#and i already think he has a pattern of not feeling like he's good enough and with this added on—

[steddieas-shegoes]

forever starts with a question

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEX!!! This universe would not exist at all without all of your support and love and care for this version of Steve and Eddie and Rory. I hope you enjoy an extra little snippet of their lives and more importantly, I hope you have the best birthday @thefreakandthehair 💖

rated m | 1747 words | from the bear hugs universe | cw: implied sexual content, references to sex | tags: established relationship, modern au, hockey au, fluff, marriage proposal happens off screen in this but on screen in bear hugs

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

This is stupid, he thinks for the 16th time tonight.

There’s only so many times a guy can change his shirt before he starts to think going shirtless is a better option, and that’s about where Eddie’s at.

He’s just asking Rory if he can ask Steve to marry him. It’s not like he has to look perfect. It’s Rory. She’ll have chocolate ice cream on her shirt within five minutes of their night out, anyway. It doesn’t matter if he wears the black button down or the red sweater.

“Are you almost ready?” She bangs on the bedroom door and Eddie jumps.

“Yes! Be patient!” He checks the mirror by the closet one more time before opening the bedroom door and smiling down at her. “Who braided your hair?”

“Dad. Is it okay?” She reaches up to touch the ends of the braid, trying to look down at it as if she could see enough.

“It looks great,” Eddie replies. “You ready?”

Rory nods and rushes to the front door. Eddie throws his coat on and grabs his keys.

“We’re heading out!” Eddie calls as he opens the door. Steve’s most likely already busy on his lesson plans, trying desperately to catch up from having the flu for the last week. “Love you!”

“Love you both!” Steve yells from the extra bedroom that serves as an all-purpose room. It’s an office and storage and guest bedroom and present hiding place all rolled into one.

Eddie feels the nerves really kick in when they get to the ice cream shop. They always start with dessert on their nights out together. Eddie believes in starting with the good stuff, and Rory doesn’t argue.

She’s looking at the flavor options as if she ever gets anything other than fudge brownie ice cream with caramel on top. He lets her. Maybe she’ll surprise him one of these days.

“I know what I want,” she says barely a minute later.

“Go ahead and order,” Eddie gestures, bowing dramatically and smiling when Rory giggles. “Anything the princess desires!”

“Can I please have a fudge brownie ice cream in a cone with caramel on top?” Rory places her order and Eddie can’t help but love that she’s such a creature of habit. So is Steve. Down to the way he unties his shoes, and the exact pattern of what he does when he’s getting ready for bed, and-

“Daddy, c’mon!” Rory waves her hand forward and he snaps out of his thoughts.

“Sorry! I’ll have a bourbon caramel swirl,” he says.

Rory nudges him, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh! Please.”

The woman laughs behind the counter and scoops his ice cream.

“You have to be polite,” Rory reminds him.

“I know I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted,” he admits.

She furrows her brows. She looks so much like Steve when she does it.

Eddie pays, adds a nice tip for his unintentional rudeness earlier, and lets Rory lead him to a table. She always picks the one closest to the window that looks at the fountain, but that one’s taken. She leads him to one by the other window, one that looks out to the street.

They eat in silence for a bit. Ice cream drips onto Rory’s shirt. Eddie doesn’t acknowledge it except to hand her a napkin from the pile he grabbed before they sat down.

Eventually, he runs out of ice cream and she keeps looking at him like she’s onto him. He doesn’t know how she could be, but you never know with her. She always notices the things most kids wouldn’t.

He needs to just say it. He has to ask now or the anxiety will just keep building.

“So. Rory.”

“Daddy.”

“I like our little daddy daughter times. Do you?”

“Yeahhhhh,” Rory answers, drawing it out to emphasize how strange Eddie’s being.

“It would be pretty cool to do them forever, right?”

Rory nods. Eddie wants to fist pump. He’s doing great.

“I think it would be pretty cool to marry your dad, don’t you?”

Okay, that delivery could’ve used a little work, maybe a little more buildup. He didn’t practice the exact words today, so naturally he’s struggling a little.

“Daddy, what the heck are you talkin’ about?”

“You know I love him so much? And I’ve loved him so much for so long.” Eddie feels his stomach flutter. He told himself this would be harder than the actual proposal, and he’s finding that wasn’t an exaggeration. He thinks proposing to Steve will be a piece of cake after this. “And I also love you very much. I want to be part of your family forever, if you’ll let me.”

“But you’re already part of our family,” Rory says, confused.

“I am!” Eddie reassures her, reaching out to take her hand and pull her out of her chair. She’s standing right in front of him now, eye level so she can truly understand what he’s trying to say. “You guys have accepted me and loved me and I will always love you both, no matter what. But I was thinking it would be nice for us to have a wedding and officially be husbands. Your dad deserves something nice, something he really wants.”

“Not like my mom?” Rory asks and it breaks Eddie’s heart a little.

“Yeah, little one. He didn’t get to have a nice wedding the first time, and he wasn’t loved the way he should’ve been.” Eddie takes a shaky breath. “And neither were you. But I’m gonna do everything I can to love you both the way you deserve.”

Rory bites her lip, reaching up to play with the end of her braid that’s starting to come undone. Poor Steve just never does it right enough for her hair type.

That’s okay, though. Eddie will be there to help her until she can do it herself.

“And you won’t ever leave?”

Eddie shakes his head and pulls her into his chest.

“I’ll never, ever, ever leave you. Even if your dad moves on from me, I will always be here for you,” Eddie says. “I’m your dad, too. I’m not gonna stop loving you for any reason, okay?”

Rory nods against his shirt. She’s quiet for a full minute before she pokes at his chest.

He looks down and frowns.

“You got ice cream on your shirt,” Rory says.

“Shit.” Eddie grabs a napkin and starts wiping, hoping it doesn’t leave an obnoxious stain. He’s glad he chose a dark shirt, at least.

“You can marry my dad.”

Eddie freezes and looks up. Rory is looking back at him with red cheeks and watery eyes.

“But I get to hold both your hands,” she continues.

Eddie beams at her before he pulls her into a crushing hug. “I think we can swing that,” he gets out despite the sob barely being contained in his chest. Rory is patting his back, probably trying to comfort him, which he knows looks bad to the strangers scattered around the shop.

“Are you sad?” Rory asks.

“No!” He sniffles and lets out a small laugh. “I’m so happy.”

Rory pokes his cheek and starts playing with a piece of hair that fell from his bun. “But why did you ask me first? Don’t you have to ask dad?”

“I do have to ask him, but I wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want me to. Your opinion matters,” Eddie explains. “Speaking of, though. Can you keep this a secret? I have an idea for a plan, but I need you to not spill anything.”

“I can keep secrets! I’m really good at it.” Rory jumps up and down. “I didn’t even tell you about the present dad got you for your birthday!”

She smacks her hand on her mouth while Eddie laughs. He loves this kid, even if she is bad about surprises. Luckily, Eddie’s plan is only a few weeks away, and he’s pretty sure she’ll be too focused on hockey to say anything to Steve.

He starts to tell her the plan while the rest of his ice cream melts in the bowl. He didn’t really want ice cream anyway, just time with his favorite kid.

****

“I can’t believe you proposed at a game,” Steve gasps between kisses against Eddie’s neck. “Can’t believe we’re engaged.”

Eddie laughs as he leans his head back against the wall. The unused equipment storage room they’re in smells like it was recently used, sweat and mildew clinging to the walls and carpet. It’s a smell that feels like home to them, but it’s decidedly unsexy.

Plus, they only have a few minutes before they have to get Rory from the locker room, where she is gathering autographs from everyone as if she won’t see them in the next month when Steve and Eddie come back for a coaching camp.

“Sweetheart, you’re not gonna have time to fuck me,” Eddie moans as Steve’s hand cups his hard cock through his jeans. “Shouldn’t even be in here.”

Steve pulls away a few inches. “Who said anything about fucking you?”

“Oh, I just assumed that’s why your hand was trying to fit in the back of my jeans,” Eddie smirks.

“You could fuck my mouth?” Steve offers.

“Jesus…” Eddie groans and pushes Steve away. He grabs his left hand, though, pulls it close to his lips, kisses the ring on his finger. “When we get home, I’m gonna do anything you want, I swear.”

“But not here?” Steve pouts.

“Not now,” Eddie sighs. “But maybe if we can find a closet at camp…”

“Deal!” Steve smacks a kiss to his lips and rushes to straighten his hair and look presentable.

“You’re leaving me like this?” Eddie asks, gesturing down at the wet spot showing through his pants. “How am I gonna explain it?”

“You’ll just have to hide it,” Steve says as he walks to the door. “You’re the one who didn’t wanna fuck me here.”

“This is rude!” Eddie yells as Steve leaves the room.

There’s no answer, but Eddie quickly adjusts himself and makes sure his jersey is covering his front as much as possible.

When he makes it back into the locker room, Steve is talking with a few of the players while Rory is busy tossing a tennis ball back and forth with the equipment manager and goalies.

Steve looks over at him and winks.

Oh, Eddie’s gonna have a fucking field day with him when they’re alone.

[royal-chandler]

temporary/maybe permanent title is winter interlude. written for the lovely @caressthosecheekbones ✨

--

Henry is certain that he's only just fallen asleep when he’s nudged awake, Alex’s soft scratched voice at his ear and his hand giving Henry’s wrist a slight squeeze. Henry’s answer to his name is a long groan. 

“Hen, baby. Can you wake up for me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please?”

Henry groans once more and burrows further into the pocket of warmth that’s been conjured from sleep, their thick cloud-like duvet, and Alex’s arms. He keeps his eyes shut and silently, drowsily wishes for Alex to concede. And of course, no such luck.

“I’ve got an amazing idea.”

“That for some ungodly reason can’t wait until morning?”

“It’s uh,” Henry feels Alex slightly shift away, imagines that he’s checking the nocturne glow of their bedside clock, “one thirty-six right now so technically...”

“Don’t even bother finishing that sentence.”

“Come on,” Alex draws out. He shakes Henry some more, as if he can transfuse enthusiasm through vibration or using Henry like a ketchup bottle that’s been sitting too long. “Come on, we’re losing starlight. Let’s get a move on.”

“Christ, Alex, what for?”

“It’s stopped snowing. We should go sledding.”

Henry snorts, incredulous in the quiet. “Fuck off.”

Clearly Alex has gone bonkers because there is no way on earth that Henry is dragging himself out of bed to charge down a hill of snow on a plastic death trap in freezing temperatures in the middle of the night. 

*

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Henry says, trudging through snow that’s at least twenty five centimetres deep at the rear of the White House. 

At Henry’s side and tugging him and his sledge the last bit to the crest of the hill, Alex says, “It'll be fun.”

“Ah, yes.” Henry nods. Editorialised with bone-dry sarcasm, he continues, “Whenever I think about fun, frostbite is the first thing that springs to mind.”

“It is nowhere near cold enough for that.” Alex brings up their joined hands. “Plus, you’ve got your little cute gloves on. You’re good.” 

The Aztec patterned gloves are secondhand from Alex, dug out of a closet cubby as he had pointedly made sure to mention that they were a gift from his abuela when he was thirteen and no longer fit. 

Alex had also emphasised that Henry didn’t need to give them back. That it was a transfer of ownership. And they are very nice, the fingerless sort that convert into mittens. The yarn stretches comfortably and the pouches slip over Henry’s fingers just right. 

“Everything will be fine,” Alex promises. He reaches out and clicks on Henry’s headtorch. His already lit grin is brilliantly illuminated. “Trust me.” 

“There’s no question of that,” Henry returns. “I only ask why this couldn’t wait for the daytime? You know, how it’s normally done.”

Alex simply shrugs, his grin gentling into something flagrantly affectionate. “Because right now it's like the world is just us.”

And fuck, what is Henry supposed to argue against that?

*

“How are you winning?!” Alex drags his sledge behind him with one hand and wildly gestures with the other. “You didn’t even want to do this. I did not plan on you winning.”

Above him and at the top of the hill already, Henry props an elbow on his now vertical vehicle that’s planted in the snow, watching Alex with amusement. His boyfriend is exceptionally precious when he pouts. “My being reluctant to sledging doesn’t mean I’m not skilled at it.”

“Best of seven,” Alex huffs upon arrival. 

“You have a problem. The terms were already agreed upon.”

“You scared?” 

Alex then proceeds to emit the noises of a fowl.

“Resorting to primary school tactics, are we?”

Alex only lifts his brow, his expression dancing with challenge.

“I'm going to need some proper motivation, darling,” Henry says, sliding on a smirk.

“I could be a victim of clichés and offer mind-melting sex if you win but you get that all the time anyway.”

Henry breaks into helpless laughter and agrees when he finds the cold air to do so. 

“So, instead, how about the next time I’m at the palace I take you up on those horseback lessons finally,” Alex says. 

“Truly? You’ve always seemed—uncomfortable around them.”

“Well they are huge, intelligent beasts that can buck me off and launch me god knows how many miles an hour into the air.”

“Dramatic." He pauses, shaking his head. "Really, Alex. You don’t have to.”

“You love it and it’s something we can do together. I’d like to try it out,” Alex says and he sounds sincere. “If I don’t enjoy the experience, I won't be shy about it.”

“And if you win? What do you want?”

“Here’s where I do get pervy."

"Of course."

"I win and you let me buy you a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson and you wear them for me.”

“Nothing else, I’m assuming.”

“Anything else would get in the way, Henry.”

“You’re on.”

*

Minutes and minutes later, victory is Henry’s and he graciously accepts Alex’s request for a final run, plopping down on the front of Alex’s sledge when he makes a grabby motion for Henry, his legs open. Their combined weight rips them downslope, easily the record of the night. They’re a powdery pile at the bottom when they come to a stop short of the treeline with a sharp turn and tumble off the sledge. 

“You alright?” Henry asks. 

“I should be asking you. You’re the one who cushioned my fall. Am I smothering you?"

“It's all fine for now, love. You’ll be nursing my aching bruises later.”

“Obviously.” Alex animates the line of his brow. “Just call me the love doctor.”

“Won’t be doing that, thanks," Henry comments. Using his teeth—due to most of him being trapped under Alex—Henry yanks back the pouch of his right mitten. He assesses the snarled wreckage of Alex’s hair that’s been freed of the headtorch and clumsily combs through it with chilled fingers. There’s a small scratch by Alex’s temple. Henry thumbs away the paper-cut thin trace of red and finds Alex’s perfect eyes. “You didn’t let me win, did you?”

“Me? Never. I lost,” Alex insists, sweetly leaning his head into Henry’s touch. His adoration is spotless if not his honesty. “Life rolls on.”

Henry considers calling Alex out but a shiver distracts him, stalls his tongue. 

Alex’s arms around him tighten and with their physical arrangement, it’s plenty awkward. It’s also loving. He ridiculously presses a kiss to Henry’s wintry-wet palm. “Cold?”

Spellbound, Henry murmurs, “A bit, yeah.”

“I’ve got a way to get you warm,” Alex shares quietly. 

*

Henry moans and licks at his lips, chasing the flavor off his mouth. “This is sinful.”

“I know,” Alex says after a long sip from his UT mug. “Nothing beats Mexican hot chocolate.”

“And the amaretto? Ugh, chef’s kiss.”

“Discovered that little addition four Christmases ago.”

Henry smiles at him and eats another mini marshmallow. “The man’s a genius.”

“Yeah, my ideas aren’t all shit that will have us needing Icy Hot the next day,” Alex replies, his gaze dropping to where their sock feet share the spindle of a kitchen stool.

Henry lightly kicks him. Kicks him again to get his full attention. “Tonight wasn’t shit.”

“No?”

“No.”

Alex sighs, abandons his drink to rub at his stubbled jaw. “Snow felt like—like a fresh start. A renewal, I guess. Getting rid of yesterday. I know it’s not that easy, that it doesn’t work like that and it’s fucking stupid—”

His heart sore and swollen, Henry closes the distance that parts them, hushes Alex’s doubt with a slow and open kiss. He kisses past the cling of sugar and spice, until it’s clean. 

“I love you,” Henry says. His words are only a fraction of what he means but he knows Alex can read the spaces between. Thank you. It helps. You help.

“Love you still. Love you always.” Alex curls into him, his hand over Henry’s knee. 

He’s there. He’s there, Henry knows because he can read Alex’s spaces just as well.

--

please forgive any mistakes. i read over it but it was written very quickly. also, i’m fairly sure there are no hills behind the white house. the grounds are pretty flat but for some reason this fic insisted on being there.

[thebroccolination]

THE STAKES! THEY’RE STAKING! [THAMEPO EP. 6 PREDICTION]

I continue to love the writing in ThamePo, because although the series’ conflict is simple enough (idol has to choose between his group’s success and his ~new forbidden love~), the path to getting there isn’t predictable, so it makes the journey so much more fun.

And it looks like episode six will serve the purpose of foreshadowing the risks of Po and Thame’s developing relationship through Pepper.

From the lines in the preview, it seems like Pepper will be found out to be dating someone, and his position in the group is on the chopping block as a result.

This is such a smart obstacle for two reasons: first, we haven’t gotten a dedicated episode for Pepper yet, and it’s clever of the writer(s) to have him rejoin the group without protest and then slam down a conflict that Pepper won’t object to (I imagine his line above shrugging off being kicked out is going to be accompanied by a stance of: “if you make me choose between the group and the person I love, I’ll choose the person I love”) but that Thame, as the protagonist, will have to convince him to take on. It also fits well with the pattern of reigniting each member’s love for the group so they’ll have a motivation to fight for MARS. (For Jun it was Thame’s happiness, for Dylan it was feeling appreciated, and for Nano it was security.)

Second, my guess is that Pepper is dating a woman in order for the narrative to show how how much more dangerous a relationship between two men will be to MARS. If even a conventional relationship is enough to threaten Pepper’s status in the group, imagine one that isn’t.

My prediction for episode six is that Thame, having realized he’s falling in love with Po, will try to convince Pepper that he can have both. He can date and be part of MARS. In Thame’s mind, if he can establish a precedent for a member dating and not threaten the group’s survival, then Thame and Po won’t have as big of a struggle convincing the company to let them date.

But to satisfy the narrative structure of the stakes rising while disrupting the so-far smooth sailing of bringing MARS back together, I think Pepper will feel pressured enough to break up with the person he loves for MARS.

This will put Thame in an even more uncomfortable position: he’ll have seen the risk of pursuing something with Po, he’ll have seen a friend’s relationship ruined and thus potentially feel guilty for pursuing something with Po, and we know he’ll choose love anyway because that’s the kind of show this is. (And y’know, because we’ve seen the trailer.)

There have to be established stakes for Thame’s relationship with Po, and I think episode six is going to be a very significant episode for their Developing Feelings for Each Other.

ThamePo is so damn good, I’m having such a great time. :’) Definitely in my top five already.

[ask-the-golden-goo]

@pokeask-magi-retreat

*The Goomy approached the Magi, looking up at them with some awe. He'd seen a lot of wonderful things in his time but this just had a certain magical nature about it he couldn't quite take his eyes off of.*

*He kept looking up at them before remembering why he came to them. His demeanor changed to that of a more serious one.*

"Oh yeah, the reason why I'm here. Ha, almost forgot. I, erm, need some advice. It's a rather complicated situation and I just want another's opinion on it. I know, probably weird for someone with my experience to need advice."

*Slime Boi shifted in place. Was he going to sound like a bad Pokémon? What would these creatures think of him?*

"There is someone who I once called my family who did something truly awful a long time ago. I've not forgiven him for it. I don't think I ever could. Recently, he's been causing immense suffering to his kids. I guess they're not kids but they're still incredibly young. I want to intervene but they don't remember me. He is to blame. If I come in to try and save the day, they'll just push me away. One of them has already been brainwashed enough to follow his father's every move."

...

"Oh right. You folks need a gift. Gotta give something good."

Slime Boi drew a circle in the air using a formed hand. Where he had drawn glowed a soft, golden light. When the circle had connected together, a swirling, glittery portal appeared, a warm energy radiating from it. Slime Boi reached in, rummaging around to find what he was looking for, making a small, "Aha!" when he found the items. Pulling his arm out, his hand held three necklaces. These all had a golden chain, dappled with tiny flecks of silver and a stone hung on the end. The stones were all round in shape, however the colours appeared to shift and change in hue, going from the deepest blues to delicate purples. Like a galaxy trapped in a single place. The stones were also freckled with tiny white dots, seeming to glow faintly in the dark of the night.

"Though, if you look real carefully, you'll see that the white spots are a completely different pattern in each one. Rad, right?"

*Slime Boi pointed to one of the stones in particular, drawing out a shape, which looked a bit like a mew's face, using the star-like flecks. White lines briefly flashed the image drawn, making it clearer to see.*

"This particular constellation here is known as the bringer of joy. When early Pokémon were first identifying constellations, they used their interpretations of what they thought legendary and mythical Pokémon look like to figure out what they should be. They also named them after what each deity represented to them. There's a whole bunch of constellations in these with a wide range of god-like Pokémon."

*He held them out to the Magi.*

"Of course, if that isn't what you're feeling, I can go get something else. No trouble for me."

[angeart]

Howwwww did you angst the world tour?? 🎀

this question made me giggle so much oh i'm glad you asked :3c there was so much yummy grian angst in the hc world tour!

it's all about grian and his penchant for destruction. he doesn't even mean to! he's not trying to be pesky; quite the opposite. he's curious but restrained, trying to be good, trying to follow instructions. he's not malicious at all! he's just there to see what people were up to, open and friendly and curious, eager to look and learn and praise. not a bad intention in sight... and yet things seem to break wherever he goes. everything he touches goes wrong.

the guilt churns, acidic and overwhelming, and grian's miserable. why is he like this? he's trying so hard, why is this the only way he can ever be? why can't it stop?

spoilers for grian's world tour video below <3

plantie pointed out to me how, during the tour of scar's train, when grian got rid of scar's arrows—the glitched ones that doc put there—he was so desperate to point it out after scar just glossed over it. as if he wanted to show that he can do something good. he can be helpful, he can fix things instead of just breaking everything.

but then we have all the other things, right? grian can't escape it.

when he was with etho and the mushroom farm exploded, he sums it up in a wretched if confused apology: "i'm so sorry. the two times i tried to use it, i broke it :( and created a water source floating— which i don't know how it happened— and flung the TNT, which i really don't understand—"

they move on, but it's so clear it lingers.

etho isn't blaming him. he's amused and brushes it off and moves along, unbothered, but grian himself can't wrap his head around it. about that propensity to breaking things, even unintentionally. the way nothing is safe around him.

he tells etho: "i can't stop thinking about your mushroom farm. why does everything i touch break, in new and unexpected ways?"

(not to mention when etho's showing him frogger and grian plays, almost instantly etho goes: "uh-oh, the game's broken", with a little huff of laugh. it wasn't exactly tied to anything grian did, but still something i wanted to point out, since grian was there for it <3)

and then grian goes to zedaph, right?

the very first game zedaph shows him. the very first. grian plays the way he was told to, the way he was meant to, and— he breaks it.

zedaph just laughs and moves them on.

(just sprinkling in a side note that zedaph's furnace minigame also didn't seem to work the way it should've—)

by the time grian gets to pearl's, it's starting to be a pattern that's so clearly eating away at him, making him anxious. he doesn't want it to happen again!

and yet.

pearl invites him to play her wordle game, and grian mindlessly goes and pushes the wrong button trying to start it... instantly stepping away with a quiet groan of a dread-filled "...oh-" followed by: "i just— ruined it already."

there's something about the mood switch. the way he seems more restrained and tame, silently upset with himself, trying so hard not to mess things up further. questioning why this is happening again. why he can't stop making it happen.

he walks over to the reset game button and asks, carefully: "can i press reset? is it gonna hurt? 🥺👉👈"

pearl reassures him he can, with a sigh noting that it'll just take a while.

there's an almost hysteric laugh from grian, followed by an exasperated, upset scream. "everything i touch breaks! when i went to e— i broke etho's thing when i went to— not frogger, his— his mushroom farm i— it blew up."

"you blew up his mushroom farm?? how? what did you do?!"

"yeah, i— i broke zed's game, instantly, pretty much, it's—"

"oh my gosh :("

"sorry 🥺"

pearl is quick to reassure him, though. "well, luckily for you, this is— you doing that (pushing the wrong button) does not break the game. it's just, you now have to wait for it to reset."

she makes sure grian knows that he didn't mess up anything terribly here. he didn't break pearl's game. it's okay! it's fine!

and then grian right clicks to open the book, and instead makes bonemeal pop out of a composter.

i think at this point pearl is a little bit taken aback by how wrong everything really seems to be going around grian. she makes sure to say, "it's fine," again, just so grian won't start worrying about it all again. "you're clicking on everything that people do not usually click on today. but it's okay. it's still not broken! it's not broken, it's alright, it's okay— i've got failsaves for people like you."

it's so sweet how she really tries to soothe him— and yet she can't help but let out that last remark.

people like you.

those few words surely lodge in more than all the reassurances. they're like splinter, proving grian right.

eventually, he gets to skizz.

during the tour of skizz's base, skizz shows him a horse statue and starts talking about how he lost his first horse at an event that grian was also a part of. and grian's stomach instantly sinks.

he asks hushedly, a bit confused, trying to remember: "was i there?"

skizz laughs. "you were absolutely there, dude."

which leads grian to ask, uneasily: "did i do it?"

skizz waves his hands, quick to easily reassure that no! that's not it, grian didn't do it!

grian lets out an oh with such palpable relief, and goes on to explain about how, "i remember witnessing it, but sometimes it's hard to disentangle whether i did it or not. coz i tell you what, on this tour i've broken everyone's stuff."

nobody was upset with grian when things broke, but here he is, several hermits down, still unable to leave it to rest. because it's him. it's him who did all of that, somehow, and he didn't mean to, but it doesn't matter. it happened anyway.

and now he can't even tell what is and what isn't his fault anymore.

the guilt is deep rooted, leaving anxious assumptions and dark, jagged precipices. how much did he destroy? what else should he be feeling guilty about? how far does this go?

he keeps breaking things, and it's such a blur that he can no longer tell what is and what isn't his fault.

the tour continues, and he delves into skizz's pyramid. and it's just— it's just a tunnel to swim through. nothing to mess up, besides potentially dying to suffocation, right?

and yet you can hear skizz shrilly exclaim: "oh he's going to end up breaking something!!"

and, (plantie's words: ) grian hearing that and just wondering, is that all i'm good for? is that all i'm known for? is that all i am?

there's no room for doubt; not really. that is what grian does, all the time, whether he wants to or not. he breaks stuff. he just— he doesn't mean to. and this tour is one big show of how powerless he is against it. (how everyone expects it from him anyway.)

despite it all, grian perseveres, trying out skizz's game, stubbornly dedicated and trying to win. (to pass; to have something to be proud of, at least—) and he gets to the powdered snow section.

there, he jumps across to a pathway that he was meant to circle to through the snow instead.

it's not breaking anything, not really. not even the rules. it's not cheating! he's just— he just did something skizz did not expect, but that was entirely possible within the game's design, even if not intended. he exploited it to his advantage; a risky, tricky shortcut.

and yet skizz remarks with a laugh: "this is what grian does! he breaks games!"

no matter what grian does... is that all he'll ever be?

is that all they'll see?

he fails getting through skizz's game, is thanked for play-testing, praises it all, they talk it all away, and...

and then grian goes to tour mumbo's base.

and fails to even die properly to his llama—

and then mumbo shows him his archive machine, and instantly panicks when grian gets curious about it, begging him not to touch anything. and grian says: "your stomach just fell through didn't it?" and after mumbo's immediate agreement, he adds: "and rightfully so. coz, almost everything i've touched on this tour has broken."

there's not a sliver of surprise to mumbo's anxious rushed: "yeah, yeah yeah! please stop now." because, of course things have broken. of course what grian touches is bound to go wrong. of course—

and then mumbo very carefully tells grian what to do with the machine.

grian does as he's told.

mumbo looks up and pauses, a frown crossing his face as he takes it in. he notes that grian probably did it too fast—

(something went wrong)

(something broke)

mumbo says: "i can't believe you come along and every single thing in my base starts [going wrong/breaking/malfunctioning]"

and then grian mysteriously ends up with an extra book from mumbo's machine, much to mumbo's dismay. grian's confused, cogs spinning as he tries to figure out what did he mess up this time to result in this.

it's clear mumbo wants grian away from his machine. it's not safe. (grian isn't safe.)

"maybe just give that to me and maybe just step away from the contraption. and then— maybe just leave me to—"

grian's upset and bewildered voice cuts in: "i didn't do anything wrong this time :(("

he's trying so hard.

he's trying so hard to be good and do things right and not mess anything up.

(it isn't working.)

(it's never bound to work, is it?)

mumbo ushers him away, and ends up showing him another cool invention—an elevator. except the second mumbo hits the button, a creeper shows up and explodes it. (it's midday.) (it wasn't even meant to be there.)

this one isn't grian's fault at all, but with everything that's happened— well, it's easy enough to link it to grian's presence. like a bad luck omen.

apprehensively, grian asks if the elevator broke, and mumbo—a bit bewildered by the reality of it—says that no, it seems to still work. "amazingly," he tacks on, disbelieving.

grian's relieved. "ohh, i thought we were in big trouble there!"

besides himself, mumbo anxiously agrees: "augh. i was like, if every single creation that i show breaks in some fashion, i'm just gonna quit."

because this isn't normal. none of this is, least of all everything at once. it simply doesn't happen.

(not when grian isn't there, anyway.)

mumbo notes that he needs to work on his lighting, and grian nods wisely saying it's a perpetual issue, but the anxiety is digging its talons in now, unrelenting. (what else is going to go bad in grian's presence? what else will he mess up? what else will he break? why is he like this?)

another remark that comes after this is mumbo's nervous: "i've actually just built up the automatic sorter which does this—which you're not gonna touch. we're banned from touching any redstone contraptions!"

and what can grian do but oblige? (but he can at least look, right?)

but does it ever change anything?

does it matter?

-

at the end of the day, the others don't think too much about it.

they all say their part, pass their judgment, wave their hands, dismiss, move on. it doesn't keep them up at night.

... i think it might keep grian up at night.

a cacophonous collection of word snippets, aimed at him or woven around him, digging under his skin until it bleeds. a noose of inescapable fate, a tightening band around his chest that promises he can only ever be one thing:

a vessel for destruction.

it doesn't matter if he wants to be.

shackles and chains and a cosmic inevitability written into his skin, etched into his bones, tangled into his bloodstream. and an ever-rising guilt like stormy sea, far above his head now, drowning him.

(maybe he's not meant to be near other people and their things.)

(maybe he's not meant to touch games that were constructed with so much effort and love and passion poured into them.)

(maybe he shouldn't—)

==========

bonus screenshots from discord DMs (with extra sprinkles of hmtb mentions):

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==========

bonus hmtb quotes because i kept thinking about it:

He always destroys the things he loves most, after all.

and:

He destroyed everything he touched, and when there was nothing left, he destroyed the only remaining thing: himself.

-

[willowser]

katsuki is back!!!!!! and im so so happy about it!!!!!!!! what do you think the long term implications are gonna be for our blasty boy tho? i mean, having to immediately jump back into battle to help all might and izuku doesn't leave a lot of time for him to process stuff and i dont think knowing that edgeshot literally stitched him up and died in the process would be an easy thing to come to terms with. I'm curious to hear what you think!!✨✨

HE IS BACK !!!! ✨️🩷✨️ I'M BUZZING !!!! but—

you're so right 🥺 gosh. i think the long-term effects this will have on him will be very dependent on how this upcoming fight plays out, but, regardless—he died, okay ? like not almost died or was on the brink—his heart literally burst inside his chest. and then someone else had to sacrifice themselves so that he could live again.

not to mention, tomura/afo really read him to filth during that fight ajfbdjala and i feel like that had to hurt to hear, to witness, to experience; a painstaking moment when he gave it his all and realized just how little that did, in the moment, to tomura/afo.

having to jump right into the fight is going to be—so hard on him, i think. not right away, but he literally is going to be fighting for all might's life, and that is also so heavy, because we know how much all might means to him. and i think the fact that he can't process it now will just cause soooo many issues for him in the future, when it comes time for him to process the whole thing. it will probably take years !! for him to even consciously accept what happened out there !!!

and it's all just such a pile up of emotion......i think he'll always feel guilty about what happened with all might in kamino, and then edgeshot had to give his life to save him—bc he couldn't save himself, or stop tomura/afo—and now he's fighting for all might, and if that ends up breaking his heart, too, it's just—TOO MUCH.

i'm so scared for him 🥺 this is so much to emotionally bear 🥺 to walk around with 🥺 like as a hero, he has to make up for it, right ?? like he has to give it everything he has, or else what did edgeshot die for ? i feel like, as a young adult, he would bury himself in being dynamight, so focused on the goal of being the best hero he can be, in honor of his heroes, that he probably wouldn't even sit down and process what happened for a little while. like he thinks there's no time. he has to keep going for them 🥺

[pucksandpower]

She’s a Menace

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has to deal with quite a distraction while on his sim (or in which there are definitely worse reasons to crash than you on your knees in front of him)

Warnings: 18+ content

Note: Max Verstappen is a four-time World Drivers’ Champion, so I leave you with this in celebration

Max squints at the screen, the blue glow of the monitors highlighting the concentration etched on his face. The steady hum of his sim rig fills the room as he grips the steering wheel, eyes locked on the track ahead. The chat is already buzzing with excitement, a stream of messages flowing faster than the race itself.

He leans forward slightly, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pushes for the perfect line through the next corner. This is supposed to be a casual race with Team Redline, but Max never does anything halfway.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a flicker of movement. His heart stutters, but he keeps his gaze trained on the screen. Just focus. But then you’re there, slipping under his desk with the kind of stealth that makes him question how well he really knows you.

“Hey, what are you-” His voice is low, more of a mutter to himself as you settle in the cramped space, your hand resting lightly on his knee. He almost laughs at the absurdity, but then he feels the warmth of your palm through the fabric of his jeans, and his breath hitches.

“Max?” Your voice is sweet, innocent. The kind of innocent that makes his blood rush south.

“Not now,” he whispers harshly, trying to sound firm, but the effect is ruined by the way his voice catches on the last word. He clears his throat, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m in the middle of a race.”

“I know,” you say, and he can practically hear the smile in your voice. “That’s why I’m here.”

His eyes flicker down for just a second — just a second — but it’s enough for him to miss his braking point. The car skids off track, and the chat explodes in a mixture of surprise and good-natured ribbing.

“Shit,” he mutters, jerking the wheel back to recover. He can hear his teammates’ voices through the headset, but they’re a distant buzz compared to the sensation of your fingers trailing up his thigh.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, trying to keep his voice low enough that it doesn’t pick up on the mic.

“Just helping,” you reply, your breath hot against his leg as you shift closer. “You seemed tense.”

“Tense?” He echoes, his voice tight with disbelief. “You’re not helping.”

“Are you sure?”

You lean in, your lips brushing against the inside of his knee, and he sucks in a sharp breath. His grip on the wheel falters, the car veering dangerously close to the edge of the track again.

“Stop,” he manages to say, but it’s more of a plea than a command. “Seriously, I-”

The next corner is coming up fast, too fast. He needs to focus, but then you lick a slow, deliberate line up his thigh, and it’s like every coherent thought evaporates from his brain. His foot jerks on the pedal, and the car slams into the wall with a crunch that makes him wince.

“Max, what the hell happened?” One of his teammates asks through the headset, genuine concern in his voice.

“Uh,” Max swallows, trying to keep his voice steady, “I think Sassy’s messing around. You know how she gets.”

“Sassy?” You repeat, muffling a laugh against his leg. “Really?”

Max doesn’t dare look down at you, his face burning as he tries to get the car back on track. “Yeah, Sassy,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s …you know …”

“A menace?” You offer, sliding your hand higher until it’s dangerously close to something that would definitely get picked up by the mic.

“Distracting,” he corrects, his voice cracking just slightly. “Very distracting.”

“Hmm.” You hum thoughtfully, your fingers tracing patterns that make his pulse race. “I thought you were good at handling distractions.”

Max clenches his teeth, trying to will away the flush spreading across his cheeks. “This is different,” he bites out, his knuckles white on the wheel. “You’re-”

He cuts off with a strangled noise as your lips brush against the zipper of his jeans. His head falls back for a split second, eyes squeezing shut. The chat is a blur, his teammates’ voices barely registering over the pounding of his heart.

“You okay there, Max?” Someone asks, clearly picking up on his unusual silence.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, forcing the words out in a breathless rush. “Just — Sassy’s really being a pain tonight.”

“Oh, Sassy’s being a pain, is she?” You tease, your fingers deftly working at his zipper.

Max’s heart leaps into his throat as he feels the fabric give way under your touch. “Don’t-” He starts, but it’s too late. You’re already working him free, your breath ghosting over his skin, and he feels like he might actually die right here, on stream, in front of thousands of people.

He can barely see the track now, his vision blurring at the edges as you take him into your mouth. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of your tongue drawing a low, involuntary groan from his chest. He tries to bite it back, but it slips out before he can stop it.

The sound of his own voice brings him back to reality with a jolt, and he scrambles to mute the mic before anyone can ask questions. He fumbles, nearly dropping the wheel in the process, but finally manages to switch off his headset.

“God, you’re going to kill me,” he gasps, his voice hoarse as he looks down at you.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re doing great, by the way. Really holding it together.”

“Barely,” he mutters, his hand slipping from the wheel to tangle in your hair. He knows he should stop you, that he should be focused on the race, but the way you’re looking at him — like this is all some delicious game — makes it impossible to think straight.

“You’re such a good driver, Max,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the tip of him, and his whole body jerks in response. “But I wonder how good you are at multitasking.”

“I’m not,” he breathes out, his hand tightening in your hair. “I’m really not.”

“Sure you are.” You smile against him, and the sensation sends a shiver down his spine. “You just need a little more practice.”

“I’m going to crash again,” he warns, but it’s weak, almost a whimper as you take him deeper.

“Mmm,” you hum around him, and his hips buck involuntarily, the wheel spinning out of his grip as the car careens off the track once more.

He bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood, but he can’t stop the moan that rumbles in his chest. “Fuck,” he mutters, his free hand gripping the edge of the desk like a lifeline. “Fuck, fuck-”

You pull back just enough to let your breath cool the wet skin, and his whole body shudders. “Max,” you purr, your voice a sinful mix of sweet and sultry. “What would Sassy think if she knew you were blaming her for this?”

“She-” His breath hitches as you lick a slow line up his length. “She would definitely not approve.”

“Maybe you should apologize to her later,” you suggest, and then you’re taking him back into your mouth, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but fall apart.

“Yeah,” he gasps out, the word barely audible as you suck harder, your hand sliding up to cup him in a way that makes his vision go white at the edges. “Definitely. Later.”

You hum in agreement, the vibrations driving him to the edge faster than he’d like to admit. He knows he’s losing control, knows that anyone paying attention to his stream can see how erratic his driving has become, but he can’t bring himself to care.

All that matters is you, your mouth on him, your tongue working him in ways that make his toes curl inside his socks. His head drops back against the chair, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets himself drown in the sensation.

“Fuck, you’re-” he chokes out, the words getting lost in a strangled moan as you take him even deeper, your nose brushing against the base of him. He feels the world tilt on its axis, the car crashing into the wall once more, but it’s a distant concern, something he can’t even begin to process right now.

His hand tightens in your hair, guiding you, urging you on as he teeters on the brink. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice a desperate rasp. “So close-”

But you already know, you always know, and the way you speed up, the way you suck him in like you’re starving for it, pushes him right over the edge. His whole body tenses, his hips jerking as he comes with a guttural moan that he knows would have been embarrassing if he weren’t so far gone.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again, the word shaky as you continue to work him through it, your movements slow and gentle now, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from him until he’s a boneless heap in his chair.

He’s vaguely aware of the game still running on the screen in front of him, the car idling against the wall, the chat a blur of confusion and speculation. But all he can think about is the way you’re licking him clean, your tongue gentle and deliberate as you savor every lingering moment of his release. His breath comes in shallow gasps, the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through his body, leaving him utterly spent.

“Jesus,” he finally manages, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His fingers slip from your hair, trailing down to rest on your shoulder. “You … I don’t even know what to say.”

You look up at him from beneath the desk, your eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker, more intimate. “Say thank you,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice as you place one final kiss on him before tucking him back into his jeans.

Max chuckles breathlessly, running a hand through his hair. “Thank you,” he echoes, but it’s more than just gratitude — it’s awe, admiration, an acknowledgment of just how thoroughly you’ve unraveled him.

“You’re welcome,” you purr, crawling out from under the desk with a grace that seems unfair, given what you’ve just done to him. As you straighten up, you brush a hand over your clothes, smoothing out any wrinkles as if you haven’t just reduced him to a quivering mess.

Max watches you, still dazed, as you take a seat on the edge of the desk, your fingers idly tracing the lines of the virtual steering wheel on the screen. “You should probably get back to your race,” you say casually, though the satisfied smirk on your lips tells him you know exactly what kind of chaos you’ve left in your wake.

“Race?” He blinks, trying to reconnect with reality. The reality where he’s supposed to be streaming, where thousands of people are watching, where he’s just crashed his car in the most embarrassing way possible. “Oh, fuck.”

You laugh softly, clearly enjoying his distress as he scrambles to put his headset back on. The game is still running, but the car is totaled, and his teammates are probably wondering why he’s been completely silent for the past few minutes.

Max clears his throat, trying to summon some semblance of professionalism as he un-mutes the mic. “Sorry, mates,” he says, his voice cracking slightly as he glances at the chat, which is now filled with endless variations of what happened? “Uh, Sassy … Sassy knocked something over. Had to deal with that.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, followed by the sound of someone barely holding back laughter. “Sassy, huh?” One of his teammates finally says, amusement clear in his voice. “Sure it wasn’t something else?”

“Yeah, mate, you sounded a bit — preoccupied,” another one chimes in, and Max can practically hear the grin in his voice.

Max shoots a glare in your direction, but you just smile sweetly, completely unrepentant. “Just a bit of a distraction,” he says, forcing a laugh that he hopes sounds natural. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Mmhmm,” his teammate replies, clearly unconvinced. “Well, whatever it was, you might want to keep it in check. You’re not exactly in winning form right now.”

Max groans internally, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll focus, promise.”

But as he puts his hands back on the wheel and tries to get back into the game, his thoughts are still swirling around what just happened, how thoroughly you’ve taken him apart and put him back together. He can feel the ghost of your touch on his skin, the way your lips felt against him, the sound of your voice whispering his name in that sinfully sweet tone.

You, however, seem entirely unbothered by the chaos you’ve caused. You hop off the desk and start to leave the room, but not before pausing in the doorway to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Oh, and Max?” You say, your voice just loud enough for the mic to catch it, ensuring that everyone in the stream hears. “Next time, don’t give our cat the credit for my handiwork.”

Max’s eyes widen in horror as the implications of what you’ve just said sink in, and the chat goes wild with speculation. He can’t believe you’ve just thrown that grenade and walked away, leaving him to deal with the fallout.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his face burning as he hears the barely suppressed laughter of his teammates through the headset. He quickly fumbles to mute his mic again, before the noise from the chat can start bleeding through his headphones.

From the other side of the house, you can hear Max still muttering, cursing under his breath as he tries to explain away what just happened, though it’s clear from the chaos in the chat that he’s not fooling anyone. You’re pretty sure “Sassy” is going to become the new code word among his fans for a long, long time.

You can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk away, already planning the next time you’ll disrupt his perfectly controlled world with a bit of your own brand of chaos. Because you know Max — no matter how much he complains, he secretly loves every minute of it.

***

Max clicks out of the game, his heart still racing — not from the competition, but from the aftermath of your little stunt. His teammates had ribbed him mercilessly for the rest of the race, making it impossible to focus, and he’d finally had to give up entirely when it became clear he was more liability than asset.

But that’s fine, he thinks, as he heads to your shared bedroom. You’d wanted to play, and now it’s his turn.

He pushes open the door quietly, the soft sound of your breathing drawing him in. You’re sprawled out on the bed, lounging in a silk robe that clings to your curves in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. One leg is draped lazily over the edge, your foot brushing against the floor, and your head is tilted back against the pillows, eyes half-closed in what looks like pure satisfaction.

Max pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of you. The low light casts a warm glow over your skin, making the fabric of your robe shimmer as it catches the subtle movement of your body. You don’t see him at first, too caught up in your own thoughts, and he uses that moment to just watch you, to drink in every detail.

He’s still not entirely sure how he got so lucky, how he ended up with someone who could turn his world upside down with just a look, a touch, a whispered word. But he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’d taken control earlier, had driven him to the brink of insanity with your teasing, your lips, your tongue … but now, now it’s his turn.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, his voice low, almost a growl, as he steps into the room. You startle slightly, eyes snapping open, but then you relax, a slow, lazy smile spreading across your lips.

“Immensely,” you reply, stretching like a cat, your robe parting just enough to give him a tantalizing glimpse of what’s underneath. “Though I was wondering when you’d finish up in there. Took you long enough.”

Max’s eyes narrow, though there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re awfully confident for someone who just crashed me into a wall in front of thousands of people.”

You laugh softly, completely unrepentant, as you prop yourself up on one elbow. “You needed to be taken down a peg. I figured I was doing the world a favor.”

“Oh, is that right?” He crosses the room, his gaze dark and intent, and you shift slightly under the intensity of it, though you don’t look away. “Well, I think it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before he reaches the walk-in closet, pulling open the door and flicking on the light. The space is meticulously organized — suits, Red Bull-branded shirts, shoes all lined up with military precision. But it’s the back corner that interests him tonight, the small, nondescript box that he keeps tucked away behind a row of neatly hung jackets.

He retrieves it with a sense of satisfaction, running his fingers over the smooth wood before he opens it. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, are the toys he’s collected over time. Some are simple, others more complex, but each one has a purpose, a particular use that he knows will drive you wild.

He hears you shift on the bed, a small rustle of fabric as you sit up a bit straighter, curiosity piqued. He doesn’t turn around just yet, letting the anticipation build as he selects a few choice items, things he knows you love, things he knows you can’t resist.

When he finally turns back to you, the box in hand, your eyes widen slightly, and you bite your lower lip — a telltale sign that your confident façade is starting to crack. Good.

“What are you planning to do with those?” You ask, though your voice wavers just enough to give away the thrill that’s running through you.

Max sets the box down on the bed beside you, his gaze never leaving your face as he leans in close, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin. “I’m going to make you beg,” he says simply, the words a promise, a challenge.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down, your eyes locked with his as you try to maintain some semblance of control. “You can try,” you whisper, though the defiance in your voice is already weakening.

He doesn’t respond with words — he doesn’t need to. Instead, he reaches for the silk tie at your waist, slowly, deliberately tugging it loose until the robe falls open, exposing the soft, bare skin beneath. You shiver as the cool air hits your body, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes rake over you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

Max takes his time, tracing a finger down the line of your collarbone, over the curve of your breast, the flat plane of your stomach. You watch him, transfixed, your breathing growing shallow as his touch ignites a fire beneath your skin.

When he finally reaches for one of the toys — a sleek, slim vibrator that he knows you love — you feel a surge of anticipation, your body already responding to the thought of what’s to come.

He clicks it on, the low hum filling the room, and you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips as he trails it along the inside of your thigh, just teasing, just enough to make you squirm. “Max …” you breathe, your voice shaky, and he smiles, a slow, wicked smile that sends a thrill of both excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips. “We’re just getting started.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he presses the vibrator against you, right where you’re most sensitive, the sudden burst of pleasure making you cry out, your hips bucking instinctively against the pressure. But Max holds you in place, his grip firm, his eyes never leaving your face as he watches your every reaction.

“Look at you,” he whispers, almost to himself, his voice filled with something akin to awe as he takes in the way your body responds to his touch, the way you can’t help but arch against him, your hands clutching at the sheets. “So beautiful …”

You can’t form a coherent response, your mind too clouded with pleasure, too focused on the way the vibrator is driving you closer and closer to the edge. But Max isn’t done with you — not even close.

He switches to a lower setting, drawing out the sensation, making you writhe beneath him as he pushes you to the brink but refuses to let you fall over it. “Max, please …” you whimper, your voice barely more than a breath, but he only chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re already coming undone beneath him.

“Not yet,” he says, his tone teasing, as he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that’s as much about control as it is about passion. You can feel the smirk on his lips as he swallows your desperate moans, the vibrations from the toy matching the rhythm of his kiss, each one driving you closer to that sweet release.

But he doesn’t let you have it. Not yet.

He pulls back, the vibrator slipping away just as you’re about to tip over the edge, leaving you gasping, trembling with need. You make a small sound of protest, your body arching towards him, but he only smiles, a look of pure satisfaction on his face as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” He asks, his voice low and husky as he reaches for something else from the box — a small, delicate clamp that he knows will drive you wild. He catches one of your nipples between his fingers, rolling it gently before attaching the clamp, the sharp sting of it sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you.

You cry out, your hands fisting in the sheets as the sensation takes over, and he doesn’t give you a moment to recover before he attaches the other one, his hands firm and steady even as you squirm beneath him.

“Max … Max, please …” you beg, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them, but he only shakes his head, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, panting, utterly at his mercy.

“Not until you’re screaming for me,” he says, his voice a promise, a threat, as he turns the vibrator back on, this time at a higher setting, pressing it against you with enough force to make you see stars.

It’s too much, too intense, the pleasure building and building until you’re on the verge of breaking, but Max holds you there, right on the edge, refusing to let you fall until you’re practically sobbing with need.

“Please, Max, please …” you cry, your voice broken, desperate, and finally, finally, he relents, his hand moving faster, the vibrations intensifying until you’re shattering beneath him, your entire body convulsing with the force of your release.

You scream his name, the sound ripping from your throat as the pleasure crashes over you, wave after wave, until you’re left trembling, barely able to catch your breath. Max doesn’t let up, his hand steady, relentless, pushing you through one orgasm and into the next until you’re nothing but a quivering, incoherent mess beneath him.

When he finally pulls back, turning off the vibrator and removing the clamps with a gentleness that’s at odds with the intensity of what just happened, you’re too spent to even lift your head. Your body feels like it’s made of jelly, every nerve ending still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Max watches you for a moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, before he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, as if he’s trying to bring you back down from the high he just sent you to. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from your face, and you lean into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to steady your breathing.

You’re too tired to respond, too worn out to even think about moving, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He moves off the bed, and you hear the soft rustle of fabric as he picks up the discarded toys, the quiet click as he puts them away in the box.

When he returns to your side, he’s holding a bottle of water, and he gently lifts your head, pressing the cool rim of the bottle to your lips. You take a sip, the water refreshing as it slides down your throat, and Max gives you a small smile, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a tender gesture.

“Feeling better?” He asks, his tone lighter now, teasing, as he sits down beside you on the bed. You nod, still too exhausted to speak, and he chuckles softly, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not going to try that again anytime soon, are you?” He raises an eyebrow as he leans back against the headboard, one arm draped casually over your shoulders. There’s no real edge to his words, no anger — just a quiet amusement, as if he’s already looking forward to the next time you challenge him.

You manage a weak smile, your head resting against his chest as you let out a soft, contented sigh. “I might,” you murmur, your voice still a little shaky, but there’s a hint of defiance in it, a spark that tells him you’re not completely defeated.

Max laughs at that, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through his chest and into your ear, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm. “We’ll see about that,” he says, his voice warm and full of affection.

For a while, the two of you just sit there, wrapped in the comfortable silence that only comes after something so intimate, so intense. Max’s hand never stops moving, his touch soothing and grounding as he holds you close, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, you let out a soft sigh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You’re too good to me,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, but the words are full of gratitude, of love.

Max’s gaze softens, and he leans down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a gentle caress. “I love you,” he says simply, and the words are so full of sincerity, of emotion, that they take your breath away.

You smile against his lips, your heart swelling with warmth as you snuggle closer, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly content. “I love you too,” you whisper back, and for a moment, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, blissful bubble.

Max holds you like that for a while longer, until your breathing evens out, and you start to drift off to sleep. He shifts slightly, pulling the covers up over you and tucking them in around your body with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

Just as you’re about to fall asleep, you hear him murmur something, his voice low and full of affection. “Rest now,” he says, his fingers brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

And with that, you finally allow yourself to relax completely, letting the warmth of his embrace and the soft, steady beat of his heart lull you into a deep, peaceful sleep.

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Stuck like glue

Request: "I'm going to scream your domestic character joining coop on his travels from her cabin is SO good 😭 I was wondering if you would write something with the same character in her cabin when coop turns up from nearby having taken one too many bullets? Or maybe he's sick and needs some jet. Some hurt/comfort fluffy sweetness"

A/N: Thank you to the awesome anon who sent the idea! Maybe not AS fluffy as we wanted, but there's for sure some soft Ghoul going on in here. And, oh yeah, the reader has a dog now. No description of said dog has been given, so please imagine as you'd wish.

Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader

WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence, brief mentions of sexual interaction.

Summary: Your favorite Ghoul needs to be patched up after a spat with some Raiders, and you always know just how to make him feel better.

Word Count: 2.0k+

Gif credit to @elisefrost from this set

You’re outside attempting to hang clothes to dry when you hear it. 

The soft but distinct sound of jingling metal comes from behind your cabin. You set one hand on the pistol strapped to your thigh and walk in that direction, eyes peeled for any movement. A bark echoes the sound from your porch, and you snap at your four-legged companion in an attempt to get him to stay. 

“Tiger!” You hiss. “Quit!”

 He relents with an indignant huff and returns to the porch, while the metallic noise keeps up in a steady pattern, akin to the cadence of a slow walk. You tilt your head at the thought and eventually move the hand off your pistol; only one person would dare tread this close in broad daylight with such carelessness.

“Coop?”

You don’t see him anywhere, but you’re almost certain it was the sounds of his old spurs that caught your attention. 

“Cooper if you’re tryna scare me, you know I'll gut you.” The threat is an empty one, but saying it gives you some hope that it’s indeed him and not a Raider or Slaver looking to score some loot. 

“No need, babydoll.” His voice sounds ragged, tired. “Don’t think I could scare a bunny rabbit at the moment.” 

You follow his voice to your left, and find the Ghoul leaned up against a tree. He’s practically swaying in the breeze, very apparently unsteady. You rush over just as he slides down and collides with the dirt.. 

“Cooper! What happened to you?” 

Your hands flutter up and down his arms, brusquely checking for any injuries. Nothing obvious jumps out at you, but he heals fast and external wounds are rare. A wheeze claws its way up his throat and morphs into a hacking cough. You recognize the sound as the need for a Vial, and grab at his bag. 

“Do you have any on you?” 

A stuttered cough answers. “Fresh out… s’why I came here.”

Your stash of Vials had been growing just about as long as you’d known Cooper. When you traveled together, he’d hand some off to you for safekeeping, and there always ended up being extras. Upon your return home, he’d tell you to keep them. It wasn’t shocking, given that he found his way back every couple of days.

“Alright, come on.” You crouch down and position yourself beneath Cooper’s arm. 

You can tell he’s weak by the way he leans into you, knees wobbling relentlessly as you pull him up. Another round of coughing wracks his body and you squeeze him reassuringly. 

“Couch isn’t far.” You chose your words carefully, avoiding any inkling of pity. Having an already deteriorating Ghoul is enough, let alone a defensive one who hates being pitied. 

Cooper does his best to keep up with your steps, but his movements are sloppy and uncoordinated. You can feel the heat radiating off of him through his jacket and hear him wheezing beside your ear. Stepping onto the porch gives him some trouble, but you manage to haul him up and inside the door. Tiger whines nervously, circling the pair of you as you trek inside. The Ghoul collapses onto the couch as soon as it’s within reach. 

After making sure Cooper’s not going to slide off the couch, you continue to the med-kit in your makeshift kitchen. The Vials are hidden at the very bottom, wrapped in cloth for extra cushion to prevent shattering. You decide there’s more than enough for him to take two, and carefully extract the mysterious chem. 

Cooper’s laid out on his back when you return with the Vials. One arm is thrown over his eyes and the other dangling off the side of the couch with Tiger perched beneath. The dog nuzzles his favorite person’s hand for attention, and it elicits a chuckle from you. Even as the only conscious person in the room, you were still second in Tiger’s eyes. 

“Coop.” You shake his shoulder gently. “Hey. Hey. Where’s your inhaler?”

You nudge his hat away and he blinks slowly. “Mmm.”

“Ok then.” You mutter and pat down his jacket, searching for the contraption he always carries. The coat yields no results, and you pat down his pants until you feel it tucked away into the pocket at his hip. “Finally.”

Cooper shuffles ever so slightly when you slip your hand into his pocket. “H-hey now. I know you love me, baby, but I-I ain’t got it in me right now.”

An errant smile pushes its way onto your lips. You snap the meds into place on his inhaler 

“Open up.”

He fails to heed your instructions, and you ultimately end up forcing the inhalant into his mouth. It never works instantly, but within a minute or so of administering it there’s movement. One of Cooper’s hands lifts to cup yours, puffing on the inhaler again. 

You release your hold on it and rock back onto the balls of your feet. It’s then you take note of the holes in his clothing, and run a hand down his chest. There’s numerous holes, some as big as your finger and others no larger than a pinhead. 

“Cooper, what happened to you?” You sit on the edge of the couch beside him as he takes his first deep breath without Chems. 

“I just turn’d in a bounty and some Raiders jumped me.” He looks down at your hand on his chest. “Bastards shot me ten or eleven times. Damn buckshot got me good.”

You nod. “I can tell. You were in a bad way, Coop.”

The Ghoul sits up slowly beside you so his legs can swing off the couch. “I’ll be good as new, soon as this stuff starts workin’ good.” 

Tiger hops up on the couch next to him, tail wagging with excitement. The dog licks your cheek on his way to Cooper and pushes his nose into the Ghoul’s shoulder. You chuckle at the interaction, patting the dog’s shoulders. Coopers are still hunched with exhaustion, and his deep-set eyes look even more so. 

“Well until they do, you rest.” You stand, glancing out the still-ajar door. “It’s getting dark anyway.”

Cooper, as usual, opens his mouth to protest. If there’s anything he hates, it’s feeling useless. 

“No arguments.” You point a finger at him. “I mean it.”

He grumbles, but relents. “Fine. Only if you turn somethin’ on that ol’ TV of yours.”

The television turns out to be a perfect method of relaxation. You have to remove Cooper from the couch temporarily, but wrestle it into the pullout bed form and line it with blankets. The Ghoul had given in to his exhaustion rather easily at the prospect of a comfortable bed and kicked off his boots to climb all the way in. You hung his coat on a nail by the door, but made sure to leave his guns, lasso, and assorted weapons within arm’s reach. The TV played some old soap opera from before your time while you snagged a couple of hard candies- a luxury item, as the nearest settlement called them- and made to settle in. 

Cooper had managed to prop himself against the back of the couch, feet kicked out down the length of the thin mattress. Tiger, seeking attention as per usual, is curled up against his right leg. A wet nose rests just beneath Cooper’s knee and twitches in interest when you unwrap the first candy. 

The Ghoul might as well be a dog himself for the way his ears perk at the sound of a wrapper. 

He watches intently as you very gracefully clamber to sit next to him. You pop the fruit-flavored candy in your mouth and scoot around until you find comfort. In this case, it’s leaned up against the Ghoul beside you, head dropping onto his shoulder. His breathing is still shallower than you’d like, but a vast improvement from where it was when he’d shown up. 

“You ain’t gonna share?” 

You open your fist and offer up one of the candies. “I suppose I could. But only for you.”

A smirk twists the corners of his scarred lips. You poke at the candies and attempt to read the labels to no avail. 

“I’d offer you a choice of flavor, but…” You shrug, looking back up to your Ghoul. “Slim pickings.”

He lifts a bare hand to your chin, tilting up. “I think the pickin’s are just fine.”

You smile and lean in to meet him, lips falling into a familiar dance.The hand on your chin slides down to grip your nape and holds you firmly in place. It’s not long before the candy is gone from your mouth. Its remnants remain, mingling with the taste of gunpowder and smoke. A few moments pass before you decide to separate

“Miss me much?” You inquire, cuddling yourself down into his side. 

His arm raises to accommodate your body and lowers it back down to encircle your shoulders once you’re settled. “I always miss you darlin’. For a variety of reasons.”

You hum softly, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Cooper’s hand trails up and down your arm, leaving wide trails of gooseflesh. “Well, the main one happens to be the lack of entertainment.”

You scoff. “I’m your entertainment?”

“Fuck yeah, you are. ‘Specially when you’re hollerin’ at scavengers and shootin’ anything that moves.” The Ghoul chuckles to himself. “Or trippin’ over a sleeping yao guai.”

You shove him playfully. “That was one time, and I shot it dead anyway.”

Cooper pulls you towards him, and you shift until you’re between his legs, back pressed against his chest. “That you did, sweetheart. I ain’t forgot.”

He grabs the nearest blanket and tosses it over your entangled bodies. You curl to the side and rest your cheek to his chest. Tiger shuffles his body with a huff, apparently frustrated with the lack of attention.

“What would you do without me?” You tap his chest gently, relishing in the warmth he produces. “Other than get eaten by a yao guai?”

The Ghoul scratches Tiger’s head. “Prolly go feral. Chase around some folk to scare em’.”

You know he’s joking, but the thought of losing him to ferality scares you to no end. Particularly since he’s just shown up on death’s door and almost hacked a lung onto your floor.

“Don’t say that.” You lift your head to catch his eye. “Please.”

Cooper may be a gruff old Ghoul with a dreadful outlook on the world, but he softens ever so slightly at your words.

“You know I don’t mean it, sugar. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

Two scarred fingers hook beneath your jaw and pull you back up to his lips. It’s tame at first, but the Cooper you know wastes no time making an appearance. His teeth nip at your lip gently and one rough hand slides up your side until it cups your breast. You press into him eagerly, climbing upwards until your thighs slot around either side of his hips. He responds by grinding them into you, delicious friction warming you from head to toe.  

Tiger decides he’s disgusted at this point, and hops off the couch with a comical groan.

Unbothered, one of your hands latches onto the lasso that is tossed on top of his pile of weapons. You loop it around his neck, gripping either side of the rope and pulling him in. Cooper smirks against your mouth. 

“Oh I love being stuck with you, Cowpoke.” You whisper against his mouth, earning yourself a quick bite to the bottom lip.

The Ghoul grins and quickly shows how much strength he’s regained by reversing your positions. He snatches the rope faster than you can react, and wraps the fingers of one hand loosely around the column of your throat. There’s just enough pressure to shoot a pang of arousal between your legs. Cooper knows you’re squirming, and presses a knee there to relieve some of the ache. 

“Glad t’hear it.” He murmurs into your neck, “‘Cause I sure as hell ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

-------------------

thanks for reading, much love ❤

Read More: Fallout Masterlist

[areislol]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤobsession bound

pairings. m!yandere x gn! reader

warnings. yandere, mature explicit 18+ content, MDNI, suggestive content, toxic obsession, stealing clothes, stalking, the whole yandere package.

a/n. i don't condone this irl guys!! please do not fantasize about this

wc. 2.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤi love you like an alcoholic - the taxpayers

he knows everything about you. not just your favourite foods, hobbies, or the songs you play on repeat, but the details you wouldn’t even think to share. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought, the pattern of your breathing when you sleep, the subtle twitch in your hand when you’re anxious. he’s studied you as though you were a divine text, each quirk and habit catalogued and committed to memory.

your presence is his religion, and you, his deity. he doesn’t just love you—he worships you. to him, you’re the very essence of perfection, the axis on which his world spins. every smile you offer, every word you speak, is a blessing he clings to with an almost fanatical devotion. if he could, he’d bottle the sound of your laughter and keep it close, playing it on loop in the quiet hours when he can’t be near you.

his obsession began innocently enough—a fleeting glance in passing, a shared space for mere seconds. but those seconds were enough to ignite something dangerous within him. from that moment on, you consumed him.

your image invaded his thoughts, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. it wasn’t enough to see you from afar. he needed to know you, to possess you, to make sure you could never leave.

he follows you everywhere, his footsteps as silent as a predator stalking its prey. he’s always there, just out of sight, ensuring you’re safe—or so he tells himself.

when you stumble, he fights the urge to rush forward and catch you. when someone dares to get too close, his fists clench, his jaw tightens, and dark thoughts swirl in his mind. no one has the right to invade your space like that. no one but him.

every trace of your existence is precious to him. he’s collected everything—strands of your hair caught in your brush, the lip balm you left on your desk, even the receipt you crumpled and threw away. he keeps them in a secret box, hidden away like a dragon hoarding treasure.

he’ll run his fingers over them, murmuring your name like a mantra, his mind spinning fantasies of the life you’ll share once you finally see the truth.

he keeps a journal where he writes about you obsessively. page after page filled with your name, detailed accounts of your daily activities, and his dreams of your future together. he’s planned it all—your wedding, the house you’ll live in, the names of your children. he knows it’s premature, but in his mind, you’re already his. the only thing left is for you to realise it.

his jealousy is a violent, uncontrollable thing. anyone who gets too close to you is a threat that must be eliminated. he doesn’t care who they are—friends, coworkers, even family. they don’t deserve to share your attention.

they don’t love you like he does. he’s not above sabotage, spreading rumours, or even more drastic measures to ensure they stay away. it’s for your own good. can’t you see how much safer you are without them?

his methods of surveillance are disturbingly meticulous. cameras hidden in your home, trackers on your phone and keys, even your favourite coffee shop isn’t spared. he needs to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with at all times. if he sees something he doesn’t like, he’ll act without hesitation. a threatening text to someone he perceives as competition, a “chance” encounter to remind you he’s always there—it’s all part of his carefully crafted plan.

the nights he spends in your home without your knowledge are the most sacred to him. he’ll sit in your chair, run his fingers over your belongings, and breathe in the faint scent of you lingering in the air.

when he’s feeling especially bold, he’ll lie in your bed, his heart pounding as he imagines you beside him. the boundary between fantasy and reality blurs, and for those moments, he allows himself to believe you’re already his.

despite his madness, there’s a tenderness in his obsession that makes it all the more unnerving. he’ll leave gifts on your doorstep, thoughtful things he knows you’ll love, but always unsigned. he’ll take care of things you don’t even realise—paying overdue bills, fixing a broken lock, replacing the lightbulb you forgot about. in his mind, these are acts of love, proof of his devotion. he’s your saviour, your guardian. why can’t you see that?

his darker thoughts are carefully hidden beneath a façade of adoration. but they’re there, lurking just below the surface. he’s imagined what it would be like to keep you locked away, safe from the world that doesn’t deserve you.

a place where it’s just the two of you, where no one can hurt you or take you away. he’s convinced himself it would be for the best. you’d be scared at first, but eventually, you’d understand. you’d love him like he loves you.

he’s a master of manipulation, always a step ahead. when you start to suspect something, he’ll play the perfect confidant, the shoulder to lean on. he’ll comfort you, reassure you, and subtly guide you into his arms. every move he makes is calculated to draw you closer, to ensure you never look anywhere else but at him.

his love is suffocating, overwhelming, all-consuming. it’s not just a feeling—it’s a need, a compulsion, a fire that burns so fiercely it threatens to destroy everything in its path. he doesn’t see the danger in it. to him, it’s pure, untainted, the way love is meant to be. and if you ever tried to leave, he’d see it as a betrayal so profound it would shatter him. he’d do anything to keep you. anything.

he’s utterly captivated by every little thing about you—your smile, your voice, the way your clothes hug your figure just right. his eyes linger longer than they should, memorizing every curve, every subtle movement. he tells himself it’s just admiration, but the way his thoughts wander late at night says otherwise. the image of you is burned into his mind, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t escape it.

his fantasies are vivid, detailed, and deeply personal. he doesn’t just imagine holding you close or brushing his lips against yours; his mind ventures further, into moments that would make your cheeks burn if you knew. he’s thought about how your skin might feel against his fingertips, the warmth of your body pressed to his. he knows it’s wrong, but the idea of being the one to make you blush, to see the shy tilt of your gaze, is intoxicating.

he’s fascinated by the small, intimate details of your life—the scent of your shampoo, the way you unconsciously adjust your clothes when you’re nervous, the way your lips part when you’re lost in thought. it’s not enough to simply watch; he wants to know what it feels like, what it tastes like. the thought alone sends a shiver down his spine, a mix of guilt and desire twisting in his chest.

your photos are his most cherished possessions, though he’d never admit it aloud. he’s saved everyone he’s found, both those you’ve posted and those he’s taken without you noticing. they’re his solace on nights when his need for you becomes too overwhelming. his fingers will trace over the screen, wishing he could reach through and pull you to him, to claim you as his own in ways only he dreams of.

his touches are deliberate and lingering, though he always makes them seem innocent. a hand brushing against yours when you pass him something, a too-long hug where his hands press just a little lower than they should. he tells himself it’s harmless, that he’s just expressing his affection, but the heat that pools in his chest whenever he’s near you betrays his true intentions.

he’s memorized the way your clothes fit, the way they shift when you move, and he often imagines what lies beneath. it’s an intrusive, maddening thought that he tries to push away but can’t. he tells himself it’s only natural to wonder about someone you love this much, but the intensity of his fixation borders on obsessive.

his jealousy takes on a darker edge when he sees someone else earning your smiles or making you laugh. he imagines pulling you into his arms, pressing his lips to your ear, and whispering that you’re his, only his. the idea of someone else touching you the way he wants to sends a wave of anger through him, but it also stokes the fire of his need to claim you in every way possible.

he’ll leave little hints of his affection, gifts that seem innocent at first glance—a necklace that sits just right against your collarbone, a dress that hugs your body in a way that makes his heart race. he wants to see you wear them, to know that he had a hand in how you look, to feel like you’re his in some small way, even if you don’t realise it yet.

the nights he spends in your home without your knowledge are where his darker fantasies come to life. he’ll stand in your bedroom, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you sleep, his mind wandering to places he knows it shouldn’t. he wants to reach out, to touch, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his palm, but he stops himself. not yet. it’s not time yet.

he’s thought about what it would be like to have you entirely to himself, away from prying eyes and other distractions. a place where you wouldn’t need anyone else but him, where he could show you just how deeply he feels for you. his fantasies are tinged with possessiveness, imagining you looking at him with flushed cheeks and soft whispers of his name, the way only he would ever deserve.

he knows your body as well as he knows your habits, even if he’s never touched you the way he dreams of. the way you stretch when you’re tired, the curve of your lips when you smile, the smooth expanse of your neck—he notices it all, cataloguing every detail to revisit later in the privacy of his own mind. you’re a living masterpiece, and he’s the only one who truly appreciates every stroke of your beauty.

his obsession isn’t just emotional; it’s physical. he craves the warmth of your body, the softness of your skin, the way you might gasp if he were to press his lips to yours. it’s a hunger that grows stronger with every passing day, consuming him until he’s left trembling with the sheer intensity of his desire. he tells himself he’s patient, that he can wait for you to come to him, but his restraint is wearing thin.

he imagines the way your voice would sound, breathless and needy, calling his name. the thought alone makes his heart pound, his breaths shallow. it’s a dangerous game he plays, teetering on the edge of madness, but he can’t help himself. you’ve become his addiction, his obsession, and he knows there’s no turning back.

he loves jerking off to photos of you taken by him. he flips through the steamy photos on his phone, a wicked glint in his eye begins undoing his pants, freeing his rock-hard erection. a low groan escaping his lips as he wraps a hand around the thick shaft and starts stroking it slowly.

steals your clothes. he's practically grinning maniacally as he rummages through your dresser, his fingers trailing over the fabric of each garment with a possessive touch. he snatches up your most intimate items - panties, bras, and even that cute little skirt from last night - holding them to his face and inhaling deeply before tucking the stolen clothes into his bag like precious treasures.

—

the sound of footsteps trailing behind you wasn’t unusual. you had grown accustomed to the presence of people bustling through the streets or even just the echo of your own shoes against the pavement.

tonight, though, something felt...off. the streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, thin shadows that seemed to stretch and waver unnaturally. you clutched your bag tighter as a cold breeze cut through the air, the faint rustle of leaves amplifying the eerie silence.

unbeknownst to you, a figure lingered a safe distance behind, his breathing steady, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that bordered on fanaticism. he had followed you every night for weeks now, taking meticulous care to remain unseen.

you never noticed the subtle changes in your routine—the slight chill in your room despite closed windows, the faint smell of cologne that wasn’t yours, or the way your things never quite seemed to be where you left them. he made sure of that.

when you finally reached the safety of your apartment, fumbling with your keys, a wave of relief washed over you. the feeling of being watched dissipated the moment the door clicked shut behind you. you didn’t know he was already inside.

hidden in the shadows of your closet, he crouched silently, listening to your every move. your obliviousness only deepened his obsession.

he had memorized your schedule down to the minute. he knew the way you stirred your coffee in the mornings, the playlists you hummed along to while cleaning, and the books you kept on your bedside table. each detail was etched into his mind as sacred knowledge, proof that you were meant to belong to him and only him.

his fingers itched to touch the belongings he had stolen—your hairbrush, the shirt you thought you lost, even the empty chapstick tube you tossed away without a second thought. they were treasures to him, pieces of you he could keep close when he couldn’t have you entirely. not yet.

you were so kind, so trusting. it amazed him how naive you could be. When he brushed past you in a crowd, intentionally grazing your shoulder, you had offered an apologetic smile as though it were your fault. when he sent anonymous gifts to your doorstep, you accepted them with gratitude, never questioning their origin.

you had no idea who he was, but he knew you. he knew everything. He watched as you unknowingly consumed his devotion and smiled sweetly, blissfully ignorant of the storm brewing just beneath the surface of his calculated calm.

the days passed in a blur. you noticed small things—a lingering glance from a stranger at the café, a text from an unknown number asking if you’d gotten home safely.

you chalked it up to coincidence, even as unease began to settle in your chest. little did you know, he had orchestrated it all. the stranger wasn’t a stranger at all. The text wasn’t random. everything was deliberate. everything was for you.

one night, you woke to the sound of something clattering in the kitchen. heart racing, you crept out of bed, clutching your phone tightly. the light from the hallway illuminated the edge of a shadow—a tall figure, unnervingly still. your breath hitched.

before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, and you were pulled into an unrelenting grip. his voice, low and desperate, whispered your name like a prayer.

"shh, it’s me," he said, as though that explanation should bring you comfort. "i couldn’t stay away anymore."

you thrashed against him, but his hold was iron. His tone turned sharp, frantic. "stop. please don’t fight me. i've done everything for you. don’t you see that?"

your heart pounded in your chest as his words spilled out in a torrent of obsession. he spoke of how he had protected you, how he had eliminated those who dared to insult you, how he had waited so patiently for this moment.

it didn’t make sense—none of it did—but the sincerity in his voice was chilling. He believed every word.

when he finally loosened his grip, you stumbled away, trying to catch your breath. his golden eyes shimmered with something between adoration and madness. he took a step closer, and you backed away instinctively. "don’t look at me like that," he pleaded. "i’m not a monster. i love you. i've always loved you."

you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. fear constricted your throat, making it impossible to form words. he noticed your hesitation, and his expression darkened.

"you don’t understand now," he said softly, almost to himself. "but you will. i'll make you see. you don’t have to be afraid of me—i’d never hurt you. i'd only hurt anyone who tries to take you from me."

your legs trembled as you pressed yourself against the wall, desperate to find an escape. he tilted his head, watching you with an unnerving calm. "you’re so beautiful when you’re scared," he mused. "but i don’t want you to be scared of me. i want you to love me back."

the realization of how deeply unhinged he was hit you like a wave. this wasn’t just a stranger breaking into your home. this was someone who had been in your life—lurking in the periphery, shaping your reality without your consent.

you had no idea how much he had already taken from you, how much he was willing to take to keep you his.

and he wouldn’t stop. no matter how much you begged or how far you tried to run, he would always find you. because in his eyes, you were already his.

you are his world, his everything. and in his mind, that’s not obsession—it’s love.

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[chososcutie]

“What'd You Do to the Eggnog?”

featuring osamu dazai

꒰ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ꒱

art credit: pinterest!!♡

꒰ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ─ ・┈ ☕︎ ⟡ ꒱

synopsis: after spiking dazai's eggnog with aphrodisiacs, things get a bit...heated

word count: 1.4k

tags: aphrodisiacs, unprotected sex, dry-humping, needy!dazai, multiple rounds, overstimulation, mating press, cervix kissing, etc etc

kinkmas december 1st ☃︎⊹₊

・┈・╴⊹˚₊ 𓍢ִ໋⛾ ׂ 𓈒・┈・╴⊹˚₊ 𓍢ִ໋⛾ ׂ 𓈒・┈・╴⊹˚₊ 𓍢ִ໋⛾ ׂ 𓈒・

you knew you were in trouble the second dazai got through an entire glass. then, a second one. and he was currently halfway through his third.

you truly hadn’t meant for him to drink that much. it was supposed to be a fun little prank, one where you spiked his eggnog with aphrodisiacs, and got him all needy and flustered, before finally giving in, after teasing him relentlessly.

but, by the time you got back, he was already almost finished with the entire half gallon you made.

lifting the glass to his lips to finish off yet another glass.

"stop!" you raced over to snatch the cup away from him, causing a startled look to flash across his face.

"dazai, please don't tell me you drank all that."

“what? m'sorryyy it was so good! did you put something different in it? cinnamon?"

you swallow. “y-yeah sure. are you.. ah feeling.. alright?”

he furrows his eyebrows. "yeah? so when are we going to start decorating?"

oh right. you two were supposed to be decorating gingerbread cookies for the holidays. in all the excitement, you had forgotten, but now, with the hopeful thought that maybe the aphrodisiacs weren't as strong as you had thought, maybe it was going to be okay.

you had no idea how wrong you were.

"dazai, pass me the gumdrops."

he gives you the glass bowl filled with multi-colored, sugared drops, you quickly pressing them on to your shaped cookie.

"aww look how cute!" you gushed, adding a few last finishing touches with the frosting bag.

"phew, it's hot in here, baby." dazai fans himself, leaning over the counter as he adds candies to his own gingerbread man.

"yeah, i think it's from the oven." you distractedly pipe little swirls, not noticing when dazai's breathing gets heavier next to you.

suddenly, you accidentally squeeze too hard, causing frosting to spurt out in a clump, messing up the neat patterns you had created.

"fuck! 'samu, can you get me a paper towel?"

you should've known something was wrong the instant dazai was unusually quiet, simply turning around to do as you had asked.

but you were too busy fussing over the frosting covered cookies, frantically trying to swipe off the excess in hopes of saving them to notice.

so, when you felt the warmth of someone pressing up behind you, it startled you.

enough for you to almost drop the cookie you had been holding up, especially when that someone moaned breathily into your ear, subtly grinding against you.

"dazai?" you gasp, turning back slightly to face him.

he didn't like that, though, shoving you forward with enough force that it has you bracing your hands on the counter, mouth agape.

"fuck, m'sorry! jus'... stay still. please." the tone of his voice is whiney, and has you clenching your thighs together, already pulsing with need.

he ruts against you with an almost frantic kind of urgency, his bulge rubbing tantalizingly on your ass, as his palms come to cup your breasts, touching anywhere he can reach.

"i d-don't know why i feel like this," he gasps out. "i jus' feel hot all over an'..."

and then you can't do anything but whimper as he pushes you further, until your forehead touches the cool marble of the table, practically bending you in half.

"...you jus' look so good." his hips keep working against you, without any semblance of a pace, just rubbing himself on you as hard as he can.

"dazai.." you manage to groan out. "dazai, it's aphrodisiacs! i put aphrodisiacs in the eggnog, i didn't.. ah.. think they would work, or that you would.. hah.. drink so much."

he stiffens at your words, but doesn't halt his grinding. "oh, you naughty, naughty girl."

his words don't hold any actual malice in them, though, voice too ragged and needy for that.

"m'sorry! m'sorry!" you cry out, as his hips thrust into you harder, humping you vigorously, unable to stop himself.

"s'too late for that now. now..." he pants out. "you hafta help me with the.. ah.. problem you caused, sweets."

you squeal, as he lifts you up by the hips, thrusting your face and chest into the table roughly, already yanking down the thin, lacy panties you had on under your apron.

"samuuu..!" your face is pushed down further into the counter as he grunts above you, tugging down his own loose christmas pj pants, to press his throbbing boner against your bare pussy, slick already seeping out.

"c-can't wait.." he moans above you, hips already dragging languidly back and forth to smear his angry, leaking tip all over your cunt. "s'okay if i put it in now, doll?"

you can only whimper in reply, mouth muffled by the table you're shoved against, bucking your hips back into him as affirmation.

he groans at that, his pulsating cock already beginning to push in, stretching you out as he gets past the first tight ring of muscle, pussy greedily sucking him in for more, more.

when he finally manages to bottom out inside you, bulbous tip thrumming against your cervix, wet squelches are all you can hear as he starts an absolutely brutal pace.

"fuck! what did you put in that eggnog?" he gasps between thrusts, plowing into you so hard, you swear you can feel him all the way in your lungs.

you cry out in reply as he grabs the fat of your ass, pulling you into him harder until the harsh sound of skin slapping against skin echoes throughout the room.

"samu!" you wail. "slower! slower!"

"baby i can't!" he moans, though to his credit, he eases his hands up slightly, hips becoming sloppier with every thrust.

and you can feel your high approaching with every quickened breath you take, stomach coiling up into tight little knots as you clench harder around him, coaxing him to release.

"m'sorry... never felt like this.. ah... i n-need..." dazai's words are all slurred together, practically unintelligible in his rambling as he gets closer and closer.

and then he's cumming.

and you swear the aphrodisiacs had something to do with it, because as he fills you with spurt after spurt of hot, sticky seed, there's so much of it, it has you gasping, his cock releasing long pulses of white into your overstuffed cunt.

your walls spasm and clench around him, milking him for every last drop as your own eyes roll back in pleasure, the taut stiffness of your stomach finally letting go, your vision blurring with white, and thighs trembling.

and no sooner than a couple moments after you've come back down from your high, dazai's already spinning you around, and lifting you up by your plush thighs to fold you into a mean mating press.

you're almost dizzy as you feel the points of your knees pressing against your cushy tits, dazai barely giving you a moment to collect yourself before he's fucking into you raw at this new angle.

"one more.. m'sorry i jus' need o-one more."

"samu..!" you half-moan half-protest, clawing at him as your eyes roll back in your head.

"i know- i knowwww," he rocks his hips back and forth with desperate speed, head tilted back with flushed cheeks and sweaty, mussed-up hair curling to his forehead. "but can you blame me? it's.. hah.. y-your fault!"

you whimper, already feeling tears of overstimulation pricking at your vision, but at the same time, feeling desperately turned on by this side of dazai.

with a feral growl, he throws your legs over your shoulders, stretching you even further to take more of his weighty shaft. "n-need more.. more."

it seemed like he was trying to mold himself as close as possible into your snug cunt, huffing with exertion as he pounds into you with breath after ragged breath, chest practically laid flat against yours.

when he reaches that spot, the one that's soft and squishy and has your toes curling almost instantly, you can't even warn him.

you're cumming.

absolutely drenching him in your syrupy slick, gushing all over his throbbing cock, which in return, pumps out hot, oozing cum deep into you, voice breaking off into a whine.

you pant softly, exertion weighing your limbs down as the last few pulses of his creamy white ribbons spurt into you.

before you've even fully come back to yourself though, you feel dazai crawling up your body to mouth kisses along your neck, cock still fully erect and aching inside you. "o-one more? please?"

tagslist (ask to be tagged!): @urlocalfemcel-xx @ghostedwriting @amanoava @fluffyfrog1619 @chuuyaslittledoll @newnlovesjennie

[loveinhawkins]

picturing Dustin watching at the trailer park, right after Eddie says, “Hey, Steve? Make him pay.”

And for some reason Dustin’s reminded of ‘84, of his conversation with Steve on the railroad tracks, it’s like before it’s gonna storm, you know? You can’t see it, but you can feel it, like this, uh... electricity, you know?—although he’s grown enough to suspect that Steve might not know everything in that regard.

And it’s not electricity he senses, not exactly, but it’s definitely a storm of some kind: something fragile. Something—someone—that’s very scared.

Dustin’s running before he’s even registered his decision. “Steve!”

Steve turns around, and he already looks like he’s about to ask a question—something practical, like whether Dustin’s forgotten something—and Dustin feels a twist of regret, that that’s where Steve’s mind goes; yeah, they’re all ready for battle, so it makes sense, but…

Feeling suddenly very young, Dustin barrels into Steve and hugs him.

He hears Steve’s surprised inhale, his hesitancy, before he returns the hug in full force.

For a little while, it’s like the world narrows down to only this. No ash in the air, no nightmarish red in the sky. Just the two of them.

Dustin’s about to pull away when he feels Steve’s chin dig into the top of his head. Hears him sniff, very quietly, like he’s trying to hide it; and that makes Dustin think of the tunnels, or afterwards, really, when Steve held onto him with shaking hands, kept saying, “We’re okay, we’re okay.”

So he just keeps hugging back.

Steve’s the one to let go; he’s smiling, but he looks a little sad too, forehead creased with worry.

“I need a ride tomorrow,” Dustin says.

Steve huffs. “Oh, yeah? Where to?”

Dustin taps his nose obnoxiously. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

It’s bullshit, of course; Dustin doesn’t need a ride anywhere.

Steve rolls his eyes, but some tightness in his jaw finally eases. “God, you’re such a dick.”

“Bright and early, Steve!” Dustin adds smugly. “Five am!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, waving him off, and for a moment it’s like they’re just in the school parking lot. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, then thinks better of it—glances back to where Robin and Nancy are waiting. He pulls Dustin in with one arm, a brief but tight hold. Nods, as if to himself. “Go on, scram.”

Dustin runs back to the trailer with a stitch in his side but a smile on his face. He knows it’s naive to think he can fix everything, but in this moment at least some part of the universe has been righted, even while in The Upside Down.

Eddie’s standing right where he left him, like he’s been frozen the whole time.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “is he, uh… is he okay?”

Dustin’s reminded that of course, Steve isn’t the only one who’s scared.

“Yeah, he will be,” he says, which he thinks is a more accurate answer than a simple yes or no.

It’s funny how life works, he muses while gathering supplies for the trailer defences. There’s no way he’d have thought even a week ago that Eddie would be sincerely asking him about Steve’s well-being. Whenever he happened to bring Steve up at Hellfire, Eddie would imitate him in a comedic falsetto, “Oh, Steve this, Steve that.”

For a minute, Eddie remains rooted to the spot, still staring in the direction of where Steve went—like he’d watched helplessly as Steve walked into the eye of a storm or something.

“You just gonna stand there and gawk?” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “So rude, Henderson.”

And it’s not like Dustin really knows, not when Steve and Eddie are still barely dancing around it themselves. Still, he can pick up on some things.

Like when they’ve finished setting up everything, waiting for the go-ahead for Eddie to start playing his guitar—to pass the time, they recount the high points of the day, keep it light. It’s a practice Eddie used to implement after campaigns.

And look, Dustin’s damn good at picking up on patterns. Like, he loves Steve, but he’s pretty sure the reality of him driving the hotwired RV doesn’t quite match up to how Eddie’s currently waxing lyrical about it.

He’s making it sound like it was something outta James Bond, Dustin thinks, when he’s sure Steve drove right into several trash cans.

Suddenly he knows exactly what he should do.

“Steve this, Steve that,” he sing-songs.

Eddie flushes; Dustin cackles.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling as Dustin keeps laughing, like he knows there’s nothing mean-spirited in it. He keeps going, Steve this, Steve that, talking right over Dustin’s teasing—somehow finding even more moments where Steve truly shines.

And Dustin doesn’t know everything, not even close, but at the very least, he knows that this feels right.

[pxningfo0l]

It's a reoccurring pattern with Steve, getting come out to and then instantly shitting on the person's taste in people.

Robin comes out to him and tells him she liked Tammy 'The Muppet' Thompson and Steve immediately jumps onto making fun of her because obviously, he will. She sounds like a goddamn muppet! Robin may deny it, but he knows she knows he's right. And he never lets her forget it.

After the Byers family moves back to Hawkins, Steve gets closer to the Byer-Hopper twins (Not blood related twins, but with how similar they are they might as well be). He takes note of the way Will carries himself, the way he stares at Micheal Asshole Wheeler of all people when he thinks no one is looking.

The kid doesn't come out that quickly, so with Robin's advice, Steve takes his time, making it known how okay he was with Will's sexuality, even if he did have standards low enough to beat Robin's terrible Tammy Thompson taste (He says this to her and she reacts as predictably as ever- by throwing something at him).

When Will does come out to him, Steve makes sure he only freezes for a literal second, not wanting the kid to panic like he'd seen Robin do back then. Of course, as soon as he's done comforting and reassuring the kid that he's completely fine with him being gay, he immediately jumps onto making fun of his terrible crush on Mike, finding great joy in the bright blush burning the teen's face.

The next time someone comes out to him, he's more caught off guard than he was with Robin.

Not because he was shocked that Eddie liked guys, no. He might be stereotyping a little, but no straight guy goes that close to another man and calls him Big Boy all low and seductively, a teasing grin curling his lips, a glint in his eyes-

You get the point.

The reason why he's shocked is because Eddie comes out to him, and when Steve asks about crushes, Eddie says,

"Oh, I had the worst crush on you in high school."

Steve sits there, his jaw practically on the ground. The way Eddie says it, all casual, not caring about the consequences or the effect it has on Steve.

"Wh- I- Me?" He stammered out, incredulous. "Dude, I was the biggest asshole back then!"

Eddie chuckles at that, a low sound that sends further heat into Steve's already flushed body. "The me back then did not give a shit, let me tell you that man." He turns to Steve then, giving him a slow look, a gaze more like, and smirks. "I certainly understood why the ladies were so desperate for you and your gorgeous locks."

His heart is pounding like crazy, an audible thump in his ears. Thoughts race in his head, one after the other, all jumbled up until what comes out of Steve's mouth next is,

"So what, you've got a thing for douchebags? Seriously?"

Eddie shoots him another look, more confused than ever. "What?"

"You heard me," Steve says, feeling the next words come out of his mouth like a waterfall. "I was a huge asshole in high school dude. How the hell did you have a crush on me back then? Did you seriously have no standards? You'd really stoop that low just because I had nice hair? I have good hair, and I'm nice now! What's stopping you from-"

Steve cuts himself off with an audible clack of his teeth, a sound that most often comes from Robin when she shuts herself up.

Goddamnit Robin.

Eddie is staring at him with wide eyes, the cigarette between his fingers burning away. Steve wants to watch the smoke curl away, but he's too transfixed on Eddie's doe-like gaze.

Then Eddie's features smooth over, a terrible, terrible grin curling its way onto his lips, deepening that dimple on his cheeks. He leans forward eyes lidded just slightly, and says,

"What's stopping me from what, sweetheart?"

[hispg]

Pretty little thing

Pairings: R6! Leon X Fem! Reader

Summary: You always were so curious if old guys actually do it better. Well, Leon's here to prove it to you.

Wc:2.3k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, implied age gap(not specified), a bit of mean Leon, creampie.

God forgive what he was doing, but it was a far cry from Leon's self-control, you managed to make this old man lose his temper so easily.

"Pretty little fucking thing, you're going to get what you need." Leon purred, his blue eyes penetrating yours, his thumb fondling your clit as you arched under him.

He'd already made you come twice, while he just massaged your clit, nothing more. He didn't finger you, he didn't fuck you, he managed to make you cum twice with minimal effort.

You had asked him if it was true that older guys were better at sex, that they had more experience. You were a bit incredulous in that respect, and he was determined to prove it to you. And he had the time and patience for it.

And if he still had a shred of honesty left, he was eager to get his hands on a girl as beautiful as you. He may be old, but he has everything it takes to drive you crazy with his advances.

"Uhm - can you, please..." You plead, trying to push your hips up to meet his thigh, where you had plans to hump him, just like a bitch in heat.

What a good man, you thought, as he began to rub your clit more fervently, one of his fingers sliding down your wet slit, opening the lips of your pussy. It looked like he was going to finger you, but then he stopped doing that, suddenly stopped.

He abruptly took his fingers away from you, giving you nothing more.

The sensation was enough to make you whimper, and you just looked at him with red cheeks and a pout on your lips. Only to see that he had that shit-eating grin on his face. Cocky son of a bitch.

"My pace, you should learn to respect your elders." He says in a mocking tone, this time he's mounted you, pinning your arms above your head, preventing any movement from you.

"Honestly-" Silly of you to think that he would allow you to say anything, he soon pressed his lips against yours.

His tongue emerged to meet yours, his lips moving in sync with yours, his fingers wickedly tugging at your clit, smiling against your mouth every time you squirmed beneath him.

Dripping wet, your pussy clenching against the wind every time, you could feel your head spinning every time he continued with these non-stop circular movements.

"Open up." He said in an authoritative whisper, biting your lower lip and giving it a gentle pull.

It wasn't long before you felt his hands leave your clit, finding their way to the back of your thighs, holding your legs wide open. You could say it was embarrassing, but you were already so overwhelmed by the sensations of the moment. By now you were holding your legs open the way he wanted.

"Dirty little thing, look at that." Leon purrs, sliding his fingers along the lips of your slit, getting his fingers wet in the process.

The sly whimper that came out of you was the perfect response for him. Without letting you think, he slid one of his fingers into you, sinking the thick digit into your wet pussy.

"I bet none of the boys your age have done that to you, mh?" he says in a naughty tone, curving his fingers around your g-spot and making you see little stars.

"Mhmhm." You nod in a moan mixed with an attempt at speech, so fixated on the way he put his fingers in you, in and out, as if he was so experienced at it.

And he was, for your fortune or misfortune.

You were almost going crazy with the way his lips were attached to your neck, licking and nibbling, his tongue making patterns that made you roll your eyes every time. It was so erotic and so delicious, you tightened around his fingers every time.

He smiled when he noticed you buck your hips against his fingers, pushing his digits faster against you, so fast and deep that all you could do was squirm and moan his name. It felt so good, your wet cunt wrapping around him, you were almost at the point of letting out all your sweet liquids.

"Are you going to cum again, sweetie?" Leon asked in mockery, giving your neck a firm suck, leaving a mark there.

It was all too much, you watching Leon humping the bed in a way to relieve the growing erection in his pants, or the way he fingered you so well while keeping an eye on your reactions. He was doing it like no one else, making you see the sky and the stars with just his hand.

"Oh- Shit-" You whimper, squirming and trying to hold on to his fists to make him stop.

This only added more gasoline to the fire, he began to shove his fingers deeper into you, reaching all your spongy spots, not even letting you breathe properly.

All you felt was your eyes rolling back in your head, all your fluids being expelled from your body as you collapsed under him, your body in a hot mixture of sweat and ecstasy.

You felt as if the world was spinning, your orgasm washing over you as you still tried to situate yourself. Only for you to open your eyes and see the image of Leon, smiling like the cocky bastard he was.

He knew very well that he had you wrapped around his finger at that moment.

"Did you feel good?" He asked in a purr, pressing his teeth against your jaw, then lifting his face and looking at you in a naughty way.

And damn, the look was enough to make you even wetter, if that was possible at all.

You just nodded dumbly, feeling your pussy clench around nothing.

You could have sworn to God that you'd never felt as excited as you did right now.

"Good, good." He hummed, slapping your clit twice.

For some reason, every time he made any movements with those muscular arms of his, you felt even more aroused. The veins in his arm all showing, the muscles jumping out with every movement he made. How could you not act like that?

"Keep them open." Leon says, his hands leaving you and heading for his belt.

If there was one thing he was, it was cunning, because it didn't take him more than a few seconds to undo his belt, his pants hanging open while you could already see his cock begging to come out of the confining fabric.

Soon you found yourself salivating, drooling at the wet spot that was forming in his pants. He might even have had all the control in the world, but he couldn't fool his body, surely he was as turned on as you were.

You then sat down on the bed, putting your hands on his muscular thighs and letting yourself run your lips along the underside of his stomach, dragging your tongue across his hard muscles, and he grunted and moaned in response.

The next thing you felt was his hand on the back of your head, urging you on. You quickly pulled down his pants, your eyes going wide when you saw his cock throbbing inside his underwear.

"Don't tell me your little eyes are shining like that because of me?" He says, pulling your hair to make you look up and see him smiling at you in a dirty way.

It was the final push for you to pull down his underpants, making his cock jump out, touching your cheek lightly. His pre-cum sticking to your skin, his tip dripping as his cock throbbed and ached, waiting for any touch from you.

When you took the tip and guided it into your mouth, he stopped you before you could do anything, your hand still wrapped around his member as he held your chin tightly.

"That's not why you called me here, is it?" he purred, pushing you back onto the bed, making you lie on your back.

You could feel the palpitation forming in your body, your sly eyes meeting his as he looked at you with a hungry gaze, his cock throbbing, leaking even more.

"I'll show you exactly what you want to know, sweetheart." Without warning he pushed his lips against yours, pulling you into a sloppy, hot kiss.

You soon felt him grasp the back of your thighs, putting you in a mating press, your legs so open that he could see whatever he wanted to.

His tip bumped against your clit, and he began to slowly grind against your twitching limb, which left you moaning into his mouth, moving your hips in sync with his.

His grunts mingled with your moans, his breathing mingled with yours, and you soon felt him humping you like a dog in heat.

"I'll show you why experience matters."

And he slid into you, his thick cock making you stretch in such a good way, your toes curling at the sensation. You were fucking wet, warm, jelly-like walls that accommodated him so well.

"Fucking tight. I can barely fit." Leon said as he thrust into you, deeper and deeper, to the point where you wondered if his cock had gone all the way in.

Seeing your sly expression, he smiled, moving his lips down to your neck, grabbing your sensitive skin and placing it between his teeth. Making you shiver with a certain discomfort, only for him to lick and soothe the area.

"Can't you loosen up, mh? So tight you can't stretch any further?" He purrs, thrusting slowly and methodically into you.

"That's it.... It's too much-" You whimper, putting your hands on his chest in an attempt to make him take the slightest pity on you.

All he did was sneer, giving you a very sharp smack of his hips, hitting your sweet spots in such a delicious way.

"Don't tell me you're trying to tap out? Mh, I'm sure you can handle it." He whispered to you, biting your earlobe as he fucked you quietly, sensually, rolling his hips to slide into you.

You felt your pussy stretching more and more to accommodate him, and yet you felt your walls clenching around him so hard. His tip was buried so deep in you that you didn't even know it was possible.

Your toes curling as he rammed into you, the wet noises along with the moans you both let out was the only thing that reached your ears now.

"I bet little boys your age can't do that, huh?" he says with a matching smile, pulling his cock out of you, only to shove it in all at once.

At that moment a strangled whimper came from your throat, as you closed your eyes tightly, finding the sensation too much for you to bear.

So close, you were so close to the edge that you couldn't hold on for long, all you did was stare at him with your sly little eyes, looking at his expression. His hair stuck to his forehead, his lips parted as he fucked you, his sweat dripping and mixing with yours, his muscles contracting with his every move.

When Leon became aware of the murmurs you were trying to say, the way you were drooling as he fucked you dumb, he controlled himself with everything he had not to cum here and now.

"Tight little pussy never been fucked like this, mh?" he taunts once more, pulling you into a languid, heated kiss, his hands squeezing the back of your thigh once more, but this time he pushes your legs against your chest, giving him the perfect intention to do what he was already doing.

His hips pounding brutally against you, his heavy balls slapping against you to the point of leaving a red mark on you, your fluids dripping down your body and onto the sheets.

His free hand went to your clit, massaging you slowly, adding even more to your pleasure.

When he detached his lips from yours, he even opened his lips to speak, but preferred to watch the erotic image in front of him. You with your lips parted, your eyes rolling back as you came, so drunk on his cock that you didn't even let him know you were close.

"That old cock still does the job, doesn't it?" Leon says with that damn smug grin, looking down to watch the scene.

White cream oozing out of you, your little hole still wrapped around him as he slowly grinded against you.

"Fucking good." You say under your breath, looking at him with glassy eyes.

For once you were recovering, but he jerked his hips forward, giving you another deep thrust, and then another and another. To the point where he was fucking you in a frenzied way, simply leaving you in a mess, a whimpering mess.

"I'll show you what's really good." He growls in your ear, biting your lobe as he plunges into you.

Even with your mind in shambles, you felt his hot spurt inside you, his cum flooding out of you. You'd never done it before, but it was so good, so raw. He finished while moaning some loud swear word, which you didn't understand because you were too focused on the moment.

You couldn't even think straight, and neither could he, so he just lay on top of you and waited for you both to come down from the heights. At this point, you could barely keep your eyes open, the sensation was too much for you.

Surely, this old man has made you feel like you're in paradise, and if you still don't believe him, he has all night to prove it to you.

[johannesviii]

Nearly every time I've rewatched Infinity Train Book 3 since I first saw it in February, I saw more parallels and narrative echos, and infodumping my friends about them isn't enough anymore

I figured I should do a post about this one because I don't think I've seen a post about that specific thing yet, and I love this show's writing, and. idk. I just need to praise it I guess

So, the most obvious part first:

Grace became everything she hated about her parents

When Grace mentions her mother in the Debutante Ball Car, it's made pretty clear she's trying to distance herself from her mother as much as possible, and at this point, we realise retrospectively that Grace's room in the Mall Car in episode one was full of sports clothes - it seems she tries to avoid things reminding her of her life before the train. And of her mother. And yet-

She tries to control everyone and everything around her, and makes people do what she doesn't want to do

And she decides what's cool and what isn't

She makes people kneel in her presence, like her mother towers over her in her mind's eye

Obviously she constantly lies to get what she wants, and her dad does that in her tape

When her younger self looks up, she looks right through adult Grace, and it's actually her parents she's looking at! Her younger self is metaphorically seeing her parents where her adult self is standing!! I still can't get over this shot

Also I feel the need to mention her mother has the same voice actor as her in her tape and even if it might be to cut corners in the budget, that feels significant (and to be fair, sometimes you can cut corners while making meaningful choices at the same time)

Now you might think I'd have nothing to say about Simon on that matter, since we don't see any flashback of his life before the Train, and we know next to nothing about his parents. But I think it's very telling that the only actual backstory we get for him is his backstory with The Cat.

Because-

Simon became everything he hated about The Cat

Ok I never see anyone mentioning this, but hear me out

First, we have no idea if Simon knew The Cat was routinely invading people's privacy through their memory tapes, but he sure has no issue doing the exact same thing

But that doesn't stop there. He also collects things obsessively

And makes kids collect things for him as well, by the way

He thinks he's above others, but he immediately switches to victim mode when it comes back to bite him

HE. ABANDONS. A CHILD. WHO WAS UNDER HIS CARE!!

And. Uh. They both dig their heels instead of trying to change, too

Don't get me wrong, on some level I would have liked to know what Simon's parents were like too. I would have liked that a lot. But there's a good chance it wouldn't change anything, because everything we need to know about his background to understand why he's Like That™ is already in the show

But yeah, Grace and Simon both pretend they found freedom on the Train, and both distance themselves from parental figures who are at the source of their trauma, claiming they're different and better than them - and yet they are both subconsciously repeating patterns that caused at least part of their problems and/or trauma in the first place

And since they decided that making numbers go up was good, as long as they stick to that idea, they are bound to never escape from that self-perpetuating loop of harm and trauma

And I love it

And I hate it

[nereidprinc3ss]

hii i love love how u write spencer omds🥸

uhh i was wondering if you could write sth based off the song “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross? pls dont feel pressured to write this btw😭😭😭 hope ur having a good day lovely💗💗

hello my love i have no self control so this is extremely long and plotty but i love this song and i hope that this is any good at all crying emoji (i'm on a laptop LOL) enjoy!!

warnings/tags: angst/fluff, fem!reader, negative self-talk from reader, mentions of past sexual coercion/feeling used, mentions of past excessive drinking to combat social anxiety, ive been watching a lot of new girl lately and i think it shows, SO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, happy ending

You weren’t expecting to end up on Spencer Reid’s worn-leather couch at two in the morning, clutching a chipped mug of coffee in your hands as you listen to the sounds of the city from the street below. But there you are, sitting with your legs folded under you, in your favorite dress and first date-night makeup (now bleeding and smudged from all the crying.) And realizing that despite considering him one of your closest friends, you haven’t been to his apartment in a long time. There are, of course, good reasons for that—but you try to push those from your mind. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you sigh, staring at your warped reflection in the glassy black surface of your coffee. Spencer is coming out of the small kitchen, now bearing his own cup. 

“Please, stop apologizing.” 

You glance up, tentatively studying him from behind the safety of your mug. While he may not have been asleep when you knocked on his door ten minutes ago, lachrymose and barely verbal, he must have been getting ready for bed. He’s clad in patterned pajama pants, mismatched socks, and an FBI crewneck that is just big enough to reveal the collar of the tee-shirt underneath. He’s already taken out his contacts, and you were startled by the reminder that he also has glasses. 

“So...” he begins, bringing you back to the present moment, “we don't have to talk about anything, if you don’t want to, but...” 

You sigh, watching coffee bubbles swirl like stars in a galaxy. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t really think, I just... ended up here.” 

“Yeah... where did you come from?” he laughs quietly. “Not that I’m complaining. But I recall you not living super close by.” 

“No, no. I was actually on a date. Kind of.” 

“Ah.” There’s a beat of silence, and ostensibly Spencer is waiting for you to say more, but instead you take a sip from your mug. “At two in the morning?” You nod dully, staring at the labyrinthine pattern of the Persian rug.  

“I’m taking it that it wasn’t a very good date...?” 

A whoosh of air escapes from your puffed cheeks. 

“No it was not. Not by the end, anyway. It actually started really well, which made it even more disappointing when he...” you laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Well, when he kicked me out of his car on a street corner because I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

You don’t look to see Spencer’s reaction—only take another long, baleful sip of coffee and ignore the heavy silence.  

“I’m really sorry. You... you deserve so much better than that.” 

An attempt at a jaded scoff from you falls flat. 

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the last three white house interns I’ve gone on dates with. It’s the same thing every time.” 

“Have you considered going on fewer dates with white house interns...?” The nervous humor is a thin veil over genuine critique. You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not just them. Every single guy I’ve liked since I was 15 has been like this. Even my past relationships, I felt like I was almost... tricked into, you know? I mean, these guys, they act all understanding and willing to take it slow or whatever, until you’re in a relationship, and suddenly they’re guilt tripping you so hard and making you feel so obligated to...” you catch yourself just in time, glancing up at Spencer. You’re not sure what to make of his expression. The drawn brow and slightly squinted eyes trained so intently on you could be sympathy, or anger, or pity, or apathy—you look away, not sure you even want to know what he’s thinking. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear all about that. Basically romance is exhausting and since I’ll clearly be single forever I’m considering running away to join a nunnery.” 

When he doesn’t respond for too long, you look back up quizically. 

“I’m not sure you know what romance actually is,” he says as soon as your gaze meets his, like the eye-contact activated some kind of hair-trigger in his vocal box. 

You blink, lowering the coffee cup to your lap. 

Says Spencer Reid? 

“...sorry?” 

He flushes, stammering to clarify himself. 

“I just meant—I—I know I’m not exactly fighting women off with a stick—” he interrupts himself with a self-conscious (adorable) laugh— “but... but I have been in love, at least once.”  

“Maeve,” you say, gently—trying to shove down bitter guilt as you remember how jealous you’d been when Spencer had first told you about her. “I remember.” 

He swallows and nods. 

“We never even met—we just talked. All the time. I had no idea what she looked like. But it didn’t matter at all. Because I knew her, and I loved her. Maybe things would have gone further if I hadn’t been calling her from public phone booths, but that wasn’t the most important thing to either of us. We were still in love.” You try to shut out the sharp ache in your chest. Being jealous of the way he speaks about a dead woman is so wrong.  

“What I’m trying to say is that romance isn’t solely about sex, or even physical appearance. It sounds to me like you’ve been with a lot of men who don’t understand that. And it would be such a shame for you to write romance off in general before you even get to experience it. You are... an extraordinary woman. You’re funny, and intelligent, and kind, and so capable of being loved. One day, someone is going to see beyond your pulchritude and prove that to you. I hope you let them try.” 

More tears blur the pattern on the rug, pooling in the rims of your eyes before spilling down your cheeks in fast, fat drops. Shakily you set the cup down, resting your elbows on your knees and hiding your face in your hands. You sniff once. Twice. Shake your head quickly, attempting to wipe the tears away without further smearing your makeup everywhere. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, leaning forward but obviously unsure how to comfort you. “Please don’t cry, I wasn’t--I was trying to do the opposite of this.” 

“No, I’m sorry! You didn’t have to—you didn’t—I’m sorry. That was way too nice.” 

But you're not crying because he was nice.  

Someone will love you, but not me. That’s all you can hear. 

His voice is a mere whisper when he next speaks. 

“I meant every word.” 

You take a shuddering breath, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve behind the peaceful black of your eyelids. You can’t be looking at his face when you say what you’re about to say. 

“I had a crush on you for the longest time, you know.” 

Ringing silence. But it doesn’t last as long as you’d imagined. It’s not as world ending. 

“Had?” 

The little smile in his voice is like a fist around your heart. 

“Yeah. You know what changed?” 

“What’s that?” 

Absolutely nothing. 

“Every time I got super drunk and started hitting on you, you’d just drive me home. And I did it a lot. Like, for months. But you were such a gentleman. It drove me fucking crazy. So eventually I figured you just didn’t like me and I gave up.” 

Another stretch of silence. A breeze comes in from the open window, fluttering the curtains and cooling the tears on your face. His response is sad when it finally comes. 

“You thought I didn’t like you because I didn’t try to take advantage of you when you were drunk?” 

“Pretty much.” You smile ruefully, fingertips still pressed over your eyes. “God, listen to me. No wonder I get treated like garbage.” 

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that. Did you hear anything I just said?” 

You sniff, looking to the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It was really sweet.” 

More silence. 

“But you don’t believe it.” 

A bitter laugh poisons the air around you. 

“I don’t know.  I’m kind of tired of waiting for someone to prove it to me. Just for once, I want someone to be interested in me beyond having sex in the back of their fucking... Range Rover, or whatever. Like, maybe all that stuff you said is true, but there’s no evidence to support it, and I know logically you’re probably right but I can’t help wondering if... if I’m the outlier. Maybe there just isn’t someone for me like that. Maybe I’m just gonna be the sex in the back of the Range Rover girl forever.” 

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob forces itself from your throat and you bury your face in your hands again, shaking your head. 

“Wow, I am so sorry,” you say a little too loudly, “I did not mean to be this honest tonight. Did you spike my coffee?” 

“You are not the outlier,” Spencer whispers.  

You sniff, lifting your head haltingly to look at him. 

“What?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he speaks. 

“You said you can’t help wondering if you’re the outlier, and maybe there just isn’t someone for you like that. That’s not true.” 

“Spencer, those are just words. You can’t possibly know that. Statistical probabilities don’t count.” 

“That’s... that’s not how I know.” 

Your heart drops as you study his face.  

No. 

Surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. 

Surely he wouldn’t do this to you after you’ve just told him everything you told him. You have been harboring feelings for him for years. Since you met. He can’t just spring this on you one night because you’re a little bummed out. If he felt the same, you would have found out a long time ago; he had ample opportunity to tell you. There was a period of months where you practically threw yourself all over him at every chance you got, and he did nothing. So this... this is just cruel—something you’ve never known Spencer Reid to be. 

You stand up, trembling slightly with rage and grief and humiliation. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t say things that you don’t mean just to make me feel better.” 

“What are you doing? Don’t--” 

You scoop up your purse, trying to get to the front door as fast as your gelatinous legs will allow. More tears are streaming down your face now and you don’t need him to see what he’s done to you—to see how much you care what he thinks. 

“It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you around—” 

A hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks 

“Stop. Just... please give me a second to talk, okay?” 

With nothing left to give, you turn to him. 

“Don’t be mean, Spencer. Don’t act like you liked me too. That makes me feel... so much worse.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself. Tawny eyes bore into your soul, and you realize that there is so much sheer nervous energy radiating off of him it’s infectious. Your heart begins to pound as he speaks. 

“I’m not doing that. I’m being an idiot, because you just told me that you don’t feel that way about me anymore but... but I do. And I have to tell you now because for six months I tortured myself wondering why you would flirt with me so much when you were hammered and then act like nothing happened the next day. There were so many times I almost told you how I felt but I didn’t and now I am because even if it ruins our friendship you need to know that somebody... that I wanted to be that person for you. I still do.” 

Your heart is like an unmoored zeppelin in your chest, bumping against your esophagus and threatening to either burst or jump out of your mouth. You take your chances, whispering so quietly it’s almost inaudible. 

“You... you like me?” 

“Yes,” Spencer sighs. “I have liked you for a very long time. And I’m sorry—” 

Whatever ridiculous thing he was going to apologize for, you don’t give him the chance. Instead you launch yourself at him, capturing his lips in a kiss that feels so much better than it’d ever been in your fantasies because it’s real. You hear his sharp intake of breath, but it only takes a second for him to respond, cradling your face in his hands like you’re the entire world. For a moment, time bends. Years of longing, of buried dreams crash into the present in a brilliant, dazzling explosion.

And then, as quickly as it started, he pulls away. The absence of his touch is like a vacuum, so much worse now that you know exactly how it feels to have his lips on yours, even if it was only for a few seconds. How the hell did you live like that for so long? How are you supposed to live like that ever again?

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he breathes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he’s barely holding onto his self control. “You just want someone to comfort you, I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state and confided in me which is manufacturing a false sense of attachment—” 

You grab his wrists, which still graze your jaw.

“Spencer, stop intellectualizing for thirty seconds. I promise you I am thinking clearly.” 

“You said you used to like me, past tense—” 

“Yeah, I did. Do you believe every single murderer who says he didn’t do it?” 

“No, but—” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase; a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then what more could you possibly need to be convinced that I really like you? I already kissed you! What is stopping you?” 

Another deep breath is taken by him that seems to suck all the air out of the quiet room. Briefly, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. If you really do like him so much more than he could ever like you.  

Until he looks back down, eyes so golden-brown in the dim light, so kind and full of affectionate concern as he carefully assesses every square centimeter of your face, looking for... well, you’re not exactly sure what. It’s like he’s extracting every thought from your head, turning them over like sun-warmed stones until he finds what he’s looking for. He smooths his hands over your hair, brushing strands away from your teary face. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of holding your breath, he speaks. 

“I just want you to believe what I believe about you. But I don’t want you to have to rely on me or anyone else for your own self-worth.” 

“Well, don’t you think very highly of yourself,” you tease with a sniffle. He laughs—it's quiet, but his smile is so bright without even trying that suddenly you can’t remember why you’ve ever been sad. The small miracle of his laughter makes you feel so light, and you realize it has nothing to do with the way he makes you feel about yourself. It has everything to do with who he is. 

Once the giggles die down, you tentatively mirror his hold on your face. 

“Spencer, I don’t like you because you like me. I’ve liked you for an embarrassingly long time. I liked you enough that I gave myself a severe hangover at least once a week for three months just so I could have an excuse to flirt shamelessly with you.” 

A half-sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he gently swipes under your eyes. 

“You never had to do that. I would have welcomed your sober brazen flirting with open arms.” 

“Well... do you believe me?” you plead. His amber eyes shine. 

“I do.” 

“Will you kiss me?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

You nod, rising on your toes to meet him halfway. 

When your lips meet again, it is sweet, and honest, and slow, and deep. Still, there is no desperation--no race to an imagined finish line, no clash of teeth and pawing hands. It is a kiss for the sake of it—as if it were the greatest intimacy. Not a precursor to sharing a bed, but something bigger than that in and of its own. Something just as worthy and important. For the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand romance. And while you wouldn’t mind if things did escalate, you also know that Spencer knows that’s not what matters right now. Because he actually understands you—he actually cares. He will wait until you understand that you mean so much more than that to him.

To that end, he pulls away, gently supplanting his absence with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It would be polite of me to offer you a ride home, wouldn’t it?” he whispers, like it’s the last thing he wants to do. You bite the inside of your cheek, coming up with reasons not to go. One ridiculous one arises from the depths of your memory that you know he won’t be able to say no to. 

“Or... I could stay here, and we could watch one of those nerdy foreign films you’re always talking about?” 

A slow, perfect, high-watt smile blossoms on his face, and you know you’ve said exactly the right thing. 

“Nerdy? Oh, my darling girl... Soviet-era filmography is far from nerdy. небесная машина will completely defy what you thought you knew about the life of an average Russian villager in the 1950’s.” 

“Oh, good. Because I’ve really been meaning to change the way I think about the average 1950’s Russian villager,” you smile, already closing in to kiss him again. 

------------------------------------------ 

epilogue

Three hours later, you’re crying because the life of the average Russian villager in the 1950’s was so much worse than you’d previously thought. 

“It was good, right?” Spencer asks as the credits roll over a bleak snowy sepia landscape, leaning back to get a better look at you. You sit up from where you’d been leaning against him, furiously wiping your eyes. 

“It was terrible! Why didn’t you tell me that everyone except the kid dies in the end?!” 

“Because that’s the whole point of the movie!” he laughs, pulling you back into him. “I’m sorry. I probably should have explained how depressing this entire era of film was outside of the US.” 

“And also how long the movies were. I was not prepared for how many five minute long clips of empty fields there were going to be.” 

“You’re right,” he ammends, wrapping his arms around you in a way that gives you butterflies and makes you sleepy at the same time. “Next time we can watch whatever you want to watch.” 

Time passes like that—you in his arms, watching weak light slowly flood the room with half-lidded eyes and listening to the sounds of the city waking up from the street below, underscoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Thoughts float by like leaves on the ever-flowing current of your mind, and you’re happy to let them pass until one in particular catches your attention. 

“Spencer?” 

He hums, like he’d been deep in his own proverbial river of thought. 

“What does pulchritude mean?” 

It takes him a split second to remember the bit of conversation from earlier to which you are referring, but when he does, he chuckles, running his hand over your messy hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

And so you let it float away. 

[thewitchblue]

"Why'd he send you?"

Bruce asked bluntly, his Batman suit on with his gaggle of children evasdropping in the background not-so-subtly. I quirked an unamused eyebrow at the bulky man in front of me.

"It just so happens that I owed Constantine a favour. Do you want my help, or do you want to deal with your little demon friend all by yourself?"

Batman huffs an amused laugh. This is the best demonologist Constantine claims in the world? Red Robin asked Nightwing in a mutter,

"I'm not seeing things, am I?"

Apparently, he didn't think I'd hear him. I smirked as I turned my attention to the older Robin. He nervously shifted his weight when my intense gaze watches him, before becoming a bit panicked once he realized he physically cannot move away from me as I approach. I eye him up-and-down with appreciation before saying,

"You're cute, Little Red. Let's get coffee sometime. After I banish this fucker, of course."

This seemed to surprise everyone in the cave, but my focus was back to the demon Batman managed to get an attachment to.

"Now, how did you manage to get this fucker attached to you? Were you feeling especially lonely and struck a deal?"

I eye Batman curiously. Red Hood chuckles in amusement, but I choose to ignore him. There is a weird tension in the room when Red Hood and Batman make eye contact, so I clear my throat loudly to draw attention back to me as I study the cage that the demon is currently trapped in it. He managed to isolate and contain the demon, so that's a start. He sighs and explains,

"No, I'm not lonely enough to stoop so low."

I give an acknowledging hum. My eyes stay trained on the demon. It was rattling the cage it was imprisoned in, hissing and cursing at me while I approach it.

"Let's just ask the demon then, shall we?"

I stop in front of the demon and ask it,

"Now, what deal did you two make?"

The demon merely growled in response. I growl back at it, reaching into its body and squeezing its heart until it whimpered. I hiss,

"Answer me."

Its gravelly voice said,

"I was promised a new body by an alternative Batman. Clearly, I made a wrong turn."

I purred as I released my grip,

"Good boy."

Batman frowned in thought, but stayed silent by my side. He seemed to already have an idea of who struck the deal.

"Now, which Batman promised you this wanker?"

The demon snarls,

"He goes by Owlman. He merely promised me a Batman."

I give a thoughtful hum as I fully remove my hand from its heart, wiping off the dark blood from my hand.

"Well, that turned out swimmingly for you, didn't it?"

It snarled in response to my false sympathy. Red Hood snorts at my antics. He seemed to be entertained by the entire situation.

"Well, it appears your little deal wasn't fully thought out. I'm sending you back. Next time, possess Owlman instead."

I murmur my spell softly to myself before snapping in a particular pattern. The demon howled before it dissipates like mere smoke. I crack my knuckles nervously before turning back to the Batfamily and saying,

"If you need my services again, ask Little Red over there. He has my number."

Red Robin looked confused until he reached into his pocket and felt the slip of paper I planted on him. He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket to the dismay of everyone in the cave. I send a wink his way once his disbelieving eyes turn back to me.

With a wave of my hand, I disappear from their cave before anyone could reply. Truthfully, I was a tad nervous to hear his reply. I'm still rusty when dealing with the living after spending so many years trapped in a metaphorical cage with anti-magic wards. Before John saved my sorry arse, I was entrapped for pissing off the wrong crowd.

I have much more experience with the dead and celestial as a result. They are a lot easier to figure out and handle than regular human beings.

Tim had never been more conflicted. Granted, he didn't have anyone who showed genuinely interest in him like this demon hunter. He had to applaud the flawless effort.

"Aww, you two would be so cute!"

Dick said with an encouraging grin. Dick, of course, was excited and happy for his brother. He wraps an arm around him in a side hug before letting go and saying,

"You should reach out! The chemistry between you two reminds me of myself and Starfire."

Jason rolls his eyes and fakes gags at Dick's brotherly excitement. Despite his annoyed exterior, he still defends Tim,

"You care too much, Grayson. Let my replacement come to his own decisions."

Tim gives a shy smile. The demonologist was rather cute and he appreciates the boldness and the stealth it took to even slip the note in his pocket. He softly says,

"Maybe I will."