he knows it. There's something else going on, but Cody doesn't want to say it. Should make Rex even grumpier, but he doesn't even know if that's possible. First he trudges down the corridor towards his quarters. Skywalker better does not want anything from him now, he has reports to finish.

"Yes. So - they're landing soon, they'll be coming out of hyperspace in three hours. I'd be grateful if you could keep them safe... until we meet again or they leave on their own because they've been assigned a mission."

Oh great, wonderful. Just keep walking, he's almost there.

"Rex. Hello?"

No, Rex is not here. Rex has to accept deliveries for stupid ori'vods.

"I've already sent you the files. They're all less than ten years old, by the way, just so you're prepared. I have to---"

"Kote." Rex hisses into the com, stops and bares his teeth involuntarily. "you're sending me an unfinished trained Commando, an experimental unit younger than kriffing Domino Squad?"

"Just a little younger, Rex, and it's a Commando."

"That's exactly the problem!"

MASTERLIST

[littleslithewhump]

Day 18 – tickling

His body looks like a fucking pile of twigs. Just skeletal contours on the basement floor. He hasn’t moved since I set his shoulder. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest, I might think the idiot had up and died on me. 

I nudge him with my toe. 

He wakes up, sluggish and dull. He makes his own eyelids look heavy. When he looks up at me, he barely seems to recognize what he’s seeing. 

“Come on, pet,” I tell him. “Sit up.”

He struggles to even do that, hissing in pain as he puts weight on his newly fixed shoulder. It’s funny. It’s pathetic. It makes me want to fuck him. It makes me want to crush his throat with my boot. 

I crouch beside him, grasping his swollen shoulder and shaking him lightly. He whines about it. 

“You’re so tired, aren’t you?”

He nods. 

“You know you’ve been bad, right? I give you a place to live, give you food, I even fucking wash you, and you try to run. You don’t remember who I am. You know I should keep punishing you, right?”

Tears leak out his eyes, and he swallows audibly. But he nods. I can hardly believe it. The self-obsessed prick broke down after only two weeks of harsh treatment. I knew it–I’d known all along he was weak. 

“Look at you. Begging me to hurt you.”  

A wet sob tears out his throat. 

He still has metal manacles jangling around his wrists and ankles. I pull at one experimentally, testing his give, his submission. To me. He’s light and mobile as dandelion fluff. 

“Pet. Know I’m kind to you. I’m as kind as I can be.” 

He bobs his head again, eyes crystalline with fresh tears. 

He doesn’t resist a bit as I scoop him up in my arms, carrying him up the stairs like my waifish betrothed. He’s shaking lightly, crying like a child, but I feel him cling to me. It’s almost sickeningly sweet. I want to tug on his hair and make him moan. I want to tear the fucker apart. 

When I lay him on the bed, his eyelashes flutter. 

“Soft, isn’t it, pet?” 

“M..mhm,” he murmurs. 

I pin his wrist into the cushion above his head, opening his body up to me. I trace my fingers up and down his ribs, thumb his hip bone. It makes him twitch, sensitive skin under my touch, covered in pretty bruises. 

He’s so fucking fragile. I squeeze the soft part of his waist, which makes him jolt. 

I tickle his armpits, along his ribs. He flinches and shudders, a confused giggle escaping him. 

I lay down beside him, kissing his face, rumpling his hair in my hand, tugging it gently. He squirms, trying to reciprocate, I know. But too weak to manage it. It’s an intimacy I haven’t allowed him before. 

“Thank me, pet,” I murmur to him. 

He swallows again. “Thank…thank you.” 

“Good boy.” 

It’s more fun than I’d thought it would be, so I keep tickling him. Scratching him lightly with my nails, finding his sensitive spots, finding what makes him wiggle, hearing him laugh. When he tries to pull away, I hold him close, slinging an arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me. 

I lick up the tears dribbling down his face, rubbing my fingers lightly on the sensitive inside of his thighs, making him open his legs for me, through a strained little giggle. 

After stripping myself, coating my fingers in lube to prevent me from chafing, I push my fingers inside him. I squeeze his waist, holding him against me, which makes him moan and shudder breathlessly. It’s gorgeous; pleasure wrinkling up his brow. I push my cock inside, rocking into him steadily. 

I hold his face in my hand, keeping his face tipped toward me, slapping gently when he tries to close his eyes. “Focus on me, sweetheart,” I whisper. 

He cries the whole time, yes–but he begs prettily, begs for his release, for my release. For me.

Taglist:

@whumped-by-glitter

[literary-motif]

Hey I’m wondering if you could do an after care with dontis and I love your writing keep doing what you’re doing

Afterglow

Dontis x Reader

Warnings: Implied sexual content

Dontis panted heavily, collapsing beside you on the bed. He ran his hand through his hair, catching his breath, and looked over to you. “Are you alright?” he asked, flipping on his side to face you properly. He reached out a hand, running his fingers up and down your side in a gentle caress.

“Fine,” you said, slightly out of breath. The high of pleasure had left you winded in the afterglow, and you felt tiredness weighing down your eyelids. You trusted Dontis completely, his soothing presence making you sleepy. “Can we take a bath, maybe?”

Dontis’ hand stilled. “Of course,” he said kindly, leaning up to place a chaste kiss against your lips. “Give me a moment.” He rose from the bed, walking into the ensuite. You heard the rushing of water and the muted closing of a cupboard. “Would you like to take it together or separately?” he asked, poking his head through the door. 

You took the time to stretch and relax your muscles, thinking. In truth, you did not want to be alone, yearning instead to feel Dontis’ arms around you. He always made you feel loved and cared for. “Together, if you don’t mind,” you said, rolling off the bed and wincing at the soreness in your lower back. 

“Not at all,” he replied, holding out a hand and walking you towards the bath with a gentle smile. “I hope I wasn’t too rough,” he said as you sat in the bath, the warm water instantly soothing your aching muscles and making you sigh contently. 

The scent of the bath salt eased your mind immediately. It smelt like Dontis, invoking the same feeling of warmth and security that you loved so much as you allowed your mind to drift.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” you said, closing your eyes and leaning your head back. You felt the water ripple as Dontis joined you on the other side of the bathtub, his wealth allowing it to be large enough that no part of you was touching. You swallowed your disappointment, not wanting to intrude if he wanted the personal space. “I like your bath salt.”

He chuckled, running his hand through the water and letting it trail down his fingers. “Thank you. I chose it carefully. Taking a bath with them is one of my favorite things to do after.” 

You hummed, feeling the pull of sleep threatening to overtake you. “‘s nice,” you slurred, opening your eyes and sitting up properly to wake you up again. “It was nice, I mean. This is nice.”

Dontis smiled at you. “Tired?”

“Just a bit,” you answered, stifling a yawn. “But I don’t want to sleep yet.”

He nodded, reaching for the bottle of shampoo, hesitating as he looked up at you. “Would you mind washing my hair?” he asked, trying to hide the longing in his voice.

“Turn around,” you requested, scooting over and taking the bottle from him. You scooped a generous portion of it into your palm, massaging it into his scalp. 

Dontis sighed, intoxicated by your touch. It made him feel warm from the inside out as you threaded your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching against his skin. He shuddered when you traced the base of his horns, making you halt your touches, fearing that you had hurt him. 

“It feels nice,” he reassured you, “I am sensitive there. So your—” he gasped, feeling your fingers brush over the skin again. 

“You have scars here,” you observed, keeping your touches light as you continued massaging in the shampoo. 

“I was betrayed, centuries ago,” he replied, voice dreamy as he recalled a time long gone. To your surprise, it was devoid of anger or resentment at the memory, as if he had forgiven it long ago. You tilted your head to kiss his shoulder, silently offering comfort regardless. 

“Close your eyes,” you said, taking hold of the shower head and adjusting the temperature of the water. You washed out the shampoo, using one hand to keep it from running into his eyes. 

Dontis smiled, feeling another surge of affection for you. “Thank you for your care,” he said as you wrung out his hair carefully. He turned around, leaning back against the tub, careful to keep his hair above the water, and opening his arms for you. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” you said, leaning against him and nuzzling your face into his neck. You remained like this for a while longer, Dontis’ steady heartbeat almost lulling you to sleep again as he ran his fingers up and down your back.

“Are you hungry? Would you like to eat something?” he asked once the water began cooling and you felt it was time to leave the bath. “I could make some pasta. It’s a light dish.” 

You nodded, hesitatingly leaving his embrace to wrap yourself in a towel and step out of the bathtub. “I can help.”

“Nonsense,” he said with a chuckle, drying his wet hair and kissing you. “I’ll be done in an instant. You rest. I’ll serve you dinner in bed.”

“You spoil me,” you said, pulling on one of his fluffy brown sweaters and enjoying the smirk Dontis gave you as he disappeared behind the door. You were immediately surrounded by his smell, sighing contently as you sunk into the pillows, feeling relaxed and looked after. 

Dontis had a way of making you melt. He was the most compassionate and kindest person you had ever come across, and his infinite generosity and care never failed to leave you speechless. You could never properly express the gratitude you felt for him and all his kindness, but you hoped the gentle touches, loving kisses, and the look of adoration in your gaze every time your eyes met conveyed at least part of it.

The dip beside you on the mattress made your eyes open slowly, and you were immediately met with Dontis’ warm smile. “You can sleep in a moment,” he said, pushing the tray towards you. “And I look forward to having you in my arms when you do, but eat first.”

Sitting up, you took the plate of pasta, smiling at the leaves of basil he added on top of it. “You’re the best, Dontis. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

[mysticwolfshadows]

Taken - Zutara - Part 78

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"I don't know," Aang said. "It was one thing doing it to Ozai... He was evil. But if you're right, and something is wrong with her, it doesn't... feel right."

Zuko sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I know. But the only way she can get help is if she can't hurt anyone. And the only way she won't be able to hurt anyone is if she's restrained or can't bend."

The Avatar scratched at the back of his neck. "I know you're right, but..."

"Please, just think about it," Zuko pleaded.

Aang sighed. "No. You're right. It's the only way we can help her."

Zuko wasn't sure if he could watch. His chest ached, as he and Aang walked down various halls to where Azula was being kept. Suki and Ty Lee were outside. The Kyoshi Warriors had agreed to stay in the Fire Nation, as Zuko's personal guard, until his reign was stabilized. Ty Lee had been interested in joining, and Suki had been interested in adding chi-blocking to the warriors training.

Suki eyed them, but moved to open the door.

The room was plain, simple. Inside, Azula was wrapped in a straitjacket, sitting in a chair. When they stepped inside, Azula turned her head to look at them, a wild grin on her lips.

"Oh Zuzu!" she cooed, head flopping back. "And your little Avatar friend. I'd bow but..." She wiggled, making the clasp of the jacket clink together.

"Azula," Zuko started, slowly stepping forward. "We... We need to do something. That you're not going to like."

She narrows her eyes. "What? Going to take my bending like you took everything else?" Zuko looks away, and her eyes go wide. "No... No! You can't do this to me!"

She started to thrash, knocking over her chair and hitting the ground. Zuko rushed forward, trying to stop her from hurting herself, but she kicked her legs out. He pulled back, only to dive down as she starts to scream. Fat tears build in her eyes, as he wraps his arms around her, holding her still.

"Azula," he tries, only so her to try and headbutt him. "'Zula, please! You're going to hurt yourself!"

Aang was backing away, eyes wide as he watched the two siblings struggling on the floor.

"She put you up to this!" Azula was screaming. "She always hated my bending! That it makes me a monster!"

"Azula, who are you talking about?! No one's here!"

"Mother!" Azula screamed to the ceiling. "Mother, this is all your fault! You turned them against me!"

Zuko's heart clenched, and he squeezed his arms around his sister. "She's not here, Azula. Please, I'm trying to help you. Please, Azula!"

"You hate me! She turned you against me! She turned them all against me!"

She was still screaming, but she had stopped thrashing. Zuko lifted his head, turned to look at Aang.

"Please," Zuko pleaded. "Please, Aang. Help my sister."

The young Avatar took a shaky breath, before stepping forward. One hand went to Azula's forehead, as the other to the center of her sternum. The room filled with blue and orange light, and Zuko had to close his eyes to shield himself from it. Even from behind his eyelids, he could see the color, until everything was blue, before it finally faded.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at his sister, limp in his hold. Then, he looked up at Aang. The Avatar nodded.

Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Zuko reached down. He opened clasps and helped pull Azula's arms from the strait jacket. When it fell to the floor, he turned to face her.

"Azula-"

"Get out."

The words were barely above a whisper, softer than she had ever spoken in her life.

He would respect her wishes. Slowly, he stood, grabbing the jacket from the floor. He moved to the door, Aang right behind him. Still, he paused.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to look at his sister. She had turned herself away, starting to huddle into the corner. "But no matter how messed up our relationship is, you're still my sister. You'll always be my sister. And, if you want to talk, I'll come right away. I'll come see you tomorrow."

He stepped out, closing the door so Azula was alone, like she wanted. For now.

"Was that really the right thing to do?" Aang asked. "Taking her bending?"

"Azula used her bending and status to intimidate people," Ty Lee said. She was looking at the door. "To manipulate them so she wasn't alone. Now... Well, she has neither. Maybe she can finally start to see that she doesn't need to manipulate people to keep them around?"

Zuko let out a breath. "I hope you're right, Ty Lee."

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

[sweetbillwriting]

Love Just Happens

THE FINALE

Characters: The future's Bill Skarsgård and others close to him. The rest is my own characters.

Setting: This story is set in the future but because it's hard to say how the world is then (and it isn't that important for the story) the future is similar to our time now, even with fashion and so on.

Warnings: 18+, age difference, ageism.

Notes: Now is the time here to say goodbye to Bill and Aurora, my favorite fictional couple. I will miss them so much! Thank you for reading and following them in their long story!🩷

He knew who it was now. He knew who had betrayed them.

Bill sat in bed, looking at his cuticles without really taking in what he was looking at. He wasn't interested in his cuticles, just a place to rest his eyes. The clock was 6 AM, and he hadn't slept all night. He just looked at the inside of his eyelids, and now he needed some change, something else to look at while the thoughts and feelings pounded in his head.

He hadn't thought about anything else since he spoke to his manager. He just thought about the person who seemed to want to destroy their life. Sonny. One of Aurora's best friends. Bill hadn't liked him at all in the beginning. Every time he saw him, he just thought about all the attention-seeking things he had done to reach celebrity status. When he succeeded in pushing those thoughts away, he met a too big smile on Sonny’s face and a high pitched laugh. He couldn't see what Aurora saw in him, but he had proved himself to be a loyal friend over time. Or they had believed so until now.

If Bill put away all the good things he had learned himself to feel for Sonny, another person was left behind than the guy Aurora trusted. Left was just some vain guy, sitting on all of Aurora's secrets and a big loan for his studies. Bill scratched his cuticle with his thumb nail and sighed. He wished he had seen this coming, like he should have, but it was also understandable why he hadn't. Aurora really thought Sonny was her friend. Bill looked down at his wife, who lay facing him on her side of the bed, sleeping. Her hair was gathered in a long braid, but a third of it had loosened and laid as wild curls around her shoulders. She didn't know yet that her best friend had told all her secrets to the press. That one more of her friends had spit in her face to get what they wanted. His beautiful Lou, who never wanted any harm.

Bill crawled down next to her so he could lay with his face toward her and analyze her face. She wasn't just the most beautiful woman for him on the outside, but also on the inside. He wanted to protect her, save her from everything bad in the world, but he had been bad at that recently but would now see it as his most important mission. He never wanted to see her hurt again, but he knew that his first step on that mission was just that: to hurt her again. He needed to tell her about Sonny, and that would leave another bruise on her soul.

×××

Aurora looked sleepily up at her husband. He had woken her up with the soft vibration of his voice close to her face. She looked at his pouty lips and smooth skin and smiled a little. His mouth was the mouth of an angel’s. Lush, soft, and cherry red. She smiled a little and thought about kissing his lips, but the sleepiness fooled her to close her eyes and dream about them instead of tasting them for real.

“Lou? Lou?” Bill said softly again when she closed her eyes in a tired smile. He caressed her dark locks and put it behind her ear, then blew carefully on her eyelashes to irritate her just enough to wake up again. Aurora woke up again and answered by trying to wave him away, but Bill took her hand instead, and with a light pressure, forced her to give him attention.

“Babe, we must talk,” Bill said seriously, contrasting hard with the playful mood she had woken up in. She opened her eyes again and met his green stare. His serious face made her remember what was happening in their lives, and she understood it was more bad news.

“What have they written now?” She said lowly with her morning voice and looked down at their champagne-colored sheets. Bill continued to play with her curls, and licked his lips.

“They haven't written anything more, but I'm really sure I know who their source is…”

Aurora looked up at him curiously, but with a worry in her gut. What if it was someone who meant something to them? What if it was a relative to Bill?

“Sonny. It was Sonny,” said Bill shortly. He wanted to just put it on the table fast, there was no reason to not just give it to her fast, she would be sad anyway.

Aurora looked at him in silence and thought about her friend.

Sonny had come into her life while she was together with Mathias and their friendship had grown slowly. He hadn't forced himself on and had always seemed to have a real interest in being her friend. Of course she had noticed he liked being where things happen and that her new life as a mother was a bit of a disappointment, but it was just a part of his personality. He was social and extroverted, something she was too but had become a smaller, less important part of her life as a wife and mother.

Bill didn't say anything, just looked at his wife's face while she thought about what he had said. Their years together had taught her to think things through more closely than just act on her emotions. So many times had life been different than she had thought.

Aurora thought about Sonny's reaction when she was attacked, how worried he was, but also the times he had helped her with Isis. She thought about all their talks, the inside jokes, and the gossip. The gossip. He was an expert on gossip and craved it. It was he who had told her Bill had cheated on his older kids’ mother. He was the one she had told everything to about Bill and her because he could give her psychological advice. Bill and Mathias' first reaction to him. The rat comment. His stupid TikTok videos.

“Do you have any, like, proof for this accusation?” She said carefully to Bill. She could see that Sonny both had a history of gossip and motives to do it, but that was just speculation. Bill, who had hoped she would just jump on his theory because he was sure of it, felt an irritation in his chest, not really towards Aurora but to the situation. He didn't really have proof. He was always logical and reasonable like that, but now his emotions started to take over.

“My manager has a contact with Page Six who said it was a Swedish man. I can just see Sonny being that person if it's not Mathias. Or one of my brothers.” He said the last sentence pointingly, like that was unbelievable, and it was. It was Sonny, and she could see it too. Once again, a close friend betrayed her.

Bill looked at Aurora, who was still calm, but a tear ran down the bridge of her nose. He kissed her hand and pressed his forehead against hers. His stomach ached with several emotions, and he could feel a burning sensation up in his throat and spreading out like a virus in his chest. He really didn't like this, and it felt surreal that he would do something like what he thought about but seeing his wife, the love of his life, so hurt was enough to know he would be forced to do things he feared more than death.

“I will set him up. I will… I will make him confess to it while my manager hears and also record it. Then I will make a police report for slander, both here in Sweden but also in the USA. Then we will use the same fucking weapon as him. The media.”

His voice didn't sound like his, it was a darker but also broken voice that came out of his lips as a loud whisper. There was malice in it, but also heavy protectiveness. He would never use violence, threats, or anything like that but he would use the weapons he could find. It didn't really matter what would happen with the police report; the media and the people would judge Sonny anyway. For a while, their lives would probably be even more drama-filled, but after a while, the narrative would turn and people would want to be on their side, or at least enough people, so the slander of them would fade away.

“You know that podcast host I blurted out that we were a couple to?”

“Mm?” Aurora looked at him with big eyes.

“That episode is still his most listened to episode. I think he would love an interview with the both of us.”

Aurora looked between Bill's big green eyes with her big brown ones in silence. Bill tried to interpret her facial expressions, see what she thought about it all, but then she broke down in violent tears.

“Oh my god, Bill..!” She said through tears and pushed her body closer to his. She was in shock that he was prepared for such a thing. She had seen him hide from the media their whole relationship, and now he would play into them just for her. Just so they could get rectification.

“I know it's a lot… I'm terrified. I'm so fucking terrified but we need an end to this. He can't continue to feed them lies,” said Bill. His voice broke when his own tears spilled down on the pillow under him. Aurora hugged him hard, so hard to let their emotions mix and calm down each other. They needed an end to all of the lies, to fight for that, because their love deserved it.

×××

Their teams were torn about whether it was a good idea, but they could also see in the couple that they had, had enough. Aurora's team could also see how her whole career was slowly dying and wondered if this was maybe the final thing that could make it blow up again. Bill's team was so shocked that he had come up with this plan, he, who they would sometimes force to do an interview. Maybe they were a bit too curious about what would happen to put a stop to it. Bill's manager was open about his excitement, he said honestly to Bill that he liked that side of Bill, he liked how much he could surprise people, and he thought it was a thrill to actually be a part of the plan.

Both Bill and Aurora had rather seen her not be a part of the confrontation with Sonny. She or the life inside of her didn't need the stress; it would be much more emotional for her than for Bill to do such a thing, but they needed Sonny to have a reason to meet Bill. They needed a calm place, but didn't want to be in their house. That's why they borrowed Mathias' studio, Aurora said she was there working on new material and wanted Sonny as input and it would also be really easy for Bill to get everything on tape. The couple didn't have a clue if it would work and they could feel heavy anxiety in their chests. No one of them had done anything like that before and several times both of them thought about dropping it but suddenly Sonny called while they sat nervously on the couch and the time was in.

“It's so expensive with parking here; it's so fucking awful; every time I meet you here, I must starve for a week,” joked Sonny with a laugh. Aurora had the speaker on, and Bill furrowed his brows and looked at his wife. He interpreted Sonny differently than she did.

“Yeah… Yeah… But we’ll fix that, you know that,” said Aurora. Even if she talked with the guy who sold her secrets, she got a bad conscience for him needing to pay so much for parking. Bill could see that in her expression and wondered if this had happened a lot. He knew Aurora had no clue what parking cost in the area, Stockholm, or even Sweden, so it would be really easy to fool her. He was also eager to help his friends with things, but it was different if they showed any signs of manipulation.

“Is the code still 3442?” Asked Sonny.

“Yeah…” Said Aurora with a nervous shake in her voice. Bill hoped Sonny didn't hear it.

"Yeah, it worked. See ya!”

Aurora turned to Bill and looked at him with fear. He didn't say anything because he needed the few seconds before Sonny would be in the room to collect himself, and prepare for his performance. Aurora knew that he was the one who would do the work now while she left him alone so she could be calm and take care of the growing seed inside of her. Isis was safe with Gustaf and his family, but their other little baby was forced to be a part of all the drama.

Aurora hugged Bill's hand in hers, looking down at its comforting size, but then turned her eyes to the door. They could hear him now, stomping up the stairs and then opening the door like it was his own studio.

Sonny looked at them with a broad smile as they sat on the couch, but there was also another feeling that Aurora couldn't interpret but that Bill could. Disconcern. He looked like an animal who wondered if it needed to escape.

“Hey… Ehm…” Aurora stood up, looked between the men, and paused at Bill, who nodded in encouragement. “I’ll just go and try to find something for lunch…” she continued, walking to the door with a lowered gaze.

“Oh, okay,” said Sonny fast, and he turned on his heel so he could follow.

“Sonny. I want to talk to you,” said Bill, taking the moment when he had his back on him to start the recording and call up his manager. He laid the phone next to himself on the couch, but close to the armrest.

Sonny stopped his movement and laughed nervously. Aurora just continued to walk. She knew that was what Bill wanted her to do. No doubt, just walk away and not worry about anything.

Sonny looked after her, but then turned and looked at Bill. Even sitting down Bill was intimidating. His shoulders, so broad, his legs long and his arms strong. He looked at him with a dark expression and in that moment Sonny understood why Hollywood had him as a favorite villain. He had never seen Bill as that attractive and believed Aurora could get someone hotter but not just that but also someone more exciting. Bill made her boring but he also had a way that made you feel small and insignificant, or that's what Sonny felt at least. He hadn't felt a thing while spilling the lies about Bill. He would probably need to have things going against him.

“I think you know what I want to talk about,” said Bill with a sigh. He took on the role as disappointed but never lost that intimidating vibe. “Sit down.”

Sonny scoffed and rolled his eyes with crossed arms.

"I would rather stand.”

“Sure. Okay.” Bill sat up on the couch better and looked at Sonny intensely. Sonny didn't look at him but instead looked around in the room, like he was too good to give Bill his attention.

“I know it's you who talked to Page Six. I know it's you who betrayed my wife and manipulated everything she had told you to gossip-friendly stories.”

Sonny scoffed again but looked uncomfortable and even turned his eyes to the door, like he thought about escaping. His nervous behavior just made Bill more sure of himself. It was obvious it was Sonny. That little rat.

“I have a source at Page Six,” Bill said shortly, and it made Sonny finally look at him. His eyes were gray and worried, but they grew of panic. He dragged his hands nervously through his hair. “They know it's you.”

Sonny looked down at the floor, and it looked like he tried to come up with something to say, so Bill waited him out. He was good at being silent. To Bill's surprise, Sonny started to sob. Small, pathetic sobs like it was he who was the victim.

“You don't understand!” He said and dragged his fingers over his cheeks to wipe away the tears. Bill looked at him a bit uncomfortable because tears felt harder to handle than anger, but he must make him talk in some way or another.

“Okay?” He just said to make the conversation continue.

“You're so fucking rich! And famous! You have everything while I've fucking done everything to make things work!” Sonny didn't look at Bill, and he was glad for that; it would be too uncomfortable.

“So you wanted money? Is that it? You sold your stories about me and Lou?”

Sonny continued to sob and now sat down next to Bill on the couch, not to come closer but because his legs started to fail him.

“She just walked into Chanel and bought a bag, just like that! She has no understanding of money at all!”

There was truth to Sonny's words, but it still didn't make what he did understandable. Aurora had money—a lot of it but she was also generous and gave much away. Her lack of economic consciousness went in both directions. Bill swallowed hard because he hadn't yet gotten Sonny to confess; he just whined like a bitter teenager.

“But the one you talked the most about wasn't Lou…” he finally said to create some other feelings in Sonny. “Most of the lies were about me.”

Now Sonny swallowed hard and looked up at Bill carefully. He looked much more nervous now, like he expected Bill to hit him.

“Ehm…”

Bill lifted his brows and rested his elbow on the armrest, expectedly.

“It was just… It was just easier. Because… I understand you believe now that I'm the worst friend, that I don't care about Lou. I do! I really do!” Bill wanted to laugh at his words but kept his dark gaze to not make Sonny stop talking. “And Aurora is so great and… I didn't want to hurt her. I couldn't say she was a bitch, because she's really not. So…”

Bill looked at him with big eyes, waiting for him to confess.

“So it was easier to tell Page Six about you. And, to be fair, god, you have done some stupid shit.” Sonny looked at Bill now with big eyes, like he expected Bill to confess he was in the wrong. Bill smirked, because he had what he wanted now but instead of just being pleased with that he felt he could instead just meet Sonny's accusations.

“Like what do you mean?”

Sonny dried his tears and took a deep breath.

“Roxy? The trainer? Continue to work with that girl Aurora hated?”

Bill dragged a hand over his face in irritation. He hadn't done everything perfect in his and Aurora's relationship, but he didn't deserve this because of it.

“But I've never cheated and you know that too. You know how much I love Aurora Lou,” said he seriously and gave Sonny an intense look. Sonny looked up at him but then looked away.

"Yeah, I know that. I know that. But she still is worth more than you.”

Bill didn't move a muscle because, at that moment, he agreed with Sonny, even if Sonny had tried to destroy his life. Even a blind hen…

Sonny looked up at Bill and analyzed his face for a few seconds until Bill smacked his lips, then he didn't dare to look at him any more.

“I will file a police report so you know, and it's not mine or Aurora’s problem what happens with you after that.”

Sonny, who had believed he would be able to cry himself out of the mess, looked at Bill with horror and started to sob violently again. Now Bill just looked at him tiredly, but his real feelings were something else. Triumph. Triumph. Triumph. He had it all on tape, and his manager had heard everything.

×××

Aurora stood outside of the building. The idea was that she would calm down at a café and not think about what Bill was doing, but that had been impossible. She had turned back before she even walked into the café and had then stood hidden behind a corner so she could see the entrance door without Sonny seeing her when he walked out. She had a hand on her belly, to calm the baby down, she thought to herself but in reality it was to calm herself down. It was calming to think about the life inside of her. It was like it got her to think that everything would be okay.

She smiled to herself and continued to do that even when she saw Sonny leave the building. He marched away fast, but she couldn't see so many other emotions than that because his face was covered with his hood. She took a deep breath and walked to the entrance door. Hopefully Bill would give her good news and give the baby right.

She heard Bill laugh when she came into the studio. He had his phone pressed against his ear and walked around in the room with a hand on his hip.

“It was probably logical in his brain. Yeah, fuck, what a-” Bill didn't end his sentence because he had just realized Aurora stood behind him.

“I'll call you later,” he said to his manager and then hung up. He smiled a big, dopey smile towards Aurora and spread his arms out.

“I have it all on tape, baby.”

She looked at him with a pounding chest; it was much to take in, but then she let herself get swallowed by Bill's big embrace.

“Did you tell him that?” She asked and looked up at her husband’s face.

“No, no. That's just for the cops. I don't want to threaten him. I'm the good guy, you know,” he said with a smirk, and he gave her a little peck when she answered his smile.

“But that's not illegal? Or anything?” She said worryingly, and Bill smiled calmly.

“Not in Sweden. And it's just for the police. Okay?”

Aurora nodded, then took a deep breath and smiled in relief. Bill could see her eyes getting more shiny for every second and dragged his hand through her hair and patted her cheeks with his thumbs.

“God… That you dare to do this… I'm so happy you did this.”

Bill smiled sadly at first, thinking about just a couple of weeks ago, when he had wanted to hide. Then he also thought about what Sonny had said about him.

“I will do everything for you. Everything.” He said and looked her deep in the eyes. Aurora giggled and reached up so they could kiss again. Just then, the both of them could feel a movement between them, or for Aurora inside of her. Both of them looked down at her bump and laughed with happiness. Bill laid his hand on her belly to feel the sweet movement, and she looked at him with a loving smile.

“I'm so sure this will be a boy,” she said lowly. Bill looked at her with glistening eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

×××

2 years later…

Aurora really liked the dress—that perfect Barbie pink silky dress that floated nicely over her curves. Today she had matched it with nude strappy heels and her hair pin straight. The first time she had it on, she had it with heels the same color as the dress and her hair collected in a high, voluminous ponytail, but then she also had help from a hairstylist. It was the day they visited the podcast together—the filmed podcast. The dress had been tight over her pregnant belly, and the shoes had cut into her swollen feet. Now the dress had been sewn in to fit her petite frame again, and the shoes were one of her more comfortable heels.

The podcast had gotten so much attention, with her showing off her bump, Bill and her showing themselves together in such a context, and the long talk about all sorts of things, highs and lows. The articles about their slander accusation lay in everyone's memory while watching the interview, but they never talked directly about that, just touching on subjects like gossip, hate, and lies. Aurora became moved in a moment and was forced to dry her tears, but Bill sat so close, and she searched for support in him and found it so easily. Their love lit up the room like a firecracker. It was hard to not love them.

Bill had left his comfort zone completely that day. He had just had her on his mind. He had been forced to do that several times after that, but nothing made him hide, and that day he wouldn't hide either.

Aurora looked around at the people around the long table. It was their family and their friends, talking in a mix of Swedish and English, the way she most of the time talked. She was a part of Swedish society now, and her kids had their real roots there. It was not at all what she expected would happen in her life, but she was so thankful for that. Even if she were an international celebrity, her life had been lonely in many moments. Her family was small, so small that it was just her mom left but now she had family in every direction she looked. She had been betrayed by friends, used by family, and hurt by boyfriends, but now she sat around that table with more things than her career to be proud of. She gave her mom a look where she sat opposite her, next to Valter. If Aurora had been afraid of Valter in the beginning, he had been equally afraid of her mom. Erica sat at Aurora's right with her boyfriend and enjoyed their food. Everyone enjoyed their food and her new hit record on the speakers. Aurora's chest warmed with proud feelings, not because of her songs, which were mostly embarrassing, but for her man. Her husband.

The applause started to spread out through the restaurant with whistles and cheers. It was obvious what was happening to Aurora's left, where the entrance to the kitchen was. Aurora's cheeks heated up when she looked at Bill. She felt newly in love when she looked at him in his black chef jacket. He was so handsome, his forehead lightly glistening with sweat and his hair messy. His cheeks were slightly pink from the warmth in the kitchen, and his eyes sparkled with joy. Aurora’s eyes also sparkled, but by seeing him like that, she unconsciously laid her hands on her cheeks to hide her blush, but it was in vain because no one missed her reaction, not Bill's either, when he looked at her lovingly with a small laugh.

Bill didn't know what he was most proud of at that moment, his restaurant or Aurora. He heard her music and was reminded of her hard work, their own label, but mostly their family. How she had opened her heart for his three daughters and carried and nurtured their two kids, Isadora Li and Stellan. He had given up a relationship between them before they even had tried but she didn't give up, even if he had been a coward. He was proud of her in every way and grateful for how much she inspired him.

Next to Bill stood the head chef and the other owner, and they gave each other playful smiles while the restaurant, filled with their friends and family, cheered. Bill had started the restaurant together with a friend and together with the head chef, they had created the menu. All of that while being a great dad, a loving husband, and continuing his acting career. He was proud of himself, too. He had always seen himself as a daring person but after all he and Aurora had been through, it felt like nothing could stop him.

The other owner started to talk about their work to create the restaurant, the struggle they have had, and then thanked his family and friends. Bill looked at him while he talked, but when he got quiet, his eyes were drawn to his wife at once. He smiled, almost embarrassed, and looked down at the floor while stomping on the place. Several people started to cheer again for the couple's newly in love way but also because this was a big day for them in one more way.

“First of all, congratulations to us, babe. On our fifth wedding anniversary, I love you-,” he said, making a heavy exhalation and giving her a smile with shiny eyes because all words were too small to explain his love for her. “My one and only. Thank you for everything you give me, every day.”

Aurora dried her tears away with her napkin, but she laughed through her tears. Bill gave her a smile but then couldn't stop himself from running up to her in a silly manner and attacking her lips with his. Soft plump lips devoured her mouth, and she giggled through it. Bill smirked and then kissed her again. Again and again. Way too passionate for doing it in the presence of others, but that was their love.

Maybe too much, maybe too cute, maybe too loud. Bigger than everything.

×

[hanahaki-disease]

Till I Let You Fall

Hell or High Water - Percy Jackson/DC Crossover

Summary:

“Jason Todd. The second Robin, Tim and Percy’s Robin. Percy’s big brother was alive and had beat the shit out of him the night before in Titans tower.”

❤️✨HE HAS RISEN BABY GIRL‼️✨❤️🤪🦀

**************************************

“Summer’s next week, huh?” Tim said from the door way. Sleep still had its grip on him, it tugged his eyelids down and made his movements a bit more lethargic than usual. But last nights’ patrol had been rough and Percy thinks Tim deserves to be a bit lazy on a Wednesday morning.

Croc had decided to start the night with a bang, crawling out of his lair that was the sewers to terrorize and obtain whatever it was he wanted in the docks. They had yet to figure out what it was, but Percy knows that Tim or Bruce will have that info by the time he gets back from the orientation. Tim also had the misfortune of running into Polka Dot Man right before his patrol ended. The corrosive circles made his cape look like Swiss cheese and he had lost a shoe some how in that battle.

Percy fought really hard to contain his laughter when he came back to the cave like that. Hair sticking up and disheveled, one sock wet from the constant puddles of rain water and cave moisture, his belt in one hand and his other hand holding up his pants. Tim was a mess and Percy had the right as his brother and best friend to laugh at him.

“Actually, summer started on Monday,” Percy reread the itinerary for the orientation before shoving it into his backpack. “But yes, I go back to camp next week.”

Tim nodded his head, scratching at his belly as he did so. “What kinda shenanigans do you think you’ll get up to this time?”

“With my track history in mind,” he said. “Probably another cross country adventure. Higher chances of death this time, I know that for sure.”

“Why’s that?” Percy watched as Tim laid across his bed, across his clothes that Alfred had just finished pressing. “Did you have another prophetic dream or something?”

The younger of the two rolled the other off his clothes before grabbing his pillow and hit Tim with it. Percy chuckled at Tim’s groan when he threw it at his face. “Or something.” Tim did not look amused. “It’s…a vibe that I have, not so much as a dream. I just have this feeling that something is gonna happen this summer, not just camp, but here as well.”

“Like an invasion or takeover?” Percy shook his head. “Oh, one of us gets like, uber sick and we’re out for like a month? No, Bruce gets food poisoning when he goes on that date with Selina on Friday?”

“No, but that would be funny,” Percy leaned against his desk. “It’s more like, something happens to you specifically. Something happens and you get really hurt.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Tim says.

“I know, which is why I’m leaving you these.” Percy pulls out a small drawstring bag from the desk drawer and tossed to him. It wasn’t any bigger than the palm of his hand and jingled when it landed. Inside was a good little pile of gold coins, roughly the size of a dollar coin and embossed on both sides.

One side had the empire state building on it, beams of light reaching out to the border making the picture seem holier than it was in real life. Circling the Empire state building on both side were Greek characters, probably a phrase of some kind. He could recognize a few letters, one was the popular ‘omega’ and another was ‘delta.’ There was also ‘psi’ but he couldn’t be quiet sure since it was a little different than the current version in the modern Greek alphabet, so Tim deduced that this was written in some kind of older version of the language.

On the other side of the coin was a small Pegasus encircled by a laurel wreath and the same Greek phrase on the edge of the coin. There was maybe, twenty of these coins in the bag. Each one having as different symbol in the laurel and the Empire State building on the other side. “What are these?”

“Gold drachmas,” Percy answered. “Currency of the gods, you can use them to call me when I’m gone.”

“You have a phone, though, can’t I just use that?”

He shook his head. “Have you ever seen me use my phone? If I try to use it, it’s basically a beacon to any and all monsters in Gotham, they’ll know I’m here and come after me. And I kinda don’t want to fight any more than I have to.”

“That’s fair. How does it work?” Tim sat up.

Percy moved to the window. The morning sunlight was bright and warm and so very different than how it usually is, but Tim didn’t mind it when he was inside. Like a cat, he could lay on the ground with a pillow and a blanket and take a nap in it’s warmth. He wouldn’t dare do it outside, though. Summer in Gotham was a humid hell and he didn’t want to be basting in his seat while he got roasted by the sun. At least inside he had the luxury of air conditioning.

Tim watched Percy’s gaze focused on the bottle of water on his nightstand. He watched as it’s contents began to spin in it’s plastic confines, swirling around in a vortex, making the bottle move as it did so. With an outstretched hand, Percy commanded it to burst from the bottle, pieces of plastic launched across the room—and in his hair—as the water floated it’s way to him.

Logically, Tim knows Percy can do this, he’s seen it before when Percy saved a baby bat that fell into the cave lake below. But he’s awestruck each time. Like his brain forgets that Percy has water powers and then remembers it all at once when he does it again. It was quite annoying.

He saw him make the water encircle his arm like a bracelet, a constant stream that so many fashion designers and celebrities alike would have killed to have. Carefully he made bits of the water stream off the main one, turning it into a fine mist that shakily made a rainbow in the sunlight. “Bring one of the drachmas and watch this.”

Sliding off the bed, Tim stood beside Percy as he took the drachma from him. “If, for whatever reason, you need to get a hold of me, this is how you do it. You make a rainbow, grab one of these, and say: O Iris, accept my offering!” He tossed the coin into the rainbow and Tim half expected to hear it clatter against the ground on the other side. But it didn’t. It wasn’t on the floor. It had simply vanished. “Then you ask her to show you who you need to talk to, for example: Show me, Grover Underwood, Camp Half-blood!”

A fuzzy image came into view and Tim audibly gasped at the sight. Grover looked exactly as he remembered him from sixth grade, from the curly hair, wispy beard on his chin and the slightly goat-like eyes. But while it was nice to see him again, Tim couldn’t help but take in the sights of the background.

Looming over the other buildings in the area, was a Colosseum. Old stone, withered by age but still kept up and cared for, it was the largest building Tim could see, with an amphitheater not too far from it either. A semi-circle of stone seats faced an unlit bonfire pit and a wooden stage. Pillars of white marble and lit braziers stood further behind the amphitheater, that was probably the pavilion Percy talked about. Where they eat their meals or have cabin meetings since there’s enough for all of them.

It wasn’t hard to spot the other campers Percy talks about, they all wore the same bright orange shirts he had and some were decked out in armor. Chest plates and shin straps, cauldrons and helmets, leather and shiny bronze that glinted in the sunlight. Each of them had a weapon on them. A sword on their hips, an ax in their hand or a spear. Though he knew they were kids like him, no older than eighteen, they held themselves like soldiers. Trained and dangerous kids who could hold their own for a good while in combat against the Amazonians. They fought like the Amazonians, Tim thought as he watched a group spar on the right side. Sand and dirt got kicked up as they moved, the plumes of their helmets shaved as they ducked, and the clash of blades and shields a constant background noise in Percy and Grover’s conversation.

“Alright, see ya G-man,” Percy swiped his hand though the image, ruining the rainbow and ending the magic video call. “You understand how it works now?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Percy said sending the last bit of water on him towards the sink in his restroom, fist bumping the air when it landed in the porcelain bowl. “If anything happens, anything at all, let me know. I’ll drop everything and come home.”

“Yeah, no, I wont do that,” Tim said and collect the bag of coins. “You’re going to be fifteen at the end of the summer Percy, and you said it yourself that you’re basically a general in this war of yours. I won’t rip you away from that for something you don’t need to worry about. We can handle it here, you just make sure you don’t die when you’re in camp and that you come home for your birthday.”

“No promises,” Percy says and grabbed his stuff, knowing Alfred was going to call for him soon to head to orientation for his new high school. Tim followed him out to the hall, waiting beside Cassandra who paused to waive goodbye to her new little brother, “Oh! And don’t even think about looking for your birthday present in my room. I already gave it to Alfred to keep your grubby hands away from it.”

“Shucks,” Tim placed his hand on his hips and waived Percy goodbye as he left with Alfred.

Tim knows that Percy has magic dreams, he’s been told all about them after his initial introduction into Percy’s second life. Knows that they sometimes leave him shaking with a sheen of sweat, other times he looks haunted. As if the ghost of someone he once knew visited him, leaving him sullen during breakfast the next morning. Sometimes his dreams are pretty useful, a few times he’s woken up with a premonition, a fuzzy kind of gut feeling about a building or a profile on a certain case. Other times, he warns Tim not to go with Bruce on a case, to go another way on patrol, to stop or distract Stephanie from something. It isn’t clear why sometimes, since nothing happens after that, but Tim can just assume that whatever it was he saw didn’t happen.

But this time, Percy didn’t have any concrete feelings or visions. He didn’t have an inkling of where or when, of who was there and who wasn’t. Just a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that kept Tim wary of whats to come later on.

—

Well shit.

So that’s what Percy meant when he said that Tim was going to be getting hurt.

Tim hissed in pain as he tried to reach for the handle of the drawer in the stand besides him. His right leg was in a cast, his shin was fractured and his knee was broken, as was his left wrist. The bruised ribs hurt to breath, move—exist in general, and the many cuts and bruises he got did not make anything any better.

He didn’t know what to expect in the days following Percy’s departure and the feeling of a serious injury towards him. Every day and every patrol he had spent on edge waiting for it to happen. Jumping at every person or movement in the shadow. (he felt bad every time it happened with Cass.) It got to the point that Bruce suggested that Tim takes some time away from Gotham and to head to Jump City to hang with the Titans for a bit.

Bruce.

Bruce Wayne, paranoia extraordinaire. The man who has plans for every little thing that could go wrong, told Tim that he needed some time away from Gotham. Because of Tim’s paranoia.

If Tim could laugh, he would, but his aching ribs prevented him from doing so. It also didn’t help that he was making it worse by trying to get the bag of drachmas he kept in the drawer. Normally he had them on top the stand, ready to grab in an emergency if he needed to reach out to Percy. But for some reason, he decided to tuck them into the drawer yesterday morning.

Why? He doesn’t know, he just did it, and here he was. Biting his lip in pain as he strained his good arm trying to even reach the handle. Either way, Tim has to get to those drachmas. He has to find a way to conjure a rainbow and call Percy from whatever quest he was on. This wasn’t something to put off any longer than it has been already—Jason was alive.

Jason Todd. The second Robin, Tim and Percy’s Robin. Percy’s big brother was alive and had beat the shit out of him the night before in Titans tower.

How did he come back? How long has be been alive and where has he been? So many questions had run through his head after Jason left him with an inch of his life last night. All of them needed answers, ones he doesn’t have and has no way of finding out because he was on bed rest. Which was stupid, he doesn’t need it. He’s fine.

Tim also needed to figure out where Jason was going next. He had gone on about how Batman had let another kid put on his suit, how Tim was just playing pretend in a dead kids uniform. And wow, Tim had déjà vu between the attacks from those insults since Percy had yelled them at him almost three years ago. So it was plausible for Tim to assume that Jason was heading to Gotham. He was probably going to confront Bruce or something.

And while Tim should warn Bruce of whats to come, let him know that his dead son has risen from the dead and is on a war path his way with a bullet that has his name on it. But Tim has found that he could care a little less than he should about Bruce right now. His main priority was to call his best friend to let him know that his brother was alive. After that, then maybe he’ll call Bruce.

His middle finger had just barely hooked onto the handle when the air in front of him shimmered into existence. The edges were colorful, a rainbow made of water vapor and magic, and in the middle there was a girl about his age. She had a healthy tan, much like Percy’s, and the tops of her cheeks were a bit more sun burnt than then rest of her face. Gold curls were pulled back into a ponytail letting Tim see the full intensity of her eyes.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen some one with gray eyes like hers, storm cloud gray and a piercing stare despite the red in her sclera. Tim knows that his eyes are pretty pale compared to the darker and brighter blues and green of his family, and he has been told that his own owlish, lead-paint stare was unnerving from time to time. But Tim found himself shrinking back into his pillow under hers.

“Who are you?” He said finally before mentally cursing himself that he didn’t have a domino on.

“Are you Tim Drake?” She answered.

“Answer my question first,” Tim hardened his glare, noticing how she didn’t seem fazed at it.

“My name’s Annabeth, I’m a…” Her next words caught in her throat a little. Her gaze fluttering to her surroundings as she collected her thoughts. “I was a friend of Percy.”

Percy was never one to share personal facts about himself to those he doesn’t know or doesn’t trust. He’s seen multiple times the way Percy shuts himself off to the other kids in school, the paparazzi, or anyone he deems unsafe. When they were kids, there was no hesitation for Percy to spill his life’s story to Tim. Somehow knowing that Tim was going to be his best friend at the age of eight on that rooftop years ago. He can imagine he was the same way over there at camp.

So whoever this Annabeth was, how ever she was connected to Percy, Tim could trust her too.

“Is he okay?” Tim tried to sit up.

She gave out a shaky breath and her gray eyes welt up with tears again, he tried to not let the dread in his stomach grow. “Have you, um, have you seen the news recently?” He shook his head. “Mount St Helens erupted a week ago, we were there when it did.” The dread was growing.

“I had left to deal with another monster, and Percy stayed there as a distraction.”

No. No…This can’t—

“Percy…” She wiped a tear away. “Percy blew up the mountain. We can’t find him. We think—we believe he died, no one could survive that. There’s gonna be…” she paused for a moment. “There’s gonna be a shroud burning next Friday, I can let you into the camp if you want to come.”

Tim’s throat was dry when he tried to respond. “I thought I couldn’t go since I’m mortal?”

“A demigod can let a mortal enter with explicit permission,” she nodded her head. “If you decide to come, I can meet you at the farmers road and lead you up. You were the only one who knew about this part of Percy’s life, I think he’d want you to be here to help light the pyre.”

With that, she swiped through the rainbow screen and the magic that held the water up fell into droplets on his bed. All at once, they left a wet mark on his sheets. So then why was he still hearing water hitting the bed? It was quiet, and faint, but there nonetheless. With a hand, Tim lifted it to his cheeks and discovered they were wet.

He was crying. When did he start crying? When had Percy left on a quest, why did he go? Tim wasn’t too far away, he could’ve flown a jet or have Superboy fly him there. Tim could have helped Percy, even if he could’ve seen anything. Tim could have had Kon fly in the rumble and the surrounding area, searching though the rocks with his X-ray vision looking for him and all the other people who had been hurt by the explosion. Tim couldn’t have done anything to stop him.

This—This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Tim was supposed to have called Percy. Wheezing from extortion, grimacing at his aching limbs and strained muscles with a smile on his face as he told Percy the news. He would seen his eyes widen, mouth drop, and maybe shed a few tears at the news. Percy would have said that he was on his way home, that he was going to pack his bag and head straight back to Gotham, but now…now…

Oh my god. Tim covered his mouth, he was going to have to tell the others.

He was going to have to be the one to tell Bruce that he lost another son to an explosion. He was going to have to tell Dick that all the bonding and reconciliation they’ve done these past two years were all for naught.

Tim was going to have to figure out a way to tell the recently revived Jason Todd that his little brother had died before he had come back to their world.

**************************************

Jason back in Gotham now >:) things are-a changing Percy’s reaction is gonna be in the next update, so stick around for that. And the dynamic between Percy and the rest of the batfam is gonna shift, quite a bit in the next arc—brace for that.

Also, this update marks the end of the second arc, I hoped you all liked it ❤️

All titles from this arc came from the song “Descending” by Sleep Token, go check them out, they’re an awesome band. Absolutely love them.

Thank you so much for reading‼️❤️

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