#GODDAMN THOSE LINES ARE SO FUCKING CLEAN

[msfcatlover]

Thinking back to that one post about how every batkid needs to pick a persona they get to swear in. I would like to expand it.

Dick swears all the time, but he does it in other languages. He picks a language for each persona to swear in and sticks to it. He did still do his whole “Aw, fiddlesticks!” routine as Robin, mainly just to watch everyone’s faces when he did it. (But everyone remembers the time Robin’s leg was broken and he just screamed “FUCK!” so loud that the entire battlefield turned around in shock.)

Jason knew that thanks to classism, people would assume he swore even if he didn’t. So like, why bother restraining it any more than he absolutely had to? As Robin, he didn’t swear even when he really wanted to, though sometimes he slipped up when caught off-guard or when chatting with someone who knows him in both identities. (On one very memorable occasion, Robin got so mad he actually shoved his fist into his own mouth to muffle the screaming rant of obscenity he needed to express.)

(As the Red Hood, Jason doesn’t really give a fuck, but he still falls back into his old habit of cleaning up his language when in costume. It’s very funny to hear him say something like, “Well, golly! You’ve gotta be shitting me.”)

Tim Drake is a proper young man who doesn’t swear, even when he’s hurt (he has totally stolen that biting-my-fist move from Jason.) Robin swears like a fuckin’ sailor all day every day, to the point where not a single goddamn hero in the entire caped community that has ever worked even adjacent to him has not heard, “Ask me if I fucking give a shit,” muttered under Robin’s breath directly into the com line when someone tries to correct him on something. He will switch languages to insult you in the one you best understand, too. His friends have a running bet about how many of those languages Robin actually speaks, versus how many he just learned how to cuss people out in (when asked, Robin just smirks and says, “How fucking many do you [always a swear from a different language, usually one they haven’t heard before] think?”)

Damian mostly sticks with old-timey faux-Shakespearean insults, mainly because it’s very funny when adults can’t figure out what to punish him for when he sasses them. As Robin, Damian likes using animals in place of swears, and just telling people to go fuck themselves—it keeps them on their toes.

Steph does not fuckin’ care.

Duke canonically swears both in & out of costume, and I love that for him.

[itgetzweird08]

“You’re nervous..”

You said so matter of factly, your head resting on Bakugou’s chest. He grunted, opening one eye to look down at your face. “I can tell,” you continued “Because you didn’t clean your room before we laid down… and you didn’t do your reps. You only miss those when you’re sick or when you’re so nervous you can’t focus. And I know you aren’t sick so…” he scoffed, closing his eye again. “You should be a goddamn detective if this hero shit don’t work out.” You chuckled, but his joke didn’t distract you. “Talk to me Kats…you’re nervous about tomorrow, aren’t you?”

He stayed silent, and for a moment you thought prying was a bad idea. You had only been dating for four months, since Christmas, and you didn’t want to over step any still fresh boundaries. But Katsuki sighed, shrugging softly. He figured, if there was anyone he could be real with, it was you. Plus, he was trying to learn to communicate a little better anyways.

“Yeah. ‘M nervous. Not cuz I don’t think we’ll win, but because of…you.”

You sat up, looking at him confused. “Because of me?” He huffed, sitting up and facing you. “Yeah- I know we’ll kick ass. We got the top heroes, Mr. Aizawa, and both of our classes. Even though they ain’t as strong as me, everyone can put up a fucking fight. But..I’m worried something’s going to happen to you. What if they put you on the front lines, or the villains manage to get free and end up hurting you? Taking you? What then? What if…I can’t protect you?”

You frowned hearing his worries, and at some point during the confession, took his hand. But your frown slowly turned into a soft smile, and you ran your thumb across his knuckles in an attempt too soothe him. “Kats… do you remember what you said when you confessed to me?”

He snorted, “Of course I fucking remember. I said ‘go out with me you damn nerd, it’s getting cold out here.’” You shook your head, nudging him with your shoulder. “Before that, dummy. You said-“ He cut you off “ I said ‘I’ve fucking liked you since the fitness test. I thought you were beautiful, capable, smart, and stronger than the rest of the extras in this goddamn school and if there’s anyone who can give me a run for my money to be the top hero, it’s you. And I think it’s still true’” He quoted himself, and you kissed his cheek, taking his face into your hands. “Exactly— you know I’m capable of protecting myself and putting up a fight. Trust me, I’m concerned as hell for you too, but I need you to focus on the mission and not me. I’ll be okay. We’re both gonna kick some villain ass and I promise once it’s all over I’ll be right back here laying next to you and watching that cheesy fucking all might movie you love so much.”

He growled, grabbing a pillow from behind him and gently whacking you with it. “It ain’t fucking cheesy! It’s classic fucking cinema”

You grabbed your own pillow and hit him back, giggling all the while. “Mmhm! Of course it is.”

“I’m serious Y/N!”

It was moments like this that kept Bakugo brave as the battle began. And it was moments like this that you both thought about as he took his dying breaths. He was so worried about protecting you, but you couldn’t protect him.

Pity.

——— —-

I have no remorse :) Anyways im starting to do requests! So if you have an idea for me, go ahead and put it in my asks <3

[wishful-sinful-9]

YOU WANT IT DARKER

Logan Howlett x Reader

MASTERLIST

cw: stalkerish!logan, kidnapping, kinda dubcon, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), biting, hair pulling, body worship, overstimulation, just feral sex, both parties are a little unhinged, reader has no sense of survival instinct bless her

halloween special (better late than never) 🐺

Was this karma? Had you been some sort of puppy-kicking throat-slashing cold-hearted bitch in a past life? Are you being bit in the ass for it? Or had the universe just singled you out at some point to be an object of constant torment?

You'd thought a small town in the mountains was just what you needed: peace and quiet, beautiful landscapes, charming locals. The reality was freezing temperatures as early as September, and elderly neighbours that are just as frosty to the strange young newcomer. Two months in, you could no longer take the loneliness - life became a little brighter when you adopted your fiercely loyal, and almost terrifyingly giant, doberman you named (aptly, in your opinion) Baby.

And then you left the Goddamn back gate open.

Miles of forest stretch up the mountainside behind your house. You've been trudging through the dense woods for hours, voice hoarse from calling for your dear Baby. A whisper in the back of your mind tells you it's a lost cause; he must have gotten too far to find his way back, and God knows the predators lurking in these shadows willing to attack him. These shadows that are getting deeper with each passing minute.

A shiver runs through you, in spite of your thick scarf and fur-lined coat. You scan the surrounding trees as you realise that it's getting harder to see past them.

That's when you halt abruptly.

You have no idea where you are.

-

Right and wrong blurs into eachother sometimes for Logan. He's been alone for so long, and his instincts are so loud, he can't fight these strange animal tendencies that claw into him every so often.

And you, well you didn't help him at all.

Why the fuck would a pretty young woman like you be doing living round here? Walking around his forest every damn day, with that hound that you love so deeply, even though it could easily wrench its lead from your grip or bite your arm clean off with one snap of its wolfish jaws. Of course, he knows it would never do such a thing - it loves you like all dogs love their owners, unconditionally and obsessively and devotedly. It loves you like how he'd love you.

Picking a spot in the shadows and watching you pass by was one thing. Beginning to follow you on your route, all the way back to your home though - his conscience was beginning to blink its red warning lights.

Yet every time he indulges in his guilty pleasures, those lights fade a little more.

He doesn't notice they've gone completely black when he sees you presently, stood shivering in the depths of the forest. Lost.

Your dog blinks up at him, eyes bright and tongue lolling. Excited to introduce you to his new friend.

-

The darkness of the encroaching night, the cruel icy wind, and the severity of your situation is all forgotten when your blessed Baby appears like an angel from the shadows.

“Baby! Oh, my God, Baby,” you sob, kneeling as he runs to you with a furiously wagging tail. “Where have you been, boy? Where the hell have you been?”

You unwind the leash from where you'd knotted it and clipped it to your belt loop and reach for Baby's collar. He twists, not with any fear or violence, out of your grip in an instant. You frown. He hasn't done that before.

He trots over to where he had appeared from, glancing back and stopping, encouraging you to follow.

You step forward, “What are you..”

He returns to shepherd you to his desired direction. You do so, praying that once he's successfully shown you whatever impressive stick or pinecone it is that you can finally go home.

You trudge after your dog for a few more minutes before deciding you've had enough. “C'mon, pup, let's go home. Aren't you hungry? Eh, boy? Want some- shit!”

Baby sprints off suddenly, lightning-fast.

Your feet move before you can think. You're far too exhausted for this chase, but you are not going to lose him again. You shout after him as you sprint through the darkness.

You break through the trees and find yourself skidding to a stop - in front of you, there is a black iron gate.

Beyond it, a gravel drive leads to a shadowed, decrepit manor house, lit only by the full moon above. You don't have time to wonder why there was ever a house built this deep into the wilderness, because Baby's running straight to the open door.

-

He pets the dog idly, knowing you'll soon follow. It licks his palm.

The scent of roses, your perfume, strengthens as he hears the stumbling of your hiking boots at the entrance. The dog barks, and you follow the sound.

You burst into the living room, eyes wild when they meet his own.

Got you.

-

His dark eyes are unsettlingly wide as he stares you down.

The man whose home you've just broken into is unlike any around here; considerably younger than the elderly folk in town, perhaps in his thirties. Beyond that, there's something abnormal about him: he towers over you, huge in stature and wide with muscle. And one of his terrifyingly huge hands is petting your dog.

“I am so, so sorry sir,” you stammer stupidly, taking a wobbly step back. “He just - ran off - he never does it I swear, I'll get out of your- Baby, Baby, c'mere.”

He doesn't move.

You tremble as you contemplate grabbing him by the collar. But you can't seem to bring yourself to move towards this man.

“Baby, please-”

The man says your name.

Your blood runs cold. You bring your gaze to his, slow with terror. Another step back.

You could cry when Baby finally moves away from him, only to be further horrified when you beloved protector only does so to get behind your legs and usher you towards the man. The strange man who somehow knows your name.

You lurch forward at a hard nudge of Baby's head against your calf - into his arms. Strong, large arms that wrap around you tightly. Shit. Oh shit.

You shriek, attempting to wriggle free, but the man holds you to him tighter. He removes one arm, keeping you there solidly still with the other, and curls his fingers into a fist.

And three knife-sharp metal claws unsheath from his knuckles.

Your fighting ceases immediately. He doesn't hold them to you in threat, merely displays them in warning: Don't. Even. Try.

They disappear back into his hand and he brings his lips to your ear.

“You ain't going nowhere, sweetheart.”

-

It would've been a nice room, once. A canopy bed in the centre, a velvet loveseat at the foot of it, and a large window stretching across the far wall. Only now, the canopy's sheer curtains are torn, the colour of the seat's fabric faded, and the window completely boarded up.

The only source of light is a lone candle on the dresser. You pace in its dim light, shaking like a leaf, gasping short, panicked breaths.

He'd picked you up as if you'd weighed nothing at all and deposited you in this room, locking it and ignoring how you banged and screamed and shouted at the door. It didn't take long before you'd exhausted yourself and resorted to desperately racking your brain for means of escape.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You sink to the floor with your head in your hands. Hiccupy sobs escape your lips, eyes sore from crying.

A gentle click of the door opening alerts you of his presence.

“I'm not gonna hurt you.”

As he lingers in the doorframe, even bigger from where you're crumpled on the floor, you find it hard to believe. Your breathing speeds up again.

In a stride, he's kneeling beside you. You jerk away with a cry as he tries to reach for your wrist.

His hand curls around your chin and brings your tear-stained, crazed face to his. The wildness in his eyes before was gone - there's a shocking earnestness in them now, as if he hadn't just used your only companion against you in luring you into his home.

“Deep breath in,” he murmurs.

What?

“Deep breath in, I said. Do it, girl.”

For some bizarre reason, you do it - drawing in a deep, shaky breath and holding it.

“Now out.”

You exhale.

“Again - in,” you do, “out.”

You can't shake the feeling that you're in some absurd dream as you repeat the process with your abducter until your breathing returns to normal.

He retracts his hand from your face and with a weak voice you whimper, “Who are you?”

“Logan.” He grunts.

“What do you want?”

He gazes at you for a long moment. When he responds, you detect a tremble in that baritone voice: “I've been alone for so. Damn. Long. Then you came along, into my woods, into my head, and now I'm losing it.”

His words send chills racing down your spine. Had he been watching you?

“It's like this instinct. This animalistic urge, that makes me want to keep you here - where I can keep you safe, keep you with me-”

“You're a mutant,” you rasp. He nods. “My parents always told me to stay away from... your people.”

“They aren't my people. I'm alone.” You flinch at the sharp edge to his tone.

He raises himself from the floor, looming over you again. You cower under his shadow.

“Well,” he grunts, “not anymore, I suppose.”

He locks the door behind him.

-

You don't know how many days have passed since Logan first took you.

It was only the day after that fateful night that he unlocked your room, under strict order to not leave the house. His only other kindness was to get some clothes for you from your house. You hadn't given him the keys.

Baby is your only comfort, as he curls up beside you at night for warmth. Even still, he seems to have developed some sort of bond with your captor, and is unwilling to be the guard dog you'd have assumed he would be in a situation such as this.

You've taken to slinking about in the shadows, rarely directly coming in contact with Logan; instead, you observe him.

His mutant abilities are not limited to the claws; from what you've gathered, he has some sort of heightened sense of smell and hearing. You know it would be foolish to try and escape because he'd sniff the nerves on you in an instant.

He feeds you mostly meat, which you pick at with little appetite.

It's those minor interactions, when he hands you your meal, that you ponder over throughout the long, cold days and nights. Had he lingered for longer to watch you eat? Did his fingers graze yours when he passed you the plate?

It soon came apparent to you, that this ominous, claw-bearing creature was no more than a man in isolation.

In a largely anti-mutant society, it's push everyone away, or be shunned and hurt. In this world, he's abnormal. Dangerous. A monster.

And you want to crawl into his skin and find what he is really: man or beast?

-

His ears prick at the shuffle of your feet. No matter how often he hears you move about, you never fail to excite his paranoia.

But you never do run, or lash out, or panic. You just remain in the darkness, watching.

In truth, he regrets doing this to you. It was the primal part of his brain eating the rational, and now you were constantly in his proximity, the animal had calmed itself and the human had settled in. Still, he could not bring himself to set you free. Not until he'd figured out how to get himself back to how he'd used to be.

Click.

He froze.

The door. You were at the door.

He set his beer bottle down hard on the table, a warning. He was there. He'd know if you were escaping.

The smell of fresh night air leaks into his nostrils, and he stalks over to the foyer.

You're halfway out the door - staring at him.

For a heartbeat, you keep his furrowed gaze, heart rabbiting in your chest. Then you bolt.

-

You barely make it to the gate before rough hands slam you backwards into his chest.

You don't struggle. You just pant in his hold.

A long, terrible moment of silence passes that makes you doubt your confidence in emerging from this situation unharmed. When he finally speaks, his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“What. Was. That.”

You squeak, “I wanted to see if you'd go after me.”

You're flung over his shoulder and marched straight back to the house.

He dumps you on the tattered armchair by the fireplace, and leans over you - gripping each arm of the chair to cage you in. His eyes are as dark as you've ever seen them.

“You have your answer,” he growls.

“Logan I-”

“Now I want to find out mine.”

You press yourself back into the chair. “Answer to what?”

“Why did that turn you on?”

Your mouth runs dry and your cheeks are ablaze. You shake your head furiously, refusing to meet his eye. “I don't know what.. Uhm..”

One hand is no longer on the chair, instead it's on your cheek. Forcing you to look at him.

Wordlessly, he drops his hand... and shoves it down your pants instead. It's then that it hits you: that heightened sense of smell of his can detect arousal too.

A thick finger runs through your folds, gathering the slick sticking to your panties.

“Logan-”

“You are turned on.”

He sounds almost a little incredulous, as he pulls out his hand and studies how your arousal shines in the milky moonlight, coating his fingertips.

You make a little noise of embarrassment, and it turns his attention back to you. Wide-eyed, flushed, lips slightly parted. And a switch flips.

He grasps the back of your head to meet him halfway as he crushes his lips against yours. Bruising, but for some reason, addicting.

You moan slightly, opening your mouth to encourage his tongue and it makes his mind blur.

He tears away after a minute, and, operating as if possessed, rips your pants open.

You gasp, but have no time to reconsider: your panties are torn clean off too, and a finger is curling deep inside you.

Your wails prompt him to try another, his thumb circling your clit, the pads of his fingers pressing against the spot that makes your eyes roll. You can barely gasp his name, so overwhelmed and lost in pleasure.

It's not enough. He needs to taste you.

You almost scream when his mouth replaces his thumb, sucking desperately on your clit. He laps at you with such animalistic intent, the haze in your mind lets through one paralysing thought: how does he fuck?

The pressure builds in a way you've never experienced before - so quick and heavy, like a tidal wave, and when you cum he almost ruins his pants along with you. The sheen of sweat over your face, your heaving chest, that sweet white release trickling down his palm. More.

Your hand flies into his hair as his fingers begin to move again and his mouth is somehow faster and needier than before.

“L-Logan I can't-”

He groans gutterally as he pulls away for a second to spread your juices over your throbbing flesh, already swollen. When he dives in again, you just grip his hair for dear life.

The next orgasm has your thighs clamping tightly around his head, but he simply prys them apart again. You tug at his hair and he finally breaks away to kiss you hard.

You taste yourself on his tongue.

He doesn't let up until you're both in desperate need of air, and you take the opportunity to strip off your top and bra. His hands, shaking you realise, come up to cup your tits gently, his eyes greedily savouring the sight.

“Beautiful..perfect..let me fuck you.” He gazes in your eyes with such desperation, you lean forward to cup his face and kiss his nose.

“Anything, anything for you, Logan.”

-

You don't give a damn about that rug burning against your back. Not when he's so deep inside you, you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“Sweet girl,” he sucks into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “Take me so well, does it hurt?”

“Mm-mm,” you hum, eyes welling with tears of overstimulation. “Just move. Fuck me, Logan-”

He lifts your knees, pressing the backs of your thighs to your chest, and slams into you over and over at an unrelenting pace. Your mouth hangs agape, crying for the pleasure. It's as if the beast in him has bled into your skin, making you want him closer, deeper, faster. You claw at his shoulders. He leans down to nip and nuzzle at your jaw and neck, but your lips only move to moan.

“I can feel you - so tight - cum for me, sweetheart,” he grunts out, “cum all over my cock.”

You do as he wishes with a scream of his name.

He watches the sticky mess where his dick meets your cunt grow with your latest release, and he wants even more.

You're too dumb to register how he hasn't cum yet, but is pulling out of you. You let him manhandle you with ease until you're on your front, cheek against the floor while Logan grips your hips to keep your ass up.

Like this, he can better watch it all drip out of you.

You let out a little whine, eyes fluttering shut as you're sure he just wants a final look. You jolt as you suddenly feel his tongue thrust into your hole and curl. “No more-”

You shiver at the obnoxious wet sounds of him licking up the mess between your thighs, pushing back against his face despite yourself. You breathe out a sigh of relief when he pulls away - then you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance.

With the last of your deteriorating strength, you try your best to crawl away from his sloppy thrusts.

“I'm not done,” he growls, pulling you back onto his cock and pounding you harder. You give in, eyes rolling, back arching, front pressed to the floor once more.

“Give it to me.”

You can't.

“C'mon.”

He reaches round to rub your clit in mean circles.

“Let go.”

You cry, and clench so hard around him it feels as if your pussy is pulling him in.

You gush around him, and his hips stutter as he approaches his own release. You press back as you feel him try to slip out - “Inside me, Lo, fill m' up..”

With a shout, he cums deep inside you, only pulling out once completely milked dry. He groans at the sight of your twitching thighs, and the creamy mess leaking from your cunt. He pushes it back in before standing.

You're a sticky, panting, fucked-out thing when he gathers you in his arms, pressing his lips to your hairline.

“Can I keep you?” he grins down at you, the first time you've seen him smile. You beam and kiss his cheek.

“Keep me forever.”

a/n: this has not been well edited but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless! I've had a bit of writers block but the first part of the knight!au and the bbf!peter oneshot is on its way, slowly lmao

[alchemistc]

Donato spots it first - Tommy's been fidgeting with the just-too-short sleeves of his shirt for the past ten minutes, fingers curling into the ends of the arms, thumb sliding along the hem like maybe he could make them long enough to fully cover his wrists just by thinking really hard about it. It's stretched tight across his shoulders, the neck hole feels too high, biting into his skin, and Tommy is absolutely certain it's been hemmed in at the fucking waist, because he can barely keep the damn thing tucked into his pants.

(The cost of having those fucking magnificent gazelle legs is apparently torso space.)

"You shrink your shirt in the wash again, Kinard?"

Tommy's been begging their vendor to switch to a jersey blend for years because 100% cotton undershirts are a goddamn bitch and a half to maintain.

Tommy thinks about ignoring the question entirely. They've been razzing him for weeks about the way every single smile line in his face has been putting in overtime lately.

And then she gets a closer look at it. The merch is usually the same cross-department, but every once in a while some probie will get stuck with the task of ordering a few extras to have as backups around the station and they'll go a little too hard on customization. Like, for example, the one he'd picked off the top of his clean laundry basket without looking in his rush out the door this morning.

Lucy's eyes narrow. She reaches forward, pinches the 118 emblem blazing across the breadth of his shoulder, takes in the color and sturdiness of a shirt he definitely can't play off as being old enough to have been from his own time at the One Eighteen.

Donato grimaces so mockingly Tommy nearly warns her that her face'll get stuck like that. "Christ, Kinard, how fucking domestic are you two?"

(Three days off together after a week of getting by with random texts, their schedules nearly opposite, and when Evan had stared at his overnight bag on day two and realized he didn't have any spare undershirts he'd pouted up a storm about the fact that if he had to go back to his place it didn't make a lick of sense to turn right back around to Tommy's, so Tommy had just thrown Evan's dirty undershirt in with the rest of his own laundry. And then prompted Evan to throw all his other stuff in the wash too. Halfway across the city, Evan is definitely rolling too-long sleeves over his palm with the tips of his fingers and Tommy does not have time to think about how much he likes the idea of that )

"He doesn't even know my how I take my coffee," Tommy snipes, like that avoids the question, and across the locker room Johnson slams his locker shut with a snort.

"Because you've been using his increasingly more desperate attempts to figure it out as some weird intricate mating ritual for three months now."

"It's about --."

"--the journey, not the destination," they both interrupt, eyes rolling, and Tommy doesn't bother to try to hide the grin in his face.

"He just wants to get it right so bad."

Donato's face is unimpressed. "Ugh. Can you please stop being so smitten right in front of me? I'm gonna throw up."

Tommy leans in for the kill. "Your wife ever buy you flowers, Johnson? Because I've been trying to decide how much thought went into the arrangement he brought me on Saturday, and I figure -." He dodges the palm Johnson extends towards his face with a bark of bright laughter.

---

Evan 2:15 PM

Boyfriend privileges are a SCAM

Evan 2:15 PM

Why is YOUR NAME on the back of this shirt? There's no way that's standard

Evan 2:16 PM

Chimney's being homophobic

Evan 2:19 PM

Nvm Gerrard saw it and now I'm just sad he didn't actually have a heart attack about it

[sunrisesfromthewest]

First Encounter Part 6

Warning:Marcus still on💯,Rated R language here and there🤬,Taking Birth Control💊(It’s for the plot don’t start blowing up my comment section,I got y’all 😭)in and out of readers pov,you’ll understand once you start reading📖

Previous Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Entering your bedroom your eyes peer around every surface, searching for your black furry baby." Midnight, baby where are you!" you said wondering where he could’ve gone, while you were......handling business in the shower. 

 After scavenging through your bed sheets and closet you place your hands on your hips, letting out a huff in frustration. 

 Crossing your arms, you look back at Armando, who is just now exiting the bathroom, towel still wrapped low on his hips, bringing out his v-line. Shaking your head you look away asking him what he did with your baby. "Promise me you want get mad, princess.” he said scratching the back of his head with a hesitant expression. 

Eyes twitching you reply, "The fuck you do with my baby." Before you could drill in on him, he walks over and grabs your hands attempting to calm you down. "He's okay, he started meowing loud, so I assumed he was hungry." Relaxing a bit, you remove your hands from his and make your way towards the kitchen anxiously. 

“For your sake, he better be fine!” you said, walking to his bowl, but stopping at the sight before you, mouth dropping open. "He's fine,Y/N all I did was give it a little foo-” pausing mid-sentence, Armando lets out a surprise laugh, at the sight before him. 

Your poor baby peaked up at you two, little face saturated, in what looked like milk or tuna. Watching as he returns back to eating his food, Armando says, "See princess, I told you he was okay.” 

Turning to give Armando a glare, you point down at your baby, "Does he look okay to you!" As if on cue, Midnight lays down beside his bowl, looking as high as a kite, little belly full to compacity. Bursting out in laughter, all Armando could do was smile at the scene before him. 

 "Since you think it’s so Goddamn funny, you clean it up!” you say smacking his arm, while making your way back to the room to get dressed. Hearing him laugh louder only caused you to smack your lips, in disbelief. 

With Armando in the kitchen cleaning up the mess he caused, you began to moisturize your body, knowing that you'll become ashy without it. Throwing on the clothes you set out, you make your way over to the restroom, to pick up, y'all discarded clothes. 

After putting the clothes in a dirty hamper, you looked around in the small shelf above it, in search of your birth control. "I need to make sure, I don’t bring, no baby into this messy situation." you mumble to yourself. Spotting the box, you examined it to make sure, the pills haven’t expired. 

 Shrugging when you see that it’s only, a few weeks passed the expiration date, you take one, mentally making a note to by a fresh box. Exiting the bathroom you see, Armando chilling on your bed, with your now clean baby, who looked like it was in a food coma. Chuckling to yourself, as you walked over to your dresser, you say, "Remind me to never leave you, in charge of my baby ever again.” 

As you pulled out clothes for Armando he laughs,” Yeah, I think that would be smart to do,”he said grabbing the shirt and sweats you set on the bed. Slipping on the clothes you gave him, he asked, "Hey, where did you put those pair of pants, I had on?" Raising your eyebrows, you point to the restroom saying, it in the dirty hamper. As Armando walks over to the bathroom, you head to the living room in search of your phone. 

After finding it, your eyes widen by all the messages popping up on the screen, some from Kelly and Dorn, but majority are from your father. Looking at the most recent text your dad sent, you gasped covering your mouth. 

Y/N, BABY PLEASE DON’T GIVE ME NO LOWREY GRANDBABIES, I DON’T THINK I CAN SURVIVE THREE OF THEM!!!!!   

Sent at 8:15 pm from Candy Killer 🍭🍴🍭

*Buzz*

GIRL, DIDN’T I TELL YOU TO NOT GET INVOLVE WITH HIM!    

Has it been that long since Rafe!?! 

Sent at 8:16pm from Sleeping Beauty 👸🏻👸🏻👸🏻

*Buzz*

Scratch what I said earlier this is the fastest I EVER seen you, give in for some dick.........I’m taking you to my therapist immediately!!!!!!!!!!!!   

Sent at 8:18pm from Prince Charming🫅🏼🫅🏼🫅🏼

Turning your phone off of silent mode,you watch as a text pop up from Mike, almost making you drop your phone. 

*Ding*

BRING YALL NASTY ASSSESS BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!  

Sent at 8:20 pm from Money Mike 💸💸💸💸

Quickly making your way back to the room, you grabbed your duffel bag and picked up your baby while, yelling for Armando. 

Hearing the small commotion Armando walks back into your bedroom, picture from earlier placed in his pocket as he looked at your nervous expression. "What's going on? "He says lost by your sudden urgency to leave.  

Not saying anything you just passed Armando your phone, while making your way to the door, trailing behind you he stares at the phone with amusement as he reads some of the messages popping up. “This is what got you all frantic, Y/N and What’s up with these contact names?” he said smirking as he sees you turn around with a bewilder look.  

"The Caller Id names should be the least of your worries.You haven’t been around my father long enough to see him, freak out. One time he thought Mike was sleeping with my mom during a case, where they had to switch identities and he flipped the fuck out.... Climbing all on the house and shit......peeking through windows......and breaking the pool we had at the time.”

 Pausing at the door to catch your breath you give Armando a serious look, "I know you probably seen some crazy things, since you used to be in the Cartel but seeing the Marcus Burnett freak the fuck out is a whole level of craziness......especially when he finds out that you had sex with his daughter.”

Grabbing your keys, you make your way to the elevator lowkey scared of what’s to come, closing and locking your door Armando follows after you, eyebrows screwed in thought. 

“Hey, it takes two to tango, princess and plus like you said I’ve seen and done some crazy shit in my life so far. I think I can handle your dad throwing a tantrum about his precious little girl” he said sarcastically. 

“Okay, I tried to warn you." shrugging you enter the elevator pressing the floor level button. Following behind you Armando enters as well back leaning against the elevator wall, in thought. 

“He’s not gonna freak out that bad, is he?” he said becoming concern from your earlier response. 

Getting no reply from you, had his mind racing, with worry and anxiety.  

________________________________________________________________________________ 

After sending you another text of disappoint, Kelly throws a look to Dorn who seems to be doing the same things, but with a childish smirk. 

Right before she could walk over to scold him, for whatever dumb thing he sent you, she is grabbed by Marcus, who is still freaking out. 

Holding Kelly captive Marcus continue to sputter nonsense, which only left Kelly more discombobulated. Viewing the scene before him made Mike irritated and annoyed at his partner behavior.  

Fed up he walks over breaking the hold he had on Kelly, (which she greatly appreciates), pointing at Marcus, Mike says "Enough with the Bullshit!” 

“NO! Mike, you don’t understand...Y/N...my baby girl.... has actually gotten with a ‘Bad boy’ and the worst part is he’s your son. It’s Deja vu,all over again, first my little sister, now this......WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THAT LOWREY BLOOD! " Marcus says crying against Mike arm becoming hysterical. 

Rolling his already stressed filled eyes, all Mike does is pat his back, while saying with a smirk, "Most be some good shit since, you Burnetts can’t keep away from us.” 

Pulling away from Mikes embrace Marcus glares at him, "The fuck is that supposed to mean, “pausing Marcus throws his hands up in surrender, "You know what Mike don’t answer it.... I need to pray these evil spirits away.” 

“You know what Marcus,go do that, I'll be outside, creating a plan to get my wife back. Who should be my priority right now, not your whining ass!" tired of dealing with his tantrum Mike walks back outside, with Dorn and Kelly quickly leaving with him as well. 

__________________________________________________________________________________ 

Pulling up beside the AMMO van, you sigh as you put the car in park, nerves starting to get the best of you. Eyes peering over to Armando, you see him staring through the window in thought, probably thinking about what’s to come. 

Reaching across the console you grab his hand giving it a soft squeeze, "Penny for your thoughts?" Hearing him release a chuckle, he looks up at you smiling slightly, "Don't play you already know, what I’m thinking about baby," pausing he looks at you with unease before saying, "Is your dad really gonna wig out over this?” 

Watching his face turn into unease almost made you laugh, but you kept it in, "In all honestly, yes......but he’s probably going to go off on me, more than you." Seeing him visibly relax at your words made, you laugh, as you turned the car off. 

Getting out the car you said, "Just in case though, I would probably hide behind me or your dad!" Leaving from the car as well Armando face screws up, in confusion, "But you just said he’ll attack you more than me!” 

Shaking your head you smile widely, "I did but if you haven’t noticed by now, he likes to go after the biggest opponent!” Pausing to pick up Midnight and your duffel bag, you look up to see that Armando has moved to your side of the car, hand grabbing the bag from you, swinging it over his right shoulder. 

“And in this moment, it's you.” you say making your way over to the others who are talking on the dock. Armando stood there thinking about what you just said, but snapping out of it when you start walking away. Following behind you Armandos face falls back to its usual nonchalant look, as you walk up to the group. 

Dorn is the first to see you guys approaching, but before he could say anything Mike cuts in "Glad to see y’all horny assess made it back!" eyes run over y’all bodies picking up, on the change of clothes, but once he looks at your neck, he shakes his head in disbelief.  

“I could care less if you guys fool around but y’all couldn’t wait until after we rescued my wife.......MATTER FACT.......HELL YOU JUST MET TODAY!!!!” All you could do was nod your head in shame, while listening to Mike rant, although you don’t regret what you did, you could’ve chosen a different time. 

As you open your mouth to apologize, Mike silence you with a look, "I don’t want to hear a half as apology Y/N, all I want from you right now is to go deal with your dramatic ass Daddy.......he been giving me a headache since y'all left.” 

Biting your lip so you wouldn’t laugh, you send Armando a small smile, as you make your way towards the house. Brown eyes following your retreating figure, he hears his father clearing his throat, causing him to looking back at the group.

He notices everyone staring him down with they’re arms crossed, even Lockwood traitorous ass, was looking at him sideways. 

Sensing his son getting annoyed by the different looks he was receiving , Mike pulls Armando aside to have a little ‘talk' with him.

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

Walking into the house you see your father sitting on the couch, with his eyes closed. Confused you close the door silently behind you, while cautiously making your way towards him. Opening his eyes Marcus, stares you down as you sit there in silence, obviously waiting for him to say something. 

“Y/N.” your father says calmly while watching you hold Midnight against your chest.

Observing him as his gaze shift up to your heavily marked neck, you hesitantly whisper yes, waiting for your fathers response. "Did you at least use protection?” he says eyes still staring hard at your neck, biting your lip, you shake your head no, shifting slightly as you wait for his reaction anxiously. 

Nodding his head, he places his hands together eyes no longer gazing at your neck angrily, as he bounces his right leg against the floor. 

“I took a birth control pill tho,so you don’t have to worry about no LOWREY grandbabies." you said letting out a laugh, but clearing your throat instead when he gives you a blank look.”Y/N....you my youngest daughter and I love you......but do you truly believe......and I mean......TRULY believe.... that a damn pill stands a chance against LOWREY DNA!!!” 

Shocked by his words you say, "What?” 

Shaking his head in disappointment he says, "I don’t know who ass to beat....... yours or the future father of my unborn grandchild!”  

Tired of your father antics, you smack his arm to get his attention, "The ONLY grandbaby you getting from me, is right hear against my chest...stop worrying yourself to death. And last I checked Daddy I'm a grown woman,you can’t go around whooping my ass,when I do something, you disagree with.” 

Snapping his head up to you he stands up, pointing down at your stomach, "That baby just saved your life cuz who the hell you think you talking to like that,Y/N!” 

Rolling your eyes in frustration, you sat Midnight down as you stand up and yell, "For the last time I’m NOT PREGNANT WITH A LOWREY BABY and I’m talking to you!” 

Watching your father head look around the room, before pointing at himself he says, "That disrespect most come from your momma side of the family,cuz I’ll be DAMN,if I sit here and tolerate it. Fine your ass not pregnant, I'll take your word for it but the minute and I mean the second I start dreaming about some Damn FISH! I’m whooping somebodies ASS!” 

Laughing at your father foolishness, you say, "Okay, fine I fucked up tonight but can’t you discipline me another time, Christine needs are help right now, and Mike needs his partner, not a concerned father.” 

Giving your father a smile, you watch as he stares at you in thought, before rolling his eyes, "Yeah, we can drop it for now......besides I already forgiven you.” Pausing you analyze his body language, knowing that he usually doesn’t just forgive people so easily,especially when it comes to a situation like this. 

Widening your eyes, you make your way over to your purse that you left there, mouth dropping once you couldn’t find what you were looking for, eyes tearing up, you return your gaze to his not so regretful ones, 

"YOU ATE MY SKITTLES!” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors Note:Sorry it took so long to post part 6,I’ve been receiving a few message about the Spanish translations for Armando’s dialogue,in previous chapters.And Y’all Google did me Dirty,but the problem is fixed now😭😭😭,thank y’all for letting me know.I’ll stick to writing his parts in English for now on😂.

I ain’t gonna lie y’all this chapter is more like an appetizer instead of a meal.Stay tuned for part 7,tho💖💖💖

⬇️Also,this how our baby,was looking in that Kitchen😭and RIP SKITTLES you didn’t stand a chance😔😔😔

[avocado-writing]

Kinktober #28

28. Fucking Machine // Phone Sex // Impact Play (Wade Wilson x Reader)

“How’s it going?”

“Boring,” sighs Wade, his voice crackly on the other end of the line. “You’d think the people I’m waiting for would have the good grace to appear after like, ten minutes. I’m freezing my nuts off up here.”

Yeah, you don’t envy him for having to be on stakeout tonight. At least he was allowed to take his phone so he could have something to do. He didn’t need his mouth to watch somewhere, he reasoned, meaning he had time to talk to you too. 

You have him on loudspeaker as you cook, preparing macaroni - simple but a favourite in your little household. Wade hums at the sound of you stirring cheese through pasta.

“Wow, pookie, didn’t realise just talking to me made you that wet… man, if I ever went on public radio I’d ruin panties all over the state…”

“I’m making dinner, you goofball.”

“Likely story.” A beat. “Hey, what are you wearing?”

“What do you think I’m wearing, Wade? You saw me this morning.”

“Sure, but I want you to describe it to me.”

You laugh as you top bechamel sauce with breadcrumbs. “I’m wearing those jeans that make my ass look great and one of your shirts. The one which says ‘I love my slut dad’.”

He laughs at his own taste in casual wear and you can’t help but feel oddly sentimental towards him.

“And your panties?��

“From a bulk five-pack I got from Walmart. Not sexy, I’m afraid, baby.”

“They’re sexy if you’re in them.”

“Well that’s very sweet.”

“Do you wish I was there? Give me something, pookie, I’m dying here.”

Macaroni in the oven, you set the timer for twenty minutes and chuckle.

“I do wish you were here, Wade. I wish I was bouncing on your cock instead of watching Hawaii 5-0 all night, is that what you wanna hear?”

From the breath he takes in, yeah, it is. You laugh again. 

“Wow, you’re that horny, huh?”

“Well I’m sat on a rooftop with nothing else to entertain me but my imagination! So yeah, it turned dirty pretty fast. If you were here I could bend you over the balcony and fuck you while still being on lookout… but you’re not. The universe conspires against me, god’s bravest warrior.”

You pause for a moment, considering. When you talk again your voice is lower. Sultry. 

“You hard in your suit, baby?”

“Oh fuck.” You can picture his face lighting up. “You know I am. Fuck. Been hard most of the goddamn day.”

“You can touch yourself. Nobody can see you, right?”

You hear the sound of hands moving on spandex, then the unmistakable slap of skin on skin from the other side of the phone line as he starts to fuck his own hand. 

“Spit on it for me, Wade.”

“Holy fuck, babe…”

“You gonna behave?”

From the other end of the phone you’re able to pick up the welling of saliva in his mouth, and can imagine the way he spits a globule of it onto his cockhead.

“Good boy,” you whisper and Wade makes a strangled noise.

“Oh shit… baby you’re gonna make me cum so hard I’m gonna be ejected off this goddamn roof… they’re gonna find me splattered over the pavement in a mix of blood and cum…”

“Hmm. I’m willing to take my chances.” You slip your hand between your legs and give an exaggerated moan. 

“Holy shit Wade, I wish you were here. Keep me busy while the macaroni is cooking. Or maybe I could just cockwarm you for a little while, hm? Feel you struggling under me…”

“Y-you already did that on day eight…”

The desperation in his voice suggests he won’t last much longer. You grin to yourself.

“We could even ask if Logan wants to watch.”

Wade comes with a whimper. You know it, it’s a whimper he only emits when he’s so horny he’s physically incapable of making any other noise. You let him ride out his orgasm for a moment before asking: 

“So, did you splatter on the pavement?”

“No, but my suit is now covered in jizz, which is arguably worse.”

“Arguably…” you snort affectionately. “Do you feel better now?”

“Well, for like, ten minutes. I’ll call you back? I’ve got a uh, sticky situation to clean up.”

“Sure baby. Have fun.”

“How can I not have fun, cleaning up my own ejac—”

You hit the hang up button before he can finish. But it’s with fondness.

[xiaq]

Part 1 Here

Prompts combined for Pt. 2 are : Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an idiot (affectionate), Wayne Finds Out, and Everyone is Queer Because I Said So.

Wayne Munson knows he’s not the best parental figure. He never liked kids. Never wanted kids. And he nearly said no when the social worker called asking if he wanted to take guardianship of his thirteen-year-old nephew. Because surely there was someone better suited. Except then the social worker told him why Eddie had been removed from his father’s care. About the magazines Eddie’s father had found in Eddie’s backpack that preceded him kicking Eddie out. About the fights Eddie had been getting into at school. About the song lyrics his temporary foster had found in his journal. And suddenly Wayne wasn’t so sure there was a better option. He knew there had to be people more equipped to raise a traumatized queer teenager, but there was no guarantee Eddie would end up with one of them. The opposite was far more likely. Wayne knew firsthand that much of the world was unkind to people like them.

In the years that follow, they don’t talk about it. He figured once he’d won the kid’s trust, Eddie would bring it up in his own time. Or maybe Eddie would ask why Wayne spends a weekend in Indy once a month or maybe ask who he’s spending the weekends with. But somehow those conversations never happen and Wayne doesn’t force them. 

It’s not until he finds Steve Fucking Harrington keeping vigil at Eddie’s hospital bedside that he thinks maybe he should have pushed the issue sooner. 

Because Harrington looks like he’s been through a war. He’s covered in blood and grime; only his arms, washed to his elbows where he’s holding Eddie’s hand, are clean. He’s looking at Eddie with naked emotion. And, perhaps most damning, he’s wearing Eddie’s battle jacket.

When Wayne enters the room, Harrington startles and says, “Hi. I’m Steve Harrington,” like Wayne and everyone else in Hawkins weren’t already aware of that.

“I know who you are. I know who your father is, too.”

“I’d uh, prefer you didn’t hold that against me.”

Wayne makes no promises. “How do you know Eddie?”

“We’re…friends,” Steve says. There’s a continent of things unsaid behind the word.

“And how are you in his room past visiting hours?”

“I bribed the nurse," he admits. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

“Well. On that, we’re agreed. But I’m here now. And no offense, kid, but you look like you should be in one of these beds yourself.”

“Yeah. I told them once you got here I’d let them stitch me up. It’s not anything life-threatening.” He says this with the resigned intonation of someone who is familiar with the difference.

What the fuck has Eddie gotten himself involved in?

Harrington stands. It’s a slow, painful, movement, and he only lets go of Eddie’s hand at the last possible second. “Can I—I’d like to come back. After. If you don’t mind.”

Wayne considers him. He considers Eddie’s blood-smeared vest on the kid’s shoulders. He realizes, belatedly, that Eddie’s guitar pick necklace is hanging around Harrington’s bruised throat, the rings usually crammed onto Eddie’s fingers lined up on either side of the pick.

“Sure,” he says. “Be nice to have some company. And you can tell me what the hell happened.”

Harington sighs. “Not sure how much I’m allowed to tell. Or how much you’ll believe. But I can try.”

Wayne takes his place holding Eddie’s hand.

He tries to ignore the fact that Harrington stands in the doorway for more than a minute, just looking, before finally slipping into the hall.

He’s back a few hours later, clearly showered, wrapped in gauze, and wearing the preppiest goddamn outfit. Honestly, Wayne can’t fathom how Eddie and Harrington have anything in common. He’s also still wearing the necklace, though. And when he pulls up a chair to sit on the opposite side of Eddie’s bed, he removes the necklace and carefully, downright tenderly, returns the rings to Eddie’s fingers. Wayne notices, almost despite himself, that Harrington isn’t just guessing at the placement, either. He knows. So either he’s intimately familiar with Eddie’s fingers––something that, as impossible as it sounds, is starting to seem more and more likely––or he’s particularly observant. And that kind of observance speaks to its own sort of devotion. 

Wayne isn’t excited about either of these options.

He’s trying to figure out how to ask if Steve Fucking Harrington is Eddie’s boyfriend without scaring him away when Eddie shifts, which has Wayne and Steve both jumping to their feet.

“Wayne?” he murmurs. And Wayne isn’t one for emotional displays but he finds himself participating in one for the next few minutes nonetheless.

Once he gets ahold of himself, Eddie’s head turns, slow with painkillers, to see Harrington.

“Stevie,” he says, grinning. “Hey. I’m not dead.”

“Despite your best efforts,” Steve chokes out. His hands are fisted under his armpits and he looks about five seconds away from crying. Not that Wayne can judge since he’s more than five seconds into crying.

“What did I tell you, what did you promise?” Harrington snarls.

Eddie’s grin dims. “Not to be a hero. But Dustin––shit. Dustin. Is he...”

“Fine. Sprained ankle. Pissed as hell at you. Everyone else is fine too. Max is down the hall. She has some broken bones but she’ll be alright.”

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs. “How did I—“

“We went back for you.”

“We?”

“I,” Harrington grits out. “I went back for you. Thought you were dead. Carried you back anyway. Didn’t realize you were still breathing until we got you in the car. Drove like hell to the hospital.”

And that’s. Well, shit. Apparently, Wayne is going to need to temper his distrust of this particular Harrington. Because it sounds like he saved Eddie’s goddamn life.

“He also refused treatment and waited with you until I got here,” Wayne feels he has to add. “Despite the fact he was bleeding everywhere.”

Eddie glances between them, eyes huge. “Shit. I’m sorry. Hey, no, don’t––”

Steve is crying now, not even trying to hide it, and Eddie holds out a hand, wincing. “Come here, man, I’m fine. Or I’ll probably be fine, right?”

“So says the doctor,” Wayne agrees. 

Steve doesn’t need a second invitation.

He all but collapses, carefully, into Eddie’s outstretched arms, and Eddie’s hands bunch into the fabric of Steve’s sweatshirt and he crams his face into Steve’s neck and they’re so––their obvious, desperate, affection for each other is so unapologetic that Wayne has to look away.

 It’s not until later, when they’ve hashed out the basics of the insane upside-down phenomenon, that they finally convince Steve to go home and sleep.

He waits ten seconds after the door has closed to exhale, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“Jesus, kid. I knew you had expensive taste with cigarettes and guitars but this? He’s the closest thing to royalty this town has.”

Eddie lets out a hysterical little warble of a laugh. “No. No, no. That’s not—we’re not.”

“What the hell are you then?”

“Friends. Bonded through extreme trauma.”

“But you’d like to be more than friends.”

Eddie looks at him askance “I’ll take what I can get and I won’t ask for more,” he says quietly.

Unfortunately, Wayne is well familiar with that kind of love. He just can’t get Steve’s expression out of his head. The gentle way he’d replaced Eddie’s rings. He doesn’t think Eddie’s interest is as one-sided as Eddie does. But he doesn’t want to meddle. He’s certain they’ll figure themselves out.

Two months later, Wayne is starting to think they’re both idiots. Because half the time when he gets home from his evening bar shift––a new job after the plant disappeared into the fiery abyss––Steve’s BMW is parked down the street and when he cracks Eddie’s bedroom door he finds them cuddled up, asleep. Sometimes he’ll go to rent a movie and Steve will be wearing a shirt that Wayne knows is Eddie’s and half the time when he wakes Eddie up in the mornings he’s wearing a pastel sweater monogrammed with initials that don’t belong to Eddie. He’d think they’re together and keeping it quiet if not for the fact that Eddie is driving him absolutely insane with pining. He’s written three songs about longing and heartbreak in the last two weeks and if Wayne has to listen to one more wailing ballad he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

He’s walking back from the bar after closing, only a mile from the new fancy trailer the government had installed for them when he passes Harrington’s conspicuous vehicle a few houses down. He sighs. The boy really has no sense of subtly. 

He’s expecting to find them, as usual, asleep in a tangle of limbs, except when he reaches the porch stairs, he can hear the boys talking.

He pauses with his hand on the railing.

“What are you doing,” Eddie murmurs, voice just carrying from the open living room window.

“Well. I’d like to kiss you, if you’d let me.”

About damn time, Wayne thinks.

“Steve, wait,” Eddie says. And it’s so quiet, so uncertain, that Wayne is tempted to open the door right then if only to prevent Ed from sounding so broken.

“I can’t be a practice run for you,” Eddie says, “Please. I can’t. I wouldn’t survive that.”

“A––what the fuck, Eddie.”

“It’s just, I know this is new to you and I’m, obviously, all about exploration and, um, finding yourself. Congratulations. Yay. But I can’t be an experiment. Not with you. I can’t.”

“You’re not an experiment,” Harrington says, voice a little louder than Wayne would prefer, given the circumstances. The trailer park isn’t exactly spacious. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. I want to kiss you because I’m in love with you, how could you think—besides. This isn’t that new. I’ve kissed other guys.”

“You’ve what? Who? When?”

“Just. You know. Friends messing around. I didn’t know that made me bisexual until I talked about it with Robin but apparently, I’ve been kinda gay this whole time.”

“I’m sorry. You thought making out with your basketball buddies was…a standard heterosexual pastime?”

“Well, when you say it like that.”

“What other way is there to say it?”

“Okay,” Steve says, “I already had this conversation with Robin this morning. I don’t need to rehash it again. So I’m a little bit of an idiot. Memo received.”

“Jesus, Harrington. You just found out bisexuality was a thing this morning and now you’re here, what, asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“I mean, yeah. Ideally.”

“You don’t do anything by halves, do you.” Eddie sounds disgustingly fond.

“Eddie. I just said I love you.”

“You did,” Eddie says, high and cracked. “You did say that.”

“So if we could refocus.”

“Right.”

“I don’t expect you to say it back, but––”

“God, you really are an idiot. Of course I fucking love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then that’s––well, that’s probably his nephew getting his first kiss from Steve Fucking Harrington.

Wayne decides to give them to a count of thirty before interrupting, but just as he’s about to stomp his way up the stairs, Eddie says, “Sorry, sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

“Hey, no. It’s ok. Neither have I, really. But you’re crazy if you think I’m going to fuck you right now,” Steve says.

“I meant kissing. Hold on, does that mean you would be willing to fuck me later?”

Wayne winces. There are things he does not need to hear come out of his nephew’s mouth.

“Wait,” Steve interrupts, “You’ve never been kissed before? How is that possible?”

“Who would have kissed me?” Eddie hisses, “ I’m the town pariah. And until I met Robin I didn’t know any other queer people existed in Hawkins. Though apparently, I should have just joined the basketball team since you’re having orgies or whatever.”

“The first two were on the swim team,” Steve says. 

“First two. How many were there?”

Steve ignores him. “And that wasn’t––you’re so hot, though. And your band has played in bigger cities. Haven’t you ever gone up to Indy to any of the bars there?”

“I need you to understand,” Eddie says, “that I am 90% bravado and 100% anxiety.”

“That’s not how percentages work.”

“Steve.”

“Sorry. Okay. Well, if this is your first kiss then I better make it good, huh?”

“Yes. That is absolutely the burden placed upon your capable shoulders should you choose to––oh.”

Eddie stops talking and doesn’t start again, though he does make a breathy little noise that Wayne takes as his cue.

He stomps up the stairs as loudly as possible, fumbling longer than necessary with the door handle, and pushes his way inside.

The boys are both shirtless, clearly in the process of shoving themselves away from each other. Eddie’s face is pink and his lips are kiss-swollen and Harrington’s back has a set of welted scratches on it that Wayne imagines are a perfect match for Eddie’s fingers.

“Well, shit,” Wayne says. He definitely should have opened the door sooner.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Eddie says.

“What the fuck else what it be?” Steve says, only sounding a little hysterical.

Except then the kid is pushing Eddie behind him and squaring up to Wayne with his jaw clenched and his head high, the discolored ring around his neck, still not yet healed, the scars down his belly, on display. Wayne is well-acquainted with the nuance of a man posturing versus a man who would gladly throw himself into a fight, even one he’s not certain he’d win. Steve Harrington is indisputably the latter.

Wayne can’t decide if he’s offended or endeared.

“Stand down, kid, I’m not going to hurt him.”

“I wouldn’t let you.” 

“That is…extremely apparent.”

“Steve,” Eddie says. “It’s ok. He knows. Or. We’ve never really talked about it but.” He meets Wayne’s eyes. “He knows. It’s ok.”

Eddie pushes around him, stepping into Wayne’s open arms.

Steve watches distrustfully as Wayne wraps Eddie in a hug.

“You’re both safe here,” he says. Mostly to Steve, since he’s the one who needs to hear it. “And I’ll call up my boyfriend in Indy and have him vouch for me if you don’t believe me.”

Harrington’s expression is just as magnificent as Wayne hoped it would be.

“Your what?” Eddie shrieks.

Part 3 Here.

On AO3 Here.

Tempted to do one more from one of the kid's POVs when the kids find out. Thoughts?

[whatsnewalycat]

what do you need?

Pairing: BratTamer!Joel Miller x Brat!F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: no show spoilers, established relationship, non-canon compliant, post-outbreak, smut, swearing, brat “taming”, D/s dynamic, dirty talk, degradation kink, praise kink, pain kink, impact play, collar wearing, maybe might have taken a snippet of dialogue from how the world works by bo burnh@m for horny reasons, unprotected piv sex, crying, shower, overstimulation, choking, spitting in mouth, fluff

A/N: I feel like this story is going to be presented as evidence when I'm rejected from the pearly gates post-mortem. Happy birthday to Joel Miller, sorry your birthday was a huge bummer that one time. Big big smoochies to @frannyzooey for helping me with several things and just generally being awesome.

[ my masterlist ] [ taglist ] [ AO3 ]

You’re having one of those days. 

You know. 

The kind of day where everything you come into contact with barbs into your flesh and tugs at your nerves. 

Noises out on the street too loud, cupboards too empty, coffee too weak, counters too cluttered, shower too cold, clothing too tight—fuck, even your skin feels too fucking tight. 

Overstimulated. 

Exhausted. 

Restless. 

You’ve given pieces of yourself out hand over foot, and now you’re at a deficit and the world around you is still hungry, even though you’ve been picked to bare bones. Everything is too much and too little all at the same time. 

The toddler that lives in the apartment above yours is throwing a temper tantrum. The kid’s defiant screeching rubs against your brain like fiberglass until all four walls of your living room feel like they’re closing in around you, squeezing you out like a tube of toothpaste, suffocating you. 

And you’re thinking: If I don’t release some of this pressure I might go all fucking Hindenburg and explode. 

The apartment door swings open, and Joel walks in, his broad shoulders all slumped like he’s carrying the goddamn weight of the word. He glances over at you as he slides the chain lock closed, “Hey, darlin’.”

You look up from your place on the couch, where you’re hunched over crossed legs, elbows digging into your thighs. All sharp angles and tense muscles. Without responding, you return your attention to the glass of moonshine dangling from your grip. Swirl it around a little. Take a big swallow and try not to wince as it burns down to your belly. 

Joel stands there for a beat, watching you, waiting for your manners to kick in. When they don’t, he huffs and stomps into the kitchen. Cupboard doors slam and glass clinks as he searches for a clean cup, then pours himself a drink. 

And, christ, he’s so fucking loud. 

Every noise he makes is an exclamation mark. A shard of glass pressing into your eardrum. A sliver wedging further and further under your fingernail. 

He walks over, eyes glued to you, each heavy footfall a stubborn grain of sand that won’t leave that space between your toes no matter how much you wiggle them. 

By the time his weight shifts the couch cushions and sets you off balance, tilting in his direction, you know what you need. 

You need to get under his skin like he’s under yours. To push him until his edges are hardened and sharp to the touch. You need him to pry open the emergency hatch and empty your mind. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Your nostrils flare. You bring the cup to your lips and take another big, burning swig of bootleg liquor, then say, “Nothing.” 

“Nothin’,” he repeats, his voice low and disbelieving, “Now, why don’t I believe that?” 

You sit up and glare at him, meeting his dark eyes, all shadowed by his drooping brow as he tilts his blank stare at you. 

Excitement flickers inside you. You tilt your head right back and drop your voice, mocking him, “Reckon it’s ‘cuz I got a fucken attitude.” 

His jaw tightens, mouth flattening into a straight line as he narrows his eyes at you, “You gonna talk about what’s got your panties all in a twist, or just be a nuisance about it?” 

You bat your eyelashes at him and shrug. 

“I see,” he searches your face, turning his wrist in slow circles, moonshine sloshing around in his cup, “You know, if you need me to do somethin’ for you, or… to you, all you have to do is ask. You don’ need to do this whole thing.”

“What thing?” you blink. Play dumb. 

His eyes roll a little as he brings the glass to his lips and tips it back. Taking its contents all in one swallow, he slams the glass down on the end table with a thunk. Shaking his head, he looks at you, “Are you fuckin’ done?” 

You smirk at him, dragging your eyes up and down his body. He’s studying you with this stern stare, teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaw twitching like little warning signals: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. 

A warm fluttering starts at your center. Setting your glass down, you crawl onto his lap. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything but watch your face as you drag your fingernail along the tightened line of his jaw. 

Threading your brows together, you coo, “You’re just so cute when you’re angry.” 

“That’s enough,” he grabs your hand and squeezes it hard enough to make you gasp with delight, then says, “Open your mouth.” 

“Make me.” 

It happens so fast. 

One hand on your forehead, the other gripping your jaw, yanking your mouth open. 

“Stick your fuckin’ tongue out.” 

You do. 

You hear it first. The squelch of him gathering moisture. He spits onto your tongue, his saliva moonshine flavored and melting into yours. He does it again, then groans as he rubs it into your tastebuds, the rough pad of his thumb scraping against the tender muscle. 

“So, what, you had a shitty day, now you’re actin’ out? Tryin’ to get me all worked up so I punish you?” 

The words are all hoarse and heated against your cheek. His cock twitches beneath you and you grind into him, tongue still stretched out. 

He spits on it again. 

“Is this what you wanted, you little shit? Hmm?” he tugs on your chin, “Do you like it when I spit in your fuckin’ mouth?” 

“I like it,” you tell him, nodding, placing your palm on his chest. 

His throat rumbles like he’s pleased. He loosens his grip, then brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, glancing down at your mouth, “Do you want more?” 

“Yes—yes, please.”

“Much better,” he purrs, “Open.” 

You open your mouth wide and stick out your tongue. Another hot wad of spit plops down on it, moonshine flavored, Joel flavored, and you moan.

He cups your cheek and murmurs, “See? You can be a good girl. Can’t you?” 

Sparks sizzle up your back bone. You nod and bat your eyelashes at him, closing your mouth and swallowing his spit, sliding your hand through the soft patches of gray in his beard. 

His throat rumbles. Dark gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, ”Now, tell me, darlin’, what do you need?” 

The question trickles down the middle of you and twists into a stubborn knot. Your heart flutters when your lips part, but courage dies in your chest. 

You shake your head and mutter, mostly to yourself, “It’s stupid.”

His brow furrows just slightly. 

Heat blooms in your chest and on your face. Nervous energy makes your throat bob and your tongue go numb, and you shake your head, “Sorry.” 

He fully frowns now, searching your face, “Sorry? What for?”

You shake your head again, dropping your gaze, and clamp your mouth shut. 

Joel releases a big sigh, curling your body into his, and kisses your forehead. He murmurs against your skin, “Do you trust me?” 

“With my life.” 

He lets you sit in the wake of your own answer. The weight of his expectant silence wriggles under your skin and makes you squirm. You cast your gaze downward and shrug, “I don’t know.” 

He’s quiet.

When you glance back up at him, his expression has softened into one that makes your heart ache. It’s almost doleful, the way he looks at you. 

“I don’t know how to explain it, I feel,” you intertwine your fingers with his, “Empty here,” you pull the clasped hands to your chest, “But full… in-in my head. Everything feels like too much—I don’t know, Joel.”

The tears that prick your eyes take you by surprise. Usually you keep these pesky blue feelings to yourself, so as not to burden him. You should be used to this world by now. Your skin should be thicker. 

You feel weak. 

Pathetic. 

Shame rips through you. More tears erupt from deep within your chest and stream down your cheeks, burning the whole way. A rush of adrenaline pumps through your body. It tinges your blood cold and makes you panic. 

You let go of his hand and bring your knees to your chest, burying your face between them, blubbering, “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, don’t,” he sighs, not quite sure what to do with this, and slides his warm palm up and down the curve of your back, “It’s—it’s ok.” 

All you can do is shake your head. It’s not ok. He doesn’t want someone like this. A crying, sputtering mess. Someone who gets upset because, what, noises seem too loud? 

“Look at me, babygirl.”

You can’t help the whimper that bubbles up your throat. He only uses the term of endearment during rare, tender moments. When he needs you to know, really know, that above the games and the rules and the agreements behind the locked door of this apartment… he cares for you.

You sniffle and wipe your tears on the stiff denim of your work pants, then peak up at him. 

He searches your face, and says, “Let me take care of you.” 

Your eyebrows thread together and your lips part. He just keeps staring at you like that, so earnest, his eyes fertile earth you could take root in. 

“Ok,” you whisper. 

“Go take a shower. You can be a good girl and do that for me, can’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

You stay there for a moment, eyes locked on his, and ask, “Can I have a kiss?” 

He hums, dropping his gaze to your lips, “How do we ask?” 

Heat coils around you. He studies your movements as you unfold yourself and sit up straight, then climb on top of him, knees framing his hips, “Can I have a kiss… please?” 

His hands land on your waist, “Course you can.” 

You slide your palms up his chest, his neck, to cradle his jaw, then lean in to capture his lips in yours. The kiss is molasses and moonshine. Syrupy and rich. Intoxicating. It warms your insides and leaves you wanting more. 

When he pulls back, he smooths his touch around your backside and gives your ass a firm smack, “Go on now.” 

You try on his Texas accent and tease, “Go on, git,” and start giggling when he blinks at you, then add, “Ok ok I’m going!” 

“You’re lucky you’re cute, y’know that?” he calls after you as you scamper into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. 

You pull back the shower curtain, flip on the hot water, and strip off your clothes. The weak stream splatters hot against your skin when you step inside. For a minute, you just stand there with your eyes closed, relishing the warmth. 

The bathroom door opens, then closes. 

You wash your hair as Joel strips off his clothing into a pile on top of yours. His shadow on the shower curtain grows, then disappears as he pulls it back and steps inside. Your eyes close as you tip your head back into the water stream and massage the conditioner from your hair. 

He plants his palm at the small of your back and brings himself closer. A soapy washcloth meets your bellybutton and moves in circular motions, working up a lather. When he hits a weak spot, and a tickle shoots up your body, you giggle and grab his wrist. 

“You don’t like it?” 

Feeling through your wet hair for any remaining gobs of conditioner, you open your eyes to meet his, grinning, “I do, I’m just ticklish.”

His lips curve into a smirk and he shakes his head as he returns his attention to the task at hand, scrubbing the day’s grime off your body. The hot water works with his meticulous attention to dull the serrated edges under your skin. 

“Turn.” 

You do, taking a backwards step towards him. Your nerves tingle with want, the snarled tips of them all stretching in his direction, untangling to beckon him closer. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and starts on your back. Your shoulders relax under his praise. Under the firm pressure of the washcloth scouring your skin. He draws circles down your spine, around your hip, between your legs, leaving a trail of suds for you to rinse off. 

When he’s finished sudsing and you’re finished rinsing, he says, “Go wait for me in the bedroom,” so you swap places with him and squeeze the excess water from your body and hair. You step out onto the bath mat and wrap a towel around yourself, then tiptoe into the bedroom. 

Across the patchwork quilt, Joel laid out your collar. You dry yourself off and fasten the leather strap around your neck, then wait for him in the middle of the bed with your legs crossed. 

When Joel enters the room, it seems to shrink around him. Every inch of him is gleaming and dewy, his hairline all steely gray and combed back into damp, dark waves. He appraises you while tucking a ratty towel around his waist. You feel your shoulders pull back. Your spine uncurls, pointing straight at the ceiling. 

His eyes flick around the room as he walks to the side of the bed and hooks a finger in the little loop of your collar, tugging you to your knees. You crawl to him, following his firm guidance until you’re eye-to-eye and just an inch or so apart. 

Under the squeaky-clean soap scent lies something so unmistakably Joel. Woodsy and masculine, it cattle-prods your heart. 

“What am I gonna do with you?”

Heat sparks from deep within you and blooms in your guts, your cheeks. You feel yourself arching towards him, leaning closer, trying to taste his breath. 

Some smart-aleck answer parts your lips, but he preemptively interrupts you. 

“Rhetorical question.” 

An amused smile twitches the corners of his mouth. 

His mouth. 

You stare at it, fingertips buzzing with energy, yearning to feel the soft curve of his plush lips.  

“Look at me.”

Your eyes flick to his, smoldering but critical. A wide, calloused palm lands on your waist and slides around to your backside, cupping the heft of your asscheek. You swallow hard. This thick, pulsing ache starts between your legs and makes you whimper. An attestation to your pliancy. 

His throat rumbles and he pulls a sharp breath through his teeth. Joel likes the noise, because he knows what it means. It means you’re putty in his hands. Giving yourself over to him, letting him take control. He digs his fingers into the tender flesh of your ass and smirks when you gasp.

“That’s what you need, hmm?”

You nod, eyebrows drawing together, batting your lashes at him. 

He doesn’t let up. Quite the opposite, actually, he grips you harder, rumbling out, “Jus’ need someone to take care of you? Fuck the angry out of you?”

Again, you nod. 

He tugs on your collar, “Use your words.”

The grasp is bruising and constant and fucking delicious. Dropping your gaze, you  breathe, “Yes si—”

“Look at me.” 

Your cunt clenches around nothing as you comply, meeting his lust-blown eyes. 

“Yes sir.” 

“That’s better.”

Joel releases your ass cheek and tugs at your collar. 

When his lips meet yours with a firm, ravenous kiss, urgency overcomes you. You clamber closer, hooking your hands behind his neck, dragging your nails through his damp curls. Each time the kiss renews, it gains traction, intensity, evident in his nips and groans, and his harsh, wandering touch. Grabbing your ass, your tits, your thighs. Pinching your nipples so hard you gasp and nod. 

He buries his fist in your hair and pulls back, panting, “Turn around ‘n’ bend over.” 

You do, reluctantly parting from his lips to spin 180° and raise your ass in the air, pressing your ear to the mattress. 

“Close your eyes,” he knocks your knees further apart, and when you comply, letting your eyelids flutter closed, he murmurs, “That’s it. Now you’re gonna sit there and take what I give you, hmm?” 

The rough pads of his fingers trail electric up your seam, ghosting along the hungry, aching nerves. You gasp and nod, “Yes sir.” 

His throat rumbles, and his fingertips start to work your throbbing clit in hard-pressed circles. He’s heavy-handed in the way he touches you. It’s not delicate, or teasing, or gentle—it’s fucking perfect. Heat bubbles up your middle and spreads across your skin, pulling a whimper from your throat. 

Joel’s free hand slides up your spine, his palm pressing firm and slow across every vertebrae, coaxing you to stretch your backbone, arching your hips towards him. 

“There we go, that’s my good girl—”

You moan at the rush of pleasure his praise gives you. Your heart starts to thud, heavy and thick in your chest, and his hand between your legs starts to work you faster, jolting your center. 

“Fuck, Joel—”

Another gravelly sound surfaces from his chest. He slaps your ass, hard and firm, and you gasp at the sharp sting. He does it again. The smack rings in your ears and the divine pain it’s coupled with resonates deep in your bones. He does it again and again and again, all the while rubbing your clit in vigorous, tight circles, growling out, “All fuckin’ wound up, acting out, this is what you needed, hmm?”

“Yes yes yes yes—”

The feeling at your center grows and spreads, building building building—then it swallows you whole. Your body convulses with pleasure so acute and overwhelming, you try to pull away from him, to close his hand between your thighs, but he grabs your hip and kneels on your calf, keeping you spread open. 

“Don’t you run away from this,” he barks as you let out a choked sob, “You take this fucking like a good girl, you hear me?”

“It’s—fuck, it’s it’s—”

You want to tell him it’s too much, but the tide of pleasure draws you back with violent force and washes over you again. The noise that comes out of you is guttural, barely human, this half-howl, half-cry. It’s excruciating and overwhelming and so fucking good. 

Joel chuckles, “That’s it, let it go, darlin’.”

You do. A sensation overtakes you, that’s warm and secure. The weight strapped to your shoulders, that skin-too-tight, noises-too-loud sort of feeling melts away and you nod, “Yes, sir.”

He withdraws his hand from between your legs and grabs your waist, bringing your bodies closer. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance and he plunges forward. 

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you gasp as his thick, throbbing length slides into your well-lubricated cunt. 

He splits you open cell-by-cell, his own needy moan mingling with yours, and tells you, “God, your pussy—fuck, that’s good—”

There’s no warm-up period. No sweet, slow strokes, or whispered words of comfort, or gentle anything. Immediately, he’s fucking you hard and fast. You push back against his harsh thrusts, each impact devastating and intoxicating and heady with a feral energy that fills your body with static. 

Joel closes a fist in your hair and yanks, tilting your head to the ceiling, and you let out a long, sick moan that makes him groan with delight. His arm slips around you and pulls your back to his chest. Your head falls back on his shoulder, mouth gaping open to babble out, “So fucking good, fuck fuck fuck—I fucking love it, Joel, holy fuck—”

His big hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, restricting your airflow, and you let out wheezing, gasping breathes as he grunts in your ear, “Yeah you fucking do. Pussy jus’ needs a good pounding, that it? My little slut just needs to get fucked, hmm?”

You whimper and nod, as much as his grip will allow. His fingers crush your pulse, leaving you light-headed. The scraps of breath you manage to take in carry the sharp, tangy scent of sex. You revel in the feeling of him filling you over and over, each roll of his hips collects electric at your core, gaining traction and energy. 

When you look up at him and meet the corner of his dark, lust-blown eyes, he releases his grip on your throat and pulls you into a heated kiss. Both of you start to take in short, frantic breaths, passing soft moans back and forth. That gooey static in your middle grows and grows. Your limbs start to quiver and you cry, “Oh my fucking god, Joel—you’re gonna make me come—”

“That’s it, babygirl, let it go.”

You do. 

You let it consume you, a bright, blissful warmth that pulses through every inch of your body. Joel moans as your cunt clenches down around him, then pulls out in time to shoot his load onto the bedspread. 

For a moment, the only things in existence are the two of you. His ragged breath in your ear, your heaving chests and empty minds. 

He departs your body and stretches out on the bed with a groan. You only feel his absence for a second before he hooks his finger into your collar’s loop to pull you closer, “C’mere.”

An obedient creature, for the time being at least, you follow the suggestion and curl up at his side. You smooth your palm up his heated chest, all dewy with sweat, and admire his broad frame. His distinguished features. While surveying the map of scars and wrinkles and grays on his rugged exterior, your gaze meets his, and you find a remarkable softness there. 

He seems to study you with the same sort of reverence as you do him. 

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” 

It makes you smile, which, in turn, makes him smile. A gorgeous and rare spectacle. The expression carves out a dimple in his cheek and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

You scoot closer and kiss him, your lips soft, gentle. He kisses you back in a similar manner, slow and sweet, twisting your brain in a big, beautiful kaleidoscope of emotions. 

The intimidation you felt when you met him, still hot-to-the-touch after all these years, tumbling around with tiny glimmering glass bits of desire and apprehension and pride and excitement and awe and dread and security. 

And love. 

Of course love, even though neither of you dare look at it directly. Only suckers allow such a thing to exist in this world. But it’s there, nonetheless. Weaving its way through each fragmented shard, pulling it all together. 

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Cherry Pie Kiss

Slice Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: Out on the hunt, out of state and out of options; with your life on the line, Dean makes a call you're not happy with. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, he brings a peace offering.

Haven't read Part One? - Catch up here.

Words: ~3.5k

A/N: This is part 2 of 3 of what started as a short one shot, but someone asked for another slice of pie so I'm here to deliver. There isn't any smut in this part (its all going to be in part 3 😂) but there are graphic depictions of gore, violence and death which is why I ask minors not to read or interact. Reader is female but generic, and obviously has feelings but is kind of stuck in this hate to love him type thing which carries on from part 1. I hope you enjoy the read and are ready for the goonfest and gratuitous smut coming in part 3.

Warnings: gore, death and gruesome depictions of canon-type violence, profanity as standard for my work, bit of angst, bit of fluff right at the end.

***Minor do not read or interact***

Dean Winchester.  You hate him.  His saviour complex, his unwavering strength, the way he’s so damn selfish though not in the ways that count… But boy, can he wear a pair of jeans.  Phew-ee!

You hate that you can’t stop looking at him, leaning on the jukebox of the bar you’re in, feeding it quarters in exchange for some feel-good tunes.  Ugh!  Asshole!

Tonight had been a tough night.  Even Sam was feeling the burn.  Out on the hunt, out of state and out of options, the three of you had played a Hail Mary and it had paid off.  Those damn vamps had just kept on coming.  Sam was down and you were in a bad way with what felt like a hoard of those fuckers piling into the abandoned factory to make a meal out of you all.  Starting out, you had all been so sure that you had this little group in the bag but, as per usual with these goddamn things, the plan didn’t pan out.

Dean had dragged you and a semi-conscious Sam into a tight space between the machines.  One way in, one way out.  You were both toast if you were found and of course you would be found; the vamps had your scent.

Groggily, you watched dean uncoil something from his pocket and string it across the opening at about neck height.

“Guitar string.”  He winked at you as if this idea was the best idea he had ever had and should have been plan A from the start.

“We’re fucking bait?”  You hissed furiously.  No, surely not?  Dean would never use his brother as bait.  Would he?  “Goddamn asshole!”  You snarled with as much vitriol you could muster between your gasping breaths and painful ribs.

He just gave you that weary look he had been wearing for the past hour and shrugged his shoulders before pulling out his machete and hiding himself out of sight.  “Get ready.”

You brandished your blade and hauled yourself to your feet, ready to fight.  There was no point wasting any more breath insulting him.  If you got out of this alive, you would have plenty of opportunity to call him all the names under the sun.  IF you got out alive.

The first vamps that found you came rushing in, right down the tight alley framed by the large machinery and with a sharp twang, Dean’s trap garrotted them straight through, taking their heads clean off.  Of the next three, the wire took the first two but the third approached cautiously despite you calling him to come get you.

Dean ran out from his hiding place and attacked the vamp from behind, slashing at the guy’s thick neck twice in order to cut all the way through.  As the body fell you saw why the vamp had stopped – the trap had remnants of flesh and blood along it from its previous victims making it easier to see.  You wiped your sleeve along it to clean the bits of hanging flesh off making it almost invisible again. Dean gave you an impressed nod.

Another two vamps fell to the wire but the last one got snagged as she fell, snapping it and making it useless.  Well, it was a good idea while it lasted, you thought.

It took you two a little while longer to attract the remaining few vamps who obviously knew something was up.  Sam was in no fit state, still groaning on the ground.  You were weak and in a lot of pain but you kept swinging your blade, struggling to breathe let alone stand.

The fight had been brutal and both you and Dean were covered in blood by the time it was over.  You were on your knees, slumped over a vamp you had had to hack into to remove the head, your blade surely blunt by now.  You were ready to close your eyes and give up when Dean pulled you to your feet.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly, “up and at’em.”  Helping you out over the pile of decapitated bodies, he hauled a now mostly conscious Sam through the mess.

You had made it to the Impala and, for once, Dean hadn’t grumbled about getting blood on Baby’s seats but throwing a couple blankets down instead.  Sam slumped in the front while you crawled in the back, weary and sore.  Your eyes met Dean’s in the rearview mirror but yours flicked away immediately, unable to look at him without getting angry.  When you looked back so did he, like he knew you’d be looking, and held on, asking if you were okay without actually asking.  If he really cared he wouldn’t have used you as bait.

You let your head fall back onto the seat and closed your eyes frustrated by his dichotomy.

After a while on the road, Dean turned the radio on, breaking the silence which opened the door for you to say what was on your mind.  Sam hadn’t been bothered one bit by the fact that Dean had used you both as bait, but you were furious.

“It worked, didn’t it?”  Dean snapped, frustrated by your anger.

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and a whole long list of other people.  Aint nothin’ new.”

Around five miles out of Crocker, Missouri, Dean pulled into a truck stop complex which had a convenience store, gas station, diner, a small motel and a dive bar.  The dawn was still hours away and the need for a couple of hours sleep in a comfortable bed was showing on all three of you.  Sam was the cleanest so he made the arrangements; two rooms because there was no way you were sharing a room with that asshole after what he did.  You were just as likely to fuck him out of anger as fight him at that point.

You used the showers in the truck stop to clean off all the blood and get into some clean clothes, relishing in the feel of the warm water and decent water pressure.  You felt a slight pang of guilt that someone would likely be picking vamp chunks out of the drain in the next couple of days but it passed quickly, it probably wasn’t the worst thing these truck stop attendants had seen over the years.

Refreshed by the shower and a take-out burger from the diner, you decided you needed a drink or five, which sounded good to Sam and Dean – you all deserved it.

So, here you are, several drinks in, pounding another tequila shot, trying not to stare at Dean Winchester’s ass while Sam bids you goodnight and takes himself off to one of the two rooms you had paid for at the run-down motel on site.

It seems as if you’re not the only one with an eye for a firm ass in tight Wranglers; a scantily clad barfly sidles up to Dean and strokes her hand down his back as he plugs his final song into the jukebox.  When her hand reaches that ass of his, he straightens and turns, grinning at her with that look you know means he’s going to ride her all the way to dawn.

You can’t watch this.  You don’t have the stomach for it, not tonight.  You pound your remaining two shots and eat the lime slice, peel and all.  Then you’re up off your stool and pushing past Dean and his lady friend, and out into the night where the air cools your heated skin but not your confusing emotions.

In the second of the two rooms, you look at your bruised face and neck in the mirror.  No wonder he didn’t look twice at you, you’re a mess.  It shouldn’t pain you like it does to think of him with another woman.  He asked once and you said no, so that is the end of that.  Plus, you hate him, can’t forget that.  Still, it gives you some small satisfaction that he now has no empty room to take his new friend to so he’ll have to bang her in Baby, on the bloody blankets.  With a spiteful smirk you flop on the bed and fall into a light disturbed sleep.

A loud knock on the door wakes you up with a start.  At first you don’t know where you are.  So used to your room in the bunker, you had almost forgotten what it feels like to sleep that first night in a new place, never truly resting for fear of attack.  It’s only an hour or so since you left the bar and you’re groggy from the tequila and from the waking.

You don’t turn on the lights when you go to the peephole, looking out with your pistol muzzle pushed up against the flimsy wood door.  Dean sways on the other side, his head turned as though he’s listening.

“Sam’s in the other room,” you call, clicking the safety back onto your pistol.

“I know,” he grumbles, “open up.  I got something.”

“It can wait until the morning.”

“Can’t wait,” it sounds muffled, “owwww!” he hisses.

“What the hell,” you sigh, sliding the chain and turning the handle.

Dean stumbles in with his mouth shaped like an “O” as he slides two bowls onto the unit next to the TV, shaking his hands afterwards as if burned.  You close the door and engage the chain out of habit.

“Got you something.”  He grins goofily, obviously much more drunk than you had left him in the bar, and you wonder what happened to the barfly.  Surely the womanizing Dean Winchester hadn’t banged and dropped her in that short a time?

“It’s two in the morning, Dean.”  You wipe a hand down your tired face, lifting your eyes again to see him handing you one of the bowls from the diner.

“Peace offering.”  He says with a smile as he pushes the hot ceramic into your hands, his eyes glistening with mirth and the effects of all the whiskey he shot back earlier.

You look at what he brought you and your heart almost stops.  It’s a steaming hot piece of cherry pie, drizzled in a large puddle of vanilla custard just the way you like it.  You look at his, with his tiny dollop of cream just the way he likes it, and you can’t help but smile.

“Why?”  You ask as you sit on the edge of the bed with him in the chair by the TV, the bowl in your hand, spoon loaded with goodness.

He finishes chewing a piece of the hot pie, sucking in air to cool it in his mouth before he replies.  “I know you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you admit too quickly but the words are out now whether he believes them or not.

“And I know it’s my fault,” he looks at you with those eyes, “I shouldn’t have made things awkward from day one.  So, I’m sorry about that.”

“Thank you.”  You never thought you would ever hear Dean Winchester apologise, or what you would say in return.

“I didn’t know how to take the rejection,” he sighed heavily, “especially not from someone I have this amazing chemistry with, y’know?  But that’s on me.”

What great chemistry did Dean think he had with you?  All the years you had known him, you’d harboured a bit of a crush on him but he always acted like you were one of the guys.  When you two crossed paths it had felt effortless to slip into the old camaraderie but he treated you like a sister, a fellow hunter, until you had shown up on his radar this time covered in blood and all kinds of messed up and he’d gotten all pissed and… ohhhh.

“You were right all those years ago when you said hunters shouldn’t get close,” he continues, “I should’ve listened and never asked that question.”

You remember the conversation clearly.  It was something you had said because you thought it was what he wanted to hear from you.  Younger and more naïve, you had thought that what he wanted was for you to be like one of the guys so you had said the words and hoped that you could remain where you were with him, always close but never at risk of blowing everything.  Over time you had begun to regret that decision, and as soon as he started acting like an asshole it had been easy to trade the feelings you had for ones of resentment.

“I wish I never said it.  I didn’t realise what I would be losing when I asked.”   He looks at you again, beseechingly.  “Do you think we can start again?  Be friends like before?”

You think about it for a moment but the more you think the surer you are that you can’t go back.  You can’t know these things and have these experiences and go back to the beginning.

“No, Dean, I don’t think we can.”  Your words are soft but the devastation in his eyes is sharp and painful.

You stand, placing your untouched bowl on the bedside table, and walk towards him.  His bowl is empty now, but there’s a little piece of pie left on his spoon when you take it from him.  He’s confused but follows your every movement with a mixture of sadness and reverence.

The pie is sweet on your tongue and the way his eyebrows raise when your lips close around the spoon brings a cheeky glint to your eyes.  You sit on his knee, wrapping one arm around his shoulders while the other pulls the now clean spoon past your lips.  You swallow with a sigh.  His hands go to your hip and thigh to steady you as he looks up at you.

You dip your head slowly and he tilts up to meet you, his eyes flicking between yours and your mouth.  He tastes sweet just like you do when you lay your lips on his, a soft kiss that is both the testing of waters and the soothing of sharp emotions.  He squeezes your thigh tighter for a brief moment and you pull back to see the questioning look on his face.

“But you said…”

You shush him with a finger laid over his lips.  “I know what I said.”

“Then what did you mean?”  He swallows hard, licking his lips nervously afterwards as if you’re about to pull the rug out from under him.

“I wish I’d said yes.”

[undeadorion]

For every post insisting on "clean lines" and "line confidence" and other arbitrary bullshit, my final sketches get featherier and messier.

Unless you're doing animation, put some fucking life in your lines. Use so many lines it looks like chaos. Make a mess. Scribble. Leave little bits behind when you erase. Show that a goddamn human hand made those lines. You are not a machine. You are not required to produce sterile art. You are not required to produce ANYTHING in any way that conforms to what others say you should be making.

[fadedin2u]

pick up and roll the dice - ch. 3

read in between the lines, i know you love me…

summary: you plan a surprise for ellie’s birthday, and ellie’s doesn’t know what to do about her overwhelming feelings for you.

content: college!au, childhood best friends!au, dealer!ellie, fem!reader, modern!au, ellie is a simp (not surprising), ur also a simp, art major!ellie, kinda slow burn??

word count: 2k

warnings: none really for this chapter!! expect nsfw chapters in the future so MDNI 18+

notes: it bums me tf out how little attention ellie fluff gets on tumblr, but i love writing this series, so if u like to read it, like/reblogs are SO appreciated

read chapters one and two here!

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

The day after the party, Ellie’s a wreck. She barely got a wink of sleep that night, unable to stop ruminating on how much she’s fucking up her friendship with you by having this soul-consuming want for you. It’s not like Ellie doesn’t know how bad this could all end. You’re not only her closest friend, one of the few people she actually trusts, but you’re her goddamn roommate. If Ellie fucks this up, there’s no escaping the awkwardness that would inevitably ensue, plus risk losing you completely.

So, she texts Kylie.

E: hey, sorry for going MIA lmao, things got busy, would u wanna grab dinner w me on friday?

Ellie sits down on her bed and rubs her temples. She doesn’t even like Kylie very much, but she’s available, and she’s clearly interested in Ellie, so at the very least Kylie can be a distraction from you.

Ellie feels a black hole of guilt swirling in her stomach from leading Kylie on, but it dissipates as quickly as it came on when you burst through into dorm, kicking off your shoes that you wore to your morning classes. Ellie, usually, is still asleep when you leave for classes, but this morning, she was just lying in bed, completely awake, as she listened to you getting ready, pushing through your hangover.

“Happy 20th Birthday eve!” You exclaim, giving Ellie a bright, cheeky grin.

She rolls her eyes, trying to conceal her smile, “You’re such a fucking dork.

You shrug and laugh, “Hey, it takes one to know one.”

You notice the dark circles under her eyes and frown slightly, “You look like shit.”

Ellie huffs a laugh, “Thanks.”

You sit across from Ellie on your own dorm-style twin bed. “You’re free tomorrow, right?”

Ellie nods, “I’m getting breakfast with Joel that morning, but yeah, I’ll be free after.”

You grin, and mischievous look on your face, “Good.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow, “Should I be worried?”

You shake your head, “Nah, you’ll love it. I just can’t wait to see your reaction. Just make sure you’re here at the dorm by 5pm, okay?”

Ellie puts up her hand, raising two fingers, “Scout’s honor.”

You snort, standing up to walk to the bathroom, “That’d probably mean more if you were actually a Scout.”

Ellie scoffs, “I know way more about survival than any of those dipshits, I’m basically an honorary scout, if you think about it.”

You rolls your eyes and laugh, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Els.”

—————

The next day, Ellie’s playing the guitar that Joel made her for her birthday when you walk into the dorm at 5pm sharp.

“Happy Birthday Ellie-Bellie!” You exclaim, knowing her deep-seated hatred for her childhood nickname as you throw a handful of streamers in her direction.

She keeps herself from laughing, “You’re cleaning that up, right?”

You give her a look, “No, I was planning on making you my maid on your birthday. Now come on, we need to get going!”

She puts her guitar to the side and stands up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her t-shirt and cargo pants with her hands.

“Is that from Joel?” You ask, motioning to the guitar.

Ellie nods and smiles wide, “Yeah, he made it for me, it’s super sweet.”

You examine the guitar’s craftsmanship as Ellie laces up her converse.

“You’re not driving right?” She asks.

You give her another look, “I have to, it’s a surprise destination. You can’t drive somewhere you don’t even know you’re going to.”

She groans, “And to think I didn’t even give Joel a proper goodbye.”

You kick her shin playfully, “Shut up, you’ll be fine. I’m an… okay driver.”

Ellie starts walking out of the dorm building with you, “Does an ‘okay driver’ almost commit vehicular manslaughter twice?”

Your face goes hot, “Those kids appeared out of no where, and I stand by that. Besides, the key word is ‘almost’, babe.”

Ellie doesn’t look convinced.

“Besides, you get to be my passenger princess for today,” You say with an obnoxiously cocky grin as you walk into the parking lot.

Ellie rubs her face, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You giggle and walk up to your car, opening the passenger door for Ellie, to which Ellie rolls her eyes at, but you can see that she’s trying not to smile.

You hop in the driver’s seat and say, “Birthday girl gets aux.”

Ellie plays a lot of 80s music during your drive into the city to her surprise destination, her taste in music developed during her years living with Joel. Halfway through Take On Me by A-ha, you pull into a parking lot.

You and Ellie get out of the car and you start leading her to a large building. Once you two can see the sign that reads “The Hansen Planetarium”, a giddy grin breaks out on Ellie’s face.

“Oh fuck yeah, we’re going to the planetarium?!” Ellie asks, walking faster.

You laugh and catch up with her, “What can I say? I know my girl.”

Ellie’s face goes a bit pink and she tucks some loose hair from her half-up bun behind her ear, “Yeah, I guess you do.”

You show the person at the planetarium’s front desk your confirmation for the tickets you bought beforehand, and you go inside.

Ellie stops to read nearly every blurb that’s written in front of each display, and you patiently wait for her, wanting her to take her time and fully enjoy the experience.

In between reading and examining the exhibits, Ellie is listing off factoid after factoid.

“Y’know, Neptune’s only made one full orbit around the sun since its discovery.”

“There’s actually some gravity on the International Space Station, which is kinda weird honestly.”

“Dude, do you know that the moon is really shaped like a lemon?”

You raise an eyebrow at that one, “You’re lying.”

Ellie laughs, “I am not! It’s fucking crazy! It looks round in the night sky, but I swear on my life it’s really shaped like a lemon.”

You shrug, still doubtful but accepting that Ellie’s probably not wrong, knowing her long-time obsession with space.

By the time you’ve made it through the all of the exhibits, Ellie is a little bummed.

“I almost wish there was more to look at, I don’t wanna say goodbye yet,” she says and your lips quirk up into a knowing smile.

“Yeah, it sure is too bad that there’s nothing else to do. On an unrelated note, follow me.”

You lead Ellie to the entrance of the Dome Theater inside the planetarium, and Ellie’s eyes light up when she reads the sign.

“Rock the Dome? Dude. Is this a laser show?”

You laugh and nod, glad that you guessed correctly that Ellie, the nerd she is, would be genuinely excited about this.

Ellie pulls you into a tight hug, “What the fuck? You know me too well.”

Your cheeks go hot and you giggle a little, “Well, at least we can agree on that.”

You give the Usher the tickets you pre-paid for, and let Ellie pick your seats in the Dome Theater, the night sky projected onto the curved walls surrounding you.

When she sits, you sit next to her and she immediately grabs your hand.

“Thank you. Seriously. This is… Genuinely one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.” Ellie says, squeezing your hand with a soft look in her eyes.

You squeeze her hand back, hoping you don’t look as flustered as you feel. “It’s seriously no big deal, Els. You’re my best friend, you deserve this.”

Ellie looks down at her lap and smiles a little, but doesn’t let go of your hand as the laser show starts, fog machines starting to pump out misty clouds into the room that makes the light from the lasers almost look solid.

Your mind is racing as the music comes on, mesmerizing the crowd with the lasers dancing in coordination, ‘This is platonic, right? This has to be platonic. Ellie’s just being appreciative of what I did for her. Jesus fucking Christ, maybe this isn’t platonic?’

You decided to not think about it too much at that moment, and try to enjoy the spectacle of color and light before your eyes.

———

The show included a lot of classic rock from the 80s, including Queen, the Stones, Bowie, Talking Heads, and The Clash. Ellie was awestruck, singing under her breath to every song that she knew, while you tried not to smile too big at how cute she was being.

By the time you two are back at the dorm, Ellie is completely over the moon.

“This was seriously the best birthday I’ve had yet. A new guitar from Joel, planetarium, and a laser show? This day fuckin’ ruled.”

You giggle and go over to your closet, “Well, it’s not quite over yet.”

Ellie narrows her eyes, “No way. You’ve already done so much.”

You pull a thin, wrapped gift from the top of your small closet, and bring it over to where Ellie’s standing.

“I wanted to do so much,” You say, rubbing the back of your neck.

Ellie takes the gift from you and sits down on her bed, intrigued.

“Can I open it?” She asks.

You laugh, “No, I just brought over your birthday gift so you could check out my wrapping job. Go open it, dumbass.”

Ellie chuckles and tears open the wrapping paper, her face morphing into shock as she sees the Special Edition “Savage Starlight” comic book in her hands.

“Holy fuck,” Ellie says, staring at it a second longer before nearly lunging forward to hug you.

You stumble back a bit, laughing as you wrap your arms around her as well.

“I’m guessing that was a good choice?”

Ellie guffaws, “Are you fucking kidding? It’s perfect. How the fuck did you find this, dude?”

You shrug , smiling to yourself, “I have my ways.”

Ellie pulls back from the hug, her freckled face a little pink as she looks back down at the comic book.

“This is too much. Like, way too much.”

You shrug, “Once again, you deserve it.”

Ellie looks down, smiling to herself, “Still. You’re just… This is so fucking thoughtful.”

You laugh a little, feeling flustered by this whole interaction, “What can I say? I have a lot of thoughts in this head, I gotta make good use of them.”

‘So fucking dumb, oh my god,’ you think to yourself, wincing at your response.

Ellie rolls her eyes at you, but her grin is huge and pure. “I’m gonna use the bathroom super quick, but do you wanna read it with me after?”

You smile wide, sitting on her bed, “Absolutely.”

Ellie races to your shared bathroom, and as she’s gone, you pull out your phone and scroll absentmindedly.

You’re pulled away from your phone when you hear Ellie’s phone buzz on her bedside table, right next to you, the screen lit up.

Before you have time to shame yourself for intruding on her personal business, you glance over at her screen, where a text is shown:

Kylie: I would love that! :) what time were you thinking?

Your stomach fills with dread and complete embarrassment. You should’ve known better than to think that Ellie holding your hand was anything more than platonic, that Ellie would ever see you more than her best friend. You knew that Ellie has never, and will never see you the way you see her, and you still let yourself get butt hurt over something as stupid as her getting a text from someone else.

‘I’m so fucking dumb, this is my own damn fault for getting my hopes up.’

You try to go back to scrolling through your phone, but your churning stomach keeps distracting you from thinking about what’s on your own screen, still thinking about the text you saw on Ellie’s.

When Ellie comes back in the room, she tears open the plastic packaging on the comic book and tosses herself onto her bed, pressed against you.

You move away from her slightly, “You ready?”

Ellie’s chest pangs with slight hurt, seeing you distance yourself from her.

“Uh, yeah! Let’s see what the Traveler’s are up to this time,” She says, trying to cover up how let down she is that you clearly don’t want to cuddle with her as usual.

You cross your arms and legs, leaning against the wall against Ellie’s bed. You’re barely able to see the full page of the comic book, but you don’t really care, it’s not like you’ll be able to think of anything except for that text.

Ellie glances over at you, her face crestfallen as she bites her lip, before pulling it together and getting into her “narrator” voice.

“The year is 2186, light years away from planet Earth…”

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

read texts w/ reader and ellie here

i realized i don’t have a taglist for this so lmk if you’d like to be added!

taglist: @elsbabyxx @mikellie

[piratefishmama]

Crashed the wedding, Part 7

Eddie had no grand speech prepared, he had nothing, his whole job was to wing it, which was probably a good thing because anything he’d have prepared to say, would have flown right out of the metaphorical window when he saw Steve.

He’d only just managed that witty quip as he Aragon’d his way through those doors, all the breath just taken right out of him god he was still as beautiful as the day Eddie left, nine years hadn’t touched him at all. His hair still impossibly perfect, even though he’d clearly not put much effort into it for the day, his glasses still made him look like the cutest pre-school teacher ever, and the moles.

Lord have mercy on his poor soul, the moles. He was too gay for this. He just wanted to skip everything, get directly to wrapping Steve up in the cosiest of sweaters, and handing him the tastiest mug of hot cocoa like he deserved, and just cuddling him for the rest of his life.

“E-Excuse me sir, we hadn’t actually gotten to that part yet” The reverend’s voice hesitantly cut through the silence that seemed to carry on for way longer than intended. The man choosing not to mention that the senior Harringtons had instructed him to remove the offer to the guests to object from the ceremony speech citing that they wouldn’t need it.

“Yeah well, it’s not like I had a damn invitation to sit in and wait, did I?” Eddie snapped right back, shaking himself up. He had a job to do, a love of his life to rescue, and no goddamn idea as to how he was supposed to do that if Steve wasn’t reacting in any way other than just staring at him with wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Steve heard from his left, turning to find his father’s face had turned a curious shade of red in apparent anger. The man quickly turning his eye onto his son hissing “did you have something to do with this?” At him. God Steve wished. He’d have given anything to have had the courage to just pick up the damn phone and call Eddie before all this shit went down.

Nine goddamn years, he wished he’d have picked up the phone each and every single day, but he hadn’t, too many missed calls, too many excuses for him to keep trying, he’d been so sure that Eddie had just… moved on, convincing himself more and more with each failed attempt to stay in touch that maybe… maybe it was just for the best.

Eddie was famous, for something good… besides the shit that happened during Vecna’s little bitch fit, Eddie hadn’t stepped a toe out of line in nine whole years, no scandals, no drug addiction stories, no compromising paparazzi shots in the papers, he sang his songs, played his nerd games, he showed up as ‘Metal Santa’ at Children’s hospitals with the other bandmates dressed as goofy elves, giving out toys all out of his own pocket, he helped out at soup kitchens on the weekends when he wasn’t busy, did charity auctions of random shit for troubled youth charities, he was good. The only time he’d had an issue was early ’88 with a mild drinking problem but Dustin knocked some sense into him on that one and he’d cleaned up his act by September the same year.

He looked mean and scary sometimes, but nobody, not a single person could ever accuse him of being anything but good. Steve was just… Steve.

A man going nowhere, stuck in his hometown with nothing to offer him. It’d been so easy to convince himself to just stop trying. Eddie didn’t need him, Eddie probably didn’t want him, he could have anyone, why would he want him?

Steve didn’t answer his father, instead turned back to the intruder, a smile fighting at the corner of his lips as he witnessed the man telling one of the bride’s huffy aunts to pipe the fuck down. “Eddie? The hell are you doing here?” How could he let his mind force him to doubt when Eddie was right there as if he’d heard that one wish Steve had spoken only in his mind.

“Rescuing you, sweetheart, can’t say I’m the most impressive of cavalry but at least I look good, which is more than I can say for your bride, yikes ma’am you just faceplant into a cake made up entirely of makeup this morning? Not a good look, I can see where the foundation meets the rest of your neck. One word, blend.” Liar, she looked flawless, but the outraged gasp of an offended bride was worth it. The shit stirring little fucker. “It will change your life.”

“Steven—” Harriet huffed, turning to her groom expectantly “aren’t you even going to—”

“No.” Steve immediately cut her off with a short, snort of a laugh, eyes still on Eddie as the man approached, his bride immediately turning to her parents to loudly complain about the interruption, Steve tuned her out completely, he’d tuned everything out, focusing entirely on Eddie “you could have worn a shirt, man.”

“And miss the warm Indiana breeze on my nip? I think not Steven.” Steve scrunched up his nose in distaste “Stevie? Steve-o, Ooh, ooh… Estebe?”

“That means Stebe and you know it means Stebe.”

“I know but you always thought it was cute.” He was within reaching distance now, so close he could touch him, could touch him to ensure he was real, that he hadn’t just hallucinated his way through his forced vows.

“I only thought it was cute cause you actually thought it meant Steve.” He reached, Eddie’s smile widening, only for it to drop, his eyes sharpening in barely concealed rage as Harrington Sr. grabbed the arm reaching out toward Eddie.

“Don’t even think about it, Steven. You will inform your brief, and unfortunate lapse in judgement that you were mistaken, that it meant nothing, and you’re marrying Miss Reid, do not make me remind you—”

“Sit the fuck down Harrington, nobody pulled your string.” Eddie snarled leaning in close enough for the man to release his grip in surprise.

“Eddie… he’s right, I—I have to.”

“No, no you don’t, I see nobody we know here Steve, your friends, your family they’re not here… why? Why aren’t they here Steve… on what should be the happiest day of your life, why did Nancy have to shoot a security guard in the arm just to get me in?”

“Nance did what?” Was that what that noise was?

“Surprised you didn’t hear the gunshot. Karen wheeler practically shoved this monkey suit on me and shoved me out the damn door in hopes I could get you out of this, the only reason the others aren’t here is because these assholes did well enough to have it clash with everything going on in their lives.” Not him though, Eddie would have abandoned a whole damn tour, he’d have cancelled mid-gig, if necessary, Steve needed him. He needed them. “What’s stopping you from walking out of that door right now, baby? What’s doing that?”

He saw that crack in Steve’s already crumbling resolve at the soft use of an old pet name, such a simple, generic little name but it always made Steve just a little weak hearing it from Eddie. “Eddie—Eddie I’m… I can’t…”

There were whispers, people had stood up to get a closer look, nobody in that church recognised Eddie, as famous as he was, he wasn’t their kind of famous. Eddie paid them no mind, taking those last few steps, using what little courage he had left to reach up and skim his calloused fingers along that perfect jawline, thumb caressing the soft cushion of his cheek just below where his glasses perched. “You can, baby boy… my sweet little prince, you can walk right out of here with me… whatever it is Steve, we can deal with it, money? Baby I have more in pocket change than your family’s entire net worth combined, including the shit in those offshore accounts ol John here doesn’t think anyone knows about it.” Steve’s father leaned a fraction backwards in surprise, how the fuck did Munson know about that? He could move all he wanted, Eddie wasn’t paying attention to him, his soft eyes were on Steve, watching as the man let his own drift shut, leaning into the palm cupping his cheek. “Hawkins? Sweetheart… I got here in a day, I flew first class, very fancy, if anything happens, we’ve got it, we can be back here so fast whatever that freaky-ass place throws at us, we’ll be ready for it same as always… so what is it, big boy, what’s stopping you?”

Steve let his eyes open halfway, taking in the man in front of him “I’m not worth it Eddie… just… just go, it’s okay… I’ll be fine, m’always fine” so why did that smile look so sad “…I’m not worth what you’d lose if I were to leave.”

Part 9

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 7 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - When you find Spencer mid dissociation, you fight to bring him back to reality. You provide him some comfort in the aftermath with unexpected results.

A/N - this starts with the full phone conversation that transpired between Spencer and Luke in the previous chapter and the picks up while reader was getting dinner and shows the build up to Spencer’s dissociation. I do not have hands on experience with this, everything regarding Spencer’s condition was taken from internet articles.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - detailed depictions of dissociative state from both Spencer and readers perspectives, blood, self-harm, swearing, cleaning wounds, talk of mental health and medication, PTSD, kinda sensual massage(?), lots of touching, coming untouched, Spencer comes in his pants.

WC - 6.1k

Chapter 7 - Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)

“I only called because-”

“Because you felt guilty? Because you finally decided you can’t run from me forever?” The voice on the other end of the line cut him off. 

“No, no…” Spencer shook his head, regretting this already. 

“What then?” 

“You have to stop-”

“Stop what?” Luke’s incredulous voice cut him off once more. 

“Please?” Spencer whined a little.

“So you don’t feel bad? Don’t care at all? Because that’s how it feels, Spencer.” 

“No…I said-”

“You haven’t said much of anything. For two years!” Luke scoffed. 

“Please just listen to me for a moment?” Spencer huffed out a breath, feeling dizzy from this conversation. 

“Do you know how much that hurt?” Luke spoke again. 

“Yes, I know…I get it, I do. I-I-”

“You just left, Spencer. You left and haven’t so much as called me once since. It hurt, it really fucking hurt.” Luke’s voice shook. 

“You’re not letting me speak. You have to-”

“What are you trying to say?” 

“It’s been two years. I…” Spencer trailed off with a shake of head, unsure what he was trying to say. 

“And you think in two years I’ve just forgotten about you?” Luke grumbled. 

“No. Please? I just want-”

“What? What do you want?” 

“Need-”

“Need what?” 

“To heal.” 

“To heal?” 

“Yes.” 

“And I don’t?” Luke sounded incredulous once more. 

“No. Please can you-”

“Do you realise how much it hurt hearing from Emily that you’d left? And not just that you’d left the BAU, but you’d left the goddamn state?” Luke was pacing, Spencer could hear his heavy footsteps.

Spencer closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d known this was a bad idea. 

“Yes, yes I know I need-”

“What?” Once again Luke cut him off. 

“Space.” Spencer huffed out. 

“I’ve given you space! I’ve given you two years of space!” 

“More space.” Spencer’s jaw ached with the constant teeth grinding he’d been doing. “In time I might-”

“In time? It’s been two years! How much more time do you need?” Luke practically growled. 

“I don’t kn-”

“This was a bad idea, maybe you shouldn’t have called.” Luke sighed and Spencer could practically see him raking his fingers through his hair. 

“No, no.” He tried to insist but Luke was most certainly right, he shouldn’t have called. This was a terrible idea. 

“I just wanted to hear your voice, cariño. I was worried about you, I needed to know you were alright, because I care.” Luke softened and Spencer felt his chest tighten.

It was easier to distance himself from it, to forget about what he’d lost, if he only let himself remember those last few bad months after prison. 

If he allowed himself to recall the good times, to dwell on how much he’d missed hearing Luke call him cariño, he would crumble. 

“Okay.” He swallowed. “Thank you.” 

“Please look after yourself, Spence.” 

“I’ll try.” Spencer nodded to no one but himself. 

“I, uh, have a, uh, good day I guess.” Luke knew better than trying to prolong a conversation Spencer didn’t want to be a part of. 

“You too.” Spencer whispered and then the line went dead. 

***

Once alone in his lodge, pressing the ice pack against his throbbing knee, Spencer’s mind wandered of its own accord. 

He replayed his earlier conversation with Luke on repeat, a constant loop playing in his brain like a broken record. 

It was the first time in two years that Spencer had spoken to him. He’d heard his voice since, the first six months after he left DC, Luke left him voicemails at least once a week. But Spencer never picked up the phone or called him back. 

Honestly he couldn’t quite understand where the gumption had come from today to finally call him. Perhaps he needed it to be over, finally really over, so he could try and move on with his life. 

But whatever relief he thought he may find had been a pipe dream, and the call left him on edge all day. 

Once he was alone he couldn’t stop dwelling on it and he felt that anger bubble swelling in his stomach. 

He knew before the dissociation happened that it was heading that way. He tried to stop it from escalating, he really did. But it was no use. 

When he felt the rage rising he’d dropped the ice pack on the floor and got up from the couch. He found himself leaning on the kitchen counter just trying to focus on his breathing, quell the anger. 

“I am still whole. I am still whole. I am still whole.” He muttered under his breath, eyes closed. 

But he wasn’t, was he? It was a lie. His therapist had deceived him into believing he wasn’t missing pieces. His old team had tried to placate him with false truths that he would make it through this darkness.

His anger grew. His fury was multi fold, at Luke, at the rest of the team, at his therapist and even at himself. It expanded, stretched from his stomach to his chest to his limbs. The rage bubble was nurtured by his meddlesome thoughts, cultivating, spreading until every atom of his being was on fire with a maddening flame. 

And then it happened, like a cord snapping in half. Spencer Reid left his body. He wasn’t him, his body didn’t belong to him any longer. 

Where was he? What was this place? He didn’t recognise anything in front of his eyes. He was in some kind of ether, a thick fog of nothingness. 

He was on the couch. But there was someone leaning against the kitchen counter. The foreign body stood up right, and walked towards his bedroom. 

Where are you going? That’s my room, you shouldn’t be here. 

He got up from the couch, followed the retreating form into the other room, through the haze. The unknown person didn’t stop, continued on into the bathroom. 

The floor beneath him felt as though it was cracking, like walking on a thin sheet of ice. He was cautious in his movements, following the stranger into the other room. 

And then he felt light, too light, as though he were floating. The fog around him grew thicker and the other body was barely visible through the dense haze. 

Where are you going? Get out of here! 

He heard his voice but it was distant, somewhere far away. He continued to hover above the ground, floating his way through the nothingness. 

Who are you? 

It was only when the other body turned around, face peering through the void that he felt a strange pang of recognition. 

Brown orbs flecked with gold. Messy, tangled curls. Dark purple circles and chapped dry lips. 

Is he me? Am I him? Who am I? 

What do you want? Why are you here? 

The man that was, but wasn’t him didn’t hear him. And Spencer just watched on as he walked back over to the bed, something tucked inside his palm. 

Floating. Buoyant. Hovering. Light as air yet heavy as a led weight. Spinning. Spiralling. Pirouetting through the mire. 

Who are you? Who am I? Why are you here? Why am I here? 

The body was naked from the waist up. One hand moving towards a bare arm, something shimmering between the fingers. 

A dizzying blanket of confusion weighed him down, yet he felt light; free. Nothing was within his reach, yet everything felt so near. 

What are you doing? How did you get here? 

His voice was still so far off, somewhere that wasn’t here although he wasn’t entirely sure where here was. 

The was a smash but the sound barely registered in his ears. Something solid, hitting something hard, crashing, breaking. 

Something scored down his arm, a prickle on his skin. Claret weeped, trickled. He didn’t feel a thing. Or did he? 

Where am I? 

A sound that maybe wasn’t a sound. A knocking? Tapping? Once. Twice. Three times. 

“Spencer? Spencer?” 

Spencer? Is that me? Who am I? Where am I? 

The viscous liquid was sticky on his skin, made his stomach turn and coil. 

“Spencer? Spencer, I’m going to need you to let me know you’re okay.” 

Okay? Am I okay? Spencer? Spencer who? 

The hand belonging to the foreign body dropped into its lap. Blood continued to congeal, forcing its way out of some kind of hole? Cut? Trench? 

“Spencer, if you don’t answer me I am going to come in. If you don’t want that then tell me now, otherwise I am opening this door.” A pause and then, “fine, I’m coming in.” 

Seconds ticked by. Or was it minutes? Hours? The mist thickened, dissipated, thickened again. He was spiralling further into the ether, deeper into the unknown. 

Is this heaven? Hell? Am I dead? Who am I? 

Through the fog another foreign body appeared. It was quick in its movements, swift and light on its feet. 

An angel? The devil? Is this death? Am I in limbo? 

“S-Spencer?” 

Everything grew dark. An otherworldliness clutching, stealing him from the present. He observed the new body crouch in front of the body on the bed. 

My body? If he’s me, who am I? 

His confusion faded away. The lightness ceased to exist. And suddenly there was nothing left at all except for the constant thrum of an overwhelming mantra he didn’t didn’t quite understand. 

I am still whole. I am still whole. I am still whole.

***

“Spencer? Can you hear me?” You knelt on the floor between his thighs as his eyes continued to stare through you. “Spencer!”

The blood continued to pour and you knew it needed addressing first, before you could move on to other factors. You stripped off your sweatshirt, kneeling up and wrapping the fabric around his wound. 

Your fingers brushed against his blanched skin. He shivered but otherwise didn’t move. 

You tied the arms of the sweater in place to secure it for the time being, keep the bleeding contained. Maybe once you’d snapped him out of this you could properly assess it. 

You retrieved your phone from your pocket and quickly entertained a Google search. You were fairly certain he was dissociating, and needed to know how to cloy him back to reality. 

You made quick work of skimming through the article, making a mental note of how to help him. You managed to free the razor blade from between his fingers, placing it out of reach on the nightstand. 

With his hand now empty you placed yours in it, curling your fingers around his and holding tightly. 

“Spencer, I need you to talk to me. I need you to focus. Can you feel my hand? If you can, I need you to tell me what it feels like. Describe to me what my hand feels like.” You squeezed, wiggled your fingers to create friction against his own. 

His eyes closed, opened again. Closed and opened again. His chest heaved and deflated. Then his fingers started to twitch. 

“If you can hear me Spencer, tell me what my hand feels like.” You repeated, speaking slowly and enunciating each syllable. 

His fingers twitched again, moving leisurely between your own. Eyes closed, eyes open. Chest puffed out, chest shrinking in. 

“W-warm.” His voice came out as a wispy sigh. “S-soft. Warm.”

“Good, that’s great.” You nodded, cautiously raising your other hand. 

You gently rested it across his left pectoral muscle, his heart rampantly beating beneath it. Ground him. Make him focus on his senses, bring him back to the reality he has divorced himself from. 

“What does this feel like? Can you feel this?” You softly ran your nails over his chest, up and down, back and forth. 

“S-scratchy.” He spoke just as quietly. 

“So good, Spence, so good.” You nodded, removing both of your hands from him somewhat reluctantly. 

You got to your feet and glanced around the room. You needed something tactile but Spencer’s lodge was not exactly a cornucopia of stimuli. 

You had a vague memory, something you’d noticed when going through his closet but hadn’t paid any attention to at the time. You must have stored it in the recesses of your mind. 

Dashing to the closet you threw it open and on the floor, stuffed towards the back, you found what you were looking for. It was the perfect sensory object for the task at hand. 

You snatched it up and rushed back to where he sat, lifeless as he continued staring into space. You knelt between his legs again and placed the item in his open palm. 

It was a stuffed horse toy with a blue-grey dappled coat almost identical to Willow. Its fur was soft and tawny and his mane was more coarse. It wore a hard shell saddle and its hooves were squishy. It was the ideal mix of textures. 

“Spencer, I need you to tell me what this feels like.” You gently lifted his casted arm, pressed the fingers within it against the horse's body. “What does it’s body feel like?” 

His fingers that peaked out of the cast twitched a few times. 

“S-soft.” He breathed. “V-very soft.” 

“Good. Great. How about this?” You guided his fingers to the mane. 

The fingers jerked, sunk into the material, twisting in the locks. 

“R-rough. C-coarse.” 

“Yes, that’s right. You’re doing so well.” You encouraged. “And this?” 

Moving his hand now to the saddle, his brows pinched together, registering the change of texture somewhere within his brain. 

“H-hard. Cold. S-smooth.” 

“Perfect.” You nodded although he still seemed to not be seeing you. 

His tactile sense was coming back, you needed to reel in his others. You left him to caress the horse while you quickly traversed through to the kitchen. You opened a cabinet and found an opened bag of caramel candy. Perfect. 

Grabbing one in your hand and untwisting the plastic wrapper as you went, you found Spencer again still, his hand that had been fingering the stuffed toy now stilled. 

“Spencer, can you open your mouth for me?” You asked softly. 

He didn’t speak, didn’t even nod. But his lips fell apart an inch or so in compliance. You pushed the candy between his chapped lips but he didn’t seem to register it. 

“Can you taste that? What flavour is it, Spencer?” You stood in front of him, looking down on him. 

His cheeks hollowed and then puckered. His tongue moved inside his mouth, rolling the hard candy around and around. 

His eyebrows furrowed the tiniest amount as he contemplated this, tried to focus on the taste on his pallet. 

While he was doing this, you moved around the room, needing something else for visual stimuli. As you reached for one of the photographs on his desk, he spoke quietly. 

“Caramel.” He breathed. 

“You’re doing so good, Spence.” You collected up one of the photographs and joined him again, sitting next to him on the bed and holding the photo in front of his disconnected vision. “Spencer, tell me about these people.” 

He blinked several times in quick succession, trying to clear some kind of fog from his vision. The caramel was still being sucked on and his fingers now moved against the stuffed animal again.

“Who is this?” You pointed at the woman on the far right. 

More blinking, cogs turning in his mind, whirring and whirring whilst he fought to place the faces in the photograph. 

“T-Tara. Tara Lewis.” He croaked. 

You had no way to know if he was correct, you just had to believe he knew what he was talking about. 

“Okay, great. And this? Who is this?” You moved your finger to the man next to her. 

After a few more blinks he replied, “Matt S-Simmons.” 

“This?” You moved on. 

Blink, blink, blink. 

“JJ. Jennifer.” 

“This?” 

Blink, blink, blink. 

“Penelope.” 

“This?” 

Blink, blink, blink. A pinch of his brows. 

“Me?” He posed it as a question. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Well done.” 

“Me.” He repeated, his breaths getting a little more frantic. “Me?” 

“Yes, you. Spencer Reid.” Your hand shook a little and you tried to keep the image still. “You are Spencer Reid.”

“Hmm.” He mused, eyes still blinking rapidly. “Spencer.” 

“That’s right. Spencer Reid. You live in Bandera, Texas, but before that you lived in Washington DC. Before that I think you lived in Las Vegas.” You repeated all the things you knew about him. “Oh!” 

You jumped up, replacing one photograph for another. 

“I think this is your mom?” You hurried back with the other photo. “Can you tell me about her?” 

More quick fire blinking. His casted hand raised from the horse and his fingers fluttered over the image of the older woman. 

“Mom.” He groaned as he spoke. “Mom.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“N-name?” His eyes closed for a few seconds. 

The world felt like it stood still for those few seconds. His chest heaved almost fitfully, like he was convulsing. Both hands went to his eyes and he kneaded them beneath his fingers. 

His breathing grew erratic for a second before everything stilled. His hands stopped their ministrations. His breathing became shallow. The world halted on its axis and then…

“Diana. Diana Reid. Mom.” His eyes opened, landed on you. 

They were focused and intense, brows pinched together in uncertainty. His eyes fluttered across your face, down to the photo in your hands, to the horse in his lap. To his broken cell phone on the floor, to his arm wrapped up in your sweater and back to you. 

“What is…where am…fuck.” He shook his head. “It happened again.” 

“It’s happened before?” You asked softly. 

“A few times.” He nodded, noticing the caramel in his mouth. “What is…why am I eating candy?” 

“I was trying to ground you using your senses. You don’t remember anything?” 

He looked back at the horse in his lap and wrapped his hand around it.

“No, I usually don’t. I remember feeling this anger in my chest and then, it’s like a light goes out.” He looked over at his arm and your sweater tied around it. “I cut myself?” 

“Yeah. You got a first aid kit?” You got to your feet. 

“Bathroom.” He replied. 

While you were gone he snatched up one of the pillows and pressed it to his stomach in a vain attempt to cover his naked torso. You returned a moment or so later with the kit after washing your hands and sat back down on the bed. 

You were cautious in removing the sweater which was now caked in blood but upon inspection it did look as though the bleeding had stopped. You found an antiseptic wipe and ripped open the packet. 

You asked Spencer without words for permission to touch him, knowing how he would flinch when touched with no warning. He nodded stiffly. 

His jaw stiffened but he didn’t make a sound as you gently wiped the wound and the surrounding blood. It must have hurt, but he refused to show it. 

“Can I ask you something?” You spoke softly while opening another wipe to clean off the rest of his arm. 

“I guess.” He closed his eyes, ready for all manner of questions about whatever it was you’d just witnessed. 

“Is this why you take the paroxetine? You have some kind of dissociative disorder?” 

“I take the paroxetine for my PTSD.” He confessed with little protest. “My dissociative amnesia is a symptom of that.” 

“Do you have them often? The dissociation?” You finished cleaning his arm and found a tube of ointment. 

You poured a little on your fingertips before massaging it against his wound. He hissed slightly, eyes still closed. 

“Not usually. I’ve had two in as many days but before that I hadn’t had one since before I moved out here.” 

“Ah.” You rolled your lip between your teeth. “So since I got here.” 

His eyes shot open and landed on you, a small furrow on his brows.

“This isn’t because of you.” He was shaking his head. “It happens when I reach a certain level of anger. When my mind can’t control the vicious rage that starts bubbling inside of me, it divorces itself from reality. This has nothing to do with you. There is one recurring factor though.” 

You inspected his wound while he spoke, assessing he probably didn’t need medical attention as it wasn’t too deep. 

“I think I can surmise what that might be.” You found some butterfly wound closures in the kit. Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Your ex? You said you got a text from him yesterday and I, uh, I heard you on the phone this morning, assumed that was him.” 

Spencer closed his eyes again, if he didn’t look at you it made it easier to talk about these things. You started closing his wound with the butterfly stitches. 

“It’s not necessarily that he makes me angry. But when I think about him, I inevitably think about why we broke up. And when I think about why we broke up it…that’s where the anger comes from.” 

You remained silent while you finished with the stitches and then wrapped his arm with gauze. 

As soon as you were finished Spencer was pushing himself up, placing the horse on the bed and going to his closet for a clean t-shirt. 

“We still have food if you’re hungry? I think you should probably try and eat something.” You stood too. 

He simply nodded and you followed him to the kitchen in silence. 

***

You ate the cold food on the couch without a word shared between you. You drank a glass of the scotch you’d gotten at the general store and when you’d offered one to Spencer he shook his head. 

After you’d finished eating, you took the plates into the kitchen and while your back was turned he spoke.

“You didn’t ask about my PTSD.” His voice pitched as he spoke. 

You left the plates by the sink and slowly turned back to face him. 

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” You shrugged, heading back across the room. 

“I didn’t. But you’ve proven to be rather nosy.” His lip twitched a little into a small smile. 

“I prefer the term curious.” You clucked, standing in front of him. “But I’m not going to force you to tell me something if you don’t want to. Just know if you chose to, I’m here to listen.” 

“Thank you.” He stood too, grimacing slightly like you were growing accustomed to him doing. “For everything. If I were you I would have high tailed out of here long ago. I’m, uh, not used to people sticking around.” 

“I think I like it here.” You smiled. “I don’t have any intentions of high tailing it anywhere just yet. Except for right now, to bed. I’m exhausted.” 

“Right, yeah of course.” He nodded, but his expression changed into something you couldn’t place. 

He looked as though he wanted to say something but was stopping himself from doing so. You weren’t going to force it out of him, instead you turned towards the door. 

“Goodnight then.” You spoke over your shoulder. 

But as you were reaching for the handle to let yourself out, he cleared his throat and spoke up. 

“Could you maybe…if it’s not too much to ask, uh, possibly…” he trailed off scratching the back of his neck. “Would you stay with me tonight? I really don’t want to be alone.” 

Judging by his strangled tone and contorted features you could tell this was by far the hardest thing he’d confessed to you tonight. You turned back to him with a small smile. 

He looked so vulnerable, almost childlike in his admittance. There wasn’t a world in which such a request could be denied. 

“Of course I will.” You nodded in agreement and he seemed to relax at this. “Just let me go get changed and I’ll be right back, okay?” 

He didn’t speak so you retreated again, hurriedly going back to your lodge and changing into a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt. You brushed your teeth quickly before making your way back over to Spencer’s home. 

He was already in bed when you returned, sheet draped over his body as he laid on his side facing out into the room. The light was already off. 

He didn’t look at you so you climbed onto the bed beneath the window and slid under the covers. From what little you could ascertain, he wore no more than a t-shirt and boxers. 

His back was to you and you noticed the way he stiffened when you got into the bed. You didn’t know his aversion for sharing such an intimate space and honestly he was wondering why he’d asked you to stay at all. 

Having you in his space like this put him on edge and calmed him in equal measure. It was a strange cacophony of feelings and he didn’t know which one to give over to. 

He could feel the heat radiating off of you. He wanted you closer, he wanted you as close as humanly possible. But he also wanted to be far, far away. 

“Spence,” you whispered. “Can I…am I allowed to touch you?” 

A shiver passed up his spine and you saw it even in the dark. For a moment he was still, but then his head nodded against the pillow. 

You shuffled closer to him, resting your head against your own pillow. Cautiously you draped an arm around him, palm resting against his stomach. 

His casted arm was cushioned between his pillows. If the position bothered his fresh wound on his bicep, he didn’t seem to notice or care. 

He tensed for a moment or two but then he suddenly encased your hand in his, his palm on the back of your hand and entwining your fingers. He pulled you closer so your chest was flush against his back. 

You couldn’t help but nuzzle into the back of his neck, his hair tickling your face. His hand gripped yours tighter, as though he needed to cling to you to remain grounded. 

And then, much like he’d done earlier with Franklin, he started moving both of your hands so you were stroking his torso. At first just his stomach but then he brought your hand up towards his chest, pausing for a second or two so you could feel his heartbeat and then back down to brush over the waistband of his boxers. 

He continued this motion, up and down and up and down for a few minutes. You tried to commit to memory the curves of his body beneath his t-shirt. After a while he stilled you both suddenly and he started exploring the contours of your hand and each finger in his own. 

He was careful in his movements, almost clinical. He huffed out a breath and when he spoke, it was barely a whisper. 

“Do you ever just…crave human touch? Like in a way that is so desperate you feel like you might die without it?” He continued inspecting your hands.

“Isn’t that just a normal human desire?” You whispered against his neck. 

“Not for me.” He sighed. “It’s an alien feeling to me and I don’t know what to make of it.” 

He let go of your hand and you were unsure if that meant he himself no longer wanted to be touched or if he’d done it so you could touch him. 

You dared let your hand come to rest on his stomach again and gently stroked little circles on his shirt. After a minute or so you moved upwards, towards his chest and paused over his heart like he had done. 

You brushed your hand back down, barely ghosting the waistband of his boxers before continuing back up. 

Spencer closed his eyes and gave over to the feeling as your hand traversed the planes of his clothed torso. Several minutes passed and his breathing started to grow a little heavy and you let your fingers brush against his knuckles. 

He didn’t tell you to stop so you didn’t, letting your fingers travel up his bare arm until you met the sleeve of his t-shirt. You migrated back down to his knuckles, back up to his bicep again and again, your touch featherlight. 

His breathing got heavier, but he seemed to enjoy it so you let your fingers dip beneath the sleeve of his shirt and wander up towards his shoulder. He tensed briefly but soon relaxed again. 

You kept this up, down to his knuckles, back up to his shoulder, kneading the muscle at the top of his arm each time. 

He wriggled backwards, his backside nestled near your crotch. He was panting reverently and you barely heard the whisper of, “more.” 

Rolling your lip between your teeth you propped yourself up on your elbow as your hand moved to his back. You stroked him over his t-shirt a few times but when whimpered slightly you assumed it wasn’t enough. 

Taking a breath you toyed with the hem of his t-shirt and were met with no protest. Your hand dipped beneath the fabric and your hand glided over the hot flesh of his back. 

Your fingers danced over his spine, weaving in and out of his vertebrae. He sucked in a deep breath and then a soft moan escaped his lips. 

Wondering how far you could push this, how far he wanted you to push this, you let your digits wander over his hip and up his rib cage. 

Spencer seemed to vibrate at the sensation and you could only assume it was a good thing. You continued over his bare stomach, feeling it clench and tighten beneath your hand. 

He whined and it sent a jolt right to your core. You pressed your thighs together as a heat spread between them. 

As you moved your hand upwards you accidentally brushed over his right nipple. Spencer stilled suddenly, tensing every muscle in his body. 

Your hand halted in its movements and the silence deafened the room for a moment or two. But then he relaxed and the barely audible “more” came again. 

And so you complied. You ran your hand up and down his torso, this time purposefully grazing over his nipple, each time you did he moaned softly into his pillow. 

Spencer had no idea what was happening or why this felt so incredible. He never wanted it to end, wanted to spend the rest of his life with your hands on him like this. 

It was a strange feeling for him to actively seek this kind of human connection but he didn’t let himself overthink it. It felt so good that it had banished any other thoughts from his mind. 

And there wasn’t an ounce of guilt to be felt when he realised he was, for the first time in four years, standing at full attention in his pants. 

Your hand brushed against his boxers each time you moved downwards and you wanted to go lower still. But Spencer didn’t whisper more and so you wouldn’t push your luck, no matter how much you wanted to. 

On one descent, your hand passed slightly further than you’d meant to and the side of your hand skimmed against what you knew to be his erection.

He moaned louder than before, hips rolling back against you. You had to press your thighs together tighter, clamping them closed as another wave of heat flooded through you. 

But still he didn’t ask for more and so you didn’t risk letting your hand fall lower. Instead you let it ebb higher, across his collarbones, over the side of his neck, across his stubbly jaw and into his hair. 

Your fingers threaded into the thick locks, pulling lightly at the roots. He mewled at the sensation and so you did it again. 

Spencer was writhing on the bed, eyes so tightly closed as he rocked against you. You made a circuit of his body, from his hair down his face, across his torso, up and down his arm and then across his back. 

He was moaning more frequently with each pass of his body and his breathing was haggard. When your hand accidentally brushed against his cock again, he moaned in such an animalistic way you almost moaned too. 

His body soon started convulsing, as though he was suffering a seizure. You pressed your hand against his stomach, starting to panic but then…

“Oh fuck…Jesus fucking Christ…fuck!” He cried into his pillow as his hips jerked forward. 

With one last deep moan he stilled entirely and so did you. 

You lifted your hand from him, hovering it over his torso. The room once again became awash with silence. And you knew exactly why. 

Spencer shuffled a little closer to the edge of the bed as he tried to catch his breath. You knew what had happened and he knew that you did. 

He clenched his jaw tightly, opening his eyes but not looking back at you. 

“I, uh…” he croaked, voice pitching. “Bathroom. I need to…yeah.” 

He barely finished his sentence before he was out of bed and limping to the bathroom. You chewed on the inside of your cheek and watched him retreat. 

He switched on the bathroom light and closed the door before falling back against it. His chest still heaved with his breaths and his whole body felt like jelly. 

He rubbed his eyes with his palms and glanced down at his crotch and the obvious wet patch in the front of his black underwear. 

He stared at it like he couldn't make any sense out of it, which in truth he couldn’t. You hadn’t even touched his cock yet here he was. 

His first orgasm in four years. 

He breathed through his parted lips as he kept his eyes trained on the wet patch. The guilt would set in, for that he had no doubt. Once the haze of his orgasm wore off he would no doubt recoil in on himself and scold himself for allowing it to happen in the first place. 

But as of right now all he wanted to do was march back in that room and return the favour, make you feel as good as you’d made him feel. But he couldn’t. He wished he could but couldn’t. 

It should have been a momentous occasion for him, finally allowing himself to take a step past what had happened in prison. 

Instead he felt dirty. He felt like he’d betrayed himself somehow. He didn’t deserve a woman as wonderful as you, making him feel so incredible. He wasn’t worthy of you or your magnificent hands on his tarnished skin.

He couldn’t give you his body in that way because it didn’t belong to him. His body was owned by those three inmates, they had claimed him as their own and he would never be able to cloy himself free of their clutches.

He wasn’t good for you, he wasn’t good for Luke; he wasn’t good for anyone. He wasn’t whole anymore. He couldn’t expect you to be grateful for having the pieces those men left behind, their scraps. 

He tried to stem his tears while he peeled off his soiled underwear and cleaned his sticky genitals over the sink. He grabbed another pair of boxers from the laundry basket and put them on, although not clean, certainly cleaner than the other pair.

He skulked back into the room and you were on your back, propped up on your elbows. 

He slipped silently back into the bed and also laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

“We’re, uh, we’re not going to talk about what just happened.” He croaked. 

“Okay.” You agreed. “Do you want me to leave?” 

“No.” He was quick to answer. “Not unless you want to leave.” 

“I don’t.” You lowered yourself back to the mattress. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” 

He didn’t have to heart to tell you’d done nothing of the sort. Everything you’d done had been so right, it was him that was wrong. 

He wished he could tell you that, just to appease your own mind but he couldn’t find the words. He wanted to tell you what a mess he was, why he was like this so you knew it was no fault of your own. 

But he didn’t. He said nothing. The awkwardness wrapped you both up in a blanket but it wasn’t a comforting one. 

Spencer stared at the ceiling, you did the same. You were barely a foot apart but there was a chasm between you. And you felt it growing larger and larger by the day and eventually you were sure it would span so wide that you and Spencer would never find your way back to one another. 

@kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3 @prettyboyandthefangirl @andiebeaword @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @thebloomingeagle

[bitumz]

Title: Lay that rifle down

Pairing: Cooper Howard / Lucy MacLean Word count: 4.5k+

Rated: E [explicit sexual content, gun play, dom/sub undertones, cannibalistic tendencies]

gif credit: @kaorym ❤️

~~~~~

“Ten caps says you can’t teach me something about a rifle that I don’t already know.” Lucy sent over her raised arm.

And Cooper took it as the bait it was. 

“Aight Annie Oakley, target practice ain’t got shit on the real thing.” He sneered with a tip of his head. “You ever have to pull a repeater on a rabid herd of radroaches crawlin’ at your feet down there in that squeaky-clean sealed-up vault of yours?” Cooper asked, and Lucy only looked over at him as if the thought was foul. “Or how bout a pack a’ radhounds foamin’ at the maw for a mouthful of that hot blooded complacency all over your fuckin’ face... Didn’t think so.” He bit. “And keep that goddamned elbow up ‘fore it gets knocked from its socket.” He reminded again through his teeth, and she couldn't be sure if he meant from the kick of the stock or his hands-on training approach.

Three empty cans of Cram hung from twine on a tree branch twenty yards out and Lucy squinted at them down the barrel of Cooper’s sawed off. Their light ammo was running low, as was their luck, a bandit encampment separating them from their most recent diversion, a bounty that would earn them enough caps to not have to worry about bullets or supplies for the next few months if lady luck got her shit together. 

“No, no radroaches down there, thank goodness.” Lucy answered. “But there was those few raiders that one time. And the bandits back in Nipton... The deathclaw that nearly knocked your head off.” She preened. “They all moved pretty quick. I think Annie would be proud.”

Cooper snorted at that, ambling down range to run his gloved hand lazily across the cans, sending them swaying side to side. Stepped safely out of the way.

“Raiders…” he still pondered the first of her list. The one that still stung the most when she thought on it too long. “Moldaver’s golden fuckin’ ticket huh... What was his name again?” Cooper asked, eyes thinning in a derisive show of thought. Like he’d actually forgotten, though the tightly drawn bow of his shoulders said otherwise, pent up exertion waiting to be freed in one way or another. Lucy shifted on her toes in the sand. “Monty, right?” He sent her a withering grin from beneath the shadow of his hat. “Imagine how much more effective buckshot woulda been.”

Lucy glared back, took aim, and fired, the hollowed rounds free of shrapnel, (waste not, want not Cooper would say) but striking the trio of moving cans in repeat, near-perfect precision all the same. A sense of pride swelled in her chest as they spun wild from their twine, right alongside the burning memories of being betrayed and choked and stabbed in the gut… She looked over to find Cooper again, closer now, watching near her side. 

“I slashed his throat, you know.” Lucy reminded him with a smile of her own, and as always it flashed something bright and hot in his usually carefully disinterested hazel eyes.

“Oh I know.” Cooper nodded. “But your first mistake was lettin’ him close enough to have to.”

With the warning he attempted to reset the stage, gloved hands reaching out to grasp for anything vital, another repeated lesson in reading between the lines of people's bullshit. And they had earned her a few bruises here and there as she’d grown stronger and quicker and improved till he’d deemed it unnecessary to pull his punches, just as she’d begun drawing a bit of blood of her own.

But Lucy had always been a fast learner long before the wasteland. Now, with the push of her heel against the dirt she dodged back and spun whole-bodily to put the barrel of his rifle between them, pointing it an inch away from the hastily sewn button over the center of his chest. 

“He was a liar.” Lucy said simply. “Fucked me and wanted a quick out... Like most men, come to think of it.”

And Cooper chucked low, gloved palms up in a short lived impasse. Raised his stormy expression toward the sky. “Most men, like the poor souls weren’t trapped in there with you.” He finished the roll of his eyes and met hers again. Smirked a fiery thing. “Or related to ya.”

Lucy took the jabs in stride.

“This again? Really? Right now?” She asked, adjusting the butt of the shotgun more securely into the divot of her shoulder. “Not like I had many options down there. Still don’t sadly…”

“And yet?” Cooper bid with the lift of his browline, hat shifting the slightest bit higher on his forehead and letting the sun play brighter along the deep hollows of his face. And he took the final, daring step that put him flush against the jagged metal of the muzzle. Sent her a warning look across it that burned deep in her belly as if it were his own finger on the trigger. Stared at her as if he awaited something even more gutting in her answer. 

And she knew him well enough now that she could give him that.

“Well if this is you actually asking, I’ve dealt with my fair share of assholes, sure. Down there and up here... But with Monty,” she breathed out, sugar sweet and disgustingly indulgent. “I’ve never cum so hard in my life.” 

Then she reached out over the barrel of the rifle, flicked the brim of his hat up another inch higher across his brow just to be a bitch. And at her teasing smile he growled.

Cooper snatched the gun from her hold single handedly, slinging it down in the dirt beside them so hard it kicked up dust. Grabbed her by the knot of the vaultsuit at her waist and yanked her in close, looming that few inches over her that sped her heart in her chest and weakened her knees every single time without fail.

“You sure you really wanna tug on that thread right now girl?” Cooper hissed, chemical-laced breath washing hot across her face in a smell she was coming to relate to painful, invigorating pleasure if she played her cards just right. Because the hands she was dealt could change at a single slip of the tongue, but she was getting more and more secure in her ability to read the table. “Cause it’s been a rough few weeks,” he drawled, “and them prissy vault assholes ain't got shit on me.” 

As if she needed reminding of just how full of it he actually was. He was heavy handed and a downright son of a bitch when the occasion called, but the only lasting marks he left on her skin these days were asked for in gasped breaths and pleading little cries. He'd done nothing during their ample downtime but raise her up to the harsh standards of the wasteland, training her muscles and sharpening her mind and she'd felt more alive in the last few months than she’d ever had in her entire life.

“Technically he wasn't a vault dweller.” She corrected with a small shrug. Squared her shoulders. “But ya, I’m sure.” Lucy nodded in challenge.

And Cooper stared her down just long enough to raise the small hairs at the back of her neck…

Then his rough hands were everywhere all at once, ripping her suit the rest of the way down her hips with one to let it pool at her feet. He bit the middle fingertip of his glove over the other to free it from his scarred skin. And as always his right trigger finger shined paler up at her, nearly completely healed now in a line near his knuckle where two became one. It skimmed up her stomach alongside his others, under her dirtied tank top, gripping the sensitive flesh there and squeezing as she steadied herself against his shoulders to kick her fallen suit to the side.

And Cooper watched the small act with something like veneration in his eyes. 

It emboldened her enough to reach into his own cover, small hands slipping beneath the lapels of his ragged duster to try and push it down from his shoulders. But her wrists were caught in his ensnaring hold before she could make any real progress. 

“Leave it alone,” he snarled, shoving her back and away from him with such a force that she tumbled down onto her ass in the sand, grains scratching against the strips of bare skin that her underwear didn’t cover, but the new angle did something even rawer to her insides as she looked back up at him, standing tall above, chest heaving in an inevitable anger that she found she wanted to siphon out of him like blood, in the very same way he’d done her all those months ago in the hazy heat of the desert. Kicking and screaming and fighting until all the trauma he’d piled on and on atop the already shaky foundation was free of her skin and torn right back into his. And it was a damn enticing thought.

“There she is.” He said unmoving, in that way that pushed her further, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. And that could only be true if she allowed it. 

So she pressed her weight up onto her elbows. Carefully schooled her expression. Sharpened the words in her mind just as Cooper would his bowie.

“You know, I vaguely remember Monty saying something similar to me as I rode him into the mattress.” Lucy said, looking past him to the safety of the tree line. “The first time.” She added pointedly. 

And Cooper’s laugh slithered in the humid air above.

“You sure are a funny little thing, I’ll give ya that.” He said down at her, the lilt of his accent at odds with the glare. “All talk and no substance.” He goaded, tongue darting out to swipe at his chapped bottom lip. Then a sudden thought burned quick and troubling in his eyes. “Unless you care to prove it?”

For a while neither moved, Lucy only returning his malice back up to him as he thought something over in his mind. It thinned in his eyes like her patience.

Then all at once it clicked, Cooper bending forward to retrieve his rifle from the dirt. He shoved it barrel-first into the loose sand between her legs, so sudden and so close to the apex of her thighs that she nearly flinched back to protect her own anatomy…

“Let’s see it then cowgirl.” He taunted, taking a step back and watching her as if she were a puzzle he was bound to solve, whether the pieces fit in place or not. A game to be mastered to completion. One she’d started playing first this time around.

And she would never again back down from a challenge out of fear. Not ever one from him.

“Okey dokey.” Lucy said, paired with the sweet curve of her lips that she knew, together, bit him right in the ass. 

Her hands only shook the faintest bit as she wrapped them around the barrel, using it as an anchor to draw herself the small distance forward it took to have it flush against the gusset of her underwear. The metal itself was warm to the touch, near burning under the tips of her fingers from such recent use, but it sat just right against the heat already building between her legs at the way his shell shocked eyes ate up her every move. 

She held them with her own as she drew into mind the memory of those show girls she’d seen on an old holotape beneath Chet’s mattress. Dressed in clinging silk and dolled up beautifully as they danced around and clung onto tall metal polls like they were lovers. Lucy tried to mimic, making an experimental roll with her hips against the cylinder, firm pressure pushing against all the right places as it parted her folds and met her clit through the thin material of her panties. But the real pleasure came from the look it left on Cooper’s face. 

Lucy moaned a low sound and his boots shifted in the sand before her.

“That’s all it takes huh?” He drawled, his gritty, flustered voice brewing even more pressure deep in her gut than the contact itself. “Fuckin’ get it then.”

She rolled her hips again, arching her lower back and drawing the stock closer to her chest in the dancelike chase of her own pleasure, rocking her cunt against the hard barrel more like a cowboy would his saddle in those old westerns than the painted ladies she’d set out to mirror originally… And then she looked right up into Cooper’s gaping eyes.

“Like this?” Lucy asked him in a breathless gasp, straight teeth flashing harsh in the sun as she drew in a breath through them.

“Just like that.” He growled back, bared hand tugging slow at his remaining glove before both fell to the pair of buckles at his waist. 

And the methodical way he undid the clasp of his holster while still watching on had Lucy’s thighs tightening shut around metal in anticipation, sliding slicker against the friction. She’d been lying when she told him Monty was the best lay she’d ever had but she found that it was almost always in her own best interest to give Cooper new and ever changing goals to focus on. He was an excellent student when given the proper time and motivation to study the material, just as she herself had been during all those pivotal pubescent years in the company of only a Radiation King television set and her own two hands. 

But she was very much a woman now, her body screaming it at her so as her movements grew quicker and sloppy, her hands drawing the rifle against herself in pulses as she rolled her hips forward faster in chase, the pressure building and building low in her groin, throbbing but empty and wanting. 

“Cooper please.” Lucy begged in a shaky breath, though she couldn't pin down exactly what for. She sought out his eyes for the answers. 

“Nu uh.” Cooper denied in a breathy exhale, flicking his pistol barrel up at her a pair of times in vague acknowledgement. “You started it. Fuckin’ finish it.” He bit and the frustration it lit in her chest rekindled her efforts.

If he wanted her to finish then she fucking would. 

Lucy reached down to pull her panties aside, soft curls lacing around her fingers as she unceremoniously dipped a mismatched pair between her folds and into the slick of her arousal, earning a low, satisfying rumble from Cooper’s chest that had her walls clenching tighter around them. She rolled her wrist in the familiar pattern that’d earned her many a decent night sleep. Looked down as she fucked herself on her fingers, gun still standing tall from the dirt between her legs like some last little bit of modesty between her and the eyes that looked on as if they were trying to swallow her whole. She tried to imagine his mostly-own, thicker digits pushing into her. His own thumb circling rough over her clit. And under his careful study, she’d never been more turned on in her life.

“That how Monty touched ya?” Cooper slithered down to her like a curse, breaking the spell and stirring her up further all at once. He stepped aside to fall languorously into a crouch near her knee to better see the show. “All soft and sweet-like. A proper little lady.” He growled.

And Lucy gasped a laugh up at the blue sky, falling to her back as her muscles tensed to a near excruciating tautness at his goading, the attempt only exposing another of his weaknesses and twisting tighter the coil low in her own gut. “He didn’t touch me at all actually.” She confessed, fingers squelching obscenely as she quickened her pace at the reminder. “Made me do all the work myself. Just like this.” She accused up at him with the bend of her neck. “Had more fun fighting him honestly...”

A quick breath huffed from Cooper's nasal cavity. 

“Mm,” he nodded. “Figures.” He drawled, eyes trailing down her body with a dangerous edge thinning his lips. Then he aimed his pistol passively at the dampening sand between her legs, a crazed glint sparking in his eyes that she’d only ever seen in ghouls gone rabid. “Well I got another gun here if ya need it.” He offered.

And the rush of adrenaline at the implication alone was what finally sent her falling over the edge, back arching over the ground, thighs quivering and clenching closed so hard around her own hand that the rifle between them toppled sideways right into Cooper’s waiting hold. 

“That’s it, darlin’,” he praised, steadying himself over her against it like a crutch, honey gold eyes raking over every inch of her exposed, trembling skin. The peaks of her breasts teasing through her thin tank top. Her slowing fingers between her legs as she brought herself back down. “Monty ain’t got shit on those greedy little hands huh?”

And she knew he was talking but the words wouldn’t register right in her pleasure deafened ears. Overstimulated and still unsatisfied in equal measure for the taste of oblivion she could never quite reach on her own anymore. 

“Cooper…” Lucy breathed, strained and gasping in the throes of her waning orgasm. “Cooper please - please…”

He grew tense near her side, that practiced mask of indifference slipping a bit at her honest to god begging. 

“Cooper what?” He asked, almost sweet, in itself an unnerving thing. 

And Lucy let her legs spread back open wide. Slowly traced her pleasure drenched fingers up to the bare midriff of her pale stomach. Dipped them beneath the fraying hem of her panties.

“Please don’t make me do this alone again...” 

Then her underwear joined in the pile of her vaultsuit, Cooper ripping them off her himself as he gave in with a deep throated snarl. He shoved the rifle out of the way in the process, in the rush of kneeling between her legs. Dropped his pistol to the dirt at her side.

“Always so fuckin’ needy,” he bit out in a pant, parting her folds with a single bared hand and pressing his face down between them without so much as preamble. He licked a hot stripe up the damp seam of her, watching her face as it screwed up in pleasure toward the sky, hips pressing harder against his mouth on instinct alone. He held them down against the earth. “This what you wanted sweetheart? A monster like me to do it for ya?” He drew back just enough to ask, pressing the first two fingers of his right hand deep inside her so quick and rough that instead of denying the moniker aloud, she could only moan the breath from her mouth. "Let me fuckin' hear it." Cooper growled, then dragged out more of that answering sound with the seal of his coarse lips around her clit.

Lucy basked in the burning stretch, her walls deliciously taut as he curled his fingers forward inside her, deep against a spot that had the coil low in her belly already flaming burning hot again with a practiced expertise that continued to put the few experiences she had before him to shame. His mouth trailed away from her center, leaving sharp toothed bites across the hinge of her leg, down deeper into the muscled meat of her thigh, every bit one of the foaming-mouthed radhounds he'd often warned her about. Taking her apart and consuming the ruin piece by tender piece.

Lucy hissed air from between her teeth as his jaw set tighter and tighter each time. She reached a hand down, attempting to gently guide him back in the right direction instead of his distracted path to somewhere beneath her skin. The rough curve of his cheekbone was hot beneath her touch for only a second before he tore himself away.

“Hands off,” Cooper ordered, looking up at her through his lashes, lips damp and swollen and so very touchable. “Or I'll stop.”

“That's not fair.” Lucy said, drawing back against the dirt and squirming against the slowing pulse of his fingers because she wasn't sure she could handle it if he followed through with that particular threat. “You touch me all the time.”

“Life ain't fair.” Cooper promised with a dark flair of his eyes. “You'll see.” 

Then he hooked a forearm around her thigh to drag her closer to him across the ground and began to eat her proper, wet, obscene sounds filling the air as his tongue laved in quick swipes over her swelling clit and his fingers scissored in upward strokes to meet them in tandem. And though the mid day sun burned hot against her sweat-slicked skin, Lucy saw fucking stars above, dancing and flashing before her eyes in bright bursts of gold and royal blue.

“Fuck,” Lucy swore in a throaty groan and Cooper's tongue faltered once mid motion. “Just like that.” She gasped, hands falling palms up against the ground on either side of her head as he worked her higher and higher into the throes of something like madness, spine already tingling and muscles twitching from the over sensitivity still lingering on from her first small taste of pleasure…

This second orgasm crested slow, swelling over her in heavy waves as Cooper carried her unceasingly through it, continuing his relentless worship of her cunt with a single minded focus that she’d only elsewhere seen him use on those down the barrel of his gun.

“Does that make you Buffalo Bill?” Lucy asked breathless, a lifetime later, as her spine finally began to flatten and she remembered how to inhale.

His fingers slowed reluctantly to a stop, still inside her, and back during the first few times she used to wonder why. The job was done, the end goal reached, but he always kept touching her skin like he wanted to, exploring her inside and out even still, with the slight pet of his fingertips and hot, opened-mouthed kisses across the swell of her hips.

“Pardon?” Cooper asked absently from somewhere in between, voice muffled near the raised scar on her belly.

And Lucy laughed at the absurdity of it all. 

“You called me Annie Oakley earlier.” She reminded, looking down the length of her heaving chest to find his eyes. “Come to think of it, it may have been the first real compliment you've ever given me... She was a badass sharpshooter. Way ahead of her generation.” Lucy propped herself back up on her elbows and raised a quizzical brow at him. “And regardless of which version of her story you read, she out-shoots Bill every time. So-” and she gestured toward him.

But the indisputable facts only left an odd look on Cooper's face, teeth flashing back at her in a predatory smile from just above her skin. Like he was the only one of them on the inside of some incomprehensible joke. Then he actually laughed.

“That's why I bring the legacy of Buffalo Bill to mind in this scenario ‘a yours?” Cooper asked, exasperated. "The gunslingin'?" He nipped hard enough at her hip bone to make her hiss. Left pointed divots behind in the thin skin there. “Had me worried for a minute there, precious.” Then he slowly slid a pale fingertip up the middle of her stomach to the rise of her sternum.

And Lucy was left confused and underwhelmed at the newest pet name and his uncharacteristic lack of offense. 

“I'm saying I'm a better shot than you.” She clarified briskly. 

Then she watched the claim set across his features as if she herself were the punchline all along, burning a bit more life into his tightening eyes.

“Care to lose another wager then?” Cooper asked in lieu of taking the bait this time, shoulders lax and rounded as he shifted up over her, hands coming down to restrain hers on either side of her head. “Cause ya owe me ten caps already.”

“Try me.” Lucy said without faltering, because she actually was very good at riflery and reading (books, and lies, and straight through his bullshit, at this point) and fighting and fucking and a great deal of other survival skills… And she was so incredibly tired of feeling the need to dumb herself down to fit in some box that no longer existed. Especially not now on the ground between Cooper’s arms. Not when he looked down at her like that. Like not even he had control anymore.

“Tell ya what,” he started, raising a hand to lift his hat from his head, dropping it to the ground just above her own. “If you're able to aim for shit by the time I'm done with ya, we'll call it even, right? Double or nothin’.” He nodded, lowering himself down close into her space, the torn tendrils of his duster tickling where they dragged along the bare skin inside her knees, rugged lips slowing inches over hers and Lucy’s tongue darted out across her own chapped skin in preparation. Because right from the very beginning of it all, Cooper had been nothing if not terribly honest and true to his word. 

“Deal.” Lucy accepted easily, victorious either way.

Then with a quick dip of his hand between them and the promising cling of his belt buckle, she could feel the hot, thick pressure of him pressing insistent against her entrance, still slick and ready and desperately waiting. 

Even so, he gave her a moment to adjust, eyes like searing supernovas where they watched her expression from above as he pressed in slow, deeper and deeper until he was buried fully beneath her skin and she'd claimed another piece of him as her own.

Then Lucy exhaled her relief. Pushed the sweetness of his consideration far from the front of her mind. Looked up at him with all the pain she could gather beneath her fingers with the curl of her dull nails into the backs of his hands. Drew her plush bottom lip between her teeth and smiled in that endearing way she knew pissed him off…

“Go on then cowboy.” She bid, pressing him in closer with her heels against the backs of his sturdy thighs. “Or are you all talk and no substance?” She added when he didn't move right away, sealing her own sentence beneath the tightening of his hold.

He answered with the dip of his head in fevered disagreement, the frenzied press of his mouth searing down against her own. Then he was moving, hips rolling forward in punishing strokes that dug deep enough into the core of her body to drive out any other thoughts but him, and yes, and please, and it was the last she spoke apart from his name for a good long while. 

Twenty caps, she reminded herself later that evening, carefully Radawayed and still sprawled shapeless against Cooper’s chest across the cooling sand. She couldn't let herself forget.

Because she knew damn well that he wouldn't.

[fuck-customers]

never before have i worked under a supervisor who got mad at me for trying to help with other tasks when i otherwise had nothing the fuck else to do. 👨‍🍳🌌

i’m doing temp work at a catering kitchen with a few other coworkers and my usual chef while our usual location under the same company is closed for reasons. it’s literally my third fucking day here. today they tagged me in to help with “hand-outs” for a buffet service—basically i just had to stand there and wait for a buffet runner to come back and ask for a salad. the salads were already on their shelf, ready to unwrap and pass out. i am straight up just standing there doing fuck all. my usual chef from the kitchen i’m typically at (i’ll call Chef) is helping oversee the buffet service as the on-duty chef, there’s another guy actually managing it and touching base with the organizers running the event (i’ll call Guy), and then there’s this hot line supervisor (i’ll call Bibi) and the two other temps helping her.

Bibi goes off to do god-knows-what, and again, i’m literally just standing there doing fuck all, so i step over to help Chef and the other temps arrange shit for the hot plates on buffet—garnishing pans, etc. we get their shit dressed, put it back in the hot holding boxes, ready to hand out to the runners. i’m keeping general track of where everything is because…i don’t know, i’m fucking paying attention and make sure i can snap into action at a moment’s notice if called to do so? mostly i’m just transferring pans back and forth for dressing and finding the odd places things have been stowed so it’s not that hard for me to follow when i’m the one being told to put shit back. Chef and Guy walk off to do something, i think to do with the organizers or the buffet attendants, making sure we have all our garnishes to match spec, etc.

Bibi comes back losing her mind because apparently there’s *another* event that got their hot entrees mixed up with ours? so i, trying to be helpful, pipe up to mention which hotbox the just-dressed pans were put into, because like. we don’t fucking want those being taken. and instead of something simple like “i’ve got this handled, thank you” and going back to her shit, she drops everything she’s fucking doing and starts giving me this, like, straight up almost two minute condescending LECTURE. talking to me like i’m fresh out of kindergarten and never stepped foot in a kitchen before instead of a fucking 30-year-old man who’s been in this industry for the better part of a decade, about how *she* can handle *her* hot side and *i* can handle *my* cold side and a bunch of circular bullshit reiterating on that point and by her tone and body language, not so subtly disparaging my intelligence as she did so. straight up i would have felt more highly respected if she just called me a slur to my face.

i’m staring at her like she’s sprouted a second head, but again, it’s my third day here and she has seniority, so i bite my tongue. like, what the fuck? you’ve got a guy here who’s willing to step up and do something other than stand there with one thumb up my ass and the other on my phone to fight the urge to take a nap for the goddamn hour and a half until we even open service. and you’re going to stand there and lecture me for it? like i’m a child?? with your whole chest??? you are 40 years old and acting like this. wow. i appreciate the refusal to adhere to “time to lean, time to clean” mentalities but jesus fucking christ. it’s like she was perfectly genetically engineered to irritate me specifically and decided to speedrun pissing me off.

anyway, Bibi fucks off with the hotbox holding the vast majority of our backups for the beef entree. (we would later run out and have to call her to fucking bring some back because all we had otherwise was chicken and salads.) brief interlude with the return of Guy and him touching base with the temps. we’re standing around on our phones and chatting bc there’s nothing to do; he asks where the other hotbox went, and i actually AM allowed to explain that Bibi came and took it for the other buffet, but we’ve got X number in this other one, because Guy is actually halfway understanding of how operating a fucking kitchen as a team works, i guess. they check and confirm. rinse and repeat with Chef, also a halfway reasonable person to work with. again, they walk off to do whatever.

Bibi returns. she’s looking for a garnish. i start to point it out. this time she just cuts me off to dive into *another* lecture. i’m fed up at this point so i just interject “i’m communicating where i put it because i’m the one who was told to put it away” and this time it turns into an almost three minute lecture about the same bullshit of her handling her shit and me handling mine. i am physically struggling to keep my cool at this point and biting my tongue to keep from getting into an argument with her. i have to step back and put the speed rack with my salads on it between the two of us so i don’t have to fucking look at her.

Bibi walks away as Chef comes back. he’s worked with me a year he knows the Look i get when someone’s crossed a line with me and it’s taking everything in me not to metaphorically spontaneously polymorph into a silverback gorilla. and he comes back over to the buffet arrangement.

Chef: “So, what do you think of Bibi?”

Me, making unblinking eye contact: 🫠 (the longest, slowest, deepest inhale i have ever taken in his presence)

Chef: “Yeah, that’s why she doesn’t work for me anymore.”

turns out he has repeatedly had to get HR involved because of her behavior/attitude, resulting in her getting in the hot seat almost every time they have to work together when she just needs to learn when to stop fucking talking to people like that, and Guy agreed that she’s constantly out of line damn near every fucking time they’ve had to work with her, and they’re one of the location’s powerhouse workers. the fact that she still has a job there at all is so far fucking beyond me.

again, it was my THIRD DAY at this location, my first time working buffet service there, my first time working with her, and i barely got through a full sentence trying to be helpful and expedite things before she decides to take it upon herself to waste her own time by trying to break years of “doing more than your job description instead of simply doing nothing when you have no active tasks” conditioning in the most condescending way i could have possibly conceived of.

i’m so fucking insulted i’m seriously considering telling Chef not to volunteer me for any more temp shifts over there until i’m not at risk of having to work with her, because if she doesn’t learn to talk to me like i’m a fellow fucking human being, i will end up losing my temper, and i will certainly be asked not to come back regardless. i’ll just have less choice in the matter.

i might have to figure something out for seasonal work anyway while things are getting squared back away at my usual site, but i’d rather take my chances with a second job than risk having to deal with this fucking bullshit, and i don’t think i’ve made the best first impression at this other site anyway.

Posted by admin Rodney

[glitterjuju]

Big Brat Energy

Summary: Sometimes it takes being a brat to teach Frank how you like being handled.

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: Smut. Degradation. Oral. Toxic relationships. Reader is mean. Weed smoking.

A/N: For all the brats who know that being a sub is a position of power.

As you reach across your bed to your nightstand, searching for your post-sex-spliff, a realization settles on your sweat damp skin.

You have to teach Frank Castle how you like being fucked.

The first time, right now, it's... pleasant. You don't want pleasant. If you wanted pleasant, you wouldn't have taken the time out of your busy schedule to seduce the fucking Punisher.

“Hi."

"Nice to meet ya.”

That’s what it’s like. Frank takes you out to eat despite you not wanting a “date” walks you back to your place and gives you some standard , mundane bullshit. Eats you out, doggy then missionary, kisses you all throughout, respectfully comes in his condom. To be fair, any normal woman would’ve been limp-legged from his performance, but you’re not the normal woman are you? It feels good, you come, multiple times as a matter-of-fact, but where’s the fire? The passion?

“I’m not your wife, Frank,” you spit. You hope it hurts him. He's built for it – his scar clad body all but proclaims that. Men after sex are vulnerable, nows the time to slip the knife between bone. “Don’t fuck me like her.”

Even he, a trained killer, can't hide the shock in those black eyes of his. It's shock and a glint of something else. You can't put a name on it and assume that it's anger. Good. He can take it out on you if he wants.

Only a small percentage of light from outside your window enters your room. It paints Frank hideously. Hard lines. Jagged nose. A small scrape cutting across his cheek. You can see the monster that terrorizes Hell’s Kitchen. You understand why so many are afraid of him.

He reaches for the lamp next to him. When his turns it on, the monster remains. “The fuck you just say to me?"

The joint magically appears after rummaging through your junky desk. Right there beneath all the ripped out magazine pics you hoard for inspiration. Indica after dick was a tried-and-true ritual regardless if the dick was bomb or not. Now all you needed was a light-

He smacks the preroll from your hand, you sigh. The spliff rolls somewhere in your junky room – forever lost amongst clothes and art supplies. You’d never see it again. Not unless you plan on cleaning which you didn't.

"Dude,” you say, “The fuck?”

“Why would you say that shit to me?”

“Because it's the truth. You're the punisher, I wanted to be punished,” you say. It's a flat tone. Deadpan. It's also a test, if Frank couldn't handle your nasty attitude, toxic and all, he didn't deserve you. And you would've been wrong about your prejudgement of him. Something tells you, he can handle you, he's just holding back. “Feels like I slept with Mr. Rogers and now I'm out of weed. I deserve a refund.”

You expect him to be angry over bringing up his dead wife and surprisingly, he's not. If his next barb back to your is any indicator, he's pissed about something else. His bare shoulders hunch and he’s quiet. Mute. Like he’s trying to put together a puzzle not knowing that you’d stolen some of its pieces.

“You weren’t talking all that shit when I was making you come.”

There it is. The criticism of his sex game irks him.

Aww, you hurt his precious male ego.

“So? That’s what a dick is supposed to do. You did your job. You want kudos because you did the goddamn bare minimum?”

“The bare minimum had you calling me daddy.”

“To be fair, I thought that moaning Mr. Roger would've been inappropriate,” you chuckle. “Dude, don't be so sensitive. Man the fuck up, marine.”

It's mean. Who cares. You're without weed now so he has to feel your wrath. It's not a surprise that Frank leaves after that. He grabs his clothes, puts them on in silence, and slams the door shut behind him.

Whatever.

You suck him off next to one of your graffiti paintings of him.

Did he really think he wouldn’t sleep with you again? Did he really believe he had that much restraint? You had him figured out before he could get the one-up on you.

He’s on punishment. After that last fuck session he’s not allowed to touch your pussy let alone fuck you. But goddammit if you weren’t going to swallow every inch of him.

Head bobbing along his dick, you take your hands and grab his own. You place them behind your head. It gives him the go ahead to control the pace. Let’s him fuck your mouth just how he wants.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, pushing your head further than he ever anticipates it going. If anyone catches you both on the rooftop of this random building, they were in for one helluva sight.

He looks down, watching as you go to town on him. It’s a work of art. A trained skill that he doesn’t want to know how you got so talented at. It’s wet. More spit than he’s used to. It coats him shaft to ass crack in smathers of sloppiness and drips into his pants that pool around his ankles.

“You got a mouth on you, girl, I’ll tell you that.“

Your throat convulses around him and you make a strangled noise. He immediately lets go of you, but that’s when he feels it. The slight pinch of your teeth along him. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to wake him the fuck up.

"Alright,” he says. “Alright. I hear ya.”

You choke on him and it’s an odd thing for him to get used to. But get used to it he will.

His head hits the back of the wall behind him when he sinks into the rhythm of your mouth. A rhythm that he commands you to follow. You know what’s to next. Can feel it as his hands tighten in your hair and his breathing deepens to hard grunts.

You moan around him, that sweet fucking mouth of yours vibrating against him tip to base and he loses it.

“Goddamn,” he grunts and you taste him in the back of your throat. He fills up your mouth pretty damn quick. You can’t contain all of it.

“Fucking fuck.”

He’s not a very poetic man.

You’re teary eyed and pouty lipped when you finish Tiny trickles of his come and your spit drip along your chin.

His eyes stare directly into yours. They’re lust filled. Hazy with it. Just a hunch, but you bet he probably can't see straight right now. You did your job and you did it well. Because of it, you own his ass. He didn’t even fucking know it yet.

You gather the remains of his juices on your fingers and make sure none of him is lost.

“Thank you, sir,” you’re panting. He’s fucked the wind out of your lungs and you’re proud of your work. As proud of it as you were the mural you painted that sits behind him like a halo. “May I get off my knees, please?”

Jesus Christ. He’s never been at the receiving end of this kind of shit. He and Maria had a good sex life, but it was not this. Never this.

“Sir?"

Your voice bring him back into his body.

"Yeah,” he says and you stand. You were kind enough to pull his pants up along the way. Beneath your dress, there’s harsh bruises on your knees from where cruel asphalt dug. Shit, he didn’t mean to hurt you. “You alrig-”

“Did I do a good job?” you ask. Your voice is gentle, but he knows. He’s not that daft. You don’t want kindness.

“Yeah, you did good. Real good.”

“I should’ve waited for you to tell me to swallow, but I couldn’t help myself.”

This was a test.

He wipes at the fucked-out tears on your cheeks. The next bit makes you smirk. “Don’t let it happen again.”

He kisses the top of your head and you guys get pastrami sandwiches after this. You talk about life as an art teacher. He tells you a few stories of his life in the Marines. You both realize how weird each other is.

He sleeps on just a mattress. No bedframe, nothing. Just a mattress soaked in y'alls combined sweat. It’s like fucking on concrete. It makes it nasty - makes it primal.

You’re face down, ass up, a tried and true position. But the way Frank is handling you has you biting sheets. You never bite sheets. What in the fuck.

He’s earned his way back into your pretty pussy after careful training.

You’re in his apartment this time. It used to be as cold as a prison cell. Now it’s a cold prison cell, but with little shit of yours in it. A sketchpad. You have a towel. He fucking has tampons beneath his sink. Even keeps your favorite frozen pizza in his freezer.

Neither of you mention what this thing has become. No waaaay.

It’s stupid for him to be involved with you: a stoner who idolizes him in graffiti across the city.

And you’re fucking a mass murderer.

It’s recipe for disaster. The bomb is going to detonate one of these days.

But he’s dicking you down so good now. You couldn’t let him go and let the next bitch prosper.

“Get it, girl,��� he grunts, slapping your ass. He does it again without giving you time to settle into the sting. “Get it.”

“You liking the view?"

"Did I say you could talk?” Your bratiness is rewarded with another hand to your ass. It’s much harder than the other two. You cry out, but you don’t tell him to stop. If you did, this whole operation would be shut. the fuck. down. “Shut up and take it.”

You toss your ass back on him and he meets you with forceful thrusts. There’s nowhere to run, no softness in how he handles you.

You give in.

“There you go, atta girl. Come on it.” He pushes you down by your spine, furthering your arch. That’s when he starts to give it to you nice and slow. He presses deep into a part of you that makes your eyes roll. “You take every inch of me so well and it’s all for you. Now come on it.”

He’s a fast learner.