#That shows kinda fucked but in a good way

[dilf-docs]

Darlin', Can I Be Your Favorite?

dbf!boxer pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: it should be simple. helping your dad's best friend to train for his upcoming match in his hometown, chile. but turns out, world-renowned boxer the viper isn't just a menace in the ring.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (girthy), smut, p. in v., oral (m. receiving), rough sex, public sex, praise kink, humilliation kink, daddy kink (she's got daddy issues; idc if this is mischaracterizing you, you'll live), dom!pedro, use of pet names (doll/baby), some angst because that's my staple, idk shit about boxing my bad (i'm more of a ufc girlie kinda) so let's focus on the filth!!

word count: 5,874 words

side note: this very different albeit genius request got me a small hit tweet. song of choice for this piece i sped up because of my ovulation is favorite, by isabel larosa. there are several paragraphs in this that could be used against me and are proof i'm loosing my mind during this midterm/fertile week had to use a clint gif because freaky tales clint is so sexy might watch the movie on theatres with my legs open

You weren't new to this.

The small walls, dim light, the sweat, the blood... you were shoved into it. By your father, since you were a baby. Long before you could even walk, grabby hands trying to reach for a ring that seemed so far, the violence and the rage contained inside the quadrilateral.

So you grew up wanting it. The desire. The ichor. Rough and brutal.

You'd never step in, but always stood by your father's side. Until the age of boys, over-coated glossy lips and blooming girlhood arrived. Long gone where the days were you'd be next to your dad inside the dim-light place, now filled with car rides and girly laughter about all and nothing. You changed the sweat scent of the place for vainilla, and the oversized t-shirts for skirts that showed your laced panties if you bent.

The fights started then, but the ring became your home. Slut, he'd call you, saying this wasn't the girl he raised. Your mother would cry, tired of trying to stop the fighting that extended sometimes until late at dawn, when you'd show up on the doorstep, skirt torn apart and panties wet despite the dry summer.

The beast laid dormant inside you. That primal raw hunger; it never ceased to exist.

Now it was on your roaring voice, refusing to shut up and take the harsh language spoken by your own blood. It was on the defiance, cutting your clothes even smaller, pushing the wearable limit. On the way your makeup and manners got more scandalous, and how you'd throw your door louder each time another confrontation took place, the once lively home now a wrestle between two forces refusing to back down. But when you weren't with a bottle in your mouth or a guy in between your legs, you'd think of his hands grabbing yours as he showed you the gym around, introducing you to regulars. My little girl, he'd said proudly, and you would smile like he did. You'd grab the broken frame you once threw against the wall in a fit of rage, crimson imprinted over the photograph below the broken shards you tried to miserably put together again. Fucking failure. But it's impossible to piece what's already broken back together.

But you were still a believer, despite it all: the same girl who saw the magic in the beasts trapped within the cage, thunderous brutality in the place you once called your second home.

Maybe that's why you agreed to help your dad on this. To see a bit of that smile that had faded in time like the colors of the rust painted lockers. To hear a good girl praise. Not slut. To see a glimpse of the man who said he'd pass this place to you, useless now on his mouth as the gym crumbled just like your relationship. In the end, you were his daughter, begging to be seen.

And you were seen. Not by him. But by him.

The Viper. Pronounced in a whisper, because out loud sounded like a curse, bound to risk too much.

He had been a casual before, remembering his days when no facial hair adorned his face and he'd talk with your dad while laughing in a boasting sound, like he knew he'd break out in the scene. He did. And then he stopped coming, because he was too busy winning and living life than to return to a place that was falling apart.

But then your dad came rushing home, like he was to bear bad news. And boy, wasn't he? The leather, the greys now starting to take over his hair like the bad choices in the form of women and alcohol, ones that had once carried a bad boy charm which now had ripen into a sour taste, a lifestyle that belonged to the golden years left in a past long left behind. He didn't belong anymore, but refused to quit. The violence was a vice, and despite loosing everything, he had never lost a match.

"He wants to train" your dad panted out to your worried mother, who thought worst. "For a match, in Chile, his hometown. He talks about coming back"

Your dad may have been the first to know such, but not the last. No, because what started with a call late at night on your dad's old office (He had said Remember me, old friend? oscilating between nostalgia and teasing, and when your dad called his name, a soft incredulous Pedro? he had let out one of his victorious golden laughs, like coins falling down, as to let him know it was still him, despite it all), ended up on the news.

He's coming. He's coming. He's coming. Like a warning before the big bad wolf struck again.

In a way, you think, as he stands before you, he is one: the sharp eyes and bearing teeth. A fighter never backs down, and he seemed to be always in guard.

Hadn't recognized you at first, blinking a few times before a lazy and easy sleazy smile appeared on his face.

"This the same girl that asked me to carry her on my shoulders?" and a chuckle. "I think I still could"

A low, dangerous rich rumble. A dare. Challenging. Pedro didn't know you too had changed in many ways, and he certainly didn't know either you had touched yourself at night to the sound of his velvety voice, wrapping you up like the sweat that set your skin ablaze, a fist in your mouth to stop his name from slithering past your lips, image set on the way his eyes roamed over your woman body like an all too well trap he always falls in like a vice, trying to think if it was real or just another one of the troubles you loved to cause yourself.

But once you're deep, you can only go deeper.

Your dad left for Chile a day earlier, to set preparations you could care less, which is why you're here.

You promised not to fuck it up, seeing a peek of that man who swore to protect you from the cruel world outside. You needed this. Wanted this. When his lips parted but closed, many words hanging on the air coated with burnt cigars and sweat (I'm sorry. I'm proud of you. Don't dissapoint me. Don't break my heart. Don't fuck this up. I love you), you decided you'd do everything in your power to get your dad back.

The task was rather easy: help The Viper train before his big match in Chile.

Easy, if said man wasn't your dad's best friend, Pedro Pascal.

You feel like a voyeuristic freak watching from a corner as he pounds into the boxing bag repeatedly. Drops of salty sweat begin to run through his back, the white cloth now near transparent with how it sticks to his tan skin.

Pedro is big. All boxers were, seeing them coming and going from your dad's gym. But he was beefy. Not the slender and compact, but the huge thick type. The one were just his hands alone looked like he could snap your neck in two if he wanted.

You're supposed to be out there, helping him, but after your dirty little session two nights ago, and yesterday's dinner at your home, you're just not capable to meet him in the eye, despite promises to your dad and the fire to get his affection back.

(He had come over for dinner. Your mom made lasagna, your favorite dish of hers, but the plate went cold as you took in his words like an oil, spreading the grave tone that coated your panties like a second skin. You pressed your legs together, a shaky breath escaping past your treacherous lips when he said how much you'd grown, blaming the sauce when he licked his lips. Your parents stood up to collect the dishes, and then he leaned down and whispered: Ain't you become a doll?)

(It was nothing. It was just a man who knew your father and no better. But you didn't, either)

Last night, to erase the spell he seemed to have cast upon you, you went to one of your old friends while he beat himself up on the gym, where you were supposed to be. But when your orgasm washed over, you said his name instead; no cold shower could scrub away the humilliation.

(And the house still smelled like him. Bitter coffee, leather and sweat. It was salty and citric, up in your nostrils with an invasion that was, if not, fitting. You were obssesed, with the champion and the legend, and he was an old man looking for a fresh doe-eyed girl who could take it)

You gawk like a man would, but, how not? Dude too appeared to be hung. What is it they say about men with big noses, big hands and big thighs? Big. Big. Big. Fucking hell, you needed to be locked up.

"I know you're in there, baby" his voice cuts through the silence. It's night, and you should be locking up already, scarce customers long gone. "Was never good at hiding"

You emerge from the shadows, sporting only a small black short and a white tank top. He chuckles. With you, nothing is a coincidence.

"Some things never change"

He snickers, "but glad some do"

You breath in, getting closer to him. Again, his scent intrudes your senses, making you dizzy like a drug. Your circuits are busy, and his high.

"You were supposed to help me 'round here" he motions the place. But you're stuck on his hands, wrapped in tape. Those hands, brief peek of his tattoo hidden between the white. "What would your dad say, huh?"

His tone is devoid of malice and full of teasing, but your stomach churns.

"He'd say what he always says" he shots up an eyebrow, as if daring you to speak. "That I'm a fucking failure"

Pedro seems taken back by the sudden change in the atmosphere, nonetheless, still charged with unspoken uncertainty.

"Your dad?" like he couldn't connect the man he knew to the one he is now.

"How would you know?" comes out harsher than you intended, a shameful bitter taste in your mouth. "A lot has changed since you left"

A quiet rage settles in his eyes, the beast caged behind the enclosure begging to be let out.

"Why you throwing it on my face? I ain't your daddy"

It shouldn't hurt. This is ridiculous. But, hell, it does; you're nobody's daughter.

"Good you aren't my fucking daddy"

The silence washes over you at the same time the embarrassment does. You realize too late the words that left your mouth, and if you're quick to try to run, he's faster, your back pressed to the material of the hanging punching bag.

"Say it" he demands, "again"

Your face grows hotter by the minute. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"First a terrible discreet and now a bad liar" his spit spurts in your face, each word with punctuation and a seethe. "Anything else?"

Yes. So much. You're drowning at this point, still not deciding if it's because of the smell his body is emanating or your heavy heart's fault. But he's the last person you'll tell all of this to.

"Not that it matters to you, anyway"

Yet, to an extent, it seems like he knows. As if he's able to see past the forced sweetness, the sarcasm and the layers of makeup and numbingly intoxicating vainilla. Pedro thinks at least he does.

So if you're on fire, he'll let you keep burning.

"I could be him, you know?" your ears start ringing at some point, and you're sure your heart stops. "I could be your daddy"

There's no going deeper than this.

"Thank God you aren't"

And it's like a slap to his face. The oh-mighty undisputed champion steps back. There is always a first, and maybe this is what loss feels like.

"Baby-"

Your ears keep on ringing as you move far from him, your heart dangerously close to leaping from your throat to the cold hard ground. Who does he think he is? He hasn't even been back for a day and has already found a way to break you from inside. To ruin you. As if he never left and has known every secret hidden between your ribs, his memory nestled since forever. But he's too picked apart your bones, in just a matter of seconds, biting down on the marrow of your deepest insecurities.

You hate him. You hate Pedro. You hope he looses, and you accept you've already lost your dad.

But then, as you realize your sat at the end of the gym, the worn out lockers on display, you have an idea.

With you, it was always about revenge, wasn't it?

The beast is awake, howling upon you. Ichor. Rage. This rotten girlhood that started with Malibu dreams and has ended on beds that reek of cheap whiskey and a quick fix in the name of forgetting.

"Pedro"

His head almost snaps looking in your direction. Not like he wanted to search for you to ask for your forgiveness. A match to mark his comeback and change his life will happen in just a couple of hours; he's got bigger problems than a girl who can't see things the way they are. He isn't an apostle of acceptance, but his wicked selfish nature finds pleasure in punishing you for his same sins.

But to play a game, you need two.

"In here" he answers, as if he hasn't moved since your little altercation.

"You need to shower" he catches in time the towel you throw at him. He chuckles dryly at your childish behavior. "You stink"

"You sure? 'Cause just a minute ago, it seemed you were into it" he's quick to quip, matching your energy.

That cocky motherfucker. So full of himself. You hate the sleazy smile of a winner. Does he think you're going down as easy as that?

Of course, you aren't blind. He's attractive, but is this worth it? You see his damp shirt and sweat drenched thighs. No. You look away, flustered.

"I think you need a break, old man. You're not who you used to be" you turn your back to him, so he doesn't see your red hot face, "seeing things that aren't real"

You start to walk to the changing room, and even if not spoken, there's an implication to follow you. So Pedro does, because it's night and Friday and he's got nowhere else to go.

He follows you into the locker room, but this isn't you.

Not the little girl who looked up to him like he could beat the whole world, hand in hand. Not the broken woman, who tried so hard to keep up a mask he could easily see through, maybe because it was akin to his own.

No. This is a fucking temptress. A siren call to drown.

"Sit"

He decided to be a boxer the day he knew he wasn't meant to be bent. The day he realized he hated being weak and wanted to always lead his own path. If it was through violence and punches, so be it.

But he's obeying your command, like a lap dog. If the change isn't noticeable enough, your wicked grin gives it away. He takes his place on the bench, sitting down with aching joints.

"What were you thinking?" you whisper.

A vein on his neck pops out aggressively at the remark.

"I can still handle it"

The way his voice drops to a lower octave, the scowl on his face prominent, like he's both offended and peaked in interest by your remark.

"Is that a challenge?" you tease, playfully. "I'm not your opponent, Pascal. Save it for tomorrow night"

Your fingers itch, and before you think about it twice, they're digging across the soft flesh of his broad back.

"What-"

You hush him almost instantly. "Let me"

You trace patters across the expanse of his hard planes, arousal pooling at the rough of his edges, the dry and scarred of his skin. It's also the sturdy built, what makes it harder to not... appreciate. You happen to be into appreciating the small things, that's all.

(But small, he definitely isn't)

"You're tired" you trace his worn muscles, lost in the way he seems to equally tense and relax under your fluttering touch. "Let me help you"

"What's this?" equally soft. A tattoo. But not the one's you've seen; you wonder if it is for your bad memory or because it's new. "Vae victis"

"Woe to the defeated" he's quick to answer. Taking your silence as a signal to continue, he adds. "It's a way to remember the ones I fight are people, not numbers"

If his voice carries a tinge of vulnerability, you must've imagined it.

"Never took you as the empath type" and your fingers leave his skin, as if it burns.

He lets out a soft humorless laugh.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, baby"

You don't let him have the last word, and to punctuate your final blow, you press a short kiss to the tattoo. He didn't see it coming-- your mint breath ghosting over his shoulder onto his face. Pedro forgets how to breath.

"I've always loved a good mystery"

Knockout.

He looks up from the bench, breathing still panting as he sees your retreating figure, until all that's left in the room is him and his worn-out body. Then, the soft pit-pat of the water hitting the tiles jolts him awake.

"It's ready" your voice says, but you're still there, and not back to the lockers.

Why were you preparing him a shower? It's not like he couldn't turn on the switch.

Pedro removes the towel from his neck and walks over to the showers, only to find you still there, white blouse as damp as his.

"What-"

"Get in"

He's about to repeat it, this time harsher and louder (Have you gone insane, woman?), but then your sweet persistent voice digs on his mulish character like a knife to a wound, and his reasoning has flown out of the window.

"You're gonna wet yourself" is all Pedro can manage to say.

The (possible) double meaning makes his belly rumble.

"I know" you repeat, answering for both. And then get inside.

The water starts to make your clothes hug your body, and he's lost in the curves of your ass and tits. Your muscles, while albeit not worked out, are both soft and strong, plush skin inviting for a bite. You've got both the firm and the soft that comes with age and womanhood, and his cock is itching to have his invite to your warm walls.

"What are you waiting for? Are you going to bath with clothes on?"

He rolls his eyes. "Look who's talking"

The cold water hits him when you too have taken off your clothes.

Couldn't get challenged because your too stubborn ass fell right into the bait.

His breath gets caught in his throat as your soapy hands explore his body. His adam's apple bobs as he gulps, enthralled by your firm yet gentle scrubbing, washing away remnants of sweat and dirt. All words are lost at the devotion, worship and reverance that seems to pour from your digits as you sweep his body.

"How?" your voice drowns out with the drops of water.

"Bad move" he whispers, seeing it across his arm. It's runs across almost all of his inner bicep, big. It didn't heal as good as he'd liked, but chicks seemed to dig it. "Had to go to the hospital"

You, however, seem more into the... understanding side of it. Not on the thrill and the danger, but on the damage that's healed in time but never left. More on the pain, and not the punch.

"And this?"

"Gloves"

"What?"

"Gloves" he repeats, still not that loud, as if he's ashamed. "They can create cuts when the skin is pulled during a strike"

"I don't get it"

And instead of mocking you, Pedro finds himself trying to explain it.

"It's because of the friction of the gloves against the skin" he sighs. "Was too dumb and too full of myself to understand it. Then it happened and I got this"

"What has changed?" you tease him, but it's as tender as a lingering touch. "Don't worry, Pedro. Everyone makes mistakes, even the greats"

It's a rather sweet moment, only broken by your teeth sinking into the scarred tissue, yet you're quick to soothe it with a wet kiss.

He groans, head falling back as your greedy little hands now slide through the hard of his chest, his nipples perked under the cold of the water and the warm of your touch; body electric.

"Fuck, baby. You're going to be the death of me" he groans, shivering at your insistence on making him break. "Keep tryin', but you won't make me beg, muñeca" (doll)

Still hellbent on denying you of himself, the hotheaded stubborn prideful bastard. Not even with your tits in the air, bare cunt aching.

"No?" you feign innocence, batting those wet eyelashes of yours. Then your lips find his scars, licking and pressing sweet warm kisses across the expanse of his chest and body, ending on the one across his face. For a moment, he falters at the intensity of your gaze, almost slipping on the tiles. "Still no?"

You fucking minx. "Fighters don't beg" he says, but every contact of your lips and tongue against his wet body send bolts of electricity to his aching semi-hard cock.

"But real men do"

Without further ado, you descend until your knees hit the tiles, water running through your legs like a river. You don't wait for an answer, all you need to know in his parted lips and his deep stare at you through dark hooded eyes.

A low, guttural moan tears from Pedro's throat as your tongue flicks a quick lick at his sensitive head. He's grabbing your hair with rough hands, tangling into your damp curls, his hips jerking involuntarily as your lips wrap around the tip, tongue swirling and teasing the most sensitive parts.

"Fuck" he groans, "aren't you trouble, doll? Really gonna make me beg for that release, ain't you? With that tongue of yours"

You give another proud lick at his throbbing angry red flesh, head already leaking with precum.

"What'd your daddy think about his daughter sucking his best friend's cock in the showers?"

You ignore him, too busy lost in the way his cock throbs and pulses in your mouth, his balls tightening with a pressure that built more each passing second.

"Not a talker, huh? Were that loud mouth of yours go?" he teases, his grip not faltering on your hair. "That's what y'r daddy said. Or maybe he was talking of another daughter. Not this little obedient slut who devours my cock like she's starved" his voice is strained. "Such a good girl, though, taking care of an old man like this. You like how it tastes?"

You pull out, making him groan.

"Why'd stop?" his voice is strained, rough with desire. His pupils are blown wide, circling with desbelief and something more primal. But he'll never say that, will he?

Too bad for him, you don't know when to shut up. Or quit.

"I want to hear you say it"

He chuckles darkly, his grip on your hair tighter now. "What'd say?"

"Me? Nothing" your lips part, words slurring before you think better. "You is I wanna hear"

"Fucking cunt" his eyes darken, "think you can tease me and get away with it? No, you'll be a good little cocksleeve and take it all"

You moan at his lewd words, thighs clasping together in search for some relief for the pressure building on your bare cunt.

"That's right, you dirty cocksucker. Look at you, thinking you can bend a fucking champion like me"

He knew his power over you. Frankly, he had to thank your old man for fucking you up so bad. Pedro loved how all your resolute seemed to vanish in the air, looking so eager and willing, desperate to please him. Be it for praise or for how much you wanted this like him, but it is this what makes him feel like a true winner.

"Don't you wanna suck this dick so bad?" his thumb tugs down your lip, "Be a good girl and I might give it to you"

Just like that, you're done.

"Please, I want to be a good girl. Use me, fuck me with your mouth"

He lets out a growl, voice low and rough. "Oh, t's alright, muñeca. I'll use this dirty little mouth of yours, all right" he fists your hair again, pulling you closer. "Gonna fuck you so good, you'll be feeling me all week: every time you taste, swallow and speak. Fill your dirty mouth so good with so much cum, you'll be tasting it for hours, for days, 'n for the rest of your fucking life"

Pedro thrusts his hips forward, pushing more and more of his thick, hard cock past your lips. He sets a steady pace, eyes locked on your face as he fucks your mouth with deep strokes.

"Just like that" he praises, breaths sharp as he looses himself in how his girth is nestled in your mouth. "Take it all, like a good little girl. So show me, baby, show me how much you love the taste of my cock. How much you need it-- crave it"

Your moan gets lost in your constricted throat, struggling to take him deeper, breathing and swallowing almost impossible with his girth taking up all of the space inside of your mouth. If Pedro felt like a king before, now he feels like a god.

"Such a perfect little cock sleeve for me to use, to fill, to fuck" he groans, his hips picking up speed, thrusts growing harder and more urgent.

His orgasm starts building, and he knows it by the way his balls tighten and his cock pulses inside the heat of your throat. Pedro knows he's close to coming, that he's seconds away from it.

Even if he's lost completely in the act, he's foremost a gentleman, but when he's about to pull out, your hands grip tightly to this thighs, and hold him in place as he tries to move. A rush of lust washes him over the cold water, a dark desire coursing through him at your pathetic display of eagerness and desperation.

"Fuck, baby" Pedro's voice reduced to a low, guttural rumble as he gazes down at you. You swear you can see a brief glint of admiration on his eyes. "You want my cum that badly, muñeca? Do you want to swallow it all down like a good little slut?"

He's rocking his hips forward, burying himself balls-deep in your warm throat, his swollen cock pulsing and throbbing against your tonsils as his orgasm crashes over him. Pedro throws his head back as so do his eyes, body shuddering and convulsing as thick ropes of hot cum shoot from his cock.

"You're doin' great, baby" he pants, his grip on your hair tight as he grounds his hips against your face, pushing himself deep into your mouth as he physically could. "Show me what a good little cumslut you are and don't waste a fuckin' drop. Swallow it all"

Aren't you perfect? Gulping and swallowing, trying your best good girl shtick as you take everything he has to give you, his musky sweat filled scent up your nostrils, despite the soap still covering some of his body.

"Fuck, y/n" he groans, body going limp. He falls back against one of the shower's walls, chest up and down with uneven breaths. "Greedy little girl with a greedy little throat"

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, his softening cock slipping from your lips.

"Get up, baby. Your father's bill will be brutal if we don't hurry up" he hauls you up and into his arms. "But truth is, I'ont give a fuck. I'm still thinking 'bout your lips 'round my cock"

Before you say anything, he's dragging your body again like you weight nothing, but this time, it's to crush his hot desperate mouth into yours with a rough kiss. Pedro can taste himself mixed with your sweet and drool. He groans at that, the sound painfully animal.

"Hey" he gently tugs you, a mannerism you would never associate with him. "Where you think you're going?"

You blink once. Twice. Then again, slower.

"What are you talking about?"

Your back meets the wall, Pedro brutally slamming your body until the tiles dig into your skin.

"Ow- wait" you hiss, "the fuck's gotten into you?"

"Think I'll let you go after this?" he growls. Then, chuckles, darkly so. "No, baby. I gotta try first" his fingers grab the supple skin of your ass until you feel them melt into it. He then spanks it, creating a weird sound with the combined water droplets. "Need to see if the pussy is as sweet as your mouth. So be a good girl and let me handle this, alright? As I said, I still can"

And for a reason, that feels like a threat.

His calloused digits venture dangerously close to your entrance, fingers going in. He coats it with your slick, making him laugh that laugh uniquely his.

"Fuck, muñeca. You're as wet as this shower head" Pedro presses himself into you, his cock touching your stomach. "Don't ever try to lie to me again, I ain't no fool"

Traitorous body. But his seething voice, the way his dominance slithers into jolts through your slick folds. You whine, pressing your tighs together. Pedro's quick to see this, and before you get to say anything else, he parts them roughly.

"I said I ain't no fool" he grunts while rubbing the tip of his cock over your folds, applying pressure on your clit. "Bad girl"

No warning, just his cock slipping past your wet dripping folds. Your hands fly to reach his neck for support.

"S'fucking grabby" he teases, slipping his pulsating dick between your folds once more, pressing and then pushing in slowly.

He swallows your whimper in a kiss, your poor pussy stretching to accommodate his thick girth. His big hands pull your body closer to his.

"But I'm the grabby one"

He growls. "Quit talking"

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, balls pressed against the flesh of your ass. You grip his hair, chocolate curls tangled between your fingers. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. The pain carries waves of pleasure laced within, despite his aggressive thrusting and quick pace. You roll your hips upwards, eliciting a faint whimper out of your lips.

"No, doll" his fingers dig in your waist, a purple soon to follow. "You do what I say, clear?"

His cock grinds forward, stretching you out.

"Fuck-!" you choke out, "Pedro!"

He growls when he hears his name on your lips, an all consuming desire to make you his washing over him.

He then grabs you by your legs, hooking them around his waist.

You mewl out his name in a cry.

"See?" Pedro blurts out. "Told ya' I still had it on me, baby"

Your hands scramble to grab him by his shoulders, the pain and pleasure making your head spin. He can feel your tits jump with each bounce provoked by his thrusts, the rosy skin pressed against his chest.

"Gonna fill you up so bad, you won't ever doubt me again"

Pedro pulls back and uses his arms to push himself up and hover over you. He began to drive his hips faster, loud clapping noises mixing with the falling water.

"I'm- I'm gonna"

"Ask, baby. Remember what I told you?"

"Yes. Sorry, daddy" you whimper. "Please, let me-"

"Let you what?" Pedro chuckles.

"Cum. Let me cum. Please, daddy, please" the words slurred as you feel yourself on edge.

"Very well" grinning satisfied, "but don't you dare keep any of those pretty noises just for yourself"

A high-pitched wails falls past your lips as you throw your head and eyes back, your legs shaking.

"Pedro-!"

He grunts at the sensation of your juices on his cock, coating it. In the way your walls flutter around his length, pussy tight making him groan against your neck, where he has now buried his face.

"Stay there, baby. It's my turn" his hips snap and his thrusts turn sloppy. "Gonna paint all of your tight folds with my cum"

His grip tightens as he fucks himself silly into you, chasing his high.

"S'fucking tight" he groans loudly. "Such a good girl for me"

He comes undone, salty hot ropes of thick white cum spurting inside of you, his cock deeply nestled inside of your welcoming warm walls.

"Fuck. Need to fill you up, doll. Until you're so stuffed you can't move without making a mess"

The water keeps falling, as you whimper softly, burying your face in his neck. Pedro keeps rocking into you while riding his orgasm out, soft breathless groans leaving him. He places you down, some of his cum on your thighs. He uses his finger to push it all inside.

"We have been to wasteful to keep on being, right?" Pedro jokes before closing the valve.

"Be honest. You don't give a damn about the planet"

He lets out a hearty laugh.

"Guilty as charged"

There's some silence before he's helping you get back on your shorts.

(He smacks your ass, saying you did it on purpose. You agree. After all, he's quick to know when you lie)

"Good girl" he praises with a small kiss. "Did so well for me"

You kiss him back, fiercely, your mouth practically sucking his lips.

"For good luck, daddy"

Pedro chuckles at your antics. "You fucking minx"

He leaves you after that, going for his stuff. But you stand still in the middle, lost like a little deer. Your ragged breaths fill the room, and he feels a little guilty about having fucked his best friend's daughter on his gym before leaving first thing in the morning to his home country.

"C'mere" you turn your head. "What? C'mon, don't leave me hanging"

You carefully make way to where he is, back in the same bench.

"Sit" he orders.

Oh, the irony of it all.

Once you take place next to him, he makes sure to remove a strand of wet hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

"When I win, which I will" you chuckle at his ego, "I'll be sure to remember you, doll"

So when your dad sends you a video of Pedro's match in Chile a day later and The Viper winks to the camera, you like to think it's for you.

[natsaffection]

Redline. Pt 3 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), reflecting trauma, kinda sexual tension

Word count: 7,5k

A/N: part three!!! In the next one, we’ll focus more on the chemistry between Natasha and you. 🫢

Part 2

The rhythmic thud of a punching bag filled the space, the only sound aside from your controlled breathing as you threw another strike, then another. Your muscles ached, fire burning beneath your skin, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. This was the only thing that made sense anymore, pushing yourself past the limits, past the doubt, past the thoughts you didn’t want to deal with.

Until the doors slammed open. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. There was no controlled amusement this time. No smirk, no teasing remarks. Just pure, simmering rage. The kind that made the air feel too heavy, like the walls were closing in.

Natasha.

Yelena had followed behind her, though she kept a safer distance, arms crossed as she watched the impending execution unfold. Natasha’s gaze locked onto you, sharp as a blade against your throat.

“You missed the meeting.” she said, her voice quiet, far too calm for how angry she was. You rolled your shoulders, wiping sweat from your brow. “I was training.” Wrong answer. Natasha’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening as she took two slow, measured steps forward.

“And?” The single word was sharp, cutting, as if she was daring you to keep going.

You clenched your fists, keeping your ground. “And I thought it was more important than sitting in a room while PR tells me how to smile for a camera.”Natasha inhaled through her nose, slow, controlled, like she was restraining herself from snapping you in half.

“You thought?” Her voice was too smooth, too dangerous. “Let me make something very clear, because it seems you’ve already forgotten. You don’t get to think. You don’t get to decide what matters. I do. And when I say you show up, you show up. Do you understand me?”

You held her stare, the defiance still there, but your body tensed. Natasha saw it. Felt it. The resistance. The fight to not give in and she wouldn’t allow it.

“You think training gives you a free pass? That you can just ignore my orders and do whatever the fuck you want?” Natasha stepped closer, crowding into your space, forcing you to either hold your ground or back down. “Let me tell you something, dorogoy (sweetheart). You work for me. Not the other way around. I don’t care what you used to be, who you were before, or how good you think you are. In my world, you either fall in line or you get the fuck out.”

Your breath hitched. The air between you was suffocating. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way Natasha said them. The control in her voice, the absolute certainty that she meant every single thing. There was no bluff, no space to argue, no ground left to stand on.

You swallowed, your muscles still coiled with the need to fight back. But Natasha saw it..the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers curled slightly, the way you were still resisting. And Natasha smirked. Slow. Cruel.

“You don’t like being told what to do, do you?” she murmured, tilting her head slightly, voice dipping into something almost amused. “I can see it..right there. You’re dying to argue. To push back. To prove something.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough that it sent a shiver down your spine. “But you won’t. Not this time.”

Natasha studied you for a second longer, watching the way your body still fought not to react, still fought not to break.

“Now..” Natasha exhaled, her voice slow, taunting, the smirk still lingering. “Be a good girl and go shower.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to argue, wanted to throw back a response, wanted to not let her win. But you had already lost. You knew it. Natasha knew it. And she wasn’t going to let you forget it.

You swallowed hard, your jaw still clenched, body still trembling with frustration, exhaustion, and something else you didn’t want to name. You didn’t say a word, and you ou just grabbed your towel and walked away. Natasha smirked, watching you go. She had won. And you both knew it.

Yelena let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. “You know, she’s still adjusting, right?”

Natasha didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Yelena tilted her head. “And you could’ve gone easier on her.”

Natasha finally turned, meeting her gaze with a look that was pure Romanoff steel. “And what would that teach her?”

Yelena sighed, pushing off the doorframe. “You’re impossible.”

Natasha smirked. “And yet, she’ll be in the meeting on time now, won’t she?”

Yelena shook her head, muttering under her breath as she walked away. Natasha glanced back at the empty space where you had stood, where you had fought back, where you had finally..finally realized what it meant to work for Romanoff Racing. This wasn’t a team. This was Natasha’s empire. And you? You were learning exactly where you stood in it.

You arrived at the meeting on time. Not a second early. Not a second late. Exactly when you were supposed to. You weren’t about to give Natasha another excuse to put you through.

The tension in the room was thick, even before you stepped inside. Conversations were already in motion, staff members talking in low voices as data flashed across the massive LED screens. The polished glass table was covered with neatly arranged folders, stacks of reports, and the ever-present presence of Romanoff Racing’s insignia stamped on everything.

You took your seat near the middle of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight, resisting the urge to sink into your chair. The moment you settled, the meeting continued.

A PR executive stood, clicking through slides on the massive screen. Media coverage. Headlines. Reactions from the unveiling event. You already knew this would be bad. But fuck. Hearing it all at once was worse than you expected.

“Public reception has been…mixed.” the PR rep started carefully.The first slide displayed headlines from the biggest news outlets:

“Your Comeback: Redemption or Desperation?”

“Natasha Romanoff Bets Big on Fallen Driver, Will It Pay Off?”

“Dreykov Laughs Off Romanoff’s Signing: ‘She’s Damaged Goods.’”

You cringed. There it was. Right there. Every reason you had avoided coming back. The PR rep continued, voice calm, practiced, as if they weren’t presenting a full breakdown of your entire existence. “Online engagement has been high. Social media discussions are up 230%, and you’re currently the fourth most searched name in the industry.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, not sure if that was a good thing or not. The slide changed again, screenshots of tweets, live TV commentary clips. Some were supportive. Some were brutal.

“She should’ve stayed gone. She’s never gonna be the same.”

“Romanoff must be insane. There were better drivers available.”

“This is a PR stunt, right? No way she’s actually racing again.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. You had heard worse. You had survived worse. But it still felt like a goddamn gut punch.

A press clip played on screen, Dreykov himself, sitting in front of flashing cameras, reporters hanging onto his every word.

“Romanoff’s choice? Interesting. Bold, I suppose. It’s always nice to see an old name come back, even if it’s… well. I just hope she finishes a full season this time.”

The words hit harder than they should have. A slow, mocking grin stretched across Dreykov’s face in the video, and you had to force yourself not to react. Because that? That was a very public, very intentional slap in the face. The clip ended, and the PR rep hesitated before clicking to the next slide—Walker. Because of course, they shoved a mic in his face the second the event ended.

You didn’t even need to see it. You already knew what kind of bullshit was about to come out of his mouth. “Am I surprised? A little. But hey, I wish her the best. I mean, she was great..once. Let’s see if she still has it, huh?”

The clip cut out. Silence settled over the room. You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs to keep yourself from curling your fingers into fists. You weren’t surprised. You should’ve expected all of this. But it was one thing to think about it. And another thing to hear it out loud.

The PR rep cleared their throat. “Obviously, their strategy is to undermine the credibility of your return. They’re not outright attacking, but they’re implying doubt, planting the idea that you’re a risk.”

You almost laughed. Implying? They weren’t implying shit. They were saying it straight to your fucking face.

Natasha had been silent this entire time. But when she finally moved, it was just a shift in posture. One smooth, measured movement. Enough to make the entire room go still.

“Let them talk.”

Your eyes snapped toward her, but Natasha didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at anyone. She just watched the screen, unimpressed, unaffected.

“Let them doubt her.” Natasha continued, her voice almost lazy. “Let them laugh, let them underestimate her. It makes our job easier.”

The way she said it, like she had already won. Like none of this mattered. You wanted to believe that. You really did. But then—the conversation shifted. One of the PR executives sat forward, folding their hands. “That brings us to the next point. The press conference is in three days. We’ll need to start preparing her for it immediately.”

Your entire body tensed. You had been expecting it. You knew it had to happen eventually. But still, fuck. The PR rep continued, completely unaware of the way your stomach had just twisted itself into knots. “We’ll go through standard media training, responses to common questions, body language adjustments, phrasing techniques to redirect the narrative in your favor-”

You barely heard the rest. Because you already knew what the hottest topic was going to be. Your crash. It didn’t matter what they rehearsed, what Natasha’s team prepared for. The moment you stepped in front of the cameras, someone was going to ask. Someone was going to force you to talk about it.

And you didn’t know if you could. Natasha must have noticed the way you stiffened, because her eyes flickered toward you, studying you. You kept your gaze straight ahead. Didn’t react. Didn’t let yourself flinch. You weren’t going to give Natasha the satisfaction.

The meeting ended with a sharp nod from Natasha. No unnecessary closing remarks, no wasted words. Just business as usual.

Chairs scraped against the polished floor as people stood, gathering their notes and murmuring amongst themselves. You moved on instinct, standing as well, ready to get the hell out of there before anyone could expect you to give some kind of reaction to the media storm they had just dissected.

You were already halfway to the door when, “Sit down.”

Natasha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. You froze. Slowly, you turned, your fingers twitching at your sides as you met Natasha’s gaze.

Everyone else was still filing out, but the room suddenly felt too big. Too quiet. You hesitated for only a second before forcing yourself to sit back down, your posture stiff, tense as hell. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask why. Because you already knew.

Natasha was still seated at the head of the table, watching you. Then, in one slow, calculated movement, she stood. She walked toward you, not with purpose, not in a rush, just pure control in every step.

You barely kept yourself from shifting under her gaze. Natasha reached the table, but instead of sitting in her chair, she pushed herself up onto it, one hand resting against the polished surface as she settled onto the edge, directly in front of you. Close. Too fucking close.

Green eyes studied you, not rushed, not impatient..just watching. You clenched your jaw. You hated that stare. The way Natasha could see things you didn’t say. The way she could strip you down to nothing without even opening her mouth.

The room was so silent now that you swore you could hear your own heartbeat. “You’re afraid of the press conference.”

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m not afraid.”

Natasha’s smirk was slow, cruel. “Liar.”

Your fingers twitched against the table. You didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Because what was the point? Natasha already knew. And she was going to make damn sure you knew it too. She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking over you like she was studying something fragile, something on the edge of breaking. “What are you afraid of?” Natasha asked, voice quieter now. Softer.

You swallowed. Where the fuck did you start? The press? The questions you knew they were going to ask? The fact that you didn’t have an answer for them? The fact that no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you still weren’t sure you belonged here? Or worse, what if they were right? What if you had come back for nothing? You inhaled slowly, voice tight when you finally spoke. “I already know what the questions will be.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Do you?”

You scoffed bitterly. “You do too. Everyone does. The crash. What happened that day. What went wrong. How I felt when I woke up in the hospital. How it felt to lose everything.” Your jaw tightened. “How it felt to…fight to get back here. If I even deserve to be back here.”

You stopped yourself before your voice shook. But Natasha caught it. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your pants, gripping hard enough that you felt your nails pressing into your skin. “And then there’s them.” you muttered, voice lower now. “What my parents will think when they see me sitting in front of cameras again. What they’ll say when they hear the same questions, when they have to relive the same goddamn day all over again.”

The words came out faster than you intended. You hated yourself for admitting it. But Natasha didn’t look smug. Didn’t look satisfied. She was just listening. And somehow, that made it worse. Because if Natasha wanted to, she could take every single thing you just admitted and use it against you.

A long, slow silence stretched between you. Then, Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes locked onto you like a challenge. “You survived all of it.” she murmured, voice smooth, even. “And you’re telling me a few cameras are what’s going to break you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because it wasn’t that simple. Natasha made it sound so easy. Like she hadn’t spent years avoiding this moment. Like the weight of the past wasn’t crawling up your spine every second you thought about stepping in front of the press.

“You..don’t get it..” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha hummed, the sound almost amused. “You think I don’t?” She tilted her head slightly, her voice dipping into something darker. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be picked apart by the world? To have people who don’t know a damn thing about you decide who you are, what you’re worth?”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. Because fuck. Natasha wasn’t wrong.

“You survived the fire.” Natasha continued, her voice almost too soft now, too careful. “You survived the months of rehab, of rebuilding yourself. And now, you’re sitting here, trying to tell me that a couple of journalists with microphones are the real problem?”

You hated how your throat felt tight. How your nails pressed harder into your palm. How Natasha was right. Again. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet Natasha’s steady, unyielding gaze. “And what if I don’t have an answer for them?”

Natasha smirked. And for the first time, it wasn’t cruel. It was patient. Amused. Like you had just asked a stupid fucking question. “Then you do what I do.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head slightly.

You frowned. “And what’s that?”

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, her smirk widening just enough to make something in your stomach twist. “You give them the answer you want them to hear.”

You exhaled slowly. Because fuck. That was probably the most Romanoff answer possible. Natasha straightened, finally standing, stretching her arms slightly before glancing down at you. “You’ll be fine.” she said, voice effortless, confident. Like it was already decided. And in a way..maybe it was.

You weren’t sure you believed her. But something about the way Natasha said it, so sure, so steady, made it feel a little less impossible.

You didn’t say anything after Natasha’s last remark. You just nodded, slow, measured, your jaw still tight like you were holding something back. Natasha took it for what it was, the closest thing to acceptance she was going to get. She let the silence stretch for another second before leaning back, tilting her head slightly. “You can go.”

You didn’t hesitate. You stood, pushing the chair back, muscles still tense from the entire conversation, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Natasha watched you leave, the faint trace of a smirk still playing at the edge of her lips. Because you could fight it all you wanted, but you were getting closer. Whether you realized it or not.

The garage was usually a place of noise. Machines humming, tools clinking against steel, mechanics shouting orders across the floor. The sound of progress, power, precision. But tonight? Tonight, it was silent.

Except for one person. Natasha had been walking through the complex when she noticed it, a figure near the car. She stopped just outside the garage entrance, leaning against the wall, keeping to the shadows as her eyes locked onto the scene in front of her.

You. Standing next to the GT car you would be driving soon. The car was sleek, lethal, polished under the dim lights of the garage. It was a machine that belonged to champions. A machine that demanded control.

And you were just standing there. Not touching it. Not inspecting it. Just watching it. You had headphones in, music spilling softly from them, blocking out the world. Your face was unreadable.

But your posture? Tense. Stiff. Natasha could read it like a book. This wasn’t excitement. This wasn’t confidence. This was doubt. Natasha didn’t move. Didn’t call out to you. She just watched.

Because this was the truth, wasn’t it? Not the version of you that stood in meetings, that threw sharp words back at her, that pretended like you weren’t thinking about every single thing that could go wrong. This was real. This was you, standing in the garage at midnight, alone, staring at the one thing that could either save you or destroy you.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. This was a crucial moment. And you didn’t even know you were being watched.

The next days came too fast. You barely slept. You had tried, laid in bed, stared at the ceiling, told yourself you were ready. But the truth? Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The press room was a sea of flashing lights, cameras, journalists packed together, waiting, ready. The air was thick with the low murmur of voices, the tension palpable even before the conference had begun. At the center of it all was a long, immaculate table with microphones set up, the Romanoff Racing logo flashing behind them on a massive LED screen.

And sitting at the head of it: Natasha. She was dressed perfectly, as always. Not a single detail out of place, her tailored suit sleek, her expression cold and unreadable. And beside her? You.

You had barely spoken since arriving. Barely breathed. Because the second you sat down in that chair, facing the crowd, you felt it. The weight. The expectation. The waiting.

The journalists wanted blood. And you were the easiest target in the room. Natasha shifted slightly beside you, adjusting her mic, and you could feel the glance she gave you. You didn’t look. Didn’t let yourself move. Because if you did, you might crack.

A moderator spoke into the microphone, giving the usual formalities. “Welcome, everyone, to the official Romanoff Racing press conference. We’ll start with pre-approved questions before opening the floor.”

You barely processed the first few questions. They were for Natasha-business-related, team-focused. She answered smoothly, effortlessly, as if she had already predicted every single thing they would ask.

Then..the shift. A journalist leaned forward, their voice cutting through the room. “A lot of fans were shocked to see your return to racing. What made you decide to come back?”

Your throat tightened. You expected this. You knew it was coming. But fuck, hearing it out loud…The microphone was too close, the lights too bright. You could feel the hundreds of eyes staring at you, waiting. You forced yourself to inhale.

“I never stopped thinking about racing.” you said, keeping your voice calm, steady. “It’s a part of me. It always has been.”

The journalist nodded, but their expression sharpened. “And yet, after your accident, you disappeared. No press, no interviews, nothing. Why now?”

Your fingers curled slightly under the table. Before you could answer, Natasha spoke. “She’s here because she’s a racer.” Natasha said smoothly, cutting through the noise like a blade. “And racers belong on the track. Next question.”

The journalist hesitated, like they wanted to push back, but they didn’t dare. Another question came, and another. Some were easy. Some were loaded.

And then..the moment you had been dreading. A woman in the second row leaned forward, microphone raised. “Y/n, after your accident, there was a lot of doubt about your ability to return to racing. Some experts believe you’re not the same driver you once were. Do you think you’re still capable of competing at the highest level?”

Silence. Your breath hitched. There it was. The one question you didn’t want to answer. The one moment that had haunted you for years, now laid bare in front of the world. You swore you could feel the room lean in. Waiting.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The flashes of cameras, the expectant looks, the fucking memory of it- The way the car had flipped. The fire. The medics pulling you out. The moment you stopped breathing.

Everything crashed down all at once.

Your hands pressed against your lap, digging into the fabric of your pants, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe. But Natasha saw it. Of course, she saw it. She shifted slightly beside you, not visibly, not obviously, just enough that you could feel it. A reminder. A warning.

“She doesn’t-”

“No, wait.” you said, your voice firm. The room went dead silent. Natasha turned her head slightly, her sharp green eyes snapping to you. It wasn’t a warning. Not quite. It was more like..curiosity. Like she was waiting to see what the hell you thought you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, turning your gaze back to the journalist. You forced your voice to stay steady. “You want to know what happened after the crash?” you asked, leveling your stare at him.

“You think I lost something in that crash?”

Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked rapidly, someone shifting in their seat, but no one spoke. You could feel Natasha watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You kept your focus straight ahead.

“I lost the ability to move my legs for two months.”

A murmur rippled through the room. But you didn’t stop.

“I lost thirty pounds of muscle in eight weeks. I lost my ability to walk without help. I lost my grip strength. I lost my reaction time. I lost everything that made me a driver.”

Your fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into your palm, but your voice never wavered.

“I spent half a year relearning how to do basic human functions. And then another half a year relearning how sit properly in a car. And every single day, someone told me I couldn’t.”

You scanned the room, taking in the faces of the journalists who had written the headlines, the ones who had picked apart your downfall like vultures.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to wake up and have your own body feel like a prison?”

The air was thick, suffocating. Natasha, the woman who always had something to say? Was silent.You let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of the hell you had to survive.

“I built myself from the fucking ground up. And now? Now I’m here.”

You sat back, jaw set, gaze unwavering.

“So if you’re asking me if I think I’m still capable?Watch me.”

A few journalists shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. But you weren’t done. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your expression unreadable. “They were wrong. And now? I’m here.”

You let that hang in the air. You let them absorb it. Then, you leaned back, perfectly composed. “That answer your question?”

The journalist swallowed hard. “I- yes.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Because what else was there to say?

Another beat of silence. Then, Natasha smirked. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just slightly impressed. She turned back to the room, one eyebrow raised. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, next question.”

And just like that, the press conference moved on. The press conference wrapped up soon after, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air. You had taken control of the narrative. You had spoken for yourself. And for the first time since stepping into Romanoff Racing, you hadn’t let Natasha speak for you.

The journalists left in a flurry of movement, camera crews packing up, murmurs spreading across the room as headlines were already being written. You didn’t move right away. Your hands were still pressed against your lap, knuckles faintly white. You weren’t shaking. But you weren’t steady, either.

Natasha stood slowly, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored suit, her every movement calm, practiced. She didn’t turn to you right away. Instead, she let the tension settle, let the weight of the moment hang between you. Yelena was the first to break the silence.

“Well. That was unexpected.” she muttered, throwing a grape from the snack tray into her mouth. She glanced between you and Natasha, one eyebrow raised. “And you’re still alive. That’s a miracle.”

You finally looked at Natasha. She was already watching you. There was something in her eyes, sharp, calculating. And yet, she wasn’t mad. She tilted her head slightly, stepping closer, lowering her voice just enough that only you could hear.

“You surprised me.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment. You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat. “I wasn’t trying to.”

Natasha hummed, amused. “You’re learning how to play the game.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not playing a game.”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, and fuck, that was a dangerous look.

“Sure you’re not.” she murmured, her voice too smooth, too knowing. You hated how your stomach twisted at the way Natasha looked at you, like you were more interesting than before. Like you had just stepped into a new level of control, and Natasha was enjoying it.

Yelena cleared her throat, clearly done with the tension. “Alright, before one of you murders the other or something worse happens, what’s next?”

Natasha finally looked away from you, as if she had decided this conversation was over.

“We keep control of the media. We don’t react to Dreykov’s team. We move forward.”

She turned back to you, her green eyes flashing with something unreadable. “And you? You prepare for your first race.”

Your breath hitched. Because fuck. That was next. No more press. No more talk. It was time to get back into the car. For real.

——

The racetrack buzzed with energy- a chaotic storm of activity. Mechanics shouted instructions over roaring engines, and the stands were already packed, a mass of color and noise. It felt familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

You took a deep breath as you approached the Romanoff Racing GT car waiting for you in the garage. It gleamed under the bright lights, looking sleek and dangerous, built for speed, built to win. Your heartbeat picked up, nerves mixing with adrenaline as you stepped toward it.

Natasha was already there, headset on, posture straight, her presence radiating authority. She didn’t speak immediately, just observed as you settled yourself into the racing seat, pulling the harness tight over your shoulders.

Then, her voice came through clearly over the team radio. “Radio check, Y/n. Do you copy?”

You adjusted your helmet slightly, pressing the comm button on your steering wheel. “Loud and clear.”

There was a slight pause. “Good. Systems check?”

Your eyes flicked over the dash, scanning the familiar indicators. The lights blinked back at you, everything perfect, everything waiting. “Systems all green.” you responded evenly.

“Copy that.” Natasha replied smoothly. You could hear the background noise behind her, the engineers confirming fuel, tire pressure, engine temperature, and everything else that mattered. But Natasha’s voice remained steady, almost reassuring in its calm authority. “Standby for track clearance.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the vibration of the engine beneath you, your grip tightening around the wheel as your pulse quickened. Your heart was hammering now, anticipation building.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said, voice lowering just enough to feel like she was speaking directly into your ear alone. “It’s just you and the car now. Focus. Trust yourself. Let’s show them what you can do.”

Those words settled something inside your chest. You felt steadier, more certain, as you flipped the ignition switch. The engine roared to life, raw power vibrating through the cockpit, through your bones, filling your veins with fire.

Mechanics cleared away, giving you space as you slowly guided the car from the garage toward the track entrance. Your breathing steadied with each passing second, your world narrowing until it was nothing but the track stretching ahead.

The final instructions came through your headset. “Track is clear. Take it out.”

You didn’t hesitate. You pressed the throttle, and the car surged forward, cutting through the air with a precision and power you hadn’t felt in years. And just like that, everything else fell away.

It was just you, the car, and the track. The car hummed beneath you like a living thing, every shift of the throttle sending a pulse of raw energy through your bones. It had been a while since you’d driven something this powerful. And fuck..you felt it.

You eased into the first few turns, warming up the tires, testing the brakes, feeling out the balance of the machine you had just been handed. The steering was sensitive, the throttle was brutal, and the sheer speed of it all?

You let out a slow breath as you took another corner, muttering under your breath. “Goddamn, you’re fast.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, rolling your shoulders as you pushed just a little harder into the next straight. The car responded immediately, roaring under your hands, begging to be let loose.

You smirked slightly. “I hear you.”

The radio crackled in your ear. Natasha’s voice, smooth and controlled. “How’s it feeling?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you took another turn, still feeling out the car’s behavior. “Like a wild animal.” you muttered. “One wrong move, and I think it’ll kill me.”

You heard a chuckle from the radio. “Good.”

Of course, Natasha fucking Romanoff would say that. You rolled your eyes, shifting your weight as you lined up for the last sector, pushing just a little more. The car gripped beautifully, the back end barely twitching as you found the perfect exit.

The lap wasn’t fast, but it wasn’t supposed to be. You were getting used to it. Letting the car tell you what it wanted. Listening. You reached the final straight and slowed, bringing yourself to a stop at the grid, right before the traffic lights.

The engine rumbled beneath you, waiting. You flexed your fingers against the wheel, inhaling deeply.

The first light flickered on. Then the second. Then the third. You tightened your grip. Everything in your body coiled, ready to launch.

The fourth. The fifth.

And then- green.

You slammed the throttle down. The first few laps had been clean. You had found your rhythm, felt the car beneath you, learned its language. You had danced with the machine, not fought it. Every turn, every straight, every shift..perfect.

The moment you pulled out of the pit lane, Natasha’s voice was in your ear.

“We’ll start simple. Build heat in the tires. Weave down the straight.”

Your hands moved before she finished speaking, the car already shifting left and right, smooth, controlled. You could hear the faint sound of engineers in the background, data being recorded, but your focus was on the car, on the way it responded, on how the weight transferred with each movement. Natasha didn’t react. She simply continued.

“Turn 3, keep the throttle steady before braking. No coasting.”

You followed the instruction exactly, the front tires gripping as you carried speed into the corner, braking later than your instincts wanted, but exactly how she would have demanded.

“Better.” she murmured, voice clipped, all business. You kept going, each sector executed with precision, every command from Natasha met with immediate response. She was directing, you were following.

And then, you did it before she could say it. The upcoming chicane was tight, demanding a quick flick of the wheel, a perfectly timed shift in weight. Before Natasha could give the instruction, before her voice could even breathe into your ear.

It lasted less than a second, but it was there. A pause. A hesitation. Then the radio crackled. “Good.”

No approval, no compliment. Just that single sound, laced with something unreadable. She picked up again, her voice neutral. “Don’t get cocky. Turn 9, brake harder or you’ll compromise the exit.” And just like that, the rhythm returned.

You didn’t push. You didn’t acknowledge what had happened. You just followed orders again, steady and controlled, as if nothing had changed.

But then, the car twitched. Just a little. A fraction of instability. The back tires twitched in a high-speed section, and for a second, your body reacted before your mind could. You barely even had to correct it, the car settled almost immediately, but it was already too late.

The sound in your head, metal screaming, tires screeching, the gut-wrenching silence that had come before the crash..It slammed into you, full force.

Your chest locked up. Your breathing hitched, and before you knew it… You were slowing down. Your hands gripped the wheel too tight. Your heart was hammering. The track around you warped, the air too thick, the inside of the cockpit too fucking small.

Natasha’s voice cut in, sharp, controlled, but tinged with something harder. “What are you doing? Keep pushing.”

Your fingers twitched over the radio switch. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Natasha’s voice came again, this time lower, firmer. “Y/n, talk to me.”

No. Your stomach twisted. The sounds in your head were too loud, too consuming, too goddamn real. So you did the only thing you could think of… You cut the radio. A sharp click, and silence filled the cockpit. Natasha was gone.

In the control room, the moment the radio went dead, Natasha stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled over. Her team froze. The tension in the room turned suffocating. She whipped her head toward one of the engineers. “Tell me she did not just cut me off.”

The man stammered, eyes flicking to the radio log. “…She cut you off.”

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her fingers curled into fists. The cameras showed your car stopped dead on the track. Not stalled. Not damaged. Just stopped. Natasha’s chest burned with rage. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She had calculated everything… pushed you just enough.

Had she miscalculated? Had she pushed too fucking far? She turned sharply, already storming for the exit. “Unbelievable.”

Yelena grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

Natasha spun on her, fury in her eyes. “She just stopped on the fucking track, Yelena! I’m going down there!”

Yelena, for once, didn’t smirk. She looked at the monitors, at you. “She’s panicking, Nat…”

Then, she got an idea. She pulled out her phone, scrolling fast. “She always has headphones in before a race, right?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Yelena didn’t answer. Instead, she connected her phone to the main speaker system. The engineers looked confused, but Yelena smirked as she hit play.

And suddenly, music flooded the track. The second the music blasted through your headset, your mind snapped back into reality. The engine was still roaring beneath you, the car vibrating with power, but the sound, the fucking sound..didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong in the cockpit, in the race, in your head. It was your playlist, your music, your ritual before a race, and now it was bleeding through your carefully controlled silence like a blade.

Your breath caught. Then it hit. Yelena. Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your pulse pounded, heat climbing up your spine, something sharp and furious breaking through the fog that had been suffocating you just moments before. You flicked the radio back on, voice ice-cold, clipped.

“Turn that off.”

The pit crew was silent for a moment before Yelena’s voice came through, casual as ever, utterly unfazed. “Oh hey, there you are. Took you long enough.”

Your jaw locked. Your body was still in overdrive, still burning, still balancing on the razor-thin edge between control and complete fucking chaos. “I said turn it off!”

Before Yelena could respond, before you could breathe, another voice crashed into your headset like a gunshot. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Her voice hit like whiplash, slicing through the cockpit, leaving no space for you to breathe. “You shut me out? On my track? In my car?”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Do you have any idea how many people would kill for this opportunity? How many drivers I could’ve picked instead of wasting my time on you?”

Your stomach twisted, your chest tight with frustration, with rage, with the need to fight back, but you couldn’t.

“You’re wasting my time.” Every word was sharp, biting, dragging through you like a blade. “You’re driving like you’re afraid, like you don’t belong here. And maybe you don’t.”

Your jaw locked. “You don’t get to turn me off when things get uncomfortable. That’s not how this works. That’s not how I work. You either keep up, or you get the fuck out of my car.”

The rage in your chest boiled over. Your breath came hot and sharp, your heart hammering against your ribs as the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Fuck you.”

And the radio went silent again.

"S-She turned you off again."

Natasha's head snapped toward the screen, her eyes wild and boiling. She shoved back from the desk, her chair nearly toppling over as she pushed to her feet. A girl? A fucking girl was giving her this much trouble? On her track? In her car? A slow, low growl rumbled from deep in her chest, her nails digging into her palms. "Fix. It."

One of the engineers hesitated. "We, uh- we can override the headset, but she can shut it down again.."

Natasha's nostrils flared, her breathing coming short, clipped. "Then override it again. And again. And again! I don't give a shit how many times it takes! Get me back in her head!!"

The static crackled back into your headset, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Her voice was razor-sharp, dripping with controlled rage. “You’re in my car, on my track, acting like a fucking brat?”

You knew the trick, it wasn’t without reason that you had been one of the best mechanics for years. So, you turned the radio off again.

The engineers in the control room flinched as Natasha ripped the headset off, her movements violent, lethal, uncontrollable. “Done. I’m fucking done.”

Her chest heaved, eyes burning with something between rage and disappointment. Yelena, watching from the side, chewing on a protein bar like she wasn’t witnessing an absolute meltdown, tilted her head. “You sure?”

Natasha shot her a look that could’ve set the entire control room on fire. “I don’t repeat myself.” She grabbed her phone, already dialing management. “Get the contract ready. I want it on my desk. Now.”

No hesitation. She turned, already storming toward the exit. She was done. Done with the attitude. Done with the defiance. Done with you. Then, A beep. A new sector time update. An engineer swallowed hard, staring at the screen. “Uh..boss-”

Natasha didn’t stop. Didn’t care. Then—Another beep. The numbers changed. “She just broke Walker’s lap record.” Natasha stopped. Yelena smirked. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

Natasha turned, slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she just heard. Another update. “She just broke the second record.” Her heartbeat roared. The control room was silent. Everyone watching. Waiting. The third sector. Another record.

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her hand clenched around the phone, the unfinished call abandoned. Because now? Now she wasn’t leaving. Now? She was watching.

You were going faster. Faster. Faster than anyone had gone before on this track. Your hands flexed over the wheel, your body moving on pure instinct. Every turn, every shift, flawless. You weren’t driving to prove something anymore. You were driving because fuck her. Fuck Natasha’s doubt. Fuck Walker’s legacy. Fuck every single person who thought you were done.

Lap after lap, the speed increased. Natasha barely had time to react. You were coming in too fast. Way too fast. Her breath hitched. Her instincts kicked in. Her hand shot toward the console, her finger hovering over the radio switch, ready to step in, to stop you from making a mistake that would end this entire session in a wreck. She had seen this before. This was the moment where drivers panicked. Where their talent collapsed under pressure.

“Y/n-”

You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You owned it. The weight transferred seamlessly, the balance perfect, the tires gripping the apex at the last possible second—And Natasha watched as you took the smoothest, most precise fucking corner she had ever seen.

Her breath hitched. Yelena, beside her, let out a low whistle. “That was kinda sexy.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she had just created a monster. Or if she had finally found the driver she had been looking for.

The tires screeched as you pulled into the pit lane, the scent of burning rubber and overheated brakes clinging to the air. Your pulse was still racing, every inch of your body vibrating with adrenaline, sweat sticking to your skin beneath the fireproof suit.

The cockpit ripped open. Natasha. Storming. Fuming. Burning. Before you could even move—before you could even reach for the harness, she grabbed you. Yanked you out of the car like you weighed nothing. Your boots hit the pavement hard, but you barely had time to react before..

Her hands fisting into your fire suit, dragging you closer, shoving you up against the side of the car. Her grip was tight, possessive, unforgiving. And when she spoke? She was livid.

“You do not turn me off!”

Your breath hitched. “You do not shut me out!”

Her voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained rage. Your chest tightened. You tried to speak. “Natasha, I-”

“Shut up!!”

Her fingers tightened, her nails digging into the fabric of your suit. “I don’t give a fuck what’s going through that reckless little brain of yours. I don’t care what you think you’re proving. You work for me.”

Her breath was hot, her lips barely inches from yours, her eyes a dark, consuming fire. “And you do what the fuck I tell you to do!”

You clenched your jaw, your stomach twisting in something between anger and the unshakable feeling that she was enjoying this. And then, her smirk. It was barely there, just the faintest tilt of her lips, but you felt it.

“You wanna prove something?” Her voice dipped lower, smoother..too smooth. “Then do it on my terms. Not by acting like a brat who can’t handle being told what to do.”

Your body tensed. Your fingers twitched, fighting every goddamn instinct to shove her away, to push back, to match her fire with your own. You opened your mouth. “I-”

But her grip yanked you forward before the words could come out. “No!”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You don’t get to speak right now!”

Her voice was a whisper now. Sharp. Slow. Dangerous. The heat between you was suffocating. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just her hands on your suit. Her body, pressing you back against the car. The anger crackling between you like a live wire.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. “Y/n?”

Your body froze. Your head snapped to the side. And there he was. Your father. Standing at the edge of the pit. Watching everything. Your stomach plummeted. Natasha didn’t let go immediately. No. She let her fingers linger for just a second longer, her eyes flicking over to your father with a slow, lazy amusement.

But instead of stepping away, she straightened your fire suit. Her touch slower than necessary, smoothing down the fabric, fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your collarbone. Her hands brushed down the front of your torso, flattening the creases with a touch so deliberate, so calculated, it made your entire body go rigid.

And when she finally spoke? It was for your ears only. “If I knew Daddy was coming to watch, I would’ve made you struggle a little more.”

Your pulse spiked. Natasha hummed, smirking like she had just won something. She took a step back. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. She pulled out her phone as she passed Yelena, not even breaking stride as she spoke into it, her voice bored, detached. “Take the contract off my table.”

Then she hung up. And just like that, she was gone.

-

-

-

-

[s-4pphics]

cw; fratadjacent!ellie, mentions of prescription drugs and dealing, literally just for ‘23 tlou tumblr nostalgia 

attempt 747388282 of getting outta my block. barely edited bc i havent slept

How the hell do you introduce yourself to a dealer?

Initiating convos with a stranger with a hey, do you sell addies, seems a little rude for regular common folk, but do dealers actually care about introduction etiquette? Highly doubtful, but you despise assuming shit about people, much due to the fact that your brain has a deadly latching tendency, remembering everything it shouldn’t and forgetting everything you should remember. 

Dealers are driven by the dollar, aren’t they? Just like everyone else. Show the money, get the candy… or something? You doubt Mel would put you in harm's way. 

You came to your roommate in the middle of a breakdown: self-soothed through a panic attack with snot dripping down your nose and thoughts scattered like they always are. Always. Your brain never listens to reason and it’s torture. She held you while you cried and cursed the medical industry, all while your brain shattered to pieces, attempting to find solace in Mel’s softened whisper. 

I have this friend…

And of course, your brain never forgets. Your prescription is forever to blame for your shortcomings. Every unfinished essay, failed test, failed class — mindless scrolling — it’s all due to your lack of… candy. Brain candy. It’s fucked up how terribly you need it to get through school. If you don’t pop one at six in the morning everyday, every plan you make goes down the drain and into the sewers. 

Pharmacies are supposed to always have their shit together. Customers come in, grab their beans, and they dip for a month before doing it all over again. Visits are dandy until they aren’t, apparently. Out of all people, why did they have to fuck up yours? A year of going to the same location with the same pharmacist and they suddenly misplace the only jewels that keep your head on your neck. 

Sure, you could sue or commit arson to that entire building, but you decided spending the last bit of your free time bribing the go-to drug lord of campus would be much more beneficial. And less… endangering. 

Mel is close with drug dealers — a surprising fact to discover about your soft-toned friend. Ellie Williams is one of them, and she’s expecting your arrival, according to Mel. The texts between you and this faceless stranger were brief, aloof — quite business-like despite the topic of conversation. You only hear about her from the sidelines or your roommate, and everyone seems to have a consensus opinion. 

Evidently, she fucking sucks. And fucks. Literally and figuratively. Good for her? You don’t give a shit. She agreed to give you a month's supply of Dextro for fifteen bucks. Fuck the gossip and the pharmacy. 

That gets you knocking. It takes fourteen seconds for the door to open, and you're instantly hit with the wall of Mary. Jane, in particular, and she’s covered in red lights. 

The testy drug head doesn’t fit everybody’s description; her face is almost too sweet for her body. She’s literally wearing Spiderman PJs. What kinda dealer has freckles and rosy cheeks? Her eyes remind you of a deer’s despite the pink tint. Can deers even get high? 

One of the first things Ellie does is take in your Patrick Star slippers. Her grin is slight as she eyes them. 

“Huh.”

“… Hey.” 

“Hello.” 

You hate silence more than anything in the world. It’s so fucking awkward in this hallway. 

“Name?” 

… Maybe intros are necessary? “Oh. Uh. I’m Mel’s friend. I’m guessing y’all know each other? I’m—“

The a-ha she makes is very innocuous. This is the beast everyone always talks about? “My dex pickup, right?” 

You jokingly shrug, “in the flesh.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

“You… you, too.” 

It’s silent again. Being shot in the face would be less painful than standing here. 

Soon, but not nearly enough, Ellie digs into her pocket to retrieve a very familiar looking orange bottle. It almost looks like yours minus the white sticker with your name and dosage. Just plain orange. And filled a hefty amount. A little over halfway. 

“Uh,” you stumble around in your jean pocket like an idiot. When you come up empty handed, you dig around in your back pocket. Then your other front, then your other back. 

Where the fuck is your twenty? 

“Uh… um…”

You check your bra and your shoulder bag and your sock, all while Ellie stares at you like you’re a walrus on stilts. 

“I’m… I dunno where my…” 

“Short?”

Flames burst beneath your cheeks. Too fucking short. If you were in a mafia film, you’d be strung up in front of Ellie’s door as a warning for loose pocketers. 

But Ellie’s not in the fucking mafia. She looks like she’s about to laugh. Before you can drown her in apologies, she hands you the clattering jar. 

“… Wh—“

“No offense, but… I think you needa fill.” 

This has to be a test. Ellie’s going to slice your hand clean off your wrist when you reach for your vice… Your prescription, you mean. Not vice—

“You want ‘em or not?” 

Impatient as fuck — very on brand. Just as your palm eagerly closes around the bottle, a shock of electricity pops from Ellie’s hand to yours. She flinches but you don’t. The horrifying screams from the little fuckers in your hand are too distracting. 

“Do I owe you?” 

She ponders for a second. Eyes you with curiosity. Snickers down at your slippers. 

“It’s cool. Just tell me if they work.” 

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Do I really have to explain the hierarchy to you?” 

“What do you think?” 

Ellie pins you with a playful glare, “I bought from someone new.” 

That doesn’t mean shit to you, so why are you attempting to make conversation? “Is that why you stocked me up?” 

“Sure.” 

“Are they laced?” 

She shrugs, “maybe.” 

That should induce fear… It never comes. You anticipate focusing too much to care. If you die, you die. 

This convo fucking sucks. And now it’s quiet because how the fuck are you supposed to respond to you potentially OD-ing? Your brain’s cranking but, just like every other time, you come up empty handed. 

“You can go now.” 

You try not to be bothered by her dismissing you. You shouldn’t be bothered by anything — she did you a favor. Ellie must really like your fucking slippers. She’s spoken to Patrick more than you this entire time. 

“… Thanks.” 

“No sweat. Get home safe.” 

Her door closes. Your chest opens. You convince yourself it’s with gratitude, and not at all due to the weird attraction you felt for that drugged-out freakazoid. 

[sunsburns]

wait no because trying to compete w joaquin to look the best in sams eyes? that 100% would happen.

always showing up to work early if sam needed you there, always doing things "better" than the other to be picked to go out on missions, but in reality both of you were always gonna go, sam just likes to rile you both up!!!

you and joaquin arguing is sams entertainment, but he would always call you out on how y'all should just kiss or smthn, just so you would both get out of his hair, y'all are kiss asses 🙂‍↕️

THE biggest ass kissers the world has ever fucking seen!!!

it starts with small things.

beating joaquín torres to the debriefing room first, standing at attention just a little straighter when sam walks in. being the first to volunteer for a recon mission, making sure your reports are turned in before joaquín’s—little victories, small triumphs that keep the score tilting just slightly in your favour.

and joaquín? oh, he knows what you’re doing. he feels the competition just as strongly, meeting you beat for beat, smirk for smirk. if you show up early, he shows up earlier. if you get in a well-placed quip that makes sam chuckle, joaquín makes sure to drop a comment that gets him a full laugh, a shoulder clap.

sam catches on quickly, because of course he does. he thrives off of it, if anything, watching you and joaquín try to one-up each other over the most mundane things with the kind of patience only an older brother figure can have. half the time, he doesn’t even need to pit you against each other; you do that all on your own.

but here’s the thing—you and joaquín don’t actually hate each other. if anything, there’s an underlying respect, an unspoken acknowledgment of how damn good the other is at what they do. on the field, you’re an unstoppable duo, reading each other without a word, moving in sync in a way that only comes from deep familiarity. you know each other’s strengths, weaknesses, the little things that make the other tick—and you know exactly how to push each other’s buttons, whether it’s to provoke or distract.

and sam? oh, he knows it too.

it was why he has the two of you as his second hand. he sees how well you work together, how efficient things become when you’re not locked in some petty competition. hell, sometimes he even thinks you two are kinda cute together—just too damn stubborn to admit it.

but sometimes, sam stirs the pot just for fun. like when he lets it slip that he needs a file retrieved from the archives, and suddenly, you and joaquín are racing through the hallways, elbowing each other out of the way, nearly colliding into bucky in the process. or when he casually mentions needing someone to drive him to a meeting, and next thing he knows, both of you are already in the car, fighting over who gets to drive.

“y’all are exhausting,” sam sighs one day, watching as you and joaquín argue over who got the better shot during training with isaiah. he leans back in his chair, eyes flicking between you. “why don’t you just kiss already and get out of my face?”

that shuts both of you up real quick. joaquín’s face flushes, his lips parting like he wants to argue but can’t quite find the words. you, on the other hand, scoff, rolling your eyes before looking anywhere but at him.

sam just grins, kicking his feet up onto the table. “uh-huh. that’s what i thought.”

bucky, passing by with his coffee, gives sam a long look. “aren’t you being too hard on those kids?”

“nah,” sam replies easily, smirking. “they love it.”

[himbosandhardwear]

Two Truths I 1.3k I NSFW-ish

“How'd you get it to stay?”

“Soldered it into one solid piece,” he brags, cigarette caught in the corner of his smile.

“You're insane. I can't believe that was you the whole time.”

“It was Ronnie's idea, I just made it happen.” He taps his cigarette out in the crystal ashtray balanced on his knee. His legs are spread open, so Steve can reach the ashtray if he needs to. “I thought he looked very metropolitan with an earring. Chic even.”

Yeah, the gold hoop earring in the mascot tiger costume was ultra modern. Steve rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. He doesn't give a shit about defending a stupid High School mascot over a harmless prank from five years ago. Eddie's antics are a thousand times more entertaining than any of his stupid basketball stories.

“You know what game you'd kill at?”

“Monopoly? Dog! I called it, you can't have it, I'm always the dog!” He nearly dumps the ashtray in his excitement.

“No, shut up. I'm the car anyway, duh. I was gonna say, Two Truths and a Lie. That's your game.”

“Hmm, never played.” He rolls his head around the back of the couch, his haphazard bun goes even looser. “Is it a drinking game?”

“Doesn't have to be. Just a guessing game really. You just say two things that are true and one lie and the other person has to guess which one is the lie. But it can't be like, ‘I have brown eyes, I have brown hair, in 1983 I helped defeat a monster from an alternate dimension.’”

“You have hazel eyes.”

Steve blinks for a second. “Yeah. But anyway, it has to be less obvious, is what I'm saying.”

“Got it. So, like, okay… My dad is in the penn for Grand Larceny, Wayne's only confirmed kill in ‘Nam was a poor defenceless monkey, and my favorite subject in school was Home-Ec.”

“Shit. I don't know if I want the monkey thing to be true or not.”

Eddie's dimples make an appearance. “My favorite was Theater. Home-Ec was a close second though. I made a pillow and used it to sleep through Algebra.”

Steve cracks a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.” Okay, his turn. His life suddenly seems boring in comparison, even with all the shit he's been through. He used to be good at this game but he's kinda set himself up for failure here against Eddie.

“Dying of boredom…”

“Shut up! Okay, how about this… My paternal grandparents were from Scotland, I have a B.B. permanently lodged in my ankle, and my first three-way was with Tommy and Carol.”

Eddie chokes on air, making Steve laugh in delight.

Once he's got his breath, he looks at Steve in suspicion. “I'm gonna assume you didn't actually get close to Hagan's freckled weiner.”

Steve's grin feels mean, like whenever Tommy said something particularly scathing to some anonymous Freshman. “B.B. is stuck in my thigh actually.” He pulls his shorts up enough to show him the white scar.

God, the look on Eddie's face - perfectly, comically shocked, mouth open, eyes white around the iris - makes him feel so good, to have something like that up his sleeve, something to shock the wildest guy Steve knows.

“You're gonna catch flies like that,” he says, smug. “It's your turn.”

Eddie snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking audibly. “Fine. Let's see,” he taps his finger against his chin, “raising the stakes…” He slips Steve a look, conveying his playful scheming. “I've had sex at school, I've had sex at the Hideout, I've had sex at your house.”

His immediate instinct is to call bullshit at Eddie fucking here, because when exactly would he have accomplished it, but then he remembers who provided the favors at most of his parties and he hesitates. Eddie watches Steve go through this realization, watches with a smugness that he wants to wipe off.

“It had better have been on my parents bed,” he concedes.

“Laundry room actually.”

“I hate you.” He crosses his arms and pouts, nearly asks who with but he's not sure he wants to know. “So which one was the lie?”

“School. Obviously. My dick couldn't get hard there even if I wanted it to.”

Memories of sitting in class surface, trying desperately to hide his boner, but he's not gonna admit it. Even though he's certain Eddie had the same problem at least once. It’s basically a rite of passage for dudes.

“My turn, you absolute freak.” Now what does he admit to to top getting it on with some mystery person on his parents dryer? “Hmm… I put actual notches on my bedpost, I've got a pair of girl's panties stashed in my underwear drawer, I used to jerk off with Tommy when we were younger.”

“Okay, now I know you're fucking with me,” Eddie exclaims, arms flailing.

“Which one, Munson? Take your pick.”

Eddie continues to stare, which is a bit nerve wracking but Steve maintains his composure. He's 99% sure Eddie is gay, and therefore won't judge him on this, but there's always that small chance Steve is wrong and this whole thing goes sideways. Three-way with Tommy? Could be a drunken mistake. Teenage jerk off sessions? It happens, no big deal. But both? At one point in Steve's life he'd been able to write off both as normal but Robin had put the writing back on the wall, so to speak.

“That's why he said he didn't want your sloppy seconds,” Eddie mumbles.

Steve blanches. “Who?”

“B- Nobody.”

No fucking way. No. Fucking. Way.

“Eddie. Did you fuck Billy Hargrove in my laundry room?” His voice is eerily calm.

“No.”

Steve waits a beat. “Did Billy Hargrove fuck you in my laundry room?”

“.......no.”

“Your turn,” he growls.

“Wait, which one was the lie?”

He crosses his arms, still pissed off beyond belief. “I don't put notches on my bedpost, that's tacky.”

“On the belt then?” He tries to snark but it falls flat. Steve just stares until he looks away. “Fine. Let me think.”

If he admits to fucking Billy, Steve doesn't know what he's gonna do. The very idea of it makes him want to tear his hair out.

“I over-charged you on weed for years, Gareth is mean to you because he has a crush, I'm sorry I gave Hargrove head in your laundry room.”

Steve gets up and leaves the room. Eddie doesn't call him back. He stomps all the way to the kitchen, yanks the fridge open, grabs another beer, and chugs the entire thing standing there with the door open. When he gets back, Eddie is standing in the middle of the room, awkwardly shuffling like he wants to leave.

“Sit,” Steve barks, “we're not done here.”

Eddie complies but with a stiffness that reads like he may bolt at a moment's notice.

“I fucking know you over-charged me for the weed so I have to assume Gareth does not, in fact, have a crush on me.”

Eddie nods, sheepish. “Hates you for the usual reasons.”

“Right.” The important takeaway here shouldn't be that Eddie had sex with Steve's arch nemesis, it's that he's admitting to being queer. Good. He stares at the side of Eddie's head. “I was straight, I am bisexual, I have bad hair days.”

He watches as Eddie's entire body rotates around to stare directly into Steve's soul. His tongue makes an appearance, wetting his lips.

“I am gay, I am very gay, I am the most gay anyone has ever been.”

That's comical. “No, the most gay anyone has ever been was Robin when she left the room during that scene in The Hunger.”

Eddie matches Steve's smirk. “Correct.”

“I want to kiss you, I want to make you forget Billy Hargrove’s name…..I have brown eyes.”

Eddie's grin rivals that of his grand theft auto exuberance. “Your eyes are hazel.”

“Correct.”

“I am going to kiss you, Billy Who, and…oh, who gives a shit.” He tackles Steve into the arm of the couch.

They don't make it to the laundry room but there's always tomorrow.

[arbiterlexultionis]

Idea because one of the part 1’s was tagged as Danny x Cass and that’s one of my favorite ships:

Fair warning, this wound up significantly longer than planned whoops.

Jason is a stinky, no good, homicidal, feral man child. 0/10. Babs is Not trusting that man with her sister.

Cass on the other hand? She’s responsible, observant, kind, thoughtful and actually has her shit together. Babs is still kinda suspicious about it at first, especially when she finds out Cass is stalking safely escorting and observing Danny (without his knowledge) while he’s out and about, but then she finds out Danny has -10 survival instincts and Cass has saved him from 12 muggings, 4 kidnappings and a distressing number of head on collisions with cars, trains and on one occasion a helicopter.(Danny has zero fear because he’s secretly a super powered crime fighter, but for people who don’t know about that it makes zero sense that he hasn’t wound up dead yet. He kinda already has, he got better.)

After realizing how often Cass is saving Danny Babs gives her seal of approval, at first kinda leaving Cass to do her own thing but after Cass comes to her for advice a few to many times and keeps failing she gets invested. This leads to Babs constantly switching from full feral mode trying to fend off Jason with a broom and turning around to Cass like “I got you a date, here’s a bag of his favorite candy’s, get him a bouquet of flowers on you way he’ll love it. I’m so proud of you!”

On the one hand, Jazz is all for it. 100% into Jason and knows he reciprocates. Assuming Jason can sneak past Babs they are the single most romantic and cheesiest couple in all of Gotham. Babs cannot stop them, and they say that like a threat.

Danny on the other hand has low self esteem and is oblivious. He gets a heart shaped box of chocolates and bouquet of roses and is like “oh wow you’re such a good friend, thanks bestie!” not even thinking for a second it could be even somewhat romantic. Cass is the single least subtle person on the planet while she’s flirting with him because she’s doesn’t want to be subtle but Danny just won’t take the hint. Whether it be in sign or spoken word Cass is waxing poetic about how beautiful his eyes are and how his laugh fills her with joy and Danny’s just like “aww thanks, you make me happy too!” And Cass can read his body language so she knows it’s not a case of him intentionally ignoring her flirting because he doesn’t reciprocate, he’s just so. Fucking. DENSE. Now matter how much Babs wingwomen’s Cass it never works.

After months of Cass trying to woo him Vlad shows up to do Vlad things.

Danny and Cass are at a fancy restaurant for lunch, Cass dressed to the nines and Danny in all his blue jeaned and ratty t-shirted glory, the flowers she brought for him and homemade cookies he offered in exchange with a face flushed crimson sat off to the side. Vlad shows up halfway through and warning bells start blaring in Cass’ head. She takes one look at how Danny tenses the moment he enters, trys to put himself between Vlad and everyone else, flinch’s at every movement and more. Sees how scared he is. Sees how despite obviously being scared, damn near traumatized, he’s also obviously ready to fight. Vlad starts talking shit and just tells Danny he’s coming home with him to which Danny, understandably, says no, go to hell. Vlad, who has been spending Months tracking down Danny and Jazz, looses his shit. “No? No! You think you can say No to Me!? I OWN you! You are Mine, Little Badger. You will do as I tell you, when I tell you, no matter what I tell you, boy.” Half way through a smug smile spits across his face as he begins to withdraw some sort of custom made taser. He keeps it half hidden in his sleeve and turns to hide it from the crowd that’s gathered to watch the scene he’s making. Cass sees the way Danny’s eyes lock onto the device. Sees how Vlad taps it with his finger, turning it this way and that, flicking his wrist once or twice. Sees how Danny flinch’s at every movement, how Vlad seems almost giddy at every sign of fear and choked on breath. Vlad brings his other hand up almost casually, sets it on Danny’s shoulder almost gently. But Cass sees it, sees it all. Sees the hunger-possessive-obsessive-need in Vlad’s stance. Sees how the moment his hand lands on Danny shoulder it shifts into a white knuckled grip for an ever so brief moment, fingers digging into skin as his smug grin shift into a sickeningly sweet imitation of fatherly affection as he turns to the crowd to try and apologize for “his boy” causing such a ruckus, assuring them that he “Will be giving the child a very stern talking to” and something in her brain screams that Danny’s caution and fear, hi need to protect the people around him from the man in front of him is a learned response.

Vlad means his little I Own You speech as in “I am your godfather, your parents are dead and you are my evil apprentice.” He’s just referring to all the evil apprentice stuff that Danny refuses to do. But Cass, while fairly certain that Danny is some flavor of meta human has deliberately chosen to respect his privacy and not dig up all the answers until he trust her enough to tell her/something happens to force her hand, doesn’t know about any phantom stuff and as a result comes to some slightly different conclusions. Danny’s shifting his feet to something closer to a proper stance, muscles tensing like a coiled spring as his eyes dart around, taking in the environment, finding what he can use as a weapon, which civilians he needs to look out for, coming up with a plan to disarm Vlad. Cass sees all this, knows that Danny can and will defend himself. She also knows that she can afford significantly better lowers than him and Jazz.

So Cass Fucking Lunges for Vlad. She waits until he looks just barely far enough away for her to not be in his peripheral vision. As she vaults over the table it does not creek and shake, and nothing on it is disturbed. No sound is made and Vlad receives no warning. In less then a second he goes from smooth talking the public into not calling CPS on him because of how much of a pain it was to find people that would accept his bribes the last time to being laid out on the floor with a broken nose and 110 pounds of vengeance wailing on him. Unable to use his ghost abilities with all the witnesses he tries to get her with the Plasmius Maximus, because while it’s not deigned for humans a tasers a taser. Only for Cass to smoothly disarm and then damn near punch him in the throat with his own weapon before she tags him two more times in the torso before stashing it away and going back to beating the guano out of him with her bare hands. Eventually she gets up, stomping on a kidney for good measure, before turning around and seeing Danny, still tense and ready to fight, his eyes scanning over her, checking for injuries in the same way Alfred always does. When he confirms she’s unharmed, a tiny portion of the tenseness and nerves that claimed him when Vlad walked in leaves his shoulders and he takes a breath for the first time in minutes, having seemingly not even realized he’d stopped breathing at some point. Cass promptly turns back around to plant her heel in Vlad’s liver before returning to Danny and grabbing his free hand, his other already holding the cookies and flowers, and the two flee the restaurant in nearly a dead sprint with Cass leaving a few hundreds on the table for the food and trouble. Once they’re a few blocks away they stop, and Danny can’t help but stare. Can’t help but think that Cass’ now wind swept and messy hair looks far more beautiful then it ever has before, that the bright red of the blood splattered on her cheeks like constellations in the night sky brings out the blue in her eyes better than any make up ever could. Can’t help but remember the way his nearly still heart beat twice at the way she surged forth to protect.

Can’t help but speak in an oh so soft whisper, very nearly a prayer. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No, I don’t mean as a friend. I, like, love you love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No, like, romantically. I love you romantically. I know you don’t feel the same, but I’ve felt this way so long and I need you to know. I still want to be friends though. If you’ll let me. If you don’t think I’m just some cree-”

In an instant she pulls him in until he’s safely wrapped in her arms, leaning in until her forehead gently wrest on his and their noses barely touch. He can feel her breath on his lips as she speaks.

“I love you, romantically. Can I kiss you?” Seconds pass before Cass’ hand flys to the com in her ear. “Babs, he fainted! What do I do?”

This is way to long as is and it’s late so I tried to dump the rest of my thought in the tags but apparently there’s limits on the length and number of tags. So I might have to do a separate post about Jazz and Jason.

can we connect the 'Duke gave Jason Jazz's number' ask with the ask of 'Babs being Jazz and Danny's sister'?

(Sure :3)

Jason gets Jazz's number, Babs is their sister

When Duke walked into the Clocktower, he paused in place at seeing the people on her screen.

"Uh. Babs? What's that?"

Barbara turned and blinked tired, exhausted eyes. She had spent several sleepless nights just researching everything she could find on her siblings.

She was so, so proud of them, especially because Danny was going to school to be an astronaut and Jazz had already graduated, currently working within Arkham Asylum as a fair and hard working psychiatrist.

"This? It's nothing," she said absentmindedly. Like hell she was going to let any of the vigilantes she knew linger around or pester her darling siblings!

"... that's a picture of Jazz Fenton."

Barbara blinked. "You know her?"

"Yeah, sometimes Jazz volunteers at Gotham University to tutor people. She helps me with my anatomy classes," Duke explained.

A first witness account about her siblings from someone she knew!

"Tell me more," Barbara said eagerly.

Duke crossed his arms. "Tell me why you're looking into her."

Barbara sighed deeply. Then she said, "We're half siblings. I found out that she and my half-brother are in Gotham so I just wanted to learn more about them. I never met them before because my biological mom left when I was young."

Duke's eyebrows rose. Then he said, "Huh. Well, alright. Jazz is really nice. She explains things really well and she's also really patient. Everyone wants her to tutor them, but she's pretty busy so you have to schedule her in advance sometimes. I have her number, so I usually get tutored by her often. She also talks a lot? But she's super nice!"

Barbara nodded. She had hacked into several places and had already figured out most of her sibling's personality traits.

Jazz was an overachiever, eager to please, helpful, chatty, and a bit of a know it all. Danny, meanwhile, was a bit antisocial, but very kind, thoughtful, clever, and quick to help others.

Had she mentioned that she was very proud of them? She wanted desperately to meet them in person one day.

Duke then continued with a small laugh, "Y'know, if nothing else happens, I think you'll see your siblings again. Maybe even as in-laws! Jazz gave Jason her number the other day and he's been super eager to ask her out."

All time seemed to freeze. It was like a record scratch that turned off the music.

Barbara stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Even if Duke wasn't a meta that could predict the future, he could already feel the danger.

"Uh."

".... did you just say that Jason is trying to ask out my adorable little sister? Jason? Jason who once killed 8 people and put their decapitated heads in a duffel bag? Jason who lives in a trashy apartment because he's too busy committing crime to clean it? Jason who forgets to shower sometimes because he gets lazy?"

"............ yes?" Duke sounded afraid.

Barbara turned around to her computer again, bringing up more files. This time, they were named after Jason and Red Hood.

"Leave. You didn't see anything here."

Duke immediately bowed. "Yes, ma'am. Please spare me."

"You'll live only because you can tell me more about Jazz."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." Then he scrambled out of the Clocktower. RIP Jason. You will be missed.

[arbitrarykiwi]

It's Just Businesses, Baby: After Hours 3/4

The Recruiter/The Salesman x Recruiter! Fem Reader Smut Series

Summary: he saw no reason why they would hire you. He did just fine at the job! The higher-ups were stupid for even bringing you onboard, you had to be a liability. You were a walking enigma, a witch! He hated every little thing you did. So when he tells himself he's following you so he could always be a step ahead of you, he doesn't understand hwy after each meeting he's left wanting to see you more.

Warnings: smut (18+) , stalking , mentions of murder and choking , somnophilia (kinda, reader pretends to be asleep) , oral (f receiving) , spit , dirty talk , fingering , degradation , name calling (bitch, whore, slut) , he's mean , cum eating , no aftercare , he's a warning in himself , read at your own risk

Other Chapters: Workplace Conflict 1/4 , Overtime 2/4 , Professional Provocation 4/4

It was getting harder and harder to keep justifying his anger towards you logically…the thing was he wasn’t the most logical man if it meant he didn’t confront the true feeling whatever he felt was.

So he continued to hate you. Although you tasted do fucking good.

After your last interaction with him in the subway late at night, you were quite literally part of every thought that occupied his mind. That night, when you made it up the stairs and he was sure he was out of your field of view the fingers that were in your cunt, we’re going straight to his mouth. His tongue lathing over his fingers and cleaning them of your arousal.

He curses himself that he did it, but what was he supposed to do after he fingered you in the subway?! He couldn’t walk home with your wetness coating his fingers, he sure as hell couldn’t dirty his suit and wipe it off on there, and even though he does carry a handkerchief-he reasoned that’s no use for one and he didn’t want to be bothered to wash it…. So by that ‘logic’, the only option he had was to clean his fingers in his mouth.

He also rationalized that he didn’t ’finger’ you, he simply humiliated you- proved his point. Won the game.

But, like most thoughts he has that regarded you- no matter how hard he tried to not think about the saccharine taste of your cunt…he couldn’t stop. He needed more.

He loathed that you were ahead of him, that you had whatever plan you did and went out your way to track him down in the subway, catch him off guard, and made him break the company policy. He’s not even sure if there is one, but he guesses with the other rules set in place to limit your interactions with each other, being knuckle deep in your cunt also had to be one.

You made him do that. Yet another reason to be mad at you. Another reason for him to want to get back at you- to be one step ahead of you. So that’s exactly what he works to do.

But he’s a man that runs on hubris, a narcissist at heart. That was his flaw- as much as you showed him time and time again that you were a smart little thing, he talked himself into thinking that you could never truly get to him, you’d never be above him. Sure, you got him on a few small things….thats neither here nor there.

He was the first recruiter, he was the only one they needed for the games for the longest while. You were just backup, just collateral if anything were to happen to him. So he kept doubting you. And that’s what makes his work to get one step ahead of you so much harder. He couldn’t bring himself to admit you were good competition, that you kept him on his toes and that he thought you were unpredictable. No, he was far too good for that, instead, he wanted to put you in your place. He needed to wipe that smug fucking smirk off your face.

It took him a while to think of a plan. He knew he couldn’t kill you, the frontman would surely kill him for that. He couldn’t torture you, you’d definitely go running off to the superiors and rat him out in that bratty, sarcastic voice of yours. The things that he would resort to were not things he could do. For once in his life he felt like he was the one in some sick and twisted game.

You were driving him mad. If he could kill you, it would be an easy out! He wouldn’t be thinking about the way your outfit hugs your curves, the way your cunt was squeezing around his fingers, the way your breath hitched and small moans fell from your mouth as he pumped his fingers in and out of you…..the way you tasted.

So he planned that he would scare you, wipe the smug grin off your pretty face, make your bratty voice break and tremble….in fear….yeah definitely fear nothing else…

If he was a bit less sure of himself, less confident and cocky, he may have caught on that you weren’t some easy little bunny that the big bad fox could hunt down. But he didn’t, he was confident that he would be able to follow you to your home…to your private residence. The thought alone sent a shiver up his spine, like a pirate who was close to the buried treasure marked on a map. There was something so intimate about it, he would know so much about you just off this alone. He would finally be ahead of you!

He wanted to know what type of house a sinful, conniving woman liked you lived in. Maybe it was some lavish house on the hills, or maybe it was some shabby apartment in the inner city. He wanted to know more about you, to use it against you of course….no other reason.

It was a plan that would take a long while but it would be worth it.

It started with him watching you leave the dingy space that you two call an office. He didn’t want to move too quick, no, he knew you were keen- he couldn’t follow you and track you like any normal person. He simply diverted his normally straight path to stop a crosswalk at the end of the street, pretending to wait for the signal to cross. When he sees your back fully towards him, knowing there’s no way you could see him watching- he tracks you as far as he can. He sees you walk down to the opposite end of the street he was on and turned right.

Then he waited a couple of days. He couldn’t risk you finding out what he was doing! He figured that after a couple days when you made no smartass comment about him staring, you didn’t see him watching you. So he repeated the process. Walked to the crosswalk, watched you turn right, then when he saw you turn the corner- he began to follow. He didn’t get greedy, he knew if he followed you straight the whole way home, you’d surely catch on and notice his presence. He stays at the corner you turned on and watches where you go next, as far as he can until you’re out of sight; you turn left.

This routine repeats for well over 3 weeks, he’s made good progress! He’s gotten to the point where he knows the first 5 minutes of the walk home. He figured out what subway you get on, what exact bus and what time you get on- you even had a particular subway car and train seat you sat on every time. He found it peculiar, but it definitely made it easier for him to track you.

He implemented the next step, he began to leave work a little early. You found it odd, sure- but you figured he was going out on his odd side quests or doing something for the frontman. He made his way to the subway he knew you took and staked out. He lounged on the bench until the time he knew you’d be headed down the stairs in those pretty heels of yours.

When he knew you’d be arriving, he hid out of view, blending in with the crowd of other subway passengers. He knew exactly what car he needed to enter, the one behind the one you always pick. You almost made this too easy for him! He placed himself in a perfect spot to where he could see through the window of his car into the one you sat in. Riding it until you got off. He memorized the stop and rode the subway to the end of the line. He couldn’t get greedy.

It would take a couple weeks of repeating the same steps, following you just a bit each day and picking up where he left off. He was beginning to think you lived in a different state at this point with how long you traveled to your house. He couldn’t remember how many times he had to ride the same train car to get him to the last place he left off only to follow you a block further- stopping to then repeat the same thing over and over again. He kept having to tell himself you weren’t his normal target, you wouldn’t have been hired as a recruiter if you were. So he had to take it slow, he couldn’t rush, you would catch on to someone following you even if it was under a mile.

He was sure he would have to go another day of the same routine, he’s followed you more than normal tonight. He needed to see where you lived. He needed to have that one thing over you. That personal detail that would drive a shiver up your spine anytime you think about the idea of him knowing exactly where you go to sleep…he needed to know it. When he was about to give up and stop following you, you turn towards a sleazy hotel.

There was no fucking way. He spent all this time following you, tracking you down in hopes of finding your house or apartment or wherever you permanently resided, to only follow you to a fucking hotel.

He could have killed you on the sidewalk. The rage he felt was immeasurable. You were playing some sick and twisted joke on him.

You really weren’t. You were just painfully aware of the line of work you were in. You slapped people, tortured people, tricked people for a living- you weren’t exactly everyone’s best friend. You also worked with unstable individuals like yourself- they don’t need to know where you live. He doesn’t need to know where you lice. You live nowhere near where you work, staying in various hotels while you were in your ‘working season’ only to return home when you weren’t needed for more than two weeks or when the ‘working season’ was over and the games were going on.

He decides he’s come this far, he’s going to continue to follow you. He thinks he’s exceeded how far he should be following you, but you haven’t looked back once. He’s sure of that because the whole time he was entranced by the sway of your hips. You turn and enter the hotel, briefcase in hand, heels clicking against the cement of the side walk.

But you did catch on. Admittedly it wasn’t during the entire week, you didn’t catch him once the whole time. Not until tonight. Not until he followed you for a little too long. You debated on turning around, catching him in the act and seeing the shocked face he made. The idea of him following you pathetically through a 15 story hotel sounded much better to you though…

So you kept your head forward and entered into the main door of the hotel, walking into the lobby and heading directly to the elevator. He waits outside for a moment, it is late after all not many people would be entering into the lobby- you’d hear his footsteps.

His ears pick up on the way the click of your heels fade, you’re far enough away for him to move in. He steps into the lobby of the hotel. It’s dingy, posters plastered everywhere for brothels around town, a number to call if you wanted a massage with a happy ending. As he walks further in, towards the elevators and sees a bowl of condoms on the front desk, he realizes this is a love hotel. Somewhere where ladies of the night go with paying customers or where young couples go to have a night on the wilds side. He grinned a bit, how depraved could you be to stay in a place like this? Naughty girl you were.

You weren’t in the lobby anymore, so you disappeared into the elevator. He knew you were the only one who was just in the lobby so you were the only one who would have used the elevator. Standing stoically, smug grin on his face like he won the lottery, he looks up to the electronic display of the elevator, an arrow points up and next to it the numbers count up.

1….2….3….4…5…

The numbers keep climbing until it stops at floor 14. The number stays the same for a moment, the electronic display pausing- you were getting off on the floor. As if proving his point, the display changes, the arrow pointing down and the numbers start descending.

14….13….12…11…10

He presses the up button and soon the elevator reaches the lobby, opening up with a creaky mechanical whir. He steps in, feeling the elevator shift slightly as he steps in. For such a smart girl, you sure stayed in some dangerous places…He scoffs to himself and presses the button he needs. Floor 14.

The ride up is excruciatingly long, every time he watches the number ascend and tick up closer to his destination he feels his excitement bubble up. He didn’t even know what he’d do with you. Maybe he’d watch you sleep and take a picture to leave for you to see in the morning. Maybe he’d climb on top of you and wake you up with his hands around your throat so he could watch as you wake up scared and petrified of him. The possibilities were endless!

The spiraling list of ideas is halted when the elevator reaches its destination. The doors open, squeaking open like the metal halves are fighting to pry themselves open. He was hoping that the floors were small, it would make it much easier for him to figure out what room you’d be in. Life never was easy on him though so when he steps out onto the gaudy, plush red carpet of the hallway and sees the hallway extend a long way in either direction he thinks maybe he should turn around and come back tomorrow. He’d hide out behind one of the large plaster columns in the hallway and wait until you arrived and watch what room you went into.

He sighs, trying to keep himself from yelling out in the hallway and altering you or other hotel stayers to his presence. His hand comes up to rub his face, pulling at his skin as he breathes deeply to gather himself. His eyes open when his head is still staring at the floor. Never in his life did he think he would appreciate the stained, overbearing, shag carpet of the hallway but when he sees the distinct impression of small circles, the heel of a shoe, tracking down the hallway to the left- he’s never loved a choice of interior design more.

The impressions are faint at first, hardly able to be seen but as he follows, they become more prominent. They were ‘newer’, he was getting closer. And the closer he got he began to smell a lingering trial of your perfume. It was almost a sweet, amber smell that was tantalizing. So very recognizable, he was so so close.

The imprints in the carpet stopped in front of a door labeled ‘1457’. This was your room. He could feel his body heat up, his clothes feeling impossibly tighter. He told himself it was excitement to finally prove he was in charge, to put you in your place and make you fear him like you were supposed to. However, his cock that strains against his slacks as he stands in the hallway tells an entirely different story. He looks down at the lock on the door- perfect it’s just a simple key lock. Not the electronic key card lock most of the expensive hotels have. It’s almost like you want him to come in…his smile is twisting into a wicked grin.

He can’t enter now, he thinks. You’re probably just getting settled, you’re probably still on high alert from walking to the hotel, you’d easily attack him if he entered now. He wanted to scare you, take you completely by surprise. He could wait until he hears the shower, break in and catch you vulnerable as the water trickles down your skin….but that was almost too easy. So the decided on standing out in the hall, for however long it takes until he’s sure you have settled into the hotel bed and have fallen asleep.

He’s sure he’s stood there for well over three hours, listening to every rustle of your feet on the carpet, every sound of you moving things around as you got ready for bed, how you’re then getting into the creaking bed, the sheets rustling as you settle into for the night. And then silence. He waits a little longer just to make sure.

Placing his briefcase down on the carpet, he unlocks it and fishes a small pouch out of the briefcase. A lock picking kit. His dark eyes train on the lock, fingers working with the tools expertly as he works the lock open. A click resounds through the hallway, his breath halts- he’s hoping you’re a deep enough sleeper you didn’t hear it. So he stays frozen for an unknown amount of time, 30 minutes, 45 maybe? He wasn’t going to mess this up now.

When he’s certain the lock clicking didn’t wake you, he places the lock picking tools back in his briefcase and closes it up. He grabs the handle, standing back up straight and he fixes his suit and grabs the handle. He’s done this before, broken into places he shouldn’t be so he knows the drill, he twists the knob slowly- all the way and pauses when the latch clicks out of the doorframe.

Pushing the door open slowly, pausing abruptly each time it threatens to creak, he works it open just enough to slip into your hotel room; he couldn’t let the light from the hallway flood into the pitch black room and wake you. He repeats the process to close the door, twisting the knob all the way, closing it slowly, and slowly twisting the knob back to latch the door shut.

He fucking did it.

He couldn’t even begin to put a name to the feeling he felt. Months of him working up this plan and following you slowly for weeks had led up to this. Sure, it wasn’t your house, but it was still somewhere he knew you were staying. That was enough for him. He squats down to place his briefcase on the floor by the door he entered in from. He pauses again once he stands straight, worried that you’d just feel his presence in the room.

He can see your sleeping form on the bed, you’re not even covered by the blankets, sprawled out and fast asleep with the mass of blankets and pillows around you like a nest. He couldn’t see all of you but he could see your silhouette- you didn’t stir one bit. He moved across the floor, taking step, after silent step until he was at the foot of the bed, looking down on you. You’re haphazardly thrown on the bed, almost like you were so exhausted you didn’t even make it to the bed before you fell asleep, like you sat down on the edge of the bed and laid back- not intending to fall asleep. You’re turned slightly on your side, face buried in the sheets of the bed.

His breath catches in his throat, he’s never seen you in anything other than the long sleeve blazer and pants that you wear to work so when he sees you in nothing but a white tank top that does little to hide your hardened nipples and some lacy panties with a cute little bow- all ideas he had of what to do to you went out the window. His mind was blank.

His eyes roamed over your bare skin, taking in the way the moonlight from the window highlighted every contour of your body. He doesn’t realize his salivating until he has to swallow and almost chokes on the amount of spit he has in his mouth. He’s seen you murder fully grown men, he knows your slap has a force of someone six times your size, you’re a ruthless killer in the line you work in- yet here you are in the cutest pair of panties, they’re even decorated with a little bow.

He can’t help but chuckle softly, what an enigma you were. His body stiffens when the sound of his laugh causes you to stir, moaning softly in your sleep. You turn fully on your back, your legs spreading the slightest bit. Something primal burns inside him, it’s raw and hungry. His body acts on its own as he walks closer to the bed, slotting himself in between your thighs and hovering over you.

You still don’t wake up. He can see your eyelashes fanned out on your cheeks, eyes twitching as you dream peacefully. He’s dropping to his knees, leveling his face with your cunt. His pupils are as wide as saucers as he stares at the outline of your cunt that is contoured by the lace that shields it from his view. Ever since he had his fingers in you, felt you clenching around him, he’s wanted more. He needed to taste you again, needed to see the cunt that he was once knuckles deep in.

He slides his hands up the bed, hovering over your hips before they settle on your skin. You still don’t seem to wake. He leans in and takes a deep breath, basking in your scent. His body acts on his own accord he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. His nose runs up your slit against the fabric of your panties, pressing in ever so slightly.

His eyes nearly roll to the back of his head when he feels the wetness that begins to soak the fabric. How were you already aroused? Were you having a nice little dream?? His hands tightened their grip, pulling you down on the bed and into his face. A soft, sleepy whine falls from your lips and he freezes. His eyes watch your face intently, taking in every slight movement and twitch- but your eyes still don’t open and your breaths are still slow and shallow.

You’re still asleep. At least that’s what he thinks.

You smell so fucking good. His thoughts are spiraling, running through his head a mile a minute, bouncing between yelling at himself to stand up and leave and wanting to truly taste all that your sweet pussy has to offer.

His animalistic urges win and he’s moving one hand to hook his thumb under your panties and pull them to the side. He has to suppress the growl that threatens to rise from his throat when he sees a sticky web of your slick that catches the moonlight, connecting your panties to your cunt. When he finally sees your pussy on display for him- he’s a goner.

Of course the bratty coworker he hated so much has the most perfect cunt. His thumb that is pulling your panties out hot his way presses down on your inner thigh, pulling your pussy lips apart so he can get a perfect view. He’s not even checking to see if you’ve woken up at this point, he’s too entranced by your pretty cunt. He takes the fact that you haven’t shifted or fought him off as proof enough that you’re still asleep.

His lips part, tongue lolling out of his mouth he tries to talk himself out of this- he’s supposed to hate you. But the sight of you sopping cunt is too much, it would be insane of him to leave now. He’s licking a fat stripe up your cunt, flooding his tastebuds with your salacious taste once more. This time straight from the source and not off his fingers. He hears let out another moan, a soft whine as you writhe against the sheets- but you don’t jerk awake abruptly or push him off….so he continues.

His tongue runs through your sopping folds, tracing up and down each intricate crevice of your cunt. His eyes flutter shut at he noses himself further into your cunt. He has no time to react when your hand threads itself in his raven hair, breaking the cast of the hair product and pushing him deeper into your weeping pussy.

“Y-you… hah!… you really thought I was a-asleep?” You say through broken syllables, a wicked smile on your lips as you look down at him. You don’t miss the way his eyes widen slightly when he’s forced further into your pussy, nose diving deep into your folds, nudging your clit. “I saw you f-following me outside the h-hotel.”

His eyes narrow just as fast as they widen and his assault on your cunt becomes more vicious, he’s sucking your clit into his mouth and circling his tongue over it, he pulls back- easily fighting off your forceful push, showing you that he could have done it much sooner if he wanted to. “You want to act all big and bad? Try again when you’re not panting like a bitch in heat.” He scoffs, words muffled by your cunt, the vibration of your words only making your hips jerk sporadically against his mouth.

“Keep trying to sound all angry while, crying out like a whore. It’s cute…pathetic” He seethes, delving back into your cunt. He’s relentless, giving you no time to prepare for the assault of his tongue. The pink muscle dips down, slathering your pulsing hole with a wide lick. His nose is rubbing deliciously against your clit, spreading apart your folds even further. His fingers are digging so hard into your hips, he knows he’s sure to bruise you- the thought only makes him more aroused.

Your head falls back into the pillow, a moan falling from your lips helplessly as his tongue delves into the tight ring of your cunt and devouring your insides. He’s vicious, violent. He’s obsessing over your taste, coaxing more and more slick out of your dripping entrance, drinking it down eagerly. His eyes are drilling into you, you can feel it although your head is tipped back. Your thighs are jittering around his head, threatening to close around his ears.

He laughs into your puffy folds, pulling back. His hands remove themselves from your hips, sliding down your legs and gripping at the underside of your thighs, pushing your legs back. He’s crawling onto the bed and pulling you like a ragdoll, tilting your hips up and holding you nearly upside down. Your knees are nearly touching your ears and your neck is craned at such an awkward angle but you can’t complain. That would give him what he wants.

He pries your thighs open once again, pulling your pretty cunt, raw and red from his ministrations already, open nice and wide for him. “I have barely done anything to you and you’re already closing your legs. How weak can you be?” He coos out, almost like he’s talking to a baby. You grit your teeth and glare up at him, you don’t answer him, but you still give him a smartass retort, “Thought you hated me? H-hmm? What happened to that?” You try to spit out, though when your words come out they are a pathetic squeak.

“You truly are insufferable. Annoying.” He punctuated his words with a sharp slap to your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to your lips to try and silence your noises. “You’re in no position to talk back. Spread open like a slut for your co-worker. Don’t you have any shame?” He chides, glaring down at you before turning his gaze back to your cunt. You writhe in his grip, never in your life have you felt this vulnerable. You’re sure he can see the way your cunt is clenching around nothing with how wide he has your pussy spread open. He can.

“F-fuck you.” You growl out, making a feeble attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. He knows you’re much stronger than that, he knows you can do better. “You’re pathetic. You want this….not even trying to leave.” He hums out, thumbs massaging the sides of your cunt- up and down in a slow, insufferable motion. “Always running your mouth, never fucking shut up do you?” He growls, thumbing over your clit in a rough circle that has you jolting against the bed and whining into your palm.

“Seems like the only way I can get you to shut your mouth is by playing with your cunt. Should have done this a long time ago…put you in your fucking place.” With that sentence, he’s diving back in, jaw dropping all the way open to engulf the entirety of your cunt. His tongue is swiveling in patterns that is making your vision swirl, your thighs shaking violently. The pink muscle circles your sopping entrance a couple times before prodding its way into your fluttering hole.

Your hand drops from your mouth to grip at the sheets, trying to keep yourself on this plane of existence. The cheap fabric of the hotel sheets threatening to tear under your manicured nails. Globs of your slick dirty his face, dropping down his jaw in milky-while drips. He’s drinking you down like someone who hasn’t had water in over four days, like his entire begin is dehydrated and the only salvation is the thick arousal that he’s scooping out of your cunt with his tongue.

“O-oh my god…” you slur out, hips trying to lift up even farther to push his face deeper into you. You needed more. He’s speaking’s something against your swollen lips, the vibrations making an electric shock run up your spine. You can’t even make out what he’s saying, you’re too lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. He’s mean, relentless in how he’s greedily eating your cunt. He’s successfully working towards his goal- breaking you.

The sound of your high pitched, creaky cries has him growling into your pussy. You’re always so sarcastic, a venom laced within your words…not now. You’re pathetically crying out, nearly sobbing as the sound of his wet tongue and lewd slurps fill the room. The gasp you let out when he releases his cunt from your mouth has him laughing darkly. “No bratty remarks now? Finally learned to respect your seniors?” He muses, the tone sadistic.

You pry your eyes open to look at him. He’s covered in your arousal. It trails down his chin and neck in debauched gooey drips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips clean of the wetness left over. He spits down on your cunt, the warm saliva covering your pussy and dripping down your entrance. “Such a fucking mess you are.” He growls out, fingers smearing the mess across your cunt, every movement of his fingers makes a loud ‘schlick, schlick, schlick’ sound. “Messy slut you are, hm?” He hums out, looking down at you with a mocking look.

“Y-you’re the slut!” You whine out, hips rolling into his hand, “E-eating me out while I was a-asleep. Oh fuck!” Your back arches so much it’s almost painful when he pinches your swollen clit between his fingers, deliberately cutting off your pathetic attempt at talking back. “But you weren’t asleep. You were trying to be a manipulative bitch.” He quips with a wide grin, “You talk far too much, you sounded much better when you’re whining like the needy bitch you really are”

With those words, he’s diving back in, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking. That makes your back arches heavenward once more, a loud sob comes from the back of your throat and your eyes are screwing shut. He chuckles into your cunt, zeroing in on your throbbing bud. He’s pushing his face deeper into you, drinking every ounce of your wetness that seeps from your pussy like come deep down, primal desire.

Your wanton moans and cry’s hit him like a freight train. Every sound that falls past your lips makes his cock jump and his hands tighten their grip on your thighs. He’s nestling his face deep, lips and tongue assaulting your clit relentlessly. Your thighs are shaking violently, trying to fight against his hands that hold them down and open. Staying still was impossible, every lick of his tongue as your body jolting against the bed.

“What? Can’t take it?” His voice is a low timbre that has goosebumps erupting over your skin. “Always so confident…so mouthy.” He’s spitting on your pussy once more, diving in to lick your cunt clean with clouds slurps before pulling back again, “Not anymore though…this all you needed? Someone to eat your slutty pussy?”

“I- ah!” You have no option to get a retort out, his lips are wrapping around your clit and one of his hands removes itself from your thigh. You can feel his lengthy fingers prodding at the tight ring of your entrance, collecting your slick on the pads of his fingers before pushing in. Moans are ripped from the both of you. You sob out from the feeling of his tongue abusing your clit and two of his thick fingers stretching your cunt. He’s growling into your dripping heat when he finally gets to feel the tight grip and the warmth of your cunt around his fingers once again.

The digits pump in and out of your sopping hole with deliberate, skillful movements, curling upwards and hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with such speed it has you letting out a surprised yip that falls into a desperate plea of ‘slow down’. He doesn’t listen, of course not, he’s laughing into your cunt and continuing to ravish you.

With every shake of his gaping maw, you catch the way he’s covered in you. Your syrupy arousal is pouring down his chin, covering his face and drenching his hand. His fingers are curling up into you viciously, hitting your g-spot over and over. It has you trying to squirm away, hand reaching up between your thighs to try and push his head away. It was so much. But it was so, so, fucking good.

“Mmmm…” the vibrations of his hum have you keening. “Keep trying to run away, I like seeing you struggle.” To punctuate his words, his fingers pull out of you and as your pussy gapes around nothing he’s sucking his teeth and spitting into your clenching hole. The warm sensation has you letting out a wracked sob that has his mind swirling and his heart racing even faster than it has been. The sound goes straight to his cock.

His fingers are diving back into you and his mouth wastes no time attaching itself back on your clit, he wasn’t going easy on you. He’s sloppily sucking at your cunt, drinking down every drop of your salacious slick. You could feel every single inch and deep curl of his fingers bulling the spongy wall of your g-spot. Lewd squelches and slick, wet, slurps echo each one of your moans. It’s so sloppy.

Your teeth dig at the pillowy flesh of your bottom lip to try and stifle some of your pathetic moans. Without the sound of your moans echoing off the walls you can hear how wet you are. Every squelch is reverberating of the thin hotel walls. The orgasm that has been building up in your lower stomach is burning now. You’ve tried so hard to keep it down, to seem like you weren’t effected- but with each swirl of his tongue and thrust of his fingers deep into your pussy- you know you’re not going to last much longer.

You can tell he knows it too, you can feel him laugh against your clit once again, the sound only driving you further towards the nirvana that your orgasm promised. Your toes are curling in pure ecstasy as your hips grind desperately against his fingers and tongue, chasing your high. You’re so close it hurts. “Gonna cum already?” He mocks, “Not so tough now…so easy.” The words are drawn out lowly, like a snakes hiss.

“Mhm!” You helplessly moan out, your head nodding. You can’t remember the last time you felt like you needed something so badly. “F-fuck, p-please!” You cry out, knuckles turning white with how hard you’re grasping at the sheets. “Oh?! And now you’re begging?! What a desperate fucking whore.”

His words only drive you closer to the edge, he’s so evil. His fingers thrust into you even harder, your slick splashing out of you in depraved squelches, dirtying his suit. His lips capture your clit once more, tongue rolling against it in dizzying circles. Just when you think it can’t get any better, his hand is speeding up and nearly vibrating inside your cunt as the tips of his fingers assault your spongy g-spot.

Static erupts in your ears as you cum harder than you ever have before. It washes over you so fast you cant even tell it’s coming before it hits you so hard. Your thighs are jittering violently, his hand that was not in your cunt is gripping so rough into your thighs the pads of his fingers are making red circular marks that will stain your skin for days to come.

He is greedily drinking up every bit of cum that pours out of you, eyebrows knitting together as he moans into your cunt. The taste of your release is something that he will surely never get off his mind. He’s going to have to go home and fist his cock to the aftertaste of you when he gets out of here. His fingers work you through your orgasm, pulling out only to be replaced with his tongue. His hands grasping at your ass to spread you wide open. His tongue delves deep, licking at your spasming walls to collect every bit of cum like it’s his rightful reward.

Sobs wrack your body as you twitch against him, your hands flying from the sheets to cup over your face to hide your expression. His tongue is so long you can feel him deep within you, inch after extending inch, mapping out your walls and sucking every bit of your orgasm down his throat. You’re seeing white, he’s working you to overstimulation at this point.

When he’s certain he’s coaxed every amount of your orgasm out of you, he’s lowering you down to the bed gently, making sure you’re situated before he’s crawling off the bed. You let out a breathless laugh, chest heaving as you run your hands over your face to brush away the hair that stuck to your forehead.

You hear him rustling around but you’re far too fucked out to even register what exactly he’s doing. “L-like I said before…s-so much for hating me.” You mock sarcastically. You don’t hear an answer though, it’s unlike him. Normally he’d bite back with some response, not this time. The sound of the hotel room door shutting makes you pull your hands off your face.

Sure enough, the hotel room door is shutting and you catch a glimpse of his figure walking out the door.

He knew that it would have been ‘right’ of him to stay with you even a minute longer. But he wasn’t exactly the most morally sound person. As soon as he was granted the delicacy that was your cum, he was snapped out of whatever animalistic trance he was in. He realized exactly what had happened, how he didn’t follow any of the detailed plans he’s crafted, how he just ended up eating out the co-worker he kept telling himself he wished he could kill. He just needed to leave, he couldn’t even fathom who he was anymore.

Back in the room, you scoff in disbelief. You know exactly why he left but you’d figure he’d stay longer to bask in how he broke you down..he didn’t. He’s walking out of the room before you even had a chance to rub in the fact he was just nose deep in your cunt. You’re flopping backwards on the bed, a fucked out smile on your face. Even if he left abruptly, you got what you wanted.

You broke him just the tiniest bit more.

Tag list: @putrescentpoet , @albertzj , @otterluver05 , @babyblue0t7 , @1950schick , @urlocalsabito , @k1ra-park3r , @infinetlyforgotten , @i-might-be-vanny , @sakurayashiro , @a-person-with-many-likes , @liliyiyiy

Sorry if I forgot anyone! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!!!

Thank you guys for reading!! I’m so sorry this part took so long to get up! I’m working hard on requests and other fics but I’ve been having to do lots of overtime at work so I’ve been slow. Forgive me plz 🙏🙏

As always I love you all!! Thank you for all the support!! - <3 kiwi

[drdemonprince]

A little positivity for your inbox :). I'm a queer, autistic generally gender-fucked individual and I wanted to share how much your posts ab building community and putting yourself out there have helped me. I moved to Chicago 9 months ago and felt like the most miserable version of myself. I had like 1 friend and felt too socially inept to pursue any other connections. My anxiety had me locked in a state of inaction. Seeing you post about the merit of just GOING to things, just putting yourself in spaces helped me feel like that was something I could do too? And so I did. I would go events (with my 1 friend) I never really knew what to do with myself I would just kind of...be there. And for a while it was really uncomfortable and I would freak out afterwards. Like every time. But it felt good to be doing SOMETHING to improve that part of my life. It was one of those things that sucked until it didn't I guess. Cut to present day and I'm a version of myself that I didn't know I could be? I go to parties where I know almost no one and I talk to people even when I'm a little scared to approach them. I have so much confidence?? I have to acknowledge that this was more attainable for me than some because I'm an autist who's able to mask. Even still, I was able to find people like me who I can unmask around by venturing out a little. It is possible. My friendship circle has grown into this beautiful collection of neurodivergent weirdo freaks who I never would have known had I kept to myself day in and day out like I wanted to. I'm also not someone whose body meets most standards of desirability, it made it harder but not impossible. Anyways, thanks for being loud and obstinate and also hopeful! You make people's lives better by doing these things. I hope you have a wonderful weekend and enjoy the little bit of sunshine being thrown our way ♥️♥️♥️

Yay thank you. I most want to share this ask so that other people can see it and think about whether your experience could be relevant to their own lives. A WHOLE lot can happen just from showing up to things a bunch of times, getting a little *less* uncomfortable being there (even if you always feel kinda uncomfortable forever, i still do!), participating in what you can, becoming a familiar face, talking to people, and seeing who you vibe with. that's the work. that's everything. and you can do it being shy/anxious/awkward/having highly particular needs/being visibly othered/etc. It's HARD and not everyone is gonna be your people but it is possible. It's a lot of work but it's worth it.

[a-mel0n]

@frogsinflannel your TAGS. i think the moment it clicks for buck that tommy is ABBY's tommy is when patricia goes missing. because abby has a total of 1 friend in canon that helps (carla), she'd also call in tommy for help bc like. tommy and patricia got along, of course he'd help.

(adding a read more bc wow i just kept rambling huh)

so buck gets to abby's place right as tommy showed up and they do a little pointed spiderman meme at each other bc like. they dislike each other, tommy bc buck's immature and also he wants to suck his dick HELLO internalized homophobia, and buck because tommy's so fucking perfect it drives him INSANE. he's so competent at his job and he's so fucking big and the way he calls buck "buckley" makes him want to either lick tommy's cleft chin (which is a perfectly heterosexual thought. ally!) or punch him in the face. maybe both.

they'd be partners at work like how eddie and buck are partners right now, and oh my goddd they get on each others nerves but they work together so well!!! bobby looks at the two of them like: "well i brought on buck to replace sal bc i thought he'd work well with tommy. and he DOES, they just hate each others guts. hmmmm. complicated." anyways back to the point: after they KNOW about the abby of it all their dynamic gets so much worse. buck starts pestering abby for dirt on tommy ("how good was he in bed? for completely straight reasons. i'm better right"), and is sooo antagonistic towards tommy about ending things with abby for (what he thinks) was no reason. full on: "she was devastated and you don't even CARE?" yknow?

tommy's thrown by the fact that he dumped abby and her response was to date someone FROM HIS HOUSE that's 20 years younger than she is. he KNOWS buck is a rebound and is in a temporary relationship, and he's so frustrated because fucking EVAN BUCKLEY can't see that, and can't stop being an ass and nosy about his personal life.

and the entire time abby's just standing in the middle of this weird love-triangle like: "i hear ireland is wonderful this time of year."

anyways they hook up at the end of s1 after abby leaves and buck is happy for approximately 0.2 seconds before tommy says to the 118 that he's thinking of transferring to harbor.

boom s2 starts and eddie joins the 118 while tommy's getting recertified. buck is 10x more antagonistic towards eddie because he's not afraid of eddie replacing HIM, he's pissed the fuck off that eddie's replacing his kinda-friends-with-benefits-kinda-boyfriend-situationship thing with tommy.

sorry just busy thinking about an au where tommy stays at the 118 and him and buck have an enemies to lovers relationship bc

1) despite what current day tommy would like us to believe, tommy version alpha would definitely think buck 1.0 is a himbo. and finding out that buck is dating abby??? guys you dont get it tommy would HAAAATE buck. mostly because tommy wants to suck buck’s dick but also because imagine being one tommy kinard and breaking things off with abby expecting to never see her again and then BOOM your coworker that stole the fire engine is her rebound and you suddenly got to deal with all of That.

and 2) oh my fucking god buck would peacock so hard. mostly because he really wants to suck tommy’s dick BUT he’s got abandonment issues visible from SPACE, if you believe he wouldn’t think his relationship with abby is threatened by tommy’s mere existence i fear you have not been paying enough attention. dude would hear that tommy and abby dated and he’d go “wait why wouldn’t abby want to get back together with her ex. tommy’s hot. he’s got pecs the size of my head and his dick is HUGEEEE. what do i have to offer that tommy doesn’t.”

anyways this all culminates with them hooking up in the 118’s supply closet and hen making BANK because she saw that shit coming from a mile away and started a betting pool immediately.

[coffeesleep-ooc]

Rivals to lovers BingQiu

Where both are in the culinary field but in a xianxia setting

so they cultivate in the (slightly less noble but very rewarding) cooking arts!

LBH is from a humble background, and by chance managed to enter the cultivation sect (insert fancy cooking sect name). He learns under the incredibly annoying and strict Xiu Ya, who in turn has a favorite student, Shen Yuan. The thing is, Luo Binghe doesn’t quite try to get into his shixiong’s bad side, or his shizun’s for that matter. He just cooks the way he foes best and that makes both Shen Yuan and Xiu Ya both impressed and sulky on equal parts.

Luo Binghe is a bit resentful actually, and he wants to show both of them how good he is and how far he will go! And if he kinda…just a little bit…show them in bed as well, that’s nobody else’s business!

Meanwhile, Shen Qingqiu, both known as Xiu Ya and Shen Yuan, is stuck in the role of the main villain and canon fodder without knowing it (memory loss my beloved) and both his personalities kinda want to admire him and strangle him on equal parts…he kinda wants to strangle Luo Binghe almost as much as the mysterious entity that cursed him to age and deage, split bodies with himself, bodyswap himself (themselves????) and give him a fucking sweet tooth

fuck Wu Yanzi as well, as a treat

Shang Qinghua is watching his amnesiac best friend from another world court death or court the protagonist (who knows with these two, Luo Binghe certainly seems enamored and murderous on equal parts) with literal popcorn in his hands…yes he “invented” them, shut up

[sunshinesickies]

Not proof read. Just wanted to get something out for the last day of Feveruary. Don’t worry I will catch up to the days I missed. Been a hell of a couple weeks, but hopefully life will smooth out enough soon for me to have some actual time to write! For now enjoy this fic of Vi on her period and Cait fussing over her. Based on two requests I had in my inbox for Vi on her period, one request by 🧸anon and another anon request. (Also I’ll add a picture later)

Feveruary Day 28— “Well it sounds to me like you need a bit of TLC”— CaitVi/Violyn

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of violence and prison

“Shit again?!” Vi groans as she curls into herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her abdomen. A uncomfortable pain was shooting through her once again and it made her simultaneously nauseous and incredibly irritated. She hasn’t felt like this in, well, years.

Vi tries to think back to when she last had her period only to come up with nothing. She’d been 15 when she was unjustifiably taken to Stillwater, so she’d known about and gotten them for a while. She can remember getting them a few times in prison, but she doesn’t want to think about that.

When you’re in a place like that, there was nothing provided to women during their cycles, only what they could scrap up, and even so, showing any sort of weakness usually meant you were to be beaten to a pulp later. But after her first few months there’s…nothing. She can’t recall having it again.

So yeah, periods in prison sucked, though Vi doesn’t understand why her cramps feel so bad this time. Maybe because they were often drowned out by the stinging pain of the guards’ sticks against her body, or maybe its because she’s grown a little weaker now that she’s living a cushy life in Kiramman estate.

Either way. This fucking sucks. Vi moans again as a fresh wave of cramps shoot through her. Her head is thumping, her body aches and she wants nothing more than for this to be over. Sometimes she hates being a woman.

Currently Vi is curled up on a cozy bed she found in one of the Kirammean’s smaller guest rooms. Yeah. Guest rooms. Plurals. She supposes this is one time she doesn’t think they’re a waste of space.

She’s trying to both hide from her girlfriend and from her own misery. If she could just fall asleep then maybe she could wake up and feel better, sleep off the rest of the pain. But every time she gets close to sleep, some random symptom (usually more cramps) keeps her up.

She knows she probably shouldn’t be hiding this from Caitlyn, but she can’t help it. Vi hates feeling weak. And right now she’s pretty sure she can’t even stand which is pissing her off to no end.

Taking in a calming breath, something Caitlyn has been having her work on whenever she gets frustrated, she squeezes her eyes shut tightly and tries counting as a way to distract herself.

She’s not sure how much time has passed, nor what time it even is. She’d woken up in the morning feeling terrible and somehow gotten herself out of the room without waking Cait up. The curtains in the guest room are drawn closed so tightly that the only light comes from the crack under the door to the hallway.

A gentle creak and the sound of soft footsteps soon pull Vi from her thoughts and she stiffens, hoping not to be found. She knows those steps.

“Violet? Are you in her darling?” Caitlyn’s gentle voice calls a second later and judging by the tone of her voice, Vi knows there’s no use to keep hiding. Plus her girlfriend’s voice was so soft, so warm, that Vi wishes she could sink into its invisible embrace.

“mmno.” Vi murmurs into the pillow she’s clutching and her body softens slightly when she hears an amused chuckle come from across the room.

“Vi? What are you doing in here?” Caitlyn makes her way over to the bed, squinting her good eye to try and make out Vi’s form curled up on the mattress. “Took me ages to find you.” She added, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Kinda the point.” Vi grumbled before curling more into herself with a slight wince, a motion that doesn’t go unnoticed by her attentive girlfriend.

“Are you alright, are you sick?” Caitlyn worries, a small crease forming between her brows.

“Mmfine.” Vi answers but Caitlyn doesn’t buy it for a second. “Vi.” She presses gently but in her no nonsense manner and Vi sighs deeply.

“On my fucking period. Don’t ’member it sucking this much.” She complains even though she hates admitting it. Caitlyn gives a sympathetic hum. “Poor love. Why didn’t you tell me, we’ve got painkillers and pretty much anything else you need.” She offers softly and the thought of having such access to these basic things makes Vi blink rapidly before any betraying tears can slip out.

“Don’t need ‘em. Please don’t make a fuss, Cait. Been through worse.” She answers curtly before she can break down. Caitlyn is slightly taken aback by the sharpness of her tone and she takes a breath, softening her response in her mind before her answers.

“I wont fuss, Vi, and I know you have but…well it sounds to me like you need a little TLC. Let me help? Please.” Caitlyn hums gently as she tucks a strand of hair away from Vi’s eyes.

“Okay…I guess it’d be nice to not feel this sucky.” Vi begrudgingly agrees and Caitlyn frowns as she cups Vi’s face. She isn’t overly warm but there’s some sweat around her temples that lets her know she really is miserable. Plus if she’s agreeing to take meds, Caitlyn knows she’s feeling worse off than she wants to let on. Sure periods are the worst, but Vi’s never mentioned having symptoms this bad, but come to think of it, she can’t remember Vi ever mentioning her period even though they’ve been together a few months now.

“Violet?” An inquiry strikes her attention. Vi hums for her to continue. “When was the last time you had your period?” She asks gently, curiously. Vi shrugs as she begins to sit up, groaning as she moves.

“Dunno…years, maybe?” Her response has Caitlyn completely taken aback this time. “That’s—well that’s interesting. I wonder if your body has been in too much stress for so long that it hasn’t had one, and now that you aren’t constantly watching your back or trying to just survive, that it’s hit you again with full force and then some.” She rambles her idea out loud and honestly, that makes sense to Vi.

She just wishes it weren’t so painful and annoying. “Well it better not be like this every month.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, Vi. Is there anything I can do to help?” Caitlyn hums and Vi looks up to meet her concerned, loving gaze.

“Maybe for now…could you just be with me?” Vi almost whispers, her tone bordering shy in a way that tugs at Caitlyn’s heart.

“Of course my love. There’s no where else I’d rather be. Come here, we can lay here for a bit, but soon I do think it best to get some meds in you.” She tries and Vi nods as Caitlyn moves to sit behind her. Vi settles closely into her girlfriend’s loving arms and for a moment, all the pain dissolves as she sinks into her hold. Caitlyn now has one hand slipped under her shirt, resting on her stomach as she traces soothing circles to her skin. Her other hand finds it way to Vi’s soft pink hair, her nails gently scratching her head.

“Thanks, cupcake.” Vi hums contentedly, the two comforting sensations quickly lulling her into a state of bliss. “Always, love.” Caitlyn leans down to press a kiss to her plush pink lips.

It doesn’t take long for Vi to finally fall asleep, feeling cozy and relaxed in her girlfriend’s loving hold. Periods be damned…though maybe it isn’t so bad. As long as Caitlyn is by her side, Vi feels as she can get through anything.

[tobiasdrake]

Dragon Ball Daima 01x20 - Maximum

Final episode of Daima, here we go.

I am, of course, still totally checked out of the fight with Gomah. Like.

Like. That looks cool as hell but it's also just the 87th instance of Goku or Vegeta hitting this guy and doing no damage. Since it's been established that he's completely invulnerable and takes no damage from anything ever, this animation is wasted on what amounts to Goku and Gomah playing paddy-cake until the arbitrary moment when Piccolo shows up to end the fight.

Yeah, the pretty lights and flashing colors are cool, but they'd be cooler if they were doing anything to advance the fight.

Gomah summons a magic scepter at one point that just starts shooting blasts and I have no idea what this thing is even supposed to be. Has a Demon Scepter of Shooting Ki Blasts ever been brought up as a thing?

I totally thought Piccolo was going to use the Beam Struggle as his window of opportunity to get in and start bopping Gomah. But I guess he didn't want to get in the way of Goku's Kamehameha and end up double-KO'd with Gomah. That's fair. XD

The animators clearly thought that Goku's Kamehameha ripping a brand new hole between all three demon worlds would be the coolest thing ever but I'm just left like.

Uh.

Holy shit.

People live here.

Imagine if Goku hit Cell with a Kamehameha so powerful it cross the world, tore straight through West City, and then wiped the Sacred Land of Karin off the map. That would not be a triumphant celebration moment. Literally the tension of Vegeta's Final Flash was the fear that he would do exactly this.

Just because this isn't our planet, doesn't mean it's okay to wreck everything. This may be a spicy hot take, but I think Saiyans are very inconsiderate of other people's worlds.

Anyway, the time finally comes for Piccolo to end it.

He hasn't gotten to do anything for this entire show but now, at the eleventh hour, it all depends on--

--AND HE FUCKING BLOWS IT.

Piccolo gets one opportunity to finally justify why he's even in this series when he doesn't get to do anything to contribute ever, and he immediately eats shit. Piccolo was a complete waste of a character inclusion.

I think after two episodes of fighting him, we all kinda figured that the Third Eye was healing him rather than him simply resisting everyone's attacks. Every time it pulses, it's undoing all the damage he took while he was getting shitstomped a moment ago. But it's nice to see it confirmed.

The ultimate secret of Gomah's power is that he's just another regenerator like Cell and Buu.

Fortunately, almost immediately after Piccolo eats shit, Kuu solves the plot for us. Arinsu family is best.

This could at least have been like "Piccolo did the first two hits but then Kuu lands the third". But no. Gomah's weak point reset. Kuu has to do all three. Piccolo literally accomplished nothing in his one and only spotlight moment.

And Glorio gets the kill on the Third Eye, which was the real enemy for these last three episodes of fighting. Good for him.

Oh, Panzy. You were a cool concept but they ran out of ideas for anything to have you do a while ago. I still can't believe Panzy's one job in the entire Makai #3 arc was babysitting Dende.

Yessssssssssssss

Respect the Kuu.

I'm just so happy every time these two are onscreen. I'm glad they've found acceptance with the Third Worlders.

The funny thing is, Arinsu could totally claim the throne right here and now. With Gomah and Degesu out of the picture, doesn't she kinda... win by default? Plus she's got Kuu and Duu to be her muscle. I'm not sure what's stopping her from declaring herself Demon Queen.

She doesn't want to live in fear of assassins for the rest of her life. You know what, that's fair.

You know what, I can accept that. XD Arinsu Family forever.

I love him! I love his stupid magic cape he made out of excitement! And I love this family!

Dr. Arinsu turned down the throne for pragmatic reasons but we're still keeping it in the family.

And now he's just handing out cabinet positions to everyone who fought Gomah.

I like that Neva and Kadan get Minister roles. Kuu's administration will have representation from both the Second and Third Worlds, which means no world of Daimakai will simply be a vassal state.

They really said at the very end of this that actually Neva shooting Goku full of magic beams didn't do anything. Goku invented Super Saiyan 4 between series, has had it this entire time, and also secretly had it for the entirety of Super too.

Fortunately, Super Saiyan God very quickly obsoletes all other forms in DBS so this retcon doesn't really cause any problems for it. Though this does finally put an end to the "Okay but which is stronger, Super Saiyan 4 or God?" conversations. Super Saiyan 4 is, canonically, dogshit compared to the God forms and that's why it never appeared in Super.

Also fully decanonizes GT. I know there's been some back and forth in the fandom over whether GT can still happen in the future of Super, since it takes place after the end of the manga while Super is prior to said endpoint. Super doesn't seem to care about trying to build towards GT, but it also never explicitly decanonizes GT either.

"Super Saiyan 4 DOES exist but actually Goku invented it independently right after the end of the Buu arc" is the kind of detail that explicitly decanonizes GT.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Panzy waving Vegeta's arm while he does not give a fuck is the perfect visual to end the series on.

Nope, never mind. The reveal that the Third Eye is just some shit Abra bought at a travel shop a long time ago and there's actually more of them is the perfect thing to end the series on. It's a product. XD Oh, I love that.

[nameless-jamie]

Hi, I was wondering if you could write a Jamie x reader story but y/n is a footballer just like Jamie and they kinda have similar personalities. You can choose if she plays for Richmond’s women team that they showed in the final episode or for another club. But i think it would be both hilarious and cute to see Jamie hit it off with someone similar to him, like he both finds her insufferable because she’s so cocky but he also thinks it’s hot. Thank you so much in advance ❤️‍🔥

Princess of Pricks

One Shot - Jamie Tartt x fem! reader

Masterlist

Pairing: fem! footballer reader x Jamie Tartt

TW: cursing, suggestive scene/language, very long ff

Summary: Y/N, an Irish striker on the Richmond women’s team, faces off against the cocky Jamie Tartt when the teams are forced to train together. The two banter back and forth, challenging each other on the pitch while their rivalry turns into something more.

Part Two is on its way!

The AFC Richmond Women’s locker room was already buzzing that morning. Boots thudded against the floor, shin pads snapped into place, and someone—probably Niamh, the team’s right winger—was arguing over whether tea or coffee was the superior pre-training drink.

“Irish tea is the only correct answer, gals,” Y/N declared as she tied her boots, her thick accent cutting through the chatter.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re Irish,” Niamh shot back.

“Exactly. Therefore, I’m right.”

A chorus of laughter rippled through the room as the team finished getting ready. They were in good spirits today—there was a big match coming up, and Roy Kent, their gruff, permanently scowling manager, had been particularly fired up during the last few training sessions. Which, for Roy, meant extra yelling and even more creative swearing than usual.

Y/N stood, rolling her shoulders. She was already itching to get on the pitch. As Richmond’s star striker and number 9, she thrived on competition. Nothing got her heart racing like the promise of a match—whether it was in a stadium packed with fans or just a training session with her teammates.

“Come on, then,” she called, leading the team out into the hallway and toward the training pitch.

It was a crisp morning, the kind that promised a good session. The team walked through the tunnel, laughing and chatting—until they stepped onto the sideline and saw Roy standing with the pitchkeeper, arms crossed, looking like he was seconds away from punching something.

Y/N’s steps slowed. That was never a good sign.

The pitchkeeper rubbed the back of his neck. “Pipes under the pitch are fucked.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Roy muttered under his breath. He turned toward the team, voice gruff. “Pitch is flooded. Can’t train here.”

A collective groan rose from the women.

“What d’you mean can’t?” Y/N frowned, glancing at the field. Sure enough, there were massive puddles of water soaking the grass, turning the pitch into a swamp. “We’ve got a match in a few days. We need to train, coach.”

Roy exhaled sharply, clearly thinking. Then, with a grumble, he pulled out his phone. “I’ll sort it.”

The team exchanged glances as Roy stomped off, phone pressed to his ear. A few seconds later, his voice carried back to them.

“Oi, Ted. Yeah, I need a favor.”

Y/N arched a brow.

Ted Lasso? Well. This would be interesting.

Roy returned ten minutes later, his usual scowl firmly in place. “Right,” he grunted. “You lot are training with the men’s team.”

A murmur rippled through the squad, half-surprised, half-amused.

“Wait, seriously?” Niamh asked.

“No, I’m fuckin’ joking.” Roy glared. “Ted’s agreed to let us use the pitch, but we’re combining sessions. So unless any of you delicate fuckin’ flowers have a problem with that—”

He was cut off by the sound of boots against the pavement. The women turned to see the AFC Richmond men’s team already on their pitch, mid-training.

Y/N squinted toward the field, watching them pass the ball around in warm-ups. Richmond’s usual stars were all there—Sam Obisanya, Dani Rojas, Isaac McAdoo, Colin Hughes—along with a few new faces. And then there was him.

Jamie Tartt.

Richmond’s number 9.

He was cocky, arrogant, and, as far as Y/N was concerned, the definition of a twat.

She had, of course, seen him play before—both in matches and in training when the men’s and women’s teams had shared the stadium. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was good. He played with a kind of self-assurance that she recognized all too well. The same way she played.

Annoyingly, he also happened to be fit as fuck, but that was beside the point.

Y/N was still watching him weave through defenders when her teammate Aoife suddenly cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled toward the men’s team.

“Oi, lads! Lookin’ good out there!”

The women’s team burst into laughter as a few of the men looked over in surprise. Dani Rojas grinned and waved enthusiastically. Colin smirked. Sam shook his head, chuckling.

Jamie, though—Jamie clocked Y/N immediately.

His eyes flickered over her, sharp and assessing, before he smirked. “You lot finally decided to watch some proper football, yeah?”

Y/N scoffed, folding her arms. “Oh, don’t feckin' flatter yourself, lad.”

Jamie’s brows lifted, clearly not expecting the immediate pushback. But then—annoyingly—his smirk deepened. “Irish, huh? That why you’re runnin’ your mouth?”

“Oh, you ain’t seen anythin' yet, Tartt.”

Ted’s whistle cut through the air before Jamie could respond. The men’s team jogged toward their coach, only sparing a few more glances at the women.

Roy turned toward the squad. “Alright, we’re splittin’ the pitch. Half and half. You lot do not get in each other’s way.”

Y/N rolled her shoulders, already focused on training. But as the whistle blew and they started drills, she could still feel Jamie’s eyes on her.

Fine, then. If he wanted to watch, she’d give him something to look at.

Jamie Tartt wasn’t used to being surprised.

But as he watched the women’s team train, eyes tracking Y/N, he found himself… well, stumped.

She played exactly like him.

Same flashy footwork. Same cocky confidence. Same absolute refusal to take the easy pass when she could humiliate a defender instead.

He’d seen plenty of talented players before—hell, he played with some of the best—but he had never seen someone who moved like him.

It was annoying.

And a little bit hot.

Jamie frowned, standing near the midfield line as the men continued their passing drill. He hadn’t realized he was openly staring until Sam nudged him.

“Careful, mate,” Sam teased, a knowing smile on his face. “You’re looking a little… distracted.”

Jamie scoffed. “Nah. Just—watchin’, innit.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam exchanged a look with Dani, who grinned.

“She is very good, yes?” Dani said. “A proper joy to watch!”

Jamie didn’t like how much he agreed.

His frown deepened as he watched Y/N take on two defenders at once. Instead of passing, she feinted to the left, rolled the ball under her foot, and absolutely sent one of her teammates with a fake shot before burying the ball in the top corner.

The women’s team cheered. Y/N turned, beaming, and Jamie could feel the smugness radiating off her from across the pitch.

“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered under his breath.

At that moment, Ted’s whistle cut through the air again.

“Alright, folks, bring it in!”

The teams gathered in the middle of the pitch, forming two loose circles. Ted, ever the optimist, was practically beaming as he clapped his hands together.

“Well, I gotta say,” he said. “I am lovin’ what I’m seein’ today. Y’all are puttin’ on a clinic out here.”

“‘Cept for Tartt, who’s too busy ogling instead of trainin’,” Isaac muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The men chuckled. The women did too, though Y/N just arched a brow, looking Jamie up and down like she was deciding whether or not he was even worth her time.

Jamie crossed his arms. “Ain’t oglin’.”

“Oh, so you weren’t checkin’ me out?” Y/N shot back. “That’s scarleh, Jamie. Here I thought I had a fan.” (scarleh = Irish. embarrassing/tragic)

A couple of oooohs went up from the women’s team.

Jamie felt a flicker of irritation. He tilted his head, smirking. “I mean, you are a bit of a show-off, yeah? But you can’t be all that if you still play for Richmond.”

Y/N didn’t even flinch. “You play for Richmond too, ya tosser.”

Jamie opened his mouth—then shut it.

Roy, who had been listening to this whole exchange with an ever-deepening scowl, cut in. “Alright, that’s enough.” He exhaled sharply, looking between the two teams. “Since you lot can’t seem to shut the fuck up, I got an idea.”

Ted grinned. “I think I know where you’re goin’ with this, Coach.”

“Men against women,” Roy said. “One half. See who’s actually worth talkin’ about.”

The teams erupted in noise—cheers, laughter, shit-talking from both sides.

Jamie, though?

He just looked at Y/N.

And she looked right back.

A challenge.

Jamie’s smirk returned. “You sure you wanna embarrass yourself like that, Irish?”

Y/N took a step closer, tilting her head. “I dunno, Manc. You ready to lose to a girl?”

Jamie’s heart thumped.

Oh, this was gonna be fun.

The teams spread out across the pitch, both sides brimming with energy. The men’s team looked confident—maybe too confident—while the women were locked in, ready to prove a point.

Y/N stood at the center circle, rolling her shoulders as she prepared for kickoff. Jamie was only a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her with that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face.

“You nervous, Irish?” he drawled.

Y/N exhaled a laugh. “Mate, the only thing I’m nervous about is how bruised your ego’s gonna be after this.”

Jamie just grinned. “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

The whistle blew.

And just like that, they were off.

Sam passed the ball back to Jamie, who turned smoothly, scanning the field. But before he could even make his first move, Y/N was on him—closing the space, pressing high, forcing him to act fast.

Jamie barely got his pass off before she nearly nicked the ball off him.

He frowned.

Alright.

That was how it was gonna be?

Fine.

The match played out fast—faster than Jamie had expected. The women’s team weren’t just holding their own; they were giving it to the men.

Y/N was relentless. Every time Jamie got the ball, she was right there, tracking his movements like she’d been studying him for years.

And it was pissing him off.

She played like she had something to prove. Every touch was clean, every movement sharp, every decision calculated to make Jamie’s life harder. She wasn’t just playing to win—she was playing to embarrass him.

And it was working.

Fifteen minutes in, the women’s team broke through on a counterattack. Niamh sent a gorgeous ball over the top, perfectly weighted, and Y/N—of course it was Y/N—was already sprinting onto it.

Jamie turned and chased, pushing himself harder.

They were shoulder to shoulder now, both flying toward the box, neither willing to back down.

Y/N threw a quick feint, shifting her weight like she was about to cut inside—then didn’t, instead nudging the ball forward at the last second.

Jamie took the bait.

Just for a fraction of a second.

But that was all she needed.

In one fluid motion, she pulled away, her left foot striking the ball cleanly—

—And burying it in the bottom corner.

The women’s team erupted.

Jamie, breathing hard, could only watch as Y/N slowed to a stop, grinning.

And then—just to really piss him off—she did his celebration.

The stupid little wrist-kiss, hands-to-the-sky thing he always did.

Jamie’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, you fuckin’ did not just—”

Y/N turned to him, smirking. “What’s wrong, Tartt?” She tapped her wrist like she was checking a watch. “Don’t like the taste of your own medicine, do ya?”

Jamie blinked. His whole brain short-circuited for a second.

And then he burst out laughing.

Because fuck.

He might actually be in trouble with this one.

The game didn’t slow down after Y/N’s goal. If anything, it got worse.

Jamie played harder. Not just because his pride was at stake, but because every time Y/N touched the ball, she made something happen. It was driving him mad.

Every flick, every trick, every little smug look she sent his way—it was like she was daring him to keep up.

And, fuck, he wanted to.

The match ended in a 2-2 draw—Dani and Colin had pulled the men’s team back, but Y/N had assisted a late equalizer that shut them right up.

When the final whistle blew, neither team looked disappointed. The women had proved their point. The men, despite their initial cockiness, were grinning, clearly impressed.

Except Jamie.

Jamie was frustrated.

Not because of the match—well, partly because of the match—but mostly because he’d never met anyone who made him feel like this.

It wasn’t just the competition. He loved competition. It was the fact that Y/N—this loud, cocky, Irish striker—had waltzed onto his pitch and played like him.

She got under his skin in a way no one else ever had.

And worse, he liked it.

The teams gathered near the sidelines, clapping each other on the back, exchanging handshakes and playful shit-talk. Y/N, of course, was in the middle of it all, glowing like she’d just won the fucking World Cup.

Jamie found himself walking toward her before he even realized what he was doing.

She spotted him approaching and smirked, hands on her hips. “What’s wrong? You look a little tense.”

Jamie exhaled a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, just tryna figure out how someone with your weak-ass left foot managed to score on me.”

Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Oh, you wish my left foot was weak.”

Jamie grinned. “Yeah? Prove it.”

Y/N stepped closer, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Careful, Tartt. You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’ll think you fancy me.”

Jamie’s smirk didn’t falter. “Yeah? What if I do?”

Y/N blinked.

For a split second, Jamie swore he saw her falter.

But then—just as quick—she recovered, laughing like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

“Oh, you’re a cocky little shit, aren’t ya?” she said, grinning.

Jamie tilted his head. “Takes one to know one, Irish.”

Y/N just hummed, looking him up and down. “You’re not completely hopeless, I s’pose.”

Jamie watched as she turned, walking back toward her team without another word.

And fuck.

He was definitely in trouble with this one.

The next morning, Y/N arrived at training to bad news.

“Still flooded,” Roy announced as the women gathered around him, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Pipes are completely fucked. Dunno when they’ll be fixed.”

A collective groan rippled through the team.

“You’re jokin’,” Aoife muttered.

“Do I look like I’m fuckin’ jokin’?” Roy shot back, eyes narrowing. “We’re training with the men again.”

"Let's leg it, ladies," Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. It wasn’t that she hated training with the men’s team—okay, maybe she did a little, but only because it meant spending more time with Jamie Tartt.

And she was already very fucking sick of Jamie Tartt.

As if the universe was trying to make her life harder, the teams were partnered up for drills—and of course, Roy, in his infinite wisdom, put her with Jamie.

The second his name was called next to hers, Jamie grinned.

“Oh, you feckin’ planned this, didn’t you?” Y/N muttered at Roy.

Roy, in classic Roy fashion, just grunted and walked away.

“Relax, Irish,” Jamie said, stepping beside her, smug as ever. “It ain’t that bad.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Jaysus Christ. Let’s just get this over with.”

The first half of training was tolerable. Barely. They did passing drills, finishing exercises, one-on-ones. It was competitive—way too competitive for training—but at least they weren’t actually touching each other.

Until suddenly every drill became a war.

Sprints? She had to beat Jamie. If she ran a 12.3-second sprint, Jamie would push for 12.2. If Jamie hit 15 keep-ups, Y/N would make sure she did 16.

It wasn’t just competition anymore. It was personal.

During a finishing drill, Y/N watched Jamie attempt a ridiculous Rabona shot from outside the box. It went in—just—but she rolled her eyes anyway.

"Show-off," she muttered.

Jamie turned to her, smirking. "Oh, please. You love it."

Y/N scoffed. "Mate, I’ve seen under-12s do better."

"That so?" Jamie arched a brow, stepping closer. "Alright, then. Let’s see you top it, Irish."

Y/N wasn't about to back down.

She grabbed a ball, took a few steps back, and, without breaking eye contact, executed the filthiest outside-foot curler into the top corner.

The entire team howled.

"Fucking hell," Colin muttered.

"She is better than you, Jamie," Dani chirped.

Jamie, to his credit, just chuckled. But Y/N could see it—the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.

He liked the fight.

And fuck, so did she.

Until they got to the last drill.

The worst, though—the actual worst—the partnered stretching.

Y/N immediately turned to Roy. “Are you takin’ the piss, ya feckin' chancer?”

Roy ignored her, just mumbled something that sounded like watch it.

Jamie, on the other hand, looked delighted.

“What’s wrong, Irish?” he teased, stepping closer. “Scared to get a little close?”

Y/N should have walked away. Should have told Roy to swap her partner.

She was already annoyed that she’d been paired with Jamie, and now she was sitting on the grass across from him, her hands pressed against his shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that he was stupidly warm under her palms.

Jamie smirked as he spread his legs into a seated stretch. “Go on, then. Show me what you got.”

Y/N shot him a look. “If you make one inappropriate comment, I will kick you in the face.”

Jamie grinned. “No promises.”

She ignored him, placing her hands on his shoulders again, this time steadier, pushing gently to deepen his stretch. His muscles tensed under her palms, solid and warm, and fuck—why was she noticing that?

Jamie held her gaze, still smirking, but there was something else in his eyes now. Something sharp. Something teasing.

Something interested.

Jamie smirked. "Enjoyin’ yourself there, Irish?"

She pushed harder. "Touch me again, and I’ll break your fingers."

Jamie chuckled. "Touch you again? Babe, you’re the one feelin’ me up."

Y/N shoved him.

Jamie just laughed. Roy gave both of them a warning look from the sidelines.

Y/N cleared her throat and put her hands on Jamie's shoulders again, this time pushing harder than necessary. “Oi, what? You can handle Premier League defenders, but not a simple stretch.”

Jamie chuckled, voice lower now. “Nah, I can handle it.” He let his gaze drop—just for a second—then met her eyes again. “Question is—can you?”

Y/N inhaled sharply.

She hated him.

She really, really hated him.

And yet, when they switched places and Jamie grabbed her hips to pull her into a stretch, she damn near forgot how to breathe.

Jamie’s hands slid to her hips, firm, fingers pressing just enough to send something dangerous skittering up her spine.

Oh, she was in trouble.

"Relax," he murmured, voice lower now, more amused. "Ain't gonna bite."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Pity. You look like the type to."

Jamie blinked. Then—so fucking slowly—it turned into a smirk.

"Wouldn't dream of it, although you look delicious," he said.

Y/N yanked herself out of the stretch immediately.

The problem with training together every day from now on was that accidents happened.

Too many players in too little space. Too many challenges. Too many bodies moving too fast.

And somehow, somehow, in all the hustle and bustle on the pitch Y/N and Jamie kept ending up right on top of each other.

One-on-one drills. Y/N tackled Jamie so hard they both hit the grass, tangled together in a heap.

"Jesus, Irish," Jamie grunted, blinking up at her. "You tryin’ to kill me?"

Y/N, still half on top of him, smirked. "What, can't handle a little pressure?"

Jamie’s hands tightened around her waist for half a second—too long to be innocent—before he smirked at the position they are in. "I'm good with pressure—even better with you on top of me."

Y/N scrambled off him so fast she nearly tripped.

By the end of the week, everyone was talking about them.

"You see them today?" Colin muttered to Isaac as they finished up a passing drill. "It's weird, right?"

"So weird," Isaac muttered back. "They're like... the same person. Different accent."

"They even run the same," Sam added, frowning.

Dani, of course, was delighted.

"They are meant to be!" he declared, positively buzzing. "A true football romance!"

Ted, overhearing, grinned. "Now that is somethin’ I can get behind."

Roy, standing nearby, grunted.

He had been watching, too. Watching the way Y/N and Jamie bickered. Watching the way they shoved each other, how they competed, how Jamie looked at her.

He knew exactly what was happening.

And he did not like it.

"Oi, Tartt," he barked.

Jamie turned, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

Roy narrowed his eyes. "Stay focused."

Jamie grinned. "Always, Coach Kent."

Roy scowled.

He was gonna have to keep a fucking eye on this.

For the past two weeks, training had been hell.

Jamie and Y/N hadn’t stopped competing, hadn’t stopped pushing, hadn’t stopped getting in each other’s heads.

And today?

Today, it boiled over.

It started during a small-sided game—men versus women, just like their first match.

Jamie and Y/N were marking each other. Because of course they were.

Neither had backed down the entire session. Every pass, every run, every fucking look they exchanged was a silent dare.

Then, Y/N got the ball.

Jamie closed in immediately, pressing high, forcing her to turn her back to goal.

She was strong, but Jamie had trained against some of the best defenders in the world. He stepped in, body to body, using his weight to push her off balance.

Y/N dug her cleats into the grass. Held her ground.

Jamie smirked. “Gonna need to do better than that, Irish.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, shifting her weight—then spun him, hard, using his momentum against him.

Jamie stumbled.

And that was it.

That was the moment he snapped.

She was gone, sprinting toward goal, but Jamie didn’t think. He just reacted—lunging forward, going in for the challenge with more force than he should have.

Their legs tangled.

Y/N went down.

Hard.

Coach Beard's whistle blew.

And suddenly, Y/N was on Jamie, shoving at his chest.

“The feck was that Jamie?” she snapped, furious, eyes blazing.

Jamie stepped closer, jaw tight. “It was a tackle.”

“No, it was a fucking cheap shot, you arsehole!”

Jamie should have backed off. Should have apologized. Should have done anything but what he actually did:

He laughed.

“Oh, piss off,” he muttered. “You give it, but you can’t take it?”

Y/N shoved him again.

Jamie’s smirk vanished.

It was too close now.

Too much heat.

Too much everything.

Y/N’s chest was heaving, her hair a mess, her hands still curled into fists like she was deciding whether to hit him or grab him by the collar.

Jamie clenched his jaw. “You done?”

Y/N glared. “Fuck you, Tartt. You're a right pain in the hole.”

And before either of them could do something really stupid—

“WHISTLE. ENOUGH.”

Roy’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.

The entire pitch went silent.

Roy marched over, face thunderous, eyes locked onto Jamie and Y/N like he was about to personally kill both of them.

Jamie huffed a breath, stepping back. Y/N crossed her arms, still fuming.

Roy glared. “You two—inside. Now.”

Neither of them moved.

“NOW.”

Jamie and Y/N exchanged a look—one last sharp, defiant flash of heat—before stalking off toward the locker room.

Roy followed.

The door slammed shut behind them.

Roy paced for a second, rubbing a hand down his face before turning on Y/N first.

“What the fuck was that?” he snapped.

Y/N’s eyes blazed. “Ask him,” she shot back, jerking a thumb toward Jamie. “He’s the one who went in like a fucking pox—” (pox = Irish: annoying person)

“Oh, please—” Jamie started, but Roy cut him off.

“Shut the fuck up! You both are acting like the prince and princess of fucking pricks.”

Silence.

Roy exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look,” he muttered, voice gruff. “I don’t give a shit what’s goin’ on between you two—”

“Nothing’s goin' on,” Jamie and Y/N said at the exact same time.

Roy’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, fuckin’ really?” he muttered. “Then explain why the entire fucking team won’t shut up about you two? Explain why you spend every second of training staring at each other? Explain why you’re both actin’ like a pair of horny, brainless fuckin’ teenagers?”

Neither of them spoke.

Because—fuck.

They couldn’t.

Roy scowled. “Listen, I don’t care what the fuck this is, but it stops now. You hear me? I ain’t havin’ my best player distracted because some little Manc twat’s makin’ eyes at her.”

Jamie bristled. “Ain’t makin’ eyes—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Jamie,” Roy snapped. “You are, and it’s fuckin’ pathetic.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.

Roy turned back to Y/N.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low now, serious. “You’re better than this shit. I’ve been where you are. I know what it’s like to get distracted by—”

He stopped. Cleared his throat.

Y/N blinked.

Oh.

Oh, that was what this was about.

Roy Kent, legendary footballer, had been there. He’d been young, cocky, talented. Had been distracted. Had let himself get derailed.

He wasn’t just pissed—he cared.

Y/N swallowed, shifting her weight. “It’s not like that,” she muttered.

Roy just looked at her.

Y/N sighed, looking away. “Alright. Fine. We’ll knock it off.”

Roy didn’t look convinced but grunted anyway.

“Good.” He turned to Jamie. “And you—you pull that shit again, I’ll fucking end you. Fouling my best player in a fucking training match.”

Jamie gave a lazy salute. “Understood, Coach.”

Roy narrowed his eyes at both of them, then turned and walked out, muttering under his breath the entire way.

As soon as the door shut, Jamie sighed dramatically and leaned against the lockers.

“Well,” he drawled. “That was fun.”

Y/N scoffed. “Fuck off outta here, Jamie.”

Jamie chuckled. “Oh, come on, Irish,” he teased. “You’re not a little bit turned on right now?”

Y/N threw her water bottle at his head.

Jamie ducked, laughing, and Y/N—despite herself—felt the tiniest pull at the corner of her lips.

Yeah. She was in so much fucking trouble.

Y/N was determined.

Roy was right.

Jamie Tartt was a distraction.

So today, she was going to do what she should’ve done from the start—shut it down. No banter. No competition. No lingering looks.

Just football.

It lasted exactly twenty minutes.

Y/N ignored him in the hallways of Nelson Road.

She ignored him during warmups.

She ignored him when they lined up for passing drills and he smirked at her like he knew what she was doing.

But Jamie? Jamie lived for this shit.

“Oi, Irish,” he called as she settled into position for the drill. “You alright? You’re awfully quiet today.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. Did not look at him. Did not engage.

Jamie grinned. “Awww. You miss me already.”

Nothing.

Jamie hummed, juggling the ball lazily. “Y’know, studies say that bottlin’ up emotions ain’t good for you. You can tell me if you like havin’ me around.”

Y/N focused on her breathing. In. Out. Don’t kill him.

The team was already starting to notice.

Sam, standing nearby, bit back a laugh. Dani practically vibrated with excitement. Colin muttered, "This is a bad idea," for the fourth time that morning.

But Y/N refused to break.

Which, of course, only made Jamie worse.

During sprints, he jogged next to her, flashing a shit-eating grin every time she glanced his way.

During keep-away drills, he intercepted one of her passes, then leaned in as he returned it.

“Bit sloppy, that,” he murmured. “You feelin’ alright?”

Y/N clenched her jaw. Don’t react.

She went to the gym late that night, hoping to clear her head. The gym at Nelson Road was usually empty this late. The men’s and women’s teams had long since finished for the day, and most of the staff had gone home.

But when Y/N pushed open the door, she immediately spotted him.

Jamie Tartt.

On the treadmill.

Shirt damp with sweat.

Hair a mess, sticking to his forehead.

Moving at a ridiculously fast pace, like he was trying to outrun something.

Like her.

Y/N swore under her breath. Of fucking course.

Jamie must have heard the door because he glanced over his shoulder—then immediately slowed to a jog, a smirk curling at his lips.

“Can’t stay away from me, huh?”

Y/N let the door swing shut behind her. “I could say the same to you.”

Jamie huffed a laugh, tapping the treadmill speed down until he came to a stop. “This is my routine, Irish.” He grabbed a towel from the side, wiping the sweat from his neck. “You, though? This is new.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’ll be gone in twenty.”

Jamie tilted his head. “Oh, come on, Irish. Don’t pretend you don’t love this.”

Jamie was watching her as she grabbed a dumbbell and dropped into a lunge, not dignifying him with an answer.

“You alright?” he asked, voice lighter now. Less teasing.

Y/N exhaled. Focused on her form. “Fine. Grand.”

Jamie hummed. “Dunno. You looked real wound up today.”

Y/N clenched her jaw. Ignored him.

“Didn’t say one word to me all session,” Jamie continued, grabbing his water bottle. “Thought maybe you’d lost your voice.”

Y/N switched legs. Didn’t look at him.

Jamie smirked. “Or maybe you were just trying to ignore me.”

Y/N dropped the dumbbell louder than necessary.

“Jaysus, Tartt.” She turned to him, exasperated. “Do you ever shut up?”

Jamie grinned. “Nah.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. Shook her head. Reached for another weight.

And then—

Jamie stepped off the treadmill and closer to her.

Not much. Just a fraction. Just enough that she could feel him now, warm in the quiet, empty gym.

His voice dropped. “So, which is it?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Jamie tilted his head. “You ignoring me ‘cause you hate me? Or ‘cause you don’t?”

The air changed.

Y/N’s grip tightened on the weight. “Would ya ever fuck off, Jamie?”

Jamie chuckled, voice lower now. “Awww, c’mon, Irish.” He took another small step, invading her space, gaze flickering over her face. “Admit it.”

Y/N refused to look up. “Admit what?”

Jamie leaned in. “You like it.”

Y/N swallowed. “Like what?”

Jamie’s smirk deepened. “That I get under your skin.”

Y/N’s entire body tensed.

Because fuck him. Because he was right. Because he wasn’t supposed to know that.

Jamie watched her—watched the flicker of something dangerous cross her face, watched the way her hands tightened, watched the way her breath hitched just slightly.

Then, so fucking slowly—

He reached past her, grabbing a towel from the bench behind her.

Their arms brushed.

Y/N froze.

Jamie’s smirk faltered.

For the first time, his teasing edge dropped.

It was just quiet now.

Just them.

His eyes flickered to her lips.

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Jamie inhaled—sharp, steady, deliberate. His fingers twitched.

Y/N felt it happening—that moment. The one where she knew she should step back but didn’t. The one where Jamie should make another joke but didn’t. Everything felt slow.

And then—

The door swung open.

“Oi, anyone in here—oh, fuck, sorry.”

They sprung apart.

One of the Richmond Men's kit men—some kid barely out of university—Y/N thinks his name is Will—stood in the doorway, looking wildly uncomfortable.

Jamie cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, mate. We’re—uh—just trainin’.”

The kid looked between them. Clearly didn’t believe a fucking word.

“Right,” he said. “Well. Carry on.”

Then he bolted.

Silence.

Y/N exhaled slowly. Didn’t look at Jamie.

Jamie pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Dragged a hand through his damp hair.

“Well,” he muttered. “That weren’t fuckin’ awkward at all.”

Y/N let out a breath—half a laugh, half fucking hell, what just happened?

Then, without another word, she grabbed her bag and left.

Because if she stayed, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk away again.

And fuck, was that a problem.

To be continued...

[lottienathive]

The way nat’s face crumbled when she saw lottie vote against her… and her trying to look away multiple times? I kind of have no hope for anymore lottienat interactions this season, but I really hope there is more. But lottie voting against Nat??? Yeah lottienat is done.

Lottie is fucking dead and so is nat so i mean… courtney wasnt lying when she liked the post that said lottienat was endgame. Yk the ship is good when both of them are dead!!

#LottieNatIsOverParty

"lottienat is done lottienat is over" for you maybe. i love me some believer vs non-believer angst. i kinda enjoyed the crumbs we got in this episode. it really showed that lottie, in her heart of hearts, is on nat's side and always has been. but the wilderness creates this divide between them and that's the tragedy of it all.

i'm curious to see how we get from this point in the teen timeline to lottie firmly saying "and you, nat, you were always its favorite. even when you denied it. especially then." there are plenty of missing pieces left in the puzzle so i, for one, am still seated.

[the-stove-is-divorced]

Sometimes you just gotta punch a wall ♡ Tho, there's something so silly about, like, yeah, just let them go ham. We'll be over here.

Delighted you see the vision because ever since SUF finished airing, heck, even midway through, it's all I could think about but just refused to write it myself, wanted it so bad. (＃＞＜) Also the way you describe it so perfect, she is absolutely stalking and I love her for it. Steven bailing her out of the police station would be everything to me. And yeah they're such a fun dynamic to play with, honestly, I kinda love Jasper would be severely allergic to him trying to help her, but post-SUF respects him somewhat? I think I'm too tired to articulate this anymore but I am chewing on the like a dog with a bone. I love them so fucking much.

Nolan "I would bring a whole ass tree instead of bouquet" determined to learn how to even use a camera just to spite this one fucker is truly beautiful. Nolan gains one hobby and it's spite driven. Mark tries to get more Dad/training time only to ordered to tackle some random vigilante or be on patrol to spot him. Mark is just "?????". Meanwhile, Debbie eagerly looks at the camera only to see it's just random, mostly blurry, images of some guy in a red-blue suit. The disbelief. I'd love to see that face she'd make, assuming Nolan was gonna immortalize their memories together. Like, "No, honey I have beef with some random chatty spider-themed vigilante and I will take pictures about it". Like okay, buddy, whatever you got going on I guess??? AND YES! Spidey would be so offended like OH, you trust HIM? It's mostly the mustache. JJ WOULD point out the mask-lessness as a trust thing LMAO. I love this.

The lack of villainous hierarchy is one of the things that will persistently drive me up the fucking wall, you are a super hero show, and you do not have a classic rogue gallery? A compelling rogue gallery that intentionally compares, contrasts the hero in an interesting light? Again, see: batman rogue gallery being iconic. It solves the problem of Mark's shaky morality ambiguity, and just fleshes him + new!Guardians if they fought those kind of battles together. It can truly flesh out the fucking world. What impact do heroes, and thus villains, have on society? Can we see Mark interacting with civilians? Earning their trust back, or even their hostility? I feel like Powerplex is such a fucking breath of fresh air 'cause they finally doing classic hero stuff, and there's a PERSONAL villain that can say something about Mark and the world. Like why didn't we do this from the GET GO????

I love Invincible because I'll be gnawing at the fucking walls for a scrap of goodness and then they'll finally throw me a bone like 5-6 episodes in like FINALLY. I WAS STARVED. CAN WE KEEP THIS GOING?

Also fr??? What is the world like and what the fuck does it mean to not work with the GDA? This is an ample opportunity to establish if vigilantes exist, to define what it fucking means to be a professional hero. Like, in bnha for example, there is a school for being a hero, there's a license, exams, agencies, there is a WORLD and LAW, but with Invincible I, again, do not know what is at stake if heroes do not work with the GDA anymore. Mark and Eve make a company, but did they USE TO get paid with the GDA? Like you said, is anybody without an apparently rich robot buddy that stole your blood and skin and face just screwed? AND YEAH THANK YOU. The Order JUST got introduced and I haven't heard shit about the Lizard League, not to mention we saw them and then Rock Guy basically told 'em to not get involved with the city, what the fuck??? Are we gonna see them again then or????? WHERE IS THE PERSONAL BEEF VILLAINS , other than Power plex, but WHAT ABOUT THE GUARDIANS???? Where's Immortal's nemesis, like???

OMFG THE ORDER'S EXES? She absolutely fits into the world domination group lmao. AND I'M CRYING, her pondering the ethics of outright using tips she got from exes to help Mark would be EVERYTHING TO MEEEEE. She's really like, no, I would want someone to bash Nolan's nose in, and just tells Mark whatever he needs. Honestly, fuck it, I'd love to see Debbie giving Mark tips too, I understand if she's not interested, it's boring to her, but there's something so funny to me about her being as dismissive w/ it with Nolan as with Mark in s1. Like, "oh, the president gets kidnapped plenty of times, do you honestly wanna go now? I'm ordering pizza :/ ". I know she's more concerned 'cause Mark keeps nearly fucking dying, but if they let him fucking win, that'd be a neat dynamic! It could also add/justify why Oliver doesn't take hero stuff seriously other than being a kid, it's because the whole house is dismissive to the danger!

Also, bonus side tangent I think you've seen the latest episodes but: the way they keep making Mark lose battles drives me up the fucking wall because at least when he lost in s1, it made fucking sense. He's inexperienced, being punched in the face with the REAL dangers! Plus, it drives me even crazier because, AGAIN, the peak Nolan vs Mark one-sided smack down, Mark got beat the fuck up but he won. He didn't give into Nolan's rhetoric, Nolan stopped, he realized he DID care. Nolan killed millions with ease but he lost. Mark had a point, and a heart, and I fucking love the "loser" and "winner" of the fight look like that. SO Y'ALL KNOW HOW TO MAKE MARK WIN A FIGHT WHILE STILL LOSING, in some important sense! Again with old man earthquake! Have Mark win the battle with monsters, but put trapped team mates at risk by being to aggressive or reckless and someone gets hurt.

Also again pertaining to the new episode, it drives me up the wall if they shuffled how they set up the season, we could've had a trained, more vicious Mark being violent towards MONSTERS/BEASTS, justifying Cecil's concerns! All the while Mark doesn't see it as murder because they can't talk/not people, THEN, have the whole dragon guy (looks like a beast, but is a person), and again, let Mark win that one! But have him realize later he killed a PERSON, not an entity or creature. Cecil could've avoided telling him until the Big Confrontation, if they pushed that back, and Mark could've had to wrestle with the idea he's killed two people, and one without even noticing/fully realizing. It adds to the drama, it shakes up his notion of murder. Let him have a breakdown even.

This show drives me insane. They had the pieces... they had then.. JUST PUT IT TOGETHER.

Anyways, back to Debbie. Truly let her be fucking selfish? Why should she feel so obligated to higher standards when Nolan went off the fucking fails and just avoided any consequences for the damages? He hurt her, again and again. He hurt their son. He ruined their life, and what? She has to be so honorable? So noble? Please. Her friends, if known the Guardians or any other potential casualties, fucking DIED. Also the "do you ever wonder if you could have stopped them, and do you ever feel a rush realizing you could have asked them to do something worse and they probably would have? just for you?" <- makes me go CRAZY. Like let her feel validated and SEEN??? Truly where is the villain exe/partner support group when she needs it??? I would have LOVED to seen her wrestling with that.

PLACATE DEBBIT OMG. Istg like honestly, GoG/GDA isn't your one fucking job to stop shit like this from happening and you DIDN'T? LET HER SAY THAT. Let her be mean or cruel or even ponder why no one else saw this coming? Let her sink into guilt only to think why should it be her responsibility to save the fucking world from her husband? Why didn't you guys step up? Also, again, her husband killed millions/thousands but didn't touch her, if I was a villain I am not even making eye contact.

Or, like if she's the reason Mark stood up against his Dad, I'd straight up threaten eroding Mark's moral compass. Like idk he listens to his mom. Again, with her being mean + never stop thinking of Oliver <3 = Like, straight up if Oliver has to be here, I'd love if she was uncomfortable or disliked him because of what he stood for, even if that wasn't in his control, let her do that!!! Like doesn't let him call her Mom. I also was again chanting for Teen Dad Mark, let Debbie not raise an affair child oh my god guys. CAN SHE LIVE????

Mark and Debbie could be guilt magnets in SUCH different ways but I am denied. Agony.

Also Debbie fully taking advantage of Cecil needed her alive + general recklessness would be incredible. Like straight up taken advantage she's built Mark's morality, and if she's gone, he's going to lose this fucking shit, and they're at risk for a Omni-Man Sequel. Let her be petty and smug omg. LET HER LIVEEEEEEE. Have her run head first or even casually stroll through a low villain crime spree so Cecil has to teleport her home. She just becomes a familiar face at the GDA. She likes their lounge. Sometimes she takes a comm and says hi to Mark or ask him to pick up something since he's near a restaurant in Spain she likes or something. Cecil fucking hates the fact agents greet her/inform her/treat her with similarity authority, like it'd be so fucking cool if villains, GDA staff, etc didn't mess with her???

And same? The s1 mystery had such a good fucking tone, even if it had faults, it had a coherency to it that s3 just doesn't??? Like can you stop checking off a list of Shit To Do and make a story again? Like think it through?

While I'm not too familiar with the DCU- your batfam meta posts are intiguing- so in transfering some of the broader strokes from them- I think you tackling a 'Mark isn't Nolan's biological son' fic would be fascinating. Sort of a step to the side of the 'what if Mark never got his powers' fic that sometimes pop up in the fandom

OOOOOO chewing on this currently, hm, the much a distinct flavor of exactly what you’re talking about, but the potential for more family drama depending on WHO knows. Does Mark know?? Is he waiting every day only to be crushed? Does he confused non-Debbie features with Nolan’s? I suppose I’m not the most enthusiastic about non-power AUs, but I think there’s something very fun to explore about Mark having to settle with, if he knows all his life, he will never have powers? I think the trajectory of his dreams will obviously shift, I can see him still having that distinct fatherly idolization, but perhaps embraces being useful to the GDA? Cecil’s number one intern—only intern—curtesy of nepotism, ha! There is something tickling me about Mark taking the Robin Route/Role for the Teen Team in terms of having no powers, just insane skills, BUT there’s something way more delicious about intern Mark when s1e01 happens and Mark tries snooping around to find out the truth about what happened to his Dad.

I wonder if, with Mark having a whole another father, if they’re more or less distant relationship, depending on WHEN Nolan entered Mark’s life? Like if Debbie met Nolan later for this, or just for fun, they dated once, separated (Mark being born during then), then they happened to stumble into each others lives again and Mark’s already been born, anywhere from tween to teenager so there’s a gap in how close they are. I feel like one important aspect of the whole Family Drama is how close they’re supposed to be, a functional, loving family turned upside down? So I wonder what more distance does. I wonder how Nolan copes when his family is entirely human and he can’t project onto Mark.

I love thinking about these, omg.

[fizzle-fag]

Doodle I made of my beloved boygirlfriend while watching Fringe