#god i hate these two *explodes them*

[crows-mask]

velvet room attendant shuake 🦋

[dirt-str1der]

Self shipping is always the morally correct thing to do

[lemonteaforbo]

HELLO, GUYS WITH BLUE EYES, GLASSES AND THAT CAN PLAY THE GUITAR. I WILL HYPERFIXATE ON YOU SO HARD.

[cl-0v3r]

Mel is alive, but at what cost

Mel was nearly killed TWICE, her mother began being a struggle, she'd been thrown aside and trying her best to stop her, her boyfriend is not doing well, neither is anyone else (can't blame them) and the fact that she hadn't cried or spoke much about this situation to anyone a single time?? She IS upset about every single thing, yet she stays strong and enduring every bit of torture. The most she did was tell Jayce that Ambessa put her palm on the table, and let him know that she is going to push for hextech. That's it, nothing remotely related to her feelings.

The fact that she was constantly looking at Caitlyn, being able to understand her grief and knew she was in pain?? Mel knows this feeling. She'd went through it.

And in the end SHE has to pay the price of her mothers incompetence.

The intro is very much foreshadowing, we know the hands represent black rose/LeBlanc.

This is what happens in act one, she gets kidnapped by them. The lyrics do correspond to the characters as well (not just Mel, everyone.)

"Tell you you're the greatest" plays as a petal of the black rose floats down the screen, I think it adds significance to the power this organization holds, possibly the Medardas greatest foe.

"But once you turn, they hate us" both Ambessa and Mel were present in this line, I think its foreshadowing for when Ambessa switches up for whatever reason and goes against both Piltover AND Zaun. And Mel WILL go through change as well, a change that could hurt her relationship with others, and receive interest from others too.

"They hate us" could be read individually too, I feel like its a sort of "realization" ?? Perhaps Ambessa WASN'T the one that switched up, maybe Piltover switched up on them, and maybe Mel JUST got out of wherever she's taken to, and saw the mess Ambessa had done to her city??

I think this represents ACT TWO.

The hands pull away and it sort of looks like Mel is fighting back, a "get away from me" type of scream. you know what this reminds me of??

Don't mind me just pushing my Jinx/powder-Mel parallel agenda

Here is when i think Mel truly learns about LeBlanc/BR, she curiously and slowly goes to grab the rose, she learns about the history between her Mother and them, Kinos death, and most of all, learns about HERSELF. The lyrics speak otherwise.

"Pray away, I swear

I'll never be a saint, no way"

This feels like a parallel to caitlyn of sorts if that makes sense. Caitlyn had done everything to try and stop the council from attacking the Undercity, she kept her mouth shut when Jayce asked about Jinxs grenade, she was willing to protect Vi and the undercity, but how many times has she been tossed around? She'd been burned, exploded, kidnapped (god knows what happened during that time) and hit in the face by the same person, her MOTHER died because of the same person. She has every right to go insane. And she is hunting ONE person, which is Jinx. Although she is harming the people around her along the way.

What if Mel goes through a similar situation? Her mother pushed for war in her city, she dragged the enemy along with her even if she didn't mean to, she manipulated everyone around her INCLUDING Jayce, she LITERALLY got Mel hurt from the chembarons attack and killed so many people during a MEMORIAL to get her hextech weapons, Elora is most likely DEAD, not to mention whatever happened in the past between them. And the thing is, this will NEVER end throughout the entire season.

And what if she learns what she is? That she's 'blessed' by Kindred? The fact that the wolf is quite literally in her blood?

I feel like the "ill never be a saint, no way" also sort of indicates Mel will realize she'll never be able to push for peace and mercy like she always hoped for no matter what, and she comes to accept that as much as it hurts. But not like how ambessa accepted the wolf, but she sort of realizes she needs to push a little violence, towards nobody but the one and only, Ambessa "fine, if you want me to be like you, I guess I'll be like you towards YOU." Type of acceptance.

I think its also related to Mels new outfit too, she's dressed like her mother, in red and all of that. I will still stand by the idea that she has plans to decieve, but she will do something she doesn't want to do.

Mel was left with no choice, that lyric sounds like realization, acceptance, but also like a plea at the same time, an "I'll never be who I wanted to be" because in the end, she's still a Medarda, she's still her mothers daughter, she still has violence in her veins, she will never not suffer from the weight her name holds, and she will never escape it either, its like a shadow.

The Characters won't be themselves at their core this season. And those vital parts of their characters that represent them are no longer there in the intro, they all have given up what makes them, THEM design wise. (e.g.) Vi without her tattoo, Viktor hiding his identity with the mask. And the thing is, they did that to themselves because they do self-harm, they're changing themselves because THEY want to, they're forcing themselves to do that, they think they're undeserving and they're erasing their past selves.

But Mel? Mel doesn't have her gold accessories, Jewelry, or her Armor, she'd been stripped bare and hidden away because of the brutality of her name. She pays the price her mother brought to HER city. She's forced to change herself against her will, because nobody is giving her a chance to push for her ideals.

This entire theory never ends, and with all of this? I kinda do see Mel actually committing Matricide, it lifts the "Ambessa will die" theory further.

[a-silent-observer]

Ohhhhhhh noooooooooooo when will it end for real

[creative-crybaby]

Trifle

PAIRING: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

GENRE: crack? crack. | smut (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: fingering, oral (m receiving), praise kink, dacryphilia (?), cum eating, squirting

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

SUMMARY: Two things can be true at the same time. Does Gojo make you want to hit him upside the head with a frying pan, should his Infinity allow it? Yes. Does he also know how to make your ovaries explode with his fingers alone? Also yes.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Heeeeyyyy~ yes it's been several months without a fic and this comes out under 2k words buuuuuutttt~ u get bitchass!Gojo (we love him)

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

You’re going to kill him. 

He’s a walking, talking headache. Questioning your teaching methods for your students, eating your sweets even though you’ve labelled them (it’s right there!), swooping into your missions like he’s saving the day. Those are just a few of the many examples, but he does it all on purpose, you’re sure of it. 

So to be sitting between his long legs with his slender fingers knuckle-deep into your sopping cunt feels like a blow to your integrity and pride. 

Especially since he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“So,” Gojo drawls, pausing his ministrations between your trembling thighs, “how many orgasms was that?”

Your face is boiling. From rage or embarrassment, you can’t decide. “Fuck you.”

The sorcerer hums at your crude remark before slipping his digits out of your pussy, holding his hand a foot away from your face to catch your essence blanketing his skin. 

“Patience, patience.” His easy-going tone makes you want to jab your elbow into his stomach. “Jeez, someone’s eager. You finally warming up to me, Princess?”

And that damn nickname. Either Gojo genuinely doesn’t know how much you hate it, or he’s just trying to push your buttons some more. With the clueless grins he’d offer as he’d call you that, you’d assume the former. But with his explanation for calling you that being that you always stick your nose up at him, you don’t think he deserves any benefit of the doubt. 

You hate that nickname, yet you find yourself clenching around nothing just from hearing those familiar syllables. 

His first question came out like he was asking for the time, yet with the number of times he’s made you see galaxies, you ought to be grateful that his tone holds no cockiness. No, actually, you might prefer that instead—how dare he handle this victory with grace and nonchalance?

“This doesn’t even make us friends,” you manage to stammer through gritted teeth. Your glare remains on his hand, still drenched before you, though your frustration lies more down south than anywhere else. 

You can hear the taunting frown in the sorcerer’s voice. “Guess you won’t care for this anymore, then.”

His arm, responsible for putting you in your puddle-like state, slowly retracts, and you can feel the sorcerer take his time raising from his seated position. 

Now he’s finally giving you the space you always wanted from him, yet you surprise yourself by grabbing him by the wrist. You let go as soon as you recognize your action, but the deed has already been done. 

An overly enthusiastic gasp. “You do like me!”

“Oh, my God—If I say yes, will you just finish the job already?” you groan. 

Gojo plops back to his seating position behind you, nestling his chin onto your shoulder as he teases his hand to return between your thighs. His warm breath fans your cheek while his lips graze your earlobe. Miniscule actions that have your body heating up. Intentional on his part, most likely, though you refuse to give him any more ammo against you. 

A heavy sigh. The feigned disappointment in his tone has your brows furrowing so intensely that you worry you might pop a vein. 

“No gratitude for the hand that feeds you, huh?” The special-grade sorcerer nuzzles into your neck, his woe-is-me attitude soon replaced with a blinding grin and boyish giggle. “Oh, but you know I can’t be mad at you for long!”

Long and slender fingers bury themselves in your weeping cunt before you process his mood swings. A trembling moan slips from your mouth as his skilled ministrations resume, your sweet spot welcoming the familiar touch. His speed and rhythm return as if he never paused, further turning your brain to mush as your thighs tremble. Gojo chuckles childishly once more, the charming melody syncing with the embarrassingly loud squelching of your soaking pussy. 

Multiple orgasms later, and you ask for more. The heat from the situation must be melting your sense of reason because you can’t tell if you’re greedy or just plain stupid. 

“You crying?” Gojo’s voice carries its usual teasing lilt, the one he has specifically for you. You don’t even realize how the fresh tears glaze your vision—as if he didn’t already have enough fuel for the fire.

But you bite your tongue. You bite your tongue because there’s no convincing anyone that he’s crazy and seeing things and the last thing you need is for him to stall some more when you’re already sososo close to the edge.

A slight change in angle. It does the trick, his fingers still bullying that one spot while his palm brushes against your throbbing clit with just as much vigour. Your body tenses, a choked sob escaping your glossy lips as your orgasm hits you like a tsunami. Warm liquid follows soon after, the blue-eyed sorcerer’s movements refusing to halt and making lewd splashing sounds in the process. 

Even once everything simmers down, the impact decides to remain a bit longer. With a heaving chest and stuttering hips, the room stops spinning, slowly but surely.

A low whistle. “If you had to pee, you could have just said so.”

“Why are you like this?”

Gojo hums before slipping his fingers out of your pussy, earning him a slightly pained whimper from you. He stands back up as you wipe away the evidence of your crying, peering up at him when his shadow blankets you. His towering frame never fails to catch you off-guard, but what currently has your attention is the Special Grade sorcerer sucking his digits clean of your juices, a satisfied mewl coming straight from his throat.

“Welp,” he stretches his arms above his head, “we still have a bit of time left before we have that meeting with good ol’ Principal Yaga, so,” the sound of a zipper reaches your ears, and it's only a few seconds later that he pulls out his cock—long, stiff and painfully ready, “why not return the favour?” 

You’re too fucked out to argue against him. That’s the reasoning you’d think of using should he confront you about your willingness to comply. You can’t help it if you’re losing the staring contest against his cock, saliva pooling on your tongue as he taps his vermillion tip against your cheek.

Your lips part as your eyes flutter closed, unable to bear to look at the Special Grade sorcerer as you take him down your throat, inch by inch. The gagging sound that erupts from your throat halfway through makes your brows furrow, and you can only hope the man above you doesn’t comment. With clenched fists sitting on your lap, you further shield your sight with screwed-shut lids as you push yourself to take more, using your tongue for good measure.

A shuddered sigh leaves Gojo’s soft lips when you tease one of his veins. “That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You moan in response, feeling bold enough to create a steady pace to bob your head. Whatever you couldn’t reach, your hand took care of, a part of your brain urging you to squeeze him just a bit harder. His responses only grow louder, his groaning and panting setting your face on fire.

“You’re so good at this,” he rasps, his large hand finding the top of your head. Despite his gentle touch, you furrow your brows at the contact. “Too good…” You don’t expect him to slip himself out of your mouth, holding his base away from your mouth and making you finally look up at him. Gojo tilts his head to the side. “You’ve done this before?”

You'd have thought he was teasing if it weren’t for the pout on his lips. You look at him for a moment with an incredulous expression.

“What are you talking about?” You swat his hand out of your hair. “You seriously think being with anyone outside our line of work would be easy?” The male sorcerer’s gaze carries hope at your words, a noticeable shine in those cerulean blues that make your heart stutter. Unsure of what to do next, you continue the lost momentum by pumping his pulsing cock in your hand. “I’m stuck with you, Gojo.”

You figure his shuddered gasp is from your returning touch, especially with the combination of pinched brows, quivering lips and heavy blush on his cheeks and ears. But his large hand on top of yours–the one doing all the work–tells another story.

“You really do like me, Princess!” The sorcerer exclaims, his voice wavering halfway. 

At this point, you don’t care to dissect whether or not he’s pushing your buttons. Even at a time like this….

“I meant I’m settling for you,” you grumble, ignoring how his hand practically devours yours. You manage to retract your hold from his. “Don’t make me bite you.”

Gojo giggles at your threat, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth when you plop his dick back in your mouth. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Without warning, you graze his shaft with your teeth the more you take him in your mouth. Not enough to hurt, but enough to send a message, if your irritated expression wasn’t already doing the job. 

Although, you suppose it is your fault for not taking him seriously either. Your actions earn you a whimper from the Special Grade sorcerer. Not a second later, he has his head thrown back as he pours his load down your throat. Your eyes widen at the overpowering taste, doing what you can to swallow every drop without choking. Even through his orgasm, you find yourself thinking about how he ought to cut down on the sweets. 

You’re quick to pull back for air once Gojo comes down from his high, sputtering in your hand as he sighs happily. 

“Told ya,” he muses, tucking himself back in. You wipe your mouth, glaring at him from your spot on the floor. 

“Whatever,” you grunt, putting your clothes back on before attempting to stand. If he notices your legs still wobbling, he thankfully doesn’t comment. “Let’s just hurry and get to that meeting before Yaga gets mad.”

Gojo hums with a tilt of his head as he watches you dusting off your pants.

“Oh, yeah!” He drops his fist into his palm. You throw a wary look his way when he grins. “We’ve been late this whole time, actually.”

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[froggiewrites]

i read every single one of your works in one sitting and oh my god. your mind. your words. you're easily one of the best writers on this hellsite. it should be a crime you don't have more followers because your writing is criminally underrated

i saw you were taking requests and i don't want anything too specific but there isn't that much ace content and i really miss my man. a bit of hurt/comfort bc i love pain and then kissing it better

i was thinking something along the line of your Follow Through work (sorry if it feels repetitive but i live for this type ace content) but really I'll be happy with whatever you put out just have fun and go to town with it <3

Ahhh thank you so much this is so sweet 😭😭 I only started posting really recently so receiving sweet messages like this feels so unreal honestly, it just makes my heart so full. I loved writing this, I always love writing sweet stuff for Ace, so thank you for giving me an excuse to write something in this vein again! I hope you like it 💙

Blinders On

Pairing: Ace x Reader

SFW

Summary: You're in love with Ace. Everybody seems to know this but him. Warnings: Fluff, Miscommunication, A Little Self Loathing, Very Little Hurt/Lots of Comfort Word Count: 2.2k

You really can’t tell if Ace is politely rejecting you, or if he simply doesn’t understand your advances. You’re being terribly obvious, enough so that the rest of the ship (and probably the entire rest of the fleet) are well aware, teasing you for it at any given opportunity. If you have to hear one more man making obnoxious smooching noises whenever you two walk past you’re going to throttle someone.

“It’s honestly getting pathetic at this point.”

“Yeah, it hurts to see someone put their pride on the line like this with no reward in sight. Bring a tear to my eye, really.”

Their voices are teasing, not cruel, but your shoulders tense anyway. You hate feeling pathetic. If he just turned you down, you would be more than willing to just lick your wounds and move on, no matter how hard it hurt. But he never did. He never pulled away, or pushed you further from him. He just never pulled you closer, either. You were left in limbo, treading the line between friend and lover, never crossing to either side.

“What’s got you frowning like that?” You jump when you feel two fingers at the edges of your lips, gently forcing them into a smile. Ace is in front of you, nearly nose to nose, and you can see the candlelight dancing in his eyes and painting his cheeks a gentle orange. He looks beautiful, as always, as he grins at you. “That’s better. Now you try again without my help.”

You force your mouth into a smile despite yourself.

“There we go.” He laughs quietly, and you can feel his warm breath on your face. He’s horribly, unbearably close, close enough that you would barely have to move to feel his lips against yours. The urge is overwhelming, but you can’t let yourself, so you scoot back slightly, smile growing a bit shakier.

He frowns a bit, something unnamed flashing in his eyes, before he leans a little further back as well. “Care to share what made you so upset? You were glaring a hole into the table.”

“Oh it’s…it’s nothing big. Don’t worry about it.” You frankly would rather throw yourself overboard than look Ace in the eye that you were sitting here pathetically pining over him.

He frowns deeper. “You know you can always share with me, right? I’m a good listener, I swear.” A mocking laugh explodes behind him from a nearby eavesdropper, and he leans forward before muttering, “I’m good at listening to you, at least.”

Your cheeks heat. You don’t want to embarrass yourself like this, but he’s looking at you with those sweet puppy dog eyes, and maybe this could be a chance for you to finally figure out how he feels about you. “Well…it’s just…” your eyes slide to the several crewmates visibly listening in. “Can we talk in private?”

“Of course!” He’s on his feet instantly, offering you his hand to help you up. He pulls you up as though you weigh nothing, and while that makes your stomach flutter a bit, it’s nothing compared to the way he keeps a hold on your hand while leading you away. You can feel the heat radiating from him, every callus on his hand, the way his fingers lightly rub against the back of your hand. It takes all of your self control not to melt.

He leads you to his room, leading to wolf whistles from some passersby, and you internally groan at all of the comments you’re going to get after this. But he gently sets you on his bed before kicking off his boots and sitting next to you, on his knees, looking at you expectantly. “Is this good?”

“Yeah, thanks, Ace.” He gives a blinding smile at that, terribly pleased to have helped. “So I’ve been dealing with…an issue, lately.”

He nods, urging you onward.

“So there’s this guy…”

He winces, the expression so quick you almost miss it. 

“And I’ve been trying to figure out how he feels about me.” You curl in on yourself a little tighter. “But I genuinely can’t tell if he’s noticed how I feel and he just doesn’t…feel the same, or if he somehow doesn’t know.” This is terrifying, laying it all bare, but if it leaves a chance for something else, something better, isn’t it worth it to be brave?

But Ace remains silent. His face is frozen halfway between shock and despair, staring at you with wide eyes. You blink at him, confused, and gently reach forward to take his hand. “Ace?”

He flinches when you touch him. “Ah! Um, sorry. Advice. You wanted advice.”

“If you’re willing? You don’t have to.”

“No, I–I can.” He seems flustered, but you can’t really tell which part of this shook him. You try to brace yourself for oncoming rejection, just in case. “...You really don’t know if he feels the same?”

“I have absolutely no idea. And nobody else I’ve asked does, either.”

Another flash of hurt, the frown of a kicked puppy. “You went to other people before me?”

You rush to correct. “They came to me. I think they felt bad for me, honestly. The entire ship has noticed and they can’t tell if he likes me either, and a lot of people have been making fun of me about it. So a few people asked me if I was alright.”

He furrows his brow. “People have been making fun of you? Who?”

“Almost everyone, really. You didn’t notice?”

“No, I didn’t.” His expression shifts to something close to guilt. “How long has this been going on?”

“About…a year or so?”

“You only joined the crew a little more than a year ago.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” You can’t keep the exhaustion from your tone. You want to say it hasn’t taken a toll on you, that you let it roll off your back, but the weight has been resting on your shoulders, dragging you further and further down. It’s only a matter of time before you snap entirely. “It’s…it’s a bit much, sometimes. But the only way to get them to stop is to stop trying to get him to notice me, and if I stop that he never will. And I think he’s worth all of it, really.”

“Hm. I’m…sure he is.” You can hear the sting in his voice, like cold water on an open wound. “He has to be, for you to want him so badly.”

“He’s the best man I’ve ever met.” You can’t keep the affection from your voice, or the warmth from your cheeks as you shyly peer at Ace through your lashes. You can’t place the faraway look in his eyes, hazy and unfocused.

“He better be.” He clenches his jaw briefly before relaxing it, closing his eyes and shutting you out. You see his fingers digging into his thighs as he turns away from you and takes a deep breath. “You should just tell him, I’m sure he’ll reciprocate. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t.” His voice is strained, sounding like there’s an unshakable weight on his chest.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it. You should tell that bastard how you feel.”

“Bastard?”

You can see every muscle in his back tense as he continues to face away from you. “Did I say bastard? I meant lucky bastard.”

“It…doesn’t sound like you did.”

“How could he be anything less than lucky, to have someone like you?”

He really isn’t getting it. Even now, he just doesn’t fucking get it. “Are you mad at me, Ace? Or him, I guess?”

“I’m not mad,” he snaps, unconvincingly. “I’m not…I’m not upset. It would be ridiculous for me to be upset, I have no reason to be. Not with you, or with whoever it is. That would be silly. And I’m not. Silly.”

“...Right.”

Are you going to have to spell this out for him?

“And since I’m so definitely not-at-all mad, can I know who it is? So I know who to congratulate later.”

You sigh. “You really have no idea?”

“...I think I might have one.”

You lean forward a bit, trying to angle around him to look him in the eye, but you accidentally brush your chest with his back and he jumps, scrambling away before turning around to face you. “Who do you think it is, Ace?”

“Is it Marco?”

What?

“What?”

“Is it…is it not Marco?” He furrows his brow.

“I–no. It’s not Marco.”

“Thatch then?”

“No! Oh my god.”

“Izou? Or–”

“It’s you, Ace!”

His eyes go wide and he freezes. “It’s…me?”

“Yes.”

He absolutely lights up like a firework with the biggest, most sincere grin you’ve ever seen. “It’s me?” He leans forward, close enough that you can see every fleck of color in his dark eyes. “It’s me? Really? You mean it?”

“Who else could it possibly be?” You can’t keep the hint of laughter out of your voice at the idea you could love anybody but Ace, as though any man you had ever met could beat him for best. 

Before you know it, his arms are around you, his comforting weight pressing you into the bed beneath you. “I didn’t think it could ever be me.”

Your arms wrap around him in turn, pulling his head into your neck as he presses his nose into you. “Why couldn’t it be you? You’re amazing, Ace.”

“I can’t believe you believe that.” His voice is soft as he pulls himself apart for a second, allows himself to fall into your embrace and forget the world. “I didn’t think you could want me. I already didn’t get how you could like me, let alone more. You’re so…everything and I’m so…me.”

“I don’t think there’s anything in the world better to be than you.”

There’s a wetness pressing into your neck, but you don’t comment. “No one has ever said that to me before. I don’t…I don’t understand how I tricked you, but–”

“Portgas D Ace. You didn’t trick me. I just saw you for who you were, and I loved you because of it. Not in spite of it, not because I somehow didn’t see it. Because you’re you, and I don’t know what could be better than that.”

“Almost anything else?” He mutters it weakly. “I really hoped you would…would think about me like I think about you. I just didn’t think it was possible. Was it really that obvious?”

“Every single person on this ship knew before you did. Someone was making fun of me for it at breakfast, directly in front of you, and you still didn’t notice. It was really just because you didn’t think I could like you?”

“It genuinely didn’t seem like a possibility to me. I figured I was just going to be pining after you for the rest of my life, y’know? Have to see you find someone else as wonderful as you are and run off together, and pretend I was happy for you. Which I sort of would be, I guess. I want you to be happy. And I didn’t think I could do that for you.” He pulls out of your neck, and you can see his eyes are glistening, a few stray tears making their way down his freckled cheeks. He looks you in the eye, while his own filled with a strange mix of affection and self loathing. “Still don’t, really. But I’ll try.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands, gently brushing away his tears. “No one else could make me happier than you, Ace. I know that for sure. You are the kindest, brightest, most wonderful man I know. You have no idea how amazing you are, how you inspire the people around you. You’re so loved, and it’s not because you managed to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes, or anything silly like that. It’s because you deserve it.” You lean up, lips brushing softly against his before you pull back again to speak. His lips chase yours, making you giggle. “You deserve every bit of it, Ace. And if you don’t believe me I’ll just have to show you. Every day, until it sticks.”

“And if it does?” His voice is nothing but a whisper as he stares at you like you’re the greatest treasure on the seas. “Will you stop if it sticks?”

“No way in hell. I’ll double down. Triple down, even.”

He gives you a shy grin. “Guess I’ll have to figure out the truth pretty fast, then. I’d like to see what double this looks like.

“I guess you will.”

The next kiss takes your breath away. It makes the teasing you and Ace are sure to receive when you leave the cabin worth it a million times over. But right now there isn’t a crew jeering at you. The only thing in the world right now is Ace, on top of you, his warmth enveloping you as he kisses you like he’s been waiting a thousand years to do it.

[schoopsahoy]

more than just friends

steve harrington x female!reader {3.1k} you and your best friend have gotten into the habit of making out, as long as there's no touching. but that's easier said than done. no use of y/n, not proofread 18+ mdni

cw: mutual masturbation, unprotected p in v sex

No touching.

That was the rule that you and Steve had settled on, because making out with your best friend is totally okay as long as there’s no touching. Sure, a hand on a waist or a cheek is alright - anything more is off limits. 

Your rule worked fine at first, but recently the two of you seem to keep pushing the boundary. Just a little each time - like the way you’ll leave hickies on each other and not make much of an attempt to hide them, or how Steve has you underneath him with a leg in between your thighs and there’s just enough pressure to make your head a little dizzy. 

His mouth is kissing softly against the lilac bruise he’s left under your jaw, and you’re having to use all your self control to not press yourself down against his leg for the friction your body is craving. You feel so tightly wound, the fact you know it can’t go any further only makes you crave it more, your stomach in knots and heart pounding in your chest. 

“Steve.” It comes out as a whine, all desperate and you’d probably be embarrassed if it were anyone else who was kissing down your neck. You only get a hum as a response, Steve too focused on marking up your skin to realize you weren’t just saying his name as some encouragement. “Steve.” You’re a little firmer this time, voice not as breathy as before and it’s enough to finally bring his attention back to your face.

“Hm, what? Y’wanna stop?” His lips are all slick and swollen from his work on your throat, pupils a little blown as he stares down at you. He pushes some of your hair out of your face, loose strands that he can tuck behind your ear and the gentle act only has you aching more, the coil in your stomach twisting that bit tighter.

“No, no.” You breathe your words out, eyes closing as you almost laugh at the suggestion. “S’like, the opposite of what I want.” 

Steve’s still stroking mindlessly at your hair, all soft and without a second thought. “You want more hickies?” His brow pinches with confusion, face a little scrunched up and you hate that all you can think about is how cute he is, how much you want him. “‘Cause I can do that, but y’might get in trouble at work.” 

“No, not that.” You sigh, pressing your lips together as you battle with yourself over saying what you actually mean. “I want more, y’know?” 

“More?” He watches you nod below him, cheeks all flushed and you can’t hold his gaze. “What, like you wanna get off?” His voice is a little teasing, a grin tugging on his lips as you try to hide your face with your hands. 

“God, I d’know.” You groan, suddenly all shy even though you know you don’t have to be. “I guess, maybe, yeah.” Steve taps your arms, a silent signal for you to uncover your face and you do, reluctantly. “I know we said no touching, but like, I feel like I’m gonna explode or somethin’.” You try to cover how serious you are with a laugh, hoping it’ll make it easier to play off if Steve completely shuts you down. 

“I mean, there’s ways around that.” The way Steve’s smiling at you has your stomach doing somersaults. 

“There is?”

“Sure, if you really want to.” He leans down to press a kiss on your lips, something small and barely there that has you chasing his mouth for more when he pulls away. “D’you want to?”

“Don’t be a dick, Steve.” You whine, head tipping back because of course he’s dragging it on, drawing it out of you as if you’re not already so tightly wound that you feel like you might snap any second. “Go on then, what's your loophole?”

“We can just get ourselves off, together.” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You feel like your body is pressing harder into your mattress now, like gravity suddenly got stronger and you’re stuck in your spot with no way to move and Steve is looking down at you with his big brown eyes and a smirk tugging at his lips. You think your skin must be hot to the touch at this point, your temperature climbing and climbing because you’re about to get off with your best friend. You kind of wish you weren’t sober right now, craving the liquid confidence that comes with the buzz from a couple of drinks. 

“Yeah, okay.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, looking up at Steve through your lashes suddenly all shy but the way he’s looking at you, all fondness and lust and like he’s been craving this too, makes you feel a little more confident. 

As soon as you say the words, his lips are back on yours. It’s all hot and heavy with the way he’s licking into your mouth, different to how he usually kisses you - a little dirty and it’s enough to rip the air from your lungs and have you panting whenever he pulls away.

“Don’t be shy, baby, it’s just us.” He whispers against your lips, breath tickling your skin and the way he calls you baby has your hairs standing on end. He takes one of your hands in his own, guiding it down your body towards your already wet core. “You got it, just relax.” He coos, only moving his hand once you take the step and dip yours beneath your pyjama shorts. 

You start slow, lazy circles rubbed over your panties because you’re still a little shy with it all. Steve’s placing soft kisses all over your face and neck, mumbling words of encouragement as he palms at himself through his sweatpants. Neither of you brave enough to shed any clothing yet, because sure you’ve been friends for years and spent countless summer days by Steve’s pool wearing far less but this was different. 

You try to stifle your moans by biting down on your bottom lip, a little whimper trying to escape each time you brush over your clit and Steve can see the way your chest hitches as you try to control it. 

“Y’don’t have to be shy, not with me.” He nudges his nose against yours, voice all soft and all you can manage is to nod wordlessly at him as he sits up to pull his shirt over his head. He tosses it to your bedroom floor, not that you saw where it went because you can’t stop staring at him - the way his muscles move with each motion, skin all tanned from the summer sun and you really, really hate your no touching rule now. 

You squeeze your eyes shut before wriggling out of your own top, it’s a little easier when you can pretend like your best friend isn’t watching your every move. You do, however, regret not wearing a bra because you’re suddenly feeling all too exposed and a little - or maybe a lot - self conscious. 

You go to try and cover yourself, one eye barely open to peer at Steve who’s looking at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re so hot.” His voice sounds spent, all breathy and strained and you suddenly feel a lot less exposed. If you weren’t already so hot with it all, you’re sure all your blood would be running to your cheeks. 

Your eyes travel down to watch Steve stroking himself beneath his sweatpants, still constrained by them and his boxers but you can see how hard he is and feel your core clenching around nothing just at the thought of him. 

It all seems to move so quickly once you start shedding clothes, like stripping back that layer has taken away all the shyness and uncertainty you felt and replaced it with some insatiable longing for something more, anything more. 

You finally dip beneath your panties, wet fabric cold against your skin as you run a finger through your slick, gathering it up before rubbing tight circles against your clit. You can’t help but whimper with it all, the way Steve’s looking at you as he touches himself and how sensitive you are already, body reacting to each touch like they’re laced with electricity. “Oh my god.” You tip your head back, blinking hard as you try to breathe through the way you can feel the pressure build up in your stomach.

“Jesus, fuck, y’look so good.” Steve’s kneeling in between your legs, his free hand against your cheek and thumb rubbing softly against your skin. “Y’gonna take those off for me?” He nods down to your shorts. “Gonna let me see you?”

“Fuck, Steve.” You mewl, eyes meeting his as you continue rubbing your clit. “Y’want that? Wanna watch me touch myself?” You’re not sure where this faux confidence has come from, because it even shocks you when you say it but the way Steve reacts - a deep groan of your name and his pace against himself increasing -  has your head spinning. 

“God, yeah, please, I want that.” You don’t need anymore encouragement, hands tugging your shorts and panties down your legs to be discarded to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. You go to tug and Steve’s waistband, to even the playing field so you’re not the only one fully exposed, but hover your hand there because the lines are all blurred now and you don’t know what’s okay anymore. You think you might be a little bit fucked. “You wanna help me? Y’can do that, it’s okay.” 

His tones all soothing and his hand guides yours back to his sweatpants so you can pull them down his legs along with his boxers. You knew Steve was big, you’ve felt him get hard when you’ve been straddling him when you make out, but actually seeing him has you clenching around nothing again, your body desperate to be filled by something other than your own fingers. 

It’s all a little messy, because Steve’s leaning over you and kissing all down your neck and onto your chest and your hands keep knocking against each other as you both try to chase your highs. It’s driving you a little mad each time his hand bumps yours, so close to your cunt but never quite getting there, the frustration building in you as you dip a finger inside yourself in an attempt to get some sort of relief. 

Steve looks down between the two of you, watches you try to settle on a rhythm as you pump your finger into yourself and whine at how it’s never quite right. Like it’s just missing that spot that would finally send you tumbling over the edge, so close to being what you need but falling short each time. 

“Steve.” The way you say his name has him groaning again, because you sound so desperate and needy and his cock is so close to your cunt and God does he want to fuck you. Abandon all the boundaries you’ve spent so long obeying because you look so perfect underneath him and he just wants to look after you, make you feel good like he knows he can. “Please.” 

It’s like you don’t need to say anything more, he already knows what you’re asking for, what you want from him. “Please what, baby?” He gives you that stupid grin as he rubs the tip of his cock against your core, running it up and down your slick eliciting a whine from you each time it nudges your clit. 

“Want you.” You’re so wound up that you can barely force any words out, brain all muddled from how desperate you are to just be touched. “Want you to fuck me.” 

“Fuck, yeah, y’sure?” You just nod at him, eyes all wide and chest heaving and he can see the way you squirm with each movement he makes against you, so sensitive and wound up. “Y’gotta tell me, use your words.” 

“M’sure, Steve, please.” You’re practically begging now, blinking hard because you can feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and you don’t want to cry but you’re just so needy and your body feels like it’s on fire with it all. 

Steve kisses your temple, thumb swiping under your eyes where the skins a little wet from the tears that are welling up. “Oh, honey, don’t cry, I’ve got you.” He hushes you, hand moving from your face to hold yours as he uses the other to line up against your entrance. “Gonna make you feel so good, yeah?” 

As soon as he starts to press into you, it’s like all the pent up energy inside your stomach is ready to release. The way his cock stretches you out, slow thrusts so it doesn’t hurt you too bad as he kisses you all soft and you find yourself thinking that this doesn’t really feel like you’re just friends messing about anymore. 

Your free hand finds purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into the skin and leaving little half moons there that’ll probably still be there in the morning. Your breath hitches in your chest with each thrust, a little whimper spilling from your mouth as Steve squeezes your hand. “Doin’ so good for me, takin’ me so well.” His words are whispered against your skin, and you feel him hum against it when he finally bottoms out inside you. 

He sits there for a moment, letting you adjust to him but he can feel you clenching you around him and it sends his head spinning a little. You rock your hips against him, your voice still caught in your throat so this is the best way you can think of to tell him to move. He seems to get it though, a small chuckle at your antsy movements before he starts to rock his hips into you. 

It’s still a slow pace, agonizingly so almost. Because you’re so tightly wound at this point, teetering on the edge just to be pulled back over and over and never quite get there. You don’t say anything though, don’t push for Steve to move faster or harder because he’s still holding your hand and mumbling praises into your neck over and over and it feels about as soft as fucking your best friend can. 

After a couple minutes he does quicken his thrusts, you still mewling underneath him each time the tip of his cock nudges the soft spot inside you that you can never quite reach yourself. His free hand hitches one of your legs up higher, fingers spread wide against the soft skin of your thigh so he can bring it up to his waist and get deeper inside you. 

“Jesus, Steve, feels so good.” You manage to mumble something out, words a little slurred from how tight your chest feels because you’re already so close and your heart is beating so hard you can almost hear it. “M’so close.” Everything you say comes out as a whine, not that you mean it to, but Steve likes it. Likes that it’s him who’s got you so blissed out. 

“Yeah? Y’gonna cum for me? Such a good girl.” He soothes, voice all sickly sweet but still a little filthy. He thrusts into you harder now, watching the way your back arches up off the bed for him when he gets real deep. When his fingers start rubbing against your clit you know you’re done for, the messy circles against your nerves and the way he’s buried so deep inside you and looking at you like you’re the only important thing in the world right now is all too much for you. 

“Fuckfuckfuck.” You moan as you feel the tether inside you finally snap, wound so tightly that when it finally releases it has you seeing white as you squeeze your eyes shut and grip onto Steve even harder than before. 

“You’re okay, I got you.” Steve keeps rocking his hips into you through your high, letting you squeeze his hand so tight that you would definitely feel bad about it if you weren’t so preoccupied. “So pretty for me, y’so perfect.” He keeps running his mouth with praises as he chases his own high, thrusts getting a little sloppy as he gets closer, feeling you squeeze him as you came enough to have him almost there already. “I’m so - fuck - m’so close, where should I cum?” He’s blinking hard to try and keep himself controlled enough to at least last until you tell him. 

You’re still trying, and failing, to catch your breath. Body still feeling like it’s charged with electricity, all your nerves on high alert as you try to come down from your climax whilst Steve still pounds into you. 

“M’on the pill.” You exhale, words barely audible over the sounds of Steve fucking into you. “Can cum inside, want you to.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Steve groans, head tucked into the crook of your neck as his movements become a little sloppier and fall out of rhythm as he reaches his own climax, hips stuttering as he whispers about how good you feel and how pretty you are as he spills inside you. 

He stays inside you after he’s finished, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath amidst pressing gentle kisses to your face. You don’t want to admit how much you like it, not just the fucking but the intimacy of it all. Your hands are still intertwined, fingers locked with each other and neither of you make any attempt to unhook them. 

“Think we did that wrong.” You mumble, a shy smile on your lips as Steve pauses his kisses to look at you. His eyes still look all dark and wide, thick lashes blinking slow at you as he grins, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, think the whole ‘no touching’ things kinda out the window now.” He glances down to where he’s still buried inside you, and despite everything it’s still enough to have you feeling all shy. “I don’t mind though, if you don’t.” He looks at you, eyes full of affection and a soft smile as he waits for you to answer. It’s always no pressure with Steve, never pushing you for anything or making you uncomfortable - you’re always his first priority. It makes your heart ache a little, in a good way. 

“I don’t mind.” It’s a roundabout way of expressing your feelings, neither of you pushing it any further right now because it’s enough. You know each other so well that you don’t need to say more, reading between the lines and letting things happen slowly. Maybe you’re not as fucked as you thought you were.

[atlaswav]

CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence. 

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face. 

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’. 

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough. 

“Have you found it?” 

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster. 

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself. 

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write. 

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project. 

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project. 

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts. 

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect. 

Statuesque. 

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul. 

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning. 

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. 

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him. 

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand. 

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had. 

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself. 

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings. 

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him. 

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow. 

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman? 

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat. 

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils. 

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance. 

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist. 

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light. 

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair. 

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh? 

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name. 

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either. 

You were so wrong. 

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero. 

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious. 

“Ratio.” 

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue. 

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?” 

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings. 

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction. 

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer. 

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it. 

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant. 

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad. 

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks. 

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching. 

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line. 

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research. 

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands. 

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully. 

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines. 

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light. 

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy. 

You happened to be the one exception. 

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile. 

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas. 

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors. 

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such. 

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom. 

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns. 

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions. 

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was. 

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once. 

He hated it. 

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him. 

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you. 

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it. 

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back. 

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again. 

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble. 

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation. 

You wanted to slap him. 

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class. 

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you. 

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you. 

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself. 

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door. 

You were a picture to behold. 

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head. 

You were messing with him again. 

Two could play that game. 

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed. 

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be. 

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation. 

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed. 

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief. 

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge. 

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers. 

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown.  His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall. 

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness. 

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand. 

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass. 

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath. 

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?” 

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so.  He squints at the ground. 

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise. 

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south. 

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes. 

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else. 

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall. 

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze. 

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices. 

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast. 

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door. 

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it. 

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space. 

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this. 

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill. 

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. will prob get a pt.2. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[musings-ofthe-unamused]

can we have kaiju no 8 boyfriend headcanons

A/N: Yes, yes! Love the boys <3

Kafka:

God, such a good boyfriend

He's so goofy, but so pure hearted

The type of boyfriend to be more physically affectionate

Always apologizes

Hates fighting and makes sure to resolve conflict immediately

Will cling onto you

You have to force him to clean, but will get it done

Puppy dog face

Reno:

Overthinker bf

Very much a gentleman

Doesn't initiate contact bc too nervous

Worries about everything!!!

Pls calm him down with face kisses

If a server gets your order wrong, he will say something instantly

Loves to hold hands

Hoshina:

It's stressful to date him

Such a tease

Doesn't seem like a good listener, but will get you something you mentioned wanting several days later

Bites

He can get serious and hates seeing you upset

Fights are slightly a pain, because he will apologize just to end it and doesn't fix the problem

Absolutely refuses to talk about work with you

Couple bracelets!!

Iharu:

Also bites

Cannot survive unless he's always touching you

He's so passionate

Tries to seem cool around you

But when you two are alone, Iharu is a clingy mess

Likes it when you scratch his head

Very, very loyal

Will scream "I'm taken!!" if someone tries to flirt with him

Aoi:

Gentle giant!!

He kinda has trouble showing his emotions

It leads to him bottling everything up until it explodes

Likes to squish your face

He's a softy that loves soft touches and words of affirmation

It's easy to tell when he's embarrassed because his ears turn red

Loves cuddles!

If you give him gifts, he will cherish them until he dies

Haruichi:

The most normal lover

I would say he has a slight playboy attitude

Knows what he wants

Isn't afraid to show his love or affection

Pls brush his hair

Haruichi can kinda be stubborn

Fights are more common with him

But he always makes sure to never intentionally hurt you

Showers you in gifts

Loves matching couple items

[pipsyy]

detestable...

enemies to lovers dom!hamzah x f!reader

hi everyone! i have had the most absolutely terrible writer's block recently, which is why this fic has taken so long. but i hope you enjoy regardless! please send me reqs if you have them!

summary: y/n absolutely hates hamzah, detests him, actually. until one day, when that undeniable feeling of angers burns into an even hotter flame.

warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUTTY SMUTTING SMUT SMOT! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18.

word count: 3066

You loved your life. Your home, your animals, your friends, your youtube channel, everything. There was nothing about your life that irked you. Except for one thing. Him. Hamzah. You had become friends with Mandy over two years ago, over similar interests and styles of youtube channels, and had met Hamzah about six months into your friendship with her. You had never met somebody like him before. You got along with everyone, even if they slightly pissed you off, you were able to stomach their presence and create minimal amounts of respectable small talk. But not with Hamzah. In fact, when you were first invited over to Mandy’s house for a party and heard he was going to be there, you were excited. You had seen his online presence and thought he was funny, charming, and kind, only to find out upon meeting him that the complete opposite was the truth. He was awkward, and weird, and nothing at all like you thought he would be. The two of you were unable to mesh a single comfortable conversation together and, since then, you had effectively avoided him like the plague.

The angry tension between the two of you finally exploded one Friday night. You had been invited to dinner at Mandy’s house, and you were ecstatic. You imagined your night playing out with the two of you cooking and baking delicious food, sharing some with Martin in his man-cave, then diving into the delicacies in front of a cozy fall movie. What you did not expect was Hamzah to be there.

“Hey, y/n!” Mandy said excitedly, as she opened the door and welcomed you into her home. “Are you ready for tonight?”

“Oh my god,” you said, grasping her hands in yours. “You have no idea! I’ve been looking forward to it all day.” You took your shoes off before following the brunette into the kitchen. The two of you were laughing and talking until you stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen, starting out towards the living room. Two male heads were positioned together on the couch, one with straight, almost black, locks and the other with luscious, dark curls. You would recognize those curls anywhere. Shit.

You grabbed Mandy by her forearm and whispered in her ear, “I didn’t know he would be here.”

“Who?” she asked cluelessly, swiveling her head to where your wide-eyed gaze was fixated upon. “Oh, right…Hamzah. Martin and him filmed a video today and he’s not leaving until later. I’m so sorry, y/n. I really tried to get him out of the house, but he insisted on staying for dinner.” You knew that Hamzah liked to rile you up, he made it abundantly clear whenever the two of you would have a conversation.

“He just wants to piss me off,” you responded. “It’s okay. We can just ignore them and have fun.” Mandy smiled at you. The two of you began gathering items and ingredients from around the kitchen to make the dinner. You had decided on making fettuccine alfredo with broccoli and chicken over text with pumpkin cream cheese cupcakes for dessert. The two of you labored over the pasta for almost an hour, laughing and giggling over every single thing. The boys mainly kept to themselves, occasionally laughing softly at the game they were playing on the TV. You paused from stirring the cheesy sauce, simmering softly in the pan.

“You can go ahead and combine this sauce with the pasta, Mandy,” you said, nudging the brunette girl with your elbow. “I’m going to head to the bathroom real quick.” You went to the bathroom down the hall and completed your business, flushing the toilet and washing your hands. As you exited the bathroom, you ran right into a pair of broad, muscular shoulders. You look up, an apology bubbling from your lips, until you meet a pair of wide, dark eyes: Hamzah. His eyes narrow and his brow furrows. Your lips curl into a sneer, the close proximity of him causing hot, red anger to flare in your chest. The two of you attempt to get around each other, moving in sync. This annoying act continued until Hamzah’s large hands grip your waist and practically lifted you up, moving you out of his way. He continued down the hallway to the guest room without looking back, leaving you stunned into silence in the middle of the hallway. Your waist tingled lightly where his hands had touched you. The way his large hands were able to almost completely engulf your waist, followed by how effortlessly he had lifted you, caused inappropriate, unwanted thoughts to flow through your mind. You shook your head, internally scolding yourself for your rash behavior. When you reunited with Mandy in the kitchen, she gave you a confused look.

“You okay?” she asked. No doubt your silent demeanor and red face giving away some of your internal embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you responded, unconvincingly.

“You sure?” she pressed. “I saw Hamzah leave and I just thought–”

“Yes!” you snapped, cutting her off. “I am perfectly fine.” You ran a hand through your hair and Mandy laughed, shaking her head at your idiocy.

“If you say so, girl.” The night continued smoothly once you had calmed yourself down from your strained interaction with Hamzah. The pasta was cheesy and delicious, followed by the brownies which were sweet and rich with chocolate. Mandy shared the brownies with the two boys, Martin full of compliments and praise for the two of you, while Hamzah enjoyed his in silence, glancing at you every so often with a wide-eyed stare that made you feel both uncomfortable and anxious. Throughout the night, Martin and Mandy exchanged coy looks, giggling under their breath at something that seemed to you like an inside joke, but you were unsure. Finally, you reached your breaking point, and blurted out your confusion at the couple’s strange attitude.

“What the hell are you two plotting?” you asked. The couple exchanged a knowing look, smirking at each other.

“Plotting?” Mandy repeated. “We’re not plotting anything.”

“I know you are,” you said. 

To your utter surprise, Hamzah chimed in in agreement. “Yeah,” he said, mouth full of brownie. “You’re both acting so weird. What’s going on?”

Mandy gave Martin another weird look, the two nodding at each other in joint agreement. “Well…” Mandy said. “There’s this movie that Martin and I have been dying to see and it comes out today. We’re going to leave to see it now.”

“And we know that the two of you have some unsettled differences,” Martin chimed in. “So while we go out to see this movie, the two of you are going to stay here and figure them out.”

“Are you serious, Mandy?” you said, exasperation at this situation obvious in your voice. You glanced at Hamzah who had undeniable shock plastered all over his face. “No…” you said, as the couple began to pack up their things and pull their shoes on in quick succession. “No, no, you’re not doing this.”

“We’ll just leave the house, Martin,” Hamzah said.

“We’re locking the two of you in,” the brunette replied. “You’re not getting out this easy. The way you two absolutely despise each other pisses us off. So, you’re both not leaving until you have established some sort of mutual camaraderie or something like it. Understand?” You and Hamzah stood up from the table in protest, but it was too late, Mandy and Martin left the house in sync, locking the door from the outside. The two of you were trapped, together and alone, for an uncomfortable, inestimable amount of hours. You let out a sigh of pure frustration, understanding that the following couple of hours were going to be the most uncomfortable and angry you had felt in a while.

“Well, shit,” Hamzah said, sitting back down and folding his arms across his broad chest.

You rolled your eyes. “This is fucking ridiculous,” you said. “There’s no way I’m doing this.” You get up and pace the wooden floor, head lowered as you think of all the ways you could escape Hamzah and his brown-eyed gaze that you could feel following your every move.

“Oh, come on,” he said, standing up from his seat. He moved in front of you, blocking your path, looking down at you with a facetious smirk that boiled your blood. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, trust me,” you said, maneuvering around the larger man. “It can and it is.” Hamzah reached out, fast as lightning, and grabbed your forearm. The slight touch sent undeniable shivers down your spine, which you hated. He turned you around to face him, the two of you inches from one another. You gazed down at his hand, still wrapped around your forearm.

“Am I really that detestable to you, y/n?” he asked, voice at a decibel so low you had to crane your ears to even hear him. The inches between the two of you began closing, his eyes—so brown they looked black—drawing you closer. Dark, seductive images flitted through your mind: Hamzah’s large hands gripping your waist, his lips on your neck, hands fisting your hair, gripping your throat, touching your cunt. Shocked, you wretch your forearm out of his grasp.

“Yes,” you breathed out, chest heaving, mind reeling from your stupid imagination and wandering mind. “You are that detestable.”

“Really?” Hamzah asked, voice no louder than a whisper. You realized as your back hit the wall that he had backed you into a both physical and mental corner. You gulped as he drew closer and closer. “Because—I think—you like to think of me as something more than just detestable.”

“I don’t like to think of you at all, Hamzah,” you said, skin burning as his dark eyes remained locked on yours, unyielding in their direct gaze.

“You don’t?” he said, scoffing. He leaned closer, lips practically brushing yours. His large hands maneuver to grip your waist, and you don’t even try to stop him. “Not at all, huh. Not even at night, when you’re alone in your bed.” His grip on your waist tightened and shockwaves of undeniable pleasure flash through your spine like needles. “Cause I do. All the fucking time.” You look up at him, eyes widened in shock. He curses, the grip on your waist tightening so hard you thought it would bruise. “Don’t,” he said, voice rough and gravely. “Don’t fucking look at me like that…or I’m going to do something we both will regret.”

You had never expected to feel this way about Hamzah. But seeing him—a man so stupid and narcissistic and haughty—reduced to this…reduced to a quivering mess of a man with needy desperation written all over him, you felt that you couldn’t help yourself. You whimpered as your core tightened. Your back brushed the wall and Hamzah leaned impossibly closer, chest brushing against your own.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me you don’t want this.” You froze, the repeated words brushing your lips, bubbling up inside you. But you couldn’t lie. You couldn’t say them. For deep down inside you, in a place you had buried since you got to know him, lay the dirty, red-hot truth. You wanted him too, equally as bad. Your shaking hands, puppeteered not by your brain, but by that stupid feeling deep in your heart, reached up to intertwine behind Hamzah’s neck, grasping at the delicate curls at his nape. Hamzah’s eyes widened at the realization that you weren’t backing away.

“I can’t,” you confessed. Hamzah, lips quivering with desire, leaned closer, brushing your soft and plush mouth with his own. Unable to contain your palpitating desire, you tightened your grip on his curls and pulled him into you, pressing your lips violently together. Your lips locked together, a wet mess of tongue and spit as you desperately clung to each other. Hamzah’s hands ran up and down your body, unsure of what part of you he wanted to touch first, desperate for everything, all at once. He separated from your lips, and you let out a needy, unfiltered whine at the lack of contact. Hamzah began kissing down your neck, suckling on that sweet spot behind your ear that made you cry out in pleasure.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, in between open-mouthed kisses planted on your neck. “You have no fucking idea what you do to me.” You whimpered at the blunt confession, hands yanking at his curls. His hands grabbed at your ass, lifting you up effortlessly as you wrapped your legs around his waist. Hamzah roughly pushed you up against the wall, lips connecting with your own again. You yanked at his t-shirt and he paused his motions, pulling it over his head and throwing it somewhere in the room. You came face-to-face with his body, ribbed and muscular from his time in the gym, while also maintaining enough tummy to make your thighs squeeze together. You mirror his movements, pulling your tanktop off and shucking your sweats down your legs, leaving you in your bra and underwear. Hamzah looks at you starstruck.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, reaching to grasp at your covered tits. “You’re even prettier than I imagined.” You giggled slightly, a gesture that never occurred to you would happen with Hamzah. Hamzah sunk down to his knees, leaving little kisses along your stomach and the underside of your tits. Kissing and biting your inner thighs, he dragged your underwear down your legs, mouth agape as you came face-to-face with your soaking cunt. He looked up at you with wide eyes, pupils dilated, and you felt your knees weaken. Hamzah grabbed one of your thighs after the other, wrapping your legs around his shoulders practically sitting on him, leaning against the wall. He continued to leave little kisses along your legs, suckling purple bruises onto your inner thighs.

“Hamzah–” you whine, tightening your grip in his curls.

“Use your words, y/n,” he said, looking up at you through his thick eyelashes.

“I need you,” you say, your desperation overwhelming your embarrassment and confusion. Hamzah smirked up at you, before shoving his head deep between your thighs. He licked a long strip up your folds, holding eye contact with you, before circling his tongue around your clit. As his tongue connected with your sensitive bud, you let out a long moan, head tilting back against the wall. Hamzah ate you out like it was his last meal, licking, sucking, and slurping your juices in a constant state of desperation for more. You felt yourself coming closer and closer to your climax, hands tightening his hair as his nose rubbed deep into your clit. You came with a cry, legs shaking around his head as you shuddered and convulsed, white spots bedazzling your vision.

Hamzah lifted you up, wrapping your legs back around his waist and kissed you, mouth stained with your juices. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned at the feel of his tongue poking its way into your mouth.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he whispered. “You have no idea how bad I wanted you.”

“Hamzah—” you panted. “I need you inside of me.” He reached down into his pants, pulling out his hard member, stroking it a few times before rubbing it up and down your wet folds. He slid into you with a gasp, the two of you moaning at the feel of him sheathed inside of you. He began slowly thrusting in and out of you, the stretch of his thick cock inside your cunt drawing whimpers from deep in your throat. While your eyes rolled back into your head from the pleasure, Hamzah never broke eye contact.

“God, you’re such a fucking slut,” he said. “You hate me, huh?”

You whimper in response.

“Yeah, you hate me…but you’re still here, being fucked by this cock, huh?” You couldn’t respond, the only sound flowing from you being heady whines and high-pitched moans. You felt yourself inching closer towards another release, one of your hands reaching between your legs to rub your clit. One of Hamzah’s hands wrapped around your throat, squeezing slightly, you realized with a jolt that he was holding you up with one hand. The fact that this man could hold you up and fuck you so good with just the strength of one arm made your core tighten.

“I–I’m gonna cum, Hamzah,” you manage to cry out, dangerously tipping on the precipice of release.

“Oh, yeah?” Hamzah responded breathlessly. “You gonna cum, baby? Shit. Cum for me, pretty girl.” You cum with a strangled yelp falling from your lips. 

“Good girl,” Hamzah moaned out, hips beginning to stutter. “Good girl, so pretty, so fucking pretty for me.” Your hands grabbed onto his curls tightly, yanking as you came down from your high. The feel of his dark strands being pulled so tightly sent Hamzah over the edge. Hips stuttering as he came, head buried deep into your neck, he let out a flurry of whimpers and praises. The two of you sat there for a minute, Hamzah breathing heavily into your neck. Just then, you heard the jangle and clank of keys outside of the door. Hamzah’s eyes locked onto yours, wide with shock and fear.

“Shit,” you say. Untangling your limbs, the two of you rushed to dress in five seconds flat. You threw yourselves onto the couch, sitting on opposite ends just as Mandy and Martin opened the door and returned.

“The cinema was closed, guys,” Martin announced as he took off his coat and boots, Mandy close behind him. “Did you at least make up though?”

“Yeah, we did,” Hamzah responded, voice still rough and breathless. The couple finally came into your view, cheeks and ears red from the outside wind. You knew that the two of you were a strange sight: clothes rumpled, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and something dirtier. You also knew that, ever the observer, it would be Mandy to notice.

“Oh my god!” she said, covering her shocked face with a hand. “OH MY GOD, MARTIN!” She yanked on his sleeve, jumping up and down.

“What?!” he asked. “I don’t get it.”

“They fucked, holy shit, they fucked,” she laughed and giggled, jumping up and down with glee. “You owe me a hundred dollars, Martin.”

[bluecollarmcandtf]

The New Garbageman

Lance slowed from his run and glanced at the trash compactor sitting outside his apartment complex. He needed to catch his breath, but he hated being so close. The young man gave a disdainful look to the laborer who seemed wholly unbothered by his choice in career. 'Some men are just meant for menial crap like this,' he thought to himself, 'God knows I wouldn't be caught dead doing it.'

The jogger looked straight ahead as he passed, not wanting to make eye contact with the sucker lugging away a week's worth of his building's refuge. Lance thought the smell alone was enough to make him gag, but he was even more disturbed by the garbageman's indifference to the squishy contents leaking all over his clothes.

'At what point is that worker just considered trash himself?' Lance pondered with a grimace.

Just as he was about to escape into the entrance of the complex, a sharp ripping noise sounded behind him, followed by a clamour of things crashing to the ground.

Lance made the mistake of looking back, seeing a huge mess scattered across the sidewalk. It looked like a garbage can had exploded and now there was rotten food and crumpled papers everywhere, but that damn sanitation worker had vanished!

"The hell!" Lance shouted in anger, but his rage didn't last long.

A sudden pain stabbed him in the back and he crumpled to the ground like all the garbage had moments before. Everything went black...

Lance shook off the daze and found himself leaning against one of the garbage bins. The pain in his back didn't feel as acute anymore. All he could feel was an unusual warmth spreading from where he had been stung.

"Where is that goddamn garbage man," he growled, wincing at the litter surrounding him. He was ready to give that idiot a piece of his mind.

He put his hand on the concrete in an attempt to get himself up, but was surprised by the feeling of gloves over his fingers. Lance stared at his gloved palms with total confusion. He was sure as hell that he didn't put those old worn things on!

Then he noticed his shoes. They weren't the sneakers he'd been jogging in moments before. They were some kind of work boots!

"What the hell!" he exclaimed, wondering if he'd actually been knocked out and robbed.

Lance pushed his fears aside and began climbing to his feet, but as he did, he noticed something had appeared over his shoulders!

"Where'd this come from?" he cried, becoming more and more angry as articles of clothing just kept appearing on his body.

He was positive this dirty old jacket didn't belong to him. It was covered with stains and reeked like a public bathroom. Lance had a habit of always keeping his clothes freshly laundered and fragranced. He wouldn't even wear jeans two days in a row without washing them, so what was this raggedy work jacket doing in his back?

Lance frantically started to pull the thing off, but it seemed stuck on his waistband or something. No amount of thrashing could get him to pull the thing over his head!

He moaned in frustration and threw his fists down angrily. Then, he noticed why the jacket wouldn't come off. It took him a second to realize what he was looking at. The jacket was attached to the new pants he had on!

Lance shouted out in a state of confused panic. "Help!" he cried, not knowing what else to do, but even if someone did come over, what would he tell them? They'd never believe that his clothes were magically being replaced!

He couldn't even bring himself to look down at what he was wearing. Gone were his running shorts and tank top. In their place, a gross old jumpsuit had enveloped his body. Lance was struck by the itchiness of the course material, but he was even more horrified by how damp it felt against his skin. He didn't want to know what liquid those coveralls were saturated with; oil, sweat, or something even worse?

Lance couldn't find his phone in any of his new attire's pockets. He didn't know what was going on, but he was about to start screaming if he didn't find out soon. His breathing intensified while his heart raced out of his chest. He could feel the panic attack coming.

Then all of a sudden, he stopped...

That warm feeling in his back had washed over his entire body and told every tense muscle to relax. Lance's heart rate eased and his breathing slowed. The confusion, worry, and panic in his face was gone: a numb expression sat in its place.

Lance didn't understand why he had suddenly become so calm. Internally, he was still disgusted, horrified, and outraged, but he couldn't deny how relaxed his body had became.

Finally able to gain his bearing, the former jogger climbed up from the ground and gave his new outfit another look.

"What the hell is this thing," he wondered, but his voice had a comparatively lifeless tone.

Lance studied the clothing. The boots were caked with dirt and grime. He could feel his feet sweating inside them. In fact, his entire body felt like it was being cooked. He was completely covered from the neck down with some pretty heavy duty work wear. It was all clothing he would never be caught dead in, yet it looked kind of familiar.

Suddenly it, clicked.

"I'm dressed a goddamn garbage man," Lance spoke again with a monotoned voice.

Then his mouth moved on its own, "I am a garbage man."

The words chilled him to the core. He had not meant to say them! That warm feeling that started in his back had moved to his throat and taken over.

Before he knew it, his hands were moving on their own too. They were picking up the trash littered around him! His legs moved to, crawling his body across the concrete, and Lance couldn't do anything to stop himself.

His mouth wouldn't open when he tried! He wanted to scream! His arms and legs weren't doing what he wanted either. He was trapped in his own body! Lance couldn't speak; he couldn't run; he couldn't hide; he couldn't even panic. His own heart beat at a steady pace like he was the calmest man in the world! His lungs systematically drew in breath after calm breath, and his face was locked in an empty look of indifference...

Lance would have to get used to being around the trash. He was a garbageman now...

One Year Later...

Lance had never imagined he'd be trapped as a garbage collector for this long. His body hadn't let him look back once since he walked away from his old life. Who knows what happened to his apartment and family. He'd long since given up on the idea of ever going back to his old life.

His days were now spent being puppettered to take out other people's trash. It was disgusting hard work that he got no thanks for, but that didn't matter. He wasn't in control of his body, and his body just kept lugging rank bags of garbage day after day after day.

He'd been subjected to millions of dirty looks as people caught sight of him. Lance knew he must seem pathetic. He was sure he smelled even worse. How could anyone respect a man like him? Even after a year, his face still burnt red when someone looked grossed out by him.

The discomfort of his uniform has become normal to Lance. It was itchy and humid under there, which made sense since it hadn't been washed in the all the time he'd had it on.

Well, that wasn't entirely true...

Every night after work, his body would hop on the garbage truck and get dropped off at the sanitation department's parking garage. There he and the rest of the garbage crew would hose each other down. It didn't do much other than make him cold, but at least he got that.

After the makeshift shower, he and the rest of the guys would file into the garage. Lance assumed that every one of the laborers were being used as puppets like him, because they appeared just as numb and lifeless as he did. There was no chummy chitchat; there were no friendly waves or claps on the back; hell there wasn't even a smile or frown on any of their faces.

All the garbagemen acted like robotic slaves for unpaid labor, which is exactly what they were.

Lance's theory was that when he'd felt that pain a year ago, he'd had some sort of Syfy-futuritic-techno crap inserted in his back. It had to be controlling his actions. He could feel it on his spine, sending signals to the resto for his body for how to behave.

It was just a theory. He couldn't prove or disprove anything when he had no autonomy over his own body.

So he was stuck seeing himself play out the same awful routine everyday. 'At least the day's almost over,' he thought to himself. At least he could still dream of a life where he didn't wear this disgusting uniform and pick up garbage all day.

Lance's body joined the rest of the men on the floor. This was where they spent their nights. Whoever was controlling them was clearly too cheap to buy them beds let alone showers or laundry machines

It usually got pretty bleak in there: a whole room of men that aren't allowed to talk or interact outside of working together. There was nothing else to do but sleep, so Lance slid down to the concrete and closed his eyes, wondering if he would ever be anything other than a smelly garbageman ever again.

He thought back to his old life, dreaming about that last morning run he'd gotten before all this happened. He fantasized about what would have happened if he'd just ran around the block one more time.

Would he have avoided this fate or was he just destined for menial crap like this?

Thanks for the Ask, workgearfan

[authorhjk1]

Don't you think that Haewon has a face deserving of a hatefuck

I hope this answers your question.

(Disclaimer: name calling, rough face fuck, hate (fuck), something weird at the end, don't know what to call it)

Choke

(Haewon X Male Reader)

"Why the fuck did you do this? Tell me!"

You look at her, anger flowing through your vains.

It took you almost a whole month to find out that Haewon was the reason your girlfriend broke up with you. She said that Haewon told her about the one night stand the two of you once had. A meaningless night. Both of you can barely remember anything, too drunk at that time to recall your memories.

"I'm innocent!"

She yells back, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Oh please!"

You walk out of her living room, before walking right back in.

"Are you kidding me? Why did you do this?"

"I thought you already told her!"

"You thought I would tell her? That I slept with her best friend and don't even remember anything!?"

"You need to be honest in a relationship! Suffer the consequences! You have no accountability!"

"It takes two to tango, Haewon!"

You tower over her, almost screaming into her face.

"Would you let me tell your dad that you lost your innocence to a stranger in a cheap motel?!"

"Fuck you! Don't even dare!"

You stare down at her, breathing heavily.

"This mouth of yours. Why can't you just keep it shut?!"

Haewon gets on her tip toes, shoving her face into yours.

"Why don't you make me shut up, asshole?!"

Your next action wasn't planned. You didn't mean to push her so hard. You just don't like people coming too close.

With a stunned look on her face Haewon finds herself lying on her own couch.

"Yah! Did you just push me?!"

"Tell me why you told her!"

She jumps off the cushions, ready to push you back.

"Because I hate you!"

She puts her hands onto your chest, trying to shove you away. But you are too heavy and strong for her. You just feel her pressing her hands against your chest.

For a moment, you wonder why. Because of that night? Because she wanted her first time to be special?

"Stop pushing me!"

You grab both of her wrists with one hand and hold them up, making her raise her arms.

"If that's because of that night, that's on you! Just stop being a whore!"

Haewon's face twists in anger, if she had a free hand, she would've slapped the shit out of you.

"What the fuck!? How dare you? You were so small, I can barely call it sex!"

More blood rushes into your head. Your blood boils and you threaten to explode.

"I'm small? Maybe your pussy is just loose! Whore!"

"I swear to God! One more word!"

Haewon struggles against your hand.

"What are you gonna do?!"

"Fuck you! How dare you call me loose?! You are too small for any of my holes, asshole!"

"Oh really?!"

"Really!"

Haewon's eyes are wide open. They throw daggers at you, threatening to kill you.

"I bet your ass is just as loose as your pussy, slut!"

"Idiot! You're just so fucking small!"

"Maybe you stop shouting rubbish, when I stuff your slutty mouth with my cock!"

"As if! I wouldn't even feel it!"

For a only a second, the both of you stare at each other in silence. Both of you are breathing heavily.

A second later, you push Haewon again. She lands on her butt, her back pressed against the couch. Her new white rug feels soft underneath her thighs.

"I'm gonna make you choke on it!"

Your hand is still holding hers above her head.

"Don't even try! Your size is just embarrassing!"

With your free hand, you open the zipper of your pans, before letting your jeans fall to the floor.

Your bulge is only inches away from Haewon's face.

"You think this is small?"

She really seems to remember nothing at all.

Haewon growls at you, her eyes glued to your boxers.

You get rid off them too, standing in front of her half naked.

"That's nothing!"

If you weren't that angry, you would've noticed that Haewon's voice has become a little higher.

"Shut your trap, you slut."

You grab her head with your free hand. Pulling Haewon's face into your crotch, you thrust forward.

Parting her lips, you feel them glide along the length of your shaft. You hear her choke a second later.

"Is it too big for you, huh!?

Haewon glares at you as she tries her best not to suffocate.

You are confident, because you remember at least one moment from that night. It's the only one, but it's engraved into your memory.

A picture of Haewon on her knees, your cock resting on her face.

"You are fucking huge! This is never gonna fit!"

No guy would ever forget those words, especially if its a half naked Haewon that says them.

"Finally peace and quiet."

You groan, your cock deep down Haewon's throat. The young woman keeps glaring at you, but she takes your fucking like a pro. Her cute face is slowly starting to become a mess with every one of your thrusts.

First it's her spit that ruins her gorgeous image. It begins to fall out of the corners of her mouth, staining her thighs and the new rug. Some drops get on her black hoodie.

After a couple of more thrusts, her hair starts to stick to her spit covered face. To her forehead and her adorable cheeks. Tears start to form in her eyes, but she keeps glaring, not wanting to admit the obvious.

You now use both hands to pin hers behind her back and pressing her against the sofa. This way, Haewon can't move her hands and you have two free ones. With one, you grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back. It hits the couch, which makes her look up a little. You adjust your stance, which gives you an even better angle.

Gag after gag echoes through her apartment. You use Haewon's mouth to blow off all the build up frustration. You take it all out on her pretty face. That your girlfriend left you, that Haewon was the reason and that she told you you are small.

The young woman feels how her throat is getting bruised. Every thrust of yours hits her like a truck. Her head is getting pushed against the couch as she is forced to look up at you.

"Not talking anymore, are we?"

You place both of your hands on either side of her cheeks and start to pull her onto your cock again.

"Why is that?"

Your thrusts make Haewon's eyes roll for a moment, before she focuses back on yours.

"Don't know what to say?"

Haewon barely manages to shake her head. It's obvious she is trying to say something, but she is unable to do so.

"Or are you admitting that I'm big?"

She tries to shake her head again, but you hold her in place, only fucking her harder.

Streaks of tears start to reach her cheeks and your hands, before they flow down to her chin. They are being mixed with her saliva, before big drops fall onto her thighs and the white fur that is her rug.

"Or rather more than just big?"

She tries to open her mouth wider, trying to speak. You use it as an invitation to thrust deeper, feeding her even more of your cock. Your tip hits the back of her throat, the feeling sending sparks along your spine.

"Admit it."

You push her head back into the couch, before forcing yourself even further. Now you are fully inside of her. Your balls grazing her spit covered chin.

"I'm the biggest you've ever had."

Haewon's eyes are glassy by now.

She tries to keep calm as she doesn't get any air at all. Your cock is stuffing her mouth and throat completely.

The two of you stay like this for a couple of moments. As if time has stopped. A silent battle. Your eyes throwing daggers at each other.

Both if you brake the stalemate at the same time.

Haewon caughs and chokes, almost forcing you out of her completely. You decide to give her a breather, pulling out your entire length.

Your cock is covered in a thick layer of her spit. Her breaths are heavy.

"What-"

She caughs again.

"What the fuck?"

You reach down, holding her chin with your hand. You squeeze a little, squishing her cheeks in the process.

"Tell me how big I am. Or I'm gonna unload all my frustration down your throat."

A sparkle you can't read glistens in her eyes.

"You are still an ass."

You can't take Haewon seriously like this. Her face a complete mess. Hair sticking to her spit stained skin, tears still slowly rolling down her cheeks.

"Are you finally giving in?"

Haewon scoffs.

"Never."

You take her head into both hands again, forcing your cock past her lips.

"I can do this all day, slut."

You start to fuck her face again. Once more, your emotions overwhelm you. Sadness, anger, frustration. All of it, you take it out on her.

After a minute or so, you feel Haewon's hands on your thighs. You didn't even catch her getting them out from between her back and the couch. Her cold fingers rest on your skin, her nails leaving small half moons. She seems to be pulling you in, but push you away at the same time. As if she is fighting herself.

"I'm gonna ruin you. The whole day."

It's only the middle of the day and you don't have any plans so far.

Haewon looks up at you. Either telling you that she has other plans already, or asking you to fuck her harder.

You keep stuffing her mouth with cock, her lips keep gliding along the length of your shaft over and over again.

You finally feel a familiar feeling.

And so does Haewon. She feels how you start to twitch inside her mouth.

"Gonna cum!"

Her nails dig even deeper into your thighs.

You groan, ramming into her as deep as you possibly can.

Rope after rope of your cum enters Haewon's body. It paints her walls and runs down her throat. Some lands on her tongue, making her take in your taste.

Haewon starts to caugh at the amount of cum you are putting into her. One gag. Another gag. It almost sounds like she is gonna throw up.

Your eyes widen in astonishment as you watch your cum slowly oozing out of her nose. Streaks of your semen leave her nostrils, heading towards her lips.

Haewon looks surprised herself. She keeps on choking, while trying to see what's going on.

It seems like she is caughing up almost all of your cum. But because your cock is sealing her mouth, your cum needs to find another way.

Thick globes of it leave Haewon's nose, staining her cute face even more.

As you calm down, you slowly pull out, still amazed at what you did to her.

"Fuck you are hot."

Haewon glares at you, scooping up some of the liquid that is building up right above her lips.

"You are still an ass."

Only now you realize how exhausting this was. You breath heavily.

"Are you giving up already? After insulting me?"

You raise an eyebrow.

"You proved that your cock is not small."

Haewon wraps her hand around your member.

"Now let me prove how tight I am."

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 4- The Chase

Summary: You can only keep running from Frankie Morales for so long. At some point, he'll catch up to you, whether you like it, or not.

Word Count: 3.5K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Do I spy a hint of... ✨feelings✨??? Yearning, a hint of teenage violence (Santi deserves it, it's okay), the appearance of the Miller Brothers, Frankie basically looking like this 🥺 for the last half of this chapter, banter because I live for it

A/N: I'm convinced that teenage Frankie and the Frontier Boys are the best characters to write for, period 😭 I never thought I would live to see the day where my chapters are less than 5K (?!?) but I'm really trying to be better about posting on a schedule- If you would rather have them be longer and wait two weeks between chapters instead of once a week, let ya girl know 🤷🏼‍♀️ Thank you for all of your kind words about this story, your kind comments literally fuel me and make my heart explode, ily 🥹💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Frankie, Fall of 2005, Age 16

For as much as he hates school, there will be two classes Frankie knows he’ll always pass with flying colors- Gym and Math. 

When he and Santi went to pick up their 11th grade class schedules before the start of the school year, you would have thought they’d won the lottery when they looked down on the crinkled half sheets of paper to find they were both in the same 6th period gym class. 

Five weeks into the start of Junior year, Frankie’s now convinced that Santi and his new friends, Will and Benny Miller, are in on some sort of scheme to make him fail the one class he’s guaranteed an “A” in. 

“Jesus Christ, Frankie, for the love of God, will you please slow down?!” 

Santi’s all but huffing at the pace Frankie had set for the four of them to run the two miles they’re supposed to finish by the end of class, only three of the eight laps they need to run around the track completed. 

“We’re not even going that fast, Santi, you’re fine.” 

Frankie can’t help but laugh at the way his friend is laboring behind him. Sure, Santi’s got football to thank for keeping him looking less like a gangly string bean than Frankie does, but even at 16, the boyish satisfaction of knowing he’ll always be faster than his friend is undeniable.

“Do you do like, cross country or somethin’, Frankie?” 

“Yeah man, I thought Santi said you swam not ran.” 

The Miller Brothers were a new addition to his and Santi’s long standing friendship duo. Will and Benny moved from North Carolina over the summer and had befriended Santi after a few weeks of preseason football camp that the high school held before the start of the school year. Of course, that meant Frankie became friends by proxy shortly after. 

Frankie was fond enough of the two, but the group was still stuck in the awkward dating phase of friendship where everything was just enough of a pissing match to prove that they were worthy enough of each other’s company. 

“Yeah, I’m on the swim team, I don’t do cross country or anything like that.” Frankie shrugs, rounding the curve of the track with ease as he leads the pack to their halfway point. 

“Then how the hell did you get so fast?” Benny pants, the straw blonde hair matted to his forehead with sweat scrunching as he pinches his brows in a mixture of confusion and unadmitted pain. 

“‘Cause he likes to go running with MacKenzie.” 

Santi’s lips curl to a devious smile as he watches Frankie’s face grow red from his sing-songy taunting. At least with the Millers, Frankie could pretend to chalk the hot, pink sting in his cheeks to the mile he’s been running. Unfortunately, he can’t assume the same with Santi. 

“Shut up, Santi.” Frankie grumbles, picking up his pace to the point he knows it’ll make Santi’s lungs strain just enough to keep him from rambling. 

“Oh shit, like, MacKenzie Anderson, MacKenzie?” Will’s face lights up, his less than lengthy friendship making him blissfully unaware of the history between you and Frankie, “She’s hot.” 

“Ew, n- no, she’s not. That’s weird.” 

The other three are surprised Frankie’s pants have yet to set on fire after such a bold lie. 

“They go run together every weekend.” 

At this point, it’s pure mockery the way Santi is teasing him, pushing Frankie to his limits to see how much he can get away with before his friend breaks. 

“So like, are you guys, dating or something?” 

“What?! No! No- She’s like, my best friend. I just- She plays soccer, so I go run with her to help her train and stuff. It’s good cardio, anyways.” 

Frankie doesn’t mean to snap at Benny for his question. It’s a secondary response to the way his chest is tightening and heart is racing as the eyes of all his friends stay peeled to him, like a guilty suspect in a courtroom everyone is waiting to catch in the midst of their lie. 

“Running’s not the only kind of cardio he wishes he was doing with MacKenzie, huh Frankie?” 

The boys are too busy snickering at each other to realize that Frankie’s completely stopped in his tracks ahead of them, turning around with arms outstretched to greet Santi with a brute shove to the ground as they collide. 

“I said shut UP, Santi!”

Frankie doesn’t intend for it to draw as much attention as it does, how the way he’s practically screaming at his friend he’s pushed to the ground has garnered the attention of everyone else in his gym class.

“Jesus, Frankie, it was just a joke! Chill out!” 

Will and Benny help Santi off the rubber of the track, leaving him and Frankie in a silent stare down of flared nostrils and gritted teeth, bodies boiling with teenage testosterone. 

Despite his rage, Frankie has enough self control to keep from saying (or doing) anything else he’ll regret, forcing himself to take off running in a frustrated huff of silence, heart in his throat and fists clenched, leaving behind his group of friends.  

“Shit. Is he always like that when you talk about her?” Will asks, still slightly stunned by the altercation he’s just witnessed, considering Frankie’s usual calm and quiet demeanor. 

“Yup.” Santi replies, popping the “p” at the end of his answer, “Well, not always this bad, but still,  ya know?”  

“Why?” Benny chimes in, the three of them slowly beginning their trot back around the track, lengths behind their fuming friend. 

“‘Cause they’re like, secretly in love with each other. They say they’re just friends, but they act like they’re fucking married.” Santi pretends to gag as he forces his eyes to roll as far back in his head as they possibly can. “He’s been extra pissy because yesterday he found out this guy, Nick Walsh, who’s some senior on the boy’s soccer team, tried to ask her to Homecoming.” 

“Did she say yes?” 

“No! That’s the thing! I don’t know why he’s got his fucking granny panties in a knot about it. Whatever, man. Not my problem.” 

The Miller brothers exchange intrigued glances, wondering how much more they can pry out of Santi as they mope around the track, hoping they can at least make the second half of their two miles entertaining. 

“If he’s mad about it, why didn’t he just ask her?” Will shrugs, offering up what seems like a reasonable solution to his new friend’s problem. 

“Ask him, dude. I have no fucking clue. They’re going with the same group of friends, so they’re gonna spend the whole night together, anyways. Honestly, if you want my opinion, I think he knows he doesn’t have the balls to nut up and ask her himself ‘cause he’s worried she’s gonna say no.” 

Despite the 23 other kids in the class who are also being forced to run circles around the track, there’s only one who makes the three of them freeze as he passes by, feeling the hole he’s burning through the back of their heads. Santi knows he’s too loudmouthed for his own good, and that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that Frankie didn’t make out what he had to say as he snuck up behind him. 

And he's right. Frankie hears every word.

If he wasn’t at school, he wouldn’t think twice about punching Santi so hard in the gut it would knock the wind right out of him. But right now, all he can do is keep running, faster and faster, one foot in front of the other. 

Maybe if he runs fast enough, no one will be able to see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, or the disappointment that’s drained every ounce of color he’s got left in his face. 

Maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the cold, hard truth of the way Santi’s words ring in his ears and put bricks in his chest. 

Maybe, just maybe, if he runs fast enough, somewhere along the worn high school track he’ll find the courage to prove himself wrong. 

You, Present 

You’re convinced he’s following you. He has to be. 

All you wanted to do this morning was to go for a run to clear your head, to blow off some steam after the shit show that had been yesterday’s first interaction with Frankie in the past three years. You were confined to your room for the better half of the day, your dad keeping Frankie hostage in your home far too long for your liking. 

Unfortunately, it’s hard to deny a dying man whatever he wants, even if it’s Frankie Morales’s unwelcome presence in your living room. It also meant having to listen to your dad ramble about Frankie for the next several hours after he’d left, politely nodding at all the compliments and praise your father had to give him while your blood boiled in silence. 

Now, all you wanted to do was to run until your head was free of Frankie for just a little while.

It seemed like Frankie had other plans. 

You gave him the benefit of the doubt the first quarter mile, hell, you even tried to just play it off as unlucky timing at the half mile point. But now, you’re a mile into your run, turning on to Fuller Street with Frankie still trotting behind you. It’s clearly not an accident he’s chosen the same path for his morning jog. 

“There are other ways you can go run, you know.” You shout at Frankie without even turning your head over your shoulder, thinking that maybe he’s assumed you hadn’t noticed him and your not so subtle suggestion will get him to turn around. 

“It’s a free country. I can run where I want.” 

Part of you wishes you would have turned to look back at him so he could see the way your eyes met the back of your skull from rolling them so hard, but you keep your gaze glued to the pavement in front of you. You won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence.  

“Can you please just go run somewhere else? I’m just trying to enjoy my morning and you’re not helping, Frankie.” 

“Not trying to bother you, just trying to run. I didn’t have anything to say until you started talking to me.” 

You know if you turned around right now, he’d have that stupid little smug grin hiding in the corner of his cheeks. A battle of wits is his favorite game to play. He’s learned how to strategize, to stay calm, cool and collected in the midst of your chaos, waiting until you hit the breaking point of his crazy you can’t bear to tolerate anymore. Your jaw tenses with the long exhale you take as you prepare to go head to head. 

“I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t been following me the past mile.” 

“How do you know I’m following you?” 

“You’ve literally been running ten feet behind me for the past twelve minutes.” 

“Who says I wasn’t planning on running this way to begin with but you just got a head start?” 

“Jesus Christ, Frankie, please just go pick a different way to run.” 

“Who put you in charge of the running police? Do I have to sign a permit before I go jog now?” 

“Go. Run. Somewhere. Else.” 

“No. You don’t get to tell me where to run. This is the way I wanna go, so I’m gonna keep going until-” 

“No! I know you don’t want to go this way!” You’ve accepted defeat, swinging around to storm towards Frankie, stopping dead in his tracks as he realizes the ferocity you’re approaching him with, “I know for a fact you don’t wanna run this way. You know how I know? Because you hate running down Fuller Street. You would run five miles out of your way before you even considered running down this street on your own free will. There hasn’t been a single time we’ve ever run down this street where you haven’t complained the entire way because of how much you hate the hill at the end of the road before we turn onto Wilson way! That’s how I know, Frankie! So stop pretending like you just happened to choose the same way as me by accident, and just leave me alone! Ugh!” 

You’re positive there’s a trail of steam streaming behind you with the way you’re absolutely fuming, turning back around to take off as fast as your body will let you. You can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but straight ahead, too afraid that if you turn around, those stupid, sad brown eyes will make you feel guilty enough to give him the last word he doesn’t deserve. 

Your feet are flying so fast across the pavement, you’re convinced he’s given up, shocked into submission by your anger that he’ll at least let you finish the rest of your run in peace. Your eyes are still locked on the horizon ahead. It’s the arrogance of your self-reassurance that doesn’t even let you contemplate the thought that several yards behind you, Frankie lets out a quiet “fuck me” before letting his hands drop from their place on his hips to chase behind you at full speed. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” 

It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious Frankie has said a prayer to hope his knees don’t give out on him as he runs as fast as possible to try and catch up to you. The rhythmic thump of his sneakers pounding against the concrete catches your attention enough to see how quickly he’s gaining on you. It only makes you run faster. 

“Jesus- fuck this hill- MacKenzie, will you fucking slow down?” 

You won’t admit you’re probably just as exhausted as Frankie from the way you’ve been sprinting up the steep incline at the end of the road, but his exasperated huffs are enough to keep you pushing through the pain, mental and physical. 

“No. Run faster.” 

You’re hopeful it’s early enough that no one is awake to see the comedic game of cat and mouse you and Frankie are playing in the middle of the road, chasing each other like you’re on the playground in a childish round of tag. You’d never admit to his face that you know he’s stronger, even faster than you, but the grip he settles around your arm as he finally catches up to you lets you know you’ve lost. 

“Let go of me, Frankie!” 

If the street wasn’t already awake from your wild game of chase, your scream certainly would have gotten their attention. 

“Jesus Christ, MacKenzie, will you just let me talk to you for two fucking seconds?! Please, just- fuck- please just let me fucking talk to you, okay? Please.” 

Even if you wanted to keep running, there was no use. Truth be told, it wasn’t the grasp he had around your arm that was the thing keeping you from sprinting off into the distance. What had you frozen in place was that pathetic pout you knew was splayed across his face, burning a hole in the back of your head. What’s worse, was that you could feel it burning a hole through your chest, too. 

The all too familiar pain that came with holding onto the same, shriveled shred of hope that maybe this time, he’d prove you wrong. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t let you down. 

“Fine.” You barely mutter the word loud enough to hear as you turn around to face him, eyes still looking everywhere but directly at him. 

“I’m sorry, Kenz. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up.” 

Somehow, his second apology stings worse than the first. It still doesn’t mean you won’t deny how much it hurts. 

“Yeah, no shit.” 

You let your gaze lift just enough to see the way he’s gnawing at his bottom lip, chewing at it like he’s trying to digest his own thoughts before they come out of his mouth. 

“What I said that night at Santi’s wedding, I just-” He pauses, knowing you can hear it clear as day in your head too.

“Fuck you, MacKenzie. Fuck you for ruining my life. It’ll be better off without you fucking in it.” 

“I- I- Fuck. I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I regret ever saying it. I think all the time about how much I regret it. I just, I was in a bad place.” 

You’re not sure what to say. Fuck, you’re not even sure what to feel. Part of you wants to scream at him, kick him in the crotch and berate him for how badly the past three years have hurt you. Part of you just wants to stand there and cry, to say nothing and let your tears flow and spill your emotions down your cheeks. Part of you wants to hug him, to believe him, to have him hold you so tightly against his chest that his apology seeps into your skin until you’ve forgiven him. 

But none of those parts are strong enough to win out alone. Instead, they’ve formed together to create a strange sort of storm that brews in your belly, swirling it so violently, it makes you want to vomit. 

“But you still said it, Frankie. You still said it. If my dad weren’t dying, would you even be here? Would you have ever apologized? Or are you just choosing to apologize now because it’s convenient and you feel like you have to?” 

It’s the first time you can bring yourself to look him in the face. You can see how his brain is churning with the same type of vicious waves that are in the pit of your stomach, drowning out the brown of his eyes. You both are lost in the midst of the storm, but you’ve got a lifeboat. He’s sinking below the thrashing tides, looking for you to let him board your ship. You won’t let him on unless he fights his way through the current to get to you. 

“I should have apologized a long time ago.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” 

“I don’t- I don’t know. I was scared you’d never forgive me.” 

You swear you feel the grip he still has on your forearm tighten just for a moment. Now that he has you, he’s too scared to let you go. 

“Just- Jesus- Just because you apologized doesn’t mean I have to forgive you now, Frankie.” 

“Will you ever?” 

“Ever, what?” 

“Forgive me?” 

Your brain wants to say no. God, with everything in you does it want to say no. But that same stupid pain in your chest that lives and dies by that stupid shred of hope you’ll always hold onto just won’t let you. 

“I don’t know. I- I don’t know, Frankie.” 

You can’t ignore the way he’s still holding your arm. The shred of hope doesn’t want him to let go, even when you scowl at the way his fingers wrap around your skin. You scowl because of how his touch burns your skin, the way it ignites a fire in your gut from how tenderly he touches you. It makes you scrunch your face in frustration and confusion, trying to block out all the times he’s touched you like this before, fingers grazing against your skin in a desperate plea for affection, not forgiveness. He’s holding onto your arm to see if you’ll let him in the lifeboat- if you’ll offer him a chance to save himself. 

“I get it. I’m sorry, Kenz. I hope you at least know I mean it.” 

“I do.” 

You’re not sure what makes you want to offer him a last chance at survival. You’ve been separated by different sides of the same storm for so long- You can’t attest to the way he’s had to fight through it to stay alive, but if it’s anything like the side of the squall you’ve been stuck on, there’s a strange relief in finding in finding someone who knows the hell you’ve faced to keep from drowning in the undertow. You can’t seem to bear letting him drown right in front of you without even trying to help. 

“I still hate you, ya know.” You sigh, a defiant cry to prove to him you’re not happy about the path you’ve chosen. 

“Yeah, that’s fair. I deserve that.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh in so long. Even though it’s a muffled huff, trying to hide behind the raise of his eyebrows and nod of his head at the ground, you know it’s there, in that same corner of his smirk he gets when he knows there’s no point in arguing with you- there’s no denying it’s there. 

There’s no denying it makes you do the same. 

“You gonna let me finish the rest of my run in peace, Morales?” 

“Yeah, I guess. Only ‘cause I still hate this fucking hill.” 

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

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[imyourbratzdoll]

I have a request you are up for it. I kind of had this idea where Steve Rogers really screwed the Reader over in their past relationship and cheated on her with Sharon and dumped the reader for her. Even the avengers don't talk to her anymore and made her look like the toxic one in the relationship. two years later it's his and Sharon's wedding day and it was a beautiful and wonderful, however reader returns and decides to kill seek her revenge on Steve and Sharon and the rest of the team. Let's just say she gets it and Steve suffers. (Reader is a witch by the way)😈

hello honey, I hope you like what I've done.

summary - steve cheats on you, causing the team to turn against you to save the world from hating him. years later, you finally seek your revenge.

warning - angst, torture, cheating, dark content, badass female

the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips (deactivated)

It had been two years since Steve Rogers broke your heart, you thought that would be the worst of it, but the fact the team turned on you and screwed you over by making it seem like you cheated on Captain America, causing the world to hate you, treating you like shit until the point you snapped. If they wanted a bad guy, they’ll get one. 

You sat in a dark room as the tv played, your ex was getting married to the tramp he cheated on you with. Your golden eyes sharpen as you glare at the screen, causing it to explode in sparks. You grin, the whole team would be in that church, making this so much easier for you. 

Your hands glow as you begin to hover, your long black dress falling gracefully around your legs. “Oh, the day that the Avengers fall and all by my hands.” Your laugh echoes throughout the room and you disappear, reappearing in front of the god-awful building. “Oh god, could their taste be any worse?” Your hands face down, levitating toward the church doors and flinging them open with your magic. The whole room falls quiet. “Well, well. Where was my invitation?” 

Your head tilts as Sharon huffs. “You aren’t welcome here!” Your eyes move around the room, connecting with each person. “Hello? Get the fuck out! Didn’t you realise you weren’t welcomed when Steve left you for me?!” 

You smile, your gaze moves back over to hers and you stare. Watching as she shivers under it. “Sharon, Sharon, Sharon. You should know not to mess with a witch, especially a pissed off one.” Your hand flies up, stopping a bullet midair, you slowly tilt your head, looking at the small metal object before your gaze follows where it came from. A grin forms on your face as you connect with Natasha’s. It appears you found something that made the big Black Widow shudder with fear. 

“Y/n, stop this. You are only hurting yourself.” You blink, once, twice, thrice before your laughter fills the room, sending chills up everyone’s spines. “Why are you laughing?! Do you not realise how insane you look right now?!” 

“Sweet, sweet Natasha.” The bullet melts as you direct your hand toward her, lifting her in the air, watching her dangle as she struggles. “I’m not hurting myself, I’ve finally healed from the pain you all put me through. Because, sure I loved Steve and it felt like my heart had been ripped out when he constantly cheated on me with some wannabe tramp. But I could’ve lived through that, what I wasn’t expecting was the heartbreak from the people I considered family.” A growl rumbles within your throat, eyes glowing brighter with each word and emotion. “I can no longer hurt myself when you did a wonderful job of it for me.” You twitch, you can feel the stupid witch trying to enter your mind, her magic feels like something irritating, like a jumper that continues to itch because someone made it out of that horrible fabric.

You continue your hold on Natasha, turning your head, gold meets red. “What are you doing, Little Witch?” You blink, sending her flying across the room, crashing into a row of ugly flowers, causing you to scrunch your nose. “Ew, who chooses weeds for their special day?” You huff, feeling a body slam into you and your other hand reaches out, strangling Vision as he tries to charge again. “What is with you people, don’t you know it’s rude to just attack a person.”

“Y/n stop. That’s enough.” Two years ago, your heart would’ve pounded inside your chest from hearing his voice. But now, your heart lies cold within your body. The rest of the team that you don’t have a hold on, stand, readying for a fight. It felt comedic. “If you don’t leave, we will make you leave.” 

You throw your head back, letting out another chilling laugh before your head falls forward and you glare at your ex. “You make me leave? Do you think you’re stronger than me? You may be Captain America, but deep down you’re just that weak little boy back in the 40s.” You float over to him, black and gold magic building beneath you in a cloud and the anger builds in your veins. Your hands fly back, throwing those you had in your hold against the church walls before you reach in front, releasing all your magic onto the one man, watching him fall to his knees. “You and your team are no match for me, Steve Rogers. You will never be, you will all fall before you even manage to take me with you.” You lower to the ground, standing over him, leaning over, moving your face close enough that it looks as though you are about to kiss. “You will beg me for your life. It may not be today or a year from now, but you will.” You grip his chin between your fingers, forcing him to look into your eyes as you smile. 

Your eyes flash, stopping Tony from approaching, his Iron Man suit begins to slowly enclose on him, squashing him from the inside. “Not so fast, Mr Stark.” Your magic wraps around Steve’s body, keeping him in his position as you turn and face the rest of the Avengers. You look at each and everyone of them, letting your magic explode around you and the room, wrapping around them. “Soon you will all fall, no longer loved, no longer remembered. The world will move on without you and in your demise, you will beg me for help, falling deeper and onto your knees. Sacrificing your beliefs and pride.” You begin to descend from the steps, smirking. “Hm, why don’t I continue to torture you guys some more.” 

With a wave of your hand, all their nightmares come to life. Every single person or thing that they don’t want to face appear in front of them, torturing them, allowing you to sit back and watch with a smile, a glass of wine appears in your hand as you watch them all suffer. A few hours pass and you grow bored, making everything disappear along with yourself. 

While your magic circulated around them, it allowed you to see their future and it gave you many ideas to how you could continue to ruin their lives. Starting with the man who destroyed you. You close your eyes, feeling your spirit escape you and travel back in time, appearing in front of a woman that many looked up to. 

“Peggy Carter.” She spins, looking around for the voice. Your eyes glow and your magic surrounds her. “The love you feel for Steve Rogers will turn into hate, he will appear soon and will want to stay. You will fill his head with every hurtful thing you’ve thought of. You will see who he really is and how much he has changed when he was the smaller version of himself. You will destroy him, rip out his heart and squash it in front of his eyes. He will finally know how it is to feel his heart being broken.” She blinks, walking over to the photo of Steve, staring at it, and wondering why she has it before Peggy grabs the photo and drops it into the bin. 

You smirk, disappearing back into your time and body. Your eyes open with an evil glint, staring right at the readers.

thank you for reading!

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