#extended bail

[rightnewshindi]

हिमाचल हाई कोर्ट ने बागी विधायक चैतन्य शर्मा के पिता और आशीष शर्मा की जमानत अवधि बढ़ाई

हिमाचल हाई कोर्ट ने बागी विधायक चैतन्य शर्मा के पिता और आशीष शर्मा की जमानत अवधि बढ़ाई

Himachal High Court: हाईकोर्ट (High Court)ने गगरेट से विधायक चैतन्य शर्मा के पिता और हमीरपुर से निर्दलीय विधायक आशीष शर्मा को दी अंतरिम अग्रिम जमानत(Interim Anticipatory bail) की अवधि 1 अप्रैल तक बढ़ा दी है। न्यायाधीश रंजन शर्मा ने दोनों प्रार्थियों को आदेश दिए कि वे बालूगंज पुलिस (Baluganj Police) द्वारा बुलाए जाने पर अपनी उपस्थिति दर्ज कराए व जांच कार्य में सहयोग दें। हालांकि कोर्ट ने दोनों…

[askbensolo]

06.15.30 - a letter to bail organa

Hey.

I’m Ben.

You and I never got to meet. Which…is either a real shame, or maybe a relief—‘cause I don’t know what you would’ve thought of me.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you would’ve been plenty nice to me.

They all are.

I bet you would’ve liked my sister. She’s a lot like your kid. She’s also adopted. Mom would always tell Rey growing up how you were her real family, so we can be her real family, too.

My mom misses you a lot, you know. From all the stories she’s told us over the years, I almost feel like we have met.

…I wish you were the father I reminded her of.

There’s a statue of you at the capital. They put it up a couple years ago. Mom says you look way too serious.

Did Mom ever struggle to get along with you? I struggle to get along with her almost every day. You seem like you were so perfect, like a saint or something, both because of that giant statue and because each of Mom’s stories has been finely filtered through nostalgia and grief—but you were human, too. Surely you messed up sometimes.

But…I’ll bet you anything that I’ve messed up more. And I’m not even half the age you were when you—

…returned to the Force.

Me, I’ve still got my dad. I wonder what you would’ve thought of him. He’s…a character, I’ll say that much. You probably would’ve liked him. Eventually.

Nothing against your kid—she’s great. Fantastic. Incredible. Marvelous. But…Dad just seems to get me a little more. Or…maybe it’s just that he doesn’t worry about me so much.

‘Cause, y’know, I don’t think Mom ever really got over it, losing you and her mom. Well—okay—I mean—who does, right? But…I think she’s afraid to lose me the way she lost you. Taken before your time, with no chance for a goodbye. Removed from existence by a meaningless catastrophe.

You know some days she won’t let me take out the speeder? Only on her more neurotic days, but still.

Maybe in a different universe, you’d still be here with us, and Grandma Organa too. And maybe all the crap that happened to me wouldn’t have happened, and maybe I’d be less screwed in the head, and maybe Mom wouldn’t always look at me and see her father—the other one. Maybe in another universe you’d be here with us on a Sunday afternoon in the senatorial courtyard, eating soggy sandwiches that Rey packed, and you could see the statue they put up of you. You and Dad could take turns teasing Mom while I show Grandma my sketchbook and refuse to let Rey see, because I’ve just started out and my drawings aren’t very good—but you’d probably say they were, because that’s what grandparents do.

But…we don’t got another universe, I suppose. We’ve got this one. And we’ve just got to make the best of it, and do our best to make it better. That seems to be what you always fought for.

Thank you for everything you did during your life, both for the galaxy and my mother, that has reached through time to touch me, even if you never got to.

May the Force be with you.

—Ben Organa Solo

[misiahasahardname]

creates a complex au with multiple arcs, has a bajillion ideas about what to do with the au, proceeds to only post shitty lia and aprilnardo doodles and provides absolutely zero context as to what the au is about

i mean... get humaned bozo!

two other out of context offerings

[seasunstarwars]

sometimes i wish that i could freeze the picture (and save it from the funny tricks of time)

there’s a change in the wind and a split in the road (you can do what’s right or you can do what you are told): chapter 5

read on ao3 along with the rest of my ikio'yth au clone wars collection

tumblr masterlist

cw: allusions to grief, platonic cuddling & co-sleeping

🟣 26894 AJF | Jedai Temple, Coruscant

The journey back to the Temple is made in silence. They pass reporters without a word – Tavi clinging to Kit’s back, Yoda perched on Adi’s shoulder to avoid getting lost in the crowd, and Obi-Wan fast asleep on Plo’s back, mostly hidden beneath the Kel Dor’s cloak.

“Master!” The silence is broken the moment they reach the Temple by Ahsoka flinging herself from the steps, only to come to a sudden, bewildered halt–

“‘Soka?” Obi-Wan’s question is slurred with sleep, even as his shuffling dislodges Plo’s hood to reveal mussed red hair, and Tavi’s head snaps up, lightsaber immediately finding its way into xir hand. Ahsoka’s shoulders drop, relieved.

“Go back to sleep, Master. Just making sure you were okay,” she assures, and Tavi’s grip on xir ‘saber loosens. “Sorry. You were gone for longer than we expected, and Master Depa rushed Master Mace off as soon as they came back and–”

“Breathe, Padawan,” Eeth soothes, dropping a hand between the young Togruta’s montrals. “We’re alright.”

“Master Kolar was looking for you, Master.” Ahsoka tilts her head to look up at him as he smiles his thanks and drifts into the Temple. Adi does the same, Yoda springing off her shoulder as she and Oppo retreat further into the Temple in search of their own rahkadai.

“Kohtooyaa, little Soka.” Plo steps forward next, a warm hand finding the Padawan’s shoulder as he guides her to lead their way into the Temple. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, Master Plo. I was waiting for you,” she admits, a little sheepishly. Plo tuts, but the warmth-care-love like a home-cooked meal he broadcasts through the Force eases over her.

“Eat together, we shall,” Yoda suggests, with a decisive nod. “Stay together. Rahkadai dinner.” Lineage dinners – shared between Tyvokka and Yoda’s lineages since Obi-Wan’s training changed hands – have long since become full-night affairs, usually ending with sleepovers that are quite often crashed by various members of the Kybuck Clan and their own rahkahdai. Ahsoka’s eyes light up, immediately, all the tension melting away for just one moment – despite the grief, despite the fear, despite their entire world changing around them.

“I’ll comm the others!” she agrees, eagerly. “In your quarters, Jaiehkarah?”

An hour later, Yoda has finished cooking a stew that – under Ki-Adi’s supervision – is likely safe for general consumption. Obi-Wan is still asleep on the couch, with both his current and former Padawans sprawled on top of him, all three of them covered in the stolen cloak – Tyvokka’s – that Tavi wore to the Senate. Kit, Nahdar, Plo, Tyvokka, and A’Sharad are chatting quietly in the corner – having already got their fill of cuddle-pile holos. The door slides open without knocking, revealing Qui-Gon, quickly followed by Nova, pulling Bail and Breha along, and Anakin, arm-in-arm with Padmé.

Tavi and Obi-Wan each crack open a single eye to assess the newcomers, Tavi’s void-dark gaze quickly finding Qui-Gon.

“You’re late,” xie accuses. Qui-Gon bristles. Nova sighs, loudly, shoving his cheek with a flat palm and glaring at Tavi.

“Don’t start, baby blue.” Tavi sticks her tongue out, but shrugs, rolling back over to cuddle up to Ahsoka, effectively trapping Obi-Wan – who had clearly been intending to get up and greet their guests – in place.

“Padawan,” he sighs, long-suffering, and both the bodies in his lap hum then, two inquisitive eyes flicking to him – one black, one blue. “We have guests.”

“No, please, don’t get up on our account,” Breha assures, quickly, tucking her comm back into her pocket with the click of a holocam. “You must all be exhausted, poor things.”

“You haven’t let the Grandmaster cook, have you?” Anakin questions, with a quick headcount and dawning dread.

“Cooked I have!” Yoda harrumphs, indignantly, from the kitchen. Anakin’s mouth opens–

“I supervised, young Anakin, don’t worry.” Ki-Adi’s assurance is followed by the distinct thwack of Yoda’s cane, but the Cerean just tuts at his master as Anakin’s shoulders relax.

“Oh–”

“Is Obi here?” The poor Senators jump, while the Force Sensitives in the room just glance calmly back at the still-open door.

“Bant, we both know he’s here. C’mon.” Quinlan rolls his eyes, slipping past Anakin and Padmé to greet Nova with a kiss on the cheek and grin, wickedly, at Obi-Wan – still stuck on the couch beneath his Padawan-pile.

“Quin!” Bant scolds, but it has little heat.

“Aayla! You know Padmé, right?” Anakin cheers, spotting the blue Twi’lek on Quinlan’s heels. “Oh, hello, Jaieh Tholme. I didn’t realise you were still on-world.”

“Twenty!” Kit whoops, startling poor Ahsoka – still half-asleep – into sitting up. “I called it!”

“Tholme! If your rahkadai is going to invade our dinner, you can come and make yourselves useful!” Ki-Adi demands from the kitchen, earning an impressive eye-roll from the addressed Master and a whine from Quinlan.

“But Jaieh Mundi–”

“Oh, come on, Jaieh. He just wants us to set the table,” Aayla huffs, slinging an arm around her Master’s shoulder and dragging him towards the kitchen, still grumbling. Tavi groans into Obi-Wan’s robes, then rolls off the couch and onto xir feet.

“I’ll get the tablecloth,” xie volunteers, one ahwey rubbing sleepily at the aching scar tissue around xir left eye as xie bundles xemself back up in Tyvokka’s misappropriated cloak. “You guys better unfold the table.”

They move like a well-oiled machine, then – despite their bouts of chaos. Quinlan manages not to break all the bowls when Aayla trips him; Plo and Tyvokka manage to get the chabudai unfolded, despite Kit, Ahsoka, Anakin, and A’Sharad devolving into a pillow fight when Anakin accidentally hits Ahsoka with one of the zabuton; Tavi manages to retrieve the tablecloth, despite the collection of rocks and dried mosses piled on top of it in the cupboard. Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and Nova set to keeping their politician-guests entertained, until Ki-Adi emerges from the kitchen carrying a huge, steaming pot and Tholme hurriedly sets down a big wooden trivet in the middle of the table. Yoda follows behind, wielding a massive ladle like some kind of weapon.

“Eat let us!” He swats at Kit’s ankles and the four instigators hurriedly separate from their pillow fight to distribute the zabuton as they’d been intended to. Yoda nods, satisfied, before turning to their guests. “Come, sit.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda,” the three chorus – Obi-Wan and Nova each taking one of the Organas by the arm to lead them to the table, while Anakin pouts at Qui-Gon escorting Padmé. The Jedi Master rolls his eyes, indulgently, and chooses the next zabuton along, allowing Anakin to squeeze in beside Padmé. Anakin has always been his favourite. Obi-Wan and Nova continue to pretend it doesn’t sting.

“Pushover.” Tavi rolls xir eyes, pulling Ahsoka down beside xem between Tyvokka, with Yoda between him and Nova, and Plo, with Kit and Nahdar on his other side. Quinlan and Bant claim their seats between Obi-Wan and Padmé, so Ki-Adi bravely places himself between Tholme and Qui-Gon, leaving Aayla and A’Sharad to close the circle between Nahdar and Tholme.

“This smells delicious, Masters,” Bail puts in, just as Qui-Gon opens his mouth to argue with Tavi. “We greatly appreciate your hospitality.”

“Please, Senator Organa, there’s certainly no need for such formality.” Kit waves a dismissive hand as bowls begin to float over so that Yoda and Nova can begin dishing up the stew. “You are Nova and Obi-Wan’s family, which makes you ours.” Obi-Wan hisses across the table – pink burning to the very tips of his ears, never quite hidden by his beard – but the other three just chuckle, Nova leaning across to press a kiss to Breha’s cheek.

“If we are dispensing with formalities, I believe you should call me Bail.” Kit shoots a brilliant grin across the table.

“Kit,” he returns, just as Plo sets a bowl in front of him.

They’re all too exhausted for the conversation to truly turn to politics, despite the imminent war looming over them all, so when Quinlan produces a sabacc deck, there’s no arguments. Those not playing clear the table or chat among themselves or, in the case of Tavi and Ahsoka, repurpose the zabuton and various other pillows and blankets kept for this exact purpose into a massive nest in the free space now the table has been folded away again.

“What are they doing?” Padmé elbows Anakin, eyes fixed on the pillow-hoarding pair, who exchange a look, but let her continue to believe her whispering was quiet enough.

“Huh? They’re setting up the kimoxalia.”

“The what?” Anakin begins to speak and stops short, brow furrowing.

“… well, I suppose it’s not really a bed. The… nest? Pit?” He nudges Nova. “What d’we call that?”

“Nest?” Nova shrugs, unconvincingly. “I don’t know. It’s comfortable and we all fit to sleep in it.”

“You all sleep in it?” Padmé questions, peeking around Anakin. “Together?”

“Oh, so it’s like kolekkiro,” Breha pipes in, from Nova’s other side, having been unanimously voted out of the sabacc table after wiping the floor with the rest of them three times in a row. Anakin frowns, blankly, but Nova brightens.

“Yes, exactly! Except we don’t always need a specific occasion to do it. It’s a bit more informal.” Padmé hums, thoughtfully, eyeing the kimoxalia curiously. "It's basically just a cuddle puddle. Like a puppy pile, I guess."

“I used to do something similar with the handmaidens,” she murmurs, eventually, “But it was always a… well, I suppose a “training” thing. Testing how we could react to threats in the middle of the night and such.”

“Well, this is much nicer than that,” Anakin assures, bumping his shoulder against hers. “But if you want me to escort you back to your apartment, that’s no problem.”

“Wait, we’re invited?” Breha perks up immediately and Ahsoka doesn’t quite stifle her snort in time, giving away that the two nest-builders had been listening the whole time. Padmé’s ears burn, though her expression doesn’t shift, but Nova just rolls her eyes.

“You’re invited,” Tavi huffs, pulling Tyvokka and Plo into the kimoxalia, because they can talk just as easily while serving as additional pillows. She’s already yawning, snuggling into Tyvokka’s fur and the warmth radiating off both Plo and Ahsoka. The bickering at the sabacc table continues, though voices lower, but it doesn’t bother either Tavi or Ahsoka – nor Obi-Wan, when he joins them shortly later, the second to be voted out for being too good at sabacc. Even when Quinlan and Aayla devolve into a wrestling match, Tavi only opens one eye to watch them be dragged apart by Tholme and Bant.

Eventually, the others will join them. But for now, they are here, together. Not all of them, but enough. Enough that the Force is warm with love, despite the cold maw of grief lingering around them all.

Dai Bendu:

rahkadai: lineage

jaiehkarah: (Jedi) grandmaster, informal

jaieh: (Jedi) master

jehxah: (Jedi) knight

uu nev anohrah: in the Temple

kimoxalia: sleeping place (kimoch “place” + calia “to sleep”, elided/simplified over time)

Keldeorinyaa:

kohtooyaa: hello

Alderaanian:

kolekkiro: co-sleeping, specifically practiced between families as part of Alderaanian bonding rituals related to significant events, such as funerals and marriages

[khazrablood]

I have 0 fucks about what she is going thru, she is getting what she signed up for. People found her burner account during her Communist Manifesto stint trying to get clout and look "based" when she was spouting 4chan shit on the side which she has admitted to.

She follows all the right wing nazi fuckers, even Andrew Tate and many other adoring right wingers that have hobbies in eugenics and SA of all ages. Which btw she has gotten many women assaulted by these same people by associating and promoting them, kinda like Amanda Palmer where she had a hand in procuring women for Gaiman. All the nazi right wing dog whistles have been spouted out in public by her that her fans (that aren't white supremacist 4channers) are oblivious to and then emulate which only emboldens nazi fucks as seen as of lately with that Musk salute being brushed off. Like no sane person would go near to procreate with Musk unless you believe in the same white supremacist eugenics ass shit as him.

Like here is a whole reddit thread of receipts of the rancid behavior and who she chooses to surround herself with.

NEITHER of them should have any rights to these children. The only victims here are the children. She can seriously go fuck herself bc she played stupid games with white supremacists and now winning her stupid prizes from the same misogynistic people she associates with. She deserves 0 sympathy.

It's weird this isn't talked about more, but Elon basically kidnapped his son. He used his lawyers to near bankrupt Grimes in her custody battle and it's unclear if she has any access to her son at this point.

Grimes can be an unsympathetic figure at times, but this is just awful. Especially since it seems Elon is using this young boy as an anti-assassination tactic.

[alolan-weavile]

oooooh i am deeply unhappy actually

[gatheringbones]

more dating advice:

often times the thing a shy person needs to extend themselves a little and show you more of themselves is for you to extend yourself first, show yourself first, and make a safe staging ground for the shy person to emerge— which requires a certain amount of vulnerability and bravery on your part

that vulnerability can be repulsive to people who find vulnerability triggering, but that repulsion isn’t a reflection of you or anything to do with you and encountering that repulsion shouldn’t be taken as discouragement or negative judgement

most people who date don’t want to actually partner up with another human being and create a loving connected relationship with that person, they want to float in a sea of mostly positive feelings that make them feel better about their image of themselves

being vulnerable and brave and real has the power to jerk those people out of the fantasy. it forces them to identify themselves (and to bail) and to stop wasting your time.

other people experience great relief and warmth and increased connection upon encountering someone who can be real and can treat the relationship like it’s real

those people provide a very good baseline to start an actual romantic relationship with.

[lillilybells]

Family dinner VI✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader (feat. Jon and Connor) summary|you finally get to meet damian’s best friend, damian’s not a fan.

word count|1480

warnings|mentions of blood, tears, teen romance.

notes|I love love loveeeeeeee this panel of them sm.

Family dinner masterlist

It was supposed to be a good day.

You’d planned it for weeks—ever since getting together with Damian, there had been one name he brought up more than any of his siblings: Jon Kent.

Damian didn’t exactly glow when talking about people. But when he mentioned Jon? There was a faint fondness, like remembering a childhood memory he wouldn’t admit made him happy.

You’d spoken to Jon once or twice, over mic, while the boys were in the middle of a co-op game. The vibe was mostly chaotic and filled with bickering. Now, you were finally going to meet him in person.

But of course, nothing ever goes according to plan when you date a Wayne.

You woke up late. Spilled iced coffee on your outfit. Bambi’s sitter canceled. Your parents worked Saturdays. You were one more inconvenience away from crying into a pillow.

You dialed Damian’s number, voice cracking: “I’m sorry, I—I know we were supposed to go out, but the day’s been awful. I overslept, then Sarah bailed on watching Bambi, and it’s not like I can bring a bunny to—"

“Go to your balcony,” Damian cut in.

You paused. “What?”

“Balcony. Now.”

You didn’t question him. You never did when he used that voice.

You slipped into your room, heart racing—and froze at the sight of your boyfriend in full Robin gear, being carried through the sky by Superman.

Well—by a Superman.

Your mouth dropped open as you opened the balcony door. Jon Kent smiled as he gently set Damian in the room.

“You could’ve put me down on the balcony,” Damian grumbled, dusting off his cape, a little embarrassed, “we ran into a robbery on the way-“

“Oh my God!” you gasped, interrupting. “That’s your best friend? Superman?! Damian, why didn’t you tell me?!”

“You didn’t tell her?” Jon’s brows raised as he gave Damian a teasing look.

“I didn’t think she’d care,” Damian muttered, but his eyes narrowed when he saw the way you practically beamed at the taller boy.

“Care? I’m a huge Superman fan! Are you kidding?” you said, practically vibrating.

Jon grinned and extended his hand. “Then it’s nice to finally meet the girl who’s somehow managed to tame Damian Wayne.”

You giggled and shook his hand. Damian’s jaw tightened.

“Enough. Where are my spare clothes?” he asked, eye twitching.

“Right, right!” you laughed, running to grab him and Jon each a change of clothes. Jon, of course, was already taking in the room like it was a tour stop.

Ten minutes later, you were curled up on the couch, Bambi in Jon’s lap as you sat next to Damian—who was watching you both like a Hawke.

“So, lifelong Superman fan?” Jon asked with a charming smile, petting Bambi like he’d known him for years.

“Since forever. Especially growing up in Gotham—it was comforting to know there was a hero out there who saved cats and smiled. He was like a... beacon of hope in a city full of gargoyles.”

“Don’t let Batman hear that,” Damian grumbled under his breath.

“Are you a snitch, Damian?” you teased.

“No,” he muttered. “But you’d better hope Todd’s not around. He might draft a hit list just for that comment.”

“of course he would, the guy has a favorite gargoyle..” you giggle.

Jon chuckled. “You’re more charming than I expected.”

“I try,” you replied, leaning a bit closer. “What’s it like? Being bulletproof?”

“Honestly? Weird. I once destroyed a toaster just by looking at it.”

You gasped in mock horror.

“Wasn’t even on purpose. It just disintegrated.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

By the time the laughter died down, Damian had pulled you into his lap, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as Bambi switched to curling in Jon’s hoodie. You were recounting how you and Damian met—Jon was wheezing from laughter.

“I’m not kidding,” you finished, “I drag him in my room- bloody trail and all, panicking, running around and trying to save his life— and when he finally wake up- he leaves without saying goodbye! I save this man and he ghosted me!.”

Jon nearly dropped Bambi. “You’re such an asshole,” he said, wheezing.

Damian just smirked.

“I still don’t know how you pulled her.”

“Like this,” Damian said flatly, tugging you in for a short, passionate kiss. You squealed a little at the suddenness, caught off guard but not complaining.

Jon blinked. “Huh. Yeah, okay. I get it now.”

Damian looked pleased.

“I gotta admit,” Jon added, “you’re more affectionate than I expected.”

“In front of you, sure. You’re not father.”

“I’d be lucky to get a side-hug in front of Batman,” you whispered.

“You’d be lucky to survive a kiss under his glare,” Damian muttered, frowning deeply.

“Aw, don’t get grumpy, baby.”

“Why does everyone say that?” Damian asked in exasperation.

Jon snorted. “You scowl in your sleep.”

Damian looked personally offended.

Just then, Jon checked his phone. “Crap. We were supposed to meet Connor twenty minutes ago.”

Your ears perked up. “Connor Hawke?”

“Yeah—oh! He can swing by here instead.” Jon was already typing before Damian could stop him.

“No. Don’t—do not—tell him to come here.”

“I already sent the location,” Jon said, nonchalantly.

“Delete it.”

“Too late.”

“Why, baby?” you asked, tilting your head. “I wanted to meet him too.”

Damian groaned. “Beloved, you don’t understand—”

“Oh my god,” Jon interrupted, grinning. “Did you just call her ‘beloved’?”

Damian blinked. “Yes. What else would I call her..?l

Jon blinked back, “I love that for you…”

Ding dong.

You turned toward the front door.

“That’s him,” Jon said cheerfully.

Damian sighed the longest sigh of his life, muttering curses under his breath.

Ding dong.

Damian groaned.

Jon grinned, getting up to open the door.

Connor Hawke stepped in with the grace of someone who never trips over their own feet. He was dressed casual—dark green shirt, zip-up hoodie, and a tactical calm in his expression that reminded you of Bruce more than you expected.

His dark blond hair was tucked under a beanie, and he looked like someone who could take down five guys and then ask politely if you needed help with your groceries.

He gave a short nod toward Jon and Damian before his eyes landed on you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and smooth.

You blinked. “Hi.”

Jon grinned. “Connor, this is Damian’s girlfriend. You know, the one.”

Connor raised a brow slightly, then turned back to you. “I thought Damian didn’t do relationships.”

“I thought the same thing,” you said with a sheepish laugh.

Connor smiled. Like actually smiled.

Damian was now holding you a little tighter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” you said, offering a hand. “Damian mentioned you were, uh... calm.”

Connor shook your hand gently. “That’s one way to put it.”

“She’s being polite,” Damian muttered. “He’s a monk with throwing knives.”

Connor looked at Damian. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Anyway,” Jon cut in, flopping onto the couch, “we were just trading Damian horror stories. You got any?”

“I have volumes,” Connor replied, pulling out his phone. “Let me just scroll back to last year’s mission in Metropolis...”

“I swear to Ra,” Damian muttered. “You’re all insufferable.”

“I think this is adorable,” you whispered to Damian, bumping your shoulder into his. “You have two best friends.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly. “I have one best friend and one permanent stalker.”

Jon raised his hand. “Guess which one I am.”

You giggled.

Connor glanced at you again, this time with a bit more curiosity. “So... You’re dating him. On purpose.”

“I am,” you nodded with a proud smile. “Wild, right?”

“Very,” Connor said, his expression unreadable.

“Okay,” Damian deadpanned, standing up and positioning himself slightly between you and Connor. “Let’s all stop giving my girlfriend that ‘is she okay?’ look.”

“I mean,” Jon added, sipping water, “I still think she might be a spy.”

“I’m not,” you said cheerily. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Connor chuckled. “If she were, she’d be better trained than half the League.”

Damian gave him the Dirtiest Look Known to Gotham.

“Connor,” Jon stage-whispered, “stop charming her.”

“I’m not,” Connor replied, perfectly neutral. “This is just how I talk.”

“Well stop it anyway,” Damian snapped.

You raised a brow. “Is this why you didn’t want him over?”

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is exactly why.”

Jon beamed. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

Connor gave a small, smug smile—because let’s be honest, he knew exactly what he was doing.

You, meanwhile, just smiled brightly as Bambi hopped across the floor, bumping into Connor’s boot. The archer crouched down instantly and scratched behind the bunny’s ear.

“He likes you,” you observed.

Connor glanced up with a subtle smirk. “Animals usually do.”

Damian looked done.

[doodleswithangie]

Finally posting my comic for @ryminzine! I love Infinity Train, and Book 4 struck a chord with me in particular as an second gen asian-american who wanted to be a creative, so I tried to channel those mixed feelings into this piece.

[Image description: Comic of Ryan and Min-Gi from "Infinity Train" titled, "The Parked Car." Alt Text is provided and copied below the cut. End ID]

Copied Alt Text

Page one:

Slurpee in hand, Ryan walks out of a convenience store to his parked van. The back doors are thrown open. Min-Gi sat in the back, fiddling with something.

"Hey! Whatcha got there?" Ryan asks him.

"Camcorder. My parents saw 'Back to the Future' and thought of me."

"Ha, you're no Michael J. Fox," Ryan says, taking a seat next to Min-Gi. "You turn it on yet?"

"Still going through the instructions."

"Pff, who needs instructions?"

"Uh, someone who doesn't want to break the tentative olive branch his parents extended," Min-Gi says. Ryan takes an awkward sip of his slurpee.

Page two:

"They still on your case about uni?" Ryan asks.

"Less so now, but yeah," Min-Gi says. "I mean, I get it. Your only son bails on his plans of financial security to play in dive bars with his best friend? I'm still shocked I managed to talk them into a gap year. Meanwhile your parents let you hit the road after graduation."

"Well, it's different for me, you know that," Ryan says. "They 180'd from their own folks and just want us to 'do what makes us happy.'"

"And your happiness is bouncing from gig to gig with me?" Min-gi asks.

Ryan takes another sip, blushing slightly. "Yeah."

Min-Gi glances at Ryan, then looks away with a bashful grin.

Page three:

"It's not like they want me to be miserable," Min-Gi continues. "They just don't want me to struggle in life. And then I turn around and dive headfirst into something they're scared I'll regret."

He loads a tape in the camcorder, thinking back to the last time he saw his parents as he head out with Ryan.

"Heck, I'm scared too, sometimes. That I don't know what I'm doing. That I don't know for sure if we'll make it big. That we might do all this work to carve out a space for ourselves. And end up right back where we started. I just want to tell them, 'Hey, you don't have to worry about me. I'm going to be okay.'"

Page four:

"Because playing with you?" Min-Gi says, sharing a soft look with Ryan. "Makes everything worth it. I know that for sure. And my parents know that. Even if they don't get it. But they're trying. Hence-"

"The camcorder."

"The camcorder."

A stack of tapes is piled next to Chicken Choice Judy merch, posters, and pictures of Min-gi and Ryan together.

"'Take lots of videos,' they said. 'For the memories.'"

End Copied Alt Text

[outercrasis]

Change of Plans

Pairing: Adrian Chase (Vigilante) x F!Reader ++ Word Count/Rating: 5.4k / E

Summary: You know Adrian is Vigilante. Now you just have to prove it, but things don't pan out like you expect them to.

Warnings: Sex pollen (there's like inherent dubcon bc of that, but they're both so into it), vaginal sex, light angst, honestly this is so fluffy and emotional bc I can't ever help myself lmao

You knew it. You fucking knew it. 

You’ve had your suspicions – Adrian’s unexplainable injuries, him bailing on you with short notice all the time, his complete avoidance of any and all questions. At first you thought he simply didn’t want to be friends anymore and this was his shitty way of ending things. Then you started to notice the pattern.

Anytime Adrian Chase is unavailable, someone reports a sighting of Vigilante.

Tonight’s the final straw. You were looking forward to hanging out with Adrian and watching bad movies all week, only for him to send a text at the last minute saying can’t hang. have to stay late at work. 🧜🏻‍♂️😿

Except when you called Fennel Fields to fake a family emergency so he could get out early, you learned that Adrian wasn’t on the schedule today and he certainly wasn’t pulling any extra hours. Then you saw the video on twitter. 

It was short, just a few seconds long, but it was enough. His voice. His stupid, infuriating voice. You’d know it anywhere. Combined with your already suspicious mind, you have to prove it – which leads to now. Sitting in the dark of Adrian’s apartment, waiting for him to get home.

You've come prepared. Bringing all the snacks and drinks you originally picked up for movie night, you have no reason to get up from the chair you've chosen to camp in. Tucking yourself into your favorite blanket, you're in it for the long haul.

Movies never show how boring it is waiting in the dark for someone to show up. They always skip to the good part and provide the immediate pay off. Seconds pass like minutes and minutes pass like hours. You could pull out your phone, but you don't want to chance alerting Adrian of your presence in any way.

Part of you is still having a hard time reconciling this. Despite all the evidence, there's still that voice whispering doubt that you've made this all up and are going to look insane once Adrian gets home. Adrian will laugh at you for your crazy theory and then either kick you out or relentlessly laugh at you. Either option is not preferable.

Another option crosses your mind. You try not to dwell on it, but it's impossible to ignore in the dark. What if Adrian isn't alone when he comes home? What if he's been spending time with someone he likes more? You don't want to fully consider the fallout of that – likely copious amounts of ice cream and a romcom marathon.

Enough time passes that you eventually begin to nod off. After a long week it's only natural. You drift into the weird liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, consciousness bobbing along like a ship without a motor.

Jarring is an understatement when you're woken by Adrian loudly returning home. He storms in through the sliding glass door, slamming it so hard that it pops back open again slightly. It's a rude awakening, but the adrenaline now running through your veins is a great boost.

He's hunched over the dining table, arms extended with his hands flat. You can see his heavy breathing from here. You don't need to be an expert in body language to tell that he's upset about something.

It's not until he tears his mask off, fully confirming what you already know to be true, that you gasp. You can't help it. Despite every suspicion, seeing him there is a shock. The fear of losing Adrian to someone else melts and is swiftly replaced by a fear of losing him in a far more permanent way.

Adrians's eyes go wide and you yelp as a knife suddenly arcs through the air at you. Acting purely out of instinct, you duck and the knife embeds itself into the chair where your head previously was.

“What the fuck?” you yell, frantically looking between the knife and Adrian. “You could have fucking killed me!”

Adrian stares at you. “You aren't supposed to be here.”

That stupid fire in your gut that convinced you this was a good idea in the first place sparks again. “Actually, this is exactly where I was supposed to be tonight until someone bailed on me. Again.”

You're not even sure Adrian realizes how often he's been bailing on you these past few weeks. You know how he works – completely single minded when he wants to be. Whatever he's been doing as Vigilante has kept him busy.

“You aren't supposed to be here,” Adrian repeats again. The look in his eyes is wild, his breathing still erratic. It doesn’t even seem like he's put the pieces together on you figuring out his secret identity. Whatever footing you thought you had has been swiftly pulled out from under you.

You take careful steps towards the dinette like you're approaching a scared animal. “Ade? Are you okay?” You lift your hands, showing him that they're empty. The last thing you want is for him to think you're a threat.

He doesn't move. It's unnerving. Adrian is always moving, fidgeting, talking. Some days you want to strap him down to keep him in one place. If it weren't for the continued heave of his chest you'd think he became a statue. 

A half a step away, he speaks again. “You have to go. Now. Otherwise I can't-”

“I'm not leaving you, Adrian. You're scaring me.” As angry as you are over all this, your concern for him overrides it.

His hands ball into fists. “Fuck, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for wha-”

You don't get to finish your question before Adrian is on you. His mouth crashes onto yours, all teeth and desperation. You feel every hard line and contour of his costume pressed against your body. His hand engulfs your jaw, keeping you firmly in place.

So this is what kissing Adrian is like. You never imagined it quite like this, but you aren’t complaining as he overwhelms your senses.

He tastes faintly of mint – a sharp contrast to the rubber and cordite smell of his suit. His hands are seemingly everywhere all at once while all you can do is hold onto him. There's a fuzz in your ears as every sound except for those coming from Adrian gets blocked out. 

The burn in your lungs finally forces you to break the heated kiss. It doesn't stop Adrian. He simply moves down to your neck, sucking and biting it in ways that are sure to bruise. He's mumbling into your skin the whole time but it's nothing you can make out.

“A-Ade?” He doesn't stop. You want to sink into this. Give in completely and let Adrian have his way. It's not right though. Adrian isn't quite right and you need to know something, anything before this can continue.

“Ade.” He bites a little too hard on your neck. “Adrian!”

You push and shove his concrete wall of a body, not stopping until he finally does. It's a small consolation that he looks abashed.

“What the fuck is going on?”

To say that Adrian looks delirious would be kind. His eyes are glossy, hair sticking up in all different directions, and a deep flush running down his neck. Whatever is happening, it's impacting his ability to think straight.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles. “I got hit with some kind of dart and I feel like I'm on fire. I came home to deal with it myself but then you were here and you said you wouldn't leave and-” 

His explanation gets caught in a high pitched whine. Adrian pulls you flush against him, nearly crushing you in a hug as he clearly attempts to restrain himself. You realize that the stiffness you felt before was not an athletic cup in his suit.

“How can I help?” you hear yourself ask. This is probably, definitely, stupid. 

You're still pissed at him for not telling you about his double life. You're still trying to process the fact that he has a double life. Despite all of that, he's clearly suffering right now and you can't walk away. He's still Adrian. He's still your best friend. 

He's still the idiot you love.

“You don't-”

You cut him off. “Well I'm going to, so tell me how to help.”

Adrian looks like he could cry. Whatever he had expected his night to be, it clearly wasn't this.

“Need you to touch me.” His words come out as a whine. Whatever this is affecting him, it seems to come in waves as Adrian's control start to slip again.

“You're sure? This isn't just whatever was in that dart?” You have to know there's some real part of Adrian that wants this. If it's just a drug controlling him, you can't do that to him or yourself.

Adrian pulls your hand, marching in the direction of his bedroom. “I've jerked myself off to the thought of you since the first day we met.”

Well. Not exactly poetic, but you certainly feel better about the current situation. 

The moment you step inside his bedroom Adrian is on you again. His tongue presses into your mouth while his hands work on removing your clothes. It's desperate and ungraceful, but you'd be lying if you said it was a turn off.

You know part of it is just the drug. Its effects are evident in Adrian's shaky hands and nearly possessed need to remain in contact with you. You know Adrian well enough to know the parts that aren't. He's making a valiant effort to ramble between kisses, trying to convey how beautiful you are and how long he's thought about this. Although all lights are clearly green he still checks in before he tears your underwear off and mumbles a quick apology.

You're suddenly off your feet, falling backwards onto the cushion of his bed. Shock is replaced by a wave of heat rolling through your body as you take in the new view.

Adrian is standing above you fully clothed in his Vigilante suit except for the mask. He looks imposing, the armor only making him that much bigger than he does without. He's palming his cock through the thick fabric in a futile attempt to take any of the edge off. 

You never would have considered it, but Adrian in his getup while you're beneath him completely bare is certainly doing something for you. You wonder if he'd ever fuck you in the mask. The thrill of it would likely be worth missing out on his gorgeous face.

The stare he seems to be caught in is more than a little flattering. Gears are clearly whirring in his head, but it's like he can't decide which is the next best step to take. He looks like he wants to eat you alive. 

You drag a hand down along your body, thrilled as Adrian’s eyes quickly lock onto the movement. It’s a leisurely pace, even circling back up once or twice before finally making the descent towards the apex of your thighs.

You barely graze the short curls there before Adrian drops to his knees and bats your hand away. 

“No fucking way am I letting you do that.” He tears off his gloves with his teeth and unceremoniously sinks a finger into your core. You feel even better than he imagined and you both groan in a filthy harmony.

Adrian doesn't have much tact – falling somewhere between what would be ideal and jackhammering. You've certainly experienced worse. You know he's not some blushing virgin, nor is he a selfish asshole, so you're willing to chalk this up to the desperation of the drug in his system. It's only confirmed when he speaks.

“I'm sorry. Fuck - I want to take my time with you but I need-”

“It's okay, Ade. Let's get you feeling better first, yeah?”

Adrian groans, the word first ringing between his ears. He's not lucid enough to parse out what that could mean, but it sounds promising. “You're too good for me.”

His head falls against you, which quickly turns into him mouthing at your inner thigh. You really hope it's not just the drug that's made him so oral-focused. 

There's the jingle and snap of a belt coming off. You prop yourself up on your elbows in time to see Adrian pulling his pants down just far enough to let himself free. If you had any shame left at this point, you'd be embarrassed by your gasp.

Precum leaks freely, sliding down his considerable length. The head of his cock is red and clearly bordering on, if not actually, painfully aroused. “Thimble” your ass. 

Before you can give his dick any further consideration, Adrian grabs your hips and drags you to the edge of the bed. The need pulsing in his veins is reaching a fever pitch.

There isn’t much ceremony as he presses into you, folding over in a bout of sheer ecstasy. You wish you could bottle the moan that’s pulled from his chest. Tears catch in the corners of your eyes and you’re not sure if it’s from the perfect burning stretch of him or if it’s from the overwhelming feeling that this is finally happening. 

“So good for me. Knew you would be. Oh fuuuck, you're squeezing me so well…” Adrian rambles. 

Being inside you seems to have taken the edge off for the moment. He’s as gentle as he can be, trying his best to give you time to adjust. His mouth laves over your skin, finding your breasts and making your back arch up into him. It provides exactly what you need.

“C'mon, Adrian. Fuck me,” you say. Whatever control he was clinging to shatters. 

Adrian sets a devastating pace. He regrets not being able to take things slower. He'd always imagined being able to tease, slowly working you up and making you laugh, until the moment where he finally got to ravish you. 

The regret doesn't last long. Not while he feels the heat of you wrapped around him, your clear sounds of pleasure beneath him. The worry that he's somehow taken advantage of you lessens with each stroke.

You look heavenly laid out beneath him. Your fingers dig into his scalp, sending tingles down his spine. He's already addicted to your little moans and whines, knowing that he'll die if he never gets to hear them again after this.

He's imagined this countless ways and countless times. None of them ever involved highly unregulated and experimental sex drugs, but then he supposes that's on him for not being more creative in his fantasies. He still didn't come close to how good this would feel.

“I can't- I'm not going to last,” he grunts.

You tug the hair on the back of his head lightly. “That's okay. Let go, baby.”

Adrian unravels at the pet name. His brain and baser urges can't fathom pulling out at this point, instead pounding deeper in as he lets himself go. It's almost enough to push you over the edge with him.

His body is heavy on top of you, half collapsed and boneless. “Holy fuck.”

“Better?” you ask. 

“Mhmm,” he hums.

Your breath hitches as Adrian begins to slowly rock his hips again. You expected he would need a moment to recover, but he feels just as hard as when you started. Thrill mixes with concern as you wonder just how long Adrian will be in this state for.

“Not done with you yet.”

His hand slips down between your bodies. His thumb gently swirls over your clit. This slow and sensual pace is so different from the violent pounding you were just receiving that it's dizzying. It's not long before you’re back on the edge of ultimate pleasure.

Adrian nips at your neck, immediately soothing it with his tongue. “Your turn. I need to see how pretty you look when you come. Please, please, please,” he begs, still breathless from his own release.

His sweaty forehead presses against yours, locking eyes with you. With that, one more swipe of his thumb, and one more please, you're crying out as your cunt clenches around him. He continues his gentle rock, working you through the intense orgasm.

Adrian’s wild grin greets you as you reopen your eyes. He leans down to give you a messy kiss as he ramps his speed back up. “You're so fucking hot. I nearly came just watching you. I know you're not on any sex drugs but I'm going to make you do that as many times as I can. Hottest thing I've ever seen.” 

You have absolutely no idea how long these drugs are going to last in Adrian's system. What you do know at this point is that you need to be ready for a long night and you're going to need to get creative. Who knew you'd be speedrunning a number of fantasies with him on the first night you're together? It's like taking a crash course in each other’s sexual proclivities.

At a certain point you lose track of the positions and angles you find together. You take him in your hand or mouth when your pussy needs a break, but draw a hard line at your ass. There's no world in which Adrian has enough patience for that to be a pleasurable experience.

Thankfully, each orgasm seems to take the edge off for longer and longer. After this, you expect that Adrian will be drained for days. If you didn't know about the drug in his system you'd be terrified by his stamina and recovery. The human body should not be able to produce that much cum in one night.

You're completely exhausted. There's no world in which you won't be limping tomorrow and potentially for days after. The discovery of lube in Adrian's nightstand halfway through your marathon was an absolute godsend but could only do so much.

The bottle now lies empty on the floor alongside the pieces of Adrian's Vigilante costume. Those came off at random, whenever he felt too restricted by them remaining on. You're not sure what to think about the jolt that ran through you looking at all his weapons laid out on the floor. You really hope he was too delirious to notice at the time.

Adrian is currently pressed into you from behind, spooning you. He's not moving, just taking pleasure in being buried inside you. His face is pressed back into the crook of your neck, very obviously smelling you and your hair. It's sweet.

You find his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. You'll ruminate more on the size and feel of them when your brain is more operational.

“Feeling better?” you ask, voice thick with fatigue.

“So much better. I thought my dick was going to explode earlier but now it just feels normal.”

You chuckle. “I'm glad your dick didn't explode.”

“Me too! I can't be the guy with the exploded dick. How would I pee?”

Your body relaxes further into his arms as sleep begins to pull you under. “I dunno. I'm glad it didn't,” you tell him. “You have a really nice dick.”

You can feel it flex inside you at the compliment. You don't think he did that on purpose. You'll have to investigate that more at a later time. 

“You really think so? You're not just being nice?”

You snort. “Yes. Your dick is very nice and has made me very tired. Wake me up if you need something.” With that, you slip off into a deep sleep as exhaustion takes hold. 

Adrian holds onto you tightly, still disbelieving that any of this is real. You're even better than he could have imagined. The two of you never avoided sex as a topic but you also never dove deep into it either, and Adrian’s chest always felt weird whenever he thought about anything past vanilla involving you. 

Despite his want to stay wrapped up and buried in you he also knows he's taken more than his fair share tonight. Adrian slowly climbs out of bed, careful to make sure you stay asleep.

He takes stock of himself as he stands. His head feels clearer than it has in hours and his veins are no longer searing. He has no open wounds or bruises. His dick doesn't even feel that bad. This is definitely not Vigilante’s worst night. He has no idea how he's going to discuss that with you. 

He maneuvers in the bathroom just from the ambient light out of the bedroom. It's good this is his own place or he definitely would have knocked things over and woke you. 

Adrian cleans himself up and wets a washcloth to do the same for you. A single small noise escapes you as he does this, but you otherwise remain fast asleep. He decides it's worth the risk to pull one of his shirts over you as well.

His heart stutters at the sight of you in his bed and in his clothes. Adrian doesn't like reflecting on his feelings often. Years of forced therapy and people staring at him like he'd grown antennae out of his head whenever he tried to express an emotion really stamped that out of him. You make him want to try.

You appeared in Adrian's life unexpectedly and cemented yourself in it quickly. For whatever reason, you were charmed by what others regularly told him was weird and off putting. Faster than he'd admit, he had to reassess his entire BFF tierlist.

From the start, there had been a soft and saccharine hope that this could be something more. The second it was felt, it was buried, but it never went down deep or stayed there for long. Like an annoying but resilient weed he couldn't ignore. You probably wouldn't appreciate that comparison.

Adrian was left stuck – wanting more and not wanting to ruin your friendship. He really hopes tonight changes things.

Your brow furrows, arms reaching out to where Adrian should be beside you. He slips a pair of boxers on and joins you back in bed. He was going to grab a glass of water for when you woke up, but how can he deny that?

You snuggle into his chest and throw a leg over him. Adrian kisses the top of your head and settles in. He's asleep in minutes.

×××

It's early afternoon when you wake. Your body is starfished, left arm and leg splayed over Adrian. His gentle snores tell you that he doesn't mind. 

You reposition and tuck yourself alongside his body. He's a furnace and you're happy to soak up some additional heat. While you move, you realize that you have a shirt on despite definitely falling asleep naked. It's the Fargo shirt you got him for Christmas. You smile.

It's not long before Adrian is waking up too. He's quick to pull you in closer and kiss your forehead. “I'm not dreaming or dead, right?” he asks.

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Okay, good, cool. I just thought I'd make sure. I've had a few dreams like this and it really pisses me off when I wake up for real and you're not here.”

You tilt your head to look up at Adrian. You may need a pinch of your own to make sure you're not still sleeping.

“What?” Adrian asks. “Is there drool on my face?”

You chuckle. There is actually, but you don't tell him. Instead you shift so that you’re now laying directly on top of Adrian and lean down to give him a soft kiss.

He responds immediately, arms wrapping around you and one hand finding your ass. You end the kiss prematurely. “Don't even think about it. I'll be lucky if I can walk today.”

You could frame the grin on Adrian's face. He sneaks in another quick kiss and then holds your face in his hands, seemingly inspecting it for something.

“What?” you ask between mushed cheeks.

“You're okay? I didn't hurt you, right?”

You roll your eyes. “No. You just fucked the shit out of me and now I'm tender.” The shit eating grin returns to his face.

You spend some more time in bed, poking fun at each other and goofing around. It feels no different than any other time you've spent with Adrian except for the new level of affection and the teal colored elephant in the room that you both dutifully ignore.

Eventually, the need to pee surpasses the joys of staying in bed. You take one wobbly step before Adrian is lifting you into his arms. You let out an undignified yelp.

“You looked like a baby deer,” Adrian tells you happily as a way of explaining his reason for the sudden lift. It's an embarrassing comparison, but you'll take the help. If he doesn't actually see you waddle, it may prevent Adrian from singing “Side to Side”.

He's more than happy to carry you out to the living room after, even offering a pair of his boxers to make up for your ruined panties. You'll steal some money from him later to replace those.

You demand Adrian bring you the blanket from the chair you camped out in last night and some of your snacks. The knife is still embedded in the back of the chair. You look away and busy yourself with locating the remote.

You're quick to find a movie, choosing something at random. Netflix original that had no marketing and no one has ever heard of? Perfect. Something to fill the room with noise.

Adrian drops the blanket over your head. 

“Hey!” you yell indignantly. By the time you have it off your head he's disappeared into the kitchen. The hum of Adrian’s keurig machine starts up, eventually turning into a spitting whir and two watery cups of coffee. 

He settles beside you on the couch and focuses on the movie. You aren't. Leaving the bedroom popped some kind of bubble in your mind, bringing you back to last night. 

Adrian is Vigilante. There's no denying it. You thought there would be a euphoric feeling along with the discovery – the absolute satisfaction in being right. Instead there's a pit in your stomach. Adrian is Evergreen's most wanted. A person who you once heard laughed while chopping a guy's arm off. Someone any normal person would be terrified of. So why aren't you?

You take a sip of your coffee. It's exactly how you like it. 

He's quiet, which is starting to freak you out more than anything else. You've only seen him go completely silent while watching Fargo or the Planet of the Apes movies. This random garbage is certainly not capturing his attention like those do.

Looking around the room, you catch a glimpse of his mask on the ground where it was discarded last night.

“So, can we talk about it?” you ask tentatively, still not quite looking at him.

“Talk?” Adrian says. “What do we need to talk about? How great this movie is? Because if you want to talk about that we should probably finish it first.”

You roll your eyes. Unsubtle as always. How he even kept this secret for so long is a genuine miracle. 

Your legs are unsteady but you do just fine in getting up and grabbing the mask. You throw it at him, somewhere between gentle and hard. 

“That.”

“Oh right! This old thing. Not much to talk about there.” He tosses it onto the coffee table. “Let's just go back to this amazing movie. I think we're coming up on a big action sequence.” 

You move to stand directly in front of Adrian, tilting his head up so that he's forced to look at you. The look he gives you doesn't help your conviction. He's nearly begging to not discuss this. Unfortunately for him, there's no amount of puppy dog eyes that can get him out of this one.  

“I won't pretend like I'm not upset, but I'm also not walking out the door either. I just want to talk, Ade.”

Hearing his nickname seems to at least somewhat relax him. It's quiet for a moment, both of you struggling with where to start.

“How long have you known?” he asks.

“I've known for a while. I finally gathered enough courage to confront you about it last night.” You sit back down beside him. 

“How?”

“I'm not stupid. You would bail on me and then there would be a new post online about Vigilante. I listened to a few videos of you talking to confirm and voilà. I know Vigilante’s secret identity.”

“Fuck! If you figured it out then someone else definitely has. This is so fucked. What am I going to do…” Adrian continues his worried monologue, sinking his fingers into his hair. You didn't realize how important the secret identity was to him.

“Adrian? Hey. Ade, look at me.” Your voice is commanding enough to stop his spiral. “First of all, that was rude as fuck. If I've figured it out then others definitely have? I am relatively smart, I'll have you know. Second, no one else is going to figure it out.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I've spent a disgusting amount of time paying attention to everything about you. In and out of your suit. It would take a miracle for someone else to have paid the same amount of attention to you and put the pieces together.”

Adrian pulls his head out of his hands to look at you. “Now who's rude as fuck?” His tone is teasing. “Other people look at me. Plenty of other people want a piece of this.”

He gestures down his body. Your gaze gladly follows, which only makes you burn with embarrassment when your eyes meet Adrian's again. You want to hate his cocky grin, but you're also enjoying this new form of confidence from him.

You're not quite sure where things go from here. You have a million questions to ask, but you don't know if you're ready to hear the answers or if he's ready to share. Starting with familiar territory should help you think.

“So um, what exactly happened last night?” you ask, hoping for more details about how he ended up getting dosed with sex drugs. Or how those are something that's apparently real. Do you have to worry about that now?

A panicked look overtakes Adrian. It's a good thing he wears a mask as Vigilante – he's far too expressive and pretty to scare someone without it. 

“Why? Are you-? Oh fuck, I wasn't trying to-” he blurts.

“No, no! I'm not regretting it or anything like that. I hope you don't-”

“No! I don't either. It was great, you're great. Best sex I've ever had not even including the drugs, although they really enhanced the experience.”

You can't help but laugh. The absolute absurdity of all of this has finally and fully caught up with you. You don't know why you ever expected a normal confrontation or a normal confession with Adrian. Instead you're discussing sex drugs and reassuring each other that neither of you feels taken advantage of. This chaos feels fitting though, like it could have never gone any other way with him.

Adrian starts laughing with you, awkward and clearly forced. “Why are we laughing?” Adrian asks through his fake guffaws.

You reach out, placing a hand on Adrian's arm. “I'm- I'm sorry. I swear I'm not laughing at you, Ade. This is just- it's a lot.” 

You manage to calm yourself back down. “I don't regret last night and I'm glad you don't either. If this is going to work though, I have a lot of questions I need answered.”

Adrian sits up straight, eyeing you closely. “You mean you're not afraid? You want this? Me?”

It's probably a bad idea. After all, Adrian is no longer just your friend, the lonely busboy. Adrian is also a wanted and dangerous vigilante. Getting involved with him could result in things worse than a broken heart.

You look him over. His bright green eyes, nothing like you'd imagine the eyes of a killer. The light dusting of freckles that cover his skin, far too soft for some psychopath. The strong line of his jaw and neck, begging to be traced and kissed. His strong arms and hands, which managed to hold you with care even while not in his right mind.

Logic be damned, you know what you want. “Yeah, Adrian. I want you.”

Adrian pounces, knocking you back along the cushions and covering you in sloppy kisses. “Where do you want me to start?”

Thanks for reading!! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💕

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Six

Eddie stands in the hallway, his feet cold on the marble floor, feeling useless. The profound lack of confidence is new and...haunting. Going through an extended period of time where he had to face how utterly shit he’s been as a human being has been...well. He’s doing his absolute best to remind himself that all of his friends and family don’t hate him, but that’s really hard considering how utterly shit he’s been.

How much trouble he’s caused for everyone.

He nearly lost the band. After all the hard work everyone put in, they got their dream. They achieved it. They played to sold out stadiums, and Eddie nearly fucked it, nearly fucking destroyed a decade of his friends hard work because he can’t control himself.

Eddie could be the shittest human being to ever exist.

“You should put a shirt on, Chrissy will be here soon.”

Eddie glowers at Steve. He’s got a hundred things on the tip of his tongue. Steve’s a traitor for leaving. Steve’s a cunt for being in his house for a week uninvited in the first place. How dare Steve just...abandon his post, or whatever. How can he just...leave Eddie to this. Steve’s just some guy with a dumb job and Eddie is that dumb job and Eddie hates him for it.

Steve hoists his stupid sensible back pack up higher, a small duffel in the other hand, “I prepped some snacks in the fridge if you get hungry later. Don’t forget the stuff in the dryer, it’ll crease if you leave it too long.”

“You’re not my mom.”

Steve professional mask slips back into place, “nice meeting you, Eddie,” and then he heads to the front door.

“I...wait. What am I supposed to do?”

Steve shrugs, “have a nice life?” he suggests vaguely, his eyebrows, doing that nothing thing that’s definitely a thing.

“And that’s it...you’re just going to leave?”

“Your rut is done, so is my job.” Steve gives Eddie a cold, customer service smile, “Chrissy’s coming over later to hang out. She said something about taking you to the studio tomorrow, that’ll be good, right?”

“I. I mean.” Eddie feels sick. He does not want to face the guys. He absolutely does not want to do that, at all. They’re going to hate him and it’s going to be awkward and it’s going to be shit and Eddie’s lost the people who are most important to him in the whole world and it’s all completely his own fault.

Steve’s face softens a little, back to just Steve and not professional Steve, and he puts his duffel down, “what is it?”

“Thought your job was done,” Eddie grumbles, wrapping his arms around himself defensively, suddenly deeply regretting his bare chest. Steve is well built and golden and healthy looking, and meanwhile Eddie is painfully aware of his scrawny, sad wet rat appearance.

“It is, I’m off the clock. You get one free pass, go for it.”

Eddie feels like a naughty child, staring the shit out of the floor. He gestures vaguely. “What if I fuck it up?”

“You’re probably gonna’.”

Eddie’s head snaps up, incandescent with rage, “what in the actual fuck-”

Steve shrugs, putting his duffel all the way down, “look. Statistically it takes a few tries for sobriety to stick. There’s...a lot of things I’m supposed to say about this, but, honestly,” he shrugs, “I’m not on shift, so, the best advice I have is remember this. Remember how shit you feel. Remember how much you upset Chrissy. Remember how much you fucking hated having me here. Remember how much you hated the center. Remember how fucking dogshit you felt when you found out your band were ready to bail on you. Hold on to it, and when...when you think you might fuck up, just think to yourself, is it worth it? Is it worth losing those people. Is it worth going through all this, again? Because...it isn’t worth it, is it? And, realistically...what really matters is what you do after you fuck up. The self destruct is the easy way out, getting back on the horse is the hard thing...but the right thing.”

Eddie kind of, deflates, a little. Because honestly, Steve's right. No ones ever put it quite like that before. It’s a horribly solid argument for not fucking up.

Steve picks up his duffel, turning to go, but he stops, smiling to himself, lingering for a second in the doorway, “and if that doesn’t work, just think, what would Dolly do?”

The door closes, and Eddie sighs.

The house is suddenly really, really big, and really, really fucking empty.

Eddie goes and runs himself a bath, and if that means he can imagine Steve is still in the house somewhere, there’s no one here to know what he’s up to.

"I didn't hate having you here," Eddie finally replies to no one.

“Eddie, get fucking dressed. What are you even doing in there?”

“Nothing,” Eddie grumbles from under the covers.

The door bangs, “oh my god, you’re not even up, what are you doing??”

“I’m not going.”

“Excuse you?” Chrissy drags the covers off him, and it’s fucking brutal. The air is chillier than the warmth under the covers and the light is too fucking bright.

Eddie yelps and curls up into a ball, “they don’t want to see me. I’ll just...ruin everything.”

“Oh. You’ve finally hit the feeling sorry for yourself stage.”

“What?”

“Recovery. It’s like with grief. There’s stages. I read a book.”

“You read a book-”

“Look. They want to see you. You’ve pissed them off, yes. You’ve been absolutely shit, also, yes.” Eddie curls up on himself even tighter, “but you had a problem Eddie, and you...weren't very well. And now you’re putting in effort and they see that, okay. They want their friend back, they want this to work out, okay?”

“You think?” Eddie mumbles, his face shoved into the sheet.

“Yes, I do. I also think that if you think a good first impression is you showing up fucking late and keeping them waiting then you’re an-”

“I’m up!” Eddie shifts, climbing out of bed, “I’m getting ready. I’ll be like, twenty minutes.”

Chrissy has Eddie a coffee ready in a to go cup in the kitchen, and he grabs it, rooting around in the fridge, he pulls out the last Tupperware, digging for a spoon from the drawer.

“Since when do you eat breakfast?” Chrissy asks as Eddie juggles everything, following her to the car.

“It’s overnight oats, peanut butter raspberry, there’s like, chia seeds and shit in it, Steve makes them. It’s like dessert for breakfast. Honestly it’s even better than his waffles.”

Eddie gets his seat belt on, pulling the lid off and digging in, he catches Chrissy staring at him, “what?” he speaks with his mouth full.

“I...you know what, nothing...just don’t spill that shit in my car.”

Eddie hesitates at the door. They’ve spent a million hours in this studio over the years. It’s like a second home to all of them. Every studio album they’ve ever produced, they’ve recorded it here. It’s like...a second home now. After they got shot to fame. When they didn’t have a clue what they were doing, not really, not in the beginning...this is the place where they learned how it sounded when your music got mixed by an actual professional.

This is the place that breathed life into Eddie’s vision.

He thunks his head against the door, just for a second, Chrissy waiting patiently a step behind him. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t press.

“What would Dolly do?” Eddie whispers to himself, and then he opens the door.

It’s actually been a few months since he’s seen the guys; easily the longest they’ve been apart since high school. Everyone looks a little uncertain when Eddie walks in, and Eddie suddenly feels like a stranger. Like an outsider, in a place he shouldn’t be.

In a place he has no right to be.

In a place he most certainly doesn’t deserve to be.

“Uhm, hi, everyone.”

There’s a moment of quiet that almost has Eddie retreating straight back out the door, but then Gareth is up out of his chair. He’s across the room in three long strides, and Eddie almost flinches back from the hit he thinks is coming, but then he’s in a hug. A big, solid, bone crushing hug.

Eddie closes his eyes, and rests his hands on Gareth’s back, “I’m so sorry.”

“Fucking better be,” Gareth huffs.

The hug lasts forever, like Gareth doesn’t want to let him go, but eventually he has to. Eddie is wrapped in Gareth’s scent. It’s as familiar as his own. Home, pack, brother, it says. Eddie relaxes into it. It’s calm, Gareth’s scent, not really betraying anything other than...Gareth’s happy to see him.

Jeff is next, “I’m so sorry man.”

“Wait? You’re sorry?” Eddie’s enveloped in another hug. Another familiar scent fills Eddie’s lungs. Makes him feel a tiny bit more whole. Another puzzle piece slotting into place, settling his insides. He’s denied himself this for so long, the relationship more and more strained the further Eddie spiraled.

“We saw it happening man, we made excuses. Told ourselves it wasn’t that bad, or it was just a phase. And then before we knew it it...it felt like we’d watched it get out of control, like we just sat back and let you struggle. I feel like we could have done something.”

It breaks something inside Eddie a little, he nuzzles closer, pressing his forehead against Jeff’s shoulder. “I made my own stupid mistakes.”

“In the beginning, yeah, totally you did. But...it became an illness, Eddie. And when you’re sick...you need help. We left it too long. You nearly fucking died.”

“I’m...I’m okay now, okay?”

Jeff pulls back, his eyes wet like Eddie’s, “you wanna play some tunes?”

“Fuck yeah I wanna’ play some tunes.”

Chrissy ordered them Chinese. They’re not allowed food in the actual booth bit, so they sit out in the lounge to eat.

It had...felt a little stilted, at first. Like they all had rough edges that weren't quite sitting right. It took a little while, but playing their older stuff helped. Something cathartic about completely ignoring their big hits. They don’t play a single number one tune the whole time they’re in there, playing their own personal favorites instead, shouting what they wanted at each other in between tracks.

It’s...good. It’s fun. There’s no pressure, and an hour in, they start to really click.

An hour after that, Eddie almost forgets all the bad shit. Almost stops feeling the rift he’s caused.

It’s back now though, back in force, when Gareth asks him what he wants to do next.

“I can’t tour,” Eddie says immediately.

There’s no push back, startlingly, everyone seems to agree, “yeah, I think it’s a bad idea. And to be honest...I don’t really want to. Not for a while, it was...a lot, right?” Jeff asks.

Everyone agrees. Everyone has families, hell, Gareth’s, somehow, got a hot wife and a kid. It’s a lot, being away from home so much when you have commitments like that.

“I wouldn’t mind something local though,” Gareth says, “maybe just like...stay in the states. Do like, a couple of stadiums or something.” The thought of being in front of all those people feels a little…itchy, to Eddie. He’s really not sure about performing right now, and Gareth clearly clocks it. There’s something there, the understanding. Eddie’s scent is probably going buck wild too, “not until we release a new album though, obviously,” he tacks on. Adjusting. For Eddie.

“Right,” Eddie nods, “right, a new album.”

Eddie hadn’t even thought about it. Didn’t think he had the right any more, didn’t think the guys would support him with anything like that, or even...trust him with it.

“I kind of have,” Jeff starts, pulling some balled up scraps of paper out of his jacket pocket.

Gareth has a whole fucking notebook, “what?” he says at the looks on everyone's faces, “I was bored, alright?”

Eddie gathers it all together, “okay if I...take it home and have a look?”

Everyone agrees, and by the time Eddie goes home again, they have plans for a full day in the studio, Eddie’s been invited to a BBQ at Gareth’s, and Jeff wants to run a games night.

Eddie’s going to have to dig out his dice, which, is kind of a weird feeling. He’ll have to brush up on the Handbook, they haven’t played for...well. Probably years with the tours.

Eddie finds himself kind of excited about it.

Part Eight

[revelboo]

I miss Thundercracker Boo, may we get an update of him, he needs to know he has a large amount of followers and I bet he's making money

Sure!

Better Open The Door Pt 21

Thundercracker x Reader

• Smiling as you loop your arm through Thundercracker’s, you catch your mom mouthing ‘blink twice if you’re in danger’ and you swallow a laugh, just shaking your head at her. And your dad? He’s absolutely not buying your story about falling madly in love and eloping with some guy you just met, his jaw working as he just glares at Thundercracker. To be fair, it could be the avatar, too, though. Because you’re not immune to that uncanny valley, uncomfortable prickling his avatar causes. Your brain screaming that it’s wrong.

• Struggling to keep his smile in place without edging into what you call his serial killer face. He’s pretty sure your parents despise him and your sire looks like he’s trying to decide where to hide his body. This somehow so awkward it’s physically painful as he struggles to make small talk. What does he do for a living? He’d told them he was a writer and they’d both just frowned. Your sire implying that you’re going to be the one having to support both of you in times of such disapproval he’d actually apologized to the man.

• Settling yourself in Thundercracker’s lap and dragging his arm across yourself, you try to appear like you’re so happily stupid in love that you’d just bail on all of your responsibilities to shack up with some guy you barely know. Who looks like he just wants to crawl into a hole and die as your dad’s frown deepens. Your mom at least looks like she wants to buy it, most likely hoping for grandkids. And given your story, soon.

• This is trial by combat. Your sire on the offensive, launching a never ending barrage of questions and getting angrier and angrier with his answers. How did you two meet? Where are you two going to live? When’s the marriage? You’re going to get an actual job, right? His lies feel too thin as he feels you shaking with silent laughter against him, hiding your face against his neck. And he’s struggling, obviously failing as your sire just scowls at him. Hating every word he says, making him feel like he really is failing you.

• You wonder if the holomatter avatars can cry, because your mate looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown. Not that you blame him, you’d known your parents, well, your dad, was going to be awful to him. And he didn’t disappoint. Can practically feel Thundercracker’s relief when you say you two have to go home and you have to dance around the where have you been staying, being as vague as possible as you pull Thundercracker along with you, making your escape amid hugs and your mom whispering in your ear to ask if you’re really okay to make you feel loved as you reassure you. “You good?” You ask once you’re out on the sidewalk and Thundercracker just stares at you in disbelief. “Well, they’ll probably mellow out some by Thanksgiving when we have to do it again with the extended family.” And you crack up at the look of horror on his face. ‘It’s going to be worse, isn’t it?’ He demands and you go up on tiptoe to press a kiss against his jaw. “You have no idea.”

Previous

Next

Not as ugly as I figured a plush from AliExpress would be, but I did have to take an electric razor to him to try the fur down some. He was very wooly. He still is, but the cheap $10 razor isn’t quite up to the task

[osamucide]

✦ ݁˖ BITING DOWN

BREATHED SO DEEP I THOUGHT I’D DROWN . . . ft. Floyd Leech

wc: ~7.5k

cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI, gn+afab!yuu/reader, reader is not called yuu, reader is called shrimpy sorry, all characters portrayed are 18+, mutual pining, friends -> lovers, implied virgin!floyd, scientifically inaccurate/speculative on behalf of author’s conception of mer-eel anatomy, #fucking4science, more like fucking under the guise of science, pool sex, mentions of mating/breeding, penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, kissing, biting/marking, dirty talk, creampie, silly and unserious because it’s floyd, shrimpy more like simpy (floyd's worse), only like a third of this is actually smut someone shoot me

reid: couldnt have written this ridiculousness without my two beloveds @seasidefallenangel and @fleursdaydreams ... thank you for bouncing around analysis, prompting me to write, and listening to me talk endlessly about him for the past few weeks lol <3

You and Grim struck a deal back when you were first settling into Ramshackle together: he’d take the classes that required applied magic and its necessary preparation, and you’d take the more basic courses. You were mostly spared first year, save for the moments when you were more or less dragging Grim through History of Magic by the scruff of his neck (he was going to hold up his end of your duo-enrollment if it meant you had to maim him a little along the way), but that was it. Not that you’d have had much time to devote to study, anyway, what with the way Crowley had you running around all over campus and beyond, cleaning up after people’s messes and bailing your lovable (deplorable) companion out of trouble. But he promised he’d take it easier on you this year, your second year, seeing as you’d be personally enrolled in a few classes—just another one of his kindnesses that he had no reservation extending to you, of course, because Crowley was just so nice like that. 

And you quickly learned in the first weeks of fall semester that being in class with the friends you’d made thus far is actually pretty fun—or, at least, it’s never dull. Kalim’s TA position in Trein’s astrology class comes in handy both for academic and entertainment purposes (he likes to tell the class the stories he used to make up for the constellations before he knew what they meant), and even mathematics is alright when Ace is willing to let you peek over his shoulder for answers. 

And you have biology with Floyd, which goes… exactly as you might expect it to.

Really, though, people tend to write Floyd off as a clown—and for good reason, because he certainly acts like one sometimes, but he’s smarter than he appears. On the first day of classes when he’d slid into the seat next to yours, you immediately wondered aloud why he was taking biology his third year instead of his second, which would’ve been usual protocol. Had he flunked it or something? 

“Subbed it for Ancient Magic last year since bio sounded boring,” he’d explained, kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him (Crewel, sauntering around all dramatic-like before the bell, passed by and batted them to the ground, muttering bad), “but they wouldn’t let me get away with flakin’ out on it entirely.” 

Ancient Magic was usually strictly reserved for third years, so you guessed it was no small academic feat that he’d managed to wiggle in a year early. Even Jade’s test scores didn’t quite rival his brother’s. 

And despite this quiet academic prowess (or maybe because of it), he seemed to really be dreading biology. You kind of scrunched up your nose when he complained—you wished your biggest worry was being too bored by college level subject material, even if it was just a gen ed—but in that lovingly compensatory Floyd way, he’d wrapped up his lamenting with some slyly sweet comment about how it couldn’t be that bad as long as he had his Shrimpy with him. 

So you’d just rolled your eyes and smiled, returning the sentiment. As long as you had boy-eel-genius Floyd Leech to steal test answers from, you supposed you’d be alright. (He’d dismissed such a title with that radiating laugh of his, and so you were certain.) 

And to this present day, he’s been a shining classmate, honestly. Meticulous lab partner, halfway decent notetaker. When he’s in the mood for it, is what everyone usually bellyaches about his redeeming qualities, but you have yet to experience a Floyd so stormy that he’s unwilling to lend you a hand or be sweet to you. And you’ve been waiting for it to happen, you really have—to catch him on a bad day, to be the one to say or do the thing that sours his mood before you can blink. 

But it hasn’t, and you haven’t. 

Ace and Deuce theorize it’s for reasons that make you go warm in the face. Please, who else is he that nice to but you? Because Floyd is notoriously an individualist to his core. Yes, he has a reputation for scaring underclassmen straight with a single glare. Yes, he heckles professors every chance he gets. Yes, he likes to skip out of class and wander the halls when lecture falls into a lull, but when he drags you with him, he never disappoints his MO of loathing boredom. He keeps you guessing—but, somehow, in a way that never exhausts or overwhelms you. If you’re thankful for nothing else that’s come out of the entire ordeal of being isekai’d into this terribly absurd pocket of existence, you’re at least softened by the opportunity to find beauty in places no one else gets to see, even if those places are renowned idiot Floyd Leech. 

Like so many other things in Twisted Wonderland, he looks scarier than he is; the simple reality is that he doesn’t pay any mind to the narratives others fit him into, nor is he lacking in the depth that’s endeared him to you beyond your own expectations. He’s funny, he’s chaotic, he’s a quiet mind and a loud lover, reliable in his own right, predictable in his penchant for unpredictability. And one of your best friends!

Okay, so biology with Floyd goes better than what you might’ve expected it to.

It’s not like you’re going to complain. If he weren’t six-foot-whatever and heartwrenchingly pretty, you’d be so content with just best friends, but again, you’re picking your battles here. And Floyd, thankfully, doesn’t have to be one of them.

“Shrimpy,” he snaps, but when you look over, he’s grinning. Floyd tips your textbook shut for you; people are filing out of the classroom. You must’ve tuned out the bell. “Class is over. D’ja hear me?” 

“Sorry,” you mumble, grabbing your bag. “What’s up?” 

“I said you should study with me later,” he says, folding his arms beside you and tucking his chin into them. He looks up at you adorably. “Anatomy section’s kinda kickin’ my ass.”

Liar, you think at first—but then, maybe he’s not. Despite zoning out today, you recall the content of the past few classes—particularly, a class from last week, in which Crewel spent a whopping five whole minutes (if you were generous) taking a detour to a flimsy conclusion about how marine anatomy and physiology is so often glossed over on land, just by nature, by expectation, by separation or whatever, and for that reason, there isn’t really room for it in the syllabus. Or whatever. 

You don’t remember the smart comment Floyd made at this gap in the curriculum, but you remember he made one. And if landfolk life science is by and large as foreign to merfolk as vice versa, you figure maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’ll actually study for once instead of goofing off like you usually do, ending up on the roof of Ramshackle, scrounging in the cafeteria for late-night snacks, or sneaking onto the bus to Foothill Town; his kicked puppy stare tells you so. 

“Of course,” you say, gathering your things. “Mine or yours?” 

“Mine, duh.” Floyd stands to trail behind you to your astrology class; he has a break after bio, but he always walks with you anyway. “Or send Sealie away, at least, if we do yours. Gotta get serious about this test next week.” 

He still jars you a little when he talks so sensibly, but you chuckle anyway. “I can ask the uncles to babysit.” Your two now-sophomore Heartslabyul friends, you mean. 

“You’re the best, Shrimpy.” Floyd tosses a jovial arm around your shoulders, and you tuck yours around his waist to keep yourself from tripping on his feet. “Can’t get ya to Trein late or he’ll have both of our asses. What were ya thinkin’ about just now, anyway?” 

You, you could blurt, but you don’t. His fingertips toying with the shoulder of your blazer always make it harder for you to think clearly. Shouldn’t you have grown used to this by now? Floyd’s so open with physical affection when it comes to his friends; you hate when your brain makes it into something it obviously isn’t. Only it isn’t obvious that it isn’t, and you’d only ask if you were an iota more certain. 

You hum. “Can’t remember.” 

“Too bad. You looked real concentrated.” His chin knocks into your head, and you swat him away, laughing. “Love that lil’ brain of yours.” 

Please, shut up. You’re not an easily flustered Shrimpy; Night Raven College knows this about you. So, you think, what the hell? “J’you just call my brain little, Leech?” 

Cue sunshine laugh again. He doesn’t deny, nor does he confirm, but you know it’s out of love. Friendly love. Fuck, you’ve got it bad. 

Before you break away from him to cross the threshold into astrology, Floyd takes you by the shoulders. 

“I’m serious, I need help.” He’s got that whiplashingly serious look in his eyes when they snap to yours. “I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?” 

You nod, smiling as you internally curse the indelible flush in your skin. You’re so irritatingly sensitive to his charms today. No doubt if he does end up wanting to bail on studying later, you’ll give in. “I’ll text you.” 

“Cool.” In an instant, that toothy grin is back. He presses an amiable smooch to the top of your head (complete with loud mwah) and you swear you feel ten degrees cooler as soon as he begins retreating down the hallway. “See ya later!” 

You toss him a wave as you duck into Trein’s. Kalim greets you brightly—he also immediately asks you why you look sweaty. You blink, sheepish, and say, “Good afternoon to you, too.” 

What you didn’t expect out of biology was to have it so horribly for Floyd Leech.

Night Raven College knows, too, that you generally do a bad job at picking your battles. 

It really kind of blows for the mer-students at Night Raven that they don’t teach their fucking anatomy and physiology in bio. Sure, the majority of them probably learn about it under the sea, but then to be thrown into landfolk A&P with no frame of reference to accompany? Talk about a learning curve. 

It blows even worse that, right now, Floyd’s zeroed in on two blown-up diagrams right next to each other—the female and male reproductive systems—tongue poking out from behind his sharp teeth, brows knitted as he struggles to remember the names of everything he’s looking at. You’re pretty sure he was joking when he referred to the lymphatic system the limp-fantastic system (and maybe halfway intentional in making it sound like it moonlights as a Bizkit cover band instead of regulating fluids), but it is a lot to take in. Imagine him recounting the bones in the lower extremities some thirty minutes ago before getting to this. 

“So, these are the…” Floyd’s circling both illustrations tentatively with his fingertip, and then taps harshly on one. “Okay, I know this is a penis. That’s a wiener. Duh.” He drags his finger, panning over to the other as you snort. “And this is where the babies are made. This is the babymaker. Yep.”

Your chin drops to your chest (even though he’s technically correct) and you sigh through a laugh. “Well, they… yeah.”

“Sorry,” he whines petulantly, more for himself than you, “this is hard! I ain’t never seen any of this stuff before, you know.” 

But it’s less his human-anatomical incompetence that’s got you more dismissive than you ought to be for such intense material, and more the fact that since astrology all you’ve been thinking about is Floyd, Floyd, Floyd, just like you always do, like you’re a pathetic middle schooler lovesick for the first time, for their best friend no less. And now, words like penis and babymaker are leaving his mouth, and even though physiology specifically has got to be up there next to abstract algebra as one of the unsexiest areas of rote studying, having the guy you’ve got a massive crush on pick apart the literal stuff that’s inside you is making you feel some inconvenient (but not entirely unwelcome) things. You swear it felt a little romantic just watching and listening to him label the arteries, veins, and capillaries on and around the human heart. 

“Weird as all hell I’m part’a this whole new species and I don’t hardly know shit about it.” He grumbles briefly about technicalities and vocabulary as he flops onto his stomach; your mattress creaks out its protest, but he just buries his head in his arms. You hear, muffled, “I’m sick’a this, Shrimpy, let’s do somethin’ else.” 

Right, his borrowed human form. 

It’s not even a second before you’re trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s inhabiting a body incredibly biologically compatible with yours. You disguise this train of thought beneath the sound of your textbook smacking closed before you opt to flop next to him, nosediving into your own arms in a similar fashion. Your skin feels like it itches. 

Stupid Floyd and his stupid study session and his stupid mouth that never shuts up and that you absolutely want to kiss. You miss the way he peeks up at you quizically with one golden eye, but if you would’ve noticed, you’d be cursing his stupid receptivity that no one ever expects because he acts like a moron. You need to pull it together now. Quit being distracted by your stupid, attractive best friend, quit reminding yourself of his stupid human anatomy, and especially quit wondering if you could get him as worked up over nothing as he’s got you, in mer-form or otherwise, and how it would feel for him—if he’d like it, if he’d like you… If he’d—quit it, quit it, quit it, your stupid human brain chants like a mantra. 

Think about anything else. His true form is probably so incompatible with yours, think about that. Think about how he’s actually, like, half a fish. Yeah. There. Crisis averted, battle picked. 

“D’you feel alright?” he asks, fingers curling around your arm to feel your forehead. Ruined it, just like that. “You’re warm.” 

“I’m fine,” you don’t mean to snap, but you do—even so, his hand doesn’t recoil. Floyd scratches your hair a little, the way one might do to a dog. You could scream at him not to touch you if you didn’t like it so much, but you do—painfully so—which is why you turn your head to face him while his fingers trace lazy half-shapes from your hairline to your temple. You try to sound chipper and not at all strained when you concede, “Let’s do something else. What’d’you wanna do?” 

He blinks at you slowly, obviously dissatisfied with your dodge. He still traces, brushing your cheekbone as he studies you. “Something’s on your mind, Shrimpy.” 

Stupid receptivity. “Just information overload,” which isn’t entirely a lie. “And I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. No marine A&P, my ass. You’ve got marine communities well within reach here, so not teaching it’s an outdated excuse for ignorance, if you ask me. But I guess humans are good for that wherever you go.” 

Floyd hums, pulling away from you, rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Yeah, that pissed me off, too.” 

“‘M pissed for you.” You do give a shit, really, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have something to channel your intensity into right now. 

Quiet settles over you both. You allow yourself a few seconds more of stewing and admiring his side profile, his sharp nose and bitten lips; Floyd looks like he’s pondering. You wish you could pick apart what’s inside him, too. He’s fascinating to you—you love his lil’ brain, too, you know, in more ways than one. It really is an injustice that landfolk don’t know more about merfolk and their glaring similarities and yet, major differences; Floyd’s an emotional, physical, scientific marvel to you. You don’t think you’ve met anyone more interesting. Or easier to love, for that matter. 

Fuck.

“I know!” In an instant, he’s on his feet. “Let’s hit the pool. You’re all warm, it’ll cool you off—” He’s tugging you to your feet, grabbing his bag, bright, pointy smile lighting up all at once, “—it’ll be so fun. You can relax, and I haven’t swam in days…” 

“That actually sounds perfect.” Yes, back to fish-form with the heathen. You’re quick to toss together a bag of swim things, eager to put mind-numbing, rage-inducing study material and complicated emotions alike to rest for the night. His unreserved laugh when you agree so readily still makes your heart flutter, but you plan to leave it at the door. 

Surely, you can leave it at the door. 

On the way to the mirror chamber, you’re so eager to leave it behind that you’re asking questions—your mood flipping with his, incidentally—because you’re disgustingly susceptible to him and, as noted before, you do give a shit. Ardent and full of curiosity, just like you always are with him, you shed the limitations of textbook-sanctioned inquiry and launch yourself full-force at reclamation of your own wall-hitting; you can and will get a fucking grip and be normal. 

“Is it super different?” you ask. 

“What?” Floyd’s rummaging in his bag as you both walk, already aware he forgot a notebook in your room. “Merfolk stuff?” 

“Yeah.” You adjust your own bag on your shoulder. “Like, your A&P is probably as different to me as mine is to you. Where I’m from, scientists haven’t observed a whole load of shit about the ocean—it’s more of a mystery to us than outer space. There’s tons we don’t know about morays, you know.” 

“Oh, yeah, I mean skeletal system-wise, there are bony fish, and then ones with more cartilage. And either way, the whole structure and makeup is so different since we got no legs, and…” 

You listen to him talk all the way through the mirror, into the halls of Octavinelle, past the lounge and onto the sprawling pool deck—it’s empty, much to your relief, sparkling and humid; when you reach down to skim your fingers across the water, it’s refreshingly cool. Floyd’s submerged before you can blink, hardly pausing his spiel; you lift your shirt off and toss it aside, and suddenly he’s aquamarine and soft green, scaly and shiny and webbed and you would tell him to look away while you slip your bottoms on but it’s you who’s staring, really. 

“And then merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish when it comes to reproduction and shit. Don’t really know how that happened, and I don’t even know how—I don’t think…”

For once in his life, he trails off. You settle at the edge of the pool, dipped in up to your knees, and he swims up to you. Wanna play mermaids? is what you’d usually joke, but as your kicking feet slow to a stop and Floyd’s arms curl up across your lap, all you can do is look down at him, ruminative and a little mystified (no matter how many times you see him in his true form, you’re always taken by its elegance). 

“Whatever.” It’s the day of Floyd burying his face in his elbows and looking up at you in a way that makes you want to take a page out of his book and squeeze him until he pops; it certainly doesn’t help that, absentmindedly, your fingers move to card through his wet hair and he hums, low and sweet as you do, so that you feel it in your stomach. “Not like lookin’ at anything on a piece of paper does squat. I’m more of a hands-on learner.”

He blinks up at you through his wet lashes—it should be a criminal offense—and you grin down at him as he splays his palms across your thighs, tracing, tracing little shapes again (fuck, and now you’re looking at his biceps. Stop that!). Your face burns, but you mock confusion to play it off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me, Floyd Leech.” 

Less a bold move and more placing the ball in his court because with Floyd, what you see is mostly what you get. Yes, he’s a horrible trickster, but you know him. And if you know him as well as you think you do, he’ll laugh that radiant laugh (which he does) and, next, you’re confident, brush you off and yank you into the water yelling about how his Shrimpy needs to learn to swim like he does so you can keep up with him—yes, he’ll wave the silly little theatrics behind you both and forget it even happened before tomorrow peeks over the horizon. 

But he muses, “I am,” not at all coy, because coyness and Floyd don’t go hand in hand. 

And you blink at him, all at once a little giddy and disbelieving. “No, you’re not.” 

“D’ya not want me to be?” Schroedinger’s flirt. I mean it if you do, but if you don’t, then of course I’m totally joking. 

His mismatched gaze is locked steadily on you. You wish he would ever let you hear the end of it if you covered your face with your hands, but he won’t, so you don’t; you just giggle, unable to not, unable to confirm or deny, unable to decide if it’d be better or not for him to say he’s messing with you. It’s always straightforward, except when it isn’t. 

“Shrimpy, I’m serious,” he continues when you finally look at him again. He does feign urgency—or maybe he’s not feigning, like his words would imply, as he positively bores into you. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?” 

“I—” You suppress your trepidation, doing your best to match his air. “I never said I don’t want you to.” 

“Get in the damn pool, then,” he snaps a little bit, impatient—impatient for you, you realize; you’re smirking as he slinks down to tug at your ankles with no real consequence. “C’mon.” 

“Make me,” you tease, and something dangerous ingnites in his eyes—something that makes you want to toy with your fingers and look away, but you don’t, because it’s always worth stifling yourself to feed Floyd a little bit of his own medicine. You’ve never watched it have this particular effect on him, though; when you grin evilly at him, he plants his palms on either side of you and rises out of the water to your eye level. 

“Don’t piss me off,” he half-barks in your face—sometimes, if you poke him hard enough, you do feel like you’re catching a glimpse of the scary Floyd everyone’s warned you about, but you don’t slink away from it. You kick at him, go to pinch his nose—he makes an attempt to bite your fingers and you laugh and laugh, and he does, too, eventually, the two of you in a duel where you have the upper hand only because he chooses to give it to you (and his hands are literally occupied with holding himself above water). 

You wrastle with him, landing a jab to his (infuriatingly well-defined) stomach, snapping your fingers in his face a bit, blowing air in his eyes—before you gather his cheeks between your fingers, squishing his face in a way that makes him scrunch his nose, lips puckered unwillingly, and you—you fucking kiss him. You land a quick peck to his mouth without even thinking, and you release him immediately; he pulls back, but only a few inches, just enough to look at you. 

For a moment you think he’ll really get mad. You try not to shrink. 

It’s quiet and you can’t tell if his expression is starstruck or disgusted. 

A few seconds is a century. 

“Kiss me again,” he barks right at you. Like he thinks you won’t. 

Your face feels stuck, contorted into a sheepish grin; Floyd’s open mouth, taunting you, luring you in, lets you watch his tongue flick between his rows of sharp teeth and the thought of what they’d feel like in your neck jolts you toward him, your hands grabbing for his strong shoulders; he’s not sure if you’re about to shove him off or devour him whole, but he hangs in that lightning-quick moment of anxiety, thrilled to have your hands on him, all at once assured and with the only hint of apprehension you think you’ve ever seen on his face and you decide you have to, you must—what else could you possibly do but throttle yourself forward, into him, not at all soft or scared as the water envelops you from head to toe and he does just the same? 

Beneath the surface is a pillowy, noise-cancelling limbo—you feel like you’ve plunged into a dream, eyes screwed shut and senses dulled where the only vivid things are his hands clutching your waist and his lips on yours. And you kiss him and kiss him, drifting up, suspended, cupping his jaw like you’d start breathing him if you could. 

Before you hit oxygen, pockets of air bubble out from between both of your mouths; you’re laughing before you’re inhaling, finding yourself panting to catch your breath—unlike Floyd, who giggles so fully and unapologetic it echoes around the pool deck. The next thing you feel is a cool, slick tail twining around you—your hips, your waist, so you don’t have to flail to stay afloat. 

“Here, hold onto me.” His tail slips away with his tense disposition, replaced by laughter that doesn’t cease as you link your ankles behind him at the spot where his human back gives way to his mer-half, and your wrists at the base of his neck. “There ya go.”

You’re not sure if you’re tingling from the impact to the water or from the way his pale teal chest rises and falls so rapidly against yours. He sways back and forth so subtly you’d almost think it was only the rippling of the water; you wane into silence in the crook of his shoulder, like you don’t want to be the first to speak. 

But he does (you’d be nervous if he were to be quiet); large, clawed hands slide from your waist to hold you up from beneath your ass. 

“I could kiss you again,” he offers into your ear like it’s the most obvious thing—a was that okay? of Floyd fashion, an opening to tell him he’s silly, this was silly, to let you go. He listens to you for alarm bells. You don’t set any off. “Always wanted to do that. Could do anything you want, baby.” 

Baby? 

What world were you transported to when you resurfaced? It’s the first time he’s called you anything other than Shrimpy, or your name. Something flares in your chest, unfurls down your arms and into your fingertips which trail down to the planes of his chest.

Anything? 

Your manner of yes, of promptly shutting that window, is a series of fluttering kisses beneath his ear, over subtle, pulsing gills you’ve never been close enough to notice before, let alone touch. You really can’t curse the A&P curriculum now—it’d be blasphemy. Look where it got you: nipping at your best friend’s throat, quick to wonder what bruises would look like blooming on his aqua skin. You tear into him gently, hearing him hum over hitched breath when you do. 

“I mean, I think I could use an interactive lesson if I’m gonna have a shot on this test.” A minute ago, you were the one gasping for breath; now, Floyd sighs to maintain composure, accidentally puncturing your bottoms with his nails while you lick across his jaw. You can’t see his erection, but you can feel it, beginning to press up beneath you as his arousal grows. Merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish, he had said; maybe you’re more compatible that you originally assumed, and the fact that you have him hard just from a little bit of kissing and biting is so pathetically cute. Floyd might look real tough, but he’s practically falling apart just the way you fantasized he would earlier today, just as quick if not quicker than you, his cute lil’ Shrimpy—his baby—who’s clearly had more control over him than he’s let onto until now. 

You pull back to look into his olivey eyes and he’s half-lidded with something just to the left of restless yearning—like how a predator must look when it’s got its prey backed into a corner. 

But you’re hardly prey.

His head cocks like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Ain’t’cha gonna help me out?” 

Later, you’ll swear this was him begging, and he’ll deny it; he tries to distract you from it with that sly confidence, his eternal air of never taking anything too seriously, but you have him right where you want him. 

Even if he does get one final jab in, sing-songy, grasping onto the last of his smugness. “You could get a little marine anatomy lesson in return, y’know.” 

You want to make him squirm back—so you concede, “Alright,” like you’re doing him a favor. In reality, it’s so sweetly dizzying and surprising to drink in his desperation after he’s made you feel crazy for as long as he has. You untangle yourself from him, backing up until you hit the wall so you can hoist yourself upon it once more. 

Floyd treads back up to you without having to be told. When you slip your bottoms off, you don’t ask him not to look. 

“Ever touched a human like this before?” you ask, more to put him through answering than actually looking to know; you have a pretty good idea, anyway, from the way he just pouts up at you—an answer in itself. You prop one heel up on the edge of the pool and push his drenched hair away from his forehead as he settles a shoulder beneath your still submerged calf, downturned eyes shining. 

You look at him so fondly, drag your gentle touch down his face before tilting his chin toward the apex of your thighs; if eels could blush, you’re certain you’d have gotten him with the way you wiggle forward to the edge and spread yourself open with two fingers. 

You’d be kidding yourself if you said his hungry gaze and warm breath on your cunt doesn’t affect you just as terribly. 

“So,” you clear your throat—this is an anatomy lesson, after all. You’re nothing if not committed to the bit. “A lot of my reproductive anatomy is inside—totally unreachable. But this—”

You demonstratively swipe a finger over your clit. 

“—feels real good if you touch it.” 

Floyd, self-proclaimed hands-on learner, doesn’t waste a second replacing your finger with his thumb. 

You yelp, jumping a bit, for more than one reason. “Watch the claws, Leech.” 

He bites his lip through a focused smile—he really is so hot when he actually gives his full, undivided attention to something, and the fact that you’re the something is even better. “Sorry.” He’s hardly sorry. 

But he struggles to avoid scratching you up. 

“Tell me what to do, baby,” he insists at your ow, ow, ow, lower and more invested than usual—it makes you clench around nothing, makes you feel so empty. You wish his fingers inside you wouldn’t maim you. You suppose that’s an excursion for his other form. His hands instead busy themselves grabbing at your thighs, opening you up, wanting more. “Can I just…?” 

You don’t know if oral sex exists under the sea and you don’t really care—either way, Floyd’s unhinged enough to just go for it without you having to tell him, and you simply guide his head the rest of the way to you as his tongue licks a long, experimental stripe up your slit. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, that feels—” 

He keeps licking. Enthusiastically, like one might an ice cream cone. You cover your smiling mouth for a split second before you continue, pushing him away to show him.

“Here, here, here.” Again, you touch yourself—so pulsing and hot compared to how chilly he is. “This little—above the hole, is the—”

“The Exorcist,” he insists, looking deadpan up at you, so Floyd in timing, that you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. 

You try so hard not to snort. Sevens, what kind of media has he been consuming up here? At least he’s maybe, sort of trying? (His bio grade does depend on it, after all.)

“Clitoris,” you correct him, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of this whole situation. It’ll catch up to you in embarrassment if you don’t get his mouth on you in the next five seconds, you’re pretty sure. “See it? Feels really good to touch, lick, suck o—oh!”

Before you can breathe, he’s latched onto you—licking again and pausing where you’ve instructed him, suckling around you and twirling his tongue in a way has you pushing him into you instead of away, now, and you’re going to keep your voice, of course; you’d go as far as to call him somewhat of a natural, but you’re still going to instruct him like a good tutor. 

“Y-yeah, that’s it,” you encourage him; his tongue feels long and a little frigid, so unlike anything you’ve felt before, and it’s certainly not working against him. “Just—don’t move down—yeah, like that. G-good boy, Floyd.” 

He must like that, because he hums into you; the vibration sends your hips rolling forward into his mouth—you prop your other heel up to spread yourself even wider—and he peers up at you wetly like he wants you to say it again. 

When you don’t, his eyes flutter shut, his brow furrows, and his tongue works harder—making you arch, making you croon.

And it falls from your mouth like you can’t help it, “Good boy, right there—mhm!” 

Said tongue slips down, prodding your hole; you’re gasping all over again, biting into the back of your hand when Floyd moans into your pussy once more like he’s unaware of the shockwave it sends through you (he probably is), his hands landing at the small of your back to tug you into grinding on his face. He seems to enjoy alternating between tonguefucking you and making out with your clit—if how tight he’s holding you is anything to go off of, anyway, and with the way he moves, the way his elbows come up to rest under you, tense and holding himself up, it seems like he’s humping the pool wall. 

The fact that he’s getting off on going down on you makes you want to lay back and curl your thighs around his head. But as much as you’d love to cum in his mouth, as good as his tongue feels drinking you down, now that you know he has a cock, you pretty much need him to fuck you with it. 

“Floyd,” you whine, wriggling away from him. He’s hesitant to let you go; his eyes fly open like you’re taking away his favorite toy, which you may as well be. “Floyd—ah, I want you t’fuck me, please?” 

That has him happily departing with a lewd smack, nails letting up on your flesh; he looks up at you with a dopey smile, like you’ve just injected him with something that’s sent him skyward, but it doesn’t last long—he’s determined as he pulls you back into the water with real firmness, catching you beneath your arms as you squint for the splash. 

When you open your eyes, you’re met with a satisfied and glistening mouth, tongue poking out, lapping you up. “You taste good, Shrimpy.” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me Shrimpy while we’re fucking.” 

Floyd snickers. “Ya like baby better? Maybe I’ll use that all the time from now on.” 

“You should,” you agree before he’s kissing you; you’re coiled around him again in an instant, tasting yourself in his spit, sliding a restless hand under the water between both your bodies to thumb his tip. 

Floyd bites your lip as you circle him; you half-wish you could see him from an outside point of view, how his eyes are screwed shut, how his jaw flexes and releases when he chokes on his breath, but you know you can’t be anywhere but here—you fully don’t want to be anywhere but here—pleased at the way he bucks into your hand all needy. 

When you maneuver him down to drag your cunt along him, you earn your first nasally, full-bodied moan from Floyd Leech—all at once obscene and uncorrupted; you wonder if he’s ever made himself sound like this, if he would even know how to; you nearly growl into his open mouth as his ridges and veins catch on your clit, your entrance. You wonder, too, just how soaked you are right now, riding along his length, which does not by any means feel small, by the way. When you close yourself around him to let him fuck your thighs, you feel his tip reaching past your ass. 

And now that he’s started, he’s not going to shut up. “Oh, shit, that feels—Shrim—baby, oh, fuck.” 

You wish you’d have dedicated some time to learning his cock—when you catch a glimpse beneath the surface, it seems to be the same darker shade of blue-green that contours the edges of the rest of his body; it’s undoubtedly naturally slick, also not unlike the rest of him, probably as pretty as it feels. 

You bite into the freckles across his collarbone as you thrash against each other, all sweat and water and stickiness and teeth. “Want you,” you mumble in his webbed ear. “Spare me the lesson.” 

“Alright,” he hisses, letting up like it’s painful. “Your turn.” 

It’s in Floyd’s nature to turn on a dime. He was so docile while you let him explore you. His razor-sharp grin threatens you with ruin now that you’re letting him take what he wants, forgetting all about the subject at hand—the topic that got you here in the first place. Nonetheless, he intends to be strict, you can tell—even if you’re the one palming his cock, wetting your lips for more of his rough kisses, hooking your knees over his elbows and guiding him into your cunt. 

“This how ya do it?” But he’s got the basics down by now—and with you lining him up, he’s got little more to do than thrust himself forward, but he decides the best way to go about this is to shake his head dismissively, almost annoyed, and bend your knees up to your shoulders, damn near to the pool wall, and all at once he’s in you, filling you up, hitting you deep. 

“Floyd!” you squeal, stretched in more ways than one. “Chill!” 

“Fuck—can’t,” he groans brokenly; he’s fucking into you already, steady and rigid. His next sentence tumbles out more like one long word, like it might be the last thing he ever says: “Oh, fuck, it feels so good, I gotta move.” 

His long tail comes to wind tight and writhing around your middle as he pins you, leveraging your whole body as he keeps an experimental pace, but already, speech escapes him; still, Floyd doesn’t shut up, groaning through uneven whimpers, unabashed and frantic to let you know how you good you feel even if you’ve stolen his voice. 

Water swashes around you and you can do nothing but cry out, tangling both hands in Floyd’s drenched hair, your forehead pressed to his. 

“‘S’okay, baby, I want it all,” you whine. 

And in a second, his hips are brutal against yours. 

You can’t see anything below—the way he fucks you deliriously stirs up the water—but you reach down to touch yourself again, jaw slack to your chest as he bends and pounds you; Floyd’s so damn loud you’d worry about being heard if it wasn’t for the way you can feel his dick, ruthless in your guts, turning your brain to pitiable mush. He looks so pretty, eyes all teary and borderline crazed, teeth clenching closed just to be pried open by pitchy moans that send waves of heat straight to the orgasm building in your core. 

When he gets his voice back, you’re losing yourself—reminding yourself to keep your eyes open, keep your gaze on him, because you’d rather die than miss the way Floyd looks when he opens his pretty mouth again. 

“If you—fuck, ‘m gonna cum in you—‘f you could take it, I’d keep—keep fuckin’ you…” 

“Want it,” you breathe, words all strung out and slurred, whole body jostling with the way he batters against your insides, “ngh’I want y’r cum.” 

Floyd cusses a few more times—mouth just as filthy as the rest of him for you as you goad him—because you want him, you want him to cum in you, you’re so fucking tight and perfect around him that he knows he’s growing more and more addicting with each rapid-fire slam of his tip against your cervix but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and from the way your hips jerk to the flexing and curling of your toes and the whines and moans you sing, muddled and noisy, into the air for him, he doesn’t think there’s a world that exists where he’d want to. 

“This is where you’d release your clutch, if ya had one—oh,” he explains, breath quick and hot against your neck as you twitch—you’re so close, he can feel it, the way you clamp around him erratically as each stroke, each thrust distresses his words into little more than gasping and rambling. “A-and I’d—hah, fuck, I’d knock you up so good—” 

In your hazy, foggy, humid upswing of pleasure your melting mind remembers his unfinished thought from earlier: I don’t even know how—I don’t think… And oh, fuck, just the thought of it sends you hurdling over the edge, cumming hard, but 

the words, too, are leaving you before you can stop them, before you can think too hard about what it is your clipped and breathy voice is babbling— 

“G’na breed me? Wanna fill me up with your kids, Floyd? Huh?” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah—” he chants back, ruined, “G’na fuckin’ take it all for me, aren’t’cha, baby?” 

“Fuck, I need it,” you’re unsure if you whisper or scream—your nails are harsh in his shoulders and his teeth are buried in your neck, muffling rough, rhythmic cries as he cums, throbbing inside you; he cums so fucking much, you can feel it, filling you to the brim, coating every inch of you he can reach, trembling and spasming and fuck, he can’t stop—it feels like forever and too soon when he slows to a stop, buried in you, letting up on your neck and dropping your legs to grab either side of your head and kiss you long and hard, both of you half-humming, half-whining into each other. 

Between labored breaths and lazy kisses you spend a good few minutes rocking into one another—biting at lips, hands wandering, tongues poking, until eventually you’re both just play-fighting, snickering quietly, touching in ways that are spent of sex and yet still wholly intimate.  

When he calms a bit, scarily serious in that way only Floyd can get, he asks you, “You gonna be mine ‘er what?” 

“I’m already yours, Leech.” You flick water at him, resigned, and wriggle a bit. One golden eye winks to dodge, and he’s grinning, so familiar; as he untangles himself from you, helping you back up onto the tile, he mocks relief.

 ”Good. Would be kinda awkward if you weren’t.” 

Water settling is the only sound across the pool deck as you towel off, shuffle your shorts back on. In the silence, Floyd twirls around the water and starts to sing a stupid little song—totally off-key and fully content, I love my Shrimpy, I love my Shrimpy… 

Until the lights start to flicker, and you hear the extremely vexed voice of a certain Mostro Lounge owner from the far hallway— 

“If you’re done, get the fuck out! My students are trying to sleep!” 

And in another blink, Floyd is human and wild-eyed, on the deck pulling his shorts on and running—he catches your hand in his, mumbling something about how he’s gonna ace this test and Azul can suck it—and he’s laughing, running, and you wouldn’t rather be doing anything but the same. 

[xoxochb]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ - salut mon amours!

“get over here.”

in one swift movement, your fist wraps around the fabric of grayson’s shirt, tugging him back against you alongside his mouth.

your grasp loosens on his top and you use your now unoccupied arms to slide around his shoulders. grayson steadies you with two solid hands to your hips, while he makes his best attempt to once again depart his lips from yours.

he’s lucky since your hold on him isn’t anything but light. you frown at his departure. though in return, he kisses your nose as you scrunch it.

“you can’t keep me here all day.”

“yes I can! you can be my prisoner. I’ll even let you open the window occasionally if you’re good.” you nod enthusiastically with a bright grin.

grayson looks at you like you’ve grown extra heads. “no.”

“what if I gate off an area in the field and I let you get yard time?”

“sweetheart—”

“and you can sleep in my cozy bed and I’ll light my scented candle and let you watch my television…”

“(name).”

“… but I won’t put handcuffs on you because I think you’re pretty well behaved. you never know, though. were you a disobedient child? I’ll ask nash later…”

“(name).”

“… and I won’t put you in an orange jumpsuit either, I don’t think orange is your color, no offense. maybe blue, though, that would bring out your eyes…” you touch your index just below his right eye. “and what are your opinions on eating in bed? do you think it’s unsanitary or do you think— mphm…”

your ramble is cut off by grayson’s mouth to yours. fucking finally. you suppress a smile, too utterly happy to break the kiss you’d yearned for.

he’d been attempting to leave for fifteen minutes, most likely already late to whatever bullshit he had planned— though in your defense love prevails all.

and apparently so does grayson hawthorne’s need for oxygen as he pulls back. you’d frown but he looks very handsome and it’s difficult to keep an upset face.

you cup his cheeks between your palms. “you’re free. bail’s been made.”

“I’m also…” grayson brings his wrist to his gaze to check the time on his wristwatch. “twenty minutes late.”

“better late than nothing!”

his brows furrow. “that’s what you said when your menstruation was two weeks late.”

“but!— I still got it, didn’t I? do you see a baby anywhere here?” you extend your arm to the expanse of the room.

“no. but that didn’t exempt me of a heart attack.”

you huff and unravel yourself from his arms. “goodbye, grayson hawthorne.”

“this is ludicrous. you begged me to stay like a whining toddler and now you’re sending me away like a husband to war.”

“you have a meeting to get to, yes? and if you’re a good prisoner and listen to me, I’ll offer you yard time this afternoon.”

“I don’t want yard time.”

you huff and peck each of his cheeks, ushering him out the bedroom door. “goodbye, grayson hawthorne!”

[wqlfstqr]

◟𖥻 baile inolvidable : leo valdez

▰▰ pairing: leo valdez x fem!reader

Leo loves a good spanish song to dance, so naturally he decides to teach his girlfriend how to dance.

mari talks! need me a man that takes me out to dance sigh

warnings: use of spanish but mostly petnames, no cabin mentioned for reader, songs mentioned at the end, nothing else just fluff.

Leo likes to work in Bunker Nine with his speaker blasting spanish songs at full volume, she doesn’t understand a word of what they're saying but since she spends a long period of her time keeping him company, she already knows the beat to some of them.

Sometimes, she hums along to the song, but she mostly likes to hear him singing. Most of the time, he doesn’t even realize he's singing since he's too distracted with whatever he's working on at the moment. But she notices, and she likes it.

This afternoon, he's so focused on his work that he has barely talked. She doesn’t mind, since she knows this is how he gets when he's hyper-focused on something. And anyway, she's already distracted by the book she's reading so they're basically co-existing silently.

That is, of course, until the music shuffles and a song that she has never heard before starts playing through the speaker. But Leo seems to recognize it because he immediately perks up.

It starts slow, with him simply tapping his fingers against the desk in rhythm, then humming along with the song. But then, suddenly he jumps out of his chair as if he can't keep quiet any longer.

"Alright, princesa, we have to dance. Now." He extends his hand towards her, and before she can even think about refusing, he's already pulling the book away from her to take her hand and help her up.

She's confused about this sudden burst of energy from him, but she still smiles with amusement. "Leo I don't even know how to—"

"Tsk, tsk" he interrupts her, wagging his finger before taking her other hand. "You don't know how to yet, but that's what i'm here for. Come on, preciosa, just this one song."

And because she can't resist to those beautiful, pleading brown eyes, she finally laughs and nods reluctantly.

At first, she moves awkwardly, trying to follow in his steps but definitely overthinking it way too much. "Leo I suck at this."

As if to prove her point, she makes one wrong step and ends up stepping on his foot. Leo dramatically gasps like he has been shot. "Ay, my amor! Is this how I die? Crushed by my own girlfriend?"

"I'm so sorry!" Her cheeks flush red as she apologizes profusely, dropping his hand. "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this, I clearly don't—"

Immediately, he reaches to take her hand again and pull her back to him, this time closer. "I'm messing with you, cariño." he tells her softly, placing his hand on her waist. "You're overthinking it way too much, it's not a math equation. Just feel the music."

it takes her some more time and definitely a lot more stepping on Leo's foot. But slowly, she starts to relax and let herself be guided by Leo through the small space.

"you're a natural, preciosa!" he praises even though she still has a long way to go. "that's my girl."

"Okay this is fun" she admits, mostly enjoying the way he seems so happy and energetic.

"See? you just have to trust me." he tells her, delighted, spinning her before he's pulling her close again, almost making her trip on her own feet as she crashes against his chest.

Just in time for the chorus, too. He grins at her and reaches to push a strand of hair behind her ear. "tú me enseñaste a querer." he sings softly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"What does that mean?" she tilts her head, her eyebrows shooting up and her eyes shining curiously.

Leo hasn't told her that he loves her yet, he's scared about her not reciprocating even though it's obvious she does. "Nothing, just the lyrics."

She doesn't look too convinced, but before she's able to question it any further, he takes her off guard when he dips her suddenly. "Leo!" she laughs, surprised.

"What?" He asks, smirking once she pulls her back up on her feet. "Focus, princesa, you're totally dancing with a professional here."

By the time the song reaches its end, she's totally out of breath. And though she had a lot of fun, she's ready to sit down and work on her breath for a couple of minutes.

Leo has other plans, because another song has started and he's definitely not letting go of her for this one.

"Leo! you said one song." she complains playfully when she tries to pull back but he only brings her back closer.

"Yeah yeah, I know what I said." he chuckles, this time at least he moves a little more calming, still guiding her through it. "But you'll like this one, you just wait."

He sways his hips and moves his feet, but makes sure to keep close to her. No spinning this time, just his body moving along with hers.

Until he smiles a little too widely and dips her one more time, except this time she's ready and wraps her arms around his neck. "Why are you smiling like that, hm?" she asks, playfully.

He doesn’t answer, instead he sings along with the song. "suavemente, bésame." and then he's leaning to kiss her.

And listen, y/n doesn't know spanish at all, but she can understand what bésame means just because of the way he's suddenly kissing her, his lips so soft against her, his hold on her waist tightening slightly to keep her in place.

"I knew you'd like it." he hums against her lips, straightening her before finally pulling back with a smirk.

"Guess you were right." she replies brightly, leaning in for another kiss, just a quick peck. "I might even pick up dancing as a hobby."

"Oh I like that, cariño, you're my new dance partner now." He nods, completely pleased with himself.

She laughs softly, swatting his shoulder fondly. "you're ridiculous, you know that?"

Leo smiles, rocking them gently to the beat and leaning to press a kiss against her temple. "Yeah, but you love it."

And she doesn't bother denying it, she loves it. She loves him.

𖹭.ᐟ songs mentioned: baile inolvidable by bad bunny, suavemente by elvis crespo.

[intheorangebedroom]

I love how this gif jumped straight from WhatsApp to my inbox.

Explicit yes below the cut.

When you moved in with him, he plucked the Gladiator VHS out of one of your boxes and asked if you still had a VCR. You shrugged and said no, but you love that movie and that VHS has been with you forever and “have you seen Russell Crowe in his Roman uniform???” with an upward curl of your lips that had him raise an eyebrow.

Okay. Russell Crowe. As a Roman general. He knows only too well -and appreciates- your taste for veterans, but he had no idea it extends to the Roman legion.

First, he thought about finding an old VCR and surprise you with it. So you could play that tape and watch the movie together with What’s-his-face commanding his legion or whatever it is that put that spark in your eyes. Show you he’s not the jealous kind.

But then… well then he gets a far better idea.

He takes him a while to find it, and when he does, he has to drive all the way to the city to the rental place, then back home, where he hides the whole thing in an inconspicuous container under the workbench in his toolshed. Not too close to where he keeps the zip ties because then you’ll surely find it.

It's huge, and cumbersome. It comes with so many accessories, the shoes and the cape and a sword and the frigging golden laurel wreath in a wooden box…

Yovanna and Santi are throwing their annual Halloween party, which will provide him with the perfect occasion to wear it. As the day draws closer, and you keep asking him what he’ll go as, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain a poker face. “I don’t know what you got up your sleeve, Morales, but your Halloween costume better be scary.”

At long last, the 31st is here. He dashes in from work and goes straight to the toolshed. The whole attire is a nightmare to strap on by himself, but after 15 years of his life adjusting tac vests, he manages. 

When he steps into the bedroom, you’re zipping up a dark blue Michael Myers suit. You usually prefer to coordinate your costumes, only this year he decided to play solo, so you had to improvise on your own.

You turn around to the sound of his footsteps on the carpet just in time to watch him walk through the threshold, clad head to toe as a Roman general. 

And oh! he’s a mighty vision. His silhouette looks twice as massive. The chest armor, adorned with two winged chimeras, emphasizes his impossible breadth. His shoulders fill up the entire door frame. A white cape, embroidered with threads of gold, is flowing behind him, and on his plush lips, a devastatingly smug smile, and you forget how to breathe. Your ribcage caves in on a breathless gasp. Your eyes grow wide and your mouth falls open.

It's not... It's not the grime and crimson of battle. It's the white and gold of triumph. It’s as though all the light in the room emanates from him. Like he is made of it. Made of gold. And his hair, oh his hair, underneath that golden crown, curls in every direction, like that bust of Agrippa you once fell in love with in the Louvre.

He is magnificent.

And that son of a bitch knows it.

“You son of a bitch…” you whisper.

His grin stretches, revealing his dimple. And he fucking chuckles.

You briefly consider texting Yovanna to cancel. Bail out on your favourite evening of the year, but then you think different. You're going to go to that party and walk into their house with that man of pure golden light on your arm. Parade him all night. And then, you’re going to go home with him and ride him into next year.

When you get there, you are rewarded by the attendees' collective gasp upon his entrance. You’re probably hovering 10 centimeters above the floor with sheer pride. Yovanna shoots you a “good for you, girl!” look you have no trouble interpreting.

You spend the entire party watching him with a coveting gaze, hiding behind your mask. You might die, from want and anticipation and also dehydration with how hot and sweaty you get, with the size of his arms, and his naked legs on display, thick and solid and strong in just the right proportions. He looks so good it's obscene, and from across the room, he makes sure you're looking at him. That grin hasn't left his gorgeous face. You know he can see through your mask, through your thoughts, through your need.

On the drive home, both of you are silent. There's too much tension, it's crackling and sizzling like butter on a pan, and you zip your combination down to your waist to free the upper half of your body from the dense cotton material. With a side glance, you catch the working of his pebbled throat, confirming he’s registered how snugly your black tank top hugs your breasts. 

You are wet all over. Saliva pools into your mouth at the sight of his freckled skin, the rippling muscles of his exposed forearms and his thick fingers curled around the wheel.

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

As soon as you get home, you step in front of him and brace both hands on his massive chest. The rigid armor feels so real, and you are reminded, once more, of the fabric of him. Of what his life has been. Of what he's done and seen. The battles he’s fought, the wounds he survived. And the way he chose love to redeem all his sins.

A warrior. A lover. Your man.

Quietly, you undress with trembling hands under his trained gaze. The dark pool of his eyes glimmers in the semi-darkness, in the feeble glow from the table lamp that catches at each and every golden detail of his uniform.

With a light touch, you back him up into the armchair. When he sits down in it, it looks like Caesar's throne. 

And then, you kneel before him, on the rough carpet, between his spread legs, hands splayed around his calves, skimming up to rest over his thighs. Feverish palms to feverish skin.

His tongue peeks slowly between his parted mouth to lick at his plush bottom lip, and you clench, sticky slick leaking down into your ruined underwear as you bunch the white toga in your fists and push it back.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice a quiet rasp.

“Yea,” he husks, bucking his hips forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his large hand a loose curl around your jaw as he guides your face closer to what has you begging.

Brushing your cheek against his thigh, you nuzzle the bulge of his boxer briefs, and the heady scent of his sex makes you dizzy. He’s hard when you pull him out, hard and warm and throbbing in the palm of your hand, and his heavy breathing fills your ears. Pursing your lips around the fat tip of him, you taste his want. The tangy flavour travels down to your core and you squirm wantonly at his feet, eyes fluttering shut at the heavy glide of his cock over your tongue. 

Carding his fingers through your hair, his hand wrapped on your nape, he draws you in gently, down to his base, inch by inch, and you focus on what he’s giving you, on the impossible size of him, eyes flickering open to lock onto his, as he watches you take him in. Your fingers burrow into the thick of his thighs, nails digging in, and he thumbs away a stray tear from the round of your cheek as you keep him there, pulsating hot and heavy inside your throat until you can’t breathe. 

When you pull away, heaving chest and teary eyes, with a thread of saliva bowing down from your mouth to his cock, he bends forward in a creak of leather, to grab at your waist and motion you up. You moan in complaint, please Frankie please, jolting at the cold touch of his golden cuff on your skin.

“Shhh, c’mere,” he husks.

You stand up ruefully but docilely between his legs, and you might be crying, looking down at him, because it rips through your chest, it tears your bleeding heart apart, the timeless beauty of him. The reassuring breadth of his solid frame, the fathomless depth of his dark eyes, the pensive crease in his brow. His perfect features framed underneath the wreath of laurel. The softness of his touch, the restraint on his strength, when he slides your panties down carefully.

You cup his face between your hands to make sure this man is real, scraping your nails through the scruff of his beard, thumbs resting over the bare patches of his sharp jaw. 

He runs a thick digit through your soaking folds and your whole body shivers, knees buckling, you’d crumple on the floor if it wasn’t for his firm hold on your hip. 

“So? Do you like the costume?” he asks softly, teasing your entrance with his middle finger, and you laugh through your tears. 

His grin falls as he leans forward with a frown, rustling fabric and creaking leather, to press his forehead into your belly, chin pushing at the apex of your thighs, tongue darting to lick a broad stripe across your folds. His primal grunt vibrates along your spine and down your limbs, so fucking sweet, baby. 

The sharp edges of his golden crown bite into your palm when you thread your fingers through his curls. 

“C’mere,” he beckons, drawing you in, “come sit on it.”

His large hand skims down along your smooth skin and curls at the back of your leg, sitting you in a straddle over his lap. The armchair is large, but he’s larger yet, and even more so with the cape and the chest plate and the leather pteruge, and it’s a fumble to find a good position. 

He scoots forward over the seat but your knees knock uncomfortably into the armrest, and he huffs in frustration. You tilt up his face and realise you haven’t even kissed him yet, too caught up in his glorious beauty. 

“Francisco,” you breathe out, and he stills. 

You lower your mouth to his, tongue gliding over the soft cushion of his lips, and he opens up, kissing you back full and deep, your tongues entwined and swirling languidly. His hands find the plump of your cheeks, spreading you for him.

When he breaks the kiss, it's with a rushed grumble of “let me take this fucking thing off,” but you're already sinking down onto his length with a pained moan, furrowed brow and eyes clenched shut at the blinding stretch, fluttering walls and quivering chest.

You settle there, the coarse hair at his base grazing your swollen clit, his warm shuddering breath fanning your face. You feel him throb at the center of you, and you cling on to him, to his cape, forehead to forehead, the cool surface of his armor pressed to your peaked breasts.

“Keep it on, Frankie, please. I want to know what it feels like to fuck a god.”

—

HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY, MY LOVE 🧡