#fic: wires

[cypanache]

Cy's 2023 Fic Replay - Track 9

I am very sorry, but this is continuing ...

track 9: Let's Hurt Tonight - One Republic

I'm pretty sure I found this song just this year through Spotify and from the moment I did it went to the top of the playlist for the modern obidala 'padme lives' AU that I've been working on off and on for the past year.

fic: wires

[obidala, anidala | modern-au | padme lives]

This fic has lived in my head for almost as long as Unintended has. I mean honestly, are you really an obidala author if you don't have at least one 'padme lives' au swimming around in your head? And while I adore all the gentle domestic 'obidala helping each other heal after Anakin' AUs, this is not that. After watching OWK, I really really wanted to just let them swim around in that mutual self-hatred for awhile. So Wires is where I get to do that

Which is probably why this song fits so well. Because really could anything say more clearly "I enjoy watching two characters I care deeply about tear great gaping chunks out of each other" more than this song. Particularly this part:

I'll hit the lights and you lock the doors Tell me all of the things that you couldn't before Don't walk away, don't roll your eyes They say love is pain, well darling, let's hurt tonight

I worked on it quite a bit for PadMay, and it expanded out into a non-linear character exploration of Padme and her relationship with both Anakin and Obi-Wan. And while I haven't managed to finish it, it's got some wonderfully dark and raw bits that I can't help but want to share, so indulge me:

SPOILER WARNING

“I am not testifying against Anakin.  I told you that.” “No one’s asking you to.  My testimony should be enough for them to–”  “To what?  Lock him up?  Let him rot in prison?  You know what things would be like for him in there.  Is that really what you want?” “He’s dangerous, Padme.  His being in a wheelchair doesn’t change that.” “Says the man who put him there.  What are you trying to do?  Finish the job?” He jerks his head away.   Padme falls back against the bed. “Maybe we should talk about this when you’ve gotten some sleep.” Like that’s going to happen.  “Why?  I’m not going to be any less of a bitch about it then.” “Then maybe we should talk when I’ve gotten some sleep.” Of course.  This is how all their other fights end.  She says something completely unforgivable, and he…doesn’t.  Either retreating or calling a truce for the kids or distracting her in other ways he finds effective, but never never actually returning fire.  And she knows that control, that ability to keep himself distanced enough, detached enough to never let his emotions get the better of him, is what kept him alive for all those years undercover.  But god if she doesn’t hate it.   Just once she wishes he would fight back.  Just say it.  All of it.  Every why didn’t you and you should have and this is your fault  she knows he’s been carrying around in his back pockets. She knows they’re there.  She can see in his eyes, feel it in his touch.  She doesn’t understand why he won’t just say it.  What’s holding him back.  If he would just say it, just blame her, accuse her, something, anything, then she could at least mount some kind of defense, build a case, explain herself.  But if once, just once, he would fight back, beat her up a little, then maybe she could finally stop doing it to herself. Padme stares up at the ceiling and doesn’t say anything. Obi-Wan turns to go. “I’ll never forgive you.  If you do this, I’ll never forgive you for it.” He stops, back still turned.  “I’m not asking you to.” No.  No he’s not.  He never has.  As if he knows she used up all her forgiveness on Anakin ages ago, and doesn’t have any left.  For either of them.

[yeyinde]

the morally questionable relationship between John Price and the darling little starlet he picks up off of the street during the golden age of Hollywood would be such a treat.

because producer!John Price is known as the best of the best in Hollywood. He has an eye for talent, they say, and a keen ability for spotting the diamonds amongst the rubble.

And of all the stars in the world, he sets his sights on you. Pretty little thing. Bright and blinding—Betelgeuse glimmering on the precipice of a supernova. All you need is a little push. A backer. A chance. And he gives it to you. Ushers you into stardom with a crooked grin around the butt of a cigar and a wicked gleam in his eyes that you—in all your artless, sheltered naivete—chalk up to pride.

The problem with sweet little darlings like you is that they all sing the same song. Yearn for the same thing. And it's so easy to mistake his interest as fatherly when the name on your birth certificate reads John Doe. And when he tells you his name is John Price, well—

It's fate, isn't it?

He told you he's been married once but had no children, and the longing in his eyes must be for the family he's never got a chance to have. So, you promise to give it to him.

Problem is: the devil lives in Hollywood and drinks his whiskey neat. You told him you'd be his family, giving him the one that left him behind. Signed your soul to blue eyes for the big screen.

Not that you'd know this, of course. To you, John is a sad widower with a heart of gold. Your overprotective bear who snarls at the directors and actors who get a little too handsy with you on set. His darling little star.

It's easy to wave everyone off when they express concern about these blurring lines between employee and employer. Boss and—

Father figure.

They just don't know him like you do.

And how funny, you tell him one evening with a wry twist to your lips, eyes swimming with sheltered mischief. They thought we were lovers, Mr Price. Isn't that just the damnedest thing?

This little quip has the opposite effect, and if only you looked a little bit closer at the gleam in his eye, the clench in his jaw, you might have seen the storm gathering on the horizon before it hit. Instead of laughing with you at the director's gall, this hilarious joke, John feels you slipping through his fingers just a little bit more. And that simply won't do.

You want a father figure? Then fine. That's what he'll be. Convenient, of course, because he's been thinking about fatherhood a lot lately, too. It's only natural that he decides to cash in on that promise you made all those years ago to make him a proud dad.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One

The drive's short one. 

Steve gets out of his car, opening the passenger door for Chrissy and escorting her up to the house, quietly envisioning what Jason would look like if a real monster got him.

What would he say, staring down the crazy, five-starred head, filled with teeth and drool? Would he turn back? Or run?

(Steve swears he doesn't take great pleasure in imagining Carver getting eaten, but he'll admit to taking a little.)  

"Chrissy do you have any idea--oh." Mrs. Cunningham startles, grasping her robe at the front as she spots Steve standing next to her daughter.  

"Hi Miss Cunningham." He says.

"Hello." She says suspiciously. "And who are you?"

"I'm Steve Harrington, ma'am." He watches as her mother straightens immediately at his name, and sinks right into the ol' Harrington charm, knowing instantly it will work. "I know you were expecting Jason, but I'm afraid he wasn't able to drive Chrissy home." 

"Oh, Steve! It's so late I almost didn't recognize you." She titters, suspicion gone. "Your mother and I are on the same charity board." 

Of course they were.

"I thought you were dating that nice Nancy girl." She says with a squint that mimics Chrissy's, because even in the midst of a crisis he can't escape the gossip that is Hawkins upper echelon. 

"Nance is waiting in the car." Steve lies smoothly. "I just wanted to make sure Chrissy got home safe." 

"What happened?" Chrissy's father appears, ushering them both in while blatantly peering around them, eyes sweeping the street before closing the door.

Steve recognizes the move. He's checking for nosy neighbors. 

"Jason and I broke up." Chrissy admits.

"What?" 

"We..." She falters in front of her parents. 

"What happened to Jason?" Her father asks, tuning back in once they're safely away from peering eyes.

"I'm afraid Jason and some of his friends brought beer to the party." Steve steps in to explain.  

"Oh Chrissy, it's a high school party. That's no reason to break up with him." Her mother fusses, face flushing in embarrassment. Her eyes dart from her daughter to Steve and back, and Steve knows he needs to start damage control. 

If he plays it right he can burn Jason while he's at it. 

"He was horrible, mom. Just awful." Chrissy says, but Steve can tell she's shrinking under her mothers gaze. 

"He drank quite a lot, Miss Cunningham." With a theatrical wince, Steve turns to face Chrissy's dad, lowers his voice and says "I'm going to have to talk to Coach about it." 

He gets the intended response, which is a raised eyebrow. "That bad, huh?" 

Steve nods once, painting a pained smile on his face. "He made a real fool of himself tonight, Sir. The basketball team has a reputation to uphold." 

"Oh." Mrs. Cunningham says, hand fluttering in front of her face. "I never would have thought…"

"He's normally a good guy. I don't know what got into him." Steve has them both eating out of the palm of his hand, attention neatly off Chrissy and onto the story he's feeding them. 

Its worth it to see her shoulders relax. 

"I couldn't let him take Chrissy home in the state he was in Sir, and he got very…" 

Steve pauses. 

Fills his voice with tempered disappointment, channeling his dad. "Belligerent. Said some nasty things."  

"Really?" Mr. Cunningham says, with a low whistle, and Steve knows by his tone alone that he's bought in.

Hook, line, sinker.

Steve nods once. "I have to get back to my girlfriend, but Chrissy'" He turns earnestly here, to let her know he's not faking this next bit. "Let me know if Jason bothers you at school. I'll set him straight again if I have to." 

"Thank you Steve." Mr. Cunningham says, as Chrissy's mom hustles her daughter towards the kitchen. 

Steve shakes his hand, then waves at Crissy as she calls her own thank you over her shoulder, before disappearing out the door and back to his car.

The same one where Nancy very much isn't. 

That's a problem for tomorrow Steve.

xXx

Tomorrow Steve gets into an argument with Nancy. 

She can't recall that Jonathan took her home, or that he's bullshit, their whole relationship, bullshit--

But she also can't tell him she loves him.

So Steve snaps at her. Storms off.

 Play’s more basketball.

It takes less than two hours for him to get mopey and another three for him to spiral into deciding he was wrong somehow.

That's what his mom said all the time anyway, wasn't it? The man's always wrong Steven, and he's the man here so…

He gets flowers, chocolates, and fucking waylaid (by Dustin Henderson with his Grow a Monster) and things go sideways from there.

 Train tracks and a junkyard and demodogs make time speed up. An encounter with Billy and a dinner plate causes Steve's recollection of the evening to be fuzzy. 

He just knows that in the middle of dodging death, he has the realization that Nance wants to break up with him.

That he should let her. 

Even if it hurts, even if he doesn't want to. 

She wants to be let go.

So Steve does. He respects her, and when he has a moment after its all over, he tells her to go with Jonathan.

(At least he permanently gets the squirts out if this. Or at least everyone but Mike.

Even if most of them are shitheads and one of them's Hargrove's step sister.

It's--something.

But when Dustin keeps pestering him, demanding Steve drive him all over Hawkins and then drags him to the movies, well.

It might be the best something Steve's had in his life so far. )

xXx

"Oh shit. Is that from Caver?" Eddie asks, popping up near Steve's car like the clown in a jack in the box. 

"Carver can't hit for shit. This was Hargrove." Steve replies, attempting an eyeroll before remembering that his entire face is a bruise. 

One, giant, never ending bruise. 

"I guess his step sister gave him the slip to come hang out with these kids I watch sometimes. I didn't know she wasn't supposed to be there." Steve shrugs, because it's the technical truth. 

If you turn it sideways and squint anyway. 

"Asshole tried to threaten the kid Max is into by slamming him into a wall and screaming shit, so I stepped in, and--" He waves at his face. 

The same one he's already getting looks for. 

"I was winning." Steve sighs theatrically. "He broke a plate over my head."

The story seemed to freeze Eddie but he recovers with a quick shake of his head. 

"You poor thing." He tuts. "Let me guess--you were more worried about the hair than the wound?" 

Eddie's hands flutter like he's going to touch Steve's head but he seems to contain himself at the last minute.

The hospital threatened to buzz it for stitches." Steve says darkly, playing into the bit. 

(He had not gone to a hospital. 

None of them had.)  

"What would our King be without his crown of hair?" Eddie laments, in a falsetto that was half insult half oddly sincere. It was jarring in that it was hard to get a read on, but the more Steve was around the guy the less it seemed malicious and the more it came off  as just….goofy.

Eddie Munson, Steve decided, was not a freak.

 He was a dorky little weirdo, just like all the other kids Steve now hung out with. 

Just older, and with slightly better hair. 

"Hey Eddie." Another boy calls out, approaching cautiously. 

He's got a leather jacket on, and if Steve thinks hard enough he can sort of conjure up a memory of the guy at Eddie's lunch table, throwing a piece of bread at a pale sophomore decked out in plaid. "You good man?" 

"Yeah Jeff, just checkin' in on the Hair here." Eddie sticks a thumb towards Steve, who raises his hand and waves. 

The falsetto comes back, somehow higher as the older boy swoons over Steves arm. "Soothing his poor soul after that brute Hargrove almost killed him." 

"Has anyone ever told you you're a lot like Bugs Bunny?" Steve asks, the thought leaving his mouth the instant he had it.

(He doesn't care, it's a legitimate question.) 

It has the effect of making Munson look downright chuffed. "I have actually, but only by my Uncle." 

"Why are you checking in?" Jeff interrupts, before seeming to realize he said it out loud. " Ah, I mean--"

"Oh he didn't tell you?" Steve says, as casually as he can muster. "Eddie claimed me and Chrissy at a party last weekend." 

See Munson? Two people could play the weird bit game. 

They've attracted more of Eddie's friends now, two more boys in leather jackets edging closer like frightened deer. 

(One of which is the aforementioned younger man Jeff threw bread at, and Steve vaguely thinks the guy's name starts with a g.) 

"Apparently we're his minions now." Steve tells Jeff in a rather put upon manner. 

"It was just you, the fair maiden chose otherwise." Eddie counters dismissively, voice dropping down low. 

Steve snorts. Hums a sarcastic; "Like you'd let us choose." 

Eddie finally abandons whatever voice that was supposed to be (a villain, Steve thinks, and wonders if it hurts Eddies throat to drop from a false high to a deep low that quickly.)  to say:

 "Mock me all you like, Harrington, but you can't deny the bit worked." 

Steve automatically went for another eye roll, and gets a flash of pain for it. "Who said I was mocking you, you dork? Just stating facts." 

Yet again, Eddie reacts weird to the comment. He looks almost bashful for a second, before he recovers, tugging his hair in front of his face as he plays with it.

The bell rings once in warning, and Steve makes a face towards the doors. 

"I gotta go, Mrs Clicks out to fail me. See you around, Eddie. Jeff." The way his eyes are bruised up he can't quite make out the face Jeff makes at that, but Steve's pretty sure the guys mouth was open. 

"She's a nasty one, my minion, best stay on your toes around her." Eddie calls, and Steve waves a hand in the air to show he heard. 

"What just happened?" Jeff asks, far too loudly for how close Steve still is. 

It makes him chuckle a bit, even as one of the other guys says something in a far quieter voice that has Munson squawking and flapping his arms like a bird. 

The winding little feelings in his chest squeeze his heart, and Steve shakes his head, refusing to be fond of Eddie Munson. 

xXx

College rejection letters come in, one after the another.

Steve could have made it into a few schools he's certain, except he hadn't really applied to any.

Not that any college other than Penn Hurst mattered. His dad wanted him to be a legacy, come hell or high water.

Steve's punishment was hand picked by his parents, and he gets the sailor outfit his new minimum wage job requires is supposed to be a part of it--that his dad made him apply because it was the most embarrassing thing he could think to subject Steve too-- but honestly? 

It's not that bad. 

Not even with Robin, the manager he met yesterday, and who positively, completely and totally, hates Steve’s guts.  

He figures he has time to win her over. 

All the time in the world, now that demons aren't trying to eat his, or any of the kid's, faces. He can focus on the small things. Build himself back up.

Figure out the person he wants to be, now that he's no longer King Steve. 

It’s the thought that kept him from attending any graduation parties. To go felt like backsliding into old habits. 

‘If the kids--if it comes back again--’ 

Getting drunk at night in a random house seemed almost irresponsible.

Particularly not with people Steve has history with, without anyone he really cares about being present. Certainly not Nance and Jonathan, who he wishes he didn’t know are at some end-of-year game night one of Nancy’s friends is hosting. 

(Steve can’t think about that for a number of reasons. 

When he does--because of course he does-- he makes sure to focus on the weirdness that is Jonathan Byers being someone he cares about, instead of the fact he can’t seem to kill his love for Nancy. 

Or that he's horrifically jealous of their relationship. 

That the best sleep he had ever had was between them, two nights after the lab, when they crammed themselves into Jonathan's bed because they all couldn't quite believe it was over.

That night had been so incredibly weird, but grouping together felt safer. Smarter.

Better.

Not in a way Steve wants to put into words. 

Not in a way he wants to confront at all.) 

His parents hadn’t been able to make it home to watch him walk at his graduation--his father landing a last minute meeting with some important person or other. 

Faked apologies were given, money transferred, and Steve, not wanting to sit in his too-huge house, had meandered to Family Video. 

Tried to forget his father’s cold voice in the background of his mother’s call, loudly announcing he’d have made it a priority to see Steve graduate-- if he’d gotten into Penn Hurst. 

Steve just shakes his head. Pushes those thoughts into the back of his head, into the same place all his other weird thoughts live.

The glare he gets from the tall, pimple-ridden guy working the rental counter was expected.

Chrissy Cunningham, was not. 

"I thought you’d be at one of the parties.” He tells her, when he turns down the romance aisle and finds her staring blankly at a shelf. 

She startles, before recognition flits over her face and a warm smile is directed his way. 

“I'm honestly not a fan of parties." She confides in him, hand clutching a tape in her hands."Not those kinds, anyway.” 

"More slumber parties, less keg stands your speed?" Steve guessed, blatantly turning his head sideways in order to read the title.

She awards him with a wider smile. "Exactly." 

"Chrissy Cunningham. Are you renting Jaws?" He teases, leaning in just a touch.

She flushes, but turns and squares up to him. Steve's delighted to see it. 

"Why yes I am. I'll do you one better and even admit it's one of my favorite movies." 

Steve grins at her, and sees the way she lights up on response, eyes bright. 

This is the Chrissy that Carver had tried to kill. The strength and pure fun that radiates off her enhances the beauty she has to something almost otherworldly. 

Steve has seen enough beauty in his life to recognize when it will stay. That Chrissy wil one day be 80 years old, with gray hair and knit sweaters, and she'll still be able to light up a room. 

"Like sharks killing people that much huh?” He teases. And it’s easy, slipping into this part of himself around her. The part he’s been trying to get back. 

The confidence that he walked with, before monsters crawled out of the ground, and Nancy put a hole in his heart.

"I'll let you in on a secret. ." Chrissy leans in, dropping her voice low enough that Steve has to lean in a bit too to hear. "My favorite character is the shark." 

Steve playfully gapes at her, and for the first  time in a long time, feels like things will be okay. 

He’ll be okay.

He won’t be King Steve. He’s not Nancy's Boyfriend Steve either--but someone else. Himself.

A Steve who exists outside of Hawkins High, outside his family name. 

He likes it.

"I told you that was his car. Steve!" A too familiar voice calls and Steve can't mask the despair that hits him as he turns to his (now least) favorite shithead, whose storming through Family Video’s doors. 

"Dustin." He identifies, with an edge to his voice he can only pray Chrissy doesn't pick up on. "Other brats. What are you doing?" 

Mike stands stubbornly at Dustin's right, Lucas nervous at his left. 

Will Byers is situated next to Mike but Steve's not as familiar with him, and has no idea how to interpret the kid. 

If he had to guess based on the face he’s being sent, Will’s more nervous then the rest--but equally determined. 

(This does not make Steve feel better. It in fact, somewhat convinces them they’ve run headfirst back into trouble.) 

"Well we were going to go to Lucas’s, but now, we're bumming a ride from you!" 

"I'm busy." He says flatly. 

"Ste~eeeve!" 

"I didn't know you had a brother." Chrissy says, hand covering her mouth. 

Looking back at her, Steve's pretty sure she's trying to physically hold back laughter. 

If one could shoot lasers with their eyes, Steve would be nailing Dustin for ruining--whatever it was that was happening here. 

"He's a rescue" Steve says flatly. "It’s not working out though. We're planning on returning him to the shelter.” 

"Wow Steve." Dustin returns, offended. "First of all, if anyone's rescuing anyone I rescued you, or did you suddenly forget that you show up to family dinner every Thursday at my house like a sad orpha--mmpphh!" 

‘Mmpphh’ because Steve had taken several long strides across the store to smack his hand over Dustin's mouth. 

"Sorry Chrissy, it would appear the asshole children I am paid to babysit escaped whoever is supposed to be watching them." He shakes Dustins head, in lue of strangling him. ���Hit me up later we’ll discuss the shark’s best kills.” 

“Will do.” Chrissy says, as Steve begins the process of shoving his four smaller friends out the door. “Drive safe!” 

“No you don’t, and you’re gonna prove it by swinging through McDonalds for us.” Dustin sing-songs, swinging himself into the passenger side of the Beemer. 

“You assholes owe me, big time.” Steve hisses, as Lucas and Mike instantly begin making kissy faces the second they’re out into the parking lot. "I had plans tonight!"

“Do you have McDonalds money?” Steve asks, only to immediately wince at himself because fuck did he just sound like a soccer mom. 

“I have money I took out of my mom’s wallet.” Mike says as he settles into the car with his friends.

“Fine.” Steve sighs in defeat, starting the car. 

He determinedly does not ask if the idiots walked here, because there is a suspicious lack of bicycles, if only because he hit his mom quota for the day and Steve refuses to say anything else that might edge out his cool persona.

The one he swears he still has.

Supposedly. 

("Does my mom really pay you to watch me?" Dustin asks a while later, when the other brats are distracted. His voice is painfully honest, and softer than it normally is. 

"In food, yes." Steve says, because he’s not that much of an asshole--and maybe, because Dustin is truly his only friend right now.

Steve honestly looks forward to those Thursday dinners, helping Ma Henderson and having her fuss over him in a way his parents never had. 

In a way no one ever had. 

Dustin lands a solid kick to his ankle, making Steve curse. "That's not payment you ass!"

"Ow, God Dustin--" 

"Just admit you're my actual friend, you dick!" 

"Language! I swear your mom stole you from wolves, you animal--" Steve swatted at him. 

Maybe, possibly later, he will go on to admit that yes, Dustin is his friend. 

He will even agree to making up a stupid handshake for it. 

It involves lightsabers and gore at least, which Steve insists is very cool.)

[frownyalfred]

Batfamily fics need to start including all the times the Batkids would absolutely bust their teeth on something.

Goon hit you wrong? Cracked tooth. Face planted on that last flip? That’s a knocked out tooth for sure. One bad kick across the face during a spar and you’re spitting blood on the mats with your front teeth shoved the wrong direction back into your gums.

Bruce avoids this by having no real teeth. The Batkids learn about the benefits of mouth guards via trial and error.

[bbbutterfingers]

can you feel me?

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗪𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡? - part two max verstappen x reader (fluff) “. . . when he wants to be normal, he can count on you, stranger.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous | next )

“Come on, you can’t say he has so much potential!” Max miserably tried to hold in his laughs as you continued your rant about how much better Max would look if he put a little more effort or thought in how he dressed. 

“I’m honestly starting to think he’s allergic to wearing anything . . . not Red Bull related. Like even in his streams! In his home!” 

Sitting in front of his laptop with a makeshift setup in the hotel room in Japan, Max found himself unwinding from the earlier media day when he gladly accepted to join you for a game of Fifa. It wasn’t until someone brought up Lewis’ outfit from this morning did you start your little ted talk. 

“La, please concentrate on the game, we’re losing!” he couldn’t stop laughing either so your team was toast either way. 

“No, because I bet he's wearing his Red Bull shirt right now wherever he is.”

The reason why Max was no longer able to hold it together was because he was indeed in a Red Bull shirt. He might actually take you up on being allergic to anything not associated with Red Bull.

“I’ll gladly design a few outfits for him, I swear!” 

“La-” Max put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking from laughter as his screen showed the opposing team scoring a goal. The dutch would usually feel frustrated if he were to be losing a Fifa game in any other situation, but not this one with you.

He's ready to lose and lose again, even give up his title as one of the world's top twenty Fifa players if he gets to spend time with you like this, laughing and joking; forgetting the world around, so it's just you and him.

Just two people . . . being people.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Since I have no one to show, you're stuck with me.” 

It’s kind of been a routine now, having a private call after a game or upon finding spare time. You two have gotten close. You even considered “amilian” to be a close friend, per say. A close friend who you regularly vent to about work or just randomly ask riddles or dad jokes to bother.

You enjoyed his company. He was a fun person to be around. He made you feel . . . yellow in a type of way too. You never felt left out or unheard. He always had time for you, it's like you were maybe gravitating to being more than close friends . . . it's not like you can do anything about it though.

Surely people make close friends online all the time. 

You stay up on your couch, scrolling through the settings of your laptop to show and rant despite having to get up in the morning. Max crossed his legs on his chair folding his arms and watching the screen as you messed around on your shared screen.

“La, it’s late.” He’s been trying to tell you for the past 10 minutes. It’s 6:30 in Japan, 7 hours ahead of the time in Paris, where you were. 

Not that he’s keeping track of the time where you were, it’s just that you shared the same time zone as Monaco, and he only had the GMT+2 clock displayed on his home screen because he needed to keep track of his cats . . .  not too make sure you got enough sleep or anything of that sort.

“It's only 11:30,” you shushed, pulling up pinterest. Max hung his head, trying to hold in his smile. “I could put together a whole outfit that would suit him right here and now,”

“La,” Max giggled watching you actually start to search and put things together. “I’ll make a deal with you, if you go to sleep, I'll try to get Max Verstappen in baggy jeans,” 

“WHAT?!” the blond flinched at the loud noise, looking around his hotel room to make sure no one heard anything -- despite him being alone. 

“You know I work in F1 right?” Max followed up, trying to hold in his smile at your silence. “La, you forgot?!” 

“I’m sorry!” you pleaded, holding your hands in a begging motion despite him not seeing anything.

Max put his hand on his chest and pretended to be offended when he was smiling really wide to the point his cheeks hurt. “My best friend doesn't know what I do for a living,” he gushed in fake hurt. 

Your mind blanked at the title. Best friend? 

“You do know what my job is, right, La?”

“. . .” You looked away embarrassed, you’ve known the guy for how long and don’t even know what his profession is. 

Max couldn’t stop his giggles. “Go to bed, La. I’ll get Max in baggy jeans for you.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Hey um, million?” 

“I thought I told you to go to bed?” Max chuckled, crouched in front of his suitcase, digging through it in hopes to find a pair of baggy jeans or a white shirt that he probably doesn't own. 

“I am in bed technically . . .” The blond looked over to his laptop on his desk, the call still going. “You work in F1,” Max felt his heart jump in anxiety for a second, there's no way you figured him out. 

“Yeah?”

 “Well um . . . my boss chose me to go see how things were going with McLaren at the Monaco gp,” 

The dutch perked up at your announcement. “Really? That's great!” 

“Y-Yeah, it is,” you stuttered, agreeing. you crossed your arms, looking at the email congratulating you on your phone screen. “I mean, I'm glad, this is an experience of a lifetime. I get to drag along a few interns with me as well.” Max frowned, your tone did not match with the news you were announcing.

“What's wrong?” He got up, sitting on the desk chair, looking at your profile picture, the concern was clear in voice, as if you could feel him sitting beside you on your bed and gently rubbing your back to comfort you. 

“Well, I don't have anyone to go with - the interns don't count . . . and I don't know anyone in Monaco or the attendees-- except you technically . . . I haven’t been on my own for that long before,” you sighed.

Max furrowed his eyebrows, trying to decipher what you were asking of him.

“Is it-” you cut yourself of with a sigh. “Can I hang out with you sometime? During the weekend?” Max stayed silent, feeling his heart pounding to the point he was scared the organ would explode out of his chest. 

“I mean,” Max cleared his throat to hide the crack in his voice that arose from the anxiety he was drowning in. “I’m not traveling with the team every weekend, so I'm not sure if I'm going to be in Monaco . . . I’ll have to ask my boss.” he replied quietly and slowly, trying to comfort you still. “There’s still a few weeks before Monaco, so . . . I don’t know for sure.” He whispered, scratching the back of his head.

He was digging himself a grave. Asking Horner if he’s going to be in Monaco when he is the driver and already lives in Monaco? It’s too late now to be honest about who he is, he dug this hole himself and now he’s stuck in it.

It’s not like he can be like ‘oh, yeah of course you can hang out with me. Oh, I’m Max Verstappen by the way, the guy who’s driving the best car and winning all the races, so I can get you VIP tickets and a hot lap too if you want.’

“I’ll try my best to be there,” the blond whispered. You could almost feel him brushing your hair comfortingly. “We can get ice cream or go sightseeing. I know this really good cafe you’ll like . . .” Max will just have to keep digging his hole.

proof reading credits to the lovely and amazing @classiclitfreak <3

( previous | next )

[cyberangel-graphics]

here's some heart dividers, also my first post!

Credit is always appreciated by tagging me 🖤 I'll slowly be posting more as I go, requests are not open for now.

[katabay]

sam winchester, laptoppin it up :)

I feel like it's either extremely obvious that I've watched all 15 seasons of spn (11 of them as they were airing on tv) or somehow Not Obvious, despite the fact that I semi regularly reference it in one way or another.

god. anyway. sam. I will never recover from the poetic tragedy of sam. praying while being marked down as lucifer's vessel. the constant focus on wanting to be clean, the way free will versus pre-determination is in a constant state of narrative friction just by his character existing. the scope of horror in being damned and doomed before you were even born, by your own mother. wow. character of all time.

bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost ⭐ cara.app

[fanaticsnail]

Maybe some other time, Wire

Hey Doc Masterlist

Word Count: 900+

Synopsis: Wire is curious about your past and asking a lot of questions. You would prefer if he left this for another time considering the operation you're performing.

Themes: Kid Pirates x gn!reader, platonic series, you are 'Doc', the doctor of the Kid Pirates. Risky language, not explicit, humour, Wire is being intrusive, he tests your patience. This started as a fun crack series, and I needed to bring it back.

Notes: Permissions for art used from @magnuspirate was given, and how beautiful is he? Go and have a look at their other work. I am obsessed with how they draw Heat, alongside the other Kid Pirates. I dreamed about this fic last night and woke up laughing a little bit about it. 5am fic writing, my beloved.

“Hey, Doc?” The calm and low baritone of the trident user called sweetly over his shoulder to you, “Why don't you like to talk about your past?”

His question seemed reasonable enough. You had yet to really discuss who you were, what you did, or anything to do with personal relationships before joining the Kid Pirates. You weren't a native to the North like the majority of the crew, being an outsider they let in when visiting a port.

Letting out a soft sigh, you shook your head and continued to make good on the taste you set for yourself. Knitting your brows tighter together, you pursed your lips and used your utensil to extract another small object between their pincers.

“I just don't particularly like talking about me,” you utter without inflection on the words, “It's not a pretty story, nor is it remotely interesting in my opinion.” You placed the object in a small container before making to go back for another, “Now, I would prefer to focus on what I'm doing, so if you would please refrain from asking me questions, I would appreciate it.”

Wire pondered for a few moments, humming softly as he thought more on your deflection of the question.

“You know, I'm no ships counselor,” Wire uttered defensively, “But even I know not to internalize your past, especially when it caused you such a hard injury earlier.”

You look down at your healed leg briefly, still feeling the sting of the object embedded in your muscle, and the sour flavor from the poison igniting your blood. Shaking it off, you once again return to what you had set yourself to do.

“You're right,” you agree with him, nodding briefly, “You're not ship's counselor. Now, please stop asking me questions about my past. I would be happy to answer anything you want soon, but not now.”

Wire seemed to take this as his queue to sit in silence as you plucked and prodded at your latest project. But that silence only lasted as long as his questions halted its burn.

“Who was that person?” Wire asked you suddenly, his voice a little louder than it had been moments prior, “And why did they attack you on sight?” You sighed through your nose at this, rolling your neck on your shoulders to rid it of tension from your hunched position.

“Some other time, Wire,” you growled, your voice low and laced with warning. Wire refused to take that as reason enough to stop, curiosity eating at him the longer you avoided it.

“And the poison?” he asked you suddenly, “Why did you have a cure under your bed? Were you expecting something like this?”

“Wire,” you made your voice a little louder, disciplinary and tough, “Enough. I am concentrating.”

“And why did-?” Wire began once more, prompting you to throw your tweezers into the tray beside you and move to where he was laying face down on the medical bay.

Bringing your eyes to his, you narrowed them and upturned your lip to a soft grimace.

“Wire, I said some other time,” you spoke firmly, “I did not say ‘no’, nor did I avoid the questions you’re asking.” You nod along, ensuring you maintained eye contact with him. “I will answer you, just not now. Do you understand?”

Wire furrowed his brows, his mop of dark and silvery curls dancing at his face with his hood laying on the medical office chair. Still reclining on his belly, his curiosity plagued him as he darted his eyes between yours.

“Why won't you answer me now? We're alone, you don't have to think about it, you can just speak,” he commented, gently reaching one of his larger hands towards you and giving your forearm a friendly squeeze. “I thought we were friends. You don't have to talk, but I can admit, the curiosity has been eating at me since we got back from our mission to that island together.”

You inhaled a deep lungful of air, expanding your chest with it, before deflating it through a lengthy exhale through your nose.

“Wire,” you warn him almost sweetly, “You are currently laying flat down, on your belly, on my examination bed with your briefs, shoes and fishnets tucked neatly on the chair in front of you.” You gesture towards the chair his hood was tucked on. “And I am currently operating extremely close to, and directly on, your anus.”

You gesture towards the tray, reminding him where he was, and who he was talking to. A warm blush flooded his whiskered cheeks, burning his features with the hot ignition of a large fluster.

“Now, while I appreciate the sentiment, and I adore you, commander,” you utter sweetly, returning to your position at his exposed rear cheeks, “Removing cactus spindles from your ass cheeks, inside and outside your rectum, and the ones you managed to collect on your scrotum…” you continued, picking up your tweezers and returning to your task, “...Is not the position I would like to be in when talking about my childhood.”

Wire gulped back his silence, burying his forehead on his butterflied out arms. The tips of his ears remained red as you continued, wanting to punish him a little for continuing to push your boundaries.

“The only place I appreciate winking at me when I talk is from the eyes attached to your face,” you comment, plucking another spindle from his flesh and placing it in the container beside you, “So, please refrain from asking me personal questions while I am so close to your sphincter. I think we would both prefer it if the mood for intimate conversation was set elsewhere. Am I clear, sir?”

Wire nodded, extending his left arm over his blushing head and gesturing with his thumb to confirm your orders.

“Aye, Doc,” he mumbled against his right arm, “You're clear.”

“Wonderful."

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @nerium-lil @sinning-23 @a-killer-obsession

[smolldust]

idea I’ve had for a while lol

fanart for @bovinewriter’s fic Your New TV Headed Roommate!

[autumnlassitude]

I was inspired by @imagineitdearies fic Perfect Slaughter to draw Astarion and Tyrus stealing a quiet moment together. Poor Tyrus was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long.

[glorious-spoon]

to loosen his grip [9-1-1 | Buck/Eddie]

~1k words | eddie & tommy; pre-relationship eddie/buck

spec fic for 7x04

-

The thing is, Eddie's not stupid.

Eddie's not stupid, and Buck's about as subtle as a brick to the face on a good day. He can't help it. Everything he's feeling comes spilling out of him; keeping it inside seems as impossible for him as holding the tide back with a leaky sieve. It's not something Eddie relates to that much, honestly. If anything, he's got the opposite problem. He crushes everything he's feeling into a tight little knot and holds onto it with white knuckles until he can't hold on anymore. It lost him Shannon—would have lost him Shannon even if she'd lived—and it nearly lost him both his job and his sanity in the end. He's still learning how to loosen his grip.

Buck still needs to learn how to get a grip, like, at all.

So yeah, Eddie knows. Not right away; he doesn't really think anything of it when he picks Tommy up from the hanger and Buck is there. In the truck, he watches Buck's receding figure in the rearview mirror for a moment before Tommy says, "Not trying to poach Evan from the 118, I promise."

He's laughing about it a little bit. Eddie scoffs and says, "Buck? You'd have to pry him out of that house before he'd go anywhere else."

He doesn't mention the lawsuit. That's water long under the bridge now, and it's not a time in his life he likes to think back on that much. But he knows it's true; Buck can say whatever he wants about keeping his options fluid, but when he finds people and a place he wants to keep, he hangs onto them.

Tommy is good company, anyway. It's something he's missed, since the Army: the easy camaraderie over beers, sitting in a shouting crowd in Vegas, shooting the shit in a bar afterward. Tommy's got a lift, and he brings his abuelo's Chevelle over, and it's an easy slide from that into a half-casual bout of muay thai, and Eddie has missed that, too: sparring just for fun, just for the hell of it, not for the money or because his demons were going to claw themselves out of his chest with bloody nails otherwise.

"See you've caught some lead," Tommy observes once they're done, bruised and a little breathless, shirtless on the bench in his garage. Eddie caps his Gatorade and glances up, and for a second he doesn't even know what Tommy is talking about until he nods at Eddie's right shoulder and asks, "That from overseas?"

Eddie touches the bullet scar, a long-healed dimple by now. It's not that noticeable anymore, at least from the front. The surgical scars from his thoracotomy are still more obvious, but even they've faded.

"Oh, no," he says. "I mean, yeah, I did, but this one was right here in L.A."

"Right, the sniper," Tommy agrees. "Shit. I remember seeing that Captain Nash caught a bullet. Didn't realize you were the other one from his house that got shot."

"Yeah, well." Eddie shrugs, uncapping his Gatorade again. "It was a long time ago."

He likes that, too. Talking about it with someone who never saw the bullet hole, only the scar. Talking about it with someone who's never had his blood in his mouth, who never knelt above him in a speeding truck and begged him to hang on.

He lied to Buck about it, because Buck's so close to it that he might as well have been shot too. It's easier like this, because Tommy isn't wounded by the memory; Tommy shrugs and asks if he wants to grab a pizza after this, and Eddie slings a towel over his shoulder and lets Tommy pull him to his feet, and they have pizza and a couple more beers, and it's easy. He's missed easy. He thinks he deserves to have something easy, for a change.

-

"I mean, I think it's great," Buck says, apropos of pretty much exactly nothing a couple of days later. "You can never have too many friends, you know?"

He's vibrating with that exact same anxious energy that Eddie remembers from his first day at the 118, when Buck seemed one wrong move away from pissing on the exercise equipment or maybe shoving him down the stairs. It awakens some puckish little part of Eddie that can't help but needle him. You're standing in the wrong light, man, as if he's ever in his life had an opinion about photography lighting, but it got Buck to bristle and snap like a wounded dog, all electric fury, and Eddie liked that, too, for reasons that he understands better now than he did back then.

So he shrugs, and he says lightly, "You know, it's like that thing when you meet somebody and you just click. You know what I mean?"

It's a jab, and not a very subtle one. He still remembers standing in the sunlight and listening to Buck tell him that Natalia saw him, after Eddie watched him hang there in the rain and felt his chest unmoving beneath his palms and sat through those endless hours in the fucking hospital waiting for him to wake up. After Eddie brought him home, and listened to his quiet confession in his kitchen, and tried as well as he knew how to hold Buck's still-beating heart gently.

But sure. Natalia saw him. For all of four months, apparently.

He thinks he wants Buck to flinch and snap back, just a little. It's not the place for it—they're in the middle of a goddamn call—but he's stupid about Buck. Always has been.

Buck doesn't flinch. He sags instead, his mouth downturned, and he mutters, "Yeah. Yeah, I really do."

And it's something they should talk about, maybe, but then Ravi calls up for more slack, and there are other things to focus on for the time being.

[steddie-island]

Expectations

@steddiesmuttyseptember week 3: rough, aftercare Rating: E | WC: 2,042 | Tags: Dom Eddie Munson, sub Steve Harrington, rough sex Divider credit

See ao3 for the full fic and complete list of tags!

The call had been short, the way they always were when Steve's parents were home. Eddie had barely answered when he heard Steve's "I need to see you tonight." Barely had time to acknowledge it before Steve was hanging up the phone.

Things were always bad when Steve's parents were home. They made demands, had expectations that no one could live up to. Steve had gotten better about trying to meet all of them, but that didn't make the weight of their judgement any easier to bear.

Eddie couldn't fix it, couldn't fix who they were and how they looked at their son. But he could help carry some of that weight.

Like it had happened every other time, Wayne pulled away from the trailer to head to work and Steve was knocking not even a minute later. There were dark bags under his eyes, his shoulders were slumped.

"Hey, Ed," he said with a little smile.

"Hey, sunshine." Eddie pulled Steve close with a hand around his wrist. "Have you had dinner?" He always offered, needed to make sure Steve wasn't going to pass out on him mid-session.

"Yeah." Steve nodded quickly. "I'm good. Had water, too. I'm okay."

That wasn't exactly true. His boy was suffering, and Eddie couldn't let that go on.

"C'mon." Eddie tugged on Steve's hand and led him towards his bedroom.

It was messy, as usual, but there were clean sheets on the bed, clean pillowcases. The only light came from the blacklight above the bed.

Eddie watched Steve shiver when he caught sight of the rope already fixed around the headboard, too. "I know. You like that, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." Steve's voice shook with nervous excitement.

"Good boy." Eddie nudged him towards the bed. He stopped just long enough to get Steve's shirt off before guiding him to sit down. "You know I'll take care of you, don't you?"

"Yes. Yes, sir." Steve was practically panting already, and Eddie hadn't even touched him yet.

This was going to be delicious.

[cookiepie111]

I love the trope where men can't control their strength. Like you ask könig to open a jar for you, he takes the jar with one hand so excited to be useful and show off his strength, and he breaks it. Jar shatters in hand before he gets the chance to open it, glass digging in hand as it bleeds. You just stare up at him in confusion, pickle jucie all over the floor. He's happy, though, cause you patch him up later

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗪𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡? - part one max verstappen x reader (fluff) “. . . when he wants to be normal, he can count on you, stranger.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( next )

One of the things Max Verstappen despises about being Max Verstappen is being Max Verstappen. Three time world champion, youngest race winner, mad max, f1 dominator, all the fame and media and people following him around. It's very hard to get a moment of peace or be treated normally. When people hear his name they either put on big smiles or ugly frowns. He hates the special treatment.

He misses when he could have a conversation without people recording or judging him. Without people whispering about him, or fake being his friend for whatever fame. When people would just spend time with him for the sake of spending time, or having a conversation for the sake of friendly socialization and conversation. Luckily though for the Dutch, in this day and age, Max could just enter a spare email in Discord and make a second lowkey account.

The pfp was a random photo of Max, a meme. Lowkey enough, Max decided after staring at the profile long enough before opening DiscoBoard. After scrolling and searching, he was dawned upon with a relatively small server with only 280 people online, surrounding sim racing. After he followed instructions on the welcome page like verifying he's not a robot and picking roles, he got his first ping. 

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Max met you in August of 2022. The way you talked and messed around with him got him constantly checking his phone for notifications over the next months. The way you befriended him and were relaxed around him once the two of you got to know each other, it kept him sane. And although Max didn't really reveal a lot about himself except that his work required a lot of traveling and effort, you trusted him enough to share about your own life up in France, ranting about your weird encounters as an employee at Cisco.

The blonde’s favorite part about getting home was plopping in his gaming chair and switching his Discord accounts. Pulling his headphones on and navigating through the server, he joined the active voice chat. It was as if he was switching lives, turning off Max Verstappen to be an irrelevant 26 year old.

“A millioooon.” you sang like you always did, a nickname you’d given him since amilian sounded like a million. 

“Laaaaa.” Max sang back with a chuckle before greeting the other acquaintances present on the call. 

“How was your weekend?” You hummed. 

“Same as always. Maybe a bit shittier this time.” He sighed, seeing you were on Gran Turismo from your shared screen. 

“I’d love to beat up someone for you.” You always offer when he’s down. The blonde would laugh and shake his head even though you can’t see. You never cease to bring him a smile with your tone and jokes and hearty aura, despite being kilometers up north. "We're waiting for Josh to take a few rounds around spa, you wanna join?" 

"Oh, yes please." friendly racing with no consequences, points or championship? just friends messing around and enjoying themselves? Yes please.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You see the new verstappen photos that just dropped, Mr. Max Verstappen nerd?" Max looked up from his phone, eyebrows furrowed as he looked at your dm chat where the two of you decided to move the call once everyone else put down the steering wheel for the night.

"This one is from Bahrain I think . . . you know, I'm starting to take a liking to him." Max rolled his eyes playfully at your words. "To be honest, I was kind of disappointed this weekend." Max rubbed his eyes, looking up at your profile picture. 

"Why what happened?" He asked even though he probably knew all too well the events of the Australian grand prix.

"Max DNFed on the third or fifth lap." You sighed. 

"Oh yeah?" Max hummed, pursing his lips, not wanting to recall the memories. "What's so bad about that? I thought you were a die hard Charles fan?" he asked. 

"Excuse you, I'm a die hard Fernando fan." You joked in a sassy tone which pulled a chuckle from him.

"What is it about Max DNFing that is bothering you then?" Max himself asked, putting his phone down to concentrate on your voice. 

"I just don't—" you sighed deeply. On your end of the call you rolled back in your chair, getting up and flopping on your bed with your phone in hand.

When you did answer his question, all Max heard was mumbles because your voice was muffled by your pillow. "Can't hear you, La. Aren't you happy about the Carlando podium? You were so happy about it last year." 

"I am happy, I am. But Max . . . well Max . . . i don't know." you grumbled frustrated. "He's such a good driver, and deserves a lot— he works really really hard."

Max never thought he'd hear you talking about him like that. He'd usually hear other people on the server dissing him and cursing him. And although you were always mostly neutral with the drivers, the way you spoke about Max tonight melted his heart. It also felt very wrong.

While you turned and laid on your back, staring up at the ceiling of your room, venting your feelings about a driver who you thought didn't know you existed, said driver folded his arms on his desk and leaned forward, resting his chin on his arms listening to you vent about how much you were amazed and proud even though you don't know him personally or him not being your favorite driver.

Max glanced up at his monitor as you sighed to gather your thoughts. "Sometimes when i look at him, he reminds me of myself. I never really got to go past karting, but for some reason I see a little bit of y/n in him." 

"—Y/n?" He sat up hearing the name. 

"I—" You face palmed upon the realization.

 "Is that your name?" Max asked. You nodded briefly with a sigh but he couldn't see.

"Unfortunately." You sighed. "Weird name, I know—" 

"I like it." He reassured. "It's not like Amilian is any better." he tried to lighten the mood, working slightly. 

"A million." you giggled making him chuckle back. 

"A million, " he repeated quieter, a small smile on his face as he leaned his chin back down on his arm.

Such a foolish thing to do, taking a liking to a woman you've never met.

Voice notes . . . ( my brain is like a zoo rn, starting projects and not being able to track anything while working on everything at the same time ) Word count - ( 1, 165 ) credits for proofreading -> @classiclitfreak (check out their blog!!)

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 34

Kid, Killer, Wire, Heat x Reader (Sexual)

Pure smut; No plot; 18+ only (could be read as a standalone I suppose?)

Warnings: Sex, group sex, blood play, knife play, rough sex, no holes barred, dp

(Was inspired to write this by Bestrafe Mich (Punish Me) by Mike's Dead)

Audience Participation

Kid's hands weren't long for wandering around your body before the flesh hand was shoved under your waistband, and the metal one was tearing your shirt over your head. If you minded being watched, there were no protests for Heat, Wire, or Killer to leave. You had seemed sheepish when you were telling him about this dream of yours, though there was no hint of that shyness now, while he sank two fingers into you. 

The only reason you had reservations about being shared was that you were friends with Heat and you thought Wire hated you. You didn't want your friendship to be tainted, since you had so little of them to begin with. As for Wire, you didn't know if he would be into it. You didn't have much of a chance to give a shit about that as Kid tore moans from your mouth with his fingers. You did, however, notice that Killer excused Minerva and sent her out of the room. Always so thoughtful. 

Your own hands were occupied fighting Kid's belts. Why did he have to lock his dick away like this? You were struggling to focus on them as Kid pushed you closer to the edge. You felt other hands push yours away, both flesh hands, which caused you some confusion. You looked over Kid's shoulder to see Killer, who had reached his hands around Kid from behind. 

"Let me help, darlin." Killer spoke in a low tone that sent electricity straight to your groin. "You seem distracted." He undid Kid's pants in record time, himself an expert at getting to Kid's dick.

Kid tsked. "What a slutty lass you are. Already reaching for my cock." He spit into his hand and gave himself a few pumps. 

You were unaware that Kid had been walking you back towards the wall until your back was flush against it. You couldn't take your eyes off Kid, his heavy member in his hand. Only vaguely do you recall shedding your pants along the way. He tugged your panties to the side and pressed his weeping tip to your entrance, pushing the head in before suddenly removing it again. You whined, desperate to have something filling that space.

"How bad do ya want it?" 

"Badly. Give it to me."

"What will ya do for it?" 

You swallowed thickly. "Whatever you want, Captain." You knew he loved when you called him by the proper title, an instance where you let him have dominance over you.

Kid hummed. "And what if I want to be rough?"

"I'm not fragile." You looked at his bandolier. "Will you... use this?" Your hand tugged at the hilt of his blade. 

Kid's brow quirked up. "Ya sure about that?" 

You nodded. A chill of excitement running up your spine.

Kid pushed his tip in again and then pulled it out, with a devious look in his eyes. "I change my mind." Kid turned you around so your chest was against the wall. "I think I want this hole instead." His hands ran down your sides and paused at your hips, pulling them against him to rub his cock between your cheeks. 

From this angle, you had a hard time seeing what Kid was doing, though you heard him slide his knife out of the sheath. Killer had been on the side you could see and moved to be behind you, Heat taking his place. You couldn't tell where Wire was. There was pressure, followed by stinging pain on your lower back. You sucked in a hiss.

Killer spoke from behind you. "You can say stop if you need a break, ok?" You felt his broad hand cup the back of your neck. 

You nodded. Finding it difficult to look Heat in the eyes, yours drifted down to his feet. They came towards you until the scent of burnt wood filled your nostrils. That's not how you thought he would smell but you weren't mad about it. You felt his fingers lift your chin, causing your gaze to pass over the bulge in his pants. He paused for a moment, either to look at you or give you a chance to pull away, or both, then brought his lips to yours. He tasted like fire, too. You don't know whose hand it was, but it found your clit and immediately went to work rubbing circles into it. The sting on your lower back turned into a blissful burning sensation, growing as Kid slowly continued to drag his blade over your skin. Warm liquid that you almost couldn't feel since it was your own body temperature starting dripping down your back and into the valley Kid was rutting against.

You moaned against Heat, allowing your tongues to slide past each other. You were able to move the hand on that side from being against the wall to press against his erection through his pants. Caught up in your own haze of pleasure, your hand stuttered, and Heat took it upon himself to grab your wrist and move it for you. Something about that mad you shudder. The pressure building in your abdomen made your legs twitch. The hand that played with you dipped its fingers inside, pressing its palm against your clit. You whined again as you felt the absence of Kid pushing against you. 

Kid looked down at his artwork, licking your blood from his knife. His dick throbbed at the act of marking you. In sanguine letters, "KID" was carved into your skin. He pressed his fingers against the lines, tracing his name again, coating his fingers with your blood. With every touch, you cried out with a mix of pleasure or pain. It was hard to say which, especially since Heat was greedily keeping your mouth occupied with his own. 

"Heat, I can't fuckin hear her." 

"Switch with me then," Heat teased.

"Not a fuckin chance." Kid took the fingers with your blood and introduced one to your back entrance. "Her ass is mine. Isn't that right?" Kid smacked your ass with his metal hand and slid another finger in simultaneously.

It was too much. You couldn't answer him. Or maybe this was your answer. The coil had been building and you knew you would cum soon, but the smack and the feeling of fingers shoved up both holes made it happen without warning. "FUCK!" You shrieked, almost losing your balance as your knees buckled and your eyes rolled back. Your body clenched down on Heat and Kid's fingers from both sides. You realized they were Heat's fingers because he shoved them in your mouth while you were coming down from your high. 

"If you're good for them, maybe I'll let you have a taste," Killer mused, touching the soaked fabric of your panties. Your hips instinctively tried to grind against his touch, but he pulled his hand back. "Uh uh. I said if you were good." 

All touches were removed from you while you caught your breath. You leaned with your back against the wall.

"Please, Killer." 

His hands briefly skirted across your belly before hooking his fingers on either side of your panties, shredding them with one pull. His finger slid under the bra you still had on. "Take this off too unless you want me to ruin it."

You tossed it away. "I want you to ruin me." You were only mildly aware that you were completely bare in front of all of them, two for the first time. 

Killer motioned for you to get off the wall and come to him, which you did gladly. He pulled you to his chest so you were slightly bent forward. You looked so cute with those eyes pleading up at him. He would love nothing more than to fuck your sassy mouth, but this was still his game and he still wanted to torment you. "You have to relax or it will hurt." He watched as your eyes widened when Kid spread your cheeks apart. 

"I want it to hurt." This wasn't your first time. You were aware of the risks, but you were also aware of your own body. It was going to hurt regardless since Kid was bigger than anything you had before. Unlike before, you could heal yourself if anything went wrong. 

Kid still worked you open a little more with a third finger and then a fourth. The blood dripping down from your future scar made it plenty wet still. He couldn't wait to feel that tight ass wrapped around him. Though he tried not to think about it so much or else he would cum. 

Killer still held you, praising you for taking Kid in. It stung, as you knew it would. In the beginning it always felt a little sore and weird, but after he started moving, it would be better. Just the idea of being 'violated' in this way had you dripping wet. The twinges of pain sending shivers up your spine. Killer released you when Kid was all the way in. You expected someone to come fill your mouth. Instead, you felt Kid's arms reach under your thighs to hook under your knees, picking you up while still on his cock, and spreading you wide open in the front. That was the first time you were acutely aware of Wire. He was rubbing himself through his clothes, enjoying the show. 

Kid groaned into your ear. "Fuck. Ya really clenched down when ya saw Wire. Ya thinking about him hate-fucking ya?" Kid slowly moved you up and down his cock, using you like his personal sex doll. Kid snickered. "In fact, I want ya to tell them about yer dream."

You slowly shook your head. "I d-don't want to." It was hard to get the words out when Kid was fucking your ass. "Embarrassing."

"Ya got a dick in your ass and your pussy spread wide for everyone to enjoy, and that's embarrassing?" 

Killer appeared in front of you. "Being good includes doing whatever the Captain says." He put his thumb against your clit, moving it very slowly.

"Please fill me up. I'm begging you." You writhed in Kid's grip, desperate to feel full. The slow pace that he and Killer set was agonizing. 

"Heat will be glad to oblige, but first ya have to satisfy my request." 

"I-"

"Louder. Wire can't hear ya from all the way over here."

"I-I had a dream that Kid was f-fucking me and that you were all g-gonna take turns."

"And what was that bit about Heat and Wire? They need details if ya want it to happen." 

"They tossed me back and forth, l-like a rag-doll."

"That's still not everything. Go on, tell Wire what you were interested in."

"K-kid please."

"Tell him," Killer pressured, pausing his ministration. 

"I want to get hate-fucked by Wire." You felt your face heat up.

"Good girl," Killer gave another firm press against your bud before turning it over to Heat.

Heat quickly blocked your line of sight, but not before you saw Wire with a sneer on his face. That look went straight to your cunt. 

Kid held still for a moment while Heat bullied his way in. "So tight." The pressure around his cock was made more intense by the feeling of Kid's cock filling up the space next-door. 

Heat's hands found their way to your breasts, kneading them and twisting your nipples as he bit at the smooth, warm tops of them. His mouth moved up the side of your neck, adding to the marks Kid had left earlier. Kid was moving you only slightly up and down the tips of both of their cocks, so Heat could kiss you. The height difference made it hard in this position to kiss and fuck at the same time. Heat released you, moving his rough hands to your sides, aiding Kid in moving you, though he didn't need it. They met over your shoulder to make-out with each other. The feeling of being ignored and used as a toy was dizzying. It's not exactly something you would have thought you liked. They used you to jerk themselves off while they moaned into each other's mouths. You gripped harder as the thought wound the knot in your stomach tighter. The overwhelming feeling of being filled and stretched by two, exceptionally large cocks was sending you to the moon. You were pretty sure there was a steady stream of moans from you mixing in with their own, tongue panting. You didn't know for sure, so focused on how good you were feeling. It could be your imagination, but Heat's dick had a warm sensation to it.

"Look at you. Taking two huge dicks at the same time." 

Killers words were going to make you crash back to earth. 

"After this, no one will be able to fuck you as good. Your cunt will never be full like this again."

"Shit. Killer." You didn't have words to warn him. 

"Tell me. Are you close?"

"Yeah," you moaned.

"Do you want to cum?" 

"I want to cum. Please." 

"I want you to hold it until they cum. Can you do that?" 

You shook your head.

"Yes you can." 

You felt both Heat and Kid's grips dig into your skin, slamming you down on themselves. You strained to keep your orgasm at bay. They were definitely close, their breaths ragged, their cocks twitching. Your arms were around Heat's neck for support. "Cum in me! Please cum in me! I want to be dripping from both holes," you repeated various iterations of this mantra until, nearly at the same time they grunted, filling you with hot semen. As they did, they held you tighter to their bases, pushing them into your sweet spot. Finally you were allowed to release. Your cry of pleasure was so earth-shatteringly loud, the dead guys in the room could hear it. There was a rush of fluid down your legs as your own juice and the force of your cunt clamping down caused cum to leak out. 

Before you had a chance to recover. You felt Kid remove himself, but Heat held you up. And suddenly you were on Wire's lap, facing him. He had been sitting on the table. "If you wanna be tossed back and forth you better get to work on Wire before I go soft," Heat said. You barely processed what he said before Wire impaled you on his cock, shoving it so deep, you felt it in your stomach. It was a good thing you were thoroughly prepared, because Wire was proportionate in every way. He bullied your cervix and just as you were about to cum, he lifted you off himself and gave you back to Heat who opted to take Kid's position, lifting you with your legs spread open, his hand barely reaching your clit. He already came, this was purely for you. Right as you were on the precipice of your climax, Heat passed you back to Wire. They did this several more time before Heat had to tap out. 

The last time Heat gave you to Wire, Wire got off the table and set you on it instead, on your knees, facing away from him. "Spread your legs until your stomach is flat against the table." 

It was slightly uncomfortable with your legs splayed completely out, bent at the knee. Your ass hung off the edge of the table and your arms were above your head. Wire's palm pressed firmly into your back, crushing you against the table. You felt him lean over you, the blades of his necklace touching your skin, so if you bucked, they would cut you. You wondered if that was their purpose. He didn't talk, simply shoved his cock back inside and railed you from behind. After edging so many times, you came fast and hard, gripping him so tightly, you earned a grunt from the otherwise silent man. 

Killer thought you had been good enough. And he was feeling a little left out if he was honest with himself. Watching you cum over and over again, dripping with sweat, blood, and tears. He wanted to take some responsibility for your impending fuck coma. You were beyond the point of fucked-out. Your pretty pink pussy was puffy around Wire's cock from the repeated battering. And your ass was still gaping for now. But your poor mouth had no use. He positioned himself on the table in front of you, legs splayed almost as wide as yours, as wide as his jeans would allow, to get his cock as close to you as he could. You were practically drooling as you looked up at him, making his dick twitch within its confines. He freed his cock from his jeans and it sprung forth, bobbing in front of your face.

Wire released the hand from your back so you could lift your front half enough to reach Killer. "Choke on his cock you filthy fucking marine bitch." 

You eagerly opened your mouth. Finally Killer was going to reward you. You gagged as Killer unexpectedly pulled your head down on him. Your ponytail was wrapped around his hand.

"Fuck the little slut tightens up when you do that. Do it again." 

Killer did it again, bringing tears to your eyes. You were being bounced back and forth by the thrusts of their hips. "You're so cute when you're crying on my cock, breadcrumb." 

"You like getting used, don't you? I bet you'd like to be chained down here, free use for all the Kid Pirates, huh? I can feel you getting close. You want me to come visit every day and fuck you until you cry?"

"That's it, darlin. Relax your throat. You feel so good."

"Marine whore. Cum on this pirate cock."

The opposition between degradation and praise was strangely working. Wire slapped his hand down on the freshly carved "KID". The vibrations from your yelp going straight to Killer. He felt his balls empty. He meant to last longer, but he had held out for so long he was straining from the start. The salty taste hit the back of your throat. You swallowed most of it, though some leaked from the corner of your mouth. Partially because you weren't ready and partially because that sensation forced you over the edge. 

"Fuck. I'm- I'm-" The words were lost as Wire felt you start to pulse around him. He pulled out and slammed back in, not into your cunt, into your ass. He shoved his fingers in your pussy at the same time. It was the most intense orgasm yet. Your feet cramped from your toes curling so hard. Your whole body shook and twitched. Your eyes were squeezed shut, and you would have screamed even louder had your voice not been hoarse already from being so vocal. The vice grip you had on Wire pushed him over the edge too, he chose to pull out, showering the letters on your back with cum. 

You couldn't move. Arms and legs too weak to push yourself up. Eyes completely glazed over. Still twitching with aftershocks. You didn't even want to heal yourself at then moment. The dull throb and the burn felt good. 

"Don't worry, darlin. I've got ya." 

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