#for me. ten. twenty years ago. fuck it even five years ago

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

the loneliness and sadness that creeps into you in a way that only growing up queer can cause. your parents can accept you and still make you feel like an outsider. your parents can love you and still reject parts of you. that old-fashioned kind of love where they think trying to mold you, make you tough, is better for you. or that quiet status quo where you just don't talk. and where everyone is accepted, though some are more than others. generations and generations it's just been easier to let it slide. to let it be. not cause a fuss. but then we sit there with a knot in our chests all our lives wondering how it got there

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

hate when your bank's like "thats a suspicious purchase" and youre like,,, yeah, yeah it is. youre correct, but please approve it anyway.

anyway, for anyone in the uk (maybe elsewhere idk) who wants a ps5, you can get them for £429.99 plus shipping on Game today and it comes with the new fifa game and an extra product on top for free.

[whirlybirbs]

— BRUISED EGO ; PART ONE ; TOSHINORI YAGI ; 俊典

summary: you & toshinori have a great working relationship. all might is like a mentor. a great guy. a real, stand-up dude. a hero who inevitably has to help you deal with the side-effects of being hit with a love quirk. pairing: younger!toshinori yagi / f!reader ; hero name: derecho word count: 3.6k of pure smut tags: afab!reader, fingering, oral (female receiving), piv, denying feelings, toshi being a genuine lover-boy, someone has a praise kink, surprise it's me, minors dni a/n: i love young dumb full of cum late-twenties all might the tag | next →

"You don't look well—"

"Don't."

You could fry him right now. You could totally, absolutely, blast him with ten thousand volts and call it a night — but you can't, really, because he's fucking All Might. He's All Might and even worse, he's Toshinori Yagi. 

He's... kind. And gentle. And patient. And levelheaded... If not the single reason your entire life fell apart seven years ago.

(That is not true. You know it. You and your therapist have worked through that stuck point — but, it sounds a hell of a lot better than explaining the reason you ended up in prison was by your own actions, not being caught by All Might.)

You're reformed.

Blah, blah, blah, you're the Villain Rehabilitation Program's star graduate. 

They loved using your imagery — the ones of you before you got clean off those Quirk enhancers and put on the straight and narrow —in their PR packages. They love that picture of you — the ones with hands behind your back — cuffed by All Might as you're effectively muzzled by the local law enforcement.

Your lip catches in a snarl.

Don't think about that. 

Don't think about his hands on your wrists. Don't think about the way his boot nudged your leg apart for the frisk — don't think about the way he threatened you, so low and so dangerous, not to move. 

Don't think about how All Might is a bastard, and the media just doesn't know it. 

He's cheeky. Sly. When he's out of the limelight, that eerie #1 smile drops and he's almost normal — if not nearly five hundred and sixty pounds of muscle.  

Like now, on this rooftop, he's more like Toshinori Yagi. Your impromptu mentor in all things heroic. After all, the Hero Commission thought it would be great for the program's image if All Might, the man who arrested you countless times, was the one to integrate you into a more heroic notion. Never mind the dozens of times you went head-to-head with the man, never mind the handful of times you almost won. 

"Derecho, I'm serious," comes his voice; it's softer, almost like he's in his smaller form — the one you always find yourself being partial to, "You look feverish..."

Static snaps across the air and Toshinori takes it — the way it bites at the skin of his hands is nothing. It's a warning shot. Don't come any closer. 

"I was hit with that guy's quirk," you mutter as you try to square your breathing, "I'm fine, I just... Need some time—"

Son of a bitch. 

You've always been a hard one to shake — and even now, as you climb well into the Top Ten ranks, he's never seen you this out of it. You've taken a crowbar to the ribs and recovered better than being hit by some petty criminal's love quirk. 

Toshinori curses under his breath as he winces at the desperation cracking in your voice. 

"If you need to take the night—"

"Yes."

He was slotted to patrol this prefecture with you for another two hours — but seeing the way your whole body looks like it could collapse is... a bit concerning. Toshinori nods, exhales, and waves you on.

"Should I call Recovery Girl?"

Your boot toes the ledge. You need out of this outfit. It's too tight. You're too hot. Your skin feels like it's on fire and the embarrassing ache between your legs is just getting worse with every low, timbred syllable out of his mouth. Don't think about his mouth. 

"I'm fine." 

You're not fine.

Even when you're back in your apartment, trying desperately to shower off the skin-crawling, mouth-watering heat of desire, you can't even come close to relating to the word 'fine'. You're a mess. You try to stand under the heat of the water for a while, to burn the need off your skin, but that doesn't work. 

You're so not fine. 

You can't stop thinking about Toshinori. Must be something to do with the fact he was closest when you were struck with the quirk. Yea. Totally that.

You have to be fine. You need to be fine. This is just a stupid love quirk that will wear off within a few hours. 

Well, a few hours come and go, and it's just getting worse. 

Come on, you are torturing yourself with the evening news, just breathe it out. 

Because you're a hero, and you were a villain. You know what it's like to get hit with disconcerting quirks like this in the heat of a battle. With just a little time, it goes away. Right? 

Right...?

"I AM CALLING! I AM CALLING!" 

Your phone vibrates on the coffee table. Your pupils, full-blown and big, swivel to the photo that ignites the dark of the room. It's a photo of Toshinori — he's in his smaller form, posed beside you in a ramen booth close to U.A.'s campus. He was hellbent on giving you a tour of his old high school.

You always loved how cute he looked in that picture.

Fuck.

You snatch the phone up and answer the call.

"What?" it comes out snappier than it needs to be. 

"Are you doin' alright?" his voice has lost its persona'd gusto. You can tell, just by the soft way he speaks, he's no longer in uniform or on patrol. All Might has clocked out for the evening, and Toshinori Yagi is in the building, "I haven't heard a peep from you all night, zippy." 

Something in your brain goes blank at the nickname. You usually hate it. Usually, you'd bite at him for it. You don't even realize you're white knuckle gripping the edge of the couch as he continues to speak. 

"Y'know, it's okay — I've been hit by love quirks plenty of times before," he goes on; you can hear him juggle the phone to his other ear, "They aren't fun. I'm sorry you're—"

"Come over."

Toshinori almost drops the can of soda in his hands. In the middle of the convenience store aisle, he feels his entire body lurch. 

"What?"

Your head is back against the couch, your hands covering your face in sheer embarrassment. You grit it out again. "I said come over."

"Derecho—"

"I've tried everything," you mutter defeatedly into the phone; you can't even pull your hand from your face, you're so embarrassed you're even telling him this but you need help, "Fingers, toys, even the Hitachi on the highest speed, Toshinori, and I can't—"

Jesus fucking Christ. 

This is bad.

This is... not you. So not you. This is... fuck, okay, right. He's All Might. He helps people. And you're important to him. You're his enemy turned pseudo-protégé turned colleague turned woman-he's-been-ignoring-his-feelings-for-the-last-seven-months. You're Derecho. Number Eight Hero in Japan, his friend. His...

"Give me ten."

And he hangs up.

Two boxes of XL condoms earn him a severely skeptical look from the cashier, but it's fine. Toshinori has bigger things to worry about — like the fact he has no idea what this is going to do to your working relationship, but it's fine. You need help. He knows what this is like — and he would feel awful if he left you to deal with it alone. 

Fingers, toys, even the Hitachi— 

Maybe he'll die, actually. Maybe he'll just throw himself from the nearest roof. 

The mental image of you, alone in your apartment, hands between your thighs as you try desperately to shake the painful ache in your core has him walking a bit faster — your apartment is three blocks over. 

He makes good time.

His knuckles don't even touch the door before you're yanking it open — and Christ, you're a sight to see.

Wet hair, wild eyes, and a permanent heavy breath. The oversized t-shirt clinging to your shoulders is definitely going to be a topic of discussion for a later date. It's All Might merch. His fucking merch. 

When did you even buy that—?

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, looking pained. 

Toshinori's eyes hold your own. Then:

"I've always been a sucker for a damsel in distress."

He's a bastard. A serious bastard. A bastard who you're dragging in by the neck of his t-shirt — a bastard who doesn't complain in the slightest when your mouth is on his in a flash. With ease, he slams the front door shut with his boot and quickly allows you to guide him through your apartment. Your mouth is still latched to his, your hands digging into his shoulders as his hands chase your waist. 

You recognize in the heated haze of the kiss there's a grocery bag in his hand. It knocks against your hip as you accidentally back into the edge of the couch — your hands fumbling for some purchase in the dark living room. 

You pull your mouth from his just long enough to breathe out another apology. 

"Don't. We'll talk about it after," he says, leaning down over you as you scramble back against the leather couch cushions, "What do you need?"

"What do you think?" you hiss as his body presses against yours; he's still in his boots, still in his shirt and jeans. He's... too clothed. Your body couldn't handle anything except the less-than-flattering pair of cotton underwear and the biggest t-shirt you owned. 

You swear he's smirking in the dark. 

"Mouth? Hands?" he presses, his touch cradling your face as he continues to navigate your steady, bruisingly needy kisses, "Use your words."

"Anything—"

Your voice is a rasp, your hands scaling his back as he nudges your knees apart with his thigh and slots his hips against yours. Even in this smaller form, he's got the tactical advantage — not being near death from a fever so high you can hardly think anymore. 

"I need to know," he says as he leans back, his voice dipping lower as his palms brush the skin of your stomach. His fingertips hesitate at the edge of your waistband, and you whine. 

"Anything, Toshinori, stop jerking me around!" 

...What a brat. He almost laughs. But, then he remembers the one time he was left like this — and how desperate he was even after six hours of exhaustive attempts at self-pleasure. 

"Be nice," he chirps as his fingers slip beneath your underwear; his satisfaction builds when you fist the back of his shirt and gasp — his fingers grace the slick, wet folds of your core with ease. It's a tender movement, one that assesses just how pliable you are at this moment. 

And then, two of his fingers are pushing into you down to his knuckles. 

The babbled thank you bursts from your chest — and Toshi actually laughs at how fast you cling to his chest. He didn't anticipate his night going like this. Not with you, wild-eyed and desperate, pulling him into a kiss that's so bruising he thinks his lip splits.

Hands. Hands. Hands. His hands. One hand is between your folds, working you open, and the other is pressing up your curves and settling along your breast. You can't even think straight. The fact Toshinori is so slick, so eager, so good at whatever he's doing, is making the coil in your abdomen go white hot. 

"Fuck—" you strangle out, your lips parted in a gasp as he wets his own lips and watches your face in the dark, "G-God, okay, th-that's good—"

"Better than your own?" he asks, genuinely worried this isn't the progress you need to shake off the quirk's effects. 

"So much better," you wail, coincidentally fueling his ego in a way he never knew he needed. Because, ha, well — who knew Derecho, little miss spiteful and mysterious, just needed a little bit of him. 

"Is it enough?" he asks against her jaw, his forearm flexing as he works the pace up, his palm rubbing gently against your clit. It's an attempt at a coordinated pace, and it seems to be working from the way you're writhing beneath him. 

"I... I still — I can't — I'm so..." you look like you could cry out of sheer frustration, and Toshi suddenly feels a pang of guilt. He can only imagine how you've done this very thing over and over tonight, trying to just cum. Your voice cracks and you whimper, "I can't. I'm so close, but I just can't—"

"Okay," he breathes, his mind swirling with strategic planning, "So mouth."

"Mouth?" you choke, suddenly looking alarmed, but Toshi doesn't seem to care about the added snare of intimacy that comes with him slipping to his knees before the couch. 

Oh my god, he's on his knees. He's on his knees and he's grappling with your underwear, hauling it down the tops of your thighs before throwing it over his shoulder in a very Toshinori manner. 

You've got All Might on his knees. 

It suddenly hits you as he sits up on his knees and nudges your legs apart. He's a man on a mission — dedicated entirely to the task at hand. 

Making you orgasm. 

You wonder how many people have fantasized about this very thing — granted, he's not costume. Thank god. You can't even imagine what the conversation with his dry-cleaning team would look like. 

Toshi's voice knocks you back to reality. "Is this okay?"

He sounds concerned.

Meanwhile, you could kill him. If he doesn't put his mouth on you right now—

Noted. He sees the spark of annoyance, dumb question, and hauls your leg over his shoulder as he delves in. 

Ohmygod.

This is better — the coil is wound tighter, and a little bit closer to snapping, the second his tongue presses flat against your glistening slick. It's even better when he hums, his voice mumbles against your sex as his hands press your thighs to open a bit farther. 

"Keep 'em open."

"Don't talk," you heave between pants, "With your mouth full."

It's like the two of you are at work — this banter. But, his laugh vibrates your core and you moan. That doesn't happen at work. That doesn't happen, ever. A greedy part of you sure as hell hopes this happens again, because holy hell, he's good at this. Methodical. Strategic. Thorough.

His pace doesn't change, the pressure doesn't lessen. The blonde streaks of his fringe tickle the inside of your thighs as he continues his work — and you swear you almost cum when he slips a look up at you in the dark. 

His eyes are so blue that you feel like you're suddenly lost at sea. 

Then, there are two crooked fingers back inside of you. 

You and he are going to have to have a long talk about where he learned all this — because it's so good you genuinely can't do anything but reach out and grip his hair in a panic. You gasp, your whole body convulses, and you almost... almost cum. Almost.

It's Toshi's turn to moan. 

You're suddenly so oversensitive you swear your heart might stop. 

You're writhing away from him, squirming away, and Toshi's lips are parted as his breath fans across your core. 

"Cock," you're suddenly rambling, "N-Need — I need—"

"Right," he stutters, realizing this is good — you're almost there, he can tell. You're so close he can feel it in the air. The static electricity burning off your quirk leaves the room feeling tingly. 

He's wobbling back upright, cursing as he practically falls around the couch in the dark, and palms at the grocery bag he discarded on the floor. He's not graceful about the way he tears about the small box, or about the way he drops the foil square between his teeth as he leans back to work off his belt. 

"Bedroom?" he asks through gritted teeth.

You're nodding, practically falling over yourself to lead the way. Boots, jeans, belt, shirt — all of it is left scattered along the way, and your bare body hits the sheets after an easy shove from Toshinori. Of course, the boxers clinging to his strong thighs are his brand. The All Might logo is almost comical stretched across his hardness. 

You have the wherewithal to roll your eyes as he tears open the condom with his teeth. 

"What?" he shirks, looking down.

"Seriously?" you grit, legs pressed together tightly to try and stop the empty ache between your legs. It hurts. It hurts so much worse when his mouth and hands aren't on you.

"Don't even start," he rumbles as he rolls down the waistband and his cock springs free — he's quick to roll the condom down the thick length of it and lift a finger to wag in your face, "You answered the door in my merch—" 

"Setting the mood," you offer as he steps out of his underwear.

Toshinori then, unceremoniously, drags your hips to the edge of the bed. You almost shriek. It's a bit rough — a bit sudden — but you can't complain when the head of his cock is suddenly being guided through your folds teasingly. Up and down. Over the swollen bud of your clit, across your wet opening. You prop yourself up on your elbows, lips parted, as you try and nudge your hips closer. 

His large hand presses your hips down to the mattress. 

"Toshinori—"

"You sure this is okay?" he mutters, his pupils full-blown as he watches himself slip through your wetness, "I— If it's too much—"

"If you don't fuck me right now—"

"Right."

And he sinks in.

Ha. 

Yea. 

This is good.

You're so glad you didn't fry him earlier. You're so glad. You're so... oh, this is so so so ridiculously good you might die. You might die, because he's snapping his hips into yours and you can see the ripple of his muscles, even in this smaller form. 

His breath is ragged, his voice low and easy.

"You're doing a great job," he says; your core tightens at the sudden praise, "Y-You're doin' really... good—"

Your chest bounces with each thrust, your legs locked around his hips, your whimpers increasing in frequency with every single in and out of his cock. The feeling is better than any sex you've ever had — you've never been so aware of every inch. 

And then, he's knocking his forehead against yours, leaning over you — you're caged against the mattress, and one arm of his is holding your leg up around his waist. The angle change is minute but it's good. Everything is Toshinori so suddenly, everything is so blue eyes and a bright smile. 

It's thorough, a word you're slowly beginning to realize describes Toshinori to a T. There's not a single falter in his pace, not a single thrust that doesn't wind the white-hot orgasm tighter and tighter in your belly. It's worse when he holds your face, though, worse when he keeps fucking you so well while chattering on about how good you are, how strong you are, how beautiful you are—

Your composure snaps when he rumbles out:

"I know you can cum for me like a good girl."

The coil snaps.

Finally. 

After four hours of torture. After four hours of trying. Finally, you cum — and hard. The sort that robs you of your vision and hearing, the sort that has your whole body arching off the bed. The kind you haven't had in a long time. The kind that, of course, Toshinori Yagi would be the man to provide. 

"Fuckfuckfuck—" you babble, gasping, still gripped by the force of the orgasm as his pace quickens.

He's laughing — laughing, and then you're clamping down on him so hard he sees stars. It's all fun and games until he can't stop himself, he can't slow down, he can't breathe, and he's rocked by an orgasm that makes his knees give out. He's wild-eyed, panting, snapping his hips into yours as you whimper and gasp and grip his shoulders so tight he may have bruises. 

Toshinori swallows, then gasps to catch his breath, and then pushes himself up to give you a little room to breathe. His cock is still twitching inside of you.

Your eyes are closed, and your breath is fast. Your hair is spilled across the sheet — and you look content. Satiated. Peaceful. He's rarely ever seen you so tranquil. 

Blindly, and lazily, you reach up to touch his cheek.

At first, he thinks it's going to be tender. Intimate. Romantic.

Then, you roughly pat it twice.

"We're never gonna talk about this again."

Right. 

Because he's All Might. And you're Derecho. You're colleagues. Friends. This was just... him helping you. Like when a friend has a cold. You bring them soup. He... brought you... an orgasm. Just like soup.

Definitely.

...Right. 

"It was just, uh," he breathes, pulling out and cursing at the embarrassingly apparent load in the condom; not like he'd dreamed about this very thing for nights on end, no siree bob, "You needed help. I offered."

That is not what happened. Not even close. But, he's going to tell himself that.

Not like you totally won't think about this every single night ever for the rest of time. Definitely like you won't dream about the way he called you a good girl. Ha. Yea, right. Psh. You're fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.

After all, it's just Toshinori.

He's... kind. And gentle. And patient. And levelheaded... If not the single reason your entire life fell apart seven years ago.

And definitely not the reason your life is falling apart right now as you realize, fuck, you're definitely in love with him, aren't you?

Naaah.

[seventeenpins]

new rules

pairing: ex!Worst!Logan Howlett x f!reader word count: 2.7k summary: You've been broken up for long enough. It shouldn't be this hard to stay away. content/warnings: smut, angst, Logan's a disaster alcoholic, suicidal ideation, unhealthy relationships, big dick a/n: I didn't expect the Logan bug to bite me, but here I am, horny for this old man, writing a songfic in the year of our lord two thousand twenty four. Dua Lipa's "New Rules" came on shuffle and I needed to make it about our big boy. Thank you to the loml @ozarkthedog for being the best human alive and also for hyping me up, reading it thru, and telling me "it made me actually want to try to fix him" 😅

You’re in your pajamas, toothbrush in hand and moisturizer shining on your face, when the screen of your phone lights up. You wince when you see the contact name.

DO NOT PICK UP

You watch as it rings out, and you exhale when the comfort of the black screen returns.

And then it lights up again.

Just ignore it. Just ignore it.

As you’re spitting your toothpaste into the sink, the screen lights up again, DO NOT PICK UP flashing across.

It’s a bad idea. It’s always a bad idea. 

But as it lights up a fourth time, you hit accept. As you bring the phone to your ear, you already know what you’re going to say; you need to stop calling like this; have you been drinking?; this isn’t going to happen again–

And then you hear his voice. It’s just a single word, and comes out more as a croak than anything else.

“Hi, baby-”

Just like the first time. The third. The five hundredth. It makes you fucking melt, makes your body heat and your stomach flip.

“Hi Logan.”

—

“It’s been too long, sweetheart-” 

“Yeah, well-” you sigh. You know how this always goes. “I told you not to call.”

“But you answered.” 

Even over the line he sounds smug. You wish you could punch him, god, if only. But you knew from past experience that his adamantium bones and entirely unfair regenerative powers would leave him perfectly unblemished, while you nursed a broken hand.

“Sooo-,” you venture, “Is there something you need?”

It was better to play clueless, you reasoned; You weren’t gonna jump the gun. You would make him spell it out.

"Just you, hon,” his voice is low and dangerous and you think you might really hate him this time.

“You know it’s nearly midnight, don’t you? Are you ever gonna call me when you’re sober?”

You hear a noncommittal grunt on the other end.

“What do you want, Logan?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Can I come over? I’ve just been missing you. Been a rough day.”

“No.”

“Please, baby? I need you. Please?”

You close your eyes and exhale. Ten calls ago, you might have tried to hide the frustration, but you’re well beyond that now.

It’s always a bad idea. Always makes you remember the bits of him you miss desperately. Your nights together. How you still fucking love him.

“Can take care of you, princess-“ he pleads.

“I hate when you call me that. And no, you can’t. You can’t even take care of yourself, Howlett.”

He huffs a laugh. “Been doin’ alright a couple hundred years. Keepin’ myself alive.”

You don’t want to say the question neither of you will acknowledge.

Is this really living?

“Fine. You can come over.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

“Motherfucker-! Have you been on your way this whole time, Lo?”

With a snort, he ends the call.

He’s on you before you can even get the door closed behind you. His hands are cradling your head as he kisses you deeply. You were right; he tastes like cheap whiskey. And cigarettes, you realize. Fucking cigarettes. And then you remember– he’s all but abandoned his cigars, as though the pain of losing a vice was part of his penance. 

With an awkward foot you try to hook the bridge of your foot along the edge of the door, pull at it, but instead of closing it you just overbalance, tumbling further into him.

He catches you as if it was nothing, as if he were so innately steady he’d always be there to break your fall.

When he has you back on your feet, he gets right back to it, tearing at your clothing and his, pulling your top over your head, fumbling with the drawstring of your bottoms. He cups your breasts, pinching and teasing, and walks you backwards till the backs of your knees hit the foot of your bed and you tumble. 

Logan tumbles with you, his hold on you never ceasing, and now you can feel how hard he is against you.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

You’ve missed this. Fuck you’ve missed this. What kind of self-destructive dumbass judgment were you letting rule you? 

You need to gain some control back.

“Condom,” you tell him. 

He rolls his eyes.

“I’m not joking, Logan. Should still be in the top drawer.”

He exhales with a chuckle, but pulls his beater over his head and lets you get an eyeful of his toned chest before leaning over and sliding the drawer open.

Then, he rummages around, pulling back with a shit-eating grin. 

In his hand is a roll of condoms, classic fit.

“You got a little boyfriend?” he asks, and you feel your face heat.

“Shut the fuck up, Logan.”

“Now I’m not seeing the Magnum’s in here. You sure you still have them? Or are you so busy fucking dumbass boys with little pricks that you can’t even bother to pick up the phone?”

“The condoms are just in case– better to be prepared– and besides it’s none of your fucking business if I’m sleeping with anyone else!”

“You know I can’t get STIs, right?”

You do know. You remember that first conversation years ago. You grit your teeth.

“And if you’re so worried,” he continues, “I’ll buy you Plan B.”

“Move,” you tell him, and he scoots back so you can look in the drawer yourself. Much to your chagrin, he’s right. Not a single gold packet in sight.

You groan, and he laughs.

You should tell him no. Should tell him that if he wants to fuck you, he needs to go out and get some. Because it’s not even the risk of any sort of transmission, or even the risk of pregnancy that gives you pause. It’s the intimacy. The way you can hardly bear it when you can feel him dripping out of you. The love you still have for him, even after everything. 

The way you know he still needs you, too. More than you need him. But after everything he’s done, everything he’s been through, everything he’s lost– you can’t bear to be another thing he loses, not fully.

But now he’s straddling you, scooting you backwards towards the head of the bed. His cock presses heavy against your thigh, and you’re so overwhelmed by the way he’s pressing kisses along your jaw and nibbling behind your ear, you barely notice as he lifts your hips to pull your panties down. His nails scrape down your back and the angry scratches start to bloom with heat. 

You don’t realize you’re both fully naked until you feel the heat from him press against you, the slick of his weeping cockhead dragging a trail just below your navel, down down down-

He strokes himself twice and lines himself up, pressing against your opening. You wait for the feeling, for the way he always slams inside you, but he surprises you. Presses the tip in and rocks himself gently, easing you open.

After a moment (and hardly a single inch) he pulls out and sits up.

For a gut-wrenching second, you think he’s changed his mind, and how fucking dare him? He’s not the one who gets to back out of this. Fuck.

But then his cock is replaced with his hand, and he pumps himself with his left, while pressing inside of you with his right, scissoring his fingers open, pulling whine and moan and gasp out of you, coaxing you along with his filthy mouth the whole way.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, letting out a groan when you squirm against him, “You’re tight as the first time I fucked you. Clearly no one’s been takin’ care of this pussy, huh?”

Two fingers become three, and you’re overwhelmed with sensation, pleasure taking over any rational thought.

“That’s it, honey, open up for me. Such a shame no one’s been fuckin’ you right. Would make you feel good every damn day if you’d let me.”

He rubs against your clit in unyielding circles and pulls you right to the edge. You feel yourself dripping, thighs trembling, and tears rolling down your face, but just as you’re about to cum he stops. He guides your arms upwards and pins you down by the wrists with one rough hand and leans over, caging you against the bed. In a second beat, he knocks your legs wide, baring you fully, and he presses himself in. You’re beyond slick and the glide is exquisite. The feeling of his bare cock pressing into you makes you shudder with arousal. The wiry hairs at the base of his cock grind against you, making you shake. 

He fucks you deep and slow. The drag is exquisite. He pulls almost the whole way out, before rocking back in again, his foreskin adding to the delicious glide. With every thrust he’s burying himself so deeply you’d swear you could feel him in your belly.

“You’re openin’ up so nice, takin’ it so good,” he growls, and you feel a thrill of pleasure bloom through your body at the praise. “Been missin’ this. Miss how soft you feel around me. Have you been missin’ your old man, too?”

You don’t even register he’s asked a question till his palm is swatting your jaw. It’s not painful, it doesn’t even sting. And it does exactly what he’d hoped; it refocuses you on him.

“Wha- What?” you ask, coming back to him, whilst feeling your peak build and build and build-

“Have you been missin’ your old man, princess? 

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“Use your words.”

“Yes-”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes I’ve been missing you. Stop looking at me like that, Lo. C’mon now, fuck me like you mean it.”

You can’t deal with him being sincere right now. You need it rough and you need it mean.

It takes him a moment to pull himself away but then he does, obliging as if he can read your thoughts. He pulls out, leans back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and makes you moan as he folds you in half. He’s pressing so much deeper now than he had only a moment ago. Any gentleness that had been there disappears immediately.

He’s panting, letting out heavy grunts as he slams into you and sweat drips down his temple. 

As he fucks you, he drives into you cruelly but you match each thrust. Every time he knocks you back, you press against him harder and heavier. Make sure it hurts, for both of you.

He’s never been a selfish lover and makes you scream on his cock, cumming three times in rapid succession, each peak that little bit higher. Each peak is a little bit harder. 

You’re boneless and spent. When he cums inside you, his claws shoot out, angrily splintering existing notches on your headboard. Blood trickles down between his knuckles. One drop lands on your lips, the perfect kiss from this mess of a man. Another drop lands on your new linen pillowcase.

At least you got those tide pens. 

You want to tell him off about the headboard–the splintered edges are ugly and ragged. But the fact you hadn’t gotten a new headboard is kind of on you. It may as well be an invitation.

You add a note to your shopping list. Plan B.

—-

You wake up alone in a dark room. The first thing you see is your bedside alarm clock, red blinking numbers telling you it’s 3:12 AM. Then, you hear a rustling in your living room.

You step out to investigate, bleary-eyed, to find Logan silhouetted in front of your liquor cabinet, bottle of amber liquid in hand. He raises the bottle and takes a swig.

Back to this-

"Go home, Logan.” You tell him, and he startles at your voice.

"Baby- I been havin’ bad dreams-” 

You cut him off. "I’ll call you a cab. You’re not staying here, trying to drink yourself to death on my sofa-”

"Sweetheart,” he cuts in, “You know it never sticks-“ 

He says it with a grin like it means nothing, and it’s mean. Makes your stomach flip.

This is the closest either of you had ever gotten to the depths of it all. You’d both been pretending for so long.

You leave the room.

A minute later, you’re back, and Logan has emptied the bottle.

"Get dressed.” You toss his shirt at him. It smacks him in the face and falls unceremoniously to the floor. “Cab’s on its way. You owe me for the whiskey.”

He nods. His movement is loose, and you can see the booze is finally affecting him. More than just making him gutsy, it’s making him sloppy. Every movement is sluggish as he redresses.

"You wanna know why?” He asks, and it comes out slurred.

You ignore him. “I’ll walk you down. Get home safe, okay?”

He nods again. Looks like he’s trying to put on a show to prove just how sincere he is.

You kick his shoes towards him, and help him with his jacket when he struggles.

A horn honks outside, and you both look to the window. When you turn your head back, though, he’s only inches away from you, whiskey-breath across your cheek, and a wearier frown than he’s ever let you see before.

"When I drink I don’t dream-,“ he tells you, “Claws don’t come out.”

Then he kisses you on the cheek, turns on his heel with an unsteady sway, and leaves your home.

You struggle for hours to fall back asleep, the bed suddenly much too big.

You ignore his calls for a week. They come through later and later. Nine PM, ten. Midnight. Two.

And then one night you get a text. 

He’s rarely one for texting, so to see the notification makes your heart speed up and your stomach flip.

DO NOT PICK UP - Attachment: 1 Video

With a single, hesitant tap, you open it.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something dramatic, maybe? Something miserable? You hope to god he’s not figured out some way to make himself an adamantium bullet. It’s a fear that’s bounced around in your head for a while now, but you’d never ask just in case he hasn’t thought of it yet himself.

Whatever it is, though, it has to be something that will make your heart ache and your head spin and–

It’s anticlimactic. Kind of.

It’s just a video of him, phone angled to show him in his steamed-up mirror.

There are dark shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes, but besides that, he looks as perfect as ever. You can’t see below his hips, but you know Logan and you know he’s fully naked. His body hair is slick, his skin glowing from being freshly showered.

This fucking asshole knows exactly how to get you.

You hit play. 

At first, you can barely tell it’s a video. And then you see the way his arm is moving. He’s holding his phone with one hand, his other casually stroking himself just below the frame of the video.

“You gonna stop ignoring me?” he asks, his voice a throaty purr. “Quit playing games. Get your ass over here and let me take care of you.”

AND, you realize with a twinge, you text with him so rarely, you never turned off read receipts.

Three dots appear and you know that he knows you’ve seen it. 

A moment later, the text comes through.

“Ready for you, princess.”

God, if only it would take more than that.

As if overtaken by a horny ghost, you’re already slipping your panties off and putting on your favorite skirt. 

You’re at his house an hour later. 

You let him guide you. Taste you. Fuck you. Fight with you. 

You let him devour you, and let yourself fall in with him, in with the guilt and the anger and the hate and self-pity.

And fuck, it’s the love, too. It never went away.

[ms-demeanor]

Due to some stuff brought up in recent posts I believe it is time to once again extol the virtues of Ms-Demeanor's Patented Where Did I Put That Fucking Paper Organizational Binder.

Hello! I am a disorganized adult! This is the system by which I manage my important shit like pink slips for my car and medical records and tax information.

You're going to need:

A 3-Ring Binder

Transparent Sheet Protectors

Notebook dividers (optional but VERY useful)

A backpack (optional)

So the way this system works is you put the sheet protectors into the binder. You can either use the dividers to divide the binder into sections or you can label some of the sheet protectors to make different sections but what you are generally going to do is make sections of the binder labeled things like "taxes" or "vet" or "doctor" and put a few sheet protectors in each section.

Then all of your papers with important information get crammed in that folder. You don't organize them, you don't sort them by date, you don't alphabetize. You put things vaguely relating to taxes into the sheet protectors in the taxes section. You put things relating to cars in the cars section. You don't even attempt to make this readable - you're not using sheet protectors so that you can read each page and keep it legible, you're using sheet protectors because it's a cheap plastic bag that will sit nicely in a binder.

You CAN put stuff into the individual sheet protectors when you get it, but let's be realistic you probably WON'T do that, so just tuck individual papers into the front of the binder until you get to a critical mass of paperwork then take an hour to sit down and sort into categories and put it in the binder once every six months to three years (depending on how frequently you get paperwork). Sometimes these sections will outgrow their original allotted space - since my spouse had a transplant surgery the medical section has had to become its own folder - and that's okay. If you end up with multiple folders just keep them together (this is why the backpack is an option, and one I strongly recommend).

Because yeah, if my organization system relies on opening up a drawer and putting something where it belongs as soon as I get the paper, I will simply not be organized. It's not going to happen. But I can handle a messy stack of paper that sits in one place and grows until it is time to shove it into a binder. I can't organize things for thirty seconds a day every day but I can organize things for an hour once every year or so (maybe two hours every five years when I sort out stuff I don't need like copies of warranties for parts on a car I don't own anymore).

When my mom died she had about fifty pounds of paper files in her office that were neatly organized in a system that didn't make any sense to my dad, my sister, and I. I ended up sorting through those files for twenty hours, tossing out copies of paid invoices from ten years ago and student handbooks from my junior high school. I reduced one filing cabinet, two desk file drawers, and a foot-high stack to a six inch binder that I gave to my dad. My mom died five years ago; two months ago my dad asked me about a medical document and I was able to tell him to go look for it in the medical section of the binder. It was there, because ALL IMPORTANT SHIT GOES IN THE BINDER.

Where is my birth certificate? In the binder. Where is my tax return from 2017? In the binder. Where is the record of my dog's last rabies shot? In the binder. Where are the records for my life insurance? In the binder.

A lot of what people consider "being organized" breaks down to whether or not you can find the specific things that you're looking for. Does my binder look nice? Is it aesthetic? Does it have color-coded tabs and papers all laid out neatly? Absolutely fucking not. But if you ask me where to find a paper I know that I can do so within about five minutes of shuffling through the pile of letter-folded sheets that I pulled out of the appropriate section of the binder.

I've discussed the Where Did I Put that Fucking Paper Binder before, but now it is time to expand that concept to the Backpack of Important Shit.

You likely have Important Shit that does not fit in a binder. Some of my Important Shit that does not fit in a binder is stuff like jewelry and the spare key for my car. Other stuff - the reason I decided to bring this up at all - includes my backup hard drive and packaging (including product key codes) for pretty much all of the software that I own. This is also where I store printed out copies of the recovery codes for most of the online accounts that I have.

There's a lot of weird fiddly shit that we have to have that we might not access all that often. This is the kind of stuff that might end up in junk drawers or under sinks or in disused laptop bags or kicking around under a bunch of papers in a desk drawer.

It doesn't matter so much when that weird fiddly shit is a set of hex keys or a utility knife or a protractor or a copy of a student handbook but it DOES matter when it's something that you might need to put your hands on in a hurry. If your computer crashes, you're not going to want to track down the software in the back of a filing cabinet and the backup drive from somewhere in the bowels of your desk. If you lock your keys in your car you are not going to want to figure out if your spare is in a junk drawer or the old purse where you keep semi-important stuff or the tin on your desk that has buttons and pins and headphone covers. Just put it in the Backpack of Important Shit and when you need it you know where to look.

So anyway, if you are a person who is a minor disaster who has trouble finding important things when you need them please don't think that you have to get your life together and have a nice organized filing cabinet or clear plastic bins full of documents or a neatly divided storage closet where everything from board games to backup drives has its own neatly labeled place. Just assign ONE LOCATION for important shit and start putting the important shit there. It doesn't matter if you have a filing cabinet where you keep old copies of homework and printouts of online orders and family history records - you do not need to keep everything that is file-able in one place and depending on what level of catastrophe you are it might be detrimental to you if you try to do that. It doesn't matter if you have a jewelry box where you keep your collection of gauges and wrist cuffs; if you are going to stress out about where grandma's ring is when you're digging through your collection of cheap earrings and silver pendants then *do not keep grandma's ring or any other Important, Vital, Cannot Be Lost jewelry in with your day-to-day wear*.

I live someplace that has fires. My binder got upgraded to my Backpack of Important Shit when the fires were getting uncomfortably close to the house I was living in and I wanted to have one bag to grab if we had to get out fast. Once I did that, I never took the binder out of the backpack and the backpack has now made three moves with me and has meant that I've had my birth certificate handy when I needed it in the middle of a move between two states, I was able to provide a history of my cholesterol panel going back six years to a visiting nurse, and I was able to give the exact names and contact info of my spouse's previous surgeon to the hospital when I had unexpectedly moved to a new state with three bags and my work computer at the beginning of the pandemic.

Get yourself a backpack of important shit and a folder of where the fuck did i put that paper. It is so much easier to search a backpack for important shit than to go through an entire house and it is so much easier to flip through a binder than it is to dig through a filing cabinet.

Anyway good luck and happy adulting.

[livwritesstuff]

Steve is home one day with his daughters when he realizes that his oldest, Moe, is ten.

Okay, obviously, he knew she was ten. She’s been ten for a while, as her birthday is in July and it’s now December, and the girls are discussing Christmas as they perceive it in their little girl worlds.

It’s really that Steve realizes that Moe is the same age Erica had been when he’d asked her to climb through air ducts and infiltrate a Russian military base.

It’s a realization that has Steve feeling a little nauseous, because Moe is ten and she’s plotting with her little sisters about how they’re going to stay awake on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa (their conspiring has Steve worried for his and Ed’s own role in Christmas Eve and the way it hinges on the girls falling asleep as early as fucking possible), and she’d lost another baby tooth this morning and hasn’t stopped talking about what the tooth fairy might leave for her overnight, and she still sneaks into his and Eddie’s room after nightmares looking for snuggles, and she’s afraid of car washes and bugs, and she still wants to be read to before bed every night.

He’d been struck suddenly by how little Moe still is. Maybe he’s only thinking that because she’s his daughter – his first daughter, at that – but he still looks at that kid’s face and sees the newborn baby who’d made him a dad ten years ago.

He can’t imagine looking at her and seeing someone equipped to take on Erica had been asked to do, never mind actually asking her to do it, which is precisely what Steve had done twenty-five years ago.

It eats at him for the rest of the day.

“Just call her, Steve,” Eddie urges him after Steve brings it up for the sixth time that evening, “You clearly need to air this shit out.”

So Steve calls Erica.

Erica is in her mid-thirties now. She’s a kick-ass lawyer at a private firm in Indiana, and she picks up the phone on the second ring.

“This is Erica,” she says.

“Hey, it’s Steve.”

“What’s up,” she replies, still never one for beating around the bush.

“I just – I need to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For Scoops,” Steve says, “For Starcourt.”

Erica is silent for a while.

None of them really talk about any of that stuff anymore. They’d hashed everything out ages ago, until all that was left behind was the understanding that none of them would ever be able to truly move past it, that there would always be guilt and fear and pain they could never shake.

“Okay?” she finally says, question in her tone.

“I just…” Steve hesitates, “Look – I didn’t get it. I didn’t fully get how fucked up it was. I was the grown up in the situation and I should have put a stop to it but I was stupid and reckless, and now that Moe is ten, I can’t stop thinking about how insane it was for us to even consider roping you into that.”

“I agreed to it.”

“You were a kid.”

“You were a kid,” Erica insists.

“Eighteen isn’t a kid anymore.”

“Say that to me again when Moe’s eighteen and maybe I’ll believe you.”

Steve doesn't have anything to say to that, because Erica is probably right (though only time will tell, he supposes). Their phone call ends only a few minutes later with Erica telling him to go easy on himself and Steve saying he’d try before apologizing one more time.

“You gonna take her advice?” Eddie asks after he’s pulled a begrudging Steve into his arms.

“No,” he tells him, curling into his husband’s side and sticking his nose in Eddie’s neck so he doesn’t have to look him in the eye.

“Figures.”

[illyrianbitch]

One Summer— Part Three

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: alcohol use, mention of drugs, mentions of scars (azs hands), slight Tamlin slander (lighthearted tbh), reader being observant, az being… well az :)

Word Count: 4.7k

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✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Introduction to Philosophy was taught by professor Jeff Davids. 

It was one of the smaller classes you’d taken in freshman year. Though many people took it to fulfill a General Education requirement, it was more significant for you. It marked the beginning of your Philosophy major and a longstanding obsession with the ideas of ancient thinkers.

It was the same for Morrigan and Feyre, both of whom you met in Professor Davids’ class. Like you, they were Pre-Law students. And while you’d sat with Feyre on the first day out of pure chance, you were sure that it was fate that pulled you both into an assigned group with Mor— and Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel. The three boys had chosen Intro to Philosophy because it had enough seats for all of them.

There were many things you remembered about your Intro to Philosophy class. Professor Davids was a rockclimber, the Allegory of the Cave was one of the most well-known philosophical concepts, Cassian always came ten minutes late, and Mor’s first major presentation was an in depth and perfectly executed criticism of Plato’s The Republic. You remembered it clearly. She argued against the idea of Plato being classified as the ‘first feminist’. Even if you hadn’t already shared Mor’s belief that Plato fell short of feminist ideals, her presentation would have won you over. Just two months into your friendship, Mor had already made a lasting impression. You remembered her eloquence, the way she commanded the room—a woman of honor and dignity.

It was strange, in an endlessly entertaining way, to see the same woman before you now down on one knee, chugging the last of her drink in the Summit Pulse parking lot. 

She let out a belch as she stood and Cassian responded with an approving whistle, giving her a sloppy high five. “Fuck,” she said, gingerly dabbing at her smeared lipstick. “Can someone pass me my bag?”

Summit Pulse had officially begun twenty-five minutes ago, at 11:30 AM. You’d arrived at 11, found two open parking spots, and began your small, almost humble, tailgate— consisting of various seltzers, shooters, and beers for the boys. 

You’d driven in two cars: Feyre and Rhys in one, and Az, you, Mor, and Cassian in the other. It was more economical to get two parking passes for the three days, so the boys had devised a plan. The idea was simple: whoever wasn’t driving in the morning would get heavily intoxicated right from the start, making full use of the tailgating privileges. Since the sets ended around 10 PM, by the end of the night one of them would be sober enough to drive. For today, Az was the designated driver, while Cassian would take over for the ride home. 

Rhysand’s plan was far simpler. He would only drink modestly throughout the day— but no matter what, he was driving home. This was for two reasons. First, no one but him was allowed to drive his car anyway, and second, he didn’t want Feyre to be worried about her ride home. 

When you’d asked the boys why they hadn’t included you, Feyre, or Mor into the shifts, they had shrugged and adamantly opposed. According to them, it was their job to take care of you, to let you have fun at a festival knowing you’d have three eyes watching over you. Not to mention that they knew their alcohol tolerances better than you three. 

Rhys, with a sly smile, had also pointed out that your edibles made predicting sobriety a bit unreliable.

He was right, of course, so you didn’t argue— even if you hadn’t brought them today.

You handed Mor her bag. Her nimble, ring-clad fingers dug through it as you grabbed your phone, offering the camera screen to her as a makeshift mirror. She sung out a small thank you in response.

It was already hot out, a fact you’d prepared for but nonetheless hated, and the seltzers in your stomach gurgled in the heat. It suddenly crossed your mind that you should’ve had a heavier breakfast. But the morning had been chaotic, so you were now forced to rely on the festival food— food that was bound to cost three times as much as it would outside of festival grounds.

Two voices joined the sounds behind you and you cranked your head in time to watch Feyre bound over, a bounce in her step. She wore simple shorts and a flowy, linen tank that swayed with her movements. The look of it seemed to perfectly pair with the outfit Rhysand wore— white linen shorts and a short-sleeved button up, a few more buttons undone than necessary, of course. An image flashed into your mind of a very probable future: Feyre and Rhys married in this very city, white linens and salt-air breezes at their reception. 

Cassian and Azriel would fight for best man, of course, and when they were both asked, they’d fight about which was number one and which was number two. Feyre’s maid of honor would be a much more nuanced choice, balanced between her two sisters and you and Mor. 

At least, if you and Feyre were still friends by then.

You pushed the thought away— a silly, irrational, and anxious thought. They appeared a lot, especially when you weren’t as busy as you’d conditioned yourself to be these past few semesters. It was strange how those thoughts manifested when you were at your happiest. But there was no room for those this summer. You’d told yourself this over and over. One summer to just live, you repeated in your mind, one summer to exist. 

Feyre wrapped her arms around your shoulder, tight enough to give you a welcome squeeze but tender and careful so as to not disrupt your mirror duties. 

“You smell good,” you told her as the sweet smell of pear reached your nostrils. She met your eyes from the side as you grinned. “Look even better too.”

A small blush painted her cheeks and Feyre smiled. “You think?” 

You nodded and Mor ran a gentle nail around her lips, picking up the excess red gloss with her nails. You watched as she struck a pose. 

“And how do I look?”

There was a mischievous glint in her eyes that seemed to intensify by the second. Her excitement grew as the drink she chugged began making its way through her system. 

“Good enough to get free drinks.” 

You felt Feyre nod in agreement against your shoulder. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Summit Pulse had been going strong for hours and you were riding the high of it all. The sun was still glazing in the sky, your ears were still ringing, and the crowd's anticipation for the next set was almost tangible despite it not starting for another hour.

You guys had staked out a great spot near the front, close enough to give you a full view of the stage. Sadly, you hadn’t come early enough to get barricade, but you were more than content with the place you held in the growing crowd. Az and Cass had ventured off some time ago to grab more drinks and a small, worrying voice in the back of your mind began to worry that the two boys would struggle to rejoin the group. 

You tried to pay it no mind, focusing on the game of Heads Up you were playing with Feyre and Mor. Feyre held her phone to her forehead and prompted the next word to come. 

SPRING.

You and Mor exchanged a conspiratorial glance, gently pushing one another to create a space between your two bodies. A mirrored grin grew on your faces— ones with such childish glee and mischief that Feyre immediately picked up on the shared thought.

Her eyes widened as she shook her head. She dropped her hands to her side. "No," she whined, "Please don't."

You frowned in feign confusion, bringing a hand to cup your ear. "What?" you exclaimed, "I can't hear you." You looked back at Mor, watching as the face she formed mimicked yours. "Do you hear anything?"

Rhys fought to suppress a grin, wrapping his arms tighter around Feyre as she let out another helpless groan. He gave her a kiss to the temple as he leaned in further, eyes bouncing between you and Morrigan.

"I-" Mor stopped, bringing a hand to her chest as she exaggeratedly examined her surroundings. "I think it sounds like….like…"

Rhysand leaned into Feyre's ear. "Like Spring?"

"Oh god," Feyre whined. The sound fell on deaf ears. "Kill me."

Tamlin Spring was Feyre's boyfriend in freshman year, a first love so smitten with her that it bordered on slightly creepy— teetering across that fine line of obsession and adoration. You found Tamlin tolerable in small portions, but the others hated him with a passion. In truth, they hated a lot of people, your ex boyfriend included, and you just chalked that up to the reality of growing up in the same small city with the same people. You thanked eighteen-year old you everyday for choosing to attend college in a different state.

"Spring, you say?" you chimed in. Mor mimicked the motion of drawing a bow across a fiddle. She gave you a look and without missing a beat, you launched into a memorized dance, feet bouncing in an exaggerated jig while your hands moved as if playing invisible fiddles.

This abomination of a dance was one you and Mor had created one random drunken night—- a way to commemorate the infamous serenade Feyre had received from Tamlin post-breakup. At the beginning of their relationship, Tamlin's musical talent was impressive, even charming. But when he pulled out his fiddle and played what was meant to be a heartfelt apology, it left Feyre cringing and you unable to defend him anymore. Thus, the iconic dance was born.

For what it counted, the tradition to embarrass Feyre with your performance of it lasted longer than their relationship ever did. 

Feyre's face was three shades redder by time you found yourselves unable to continue the dance any longer. She leaned her head back against Rhysand's chest as he laughed and hugged her tighter, apologizing for his own musical incapabilities. She tucked her phone tightly away in her pocket, muttering some off handed comment that she was never playing ever again. 

You were still giggling and catching your breath as Azriel and Cassian returned, slowly making their way through the crowd— each holding a fresh, cold can of beer. Azriel's face was neutral as always, but a glint of amusement sparkled in his eyes as they met yours. Cassian, on the other hand, wore his usual broad grin. He murmured polite, flirty pleasantries to every pretty woman they brushed past.

"Damn," Cass said, filling in the space Mor had saved for him by proxy of a strange, wide-legged stance. You’d done the same for Az. "Did I miss you hitting the Tamlin?"

You and Mor let out another shared round of giggles and Feyre groaned into the sky once more. Cassian turned to Rhys with a grin.

"Do you two have no shame?" Az said, settling into the space between you and Feyre. He took notice of Mor's lingering gaze on his drink and offered his can to her eager hands. 

You shook your head, a grin plastered on your face as Mor brought the drink to her lips. The two of you made eye contact, and maybe it was the buzz of the drinks you’d already had, the tiny high making everything funnier, but you couldn’t hold back a laugh. Mor followed suit, the sound coming out of her in a wet snort as Azriel's drink sprayed everywhere.

Once you both finally calmed down, Mor pushed Azriel's drink back to him with an extended hand, batting her eyelashes as she met his gaze. "Thanks, Az. I needed that."

"I'm good. That's all yours now." Azriel pushed the can back to Mor with a single finger, a look of playful disdain on his face. His eyes, however, shone with amusement—enough to show that he wasn't really angry, not even disgusted, despite his expression. "I'll get a new one later. Preferably with less spit."

Mor offered him a sheepish smile. "My bad."

She offered the can to you next. You narrowed your eyes at it for a moment, then shrugged with a resigned smile and raised it to your lips. You felt Azriel's gaze on you, noticing the amused, skeptical eyebrow he raised. You waited for him to say something, to speak in that low tone he often preferred in public, but he only shook his head, chuckling softly.

His eyes lit up a few seconds later.

"Wait a second,” he said.

Azriel's gaze flicked to Cassian, and without a word, he started patting him down. Cassian angled his head to the side, brows furrowed as Az’s hands wandered around his form. “Dude,” he said, “What's with the hands?”

Azriel didn’t respond, continuing his search with focused intent. He wrapped a palm around Cassian’s exposed biceps to face him further, finally reaching the fanny pack strapped to his broad chest. 

“Got it,” Az declared. When he pulled away, you caught sight of the device in his hand. Cassian paused for a moment, and you could see an out-of-pocket response on the tip of his tongue, but he simply shrugged and rejoined the conversation he had left with Feyre and Rhys. 

His camera was held securely in his hands as Azriel turned back to you and Mor. Your eyes drifted down to the way his palm held it. It looked so natural there, a perfect fit, and the glow of inspiration in his eyes sent a flutter through your body. You hadn’t realized that he had brought it— hadn’t seen when Cassian went through security with his bag. 

Az lifted the camera in a silent invitation and Mor let out an excited squeal, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you in close. You smiled and your focus fell on Azriel. He held his camera with a careful, precise grip, ensuring you were perfectly in frame. With every movement he made, either a height adjustment or a turn of the camera, he sent a quick glance to his surroundings, quietly making sure that he refrained from accidentally bumping the people around him. 

It was sweet how he managed to remain respectful in such a large crowd, how he cared enough to be aware of such things. The thought burrowed itself deeper into the area of your mind that had gained a heavy label this past week: Longings for Azriel, as you called it. An embarrassingly fitting title. 

He took the picture with a satisfied smile and lowered his camera, the sunlight casting a warm, almost golden glow over his features. For a moment, your mouth felt dry at the sight of him. The harsh sun you’d been cursing for hours now seemed to soften, bathing his eyes in a molten blend of brown, gold, and green. Azriel had been in his element all of today. You saw it clearly— the ease in which he spoke with all of you, the way his eyes gleamed and the smile on his lips persisted. Every set you’d watched had been enjoyed through two ways: dancing with Mor, Feyre and Cassian, or admiring Az as he listened. Your grip tightened around the can you still held. 

Mor leaned in to view the image on the camera’s screen and your surroundings poured into your consciousness once more, the loud sound of the crowd rising in level. You closed the gap Az had created when he stepped back and, in a moment of self-indulgence, brushed lightly against him to view the picture.

“This is so cute. I love it,” Mor fawned. She placed a hand on Az’s forearm and gave him a sweet smile. “This is such a great photo, Az.”

Azriel angled the screen towards you. You didn’t doubt her words, but Mor was indeed right. It was a great photo.  You could see it all perfectly: the bustling crowd, the stage, the speakers in the background, and you and Mor glowing with happiness. It stirred something emotional within you, a perfect memory you could imagine showing future children to prove that their parent was once cool.

You looked up at him. “This is perfect.”

He smiled, almost timidly. “Yeah?”

“I guess you're back on track?”

Recognition sparked in his eyes. “I think I just found my mu—”

Just then, the crowd moved like a restless sea and a body pushed into you. You stumbled slightly and Azriel's hand instinctively reached out to steady you, his touch warm and firm against the exposed skin between your shirt and pants. A shiver ran through you at the contact.

You turned to look at the person. He looked to be around your age, if not a few years older, with green eyes and a strange mullet that almost gave him bangs. Mor glared at him, but it was Azriel who spoke.

“Watch it,” he growled.

“My bad man,” Mullet slurred, eyes shifting between you and Azriel. “Didn’t see you.”

Azriel’s glare followed him until his figure melted back into the crowd, muttering under his breath, “Cut that mop you call hair and maybe you’d see better.”

You suppress a laugh at Azriel’s irritation, a huge amused grin spreading across your face. You’d forgotten how protective Az could be, even if it wasn’t strictly necessary. His readiness to jump to the defense of those he cared about was endearing at its core, so you swallowed the small urge to make fun of his response. 

Instead, it was Mor who broke the tension, her voice laced with mockery. “Damn, Az.” She raised an eyebrow and a small smirk grew on her lips. “If looks could kill, you’d be a serial killer.”

Az rolled his eyes but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, betraying his true amusement despite his feigned annoyance. 

You handed Mor the canned drink back and clapped your hands together. “Alright. I need my own drink, so I’ll be back.”

Az handed Cassian the camera and turned to you. “I’ll go with you.”

You shook your head. “No, its okay. You just got back.”

Az gestured to the drink Mor had swiped. “I could use another, too.” He looked around. “And I think you might need some help getting back.”

You scanned the crowd, noting how it thickened with every passing second. Having Azriel to help navigate through would be a relief. And the prospect of some alone time with him was just as appealing.

“Okay,” you smiled. “Thank you.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The line for drinks was manageable, with only about seven people ahead of you. The festival buzzed around you, the air thick with the scent of food and the distant hum of music from other stages.

Azriel stood next to you, head slowly scanning his surroundings, silver dagger earring glistening in the sun. Your eyes lingered on the slight curve of his lips, at the way a sense of ease hung from his resting features. 

“You know, I knew you’d enjoy this,” you found yourself saying, voice carrying over the ambient noise. “The live music and all. But part of me is surprised.”

He looked at you, one eyebrow raised. “Why’s that?”

”I thought you weren’t a large gathering type of person.”

You held many memories of Azriel from over the years. The memories from the past two years were few and far between, but the ones from freshman year—- those you held in abundance. Azriel’s quietness was something you noticed before you knew him. He was content to watch, content to observe. It was why photography seemed so fitting for him, a hobby for someone who liked to collect moments, to enjoy them from a watcher's vantage point rather than that of a main actor. 

Azriel chuckled softly. Despite the festival’s noise, you heard it in perfect clarity.  

“I’m not. But that’s for gatherings where I’m expected to constantly engage. This is different. Everyone here is doing their own thing, no one is paying attention to me. I can just disappear into the crowd.” 

You let the words settle and studied him more intently. It occurred to you how unrealistic his words felt to you, how silly it was to think that people’s eyes didn’t naturally gravitate towards him. And you thought that it was a bit silly too, then, that your eyes did. 

You and Azriel were friends, maybe even in the lightest of terms. Friends that could’ve been more, could’ve had a deeper connection, platonically, had it not been for choices you made. And yet, your eyes always found him. All of this morning, all of this past week. Your gaze found him time and time again, like a magnet calling to you. 

You shook your head and a small laugh left your lips. An amused, timid sound. Azriel nudged your shoulder.

”What? He asked, but you only shook your head again, letting the smile linger on your lips. “What is it?” Azriel asked again. 

You met his gaze then, that surveying, intense gaze, and shrugged. “It’s just, you could never disappear into a crowd, Az.”

His brows furrowed and you held his gaze, watching as a flicker of confusion crossed his face—- or perhaps it was curiosity, instead. You felt a flutter of something deep and tender inside of you. You swallowed.

“At least not for me.”

The line moved forward and you sent a silent thank you to the sky, stepping ahead. Azriel lingered behind for a moment, eyes still trained on you. His brows were still slightly furrowed, but a smile tugged at his lips—-something tender, like your words touched him in a way he hadn’t expected. 

You ordered your drink, offering a grateful smile to the girl behind the table, and stood to the side as Azriel stepped up to order. The girl’s demeanor changed almost immediately—- cheeks flushed slightly, a new timid smile playing on her lips as she drank in the sight of him. You resisted the urge to laugh at it, a desire born out of total understanding rather than mockery.

Azriel was a stunning kind of attractive, a cold type of handsome that made you shiver if you stared too long. And the girl, she was pretty too, you thought, in an angelic sort of way. Blonde hair like Mor, blue eyes like Feyre. It dawned on you that you might look at Azriel the same way, with the same childish awe and longing admiration. The thought made you blush in embarrassment and you took a sip of your drink.

Azriel seemed oblivious to the effect he was having, focused solely on the screen before him and paying for his drink. She turned around to face him, drink in hand, and leaned forward to offer it. 

And then her eyes fell to his hands. She let out a small breath, a sound that seemed to surprise even her, and her eyes widened in response. Az’s drink was placed on the counter much harsher than she likely intended.

As strange as it sounded, sometimes you forgot about Azriel's hands— forgot that they weren't what were considered normal to the causal observer. You didn't know if this was a good thing, if it was something Azriel preferred or had no opinion on.

Like most people, you'd noticed them when you first met him. Azriel was a quiet observer, a motionless one at times. But in class, when you caught yourself staring at him more often than you'd ever admit, you'd catch sight of the way he'd anxiously crack his fingers with the pad of his thumb. It would bring your attention right back to his hands, to the ridges on his skin.

The scars that marred his hands were extreme, yes, and a certain sadness flowed through you when you looked at them long enough— when you thought about what pain he must've endured— but they were also beautiful. Something so entirely unique; unique enough to where you knew it was him whenever he touched you.

But as hauntingly beautiful as his hands were, eventually they simply became a part of him, something as mundane and expected as his right earlobe or the freckle on his cheek— the one that disappeared into his dimple when he smiled hard enough.

The girl tried her best to catch herself, quickly pushing forward Azriel's canned drink on the surface and giving him a timid, almost apologetic smile. But it was too late. You saw the switch clear as day, watched as something dark ran through Azriel's face— something parallel to childhood fear, to deep-seated embarrassment, to heated resentment, all in one. He pressed a button when prompted for a tip, his gaze steady on his finger as it moved across the screen.

You cleared your throat, leaning forward to grab his drink in your free hand and motioning him away from the growing line. Az seemed to snap out of the daze he'd fallen into, meeting your hurried motions with a furrowed brow. You nodded towards the crowd.

"C'mon," you said, offering the can to him. "We gotta head back."

The whine in your voice did its intended job, concealing your actions as ones driven out of an impatience to return rather than a desire to protect him. It wasn't that you thought it would bother him if he realized what you were trying to do, no, but you didn't want him to read it as something rooted in pity. You didn't want him to fall further back into his head than he already had.

When he didn't reply, you pushed his drink further towards him with an impatient hum. He raised a singular eyebrow for a fleeting second, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he took the cold drink from you, fingers brushing against yours. Nothing flashed in his face at the contact— there was no twitch, no flicker of something darker in his features.

"They're not going on for another forty five minutes," he finally said.

You sighed, a dramatic and weariful sigh, and the curve of his lips blossomed into a smile.

"Az,” you began, “Some of the best moments are going to be found in that crowd while waiting."

For the second time, you beckoned towards the crowd. You ignored the flutter in your chest as you leaned forward to grab his hand, tugging him along behind you— ignored the tightening in your chest as Azriel held onto you tighter.

You made your way back through the dense crowd, struggling to move until you finally reached your friends. Feyre and Rhys were the first to spot you, offering a cheer of greeting as you and Az squeezed into the spaces they’d saved for you. Mor’s eyes traveled to Azriel, scanning his face quickly. 

“Whats wro-“

You widened your eyes in warning, giving a small, subtle shake of your head that only she could pick up on. Mor mouthed a clarifying question and in response you brought your hand to the one that wrapped around the cold can of your drink, gently brushing your palm against the knuckles.

Her eyes widened in understanding and a small frown found her lips. She wiped it off within seconds, any trace of it perfectly concealed as she grabbed Azriel's attention with a large smile. 

"Aren't you so excited? I'm so excited."

Azriel nodded, but his expression remained a bit guarded. Your stomach twisted and Mor shot you a worried glance. You looked at Az, nudging his arm with your shoulder, and his gaze dropped to you.

”Cheers?” You said, lifting your drink in invitation. “For good luck.”

Azriel’s face softened and the remaining edge washed away. His eyes glimmered as he lifted his drink. 

“Cheers,” he replied, clinking his can against yours. 

Thirty five minutes later, the crowd came to life as the band walked on stage.

They played for a total of forty-eight minutes. 

Your eyes were on Az for around twenty-seven of them. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: they notice each other 🥺🥺 they pay attention to each other 🥹🥹 god this makes me miss having a crush— noticing every small thing, those BUTTERFLIES!!! i love them your honor

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound-blog

@melissat1254

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend

thank you for reading 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[blorbocedes]

For the trope mash-up: didnt mean to turn you on + innocent physical touch for franco 'milf-hunter' colapinto and checo/lewis

okay hear me out. what if checo was a woman instead 🤭🫣

Checo's had a fucking year.

The car is shit. She's been saying for so long but now they finally believe it as even Redbull’s wunderkind Max struggles in it. Every other interview, news cycle is about her retiring, her being unceremoniously kicked out as drivers salivate for her seat, her middling performance due to early pre-menopausal hormones? Just 2 years ago, she was the Mexican Queen of Defense, and now it's 'is she Redbull’s DEI hire?' The stories have become outlandish, announcing her second pregnancy and retirement at Mexican Grand Prix. That's why after Daniel, who had very clearly been brought in to replace her, was switched mid season she posted the Wolf of Wall Street clip on her instagram to make it clear: I’m not fucking leaving.

So forgive her if she's been seeking a little respite elsewhere.

There's a hot, young Argentine at Williams that's been eyeing her. Checo’s a woman on the F1 grid, she's been eyed like that thousands of times, most of it unwanted. Although, it fell off after she birthed the twins and her tits never returned to their glory days. So it's a little flattering reminder she's still got it. Being able to speak in the same language also helps, not having to translate everything for doublespeak. They have rapport.

“How old are you?” Checo asks at the club. She's not there to celebrate, she just needs a drink. Franco’s at the stage where finishing a race is cause for celebration.

“Twenty five.” Franco replies in her ear entirely too quickly, with a grin.

Checo raised an eyebrow. She didn't keep track of the rookies but she sure as hell knew they weren't doing twenty five year old rookies anymore.

A group of tourists seem to recognize her, probably fans and she's in no autographing mood so she pulls Franco in closer in front of her, to block her five foot four self from the world. He misreads the signal, but is all too happy to step in closer; personal space be damned.

“Okay. I lied. I didn't want to freak you out.” Franco confesses sheepishly.

Checo drinks her whiskey, assessing it. “I was winning karting races while you were in diapers, yes?”

It makes her feel old just saying it. She doesn't know how Fernando does it.

Franco nods, pupils going dark.

“And…” she raises her left hand, eyes pointing to her wedding ring.

Franco smirks. “I don't mind if you don't.” He leans in for the kiss, and Checo leans back denying him. Too public. She's learned from that mistake. She does put her left hand on his nape, stroking it and praising the boldness. It's dangerous, sleeping with another driver. When you're a woman, it gives them too much power. That's why Checo never acted on Max's obvious interest. But Franco doesn't have a seat next year yet... as temporary and harmless to her prospects as it gets.

“Come on,” Franco’s voice betrays the frustration underneath the trying hard to be suave, “I know you're thinking it too. You'd rather be on a boat with me than this totally lame club. And what I might lack in experience, I can make up for in stamina.” He practically purrs in her ear.

“A boat? Williams is not paying you that much.” Checo laughs, even as she entertains the line about stamina. James is a penny pincher to a fault. And Franco might get F1 groupies impressed with that line, but as the primary breadwinner she knows a little better.

Franco’s undeterred. “Your boat then. I can be your yacht boy.”

Now wouldn't Checo love to be sunning on a boat, no kids running around, being waited on hand and foot by an eager, younger man who can go for round two in ten minutes. God, she hasn't been filled up in a satisfying way in so long, her cunt throbs at the fantasy, aided by the tall, warm body in front of her.

Checo bites her lower lip, and looks around. Nobody around them in paying attention to the dark corner they're in anymore. She takes Franco’s hand and places it over her breast, holding his gaze. For all his smooth-talking, Franco seems momentarily stunned, mouth parting in surprise. He has naturally red lips, Checo wants to bite on it. He tentatively squeezes her breast, and after seeing her nod, starts kneading it, thumb trying to find her nipple through the layers of her polo shirt and sports bra.

“Can I please eat you?” Franco’s voice is husky as he begs.

[an-idyllic-novelist]

Husk with Violet Evergarden!reader scenario

warnings: aged-up!reader [early to late twenties], spoilers for episode 4 to the season finale, mentions of physical abuse and attempted drugging, violence, Husk's language, dismemberment, mentions of cannibalism.

Hey guys, and welcome to another Hazbin Hotel fics, this time featuring our grumpy bartender and one of my favorite characters, Husk! :) This is a collaborated project with not just @isuckatwritingsobenice, but also with @vikkirosko, @witch-of-the-writing-desk, and @riddle-simp, who gave me honest feedback on the rough drafts and how to make it the best fic I could create before sharing it with the world.

If you would like to see more of Husk x Violet, please do let me know know in the comments section or as an ask! Like always, bullying is not tolerated here so if there is any implication of it happening here, this scenario will be taken down immediately. If you have nothing nice to say, do not say it at all.

With that being said, sit back, relax, and let's see who will win the full house at the card tables tonight :)

Reblog to support content creators!

Husk isn’t gonna deny it. It ain’t like him to deny the truth when it’s staring at him right in the fucking face. He thinks you are a little bit of an oddball. You don’t smile, you wear the same outfit every day, and you don’t eat much either unless Niffty practically drags you to the staff’s dining room from wherever she found you hiding. Normally, it’s one of two places: out in the backyard, or the greenhouse, because you’re the hotel’s groundskeeper. And that was on your days off.

 Like Angel, you worked for an overlord, but your boss wasn’t that shitbag Valentino or Vox or Velvette. Your boss is Rosie, the owner of Rosie’s Emporium in the Cannibal Colony. You were her personal secretary. You had been on her payroll for over ten years, working from nine to five unless you had to stay later. She did not seem to mind you staying at the hotel so long as it did not affect her reputation or your work ethic in any way. 

So far you’ve kept your word. Alastor actually seemed to be happy that you were around. 

Maybe. Husk couldn’t fucking tell what that son of a bitch is thinking anymore. But back to you. 

You, who believed in Charlie’s work.

You, who participated in each activity and helped around without getting paid for your time.

You, the expressionless ex-military soldier, has been on his mind recently and he did not like it. 

He lost the ability to feel anything years ago. 

Nonetheless he continued to observe you from afar. When you weren’t busy with watering plants, you were seen in different parts around the hotel with the others. 

You would sit with the princess in the parlor, comparing ideas on what tomorrow’s group exercise should be, even when the only two ideas you’ve suggested were shot down immediately by Charlie. She didn’t like the idea of group bonding through hand-to-hand combat but loved the concept of showing appreciation to one another through handwritten letters. Vaggie approved the former. The latter? Not so much. 

In the kitchen you would go through the cookbook with Niffty and Alastor, trying to decide on tonight’s dinner.  They allowed you to help out, at least when it didn’t involve cracking eggs. Apparently you were not very good at separating the yolk. 

When Sir Pentious was away from the hotel doing God knows what, he trusted you to look after the Egg Bois until he got back. You kept them busy around the greenhouse though they tended to make a bit of a mess. 

Angel started to work extra late at the studio after his show and tell presentation. Something about making a big commercial and Val wanted to make big bucks on this new product that the Vees were launching in a week. You must have noticed that something was off about him, but you didn’t say anything to him. No words of encouragement, no comforting hand on his shoulder. All you did was clench your gloved hands into fists, watching him leave and…unsure of yourself. What you should do. 

Husk heard you asking Niffty what were some of the kid’s favorite foods about that time, and she was more than happy to help you with whatever it was you needed as long as you left the kitchen sparkling when you were done. You were concerned about the kid. Least from what he could remember. He drank a lot that day. 

When he woke up much later after falling asleep at the bar, hearing your footsteps descend down the grand staircase and towards the kitchen. Groggily, probably stupidly on his part, Husk thought it would be a great idea to know what the fuck you were up to so early in the morning. Turns out you were trying to cook something, judging from how you looked at the ratty cookbook propped up on the counter and the wide array of ingredients spread out. 

He saw you cook  finely chopped onions, garlic, and minced ground meat in the large frying pan on the left side of the stove. You stirred something in a smaller sauce pan on the right side with a wooden spoon. He saw you handle all of the ingredients with great care, placing them in a baking dish  even when you weren’t wearing your leather gloves. A small shudder crawled down his spine at how the kitchen lights bounced off of the adamantium skeletal prosthetics that acted as your hands. 

He didn’t even wanna know how exactly you lost them in the Great War. 

Everything was soon laid out, layer by layer and placed in the oven. He didn’t know he stood there for so long, even when you began to clean up the kitchen with a rag. Time ticked by slowly, and then a delicious aroma tickled his nose even as he took another swing of the half-filled booze bottle he was holding. He was about to leave you alone, knowing you’d be fine when he saw you pull out the dish with your hands and no oven mittens on, you fucking moron! Then his mind remembered something that stopped him from making an entrance. You couldn’t feel anything with your prosthetics, not even as you placed it on the stove top to let it sit. 

A couple of hours later - maybe he can’t keep track of time anymore so it might have been the following morning - he saw you giving Angel a large paper bag every morning before both of you left the hotel, and telling him to have a good day. 

Angel grudgingly thanked you later on that evening when he got back…though did say your garlic bread needed some work. The next day, he gave you a paper bag, telling you to taste real Italian grub and try to replicate it. 

Guess it became a game between the two of you, ‘cause Angel was slowly being someone real and not some fake  whiny bitch. 

As odd as you are….you cared about everyone in your own way, even when the words that came out of your mouth angered someone or made them cry, you tried. You never asked for help unless it was necessary, trying to learn everything on your own. And you were smart, Husk will give you that. 

And he…he doesn’t know if he had the heart to tell you that redemption might not be possible. Unlike him, you still carried a spark of hope. You believe in the princess. He doesn’t want to be the one to see you reach your breaking point, to be dragged into a swamp of despair and get drowned in all sorts of addictions to cope with the pain. He was…anxious. No. He was scared for you. He wanted to help you but he was afraid that by intervening, he would just make matters worse.

It was better to just stick to the sidelines with a bottle of booze and watch everything happen like the bartender Alastor wanted him to be, right? Well, turns out he was wrong. 

One night after he made Angel a drink and called him out on his bullshit for being fake, the whiny little bitch stormed out of the hotel. Vaggie tried to make him go out and bring him out, but Charlie intervened. All she asked him was to make sure that Angel was okay. Do not force him to come back if he isn't ready. Obviously judging from the distraught look on her face, something happened between the princess and Angel. 

Husk did not know what or why, and he really did not want to play the role of a goddamned babysitter. Not when it was actually a slow evening and he didn’t have to hear these fucks bitch and moan for hours on end. But Vaggie’s glare, knowing Alastor would force him to do it because he fucking can and not knowing what would happen if he actually violated the terms of their contract, he left the hotel. The first place he went to were the streets. No luck. And no one had seen him. When he moved his search to the bars, he spotted Angel going inside one of them. 

Long story short, he was going to hang back and just keep an eye on Angel getting drunk off his ass with some shady sharks in a corner booth until he saw one of them pour something into Angel’s drink. He took care of the fucker, got Angel out, and listened to him. Angel Dust was not just an act. It’s who he needs to be. Drinking and getting high is his escape. He wants to be damaged so that he won’t be Val’s favorite toy anymore. 

Then when it seemed like they came to an understanding with a song, those bastards opened fire on the streets, targeting him and wanting Angel to come back to have some ‘fun’. Yeah, fuck no. 

That was when he heard car tires screeching against the asphalt, doors opening and closing with more shouting. Husk gritted his teeth. “Shit.” He turned to Angel. “Stay down. I’ll take care of this.” He pulled out his cards, ready to hop onto the roof of the pink Volkswagen they were hiding when he heard a  shnk, a high pitched squeal, then a gurgle. 

THUD.

Shnk.

THUD.

C-crack.

THUD.

“Who the fuck is this bitch?! Kill her, kill her you stupid asshats!” 

“Holy shit, toots?! The fuck - why is she here?!” Angel cried. Husk raised his brow, craning his head as far as he could without being in range of a bullet to see what was going on. There were only two people Angel called toots and he was pretty damned sure they were back at the hotel, safe and sound. Not one of them blitzing across the street, dodging bullets and slicing enemies down with a hunter’s knife in one hand, a large carpet bag in the other. 

He blinked. Nope. He was sober. Shit. He thought as you weaved between the shitheads, disarming, decapitating, and snapping their necks in no particular order. You weren’t exaggerating when you said you were a weapon for the army.  When he saw a flash of movement from the smaller grunt, twirling a knife and aiming it for your head as you pumped lead into his friend, Husk made his move. Hopping onto top of the car and threw his cards. One cleanly sliced the asshole’s neck. 

He quickly made through the growing crowd, running towards you as he threw some dice into a hammerhead’s mouth. But when he turned his back towards them, he felt something light and strong coil around his neck, cutting off his air supply. 

Fuck. Garroting wire! Husk flailed around  scratching, kicking,  and trying to get loose but the fucker was too damned strong. Black spots began to appear in the corner of his eyes when he felt a white hot stinging pain graze his left cheek, then something warm and sticky with a metallic scent. Blood.

The body behind him dropped, and so did he, yanking the wire off  him and inhaling deep gulps of  precious oxygen. Husk looked up and saw Angel with a shit-eating grin and a Tommy Gun in his upper hands. 

“Eat lead, sucker!” The porn star cackled, firing several more bullets into the corpse and his buddies that were closing in on them. Angel grinned at him, extending a hand to help him up.”I told ya. I can handle myself, baby.” Husk felt a grin stretching his own face as the fella pulled out more weapons with more arms. Well….not something he was expecting. 

Between the three of them, they made quick work with the rest of the gang and their reinforcements. Like him and Angel, you were covered in grime and blood but you were all right. 

“Are you two all right?” You asked as you wiped off the blood from your knife with a handkerchief, the carpet bag by your feet and in pristine condition. “No limbs missing that weren’t missing before you arrived?” 

“Yeah, we’re good.” Angel said, putting away his guns and extra limbs. “More importantly, why the fuck are you out here instead of the hotel?!” He interrogated, his voice lowering an octave as he glared at you, stomping towards you. Before Husk could stop him, Angel grabbed  your cheeks with his hands and pinched them. “You know these streets are dangerous, toots! How many times do Vags and I gotta tell ya?! Come straight home when you’re done with work!” Then he blinked, his face turning white, his eyes widening in horror. “Toots,” He said slowly. “Y-you ain’t hooking up with anyone around here, are ya?!” He yelled, now pulling your cheeks outwards as if you were a cartoon character. 

You didn’t flinch from the cheek pinching or pulling; instead, you looked at him in slightly confusion. “I don’t understand. What does fishing have anything to do with this except that these men were quite literally loan sharks standing outside a nautical-themed bar?” You asked. 

“Toots.” Angel said warningly. “If you don’t give me a straight answer, I swear to fucking God I am going to yeet you off a rooftop.”

“ ‘Yeet’?” You repeated.

“[First Name], just tell us why you’re here.” Husk said, already feeling a headache coming on and in need of a drink. You turned your attention to him, then back at Angel before you spoke.

“Rosie sent me out on a last-minute errand to get fertilizer for her plants. But by the time I got there, the shop was already closed. I was on my way home when I heard the gunshots, and saw the two of you being pinned down. I was not going to leave my comrades behind when I could help them. So I did. And now,” You looked over at the bodies strewn across the street. “I have what I need. Two birds with one stone, as Rosie says.”

“Ya mean ‘kill two birds with one stone’, toots?”

“Yes.”

“So, by fertilizer, ya mean these schmucks that we just totally obliterated.”

“Yes.”

“Food for plants.”

“Carnivorous plants. And if the fertilizer is fresh, the better it is for them. Rosie loves her plants very much.” You said, pulling away from Angel and grabbed the carpet bag off of the ground, walking towards the nearest body. “If you do not want to be here, I suggest you leave quickly.” You knelt down, laying the bag down and opened it, laying out assorted tools. Bone saws, knives, a large roll of plastic wrap, etc. “Rosie says I have gotten much quicker at dismemberment.” You carefully peeled off your gloves, replacing them with gray surgical ones. 

Husk glanced at Angel, eyebrow raised. It seemed like they were thinking the same thing because the latter spoke up with a toothy grin. 

“Baby, I was a mobster long before I was a porn star. ‘Sides, hacking up a body all by yourself is gonna take you all night. Better to have more hands to get the job neater an’ faster, am I right Whiskers?” 

Husk smirked. “Can’t argue with that, Legs. Guess you’re stuck with us until this job is done. You got another bone saw in that bag of yours?” He asked with a grin, somehow…happy to actually be doing this. Who would have thought a new friendship started with cleaning up bodies?

You stared at them for a moment, obviously stunned because you must have thought they’d leave you here alone, before you pulled out two more bone saws and more rubber gloves. Your instructions were simple enough: the severed pieces couldn't be any bigger than your body, and they needed to be wrapped up tightly in the plastic wrapping or else you’d have to pay a hefty cleaning bill to get the blood out of the bottom of the bag. Angel’s extra limbs came in handy for the latter task. Between the three of you, quick work was made with the dead loan sharks and everything was loaded inside the carpet bag, and no one was the wiser. This was Hell, after all. Cannibalism, gun fights, and dismemberment was commonplace in these parts. 

You thanked him and Angel profusely, bowing your head to them before you shyly asked if they would be interested in getting a bite to eat. To Angel’s knowledge, the closest place that is still open late at night is Devil’s Diner, which is half a  block from Jackpot, the casino Husk had owned from his glory days as an overlord. The food wasn’t too bad there, and cheap too. 

Now that he thought about it, Husk had worked up more of an appetite after the fight and so did Angel. Better to do that than trying to cook something and waking up Niffty. So, the three of you went to Devil’s Diner. Of course, you tried to just have a cup of coffee, but neither he nor Angel were having it. Conditioning your body to minimize nutrients to complete a mission, his ass. 

Both he and Angel persuaded you to try the day’s special with some water plus dessert. Whatever you couldn’t finish, get a to-go box. Husk himself ordered a sandwich with chips. Angel got pancakes, sausage, strawberries, and a strong drink because he fucking deserved it. 

Conversation started slow at first, but as the orders were placed and drinks were served by their waiter, words were exchanged, and stories were shared. Angel revealed he had a little brother and more family down here, though he rarely talked to them anymore after getting into the show biz. Husk confessed that he used to be a magician in Las Vegas, showing off a trick with his cards. 

They shared a good laugh over Val’s shitty eyesight. It shouldn’t take thirty minutes to count three bills, but it fucking did for the moth man.

You told them that you were once commissioned to help a playwright finish his newest script after being on a hiatus for many years, but he had been a difficult man to work with because he had no interest in doing anything else except drinking his days away. You had actually acted out a scene on the lake where the hero would journey home to be reunited with her father after vanquishing a monster. That was when you began to understand how grief affects people in different ways…and how your actions affected the people you had killed on the battlefield. People who had families and had one-day wishes that would never be fulfilled because they died by your hand. You are here in Hell because you are, you were, a weapon to be used in war. Reconnecting with people, with your emotions…it’s a lot harder than you thought it would be. 

“That’s what being human is all about.” Husk said. “Ya make mistakes, ya regret the choices ya wish ya would have made, or should’ve made, and ya need to live with it.” He knew that better than anyone. 

“The old timer’s got a point but look at how far you’ve come!” Angel exclaimed, spreading his arms out as he began listing all the good things you have done and accomplished since you came to the hotel, though you still needed to learn how to bake real Italian bread, not just heat up the cheap frozen ones in the oven. Husk silently agreed with him, taking another swing of his whiskey. In the end, you got a to-go box, but Angel said he could take it back with him to the hotel. You still needed to deliver the body parts to your cannibal superior and Husk said he’d go with you. But you insisted that you would be fine on your own, and that he and Angel should get some rest. 

“Rosie will not let me stay long in the emporium with how late it already is. She’s very particular about keeping the lights on after business hours.” You said, the corners of your mouth tugging downwards into a frown as your gaze fell upon his wings. “Husk…you were twitching a little and I heard your spine crack earlier, and your voice sounded a little raspy. I do not know what the cause of your ailments beyond the scuffle with those loan sharks could be because I am not a doctor…but it would be better if you and Angel took it easy for the rest of the night.” 

Keep in mind that Husk had once been an overlord. Yes, he’s been out of the game for a while, he won’t deny it. But he was not going to admit that you might be right.  “There’s nothin’ to worry about, I’ll be fine. If I can handle a fight, taking you where you need to go will be a walk in the park.” He grumbled, ignoring Angel’s snickering. 

He watched you raise your hand, fingers outstretched towards one of his wings, and then you pulled it away to clench your hand into a loose fist. Husk saw your hesitancy isn’t because you were disgusted at the sight of them, or his appearance. Hell, you had more bloodstains on your clothes than him and Angel combined. No. You were hesitating because you were afraid that your touch might hurt him, or make the pain he was feeling worse. 

Husk grinned as he grabbed your wrist, pulling it forward and carefully coiling the gloved fingers around the outer part of the left wing near his forearm to give it a squeeze. “See?” He flexed the muscles. “I’m fine. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.” It took him a second to realize how impulsive his actions were, seeing how your eyes widened and hearing Angel release a low, teasing whistle, muttering “Kinky~!” under his breath. Great. The kid wasn’t going to let this go, not even after a few drinks. Shit. Fuck. 

He tried to ignore the warmth flooding his face as he kept his gaze on you until you nodded your head, removing your hand from his wing. You were convinced that he was more than fine to accompany you back to Cannibal Colony, at least for the moment. You turned to Angel. “Are you going to be okay, heading back to the hotel on your own?”

Angel smiled toothily. “Toots, you should know me by now. Sex isn’t the only thing I’m good at.” He winked, holding up the to-go boxes as he turned on his heel, waving his extra hands over his shoulder. “See ya back at the bar! Ya still owe me a drink, Husker~!” Now that he left the diner, it was time for the two of you to make your exit. 

You walked down the steps and looked at him. “Ready?”

Husk nodded. “Yeah.” He then held out his paw to you. “Let’s get going.” You nodded, placing your hand in the center of his own, covering the golden-heart shaped paw  before he scooped you up in his arms, one claw under your legs and the other around your shoulders. You stared at him.

“What-”

“Hang on tight.” Husk did not give you a chance to respond, unfurling his wings to their full length before putting all of his weight on his back leg, catapulting the two of you into the crimson skies of the Pride Ring. Walking was fine and all, but as you mentioned, it was already pretty late. Why waste more time when he could fly there? 

So here you were, held like a princess with one arm wrapped around the carpet bag and your hand placed on his shoulder. But instead of screaming your head off or pleading with him to land somewhere, your attention was elsewhere. You were captivated with the multi-colored pin pricks of light down below,  your mouth partly open and [Eye Color] irises widened by a fraction. It was obvious that you hadn’t seen Hell from above. Or maybe you hadn’t traveled by air before. Either way, seeing such an expression on your face, one that wasn’t calm or expressionless like a doll who lived by someone else’s order.

You looked like a living, breathing human who had her own thoughts and could find beauty in the most bizarre of places. 

It almost made Husk consider extending this flight for a little longer until he realized he’d have to explain to you in great detail as to why he did decide to do it. So he brushed it off, and followed your instructions to your destination. 

Twenty minutes later, the two of you arrived at the stone steps leading up to the glass double doors of Rosie’s Emporium. The dimly lit streets were mostly empty, the bars were still open and echoed with raucous laughter and jazz. It was tempting to slip inside there for a drink, but Husk wasn’t too keen on being around cannibalistic drunks. Alcoholic he might be, he wasn’t that stupid. And he didn’t want you to get in trouble with the overlord who ran this place. She was your boss, not his. 

He watched you put a hand into your coat pocket and pulled out a small golden key. You put it in the dead bolt, twisting it to the left before pushing the door open. “Miss Rosie?” You called out, stepping inside the darkened establishment. “Miss Rosie, it is me. I am back.” 

A moment of silence enveloped the place, but only briefly because soon a tall, thin woman in a burgundy dress with an oversized hat and feathers materialized in front of you. She was at least two or three heads taller than you, smiling down with rows of sharp, gray teeth and pitch black orbs. “Oh there you are, I was startin’ to really get worried! Did John give you everything for my precious little sprouts?”

You quickly explained what had happened, how you could not see John because he had closed the shop by the time you got there but the fertilizer you collected from a gun fight you got into and came out victorious should be more than enough. Rosie was all but delighted, twirling in a small circle as she cooed.

“Ohh, I knew it was a good idea to hire you from the moment you came for the interview! I wish I could’ve seen you at work, using that bone saw and hacking away at corpses, but there’s always another day~! You know how many people come in wishing to have their husbands or wives ripped from limb to limb, at least the ones that taste bad! Ah?” She stopped dancing, craning her long neck to stare at him. “Who’s this you brought with you, [First Name]?” She looked over her shoulder, wagging a finger at you with a raised brow. “Come now, I know I said I wanted you to find a good fella someday, but this one’s way too scruffy for you and you’re much too young for him! Oh, I’m just kidding, I know you’re dedicated to your job! Well? Introduce us!”

You did, introducing him to the overlord as Husk and the hotel’s bartender. Alastor must have told her about him because she immediately called him ‘Alastor’s kitty cat’ and ‘how he used to be such a sophisticated-looking fella until he gambled against Alastor’. She laughed. “Well, small world, after all! [First Name], be a dear and take that bag into the back, will you? I’ll feed the little monsters myself, and you can go home! Oh, did you want some pinky fingers to go? I’ve got plenty of them and you probably didn’t eat dinner again, am I right?”

“Understood. And no thank you, though I will take up on the offer to try one of those roasted legs next time.” Husk almost gagged at your monotone words and Rosie’s cackle, but he had to keep his composure. As far as he knew, you were not a cannibal. And if you were…well, you probably wouldn’t have gone out of your way to help him and Angel, or at least order something from the Cannibal’s Section at the diner instead of force feeding yourself on the daily special. 

You might have only been gone for a few minutes, but it was awkward to stand near Rosie, the way she smiled at him like she was thinking about adding him to her menu for not dressing up in a vintage outfit. At least he hoped not. He could barely contain his relieved sigh when you appeared again, hands empty with no bag in sight. 

“It’s done.”

“Wonderful~! Now, you march up to bed as soon as you get in the door young lady! No staying up late!” She said, following the two of you to the door. “Give my regards to Alastor and tell that man he must come back soon! These halls have lost their sparkle without his lively presence! Oh! Before I forget~!” She snapped her fingers, and in a puff of dark red smoke, a large wad of bills materialized in your hands. “Here’s your paycheck! I know it’s a little early but I have a very important task for you to do tomorrow!” She grinned. “Go to town and buy yourself some new clothes for work!”

You faltered. “But -”

“Tomorrow is your day off I know, and I really, really love your enthusiasm when you try to come in to help around, but a proper lady of society cannot live on just one dress and a pair of boots! Oh, and you will also need to get a Hellphone in case something like this happens again! No ifs, ands, or buts! If Alastor throws a fit about it, I’ll talk to him! Now, shoo! Husker, be a dear and get my darling worker back to that hotel safely, all right?” She added with a wink.

Husk grunted exasperatedly but did not say a word. The last thing he wanted to do was go pissing off an overlord who just happened to be the Boss’ friend. So he just nodded, and followed you out of the door. When it shut behind them with a click, things got…awkward. Now that you weren’t carrying around a bag full of body parts, there was no need to fly all the way back to the hotel. Or at least that he thought you were thinking. 

But he told you that he didn’t mind, since Charlie was probably already worried about the two of you even if Angel had somehow managed to persuade her otherwise. So…you agreed, albeit hesitantly. Husk didn't waste any more time. He scooped you up in his arms and took off into the night skies, though with this being the Pride Ring, there was really no way to tell if it was day or night anymore. Cannibal Colony soon became another darkened spot, getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared from sight. 

As soon as the two of you made it back to the hotel, Husk had no doubt everyone would be giving him shit. Angel would make comments on his little ‘date’ went, which he’ll deny in every possible way, and the princess might be cryin’ from anxiety or relief knowing that two of you were all right. But that was then. This is now. And…he’s come to like holding you in his arms. 

“Husk?”

“Yeah?” He felt the arms around his neck tighten slightly…but not that it wasn’t too uncomfortable. It felt…okay. Like you were trying to say something, but you struggled to find the right words to say without sounding like an ass. 

“Thank you…for everything.”

His lips stretched into a grin. "You're welcome." 

He felt the cold of your palms, it would seem, through the gloves, but it was not so important. Because as the two of you flew back to the place you called home, he saw you smiling down at the Pentagram in wonder, whispering the places you had visited and or wondered what they were or if he knew anything about them, to which he either answered yes or no. It was such a small smile, but how could he not commit not it to his memory? 

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to get a drink with you on a night around town. Or make one for you at his bar. He knew how to make a good non-alcoholic pina colada, even an alcoholic version of it. But who knows? He’ll take things one step at a time, and see what happens. 

What Husk did not realize at the time, not too far in the distant future, you would be the one to close the gap between them…and there would be something more between the two of you. Something that made his days in Hell just a little brighter. 

Taglist: @riddle-simp @kanroji-san @star-fawn21 @luthefriendlywitch @kameyo-kumo @solesurvivorjen @solandis-does-stuff @ladydoe8 @victheauthor @anielly-2010 @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @bones4thecats @mmelionsblog @frompeach @nixie-writes @tired-of-life-86 @trecllllllll @lanxianschoenheit @22carolina08 @justamegafan @the-cat-queen-peasants @oucx @diamondzoey @alyriaschoenheit @lbcreations-blog @alastorsart @nunezs-stuff @sillypenguincats @theunknowntravel3r @imperfectbloodmoon @no1sillybilly @likesugarandcyanide @bladeismine @bones4thecats

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price prepares for his first date with Nik. 141 rib him.

CW: none.

Price stared into the mirror above his sink and wondered when the fuck all those lines on his face had arrived. Last time he’d looked, he could have sworn there were fewer, and there had been no grey either, but now he saw traces of his old man in the reflection and that made his stomach twist unpleasantly.

In all fairness, he didn’t really have much reason to look–really look–at his own face. Even when he was smearing camo around his eyes and down his cheeks, he was only looking for areas of shine that might draw an enemy’s eye. He never really considered why else someone might be lookin’.

Why Nik might be lookin’.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed as he began gathering up his shaving bowl and the badger-fur brush he only got out on special occasions; medal ceremonies, weddings, funerals and now, apparently, bloody dates. Why the fuck he had even agreed to it in the first place he had no idea, but Nik was surprisingly romantic given what Price knew about the rest of his life, and it was difficult to say no when he turned on those eyes. The word ‘no’ felt like booting a Labrador in the face.

Price stashed his shaving kit away and turned back to the mirror to check the rest. He had been pretty sure the shirt he had scrounged from the bottom of his paltry wardrobe hadn’t seen the light of day since the early noughties, and that had been confirmed when he’d pulled it around his shoulders and the buttons had gaped over his chest. Twenty years ago he’d been a lot leaner, but two decades of focused gym sessions, hard graft and being battered in the field had left him with a lot more heft. He’d pulled on a white t-shirt underneath and left it open, hoping he didn't look too much like someone's dad trying to look ten years younger.

Hair waxed into place, beard conditioned, aftershave and cologne–but not enough to register as chemical warfare–and he was as good as he was gonna get. He had never been asked on a date, only ever done the asking, and even then the sum total of his dating efforts as a young man had ended in disaster. Cold fish and chips on the riverfront and getting your leg over in the nearby park, only to fumble that too, wasn’t exactly peak romance, even at fifteen years old, and somehow he didn't think Nik had anything similar in mind.

Fifteen years old. That had been--

Oh, fuck. He was not equipped for this in the slightest.

Price’s phone beeped and a glance at the message confirmed Nik had arrived on base to pick him up. Bang on time too. Price took one final look in the mirror, grimaced, shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fuck it. It would have to do. Nik had seen him looking like the arse end of a donkey, so this… jitter in Price’s chest felt bloody stupid.

“Get a fuckin’ grip,” he murmured to himself as he snatched his wallet and keys from his bed and shut the door behind him. Unfortunately for Price, the rest of 141 were eagerly awaiting his appearance in the rec room and all looked up when he closed the door. He immediately regretted not exiting through the open window in his room.

“Well, well, cap, don’ ye brush up nice. G’ies a twirl,” Soap said, leaning forward with a wide grin that informed Price he was about to endure a good five to ten minutes of focused ribbing.

“Watch it, MacTavish,” Price replied, but without heat. He felt like a prize twat and this was Soap’s roundabout way of helping.

“Och, c’mon noow,” Soap spread his hands and turned to Garrick for support, “Gaz, back me up…”

Garrick looked up from his phone and tilted his head to the side, clearly evaluating just how much he wanted to chance Price putting him on the worst details for the next week. Apparently, he was feeling pretty fucking lucky that evening. “Pretty sure my dad owns that shirt, Tav. Very… uh, early noughties chic. What d’ya think, Ghost?”

Price could count on Simon to fight his corner against these two reprobates. Or so he thought. Simon leaned back, arms folded across his chest, and examined Price for a beat before choosing violence. “Pretty sure I saw it last about ten years ago,” Simon said, and then shook his head. “Happy to drop a pony on a new striker xt gen 2 so you can have the ranger green as well as the steel grey, but couldn’t cough up a few quid on a new shirt, sir.”

“You’re all bastards, and I you’ll be shovelling the shit next week once I get back to my desk,” Price growled.

A round of groans followed, and Soap rolled up to his feet. “C’mon, sir, we’re just jossin’. As my ol’ nan used tae say: a pritty face suits the dish-cloot.”

“Dish cloth chic,” Gaz said, grinning.

“Ah mean he looks bonnie, right? ‘Side, we need to cut the ol’ man some slack. When was th’ last time ye got tae let yer hair doon, sir?”

“Not long enough,” Price said, pinching the bridge of his nose and planning to beast the trooper delaying Nik at the checkpoint.

“I reckon the last time was when Usher was in the charts. What was the song? Ooh-whoop ooh-whoop, ooh-whoop ooh-whoop, shit, what was it called?”

Price decided that Garrick would be organising a mock dawn raid for the freshest batch of recruits. He would make sure the weather forecast was grim.

“Wait, wait, lemme get it up on Spotify. We c'n get cap in the mood tae drop tha’ thang. Reckon Nik’s an animal on the dancefloor, aye? Ha! Found it. ‘Yeah’ by Usher.”

Soap would be joining Garrick. Full weighted kit.

Price watched as the two sergeants bounced around enthusiastically to a song from 2004 that was, by Price’s estimations, only a year older than the shirt he was currently wearing. Fucking disaster. He looked at Simon, who was watching Johnny with that far away look he always did when he thought no one else would notice.

“You have started the party without me, I see,” said a familiar voice at the door. Price looked over and nearly choked on his own tongue. Nik looked fucking good. White button down open at the collar, black slacks, polished shoes, with his hair freshly cut. Simple, but classy. Price tugged at his sleeve and rubbed the back of his neck, hoping the heat he felt under his skin hadn't translated into a flush.

Nik appraised Price with those same soft eyes that had implored him from the cockpit of his damn helicopter for a date. Price cleared his throat. “You scrub up good, Nik.”

“I could say the same. But you are always the prettiest thing in any room to me, captain.”

Price’s face burned to the very tips of his ears.

“Ah, Nik! Watcha mate, how're you doin’?” Garrick bounded over and threw his arm around Nik’s shoulders for a half hug.

“Ye better have him home by ten!” Soap called from where he stayed slouched on the sofa.

“Of course, sergeant.”

“Nik, let's go, and you lot, get an early night. Pay back's a bitch.”

Nik smiled and stepped aside with what was definitely a bloody half bow to let Price out of the rec room first to a chorus of groans and entreaties for mercy from the two sergeants. Price and Nik emerged into the night air and had almost reached the car before Nik took Price's hand and drew him to a stop. “You are nervous.”

Price cleared his throat, sniffed, and did his best to come off as nonchalant. “Nah, I'm grand, just realised I’ve not got the clobber for this kind of thing, or the, uh… expertise. I'm worried you'll be disappointed.”

Nik looked at him blankly.

“Ah, sorry, my… clothes. It's been a long time since–”

Nik took his chin and lifted his eyes from where they had drifted to the ground. The kiss he placed on Price’s lips was tender, fleeting compared to their first shared under the downdraft of spinning helicopter blades, but it made Price's heart stutter just the same.

“You look good…” Nik released his chin to push both hands into Price’s hair, mussing it out of its careful arrangement. Next, he reached around the back of Price’s belt and tugged his t-shirt free. “Hm, now better.” Price swallowed hard, trying not to be too obvious about inhaling Nik’s scent as he pressed in close.

“Scruffy more like.” Price was still getting over the feeling of Nik’s fingers in his hair, brushing the skin on his back. Nerves had been replaced by the soft thrum of something warm in his chest.

“Nyet. English country boy with rough edges and blue eyes. You are honest, John Price. And a good man. It is what I have always loved most.” Nik opened the car door as Price gawped at him with wide eyes. When his senses had returned, Price realised Nik had rented a nondescript BMW for his stay, with leather interior and a fully digital media system. Plush. “After you.”

“Where’re we goin’?” Price asked as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Is surprise.”

“Bloody hell, and here I was thinkin' we’d go out for a movie and a pint.”

Nik grinned, tapping the beemer into ‘Drive’. “I will have the captain back before he turns into pumpkin, or the lieutenant mounts a rescue mission.”

Price chuckled as Nik pulled away into the night. Thankfully, Usher didn't feature in the evening‘s itinerary.

[sinnerdolly]

The chosen bride — Viking!Barou Shouei.

Minors do not interact. Nsfw/Smut.

word counter—2381.

Plot—you're a French noblewoman that was forced to marry the barbarian king Barou. He seems to look at you like the most delicious peace of meat, would you fall for that abrasive sexual tension you both have?

warning— rough sex, oral sex, breeding kink, arranged marriage. Y/n's is short and has huge boobs.

English isn't my mother language, if you see any error you're welcome to correct me.

Since I was little, my father repeated over and over again in my ears: "You can't imagine the future I chose for you". Of course, until I was twenty-two I had nothing left to do but fantasize about the meaning of it, because he claimed that he didn't want to make my sisters jealous.

I was immensely disappointed when I found out the truth: here I was engaged to a barbarian king who examined me as if I were an insect. His smug gaze fell on my breasts and then on my hips.

“I’ll keep her” Just like that King Barou sentenced my destiny to be his wife.

The nobles around him seemed not to like the idea very much, one of them dared to speak and told him something in Nordic, a language that Chigiri not long ago began to teach me.

“Her hips are thick, her breasts are huge, and her skin is pink. Lady D'angelo seems much more fertile than all our women, whoever challenges me again will clean their own blood from the stone under my feet.”

Chigiri and I exchanged glances, the comment would have been about my uneven appearance compared to the Viking women. I was not tall and slender, my height was no more than five feet six and my dresses had to be custom-made because my breasts did not fit into any corset, something that my future husband seemed to enjoy.

King Barou was immense, with pronounced features and black hair that fell straight and long almost to his shoulders. The way he sat was menacing: legs spread, back leaning on the wooden throne… the aura around him conveyed danger, while every word that came out of his mouth was equivalent to the roar of a lion. In my years as a noblewoman, being the daughter of the advisor to the king of France, I had never witnessed anything like this. What lay before me was not a king, but a beast.

The beast's eyes sharpened on Chigiri as soon as he caught our exchange of glances.

“Who is that?”

All eyes turned to Chigiri, my father cleared his throat softly and answered: “He is my daughter's mentor, he will stay by her side to teach her to speak your language, my lord.”

My heart seemed to skip a beat when I saw that Barou didn't take his eyes off him.

“I'm going to be the one who teaches her, I want him outside my kingdom.”

Chigiri did not give me a single look, I knew what was going on in his head, just one look could confirm Barou's suspicions. The man I am in love with did not speak to me again... not even when he left in the carriage with my father, not even knowing that we would never see each other again.

[ … ]

The days in my new home were a torment, only the court and my fiancé speak my language, but they are not very pleasant people to talk to. So the days are summarized in reading and rereading the ten books that I managed to bring with me. The rooms that correspond to me are immense and opulent considering how rustic this country is, it is clear that they tried to make it as similar as possible to France, a cute detail if they wouldn’t constantly ignore me.

My loneliness and smallness allowed me to sneak far to inspect the castle. I was like a weirdo in their eyes, I have the feeling that they see me as a rabbit, the ladies look at me with disdain, incredulous that a man of Barou's lineage would want to marry me... while the servants look at me with pity and try to guide me, even without speaking the same language.

“Fuck” I murmured, I had gotten lost between massive rock walls.

“What are you doing in my chambers area?”

My skin crawled hearing such a harsh voice speak such rough French. I turned around slowly, in front of me stood my fiancé, with whom I had not exchanged a word since they abandoned me here. His proud and unreadable countenance as always, serene could also be called.

“I got lost” The nerves gnawed at me in such a way that my voice came out with a repressed and insecure tone through my throat. Seeing his intense gaze I was forced to look away immediately, something that had never happened to me before with a man, not even Chigiri.

His eyes swept me from head to toe, when, suddenly, his immense figure cornered me against the stone. My heart pumped harder, I couldn't breathe, it was as if a lion was about to devour me... does he want to consummate our treaty? I wouldn't be surprised if these barbarians raped me when I am alone and vulnerable, who cares about me after all? My father and Chigiri clearly don't.

“My subjects don't treat you well?”

I looked up slowly, finding an expression other than arrogant, he seemed worried and upset, his body over mine like a protective barrier. It would be a lie to say that I wasn't stunned by this sudden statement on his part.

“I asked you a question”

I considered his words for a moment, if his consideration for me was so great... accusing them before this barbarian was not a bad option, but perhaps not the most astute.

“N-no, my lord.” I lied, the nervousness that this man caused me was of unimaginable proportions.

That penetrating gaze went down through my eyes to my neck and breasts, I watched his jaw tense and his pupils dilate, his chest and pulse seemed to run at a faster pace under the furs he was wearing. I smiled a little and, although I tried to hide it, it didn't take a second for his eyes to catch it.

“Do you dare to make fun of me?”

He uttered the words indignantly, but with an intensity that indicated that any misstep would result in her getting her pussy fucked... What the fuck am I thinking? He is a barbarian.

“Not at all… it's just that the king seems to have certain marked tastes.”

Where had that come from? I didn't even know it, but my soul seemed ecstatic to provoke this beast. Even he was surprised, his irises turned dark and he licked his lips.

“My tastes don't matter, I chose you because your curves are the most fertile I have ever seen.”

That sentence sparked a fire that spread through every leaf of my being, there was something primal about that sentence that burned away every iota of perceived masculinity in my life. I wanted to be in his bed, I needed him to fill me, my blood boiled as if it were witchcraft... What was this sudden infatuation that was corroding my insides?

⌈ Barou ⌋

I was not attracted to the women of my kingdom and that for a king is a big problem. Every week several Jarls arrived and offered their daughters as lovers or wives, but none of them sparked my interest, none seemed worthy of bearing my offspring.

It wasn't until a certain French king had a crisis and he proposed to me for the hand of one of his ladies in exchange for some riches. At the beginning, a deal that I accepted out of courtesy, I had no interest in dirtying Viking blood... until I saw her enter through the door and my eyes became ecstatic at such a sign from the Gods. My cock grew hard, the need to lay her on the floor and spill the first load inside her gnawing at me... but her expression of sadness and terror calmed my instincts.

“Are you sure you didn't choose me out of desire?”

It was amazing that her gorgeous features could show such a lascivious expression like the one she wore now. The little Frenchwoman was trying my patience, she provoked me as if days ago she had not cried in horror for marrying a barbarian. It was incredible, after being forced to watch the door to her chambers every night because I believed she would escape from it... I had her in front of me eager to be taken.

I grabbed her neck roughly, without hurting her or putting pressure on her, for a moment she seemed scared. Her contact with her third skin made it hard instantly, since she was in the castle she had not been flaccid. I moved closer to her throat and breathed in her heady European perfume.

"The only thing I thought was that your pussy would look gorgeous dripping with my cum..." I licked her chin during the pause.

I could feel her heart pumping uncontrollably and how her body was not able to stand on its own. As I stood up again, her eyes begged me to take her, so I decided it was time to claim my queen. I carried her over my shoulder without much effort, something that alarmed her a little, because she began to struggle and demand that I get off her, something that a spanking can't solve. When my hand hit her ass, she let out a cry of surprise mixed with a moan. I laughed at that reaction, to which she hit my shoulder, an act that caused me to laugh even harder.

When I got to my chambers I threw her on my bed, she looked at me with reddened cheeks and pupils flooded with lust. I let the furs that rested on my shoulders fall and easily removed the shirt that covered my torso, y/n bit her lip and she uncomfortably brought her thighs together when she saw me. I smiled proudly, took her left ankle and pulled it towards me.

I grabbed her neck again and devoured her full lips with need for her. She did not hesitate to follow as she seemed to share my blinded state. My hand forcefully lowered her neckline, I freed those puppies tortured by the devilish corset, I couldn't resist the urge to lick and bite them, the gasps I stole from her mouth were the hottest thing I had ever heard.

[ Reader ]

I was screwed, but I couldn't help but give in. What other option did I have but to enjoy the pleasures this beast offered? The desire for me consumed him, I wasn't going to be so stupid as to reject the wet dream of every woman living or dead.

His tongue soaked every corner of my exposed skin and, upon reaching my thigh area, he tore off my panties and licked fervently between my folds. No man had done that before, the barbarian was devouring me as my premonitions said... but in an intoxicating way. Saliva slid and dripped onto the sheets; even when my legs threatened to close, Barou sucked harder on my clitoris.

After I came in his mouth, he emerged from between my thighs with the look of a hungry lion cornering its prey. He licked his lips and swallowed any residual orgasm fluid as his baggy black leather pants fell to the frigid floor. My eyes focused on his thick member, precum glistened on his glans and veins revealed how massive he is. Even knowing that he would get me pregnant on the first try, I begged him to put it inside right now.

"You are aware that if I take you now I won't stop until your uterus overflows... are you sure you want to continue?" His words were abrupt, but I couldn't help but nod. “Let's continue then.”

He opened my thighs firmly and looked voraciously, while his thumb opened my wet folds.

“You're ready”

Suddenly, he turned me around like a feather, my cheek against the pillow and my hips raised. I could feel the heat of his body approaching mine from behind, his giant hands held my waist in place, the anxiety was something to savor at that moment. His glans made its way between my walls, the stretch turned my eyes to the sky, every inch I managed to take felt searing, but so satisfying.

A guttural moan echoed from every corner of the room as his pelvis collided for the first time against the skin of my ass. Stiff and throbbing I had engulfed him completely inside me, my pussy lubricated him so much I could feel the fluids sliding down my thighs, the bed would be a mess after we were done. The thrusts were gentle at first, as if the beast king was looking for my limits, scared of my size compared to him; still, each entry was precise, the most sensitive points were rubbed masterfully and the pitch of my gasps increased. But, although the consistency felt delicious, my patience has an end and I needed him to completely let go of that bestiality that he displayed so much.

“Fuck, harder, idiot.”

To deny that the utterance of those words was somewhat violent would be a lie, but this man's anger was not justifiable. In an instant my hair was pulled and my pussy was being brutally attacked, the moans turned into screams which, in turn, I couldn't hear because the pleasure overrode all my senses. I knew I wouldn't last long at this pace, I could feel his smirk as he saw me unstable and completely fucked.

I almost lost consciousness as the orgasm consumed my body, all I could think about was his cum spilling inside me. I felt so much peace, so much satisfaction, I was no longer interested in France, Chigiri or my family, I was happy being fucked in his bed.

⌈ Barou ⌋

Her recently fertilized pussy was tensing, in a poor attempt to spill my semen, to which I took her hips to put them in a position that my load was directly towards her cervix, with my fingers I collected the spilled semen and sank them slowly inside her warm folds freshly abused by my cock.

My queen looked at me somewhat dazed and confused by the deafening orgasm I had given her, to which I smiled proudly and satisfied.

“Until your belly grows, your pussy is going to be stuffed every night.”

[elliesbelle]

nobody compares to you

chapter 9

pairing: ellie x reader

synopsis: you're in your junior year of college and at a party, you run into the girl who broke your heart: ellie williams. despite the time it took to reset your life, will you risk a broken heart again for her?

content warnings: modern college au, cursing, angst, descriptions of and allusions to physical altercations and violence, descriptions of alcohol, dealer!ellie, more loser!ellie, mentions of smoking and marijuana, ellie's POV, minors do not interact

word count: 3.7k

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen

series masterlist

my masterlist

i have a ko-if if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to tip me ♡︎

the "nobody compares to you" spotify playlist

featuring the song “it might be you” by stephen bishop:

Four Days Ago

“Ellie, what the fuck! Oh, shit!”

“The fuck! Th-the fuck…is your problem!”

“Shit! Ellie!”

“Chang, get…this–fuck!–cunt…off of me!”

“El–ow! Ellie!”

“I heard what you fucking said to my girl!”

“What are–shit…motherfucker!”

“Ellie, stop!”

“You..fucking…cunt!”

“Yo, bro, get the fuck off of her!”

“Is that…all…you…can do?!”

“Alright, fuck! Enough! Stop!”

Two Days Ago

Ellie had been walking around campus with her hood over her head and eyes to the ground all day. She’d been ignoring calls & texts from her friends and clients and, to her growing annoyance, Daniela. She’d attended all her classes, but she’d sit as far back as possible and avoid any interactions or eye contact. During her breaks, she’d find some remote spot behind a building or in a secluded stairwell to smoke in private.

It was late afternoon now and Ellie’d just dashed out of her last class of the day. She didn’t want to go home to her apartment where she’d get ambushed by Jesse and, most likely as well, Dina. But she had nowhere else to loiter where she’d be able to sulk and smoke in peace, and her phone was also dying.

The walk to her and Jesse’s apartment was barely ten minutes from campus, but Ellie made sure to stretch it out to almost twenty. She walked four flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator like she usually would. She couldn’t even hear the jingling of her keys over the deafening sounds of Kendrick Lamar blasting in her earphones as she unlocked the front door.

The previous evening felt completely surreal. Ellie would have assumed it was just some rage-induced nightmare if it weren’t for the throbbing pain in her black eye and bruised right hand. After Jesse was able to pry Frat Guy Adam off of her before he could do any real damage and hastily convince him that she was probably tripping off of this strong new strain she got, Ellie immediately shut herself in her bedroom for the rest of the night. The only thing Jesse could get out of her before she disappeared behind her door was, “I seriously can’t fucking believe she’s letting her fuck her again.”

As Ellie crossed the doorway of the apartment, the second verse of “HUMBLE.” was abruptly yanked out of her ears by Dina’s quick fingers.

“Jesus fuck—Dina!” Ellie fussed, irritated as she attempted to grab her earphones back.

Dina said nothing as she balled them up and shoved them into her back pocket.

“How the fuck did you even know I was coming?” Ellie grumbled, knowing full well that she, Dina, and Jesse all indefinitely shared their respective locations with each other on their phones.

“Let’s talk, El.” Dina merely sighed.

Ellie scoffed in response and held out her hand.

“Can I have my earphones back?” She asked.

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Ellie, we need to talk!”

Ellie didn’t reply as she stomped off towards her bedroom. She was about to slam the door in Dina’s face when she was met with Jesse’s back turned to her with sandpaper in one hand and a paint scraper in the other.

“Uhh, what the fuck, dude?” Ellie asked, dropping her backpack on top of her desk.

“I knew you’d leave your knife in here for the next two months or so if I didn’t do anything about it.” Jesse replied, sanding down the area where the knife once was lodged into the wall.

Dina leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Told him that you were too attached to that thing to not yank it out yourself, but he insisted on doing it and cleaning up your mess. As per usual.” Dina said, motioning to the small bucket of white plaster by Jesse’s feet.

“Yeah, I’m not cleaning all that up, though.” Jesse said, gesturing to all the dust now covering a portion of the bedroom floor.

Ellie shrugged off her hoodie and hung it on the back of a chair. She spotted her now-unstuck switchblade on top of some books on her desk and quickly pocketed it.

“Okay, well, can you guys maybe get out of my room now?” Ellie huffed, collapsing lazily onto her bed before grabbing a comic book on her bedside table that she had previously been reading the night before.

“We can,” Dina replied. “But we’re not going to.”

Ellie rolled her eyes and flipped a page.

Jesse and Dina shared a collective look and a heavy sigh.

“Dude, we gotta talk about yesterday.” Jesse insisted. “You seriously can’t keep ignoring this.”

“What the fuck even happened, really?” Dina asked.

“What, this one didn’t tell you?” Ellie replied, nodding towards Jesse’s direction without looking up from her comic book.

“All he told me is that you got your shit rocked by some frat guy trying to buy from you.”

“Hey!” Ellie said, sitting up and throwing her hands up in the air in indignation. “I fucked him up!”

“Then why do you have a black eye?” Dina questioned.

Ellie grumbled something unintelligible and sat back down to return to reading. Dina rolled her eyes.

“All I did was introduce him to her and she just suddenly wailed on him.” Jesse explained to Dina.

“I already knew who the fuck he was.” Ellie said behind her comic book.

“Oh shit, yeah,” Jesse recalled. “She did say she remembered him, and then she went nuts.”

“Who was this again?” Dina asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Adam Patterson from Sigma Eta.” Jesse replied.

“Yeah, I have no idea who that is.” Dina admitted.

“He came with our group to the diner the other night after the party,” Jesse said at the same time that Ellie said, “He was at Sterling’s with us.”

Dina’s knitted eyebrows straightened out in recognition.

“Oh, wait, was he that douchebag that sat next to—”

“Yes.” Ellie interrupted angrily.

Jesse and Dina immediately shared a look.

“Does this have anything to do with Abby Anderson?” Dina asked Ellie.

“Wait, what about Anderson?” Jesse questioned, eyebrows furrowing.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me wh—“ Jesse started but was cut off when his phone started buzzing furiously.

He took out his phone from his back pocket and frowned.

“Ah shit,” He muttered. “I gotta help Sidney set up with the open mic.”

“Now?” Dina asked.

“It’s every other Tuesday and I promised her.” Jesse shrugged.

He walked over to Dina to give her a quick peck on the lips before turning towards Ellie, pointing at her sharply.

“When I get back, I want to hear why the hell you’ve lost your goddamn mind.” He demanded of her before leaving the room. A few seconds passed before they heard the front door close behind him.

Dina sighed, uncrossed her arms, and strolled over to sit at the foot of Ellie’s bed. She unconcernedly shoved Ellie’s dirty Converse to the side, earning her a kick from Ellie which she easily dodged.

“Can you stop assaulting every single person you come across, Williams?” Dina said after slapping the foot that tried to punt her.

“Can you get out of my room?” Ellie asked, ignoring her question.

“Did you really try to beat the shit out of that Adam guy ‘cause of—“

“Why are we still talking about this?” Ellie immediately interjected.

“Because you’re out here attacking innocent people because of her!”

Ellie remained quiet as she sat up straight and placed her comic book back on her nightstand before replying.

“He called her a fucking queer, D.”

Dina blinked and stared at her.

“He did what?”

“When we were at Sterling’s the other night.”

“Oh, shit.” Dina whispered. “Okay, well, maybe not so innocent then.”

“No, he’s fucking not.” Ellie seethed, fists clenching.

“Okay, but it’s not really helping anyone if you get kicked out of school ‘cause you’re out here beating the shit out of some grade-A douchebag who most definitely deserved it,” Dina added, seeing that Ellie was about to interrupt. “Are you really that pissed off that she’s seeing Abby Anderson?”

“She can see whoever the fuck she wants. It’s really none of my business.” Ellie replied stubbornly.

“Ellie, c’mon, when are you going to face your fucking feelings for her for once?” Dina said. “You couldn’t man the fuck up when you were together, and now you don’t even speak to each other and you still won’t admit it.”

“Sorry that I’m too emotionally constipated for you.”

Dina rolled her eyes but then suddenly giggled.

“What?” Ellie asked.

“That’s probably the first time that you haven’t corrected me on the fact that you were together.”

Ellie kicked her softly.

“Oh, shut up.” Ellie retorted.

Yesterday

“You need to wrap that shit up better, El.” Dina said, gesturing to Ellie’s poorly bandaged right hand.

The sun was beginning to set, and Dina and Ellie’s shadows glided alongside each other on the brick pathway. Pink rays of light peeking from the sky hit Ellie’s freckles so beautifully that it almost distracted from her bruised eye.

“What? It’s fine.” Ellie shrugged.

“The wraps are already coming off, dumbass.” Dina noted.

“My bad, I’m not studying to be a doctor, unlike some people.” Ellie said, quickly murmuring the last part.

Dina merely rolled her eyes at this, refusing to engage further in Ellie’s growing vendetta against Abby Anderson.

They walked for about another ten minutes to reach the diner, chatting nonsensically about their classes and friends and some new asshole clients that Ellie had recently acquired.

Ellie had Dina laughing about her secretly charging some senior jock douchebags twice as much as usual for shamelessly hitting on her when they walked through the doors of Sterling’s. Ellie suddenly felt a strange ache in her stomach as they entered the restaurant. When she felt wary eyes on her, her discomfort was immediately explained.

Her gaze unintentionally met yours, her ocean green eyes widening in shock. The expression on your face mirrored her thoughts as her freckles turned bright pink. You both turned to your friends simultaneously in panic.

“Dina, what the fuck!” Ellie hissed.

“What?” Dina said, not realizing the situation they’d walked into.

“Did you do this shit on purpose?” Ellie demanded of her.

“What the hell are you going on about?” Dina asked, still clueless as she was busy looking around for the diner’s hostess.

“Can you please use your eyes for one second?”

“Wh—” Dina began but stopped suddenly when she saw what had caught Ellie’s rapt attention.

“Goddamn it,” Dina muttered. “Alright, hang on.”

Ellie watched as Dina marched over to the small table where you and Jesse were having dinner. Her eyes fell on you once more, remembering the last time she saw you with Abby Anderson. She suddenly felt a pang of guilt wash over her when she thought about the last conversation you’d had in the bathroom of this same diner, her eyes tearing away from your figure to stare at her old Converse.

God, I’m such a fucking dickhead.

She teetered back and forth on her feet as she felt shame seeping through her bones. She didn’t look back up until the diner’s hostess approached her.

“Hi, how many in your party?” She asked.

“Oh, uh, no. I’m here for pick-up?” Ellie replied.

“Oh gotcha, what’s the name?”

“It should be under Dina Woodward.”

“Okay! One second, ma’am.”

Ellie watched as the hostess headed to the back as Dina made her way back towards her.

“What the hell, D?” Ellie hissed.

“Seriously, I didn’t know!” Dina replied, throwing her hands up defensively.

“This isn’t funny!”

“El, I swear to god, I really had no idea they were gonna be meeting here.”

“You didn’t tell me that Jesse was hanging out with her tonight!”

“That didn’t seem like information relevant to you.” Dina said, crossing her arms.

“How is it not—”

“She’s not your fucking girlfriend, Ellie.” Dina pointed out.

Ellie looked taken aback as the hostess reappeared before them.

“Order for Dina Woodward?” She said, holding out a plastic bag.

“Yes?” Dina replied, but before she could reach for the food, Ellie had already grabbed it with her left hand and angrily shoved the entrance door open with her right.

She stomped away from the diner several feet away before Dina could catch up to her, far away enough for Dina not to catch the tears that she struggled to keep from falling.

Present Day

Ellie lays on her sheets, head at the foot of her bed and dinosaur sock-covered feet propped up on one of her pillows. She was senselessly and poorly strumming on her guitar. It was Friday evening and she was bored and all alone in the apartment, Jesse and Dina having gone out together on a movie date. She had contemplated going to the gym as she usually did whenever she was in a mood, but Dina had reprimanded her about her injured state enough that Ellie relented on spending a lonely night in. She strums lousily on the guitar with her injured hand, ignoring the throbbing of her wounded knuckles.

She’d finally texted Daniela back earlier that day, apologizing spiritlessly for not replying back sooner. She humoured Daniela’s flirty texts for a while until Ellie asked for Joel’s old jacket back, to which Daniela offered to come over to her apartment tonight to return. Feeling her intent, Ellie put her off by saying she had plans to meet up with several new clients all night and offered to meet up with her the next day instead. Ellie’d groaned when Daniela quickly responded with a text saying “it’s a date ;)” and immediately regretted the situation she’d pulled herself into.

Her fingers begin mindlessly plucking a succession of concordant chords, and it isn’t until a few moments later that she realizes she’d started to play an old love song that she remembers you’d liked so much.

It was an old 80s song called “It Might Be You” by Stephen Bishop. She’d often hear you thoughtlessly humming it to yourself or singing along to it when you’d put on your nearly ten-hour 80s playlist. She’d subsequently learned how to play it on the guitar to possibly serenade you with it eventually, only to never have the courage to do so when you were together.

Ellie exhales woefully, setting her guitar down next to her.

Why is she still everywhere?

She sits up to properly lay herself on her bed, flopping her head down onto her pillow before reaching for her phone that was charging on her nightstand.

Time to be a loser as usual again, Williams.

She sighs pathetically as she opens up Instagram once more, switching from her main account back over to br!ck_master2013. Even though Instagram already showed her recent searches (consisting only of you), she feels a pathetic sense of fulfillment typing out your entire username herself. Ellie taps on that same mirror selfie of yours which leads her to your profile.

You still have no new posts from the last time she checked, but she sees that you’d added something to your story sometime within the past day. She ignores the uneasiness in her stomach as she taps on the orange and purple circle to view what you’d posted.

You’d shared a few mutual aid posts earlier this morning (to which Ellie promptly saves to later donate to after her slight stalking), a picture that some of your old high school friends had posted of an up-and-coming band they were currently in, and a couple of new stories that causes Ellie to abruptly shoot up from her bed and promptly unplugging her phone from the wall.

“What the fuck?” She mutters out loud to herself, not in reference to the unceremonious way she stopped charging her phone, but to the Instagram stories that you were posting in real time.

Ellie taps furiously as she realizes that you were out tonight at the lesbian bar by campus, the Bow and Arrow. With Abby Anderson.

She makes a wild guess that you were likely drunk at the moment, judging by the silliness of your story captions. Your first bar-related story is a selfie you’d taken of yourself with the caption, “me going out to a bar to get smacked instead of being an old lady at home? quick, someone call the pope.” Despite the low lights of your environment, Ellie recognizes the shade of dark red lipstick you’re wearing.

That’s the lipstick she was wearing when—

Her thoughts are interrupted by her app automatically jumping to the next story, which was of you toasting your half-empty plastic cup with others that were being held up by faceless hands with the caption, “liquor, i hardly know her.” Ellie couldn’t help but chuckle out loud at your stupid joke. She would have bet her Jeep, her whole stash of weed, her beloved switchblade, and her entire precious comic book collection that the drink you had in your hand was a vodka cranberry.

Your next Instagram story drops a cast steel anvil down Ellie’s stomach.

It was a shaky picture of Abby Anderson making a mockingly pouty face towards the camera, holding out a credit card in one of her hands. It looked as if she and you were sitting at the bar, waiting to be served by a bartender. Your caption read, “hey siri, how do you beat up a buff, jacked lesbian who lives at the gym and won’t stop paying for your drinks all night.”

Ellie notices that you’d tagged Abby’s Instagram handle on the side and she promptly taps on it with trembling fingers. She huffs at her phone when she’s brought to Abby’s profile and sees that it’s set to private. She falls back onto her pillow and sighs.

“Ellie!!” You yelled after her as she stomped out of the Bow and Arrow.

She said nothing as she exited the bar and veered left into an empty backstreet lit only by the moonlight and a dim streetlamp.

Ellie walked further into the alleyway until she was a safe distance from any passersby. She took out a metal tin from one of her jacket’s front pockets and pulled out a tightly-wrapped joint. She tucked it between her teeth as she reached into a front pocket in her jeans for a lighter, promptly lighting the tip of the joint. She inhaled for a few seconds, letting the drug seep throughout her enraged body, then released an exhale towards the starry night sky.

She heard the agitated clicking of high heels and glanced down towards the main street to inspect whoever was approaching her. You were rubbing your hands up and down your arms, your favourite black boots nearly skipping down the alleyway to desperately generate heat in the frigid, unforgiving December air. You followed the familiar scent of lavender-laced marijuana into the dark street, spotting Ellie smoking alone.

Ellie watched as your shivering figure walked towards her, your despondent eyes eventually reaching her furious green ones.

“Smoking one of my js without me?” You teased.

“Your js?” Ellie asked, chuckling despite herself.

“Well, it’s my recipe.” You said, yanking the joint from her fingertips to place it between your lips which were painted with a dark shade of red.

“Oh, please, all you do is add buds of crushed lavender into them.” Ellie scoffed as the tip of the joint lit up once more from you taking a hit of it.

“Lavender buds are a key ingredient to creating these primo joints. It’s an intricate part of the process; ergo it is a recipe.” You insisted after blowing the residual smoke to the side.

“Besides,” You added. “You talk a whole lot of smack for someone who seems to copy my recipe all the time now, both for her clients and for herself.”

Ellie would have usually bantered with a witty retort, but she instead settled for an indignant huff.

After a few more hits, you handed the joint back to her.

“You done?” She asked you.

“Mhmm.”

She nodded, putting out the joint on the wall she was leaning against and placing what was left of it back in her metal tin. You stared at her as she did this, noticing that she was purposely refusing to make eye contact with you.

“Els.” You said.

“Mm?”

“Show me your hand.” You sigh.

“No.”

“El, babe, come on.” You insisted.

She exhaled and relented when her cheeks blushed at the term of endearment, holding out her right hand to you.

You took it in between both of yours, attempting to examine it under the dull yellowish light of the streetlamp. Your fingertips softly brush against her knuckles.

“Okay, not so bruised thankfully.” You murmured. “Does it hurt?”

Ellie merely shrugged in response.

“Els…” You whined at her stubbornness.

“I’m fine.”

You stared at her serious expression, still unable to get her to look at you.

“You dummy.” You chuckled lightly.

Ellie huffed.

You stroked her hand a couple more times before lightly placing a kiss on her slightly injured knuckles.

Despite the frigid winter air, Ellie immediately felt every part of her go up in flames. The only chilly part of her body was her hand which you’d brushed your cold lips against just moments before.

“Here,” She said, pulling her hand away from you so she could shrug off Joel’s old motorcycle jacket from her shoulders and place it on yours. “Baby, you’re fucking freezing.”

“El—”

“You’re freezing.” She repeated.

You smiled slightly before caving in to say, “Maybe a little bit.” Ellie chuckled.

“Elliie…” You began. “You didn’t have to do all that—”

“I know.”

“But—”

“I know.”

You tried to decipher her unreadable expression, your heart ready to burst as it beat rapidly in your chest.

“Why, Ellie? Why’d you have to take it to that extreme?”

Ellie’s ocean-green eyes were fierce and resolved. She brings her mildly bruised hand up to your face to intimately caress your cheek.

“You know why.” She whispers, finally meeting your gaze.

“I—”

The memory of staring into your eyes causes Ellie’s own to shoot open.

She’s still in her room, laying on her bed all alone with her phone on her chest and guitar on her side. The images of you in the alleyway of the Bow and Arrow replay alongside those of you and Abby so boldly displayed on your Instagram story tonight.

Ellie remains so engrossed in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice all the hot tears rapidly streaming down her face. She grips her sheets and sighs.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” She whispers to no one.

Maybe she’ll forgive me one day.

author’s notes:

so sorry for taking so long to write this! life has been hectic and messy lately, plus y’all know i’m a bit insecure about writing ellie.

thank me by liking and reblogging this because tumblr is acting tf up on my laptop and i had to do the majority of this on my phone

adam's name originally was a reference to a background character in tlou2, but his last name is loosely inspired by some asshole dude i dated once back in college named adam (who i kind of also home-wrecked but i really don't regret doing so lol)

anyway, while you’re here, go check out the new smau series i’m working on called “almost like we knew” ♡︎

taglist: @lonelyfooryouonly, @elliesinterlude, @sawaagyapong, @peppesgirl, @iconsoft, @maybeidohaveadhd, @ellieswifee, @valiantllamapersonpony-blog, @nil-eena, @echostinn

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[lancerslover]

To Love, Honor, and Obey

Pairing: John F. Kennedy x Reader

Summary: In the late 1950s, your husband, Senator John F. Kennedy, brings you to dinner with his congressmen colleagues. When you start to tease him under the table, you quickly realize you may have bit off more than you can chew.

Further Information: 18+, includes smut, swearing, public humiliation, and maybe dubious consent

Word Count: 2.7k

When Jack had asked you to accompany him and his brother to a ritzy restaurant downtown to celebrate the bill he passed to increase the minimum wage, you’d eagerly accepted. As much as you cherished your peaceful nights alone with the baby, you’d been missing Jack a great deal. His long hours at the capitol building and regular trips back to Massachusetts in tandem with your new-mother exhaustion meant that, lately, the majority of your interactions consisted solely of you blinking suddenly and blearily awake in the evening to him bunching your nightgown skirt up into your armpits for a quick fuck before he, too, rolled over and passed out. When you woke back up in the morning, naked and sore, he was gone again.

That isn’t to say you disliked these little late-night rendezvous of yours, though. In fact, you had a particularly mouth-watering, albeit hazy, memory from the night just before he’d asked you to dinner—you’d been laying half-asleep on top of him, moaning languidly as you enjoyed the rhythmic jerk of his hips into yours, when suddenly he cupped your face in his big, calloused hand and said, “Look at me, honey,” then reached his climax at the exact moment the two of you locked eyes, rolling his head back and muffling a groan through clenched teeth. You figured it was the total, submissive surrender he saw in your woozy gaze, a look he knew only he would ever see, that really did it for him. These encounters were bound to result in another pregnancy soon, which was yet another reason for you to appreciate them. Jack’s menagerie of siblings loved to half-jokingly remind you that a Catholic marriage wasn’t truly successful until it produced at least five children.

But, regardless of the intermittent fun you and Jack still had, you’d been excited by the prospect of some long-overdue actual conversation between the two of you that this dinner could offer. But once two whole hours had passed after you sat down and you and Jack had hardly said more than a few sentences to each other, you realized how foolish you’d been to hope for anything more.

You were seated at a large booth in the back corner of the restaurant with Jack’s brother Bob, Bob’s wife Ethel, and a few other senators and their wives. As if that wasn’t already enough to steal Jack’s attention away, to your chagrin, your little section had seemed to transform into the social hub of D.C. almost as soon as you all arrived.

You didn’t think you would ever grow accustomed to how similar this supposed democratic utopian city could be to the average American high school—everyone knew each other, and everyone wanted to be seen rubbing elbows with the popular kids. Years ago, your husband had gladly assumed the role of D.C.’s reigning prom king (whether this was fortunate or unfortunate for you, you still weren’t sure), which meant that every five minutes or so, a new politician or CEO would materialize through the thick ring of cigar smoke surrounding your table and practically dive forward to shake Jack’s hand, effusively congratulating him on his new bill. Vice President Richard Nixon had actually pulled up a chair and sat down with you all for half an hour.

You were starting to feel sort of like a sulky child waiting for her father to finish mingling at a party—not only because you were more than ten years younger than your husband and probably more than twenty younger than his colleagues, but the constant whirl of booming voices together with the four-piece band blasting swing music from across the room was more than enough for you to quickly abandon any attempt to get a word in edgewise. For a while now, you’d been silently holding Jack’s hand in your lap and twiddling with his long fingers, praying that your constant touch would serve as a subconscious reminder that it was far past your bedtime. All you’d gotten from him so far, though, were the usual check-up glances he’d brush your way every so often, placating you for a brief moment with his gentle smirk. Despite your grievances, you always flashed him a good-humored smile in return. Above all, your appointed duty as Mrs. John F. Kennedy was to follow his lead and make him look good.

You finally reached your wit’s end, though, when Dean Martin (you weren’t fully certain why he was even in town) strolled up with this rosy-cheeked blonde on his arm. You hadn’t the faintest idea who the girl was—yet another of Dean’s extra-marital conquests, surely—but you certainly clocked how beautiful she was and how she couldn’t have been older than twenty. As she sauntered up to your table, you noticed how Jack raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat as if Dean was a waiter who had just arrived with a silver platter. You felt your fingers tighten around his hand.

The first thing the blonde did was, without so much as a glance in your direction, offer Jack her dainty little gloved hand. “Senator Kennedy,” she tittered, “how do you do? It’s such an honor to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” Then she blurted out a surprisingly topical and informed joke about certain dastardly Republican congressmen and their attempts to squash workers’ unions across the country. Like trained dogs, the table waited mid-motion for Jack to break into an approving smile before they all started to chuckle. Then Jack turned to Bob and, with a stream of cigar smoke shooting from his nose, said, “She’s quite the firecracker, eh?” Bob responded with a wolfish, droopy-eyed grin, and the girl let out a chirpy giggle.

You knew you couldn't expect a man to completely ignore such an attractive woman, especially a man with Jack’s appetite (once, at a dinner party a few months into your courtship, he had drunkenly informed you that he suffered horrible migraines whenever he ever went more than twenty-four hours without intercourse). But still, that didn’t mean you would sit idly by while his depraved mind began to wander.

Dean was in the middle of saying, “Jack, the missus looks dashing as always” and you were smiling graciously as, under the table, you made the admittedly desperate, split-second decision to get Jack’s attention by pulling the hem of your cocktail dress up over your knees.

When you placed his hand down on your thigh, covered now only by a thin stocking, you glanced up to see his ears shift backwards on his scalp in a slight, almost-undetectable expression of surprise. “I can’t believe my luck,” he was telling Dean, and then, without missing a beat, he turned to wink at you before hooking a finger under one of your garter belt slings and snapping it playfully against your skin, sending sparks up your leg.

This wasn’t the first time he’d touched you below the belt outside the privacy of your home. He was known to occasionally slip his hand up your dress in the back of a limousine or give your butt an appreciative pat while walking behind you at some social event. You would always gasp and squirm away, your cheeks pinching into a nervous smile. But, luckily for him, the toe-curling embarrassment that normally engulfed you at the mere thought of engaging in public sexual behavior felt strangely dull tonight, like the wipsy, half-formed thoughts you had just before you fell asleep—maybe this sudden shift was, as a matter of fact, a result of how deliriously tired you were.

While Jack continued to talk to Dean, you grabbed his wrist and tugged it a tiny bit further up your thigh. You watched his nostrils flare as if someone had just told him a joke he wasn’t sure he should laugh at.

Once his initial shock at your change of heart regarding public affection wore off, you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to keep moving his hand further and further up your leg. This would not only serve to keep his focus on you and you alone for the rest of the night, but it would ensure that this wearisome dinner wouldn’t go on for too much longer. You fully expected Jack to take you home within ten minutes of him first touching your leg so that he could properly satisfy his newly-stoked sexual hunger.

But then, your whole body twinged as, in one abrupt movement, he completely overrode your little plan and went to press his knuckle against the fabric covering your labia. Instinctively, you grabbed onto his bicep with the ferocity of someone trying to catch their balance before they fell.

“You alright there, Mrs. Kennedy?” Dean asked.

You snapped your head to look up at him. His bushy eyebrows hooked towards each other in concern.

“Oh,” you said, “yes….” Your forehead flared with heat as you tried to think of an excuse as to why you’d latched onto your husband so abrasively. The sizzling of Jack’s mischievous gaze into the side of your face certainly wasn’t helping. What in heaven’s name was he playing at? Rubbing your panties in the backseat of a car was one thing—but at a crowded restaurant? Right next to Bob and Ethel?

After just a beat too long, you finally decided to tell Dean, “I just—Jack and I just love this song.” Jaw clenched, you forced yourself to turn and beam up at your husband as the band floated through the opening notes of “I’ve Got a Crush on You.”

“Oh, we sure do,” Jack said emphatically, which was jarring when paired with the way he then tilted his head down at you like a professor who’d just caught his student in a fib. You were almost entirely certain the two of you had never before listened to this song together.

Jack was still boring into you with those intense, dark-sea eyes as he angled his knuckle up towards your clit and began rubbing up and down, up and down. Against your will, your stomach seized with pleasure, and you dug your nails into his arm.

By the grace of God, one of the other senators’ wives piped up then, keeping the conversation seamlessly flowing. “Donna and I saw Sinatra perform this song in Vegas,” she said. Once all eyes had swiveled over to her and the table began to discuss this revelation, Jack took the opportunity to lean clandestinely towards you.

“You know better than to start something you can’t finish, kid,” he murmured into your ear. You felt your spine lock up, an instinctive reaction to this particular dark and unpredictable tone of his. You forced yourself to take deep, slow breaths through your nose. Cigar smoke puffed against your cheek and billowed across your eyes as Jack continued, “Is this all because of her?”

You turned, the bridge of your nose skimming across his, in time to watch him cock his head in the direction of Dean’s date. You glanced over toward her, and you were mildly startled to find that she was looking right back at you. With a too-wide smile plastered on her face at whatever one of the other senators was saying, she looked quickly back and forth between you and Jack—at the way he loomed over you while you likely appeared oddly stiff and flustered-looking—before turning sharply away.

You lifted a hand and pressed the backsides of your trembling, manicured fingers against your cheek. As you’d suspected, your skin was burning to the touch and only blazing hotter as your thoughts began to run amok. The blonde couldn’t possibly suspect something was going on under the table, could she?

Meanwhile, Jack took your stupefied silence as a “yes” in response to his question and clicked his tongue in a quiet tsk-tsk. “I thought so,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t worry about other girls. You’re much prettier than she is.”

“Jack—” You were interrupted by the squeak that popped from your mouth as he increased his pressure on your clit. You clenched your legs around his forearm in a futile attempt to stop him.

“What?” he breathed, undeterred.

When you tried again to speak, your voice sounded small and distant under the sickening throbbing sensations that blared like alarm bells through your midsection. “You’re the devil.”

He gasped softly in mock outrage. “The devil?”

Despite it all, you couldn't help but let out a little wheezing laugh at your own melodrama. “Yes.”

He chuckled, too, and you thought he was about to say something else when one of his senator cronies said, “Isn’t that right, Jack?”

After searing you with a smoky look that clearly meant Don’t think I’m done with you yet, Jack leaned back to rejoin the conversation with startling ease. He puffed on his cigar and, with one relentless hand still tucked under your skirt, said, “Well, I wouldn’t blame Ives one bit for retiring after the year we’ve had.”

You started to wonder how the hell he had possibly been following the senators’ conversation while simultaneously whispering to you, but you didn’t have much time to ruminate; you could feel yourself growing more and more air-headed with each circle his knuckle made on your clit.

As Jack continued to talk, you were almost certain you saw the blonde’s curious eyes follow the length of his arm down to where it disappeared in your lap. A fresh wave of nauseating embarrassment spilled over you, and you were reminded of a particularly debauched dream you’d had a few months ago in which Jack brought you to one of his Senate hearings and instructed you to give him a blowjob while everyone watched. Strangely, you eagerly complied, gagging and sputtering while the old men around you whistled and cheered Jack on. You woke up feeling sick to your stomach, your heart racing, and yet, you also noticed that yours and Jack’s thighs had gotten all wet with your arousal during the night.

You felt your hips twitch with confused, guilty excitement, and you weren’t sure if it was because you were thinking about that dream or because you were now almost certain that the blonde knew exactly what Jack was doing to you down there. It occurred to you that she was likely jealous. She probably wished she had someone like Jack who would take such good care of her, someone so movie-star handsome, someone who could make her wake up in the morning, gasping, from a horrendously dirty wet dream.

Suddenly, you found yourself dangling right over the edge of orgasm.

As soon as you heard Jack stop talking again, you seized the chance to tug on his shoulder and whisper, “Jack, you can’t—I’m about to….” Apparently, you’d never quite left behind your tenure as a prim Catholic schoolgirl because you simply could not get yourself to say the word “come” in front of all these people, even if only Jack could hear it.

But before Jack could even react, Ethel poked her head out from around his shoulder like an adorable little gopher.

“Y/N,” she said, her mouth melting into a cartoonish, open-mouthed frown, “you don’t look too good, sweetheart.”

The muscles in your body flash-froze as all eyes, once again, turned on you. You knew the proper thing would be to respond somehow, but you kept your lips firmly sealed, paranoid that some kind of wanton moan would tumble out if you opened them. The big, hot water balloon in your lower stomach was stretching, getting ready to pop. Telepathically, you begged Jack, Please, please don’t make me come.

At the very last moment, as if he’d been listening to every single one of your thoughts, Jack yanked his hand away. Eyes fluttering, you planted both hands on the cushion underneath you to steady yourself, feeling suddenly like you’d just finished a sprint. Thankfully, you heard Jack take all the attention off of you as he announced to everyone, “I think Mrs. Kennedy and I are both a little tired. It’s about time for us to head home.”

[seat-safety-switch]

I have a filthy confession to make. I still love Volkswagens. No, not the current ones, with their humming-coughdrop efficiency and Teutonic stereos made entirely of hovering touchscreens that you can't get rid of even when you go to sleep at night. No, I mean the real shit: water-cooled cars from the 80s and 90s.

Yeah, I hear you air-cooled folks in the background screaming at me about how spending ten thousand dollars for approximately 36 horsepower is a way more fun way to exist. To you, I have no polite reply. You have gone so far down the rabbit hole (get it?) that there is simply nothing that can be done to rehabilitate you into regular society. For the rest of us, I think we can all acknowledge that the Mk3 GTI is underrated.

Sure, when they were new, and even when they were a little bit old, nobody liked the Mk3. You've got the Mk2, which is fun and zingy, and the Mk4, which is luxurious and fast. The Mk3 is... neither of those things. So everyone threw them in the bin as soon as they could, and went to go buy Audi Allroads instead. Joke's on you, suckers. You accidentally made those shitboxes into rare collectibles and I hope the exploding-heater-core coolant burns to your face and genitals heal quickly.

Thing is, there's just something about these terrible cars. Maybe it's because they're boxy. Possibly it's because I have a compulsive hoarding behaviour that makes me want to rescue unloved vehicles from oblivion. Most likely, though, it's because I still harbour a delusional fantasy that it's possible to buy a car – any car – for under one thousand fucking dollars, and surely these hated shitbaskets must be somewhere near the bottom of Kelley Blue Book value.

For me, the disease is so bad that I'll sometimes drive past farmer's fields in the most racist part of the outskirts of my city. I hope that they have an old Mk3 GTI just sitting there, up on blocks. That there's some kind of combination of honeyed words, fast-cash-flashes, and freshly-deceased owners that will let me escape with a five hundred dollar one. And then, I will finally be able to live my fantasy of owning and operating a car I didn't want twenty years ago.

I'm sure you feel the same way about the Mk3 GTI, too. If you don't, maybe you should go take a look at one. Then tell me which farmer's field it's in and if his widow is willing to accept cash, or if she would strongly prefer Venmo.

[writemekpop]

I Kissed the President (Part 2) | Jung Jaehyun

Summary: You're an undercover journalist digging for dirt on billionaire Jung Jaehyun. You'd do anything to get the story. Even fuck him... But what happens when he finds out you're lying?

Genre: Smut, angst, drama

Word Count: 1.5k

Part 1 | Part 2 ❤️ | Part 3

The idea of seeing you again makes Jaehyun feel a little hot. And not just in a good way. Kind of sweaty. Nervous, almost. 

You vowed to never go back to Jaehyun – but your editor said that if you couldn’t get this story, you ‘shouldn’t come back at all’.

So, three nights later, you go back to Jaehyun’s house. You’re wearing an outrageous black lace dress that ‘highlights your boobs’ (in Giselle’s words). 

A full-on limousine idles in front of Jaehyun’s house. 

Jaehyun slouches stylishly in the back seat, offering you a glass of champagne. “More tea, vicar?” 

You can’t stop smiling.

Jaehyun’s wealth should disgust you, but it secretly impresses you. He looks offensively good in a black three-piece suit, his fringe falling into his forehead. 

He treats you to a five-course meal in a skyscraper. The restaurant… is empty. 

“I asked them to keep our little date quiet,” Jaehyun murmurs. “Journalists, am I right?” 

You stifle a gasp. If only he knew.

A while later, you are in a designer clothing shop, resting your heads on your elbows. Your eyes burn into each other’s. 

A gorgeous three thousand dollar Chanel dress lies between you – one that you made the mistake of glancing at. 

“Get me to change my mind on one of my policies and the dress is yours,” he challenges. 

“Easy,” you say. “Stop cutting immigration. Instead, let qualified people from abroad enter the country. The economy will boom.”

Jaehyun clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well… I hadn’t thought of that.” He eyes the dress. “If I didn’t know how sexy you would look in this dress, I would be annoyed. It is very expensive.” 

Later, you and Jaehyun walk arm in arm along the banks of the Han River. Dangerously, the dress makes you feel like you are Asha… like you could do anything. 

Jaehyun smiles arrogantly down at you. “Did my date impress you?” He sighs. “Why even ask? Of course, you’re impressed.” 

You curl your lip. “You’re a little rich boy who showered his family’s money on me. That doesn’t take talent.” 

His face hardens. “Stop calling me that.”

“What?” you say.

“A rich boy. I’m not who you think I am.” His voice drops. “My father, who you love talking about, isn’t even my father.”

Your heart speeds up. This is the story you’ve been looking for. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, keeping your voice steady.

Jaehyun continues, “I’m an orphan. He picked me up from the streets when I was ten. Trust me, if he had any child of his own, they would be running the party.”   

You gasp.

He smiles bitterly. “Poverty? I know it.” 

You should be thrilled – this is enough to bring Jaehyun’s campaign down. But instead, all you want is for that pained look to leave his eyes. 

Just then, a strange memory surfaces in your mind. You frown. 

Jaehyun smiles sadly. “Now you remember.”  

And then it comes back to you. Almost twenty years ago, your mum sent you to the laundrette… when you saw a boy with large brown eyes and dimples, sitting on a huge box of Ultra Clean laundry detergent, grinning at you. You gave him your last coin.  

In delight, you clasp the sides of Jaehyun’s face, beaming up at him. You always wondered what that boy would be like when he grew up… how handsome he would be. You could barely believe that the boy was Jaehyun.

Jaehyun kisses you. And you like it. Far too much. You kiss him back, pulling his body as close to you as is humanly possible. He feels delicious against you. You feel his hardness against every inch of your skin. 

You try to see him as the spoilt airhead the way you used to. You try to stop yourself from caring about him. But you fail – Jaehyun has changed for you. Or maybe, you two were never that different in the first place.  

You pull away…

Removed from the intoxicating influence of his lips, you are confused. Jaehyun, if he likes you at all, does not like you. He likes Asha. 

The thought makes you stiffen. 

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you walk away, hoping the chill night air will bring you clarity. 

“Asha,” he calls. “Leaving so soon? That’s classy.”

But his joke does not make you laugh. You know where you have to go. 

---

The office of the Daily Herald is empty. 

Every time you try to write the news story that will bring Jaehyun’s campaign down, you get distracted. 

You see Jaehyun’s blazing eyes as he confessed to you. You feel his lips on your lips. You remember the grin of the boy at the laundrette so many years ago. And the words won’t come. 

You take a deep breath. This article will save your career. As for you and Jaehyun… well, there is no you and Jaehyun. 

You plug in your headphones and, though your stomach is twisting, you begin to write. 

Jaehyun Jung is the darling of the people. However, even he has his share of dirty secrets…

When you are done, you feel disgusted by your article. It’s a cheap shot. You’re not attacking Jaehyun’s policies – you’re attacking him for being working class. And, a little voice says, you’re hurting him. 

You decide that you will never publish this article. If you lose your job, so be it. 

When you see the time, you freak out. You need to get home. 

---

The next morning, you are awoken by a rapid pinging noise. 

You have 7 missed calls from Giselle, followed by a message that says, TURN ON THE TV. 

…is not, in fact, former President Jung’s son…

…orphan, picked up off the street…

…election campaign thrown off the rails… 

The newsreader lifts up a copy of the Daily Herald – with your article front and centre. 

How did they get that? You never submitted the article! You look for your laptop… then realise that you left it in the office last night. 

You feel sick. 

You have only one message from Jaehyun.

‘I trusted you.’ 

—

Read Part 3 here! 💋

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[deathnguts]

This might be crazy but I think that Rabastan and Regulus’s first massive fight that set the tone for the rest of their fights as a couple was because of Bartylus. Hear me out.

So, rabastan is way older than regulus we’ve already been over this. When regulus was five years old Rabastan was graduating hogwarts, or high school if you wanna view no magic AU which we do a lot. Rabastan was also a rebellious lad who did what he wanted especially in his teens, the time when he wasn’t close with regulus yet beyond like just being regulus’ favorite person that wasn’t Sirius yknow. Speeding this up, Rabastan did not save himself for marriage like he was supposed to via traditional marriage rules he was raised with. Rabastan was 100% sexually active in his teens and his twenties because why wouldn’t he be? It’s not like anyone got pregnant why does it matter? He didn’t love regulus yet so it’s not cheating, who cares?

Fast forward to when regulus is like fifteen, him and Rabastan consider themselves a couple now just counting down the days until Regulus is legal so they can get married and oops Rabastan lets it slip that he’s not a virgin. He didn’t think it mattered and he doesn’t like lying to Regulus so he didn’t think to hold it back or keep it a shameful secret. Regulus doenst like hiding things or keeping secrets from Rabastan either so he says he isn’t either pretty easily. Suddenly Rabastan cares a little, because what the fuck did you just say? He wants details, he wants names, he wants to know what there is to know and regulus is affronted because why does it matter you said it doesn’t matter! Rabastan wants to know who and regulus says he’ll only tell if Rabastan says who his first was and Rabastan says he doesn’t know because he doesn’t it was a one night stand he doesn’t even remember the name of it didn’t matter and that breaks Regulus’s heart a little but because isn’t this supposed to be sacred and that makes Rabastan even madder because if it’s so sacred why’d you do it with someone else?! Rabastan says it’s not fair because he was a different person ten years ago, Regulus says that’s not fair because why is Rabastan allowed to just break the rules he has to follow just because he’s older, just because he was born a man.

Again, speeding it up, they give each other the silent treatment for a while. It’s easy to do with regulus in school, they just don’t write. It’s been a few months and rabastan is starting to think the fight was actually stupid because he misses regulus and he’s willing to get over it in a second if they’ll just talk again so he goes to pick regulus up from the station with that sort of thinking and- who is that.

Barty’s always been touchy with regulus, he’s always been affectionate and open with him even when they’re not romantically interested in one another because the Bartylus bond persists in every universe. They’re just close beyond belief so it’s hard not show that. Rabastan has never seen it before because well barty really only sees regulus at school while Rabastan only sees him out of it. Rabastan hates it. He hates it a lot. Is he supposed to just be fine with another man cradling his wife (not yet) like he owns her?! And barty isn’t like subtle at all, he’s like waist grabbing and burying his face in regulus’ neck, it’s a hard watch for sure.

So naturally Rabastan forgets he wasn’t angry anymore and the fight starts again immediately. Who is that? What just because you’re not a virgin you’re just close with every guy you see now? Regulus is appalled, he’s my best fucking friend if anyone’s a fucking whore it’s you you don’t even remember how many people you’ve slept with- gab gab gab they fight a lot, truth slips out, regulus admits his first time was with Barty because they’re just Like That but not like that, rabastan admits has really only slept with people he doesn’t care about before which is why he’s upset regulus has only slept with one person and he cares about them a lot and it’s not him. They’re still kinda mad because you can’t just undo anything they said or did, Rabastan asks for regulus to stop talking to Barty and regulus says no. Rabastan rolls his eyes and regulus stiffens up, he says he needs a drink and regulus says he’ll pour it and Rabastan says No I need a drink away from you and regulus says please don’t and there’s an anger in the room but it settled like a fog and it feels so thick it’s like they can’t move through it and regulus gets on his tip toes to kiss Rabastan, just missing his lips because he’s not quite tall enough even at his tallest and Rabastan sort of stews with that for a moment before bending down a little so they can kiss properly. They’re not at the hate fuck point in their relationship yet, they definitely want they’re first time together to be softer than that, but you can see the seeds of that future planted here because there’s definitely over the clothes stuff happening within the next two hours of this kiss.

But yeah, both Barty and Rabastan’s life before he loved regulus remain sore subjects for the rest of time, and are both brought up in every fight when they’re angry enough.