#I KNOW THEY HAVE A MORE IMPORTANT THING TO DEAL WITH BUT

[cherie-doll]

LADS: When You Don't Give Them A Kiss

༻ Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb ༺

₊˚✧ Xavier loves his goodnight kisses. Won't be able to sleep right if you don't give them to him. Which is why he immediately frowned the moment you turned away from him after only saying good night. He had already leaned in closer for you to kiss him when you had cut him off. He's frozen in place, surprised at seeing you laying your head on your pillow without a care in the world; ready to drift off to sleep. But how can you do that to him? Surely you aren't forgetting something? I mean, it's custom by now, you do it every night. It's embedded in his brain to do this, so why are you suddenly being so forgetful. He hesitates but eventually moves in closer, nuzzling into your neck as his arms come around your waist. You complain that it's too hot for him to be doing this, but his response is something along the lines of "too bad". You forgot something important to him so now deal with the consequences; he'll be all up on you throughout the entire night.

₊ ೀ Zayne has a strict routine as a doctor. He wakes up early despite having prepared everything the night before, and as organized as he is, he cannot leave without first feeling your lips on his. It's literally his number one priority every morning before he leaves. He can go the day with forgetting his lunch, or even combing his hair properly, but can no longer wait until he gets to you later that night. Sometimes you'll sleep in and not wake up to give him a kiss and he'll try hanging back hoping you awaken before he has to walk out the door. He's sat at the edge of the bed, his work clothes on and everything ready but just clinging to the hope you remember. And no he won't wake you up, he isn't careless and he'll feel bad if he does. As a hunter, you need that rest and he prioritizes that before his selfish desires.

༄༢ུ࿓ Rafayel will actually do his job for once and go to an art exhibition that Thomas has arranged for him if you give him a kiss. Sort of like a good luck type of thing that makes him feel like things will be tolerable if he remembers the warmth of your lips on his. But this time he's stuck waiting by the front door, tapping his foot against the floor as he impatiently waits for you to return. He brings out his phone to reread the message you had sent, you had gone out and were expected to come back in time to accompany him to art exhibition. But it seems you're running late and Rafayel isn't in the mood to meet up with you there. You call him and are immediately greeted by his attitude. You can hear the slight whine in his voice when he asks why you're not there yet. Truthfully, you feel a little bad to hear him be so distressed. Perhaps you'll make it up to him later.

ᨳ᭬ Sylus isn't letting you off the hook so easily. You came up to him while he was relaxed to tell him you would be going out. As usual, you come up to his spot on the couch and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You tell him you'll be back later and he hums, acknowledging what you've said. But he furrows his brows, his smile disappearing when you just leave to grab your bag. He looks up from his phone to see you ready to take off when you catch his gaze. Oh, if he were more gullible he'd believe that "what's wrong?" face of yours. But he knows you better than that. You can sense the amusement in his voice when he asks "Aren't you forgetting something?". You cock your head trying to keep up the act a little longer before you give in. He had a smug look on his face, knew you wouldn't actually dare to leave his place before properly saying goodbye to him. Plus you would never hear the end of it if Luke and Kieran found out.

❦ Caleb would probably believe your act for a minute max before realizing you're teasing him. After not seeing each other for a couple of days due to your busy schedules, surely a hug isn't all he's getting... right? Your bright smile won't distract him from what he's really after. You feign confusion when you realize his grip on you isn't loosening as you try to pull away from his embrace. You call out his name, annoyed as you make more of an effort to push him away. You're secretly fighting a smile from forming when he only pulls you closer. You huff, telling him to stop teasing you, but he swears it's you who's doing the teasing. He sways side to side with you in his arms, you think about how ridiculous you must look and catch some people staring and hear them exclaim about what a cute couple you two are. Finally, when you no longer want to deprive him you stand as straight as you can to reach his face and give him a kiss. He lets you go after and looks at you, "was that really so hard to do?"

[joeldarling]

Sweet Girl - Oldman!Joel x F!reader (+18)

Summary: You’ve been watching Joel for a long time and when Maria puts you to take care of the horses, you discover that he’s watching you too.

Warnings: MINORS DNI! F!reader, porn without a bigger plot, AGE GAP (reader is in her early 20’s and Joel is 60), no reader description at all, fingering (f receiving), handjob in general. Not a long thing, sorry.

Word count: 1.1k

A/N: English it’s not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any typos. At this point I feel like oldman!Joel and I have a long term thing and I love it. You can find more spicy and oldman!Joel in my masterlist as well. Feedbacks are utterly appreciated and my requests are always open. 💌

You have known him long enough to realize that Joel Miller is definitely not the man for you. Your parents disapproved of how rude he was to everyone except his own daughter, how he had arrived years later in Jackson and seemed to own absolutely everything with his head held high and not even tolerating minuscule offenses that the rest of the population there would have found harmless.

You were born and raised in Jackson, long twenty years where you never knew anything in the world beyond the fragile walls of the apocalypse. Your father didn't let you go on patrol with the others, and as an important figure on the council, he had enough authority to spare you from that… but you wanted more. You wanted to know the world or what was left of it, you wanted to face something to feel worthy of such protection when certainly there were people out there who didn't have the same privileges.

Maybe that's why you didn't refuse when Maria offered you a temporary job in the stables, promising that she would soon transfer you to the dilapidated and moth-eaten library they were trying to preserve, even without any regular readers. Maybe that's why you didn't respond sharply when Joel arrived with his horse, asking you to help him, and then started returning every single day.

You started wearing your best clothes, which wasn't much, especially there, and started caring more about your appearance, even though no one was there to notice how eager you seemed to attend a manual labor job that involved dealing with animal dirt and vaccinating them, something Joel taught you very well. He would gently take your hand, his rough skin against yours in a delicate way, you could feel his calluses and it sent waves of heat all over your body.

You had never touched yourself before, your father used to say it was a sin, but you knew that not even he believed in God, after all, wouldn't He have spared everyone years ago when it all started?

Then, you discovered the pleasures of knowing your body and felt slightly dirty, felt that thinking about Joel while reaching your orgasm was almost like a mistake, but his smell, something between whiskey and outdated men's cologne, his deep voice and everything else... drove you crazy.

You didn't stop him when he cornered you against the wall for the first time; he was even older than your own father. Joel's suffocating presence soaked your worn cotton panties and he knew it. He had been watching you from afar since the moment you walked into Tipsy Bison months ago, wearing a short dress, and despite feeling immensely guilty, he didn't let it go to his head. Joel was grateful that your father was a big idiot for protecting you from all those stupid men who stared at you like you were a piece of meat in the city. Including himself.

When he found out you were in the stables, he couldn't contain himself. He claimed he would just admire from afar, but the solicitous way you treated him... Joel wasn't made of iron, he was the worst kind of man. And even with his age and being considerably attractive, he had never dared to give in to anyone since he arrived in Jackson.

Not until you.

He pressed his body against the wall, staring into your big eyes that blinked slowly, completely hungry for you. Joel attacked your lips and didn't even care about the possibility of Tommy or Maria walking in at any moment, he needed to devour you, and he did. He pushed up your yellowish-white lace dress, bringing his rough hands to your pussy over your panties, groaning against your lips as he realized you were already wet for him. Joel deduced that you were a virgin and wouldn't dare to be such an asshole, no matter how much he wanted to mark you as his own. He massaged your clit with his fingers slowly and pulled his face away from your mouth just to capture your reaction; you looked like you were about to melt right there, just for him.

Joel groaned undeniably, his own cock hardening against his dark, slightly tight jeans, begging for some kind of relief, fantasizing about fucking you right there and making you moan loud enough for everyone in Jackson to know who you would belong to very soon. Despite being in his sixties, Joel still had a lot of stamina; you awakened his wildest side.

“Such a good girl that ya’ are… Already wet for your old man, hm?” His voice was completely hoarse, his breathing ragged as you felt your own body tremble with the pleasure granted by his brief touch. Joel continued, as if all that mattered was the fact that you were so vulnerable to him. And maybe it was. “Gonna make ya’ cum for me, bet your virgin tight cunt wont’t hold much longer and then… Sweet girl, I’ll find a way to be in the middle of your legs paintin’ ya’ white with my milk.”

“Joel… Please…” You moaned, sighing as his touch seemed to be in every single one of your bones at the same time, his fingers moving in circles on your pussy while his own mouth was busy kissing your lips, neck, and exposed collarbone. You knew you'd have problems later, but you didn't even care when he made a point of marking your neck with a hickey.

“Cum for me, darlin’. Lemme see this pretty pussy of yours pulsin’ just for me.” He asked, and you seemed to hesitate as you realized you were the only one receiving something, but he looked deep into your eyes and shook his head no. “Nuh-uh, later, sweetheart.”

And then, you felt the peak, but Joel didn't stop like you always did when you felt yourself getting there. Your eyes rolled freely in their sockets and you felt your legs tremble. He was still there, moving his fingers and giving you every extra instant of pleasure. When he finally pulled his fingers away from your pussy, Joel brought them to his own lips, tasting you, his eyes still dark and his own cock clearly hard and needing attention. He would never be satisfied with just a little of you.

“There you go, good girl. So sweet for me.” He held you more carefully, bringing one hand to your hair and pushing the graying curls back in an attempt to look minimally presentable, and then looked deep into your eyes and said: “On your knees, honey. I’mma teach ya’ a lesson and then take care of ya’.”

And you did, you obeyed him. How could you not?

[redhoodfucker69]

okay I used to work for a pharmaceutical manager. basically it was a service that directly managed pharmaceutical benefits for insurance companies and also had its own mail order pharmacy. I was a call center representative and I won't get into it but I basically had a mental breakdown and completely ghosted before I got fired. that's beside the point. (people are seriously not meant to be expected to take 90 calls in a fucking eight hour shift. that's like five minutes per call and half of the time it takes five minutes just to get through the fucking HIPAA verification).

in any case. I was the first level customer service agent. the one you talked to so I could figure out what was needed, if I could resolve it, and what dedicated team was necessary to resolve it if I couldn't. dealing with both insurance and pharmacy at the same time meant I needed to be able to answer a lot of difficult questions, especially since we also had a specialty pharmacy on the side that dealt with more complex and highly expensive medications. sometimes it ended up I couldn't answer any questions at all, nor could my company, and I had to waste thirty fucking minutes figuring out who in their actual insurance company I needed to get on the line with so they could talk to them. nightmare job. in any case, the majority of questions and tasks I fielded had to do with the mail order pharmacy.

we tended to use USPS as our dedicated mail company except in special situations like overnight orders or specific refrigerated medications. even without a pharmacy tech license, I was qualified to place those orders. most of our callers were the elderly, because older folks prefer using the phone and talking to people and don't like ordering via automated system. (i don't blame them, when I refill prescriptions, I just jump directly to speak to representative bc who the hell has time to fight with a system that may or may not refill the wrong thing when I can talk to a person, and those systems OFTEN fill the wrong thing, I know from experience, especially when you're on the same medication but adjusting dosages and there's like three separate dosages with qualified refills). so, I would refill. a lot. of medications for old folks.

I cannot express to you based on my experience the absolute importance of having USPS functioning as it should and not privatized. many of these rural communities have no local pharmacy, are miles away from big towns that have them, and are entirely dependent on mail order pharmacies that refill medications every three months on a schedule. there are so many elderly folks stranded out there that have never lived in a big city in their life and rely on their kids living in larger towns to take them to doctor appointments, or dedicated caretakers, or just carpooling. they'll stack all of their appointments for the same day and all hop in a car to go to the city. they need these mail order pharmacies.

mail order pharmacies typically rely on USPS for a reason: privatized parcel delivery companies will often not serve to tiny rural communities. if you're living on a dirt road, you're shit out of luck for delivery. sure, there's some small towns with a physical location, or close enough to a town with a physical location they'll deliver. but not super often, and it also depends. if there's no physical location, but they still do in town deliveries, they'll often refuse to drop off a package that requires a signature due to the cost of whatever is in the package. why? because they don't want to constantly play signature tag with someone where there isn't an immediately available office to go back to with the package. and a lot of these packages require signatures because medications are fucking expensive. so if you want to get your medicine, you gotta drive 30 minutes to over an hour to wherever the hell your package is anyways.

that's where USPS comes in. because it's not for profit, it delivers everywhere, and even if a town doesn't have a post office bc it's got such a tiny population, the next town over will, and they'll deliver.

I cannot express this enough. privatizing the USPS will absolutely fucking kill these small communities, and may actually kill some people before the communities die off. I cannot tell you how many times I had to field calls where they only called once they ran out of maintenance medications waiting on a new batch, even though there's a fairly large buffer zone when ordering directly from the pharmacy where you should have a handful of days, up to a week, leftover when your new medication comes in. they will straight up wait for it to run out before they make the call. combine that with a chaotic post office and it will get out of control fast. they're stubborn and don't want to call their kids or caretakers to go pick up an emergency supply from the nearest pharmacy. I had to sweet talk a LOT of old folks into getting an emergency supply, and not every agent will do that, and even if they do, they won't always be successful. I wasn't always successful. one time I had to talk an old lady into getting an emergency supply for her anti rejection medication for her fucking liver transplant. I wasn't even required nor trained to tell people emergency supplies were something they could get when on the mail order program. in fact, I was told in training I could only say yes when asked the question, and I wasn't supposed to bring it up, bc insurance companies are fucking ghouls that would rather people die than spend a little extra money. many agents will go by the book and NOT bring it up. I didn't want someone's death on my hands, so I made sure to always tell them.

privatizing the postal service will ACTUALLY kill people, and postal workers know this. they talk to people on their regular routes. they get to know them. they see them every day. they're even more chatty with retirees and old folks because they're someone familiar to talk to and a lot of old folks are isolated. they know DAMN well not only their jobs are on the line, but people's lives are at stake here. they know the ins and outs of politics and cost saving measures with privatized parcel delivery services like FedEx and UPS. they know privatizing the post office will inevitably end in some of those old folks they see almost every day and chat to dying and them losing their jobs and benefits. I guarantee you a lot of the people getting laid off in the first round will be the older drivers that have been with the post office for 20, 30 years now, running the same routes and watching the same folks grow old. the drivers know that too.

so. yeah. this is gonna actually kill people. don't let the post office get privatized. if you see these protests in your city, swing by. you can protest with them, or if you don't have time, drop off unopened cases of bottled water. it's getting hot out here. keep your postal workers hydrated. maybe drop off some donuts for blood sugar. support unions.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Summary: The reader is in a long-term relationship with Matt Murdock (Daredevil) but what happens when he keeps leaving you to deal with things alone? What if someone else is there for you? What if that someone else is Frank Castle?

Matt left you alone. Fucking alone. Again.

Anger flowed through your veins, but you shook it off the best you could. You knew this would happen, you told him that it would happen. He tried to reassure you that he would never leave you alone in a time of need but look at where you are. Tears running down your cheeks, throat threatening to close the more you fight the tears as you watch him leave because he was needed elsewhere. Somewhere more important. What was more important than you? You tried to think of what went wrong? After two years together, when did he stop caring?

You wiped your face more roughly than you'd planned just as there was a knock at your door. Could it be Matt? Why would he be knocking and not just using his key? What did he need? You knew he wouldn't apologize for leaving you alone, he never did. With heavy feet you go to the door and come face to face with Frank standing awkwardly at your doorway.

"Frankie?" You asked confused. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" You asked more frantic as you open the door wider to let him in. "No not hurt or nothing doll, came to check on you." He explained as he walked into your apartment, turning around to lock the door behind him out of habit. He hid the fact that you had accidently called him during your crying sessions minutes before he knocked on the front door.

"Check on me? What do you mean?" His heart sank as he truly takes in your form. "Doll no offense or anything but you're looking rough. Did something happen? Did someone happen cuz I'll handle it." You clenched your jaw as you listened to how concerned he sounded, how can Frank, a friend, care about you so much more than the man that was supposed to be your boyfriend?

You zoned out as you tried to stop yourself from crying even more, you hadn't noticed that Frank walked over to you until you were wrapped in his arms and crying into his chest. Frank was aware that Matt was no Romeo, but he had no idea that it was getting this bad again. "Oh doll" He mumbles as he rubs your back softly, "It'll be okay, the two of you will work it out no problem ya know? You always have."

He felt you shake your head against him before you pulled away slightly to look at him. His heart shattered seeing your eyes full of tears and cheeks flushed and stained from the tears that had fallen. "You don't get it Frankie, he...he just doesn't care. I don't know when it went bad or what I did to make everything go so bad! You care more than he ever did, and he's supposed to be my boyfriend?" A bitter laugh falls from you as you shake your head in disbelief. "I can't take it anymore; I can't be in such a loveless relationship anymore."

His eyebrows furrow hearing your rant, "Doll I'm sure it's not like that-" He tried to reassure you before you cut him off. "Frank I've seen how you love. You move mountains for who you love, and I don't think he'd walk across the fucking street for me." Your own heart broke hearing yourself vocalize the truth of Matt never fighting for you. He fought hard for so many things, so many other people but there was never a time where he fought for you. The realization hit you like a wave; you deserve to have someone that would fight for you, that would burn the world to save you.

Frank freezes hearing you say that. Rage fills his entire being quickly at the idea of you not being treated as you deserve. He doesn't know what he can do to help but he knows he can't just let you stay here any longer. "Go get your jacket."

A/n: should I start a Frank Castle tag list like I did for Logan howlett??? Lmk! Also if you enjoy my work PLEASE let me know! Either like, reblog or comment it means the world <3

[justmeinadaze]

Curiosity (Part 5)(Eddie X Plus Size Y/N)

Warnings: Younger (Early 20s) Daddy Eddie & Older (early 30s) Plus Size Sub Fem Y/N, SMUT, light dirty talk, light spanking, etc.

ANGST *lays in a bed of angst with a cat named angst who does angsty things*

Consequences of last chapter rear their head here. Reader makes a friend and Eddie gets jealous, Y/N perceives things online and becomes jelly as well. Y/N runs into Steve at a bar dealing with a bad abusive date, both get hurt but Daddy comes to the rescue (so slight domestic abuse trigger) , Eddie mentions his abusive upbringing (brief near the end), slight cliffhanger ending (I've done worse). I think that's it.

Word Count: 5610

Series here/Donate to Me <3

“Hey, pretty girl. How did you sleep?”, Eddie asked from his chair at his desk when he heard you groan awake. 

“Good. How about you? How long have you been up?” 

“Not long, sweetheart.”, he murmurs with that morning husk that makes you swoon. “Can you come sit by me for a moment? I want to show you something.”

Softly smiling, you shuffle your feet over to the chair beside him and place your legs over his. While you were still in your panties and a t-shirt, he had pulled on a pair of shorts and loose tank top that showed off all his delicious muscles that made you want to run your hands along his skin. 

“So, I know I’ve told you before that people can schedule sessions with me on this website but I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I can schedule some to.”

“I don’t think so, baby, but I imagine you don’t schedule many.”

Eddie chuckles a bit as he nods. 

“Yeah, you’re right. I actually think I’ve only ever done it a handful of times but I’ve done it most with Mill. Like I told you, ya know, I really enjoy talking to her and she’s incredibly kind.” The metalhead pauses as his eyes shift towards you. “I know she would never do anything to intentionally hurt me and I’m sure that she’s always been honest with me. In this town, it’s not something I’m used to.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat you softly smile and caress his cheek with your finger.

“Steve mentioned something that I hadn’t noticed but now they kind of stand out to me that I can’t get out of my head. You both use the same phrases, same style of speech… Her name is CurvyCorporateMillennial and you ARE a curvy corporate millennial…”

“I mean…a lot of millennials…are in corporate and—and a lot of us talk the same…” His chocolate eyes flashed through so many different emotions before landing on one you recognized; anger. “Eddie—”

“No, no, Y/N. You are absolutely right. Since you two have so much in common I’ve been dying for you two to meet. I logged in and set up a time; I just have to approve it. Now, whenever I approve it, it sends a notification to the persons phone pretty quickly.” 

As soon as his finger clicks the mouse, a few seconds pass and out of the corner of your eye you see your phone on the night stand light up with a soft and subtle ding.

“You know what, I don’t want to miss her. Let me schedule a few of these and of course I can cancel them later.”

Five more clicks, five more dings. 

“You should get that. May be important.”

“Eddie, I—”

“Get. Your. Phone.”, he growls. Your head hangs as you rise to your feet and do what he says. “Show it to me.”

Your thumb shakes as the tears began to fall and you unlock your phone to show him your screen. The image of him hugging you from behind as he kisses your cheek greets him…along with six notifications for an OnlyFans session with EddietheBanished.

“Jesus, I’m so stupid.”

“No! No, Eddie, I swear I wasn’t…I was borrowing my roommate’s laptop and-and-and your profile came up. I got curious so I created a profile just to see what you did and then…I told myself I would never go on their again but then you messaged me and we talked—”

“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?!”

“I tried! I was going to tell you after your concert but then you made a move and we—”

“I see, so this is my fault?”

“No!”

“So you didn’t come that night to see me play even though I had been inviting you for months. You came to tell me that you were catfishing me while you watched me jerk off…Wait a minute. That’s how you knew about the Daddy thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes but—”

“Fuck me…”, he sighs as he stands and you hastily follow.

“I called you Daddy that night because it felt right. I made love to you because I liked you. I’m with you now because I like you.”

“Why keep pretending then?! So that you can manipulate me?! I told Mill reasons why I was angry with you and she guided me. It was just you fucking with me!”

“No, Eddie, I swear that was never my intention! I should have told you sooner but I was so scared of losing you and it just got so hard to say anything the longer it went on.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t change the fact that you should have told me. I feel…I feel like our entire relationship was a lie.”

Your heart shatters as you slowly backed away from him and your emotional wall flew up. 

“Was? Are…are we still not in one?”

The metalhead’s eyebrows furrowed at the crack in your tone as he pushed down the notion to collect you in his arms and hold you to his chest to comfort you. 

“I don’t know, Y/N. I always thought you were the perfect girl for me. Everything about you fit to me like a glove and I asked myself constantly what an angel like you is doing with an idiot like me. I guess I know now, huh?”

“Eddie…”

“I think…I think maybe we should take a break.”

Nodding, you collected your clothes and quickly put them on before scurrying as fast as you could out the front door. 

###################

You told yourself constantly with every year that passed you were saving your vacation time for when you desperately needed it. You knew there would be a day where you needed an escape; where on a pain scale, life hit you with a 10 and you would need that time away. 

This was your 10. 

You spent 2 weeks at home, sobbing as you processed everything that happened. You went through his socials but that was pointless because he rarely posted in general but you were able to snag a few crumbs when his friends tagged him in things. 

One night he went to a party at a friend’s house and his name attached to a photo of him chugging back liquid in a red cup. Another had you fuming when some girl close to his own age had her hand on his thigh while he laid his head on her shoulder. 

You wished you could do something to make him equally as jealous as the feeling of shame washed over you. He had every reason to be upset with you; you had lied to him but that didn’t change the fact that it hurt you watching him let loose while you were in your apartment falling apart. 

What surprised you the most was the headspace. 

The little girl headspace within kept kicking at your brain, desperate for her Daddy to come hold her in his arms and make her feel better especially at night when everything was quiet.

That first Monday back, you decided you were going to walk into your building with your head held high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of breaking your heart. Armed with a new pink blouse and lethal hairdo, you sauntered up to the double doors, ready to start over and face the day. 

“Fuck! I’m so sorry!”, a soft voice exclaims after bumping into you a bit roughly. 

“It’s ok. No harm done.”

The shoes in front of you seemed expensive with their sleek black shine but as your eyes continued to travel upwards, you realized he was anything but with slacks that seemed a bit too big for him and a shirt that was tucked into his belt a bit haphazardly. When your eyes found his, the man in front of you sighed in what sounded like relief as he reached out to shake your hand. 

“Hey. I’m, um, Ren. R-E-N like in Footloose.”

“I love that movie.”

“Yeah, so did my dad. Unfortunately, I didn’t get Keven Bacon’s moves but…” As he chuckles, you smile as you take in his handsome face and beautiful green eyes. He had to be about your age if not a little bit younger. “What about you? What’s, uh, what’s your name?”

“Y/N. Sorry, my name is Y/N. I was just on, um, on vacation so my brain is still catching up.”

“I understand. This is my first day here so I’m not as smooth as I normally am.”

“Why do I doubt that?”, you grin making his smile widen. 

“Maybe, you can show me around later and I can prove myself.”

“So are we all just hoping the elevator psychically knows to come down?”, a firm tone grunts in frustration before stomping forward to push the up button allowing you to come face to face with Eddie. 

Even with his hair pulled back you could tell it was a mess with the frizz struggling to be tamed. Utilizing every loophole in the handbook, he would normally at least show up in some nice jeans and a button up shirt but today his pants were torn at the knee while the polo shirt he had one was chaotically hanging off parts his waist. His eyes once full of life and a gentleness were now hollow as if he hadn’t slept in days. 

Silently, you all entered the elevator with you between these two men but your heart pulled towards one more than the other as you had to use all your energy to not loop your hand through the metalhead’s. 

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N, and again I’m sorry for bumping into you.”, he grins as you three step off on the same floor.

“No worries.”

Stalking towards his desk, Eddie slams everything down making the people around him including you, jump. 

“Edward Munson!”

“Angela.”

Your manager slid back in her chair at his gruff tone as you both visually took him in. 

“Everything alright, Eddie?”

“Everything’s fine.”, he grumbled before flopping down in his chair. 

Quietly, you do the same as your head hangs. 

“Do you want me to move somewhere else?”, you whisper as your bottom lip trembles. 

“No. Just don’t fucking talk to me.”

Nodding, you hug your arms around yourself as you set up your computer but you were unable to make it long before you hastily got up and disappeared into an empty office. The door suddenly opened startling you but as you tried to quickly dry your eyes, arms circled around you and pulled you into a broad chest that was laced with an overpowering smell of cigarettes. 

“It’s ok…everything’s ok…”, Eddie cooed as his large palm pet the back of your head. “I’m sorry I snapped at you… This has been incredibly hard for me. I…I miss you so much, Y/N.”

“I miss you to. C-Can we talk? After work maybe?”

The man sighs as he lets you go and lightly pushes you away. 

“I, um, I don’t think I’m ready for that right now. You really hurt me. Add into the fact that you’ve been on vacation for 2 weeks doing God knows what—”

“Excuse me? You think after what happened, I took two weeks off to ‘relax’?”, you scoff. “Jesus, you must think so little of me especially after you’re the one that’s been partying with girls on his lap!”

Chocolate eyes glare your way before a big sarcastic smirk paints his lips. 

“I see someone’s been stalking my social media. Not uncommon for you, is it, little girl? Hiding in the shadows as you watch me. Well, now you have no reason to be fucking jealous since you have that new blond asshole you were flirting with in the elevator.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh, please! If I wasn’t there you’d probably fuck him against the wall.”

“Sure, why not?! I can finally fuck a real man then some pathetic little boy like you!” You blink as your jaw drops, surprising even yourself at your own words. “E-Eddie…I’m sorry…I didn’t—”

Backing slowly away from you, the metalhead throws you a sarcastic smirk before opening the door to leave and slamming it behind him. 

#################

Work had become more excruciating and long since you didn’t have Eddie to talk to. While he sat beside you, he kept his headphones on with music blaring as he scribbled things down in his notebook until he got a call.

Ren was indeed a new hire at your company and he had begun filling the silence during your lunches, talking to you about everything you both could think of. He genuinely was a sweet man and you enjoyed having conversations with him but he never gave you those warm feelings the metalhead gave you. 

“No but that early 2000s music was always a bop.”, he laughs as he continues to walk you to your car after work. 

“A bop?”, you giggle.

“Yeah, I mean, isn’t that what the kids are saying?”

“No, Ren, I don’t think the kids are saying bop.”

“Well shit. I guess I’m not cool anymore.”

“That implies you were ever cool in the first place.”, you tease as you dig into your purse for your keys. 

“Oooo she’s sassy. I like that.” As you laugh harder, the man in front of you cranes his neck to softly kiss your lips. “I, um, I like you to.” You swallow as your breathing stutters and you place a hand on his chest to lightly push him back. “I’m sorry…was that too forward?”

“Um…a little…I just…I just got out of a…or we’re on a break…I don’t know…”

“Must still be raw if you’re about to cry, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You don’t talk about…which would make sense. Fuck, I’m an idiot.”, Ren scolds himself making you spit out a laugh through the pain as you wipe the tear that had fallen. 

“I don’t mean to laugh, you’re just really sweet.”

The sound of a car door cracking shut had you both jumping back but only you noticed whose van it belonged to as it sped out of the parking lot. 

***

“Y/N, sweetie, come on. Everything will be alright.”, you roommate tries to console at the bar you both were spending time in. 

Kelsey had seen you slowly falling apart, suggesting a girl’s night out and after a lot of playfully teasing you finally relented. 

“I miss him, Kels. Eddie has every right to be angry with me but I don’t know what to do to make things right. If anything, I’m making things worse by defensively belittling him and kissing some guy in the parking lot we both work at.”

“I thought you said that Ren guy kissed you.”

“He did but…”

“Baby, maybe he just needs some time, ya know? Whenever he’s ready he’ll reach out. You two were perfect together and there’s no way he can just let you go.”

Smiling, you give her a big hug, looping your arm through hers as you walk with her to the bathroom. There was a wall separating entrances between the men and women restrooms but even from the other side and over the music you could still hear someone yelling loudly.

“Do you think I’m that fucking stupid?! I just watched you grind against some girl out on the dance floor!!”

“Honey, we were just dancing while I was waiting for you. It meant nothing—”

You heard a loud thud and rounded the area to see a tall, muscular man pushing Steve against the wall with his hand on his chest keeping him in place as he pointed his fat finger in the boy’s face. 

“I told you to wait for me outside.”, he seethed through gritted teeth. “You don’t fucking listen.”

Your heart broke as Eddie’s friend folded into himself and his eyes glazed over. 

He felt unsafe.

“Hey. I said hey!”, you screamed stepping towards them. “Get your hands off him!”

“Stay out of this, little girl. It doesn’t concern you.”

“It does when you put your hands on my friend. Now I’ll only say it one more time, get away from him.”

The man chuckled sinisterly as he turned away from the boy in front of him to focus on you. 

“Or what, huh? What’s a little whore like you going to do about it?” When all you do is glare up at him, he laughs a bit harder. “Didn’t think so. Mind your fucking business or I swear to God I will put you back in your goddamn place.”

Without fully thinking it through you grabbed the nearest bottle and smashed it over his head causing him to howl in pain before falling blinding against the doorway. Reaching for Steve’s hand, he takes it without question but unfortunately you both are stopped when he catches the boy’s wrist and throws him behind him. 

An open palm smacks your face and you stumble to the dirty floor as you hear the other boy shout your name. He grunts as Steve tries to fight this much bigger man but it’s no use as he’s punched hard in the mouth and collapses in front of you. 

Boots rush past you both and the sound of heels soon follow. 

“Y/N, oh my God! Are you alright?!”, Kelsey asks as she lifts you into a sitting position. 

“Yeah…I’m…Steve?” Hearing blood spit to the floor, you turn to find the man himself trying to stand. “Are you ok?”

“Help me up, please.”, he murmurs sullenly and you both do what he asks. 

Your head turns every which way trying to find your assailant before being met with the back of long hair and shoulders under leather jacket as the metalhead continuously pulls his fist back to punch the man underneath him. 

Cautiously, your palm reaches out to touch his shoulder causing his bloody fist to hover in the air. 

“Come on, Eddie.”, you whisper, your eyes closing as he punches him again. “Steve needs you.” Another punch. “I need you.” 

Clutching his collar in one hand and a broken beer bottle with the other, he held the glass to the man’s throat as he growled deeply, “If ever come near Steve again or I see your fucking face, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“Y-Yeah, man.”, the guy mumbled. 

Rising to his feet, he takes yours and his best friend’s hand to guide you out into the parking lot towards his van. 

###################

You tenderly ran your nails through Steve’s hair as his head rested on your shoulder while the two of you waited on Eddie’s couch. After telling Kelsey you were alright and it was ok for her to go home, you placed yourself beside him and he didn’t hesitate to curl up against you the whole ride home.

“Thank you for trying to protect me.”

“Don’t mention it.”, the pretty boy gravelly replies as his voice cracks. “Thank you for trying to protect ME.”

Silently, the metalhead stalked back into his living room and the chain on his pants clanked against the hard wood of the coffee table as he took a seat on it in front of you both with a first aid kit in his grasp. 

When he placed the cotton ball of antiseptic on the cut on his lip, Steve winced causing Eddie to freeze for a moment before moving forward once again. 

“What…were you…doing there?”, Steve asked as the long-haired boy’s eyes narrow with focus.

“You said he was three hours late. I wanted to make sure you were ok.” 

Steve nodded as his gaze shifted into the void and another tear fell down his cheek. 

“I don’t deserve you, man.”

“Yes, you do.”, you coo as you try to move some of his hair away from his face. “You deserve to be loved and respected.”

He broke then; allowing himself to fully let go as you held him to your chest. When he fell asleep on your lap, Eddie readjusted him so you could slide out and replace your thighs with a pillow under his head while the other boy covered him with a blanket. 

After leading you to his bedroom, he closed the door and followed you with his eyes as you took a seat in his desk chair. A small smirk painted your features when you felt ringed fingers brush against your arm as he took hold of the armrest and wheeled you over his mattress where he took a seat in front of you. 

Reaching back into his kit, he took something in his hand and after a satisfying crack, shook it with an obnoxious amount of force that had you giggling as he softly smiled.

“Ah fuck, that’s cold.”, you gasp when he places what you now realize to be an ice pack on your cheek. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, that’s the idea.”

Your fingers reach out to lightly push his shoulder but as you pull your arm back, he catches your wrist and wheels you closer to his chest as he places his lips on yours. 

“I probably would have killed that guy if you hadn’t stopped me.”, he whispered, his forehead pressed to your own. “Thank you for trying to protect him.”

“Of course. No one deserves to be treated like that.”, you murmur and Eddie nods. “I saw him shrink…in his eyes…he was so scared—” The metalhead’s jaw clenched as he heavily exhaled through his nose in anger. “Baby—”

“I can’t. I can’t do that, Y/N. I’m too… just no.”

“Too what, Eddie? Tell me.” He rises to his feet and you do that same trying to block his path. “You can be mad at me…you SHOULD be mad at me. I deserve it. I…I never meant for it to go this far and I swear, baby, every part of our relationship was real. I kissed you at the bar because I liked you. I made love to you because I liked you. I called you Daddy because it felt right—”

“And Ren? Does it feel right calling him Daddy?” You blink in surprise at his comment. “God, I wanted to hit that fucker when I saw him kiss you but I guess you got your wish. A real man your own age who’s going to fuck you better than me.”

“Eddie…I didn’t…I only said that because you hurt my feelings—”

“Oh? Forgive me. I thought after my girlfriend pretended to be another woman online to spy on me, I would be allowed to be angry and say some shit. Especially after you disappeared for 2 weeks doing—”

“NOTHING! I swear, Eddie, and I’ve never done anything Ren. He kissed me and I pushed him away.”

“Do you have any idea what that was like for me? I always feel like some man who’s better for you will come along and whisk you away and of course after all this bullshit, here comes the ‘perfect’ man—”

“You’re one to talk! You had some…skinny, young girl in your lap with your friends…how do you think that made me feel?!”

“Bad I hope. ‘Bout as bad as I felt when I found out you fucking lied to me!”

“Jesus, Eddie, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m SORRY! What do I have to do?! Get on my knees and beg for forgiveness?! I will if you want me to. I’ll do whatever you want but if you don’t care about me anymore then you need to stay away from me because it hurts!”, you shout as you fold your arms. “I miss talking to you and hearing you laugh. I miss watching you focus as you play your guitar at the edge of the bed. I miss feeling your fingers brush through my hair while I sleep and the way your lips kiss me in the morning.

I miss your passion when you talk about anything but especially your game that I still don’t understand but I’m trying to. More than anything I miss feeling safe… every time you hugged me I knew nothing could hurt me. That’s why it fucking kills me that I hurt you. Those two weeks I was off, I didn’t do anything, Eddie because I was breaking in my apartment. I was being a coward…because I was too afraid…to face what I had done and how it affected you…To see how much I had hurt…the man I love.”

His palm shot out to grab your cheek and bring your lips to his as his other hand pulled you closer pressing to the small of your back. 

All rational and reason left the room as he spun you around and guided you to his bed with him falling on top of you. Your mouths barely detach except for the occasional breath but you don’t care. It was like you were both giving each other the oxygen you needed and he hummed occasionally into each kiss causing a little moan to leave your chest.

Reaching over his shoulder, Eddie struggled to take off his shirt, grunting in frustration till you helped him and he did the same for you. As soon as your skirt was freed from your hips and your panties were on the floor, he didn’t waste a moment, diving between your legs as his wide flat tongue licked between your folds to your clit and repeating the process at a vigorous pace.

“Fuck, Daddy.”

Without pulling away, you heard the loud clinking of his belt as he struggled to pull down his pants and free his cock from his denim confinement. Finally tilting back, your body shuttered with pleasure as he spit directly into your pussy lips before taking a hold of you and spinning you till you were straddling him.

Your brain hesitated slightly with this being your first time on top but when you realized all of your weight was on your knees against the mattress, you breathed a sigh of relief. With one hand gripping the back of your neck, he utilized the other to guide himself inside you and you welcomed the stretch as he thrust his hips roughly against yours. 

You could feel his jaw open against your cheek as his breath warmed your skin with every pant and his arms held you tightly to his chest.

“L-Lay flat, Y/N.”, he breathed but when you don’t respond or do what he said, his large palm spanked your behind causing your head to lift so your nose was touching the tip of his. “Lay your body flat against me.”

“B-But…but I’m—”

As you protest, he spanks you again. 

“I—fuck—Daddy needs to feel your body, baby.”

Nodding, you kiss his lips before fully collapsing against him as his arms wrap tighter around you and his fingers tangle in your hair. He slowed his pace but not his intensity as Eddie slammed his dick so deep inside you, he had you seeing stars.

You head fell beside his as your nose inhaled his smell that you missed and your lips gently kissed his neck making him mewl as he found his rhythm once more. 

“Just like that, Daddy, fuck.”

As the coil in your belly snapped, Eddie soon followed, pumping his release deep within your walls. 

You laid like that for a while before you rolled to the side but he didn’t allow you to go far, circling his arm around your hip and bringing you back to his chest. 

“I don’t want to let you go…because when I do…reality will set in and I’ll remember how upset I am with you.”

Tears stung your eyes as you intertwined your fingers with his and kissed the back of his hand. 

“I understand…”

“I wish I could talk to her…Mill…ask her for advice.”

“You can always talk to her…if that’s easier for you…she still has an account. I…she kept it just in case you—you wanted proof she wasn’t talking to or paying to see anyone else.” Your voice cracks and he tenderly reaches over to caress your cheek. “I love you so much, Eddie, and I’m so sorry for lying and hurting you.”

Nuzzling his nose into your hair, he squeezes you closer to him as you cry.

##############

Two Days Later

Your private session with Eddiethebanished begins now! Don’t miss it!

“Hey Mill…”

“Hey Eddie.”, you type while you visually take in his haggard appearance as he brings a lit cigarette to his lips. “This is probably a dumb question but how are you doing?”

The metalhead chuckles, coughing slightly as smoke fills the air. 

“I’ve been better, sweetheart.”

“How can I help?”

“Well, first and foremost, my best friend is living with me now. He was dating another fuckhead who put his hands on him so I suggested he move in so I can keep an eye on him. I have a spare bedroom that just has junk in it so soon we’ll get his bed and stuff to put in there.”

“That’s good. I think not only will he physically feel safer but mentally and emotionally as well. You’re a good friend to him.”

“Did you defend him? Is that why your knuckles look like that?”

At your question, he glances down at the bruising on his right hand before taking another puff from his cigarette. 

“Yeah. Steve had texted me saying his date was late and I just…I got this feeling…plus I thought I could keep him company, you know? So I drove down to the bar he was at and when I got there…Steve and Y/N were on the floor…this asshole…”

“He hurt them.”

Eddie nods as his eyes glare off into the void past his monitor. 

“Mill, have I ever told you about my father?”

“You told me he was in prison and that he wasn’t a good person.”

“Yeah…he used to be like that asshole at the bar… I, um, I don’t really talk about my life too much because my childhood wasn’t great. My dad was abusive as hell…to me and my mother. When she passed away…” He shakes his head as he puts out the stick between his fingers before lighting another. “Oddly enough, when I think about that time in my life, what makes me the most angry…is the lying. Mill, my dad could spin a story, I’m telling you. 

He knew how to con people and get right to their emotions before taking them for everything they got. Did the same with my mom even when she got sick and did the same with me multiple times before he was arrested. Every time he tricked me into helping him do something illegal or had me lie for him, I felt…I felt stupid.

I told myself I would never allow myself to end up in situations like that again.”

A tear leaves your eye that you quickly wipe away as he continues. 

“Y/N and I got into a fight. I found out that she was lying to me about something and… Look I know she’s not perfect, lord knows I’m not either, but this…this was pretty big and now I can’t help but constantly wonder what in our relationship was even real or based on what she found out through this lie.”

“I can understand that. I bet she feels pretty stupid herself for hurting you.”

“Eddie, you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met and you showed me things I never…never would have even had the courage to try or experience. For her, it’s most likely the same. She wanted to know more about you and loved the way you made her feel but was terrified of losing or hurting you.”

“So she kept hiding the truth hoping it would just go away. That was selfish on her part…she definitely should have been honest with you but I guarantee you every part of her relationship with you was real and she loves you. She would never lie about that.”

His chocolate eyes take in your words as his jaw tightens and he struggles not to break. 

“She hasn’t been at work these last couple of days. I thought…maybe I scared her off…”

Clicking all the buttons on the computer, your profile picture suddenly changes to show you sitting in a room that Eddie doesn’t recognize. 

“You didn’t scare me.”, you murmur softly. “I had an emergency so I had to fly home.”

“Is everything alright?”, he asks, his tone full of care and concern.

“Yeah, um, it is now. My parents got into a car accident and my dad was in the hospital. He’s fine but they just wanted to keep him over night to keep an eye on him.”

You watch as his eyes glance towards where his second monitor usually is and his fingers click his mouse. 

“There’s a flight leaving Hawkins in a couple of hours. That will give me enough time to talk to Angela and get to the airport—”

“Eddie, baby, it’s ok. I’ll be back in a few days.”

“Y/N, your parents were hurt and you’re in a city where you said people bullied you. I’m not leaving the woman I love up there to handle all that bullshit alone.”

Both of you pause at his words as he heavily exhales and you nod as your chest heaves. 

“Hey…look at me. I do…I love you so fucking much but…we still have a lot to talk about.”

“Ok, yeah…that makes sense. Um, I…I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah, baby girl. I’m on my way.”

################

@debkk16 @myherometalhead @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @twirls827 @micheledawn1975 @chelebelletx @hardladyheart @spiderxbatty @twirls827 @daveythorntonslocker @eddies-dungeon-and-dragon @mrsjellymunson @utterlyinsanity @daveythorntonslocker @jeangeniex @seedlingghost @joemamahehepoopoo @veemoon @mrsjellymunson

[marithempressz]

Scorpio Full Moon: What transformations are knocking at your door?

Today is a significant moment in the collective energy. I've not only heard that it's going to be something big and profound, but I'm already feeling it. That’s why I felt called to do this reading and help you gain some insight into this moment. Take what resonates, and enjoy the reading!

Pile 1 - Black Swan Pile 2 - Ex_Machina Pile 3 - Catwoman

Pile 1

The Empress, The Star

I see a hurricane or tornado. It seems that things are really going to shift for you, huh? A radical change in your life and life perspectives. You might feel like everything is being destroyed—or maybe you already do—and that’s a normal scenario when things are changing so profoundly.

Scorpio’s ruler is Pluto, and this guy is not only a powerful force of destruction but also a source of strength to rebuild something brand new, completely different from what needed to die.

Look, there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s a clear path for you to follow—very practical and objective. This path will lead you to success, fortune, and the fulfillment of your dreams. The transformation knocking at your door is going to change the course of your life for the better. However, you need to commit to yourself. Be serious about it—it’s time to grow up.

Earth is strongly present here, so themes of practicality, objectivity, and building a solid foundation are being emphasized. This transformation is asking you to commit. The Empress represents commitment, so what’s the most important thing in your life right now that needs your loyalty and perseverance?

Also, your feminine aspect is asking to be heard. You need to be in touch with your intuition and emotions while dealing with these earthly matters. This transformation isn’t asking you to be completely rational—but rather to use your intuition alongside your rationality. For example, if you’re structuring a routine, try to feel what works best for you. Get it? If you’re working on something important, be open to ideas that come “out of nowhere”—because they do come from somewhere, and that “somewhere” is trying to help guide you through this.

With The Star, there’s definitely a message about growing up—letting the shadow side of innocence go, and discovering the real world, where it takes time for some dreams to be built. Right now is the perfect moment to be honest with yourself. Don’t delay your evolution—it will only make things harder. Just be real. There are more beautiful things in the real world than you might imagine.

Pile 2

The Hanged man, Page of Coins

I see a bird—maybe an eagle or an Andean condor. Whichever one resonates with you, birds are messengers. I feel more drawn to speak about the condor. In Andean culture, condors are seen as intermediaries with the spirit world. They're a type of vulture, which deepens their symbolic connection to death, rebirth, and transformation.

I feel something stirring in the chest area—likely a transformation related to your relationships, how you view love, and how you see yourself. There’s also a sense of deep exhaustion, a feeling that you can’t live like this anymore. That’s powerful, especially since this full moon is all about releasing everything that no longer serves you. You don’t have the energy—or the time—to keep dealing with these same issues.

Even while you may feel hopeless or defeated, there’s a spark you can’t ignore—a sense of renewal, of rebirth, something completely different from what you’ve known. Interestingly, there’s also an eagle in the Hanged Man’s card. The card depicts the myth of Prometheus, who defied Zeus and was punished: an eagle would eat his liver daily, and it would regenerate, only to be eaten again. Eventually, Prometheus is saved—but only by Zeus’ permission.

This tells a story of divine permission, divine timing. It reflects the moment when your higher self knows it’s time to break a pattern, time to be free. This feels like something you’ve been waiting a long time to heal from. But now, finally, you are free.

There is hope here. There is trust in divine will, and trust in yourself—for holding onto faith along the path. No more torture. 

Also, don’t forget that you have learned something through these dark times. 

Pile 3 

The Empress, Death, Page of Wands

A change in the way you see the world around you is happening. The third eye chakra is being activated. I saw a mountain—Everest, perhaps? A peak. A place where you can retreat from society for a while to reconnect with your true self. Afterward, you return—ready to share what you’ve learned.

This reminded me of Mikao Usui, the founder of Reiki. He meditated for 21 days on Mount Kurama, and it was there where he channeled the Reiki technique. For this group, there's a profound spiritual transformation taking place.

If you feel called to pick Pile 1, trust that instinct. Go ahead—follow what you’re feeling. The Empress appears here again, which suggests that both piles are connected.

Now, there’s something really fascinating in this message. In the Death card, we see the ruler of the underworld—Pluto, or Hades. The word “Pluto” comes from the Greek Plouton, meaning wealth or riches. In mythology, when people died, they had to carry coins to cross the River Styx and reach the underworld. Without the coins, it was said they would suffer at the river's edge.

Symbolically, this means that Death requires something from you in order to pass through and reach a new beginning. You must leave something behind to receive what comes next. You can’t fully embrace the new if you’re still holding onto the old. And again, this full moon is all about letting go of what no longer serves you.

Interestingly, Scorpio rules the 8th house, which—just like Pluto—also deals with money and wealth. On a deeper level, it’s in the underworld, in the unconscious, where true riches lie. Real transformation. Real gold.

The Empress also appears alongside the Death card. Her theme is abundance and creation—she’s pregnant in the card, representing new life. The Page of Wands is present too, which symbolizes fresh energy and beginnings. Together, these cards speak of a powerful spiritual rebirth. A big one.

At the same time, you may feel uncertain, even fragile—like something just born. And that’s okay. Just as a mother cares for her child, The Empress reminds you to nurture whatever new energy, ideas, or insights are coming to life for you now. You don’t need to share everything with everyone—protect what’s growing.

Take care of what’s being born. And have a beautiful journey.

[sourbites]

I saw you write for dc comics! Can I get a Jason Todd smut! Like they are enemies and Jason has caught her

Pairing: Jason Todd (The Red Hood) / Female Reader Word count: 6,758 Contents: violence, threats, sarcasm, smut, shitty pacing im sorry, messy not-even breakup, oral sex/cunnilingus, penetrative sex Summary: He works for himself. You're in cahoots with Black Mask. He's not your boss exactly, but you're close enough that Jason comes back to you for your in-the-know experience with a particular deal. Notes: You have no idea how excited I was for this, I'm sorry it took so long — hopefully it's worth the wait! I omitted the "caught her" part of the request, because it was tripping me up, I hope that's okay. Anyway, to preface: Jason does not follow recent canon comics. (Batman 159 Hush 2 ver of Jason... what are we doing?)

Pulling Teeth

Your gait is slanted. Not even the wall can hold up the weeks of bone-heavy exhaustion. Fuck, you want out. Now more than ever. The cool concrete of a random parking lot pillar pushes against your spine, unyielding. Sucking in a breath from your clenched teeth, you set your tired glare on the misleadingly small shadow a good few yards away.

"Why did you wait until tonight to make yourself known? Getting shy?" You watch with amusement as his vague figure shoots up to that normal, behemoth size.

You hadn't expected him to come crawling back this quick. Not for weeks, actually. Of course, news travels impossibly fast in Gotham, so you'd anticipated a visit from the Red Hood himself. But you imagined he'd hold off crawling back to you just a little longer. He's prideful like that. Smug, reckless, stupid...

"Only so we can have longer moments like this together." Jason lazily pads out of the shadows. Though he's still armoured with some fuzzier shadows— the parking lot isn't very well-illuminated, like most places in Gotham. One big, prime area for muggings. Either way, you're not impressed with that red helmet and too-big leather jacket. You cross your arms, standing upright against the pillar. In a perfect world, you'd be halfway home already. Fucking Jason and his timing. You're half-sure he's doing it on purpose: picking the busiest, most draining day to become a bother.

You scoff, his trademark sarcasm not producing the desired reaction. "Get on with it, or I'm getting in my car and running you over on my way out."

He straightens himself up, mirroring you. Did he double in size with his shoulders back? Jerk.

"Need help on a case," His tone is unsettlingly serious, even if it's a little artificial with his voice modulator. You wonder if that's his paranoia to install a fucking voice modulator, or Bruce's rubbed off on him more than he'd like to admit. "You know I wouldn't come t' you if it wasn't important."

There it is. If your phone wasn't on three percent, you'd whip it out and make him say it again after you hit record. But you'll settle for the next best thing. You gesture to one of your ears with a finger, "What was that?'

"Seriously?" He tilts his head. You don't waver— and neither does that infuriating grin that he wants you to lose, like, yesterday. Jason lets out a long-winded sigh, ever the dramatic.

"_____, I am here, bothering you with my vile presence, to humbly ask f' your help on a case." He's at a loss for what else he could possibly say. Should he have prepared an elaborate apology basket, too? You haven't seriously swung for Black Mask's cause, have you?

You nod, unbearably smug. The corner of your mouth lifted, as well as your spirits. Wow, does Jason's grovelling - sarcastic as it may be - cheer you up. "Thought so."

⸻

You tried your hardest to be at least civil with him. Maybe after all the time apart, you'd reinvented your memories to make him meaner. Or he's just too nice now. Whatever the truth may be, your truth is that you don't despise working with him— a fact you wouldn't even acknowledge in your diary. You were both bitter over how everything ended - well, it wasn't much of an ending, just screaming at each other and your hairdryer getting flung across the room - but maybe this is what you both needed. One last job - one last good memory - so you can get the closure you know you've been aching for.

The first step of the plan split into a second, a fourth, and a sixth— until there were too many loose ends and too many outstanding blank spots. Time and time again, you'd tell Jason that you're probably not the best person for the job. (As much as you want to knock Sionis down a few pegs.)

Tonight, the taste of another cup of coffee will make you throw up on the spot. So, you and Jason - an unmasked Jason - are curled around tall milkshake glasses. Sucking the cream-thick mixture through the straw proves to be a Sisyphean task, so they're not touched too often. The stolen paperwork and grainy, printed photos are too headache-inducing to invest in at such a late hour. The seedy diner is nearly empty. The faded, once candy-red booths are worryingly sticky (you're not sure they've ever been washed in the thirty-ish years they've been in use), but the radio over the dingy speakers is playing good music, so there's that.

It’s surprising, how quickly conversation can flow from the Gotham dock shipments to normal-person talk. Jason and you are doing anything but work. If you hear the word ‘smuggling’ again tonight, you’d be morally obligated to roll your eyes into oblivion.

“Y'know— I had a busted lip f' weeks after that hairdryer.” Jason’s the one to address it: the elephant in the room. You and he have done remarkable so far, skirting around the incident talk. The first feeling that peeks out from within you is pride. Then guilt - double the guilt, actually: one for hurting him, and one for briefly being proud of that - bites down, hard, at your conscience.

One of your fingertips absentmindedly presses against the cold glass, wetting your skin with condensation. It pools around on the table in a ring. “I suppose I should apologise for that. I was upset, but I shouldn’t have hurt you. Sorry.”

Like blood in the water, he senses a taste of guilt in your mumbling tone. “It even hurt t' smile, yanno that?”

Your gaze flicks up from the puddle on the laminate table to him. He’s smirking; the corners of his pink lips are upturned, cheeks dimpled. At least he’s not pissed at you. “Alright, you’re laying it on a bit thick.” Your tone is ruthlessly flat, but it certainly makes you look like a hypocrite, considering you’re mirroring his smile.

You'd only just realised that Jason was thinking about it, too. It's probably time to bury the hatchet if you and he are working together to steal half of Sionis' incoming weaponry. The way your smile recedes tells Jason it's time. You've both been running from it - until it finds you on mildly sunny days - the kind that ties strings around ribcages and follows you for when you need a bit of sun. The kind of memory that you've turned to pulp, tumbled into mush in your washing-machine mind.

"Look, ____, the way things—" Your knee juts out to bump into Jason's leg. It doesn't take much movement, considering you're both crammed in a Barbie-Dreamhouse-sized booth. He pauses - just like you intended - and scowls at you. You might be willing to bury the hatchet, but you're not up for dissecting it like a frog.

"Let's just... move on. We can be civil about stuff, can't we?" You squint at him. It's not a question; Jason knows you well enough to tell. As much as you'd despise to admit it, he can read you without trying. It's something innate in him, the same way birds read skies and bears read food-rumoured river currents.

A ripple of discomfort rolls around Jason's expression, but it's gone as soon as it appears. If you were brave and steel-hearted enough, you'd regress and whisper against his forehead that he doesn't have to box it away. He can undress in front of you, strip his mind bare and you'd trace his thoughts that beg to manifest. But it's not summertime any more, and it feels like a thousand wretched suns have spoiled, rotten between then and now.

⸻

Just because he's died once, he thinks he's immortal. As much as you want to gloat: 'told you so', you don't want to be down a partner-in-organised-crime. You narrow your eyes at Jason as you watch him laze his way to your meeting spot. You cross your arms, brows furrowed together. You're shivering, cold Gotham air wracking through you; scratching at your bones. Your hair wisps around, lashing at your stiff cheeks.

"You took too long. You might not have any self-preservation left, but I do— fuck, you could've gotten us both killed." You can't resist lecturing him— just a pinch.

He wordlessly reaches behind him and whips out a flimsy, plastic blue folder. The pages within whip around from the wind. "I got it, didn't I?"

The smugness is oozing from his voice. You don't need to see his face to tell he's proud, holding onto the folder like it's a trophy. You wilt against the side of the car, running on empty. It was probably a fucking trauma response to forget how reckless he is. That, or he has some Scarecrow-level forgetting serum he's slipped into one of your drinks when you weren't looking.

You inspect him, bottom to top. He's resting more weight on his right leg. You decide not to pursue it further when you're out in the open like this. The water spray kicks up against the concrete flooring.

"Let's just get out of here." You're pushing off the car, pulling it open with your momentum.

Jason's safehouse is exactly how you remember it. Tiny kitchen, entirely hardwood floors. His back is still rigid with adrenaline, elbows resting on his knees. A gloved finger stabs at the printed paper, facing you. "Who's that? My informants mention that name."

You lean over to read the paper. Scheduled shifts for a driver of some hijacked cargo ship. Fucking grown men with aliases like Blackbeard. You lean back in the wooden chair, racking your brain to piece together any memory of a Blackbeard. Jason paws at his helmet until it's off.

"All I know is that he's related to Sionis. Sorry it's not much help." You press your lips together, sympathetic. Jason did risk a lot going in there— even if you didn't tell him to. It gets too much sometimes, looking over your shoulder. Home never feels safe enough. You want to be done with it. You don't want to end up the victim of some drive-by. But the more you dig into this, the more you feel like you're digging your grave. And for what, because Jason asked you to?

He laughs - quiet little huffs - smirking with bright-white teeth, shaking his head. "Y' have no idea how much that helps."

Oookay. A little cryptic, but reassuring. Your brows raise, with a dull pulse of warmth flaring within your chest. "I'm just happy you didn't get killed back there."

"I'm jus' happy we're not fighting." He replies, watching you with winter-blue eyes, twinkling like dreams on the edge of consciousness. He's said that - or something similar - before to you.

Back when you were a criminal chauffeur for hire. You didn't want to drive Jason anywhere. He smelled of chaos: gunsmoke and gasoline, leather. Too loud, too attention-grabbing in a red helmet. In his usual Jason fashion - as you'd come to recognise it - he twisted your arm with an offer of enough money for you to end your night early. You could still feel it: that restrained wonder at the first time you saw him in person. Your gaze was split between him and the neon-sign-illuminated roads. It was back when everything was exciting. You'd told him back then, You haven't paid me, when he climbed out of the car, still facing you. It was like you were magnets— faces pulling together, poles always oddly close. Haven't I? He held up your wallet between two gloved fingers, tossing it through your rolled-down window. It was a manual car, some shitty '98 Ford Escort. You'd set aside the impressed thought, replacing it with a scowl you sent his way. You remember glaring at him, uttering something about privacy, even though Jason merely shrugged. But we're not fighting, are we? I'd bet it has something t' do with that gift in your wallet. You replayed every second of that interaction, swearing you'd never drive him again. You'd say that to yourself every time you picked him up.

You feel like you've just come out of a coma. Mileage, gasoline, the speedometer arrow; it all feels like cotton in your throat. Those days are long, long gone— but you can recall them in such vivid technicolour. Your eyes glance over Jason's shoulder, to the microwave that still has its plastic wrapping.

"Well, we're not really the fighting type." You hear your own voice chiming in, the cadence unlike you. Sombre. Your mouth has moved on its own accord.

You watch Jason's head bob as he nods, pushing the papers up the table, away from him. "No," He agrees, his tone a near-clone of yours. Absent of all the passion that colours his voice— even if it's rage or cockiness. "Nah, was just th' one time..."

Your head shakes, eyes on his. Pinning his train of thought, you dismantled the tracks it was running on. Deep down, you knew he wouldn't surrender from this conversation permanently. Months and months of memories that he's aching to address press from within your skull. It disturbs the ear-ringing, murderous silence of the kitchen. Even the mismatched clock on the wall has stopped ticking, hands held in limbo, hanging in suspense.

Undeterred, Jason holds up a hand. "Let me finish." He's firm with you. A lick of anger reveals itself within you. There's so much you don't want to say, and yet so much you do. Your shoulders square, bracing yourself.

"I don't like how things ended, _____. I wasn't fair to you; I knew that back then, too, but I was stupid. I knew you felt somethin' more— it was a dick move, reacting the way I did. I just... I wanted you mad, I wanted to push you away. I'm sorry for treating you like crap." Jason says. His voice reaches you— and there's no escape. And far, far too sincerely for his or your liking, he whispers, "I'm sorry f' everything."

"Is this some sort of step in your program?" Your brows furrow. Then, softer, you add, "We agreed no feelings, I should've expected it."

You'll probably never get the taste of him out of your mouth— the grime and the softness that lingers beneath, like drying blood that gets tacky, sticking on everything that's touched. You're tired - bone-heavy and weary - of climbing into your usual, lonely bed. Jason gave with no seeming end. Warmth, safety, laughter, and it's all over. Nothing real between you even really began, and yet you cling to those memories each night you're on your own. You'd savoured each memory where your nails raked against the grain of the baby hairs at the nape of Jason's neck. You'd both pass out, curled nose-to-nose, and he'd lay sloppy and wet kisses on your skin. It was so easy to believe it meant something. Pathetic as it may be, your avoidance of talking about how it all fell apart before it could be built is your way of preserving the innocence— the tenderness and the potential it held. But now, when you try to find solace in the usual jewellery box of memories, the only thing you can see in the usual vivid, picturesque display is the repeated: over, over, over, over.

Jason flinched. Somewhere on the other side of this wide fever dream of months, you know you would've read his thoughts without needing to detangle them. But here and now, sitting at the table in the tucked-away kitchen, you and Jason watch each other like you're strangers. Like you're both starved animals, wearily stone-faced, waiting for the other to pounce. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip before he scrapes up the courage and the right words to engage in your response, "I'm apologising f'... everything. Everything. I'm sorry I was a hypocrite, and I was too— too fuckin' scared and pathetic to level with you back then."

You feel like your entrails have been scattered along the Gotham highways, abandoned to rot with any good feelings Jason had ever left you with. You want to collapse in on yourself and sob— find some Etsy witch to curse his bloodline for generations to come. "You felt the same, didn't you?"

You scoff, scowling, and without waiting for whatever ridiculous response he can come up with, you continue. "You threw everything away because you couldn't stand that we could've had something good. And the worst part is— even if you were too scared to have something real, you still strung me along, and I was a fucking idiot to let you."

Jason sputtered on his answer, all his rehearsed replies feeling like a ball of yarn bunched up in his throat. Of course, he's sat there, pulling at the dregs of his thoughts to come up with some worthwhile reply, because of course he can't keep his head straight when it comes to you. That's the whole problem.

He squirms in his seat. "I know what I did— Believe me, I know I deserve shit f' it. I just missed you, okay? I don't get why I can't spend time with my friend." You know he wants to get up and walk around, ramble with animated gestures. Your heart feels like it weighs a thousand tonnes. Anger has already covered half your reason, luring you to just scream and beat at his chest with your fists.

Stiff and rigid with anger, you press your spine into the hardwood chair. "We've kissed - done more than that, actually - you've been there for me when no one else has. I've fucking washed you when you couldn't even raise your arms. Am I seriously just your friend? Is that all I am to you, Jason?"

Your throat feels sore with unshed tears— acid climbing up your throat. Emotionally strained, you want to beat Jason to it, blasting out of your seat with your palms flat on the table.

Jason stares up the barrel of your furious gaze. In a rush he says, "Of course you're fuckin' not! That's why I'm here, pretending I need help stealing from Sionis. Fuck, ______, can't you see how much I care about you? That's the whole reason we fell out in the first place— the second I let you into this - into my world - you'll have a target on your back f' the rest of your life!"

Your mind shifts and turns and blurs. It's always something with this guy. Both you and Jason are standing up, gazes locked on the other. At any second, a tumbleweed could just roll past you in the distance like in those corny westerns. You'd whip out your gun and then what? You couldn't bring yourself to shoot him - even if you want to, sometimes.

"I'm already in your world, Jason. I'm already in enough danger to make me look behind my shoulder every day. We're both living on borrowed time!" You wrench yourself away from the table, hands braced at the kitchen counter at your sides. You need to cool down by the window before you burst a blood vessel. Gulping down a shaky breath, you add, "Life is so short. Why are we wasting it playing these games? Wouldn't you rather we spend the precious time we have actually building something together?"

You literally don't have the emotional capacity to acknowledge the fact that Jason basically invented a case just to get you to spend time with him. It's equal parts romantic and weird. The perfect Jason fashion, you suppose. It's taking every iota of control you have not to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into that thick skull of his. You're sick of having this fight, you're sick of living in this open-air 'what are we?', like you're in some TV show.

He can't help but be pulled toward you. No matter how hard he fights it, or tells himself it's not happening, you have a rope around his neck like he's fucking leashed— he's always coming back to you.

At first, you feel the warmth that comes with him. Then comes the sensation of his hands on you; just cupping your arms. There's no point in roaring or screaming at you. Jason rasps, "I don't ever want you thinking - even for a second - that I don't want you. That I don't love you."

You feel like you're choking. Your eyes squeeze shut; tears already skulking down your cheeks. Starving, you lean in and manage to bump your forehead against his. Jason's leaning down a whole lot so you can reach. "I want this. I'm all in— but you've gotta get over this fear."

Truth is, there's not a thing Jason wouldn't do if it meant keeping you happy and safe. He's reached his limit worrying about what will happen to you if things are official— if they're real. It's a shot in the dark, being an item. A darkness that he's afraid of losing you to - but a shot he's willing to take. Maybe the less ambiguity and distance between the two of you, the better. That means he can keep a real eye on you. So would Bruce, and Dick on occasion. It might not be so terrifying to let you in.

"I know, sweetheart," Jason utters against your temple, whispering so molasses-sweetly that it feels like silky ribbons across your skin. The pull to hold you grows too great to even think about resisting, and Jason is helpless to it as he cradles the back of your head. "I want this, too. I'd do anything— everything f' you. You've gotta know that, alright?"

You huff out a laugh, cheeks wet. "You're so..." The words die on your tongue, as your palms scrape up his arms. You had forgotten how delicious his arms were. It puts a bittersweet smile on your face. He's back, letting your hands explore him again, but there was a gap wedged between the two of you. A hurt like that isn't soothed the instant you two make up.

Jason's breath is hot as he soaks up the scent of your hair. His thumb strokes the side of your neck in languid swipes. He's silent for a moment - telling himself over and over that this is real - before he asks, "So what?"

"Smug. Pompous..." You pause, gingerly squeezing his well-muscled shoulders. You can't resist the magnetic pull of him. You suck in a breath, before adding, "Bratty."

Jason chuckles. He's missed this banter that the two of you have. He's not even offended— how could he be? If anything, you insulting him just makes him more attracted to you. His warm palms scoop your cheeks, feeling the damp skin from your tears. Jason's parted lips sweep across yours, his hair brushing against your forehead. You feel your body going slack— the crushing pressure on your heart immediately banished. This is all you've wanted: to be kissed stupid like he'd done to you many, many moons ago. It's amazing how you and he can physically just pick up from where you've left off. Even his breath is hot and sexy, exhaling against your mouth, the far-away taste of cigarette smoke smouldering into your tongue. Your eyes just... flutter... closed, like you're relishing in every millisecond. This is how it's supposed to be. Even the once-awkward, tiny kitchenette feels right now. It's a space with established intimacy— you touch, with your hands, what he will put in his mouth to eat.

He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, tugging lightly and rolling the flesh between his incisors. He releases your mouth to speak, "What's next on your list?"

You've got that brightness to your eyes that he loves. "Condescending," You whisper smugly against his mouth.

Jason leans forward, boxing you in with his hulking frame. Chuckling into your lips, he nips at your jawbone. His half-lidded eyes roam over you, watching you as if he's witnessing something he's been praying for. Your every atom lures him in, like a siren to a sailor. He'd happily be your victim. He'd throw himself into murderous waters, offer his neck for you to eat and succumb to the inky waves with a smile on his face. "Any other words of praise? Or would you like t' be able t' walk tomorrow?" He murmurs - already hard - already half-blind with lust. You make him so hard so easily.

Your eyes are like saucers - beaming despite the very real threat. How dirty. A willing participant in your demise, you put on your most seductive face and purr into his neck, "So arrogant, you know that?"

His fingers bite into your hips before he hauls you on top of the table. You slide up against the surface, while he guides your legs apart to fit himself between them. Your stomach flips, your body immediately on that knife's edge like it always is when he's in close proximity to you. Jason lays kiss after kiss onto your mouth: nipping and sucking and too much of those hungering teeth. "Me, arrogant? Never."

Desire is a cup - a foreign object - lodged deep within your body, and it's overflowing; pouring into your flesh. Jason's hands are snaking beneath your shirt now, his skin warming yours. One hand wanders up to your bra clasp, and the other cups your sides - your ribs - gingerly brushing his fingers over your skin, tracing bones and veins and everything you're made of. He digs his rock-hard bulge into your belly, bucking in response to the breathy moan that flutters out from your mouth.

You're not really Jason's girlfriend, and he's not your boyfriend— but Jason makes you an item - makes you his - with how he handles you. He jams his hips into yours, biting back an evil little grin as the rough denim of his jeans scrape across your abdomen. Taking two greedy handfuls of your shirt, he lifts it up and off of you, groaning at the picture of you.

His nose mashes into your neck, a low hum rumbling from him. "What d'you want, baby?" His voice muffles into the hollow of your trembling throat. Those delicious hands of his cup both your thighs, grabbing at you with such an insistence that it makes you dizzy. Your body recognises this routine. Even subconsciously, you know what comes next, because you know him. You're instantly shifting your hips, panties wet.

Sucking in a breath, you scramble to answer him, "Just want you. Jus' you, Jason." You've already chugged his love potion. Thinking is impossible, especially when Jason's so warm and touchy. After his soul-stealing kiss and panty-dropping show, you've gone to putty on the tabletop. The air burns - and you fight with it - as your world shrinks away until there's a spotlight on him.

He's shrugging your jeans down. They hit the floor with a heavy whuff. His hands are already creeping up your legs, appreciative, angling your knees over his shoulders and tugging you towards him. He's hungry tonight, shoving his face between your legs like you're an antidote to the poison he's gulped down. Oxygen melts, and you're quick to follow. Jason smushes his face into your sopping panties and groans - deep and bassy from his throat - a low, "Beautiful."

With the pad of his thumb, he grinds into your clit, burning the fabric of your underwear into your brimming-with-nerves flesh. He's not stopping there. He kisses his way down your stomach; open-mouthed and starving. Both arms curl under and then over your splayed open thighs, pawing at your panties and tugging, fingers hooked, until he rips— them open—!

"Fuck!" You're immediately reacting, squeaking. Holy fuck, your hands brace themselves on the convex edges of the table. "Jason, you can't just...!" You can't even finish your sentence, brain flickering in and out. In the middle of all your surprised and half-baked protests, Jason is chuckling something rich and low from within his chest.

"No?" Jason wets his fingers - slightly - while using his thumbs to spread your pussy open. He leaves a big, wet kiss on your clit. "Can't I?" He grins, watching you from beneath his eyelashes— so thick and dark, you've always been jealous of them. He suctions his mouth around your sex. All that smug energy bursts back into the room like lightning pounding the earth. You hate it. (You love it.)

The room ached with sex, and he's all over you. Your heels scramble up and down the broad plane of Jason's back. His body is fever-hot. His tongue flattens, laving up the valley of your cunt in one long, drooling swipe. You're obscenely wet — even more so now his spit is mingling with slick, stringy arousal. You scrub a hand over your face, trying to swallow the high, shrill noise that rests in your throat. It lacks the usual restraint Jason used to reserve for fear of falling too hard for you. No, now he's shameless (and it shows), and starved for the taste of your pussy that never fails to get him hard.

His nose grinds into your mound - snuffling against your sweat-tacky skin - and his stubbled face strokes your sensitive skin. It rubs your inner thighs, your clenching-around-air cunt, forcing tingles and shudders into your skin. Fuck. Fuck, you missed this so much. He sucks a fold into his mouth, all tender with pursed lips. You feel like you've fused to the tabletop. Jason stares up at you like you're a four-course meal; his eyes hungry and dark. Just deep blue and dolly-thick eyelashes.

Every wave of your moans, each savouring lap of his tongue has Jason fisting his too-tight, suffocating bulge. He's groaning into your glossy cunt, one-handedly working at his belt, the stiff button on his jeans. Trying to give as well as you get, your hand snakes down to palm his erection. The sound he lets out into your pussy could bring you to your knees. He comes off of you with a pornographically wet pop, his face falling against the surface of your honey-soft thigh.

"Take it out." Jason grins, nodding towards you. Your heart stops. You push down the drool in your mouth with a swallow. Hesitantly, your fingers curl around his waistband and guide it down Jason's waist.

You joke, "Are you always this lazy?" In an attempt to distract yourself from the very real, very visceral heat simmering in your entire body. It's not a regular, 'get the ice cream out', heat, but a rapturous: 'holy hell. Holy fucking God,' kind of heat.

Jason chuckles, just as his cock springs free and his head bumps against his abdomen. Great, he's still fucking huge. "Jus' with you, sweets. I know how independent you like t' be."

Without a moment's notice, he's leaning forward, slicking his cockhead through your sex, catching his tip on the notch of your perky clit. You squeal, jerking a leg up that he guides around his hip. His hand appreciates your ass, yanking you down until you're hanging over the table. Two thick fingers pulse deep in your pussy; which blooms around the base of his heavy, bruised knuckles. Each pump of his fingers elicits crude, squelching sounds from you. Cheeks burning red, you watch with obvious interest, lips parted. Even you are scandalised by him.

You're only strong enough to pull your gaze from his hand to his face for a brief moment to ask, "D'you ever shut up?"

At your remark, he twists his fingers, thumbing at your clit again. "You know the answer to that." He simpers sarcastically, his brows caught in a furrow as he watches your gorgeous sex flutter around his fingers. He wants to get his cock in there - in you - but this pocket of intermittent, sweet slowness is a good change of pace for now.

Jason sinks forward, palm flat as he braces some of his weight onto the table beside your body. His warmth rolls around against you. Dazed, your hands reach up to take his shirt off. You almost sigh like some wistful schoolgirl once you see him shirtless. Your head tips up so you can press your face into his neck. It's gorgeous— all those gentle dips, his bobbing Adam's apple, the delicate span of his collarbones. You whisper into his boiling hot skin, voice coloured with intimacy, "Jason?"

His breath heaves, a patchy blush climbing up his chest and neck; even the tips of his ears. The sizzling heat of his huge palm scoops up your hip, gingerly squeezing it in his hand. He tucks your earlobe between his teeth. You swallow a moan. As composedly as he can muster, he answers you with a cool, "Whassup, baby?"

"Can't wait any longer," You murmur, a little coyly. You've never once wanted him this terribly before. You want the tender intimacy to soothe you. Jason sucks in a rattling breath. Romantic. It's so, fucking, romantic. On fucking fire, Jason sinks his mouth onto yours - deepening the kiss until it hurt - teeth clashing and lips feeling liver-bruised and hot to the touch. His hand sweeps to the base of your skull, holding you there like it kept him tethered to this world.

His mouth only rips off of yours to savour the taste of you on his fingers, licking them clean with suggestive swipes of his tongue. Evil little fucker. He holds your gaze as he does so, brows raising boyishly. Then, he's laying a kiss on your clammy forehead - wisps of hair stuck to your skin - and he whispers, "Then don't."

You're split in two with one lazy, indulgent pump of his hips. His cock is nestled deep within you - you almost feel it against your lungs when you breathe. Jason grins as he watches you writhe, bucking your hips up like you're about to be slaughtered. It feels that way, with how you're impaled on his dick. If this were any other time, Jason would just go wild. You know he would; your face down and ass up as you're drilled into nothingness. But this is his chance to prove he well and truly wants you.

Your greedy hand dips down, feeling the velvet of your sexes, tracing where he's got your cunt pulled open. You could plot the way the light bends on the curves of his abs well enough to paint, you could taste the earthy-saltiness of his skin on your tongue. All you know is Jason, Jason, Jason.

He takes your hand, thumb playing over your knuckles reverently, and guides it to thread with his inky black hair. The startlingly white streak is mussed, hair all over the place from your exploratory fingers. He hums, tipping his head back just enough to display his throat, like he's waiting for you to model some marble from the dips between tight tendons; from his fluttering pulse.

A wild, wanton part of you wonders why you ever stopped this— why you ever gave him up. He's too good, too precious. You don't care that people look at him and see wolf teeth and gunmetal. There are stars in his eyes, and they are lit because you are the someone that needs them, to look up into the skies of his eyes and navigate around the world. Inside your pussy, he's making room for himself, stroking the length of your thigh each time you squeeze him, tight as a fist with your chest heaving. It's like he gets bigger each time you have him.

Your other hand splays over his taut pelvis - skin against his happy trail - bracing yourself. Your eyes roll back, mewling lewdly once Jason eases himself back, tip still inside, and wholly rolls his hips until his cock fills the channel of your slick sex. Your nails bite into his skull, tufts of hair poking from between your clenched fingers. Jason groans, filling you with that perfect outlaw cock.

"Oh my God," You nearly cry, eyelids heavy. Heat creeps up your neck. Your leg joints lock into place, hiked up Jason's swinging hips. His heart gives a pathetic flutter as he cups your head and shoves his face into your neck. It's wonderful how things have managed to fall into place— but you suppose Jason did invent an elaborate heist with your kind-of-boss as the victim just to get you talking to him again, so how much of this was left up to fate?

"I know, baby." His voice oozes something sounding fond, releasing butterflies in your too-warm belly. Sticky heat rushes between your legs. Just all wet from him - from his fingers and tongue and cock— God you can't breathe! Jason drives into you with a mean force, punching air from your lungs in fast, hard, eager snaps of his hips against yours. Something is definitely going to bruise.

"Juiciest - fucking - pussy." Jason swoons, each word suspiciously timed with each kiss of his aching cockhead to your softened cervix. His hand - the one on your hip - lifts your leg up until it's canted across his shoulder. The back of your knee fits perfectly against the scalding muscle of his broad shoulder. Tears collect around your waterline, wetting the base of your eyelashes once you squeeze your eyes closed. Your hand climbs, nails digging into the delicious muscle of his taut bicep, the other fisting at his hair.

The whole world hums with cosmic, dizzying harmony that you only manage to hear when you're like this: fucked stupid on Jason's gloriously hot dick. You can't hear your own moans through your heart beating in your head like you've got an ear pressed to a heavy metal drum, cymbals crashing and all. Your back arches, feeling yourself sway limply with each jarring plunge of his filling cock stuffing you full and then some.

He's leveraging his weight on the table - it skids up the tile floor with a squeak that almost makes you cringe - his cock dumbing you into a state of loved-up bliss. Every drag of his cock forces your overwhelmed pussy to pulse around him. The harsh, prickly sounds of slapping explode across the four wallpapered walls of the compressed kitchen. With every nasty curl to his hips, you taste the same violence of a whack he'd bestow upon some guy. All while Jason's tilted forward, just trying to engulf you, consume you and love you. God, he loves you.

Bursts of shock and absolute awe shoot down your spine. Your heart is aching within your chest. Jason feels it too, considering his fingers dig into your hip while his other hand bites so rigidly into the table's edge that you hear a worrying crack of wood. Your whole body is sent into shudders - going tighter and tighter around him - until he's half-sure you've cut off his blood flow. His eyes gleam with pure, carnal delight. He hisses out a well-intentioned, "Oh, baby," as his cock spits thick rivulets of steaming cum into your pliant sex.

You feel like you're choking around nothing - maybe just your hitched breath. Your head is on fire, and the skin going down your back feels like it's melted to the wood of the table. Your thighs hang open and Jason watches, slack-jawed and gawking, as your stuffed-too-full cunt drips with pearlescent cum. With a shaking hand, you smoothe the base of your palm down his shoulder. There are nasty-looking marks in maraschino-red where your fingernails were hooked into his skin.

Satisfied and truly exhausted, Jason sweeps his mouth across yours for one of the most fairytale-esque, sweetest kisses in recorded history. His breath ghosts across your burning face, cooling your skin a little, as he brushes the welded-on baby hairs out from your face. His pink, bite-plumped lips split into a lopsided grin, and you just know he's got some cheesy quip coming.

Right on schedule, he hums out a teasing, "Are you done being mad at me now?"

Your stupid smile mirrors his. You quip back: "You'll have to make it up to me again."

[mxmarsbars]

ooooh you want to elaborate on your impulse + pearl epilepsy and fnd headcanons so bad....... oooooh you wanna tell us woahhhh

okay so i lied. no doodles for this because i’m lazy and tired and burnt out. BUT !! i will absolutely elaborate on this !! thank you anon !! <3

it started as just a way to cope, honestly. i got into the life series and hermitcraft around when my health issues began affecting my life on a grand scale, so i projected the disability i was dealing with onto two of my favorite characters!!

i honestly headcanon all of boatem to have epilepsy and/or some sort of neurological disorder in SOME way, but this is mainly focusing on alienkeep for now!!

c!impulse is epileptic. he is not photosensitive (so simply seeing flashing lights will not send him into a seizure, especially if medicated), but flashing and bright lights do give him headaches. too much stimuli and lack of sleep (something he deals with often) can also trigger his absence seizures. he IS on medication, and this will be VERY important for a headcanon i have later on.

c!pearl is epileptic. she IS photosensitive, and people often forget, so it’s basically become muscle memory for her to cover her eyes whenever she has a feeling she’s about to encounter something flashy. most of the server is very accommodating for her, though!! and similar to impulse, she is on medication. she also sometimes deals with absence seizures.

FND is a whole other can of worms, though. ohhhhh boy. my poor daughters.

impulse developed FND during his time in third life. due to all the stress he was already constantly dealing with (granted his position) as well as the effect the finale had on him, his brain kind of just cracked open like an egg. a lot of his triggers revolve around repetitive noises (ex. the ticking of a clock), certain words (ex. “i have to”), and the occasional textures and objects.

impulse has been dealing with it since then, and although he isn’t very vocal about it, he holds it very dear to himself and uses it to help himself feel a little less ashamed of his reactions to certain things (although he still has a lot of internalized issues with it, this man is filled to the brim with guilt and embarrassment).

pearl developed FND during double life. the constant stress and stimuli basically fried her brain, leaving her in a constant floaty state during the season, often experiencing non-epileptic seizures that she’d have to deal with alone. her triggers are mainly certain temperatures and heights, as well as occasional words and faces.

pearl, however, is much less aware of her FND, and it took seeing impulse’s non-epileptic seizures and other symptoms first hand for her to finally realize she had it. she too struggles a lot with internalized shame, and it didn’t help that cleo and scott didn’t take her seriously when she first brought it up to them post-double life (they are much more understanding now, though).

neither of them have consistent methods to cope with their FND. impulse often turns to suppressing his symptoms, meanwhile pearl goes more for distractions. both of them are still in denial sometimes, but to combat this, they often have heart to hearts about their struggles. they help. it’s nice feeling less alone.

as for specific headcanons involving this general concept, i have many!! here’s a few:

skizz didn’t understand that some epileptic people can tolerate flashing lights, so for the LONGEST time, he’d slam his hands over impulse’s eyes whenever even the slightest thing flashed at him. it was annoying, obviously, but impulse still finds it very endearing. skizz also still finds himself doing it sometimes even now that he knows.

during hcs8, in the midst of his insomnia induced haze, impulse forgot to take his seizure medication for days straight, which then turned into weeks upon weeks. he ended up having a pretty gnarly grand mal and spent a week bedridden while the rest of boatem took care of him. safe to say that he NEVER misses a dose now and will have a full on freak out if he can’t find his meds.

also in hcs8, pearl would have frequent absence seizures, and one time she nearly fell into the boatem hole while standing too close. thank goodness impulse was there to catch her and sit her down.

double life was hard for impulse, despite the loving marriage and snowy mansion. the constant ticking of bdubs’s clock would trigger him again and again, often resulting in him having shutdowns that he’d try to excuse himself to deal with alone. bdubs picked up on this, but impulse never told him the reason. he also never told him how many times he nearly smashed the clock to bits while bdubs slept.

in fact, a LOT of impulse’s meltdowns and non-epileptic seizures are either directly or indirectly triggered by bdubs. what a shocker.

sometimes if pearl washes her hands with cold water, it’ll trigger her, and she’ll start having a full body shutdown. her allies had to start keeping an eye on her whenever she washed up to make sure she’d remain responsive. she’s since learned that holding hands with someone warmer helps to calm her down and ease her symptoms.

impulse’s non-epileptic seizures often include uncontrollable crying (which can span from silent tears to full blown sobbing), as well as random body movements. pearl’s feel more disconnected, resulting in her often standing deathly still and staring at whatever her eyes and brain can cling on to.

they both pull the “i feel funny” card whenever they’re feeling overstimulated and want to lay down, even if they aren’t experiencing any actual epileptic symptoms. it always works.

that’s probably enough for now :,] but yeah !! that’s about the jist of it !!

thank you to anybody who read through all of this :D it’s a headcanon i hold very near and dear to my heart and the fact that other people want to hear about it makes me so emotional in the best way possible T^T you guys are the best !! <3

[tac-the-unseen]

Hey can you write some actually traumatized Simon Riley x reader Headcannons?

It kind of annoys me that so many people just sexualize him without addressing the actual trauma he went through for two years and beyond.

So I guess I'm really just asking for a non- hypersexual Simon x reader XD

Non-hypersexual Simon Riley x Reader 

CW: Trauma

•It would take years for Simon to let you get close to him

•And it would have to be you to ask him out because he sure as shit won't ask first 

•When you guys do start dating he wants to go over boundaries immediately 

•He doesn't want to set you up for failure so he wouldn't even consider a relationship until you've had this talk

•It’s a really hard talk for him to start and go through but he does it because he has to. He doesn't want you to accidentally trigger him or for you to get your feelings hurt

•He really does like you, and that's why he pushes through 

•The first thing he tells you is that he is in no way, shape, or form ready for a sexual relationship 

•He explains that he doesn't know how long it will take for him to be ready, but it will be at least a few months 

•Simon understands if that's a deal breaker for you, in this world he knows that sex is more Important in relationships then most people would like to admit 

•When you assure him that it's more then fine and you're willing to wait he lets out a very shaky breath neither of you know he owes holding in

•He goes through more boundaries with you with much cooler nerves 

-PDA to a minimum (an old therapist was killed because Simon was her patient. He's not letting someone who actually cares about be murder because you wanted to hold hands) 

-Make your presence known before you touch him, especially from behind (this is man who has seen war, if you run up and hug him without warning you will be thrown to the ground)

-Don’t pressure him to tell you ‘stories’ (with two years of torture, years in the military, and an abusive childhood there is so much he isn't willing to tell you or anyone)

-Don't talk about intimate details with others (If he wanted to tell them, he would do it himself.)

-He will leave if anybody starts talking politics (even if it's stuff he agrees with, he’s not going to waste his time like that. He has to talk about that at work all the time and he will not do it at home.)

•It takes a while for him to feel comfortable sleeping in the same bed with someone else

•He's paranoid. He stays awake thinking that someone might try and attack you two in your sleep

•Simon has to sleep with at LEAST a knife in his pocket to be able to soothe himself long enough to catch a few zzz

•Night terrors are a common occurrence

•There are several nights where you wake up to find yourself alone in bed

•Simon will pace around the house, making sure blinds are closed, doors are locked, and no one is in the house. Even then he will sit on a chair, armed, and simply wait for something that's not so unlikely to come.

•Asks you to limit and delete some of your social media posts. No one should know where you live other than close family and friends. He will scroll through all of your accounts and tell you why they may or may not be security risks.

•Simon does have social media accounts. they are just burner accounts he uses to keep up to date with the news and big events. 

•Simon knows that what he's doing can be seen as controlling and he understands if your family and friends don’t like him, but he’s terrified someone will gather all this information and kill you because you couldn't be safe online. 

•Asks if you’re willing to sign up for self defence classes and if you’d be willing to let him teach you basic and more advanced skills.

•Will show you where exactly to stab someone so that they can’t scream

•Pressure points and how to use them to your advantage

•He will show you how to use a gun,knife, Brass knuckles, and (if he can find somewhere that will let him) bombs

•Will tell 141 about you and they also look out for

Thanks for reading

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi! this might be a complicated ask. i'm writing a Black-coded (nonhuman) ex-soldier with PTSD and was wondering if there is anything else i should consider with this character's relationship to violence. since im white, i dont have a nuanced perspective on how growing up Black(coded) might affect his behavior in this area.

my character is Black-coded in his character design, but more importantly, in-universe, he is part of a phenotype of his species that is treated like they are less intelligent and more violent than the other phenotypes. in canon material for this universe, other characters who are subject to these stereotypes have been interpreted as Black, so there is precedent for this analogy. a huge part of the source material is the struggle for equality, freedom, and liberation for all phenotypes. (not that its always done well)

the way im writing him now, he's a very calm and avoidant pacifist when possible, wanting to distance himself from the battlefield. but when he feels his new friends are in danger, he will fight again to protect them and himself. thing is, he has PTSD, and what he registers as a life-or-death threat might not register as a threat to his friends. as a result, they might find his actions overly aggressive… they don't understand what the war was like & how not being proactive enough cost him a friend. he's terrified to lose someone again, and this is the root of his behavior. that fear drives him more than the fear of returning to the battlefield. i dont want him to be an "angry aggressive Black man" or anything, i want it to be clear that he's acting from a place of fear, trauma, and protectiveness. i also want to note that he is not the only Black-coded character. one of the three never-seen-battle, carefree characters is also Black-coded. hopefully i've written him with enough nuance to avoid falling into stereotypes about aggression, but if not, i'd want to hear where i can improve.

now, the part where i really need advice is on how growing up as a part of this stereotyped phenotype might affect how he does (or does not) express things like anger, hostility, or fear. might he try to keep his emotions under wraps to avoid appearing angry or aggressive? or uncritically embrace it as a part of his identity? might he be afraid that expressing his emotions honestly will invite discrimination from his friends who do not have this phenotype? im afraid i just dont know where to begin with this one, but i feel it must be addressed as an important part of his character. oppression is a big topic in the source material and i feel i'd be remiss to avoid it in my OCs.

i know this is a long ask, but if you do choose to answer, thank you very much! if you'd like elaboration on anything, just ask. he's my favorite OC in this story and the most well-developed, and i want to do him justice

Hi, sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I've been thinking about how to answer this question daily. In my honest opinion, I think you should pause on this character and do some further research. You have an incredibly intriguing concept that would be really cool to explore... But I don't think that, right now, you as an author necessarily understand what you need to in order to depict the complexity of this character's experience.

My suggestion would be finding and reading books written by Black men about their experiences as Black men. They will include their stories of how they had to deal with their emotions, their traumas, and their relationships. I'm sure there are even stories of Black vets, if you really want to get that specific, but just in general life experience will hold patterns worth understanding for characterization. Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, or Monster by Walter Dean Myers, stuff like that.

[jjwolves]

VACATIONS ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿‿︵‿︵

A biiiiiiig thank you for @master-eclectic for commissioning this piece ^_^ I hope it lives up to expectations!!

What: 5 Headcanons of Mermaid ENA the Worker X Reader

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (by Joel G)

How Much: ~1000 words, ~5 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G, Divider -> @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Warnings: None

You’ve known ENA for a while—ever since you cast a hook into the Blood Lake and reeled in an odd-talking businessperson instead of the coffin of your employer. You’d never met anyone quite like the mermaid you discovered that day—red, white, double-minded. One moment she’s trying to sell you various pieces of treasure from the bottom of the lake, the next she’s yelling about how annoying the motor in your boat is. “Well, if it isn’t one of my repeat customers! In the mood to make a deal?” You’re the only one who usually comes to this lake, but you don’t mention it. You don’t want her to get mad—more mad than usual, that is—since she’s one of the few companionable entities that you know. She swims to the other side of the boat. “Could you at least keep it down?! Some of us are doing important work in this lake!”

She interrupts your fishing frequently. There is never a day that goes by on the lake where ENA doesn’t emerge to disturb your silence in the only way that you’d ever find yourself enjoying. Sometimes she idles near the front of the boat, sometimes she asks for a hand and you help haul her in. This continues for a while, but one day ENA is acting a little different than usual. “Say, why do you invest so much into this boat? Why don’t you sell your stocks and plunge into the icy lagoon? Wait, I didn’t pitch that very well. Why don’t you come swim with me? That’s better.” Normally you’d be hesitant to leave the safety of your boat, but if ENA was going to eat you she probably would’ve done it already. Before you have the chance to change your mind, you crawl over the side of your boat and start swimming in the lake next to ENA. The chill of the water runs through you. ENA’s color is a little chillier, too. “It’s a good thing you know how to swim. I’m nobody’s life raft!”

One day, you’re reeling in a fish and it’s a lot stronger than you anticipated. The thing must be huge! The struggle is short-lived and the fishing rod is yanked out of your hands, sinking into the lake. Dang it. A few moments later, a ripple in the water is broken by a bi-colored face belonging to someone you’ve found yourself enjoying the company of quite a bit. She gracefully pivots to the side of the boat and leans a red arm on the rim, her lowered hat making her look a little more conniving than usual. “You look despondent, chum. Tell me, what’s stricken a nerve?” Still gazing at the water where your tool was stolen, you explain that you lost a fight with an exemplary aquatic warrior. ENA pretends to ponder for a moment. “Hmm. I see… Well, how about a deal—a real one? I can offer my services in order to retrieve your fishing device.” You trust ENA, but you ask about what her price is anyway. “To be determined and then paid in full. Here I go!” ENA went under and the lake went silent for a few minutes. The calm was short-lived as the polygonal hybrid returned with your fishing rod—in perfect condition, as well. You thanked her. You didn’t notice that she never brought up payment.

As the days go by, ENA begins construction on a strange new routine where she does little favors for you in exchange for no payment. “Here you are. A magical whirlpool is sure to put all of your business targets in one place. We’ll put it on your tab.” “An air net would be most categorically helpful, I imagine. It’s on the house.” “What ever caused your boat to shake so much? You’re lucky my services were quickly delivered or you’d be sleeping with the fishies.” You always thank her. She always says, “How will you ever pay me back, I wonder?” At first you thought of it as a harmless tease, ENA letting out some of her capricious energy—but now the words are sobering to you. How could you pay her back? You had come to care for her a great deal, but people who cared for each other had give and take, right? It was a two-way street. Were you capsizing in an ocean you didn’t even know you were sailing yet?

One night (or sixth season, it was hard to tell here), you sat on the edge of the boat with your feet dangling off of the side, brushing the surface of the water. Stars and dreams followed the subtle wakes formed by your boot, all dispersed into formless noise as a white claw emerged and gently squeezed your foot. Your strange friend lifted her head out of the water and hovered near your leg, quiet as if she could sense your hesitation. “Do you ponder your payment plan often?” You did, but how could you convey it? You spoke, explaining that the days that you had known her were some of the higher quality ones spent in this world. In all honesty, you continued, ENA did so much for you even outside of the little favors she had meticulously performed—simply spending her existence with you was nurturing. So, you said—perhaps jokingly, perhaps despairingly, that only ENA could decide how much you owe her. You looked back at her, taking in a shocked expression before it cooled into something more contemplative. ENA pulled herself onboard and sat with you before she spoke her piece. “You really shouldn’t leave your debt up to my imagination. But if you’re offering, I’d say that we can start your repayment… with a kiss. Perhaps? If that’s a good deal to you?” You didn’t listen to any more backpedaling. Two hands rested on either side of ENA’s face, gills creating an odd sensation, as you delivered an eager kiss. You knew it didn’t really repay anything, but it was a start. Maybe you could build some credit. As you two parted, ENA grew pale like the froth of the lake’s waves and growled, “No no no! Don’t stop, moron!” as she returned the kiss with the force of a tidal wave.

[dflogerzi]

Charles... Let's Talk.

Yeah I know, you are the big leagues and you will never see this. I am this little American nobody off in her little non-important life in my own tiny corner of the world. But I have your number. I have actually had it for decades, and I am going to unleash.

Do you not think that some of us do not know what you truly are? I get the whole bit that you have cancer, you are suffering, and we need to be compassionate. Okay. And I do feel compassion, and I am very sorry for your illness. But here goes anyway because I am SO over it. And by that I am speaking of the never-ending drama with Harry.

What does Harry have on you? Because the only reason I can really see, and I am not buying the 'you love the dear boy' thing, he must have some heavy juice. I am going with blackmail. And do not think Charles that I have not done my homework, gone down rabbit holes... I know stuff. Many of us know who you once ran with and the history is recorded.

Harry is a nasty, horrible, disgusting traitor that will do anything to bring in a buck... other than to earn it with honor. He is going to unleash the secrets. And you will have your legacy in tatters either now or later. You look fully weak, and kicking the can down the road is not a good look. Not that anyone, anywhere expected anything different from you at all. I should not speak for others and I apologize for that, but wow. It is completely evident that the whole 'never explain or complain' thing is somewhat working, but not exactly. We all remember the strong and decisive moves that took a king down in a history not that long ago. What is happening now is FAR more explosive and worrying. Edward VIII is kind of looking like a good guy in the scheme of things.

Give it to William. And my suggestion is to do it soon. Because the media is chomping at the bit to tell all the truths. We can all feel it. A thousand-year legacy is on the brink of ending. I am guessing William is ready to step up, or gladly step out. I grew up loving the tales and fables of yore which is why I am even writing this or caring. I actually now would be happy to see him just say to hell with it, take his babe and his kids and go live in the countryside happy, safe and in joy. William, you do you and I am going to just feel the happiness of it. But hopefully you will not have to. I have known in your whole life which I watched with love and care that you will one day wear the crown. But I want for you the happiness and fulfillment that your wonderful life choices have created for you. Just look at what you have manifested. I am so proud of you, and I send you all my love.

Charles, I was there in London on your wedding day to Diana. I have really tried to like you for most of my adult life. You made that in most decades really hard to do.

It is time. Deal.

To my friends. Sorry. I am being annoying again. But this is my blog and I get to do that. What the heck. Love me or leave me? I have had this vent brewing for a while.

I guess I feel better. Will let you know...

[brklynbxby]

“¿Tú viste eso?” he murmured, half in disbelief, half in awe, eyes scanning her face like maybe it held the answer. “I finally beat the stupid thing.” His voice cracked with quiet wonder, wrapped in a laugh that was more breath than sound. The Stitch plush squished between them, a ridiculous, bug-eyed relic of years spent trying and failing. Her kiss landed light on his cheek, but it echoed deep. Deeper than he expected. “I didn’t keep playing for the toy,” he said, voice low now, quiet enough to almost get lost beneath the nearby screech of victory from a kid. “You know that, right?” His hand still rested at her waist, fingers brushing the edge of her leather pants, grounding himself in something real. “It was always about you, Liyana. It’s always been you.” He looked down at her, lashes casting faint shadows beneath the arcade glow, and his smile turned softer.“Años perdiendo… pero valió la pena.” Years of losing, but it was worth it. And suddenly, he didn’t care that they were standing under flickering lights with cartoon eyes blinking down from screens. This felt like the kind of win that mattered. Not because he finally held the prize—but because she never let go of the player. His eyes flickered down to her lips once, his body began to follow the route—leaning closer, caught in that electric hush between impulse and intention—before a small tug at his shirt broke the moment.

A kid, maybe six or seven, stood behind him with wide, hopeful eyes and sticky fingers clutching the hem of his shirt. “Mister… can I have your tokens?” For a beat, Diego just stared, the surreal shift jarring. Then he let out a soft laugh, crouching down so he was eye level with the boy. “¿Mis fichas, eh?” he said, “You got big plans for 'em?” The boy nodded solemnly, eyes darting to the claw machine like it was some mythical beast waiting to be conquered. Diego reached into his pocket, pulled out the last few tokens, and held them up between two fingers. “Alright, pequeño. But only if you promise me something important.” The boy leaned in, suddenly serious. Diego’s voice dropped into a whisper, theatrical and warm. “You have to try your absolute best. And if you don’t win today, you don’t quit. You just come back tomorrow and try again. Deal?” A quick, eager nod. Diego placed a couple tokens in the kid’s hand like they were sacred, and gave him a wink. “Go get your prize, campeón. And remember—the machine only wins if you walk away.”

The token slid between his fingers, its ridged edge catching on calloused skin as he turned toward the claw machine. Neon lights flickered across the glossy tiles beneath his shoes, casting fractured reflections that danced like ghosts from some half-forgotten summer. Rows of plush toys waited behind the smudged plexiglass, mid-sized and slightly sagging from a thousand failed attempts. A Stitch slumped near the corner, blue arms outstretched as if in surrender. Just to the right, a Mufasa sat with regal stillness, golden mane catching the light in waves of synthetic sheen. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Of course she’d pick this game—this moment—to test him. She always had a way of making even the ridiculous feel sacred. Without looking back, he fed a token into the machine. The mechanical whir clicked in his bones. Fingers hovered over the joystick, pausing for a breath, a beat—long enough to glance sideways. The claw descended with a stuttering lurch, metal pincers trembling as they reached for Mufasa. He didn't blink, didn’t breathe, just watched as the claws hesitated, then clamped shut. For a second, less than that, he saw it. The possibility. The win. And somehow, even more intoxicating, the loss. Because either way, she’d be looking at him like this, all lit up in soft pink sugar and flickering fluorescents, as if she hadn’t already stolen every piece of him worth stealing. He could fail, and it wouldn’t matter. She’d still remember. Still remember his attempt. Still remember that he owed her one.

“This machine is laughing at me,” he announced, voice dry, the corner of his mouth lifting as he slid another token into the slot. Fingers poised over the joystick, he exhaled. This time, his eyes locked on Stitch, the blue plush slouched against the side like it had given up on ever being chosen. Years. That damn toy had mocked him for years. Dozens of arcades, claw machines in every service station they’d passed on late-night drives, forgotten change jingling in his pocket like loose regrets. Each time, he’d tried. Failed. Shrugged it off with a joke while she laughed, eyes crinkling like she didn’t mind the losing, like she only cared that he kept playing. But tonight—something felt different. The air had shifted. Not just between the two of them, but inside him, where old resolve lived beside a softer ache he didn’t know how to name. The claw lowered again, spindly metal arms twitching as it hovered above Stitch. No hesitation this time. He moved like he knew what he was doing, like this wasn’t the thousandth attempt, like the universe had finally decided to let him have one win. A metallic click. The soft lift of fabric. The claw didn’t drop it. Didn’t twist or stutter or mock him with a false grip. It held. And when it reached the chute and Stitch tumbled down in a slow, victorious somersault, Diego just stood there for a moment. Silent. Watching the toy settle with an anticlimactic bounce, like it didn’t realise it had just undone years of failed tries and missed timing. He bent down and picked it up, brushing dust from its oversized ear. The fabric was cheap, the stitching imperfect—but his fingers curled around it with a strange sort of reverence. Finally. Turning toward her, he held it out, not saying anything at first. Just letting the moment speak in the silence between them. Letting her see it for what it was—not a toy, not a prize, but proof that he never stopped trying.

[discords-morgan]

I know we talk about what and what didn't make Vox and Alastor best-friend-break-up a lot BUT?? They probably WERE great friends (idk about best friends considering all of ✨them✨) considering Alastor trusted Vox enough to TAKE HIS PICTURE AND KEEP IT???? Which is like. a COMICALLY huge deal for Alastor let's be REAL

But here's the thing. I think we already know why they left each other. The show has already told us.

And I KNOW everyone likes to go on about Val being involved and whether he was or wasn't a factor BUT:

Think about how Alastor acted the SECOND Lucifer stepped through the Hotel's front door. IMMEDIATELY went full attack dog to undermine Lucifer and tell him to fuck off in the most theatrical, frankly embarrassing way possible ("it's a little funny, you could almost call me ✨DAAAAAAAAAAAAD✨").

So how in GOD'S NAME would he have acted when Val swoops in to work with Vox when Alastor said no to being business partners????

Keep in mind, Charlie and the Hotel is "pure entertainment" for Alastor. He does NOT trust Charlie or anyone else there enough to take his picture, let alone be on film.

But he trusted VOX enough.

What I think happened is: Vox asked Alastor to be proper business partners, Alastor said no, Vox said "k whatever" and asked Val instead (I imagine this is way before Velvette even died, judging by her social media use). Alastor goes batshit when Val shows up because he sees him as a threat, Vox goes "dude what the fuck" and they fight about it. After all, Alastor said no, why should he care who Vox shacks up with?

It all blows up in their faces, they have a fight, and SOMEHOW.

Vox. Is the one. That wins.

Just before stayed gone, Valentino says, "Are you still pissed he nearly beat you that time?" which means VOX WON. And it was RIGHT BEFORE Alastor disappeared.

Ex.

"That fucker is back!"

"I thought he was gone for good too."

"It's been seven years!"

"Are you still pissed he nearly beat you that time?"

"Uh, fuck you!"

"Just saying~"

"I should send him a message of who's REALLY in charge of things now!"

Val wouldn't have had to lift a single, moth-fur-covered, manicured finger. Alastor blew it all up on his own, and Alastor is the one that regrets it. The episode itself is called 'Radio Killed The Video Star', a riff on the song with the reversed title 'Video Killed The Radio Star'.

This is obviously intentional, but if Vox WON their last fight, WHY is it reversed, and why is Vox pissed about himself winning?

Vox didn't win because he was stronger. He freaks out at the end of Stayed Gone because fuck, he really pissed Alastor off. And he sounds REAL worried when Alastor finds out that he's behind Pentious being at the Hotel.

"You'll have to do better than that, old pal!"

Alastor was and still is stronger than Vox, but Vox won that time because Alastor let him. Alastor let Vox live, and then vanished for seven years. THAT'S why Vox is so insecure at this point in the story, and has SO MUCH surveillance over Hell. One because he's ridiculously nosy and wants to know what's going on everywhere at all times, but also because he's paranoid about Alastor coming back to finish the job.

AND.

VOX was worried sick about him for seven years, and here's why:

In the rolling bar text in the breaking news segment of Stayed Gone, Vox (and we know this is Vox because of what it says) says this:

"So the radio guy's back. I don't think you noticed. I didn't at first -- I was too busy being a much more interesting and important person."

"But fuck it, news is slow today I guess."

"I'm totally not worried about this guy and neither should you be."

"I totally wrecked his shit last time, thanks for asking."

And then it cuts away.

We KNOW this is Vox's line of thought because of how he 'totally wrecked his shit', therefore following the same line of 'totally' being the lie keyword, we ALSO know that Vox is WORRIED.

Worried about what? His old ex best friend coming back from the dead or worried that he's coming back to kick Vox's ass once and for all?

WHO KNOWS. My money's on BOTH.

[cryptidbear]

So Carry Me From These Walls, Brother of Mine

//Damian is not a child anymore, or at least, his training does not allow him to be a child anymore, despite only being 9 years old.

But during high-stress moments or when fear truly sinks in, he can't help but slip into old habits of his younger years and call out for his Baba to come and comfort him. He can't help but call out for the young man who had raised him like he was his own while they were in the League despite having been just a teen himself.

Jason swears he has no attachments anymore. He swears he only cares about getting his revenge and about his plans to get back at Bruce for letting that clown live and replacing him after his death.

And yet, every time his habibi is in trouble or in distress, he can't help but drop everything and come running, no matter what.

Even if it keeps setting his plans back more and more, to the point they just crumble to ash.

Because nothing is more important than the young boy that somehow became his anchor in this fucked up life.//

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65550514/chapters/168747442

Finally finished the fic i was supposed to in like, February, oops. Life hit hard so I had to step back and deal with some things, but I'm trying to get back into it. I'll be posting another fic as soon as I can, but also probably some one-shots as I try to hash out how to write these characters in a way i like and feels like them!

Shoutout to @crypticspade for beta-reading for me, though the final version wasn't beta-read bc he's out rn and i'm impatient, oops.

Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy! sorry for the long wait!

Tag list!

I tried to get everyone who asked. Apologies if you were no longer interested or if I accidentally tagged the wrong person, or if I accidentally forgot someone! Let me know if you want to be taken off or added!

@lenoryt13 @genderexenotfound @ashera-reaper @stephanie-brown-solos @dreaming-soundly @lustrousperidoe @leajoyrambles @carmineskiesandspidereyes @nyxserpent @afagkdjtslycy @slushiethecryptid @omeynzaol @feral-asexual-possum @blue-lothcat @burdened-locus @apexhaven @imheretoreadafic @stop-asking-me-to-sign-up @that1uselessmf @classicsimpforaaronwarnerclassicsimpforaaronwarner @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @ravenodindottir @littlefenrir @sstrangerthing1 @bananapeeeeellssss @isisbambisis @hidinginmyhands

[mike-wachowski]

for those of you that are still here for this heres a sneak peak for the second part of your doorstep calls my name

She invites Yelena to her archery competition, mostly because they’re friends, but also because it's the final competition of the year and it's been a hot minute since Kate’s invited anyone to one of these. 

It’s not like these competitions are anything special— this one is basically just a qualifier for the actual All-American tournament in January, and it’s all the way out in fucking Ozone Park, so even if Kate had anyone else to invite, she doesn’t really expect them to enthusiastically agree. It was weird, though; Yelena seemed really excited about it, at least when she had first extended the invite. The blonde had been lounging on Kate’s bed, flipping errantly through one of her psychology textbooks, as Kate packed up all of her bow gear and tried to pick out a good outfit from her endless collection of NYU team polos and athletic shirts. 

“What is all this for, again?” 

Kate is elbow deep in her closet, trying to find her lucky purple armguard. “Just an archery comp this weekend. Me and a couple other NYU students made the cut for qualifiers, so this basically determines who goes on to compete at the national level.” Her hand brushes against something plastic, and she grabs onto it and yanks back— nope, just an old Nalgene. 

“That’s cool,” Yelena says, not pulling her eyes from her book, but Kate knows she’s paying attention. “I didn’t know you were so skilled with the bow, Kate Bishop!” 

Kate thinks back to her box of trophies that used to adorn every shelf in her childhood home that have sat in storage for the last five years. She shrugs. “It’s only what I occupy just about every other evening with.” 

“So this event is a big deal, yes?” 

Kate’s fingers finally brush foam and resin and she pulls out the treasure she’s been looking for. “It’s not that special. It’s another step on the road to the Olympics, though, so I have to be there.” 

This makes Yelena bolt up on Kate’s bed. “The Olympics? This is major!” 

She tosses the armguard into her bag. “Honestly, Yelena, it’s nothing. A bunch of East Coast college kids all pack into a warehouse in Brooklyn and take turns shooting seventy-two arrows for a table full of judges. Then we take a break, and when we come back, we shoot,” Kate gasps, waves her hands, “you guessed it, twelve more arrows for a table full of judges!” 

Yelena squints at her. “You love it.” 

Kate collapses on the bed beside her. “I do. I fucking love it. I’m so competitive, Yelena, you have no idea.” 

“I had to fight you for the last ounce of creamer this morning, Kate Bishop. You threw a fork at me. I think I have an idea.” 

Kate chuckles despite Yelena’s annoyed tone. “You dodged it.” 

“You could have killed me. Or blinded me. What if the fork stabbed me in my eye?” 

She shoves Yelena’s shoulder. “You’re fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Yelena tries to stifle her laughter. Then she asks, “Is this the kind of thing with a crowd?”

Kate traces a pattern on her bedspread, picks at the fraying thread. “Sometimes. It’s one of the last comps of the season, so there’s bound to be a bunch of people there to watch.” 

Yelena hums, noncommittal. 

“Do you want to… come, maybe? And— and watch?” 

A coy smile tugs at Yelena’s lips. “Oh I suppose, Kate Bishop. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition… I wouldn’t want to be a distraction.” 

Yelena’s nose is scrunched up playfully. Her fingertip brushes against the pointed edge of her textbook, circles it. 

“Okay,” Kate sighs out, entranced, a little bit stupid. “Yeah. You should come.” 

Yelena slaps the textbook closed. “Great! Text me the address.”

“You heard me when I said it’s in Brooklyn, right?” 

“And you remember when I told you I grew up in Ohio? If you think Brooklyn is far for something this important, you wouldn’t last a day in the midwest.” 

“Whoa! Okay, my bad.” Kate chuckles awkwardly to herself. She hadn’t expected Yelena to be interested in her archery, and she certainly hadn’t expected the woman to come watch her compete. “If you want to come, come. Just don’t get mad at me if the whole thing is a total bore.” 

“I very much doubt that, Kate Bishop,” Yelena says. “I like to watch.” 

Kate doesn’t have any response to that. 

“What’s all this for?” Kate mirrors Yelena’s early inquiry, grabbing her textbook from where it’s tucked under her arms, reading the words on the cover: Psychological Perspectives on Human Trafficking; Theory, Research, Prevention, and Intervention. “This for a class or something?” 

Yelena goes still beside her. “Or something, yes.” 

“That’s cool,” Kate drawls. “I mean, I knew you were studying psych but I didn’t know you were focused on all this stuff.” 

Yelena says, “Yes. It’s research for my thesis,” like someone has a knife to her throat, and Kate is becoming increasingly uneasy that she is prodding at a subject that she never should have touched. 

“That’s awesome,” Kate says, lost, and then, “I mean that's great! You know, I totally have not been great about asking about your studies. You should tell me more sometime.” She rolls off the bed and hops to her feet, stalking over to her bedroom door. “Want to help me make a quizlet on predictive analytics algorithms? 

Yelena shakes the ghosts from her eyes, and maybe Kate is reading too much into it, but she thinks Yelena is grateful for the subject change. “No,” she clumsily scowls. “But I will put on Riverdale while you work, and when you start to moan and groan we can go get pizza.” 

“How kind,” Kate grumbles. Her heart bumps, how domestic, and she shoots it down. “As long as you don’t put buffalo sauce on it again, because buffalo sauce is nasty, and I’m not trying to have a workout in my mouth while I eat.” 

Yelena gasps. She grabs a pillow from the bed and aims for Kate’s head, but Kate ducks in time for it to sail above her and crash into the living room behind her. 

Yelena hums, “So rude, Kate Bishop,” in the loaded tone, the one she uses when Kate is being exceptionally kind or exceptionally dumb. “You’re supposed to say yes darling, whatever you want darling, I’ll put buffalo sauce on the pizza if you like it, darling.”

“I would not fucking say that.” Kate chuckles, tips her shoulder against the doorframe so she’s leaning at an angle. “You are not my darling. If anything, you’re baby.” 

Yelena rolls her eyes, but Kate swears she sees the tips of her ears burn red— her brain rationalizes that she’s projecting. She turns around before Yelena can say any more, like what she thinks Kate’s preferred pet name may be, or if any of her previous partners have called her baby, not that Yelena has ever mentioned a previous partner.

They spend all evening yelling at Kate’s TV and passing a bottle of wine back and forth. When Kate gets tired of graphing market degradation simulations in Excel, she slams her laptop shut and groans so loud that Yelena howls with laughter, and they both slip on their winter coats and trudge down the snow-mantled block. Yelena doesn’t complain when Kate orders their pizza without buffalo sauce and Kate doesn’t complain when Yelena covers her half in sambal, and they eat in companionable silence until a dog walker with a pack of dogs on leashes passes by the shop window and Yelena dashes outside to pet all of them. 

Kate watches on with fondness, and when they walk back to the apartment building, shoulders brushing, Yelena tells her dreamily that she’s always wanted a dog named Fanny, and Kate likes her so much that she doesn’t even laugh. She just nods, all serious, and thinks damn, I like this woman so much I’d let her name our dog Fanny, and avoids diving into the implications that would mean them co-parenting a dog.

They part in the elevator, Yelena getting off on the second floor and Kate getting off on the third. The goodbye is stilted, awkward— Yelena doesn’t want to step away, Kate doesn’t really want her to leave. 

“I’ll see you this weekend?” Kate asks, finally, after Yelena’s hand has gotten smashed by the elevator doors twice. 

“Yes,” Yelena breathes out, tired, a bit too honest. “Wouldn't miss it, Kate.” 

“Okay,” Kate sighs, and actually, maybe she's the tired one, the honest one. “Love you.” 

Yelena pauses. She looks at Kate like she doesn’t quite hear her right; looks at her like her words haven’t taken the right shape. Then she relaxes, and she smiles. Yelena says, “Get some rest, Kate Bishop,” and she slips out the automatic doors smoothly, leaving Kate in an empty lift with only the scent of lavender and smoke to keep her company as she ascends to the next floor. 

Kate spends the next two nights tangled up in cold sheets, eyes trained on her balcony door for any signs of lithe fingers and messy blonde curls. When she dreams, she dreams of fingers tracing their way up her neck, across her jawline— knuckles brushing the edge of her ear—

—knuckles pressed taut against the edge of her ear, and then she releases her bowstring, letting the arrow fly loose. 

A judge approaches the target. Her arrow has landed squarely on the line between the gold and the nine ring. The judge pulls out a little magnifying glass like he’s fucking Sherlock Holmes and inspects it. 

“Nine!” He calls out to the table, and the other judges scramble to take note while Kate combats the impulse to stomp her foot in disappointment. She takes a deep breath, then resets. There’s a fresh arrow nocked in her bow, taken from the quiver that rests on her hip. She pulls the string taut— glides the pull of the string so her knuckles brush against her jaw, past her cheek, extends all the way to her ear. Kate centers herself. Takes a deep breath. Her fingers pulse—

“Kate Bishop!” A voice calls out from the back of the court, jostling Kate and breaking her concentration. She drops her bow down and snaps the tension from her string, letting her arrow clatter to the ground. 

“Scratch!” A judge calls out. “No points. No shot taken.” 

“Sorry I’m late! Traffic was terrible.” Yelena is climbing her way through the stands, pushing past parents and families and coaches for a spot near where Kate is positioned. 

“Hey Yelena,” Kate calls out, and she’s sure all the judges are scowling at her, but really, she doesn’t care. Not when Yelena is here. “Glad you could make it.” 

“Don’t mind me!” Yelena says, partially to Kate, partially to the grandparents she’s just clambered over. “Good luck!” 

Kate grins, yells back “Thanks!” and then a judge hisses Bishop and points to her watch. 

Kate levels her bow. Archery is second nature to her; the bow is an extension of her own arm. She’s always taken comfort in the way the world around her eyes when she’s looking down the sight of her bow, eyes trained on her mark. Everything else fades away, and all that exists in that moment is Kate, the target, and the distance between them. 

Her elbow snaps back. There’s a tightness in her bicep as it pulls the bowstring taut that burns euphoric. She inhales a shallow breath— feels the strain of her body, one and the same with the strain of her bow— then grounds herself, down into the linoleum floor, and lets the arrow fly. 

Her exhale isn’t even finished in the time it takes for the arrow to find its home deep in the center of the target, punched through the bullseye mark. Kate lets her bow fall sideways, expelling the rest of its momentum out of her fingers. 

Sherlock Holmes raises his magnifying glass to the arrow. The crowd watches on in rapt silence. 

“That’s in the pinhole,” he finally says, after a drawn-out moment of consideration. “Perfect score.” 

Over the polite clapping and cheers from her team, Kate hears a loud, exuberant, “Kate fucking Bishop!” She looks behind her to see Yelena standing, staring at her in awe, fists pumping, while the rest of the onlookers around her stare up at the woman like she’s an early morning lawnmower waking up the neighborhood. 

Kate just laughs. They can stare all they want— Kate will never be ashamed that someone cares about her so much to cheer. She may have taken the shot, but Kate is pretty sure Yelena is the one that guided it home.