#IDK i just think that she would see herself in them in the smallest of ways and just

[27spoons]

CRUSH | ACT THREE: SAFE FROM HEARTBREAK (IF YOU NEVER FALL IN LOVE)

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

summary: Lack of proper communication, emotional rifts, avoidance like it's a job, and homoerotic gym classes! The true high school experience.

wc: 7300

warnings: homoerotic activities, avoidable pain and suffering, high school gym class, stereotyping, smut but only if you squint, delusional behaviour on your part

a/n: my bad for going mia everywhere lmao i was. like. i got really depressed while writing this and vanished off socials for a more than a few days aiugaiugha. anyways! hopefully more writing soon idk

ao3 / masterlist

PREVIOUS - NATALIE'S INTERLUDE TWO

NEXT - ACT THREE: SOMEBODY ELSE [WIP]

You wake up to the steady stream of sunlight pouring through cracks in the blinds and the unfamiliar feeling of a warm body pressed against yours.

It takes your brain a solid minute to catch up with everything. The scent of cheap citrus-scented shampoo and stale cigarette smoke clouds your nostrils, a combination you never thought you'd be happy to smell, but here you are, grateful to still be smelling it come morning. The soft puff of her breath against your collarbone is steady and warm, and an idle hand traces small circles into your hip.

God, you can't even fight the smile that creeps its way onto your lips, or the way your entire body seems to tingle at the fact that the exact girl you didn't expect to spend the night with anyone spent it with you. 

Nat's head is tucked delicately under your chin, just like it was last night. You trace your hand up her spine, feeling the distinct bumps of her vertebrae underneath the pads of your fingertips, her skin prickling with goosebumps in her sleep.

Having a sleeping body next to yours all night is a strange feeling. It's not unwelcome—far from it—but strange nonetheless. You're used to quiet mornings and cold sheets with solitude being the default state, not something broken by soft exhales and the slow rise and fall of someone else's chest. For a fraction of a moment, you let yourself believe that this could be your new normal.

You don't realise how tightly you're holding onto the moment until Nat stirs. It's subtle at first—a soft inhale, the slight flex of her fingers against your hip. Then she shifts, just enough for her nose to nudge against your collarbone, and you hear the smallest, sleep-heavy hum. You'd say you're pretty sure Natalie Scatorccio just purred, but you're worried you'd be shot on sight.

"Hey," you whisper, a little too eagerly. 

Her initial response is a soft huff against your neck that quickly turns into a long, slow exhale. It's the type of sound someone who's exhausted would make, or someone who's trying to make a choice they really don't want to.

You try not to think about that.

She doesn't verbally respond right away, but she does press a lazy kiss to your shoulder before placing her head back down.

The peacefulness lasts for another five or so minutes, then Nat grumbles something akin to "too fuckin' early for this shit…"

"I think it's, like, ten in the morning, actually." You chuckle to yourself as she slowly stirs, still grumbling complaints that you can only assume are about the time of day.

A sharp pinch is delivered to your side before Nat speaks again. "Yeah, like I said. Too fuckin' early."

"Oh, sorry," you say with a roll of your eyes. "I forgot you skipped every class before noon."

"'cept on Tuesdays," Nat murmurs quietly, gradually waking herself up. "If Martinez catches me skipping gym, he makes me pay for it at practice later."

You run your fingers through matted strands of hair at the base of her neck, gently untangling them as you go along. "It's not even soccer season right now."

"Nah, but he does 'regular check-ins' to make sure we're still up to his standards." She huffs, moving her hand from your hip to start tracing invisible lines on your abdomen. "Weekly practice sessions. 's why you never see me after school on Thursdays."

"Got it. Tuesdays and Thursdays are days I should never plan anything with you."

It's intended to be a joke, but the way Nat stiffens tells you it fell flat.

Shit.

Before you can backtrack, she's pulling back to sit up and stretch, extending her arms over her head and cracking her neck. You aren't quite sure when she put a shirt on, but a part of you wishes she didn't have it on so you could see the curve of her spine and the dusting of freckles you're sure dot her back.

"You wanna stay for breakfast?" you ask tentatively, placing your hand on the jut of her hip. "I make a mean pancake." 

Nat grunts, very obviously feigning consideration for a question she already knows the answer to. "Nah. I can't. Sorry, Princess. I gotta get goin' 'fore my mom starts wondering where I am."

You know it's a lie as well as she does. She's never been a good liar.

You sit up a fraction as she turns to reach for her jacket, tugging the blanket up over your chest to hide yourself from the light of day. Nat's shirt rides up slightly in the process, and your gaze catches on the tattoos lining the length of her left arm—ink you hadn't fully seen last night under the chaotic haze of last night.

In the small handful of soccer games you'd watched her play before properly meeting her, you had seen the collection of patchwork tattoos grow over the course of high school. They all look like they were done on different days by different people, drunk at parties or in the school bathroom between classes.

There's (what you assume is) a turtle on a skateboard near her elbow, though the lines are crooked and faded. A beer bottle with a smeared label sits on her bicep, and right under it sits a fish you would see an elementary school student draw. There's a smiley face on her inner wrist, but it looks like she tried to scrub it off with something. It's scratched, faded, and half-erased, like she was embarrassed by it later. And, to top it all off, there's a random string of numbers on her inner forearm: 052996. A date? A code? A dare? You wonder if even she remembers who gave it to her.

Your fingers move before your brain does, reaching out from under the blanket to brush over the ink with gentle curiosity. "Any of these got a story?"

"Nah," she chuckles, grabbing her bra from the floor and putting it on without even removing her shirt. "At least, nothin' worth telling." She shrugs, looking down at her arm like it belongs to someone else. "Most of 'em are just… dumb shit. Placeholders for better ideas I never had."

You hum, reach back to resume tracing over the lines since she hasn't completely pulled away. "What about this one?" Your fingers brush one that looks relatively new—a particularly awful alien with Xs for eyes. "This guy your guardian angel?"

That earns you a soft scoff, but there's a flicker of something else in her expression. Fondness, maybe. "Guardian alien. Only shows up when I'm blackout drunk or about to make a huge mistake."

"So… last night, then?"

Nat actually laughs at that—real, brief, and genuine—and for a second, the air feels warm again.

But then she tugs on her jacket, expression shifting to something far more unreadable. "Seriously, though. I gotta bounce."

You nod slowly, even though you don't want to. Your hand stays ghosting near her arm for a moment longer before dropping back to the bed, watching her tug her jacket on over the same arm you had just been touching.

"Could you pass me a shirt?" you ask tentatively, suddenly feeling much more exposed and vulnerable than you had all night. "Just… anything from the laundry hamper over there. I gotta put the clothes away later, anyway."

She grunts at that, reaching down to grab her discarded jeans and tugging them up her toned, scarred legs that look like they'd run from—or into—trouble more than once. "You need anything else? Underwear, pants?"

You're momentarily caught off guard at her question, a part of you not expecting her to ask or even care all that much, and that same part smiles when it realises she cares—even if just a little bit. 

"Uh, yeah. Both would be great. Maybe a pair of sweats? The black one on top of the pile is fine, thanks."

Another grunt in acknowledgement as she moves to dig through the pile of clean clothes, tossing you the requested attire. 

Although you know she's leaving, you can't help but let yourself feel slightly delusional—absorbing the idea that she's doing this out of a natural feeling of domesticity, rather than any other reasoning behind her actions. 

Nat hesitates before she moves any further away from you, shifting on the spot momentarily. "You, uh, y'think your parents are gonna give me shit? Ask me questions?"

You have to laugh at that, pulling your shirt over your head. "God, no. They probably won't even notice you're here, or that you're leaving. You'll be fine." It's not even a joke—just the truth.

"Cool, was worried I'd have to jump out the window." She pushes a hand through her tangled hair, fingers catching on knots. "I'm already fucked up." She gestures vaguely to her various bruises and cuts from last night, "last thing I need is broken knees."

You stand up once you get your pants on, trying to figure out how to break the tension. "Did you, uh…" Your eyes rake over your room, trying to find something you can use to keep her here longer, not wanting everything to end just yet. "Want… like… a toothbrush? Or, like, some clean clothes? Those ones still have blood on them, and—"

A dismissive hand is waved, cutting you off before she brushes imaginary dust off her jacket. "All good, Princess. 'preciate the offer, though."

"Yeah, yeah, of course, of course. No worries, no worries."

Clearly sensing the tension in the air, Nat clears her throat. "Well, uh, thanks. Y'know… for…" She brings her hands up—showing off the bandaging—then gestures to her face. "And last night, I guess. But, like I said… mom, and everything."

She's lying again. You know that as well as she does. Neither of you comments on it.

Your hands rest uselessly by your sides. A part of you is tempted to reach out and say goodbye with touch, but you're unable to bring yourself to follow through on the action.

When you don't do or say anything more, Nat grabs the door handle and unceremoniously shows herself out of your room, closing the door far more gently than you thought she would have. You don't follow her down—as much as you want to—and listen closely to the sounds that come from downstairs. 

Stairs creak under her weight, thirteen steps in total, then silence follows as she presumably walks to the front door to grab her boots and lace them up. The sound that comes after about a minute is the thump of the heel of her boot against the floor, followed by the low groan of the front door hinges and the soft click of it shutting behind her.

You let yourself exhale slowly as sputtering sounds from the cold start of her diesel engine spill through the cracked window, and—

You could have sworn your window was closed last night when you went to bed. Strange. It's a bit finicky to close, and maybe the fact it's slightly ajar has something to do with the small collection of ashes on the sill. Her calling card, apparently. 

You don't brush them off as you latch the window shut.

When the Ranger finally stops sounding like it's barely holding onto life, you look out the window in time to see her pulling away from your house and off to—well, wherever she goes when she doesn't want to be found. You know she said 'her mom,' but you also know she doesn't have any intention of going straight home. 

You linger for a beat longer than necessary, watching the truck disappear past the end of the street, the pavement now visible from the plowing efforts that took place last night. The quiet that follows her departure feels almost lonely, like she left with something fragile you hadn't meant to hand over. 

Eventually, the creak of floorboards beneath your feet reminds you that time is moving, and so should you. 

You shuffle downstairs, still barefoot, and halfway to the kitchen when your mom's voice drifts in from the living room.

"Was that a girl I just saw leaving? She looked…" She pauses, trying to find the right words to describe Natalie's rough appearance. "Unpleasant, for lack of a better word."

Your dad grunts from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his book—Patriot Games by Tom Clancy—when he speaks. "Rough crowd you're running with now?"

"She's not… she just… she just had a bad night. That's all. Needed a place to crash."

"Well, as long as she isn't stealing anything," your mom sighs, sparing you a brief glance. "Or getting blood on my carpets. It's a pain to remove." Her brief glance turns into a long one as she assesses you for what feels like the first time in forever, her brow knitting in contemplation. "You look…"

Your dad finally looks up from his book to see why your mom is still talking to you, his eyes narrowing as he finally looks over you. "Look like you had an interesting night," he finishes on her behalf.

Feeling far too seen, you turn on your heel and head into the kitchen, although it doesn't do much to shield yourself from their gazes.

Stupid open floor plans.

"I patched her up and she stayed the night. Wasn't really that interesting."

A laugh spills from your mom, and you already know she's about to judge you for something. "Well, sure sounds interesting to me. Sounds like something your dad would read about in his books. Patching someone up in the dead of night."

Your dad gives his reply, but it starts to drown out as you grab a bowl from the cupboard and a box of… whatever cereal you grab first from the pantry. You pour it more out of habit than hunger, not even bothering to add some milk to the mix. 

You zone out at the counter, not even realising you're popping piece after piece of dry cereal into your mouth. 

There aren't any thoughts in particular that pass through your mind, but the one that makes its way through the noise is: What even just happened? 

Last night plays behind your eyes like a film reel—a phone call, trudging through deep snow, patching up Nat in the passenger seat of her truck, spending hours learning about her and her life, taking her back home, kissing her in the dark of your room, exploring each other's bodies under no obligation to do so, falling asleep together…

Fuck. 

You toss your empty bowl in the sink and trudge back up to your room, parents still talking about… something in the living room, making no effort to hide how little they actually care. 

When you shut your door and fall face-first onto your bed with an oof, the first thing you do is randomly pat your comforter in an attempt to find your phone.

It takes… more than a few tries, but you eventually smack your phone and pull it to your face. And, before giving yourself time to think about it, you open Nat's contact and immediately text her.

[you]

you left cigarette ashes on my windowsill 🙄 rude

You don't expect her to respond anytime soon, and toss your phone onto the opposite end of your bed as you press your face into your pillows. Specifically, the one that still kinda smells like her.

Sure, her departure was a little… strange, but it wouldn't be Nat if it weren't a little odd, so you try not to think too hard on it. All that matters is that it was a damn good night.

Returning to school suddenly doesn't seem like it'll be as big of a chore when compared to yesterday. 

The first text goes unanswered.

Which, sure. Nat has a terrible tendency to only check her texts once a day—a product of always having to hide her phone from her dad, you've learned—and then reply with the flattest texts possible. But you find yourself surprised when the text doesn't even get an acknowledgement by the following day. Not even a drunk text at 2 AM with a hitty meme from some obscure subreddit.

So, you try again the next day before you head to school. Something casual. Something safe.

Still nothing.

You expect to bump into her in the hallways that day, so you try not to think too hard about her not responding to your texts.

However, when you finally enter the halls, your first encounter with Nat is her turning around—as if she forgot something in the opposite direction of you—and immediately walking away.

The following week passes in a daze.

You tell yourself not to care. You try.

But every time your phone buzzes, a part of you still hopes it's her. Every time someone whispers her name in class, your stomach twists. And whenever you see the back of a blonde head with brown roots peaking out in the hallway, your heart stutters before your brain catches up.

You stop texting after the fourth message goes ignored.

At some point, it starts to feel less like rejection and more like erasure.

She hasn't unfollowed you on Instagram—although you'd be surprised if she even remembers she has one, being that she seldom uses it—and it's impossible to tell if she even got your messages, being that she has a Samsung that never updated past Android 10, so you can't even get receipts that tell you it was even delivered. 

When you bump into Lottie Matthews in the hallway—the same person who gave you that cryptic information about Nat at that party all those months ago—you cautiously ask her how Nat's doing. If she's okay, or something along those lines. You feel like you fumble the words out more than ask them.

Seemingly caught off guard, Lottie hesitates before speaking. "I mean… she's around," she says slowly, adjusting the strap of her bag. "She disappears sometimes. Doesn't mean she's gone for good."

A beat. Then, softer:

"Don't take it personally. She does that with everyone."

Easier said than done.

By the time you have gym with her again, her bruises are starting to fade. She's taken off the wrapping—that she obviously wasn't maintaining—from around her knuckles, and the scrapes don't look nearly as bad as they did that night.

You wonder if someone else has been checking in on her. Maybe Van or Kevyn. You hope someone else has been, even if just for her sake. Although, selfishly, you almost hope no one has even bothered to ask her how she's doing, because maybe then… maybe she'll come back to you. 

Even if it's just to use and discard.

But maybe she's already done that.

You end up against her in dodgeball that day. Nat's always had a killer aim, so you aren't exactly looking forward to being on opposite sides of the gym, but maybe this gives you a way to work out some of your frustrations. Even if it's just throwing balls in her general direction.

When Coach blows the whistle, you aren't one of those people who run to the center line in an attempt to grab a ball. No, you strategically linger near the rear wall and keep your eyes on the students fighting over the balls in the center, breaking off once they get a firm grip and run back to where you stand to 'tag' the ball into play by hitting the wall.

Six players per team. Coach Scott and Coach Martinez stand on either side of the gym, playing referee. Your team—comprised of four kids you never cared enough to learn the names of, you, and Taissa Turner—manage to grab four balls in total, leaving the other team—which includes Nat, the captain of the men's varsity baseball team, Randy Walsh, and three other classmates—with the remaining two.

So, despite your team's apparent lack of athleticism, you'd like to think Taissa makes up for most of that.

She certainly plays like a force to be reckoned with, anyway.

You try to keep your eyes on the game, but it's hard not to notice how Nat moves—quick, practiced, precise. She's always been good at sports, which is especially funny considering the fact that she's never been assed even to try. You've never been told exactly where her athletic ability came from, and it could very well just be natural, but you get a feeling there's more to the story than that.

Something inside you twists whenever she lunges, ducks, or pivots. She looks better—healthier, maybe—which should be a relief, but instead it just makes you feel more left behind.

You try to tell yourself it's just a game. That she's just a (former) burnout with a decent throwing arm and a chip on her shoulder. But when she grabs a ball and immediately clocks some poor kid in the thigh after tagging it in, you realize you're lying. She's good, and you're not as over this as you pretend to be. 

So, when your team goes down four people, and her team goes down three, you realise you're gonna have to step it up, if the way Taissa is yelling in your direction is any indication.

You dodge the first ball that Nat throws in your direction, just missing your right ear.

"Natalie!" Coach Scott calls from the sidelines, but doesn't stop the game. "Below the neck! We've been over this."

You watch her jaw tick, but she doesn't argue with him. 

Surprising everyone—but especially yourself—you manage to catch a ball that's aimed directly at your chest, successfully calling a teammate back into the fold. You watch Nat's footwork for a little while, trying to claw through the haze of annoyance that clouds your mind, and throw the ball you had caught directly at Nat.

Well, at least, you had planned to throw it directly at her.

Whether she dodges it skillfully at the last second, or your aim is so off that it completely veers from its intended path, it misses her and hits the kid standing to her left on his bicep. He hisses in pain, immediately dropping the ball he was carrying, and presses his arm over the rapidly reddening skin. The five seconds it takes him to walk to the sidelines feels like a lifetime as your eyes meet Nat's, and the two of you have a mid-game staredown that feels like a standoff straight from an old west film. 

For a second, you're not in a high school gym anymore. You're standing in some dusty one-horse town, sun in your eyes, fingers twitching at your sides like you're about to draw a revolver instead of throw a dodgeball. She stands across from you, the sheriff's badge she'd probably hate glinting in the light. No words. Just you, her, and the unbearable tension of who's gonna move first.

In the end, it's you when Taissa yells, "Get your head in the game!" after a few seconds too long. Unlike Nat, her athletic ability comes from the need to be the best and outperform her peers—both a blessing and a curse.

And just like that, the saloon doors slam shut, and you're back in the gym, clutching a red rubber ball and a bruised ego. 

You're momentarily flustered as you're called out of your daydream just as it had started getting good. You throw your ball too early and miss an easy catch that would have given you a huge advantage you so desperately need to finish this game once and for all.

Nat's body language shifts as your third missed shot whiffs past her. She looks at you like you're the unlucky rabbit, and she's the coyote who's already sunk her teeth in. Her eyes lock onto you with a predator's accuracy, a sharp contrast to the girl who'd barely been trying moments prior. She grabs a ball that rolls idly across the ground between the two of you, and whips it in your direction like she plays softball instead of soccer. She barely misses your shin with a throw that must reach fifty miles an hour, curving only at the last second to miss. It's a good thing, too—you wouldn't have dodged that in time.

The following five minutes are a combination of barely missed throws, people getting tagged out and back in, and a level of exertion you aren't used to in a grade school dodgeball game. And, through it all, neither you nor Nat gets tagged out. 

You're both panting, sweating something fierce, and maintaining some fucked up eye contact far too sensual for a gymnasium. This encounter feels like something out of an erotic sports novel, and the cherry on the cake is the way her hands run through her sweaty hair, pushing it from her face and—

This isn't a gym or the wild west—this is your bedroom. Nat's panting from an entirely different type of exhaustion, and your face isn't slick from sweat alone. She's looking at you like you might mean something, and you're looking at her like she's the only thing you want to see. 

You dodge another ball. So does Nat. Your tongue presses into her. Her head falls back as a gasp rips from her chest. You fall asleep with her head on your shoulder. She smokes a cigarette out your window. You jump over a ball that Nat throws. She ducks under a ball you throw. You offer to cook her breakfast. She leaves without a goodbye.

Past and present blur, and you hardly notice the rapid transition between the two until a whistle is called. 

"Shirts win!" Coach Martinez calls from the sidelines, giving you and Taissa an approving nod. "Good work, ladies. Some real skill you portrayed there."

Taissa claps your shoulder and grins victoriously, acting as though she just won a championship cup. "We just gotta work on your timing. With a little effort, we could…"

Her voice drones into the equivalent of the adult voice from the old Charlie Brown shows, effectively becoming the backdrop to Nat stomping out of the gym and slamming open the door to the changing room.

You shrug Taissa's hand off your shoulder and murmur something akin to 'maybe next time,' and quickly follow after Nat, determined to get a brief second alone with her to ask her what the fuck is going on.

The door swings open to the sound of running shower water, shoes squeaking on the tile floor, lockers slamming, and the rest of the class filing in after you. 

It takes a moment to locate Nat between the bleached blonde hair of cheerleader-types and the ruggedness of those who've spent too long on the wrong side of the tracks, but you do spot her, albeit closing her locker and making her quick break.

"Nat, woah, wait—" but she's slithering out of the room before you can catch up to her, and you get cut off on your way to the other exit by a group of girls walking in your path.

You throw your hands up in frustration, and the girls give you weird glances, but no one says anything about your sudden outburst.

You sit down on a bench between rows of lockers, placing your head in your hands as you stare at the floor. Confusion runs through your mind, and you find yourself even more baffled now than you were before gym today. Because… well, you're almost positive Nat is trying to tell herself that what happened between you means nothing, but you wouldn't have had a homoerotic staredown with someone whom you didn't have some sort of… something with. 

You aren't quite sure what that something is, but it's definitely there.

"Dude," a voice from behind you draws you out of your spiralling thoughts. "Did you fucking see the way Nat was playing? You'd think she had something to prove."

Your ears burn as though the voice is talking about you, but you don't turn around to see who's speaking, instead opting to act like you aren't actively eavesdropping.

"Maybe she is," another voice chimes in with a laugh. "You've seen how fucking rough she's looked since school opened back up. Maybe she's trying to get an athletic scholarship to some D3 college, everyone knows she couldn't get out of this town otherwise."

"Seriously. She'll probably die the same way her fucking dad did."

You grip your locker until your knuckles turn white. You're usually calm, but this? 

This might make you swing. There isn't much more that pisses you off than people talking shit about someone they don't know, let alone even begin to understand.

Top 40's pop music annoyingly plays from someone's phone as you change into clean clothes without really thinking about it, moving on autopilot like you had done after so many gym classes before. 

Nat's focused face and wicked aim haunt the rest of your day and half the night, and you start to wonder if that encounter with Denny way-back-when was actually just a precursor for all the events that followed. Like the universe was trying to scare you off before you got too close.

You wonder what would have happened if you'd listened.

A month passes.

Not that you're counting the days, or anything. 

But each day that passes makes you wonder more and more if you had given yourself to a succubus that night, with the way that every day feels like the gradual siphoning of your life energy. You stop putting effort into your outfits around the same time you stop eating on a regular basis. You still interact with your friends and do your schoolwork, but time quickly turns into a soup—dates and times intertwined and events overlapping. 

It's somewhere between mid-January and early February when you see Nat in the hall, not running in your opposite direction for the first time in… well, since that titular night. You see her laughing against the lockers, speaking with someone you can't quite visualise through the dense crowd. Regardless of who she's talking to or why, it makes you feel a simmering rage through your lower gut and up your throat. 

An anger that you try very quickly to smother. 

It's not like you need Nat, anyway. You had friends before her, you'll have friends after her. 

You decide you can take a different path to your class, and turn on your heel to head down a different hallway in favour of entirely ignoring her existence today. 

You type out a long-winded draft to her number in algebra class, asking her… well, a large number of things, with a significant portion being attributed to her ghosting you directly after you fucked, which sounds suspicously like all the rumours of her screwing people then immediately cutting them loose. For someone who was so firm on not believing all the rumours that were thrown around about her, you find yourself wondering…

No.

You delete the draft without sending it.

Class resumes like nothing ever happened.

It's two days later, when you're sitting at lunch with a small group of your friends, that someone makes a teasing comment about how you seem 'extra depressed' recently, asking you if it has something to do with that showdown that happened in the gym some weeks back. It's something that's meant to be no more than a nudge between friends, but it hits like a punch.

"Fuck off, Alexis. You're the last person I need getting in my business. Don't you need to get back with Peter for the third time this year?"

Everyone at the table goes quiet. Smiles freeze and fall, and awkward glances are exchanged. 

It's a solid thirty seconds of you staring down at your food in tense silence before someone else at the table—Ellie—speaks softly. "That's… not like you."

You feel bad immediately. Of course you do. The worst thing Alexis ever did to you was steal your Go-Gurt in third grade. And she gave you two the next day to make up for it. So, really, she hasn't done anything at all to you but be your friend.

"I'm fine," you murmur, standing up far too quickly from the table and leaving the cafeteria before you can further embarrass yourself in front of all your friends. 

You almost have a panic attack in the same janitor's closet where you spoke to Nat around homecoming. 

When the hell did you become someone who lashes out at friends?

Lecture hall on Friday is when you hear someone whisper Nat's name between the sound of shuffling papers and flickering lights. You aren't sure what they say—you aren't sure it even matters—but it hits you all the same. Whether it's in a positive view or a negative one, you still feel like a bucket of cold water is dumped over your head immediately.

You can't focus for the rest of the period, the biology textbook you were flipping through stopping on the page about human reproduction, which feels more like a slap in the face than something to laugh about.

At some point, the music you've been vaguely listening to just starts to bleed into music Nat would listen to, and you rip out your earbuds with an emotional tug, sending them sprawling across the desk and pulling your phone into your line of view. As you shakily unlock the phone, you open up Instagram before you can stop yourself. Your fingers move on autopilot, navigating to your following list and clicking on Nat's username. 

Unsurprisingly, her last post is still from a year and a half ago—a photo of her posted up alongside a pillar outside of school, smoking a cigarette in her leather jacket with a partial smile. 

It almost feels like nothing's changed for her. That you were no more than a way to pass the time. And maybe that's all you were—a warm body with a pair of ears that were willing to listen. 

Time moves on.

Monday, you see her in the quad, standing between Van and Lottie. She's smiling—genuinely, it seems. Lottie and Nat are smoking cigarettes while Van stands with their arms crossed, rolling their eyes after whatever Nat says.

The next time Nat ashes her cigarette, her eyes drift across the melting snow and meet yours. It's a fleeting moment that feels like it lasts for five lifetimes rather than just five seconds, and has you stopping dead in your tracks.

Then she looks away. She says something to Van. They both laugh.

You feel bitter resentment claw into your throat in the form of stomach bile, threatening to spill in a half-empty garbage can or backpack. You drink some water from the bottle you forgot was in your hand as you head back into the school, not bothering to stop and acknowledge Ms. Wheeler when she scolds you for running in the halls. 

The bathroom stall in the west-wing women's bathroom becomes your temporary reprieve, slamming the door shut and collapsing on the toilet as you break into silent sobs.

You decide that today is the day you say something. You don't even know if you want closure or answers, and you're not sure which would make you feel better—or worse.

You follow after Nat before she can slip away once more, catching up to her in the parking lot and grabbing the sleeve of her leather jacket.

"Are you seriously just gonna pretend none of it happened?" you ask as you spin her around, your grip firm. "Why won't you just talk to me, Nat?" Your voice cracks out a little more desperately than you intend it to, and you already know you look like a puppy left out in the rain too long. 

"I'm not…" she scoffs, although it sounds more like a half-hearted exhale than anything else. "You're making this a bigger deal than it is. I've just been busy."

"Busy? For over a month?" You push back, your grip tightening to the point you swear it'll leave permanent indents in her leather jacket. "We slept together, Nat. You cried in my bed. You spent the night with me." 

Nat pulls back from your grip, stumbling slightly as she does so. "I was fucking drunk, alright? People say shit when they've had a few to drink."

"Bullshit, you were drunk. You were stone-cold sober, Nat. Are you forgetting I was there, too? Or do you think that you were the one who patched yourself up that night?"

"It was just sex, alright!" she almost yells, then quickly glances around to make sure no one heard her. "That's all it fucking was. Stop making this into something it isn't, okay?"

"This isn't lust, Natalie. I… I know the difference. You can't keep telling me that you don't—!"

"Don't what?" Nat snaps, "Feel something?" She scoffs—like the very idea offends her. "I don't. I told you that. That was just a little bit of fun! Some fucking… stress relief after an intense night, okay?!"

"So, what then? Do you fuck everyone you tell your life story to? Then take your time in bed with them? Letting them… letting them learn your body? You learning theirs? Being slow and gentle and—"

"Oh my God!" she laughs incredulously. "So what, I told you some shit about me? Huh? Think that makes you special or something?"

You stumble over your words, attempting to regroup after her sharp response. "I thought… I don't know. I guess I thought we meant something," you whisper—not even sure she hears you over the ringing in your ears that no one else seems to hear. 

Nat hesitates slightly, something like regret flashing behind her eyes before she speaks, her voice coming out oddly cold and monotone. "As cute as this little obsession with me is, I'm growing tired of the whole puppy-dog act. It's pathetic."

The rational part of your brain tells you that this is a defensive mechanism. Putting walls up ensures she can't get her heart broken, even if that means breaking her own heart. As long as someone else can't do it.

The irrational part of your brain screams at you. And, unfortunately, the irrational part has always been a little louder. When you feel your eyes start to water, you're hardly surprised. Always been an emotional crier, haven't you?

"You don't mean that," you murmur, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "You told me yourself that all you do is put up walls—"

"You don't know me." Nat immediately sneers. "So what? I told you some shit? Big fucking deal."

You step closer to her, on the brink of full-blown tears streaming down your cheeks, trying to catch her eye as she grabs a cigarette from a crumpled pack in her pocket. "I know you're not heartless, Nat. You don't get to act like that night didn't mean anything."

She freezes for a moment between inhales of tobacco smoke, the sudden sentiment of your statement causing a series of emotions to cross her face in the timespan of only a few seconds. You choose to believe it's because she's starting to give herself some kindness for once, that she's—

"God, not everything is fucking about you!" She laughs sardonically, the slight wave in her voice the only thing betraying her. "You're not some… fucking exception just because our encounter had some…" She actively gestures at nothing, speaking with her hands like she always does when emotions start running high. "Just because our encounter had some bullshit fucking… weight to it, alright?"

The tears start falling.

Nat's hand shakes as she taps the cigarette far too many times against her finger.

"We aren't even friends," she continues. "We have nothing in common. I only spent time with you because it was convenient and easy for me. What we had? What we did?" she scoffs, "It meant nothing. It was just convenient."

Your jaw hangs slack as her harsh words dig through your bones, and you try to come up with a response, but your brain is seemingly frozen in shock at how the girl who told you you made her happy ended up talking about you like this.

"Maybe that's my bad, for letting you think it meant something." A shrug. She says it so flippantly you could scream. "But come on." Her arms cross, the smirk she throws your way all teeth. "You really thought you were the one who would change me, Princess?" She says Princess like a punchline now, not a nickname. The word formerly made something warm curl in your stomach. Now it curdles. 

"You've heard what everyone says. People like me don't do the whole 'feelings' thing. That's on you."

"I told you!" You shove her chest as tears hiccup down your cheeks. "I didn't listen to the fucking rumours!" Another shove, and this time she stumbles back at the action. "I've heard all of them, Natalie! Not for-for-for a second did I ever believe them! You've been called…" You frantically wipe at the tears on your face, "Fuck! What haven't you been called? Because I've heard murderer, thief, slut, cheater, arsonist, maniac, junkie, drunk—" With every word, you take another jab at her chest, to which Nat feebly tries to swat your hand away each time. "But rumours are just rumours! I knew they were all exaggerated, Natalie! And I asked you before assuming!"

The second Nat's back hits the wall, she's shoving you back—much harder than you shoved her—causing you to almost fall on your ass. "I didn't ask you to!" she yells. "You could have just assumed, like everyone else does!"

"That's not who I am, and you know that, you fucking asshole!" You step up in her space again, but don't put your hands on her this time. "You know now, better than a lot of people, that I actually want to get to know people!"

"Maybe that was your first fucking mistake." Nat's voice drops to a low murmur. "Don't know why you ever thought this would end up being anything more than casual, babe." The pet name feels mocking, and you absolutely hate how all the names she used to make you feel good are now being used to make you feel… well… the complete opposite. 

You sniffle a few times as you take a step back, the hostility becoming slightly overwhelming at this point. That rational part of your brain tells you she's just doing whatever she can to push you back, prevent you from getting too close. The irrational remains louder.

Nat doesn't stop. All or nothing, it seems. "I don't get attached to people, in case you haven't picked up on that yet."

A watery scoff escapes your throat, "Right." You shake your head as your lower lip trembles, "Let me guess, safe from heartbreak if you never fall in love?"

"Yeah." Nat crosses her arms as she looks you over, "Something like that, Princess."

You don't know what to say after that.

You want to scream. 

Or cry. 

Or slam your fist into the hood of her car just to feel the noise cut through the aching silence she's left in your chest. 

But all you manage is standing there, frozen in place as she turns on her heel.

"I bet it wouldn't kill you, you know," you spit as she walks off. "Bending your own rules. Seeing how far you fall. If only you could look beyond the walls you fucking built."

Nat stops briefly, and although she doesn't face you, she does turn her head slightly. "You don't know shit. Stop acting like you do." And she continues walking to her truck, leaving you to stand in the cold winter air, alone.

a/n: I'd like to think of act three as "the arc of pain and suffering". will there be pain? yes! will there be sex? yes! will there be misery? yes! will there be emotionally fueled interactions? yes! will there be moments of tenderness mixed in-between? yes!

woooo!!! pain and suffering!!!

[mariako-750]

I'm making multiple posts in which I talk about Ragatha because I see myself in her pt.1

————————————————————————

Firstestly, knowing what we know about her mom and not having any knowledge on her dad(so I'll assume he's absent), Ragatha seems to have grown up around adults who either didn't bother to let her know her worth or who actively put her down, especially her mom who used to berate her for possibly the smallest things.

She constantly praises Pomni, because she herself knows what it's like to feel worthless and discouraged all the time.

(maybe I'll do something like this for Jax too so keep these two images in mind for future reference)

Next up, living in the household that she did, she was definitely forced to suppress her feelings. Especially anger. And I can relate to this. The only difference being that while she most likely dealt with this at home, I dealt with it at school, and although it's different places and completely different people, it's the same feeling of

"I see these people every day, I can't snap back at them because then they'll never leave me be, they'll never let me forget if I said something mean or wrong. I can't embarrass myself by expressing my own damned feelings."

And when you suppress these feelings and don't express them in a healthy way, you start to resent everyone around you to some degree. Everyone.

Actively disliking Gangle when she's happy and in charge because being the happy-go-lucky and responsible/supportive one is the only thing she has in this place.

Her distaste for Zooble's uninterested and downer personality.

Getting defensive over the fact that Pomni would rather spend her time at work with her first genuine friend in this hellscape than with them. Than with her.

(1) (2)

Finally, Ragatha's hatred for Jax. She is always open about her distaste of Jax because nobody really likes or even tolerates him.

1) I think that because of all the chaos in the past adventures, she could just whisper her harsh opinions into the dark, her more sensitive jabs at Jax. But now, it was quiet. Everyone could hear that.

Someone else( @frownatic and here's their post) also proposed that maybe she meant that at some point, before Ribbit's abstraction, Jax got along with everyone in the circus. But after Ribbit was gone, his best friend, he became meaner, a bully, he started to distance himself from the rest because maybe they weren't exactly close, maybe Ribbit was his only saving grace in the circus and the rest were just casual, "I don't have anyone else to hang out with" friends.

Maybe that's what she meant, but because Ribbit abstracted right before Kaufmo so it might be recent too, Jax took it as her just telling the whole world that his best friend was gone and dead.

2) I'd like to think that even before the circus, she had a Jax in her life. Some bully, some big, stupid jerk that everyone despised. Maybe she sees that person in Jax and is angry that that person haunts her. Maybe it was her own mother.

That or she just hates Jax. Idk, give my your opinions!!

————————————————————————

Part 2

[cheriemariii]

part 3/5 of the sihjr yuri au look book yay

(2)

takano

-if i had to describe her with two words……… twilight character

-skin has never been touched by the sun in her entire life, unfamiliar with the concept of colorful clothing, emo bloodsucker maniac………

-what if edward cullen was a bisexual woman and also based as fuck basically

-heavily inspired by canon and dark academia wanabees on pinterest (so canon?)

-closet entirely consisting of black and shades of grey, with the occasional dark purple or maroon for a pop of color :)

-only owns black shoes. designs vary from one to the other (not pictured bc i refuse to draw feet properly sorry), but they all are black

-looooooves knitted sweaters and turtlenecks bc they dont look too informal (so ideal for a very serious and respectable editor in chief) but still are very comfortable

-takes that stupid black cloak (3rd picture) everywhereeeeeeeeee its like those babies that drag the same dirty ugly rag everywhere until one day it just evaporates into thin air. And shes had it for as good as a decade and remains as new somehow

-second shortest top, not to mention the difference between her and onodera is the smallest. but dont let that make you think shes not tall as fuck and insufferable about it

-very skinny also. skinnier than onodera despite having better eating habits than her

-has consistently had the exact same haircut since high school, up to the point she has more or less learned to cut it herself (not that its too hard, is a very straightforward thing).

-fun fact actually!!! the mini bangs (they are mini bangs i swear) are smth she did to herself once when she started living alone bc she was bored. her mom hated them :D

-has 7 diopters myopia, so the glasses stay. on. (rip to her ig but the look eats)

yukina

-see people dont just randomly stop her in the streets to take photos with her bc she is drop dead gorgeous. they also do it bc she dresses like a fashion model all the damn time

-like how youd expect any arts student coming from a monetarily stable background to look like really ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-its honestly kinda hard for me to pin a very specific style on her (or maybe i just suck at describing it idk). it can vary a lot; the only fully consistent thing is that she is gonna look good no matter what

-so yeah lots of different patterns and colors and textures and shapes…… she is gonna use whatever piece of fabric she saw and thought would look cool, AND shes gonna make it work

-very much into layering, plus an insufferable amount of accessories at ALL TIMES. it made the alone time with kisa a little awkward at first, but its part of the foreplay atp

-dresses a little bit more basic when she goes to work, and even then, there has to be something *extra* in her outfit

-technically speaking she is the shortest among the tops (still very tall tho), but those chunky ass shoes she wears ALL the time make her look a lot taller than she actually is

-killer figure. she actually has the time energy and motivation to go to the gym semi-regularly i hate her……….

-the fluffiest, most beautiful curls you have ever seen in your life. She likes styling her hair in many different ways whenever she has time, but it looks good even if she doesn’t

-she doesn’t dye or use heat on her hair tho, despite what youd expect from her. the desire to try different styles is strong, but the desire to not damage her hair is even stronger…..

-has one of those pretty lower back tattoos, which she got as a “rebellious streak” when she turned 18 (xd). surprisingly enough its the only tattoo she has; she would loooove to get more (and even has some ideas in mind) but it hurt :(

-(also why yes kisa is obsessed with that thing)

hatori

-so tori is a bit tricky to style…

-bc heres the thing: 99% of the time she looks like the far right look: a black (or dark blue or dark gray) knee-length skirt with its matching blazer, a tapered fit white shirt, skin colored thighs and simple dark heels. The only possible variation is that she switches the long sleeved shirt for a short sleeved one during the summer

-0.9% of the times (i.e. when she is supposed to be “chilling” at home, which translates to doing housework at chiaki’s or veeeeeeery rarely at her own place) she looks like the far left look: a basic ass jeans and long sleeved t-shirt look + her trusty slippers + an apron and a kerchief in her head so she doesn’t get dust and whatever other stuff on her hair and clothes. The point here is to remain as comfortable as possible within decent levels (unlike others………)

-(are these ridiculously specific descriptions necessary? Well hatori is clearly very consistent with the way she looks, as she is with everything else. who did you think we were talking about?)

-and the remaining 0.1% of the time (those little moments she has free time to go out or have a date) she dresses like the middle looks, which are the ones im gonna go into some detail now :)

-thing is, you really wouldnt expect this woman that wears the exact same boring ass office look every single day to have a particularly interesting sense of style.

-But oh she does. she has a very refined sense of style, and is gonna let it out whenever she does have the liberty to actually dress how she likes…..

-….it is a little hard to describe tho…. a lot of the time the thought process was just looking at a beautiful woman anywhere, analyzing her outfit and going ���yeah tori would wear that :)”

-ANYWAYS. even if she really likes them, she very rarely wears a skirt on casual settings, mostly out of practicality reasons. She keeps those for when she has a date or smth special, and it's never anything above the knee🙏

-SO its jeans most of the time. She particularly likes flared jeans, specially those that are bejeweled and have those very elaborated embroidered designs. Its not the kinda thing you’d expect from someone as serious, but she has this sort of artistic? appreciation for the designs

- (I tried to draw those, god knows I did. But a girl can only do so much before giving up >~< idk imagine a pretty design of the back of the jeans, something pretty in the front too if ur really nice, idk)

-you also wouldnt expect a woman as sober as her to like any particularly interesting necklines (i.e. off-shoulder, sweetheart, illusion, that jazz…). But she does, she (i) just really likes the look

-also lace, she really likes lace. artistic appreciation again, kind of, but yeah a good amount of her clothing have any manifestation of lace on it

-her clothes are rather well fitted too, and they tend to accentuate her body pretty well. I would love to give some very deep on brand explanation for this, but the real reason is that I just love the excuse to draw her silhouette (mari didnt it take you like an hour to get one (1) of these silhouettes alone right??? yes, yes it did 🙂)

-speaking of which, she obviously has the most beautiful, typically feminine body known to man, this in contrast to how canon hatori is supposed to represent this very masculine and ridiculously gorgeous male archetype. Either way, yoshino can't stand (loves) how effortless this is for hatori.

-AND she is very tall, to nobodys surprise. I even wanna say tallest among the four characters here, but tbh the difference between her and kirishima is rather despicable

-straightest hair in the world for the straightest woman in the worldBAHAHAHAHAHAHYJKSHFB

-SPEAKING OF HAIR (I love hair symbolism :3) I like to use her hair as a way to strictly delimit her work life and her private life (as she likes to do........) essentially, she has her hair up when she's at work (in a ponytail when she is at marukawa or in a braid when she's doing housework), but she gets to let it down (LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY) when she's on her own and can have a bit more liberty on how she looks :)

kirishima

-(I HAD TO DO THAT ONE GAY ASS POSE IM SO SORRY KFHSHDSHGDHDF)

-trying to evoke either heavily inspired by canon or the most annoying masc u have ever met in your life (canon, again :))

-to me she was a tomboy during high school and it never really left. it just evolved

-legend says the only time she has even worn a dress was her wedding. and it probably only was to, for once (1) in her life, appease her parents

-ANYWAYS very into colorful very maximalist patterns, like the ones you'd find in a bowling alley. To this day it remains unknown if she wearing them to work every single day is some sort of unrecognized fashion genius or just wanting attention

-on that note, hiyori loves getting her more and more shirts like that for her birthday, and she actually has a very good taste for them

-however, she will tone things down significantly whenever she has to go formal or is chilling at home and there is no point in getting a shirt dirty. In such cases it's rather similar to what we see in canon. she usually goes for shades of brown and earthy tones (~it goes with her eyes~ she says), and it's not rare for people to comment that she barely feels like herself anymore

-also! except for the necklace in the second look, all the jewelry pictured above was made for her by hiyori :)

-actual biggest curls in all of marukawa, AND they are natural 💅 it does come with the price of being kinda hard to style on the daily, so most of the time she doesn't even try

-despite being considerably taller than average (made even more evident by her robust figure, as described in canon actually), she looks quite short next to yokozawa, but that's just bc yokozawa is a fucking lamppost xd

[cursedbycain]

abbey - amabelle x ralph

tagging: @rc-catalog

synopsis: there is a light that i can see

tw: implied violence, mentions of weapons, some emotional turmoil, rated T

wc: 1.2k

an: idk what this is? i was thinking about a fanart i showed agatha and that’s all it took. having a boring night tbh so lots of writing.

Amabelle sat by Ralph’s bedside as though the very air around her had turned brittle, and the smallest shift might fracture the moment irreparably. The infirmary was cloaked in a stillness that felt suffocating. Candlelight flickered along the walls, casting halos across his resting form.

Her task had been simple. No magic had barred it, no vow of protection, no plea for mercy. The order had been clear: kill him. And yet, here she was. Watching him sleep. As if her eyes, not her hands, could finish the work. As if by looking at him long enough, the weight of what she hadn’t done would resolve into clarity.

There was something terrifying in the way he lay now, chest rising and falling in slow, measured rhythm beneath the pale linen. His hands rested on the blanket like offerings. She hated how gentle he looked. Hated how utterly unguarded he was. He was a man of faith, and yet he bore no armor, no hardness. He wore peace the way others wore swords. That alone should have made him dangerous. That alone should have been reason enough to see this through. But even now, when the moment was long past, her fingers ached from not finishing what she started.

She studied his face, not with detachment, but with an ache so deep it felt like rot. She had memorized him without permission. He looked not untouched by pain, no, she had made sure of that, but held up by something larger. Forgiveness, maybe. Or the kind of grace that could not be learned, only lived. It was unbearable. His goodness. The quiet way he had looked at her before the blade with something dangerously close to understanding.

He had not feared her. Not even when he suspected the truth. Instead, he had softened. As though he saw something worth mourning in her. As though he pitied the thing she had become. That was the cruelest part, not his pain, not the warmth of his blood on her hands, but the fact that he had seen her. And had not turned away.

Now he slept, and she sat close, so close she could see the faint flutter of his lashes with every breath. Her body remained tense, taut as a bowstring, every muscle ready to run, to lash out, to finish it if necessary, but her heart was quieter now. Too quiet. It beat not with resolve, but with a slow, unbearable pain.

And still, she moved closer.

Her eyes drifted over the bridge of his nose, the gentle hollow beneath his eyes, the furrow in his brow smoothed out by sleep. She told herself it was a small thing, meaningless. Just a touch. Just to prove he was real. Just to feel something alive beneath her hands that was not guilt.

Slowly, as if drawn by a force she could neither resist nor understand, she reached out a trembling finger. The air between them seemed to hold its breath as her skin made the faintest contact with the warmth of his flesh. It was softer than she had imagined and the sensation sparked a sudden, sharp ache deep in her chest, like the tearing of a wound that had never fully healed.

Her breath caught. The world contracted to that single moment, that single point of contact.

It was as if, for a brief second, the distance between them vanished. Time slowed. She could feel the subtle rise and fall of his breath beneath her finger, the fragile pulse of life so close and yet so impossibly out of reach. The warmth beneath her skin seemed to seep into her bones, melting the armor she had spent years forging.

Her heart thudded loud and painful in her ears, the ache blossoming into something raw and unyielding, a cruel reminder of everything she was meant to do, and everything she could not. A silent scream curled in her throat, swallowed before it could escape.

He did not stir.

But the moment shattered her all the same.

The lightest touch, a whisper against his skin, cracked open something inside her. A chasm of grief and longing so vast it threatened to consume her. Tears welled, blurring the edges of her vision, and she withdrew her hand as if it had been branded, yet the searing pain lingered, deeper and more relentless than any burn.

She wanted to believe that touch was an absolution, a fleeting grace granted by fate. Instead, it was a curse. A reminder that the next time her hands reached for him, it might be with steel instead of mercy. That thought twisted like a knife, coiling tight and cold around her stomach.

For a moment, she was lost to the unbearable weight of what might have been, and what was to come. The fragile warmth beneath her finger became a ghost she could never hold, a fragile hope that was already slipping away.

That knowledge sickened her. She felt the nausea coil low in her stomach, creeping up her ribs. It felt obscene. Blasphemous. She could not understand how the world had let this happen, how she had let this happen. He was a man of faith. And she had long forgotten how to believe in anything at all.

But when his lips curved, just faintly, into a smile, her breath caught in her throat. It was a small thing, barely there. The hint of some dream, some warmth she had no part in. And yet it bloomed inside her like something dying and beautiful. A slow, golden ache spread through her chest.

She had only glimpsed this kind of feeling once before, in another life, another self she had long since buried. And even then, she had killed it before it had a chance to grow. Now here it was again, unasked for.

She stayed longer than she should have. And yet she sat here, unable to leave. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t loyalty. It was the pull of him. His stillness, his silence, the way he made her believe she might’ve been someone else. Someone better.

Then, something changed. A shift, barely perceptible, but she felt it instantly. A flicker of movement beneath his lashes. A tension in his brow. His body jerked, just slightly, just enough to break the illusion. A dream had taken hold. She could see it in the way his fingers twitched, the way his mouth tightened.

She froze. Watched. Waited.

Was she in it?

Did he see her, somewhere behind the veil of sleep? Did he remember the night she came to end him? The gleam of the blade, the tremble in her hand, the failure that left them both here in this room?

She wanted to imagine something else. A different version of herself.

But darker thoughts always won. What if he remembered? What if he saw her as the hand that almost took everything from him? What if, through pain and fever and the blur of recovery, her face had come into focus, and with it, the knowledge of her betrayal?

She didn’t know if the dream revealed her.

As undeserving as she was, she could only hope he had not lost his trust in her. That whatever he remembered was softened by the haze of healing. That he might still see in her something other than the killer she had always been.

But hope was a bitter thing to carry. And faith was not something she’d ever had the luxury to keep.

[hijackalx]

LAEZEL SFW HEADCANONS:

okkk shes lowkey very sweet and caring. her tough exterior is just a facade to protect herself but once tav gets to know her theyll see her kinder side. i also feel like shes not as sadistic as she seems? like a lot of the stuff she does/approves of feels like its only because thats what is respectable in githyanki culture. idk. i think she just wants to fit in and feel like shes good enough.

extremely jealous and possessive of tav like if they even suggest interest in anybody else she'll get pissedddd bro expect a fight afterwards she does not share at all

will NOT baby tav at all but thats only because she sees them as capable and strong 💪🏻 i feel like shes rlly just putting herself in tav's shoes and realizing that she would feel so belittled if tav babied her. okay queen of empathy

love language:

giving = quality time. shes a lil stunted when it comes to showing affection but she always wants to be with tav. like she's always kinda lurking and paying attention to what tav is doing lol she wont invite herself over on her own but will secretly be cheesing inside if tav asks her to join them.

receiving = words of affirmation. like i said she seems like the type to me who is kind of insecure when it comes to her self worth, so when tav compliments her or admires her it makes her feel all mushy inside. low key she loves to do stuff she knows will impress tav so theyll be like "wowwww lae'zel ur the coolest!!!" 🤭 also this made me realize she also probably gives acts of service as a love language too.

i also think she is kind of teeny tiny. like the smallest of the companions but STRONG AF BOY 💪🏻 she just looks proportionally smol. maybe like 5'3 or smthn. likes to be big spoon tho cuz she feels more protective of tav that way.

LAE’ZEL NSFW HEADCANONS:

ok so if theres like some random one night stand she will want to be the dominant one. like i feel like she bottoms regardless but she'll want to be in charge. BUT !!!!! she prefers to be submissive HEAR ME OUT !!!!!!!! 🚨🚨🚨🚨‼️‼️ the intimidation rolls for her are sooooo low LIKE A 5 ????  CMON and she literally acts like she is so into it when tav takes charge. like trust me if she trusts tav enough she will want to be pushed around. especially bcz as a githyanki she looks up to ppl who demand respect like that so it only makes sense. i can imagine she'll put on a bratty lil show at first but then she'll just melt in tav's hands like putty bro. will still talk a lot of shit tho. its an ego thing.

she'll love if tav praises her too (words of affirmation remember) and they might even be able to get some praises out of her too if they do it justttt right 🤭🤭

will look up at tav with THE MOST gorgeous doe eyes youve ever seen and it just makes tav wanna go crazyyyy

she likes to be manhandled like SHOW OFF UR STRENGTH TAV !! PROVE YOURE WORTHY !! pick her up and restrain her and all that. feel like she'd be into bondage. also a masochist obv but she kind of likes to hear tav in pain too. but like just in a sexy way.

she likes it rough. like dont even suggest gentle loving sex she'll be bored af. u can do it like that like, once a millennium LMAO.

i also just feel like in general she tries not to let sex "distract" her so her and tav only do it every once in a while.

she finishes quick but she'll want to cum more than once. like shes got hella stamina

lowkey getting the vibe that she gets wet afffff LMAO like stop its not a competition miss slip n' slide 🙄✋ also an outie

aftercare is not rlly a thing with her she takes a piss and is out like a light lol like shes gone asl. in the sense she sleeps rlly good after like tav wont be able to wake her up. will wanna cuddle tho 🥰

[melissa-titanium]

for character headcanons tome ^_^

I CANNOT FND THE POST YOU ARE REFERRING TO FOR THE ABSOLUTE LOVE OF ME BUT I SWEAR I KNOW WHAT UR TALKING ABOUT. TREMBLES. if i get this wron g i wil ;. cr.y

i like to imagine tome as a relatively tall person. like maybe a few inches shorter than me... 5'7 ? shes very lanky. i think she had a little bit of a growth spurt once she hit like. lets say 12 or 13 and just shot the fuck up. then stopped. shes still tall just not crazy tall.

i LOVE masc presenting nonbinary tome but i feel like. idont know i feel like shes more. androgynous leaning does that make sense. her gender is weird girl but not a "girl" do you get me. she likes 2 wear skirts & jewelry & goes by ms over mx or mr . her pronouns r weird as hell too shes got the motherfucking zleep/zlorp it/its zhe/her all the neos all the xenogenders you get me ?

also. lesbian. duh. but also . i want to talk about it because it very much interests me. i def think shes ace because i hit every character i like with the ace beam but iiii. dont see her as aro? as much as i love aroace hcs i feel like it doesn't fit tome . at most i could see her on the aro spectrum..... i could totally see greyromantic tho maybe. but also specifically i dont think i could see her using orientation-specific labels, only gender labels. like she would call herself gnc/andro & specify her pronouns & list her most prominent xenogenders but when you ask about her orientation shes like. Girls 👍

ok now that gender is out of the way. smiles

i lik 2 explore her dynamic with takenaka & i think alot of people do honestly LOL. initially of course takenaka feels like a little bit of bitterness towards her because he understands she'd probably see him as nothing more than a guinea pig for her obsessions. but post telepathy arc i think they get along more cause he understands her way of thinking and fears & she understands that he (and others) actually DO care. i like to think they hang out & he manages to read her really well after a while without even needing telepathy.

i think she plays mhfu. i think this because i'm autistic leave me alone. tri ultimate makes more sense considering it was the most recent game to come out at that time but also it's got the smallest monster roster of any of the games, so mhfu it is. i think she'd main insect glaive (having essentially a telepathic communication with a little insect friend is such a cool idea to her) and her favorite monster would be yama tsukami. yama is literally perfect. it's outlandish, has a completely unique skeleton from any other monster in the games (save for yama kurai who was technically not a canon monster because it only existed in frontier) and it is quite literally an UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT. she would think that's rad as hell, and be very sad that it's not a popular monster (only solidifying her concept of isolation/alienation from her peers, liking things that are unusual to enjoy)

a weird hc i always had for her. i think she plucks out her eyebrow hairs so they r a little patchy almost? i knew someone who used 2 do that when i was younger and i think its something she would have done . speaking of hair she definitely cuts her own hair. SOMETHING TELLS ME SHE HAS PROBABLY TRIED TO DYE IT BEFORE. it didnt go well. her hair has never been the same

i think she's a big fan of new sensory experiences. that is a stim toy bitch if i ever saw one. i think she likes the textures most people find uncomfortable, like sandpaper or scratchy textures . not a picky eater but has a general preference for crunchy/hard stuff over things that melt in her mouth does that make sense ... i think her least favorite food is cotton candy. idk what her fave food is because my food knowledge is limited to bangladeshi cuisine and white people food (save me) but if i think of anything ill edit this. i actually implemented this into my design for her but she has alien earrings and they r kinda squishy. i think she messes with them when shes bored

shes dexterous as fuck with her hands. she could totally learn to shuffle a deck of cards fast as hell or play the shell game (cup shuffle) if she had interest in physical games. i think once she started working at s&s and really getting along with the rest of the Gang she would start playing card games & they always ask her to shuffle. not even reigen does it as well. years of gaming has trained tomes hands to levels not even reigen could dream of reaching

i think she'd be some kind of translator/ambassador... a high standing position based on middle-man communication. a linguist maybe? i think her obsession with the supernatural would eventually leave her down the path of like, culture study, to learn more about different regions mythical creatures. i also really like the post-canon ideas where she works with mezato as an investigator, WHICH ACTUALLY ACTS AS A SEGUE INTO MY NEXT HC

i think her and mezato would get along so well. its such a shame we never get a proper interaction between them. obviously their only canon interactions are accompanied by shigeo in which both of them r trying to grab his attention in some way and theres a little bit of conflict in that (tome realizing shige is a little uncomfortable with mezato pestering him about the cult & swooping in to give him an out) but i think if they genuinely decided 2 meet up and hang out they'd be a force to behold . girls who are wildly enthusiastic about their particular craft who seem to be somewhat outcasted even from their peers who hold similar interests. mezato being the most interested member of the journaling club & tome being the only person in the telepathy club who actually gives a fuck about telepathy!!!!! the thing about mezato though is that i dont think she is self conscious in the way that tome is. tome's like. worried about taking up others' time with her own interests that she clearly is the only one interested in. she thinks she should be grateful that they're even listening to her (atleast thats what i gathered from takenaka's reading of her thoughts during telepathy arc) and that no one but her truly gives a shit about the things she's into. and i dont have a firm grasp on mezato's character, but i think shes something of an inverse of tome in that sense. mezato's more confident about her interests, as well as being more confident in parading it around maybe. so i think they'd get along by being inverses of eachother. im not confident in describing mezato so i hope you kind of get what im saying

ok wow i got off track. i think she's one of those kids who had like a crazy amount of allergies when they were younger but eventually they faded as they got older. shes totally allergic to cats.

she . in the best way that i could possibly muster. feels like a middle child. she feels like someone who has a shit ton of siblings/lives with a big family does this make sense. i think she'd have like two older brothers and a little brother. am i insane can anyone else sense this.

okay i ran out of shit to say theres probably more but . coughs and dies. tome i love you

[deathbxnny]

OH! You got to that much quicker than the previous times!

(Not complaining though, because when you did get to the previous ones, what you gave more than made up for the wait!)

Okay, now there's some stuff to unpack here. I like the brief little flashback to the theatre show that "Mother" partook in with Clervie and Peruere back when they were kids (and one member of the group was still with them) and how it clearly ties into the topic of the fic.

I liked how the angsty aspect was less "in your face" this time around. Like don't get me wrong, I still enjoy those previous... what is it now, 5 or 6? - parts, but the more subtle weaving of into this part at the end, just hit differently in the absolutely best way possible!

The twist of Arle somehow swapping the cards to intentionally sabotage Lyney's act was unexpected, and I'm definitely curious about why she might've done that. Though it definitely plays into the conflict of how the kiddos should be brought up.

"And you'd find it noble if it wasn't starting to unnerve you lately."

This phrase caught my eye. It sounds like you're setting the stage for doubt to enter the act. It sounds like "Mother" is growing "disillusioned" with the workings of their relationship. I had this thought that part of what drew them to each other (besides their intimately shared history in the House of the Heart pre-Crucabena slaying... and let's face it guaranteed survivor's guilt to some extent) was the super romanticized idea of "We're broken, but we can be together". But as time has gone on, and their differences and problems only become more pronounced, she starts to maybe realize that maybe being "broken together" isn't as great as a part of her wanted to believe.

Slightly off topic, but I remember seeing a post where they touched on Arlecchino being too stuck in her ways, and that she knows she can't break the cycle of generational trauma. That's why she's raising Lyney to inherit the "throne" of the House, which I would say she's done... decent-ish job. I mean he's still got his head screwed on pretty straight and he's approximately around the same age as Peruerre was when she killed Crucabena, if not slightly older. Now that I think about it, in the context of this fic, Lyney actually shares some personality traits with "Mother". Which idk if that was intentional or not, but that's another interesting angle to consider.

Either way, fun story >:)

X Anon

-----♡

Hey X Anon!

I apologize for the late response, but I hope you're doing well, and I'm glad you liked the post!<3

When writing it, I was especially focusing on the shifting dynamic between Arlecchino and Mother's different parenting philosophies through the cards. The Queen of Hearts represents Mother whilst the King of Hearts is Arlecchino. And in her switching the cards out last minute, she indirectly demonstrates a grand show of power and dominance even over her own wife's decision making (For example, Mother picking out cards. It is a simple act that shouldn't mean anything but yet still garners disapproval from the Knave.).

In other words, Arlecchino's resentment is catching up to her, and so is the distrust the more Mother fights against her law and rule over the house and children. She believes that the title of "Mother" isn't right and therefore chooses the title "Father" for herself. And perhaps a part of her regrets ever letting you take on that role, especially when you begin to unknowingly rebel against her.

And yes, Lyney being similar to Mother IS intentionally set that way (Never been happier for someone recognizing even the smallest details of my work-), as it's supposed to show Mother's grander importance and influence over all her children. She is their safety from their Father's cold wrath. But Arlecchino can only see the threat that lies within you when you begin to even take away her legacy (Lyney) from her, hence the act of humiliation against the boy as punishment.

We have indeed cooked so hard, I can't wait to write whatever next you come up with! And thank you once again for all of your request, they are so exciting to write!<33

-----♡

[cinamun]

Skin for Hope. I believe it was supposed to say haunt but it says hunt for Darren.

Mask for Indya

Hmmmm let's see!

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

These days, Hope isn't all that comfortable in her skin. She thinks its just adjusting to the twins but the more she chops it up to being a new mother, the more she thinks she might be making excuses for herself. I think what makes her uncomfortable is what she's grappling with; being a failure. We've seen this hinted at before, she has a big fear of failure but in this case, I think its career related but you ain't heard that from me. How do they face it? Hope seeks guidance and reassurance from her better half. She needs it.

hunt: Who or what is your OC hunted by? A person, a feeling, a past mistake? Is your OC able to let their guard down, or are they constantly alert?

Idk, maybe it is hunt and, if so, it would have been Juan at one point but of course haunt works too. Darren is hunted/haunted by his youth and the things he did to survive and the lives he may or may not have taken (we don't snitch here). I think it stopped eating away at him, but one never forgets. Letting his guard down is the best part about being married to Indya. She is such a safe place for him. He still keep that thang on him tho... just sayin.

mask: Does your OC wear a mask, literally or figuratively? What goes on beneath it? Is there anyone in their life who gets to see who they are under the mask?

Unless you count that beat face, then no masks for the good sis. Everyone in her life is going to see her for exactly who she is and I think that is a direct result of her upbringing. She doesn't know how to pretend to be anyone other than Indya Drake.

[monitorkernelaccess]

i knowwwwww i sound insane like i'm watching and reading information about dungeon meshi with my eyes closed when i say "chimera falin is falin" and maybe it's just cause i haven't actually read the entire manga (though i've pretty much spoiled the entire plot for myself at this point) but like. she is. she's still falin. to me

but like i guess she's not based on the way canon talks about chimera falin as a separate entity. and that does make sense because like. for all intents and purposes, That Is Not Falin anymore. she doesn't have the same desires as falin. (well she does seem to be protective but she at least doesn't feel that way towards the same people. like in my mind, it's like it still is falin with her same personality and desire to protect people, but the groups of "monsters" and "people i care about" have kinda been switched. but i think im the only person who thinks that) so like for all intents and purposes, she attacks adventurers including her own party just like any other monster would. and part of both moving on with the plot and the characters' development arcs is accepting that falin is gone. cause. for all intents and purposes. she is

but to meeeeeee she isn'ttttt you guysssssssss that's still falin in thereeeeeeeeee she just doesn't care that she used to be falin. idk maybe then my idea of chimera isn't "this is falin" nor "this is chimera" but rather "this is the entity formerly known as falin." cause like obviously she is chimera the way she behaves and also like having an animalistic body and a bit of dragon soul makes her act a bit more animalistic/monstrous and even i can admit that. but like you guysssssss what if it still waaaaaassss falin she's still in there to meeeee you guyss listen [people are folding up their chairs and leaving]

hope i am not just an anime-only dungeon meshi fan to you guys. but also in severe denial

[queen-scribbles]

bound, break, skin for Jaaide and maybe also AJ?

Ohoho, these two are both excellent for these questions. :3

bound: Has your OC ever been imprisoned or captured? What happened? How did they get out? Did the experience leave any scars?

Jaaide was imprisoned by the Castellan Restraints(inflicted by her own people :) ), and then there's the five years in carbonite thanks to Arcann, and briefly, technically, captured by Heta's forces on Ruhnuk. The Castellan Restraints left mental scars after she reconditioned herself, there haven't been any long term effects from the carbonite, but she did deal with nausea for a while immediately after Lana freed her(and sometimes forgets how old she is bc those 5 years feel like they "don't count"; she has to do the "What year is it? And I was born in...? Making me...." math). Nothing even short term from the Ruhnuk one bc of how fast Rass saved her neck.

AJ was captured by Murphy in book 1, wriggled herself free before running into Unit Bravo, and she has a deep-seated fear of being retrained now, as well as the bite scars on the side of her neck. (Also some lingering trauma from watching him beat Nate unconscious. No, knowing about vampire superhealing--and that Nate's is extra good--does not help)

break: What would cause your OC to break down completely? What do they look like when that happens? Has anyone ever seen them at their lowest?

Jaaide it's one of two things: either failing at her long-term goal of bringing down the Empire and seeing that everything she's spent a decade working and sacrificing toward that end was for nothing or losing Theron. Whether that's death-type losing Theron or she says/does something that makes him turn on her for real. There was a taste of the latter during the Fractured Alliances arc; she takes insomniac workaholic to a whole new level, is half a step from a complete non-functioning wreck. Theron's seen her at her lowest bc.... well, he didn't put her there but he def rubbed salt in the wound. Her lowest was post-Onslaught, when a whole bunch of civilians died bc she said the wrong thing and didn't talk Darth Krovos out of bombing Corellia. Add Theron yelling at her for something she already felt massively guilty over(one of their only real fights. :)))) ) and that was probably the lowest she's gotten.

AJ it would be failing to protect someone, especially someone she cares about a lot. She felt horribly guilty when Bobby got sick in b2 and she kinda loathes him; if something horrible happened to, say, Nate or Felix or her mum in a scenario where it's even 3% possible for her to blame herself, she's gonna break down. Lots of tears, streaky red face bc she's an ugly crier, either self-imposed exile bc she just gets people hurt OR driving herself unreasonably hard to set it right. Like, we're talking almost-killing-herself hard. Adam needs to have a talk with her hard. Her lowest point so far is when she was crying over the missing posters in b3, so no one saw her, but she called Nate, so he heard her, if that counts.

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

They're both pretty comfortable in their skin. You could say Jaaide grapples with what she knows she's capable of; the rage that tore Vinn Atrius to (figurative) shreds for trying to kill Theron, the manipulation that's turned people against their own families, but she knows just bc she's capable of those things doesn't mean she's going to use them.

AJ doesn't have anything(yet? there are some hints for book 4 that are 👀), and I don't think either of them's truly had to face the worst version of themselves yet. And I don't think AJ would be able to acknowledge it without facing it. She knows she's not perfect, but idk how she'd handle the absolute worst version of herself.

Not So Nice Asks

[youremyheaven]

I really loved your post about moon dominant men and women. maybe bc I had a toxic friend like that, i liked that you kinda said a lot of bad stuff about them/criticized their behavior 😭 i LOVED that with my whole RAGE. idk if you can resonate too with all that I'll say, but i remember my friend always wanted to be on a different side than me. she legit accused other people of doing really bad things to her and, or told me "That guy is really abusive" for no apparent reason and pretended as if, since she felt that, then it must be true (also she talked shit about women and PROUDLY believed that if she felt that way about them, it's because they are hiding something/being sus). I used to think she had a good intuition, but she let that thing be blurred by her projections so much that in the end, she wasn't reliable AT ALL and mostly she was just picking up on things about herself and "blaming" others. Reminds me of the meme that says something like "Me saying there are bad vibes in the room but I'm the bad vibes in the room" lol. Also if you showed her proof that, for example, her favorite actor was an abuser or something she always replied "I'm not gonna believe that, there isn't enough proof" she used to believe the dumbest and craziest stuff like birds have cameras, her phone camera is hacked and someone is seeing her?? but if you showed her something REAL and TRUE she didn't believe it at all and she always said something like "hmm im not sure" I remember one day she was telling me that Aquarius was a water sign (it's stupid ik) I showed her screenshots and pics of a book saying Aquarius is an air sign and she said "I don't care, I don't think that's true" she was such a toxic bitch who never apologized for shit because she was incapable of recognizing her shitty behavior. she always talked about her parents as if they were the worst for the smallest dumbest shit like, her dad didn't think buying x was a good idea. One day I was suicidal and she told me that it was too much for her and that she needed to "take time for herself" Selena Gomez who?? and then claimed that I ruined her perception of me bc of that and she couldn't take it anymore. like?? if your friend being depressed victimized and ruined it all for YOU maybe you weren't a good friend to begin with. And it's not like I was draining her every day with my problems bc I'm the type to keep everything to myself and not ask anyone for help. She was the only friend who felt that way about the situation (it affected her so much that it was one of her reasons for deleting me from every social media 2 years later, out of nowhere, and making me feel like im the one who hurt her legit blaming it all on me feeling depressed once) she was also 3x moodier than me, 3x more mentally troubled and she attended parties/meetings with this face 😒 almost EVERY TIME, but if you were sad/angry or disappointed and you showed it, she always made herself the victim or said something like "Yeah that time you cried I wanted to kill you" like babe??? you are always in a bad mood but when someone else was, you dared to take it personally and act like you always do and know better. im really sorry if this was long, but your post helped me process this more than i already did 😭😭😭😭😭

omg bestieee im glad my post could help you😭😩😭 and im so so so sorry that you went through all that

as someone who endured a lot of abuse at the hands of multiple Moon dominant people, i really couldnt hold back on those posts even though I usually dont talk that much shit on any of my astro posts,,

what you said about the hating parents bit took me back to all the times my toxic ex bestie would fight with her parents over the dumbest stuff (her mom didn't let her buy something from the grocery store, im not kidding she had a whole meltdown bc of this) and what u said about them not giving a shit about your feelings/mental health LMFAO sounds exactly right,, i was sharing some deeply sad stuff and they said "okay i dont want to hear any more" like literally they said that,, i understand how some things can be triggering to hear but ??? there has to be a better way to deal with that situation instead of telling the person who is having a breakdown that u "can't hear it". she never apologised or saw anything wrong with her behaviour either. all the empathy i never received has pissed me off so much man, i feel u,, i feel so wronged for having put up with that stuff and for thinking that this is just how it is.

anybody reading this, please cut those fcking people out. they dont care, they never will and you will lose your time and energy on things you're better off without. cut them out. zero explanation. you dont owe them one.

[rottenjuice]

jazzy anne and melinks we will never see you again will we

there's a small chance jazzy will log in randomly if piso ever logs in again 😭

molly is just bad timing though. no guarantees she'll be consistent but she went on family holiday like a day after the event and should be back soon!

I do not have any belief when it comes for jazzy to lock in at all as she didn't go live the joining day, and in general got other stuff going on and just isn't that interested to play a bunch of mc LMAO. but I can see her and coy doing something on a piso4 stream yeah :3 maybe she can join in on spreading his badboyhalo propaganda, could be more successful as two lol

manifesting molly to be somewhat active and not just give up if she dies, as she's already lost 1 and noone told her it would be smarter to just kill herself and come back new. idk her minecraft skills tho so maybe she doesn't need it, it's just I'm not sure when lives will be given again by tasks. which on a totally unrelated note they should start doing tasks again the nirvana peeps are so getting bored with nothing to do

her lore might also be a bit hard to continue (- if that's something she's interested in) when kyle is on so late and is the main driving person. I think both her and her fanbase would like more discreetly told rp and not as much book reading and such, so we'll see if she does anything. just a bit sad if the box they are put in ruins the potential for their own stories to flourish on their own

I'm a bit scared that she won't get approached or helped with the grind as much as she would if she would to play the days after the event, it's sad how some creators only help those in their own faction

I just really feel like orange faction, just as red, sadly isn't built for success. especially with them being the smallest streamers all lumped together - they won't get as much attention as they would if they were pushed into green/yellow/blue with already established fan bases

also did they get the xp buff? or is that just the upgrade thing? anyone know :P

[just-some-random-blogger]

The plan was stupid and risky. Trying to pretend to smuggle a little coke through airport security on a fake flight over to Cali. Just to get his attention? It was worth her money.

When I say my jaw dropped I mean my jaw dropped 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️ girlie BUILT different wHAT JS THAT

Though, there was no guarantee that Javier Peña would be sent over once they caught her. But she was willing to bet on it since he was supposed to be near the airport today - or so she’d heard.

Damn she a gambler ig. I mean live your life but it's not for me

Because even though he couldn’t stop telling her how much he loved fucking her while his cock was buried inside of her weeping pussy, he hadn’t answered her calls in more than two weeks. Sure, this was nothing more than a bit of fun on the side, but she sure was hurt and eager to have him again.

UH IDK IF THESE PARAGRAPHS ARE CHRONOLOGICAL BUT Javier's such a jerk face 🙄🙄🙄✋

He would love what she wore and she couldn’t wait to see his face.

The check-in was easy, twirling her boarding pass in her hands as she bit her lip. She could already feel herself get wet at the thought of him having to come here, not even entertaining the thought of them sending anyone else.

AS SHE SHOULD QUEEENNNNN 👑💖

This could go very wellor incredibly bad now, letting them lead her to a private room where she simply waited, anticipation setting her body on fire. She had to squeeze her legs together to try and get some friction, growing more and more horny by the minute, her hands cuffed to the middle of the table.

GIRLLLLL SHE'S WILD I MEANNNNN WHAT THE FUCKKK I MEANNNN WHATTTTTT KRAZZIEEEE

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, chiquita?” Oh, he was angry. Voice quiet but deadly. “You’re smuggling drugs now?”

What about it 🙄💅 girls gotta eat

“You didn’t answer my calls, Javi.” 

“You little puta.” Stopping next to her, she had to crane her head to look at him, his arms crossing in front of his chest, his biceps bulging in the short sleeved red shirt he wore. The smallest smirk curled his lips upward. “Getting arrested for what? Some dick? Is that really worth it to you?”

🧍‍♀️ the woman was too stunned to speak. Also WHAT ABOUT IT RAT

“You should take it as a compliment, Javier. I would if I was you.”

“How’d you even know they’d call me?” 

Manifest

“I didn’t, I just hoped they would.”

🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪 you could never cuz ur a stinky boy

“Get up, looks like I gotta do a cavity search.” He said, tone flat, like he was bored, like this was routine to him. Just another workday. Meanwhile it got her going, eyes widening just a little, gaze dark. “Pretty girls like you don’t just hide a couple of grams in their purse, strip.”

And this was when I knew where this was going and why it was called cavity search. Oh my sweet summer past self thought Javier was a dentist on the side 😔😔😔😔

His tone had her get up quickly, her hands moving to her skirt, opening the zipper at the side. As she let it fall to the floor he took his time to pat her down, first moving over her sides, really squeezing at her waist and hips before moving up again, stepping behind her. She gasped when he cupped her breasts through her clothes, maybe just a little too hard.

“You take your job very seriously.” The sarcastic remark earned her another squeeze, harder this time. “There’s nothing there, Peña.”

............ Ok but .... What if.... There.... Wasss

She shook her head firmly, gasping loudly when she felt his fingers spread her cheeks before he spit onto her asshole, hearing him laugh at her strangled moan. 

cavity search

summary: javier has left your calls unanswered for more than two weeks, so you come up with a plan that will bring him right to you.

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 2.9k

warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n; cavity search; anal fingering/play; vaginal fingering/fisting; some degradation (whore, puta); handcuffs; no knowledge about airport security before the 2000s

a/n: idk what i was on when i wrote this & i wish i remembered what inspired this // banners by @saradika

• masterlist •

Checking her purse for a final time in the taxi, she smiled, seeing the tiny package of coke hidden at the bottom of it, beneath the huge cellphone, makeup and perfume and her wallet.

The plan was stupid and risky. Trying to pretend to smuggle a little coke through airport security on a fake flight over to Cali. Just to get his attention? It was worth her money.

Though, there was no guarantee that Javier Peña would be sent over once they caught her. But she was willing to bet on it since he was supposed to be near the airport today - or so she’d heard.

Because even though he couldn’t stop telling her how much he loved fucking her while his cock was buried inside of her weeping pussy, he hadn’t answered her calls in more than two weeks. Sure, this was nothing more than a bit of fun on the side, but she sure was hurt and eager to have him again.

Eager and just a bit crazy enough to do this.

When the taxi stopped at the airport, she paid the driver with a smile before getting out, straightening her short skirt. 

He would love what she wore and she couldn’t wait to see his face.

The check-in was easy, twirling her boarding pass in her hands as she bit her lip. She could already feel herself get wet at the thought of him having to come here, not even entertaining the thought of them sending anyone else.

Taking out her cellphone, she pretended to make a call while going over to the security check, laughing and name-dropping some of Escobar’s associates. 

Gacha, the Ochoa’s, Escobar himself.

Pretending she knew about a dropoff, not caring who heard.

It was insane, seeing the reactions by the guards around her, noticing the whispers, one of them leaving while the other waved her over to inspect her now.

“Hasta luego.” She said, all sweet and confident, putting her phone back into her purse. Smiling at the man in front of her who urged her to put her heavy bag down.

He simply searched it, placing the contents onto the table. The phone, the makeup, her perfume.

And finally, the small bag of cocaine, looking at her with a raised brow while she just smiled innocently.

“I have no idea how that got in there.” She said as he put everything into the bag again, save for the drugs.

“Sígame, por favor.” Was all he replied to her, motioning for her to follow him, another officer already approaching her as well, flanking her.

This could go very wellor incredibly bad now, letting them lead her to a private room where she simply waited, anticipation setting her body on fire. She had to squeeze her legs together to try and get some friction, growing more and more horny by the minute, her hands cuffed to the middle of the table.

Then, the door opened, and in walked Javier Peña, his face going from serious to surprised and then back to serious, all while her smile grew bigger.

“Do you need me to stay with you, Agent Peña?” The officer asked.

Javier shook his head.

“I got it from here. She’s tied to Escobar so this is my jurisdiction.” He said to the officer who let him in, giving him a stern look when he hesitated for a moment but finally left them alone.

Just standing there, he let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head.

“Fucking hell, chiquita.” He said, feeling angry but also incredibly impressed by her boldness, knowing just by her grin this had been a plan of some sort which seemed to be going incredibly well.

“Hello, Javi.” She replied, lips still stretched wide into a smile, but her eyes were filled with excitement and hunger. “Long time no see.”

Stepping closer, he placed his hands on the table, leaning over to her, no hint of amusement on his face.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, chiquita?” Oh, he was angry. Voice quiet but deadly. “You’re smuggling drugs now?”

She giggled at his question, batting her eyelashes at him with her cocky grin and shrugging her shoulders.

“You didn’t answer my calls, Javi.” 

His face fell for just a moment before he laughed, biting at his bottom lip and standing up straight. Towering over her as he rounded the table.

“You little puta.” Stopping next to her, she had to crane her head to look at him, his arms crossing in front of his chest, his biceps bulging in the short sleeved red shirt he wore. The smallest smirk curled his lips upward. “Getting arrested for what? Some dick? Is that really worth it to you?”

Again, she shrugged her shoulders. 

“You should take it as a compliment, Javier. I would if I was you.”

Her heart beat in her throat at the sight of him like this, wondering if he looked at his suspects the same way he looked at her right now.

“How’d you even know they’d call me?” 

“I didn’t, I just hoped they would.”

What a clever, crazy little thing. Who was insane enough to buy a cheap flight and get a baggy of drugs just because their calls hadn’t been answered in a while?

Her, apparently. And somehow, he liked it.

Javier sighed, thinking this whole thing over. Something about this had him half hard in his jeans already, the thought of her desperate pussy enough to get him going.

Maybe he could pull this through, just go along with her little game. But it would just give her what she wanted, wouldn’t it?

Reaching for the cuffs, he unlocked them, surprising her. He wouldn’t just let her go like this, would he? How would he explain this to anyone?

“Get up, looks like I gotta do a cavity search.” He said, tone flat, like he was bored, like this was routine to him. Just another workday. Meanwhile it got her going, eyes widening just a little, gaze dark. “Pretty girls like you don’t just hide a couple of grams in their purse, strip.”

Blinking up at him, her mouth fell open at the direct orders, just slightly and he had to chuckle at her dumbfounded look. She clearly hadn’t expected this.

“C’mon, I don’t like to repeat myself. Get your ass up and strip.”

His tone had her get up quickly, her hands moving to her skirt, opening the zipper at the side. As she let it fall to the floor he took his time to pat her down, first moving over her sides, really squeezing at her waist and hips before moving up again, stepping behind her. She gasped when he cupped her breasts through her clothes, maybe just a little too hard.

He had to make sure she didn’t hide anything, after all.

“You take your job very seriously.” The sarcastic remark earned her another squeeze, harder this time. “There’s nothing there, Peña.”

He grinned, letting go of her and taking a step back, watching her strip out of her underwear, the black, lacy panties landing on the floor, her ass exposed to him.

The air in the room felt cold without anything on, shivering just a little as she waited for his next orders, excited and dripping wet already.

She didn’t expect to feel the cold metal of his handcuffs on her ankle, tying her to the leg of the table on one side before he roughly took her other ankle and attached it to the other side with the pair he had taken from the table, forcing her to bend over it, fully exposed to him.

It was quiet, only their breaths softly echoing off the walls, and she just waited for him to touch her, clenching around nothing at the thought of his rough hands all over her body and pussy.

Then, he moved around her, appearing in her field of vision and going to a smaller table standing in the corner, grabbing the box of gloves standing on it. Her breath hitched in her throat but he only looked back at her with a raised brow.

“You really thought I’d search you without these?” He asked, placing the box down on the table in front of her, taking one out before he moved behind her again.

She turned her head to look at him, watching as he put on the bright blue glove, just the sound making her whimper.

“Usually we find drugs placed in someone’s ass, so I guess I’ll start there, huh?” His non-gloved hand pressed her flat onto the surface, laying between her shoulder blades, her ass perfectly sticking out for him. “Or do you want to admit to something before I start?”

She shook her head firmly, gasping loudly when she felt his fingers spread her cheeks before he spit onto her asshole, hearing him laugh at her strangled moan. 

One finger pressed against the tight ring of muscle, eliciting a moan from her as it slipped inside. This was far from the first time he had put his thick fingers inside of her ass, but the situation just made the sensation feel so much better.

“Where did you even get them?” He asked almost casually as he spread her open, pushing his finger in and out of her carefully.

She moaned, fingers curling into the hard metal surface of the table, biting her lip.

“Friend of a friend, owed me a favour.” She responded, breathless.

“Fucking hell, chiquita.” He muttered, carefully adding a second finger.

A moan slipped past her lips, her own hand coming up to cover her mouth, muffling her noises while he scissored his fingers, opening her wider.

God, he was thorough in his inspection.

“Hid them pretty well, bebesita.” Javier said, pushing his fingers in all the way to the knuckle, wiggling them around and laughing at the strangled noises that left her. “But I suppose your ass is empty.”

Pulling his fingers out, he sighed, the sound of latex snapping appearing behind her before the crumpled glove landed on the table next to her and he took a new one.

“Wish it wasn’t.” She mumbled, cheek pressed into the cold metal, looking back at him. The sharp smack of his hand on her ass echoed in the room, making her cry out before she bit into her closed fist. It was a nice feeling, the pain bleeding into pleasure, his fingers now rubbing against the sopping entrance of her pussy.

“You really get off on this, don’t you?” He chuckled, pressing two fingers into her without warning, making her squirm and try to adjust her stance. “Me searching your ass? That’s what you wanted, didn’t you? Getting your ass searched and then your pretty pussy?”

She gripped his fingers tight, still pumping in and out of her, stretching her open, his words only turning her on more.

“I can feel your pussy answering me, bebesita, but I need an answer from you for the record.” Scissoring his fingers, she moaned into her hand, her eyes closing. 

“Yes.” She breathed out, whining when he pressed a third finger in, the stretch bringing that sweet pain with it that she loved. “That’s what I wanted, yes!”

He chuckled, his hand between her shoulder blades pressing down harder as he leaned onto it, his fingers knuckle deep inside of her.

“Must’ve hidden them pretty well, still can’t find a damn thing, chiquita.” 

She felt so close already, his gloved fingers stroking along her inner walls expertly, her knees beginning to wobble.

“Javi- Mhmm, ‘m good at hiding things.” Her words came out slurred and incoherent, biting down into her fist harder.

His brow raised at her words, curling his fingers.

“So you do have something hidden here?” He asked with a grin, stroking along that good spot of hers again and again, watching as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. “Did you just admit that you do, chiquita?”

Her orgasm took her by surprise, knocking all air out of her lungs as she pulsed around his fingers, moaning against her fist, feeling the intense waves reach every part of her body as she shook on the table.

But he didn’t stop, using the gush of wetness to work another finger into her, paying close attention to how she squirmed and moaned at the feeling, eyes closed in bliss. This was new for either of them, but she seemed to enjoy the stretch.

“Gonna have me put my whole hand up your pussy to get it?” 

She was already dripping down his hand and the inside of her thighs, wetting his watch as he kept pumping in and out, four fingers inside of her.

He wondered if she could take his whole fist, in awe of how tight she was around his fingers but also how much she could fit already.

Greedy thing.

“Hope it was worth doing this, bebesita.” He rasped, watching her twitch from the overstimulation, some tears in the corners of her eyes. “Making me fist your tight pussy, think you can take all of it, baby?”

She nodded, unsure if she could take it but wanting to try, the sensation of four fingers already bordering on too much.

“Can take it, can take it.” The words were still slurred, her mind hazy as he worked her open wider. Feeling so full, so nice and stretched open.

“You better, for getting me out here, making sure you don’t have any more drugs hidden anywhere.”

Javier felt like he could cum from this alone, easing the rest of his hand into her slowly after a minute or two, stopping his moments as she let out a strangled moan, both trying to escape from him while also backing into his hand, now inside of her all the way to the wrist.

“Fuck, look at that.” A low whistle accompanied his words before he chuckled. “Taking my whole hand and there’s no drugs hidden anywhere, just wanted me to fist you. Did two weeks really get you that desperate?”

She was right at the edge again, feeling that familiar tug while the stretch threatened to overwhelm her, tears running down her cheek and onto the table.

Couldn’t believe just how full she was, thinking about how huge his hand was. Feeling the cool metal of his watch against her pussy.

“So desperate to get searched by a DEA agent, all because I didn’t have time for you, bebesita. You filthy thing.”

Tensing his fist inside of her, he pushed her over, her entire body convulsing and daring to just collapse if he didn’t press her down onto the table with the hand not currently buried inside of her. Not a single thing was in her head as she rode out her orgasm, boneless and unable to produce much noise.

Just too overwhelmed with the foreign feeling, the slight pain and the pleasure. The fullness. Reaching places inside of her she didn’t thought were possible to reach.

Javier let her ride out the waves before slowly, carefully removing his hand from her, more of her juices dripping over his forearm, over his watch. Utterly in awe of what she had done, suddenly unwilling to simply let her go.

“Nothing.” He said with a hint of disappointment, stripping the glove off of his hand, throwing it to the other one. “A desperate whore and a liar.”

She felt spent, barely registering his hand running along her pussy lips as he knelt down, admiring his work. Pretty and wide for him, he just had to have her.

Not here, though. Javier uncuffed her from the table and helped her sit down on the chair, letting her catch her breath.

“Think I gotta investigate you more thoroughly, chiquita.” He threw the gloves in the trash before coming back to help her get dressed, seeing just how fucked out the was. That would be hard to explain, but he was sure he would find a way.

After all, Javier was good at talking himself out of things.

“Guess you know more about Escobar than I thought you did.” 

She weakly smiled back at him, her hand on his shoulder when he helped her stand, pulling up her skirt. Still wobbly, but giggling at least.

“You can search me all you want, you won’t find a thing. I’m just too good.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, her fingers curling into his shoulder. “I’d love to see you try, though.”

He shook his head, painfully aware of his hard dick straining against his jeans.

No matter how pissed he had been at the beginning of this, he certainly did not feel any of that anger anymore. Impressed with her whole idea and fucking horny because of her.

“Then let’s go and continue this in private, I’m sure I can get you to talk somehow.” He joked, moving behind her to cuff her wrists with a smirk. “The DEA doesn’t have to know about my methods, do they?”

She nodded, trying to look like he hadn’t just shoved his entire fist inside of her, stumbling a little.

“Maybe you can do a more thorough cavity search, Agent Peña.” A giggle left her at the sharp inhale behind her, looking at him over her shoulder. “I could still have something hidden up my ass, you know.”

Oh, she really was crazy.

In a way, he really was glad to have not called her back in so long.

How else would they have found out that she can take much more than just his dick?

[little-lanterns]

I am obsessed with like only two characters from akn and they both aren't that unpopular but I want to make a post with both of them in it anyway

hortus de escapismo is an important event that serve as build up to zwilingsturme, future seaborn event, and future laterano event where andoain is possibly going to be involved. why? idk just a gut feeling? when I first read the event story I didn't expect much that I will get anything about him but I actually get a lot more than expected which shouldn't surprise me since it is literally the sequel to guide ahead

this is the event where it is revealed how andoain got the idea of what he wants laterano to be, but it is also where it is put into a test if this little paradise could last

this guy isn't in the event at all but it really feels like he should to see the answer to that one question, is it really not possible?

even arturia after witnessing that herself wanted to realize it too

there is also this part that got me giggling. I always find this funny because the title Martyr didn't appear until the very end of guide ahead and it was said by cecilia, so it is unknown who gave that title to him. was it his followers? or is he now famous among the lateran for what he did?

his effect on lemuen is obvious because they were once close, she is the only lateran who understand him, even forgave him for what he did. but what about other lateran? were they too drunk in sweet and explosion that they didn't even notice what he did? well I guess some did because he is a wanted criminal now

I also speculate that the person they are talking about at the beginning and at the end of the event is him. after all this is the guy who is famous for going through all those shit just to ask question to the pope. he seems like the perfect person to ask something that only sankta understand but also held some doubts on it to actually gives a meaningful answer

there were some uncertainties because he called them friends but we know from arturia's oprec that the pope would personally visit each candidate of future saint. so this is the part where I don't like that much. if that's really the guy then it means andoain will be future saint. my impression is, I don't think if he want anything to do with laterano, though I could say the same about arturia

which brings us to the next point, The Disaster.

what we know about it is that laterano and the sankta will be the one affected first. and if what the pope said is true then the Law will also take a hit. what would sankta be without their halo? without their law? without their empathy? idk, it is not only about them, other country will also be affected, it just happen that laterano was able to foresee it. will this push him to help and accept the title of saint? maybe? it is hard to tell when we don't even know where he is and what is he doing

but it is not like Law cares what are the candidates current goal is to be appointed as a saint

there were some clues from fia's oprec but isn't it odd, why would he still go looking for mostima, didn't he find the answer already. seriously where the fuck is this guy

so whatever that laterano event will be it is going to be huge, definitely an 3 weeks/intermezzi event

what does this has to do with my other favourite character? azazel could also mean fallen angel and its symbol resemble sankta. there are no information about it so there is non-zero chance that the leader or founder of azazel is one. which could mean a lot or nothing when it comes to the next laterano event. after all isn't it weird that some small clinic in some ursus city has symbol that resemble a sankta?

but at this point please hYPERGRYPH ITS BEEN 5 YEARS GIVE ME SOME MORE LORE ON AZAZEL I'LL TAKE ANY SMALLEST CRUMB AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[sequinsmile-x]

hi! i have a prompt.. i don’t know if you’ve done this before but i kind of just thought of it and would love to see your version of this! idk if you just take random requests but here it is!

emily loses her wedding rings and she’s frantically searching and aaron finds her a mess on the bathroom floor and a sob breaks out when he asks her what’s wrong and he’s all patient and calm and it makes her more upset. but he gets her to stop crying and she calms down and he helps her tear the entire house apart. it’s only when the finally put jack to bed at night that they find them under his pillow! (idk how it got there—i think you could work that out)

hiiii friend!!

I love this prompt, and it immediately made my brain itch. It turned out a little differently than what you laid out, but I hope you enjoy it anyway <3

-x-

Threads of Gold

She puts the ring back onto its chain, and slips it over her head before tucking it back into her shirt. She presses the cool metal against her skin and closes her eyes, blowing out a shaky breath from lungs that felt stuffed with grief. 

She wasn’t Emily Prentiss here. 

Emily Prentiss was dead. 

-x-

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: big feels, occasional cursing.

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

It was the silence that she hated the most. 

The apartment she refused to call home was non-descript, the same as a thousand others in Paris. It had all the noise you would expect living in a big city. Neighbours who seemed to care very little for their possessions or the people around them. Mass-produced appliances that made noises that seemed to run like clockwork, the buzz of the refrigerator and the clunk of the air conditioning unit. The laughter of tourists as they walked the streets, happy and full of joy as they discovered the city of love. 

Everything surrounding her apartment was full of noise, of life. The very thing that had been torn from under her feet, everything slipping away so quickly. 

She was used to hearing Aaron walk around their house. His familiar footsteps part of the soundtrack of her life, a promise that he was never too far away. Jack seemed to be surrounded by noise, whether it was his laughter or one of his toys. He was only ever quiet in sleep, although even that would sometimes be interrupted by him walking suddenly in tears, memories of what happened to his mother warped even further by his subconscious, forcing him to seek out solace in her and Aaron’s bed. Safely tucked between the two of them. 

They had just managed to start their lives again, joy the overriding emotion in their home for the first time in a long time, when she got the call that Doyle had escaped. Everything turned back on its head, another thing they had to overcome. 

Only this time, they’d lost. 

She knew if she had to do it again she’d change nothing. She wouldn’t involve Aaron, wouldn’t have brought him into the situation she’d found herself in. The one secret she had never shared. 

She had vague memories of him visiting her in the hospital, dressed in all black from her funeral, his hand wrapped around hers as they both apologised for things neither of them could, or would, change. She’d saved his life by lying to him, by repeatedly saying everything was fine even though it clearly wasn’t. 

He’d saved her life by taking it away. 

Emily sighs as she pulls the door closed behind herself, and she checks the lock twice, a habit she had picked up from Aaron, before she moves further into the apartment. She places her bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, abandoning it for now, and walks the short distance to the couch. She sits down and tries to get her breath back. She was still recovering from what Ian had done to her, and even the smallest of tasks made her exhausted, her body pushed to its limit by something as simple as walking to the small store at the end of her street to buy some essentials. 

Her hands automatically reach for the long chain around her neck and she pulls it loose from her shirt, pulling it off completely before she goes for the catch, opening it so she can take the ring off of it. 

She holds the engagement ring in between her thumb and index finger, watching as she turns it, the low lighting in her apartment catching the diamond and making it sparkle. A flash of light across the dark night sky her life had become. 

She could wear it here, she knew that. There would be no harm, or risk, to her identity by wearing an engagement ring that she carried everywhere with her anyway. But it felt wrong, something making her pause every time she considered slipping it onto her finger, the joy she’d felt when Aaron asked her to marry him burning in her chest, yet another thing in her life that was once good turned to ash. 

She sighs, puts the ring back onto its chain, and slips it over her head before tucking it back into her shirt. She presses the cool metal against her skin and closes her eyes, blowing out a shaky breath from lungs that felt stuffed with grief. 

She wasn’t Emily Prentiss here. 

Emily Prentiss was dead. 

___

They get married almost as soon as she gets home from Paris. Their wedding day a quick and desperate thing, an attempt to hold on to each other. To prove that everything would be ok. Their love for each other, and for Jack, never in doubt even in the hardest of moments. 

It takes a while. She’s a little too keen for her independence and Aaron a little too protective after losing her, but after everything, she thinks they are happier now than they were before. The joy in their day-to-day lives deeper, something that felt all the more precious. They’d made it. They’d survived. 

And now they were living. 

She smiles at the sound of Jack laughing from the living room, his video game on in the background as he plays. She finishes rinsing out the wine glasses from dinner and places them on the draining board before she drains the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. The sound flowing from the living room comes to a stop and it’s quickly followed by Jack’s footfall, the noise dulled slightly by his socks. She turns just in time to see him in the doorway, a curious look on his face. 

“Where’s Dad?” 

She leans against the counter as she smalls at him, “He’s in his office, he had some work to finish whilst I did the dishes.” 

“You do the dishes because Dad cooks!” Jack says, repeating back the words they’d told him more than once. 

She hums and nods, “Exactly, although one day I might cook just so he has to do them instead,” she laughs as a horrified expression crosses the young boy's face, and she walks over to him, pulling him into a hug he gladly accepts, “Ok, I won’t cook.” 

He sighs in relief and leans against her, and she holds him tighter, taking a moment to appreciate that she had this again. She hears her phone chime from the dining room and pulls back to smile down at Jack, ruffling his hair before she steps away from him.

“You go get ready for bed, ok?” She says before she kisses his forehead, “It’s your dad’s turn to tuck you in tonight.” 

“Love you, Emily!” Jack says and it makes her heart swell, her smile so wide her cheeks ache. 

“I love you too,” she replies. She hears her phone chime again and she heads to the dining room to pick it up. There are two text messages from Penelope on the screen. 

Girl's night soon?

Sorry if I interrupted you and the boss doing some baby-making. 

Emily shakes her head, “I’ve really got to stop telling her everything.” 

She replies as she types out a response, ignoring the second text completely as she confirms her availability for a girl's night. Her friend's mention of her and Aaron’s plans to expand their family makes a mixture of anxiety and joy bubble in her stomach. Hope followed her around like a shadow these days, on the edge of everything she did, lingering in every corner as her future was laid out in two distinct paths. 

One where they had more children, expanded their family and had the life both she and Aaron had always wanted but had been denied. The other where they didn’t. Where this didn’t happen for them for one reason or another. 

She knew which one she wanted, that she’d be disappointed and heartbroken if the went the way she feared, but ultimately she knew she’d be happy with what she had in the end. 

No matter what her future looked like, Aaron and Jack were there with her, and that had her feel luckier than she ever had before. ___

She’s just finishing up her nighttime routine, running her fingers over her skin as she rubs in a moisturiser that claims to slow down ageing, when she notices. Her eyes honing in on her left hand, her ring finger bare. Her chest seizes with fear, her breath catching against her ribs as she looks at her hand, her eyes fixed on the pale band of skin where her rings usually were. 

“Fuck,” she whispers to herself, as she takes a step back, her eyes furiously scanning the bathroom counter as she desperately seeks out her rings. She pulls the products she’d used out from the spots she’d slipped them back into, showing no care for the usual order she tried to keep their home in. 

She rushes into the bedroom with the clothing hamper in her hands, tipping the dirty laundry onto Aaron’s side of the bed. She tries to ignore the shake of her hands as she riffles through the clothes, taking the time to check the pockets of the pants she’d taken off before she started to get ready for bed. 

“Fuck,” she exclaims again, more desperate this time as she runs her hands through her hair. She bites at her thumbnail as she tries to think, trying to remember when she was last wearing them. 

They had become a part of her. As soon as it was safe when she came home, when Ian was dead and her photo removed from the memorial wall, Aaron had asked about her ring. She’d shown him the necklace, the cheap chain she’d bought on her first day in Paris, and he’d smiled. Taking it off her before he tipped the ring into his palm, and slipped it back onto her finger, the same reverence and love in his eyes as he’d had the first time. It was barely two weeks later when her wedding ring had been added alongside it and she’d put his on him. The gold rings a solid symbol of their love for each other when everything else still felt so unsteady. 

They had become a part of her. 

She rushes downstairs, sure she’d had them on when she got home, and walks into the kitchen. They aren’t in the usual place she leaves them near the sink if she ever handwashes anything, and her panic deepens, the room becoming blurry as her eyes fill with tears she doesn’t expect or understand. She pulls the dishwasher door open, steam escaping around her as she interrupts the cycle. She winces as she starts to pull the dishes out, the heat of them pressing against her skin as she stacks them on the counter, any hope that she had somehow accidentally slipped them in along the plates they’d eaten their dinner from disappears as she empties it completely. The familiar shine of her rings nowhere to be found. 

She stands up straight and covers her mouth as a sob she can’t stop escapes. Grief and guilt and something she knows to be panic making her stomach churn. She’d never been a person who was too attached to material possessions. She’d moved too much when she was young for that. She remembered teasing Aaron when they moved into the house, softly calling him a hoarder because of his reluctance to let go of the simplest of furnishings. There were few things that she owned that could make her feel like this. 

A photo of her and her dad from her high school graduation. A card Jack had drawn her for mother’s day. 

Her wedding rings. 

Her engagement ring was the only part of Aaron she’d had with her in Paris, and that was only because she’d been wearing it at the time. Ian had mocked her for it, compared it to the ring he’d once given her. 

The ring had become so much more than what it initially met. It was a reminder of what she had at home, what she spent months dreaming out and hoping she’d have again.

And she couldn’t find it. 

She leans back against the counter and covers her face with her hands, crying in a way she hadn’t in a long time.

“Sweetheart, is there a reason you dumped all of our dirty laundry…” Aaron trails off as he walks into the kitchen, his joyful tone turning serious as he strides over to her, his hand on her shoulder, “Emily, baby, what's wrong?” 

He pulls her into a hug and she leans into him, her face buried against his neck as she wraps her arms around him, her hands grasping at his shirt. She tries to breathe him in, to remind herself that she has all of him now, that his love for her is more than a white gold band and a diamond that held them together across an ocean. 

Aaron holds her close, his hand running up and down her back, and he looks around the kitchen. His eyes flick over the dishes that were still wet from the dishwasher haphazardly piled on the counter, water dripping down onto the marble. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, why his wife has torn their bathroom, bedroom and apparently their kitchen apart or why whatever it has her close to hysterical. 

He places his hand on the back of her head and encourages her to tilt it back just far enough that she can look at him, her eyes red and shining with tears that were still tracking down her face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He asks, moving his hand to cup her cheek.

“No…I,” she chokes out, shaking her head at herself, fury at herself for not being able to control her emotions clear, “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” He asks, remaining endlessly patient despite his concern for her and the way it burned at his insides. 

“I lost my rings,” she says, the words catching in her throat as she acknowledges it out loud for the first time, “I’m sorry I must have taken them off to wash the wine glasses and-”

“Em, sweetheart,” he cuts her off, digging his hand through his pants pocket before he opens his palm to her, her wedding rings shining in his hand, “Jack had them.” 

It feels like every part of her has frozen in place, fear replaced by confusion and relief, “What?” 

He smiles softly, “He picked them up from the counter and took them to his room,” he says, running his hand down her arm so he can hold her left hand, carefully slipping them back onto her finger, “Apparently he was planning on taking them to school for show and tell tomorrow,” he chuckles, shaking his head at his son, “We had a chat about taking things that don’t belong to us without permission.” 

She nods, staring at her hand, her heartbeat returning somewhat to normal as she looks at her rings. She breathes shakily before looking up at her husband, smiling tightly at him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s ok,” he replies, wrapping his arm around her again to pull her closer. He waits a few seconds to see if she was planning on saying anything else, if she was going to give him an insight into why she’d been so upset, but she doesn’t. “Em-”

“My engagement ring was the only part of you I had in Paris,” she explains, cutting over him as she hugs him, her cheek pressing into his shoulder, “I wore it on that necklace every day and…for a long time I thought it was all I’d ever have of you. I lost it and I panicked.” 

Aaron sighs sadly as he kisses the side of her head before he rests his chin on top of it, holding her tightly in the way he knew she needed whenever she was reminded of her time in Paris. 

“I’m right here,” he promises her, “I’ve got you.” 

She smiles and nods, pulling back so she can look up at him. She stamps a quick kiss against his lips, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he replies, kissing her again. “Why don’t you head up, I’ll put everything back in the dishwasher and then come up to join you.” 

She frowns, “Honey-”

“Go,” he says, cutting off her rebuttal to him re-doing her usual chore. She smiles and nods, kissing him once more before she disconnects from him to go back upstairs. 

By the time he joins her, she’s put the laundry back into the hamper and is curled up on her side of the bed. He quickly changes and does his own nightly routine before he lays behind her in the bed. He wraps his arms around her and presses his chest into her back before he links their fingers together, the cold metal of her rings making them both smile.

“Tomorrow, I’m buying you rubber gloves.”

She frowns, turning her head to look at him, not entirely sure what he means, “What?” 

“I’m buying you rubber gloves,” he repeats, kissing her cheek, “So you don’t have to take your rings off when you’re doing the dishes.” 

She beams at him, her love for him threatening to overwhelm her as she turns in his embrace, kissing him fiercely as she cups the back of his head, holding him in place. 

“I love you so fucking much,” she says, still kissing him as she talks until she’s practically laying on top of him. 

“Because I’m buying you gloves?” He asks, raising his eyebrow as he follows her lead, his hands trailing under her t-shirt.

She pulls back to smile at him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, “Because you love me enough to understand why it’s important.” 

She kisses him again, and they lose themselves in each other, both of them trying to keep quiet, their love for each other just for them in their home. 

-x-

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[longlivefanfic-net]

Make Her Happy

Summary: Robin has become an almost constant presence in your apartment, which isn’t a problem until you realize you’ve got a little crush. When you explain why you’re acting weird to Steve, your boyfriend, he decides to take things into his own hands. Steve/Reader and Reader/Robin.

Word count: 7.2k

Content: Mostly smut with perhaps a hint of angst?, F/F and F/M, threesome scene, female receiving head and fingering, penetrative sex, bisexual/pansexual/queer female reader, drinking. 

A/N: Robin and Steve are not sexually involved with each other. I kind of struggled with how to set this scene up so that it was very clear that Robin and Steve are 10000% not interested in each other but also like Reader gets to f*ck both of them because like. Jesus h christ they are both just so pretty. Frankly I think this…kind of hints at some queer polyamory for the female reader but ya know what. Thats what i would like to see and this is my world babes. Idk this might lead to more polycule-esque fics with nights with Robin interrupted by Steve and vice versa. Also special thanks to @thatsonezesty13 who requested bi!Reader <3

You weren’t sure when it had happened. It had been slow, gradual. Robin had always spent a lot of time at your’s and Steve’s apartment, usually bringing a VHS she wanted to watch or funny stories about the people she had talked to at work that day. One night, she had come over late, letting herself into your apartment with her spare key and a paper bag full of cheap tacos, interrupting you and Steve on the couch. When you had looked up from between his arms at her, haloed in the doorway by the glow of the hallway lights, you had blamed the adrenaline from Steve’s hands for the nervous twinge in your chest. Another time, Robin had been sitting on the floor, leaning back against your legs while you ran your fingers through her hair and she bemoaned the tragic state of the lesbian dating scene in Indiana, and when she had turned to look at you with little pieces of her hair askew from your hands all you could think was beautiful, she’s so beautiful. Now, you were basically trying to avoid her: an impossible feat considering how often she was in your apartment (she really practically lived there, as often as she had started staying the night, crashing on your couch and insisting on Steve making pancakes most mornings). 

Steve had noticed. You really didn’t want him to notice, but he was so good with people and he always picked up on the smallest things and, as he had pointed out last week, he’d have to be stupid not to notice when his two best girls were acting weird. You had tried to explain that you weren’t being weird–you just, maybe, needed some space from Robin. He had offered to kick her out, saying he’d make her stay at her own place for a few nights, and you had said no. You held his hand, chewed on your lip, and told him you liked having Robin around. When his eyes had narrowed in confusion, you had put his hand in your lap, leaning against Steve’s broad chest, and quietly–very quietly–informed him that you just had…a little “girl crush,” as you called it. It was nothing; you had had a few of them before, but you still loved Steve more than anything in the world. For you, Robin was kind of like if Phoebe Cates walked into the Family Video store one day and told Steve she wanted to hang out with him. Obviously, you knew he would still be attracted to her–how many times had he watched Fast Times now?--but, at the end of the day, you assumed he would still come home to you, even if it meant bringing Phoebe with him. Steve had looked down at you, understanding dawning over his face, and asked “She’s your Phoebe Cates? I mean–Phoebe Cates?” You had just laughed, explaining that you had meant it more metaphorical than literal as he rubbed broad, warm circles into your back. A few mornings later, after Robin had walked out your front door with a leftover chocolate chip pancake in hand, Steve had wrapped his hands around your hips and pulled you tight into his chest, nipping playfully at your neck before he pulled back to look at you. “So,” he had asked, his face completely neutral, “You like me and girls? Or you like guys and girls, and me and Robin are the ones you like of those?” You had half laughed, interlocking your fingers around his neck. “I just like who I like, Steve,” you had said. “When I find someone attractive…I don’t know, I just don’t really think about if they’re a boy or a girl.” Steve had nodded, his uncombed morning hair flopping low over his forehead as he bent his neck to press a kiss to your cheek. “As long as you still like me,” he had said, pulling back with a playful grin. 

Robin had come over again tonight–not that that was a surprise–and you had moved to the other side of the couch than where you usually sat, making Steve sit on her usual end so she’d put all of her weight on him instead of you. For good measure, you drew your legs up beside you, curling them against your body as you leaned into Steve’s chest. He wrapped an arm around you, planting a kiss on the top of your head, then reached down to ruffle Robin’s hair. Something about the moment made you feel like you were in some sort of sitcom, but when Robin turned around to grin at you over her shoulder you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched. Steve’s arm tightened around you at the slight change, and you looked up to see him looking at Robin with the light of an idea behind his eyes. “Robin,” he asked, tentatively. “How’d your date last weekend go?” Robin groaned theatrically, throwing her head back against Steve’s legs. “Oh my god,” she said, “Don’t even ask me about that again. I am so tired of the women in this town. They’re all either terrible and, frankly, kind of stupid, with, like, no real taste, you know, I mean the movie she wanted to see? God, it was so bad, but they’re all like her–or straight, I guess,” Robin said, turning to look at you with a grin. “See, you’re lucky Harrington. Life’s easy for you. You just asked out the prettiest girl you could find and it turned out she was incredible and smart and sexy, too.” You blush, the heat snaking over your face, at Robin’s words. Steve just nodded, looking like he had just snapped two puzzle pieces together. 

“You know what we should do tonight?” Steve asked. “Eat junk and watch TV?” Robin asked, an eyebrow cocked. She already had a half empty package of marshmallows next to her on the floor, something you and Steve kept stocked in the pantry almost exclusively for her. “We should drink,” Steve said, standing up suddenly. You fell back on to the couch, and peered up at him, confused. Steve just looked between you and Robin, his hands on his hips, and said, “Yeah. Drinks,” before disappearing into the kitchen. “I am not drinking too much tonight, Harrington,” Robin called after him. He came back in with a six pack, setting it down next to Robin as she grimaced. “Beer, Harrington? What is this, a frat party?” “Shut up, it’s what we’ve got–unless you feel like walking to the liquor store.” Robin grimaced but pulled one of the brown bottles out of the cardboard case, taking the bottle opener Steve handed her and popping the top. Without even looking at you, she passed the slightly hissing bottle over as you sat up, pulling a second one out for herself. You took a long pull from the cool glass, the taste of hops smooth over your throat as you looked at Steve, one eyebrow raised. He shrugged, smiling, and mouthed “trust me.” Blinking quickly, you looked away, and noted Robin watching the exchange between the two of you. “Everything…okay?” She asked, her voice rasping. “Never better,” Steve answered, chipper, as he took his seat back between the two of you. 

“Is there a reason you’ve got me drinking tonight, Harrington?” You asked. You didn’t usually refer to Steve by his last name–except when you put Mr. in front of it–but anytime you were around Robin, it just came out. He looked over at you, grinning, and cocked his head to the side. “I just thought my two best girls might benefit from loosening up a little,” he said, all charm as Robin snorted. “What?” He said, bumping her with his leg. “As if you’re anything other than uptight.” “I am not uptight,” Robin answered, “I am a reasonable amount of tight.” She blushed at her own word choice, then rolled her eyes, turning back to face the TV as she muttered “shut up” before Steve said anything. Steve looked at you, watching the taut skin of your neck shift as you took a deep pull from your bottle, swallowing it down. He kept his eyes flicking between you and the TV screen for the next twenty minutes, only half-heartedly watching the cheesy sitcom Robin had turned on as soon as she had come in the door. That’s how it went with Robin: walk into a room, find a friend, and turn off whatever part of her brain held her back from giving into her impulses. She had changed the TV channel while you were watching something on more than one occasion, had even walked into your home and started cooking dinner with the groceries in your fridge, but nothing topped the time she had walked into a party at one of Steve’s old friend’s house, seen a guy feeling up a girl who was passed out on the couch, and immediately lifted her booted foot up, kicked him–hard–directly in the shoulder and yanked him off the girl. The three of you had been thrown out of the party not five minutes after arriving–taking Robin’s rescue back to the front yard with you where you found someone the bleary eyed girl recognized. 

Robin’s eyes were glued to the screen, apparently unaware of the looks you were giving Steve behind her back. You had fallen back against your side of the couch instead of curling against him, suspicious of what had driven his sudden interest in drinking an entire six pack that would usually last him a week over the course of one night. Steve was adamantly avoiding your gaze, though he did occasionally turn his head to you. He seemed to be examining the bottle in your hand, and when his eyes happened to meet yours he would only pause long enough to widen his eyes, or turn up the corner of his mouth, or once–as you got close to finishing your beer–wink at you. Finally, you took one last swallow from your drink, upending the bottle into your mouth with your head tilted back against the arm of the couch as you drained the last drop. When you straightened your neck, Steve was turned to you, fully grinning now, and he reached out one of his long-fingered hands to snag the room-temperature brown glass out of your hands. Your eyebrows slid down, furrowing over your eyes as you watched him. You couldn’t be sure but, in the glow from the TV, it looked like he had only had maybe half of his own drink; you looked at Steve, your earlier interest in his actions starting to form a knot in your stomach as you pulled the corner of your bottom lip in between your teeth. The TV suddenly played out the sharp notes of the closing theme for Robin’s show, and she set her own empty glass bottle on the floor next to her before pulling another out of the pack. She turned around, glancing at you before turning to Steve. You could almost swear you saw the slightest shade of pink cross under her freckles when she saw you already looking at her, but the light in the room was so dim you couldn’t be sure. “What’s the plan, Harrington?” Robin asked. “Should I open another?” Steve nods, and asks her to hand you one as well. When she does, your fingers brush and you swear Robin pulls her fingers back just a second too fast, almost letting the bottle drop. 

“Let’s do something fun,” Steve says, looking at you. The knot in your stomach constricts and you’re sure that whatever he’s about to spring on you is what he’s been working up to all night. “What would be fun for you right now, Steve?” You ask. You’re on high alert–but you’re also fascinated. Steve’s never done something like this before, keeping something from you (though he’s not doing a particularly good job of hiding whatever it is), and you’re anxious to see what, exactly, has motivated this within him. “I want to play a game,” he says. He stands up suddenly, reaching out for your hand and, when you put your fingers in his, he yanks you to your feet. “Sit,” he says, and you sink to the floor next to Robin. He sits down on the chill ground as well, crossing his denim-clad legs as he settles across from the two of you. Reaching out, he grabs you by the hips and slides you, just barely, to move you between him and Robin, making a clear triangle between the three of you. He reaches over to Robin, grabbing her empty beer bottle from beside her and placing it in the middle of the three of you. “Spin the bottle!” He exclaims, gesturing widely with his outstretched palms. “Gross, Harrington,” Robin says, taking another pull from her bottle. “I don’t want to kiss you.” “Oh, get over yourself, Buckley,” Steve groans, rolling his eyes. “I need something harder than beer to be willing to kiss you.” “The only point to this game, then, is for you and your girlfriend to kiss, and I’m sure the two of you do plenty of that, unless you want–” Robin goes silent, cutting herself off in the middle of her sentence. Steve’s eyes flicker towards you and Robin’s faces in  turns. The flush is slower in it’s creeping over your skin as a result of the alcohol, but it’s definitely still under there. It builds, burning brighter as you say in feigned casualness, “It might be fun.” 

Robin swallows, her throat bobbing with the pressure of her forcing her obvious nerves down. “Do you…want to play, Robin?” You ask quietly. She looks at Steve, and his eyebrows lift slightly. “Yeah,” she says, her voice hushed. “As long as I don’t have to kiss Harrington, I want to play.” Steve smiles, reaching out his long, pale hand for the bottle. The sound of glass spinning over the floor is entrancing, and the three of you fall silent to listen to it echo in the stillness. When it lands on Robin, she groans loudly. “See, I knew it, oh, don’t you dare, Harrington–” Robin growls as Steve moves towards her. “Hold on, just be still for, like, one second, you little–” Steve presses a quick, chaste kiss to Robin’s cheek and she yowls like a stray cat fighting for dumpster scraps as she wipes her wrist over her cheek dramatically. “That’s it! That’s it, I swear!” Steve protests, sitting back with his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Disgusting,” Robin mutters. “Yeah, well, mutual,” Steve says, and his eyes betray that he’s on the verge of a laugh–likely at Robin’s dramatic reaction. The kiss had been like something shared on Christmas days and, frankly, you had seen Steve kiss Robin’s forehead with more passion last year on New Year’s Eve. Your own lips were right on the edge of a grin, actually; Robin and Steve, together, always brought out a sense of family that just felt joyful to you. “Anyway,” Steve says, “You get to spin now.” Robin sniffs, rolling her eyes in return, and her hand reaches for the bottle. You’ve never noticed before how smooth her hands are, how soft the skin looks. The polish over her clipped nails is chipping slightly, and you can see what you think must be a small scar on one of her knuckles. When the bottle stops spinning, pointing at Steve, you burst into giggles, drunk on either the alcohol of the budding euphoria in your stomach.

“See,” Robin says, “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to play your stupid little kid game, Harrington!” “Yeah,” Steve replies, pushing his fingers up through his hair, “That doesn’t count. Spin again.” Robin looks at you, quickly, then spins the bottle. She’s spun it harder this time, and it seems like the three of you are waiting forever for the glass to stop grinding gently over your floors. When it does come to a stop, pointing vaguely in your direction, the two of you look at each other. “What do you think?” She asks. “Is it close enough?” “Close enough,” you say, and you use your hands to shift your weight forward, coming closer to her on all fours. When you can touch her, you duck your head slightly, pressing your lips to hers gently. Her lips are smooth and they feel damp, like she’s applied her favorite chapstick before coming over. You start to pull back–worried you’re going to make her uncomfortable–when she finally leans into the kiss as well, using one of her hands to cradle the back of your neck and hold your mouth to hers. When her hand loosens, you pull back and look at her. This close, you can tell that there is a definite blush spreading over her cheeks, and her eyes seem wider than usual. Her lips are rosy, the delicate cupid’s bow seeming almost to quiver as she breathes quickly through the small gap between her top and lower lip. Almost in unison, the two of you turn to look at Steve. His pupils are wide, his eyes darker, and he’s got a faint blush running up his own neck. You start to sit back, immediately prepared to apologize, when you notice the slight bulge in his jeans. “Steve,” you whisper, your head tilting slightly. “Are you enjoying yourself, babygirl?” He asks. You turn, looking back at Robin, who’s blush darkens, and nod. “I want to see you happy,” Steve says from behind you, and you look at Robin’s eyes. She’s watching your mouth, her pupils dilated when she makes eye contact with you. 

“Robin?” You whisper. She blinks quickly, her long lashes blowing her eyes clear. “Is this okay?” You ask her. Her face is still only inches from yours, the heat radiating off her body beating against your face like a warm summer breeze across your skin. Robin’s lower lip disappears into her mouth, gnawing it between her teeth like she does when she knows she’s said something really stupid, and she turns to look at Steve. You hear his smooth voice across the silence of your living room: “It’s okay with me.” Without ever answering your question, Robin wraps her delicate fingers around the nape of your neck, pulling your face to hers as she pushes her lips against yours fiercely. The electricity between the two of you is instant, is chemical–maybe pushed to the surface by the beer, which you can taste in Robin’s mouth as her lips open and her tongue slides over yours. You tilt your head, pressing your nose into her face as you kiss her aggressively–there’s a delicate balance to kissing Robin, one that’s wholly different from your experiences with Steve. She feels gentle, almost timid under your fingers as they slide over her throat, pinching slightly as you desperately try to find a place to hold her. Robin’s movements are quick, rapid in their lightness, like she knows you’ll pull back soon. You push your weight into her; she leans back, slightly, as you use your body to press her against the couch. You sit back, suddenly, and she freezes. For a second, you just look at her: the dim lights in your apartment are glowing against her collarbone, her cheekbones, and her eyelids are drooping hazily. Her mouth is still puckered, slowly pulling short breaths that raise her shoulders and make her chest heave. You slide closer to her, closing the last of the distance between the two of you as you touch your mouth to hers and place your hand over her heartbeat, letting it’s rapid pulse echo through your own body.

When you finally pull back, head dizzy and hands shaking, you sit back on your heels and truly, deeply stare at Robin. There’s a lot to be said for the way it feels to live out your fantasies: kissing Robin was different than you had ever dreamed, but already you were eyeing her body, looking for the next place you could press your mouth to. When you turned on your knees, bumping the forgotten brown bottle and sending it rolling under the couch, Steve was staring at you. You tucked your chin slightly, locking your jaw, and traced your eyes up, over his body as he sat cross-legged. When your eyes got to his face, you were prepared to see anger, mistrust, maybe even a smirk; what you saw instead shocked you. Steve’s eyes were wide, his jaw loose, and the look in his eyes was the kind you usually only saw when you had him under your thighs, pinning him down to your shared bed. You blinked at him, once, slowly, and he immediately held his arms open to you. “Come here, baby,” he half growled, and you closed the gap between the two of you while Robin panted behind you. Settling yourself over Steve, you straddle his hips with your thighs, snaking your fingers up over his neck and into his long hair. He tilts his head up slightly, and his lips move as he silently begs you to touch him. Slowly, making him wait for it, you dip your head to his mouth. You kiss him more gently than you kissed Robin–where kissing Robin was fast and hard, kissing Steve is slow and soft. His lips are wide, settling against yours patiently as you administer feather light touches to his skin. Your lips slide, slowly, down to his chin and over his jawline, and you go as slow as you can stand to. He moans under you, quietly, and you can feel him aching against the seam of his jeans as you draw out each second away from his skin. 

“Um,” Robin’s voice is hushed from behind you. “Should I–I mean, I should leave, I think.” You pull your mouth back from where you’re sucking Steve’s throat, whipping your head back towards Robin quickly. “Don’t,” you say before you have time to consider the word. “Look,” Robin says, raising her hands to chest level, palms out–a classic Steve Harrington, peace bringer, move. “I don’t know what, um, foreplay this is that you two are, like, in to or whatever, but I just–” “It’s not foreplay,” Steve says, his voice quiet. “I want her happy.” He’s staring at Robin as he says this, and you feel a blush snake over your body as you bite your lip. “Well, I’m not just here to teach you how to–I don’t know, fucking get your girlfriend off or whatev–” “Hey,” Steve says, a note of offense in his voice. “I don’t need you to teach me anything. She just–I mean, she–” “I have a crush on you, Robin,” you say, your voice small. It’s embarrassing to admit, even though her bottom lip had just been between your teeth minutes ago. Robin looks at you, her sharp eyebrows narrowing together. “But you’re with Steve,” she says, her voice thick with confusion. “You’re not the first girl who’s picked Harrington over me, but I just–” You shake your head at her. “Steve and I got together before I knew I liked you,” you say. “So…you like Harrington. And you like me.” You nod, slowly, watching her eyes narrow as she tries to make sense of what you’ve said. “Steve. You knew she liked me?” He shrugs, nodding slightly. “And you wanted her to kiss me?” You turn back to Steve at Robin’s question, interested in hearing his answer yourself. He reaches out, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone as his fingers settle under your jawbone. “Like I said,” he murmurs, eyes on yours. “I want my babygirl to be happy.”

“Okay,” Robin says, a note of skepticism in her voice. “I still feel like I should leave. You got to kiss me and Steve got to kiss you and everybody’s happy now, so I’m going to–” “You could stay,” you interrupt her. You turn back to Steve, and he’s looking at you with his eyebrows slightly raised. You widen your eyes at him in question and he nods. “Stay the night with us, Robin,” you say, turning back to her. “But I’m…I mean. I’m not like you,” she says. “I don’t want Steve and you, I just want you and I just–” You grin as her words flow out, her mouth moving faster than her brain as usual so she doesn’t even realize she’s said she wants you. “I don’t want you either,” Steve says, half grimacing as he shakes his head at Robin. “I’m not going to touch you; I just want to touch her,” he says, wrapping his thick fingers around your waist at his words. You can’t help the hot feeling of desire that snakes it’s way up from between your thighs at his words, and you feel your breath hitch slightly at his words, causing Steve to squeeze his fingers into your skin slightly. Robin’s eyes flick to his hands on your skin, and the desire in her eyes is palpable. “So, what?” She asks, her voice hushed, eyes on the floor. “I spend the night with the two of you, and then we spend the rest of our lives with the two of you happy and me as some sort of third-wheel?” The pain in her face makes your heart physically feel like it’s breaking, and you can’t stop the way your jaw drops as a tiny hitch of breath breaks out of her throat. “Robin,” you say, gently, watching tears build in her almond-shaped eyes. “You’re always going to be a part of our family.” She raises her face, eyes hopeful as one tear shines it’s way down her cheek, splattering a dark stain on her top; you don’t even decide to reach out her, but suddenly your fingers are waiting in the dim light, a link between her and you, and you and Steve, if she wants to take it. When her fingers slip across yours, you feel a breath loose from your chest that you didn’t know you were holding. You gently tug her wrist, pulling her body to yours, as you turn back to Steve. He looks up at you again, grinning, and whispers, “Happy?” Instead of replying, you just press your grinning mouth against his. 

When Robin wraps her arms around your waist from behind, bringing her hands up to cup your breasts as you lean forward over Steve’s lap, you feel your heart racing through all of your skin, the pulse beating like the thin skin between you and Steve, between you and Robin, is too much separation. Your core is hot, already aching with a soft, slow need for something, someone. You rub your hips against Steve’s lap, delighting in the sensation of your body over his and the way Robin’s arms squeeze you slightly tighter to keep her torso pressed to your back as you move. Her head lowers to the space between your shoulder and neck, sliding her lips down over your pulse dancing along the side of your throat, and she nips at you softly. The gasp she elicits breaks through your mouth right as Steve’s fingers come up under your jaw, pulling your chin to angle your mouth to his. His lips are soft against yours, and the wide, flat of his palm snakes up your side to your breast, sliding his fingers between Robin’s to squeeze your soft skin. You feel grateful, suddenly, that you had thought this was a casual night-in originally, as Steve’s thick fingers pinch and roll your nipple unhindered by a bra. You gasp into his mouth, and Robin’s hand on your other breast quickly begins mimicking Steve’s actions. It it almost overwhelming, this feeling of two sets of hands sliding over you, tickling your skin, teasing and pinching you, and you have to break your mouth away from Steve’s just long enough to gasp, trying to force as much air as you can down your throat. 

“You okay, baby?” Steve asks, burrowing his head along the side of your neck Robin has left untouched so far. His hair brushes against your jaw, tickling slightly, as Robin presses her teeth into your skin on the other side. You want to tell them, both, that you feel incredible, that your body feels like it’s got the sun tethered under your skin, that you want both of them to touch you like this for the rest of your life, but all that comes out of your mouth is a slight whimper. Robin pulls her head back, and you feel her turn to look at Steve. “Is she okay?” She asks, a note of panic in her voice as the same sound comes out of you a second time. “She will be,” Steve says, and you can hear the sadistic tone to his voice that means he’s going to give you exactly what you’re already begging for. He runs his tongue over your throat, pausing with his lips lightly against your ear. “Want us to take you to the bedroom, baby girl?” Your fingers tighten, knotting in his hair, and the other hand reaches behind you for Robin, sliding up her neck to tighten in her long strands of hair as well. Steve sits back, slightly, and slips you off his lap on to the floor. You would whine, but he’s pressed you directly against Robin and you take the opportunity to tighten your hand on her neck and bend her head down to kiss you. Your mouth is hungry against hers, hard and desperate as you seek her touch. You sense Steve standing up in front of you, and you pull your mouth away from Robin’s to look at him as he leans down, slipping his arms around your thighs and lifting you, wrapping your thighs around his waist. He looks over his shoulder at Robin still panting on the floor. “You coming?” You turn to look at her just in time to see her flush at his words before giving a tense nod. She stands quickly, following Steve as he carries you back to the bedroom. 

He sets you down in the center edge of the mattress, the soft comforter tickling the back of your knees as his fingers wrap around the hem of your shirt, pulling it directly over your head and exposing your breasts. The air is cool against your skin, and your nipples harden again. Steve can’t stop himself from letting his tongue wet his lips and, when he sees you smile in return, he drops his head, his hair tickling your collarbones as his tongue slides over your soft skin. You gasp, wrapping your hands around the back of his head to keep him there as his fingers slide down, hooking in the sides of your shorts and underwear. He pulls back suddenly, his large hands on your shoulders as he pushes you down to the mattress before hooking them back against your hips to push the fabric there off of your skin. Standing in between your legs, your flushed skin making the air feel cooler and forcing you to be overly aware of your nudity, Steve strips his own shirt off, unbuckles his jeans, and lets them slide to the floor. He’s staring at you, his boxers tight in the center where his erection is bulging. You turn your head to the side, however, looking for Robin. She stands, uncertain, at the edge of the room. Her eyes are wide, and you can’t help but notice that the fingers of one of her hands are resting over her own breast, squeezing slightly. “Come here,” you whisper, your voice rasping almost like hers does. Robin’s eyes flick to Steve again, and he nods at her, smiling slightly. With this permission granted, Robin crosses her hands over her waist, grabbing the hem of her shirt and pulling it up; she tosses it on the floor, next to your own, and slips her pants off to leave in a puddle of fabric on the floor. In her underwear, she walks to the mattress you’re sprawled on and climbs up, her knees coming slowly closer to your torso. 

Robin places one arm over your torso, and the fingers of the other slip down your skin. Your skin pebbles under her touch, and the heat of your blush can’t bring the gooseflesh back down. You bring your hand up to her small hip, sliding your fingers against her skin as you loop them under her the sides of her underwear. You look up at Robin’s face over you, and she nods slightly. Your fingers pull the fabric down slightly and her own hands help you, bringing the fabric between her knees before she manipulates them over her legs to toss on the floor behind her. She leans down over you, pressing her mouth against yours again, as Steve rubs slow circles with his thick fingers over your thighs. Your hand slips from Robin’s hips, lower down to her soft skin, pressing into her sex with the pads of your fingers and she moans into your mouth, the sound low and angelic. You take this as permission, and slide your middle finger along her slit, feeling the thick moisture there as she stifles a groan against your mouth. You run your fingers against her again, taking delight in the way her hips roll over your hand. Before either of you can think about it, you slide your middle and ring fingers into her entrance, a slight push allowing you to glide inside of her to your knuckles. She gasps, her open mouth on yours, and you take the opportunity to snag her lower lip between your teeth and bite gently. The moan she lets out reminds you of all the other sounds you’ve heard her make before, but it’s gentler. Usually, she sounds like a cat, one frequently on the verge of scratching, but now, here, on your fingers, she has turned to a kitten who cries out gently as your thumb brushes over her swollen clit. 

You continue to pump your hand in and out of her tight warmth, using your thumb to circle her clit as you do, and she rolls her hips, fucking herself on your fingers. Her head shifts back, slightly and she whimpers softly, a honeyed “fuck” dropping off her tongue as you feel the first of her tightenings around your digits; Steve takes this moment to dig his thumbs into the inside of your thighs, using his fingers to stroke faster circles over your skin. You have to stop yourself from increasing the pace of your hand, desperate to bring her to her edge and send her over, desperate to watch Robin’s face contort as her body does. You increase the pressure of your thumb just slightly, knowing you’ve done the right thing when a high pitched moan snakes out of her mouth. Finally, she tosses her head back completely, the sounds coming out of her mouth completely animalistic as her eyebrows slide together and her mouth drops open. Her chest is heaving, and her fingers claw into the comforter around you. You feel a moment of satisfaction despite your own need, but it is cut short by the distraction of Steve’s mouth against your inner thigh. You gasp, still shifting your fingers inside of Robin as her aftershocks subside, and Steve runs his tongue up your center. “Fuck,” you exhale, and he stands up, placing himself in between your thighs with a self-satisfied grin at capturing your attention. His boxers have disappeared while you were distracted by Robin, and his hand is wrapped around his erection, pumping slowly as he watches your face. With a slight smile, you nod at him and Steve buries himself in you to his base. You brush your thumb over Robin’s clit again at the same time, and for a moment the room is filled with the sound of all three of you gasping at the same time. 

Steve waits, placing his fingers around your hips as you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you. “Okay, babygirl?” He asks, quietly, his hair slipping over his forehead. You nod and he begins shifting his hips, pushing himself in and out of you as his thumbs press into your skin. Despite the pressure of his hands, you still roll your hips against him, desperate for more friction–he feels good inside of you, filling you perfectly, but you need more somehow, more contact. He takes the hint, bringing one of his hands down to place his palm over your mound as his thumb slips in between your folds to rub long, languid strokes against the sensitive bundle of nerves above where the two of you are joined. You gasp, your head rolling back into the soft mattress, but it still somehow isn’t enough. You turn your head, looking at Robin as she watches your face contort with the sounds working their way out of your chest, and you whimper. “What is it, baby?” Steve asks, his pace faltering slightly. “What do you need from me?” You shake your head, eyes still on Robin. “Do you need Robin?” You nod, jaw clamped together against the sounds trying to burst out of your mouth. Steve slows his movement inside of you, starting to pull out, and you whip your head back to look at him. “No,” you practically growl, and he stills. “I want you inside me,” you say, and the side of his mouth tilts up as he slides back into you again. He runs his hands under your thighs, lifting you slightly and pulling you down just an inch or two to settle your body farther down on his length while he stands at the edge of the bed. You moan, softly, and look back at Robin. “What do you want from me, babygirl?” Robin’s use of Steve’s pet name for you makes your heart flutter in your chest, and you know he’s feeling a sense of pride right now. “I want you,” you say, and it comes out as a whine. She blushes slightly, turning her head to share a grin with Steve at the end of the bed. “Tell me exactly what you want,” she says, reaching a hand out to brush her fingers over a strand of your hair that has stuck to your forehead as you sweat. “I want you on my mouth,” you blurt out, and her eyes go wide with desire. You turn back to look at Steve, whose eyebrows are raised as he fails to bite back a grin. 

“Anything for you, babygirl,” Robin says, and she lifts herself up, settling her hips over your face. Steve slowly begins to pick up his pace again, thrusting in to your molten core as your tongue slowly slides in between Robin’s lips. She sighs quietly, settling more of her weight around you as your hands slide up her torso to squeeze her breasts over your head. Steve is moaning slightly, his fingers tightening around your thighs, and you decide to skip the foreplay with Robin’s body, wrapping your lips around her clit and sucking. She gasps, and when you lightly graze your teeth against her you can feel her thighs shake around your face. The combined pressure of her earlier orgasm and watching you get fucked by Steve has kept her close to a second orgasm, and you can feel her core tense over you as you run your tongue over the swollen bundle of nerves in between your lips. With Robin’s orgasm so close already and the feeling of Steve filling you, you feel your own muscles start to tighten. Steve takes his signal from your body, bringing one of his hands up to press lightly against your stomach, and you are suddenly moaning into Robin’s warmth, still desperately working your tongue against her as your muscles hitch inside your body, bringing you crashing over the edge Steve has spent hours working you towards since he first suggested drinking, and you almost worry you’re going to go blind as your legs shake and white pinpoints of light flicker over your vision. Robin moans as well, and you feel her come over your face, dripping down your chin as she bucks her hips against your hands still desperately holding her in place. Steve is the last to finish, his soft grunts turning into low moans of “fuck, babygirl, fuck” as his fingers bruise your skin and he buries himself in you, letting his orgasm fill the deep need inside of your core. His cum is thick as he twitches inside of you and his hands claw at your skin desperately as your aftershocks quiver around him, pulling his cock further into you as he fucks you through his orgasm, pushing the heavy mixture of his seed and your arousal back out of your body with each thrust. 

Finally, there is quiet in the bedroom except for the sounds of the three of you panting. Robin lifts her legs from around your face, sliding over to one side of the bed before she leans down to kiss you again, moving her tongue in between your lips to taste the mixture of your mouth and her orgasm and wiping your chin softly with her fingers. You sit up, just enough to slide your body back more fully on to the mattress, and lay back down, feeling the plush come up behind every pulse point of your skin. Robin settles down next to you, turning on her side so her face is tilted to yours and you can watch the flush slowly recede under her skin as her breathing slows. She gently puts one hand over your breastbone, watching her own fingers move as you inhale. Steve is the last to join you on the bed, still breathing heavy as he settles himself on his side next to you. He buries his head in the skin of your neck, taking a deep inhale of your scent as he presses his lips to the spot under your ear. “Are you happy, baby girl?” He asks. Your eyelids feel heavy, your body spent and satiated, and your heart–your heart feels like, if they could see it right now, it would be shining a nearly blinding golden light of joy. You nod, and he sighs. Robin, quietly, says “That’s a yes, right?” and you almost laugh at her, but you just turn your head to her and smile before nodding again. She smiles and then purrs almost as she settles herself closer to you. Steve wraps an arm around your ribs, slipping his fingers around the top of your stomach as he pushes his torso closer to yours. “Harrington,” Robin rasps, voice thick with sleep already. “You’re touching me.” “Then move over,” Steve says, yawning, but she stays where she is, already asleep. “We’re going to need a bigger bed,” Steve mutters, and the room fills with the sound of their quiet breathing.