#EWB

[itcars]

RWB Porsche 911

Image by Khaled Al Neyadi

[februarybluues]

enemies with benefits. || 1. - p.u.n.k boy!

warnings: swearing, fighting, you and hobie hating each other, reader gets slightly injured but nothing that bad, horrible british (i'm very sorry🙏 )

part 2 - wounded.

You were bold, abrasive, honest, and never afraid to fight for what was right. He was the exact same - if not even worse. Logically, it was obvious for people to assume you’d be best friends. But, they couldn’t be further from the truth.

You heard a lot about Hobie. Mostly from Gwen and Miles rambling about ‘how awesome he was’. They told you about his cool style, his badass attitude, how caring he was, and pretty much everything there was to know about him. When they said he was a great guy, you almost believed them. But, your opinion quickly changed when you met him for the first time.

Miguel had called you to see him immediately, without giving any context as to why. Logically, you were confused and quite frankly, a bit scared. Did something happen? Were you in trouble? Needless to say you rushed over to him as quickly as you could.

“Y/n. New mission for you. There’s an anomaly that’s broken free and it’s jumping from dimension to dimension, wreaking havoc. I need you to stop it from corrupting anything, alright?” his face remained stoic as he spoke in a low, orderly tone. You smiled. It was no secret to anyone that you loved to fight. Whether it be fighting a villain as spider-woman, or fighting a sexist scum as y/n. You loved to make the world a better place. And you looked sick as you did it.

“Got it. Just send me the location and consider it done.” you responded, eagerly. Miguel cleared his throat, which caught your attention. “No, no, no. This is way more dangerous than your usual anomaly. You can’t do this on your own. Which is why I've assigned Hobart to be your partner.” You looked at him, confused. “Hobart? Who the fuck is that?” Without missing a beat, you heard the sound of rustling behind you. “M’right here.” you turned around, only to be met with a cocky smile, and a thick english accent. You quickly examined him. He was your stereotypical punk; tight jeans, combat boots, a sleeveless vest that was littered in pins and patches, and a guitar on his back. Everything about him screamed asshole. It was then that you realised he matched Gwen and Miles’ descriptions. There was no denying it, you were looking at the infamous Hobie Brown.

“You must be Hobie.” you held your hand out to him for a handshake. But he pressed a kiss to it instead. “The one and only.” he winked at you. You pulled your hand back, rolling your eyes at him. ‘Great.’ you thought to yourself. ‘He’s one of those people. A selfish, self-absorbed, cocky flirt.’ your head already jumped to conclusions, despite not knowing him for more than five minutes. You hadn’t realised you had been staring at him until he spoke up again. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” you scoffed at him, turning to talk to Miguel instead. “You can’t be serious. You know I work alone. I always work alone. I can handle this by myself.” Miguel shook his head, not wanting to hear your complaints. “I know. But, this is a job for two people. And, I firmly believe that you guys will work together greatly.” As much as you wanted to fight alone, you knew Miguel was right. You sighed. Hobie opened his mouth to speak again, but you cut him off before he could spew another snarky comment. “If you-” “Shut up with your elitist bullshit. All of you punks are the same.” You turned around yet again to look at his face. He immediately perked up with slight anger. You were testing his patience. “Aye. I’m no elitist! I don’t believe in’at crap! I don’t believe in labels!” your smile got smaller, but it stayed there nonetheless. “Yeah well I don't believe that you’re as cool as they say you are. Bet you’re just all bark and no bite.” his lips quirked up into a slight smile, completely disregarding what you had to say. “They? Who’s they?” his eyebrow raised, which made you notice his abundance of piercings. You'd be lying if you said they didn’t suit him. “Miles and Gwen.” you answered, the tone of your voice was slightly annoyed. He lit up slightly at the mention of their names. “You know Gwendy ‘n Miles?” “So what if I do?” His eyes grew wide, you could see the cogs whirring in his head as he put the pieces together. “Wait. A’you tha’ badass that kicked the teeth in o’that group o’knobheads?” Ah. So, gwen and Miles must’ve talked about you as much as they did him. Fucking hell his accent was almost incomprehensible. “So what if I am?” you crossed your arms at him. He scoffed. “And here I thought you’d be nicer.” you rolled your eyes and focused your attention on the portal you opened up. “Come on, we can finish this up later - after we’ve beat this bastard.” You spoke, pointing inside the portal. For a split second you both shared a smile. “Right behind you, mate.” And with that, you walked into the portal, mockingly mumbling his accent as you did so. “mate.” 

You landed in the alternate earth with grace, quickly scanning the area to make sure no one was there. And then Hobie arrived. His chest bashed against your back, which caused you to almost fall forward. “Whoops. Sorry about tha’'.' he smiled, but he wasn’t sorry. His voice was laced with a teasing venom. You turned your head to look at him. “You did that on purpose, prick.” you scowled at him, and his smirk got wider; cockier. “Yeah, I did.” he admitted. You couldn’t believe him. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s just get this over with.” you put your mask on and looked around for the anomaly, swinging your webs from building to building as you flew around. It was then that you spotted it; a big, scaly monster. Its skin resembled that of tar; sticky and black. Accompanied by a menacingly sharp smile, its fangs were almost as big as you were. Your eyes widened with subtle fear as you watched it engulf its surroundings. You signalled Hobie over to you, careful as to not make any noise. He followed, his once-teasing demeanour gone without a trace. He was much more focused on taking down the anomaly now. “Fuckin’ ‘ell. That’s a big one.” he stated, looking at it before attempting to jump at it. but, you grabbed onto his arm to prevent him from doing so. “Are you crazy?” you whispered. “You can’t just spring into battle without a plan!” he groaned impatiently, you quickly shushed him as to not catch the creature’s attention. “Right then, what’s your plan then, missy?” he crouched down next to you, looking down at the enemy from the rooftop. The spikes on his mask shimmered from the sunlight, almost distracting you. Almost.

You snapped back to reality and shared your plan with him. He listened intently to everything you had to say - for debatably the first time ever. He had no snarky comments to share. You almost thanked him for his maturity. Once you finished telling him, it was time to initiate the plan. “Lead the way.” he said as he watched you walk towards the edge of the rooftop. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for what was to come. Without any delay, you jumped forward, latching your web onto the nearest building and springing into the creature's field of view. Once it saw you, it instantly began to attack; sending a few of its tentacle-like arms(?) in your direction. You dodged each of its attacks, cutting off one of the arms in the process with a powerful kick. Hobie remained on the rooftop, waiting for your signal. He watched as you fought. Soon finding himself lost in his thoughts. You fought the creature with expertise, swiftly gliding through the air as you dodged each attack flawlessly. He was in awe. He had underestimated how strong you were. But, there’s no way he was admiring you, right? He was just caught off-guard. Definitely. Which meant, it was his turn to show off. He wanted to impress you. And soon enough, his time came. You gave him the signal and he quickly sprung into action. He pulled the guitar from his back, holding it from the neck as if it were a weapon. 

The two of you worked together to take the anomaly down. Although you hated to admit it, you made a great team. Miguel knew that, which is why he put you together in the first place. But, before you managed to successfully beat the monster, you got distracted. You watched as hobie ripped tentacle after tentacle from it and didn’t notice the one that was flying right at you. It lashed you right in the chest, making you grunt in pain as you fell backwards. Hobie must’ve seen this happening because before you made contact with the rough concrete, a familiar web enveloped you, lifting you back up. “Careful, love. Wouldn’t want ya ruinin’ that pretty face o’yours.” You ripped his web off of you, and smiled through your mask. - grateful that he couldn’t see it. “I didn’t need your help!” you yelled at him, jumping back into battle. He laughed, which annoyed you even more. Successfully fuelling the energy you needed to knock the anomaly out. You delivered the final blow; kicking it right in its eye, which was apparently its weak spot. “Whew..” you let out, landing on your feet as you looked at it. Hobie landed next to you, placing his arm on your shoulder. “Nice one,” he said. He sounded sincere. You nodded before going back to work, informing Miguel that you had successfully taken it down. Hobie’s hand stayed on your shoulder, tightly but not enough to hurt. 

Although he was an asshole, he was starting to grow on you.

“How ‘bout we get some dinner - on you, aye? it’s the least you could do considering i saved y’life.”

“Get a grip, Hobie.”

Nevermind.

[lottiecrabie]

to dust and bones. part one – matty healy

they cross paths at a bar. he’s out for blood, and hers beat tantazingly beneath her flesh. (or the worst people you know are in the worst situationship in existence)

warnings: 18+, power games, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, choking, dom!matty, bratting, general toxicity, mentions of drug use, oc

part one of two

6521 words

Alana shoots back the bitter tequila, licking hot sauce off her sweaty hands. Her face scrunches in pain, head shaking. Her sinuses clear; her thoughts leak out of her head. There’s ear-splitting music ringing around her— some god awful EDM shit she’s drunk enough to dance to. 

Crowded bodies push against her. She sways to the beat, hips rolling to some seductive rhythm drumming in the deepest parts of her heart. Her skin-tight black dress rises up her legs, revealing inches of tantalizing skin. 

Alana feels rugged hands graze the outside of her thighs. She smirks to herself, leaning back against the hard wall of body behind her. Fingers climb up instinctively to her waist, spreading across her stomach, tugging her into him until they’re flushed together, indistinguishable from the other. 

Black curls tickle at her cheek. He’s familiar against her; the muscles and dips of him unfortunately memorized in a corner of her brain she hasn’t managed to blitz out even with all the coke. 

Matty Healy. Dark angel leaning over her, nosing her perfumed neck. 

“Buy a girl a drink first,” Alana whispers. Thankfully he’s close— too close to breathe properly, to make sense of her scattered thoughts— and he manages to hear over the DJ’s techno beats. 

“Why would I?” Matty bites back, breath blowing against her ear. Alana forces down a shiver. “I can have her without.” 

She whips to face him, a furious dash between her eyebrows. Rage climbs up her spine, taking over her head, and it’s only the second most familiar emotion she feels with Matty Healy. What an insufferable asshole, looking at her all smug when he sees the anger spreading through her veins. 

Cheeks red, head swimming with the alcohol and the drugs and the deafening music, Alana tries to come up with some scathing reply. She wants to leave him burning, skin red and raw where she lashed at him. Wants to dig her nails into him, tear his beating heart from two fragile ribs. 

“Fuck you,” is what she manages, of course, because the world is a blurry daze around her, and her brain is working slower than her tongue. 

Matty smiles saccharine sweet at her. It feels awfully condescending on the cutting traits of his face. “But you have, princess.” 

“You’re—” He cocks his head, encouraging her with gleeful eyes. Alana breathes through her nose. “—not worth my time. Go do your horny act somewhere else.” 

She flips on her heels, marching determinedly to the crowded bar. Matty is hot on her trails, of course, leaning into her to tease, “Horny act? I barely even touched you.” 

“The most you will.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Alana pushes her way through the swarming crowd, digging her elbows in unfortunate places to get an in. People turn to her with a snarling face, but most seem to back down at the sight of her. Perhaps they recognize her, with flushed cheeks and cleavage dipping low. Perhaps they recognize the man towering behind her, following her godly parting of the sea of bodies like the privileged kid he’s always been. 

She finally manages to get to the bar, hands slamming the counter victoriously. A pretty bartender bounces to her, upping her chin in question. “What can I get you?” 

Alana opens her mouth. Instead, Matty cuts in, “Dirty vodka martini for her and a gin tonic for me.” The bartender nods, getting to work. 

Alana’s head flips to him, daggering him with a murderous glare. “I can order for myself.” 

Matty scoffs. “You practically begged me to buy you a drink.” 

She stumbles over the words in sheer offense, shrill as she gasps, “Begged— Oh, you fucking asshole.” 

Two drinks slam over the counter. “Put it on my tab,” Matty says, kidnapping her martini and making his way out of the crowd. Alana follows him bitterly, already planning to rack up his bill now that he’s so stupidly offered it to her. She’ll buy rounds for the whole club just to ruin him. 

He leads them to the VIP lounge, nodding at the bouncer as he moves to let them in. What a douchey move, she thinks, climbing up the staggering stairs, holding the skirt of her rising dress. 

The lounge is drenched in red light. Black leather couches and satin cushions scatter the place. Gray cigar smoke lingers above their heads. Some softer RnB plays, and Alana’s ears find momentary relief. She bites her lip to contain a pleased moan. 

Two dancers, impossibly tall and svelte in white lingerie dresses, move against two poles on a small stage. They’re languid and confident, swaying to a temperature rising rhythm, effortlessly seductive. 

Matty sits in front of the dancers, legs spreading as he makes himself too comfortable. He rests the two drinks on a black table in front of him, looking up at the girls with a cheeky, provocative grin. 

Inexplicable fire twists up in her guts. Alana drops beside Matty, practically sticking to his side, one leg crossing over the other to faintly kick his shin, which he takes in chuckling stride.

Her arm reaches over him to grab her martini. She places it between her lips, glass knocking her teeth gracelessly. He considers her, eyes following the land of skin she's uncovered through her new pose. 

“Aren’t you gonna say thank you?” He teases as she finishes a new mouthful of her cocktail. 

Alana offers him a deadpan look. “No.” 

He rolls his eyes, grabbing his gin tonic, leaning an arm over the back of the couch. “Brat,” he shakes his head. 

The lightning is low, casting red shadows over his face, but she can still see his dark gaze, hungry for flesh and those pathetic whines she can never hold back when he’s knuckles deep inside of her, penetrating through her skin. She draws a finger around the rim of the glass. 

She hates it most when Matty gets that way, intense and greedy and so fucking clear. His stare is predatory, watching her every little move to pounce on. The game feels instantly more dangerous. Anxiety spikes; some fight or flight response she never chooses right. 

Matty downs half of his drink, conspicuous Adam’s apple bobbing. She watches it religiously, remembering the purple stains she scattered around it just a few days ago. 

“Don’t drink so fast. We just got here,” she says warningly. She knows why he’s speeding this up. 

Matty lowers his glass just enough to offer a burning stare, hotter than she can handle in this stuffy room. 

I’m gonna fuck you is written bright and clear in his eyes. 

He finishes his gin tonic in another long sip, licking the last drop from his red lips. Heat spreads through her abdomen, clenching it guiltily. She flexes her hands around the stem. 

Slamming the glass back on the table, Matty adventures two fingers over her naked leg. It tickles, raising the hair of her skin as she shivers openly. His palm swallows the meat of her thigh, the tempting skin she so freely offered him. His hand is cold, glacial against the fire licking up her limbs. 

“Drink up,” Matty whispers, a devilish smile catching his cheek. She shakes her head, words completely lost to her. 

“I’m not thirsty.” Alana’s heart smashes against her ribs. Uncontrollable thing, careless thing. It always throws her into the worst situations, leaving her sober head to clean up its mess.

“No?” Matty pouts, climbing his hand to the hem of her dress. “You look a little flushed.” 

“It’s the light.” She stares up at the red fluorescents to prove her point, like he couldn’t see the mood lighting reigning over the room. 

“I think you’re scared,” Matty says. He’s never been one to stretch his words, coat them in syrup to swallow easier. 

She racks her throat. “Why would I be scared?” Although she promised herself not to give him an inch more, Alana gulps some of her martini to shake off the nerves (not fear, just some pesky anxiety from the lingering drugs). Matty smiles at the action triumphantly. 

“Because you left me naked and tied up to my bed last time.” He leans into her, whispering playfully into her cheek. “Because you didn’t let me come, and now you’re afraid of what I’ll do to you.” 

More backless bravado than sense, she grins cheekily. “It was funny. It’s not my fault you can’t take a little joke.” 

Fingers dipping under her dress. Alana bites her lip, hiding the breathy moan that wishes to slip her lips. It’s useless; he sees right through. “Oh, I’ll make you laugh.” He bites at her jaw, not enough to sting, but enough to know he’s serious. She scrunches her nose, tilting her head into him. 

Matty leans away, grabbing the martini from her hand. He places it between her lips. Instinctively, Alana opens them, and he tips the glass into her mouth. “Good girl,” he teases as she drinks. Her eyes snap to his dangerously, some unmasked threat that she’d spit it in his face if it wouldn’t ruin some really good vodka. “So feisty,” Matty tsks, amused. 

He takes the glass away. She licks at the rim, catching some droplets as it falls down the cone. Matty swirls the leftover martini, staring down shamelessly at her wet lips. 

“I could fuck anyone here,” he whispers. Clarity strikes through the flames, shaking away some of that daze. She frowns at him, taking a self-conscious peek at the pair of girls still twirling around their pole. Of course, Matty catches her moment of weakness, grasping it greedily as she scowls. “Yes, especially them. Have them bent over the other for me, cunts opened for my cock. Couldn’t you just see them, screaming in my sheets, rutting against each other?” 

“You overestimate your skills,” Alana bites, though it’s mostly from anger at the unwelcomed images he’s forced inside her brain. “You couldn’t handle them.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “Like I can’t handle you?”

She purses your lips, face crisping. She wishes it was true. That he didn’t have enough hands and tongue and cock to work with all of her, with the mess of hair she throws back carelessly as she rides him, with the nails digging into his back mercilessly, with the hips he grasps between heavy hands as he bruises her skin. That the rage and the hatred and the head-twirling passion she throws at him wouldn’t be caught, wouldn’t be swallowed to spit back tenfold. That he wouldn’t know what to do with all of her. 

But he does. Goddamit, he does like no one else ever has. 

Alana refuses to dignify him with an answer. Still, Matty doesn’t need one, dipping the leftover martini in her mouth. His breath is hot against her ear, sticking on her sweaty skin. 

“I could fuck anyone here,” he repeats, probably to martel home some complex she’s not interested in diving into. “But I want you.” 

She’d bite back something cheeky and snobbish, something near of course you do or who doesn’t or some other grand words to deflect. Right now, she’s too busy obediently swallowing what he’s giving her, but she’s sure he reads them anyway in the burn of her stare. 

As if to plead the last of his case, he raises his cold hand to the final stretch, meeting the black lace of her panties. Alana moans, alcohol dripping down her chin from the startled jump, something else dripping where his fingers meet the apex of her thighs. 

“Let me fuck you,” Matty breathes, biting her jaw, this time to sting, to tear apart. 

Finished with her drink, he slams the glass beside his, turning back to her quickly, afraid to miss even the smallest of shivers. “Begging already?” Alana pants, out of breath. 

His free thumb wipes the alcohol off her chin, bringing it back to her lips, forcing them open. She sucks his finger into her mouth. He presses against her tongue, heavy and undeniable. Drool sticks to it as she releases it, red lipstick staining the knuckle. 

His other hand, much more occupied, teases a delicious rhythm over her wet panties. She leans further into the cushions, manually stopping herself from dropping her legs open for this whole lounge to see. 

“Don’t give me ideas,” Matty warns. “You know how I enjoy you begging. All those pretty sounds you make, whiney and pathetic.”

His spitful hand racks through the sweaty mess of her hair, tugging at the roots. Her head bends, throat barred. He grunts at the sight.

Matty can’t stop himself any longer. He crashes his lips to hers, licking into her open mouth. It’s a messy thing, more teeth and spit than anything romantic, hands still buried in her hair. He tugs it harshly, swallowing the pitiful moans she releases. 

Alana clings to his shoulders, afraid she’d drown in the satin if it wasn’t for his buoyant body slithering around her. She curses his jacket, bulletproof vest to the claw marks she’d litter on his skin. Black nail polish tainted red by the end of the night— but he’s safe for now. 

Matty bites her lower lip, dragging it from her. She shudders in his arms, head swooping ecstasy climbing up her thoughtless brain. It must be the martini downed too fast. (It’s him. It’s always him.)

His hand releases her hair, finding the slope of her neck instead, digging into the skin. His thumb presses meanly at her jaw. Alana wonders if it’ll bruise. 

He pushes her further into the sofa, practically swallowing her whole under his lanky limbs. She can’t make sense of the edges of him. He’s everywhere, invading her flesh, slipping under her very skin, to the beating parts of her she wishes to banish him from. Hot pleasure drips down her veins. 

Matty licks into her lazily. He tastes like gin, which he knows she hates. He does it on purpose, buying drinks she’d never put to her lips just to spit it in her mouth. Alana can’t stand the taste of it. She doesn’t know why she craves the taste of him, faintly smokey from some expensive cigarette. 

He thumbs at her clit vaguely, more as a smothered promise of what he could do than any real attempt at skill. Still, it’s enough to make dangerous fire course through her veins. She clenches around nothing, groaning. 

“Are you gonna fuck me in front of everyone?” Alana rasps, biting and mean like he’s not playing her like his favorite puppet. 

Matty hums indulgently. He presses his index into her clothed entrance, wet and sticky for him. “Do you want me to? Let them know how good you are for me even with all that talk? All those sounds you make just for me?” He nips at her jaw, climbing up to her ear. “We can give them a show.” 

Alana’s heart slams against her ribs, begging to be let out and fall to his booted feet. She breathes heavily, head falling as he continues some slow circle on her clit, never enough to wipe from her head the outrageous knowledge that it’s Matty Healy blowing the flames. 

“Bathroom,” Alana gasps, eyes scrunched close. 

Matty laughs lowly, shaking his head in the side of her neck. “Coward.” 

Still, he sits up, dragging her body with his. Her brain knocks against her skull as she comes back, taking a deep breath of air. Reality feels very far away from the tip of her fingers. She’s drowning in him, in the smell of his cologne and that awful taste of gin clinging to his lips. 

The walk to the bathroom feels like a dreamscape maze, more colorful mood lightning and stepping over leather shoes than any tangible thing. 

The room is dark and clinical. The floor is black marble, sleek and easy to step on, heels clicking as she adventures further into the bathroom. The light is low. Alana has to squint to make sense of Matty locking the door behind them. He turns back to her, lion stride as he loosens his tie. 

He’s gonna eat her alive. 

Matty crowds her space, pushing her against the sink’s countertop as he noses her cheek. Alana’s thighs hit the cold marble, shivering at the contrasting temperature. The tip of his fingers find her skin again, climbing up the goosebumps, driving under the hem. 

Alana’s own hands bury in the mess of hair at the nape of his neck. Black nails dig into the unruly locks, tugging vaguely. She breathes with him, the only surrounding melody in this musicless room. What a strange feeling to be so thoroughly abandoned by distractions. 

Tired of wasting time, Matty grabs her thighs, throwing her carelessly on the marble countertop. Her legs spread wide, welcoming him in the middle of her, black heels kicking beside his knees. Hands rise to her waist, trailing greedily over her skintight dress. “Fuck, you’re hot.” 

Alana grins. Compliments are always the worst moves, climbing up to her head and loosening whatever miraculous hold he had on it. She leans away against the gray tiles of the wall, cheeky and devilish, fingers slipping from his mane to the muscles of his shoulders. “Say that again.” 

Matty tries to dip for a kiss instead, but she dodges easily, turning her head into her shoulder. He groans at her childish antics, digging his nails into her ribs. “You’re fucking annoying.” 

“‘S not what I asked.” 

Matty buries his face in her offered neck, leaving wet kisses as he scales up her jaw, up her cheeks. Alana giggles, wrinkling her nose, shifting in her seat. “You’re beautiful,” Matty finally whispers in her ear, gently biting the lobe. She hums, nodding at him. Roughly, he warns, “And if you keep playing these games, I’ll leave your ass so red you won’t be able to sit for days.” 

The threat should make a spike of anxiety hit her. Instead, languid fire pools at her stomach. She moans, closing her eyes, pushing her hips further into his. The angle is a little awkward, just slightly too high to really get anything working. She manages to roll her pleading hips on his belt buckle. 

“Greedy thing,” Matty tsks. “So fucking impatient.” 

“It’s not my fault you’re all talk.” 

Matty scoffs. “You’ve got a death wish.”

Alana flutters her eyelashes at him, pouting. “I thought you could handle me.” 

He groans, hands burrowing back into her skirt. Calloused fingers grab at her hips, digging into the black lace of her panties. He drags it out slowly, smirking down at her as Alana scoops herself up to help him. A brief ceasefire, just because he knows all the parts of her to press into. 

She giggles in his open mouth, finding him again, embarrassingly giddy. Thrill beats in her veins, cunt throbbing for him, for the good part of this relentless chess match. He kisses her indulgently, shitty grin undeniable against her lips. Alana doesn’t even have it in her to care. 

In the corner of her eyes, she sees Matty shove the lacy thing in his pocket. She releases his lips like he’s burned her, scowling petulantly. “You have to give those back. I’m running out of underwear.” Every time they fall back into this poisonous push and pull, Alana loses a pair of her favorite lingerie, forgotten in the endless pockets and sheets of Matty Healy. She’d consider going commando just to spite him if he wouldn’t like it so much, love knowing he’s gotten under her skin, made her change some known habit. 

Of course, Matty shakes his head with a teasing grin. “No.” 

“At least buy me new ones.”

He cocks his head, considering her. “Are you gonna try them on for me?”

Alana rolls her eyes, just a little bit turned on at the idea of it. “You’re such a boy.” 

Cockily, he racks her to the edge of the countertop, finally pressing her against his hard cock. Alana gasps at the sinful feel, eyes rolling back for completely different reasons. He grinds into her, the rough material of his trousers rolling against the most sensitive part of her. A traitorous whine leaves her lips; she bites it shut just a little too late. 

Matty whispers smugly, “I’m a man.”

What a fucking douchebag. Alana can’t handle this back and forth he coaxes out of her, always swaying between burning anger and choking desire like the world’s most on-beat metronome. 

She gracefully lets him have this one. Doesn’t even come up with a jab or a glare in bitter answer. Of course, that might be because he’s sailing up her thighs, thumb pressing into her clit as jaw-dropping relief climbs up her spine. Her head falls against the backsplash, lips parted, rolling her hips against his fingers as he circles lazily at her. 

He’s fucking perfect. She wants to cut his fingers clean off, curse them for ever making her feel this way. Peeking her eyes open, Alana swears he knows this, gathering a pool of her arousal to smear it over her bundle of nerves. She gasps in the quiet air, uselessly kicking her feet. 

“You’re so wet for me,” Matty says in wonder, eyes locked to the way she grinds for him, dripping on the black marble. 

“First time making a girl wet?” Alana tries to brat, but it comes out weak between two moans. 

He smirks condescendingly at her, tracing her swollen lips with the tip of his free hand, coating her chin with tacky lipgloss. “We both know the answer to that.” 

Without warning, he thrusts two fingers into her. It’s embarrassing how quickly her cunt welcomes him home, insides rearranging to make room for him dutifully. Her face scrunches, crying against his jaw. 

“Fuck, Matty.” 

“Yeah?” He arches an eyebrow, curling his hand to draw a feverish wave of ecstasy out of her. 

She grips his shoulders, pushing the jacket off of them, trying to sink her claws into anything. He’s relentless between her legs, thrusting and circling and working magic. Pressure builds inside her abdomen. She's mewling in his neck, panting in his ear. 

Matty stares down at her in hunger. He’s got her right where he wants her, Alana knows this. But why does he keep watching her like he’s about to rip into her throat? Smug and dangerous and voracious? 

An inexplicable strike of nerves hit her. His fingers dip into her faster, swiping at her clit. The cold sink and his warm body and the feel of his rough fingers inside of her are too much. Pathetic moans spill from her lips, overflowing out of her. She wrinkles her face closed, then forces it open again. Just to keep an eye on him, on his flexed arm as he wrecks her from the inside. Bliss threatens the edges of her. She tastes it on her tongue 

Alana cries, “Are you gonna make me come?” It’s pathetic to ask. She’d demand it in normal circumstances, holding onto his arm, a ruinous hand over his own guiding him into her sopping cunt. 

But— She left him hard and sticky last time, screaming after her as she touched up her lipstick. And now he’s looking down at her like he’s got her exactly where he wants, brain melting out of her ears, begging for him.

He leans into her with a trickster smile, licking his teeth. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Never.”

He pumps harder inside of her, adding a third finger. The world blurs around Alana. She screams, digging her nails under his white shirt. Right—

Matty thrusts out of her as quickly as he entered. A guttural cry rips from her throat, head banging on the wall from the stolen orgasm. Soaked fingers fall limply on her thigh, drying the slick on her skin. He grins, smacking her cheek with a sweet kiss. 

“You fucking asshole,” Alana bites, out of breath, fury swirling around her dazed head. 

“What?” He finds her lips next, catching them with a biting kiss. “Were you close?” 

“I’ll kill you.” 

“I’d like to watch you try.” 

Matty pushes the cups of her dress down, revealing her tits, flushed and peaked for him. He twirls two fingers around her nipple, greedily watching as another wave of pleasure hits her, as the uncontrollable rage smothers for ecstasy. 

Alana is half-pissed to lose that sharp sense of anger, something to strike through the blur of him, to hold onto. Pissed that he can melt away all her hatred, make her putty in his expert hands. 

He dives for her breasts, biting and licking and sucking on them like a starved man. Muted pain stretches over her chest. Alana racks a hand through his sweaty curls, gasping. 

“Are you gonna ask nicely?” Matty whispers, starting that torturously cycle on her clit again. “I like when you ask all sweet and desperate.” Alana shakes her head, sloppily kissing at his jaw as he teases a finger over her entrance again. “Come on,” he chuckles lowly. “Beg for it.” 

“Screw you,” Alana bites, legs spreading wider for him in complete contradiction. 

“Yeah, I bet you want me to.” 

Matty dips a finger inside of her, pumping slowly, unbothered by her rushing him. Her hands are everywhere on him— the mane of his black hair, the cut of his jaw, the buttons of his shirt, undone by her sloppy hands, the muscle of his working arm, the belt at his hips. Pressing and clawing and tugging at him, pleading with a silent hand to work faster. 

He’s uninterested in listening, especially when her mouth still refuses to grant him the sweet nothings she always moans for him. His pace is steady and consistent, entirely not enough. She smacks the counter uselessly. 

“You’re the worst,” Alana whines, head flopping around her neck. Tension builds meticulously slow inside of her. She throbs around his finger, wishing for more, but he continues to deny her.  

“I just want you to be good for me,” Matty breathes, holding her head up with a heavy hand. 

“Just fuck me, Matty.” 

Trying to speed it along, Alana pounces on his belt buckle, frantically trying to undo it with trembling fingers. It’s a messy affair; he pries them away easily. His jaw clenches, clearly unhappy with her. He exhales through his nose. The air grows electric. Alana’s pussy shamefully clenches around him.

Matty is a fucking sight. She desperately wishes it wasn’t true, that he wasn’t perfectly sculpted to fit around her stained palms. A fallen angel crashed to Earth just to lick the vodka and red off her lips. 

“Can’t you ever listen?” His hand moves again, slithering around the front of her throat. He presses meanly at the sides, blood rushing away from her head. Alana’s lips part, but only quiet spills from them. “That’s all that ever shuts you up, isn’t it?” 

Alana laughs gleefully at his anger, managing a choked, “Not even,” just to spite him. He digs into her arteries, surely leaving a constellation of bruises for her to cover up. 

“Fine, princess,” Matty grunts. “We’ll do it your way.” 

In a second, he’s got three fingers back inside of her, fast and hard, curling just right. It’s miraculous how he manages to be everywhere inside and outside of her, how he drowns her in the feel of him. 

Her head disconnects from her neck. She gasps for air, purring in their shared breaths. Euphoria coils around her belly, hot and sticky and so, so close. Sweet oblivion. She barely remembers their names, barely remembers what—

“Fucking hell, Matty,” Alana screams, slapping his shoulder with no force, missing his gone fingers. “Just— Just let me come.” 

“Brats don’t deserve orgasms. I thought you learned your lesson.” 

Matty takes a clinical step away from her. Breathing harshly, she tries to reattach herself to the firm reality that exists around her and not this dreamed-up land the cliff of a shattering climax brings her to. 

He’s so proper, still dressed while her dress bunches useless around her waist. So put together as she drools and drips and pants for him, unhinged and unmade. How fucking embarrassing. 

She’d lash at him in retaliation, bring him down to her dirty level, make him feel crass inside. She has the urge to on the tip of her tongue, feels the burn all the way to her throat. 

But what would Matty give her in return? Not what she wants. Not what she craves. 

God, Alana hates when she has to fucking listen. 

“Matty,” she sings, finding the lapels of his shirt and tugging him back into her. She flutters her eyelashes innocently at him, licking her lips. “I’m sorry.” He snorts at her. It’s another bruise to heal tomorrow. “Please, I mean it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She grabs his cheek with one hand, kissing the other one religiously. “Fuck me. Please, please, Matty, fuck me. I need you.” 

With her free hand, she coaxes him back between her legs, spreading his long fingers over her sopping hole. “It’s all for you. It’s always just for you.” She licks his jaw, biting his earlobe. “You’re the only one who can make me feel this way.” 

Alana presses his fingers into her entrance. They enter her together, a delicious stretch that has her sighing in relief. It’s crowded and nasty and, oh, my fucking god, she’s fingering herself with fucking Matty Healy. 

He seems to be thinking the same whirlwind of thoughts, locked gaze on the spectacle of them between her thighs, working together for perhaps the first time ever. 

Alana puppeteers him, pumping their joined fingers together. She’s quick to drive herself to the edge, already so restless and aware and turned on, constantly teetering the cliff he refuses to give her. She knows her best spots anyway, knows how to get herself off quick and easy. 

“Are you gonna come for me?” Matty asks, still reveling in the sight of them. Alana nods eagerly. “Are you sure?” 

He rips their fingers out of her again. Alana smothers a sob, pain tingling the tips of her. She wants it so badly. 

Matty sucks her wet fingers clean, twirling his tongue around her metal ring. “Come on, Alana. Don’t you trust me?” She shakes her head childishly.

She thinks she might go insane. How fitting, completely going off her rockers because of Matty fucking Healy. Her entire body is in a frenzy, feverish and electrified, buzzing with stolen orgasms. He could blow on a bitten nipple and she’s half convinced she’d come on the spot. 

But he’s not going to, is he? Alana pouts pitifully to herself, cursing the chess games she plays and then has to suffer from. She knows she put herself in this situation, pushed him too far and now has to watch as he whips back tenfold like a tense elastic. 

All she can do is follow along, pleading and praying and begging for a release he’s just not giving her. 

“Oh, baby, it’s okay,” Matty coos. 

“Please. Please, I can’t—” Alana shakes her head. “I’m so close. Please, let me come.” 

He racks two hands through the tangled mess of her hair. “You’re so pretty when you beg. If only they could hear you. If only they knew how fucking pathetic you are for me.” 

Alana cries, nodding just to please him, “I am. I am.” She throbs around nothing. “Fuck me, please.” 

Matty pouts at her. “See, it’s not so hard.” 

He pushes her from her perch on the countertop, catching her as her legs tremble beneath her weight. He leaves her no time to adjust to gravity again, turning her hips around and bending her over the sink. 

She gasps at the cold feel of the marble on her tits. His hand presses strongly between her shoulder blades. Alana manages to throw a look back his way, mesmerized by the way he undoes his buckle with one hand, by the strings of curls falling over his forehead, by his swollen, red lips parting as he pants. 

By his cock as he pushes his trousers just down enough to reveal it, hard and leaking, swerving just right. 

Alana bites her lip, eyes rolling at the sheer idea of it. 

“‘Gonna fucking ruin you,” he mutters more to himself than her. 

Of course, she can’t stop herself from breathing back, “Haven’t managed to yet.” 

He tsks, spanking her naked ass. It rings deliciously down her leg. “Can’t ever stop bratting.” She giggles giddily, shaking her head. 

Matty grabs himself by the base, guiding himself between her thighs. His tip rubs at her dripping entrance, still teasing her when she’s near ready to explode from the lack of him. 

“Matty…” Alana warns. 

He chuckles. “God, you’re impatient.” He thrusts into her, bottoming out. 

A scream rips out of her throat. Alana slams her hand against the counter. How fucking right he fits, curving just perfectly inside of her. She bites her tongue, bliss loosening all her tense muscles. 

No matter how fucking shit this thing with him is, this, him inside of her, will always be holy. 

Matty grabs her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, and pounds into her. He has a wild, brutal rhythm going on, sliding in and out of her before she can register any of them, until all she knows is to moan, pleases and so goods and mores falling off her lips before she can think them. 

His skin slaps against her, the rough leather of his belt hitting her ass with each stroke. Mostly, he’s silent for once, too. Pretty, mean words robbed from his throat as he grunts and whines openly. How victorious it makes Alana feel, drowning in the sounds of him like he’s not invading every inch of her. Like she’s won. 

Her tongue burns. Ecstasy weeps down her spine. She clenches around him, again and again. “Matty—” She warns, out of breath. She’s learned her lesson. “Matty, I’m—” 

“I know, baby.” He whispers hotly, driving into her faster. “What a good girl. Are you gonna say please?” 

“Please,” she yells, face scrunching, cunt throbbing as she—

Her walls close around nothing. Alana chokes at the lack of him, too sudden and too quick for her to register until it’s too late. Matty robbed her of an astronomical orgasm again. 

She lays there pitiful, pillaged of all fight. Her cheeks feel wet and scratchy and— oh, God, she’s actually crying. 

“Oh, baby,” Matty coos, taking her arms and dragging her into the warmth of his body. Her head rolls on his shoulder, letting him play her like his favorite ragdoll. He wipes at her tears. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“It’s too much.” 

“You can handle it.” He grabs a handful of her tits, using his other hand to guide her vision to the bathroom mirror. “Look at you,” he whispers. “Look how fucking beautiful you look.” 

Alana’s hair is a nest, pretty layers tangled around her face. Her face is flushed; eyeliner dripping down her eyes, lipstick smearing her chin, cheeks red from leftover blush and those pathetic tears. Her chest is blotched scarlet, freckles of growing bruises littering her skin. She’s a mess. 

Yet, Matty looks at her with devotion. I’m beautiful. I’m beautiful. 

He works slowly into her. His hips grind against her ass, deliciously reverbing in her cunt. Just this is enough to send burning ecstasy down her limbs. It’s this heady mix of pure pleasure and the striking fear that he won’t let her have it that reigns over her head.

Matty makes heavy eye contact in the reflection of the mirror. Pupils dark and penetrating, watching her every hitched breath with fascination. He wants her so much, it chokes her. 

His strokes grow faster. Alana whimpers, gripping his arm, terrified of the orgasm building inside of her. She’s run out of words to beg with. All there’s left is pleading eyes, still wet with tears. 

Matty sees the message loud and clear. “Shhh,” he whispers. “Trust me. You have to trust me.” 

Alana shakes her head. Trusting him is an impossible task, bigger and grander than he’s ever demanded of her. She can’t. She can’t let herself. 

He snaps inside of her, cruel and relentless, building her back to that epic cliff. He noses the side of her neck, moaning over and over, “Just trust me. Come on, baby. You have to trust me.” He licks her cheek, shushing in her ear. "Just trust me. Just trust me."

She thinks it’s the meanest he’s ever been with her. Demanding her to trust him at her most vulnerable when it’s him— and it’s her— and she can’t— and she has to. 

He's irredeemably cruel. Doesn't he know that he's asking the world of her? How can he ask her to just trust him?

Still, that incessant burning edge. Pression building in her stomach. He presses over her belly, cooing, “Pretty girl.”

She wants it so bad. She wants him so bad. He'll give it to her. She just has to believe that he'll—

Her face scrunch and—

Wiping waves of oblivion. Her head falls into his shoulder, jaw growing slack. Hot, white pleasure strikes the deepest parts of her. Her fingertips buzz, oxygen just a little sweeter, just a little lighter. 

Her brain loses all coherent thoughts. She’s a mess of burning fire, licking up her limbs, screaming uselessly Matty, Matty, Matty. It’s all her heart can chant, crashing down a cliff. She smashes to the ground, gracelessly and furiously. Doesn’t stick any kind of landing; just pure, unfiltered ecstasy. 

This is why Alana falls into him all the time. Why she keeps this ridiculous tango, choking and poisonous. For the momentary relief of not existing, of just being a body in his skillful hands. She purrs, relieved of any burden, relieved of him, even.

Matty follows quickly after her, spilling inside of her with the sweetest moans she’s ever heard. She laughs happily, gravity still very far from her. 

He lingers inside of her, dropping his head on her shoulder, breathing heavily against her naked skin. 

“Fuck, Alana.” 

“Fuck, Matty.” He chuckles, rubbing his forehead lazily against her. Alana peeks one eye open, nervously watching the ruins of them after their catastrophic pass through each other. “We’re a mess,” she laughs.

It’s always strangely like this when they’re done. Light and breezy. Easy. 

Matty smirks, kissing her shoulder. “Mostly you.” 

She slaps him, laughing an offended gasp. “Shut up!” 

He thrusts out of her. Cum leaks down her thighs, which only makes her vaguely blush. Matty tucks himself back in his trousers, buckling his belt. He works at his half-unbuttoned shirt next, then his forgotten jacket kicked at their feet. Alana watches him solemnly. 

When he’s done with himself, he turns her back to him. With gentle fingers, rough at the tips but oh so careful with her, he lowers the skirt of her dress, raising the cups over her bare breasts again. It’s weird to have him like this. Sort of sweet. 

He kisses her nose, then smiles ruefully. “See ya.” 

Alana frowns as he steps away from her. “What? That’s it?” 

He looks back at her, tightening his tie. He arches a bored eyebrow. “What? Did you want to suck my dick clean?” 

Alana’s lips part in affront. Fucking Matty Healy. Asking her to trust him just to slap her in the face. She can't believe she considered him any kind of sweet. Considered them anything but an unwatchable forest fire spreading in front of their very eyes.

“Only to bite it off,” she spits, fists clenching in anger. 

He smirks. “Kinky.” He opens the door, stepping through. It slams behind him. 

It’s dark and cold in the bathroom. Alana crosses her arms, craving a drink and a cigarette. God, she’s a fucking mess.

[poisindonottouch]

Queer Reads: NR Walker

Continuing our Pride Recs, we have another author from the Southern Hemisphere. 

N.R. Walker is an Australian author with quite a bit of range, and a solid backlog of books to read. Featured in the little graphic are EWB (Enemies With Benefits), Private Charter, Tallowwood, Three’s Company, and The Men From Echo Creek. 

EWB, Private Charter, and Three’s Company are all contemporary romances. The first two are set in Australia, and the third is set in Florida. EWB is an enemies-to-lovers book that really did it for me. It’s emotional and funny, and Walker really pulls off the “I hate you, but sure I’ll fuck you” thing it has going on. Private Charter is about an executive who plans a romantic vacation with his boyfriend, who dips out last minute and wasn’t really that serious anyway, and leaves the MC on a yacht with a super hot captain sailing him around for two weeks. Also, he only packed a white swimsuit. Three’s Company is MMM with a couple and a third who hook up for a fling, and then develop all the feelings. It’s very sweet. 

Tallowwood is much darker, with a serial killer, a detective, and a local constable. It’s definitely romantic suspense, and I was up late into the night finishing it, because you can’t go to bed half way through a serial killer book. Seriously. 

The Men From Echo Creek is Walker’s first foray into historical fiction, but it’s Australian historical fiction, which was fun. Like, it reads like a pretty standard western setting (for US readers), and then suddenly they’re eating wallaby for dinner. It’s sweet, and soft, and both of the MCs are absolute cinnamon rolls who deserve lots of hugs. 

Walker has lots more contemporary fiction, some more romantic suspense, and hopefully in the future some more historical work, so go enjoy some good writing. 

And folks, read queer all year.

[books1311]

November reads. 😊

[jackiechen6919jc]

昨日的 英 緣再續🥴 皮皮再遇 久違的低調賓利～！ BENTLEY NEW BENTAYGA EXTENDED WHEELBASE 基本售價 1380萬元起 Azure 車型 1550萬元起 #BENTLEY #ewb #azure #cornermax #NEW #BENTAYGA #EXTENDED #WHEELBASE #digimobee #EOSR6II #Canon #直出無修的迷戀 #ピカチュウスナッ��゚ #皮卡丘的奇幻旅程 #Pikachu #皮卡丘 #Pokemon #精靈寶可夢 #iphone13pro #loveyourself @nintendoproperty @Nintendo.hk @ピカチュウ #ピカチュウ @Nintendo #Nintendo @Pokémon #photo @Pokémon GO（在 CORNER MAX） https://www.instagram.com/p/CnDJg1ISMnZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Rolls-Royce Phantom EWB ‘Goldfinger,’ 2024. Rolls-Royce is marking 60 years of the James Bond movie Goldfinger with a one-off Phantom Extended. The yellow paint matches the colour of Auric Goldfinger’s 1937 Phantom III Sedanca de Ville. Other Goldfinger-inspired touches include a real gold bar on the console, a map of Fort Knox on the picnic tables, and gold linings for the front and rear console boxes.

[cowboysmp3]

i am both a phoenix kristoph enemies w/benefits truther and a phoenix and miles relationship develops softly in visits to europe truther no i will never elaborate on how it would work

[margo-mania]

you dont understand them like i do they need to be enemies with benefits they're hate fucking nasty style while trying to stab each other

[aroeddiediaz]

Last Line Tag

Thanks @cal-daisies-and-briars for tagging me!

This may be my most unhinged attempt at a wip yet… it’s something of a “what if Eddie had a sexuality crisis so embarrassing and messy it ruined multiple peoples’ lives” kind of story.

Eddie takes a deep breath. Time to get into why he really came here and demanded Josh’s lunch break time. “Right, but my issue is more about the why Marisol dumped me. She and I were, you know, in bed, when I... I said Tommy’s name.” He says the last words in a rush.

Josh stares, mouth hanging open. “Buck’s boyfriend Tommy?” He demands.

No pressure tagging: @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @lemonzestywrites @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @diazsdimples @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @coatedpanda16 @nicotinewrites @estheticpotaeto @babytrapperdiaz @snowviolettwhite

[februarybluues]

enemies with benefits || 4 - girl (you really got me goin')

warnings: kissing, basically just making out, NO SMUT, just like very suggesstive, cursing, flirting, you and hobie 'hating' each other (wink wink), horrible british (im trying guys🙏)

read previous part here -- series masterlist

Normally, the sound of the rain splashing onto your window was one that effortlessly lulled you to sleep. But, for some reason you couldn’t. Your head rested on your pillow, eyes shut tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. The alarm clock next to your bed shouted ‘2:32 a.m’. You groaned, rolling over onto your side; hoping the new position would help you sleep. But alas, it didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. You weren’t sure why you couldn’t sleep. You had a fairly busy day, and you were tired. – but you just couldn’t. Feeling defeated, you rolled onto the other side, now facing the window. And you looked back just in time to see a familiar face climbing in through it. In comparison to the last time he had entered your room, he looked different. Exceptionally wrecked. While, yes, he wasn’t injured like before, or at least you couldn’t see any physical injuries, his face was different; anguished. He looked exhausted. And yet his eyes looked hungry as they darted over to your own. “Hobie? It’s late, what are you doing here?” you sat up from your bed and stood up. But he didn’t say anything, he just muttered something before walking towards you, only stopping when he was a fair distance apart from you, looking as if he was debating getting closer to you.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” you asked, genuinely concerned as to why he’d decided to show up at this hour - uninvited. He stayed quiet. His eyes shifted down to the ground and his hands stayed in his pockets. Although it was subtle, he was slowly inching closer to you. You spoke again, almost desperate to hear him say at least something. “Hobie, answer me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” “Tha’s the problem.” he finally spoke out, now standing directly in front of you; barely leaving space between the both of you. “What?” you asked, growing more confused and concerned by the minute. He practically towered over you, having to look down at you slightly in order for your eyes to meet. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a little attractive. “Y’too polite. Care too much ‘bout me.” his voice was low, and raspy; as if he were tired. “What are you talking about?” you asked, but he pretty much ignored it. “It all makes sense now.” “Are you drunk?” you asked, trying to figure out what was happening. “Nope. ‘M sober as can be” “So, Why are you here? It’s almost 3am, Hobie.” “If i wanted th’time, woulda’ asked you for it, sweet’eart.” a smile slowly started to grow on him as he looked at your confused state, admittedly checking you out. It stayed quiet like that for what felt like forever; just staring into each other's eyes, waiting for the next move. “Why are you so fuckin’ irresistable?” he suddenly spoke out, which caught you off guard. Before you could question him furthermore, he continued. “I see what your doin’,” he began, lifting his hand up to cup your cheek – which almost instantly turned bright red. “Walkin’ around, lookin’ all pretty, thinkin’ i ‘aven’t caught on to how ya look at me with those pretty eyes. D’you know the effect ya have on me?” your eyes widened. “What are you saying?” you struggled to hide how flustered you were becoming. 

“You ruin me.” he said, smiling like a fool. “Is that so?” you asked. “Sure is, doll.” you weren’t sure if it was the insomnia talking or not, but you were suddenly feeling bold. “And what are you gonna do about it?” he chuckled, amused at the sudden change. His hand moved from your cheek to your chin, tilting it up to make you look at him. “What do you want me t’do ‘bout it?” Instead of seeing the cocky smirk you were so used to seeing, his eyes looked determined - eager. maybe it was the lack of sleep that prevented you from being able to think straight, or maybe he was just being a fucking idiot. Regardless, he leaned down even more towards you, and never once broke eye contact. Before you could question what was happening, Your face was moving on its own, getting closer to his. You felt time stop then and there as you realised what was happening.

Were you really going to kiss your mortal enemy?

Yes. yes you were. you grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, silently cursing his height and pulled him down to you so that you could crash your lips together. Hobie almost instinctively wrapped his arm around your waist, squeezing you. You raised your arms up to his head and rested them around his neck. You completely relished this moment. He kissed you with passion, and perfection. It was unbelievable. You practically melted away at his touch. Right now was more important to you than anything. You were too enchanted by him to even care about the fact that he was your sworn enemy. Your head was fuzzy, unable to think straight.

You turned him around and pushed him down so that he was sitting on the bed, and he wasted no time pulling you onto his lap.Your lips stayed together all throughout it. His arms slithered down your hips, his eyes sealed shut. You could barely believe this was happening. He tilted his head slightly as he deepened the kiss. The entire moment was pure bliss. He squeezed whatever exposed skin he could find, his hands reaching under your shirt. Your heart was racing. This was so wrong, but it just felt so right. It was his own fault for being such a good kisser anyways. and the way he so absent-mindedly slipped his tongue in, swirling around yours perfectly. It was the closest you’d ever been to heaven. You hated him so much. Every time your gaze was met with his instantly ruined your day. And yet, for some fucking reason you just wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t. The both of you were desperate for some kind of contact. you tried to get as close to him as you could, practically crushing your chest against his.

After a while you pulled apart to catch your breath, panting. You looked at him with a lovesick look in your eyes, pupils practically heart-shaped and lustful. At that moment, it was like the whole world fell silent. Until hobie quickly broke it up, laughing. You tilted your head at him, confused. “What’s so funny?” you asked, and he grinned. “It’s just - You talk all this big talk ‘bout ‘ow much y’hate me, yet here you are.” he talked, his hands remained on your hips, not daring to move. You shook your head at him. “That’s not fair! I do hate you!” you defended, but he wasn’t having it. “If you ‘ate me so much then why’re you in my lap right now?” He had a point. And you hated him for it. “Well- You know-” Your flustered brain could not come up with an excuse for the life of you, which frustrated you slightly. “Exactly.” he said and you groaned.

“Just shut up and kiss me.” you said and he quickly obliged. How could he say no to that? He pressed his lips against yours once more; reconnecting them. It almost felt wrong to be doing this; kissing the ‘enemy’. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be feeling this way towards him. But as the kiss deepened, you stopped caring. If it was so bad, why was it so perfect? Why did your lips fit together so perfectly if you were supposed to hate him? He raised one of his hands up to cup your cheek, the other still holding onto your hip tightly. He didn’t go home that night. Instead, he stayed with you. Your head rested on his chest as you experienced debatably the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had. Although his intrusion was unprecedented, it did technically cure your insomnia. You had him to thank for that. Alright fine, maybe Hobie Brown wasn’t that bad after all.

maybe one day i'll write a smutty version of this taglist: @hobies-wrld @elloelloello293874 @lavnderluv @ginseng-green-tea @ididntwantthisbutithappened @thatweirdgirlsposts @clown420cunt @sh-tposter2021 @wannabe-fic-reader @large-unit @pastelaine @babydollfoster @theleftkittycollection @sparklyphantom @arminsgfloll @myoifilm @fanboyluvr @fuckyouimthecrowman @ilovemymomscooking @fl1ghtl3ssdrag0n @c3f21 @1eonk @themetalbabygirl @captainloki1

some of yall cant be tagged as you can probs see so idk

[lottiecrabie]

omg… i need this enemies vision… badly

so do i bff!!!! now i must trek through the vertiginous feat of writing it

[ghostaholics]

no but ghost with a guardian angel who’s been protecting him all this time, and the only reason why he can see her now is because she lost her wings and was expelled from heaven for falling in love with him

it's the golden rule: don't harbor romantic feelings for your human charge

[haruhey]

The Day Will Come When You Won't Be

Enemies With Benefits masterlist

Word count: 5k

Chapter warnings: descriptions of everything that happens at the Negan lineup. If you can stomach that, everything else should be no problem.

The Saviors seize a hostage.

You should have never gotten on the truck.

But what could you have done, really?

“Got a new group out there givin’ us trouble, and I’m in the mood to settle some shit. Wanna come?”

He stood lent against your doorframe just 4 hours ago, the Virginian sun still streaming in from the tiny crack of wall you called a window, and he had that grin twisting his features. You’d been through enough of those looks to understand that, when it morphs his face, he’s not asking, and your skin had risen into those insistent, memory-laden goosebumps that come like Pavlovian instinct, forcing you to leave the scratchy linen of your sheets and pad across the frigid cement of your room.

In 10 minutes flat, you were dressed and loading into the seat you’re in now, and 5 minutes later you were peeling out of that hell-hole, a nonchalant humming coming from the man next to you as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, one half of some long forgotten rhythm muffled slightly by the leather of his glove. 

You keep your eyes on the flashes of trees as you ride on gravel roads. You don’t want to look at him. Or at the mirror, where you would see Arat and the bat resting next to her. You’re not sure if you can, souvenirs of its violence painting the metal wire. Knowing what will be happening once each checkpoint reports back, you’re not sure you could even handle the look of any of them.

It’s been months since you’d been forced into those 4 suffocating walls you’d refused to call home, and though you’ve lost a lot of yourself, your fear of Negan lingered no matter how much you’d wanted it to evaporate and disappear like the parts of you before it. It’s been months since he held that goddamn bat against you, but it doesn’t matter. That fear ignites at the worst times, knotting up your stomach.

You loathe it, but you’re powerless against it.

Maybe you hate that fact more.

There seems to always be an ever-present smirk on his face whenever it comes to ‘settling shit’, the promise of making a show of his unwavering power dangling in front of him and ramping up his excitement with each passing moment. You can’t remember how many times you’ve sat in this seat - the last group was a while ago, you think, the place with the huge house at the top of that hill - but as Negan’s hum changes into a whistle, that stupid overwhelming fear shoots through you, taking over your body for a second and banging your knees against the door when you flinch away from him.

The knock reverberates through the truck, the enclosed space doing you no favours when you take a sharp inhale at the pain, but the whistling stops, the crush of asphalt and the squeak of his leather jacket taking over as he turns to look at you. 

“Oh, c’mon. Loosen up, princess. It’s not like this is your first time.”

You bite the inside of your lip to keep from responding to his poorly hidden double entendre and that stupid nickname which has wormed into his vocabulary. It was a joke - at least it was when it was a throwaway comment from Sherry after she had one too many sips of cheap vodka - but Negan seems especially inept when it comes to how close he thinks he is to you. He had pinpointed it and insisted upon it being some playful replacement of your actual name, and every fucking time he said it, you feel your blood start to simmer.

But you know what happens when you upset him.

He makes a show of it in front of the furnace, and you remember the pain which tears through you, but in private - a handful of Saviors for insurance and away from prying eyes, in front of his own stovetop and his squeaky cupboards and his hidden drawers - that’s what terrifies you. 

Actually, no. What scares you is the fact he can do all that and then act like it never happened.

He’d greet you in the morning like he was greeting an old friend, and just go on with his day.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Negan.”

Arat scoff does little to hide her smile - neither does he, an upwards curl of his lips before he turns away to do just that - and you let out a breath, shifting in your seat in an attempt to regain your bearings. It’s like walking on eggshells, each time you talk to him.

He’s volatile.

One day he’d brush it off with a laugh, but some days he would pin you into place with a look, and you’d go to bed with one more bandage than you’d had the night before. But he’s mellowed out since you’d first met him; either old age is taking its toll or he’s become comfortable in the status quo he’d hammered in with swings of Lucille and burnt faces by the iron.

“Well, shit, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

You let the question linger, and Negan peels into the gravel-faced clearing before you can let silence fully steal the space between the three of you. He slams the brakes as he turns into his spot, and it sends your body forward. You barely have time to lift your hands to brace for the stop, but you manage enough, your forearms pressing against the dashboard.

“Whoops,”

He pulls the keys from the ignition then, pulling a laugh from his chest before you hear a click from between the two of you, and he gets out, resting his arms against the top edge of the truck before leaning in with a wide smirk.

“Guess you should’a worn your seatbelt.”

Asshole.

You’re not sure at what point your abrasion had distorted in his head into banter, but, frankly, it pisses you off. It pisses you off because he couldn’t be more obvious with the fact he doesn’t think of you as a threat. As far as he’s concerned, you’re some angry chihuahua he’s ultimately got control over. Angry as all hell, but harmless at the end of the day. The more you think about it, the more it pisses you off, and though your mouth opens in the beginning of a retort, Simon’s static voice breaks through before you can form anything further. 

The group reached checkpoint C first.

“Pass me that, won’t you?” 

Grabbing the walkie-talkie from the cupholder, you chuck it at him without another thought, turning to open your side’s door as it hits his chest with a thump, and he even laughs at that, not missing a beat before the push-to-talk is engaged and his voice rumbles into the microphone. 

They reach a second checkpoint not much longer, the chained-up rotted soon after that, and radio silence follows after they reach the wall of burning trees. It must have freaked them out - it was Simon, after all, whose voice was the first and last they’d heard. They would have had to have known something was coming at this point, even if his presence at the flames was purely by chance. 

Sooner or later, they were gonna get sloppy. They were gonna get nervous - get desperate, and slip up - and they have no fucking clue what’s in store for them.

As the sun inches under the horizon, you sip nervously from your water bottle, the carabiner attached to its lid tinking against metal as your hand shakes. The Saviors had started getting into position just after sunset - an order that was barked by Negan echoed by Laura when she’d decided they were moving out a little too slow - but you’re stuck in place, your heart pounding in your chest and a lump in your throat that you can’t get down no matter how hard you try.

You’re leant behind a car, Arat sat in the driver's seat as she absentmindedly toys with the safety on her pistol, and you’re thankful for the Virginian night. It hides the shaky breaths visible from the chill after an unfamiliar RV pulls into the clearing, and it hides the flash of panic that crosses your face when Simon pulls out someone you can’t quite make out in the dark.

It’s starting.

You don’t know how many people are in the group. You’re sure Negan has told you - that big mouth of his never quite shuts up between the orders he gives you and the monologues he considers ‘conversation’ - but you never listen.

It can’t just be him, though, you’re sure of it. One man can’t have caused him to go all on the offensive like this.

Negan’s sat in that red-lined RV now, a short conversation with Simon wrapping up with a wolfish grin shot in your direction before slinging Lucille over his shoulder and waltzing into the open door, and you clip your water bottle back onto your belt, rubbing your temples to try and forget it.

It feels so pointless, every time you’re dragged to one of these stupid confrontations. You don’t even do anything here. You don’t grab automatics to ‘get shit done’ - you don’t douse cut-down trees in lighter fluid or tie up the infected for some sick psychological torture - you’re just some spectator in all this.

Every time Negan looks at you like that, that expression wiping across his face like that night you’d first met him, it’s like a taunt. It’s like he knows, even without making you kneel next to the squelch and crush of a head, that he can make you break out in a cold sweat and make you remember the fear that coursed through your veins when you had been.

You hate that he’s right.

When you hear the first few whistles, your hair stands at the back of your neck, and you try to blink away the first few tears threatening your vision. The Saviors are close - they have to be, even grouped up, whistles can’t get that loud - and as the two tones get even closer, you close your eyes and lean forward, putting your head between your knees as you prop yourself up against the trunk of the sedan. 

It was only a matter of time before they were caught. 

In the position you’re in, you urge your bloodflow to your brain in hopes that maybe - just maybe - it’ll work well enough that it won’t make you think of the first time you’d heard those sounds. You hope that it’ll melt the ice lining your muscles, but you don’t have to hope any longer when the lights of the parked cars turn on, breaking you out of your spiral with the momentary flash of white as you squint your eyes to adjust to the brightness. 

Despite the pain at your temples when you stare into the lit clearing, you’re thankful for it. It reminds you you’re here, not in a long-buried memory, and though you hate being here, you hate being there even more.

But you know this weirdly settled thankfulness won’t last long. As you watch them get onto their knees, whatever’s left of your morals are screaming at you to do something try to stop the way Negan swings open the door and waves Lucille like he’s at some pissing contest, but you know it won’t do anything. You know you can’t do anything.

You’re not sure if savior complex is the right word for what you’re feeling, but it feels funny when you’re in this type of situation.

There’s always an illusion of help - that maybe if you screamed loud enough or just spoke some stubbornly-ignored reason, you could be able to stop him - but you know you can’t. As the first bash of Lucille breaks skull, you know there’s no way to stop him. He swings and swings and swings, and it’s so silent save for the group’s sobbing and the constant thunk of his strikes.

You’re not close to them at all - the length of a car and several people separate you from the group - but you can see them well enough when you turn your head, your heart hammering against your ribs when you recognize that one of them is a kid and one of them looks so pale that she might pass out at any given second. The headlights illuminate them like some sort of demented spotlight, Negan’s shadow distorting across their bodies and their bloodshot eyes as he lingers the bat in front of one of them for too long.

You know what he’s getting at - he’s testing their fear, he’s testing how much more he needs to push before they crack and run back to their community with their tails between their legs - and you remember when you were there, a different type of acquiescing running through your mind. You knew you couldn’t do anything when you were the one knelt on hard ground. You knew that there were too many guns pointed at you and there was too much violence in Negan’s eyes.

The only people who would act on that impulse would be the stupidest people in the-

Holy shit. 

The only people who would act on that impulse are here. Or, at least one of them was.

He swung at Negan - that man who had blood running down his chest and blood covering his hands - made hard contact with the corner of one of Negan’s cheeks, and though he’s subdued in almost an instant, you can’t look away. An odd sense of fascination keeps your eyes glued to the scene in front of you.

You don’t remember the last time anyone’s swung at Negan - let alone at a lineup - and you can’t help the spark of a long-forgotten hope that sparks within you.

He’s brave, that much is obvious. 

But still, he’s stupid as all hell, held down to the ground as Dwight points a crossbow at him, staring straight at the barrel of it like a trapped animal, and you watch them drag him back into place, a sick feeling crawling into when Negan rises back to his feet.

You know what’s coming. You were on the receiving end of this once, too.

You know defiance gets you nothing except another grave to dig.

And though you’re expecting it, your hands balled into fists at your sides as if to somehow cushion the consequences of not looking away, you still recoil when Negan brings Lucille down on a different man.

It’s different, this time. This man doesn’t use his last bit of consciousness for a well-deserved ‘fuck you’ to Negan. He uses it to tell someone that he’ll ‘find her’ - holds on to his coherence and fights the rushing blood and pain to try and get out more - but he can’t, Negan’s voice filling the space with a mock of sympathy.

Then he swings again, and your stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself, rushing up your throat and through your lips. You turn back away from the scene, hoping that it’ll erase you from whatever the hell is going on, but it doesn’t and in a split second, you’re throwing up. Everything you’ve just seen finally catches up with you and you’re really throwing up, but nothing is coming out except pieces of a granola bar and the ocean of water you’d tried to calm yourself with.

It hits the line between the gravel and the sparse grass, and you take a step back to avoid it, but nausea hits you like a wave and makes you stumble. The trunk of the sedan stops you from moving any further, and you place a hand on it to steady yourself before taking a step to the side and then another, leant forward with your arm in front of you until you can brace on a tree.

Jesus Christ, did you really manage to forget the reality of this? Did you really manage to forget how the air smells when it’s tinged with this much fresh blood? Or how fucking haunting the sound of so many people crying is?

It seems you have - at least, you forgot how overwhelming it was - and you’re not sure if you’re furious or happy that you have.

But now you remember. You remember kneeling and your ribs stinging with each breath you took. You remember the smell of your friend’s blood coming from right next to you. You remember the way your eyes burnt from all your crying and the way your chest hurt with each sob that ripped through you. You remember it all, down to each blade of grass.

Stop overreacting.

There’s always that voice in you that berates when moments like these happen. It curls its lips up in disgust at the fact you’ve let yourself become so terrified, and you loathe yourself for it, a reminder of how it had all gone wrong that day and how you’d let it. It speaks tenfold, the image of that man even just trying to swing at Negan sharpening its words to a point and cutting you with its disappointment. 

Even though you try to convince yourself you’re not there anymore, it all feels so real that you can’t help but spiral.

God, you’re such a fucking- 

“Hey! Hey, y’alright?”

You’re not sure how long you’d spent lent on that poor tree, the intensity pulling you from reality, but it doesn’t matter because, when Arat places her hand on your shoulder, you flinch away, stumbling on your shaky legs. It feels like it’s been ages - your mouth is cotton and your ears are ringing - but it can’t have been long, the sun barely starting to rise.

“Yeah, fine. Great. I’m great.”

Wiping your mouth with your sleeve, you ease yourself back into a stand, blinking hard before looking around and ignoring the suspecting squint of Arat’s eyes. You’re pretty far out, a couple meters past the closest vehicle, and when you spot the pistol strapped to her thigh, you can’t help but wonder if you could just go. 

If you just reached down and took it - if you just concentrated enough pressure to one spot at the side of her head - would she be knocked unconscious, giving you the opening to run?

But you know you can’t. Well-aimed pistol whips barely knock people out as it is, and you haven’t eaten anything substantial since the day started. There was no way you’d be able to do it. The second you bolt, Arat would tackle you. Even if you knocked her out, you wouldn’t make it far, your legs would give up as if they knew he would end up finding you.

He always does.

“Here, eat this.”

A tiny plastic packet is pressed into your palm before she steps back, grabbing your arm and dragging you back towards the clearing. With the darkness ebbing away, the headlights have been turned off, and you can see everything without its blaring harshness.

The scene looks even sadder in natural lighting - tracks of dried tears and slumped shoulders lined up one by one - and all of them refuse to move their heads from where they’re frozen.

But one of them is missing.

Leaning against the sedan, you rip open the packet with your teeth, your fingers still lacking feeling from what Arat had caught you in just moments ago, and you try not to look at the center of the clearing as you force down the crackers.

It’s then when you notice the RV is gone, and it’s then when you realize Negan’s gone too.

It doesn’t take long to connect the dots, and when you finally glance back over to them, you finally figure out who’s missing.

He’s the leader, then - curly hair and fur-lined jacket.

Break him, and everyone falls in line.

The sun comes up soon, lighting the clearing through the gaps between heavy-set trees, and the RV peels in not long after. You watch with the same pit in your stomach when Negan pulls him out by the back of his collar, and as he yells his demand of him to chop off his son’s arm off - as he stops him before he really does it - everyone knows that, whatever Negan had set out to do, he must have done it.

Dwight loads the man who punched Negan into the van he’d come out of - and he shifts his weight when he gets in, swaying like an animal trying to escape - and you find yourself curious about him. You watch as Negan leans in just a foot away to talk to their leader before rising back onto his feet, and you learn that the man’s name is Daryl.

And as much as you hate agreeing with Negan, he really does look like a Daryl.

“We'll be back for our first offering in one week. Until then, ta-ta.”

He throws their axe over his shoulder, a nonchalance in his gait, and he’s quick to hop back into the truck he drove over, letting out a theatrical sigh as if to say ‘all in a day's work’ without actually saying something. Though, knowing him, he’d probably love it if his voice carried for a moment more.

You contemplate where to go as you watch everyone start to disperse - if you’d asked, would Dwight be willing to let you sit shotgun in the car he’s keeping Daryl? Or should you follow to wherever Arat is going and try to figure out a way to thank her for the saltines that have settled your stomach for the time being? - but you don’t have time to move your feet before you hear a familiar voice calling your name and banging against the car roof.

“Get on in, princess.”

Negan sticks his head through the driver’s seat window, and you pull your lips into a line before taking a deep breath and turning your feet in his direction. He’s looking at you with an easy smile, but you keep your eyes on the ground instead, walking behind the wall of cars to mitigate some of the embarrassment you feel at any type of association with Negan.

You look over at the group before pulling at the passenger side handle, and some of them are looking back at you. The woman who had spoken up is studying you, so is their leader and the kid and two of the other women, and you feel shame course through you at their glares. You tear your eyes away from them and blink harshly before hitting the seat, and you slam the door shut, taking a deep breath as you refuse to look at Negan as he barks orders through the open window.

You watch them as all of the Saviors loads back up, and you can’t stop yourself from wondering if this was what you looked like on that night, too. Was this what you would have looked like on that soccer field if he hadn’t taken you before the sun rose? 

You can’t blame them for it, though.

Because it’s your fault for letting him push you around like this, isn’t it?

Because you’re so scared of being out there alone, you’d do anything to survive, wouldn’t you?

Because he’s scarred you enough times for you to think like that, hasn’t he?

Swallowing hard, you try to stop that stupid voice from running by pulling your legs up to your chest and tapping a lazy rhythm onto your shin. It’s comforting. It reminds you of the world before - when you’d slaved over schoolwork to it playing mindlessly out of your old cassette player - but also of how things were before you met Negan, its tune playing through that rusty old vinyl player you’d dug up.

You hadn’t heard it since. 

“Hey, your little… blegh, during the shit that went down, you alright?”

Your eyebrows meet in the middle of your forehead as you turn to look at him, trying to figure out if there was some hidden motive behind what he’d just said only to conclude that there doesn’t seem to be. 

“Yeah, fine. Doing great. Don’t worry about it.”

Your face relaxes as you speak, and you shake your head to try and convince him to drop it. Turning back towards the window, you study the trees as they pass by once again, and it feels like you’re back in yesterday, blurs of green the same way they’d been when he’d driven you to the clearing. There’s some peace to be found in the colour, but he breaks it before it settles.

“Go see the doc when we get back.”

It turns out that your response just wasn’t convincing enough for him, so he tells you what to do, and you think about how this is always how it is with him. You think about how it’s never a suggestion - how you never get a say - and how it’s always an order you’re just expected to follow.

Guess you’re clocking into your shift earlier than expected.

“You got some boyfriend I don’t fucking know about or something?”

Scrunching your nose at his digging, you give him a curt response - ‘I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re implying’ - and when he speaks again, you can hear the way a corner of his lips turns up.

“You haven’t been screwing around?”

You don’t dignify him with an answer.

Instead, you let an emptiness linger as you chew at the inside of your cheek, wondering if you really should say what’s hanging on the tip of your tongue. It could get you in trouble - no, it could get you in a shit ton of trouble - but you do it anyways, some feeling gnawing at you to take a hint from that Daryl guy and just be brave for once.

“You didn’t have to kill the Asian guy.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“I let you get away with a lot of shit, y’know that?”

Then panic comes - it drips slowly, down from your hairline and stings from your forehead down to your chin - but you stave it off before it can shake your voice.

“I’m just saying that you-“

He interrupts with a raise of his gloved hand, the pieces of dried blood on it cracking with the open and close of his first, and for that second where you think he might hit you, you flinch away by instinct, pinching your eyes closed to brace for it. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it, but the impact never comes.

“If you were one of the limp-dicks out there, I would’ve thrown you in a cell for questionin’ my goddamn authority.”

Instead, he places his hand back on the steering wheel with a small smile, his words making you let out a breath, and you find yourself listening more intently than you care to admit. 

“But that’s why I like you, isn’t it, princess?”

Your jaw strains at the stupid nickname, but the playfulness that’s wormed into his words makes your tensed shoulders relax just the slightest. 

“Pullin’ me back and really putting shit into perspective when that shit needs it. I like that, keeps me in line. It shows you’re really lookin’ out for the future of this place.”

It takes all the strength in you not to scoff, but some of it slips out, a tiny huff followed by a twist of your lips, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand that it’s definitely not a smile. There’s no doubt in your mind that he knows you’re not looking out for the Sanctuary or the Saviors when you find the courage to mouth back at him. Why else would he keep dragging you out to shit like this?

It’s to keep you in line, you’re sure of it. It’s to keep you in line as if reminding you of that night would keep you locked in your room and stuck where he wanted you. He’d dragged you back to the Sanctuary one too many times for him to just not care about you anymore.

“It was just- it was just unnecessary, Negan. If you liked the balls on the guy who punched you, you could’ve just taken him and left and ended everything there. You didn’t have to kill the Asian guy or do any of the stuff you did afterwards, either.”

The breath that escapes his mouth as a barely-audible whistle, his frown oddly approving before he questions you. His voice isn’t condescending or accusatory, you don’t think, but there’s a dangerous edge to it, like something could go wrong if you answered it wrong. 

“You know what they did, right?”

But you don’t have the right answer, so you just don’t say anything. 

“They ambushed the whole fucking satellite station! Killed every one of them! The blood’s on their hands, so I would say it was pretty fuckin’ courteous of me not to cut off their dicks and kill every last one of ‘em, wouldn’t you?”

You can’t find the words to refute that - not when his voice rises enough for the vibrations to run through the car and work their way into your bones, or when he gestures with that same gloved hand that’s done more than its fair share of things to hurt you - but even if you did, he gives you no time to respond, anyways.

“So you still wanna debate morals, princess? ‘Cause I don’t think you understand the whole damn scope of what they did.”

His voice drops down, but it doesn’t hide his irritation, and you swallow down the spit that’s made home in your throat. Nobody told you what that group did, but you think you know why, biting down the smile pulling at your cheeks. 

They’re the only ones to have tried it and done it successfully.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t.”

The rest of the drive is silent.

[femmeetart]

shall we sing a song of annihilating one another?

pose ref from @adorkastock <3

[mommynott]

Read someone’s fic that was an enemy!character x reader and this was in it

“You hate his guts, but you don’t hate his cock”

And idk it’s just also very fitting for enemy with benefits! Theo

Omg yes !!! That’s so ewb!theo

Can’t stand him but his cock? Fuckkkk I would even go as far to say that reader loves his cock