#goddamn bird and all his names

[bones-and-whatnot]

Sonic & Mario Character Archetypes, Part 3

(Bowser’s retinue all get a modern counterpart and a classic counterpart because I couldn’t decide.)

Modern: The Villain’s Right Hands— The Stuffy, Snarky One and the Goofier One

Classic: The Conniving Old Man Assisting A Villain and the Wicked Witch

Villain Squad— The Arrogant, “Classy” Leader (self-proclaimed or otherwise)

[humanityinahandbag]

Steve would absolutely be down to play D&D with Hellfire. The only condition is that he gets to be whatever character he wants (with Eddie's help crafting the sheet, of course), and Eddie is so completely enamoured and excited that he agrees wholeheartedly.

Turns out, Steve didn't really understand the concept of fantasy characters and assumed that it included all kinds of fantasies. Elves, Dwarves, Mages.

And naturally the lineup of Steve's 1987 Fantasy Basketball League.

The rest of Hellfire is ultimately accepting of it, and even gets into the character as time goes on. But those first few sessions were confusing as hell. Especially because they weren't quite sure what to think when Steve's only supplies and weapons included sports bars, tiny shorts, and a basketball.

Eddie though?

Eddie's been having a goddamn field day with the chaos his beloved hath wrought.

"Alright Steve. Roll to attack."

Steve rolls and lights up. "Eighteen!"

The other players cheer.

"Good luck," said Will sullenly after his magic missile failed to take the villain down. In fact, so far, nearly every attack from each member had failed to do enough damage to even make a dent.

Eddie writes down a note behind his DM shield. "Alright so the ghost approaches you. What are you..." He pauses. "Wait. Sorry what's your name again?"

"Larry Bird," says Steve helpfully.

"Right. What are you, Larry Bird, going to do to the Ghost?"

"I'm going to dribble across the enchanted bridge and hit him with a hook shot."

"This is the weirdest thing we've ever done..." Dustin whispers.

He's shushed by everyone else who has become absolutely invested in the fate of their resident Point Guard Paladin.

(the best part is that the end of the campaign in what was meant to be a difficult and long battle, in which almost every single Hellfire character dies a gruesome death, Steve effectively ends it by rolling a single D20 and dunking a zombie's head into the Boss' face.

Hellfire is elated but isn't sure how to explain to future Hellfire members that a kill shot was once carried out by the small forward of the Boston Celtics.)

[corkinavoid]

For @mysterious-messages, to 'Bless the child' by Nightwish

DPxDC Long Time No See

The crow was incredibly persistent. Which, of course, made it ten times more annoying in John's opinion, because he was trying very, very hard not to pay attention to the pitch-black bird with blood red eyes that was perched right outside the window.

Can't he have one single night where no impossibly powerful force of nature interrupts his attempt to drown himself in liquor? Honestly.

The crow knocks on the window again. Three perfectly timed knocks; this bloody bird sure knows how to draw attention, but it also definitely knows Constantine is avoiding it. Which is why it's insisting on making itself a nuisance, no doubt.

To be fair, John is not even entirely sure who's crow is it. Morpheus has a crow at his disposal, but his crow is a bitch. He wouldn't have simply sat on the windowsill and enjoyed annoying Constantine for the sheer spite of it. Death has her crows as well - very thematic, if you ask John - and then there was that one asshole raven that claimed itself belonging to Apollo.

And then, of course, there was-

Actually, maybe he should see what the crow wants. Might be important, after all.

Constantine sighs and puts his whiskey back on the bar before standing up. The world tilts to the side a bit - he might have had a few too many drinks, yeah. But then maybe it's just the side effect of the messenger crow being here, who knows. Constantine would rather put his money on the latter for the sake of his dignity. Not that he has much of that left.

He makes his way to the window, looks at the crow for a long moment, making his last internal debate obvious, and then opens the window.

"The hell do you want?" He asks, but quickly realises it was in vain.

He is not at the bar anymore.

Instead, he is standing in the middle of a graveyard, surrounded by tombstones, fog, and eerie silence. 4/10 on the creepy effect, John has definitely seen this shit done better.

The cloaked figure sitting on the nearest tombstone stays silent, watching him with unblinking, blood red eyes. John sighs again, pinches the bridge of his nose, and reaches into the pocket of his trenchcoat for cigarettes. If he ended up out of the bar anyway, he might as well use it for a smoke break.

"I'd rather you not," the cloaked being says, not a demand but a request by the sound of it. Constantine grimaces, but puts the pack back in the pocket. Arguing with this one will get him exactly nowhere.

"What's this all about, then?" He vaguely gestures around himself, at all the death, decay, and other things that start with the letter 'D'. "I never knew you're into this kind of thing. Very Mary Shelley of you," he raises an eyebrow.

The being - the Dead God, the Ghost of Time, Clockwork, Chronos, and any other name he likes calling himself - huffs a deep, low and breathy laugh. Then, he stands up, his feet firmly planted on the ground for once. He looks different to how John is used to seeing him, all sharp edges and monochrome colors, shiny leather oxfords and loose sleeves with tight cuffs.

Honestly, he kind of reminds Constantine of vampires. He really hopes this is not actually some kind of a new kink of his because John so didn't count on that kind of night. Despite what he's said before.

"No," Chronos shakes his head, his appearance shifting from young to middle-aged. Constantine blinks; if there's anything he learned about the Dead God through their various get-togethers, it's that his age usually reflects his level of seriousness.

But he doesn't have time to ask, nor does he get a moment to prepare, when a child, a literal goddamn child no older than ten steps out from behind Clockwork.

It looks like a boy, dressed in jeans and a blue hoodie with a NASA logo on it, and- He does look like Clockwork. Same pale skin, same eerie, unblinking eyes, same unearthly air around him.

Only, his eyes are a faint blue, like ice and winter skies. Like Constantine's eyes.

The unholy fuck. And he means it literally.

"Is that-" he starts, his throat suddenly dry, pointing his finger at the boy before he even thinks about it, but the Ghost of Time laughs again, a dirty grin on his lips.

"Yours? No, thank the Ancients," he says, making sure to sound just a tad bit offended even if John can see the mirth on his face. Bloody wanker. Constantine lets out a slow, loud breath through his nose.

"Amen to that," he agrees and looks at the kid again. And, as soon as the initial shock wears off, a sneaking suspicion starts to form in his mind. He narrows his eyes. "I don't want to ask, I really don't, but I'm going to anyway. Why?"

Clockwork's face looks distant for a moment, his features shifting into old.

"A child blessed by time has no home in his own life. A child blessed by death has no place among others," he says, and John hates when they speak in riddles, but he thinks he might be getting this one right. "I am only loved when I'm gone, the moments being held dear in memory. But a child does not deserve that," Clockwork's voice sounds almost sad, and, while John does understand it's supposed to be a metaphor, it doesn't feel like one.

But then, he is the Time itself. Maybe for him it's not really a metaphor.

He looks back to the kid, and catches the boy looking away with a grimace. Seems like they have at least one thing in common - they both hold a great distaste to Cronos' solemn way of talking.

Constantine is so going to regret this, but he knows where the Dead God is leading.

"Yeah, okay," he rubs his face with one hand, and, before he has time to ask or say another word, the whole graveyard is gone, and he is standing back in the bar, the low murmur of nightly crowd and warm light around him. Just like before he opened the window to the blood-eyed crow.

The only difference between then and now is the kid standing by his side, looking at him like John is the stupidest man he'd ever seen. Oh, he is already regretting this.

Constantine drops his hand down and goes back to the bar, where he left his drink.

"Want a beer?" He asks, and the kid rolls his eyes, trailing after him.

"I'm twelve," he deadpans, and, yeah, okay, he's got a point.

Fuck it, he is calling in a favor from Bats. That man has, like, twenty kids, he should have some parenting advice.

~•~•~•~

Yeah, the song really reminded me of Clockwork for some reason. Why am I loved only when I'm gone? is really stricking me as a line written for him because you only cherish the time after it's gone, you smile at your memories and pictures, but you rarely ever pay attention to it in the moment.

Also, I did my best with the Gothic aesthetic there, and here's the additional vibe.

Clockwork, just dropping a random ass kid on his occasional one night stand and vanishing into the night, knowing that John Constantine has a soft spot for kids and won't just fuck off to who knows where: it's for the greater good the better timeline

Danny, left alone with a clearly too drunk to think magician whose soul looks like a jigsaw puzzle: the fuck it's not

[munsster]

hell-bent

A/N: basically… give me beefy bucky or give me death (gif creds: @vader-anakin)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: All you want is attention from your boyfriend. Though, during a life/death mission may not be the best time to crave it. 2.6k words

Warnings: smut, man handling, dirty talk, degrading, knife play/kink, blood play!!!!!, uh very mild exhibitionism, pet names (babydoll, doll, princess, minx, baby)

"Babydoll, toss my knife over." A crouching Bucky fiddles with the steel door's padlock before catching your ankle in his left palm, wrapping cooly into your exposed skin.

"Can I have a kiss first?" you coo and bat your lashes to get his blood pumping, the susurration booming in his ears and rushing between his legs. 

He barks out a laugh, face scrunched as he falls back onto his tailbone, abandoning the Fort Knox knockoff before you kick your calf from his grip and shuffle away. His breath finally catches in his windpipe when you scoff, tugging his knife from your belt. Bird-like in your grace, you flit away with a tune tumbling from your lips in a hum. Footsteps thud hard and fast until his hands clasp your abdomen. With the tip of his nose pressed to your ear, his hips shoved up against your back, and in a mumble:

"Listen, the second we're done with this, I'll fuck you until you can't walk, but right now, I need the goddamn knife." His mouth trails to the crook of your jaw as his fingers curl into your taut leather neckline. A hot puff of air fans over your skin when you spin in his arms, spine sinuous and molding into his grasp. Then the edge of his own knife meets his bust, poking at the center of his vest as he frowns.

"And I need a kiss," you say, very matter-of-fact in your own silver-tongued way. The tip of the blade glides up and over his adam's apple until he's forced to tilt his head back, stubbly jaw exposed to your hungry eyes. A blushing pink line rises in the knife's wake, pricking at his skin with ease.

Bucky likes it that way. 'That way' meaning sharp. And 'it' being his knife and his girl.

"Doll?"

Lip tucked between your teeth, you savor the flutter of his lashes when he plucks at the hip of your catsuit, grinning wide like a predator. The spandex snaps against your skin with a biting pain. "Yes, James?"

"Give me the knife. Now." The gravel in his voice has you withdrawing the blade from his skin and pouting like you're innocent. Like his hard-on isn't already strained against your thigh. He meets your gaze then, pupils blown as he sighs. Out of relief or disappointment, he does not know.

"Give me a kiss. Now," you mimic.

"Fuckin— you know what? Fine." Vibranium clamps onto your jaw, tugging you close as his lips meet your own in a searing kiss. The burning cold of his fingertips brings a certain warmth to your cheeks, spreading, curling over your bones and flooding your senses. He groans into you as he licks at your mouth and draws your breath over his tongue. His hands roam your waist, and he lets out a muffled protest when you reach for his belt.

It's worse that he hasn't had a moment alone with you for a week. Libido going haywire at your touch, he revels in it, his low moan pouring down your throat. And his hands. God, his hands. They dip into your waist like cupped palms dip into the fountain of youth after years of wear and tear. His thumbs press hard against rib until you purr into him with the heat of several suns beating down on a forgotten beach.

Then, right fingers drag down your wrist, coiling around the handle of the knife and wiggling it from your loosened grasp. You pull back with a scowl, lips chafed under the wet pressure of his own, and he winks.

"Thank you, princess," he whispers against your temple with a smirk, clapping his palm onto your ass and chuckling when you squeal and back hand his bicep.

"Bastard."

…

"You. Out," Bucky barks, ducking into the stuffy tent and squeezing your hand as he glares at a pissed Sam.

"There's no way in hell you're hogging our only shelter for sex!" Sam snaps.

"Funny, 'cause that's exactly what I'm doing. Now, get out before I strip, and you get to watch me in all my naked glory fuck my gorgeous girlfriend." You drop your forehead to the center of his back, and your face goes hot. Sam shuffles past you, grumbling about ‘horny goddamn rabbits’.

"Little much, don't you think?" But Bucky's not really listening as he zips the hatch shut and pounces on you like a frenzied jaguar, lurching with the smooth coil of his stamina.

"Minx," he growls against the hot skin of your exposed clavicle, "'m gonna go into cardiac arrest with how excited you get me." He tugs the zipper of your suit further, marking the skin with wet kisses down your navel. You clutch the seam of the bedroll beneath you in your restless grip because his teeth pinch your delicate skin and the humid tent nearly drowns you.

"You bring out the knife fiend in me." Off his tongue like a moan, like he's holding back, and when he ruts into you, it's clear he is.

The super soldier's heartbeat pumps in your ears, and you gasp when it picks up, pressing your palm to his chest. He fumbles an eager hand for his thigh pocket, pupils blown at the sound of a steel click. Dopamine floods his senses, the fading light glaring across his switchblade that he finds reflects in your gaze nicely.

"Is this payback?" you whisper. His grin is nothing but cheshire then, scheming with a racing mind as he brings the needle-sharp point to the crest of your cheekbone.

"You know I would never hurt you, princess." He trips the blade low, down your throat to the valley of your breasts where he pauses in thought. His lips hover a breath over yours, and Bucky likes the way you go soft and doe-eyed and maleable in his embrace. "D'you trust me?"

"With my life."

A flash of arrogance crosses his expression, the glint in his eye shining through his god complex. The chill of the blade scrapes over the plump of your breast as he keeps his crystal eyes trained on you. You and your ragged breathing and your fingers curling into his bicep. He just has that effect on you. The corners of his lips rise wickedly at the idea.

"Dunno if I'd be so willing, babydoll," he grumbles, pressing the serrated edge to your sternum, the skin swelling on either side; it starts to sting. "But I guess that's the epitome of trust, isn't it?"

A hiss through your bared frown when the flesh breaks for crimson. He's quick to lap at the wound, driving the blade of his knife through the base of the tent and into the dirt beside your shoulder. His palm flattens against your rib cage as he jerks your zipper fully open and peels the suit from your torso.

"Now, that wasn't so bad," he says, feeling your lungs flood with air beneath his shaking hands. Your head lulls to the side, and if he didn't know better, he would think you were pissed. He thumbs over your fresh cut, hushing you when you squirm. "What happened to my poor girl?"

"Fuck you."

"Doll," he warns.

"I hate you."

"Take it back," he huffs, kneeling between your thighs with his fingertips tweaking your pebbled nipples. While concerned, he's been turned on since noon, no thanks to you. Desperate fingers go to rake your scalp as he leans down to pepper ever present kisses over your jaw. "C'mon, lemme kiss it better."

You look to him like he's the prime suspect in your own murder, and it shatters his poor heart to nothing but ash in his sunken chest. Anger feeds your fire until you flip him off with a smirk that makes his brain do a spine-twisting somersault. Without a second thought, your wrists are pinned to the ground, tight enough to fracture, and yet he still handles you like you're porcelain.

"If you don't ease up, I'll have no choice but to fuck the attitude right outta you. Hmm? Hard to complain when you're busy moaning for me." Sweat flecks down his temple, saliva pooling in his mouth when you blink up at him, jaw unhinged, fingers ticking. He's an animal in this light.

"It's like being a douchebag is second nature to you," you mumble, and you feel him snap with a shift of his weight. An inner gearshift from benign victim to the apex predator. Or maybe he was never benign, just lying in wait.

"Oh, you've earned it now, babydoll."

He strips you of your uniform with a yank, palming for your feverish skin as he licks at your bottom lip. Some volatile form of submission. Like he's teasing you out of your husk just to rip you to shreds. But God be damned if you wouldn't offer him the very weapon of your own demise.

His tac-gear clatters to the ground while he takes your fist to curl around his cock, coated slick with precum. He huffs out a breathy chuckle against your neck when you slowly stroke him. Then his hips buck into your grip as his teeth sink into your jugular.

"See what you do to me? Been hard as a fuckin' rock since the second I saw you. Couldn't help but remember how you taste. Let alone how you feel." And nothing satisfies a super soldier's cravings like the real thing.

He hoists your thigh up and over his hip, 'round his lower back. Like a belt. Like you're his consolation prize. You push the pad of your thumb across his frenulum, tearing something gargled and ragged from his throat. Something almost sentient as he tosses his head back in earnest. Yet all you can do it stare: his eyelids drifting shut, fingers strangling the sheets beneath you, his every muscle tensed like his life depends on it. Not a bad view. Not bad at all.

Then, your fingers tighten with the pulsing vein along his cock, and he has to slip from your hold to compose his sex drive. His eyes blink open to a zig-zag scene that he can't quite register until his eyes uncross.

"Christ, woman, give your poor lover a break. I'm still recovering from just lookin' at you," Bucky sighs. And he falls head over heels for the way you thumb over his dimpled chin and kiss him like an angel, soft and sweet and ethereal like no other.

The illusion shatters, however, when you bring your hips to meet his in one single thrust. Relentless woman with the face of a goddess. It brings him to his knees—or in this case, elbows.

You giggle at his pinched expression, wiggling your pelvis as his tip presses deeper into you cunt. Then it's payback when your back arches and your nails dig into his flanks, baring your neck to his gaze.

"Yeah, right there, princess," he mumbles, "I know you missed me inside this pretty pussy." And the cocky bastard is right. He feels it in the way you stretch to fit his girth, the supple elasticity of your cunt clenching in unfamiliarity. The subtle rotation of his hips is evil in principle but so damn perfect when everything is so warm, so wet, how can either of you resist.

You grasp for his shoulders when he hooks your ankles around his lower back. And oh, does he know how to work at this angle. His tip drives deeper just so he can drag back out again, slow in every roll of his hips. Any protest flies out the door in heavy breaths across skin and fingertips

The dark closes in around you, suffocating as it drenches your skin and renders you undiluted beauty in his arms. With every moan, he picks up speed just to hear you against his throat.

"Bucky." It bubbles from your throat as an ode to his warm body and restless mind. “Love you.”

"I gotcha, sweetheart. I love you, too." His muscles twist around you, and he's close with the stutter of his hips, digging deeper while his metal palm flattens against your tummy. Your fingers comb his hair from his eyes; you look like an angel, blissed out, half-lidded eyes, and he smiles down at you, still so focused despite his unraveling.

The tent's zipper hisses when Sam peeks in with an awfully disgruntled, "what the hell, cyborg? A warning?"

"I think you had enough of a warning," Bucky growls, continuing his thrusts when your head tilts to the side, an embarrassed squeal from your lips.

"Jesus Christ, I thought you'd be done, old man," Sam chuckles.

"Get the fuck out!"

"Fine, fine, just try not to break your girlfriend." A loud sigh from Sam before the zipper shuts with a metallic grinding noise that echoes in your ears as static.

"Sorry, pretty baby, 'pparently someone's common sense left 'im," Bucky whispers, pressing a kiss to the broken flesh of your sternum, lashes batting as a sufficient apology. A harsh thrust then, punching the air from his chest as every fiber in his body coils and snaps to the beat of your heart, filling you with wet heat. He rubs his middle finger over your clit with a vengeful smirk when your back curls with the weight of your release.

…

"D'you always go commando under these things?" he coos, tentative and quiet while the pads of his fingers trace feather-light patterns over your damp skin. Your snug uniform and the way it hugs you hasn't left his mind. Fact, it never really does.

"Yeah, I mean kevlar is surprisingly breathable, so what's the point."

"Noted." Bucky drapes his forearm across your navel, shifting onto his palm and grinning above you like the cat that got the cream: mischievous and pleased out of his mind. "I'm one lucky sonuvabitch, huh?"

"Yeah, you are," you tease, hooking your thighs around his hips as he settles into your body with a chuckle, chest erupting with delight taut against yours. He tucks the hair plastered across your forehead to your hairline with a knuckle, lips puckered against your temple in a kiss sweet enough to give you cavities.

Your hands dive into the sleeping bag, trailing the sweat-slicked sinew in his back, dipping with the tightly-wound muscle before sinking your fingertips into the plump of his ass with a cheeky smile. 

"Little minx." Bucky hangs his head with a grin, nipping for your cupid's bow then pecking lower at your baby-soft lips. Though he knows he went far enough with the tip of his blade, he would never admit it to you. The same way you would never admit that you liked the sting of it. But now that he's left a scar on your chest—an unspoken promise of his and hers, a permanent mark in your complexion—there's truly no turning back.

And he proves it with another kiss that renders you breathless, taking in his solace with wavering consciousness. The line between asleep and awake and Bucky's hands blurr to something more than reality. Though, the noise he makes against your mouth is nothing short of sinful.

From the opposite side of the tent, Sam grumbles, "mind shutting the fuck up? Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Sorry, Sammy!" you whisper.

"No, you're not."

marvel masterlist

[josephquinnswhore]

Little bird - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel is a merciless hunter for sport, seeking many anew victim when he comes across you. who changes everything.

word count: 3.8k

content warning: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE CONSUMING. joel is basically a psycho? he kills for sport, control freak, stalking, murder, dubcon, age gap, power dynamic, manipulation, gaslighting, forceful face fucking, reader spews on Joel’s cock, blood play, forced proximity, m orgasm, fingering, m and f oral receiving, f orgasm, pet names such as; little bird, birdie, princess, daddy.

Joel had adapted to the outbreak effortlessly, without thought, like a bird jumping from its nest, like instinct. It is in his nature alike to theirs, to adapt through the conditions to ensure survival for their species without second thought for consequence. Even after what had happened to his daughter.

The instance of her unnecessary death had sent Joel spiral into this mindset, serial killing and torture. Not even out of necessity, supplies, he just found a sense of control in the act.

He is constantly covered in blood, his hands, neck and clothes all had stains on them. But he found comfort in the act of squeezing his large hands around someone’s frail neck, seeing the light fade from their eyes.

Paired travellers were his preference. The men always tried to be heroes, and Joel found it amusing that they always thought they’d beat him in battle, underestimating Joel's pent up rage and obsession for control. His strength is unmatched—survival skill and pure animalistic rage is channelled with each plea for mercy.

He’d seen many people around him change, good hearted folk who had clawed so far deep into the instinctual rage of strength and determination within themselves. Just so they had what it takes to survive this world.

But Joel—this darkness was raging inside of him before the outbreak, before any real need to access this side for survival had even come into play. With decades of experience, he had become skilled at stalking, especially. Observing.

Often he had thoughts about doing bad things to women and men that he acted out on. He couldn’t find a goddamn ounce of sympathy within himself as he hunted people, stalking his next victims through every state and terrain.

It was sport for Joel, a comfort as he realises that everyone’s life is in his hands, that he gets to decide who lives and dies. That he remained victorious. Too brutal and savage for anyone to defeat.

Notoriously good at what he did, he had more blood on his hands than probably anyone, finding the stalking as exhilarating as the kill.

It had never been anything more than that, until now.

Until he had seen you, two days prior.

He had taken one glance at you, and his feet of their own accord, had started trailing you. Following from a distance as the memorises the size and depth of your footprints in the snow. Since then, he’d been listening in on the two of you bickering about how lost you were, namely you—terrified about where you were, and where you were going.

Walking through the thick snowfall of the mountains, carrying that overloaded bag that made your shoulders sag. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d see your face crumble in pain as you try to adjust the straps of the bag, or beg the young man you traveled with to put some items into his own bag to take some weight off your shoulders.

Watching every interaction between you and this man from the past two days, he could conclude that he was your boyfriend. He hated this boy, the way he walked ahead of you, made you keep first watch after a gruelling day of travelling.

You don’t argue or seem to mind which Joel concedes is a product of this being a constant for you.

He gathers that more than likely, you didn’t understand how you were being taken advantage of. That this boy didn’t care about you, not the way he did.

The thought infuriated him, sending a rush of heat through his body as he clutched onto the falling bark of a tree he had hidden behind, observing you through the forest, the only thing that separates you from him, is a small clearance of flat ground to your small, makeshift camp.

A natural formation of a cave like structure made of rock. All you had to keep you warm was a freying sleeping bag and the arms of the boy wrapped around you.

Joel thinks about all the ways he’d take care of you. Giving you his thick, insulated winter coat, lighting a fire for you in his cabin. Keeping watch the entire evening so you could rest your fragile body.

The more he thinks, the more he fuels his own obsession. He wonders what your skin feels like under his own sinful ones, wonders what your cries would sound like, if you’d give into him or run.

For the first time in years, he doesn’t want to kill, he doesn’t plan on wrapping his thick hands around your neck to crush your oesophagus. He doesn’t think about reaching for his sharpened hunting blade and driving it to the hilt into the soft, warm flesh of your neck.

No, you were different. So pretty, so mistreated. He had to take care of you. Bring you into his warm hands like an injured bird in need of delicate care.

You’re exhausted beyond belief. The old boots you wear are barely holding together, even with the duct tape you’d wrapped around the collapsing soul, and even that was wearing off the front of the shoe.

You know you can’t risk sliding them off for a moment to dig your fingers into your heels to relieve the ache, in fear of infected, or people.

It’s not ideal to stop here, in the middle of the snowfall, freezing your asses off. You’re so lost, and afraid.

There’s a sense of bitterness rising inside of you as you watch your boyfriend sleep, you love him, with each beat of your heart… but you needed to sleep too. If only.

Hours pass of you staring into the clearance of trees and snow, of nothing. Not a bird, not a wisp of wind. The lack of anything happening only fuelled the burning in your dried eyes, lulling them to close, just for a moment.

You don’t know that you’d fallen asleep, standing upright against the tree you were keeping watch from until you’re awoken by a blood curdling scream.

Shaking you out of your slumber, you turn to see your boyfriend is gone from the makeshift camp.

A sense of dread buries itself deep into your skin.

“No.. fuck.. no! Jacob!” You cry out, ignoring the ache in your feet as you run back the way you heard the scream. Holding your handgun in front of you cautiously, there’s another scream.

But it sounds like it’s encircling you. Surrounding you from every direction.

“Jacob!” You scream back, tears welling your eyes.

This was your fault.

A spec of blood catches your eye, like a trail of a clue leading you to a horrific mystery. But you follow, urging yourself to run as you come to see your boyfriends body tied to a lonesome tree in front of a small nearby cabin.

“Jacob… Jacob it’s me,” your voice cracks, tossing your gun down onto the snow as you reach for the tightly knotted ropes that had him restrained against the tree. Jacob’s voice is muffled by a rope fastened into his mouth, keeping his head upright against the tree.

Despite his desperate attempts to warn you of the looming predator behind you.. it’s hopeless.

The blood has created a small pool around him, seeping into the snow. “I’m gonna help you okay? I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I’m gonna get you out of this.”

A sound behind you makes your fingers freeze in place around the rope, the familiar sound of the hammer of a gun being pulled back—ready to fire.

Frantically, you look to the ground and realise that your gun is no longer where you’d tossed it. The only evidence of it was a deep imprint in the snow.

A deep, southern voice carries strong through the short distance between you, sending a nauseating shiver down your spine. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

You raise your hands above your head, kneeling on the ground, eyeing your boyfriend with tears in your eyes, mouthing to him with a tremble of your jutted bottom lip. “I’m so sorry.”

“Turn around.” The deep voice instructs.

Obeying, you turn your body towards your captor, on your knees with your hands still in a surrendering gesture. Eyes stuck on his shoes that were in much better condition than your own, practically new looking.

The cool metal of your own gun traces the shape of your chin, lifting your face upward to meet the gaze of an older man. His dark brown eyes shift as he takes in every feature of your face, committing every detail to memory.

You’re even prettier up close.

“Please don’t do this, I .. we don’t have anything to give. We’re starving as it is and our supplies are worn.” The plea goes ignored, but you’re desperate.

“I’ll do anything, just help Jacob, don’t let him die like this,” you beg, fat tears rolling down past your waterline.

So pretty when you cry. Those bright, big eyes begging him to help you. It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Oh? You’ll do anything will you?” Darkly, he chuckles. “Remember this promise, little bird.”

The man holds your gun in his hand and grabs at you, one hand grasping the back of your head and bringing it flush to his crotch, rubbing your soft face over the hard bludge of his cock.

A breathy moan escapes him at how you protest, the palms of your hands against his thighs attempt to push him away.

“Tss. Maybe you don’t care about your little boyfriend after all, do you?” He scolded you.

A dry sob slips past your cracked lips, seeming to give up against the harsh grip of the man. A twisted rumble from within his chest vibrates against your palms splayed on his jeans.

“Unbutton my jeans and take out my cock,” the older man sneers, in a means to humiliate you.

Your cold, trembling fingers work at the tight button, and it pops open with a sense of release as his stomach slightly overhangs the right fitting denim. The zipper is freezing—but you manage to keep your fingers pinched around the small zip enough to pull his jeans down to expose him.

More tears fall down your face as you fail to accept what was happening.

“Tell me you want this cock, little bird.”

At your silence, the man redirects the barrel of your gun to your boyfriend. “You think I won’t fucking shoot him again?”

With his booming, threatening promise of violence against Jacob, you utter nonsense.

“I want your cock,” voice cracked thickly as you force the words out.

The man growls in approval, bringing the gun back to you, tracing the barrel of the weapon against your lips in a tantalising threat.

“If you try anything, including biting.. I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out princess.” The utterance through gritted teeth sends your blood cold.

He had no intention of actually killing you, but the way you were trembling beneath him was a good sign you believed it.

“Now be a good girl and swallow your daddy’s thick cock,” he hums, forcing the thick, blunt tip through your parted lips.

It burns, how far his cock has stretched your lips wide open, the intrusion so far deep into your mouth makes you gag around him, but that doesn’t deter him at all. Pushing further into your mouth, down the back of your throat.

“Fuck little bird, knew your mouth would take me perfectly.”

Tears, snot and saliva all accumulate at the base of his cock, urging his hand to force you closer to him. Holding his cock down your throat, legs trembling beneath him at the feel of you struggling, gagging against him and the palms of your hands frantically trying to push him out of your mouth so that you could breathe.

He pulls halfway out of you, and with that a small amount of bile from your throat coats his cock. Your mouth was so perfect, warm and stretched out for him. Taking him so well. Nothing deters this man from taking exactly what he’d dreamt of you these past two days.

The constant reminder of the gun pressed against your temple was forcing you to endure this. It would save Jacob, it would ensure survival for the two of you.

It hurts, the way he’s fucking himself into your throat relentlessly. The pace is brutal and each growl makes your stomach feel sick.

The worst part is that your body is reacting to this, the slick between your legs is gathering and becoming incredibly uncomfortable.

“Gonna swallow my cum, birdie, fuck.. can feel my cock down your throat.” He can see the thickness down your throat too, swollen full of him. He cums with a strangled groan, the sight of his cock twitching down your throat sent him over the edge.

“Such a good girl, ain’cha?”

You’re completely fucked out. Eyes blown wide and red from the tears you shed. He pulls his cock out of your mouth to trace the outline of your plump lips.

“Please let us go now,” the hoarse request is met with a twisted cackle.

The man stuffs his hard cock into his jeans, the outline of it is impossible to ignore as you look up at him with a pleading gaze.

You had done everything he’d asked, and perfectly too.

Which is why he had to do this.

“Sorry, birdie. But I can’t let you go now.”

He brings your gun upward to Jacob and pulls the trigger. Five pounds of pressure against the trigger causes your boyfriend's head to fall limp against the tree, a gaping, bleeding hole in the middle of his forehead.

“No!” Your voice cracks as a guttural scream tears through the air.

No part of your body is listening as you will it to move, for your legs to carry you to stand and run, but they’re numb from being knelt on the icy ground so long.

The man shoves you onto the soft, snow. Your head is right beside your lifeless boyfriend’s body. “Jacob.. Jacob please,” you beseech, hoping that he’d somehow be able to save you.

Your arms are flailing against his chest as he crawls on top of you, the weak attempt gains a thick hand down the front of your cargo pants, and a hot growl against your lips.

“Maybe I don’t need to clip your wings after all, birdie, seems this pretty fucking pussy is already wet. Don’t pretend to fight me, princess. She wants this.” Without warning, one thick finger pushes inside of your weeping cunny, before pulling it out.

A protesting whine rolls off your tongue as he removes his finger, before you could stop yourself. He sucks your juices off the digit. And his eyes darken.

“Been thinkin’ bout how this sweet pussy would taste, knew it would be perfect.”

The older man sticks the same finger that had just been inside you, into one of Jacob’s stomach wounds, coating his finger in the warm, red blood.

He thrives off the mortified expression that causes your face to scrunch up, wiggling as he brings the bloody finger down to your lips, forcing it into your mouth.

But as he retreats his finger past your lips it’s now stained red, albeit clean. But you reject it, gagging against the metallic taste, spitting the blood onto the snow in a messy spatter, some of it sticking to your cheek and chin.

“You’re sick!” A crooked smile stretches the man’s lips at your accusation.

“No, no little bird. This is exactly what you need. A real man to protect you, so that this..” he gestures to your boyfriend. “Doesn’t happen to you, I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

The condescending tone is lost on you as the griping reality of fear ensnares you.

Your throat aches at your attempt to swallow the saliva in your throat, bobbing thickly. The small notion of you shaking your head appeases him greatly.

“I’ll take care of you. All I ask is that you don’t run, or I will clip your wings, understand me little bird?”

A second nod seals your fate.

“Believe me when I say you made the right choice, you were comin’ with me either way.”

Turns out that the small, wooden cabin belonged to this man. He had kept his large hand on the small of your back the entire time he showed you around. His homestead was fully furnished with food, supplies, furniture, even toilet paper.

“This is where you’ll sleep.” He opens a door, and there’s no windows, just a bed. Accompanied by a giant lock on the outside of the door.

He wouldn’t need to clip your wings, if he could cage you in.

“Sit down,” he orders, and you obey, still in shock as your brain tries to swallow the past hour of events whole, not allowing you to process it.

The wooden stool creaks, and he silently fills a bucket of warm water and sits across from you on a chair at the dining table.

Delicately scrunching a small cloth in his hands to wipe the dried blood off of your face, he leans in toward you, an almost soft expression plastered as he concentrates.

“If you’re good f’me we’ll give that friend of yours ‘o proper burial. Would you like that?”

The sweetness of his voice lured you in, to stare into his deep brown eyes, to take in the concerned shape of his pinched brows.

“I.. I would like that.”

He hums, you were learning quickly. Once he’s happy with your face being cleaned, he stands, picking up the aluminium bucket by the handle and pouring it down the sink. Clunking as he sets it back on the floor.

“Let’s go bury him then.” Before he changes his mind.

The snow was too thick for Joel to penetrate the soil with his shovel, so he had just cleared a foot of snow and tossed the young man into it, burying him under the frost, stacking a few rocks on top of the unmarked, unnamed grave.

He’s impressed and grateful you don’t run away though the process. That would implicate some serious issues and more importantly, require some kind of punishment.

Joel was willing to do anything to train you, to ensure that you never ran from him. In that regard, since you did stay, he felt he would reward you.

His bed is warm, the duvet is thick and the smell of him brings a sense of security to you for some reason, despite all that had happened.

“When you appease me, as you have today. I’ll reward you.” He coos, gently lying you down onto his soft bed, crawling between your legs, hastily shuffling your pants down your legs.

His face is directly between your thighs, and he parts them softly.

“I can smell how badly you need me, little bird.” He groans, pressing hot, open mouthed kissed to your inner thighs, slowly, agonisingly closer to your core.

He’s surprised when you impatiently nudge the back of his head closer to you. “That’s my girl.”

The curve of his nose rubs against your swollen clit, his tongue darting upward and into your pussy with a newfound passion.

He growls against you, the notion sends a vibration through you, and you let out a soft whimper. Thick hands ground themselves in your hips, dragging you downward in the bed so his face could delve deeper into your hole.

The wet muscle is skilled in it’s explorative ministrations, licking a long stripe from your core to your swollen clit.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get some attention too.” The promise he utters to your neglected clit is fufilled as he clamps his mouth around the bundle of nerves and sucks on you, the pressure causes a suction that feels electric.

Your fingers stiffen as they grasp onto his unruly curls. Coaxing him for more, more more more.

And he gives—the tip of his tongue skilfully, slowly working you closer and closer to the edge you’d never been brought to before.

Your thighs instinctively clamp shut around his head, keeping him buried there, not wanting him to stop.

“Please, please, please need more,” your unintelligible begging implores him to double down on his ministrations.

He can feel that you’re going to burst against him, slowly, and slowly he was winding the burning hot coil inside of you, the pressure was becoming unbearable as your thighs quake and tenable at his command.

Two of his thick fingers are swallowed by your constricting cunt, clamping down as you cry out at the intense sensation. His fingers expertly work you, pumping deep inside of you, calloused fingertips hitting the spongey flesh inside of your slick hole.

“Fucking.. need you..” you’re slurring your words, and he’s convinced that your hole would swallow him if you pushed him far enough between your legs. He could feel how greedily your pussy was swallowing his fingers. Desperate for release.

In an act of desperation, you begin to forcibly rut your pussy against his face as you raise your hips, tiring of his pace not being quiet enough to give you what you needed.

“Please.. please I want to cum.. gonna cum..”

At the increase of friction, and him allowing you to use his face your orgasm comes crashing over you. Your pussy constricts around his fingers as he works you at a slower pace through your climax.

A delicious string of babbling moans and praise roll past your lips.

Thighs jittering with a delicious tremble as they finally relax from their tight vice around his head.

“Thank you.. thank you..” the faint, inarticulate cry was all he needed for him to grin against your pussy.

You’re left heaving, and he’s mesmerised by the way your chest rises and falls at his performance. It’s something he has become enticed with—seeing you alive. Breathing.

It’s unusual for him, admiring the life within you when he was so used to taking it.

And now, as he pulls away from your pussy, lying beside you in his bed. Your body in his arms.. he knew he’d made the right choice to keep your life.

“You did so well f’me little bird.” The praise falls on your ringing ears, but all that’s returned is a vulnerable whine.

Not bothering to correct him after a moment of silence, you can’t help the words that feel petulant to ask. “Who are you?”

“Joel. And this—is your new home.” He croons into your tangled hair.

All for a moment, in the blissful ecstasy you forget how you ended up here.

[dragonanon]

Shameless Satan x Reader headcanons because I am a whore- 😩

- As much as everyone would probably assume he’s into “meek wittle UwU princesses” he can dominate with ease, Satan in fact prefers a little spitfire who won’t hesitate to fight back

- You won’t just lay down and take his BS, and it’s part of what drew him to you to begin with. He was probably raging about some stupid shit in the courtroom, and you (probably a desk clerk or something there at the time) got sick of it and yelled back at him “Oh stfu you big red fucker!” And he was so taken aback that someone had the balls to yell back at him that he was left speechless and mildly aroused

- Calls you things like “little flame”, “spitfire”, “dove”, and his “treasure”

- Knows that the sheer size difference between you two flusters you to no end, and he’s a goddamn menace about it. Making short jokes, holding things out of reach, and randomly picking you up just so he can hear you squeak in surprise. Getting cursed out by you is worth it so long as he gets to see that precious look on your face

- Aside from Yogirt, you’re really the only one who can get Satan to calm down when he’s angry and you have a much easier time doing so than Yogirt does. All you have to do is scratch his chin and croon at him, and the big bastard just melts into your touch

- Purrs SO GODDAMN LOUD but insists that he doesn’t. The lying bastard, he sounds like a tractor engine on steroids. He gets SUPER pissy if anyone besides you comments on it

- SO fucking full of himself, mans REALLY thinks he’s above Lucifer and deserves to be regarded as such smh. Your love and affection only further strokes his overinflated ego, as does any compliments and praise you give him. Mf actually grows BIGGER in multiple ways lol the more his ego is stroked

- This man is a cowboy/rancher and I will take NO criticism because I’m right. He’s got THOUSANDS of cows, and lots of horses too

- When he’s not in the courtroom, he’s working on his ranch. Probably has hundreds, if not thousands, of Demons he employs as farm hands to help with all the work, but there are some things only he can do and TBH he likes the physical activity of the work and it’s a free show for you lol

- He gave you a little chicken coop so you can keep a little flock of chickens. You LOVE your chickens, and your personal fav is a tiny rooster you named “Marshmallow”, and he looks like a more demonic version of this lol

- Says he’s not jealous of Marshmallow, but he TOTALLY is. He gets all pouty and grumbly when you pick up the tiny rooster and coo over him, because dammit you should be cuddling and cooing over HIM! Not that stupid bird!

- Has a big, fancy, mansion on his ranch that he lives in with you. In true dragon fashion, he unironically sleeps on a mountain of gold and other treasures lol. How he doesn’t have back pain is a mystery, but you get to sleep on his tiddies so you have no complaints lol

- Runs SO fucking hot! You’ll never need to pay for heating again, let alone HAVE an actual heating system, because this mf puts out heat like an industrial incinerator. It’s FANTASTIC during the winter because he’s so warm you can just cozy up to him and be in bliss, but in the summer it’s fucking agony and you can’t escape it because he gets upsetti spaghetti if you don’t sleep and cuddle with him

- Would prefer you to NOT be in the courtroom with him. He says it’s because you distract him, but in reality it’s because he doesn’t want you to have to see him explode with rage and live up to his title as the embodiment of wrath. He actually tries REALLY hard to keep that part of himself away from you, because even though he’ll die before ever admitting it, a TINY part of him is terrified that he’ll end up hurting you during one of his outbursts

- If for some reason you HAVE to be there, he has a special little balcony set up for you that’s not only a safe distance away from any potential danger, but ALSO has a magic force field protecting it (that part is a secret tho because if you knew about it, you’d yell at him for thinking you’re weak enough to need protection lmfao)

- If anyone so much as blinks at you wrong, he beats the shit out of them. The ONLY reason he doesn’t kill them is because he knows you’ll yell at him like “Dammit Satan, again?! I can’t go anywhere with you!”

- Yogirt 100% uses his love for you to get him to chill. “I know you’re feeling some pretty big feelings right now, but think of (Y/N)~ She loves you and would be so sad to see you this angry~”

- It’s funny because he and Satan both know damn well that you wouldn’t be sad, rather you’d be yelling at him to knock that shit off lmao

- The entire courtroom once got to hear you sit him the fuck down because he got a little TOO spicy in the courtroom one day, and didn’t believe Yogirt he he not-so-subtly threatened to call you. Sure enough, he pulled out his phone and called you on speaker phone, and everyone got to spend 30 minutes listening to you rip this mf a new one while the mighty king of wrath sat there like a sad puppy and occasionally mumbling something like “I know…I’m sorry treasure, I’ll do better.” (No one is allowed to comment on it or else he’ll get VERY angry about it. Plenty of memes have been made about it tho much to his chagrin)

[unionizedwizard]

ok so like. imagine. you're a high-ranking government official and one of your colleagues has announced his decision to step down and retire, and named his successor, so you and your coworker-bestie-husband(™️) go on an official administrative business trip to go meet said guy. and then you arrive and you find A Cat in the bushes outside the office. it's in poor shape but its microchip says it actually belongs to your other colleague-and-friend. you are bullied into taking the cat to the vet AND letting it tag along despite your protests. and you finally find the guy you were supposed to meet and the cat is like. staying in the room. where you are supposed to conduct aforementioned highly confidential job interview. and you try to shoo it away but the guy you're trying to interview is like No i want the cat to be there. Because i'm nervous. About the job interview. Let the cat stay. I trust him because my pet bird loves him :). so the cat gets to stay. and then you keep going and you bump into yet another old acquaintance of yours (now retired and living her best hippie life) (which is highly frowned upon) and she goes Oooooh! Is that my cat you've found? :) and you're like, what the fuck is the deal with this goddamn cat, but you can't say that outright because you are a government official on a very important mission, so you go "i wasn't aware you even had a cat? also the microchip says it belongs to our other colleague" and she goes "oh well no i don't but clearly this cat is wearing the collar i give to all my pets so it must mean he's come from the future :) where i will own this specific cat :) hi little kitty! pspspsp!" and you're like, what the fuck is wrong with everyone today? and then the cat looks at you and says "she's right. i come from the future. where everyone has been turned into cats since the world ended. also i will kill you in about twelve thousand years from now. fucker."

[delphi-shield]

connection buffering . . . ↺

di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 2

previous part

you weren't bluffing.

you'd made the sign. wrote his name in big block letters, too confident in how you wrote the first half of his name. the 'EDY' crowds together at the end. 'E' shoves 'D' close to the end, 'Y' drawn paper thin and cocked to the side, threatening to topple off the edge of the paper. leon finds he's not too tired to laugh.

he had the whole goddamn flight to figure out what to say to you, but when he sees you standing there with that sign in your hand, scanning the crowd for a man you expect to be two inches taller, it all flushes out of him to make room for the queasy feeling in his gut. when you finally spot him (thank god; the words had gotten lodged in his throat, your name running around his mind again, again, again, lodged so deep in the crevices that he couldn't pry it free and force it out his mouth) your smile nearly blinds him. he shields his eyes with a hand, watches you bounce on the balls of your feet.

he flicks your sign with a finger. the only words that make it past the lump in his throat are, "messed up the kerning, huh?"

you tip your head, puppy-dog cute. more adorable in person. "the what?"

"kerning." silence. you shake your head a little, blank look in your eye. leon tries to swallow, feels barbs jab into his throat. ten minutes on the ground and he's fucking up already. his gut turns. he tries to blame it on airplane peanuts. "the space between the letters."

he should get back on the plane. if he flashes his badge and declares it official business they have to let him on, right? brass wouldn't be happy with him, but what are they going to do? he's leon fucking kenn--

you laugh and his thoughts screech to a halt, plane crash on the concourse. footsteps pound past him - or maybe that's his heartbeat in his ears. your laugh is prettier in person, too.

"okay, all right." your face lights up, eyes squished to make room for your smile. "why do you know that?"

mentally, he flips through a rolodex of excuses. he moonlighted as a graphic designer (false), he was really into fonts (no strong opinions, really), it's classified (outright lie). he settles for the truth, shrugging.

"late night wikipedia dive."

you laugh again. his heart is a bird, fluttering in his chest, battering itself against his ribs to get to you. what the hell is wrong with him? he hadn't felt like this in years, thought he wasn't supposed to feel like this anymore. when you were an adult you grew out of this sort of giddiness. he'd choked it down every time he'd checked his phone under the table at an intelligence meeting, dismissed it as heartburn. he's supposed to want. it's supposed to be a blaze that swallows him up. confident and bold and all-consuming. not fidgety and desperate.

he's not anxious. he's a grown man. he's met presidents, plural. he doesn't get nervous meeting people, even if they're stunning, even if his hands twitch to hold theirs.

does he hug you? kiss you? slip his hand into your back pocket and guide you out of the terminal, lead you blindly to a car that isn't his, take you to an apartment he's only ever seen portions of on a 15 inch screen, ask what he can make you for dinner in your own home? that's what he wants. skip over all of this and slide right into familiarity, fly right past all the work it takes to get there. you've done the leg work, right? you know how you feel about each other. he's here. that says enough, doesn't it?

he's eternally grateful that you reach through his thoughts and pull him into a hug. your face stuffs into his shoulder, words muffled. "i'm so glad you're here."

you inhale deeply and he swears his heart does a backflip. jesus, he needs to get a physical. this can't be normal.

it's you who loops your arm with his, you who tugs him into motion. you rattle off questions that he answers as best he can. it feels like drowning, like he can barely keep his head above water. his flight was fine, thanks for asking. no, he didn't get any sleep. he never sleeps on planes. it's a long story. he didn't need a nap, but yeah, he could go for a coffee.

you know this great place, you reassure him. really low-key. he treads water in the parking garage while you dig for your keys. you drop them - twice - and he wonders if you're struggling to stay at the surface, too.

as a last act before sinking into the passenger seat, he rescues your sign from the trash, folding it neatly and tucking it into his pocket.

he looks up from buckling his seat belt, beckoned by the way you call his name. he's still smiling when you cup his cheeks and kiss him.

by day two, he's decided you need a new apartment. he hasn't told you that yet, figures it comes off too pushy, but he would fly back down to help you move if you wanted. (if he thinks it hard enough, won't you ask him to?)

don't misunderstand - he likes what you've done with the place. honest to god, you're a miracle worker with decor. you could really shape his place up.

it's just that your front door is less than secure. your locks are ran through. it would take him less than a minute to break in. he doesn't even want to think about your windows. other than being drafty, they're just another completely unsecured access point.

you'd invited him to sleep in your bed the first night, and he had every intention of doing so. he'd just passed out on the couch before he had the chance. leon had woken with a pillow stuffed under his head, thick, handmade blanket tucked over him. it was sweet. really.

but it wasn't the same as sleeping next to you.

leon has every intention of sleeping in your bed that night. you'd filled the day with a tour of your city, pointing out your favorite and least favorite spots, telling stories that let him imagine the streets as a stage, you as the star, top billing as far as he's concerned. everything had been optional, as you'd feverishly reassured him after every stop. he could change the itinerary with one word. the only mandatory stop had been lunch with your friends. a good sign, he thinks. if you're confident enough to introduce him to the people in your life, then you see this going somewhere, right?

by the time you hit your last stop, it feels like he's emerged from a war zone. leon would know. he's been run ragged on back to back operations before, but this - the pressure of trying to be right for you, to show you who he is, waiting on pins and needles for you to sour on him and push back from the closeness he craves - this is truly exhausting.

you must feel it too, offering to pick up dinner on your way home in lieu of cooking. he waves away apologies, reaches past you to hand the cashier at taco bell his card when you try to pay. the food is gone by the time you pull your car into the parking lot.

both of you have the same idea. you're just as worn out as he is (makes him wonder if you're doing the same thing, all anxious energy, making sure to put your best foot forward, always stumbling and falling into a better impression than the one you set out to make) and bed comes naturally to mind. he slips into the side closest to the door and you stop him immediately, voice teasing.

"uh, that's my side." you poke at his ribs. the awkwardness had melted over the course of the day together. you were playful, eyes bright and laugh loud. touch came easy between you now, both playful and lingering. the comfort that had been stirred up and tossed into disarray by physical proximity had settled back in.

leon's eyes flit to the door over your shoulder. it's not a big deal, he tells himself. the odds of something happening were astronomically low.

but he knows his luck with astronomically low odds. one in a million is too risky. he's got to be closer to the door, won't be able to sleep if he's not. his hands wrap around your waist, urging you on top of him. he doesn't miss the way you stiffen, the momentary hitch of your breath, but you let yourself get swept along all the same, drape yourself over him as he guides you to.

"just sleep like this." leon shifts lower to make more space for you. he presses a kiss to your head.

it takes longer than he expected for you to relax. slowly, when his hands still at your back and his breathing evens out, your limbs loosen. your weight thickens atop him, pressing him further into the mattress. it's all he can do to remind himself that he's tired, that starting something now would lead nowhere fast.

leon stays awake until he's certain you're out cold. the door remains unbreached, your home still safe. he can't bring himself to regret his caution.

when he's finally able to sleep, he sleeps hard. he wakes to your fingers carding through his hair, his cheek cushioned against your chest, completely flipped around during the night. it's the best night he's had in years.

on day three, leon wonders if he should be more obvious.

he's been putting out all the signs, carefully curated his touch to be lingering, to make you burn for more, but each time you settle against him and offer up a contented "this is nice."

does there need to be a neon sign draped around his neck that says "take me for a spin", arrow blinking down toward his crotch? you'd let him press against your back during an afternoon nap, knee wedged between your legs, arm curled around your stomach to keep you next to him. he woke from dreams where he was bolder, where he wasn't afraid of losing you with that lingering confidence, pressed kisses to the back of your neck until that gauzy empowerment lifted.

hell, he'd woken up that morning laying half on top of you, his head nestled in the valley of your chest. you'd pet his hair til he woke from nuzzling your tits in his sleep.

he abandons subtlety during the credit crawl of eight-legged freaks, a 'classic' you had insisted on making him watch. (you'd laughed when he had commented he could keep you safe in the event of giant spiders. he hadn't been joking, but he still hasn't grown tired of hearing you laugh.)

"hey," he asks, hand curling around your thigh. his thumb smooths an arc across your skin, traces the path again and again. "do you wanna..?"

smooth, kennedy.

you look over at him with that same puppy-dog confusion that he's growing familiar with. instead of moving his hand, you draw your legs up and lay them over his lap. how the fuck is he supposed to interpret that?

"do i wanna..?" you parrot back, drawing the words out into the form of a question.

leon hates himself. he wishes he could back out of this. he clears his throat. how the hell do people broach this topic smoothly? he searches for the words, the silence stretching a little too long for comfort. finally, he says the first thing he can.

"like, sex."

real mature, kennedy, he thinks. he wishes he could backpedal, take it all back. he's certain your face warms. before he can issue a take down for his words, (maybe cut out his stupid goddamn vocal cords, if he has the time) you fumble out, "oh. like- right now? uh, i mean, do you want to?"

continuing with the maturity, he turns it back on you.

"i asked you first."

"i don't not want to."

leon shakes his head. his hand cups your ankle. "i really only take 'yeah' or 'hell yeah'."

"i just didn't think giant spiders got you in the mood."

"hey, the more legs the better."

leon knows deflection when he hears it. he's the reigning champ, after all, could play this game with you all day. but he has mercy; he chuckles, lets you get away with it and grabs the remote, declaring it's his turn to pick another movie since your choice was a mood killer.

later that night, curled up in bed with a video playing mindlessly from your tablet, you turn around to face him. he widens his arms to accommodate the movement, circles them tighter once you settle in.

"you're not mad?" you ask, pressing your face into his chest, already hiding from the answer.

"about what?"

"y'know."

"spell it out for me, sweetheart."

he can feel your breath puff against his chest, an exasperated huff. people have done this same thing to him time and time again. he always hated it, being forced to be forthcoming and earnest. (vulnerable, some people call it, but that always made him feel like a wounded bird.) now that he's on the other side, he sort of sees the appeal.

"'cause i don't wanna have sex yet."

there's a 'yet'. that's promising. he saves that little victory for later. his hand rubs slowly, reverently across the planes of your back.

he knows what he's got to say. he knows that he means it. putting the words to it is different. he needs you to understand, has to do this right.

"i didn't come all this way just to hook up."

you hum. "but you still want to."

christ, he's got to man up and say it.

"of course i do." you burrow closer to him, hands fisting against his side. he taps your back firmly. "hey. i'm not finished. i'm attracted to you, okay? like, really attracted to you. it's not- it's not just physical. i want to see if we can make this work. if what we had on the phone was real."

"is it?"

"yeah. i think so."

"sex isn't important to you?"

"it is. it's just not more important to me than you."

you pull your face from his chest, look up at him with big wet eyes. he brushes the backs of his fingers against your cheek tenderly, afraid you'll splinter and those tears will cascade down if he's anything but gentle.

"i think so, too."

you curl back into him, your touch melting from desperate to serene. leon can't help but feel accomplished - as though he's threaded the needle perfectly, cut the right wire just before the clock hit zero. gradually, his breathing falls into step with yours.

"besides," he murmurs, half-asleep. he drops a kiss against the top of your head. "your walls are thin. i don't want you catching a noise complaint."

day four is a glimpse of the life he could have, but it makes him realize what he needs to do to obtain it. the sickly feeling pools in his stomach, leaves him picking at the dinner you made. it's good, he swears. then the lie - just all the travel catching up to him.

he knows by day five that he's got to tell you everything. it's no longer a want - he needs you in his life. he's resolved to come clean.

he nearly does it over breakfast. you set his coffee in front of him, muss his hair before you take your own seat, and it almost comes spilling out onto the table.

i work in national security. i'm a federal agent. there's so much i can't tell you, but it's dangerous. god, it's dangerous. there's so much blood on my hands. it doesn't scrub off but i'm worried it will stain your skin. i think i could love you, if you'll let me. please don't say it back.

"plans today?" he says instead, sipping his coffee.

maybe tomorrow.

day six leaves him melancholy.

you'd insisted that today was for him. whatever he wanted, you would accommodate.

leon worries that his answer is boring. he wants a day in with you. an imitation of what it could be like to come home to this. the idle sounds of you milling about the house could lull him to sleep if it weren't for the words lodged in his throat.

you were doing the laundry. not yours, not his, but the, the definite article that's never felt intimate until that very moment. it silenced him to hear you refer to it that way. he's so tired of reading into every word you say, clinging onto every nuance. he'd forgotten how exhausting this stage of a relationship is. you couldn't send him home with dirty clothes, you explained, and he had no argument against that. his eyes traced after you as you puttered around, busying yourself with tidying. you're so at home. of course you are. it's your apartment. but he wants that. he wants to lift you from this place and into his own home, to watch you make yourself at home and busy yourself with the mundane.

he's got to tell you today. he can't do it over text. it's wrong.

when you finally settle down next to him on the couch, drawing a blanket into your lap, you breach the topic gently, give him a chance to do it himself. leon doesn't realize how obvious he is when he gets that look on his face, all forlorn as if he'd collapsed onto a fainting couch, hand over the back of his forehead. drama queen.

"what's up?" you ask, sitting close - but infuriatingly distant, not quite touching him yet.

"nothing. just looking at you."

bless you for trying to make it easy on him. it's always been like pulling teeth to get him to talk. he's trained to resist torture and coercion, should know better than to melt under a gentle hand or the way your body fits against his side.

you hum softly, disbelieving. so that's it, then. the silence, the 'i'm respecting your distance until you break' tactics. damn, you're good. leon takes a deep breath, chest aching with the weight of what he has to say. now or never.

"look- i'm not who you think i am."

you don't miss a beat. "in what way?"

he has to force the words out. he's acutely aware that this could ruin everything. you could kick him out. block his number, never speak to him again. good. it was safer that way. you deserved a normal life.

"i lied to you. about my work."

"yeah, i know."

"i work in security. national security."

"leon. i know."

his brain reels back a few steps, trying to process your words.

"you know?" he repeats, almost offended. how could you know? was this a set up?

you pull your phone from your pocket, tapping a quick query in. you turn the phone to him. article after article, a few interviews pinned to the top. every link is purple, clicked on and read through. the one that draws his eye is tucked at the bottom of the screen, makes his skin crawl to remember.

KENNEDY, HARPER CLEARED OF CHARGES

"i googled you." you set your phone down on the coffee table.

"and you still let me into your house?" he was serious, but you laugh. leon's brow pinches. "how long?"

you shrug, as if this conversation is about the laundry. "a couple months. ever since you told me your last name."

"months? why didn't you say anything?"

"i was hoping you'd tell me yourself. and you did, sort of."

his mind is still reeling. the drama of it all had his wound up tight. where does he put that energy?

he must look as thrown-off as he feels, because you chuckle, sweep the hair from his eyes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"i get why you don't tell people upfront. just don't hide stuff like that from me again, okay? seriously. i'll be mad."

it's more grace than he deserves. your acceptance churns his stomach. is there another meaning behind your words, a resentment coiling in the pit of your stomach?

you crack open your book and lean against his side. he settles his arm around you, moving slow, scared to frighten you away. only one chapter in, you pass him your phone, a take-out app order, asking what he wants. if you're mad, you hide it well.

day seven is a funerary procession. you help him scour your apartment for things he may have left behind, packing them neatly in his suitcase-shaped coffin. it's amazing how his things had flooded into your apartment during the short course of his visit. he had spread out, made himself comfortable. part of it had been testing how his belongings felt next to yours, how it all fit - the final test he had constructed in his mind. you'd passed that with flying colors, clearly. he's lost track of a shirt somewhere along the way, but he isn't concerned about it. he'll be back. he can look for it another time.

both of you linger at your front door. excuses are myriad, flowing from both sides. reasons to double back, reasons to keep his hand on your waist, your fingers in his hair, your lips on his.

but eventually the time becomes too urgent, the threat of missing his flight too real. he'd joked in the car that if he didn't turn up for work they might just send a helicopter to pick him up instead, expecting a laugh. you only smile, a wry twist of your lips that fades too quickly. you reach for your sunglasses and shove them on. the air is tense by the time you pull into the parking garage, cherry scented car freshener cloying.

“you gonna cry?” he teases.

you sniffle.

“oh my god.” he is such a jackass. “don't cry. i'm sorry, sweetheart. it's okay. jesus.”

“i just don't want you to go,” you squeak. your hands fist the steering wheel tight, knuckles turning white.

leon leans over the center console, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. he shrugs you closer to him, hushing you gently.

"let's plan another trip, okay?" he murmurs against your head, placing apologetic kisses there over and over. "c'mon. it's not forever. it's okay. i'm gonna call you when i land. we'll text, like we always do. it's my turn to pick the movie, so-"

fuck. his voice cracks. he clears his throat, blinks quickly to keep his composure.

"so, i'll pick a good one. wednesday night, okay? you, me, and a really good movie."

steadily, his promises slow your tears. the pressure of time detaches you from his hold. you're with him as far as you can go, waving him off to his gate. his heart sinks like a stone. he hates flights, never gets comfortable on them, but the way home feels longer than usual.

made it home he texts the second he's through the door. you're probably asleep. he hopes you are, at least. it's late for you, and--

yay

before he can bother telling you to go to bed, another message pushes through. his house felt empty before, but your message only deepens the feeling, hollows out the hallways and leaves his bed feeling too big, too cold.

i miss you already. call me tomorrow if you can.

leon squints at the screen.

"is that my shirt?"

you stop mid-sentence. caught red-handed - or, rather, grey-shirted.

it's your movie night since he made it back home. you're curled up in bed, your popcorn off to the side. he can fill in the gaps of your room now, knows what extends beyond the screen - and he knows that shirt. an old work tee of his that had mysteriously gone missing after you did the laundry. well-worn and soft. his name stamped on the back in big, block letters. possessive pride stirs in his chest to imagine you wearing his name.

sheepish, you promise, "i'll bring it back to you. how about next month?"

leon shakes his head. he pulls open his calendar, skimming through the busy weeks to clear the time for you.

"keep it. wear it to the airport for me so i know who to look for."

"you're not gonna make me a sign?"

"the shirt is the sign, sweetheart."

"are you gonna wear a matching one with my name on it?"

"i might." he opens another tab, googling how to make custom t-shirts. "you'll have to get here and find out."

connection restored -`♡´-

dividers from @/adornedwithlight

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

Like Birds on a Broken Branch | 1

Monster! Task Force 141 X F!Reader

Drabble / Masterlist / DISCORD SERVER

Preface

Females have begun to decline as swiftly as time has, and that was when males of all races, began to become desperate. This led to women being collected at birth and sold at auction, and they gradually became one of the most coveted items.

Despairing to keep what have to become sacred treasures across the land hidden, parents started to hide their daughters.

You are one of them.

Until, what you had always thought your last hope, the Government issued a large-scale raid for women, and forced you out of hiding, thrown into the house of four powerful monsters.

Context Warning: NSFW! Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dub-con/ Non-con, Fingering, Murder, Author's Poor Attempt in Dark Fic, Monsterfucking, Mentions of Slavery

Disgusting, filthy, bottom crawlers.

That was the first thought that came to your mind as the Shadow Company of the Government raided your once safe haven. Your body trembled before them as though you were heaved into a freezing lake, left to die. Your breathing was heavy as though you went for a track. Your sweat coated every inch of your skin.

But the cleaver knife and gun in your hand said otherwise.

Heads and hearts exploded each time a deafening noise echoed in everyone's ears, blocking all sounds, but not yours. All you could hear was the beat of your heart, telling you never to stop.

Each second was enough time to burn down another one's story. However, this was the beginning of your tale.

When all you could see was crimson, when all you could hear was the echo of your heart and the clinking of bullet shells, light shone from behind. And you staggered forward, feeling a scorching heat from your stomach and chest, where blood oozed out which never seemed to come to an end—the sign of your freedom already stolen.

In a blink, gone.

After all, a story never begins with one who already has everything.

It was impossible to block out the stifled sobs of all the women around you, even if you had tried cupping your hands over your ears and closing your eyes.

Just like you, who had fought for your freedom, but to no avail, they were captured a week before. However, you couldn't bring yourself to cry. More than anything, you were tired . . . and mad.

You had been shot twice before your capture, and the bullets the Shadows used were laced with poison. Normally, that would only be used to neutralize monsters, but seeing how you murdered people just to escape, the leader must have realized you were more than what you appeared to be.

That, and the fact that only women can bring life to this godforsaken land, were the reason why men and monsters decided to make them their toys. But these women had long lost their will to live their life the way they wanted. The sparks in their eyes that were said to be the undisputed magic which always brings men to their knees, were now gone.

You couldn't exactly pity them when you were about to experience the same. In fact, you were already in the same state as they were: stripped naked for every goddamned eye to see.

Your name echoed in the corridor,  and one of the men, standing guard, dressed in all black, grabbed your arm. He pulled you up to your feet and whispered to your ears, “You better behave out there,” he tightened his grip as he dragged you. “Graves won't hesitate to put another bullet on you.”

You rolled your eyes. “We all know I will fetch a great price. You wouldn't want to lose a large sum of money, don't you?”

“Threatening my Shadows again?” A silvery voice emerged from the darkness, taking the form of a man with slicked-back, blond hair, dressed in the finest suit you had ever put an eye on.

Phillip Graves was a monster—a bloodsucking leech in human clothing, leader of the monsters you had blasted a hole in when they rampaged your home, and the very one to make it even by shooting you and capturing you.

He flashed a small smile at you, condescending enough to make your blood boil. He took you from his subordinate, arm snaking around your waist, and pulling you close to him.

Your breasts planted on his chest, making it appear more ample, and on your stomach, you could feel something hard. A grimace appeared on your face and a shiver ran down your spine as his hands traveled from your waist down to your ass. His fingers slowly went south through the gap of your thighs. You loathed this feeling, the cold touch of his calloused fingers, his hard grip, and the strong scent of his cologne mixed with rust—with blood. But if you retaliated, he would break your bones, over and over again, knowing that you could heal faster than most.

And this sadist wouldn't hesitate to take your virginity himself before selling you to others, like a toy that he had already gotten tired of.

“You sure you don't want me to take you?” Phillip leaned down, planting an open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder. “I can delay your show and we can have some time.”

“No,” you grunted, turning your head to the side, eyeing his servants who watched the movements of Phillip’s hands running over your body.

A chuckle escaped his lips, inhaling your scent as his nose trailed to your temple. “A shame,” he whispered, his sharp fangs grazing your skin, fingers caressing your folds, already slightly soaked.

You bit your lip to hold back the noise threatening to escape from your lips.

He stepped away from you and watched you immediately try to cover yourself with your arms. But oh, you foolish little bird, he could still see every inch of you.

He would take you, sure, if that was what you wanted. But good sex was nothing to a good sum of money. He can buy or rent any woman he pleases, with the price he could get from you. Besides, there were acquaintances of his who wouldn't want a woman who had already been touched.

Plus points, you were educated.

Cons: you fucking know how to kill.

Wherever the fuck you learned to do that.

He brought his fingers to his lips, licking away your fluids that grazed his fingers. “Well, let's get going.” He smiled and took your wrist, like a misbehaving dog on a walk park now being dragged home.

His hand swiped the curtain open and you squinted your eyes, blinded by the overhead lights, until you finally adjusted to the brightness, which followed you and Graves as you climbed up the stairs of a platform. Shame brought your body to flame as every gaze shifted on your naked flesh, chatters that sounded like static echoed endlessly in your ears.

From there, all you desired was for everything to burn.

John Mactavish leaned forward from his seat, bright blue eyes raking upon every inch of your body, but what caught his attention was the condescending look on your eyes, which declared every man in your sight lower than vermins walking on this land. Then, your eyes settled on Mactavish as Phillip Graves began your brief introduction to all the monsters inside the auction, and seemingly to judge his entire existence, he felt himself wanting more of your attention, of whatever you speak. He felt the desire in your gaze, the hunger for eradication.

Oh, you would look glorious sitting on his lap, bouncing up and down on his dick as you please, until you suck him dry. John felt his dick hardening, brushing against the fabric of his pants. He turned on his seat, facing Jonathan Price, whom they considered the leader of their hoard, but before he could utter a word the same man spoke.

“I like this one,” Price declared, making the other two on the same table as them, shift their gazes at him. Price took a long drag from his cigar before he continued. “She reminds me of the time when women stood proud and confident. We barely see that kind of spark in the eyes of females anymore, and I’d like to bring that spark into nothing but a speck of ash.”

“You’re a sadist, Price,” a man in a skull mask remarked, voice low and gruff, snapping his head back as the bidding started, each time a monster spoke, the price got higher.

Price turned his head to the man, his eyes glowing gold like a flame imprisoned within. “Nothing shall burn brighter than my fire, Simon.” He pulled a smirk on his lips, sharp fangs glinting, and motioned at the other one among them, raising his hand. “Kyle, would you please?”

However, before Kyle could raise their designated number, Graves raised a hand, bringing silence to the room, and he began, “Most of you might think that she is just a human, but let me show you something that would assure that she was the most valuable one we have ever had in a hundred years.”

You snapped your neck at Phillip, frowning at his face until his fingernails became dark and sharp like the claws of a wild beast. With a swift movement, his nails dragged on your arm, making you wince in pain, and blood began to run down. Each plop of blood on the floor made monsters gulp and each centimeter of the wound closed made monsters rise from their feet.

Even Phillip Graves had a hard time resisting the sight of blood and forcing himself on you for the sake of money.

Who wouldn’t want a woman who can take this much damage? Who wouldn’t want a woman who would ensure their offspring would come out stronger?

Then, a booming laughter echoed across the sea of yells, surfacing among others. Just as you turned to see where it came from, a flash of yellow came into your sight, and you leaned back, your heart leaping to your throat when a man towered over you.

Not a man. A monster.

Devil's incarnate.

Sharp horns sprouted from his forehead. On his back, a pair of leathery wings unrolled and a thick, scaly tail slapped Graves away from you before he could complain. And with a single sniff, a huff which brought the smell of smoke up your nostrils, Price’s eyes flashed gold.

“We’re bringing you home.” He pushed his lips onto yours, scaly hands wrapping around your waist, sharp claws scraping your skin. You tried to push him off, but one of his hands grabbed your hand so tight you thought your bones would break.

You whimpered against his mouth, making him chuckle and bite down on your lower lip, his fang piercing through the fragile skin. You tasted blood on your tongue and so did he as you were heaved up, forced to wrap your legs around his waist. Your cunt brushed onto the harsh fabric of his pants and the growing tent between them.

You bit back a moan and pulled away. “Stop—” But his hand pulled you back into his fervent, disgusting kiss. He left his marks on the expanse of your collarbone, then down to the valley of your breasts, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he reached on your head, pulling on your tresses.

It made you turn your head and you watched three other men get on the platform as well—one who appeared to be the most normal-looking among them, giving two cases of money to Graves, who didn’t seem much pleased after he was shoved off stage.

And before this very crowd, you were brought back the curtains and to God knows where.

May we all have seats reserved in hell already.

Next Chapter / Archive of Our Own / DISCORD SERVER

Comment if you want to be on the taglist

[kitten4sannie]

𝔯𝔲𝔫, 𝔯𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔦𝔱, 𝔯𝔲𝔫

“What do I win?” His voice was just barely above a whisper. “What will you give me, bunny?”

pairing: wolf hybrid! san x bunny hybrid! fem reader

genre: hybrid/omegaverse, smut

summary: your boyfriend’s rut has (un)fortunate timing.

w.c: 3.7k

“All of me, silly boy. Everything.”

warnings: hard dom! san (wolf sannie is so mean ><), sub! reader, possessiveness, pet names (sweetheart, bun, bunny, baby, etc), name calling, daddy kink, san has a massive cock btw, degradation/praise, filthy dialogue (i went wilddd), cnc, primal play (ofc), subspace, face-fucking, brief breath play, manhandling, brief blood drinking, biting/marking, face/pussy slapping, size kink, bulge kink, impreg kink, breeding kink, knotting, multiple positions, creampies, cockwarming, dumbification

a/n: this is a major brain rot moment bc goddamn i just wanna be a little bunny that gets eaten up by big bad wolf sannie yk? ughh esp considering san went full alpha wolf mode in that warriors dance performance vid ksksjd. anywayy thank you to “here me out” anon for sending me that primal play ask — i’m sorry it took me ages to post but this is for you bb <3 okay lovelies: put on some mood music, get all comfy in your beds, and enjoy the ride 🖤

song recs: predator by anomy5 (ty haruuu @stardragongalaxy <3), destroy me by mr. kitty, mascara by deftones

Masterlist

➽───────────────❥

You climbed out of the passengerside of your boyfriend’s truck, taking a deep inhale of the fresh air around you, studying your serene surroundings. There were countless pine trees beyond the clearing you were standing in, going on for miles and miles, swallowing up the land around you. It was the perfect place to have a nice, quiet picnic with the love of your life.

“Oh, bunny,” San called out in a sing-song tone, only the tips of his fluffy black ears sticking up past the top of his truck before he walked around the back and over to you, holding a thick pleated blanket and a picnic basket in his arms. He tilted his head, one of his ears rotating slightly in response to a flock of birds that flew past the red-orange sky above the both of you. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I am, pretty boy,” you returned, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his lips, only for San to let out a small, though obvious growling sound, nipping at your bottom lip, his ears twitching slightly. Holding back a moan, you opened your surprised eyes, your own ears instinctively standing on high alert. “San?”

Your boyfriend’s once furrowed brows relaxed, along with his features, making sure to give you a soft, dimpled smile. His body was beginning to overheat dangerously fast, but he didn’t know if he should inform you yet. He didn’t want to ruin such a nice picnic date. “Yes, baby?”

You blinked your big doe eyes at him. “Are you okay?”

San’s eyes glazed over for a split second, a prick of uneasiness shooting through your body at the sight of it. It was instinctual fear, reminding you of the way things would be if you weren’t civilized hybrids — though, it sent something else through you that you weren’t particularly familiar with.

“I’m just peachy, baby,” San reassured, running a hand through his dark locks, giving you a toothy smile. “Now, let’s have our little picnic.” His smile grew wider, pointed shiny fangs glinting in the warm evening light. “I’m starving.”

You couldn’t quite pinpoint what you were feeling, but did you really need to? Not when slick was already leaking out of your cunt and along your inner thighs. Instead of confronting the bubbling situation, you mirrored his smile, showing off your smaller, more rounded set of teeth. “Me too!”

You had shared some fizzy drinks and a small spread of food on your picnic blanket with San, idly chatting about whatever was on your mind, occasionally going into bouts of comfortable silence, your minds unable to stop focusing on the presence of something that couldn’t be ignored. The scent that was radiating off of San was unlike anything you had encountered previously. It was so stifling, so hot, like fire and ember, burning the tip of your tongue and lighting the wick inside your core. Though you hadn’t spoken about it, you were very certain your boyfriend was in–

“Bunny…” he mumbled underneath his breath, his head angled at the ground so that you couldn’t see how flushed his angular cheeks had become, how his eyes were hooded and unfocused, and the drool that was leaving his lips. “Daddy’s not feeling like himself right now.”

Biting your lip, you tilted your head, grabbing onto one of your elongated rabbit ears and stroking it out of habit. “Are…you in a rut, Daddy?” The low growling that San emitted through his clenched teeth gave you all the confirmation you needed. “I don’t mind, you know.”

“Huh..?” San sat up a bit from his hunched position, tilting his head to the side. “You mean that, bun?”

You nodded your head enthusiastically, your ears flopping a bit from your quick movements. Your eager expression softened significantly, looking at San past your long wispy eyelashes, swiping at your lip and making it glisten with your saliva. “Should we play hide and seek, Sannie? Or how about tag? You win if you catch me.” San was leaning in closer to you, just as you followed his lead, your bodies drawn to one another like magnets.

“What do I win?” His voice was just barely above a whisper. “What will you give me, bunny?” His lips were just barely brushing over yours, your combined breaths leaving you a bit dizzy.

You giggled softly, reaching up to caress his cheek. “All of me, silly boy.” Your fingers drifted along his sharp jaw and into his hair, your gaze lowering to his lips. “My body.” You left a small kiss on his cheek. “My heart.” You held his heated face as your pressed your lips onto his. “Everything.”

Something snapped within San in that moment. He immediately stood up, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, like he would run out of air at any second. You knew your time with your gentle, loving Sannie was long gone for the time being, and you couldn’t have been happier.

“I’ll give you on the count of three to run, baby.” San lowered his chin and looked down at you past his black bangs, a distant look in his glazed over eyes. They were bright red and glowing, his pupils forming into small slits. “Three…” he began gruffly, one side of his upper lip twitching up slightly to reveal a pointy, white canine.

“Sannie…” you murmured to yourself, standing up from the picnic blanket and taking a few steps back, leaves and sticks crunching underneath your feet.

“Two…” he continued in an eerily soft tone, pulling at the neckline of his t-shirt, sweat starting to become visible on his smooth tan skin. San slowly started to hunch over, his heavy, uneven breaths causing a vaporous fog to form in the air near his drooling mouth.

Knowing how incredibly fast and agile San was, especially when he was in such an animalistic headspace, you found yourself turning around and taking off into the forest in an instant, your heartbeat already beginning to thump inside your ears from how fast you were running.

“One…” San exhaled to himself, reaching up over his head and pulling his shirt off, ripping through it with his sudden influx of strength. He leaned back and stretched, taking in a deep inhale, able to smell the scent of your arousal from where he was standing, despite you already putting a fair amount of distance between the two of you. It brought a delighted smile to his flushed face, his eyes forming crescent moons. “You better run as fast as you can, little rabbit, before the big, bad wolf comes and finds you.”

You didn’t know if it was your instinctual fear as prey kicking in that made you take off running first, or the sweet anticipation of getting taken down by your ravenous boyfriend and truly being put in your place. It didn’t matter, anyhow. You knew that once he got his hands on you, there was no going back.

Rough pieces of wood and pebbles temporarily embedded themselves in the soft soles of your bare feet as you quickly scampered through the dark woods ahead of you, too busy weaving through nearby pine trees to realize you had lost your shoes somewhere along the way.

You didn’t stop until you found a particular large tree, one that was far older than the rest, covered in moss and layers of aged bark, the roots coming out like tendrils and burying themselves underneath the foliage and dirt. Pressing your back against it and making yourself as small as possible, you pressed your hand over your lace-covered chest, feeling your heart pound against the palm of your hand, not very concerned with the state of your somewhat disheveled dress. Not so distant sounds of howling drifted through the chilly night air and into your soft, tufted ears. They twitched slightly, the heat that was pooling in your core multiplying at the thought of what was to come.

San’s past warnings swept through your spinning mind. “Bunny, I’m not in my right mind during that time period,” he said with a concerned, though undoubtedly hungry look in his eyes, “I…end up wanting you so bad that I probably wouldn’t hesitate to take you in any and every way I want as long as I have you to myself…”

Yet, San was usually so gentle with you, so soft when he made love to you, lightly brushing his calloused hands along your body like you were made of glass, his brown eyes brimming with tears, using his lips to imprint echoes of love into your skin.

More wetness leaked out of you as if on command, the pheromones radiating off of San’s overheated body even from a distance sending your brain straight into breeding mode, reminding you that your gentle Sannie was no longer there. He was just a wolf that wanted to ravage you. Despite this, you found yourself wanting him. You needed him inside you. Needed him to pump his cum into your womb and make you his over and over again. It would be just like the story books. He’d swallow you up and and leave you knocking at heaven’s door — and you knew one thing for certain. He was going to tear you apart. Your lips curled into a small smile just as a raspy, deep voice broke your concentration.

“Caught you, little bunny,” San proclaimed in an eerily calm manner, his words interrupted by his drawn-out, heavy breaths, his bare chest rising and falling at a much slower, more deliberate pace than before.

“Wh-what? How?” you squeaked, digging your fingers into the tree, breaking off bits of bark underneath your tight grasp.

“My silly bunny.” San chuckled, shaking his head, getting closer and closer to you. “I could smell how fucking wet that cunt of yours is from a mile away.” His eyes were focused solely on yours, but it was like he was looking through you, as if he was already inside your mind and body — already marking what was his with his presence alone. “Do you want me to eat you up that badly?”

There were times that San teased you, of course, but was always playful. Innocent, even. This was…something else. He definitely wasn’t playing around this time. You knew for certain. You could see it in his glowing, blood red eyes.

You nodded your head, pressing yourself back into the tree, finding it hard to swallow. You wanted him bad. Needed him.

San took a step towards you, twigs snapping underneath the weight of his heavy feet. “Now, now, sweetheart. You have to use your words for me, okay?” He ran his tongue across his large incisors, titling his head to the side. “You’ll let Daddy have a taste of his cute little bunny, won’t you? Or are you going to make me take what’s mine?”

“Take what’s yours, Daddy, please, until I can’t take it anymore,” you requested, your words and sad, pathetic whining sending San into a deeper, more animalistic headspace, revealing it to you through the quick lunge he made in your direction.

Suddenly, you were forced down onto your knees, San’s large hand pushing your head down until you were eye-level with his crotch. San took your hand and led it below his belt, letting you feel what was trapped inside, his rock-hard cock throbbing against your trembling fingertips. He gave you a small pout, almost making you forget about your position until he spoke. “See what you do to me when you act like a needy cock-hungry slut, little bunny? See how hard you make Daddy?”

“Yeah, I see, Daddy. Your cock’s so hard it probably hurts, huh?” you mused, giggling a bit, your amusement cut short when San took ahold of your floppy bunny ears, gripping them tight enough to make you whimper.

“Y’know, you’re doing a whole lot of talking when you should be choking on my cock instead, bunny,” San informed, popping his belt open and letting his pants pool below his waist, his overtly large length slapping up into his abdomen and leaving a streak of pre-cum across his tan skin. Before you could have a chance to breathe, San jerked your head towards him, sliding his cockhead past your lips and plunging himself down your throat, not taking a second to face-fuck you like the fate of the world depended on it.

Slick, indecent sounds began to erupt from your occupied throat, along with your loud, erratic gagging, as you tried to swallow San’s cock without choking each time he rammed it down your esophagus, your eyes becoming wet with tears.

“Aww, is Daddy’s cock too big for my bunny’s tiny throat? Guess I need to stretch it out,” San sighed, squeezing his fingers around your ears as he fully plunged all ten inches into you, holding you completely still, briefly plugging your nose up with his free hand, just to feel you struggle to breathe, your abundant saliva dripping down his swollen balls. San held you like that until your face grew red, eventually letting go and pulling out all the way to let you take a much-needed breath, just to slap his heavy cock down onto your face, rubbing streaks of his pre-cum into your skin. “Good girl.”

“Thank you, Daddy…” you whispered in a gravely voice, throat wrecked, barely able to see him past your watery eyes, weakly licking up his pre-cum when he rubbed his tip across your lips.

“Open wide.” When you didn’t open your mouth right away, San’s expression darkened, sending a quick, rough smack onto your cheek, growling, “I said, open.” Your lips parted just as a fresh wave of slick dripped down your pussy. With a satisfied grin, San plugged your throat back up, clutching your head on either side, pistoning his hips, quick and rough, reminiscent of a machine going into overdrive. He fucked your face like you were just a hole for him, nothing more, nothing less, and you couldn’t have been more wet. “Ohh, fuck– Oh god, that’s fucking it. Daddy’s gonna knot your slutty throat now, bun. Gonna fill you up with my cum until you drink down every last drop.”

You gurgled on his rapidly moving cock, his knot stretching your throat open until it was there was a visible protrusion in your neck, San’s fingers immediately feeling it up once he locked you in place, his knot bursting, sending ropes of thick, scalding cum down your throat, forcing you to gulp it down until there was no more.

“What a good bunny you are. So obedient when you’re getting used by Daddy like this,” San praised, wiping remnants of spit, tears, and cum from your fucked-out face, giving you a oddly gentle smile, before pushing you to the ground and climbing on top of you.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from taking his cock like you did, so out of it, you didn’t even react when San ripped your thighs open, causing your dress to pool around your waist, your throbbing pussy on display for him.

San began to drool, hyper focused on the sight of your bare cunt glistening with excess slick, a low groan leaving his lips. “What a slutty little bunny you are, not wearing any panties under your cute little dress.” He ran his hand down your abdomen, his nails leaving light red marks on your skin until he got to your center. “You must’ve known Daddy was going into a rut and just saved him some time, didn’t you, my sweet girl?”

“Y-yes, Daddy.” You sniffled, swallowing roughly, still trying to recover from the abuse your throat took.

“Mm, thought so.” Lifting you up by your hips with ease, San forcefully brought your pussy to his face, taking a deep inhale of your arousal, leaving harsh, warm breaths on your clit, making you shudder. “Fuck. It smells like you came already. Is my bunny that much of a cock whore, that she had her eyes rolling back into her skull just from having her face fucked? Hm?”

You gazed up at him from below, gently rubbing your still stinging cheek. “Mmhmm.”

“Good. Get ready to cum again and again for me,” San announced, licking one long stripe up your cunt, from your hole and up past your clit. He swallowed your arousal down, licking at his lips, before lowering your hips down to his level, guiding his cock to your entrance.

Suddenly and without warning, San shoved himself inside you with one powerful thrust, bottoming out in an instant and leaving you with a dizzying feeling, your thighs trembling against his slim waist. “O-oh my god…”

“Don’t worry, you’re gonna be seeing God once I fuck your whore-hole wide open, lovebun,” San cooed into your ear, putting most of his body weight on you so that you were folded in half, giving you no choice but to take his fat cock in your tiny hole, over and over, until you were indeed, at heaven’s gates.

-

You couldn’t remember how long you had been there, being forcibly spread open for your ravenous boyfriend, his teeth latched onto your neck and drawing blood, your legs, like jelly, trembling profusely as they were held up by your flopping ears, your cum-filled pussy stretching open to accommodate yet another one of San’s knots, fresh tears running down your flushed face.

“Awww, are you crying, baby?” San asked into your ear, his deep voice dripping with faux pity, licking your blood off of his incisors. “What are you crying about, huh? Is it because Daddy keeps fucking his cum into your tiny bunny cunt or because of his teeth marks in your neck?”

“B-both!” you cried out, dropping your head back into the foliage beneath you and closing your eyes once San was finished pumping his load into you. “Can’t take it anymore…”

“Oh, yes, you can.” San angled his head down, pursing his lips to send a wad of spit down onto your reddened pussy, immediately slamming his hand down onto your swollen clit. “This cunt belongs to me. No one else. That’s why I’m working so hard to fill you up with my pups, silly bunny.” He smacked your cunt again, harder this time, leaving it stinging, speaking through gritted teeth, “So, I can do with it as I goddamn please. You got it?”

Your nods gave him the go ahead to continue, pulling out to switch positions again, moving your limbs and body to his will until you were on your hands and knees for him, your cum-drenched cotton tail twitching as you took him back inside. "After all this, you still have such a tight fucking cunt, god– you gotta relax for me, bunny, you gotta let me in," San groaned out, looking down to witness the way your hole struggled to stretch around his wide cockhead.

San bred you like the bunny you were, fucking you so viciously, so relentlessly, he broke your mind, just like he was about to do to your bruising body, forcing you into a mind-altering state of bliss.

“It’s so good! Fuck, Daddy, nnnngh–it’s so good!” You began to press your hands down onto your lower abdomen just to feel how prominent the bulge of his slick cock was inside your tummy each time it slammed into your cunt, convinced by the lewd squelching sounds you heard that you were going to have his pups sometime soon. “Your cock’s so heavy inside…it’s gonna break me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, if you break, i’ll just put you back together,” he huffed out, quickly wrapping his thick arms around your abdomen to place his hands over yours, pressing down further, his body flush against your smaller one. “And do it all over again.”

“Fuck–yes–” was all you could verbalize after hearing his heavy handed words, staring down at the ground below past your wet lashes.

He suddenly slowed himself down so you could feel every inch of him inside, the muscles in his abs tightening as he used his core to simultaneously keep himself steady in his bent-over position and your body fitted against him, his cum-covered cock lodged inside your cunt like it’s missing puzzle piece. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me, baby. That sounds good, huh? The thought of me breaking you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, your eyes starting to disappear underneath your heavy eyelids, only for them to grow wide as soon as San lifted your body up completely against his, holding you by your neck, drilling his cock into you at a new angle, one that forced to you drop down onto him even heavier due to the basic laws of gravity.

“Good, now take my knot, pretty girl,” San huffed, his fingers slipping into your drooling mouth, holding his other hand securely against your lower abdomen, feeling just how full he had made you with his potent seed, shooting more and more ropes of cum once his knot broke, feeling your arousal leaking down his softening length. “That’s it now, that’s a good bunny…”

Your shaking body eventually relaxed against his, melting into him, not able to give anything else. Sensing this, San pulled out and turned you around to face him, pulling you into his lap and back down onto his cock, not to fuck you again, knowing you would actually fall apart if you did, but just to warm him and keep his seed inside so that you would be nice and full for him in the coming months. “My sweet girl, you did so well for me. So, so well,” he murmured softly, pressing kiss after kiss onto your face and lips, gently massaging your bunny ears. “How do you feel, baby?”

Smiling tiredly and ready for a long nap, you wrapped your arms around his neck, giving him a long kiss back, before resting your head on his sweaty shoulder.

“Full.”

➽───────────────❥

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[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage

18+ 3k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, somnophilia, drugging, eventual smut. gif | AO3 | fanfic directory

Homelander was born with only one terrible poverty: loneliness. He's been starved of love his entire life, made sick by his hunger for it, but he believes you might have the cure. If you want to survive, you'll find a way to give it to him.

Homelander has never been able to understand people who bird watch. Of all the things a mundane person could do with their abysmally mediocre life, why devote what little free time they have to observing a creature even more dull than they themselves are?

Perhaps it's the gift of flight. By far, it is the ability of his that garners the most attention. Or maybe it's the power trip one experiences when observing something simpler and weaker than yourself for sport. The novelty of becoming endeared by their strange little behaviors and quirks. It's this line of thinking that eventually walks Homelander down the path of people watching. During his downtime, in the quiet moments he spends perched atop skyscrapers and apartment complexes, he finds himself watching the people miles below him scurry about like insects through a colony.

Over time, he begins to recognize regulars. People moving back and forth, day in and day out, no different than ants moving grains back and forth. He has to laugh. It's no wonder god abandoned man. Man is fucking boring.

Even the god they made for themselves thinks so.

To ease the monotony, he concocts little stories for the ones he recognizes. He imagines the kinds of lives they live outside of their commutes and the routines he observes. He names one of them Peter, and every day he invents a new reason Peter is yet again running late for his train. Because he's always late, Peter never stops for the woman selling street meat on the corner across from the station.

Homelander imagines that the meat she peddles is people, and that she's got her eye on that speedy little rabbit, Peter.

And then one day, he notices you.

It isn’t that you’re especially beautiful or noteworthy. Just like all the other busy little bees, you go about your same routine each and every day of the week. Sometimes you're in a rush, other times you enjoy your stroll. Regardless, you always find time to stop and give money to the same homeless man occupying one of the few alleyways protected by an awning. Sometimes you linger to chat, other times you can only stop long enough to drop something into his hands.

It isn't always money. Oftentimes you have food for him packed neatly into a little take-out box. Despite the packaging, it looks homemade. You always have a warm smile for him, even when you’re obviously frazzled.

To the rest of the world, this man may as well be fucking invisible, but here you are handing him a box of home cooked food like he's someone who matters. Homelander is the world's greatest hero, and yet some bum on the street is being fed with more love and attention to detail than he ever has.

It's a goddamn joke. More and more, it becomes apparent to him that you’re pathetically lonely. After a few days of observing you amongst the others, he starts trailing you more actively, forgetting all about Peter and his eventual butcher.

He wants to know more about you.

You live alone, working and cooking for only yourself and your stray pet. Sometimes you cook for your coworkers or the odd friend who stops by before leaving you alone all over again. He watches from a distance while you toil away, cooking more food than you’ll eat in a week for people you see for a fraction of each of your weekdays. It couldn’t be more obvious that you’re desperate for someone to take care of.

In a way, he can relate. 

Maeve has been more distant than ever, choosing to engage him only when there’s a camera present. When it’s only the two of them, she just drinks until he barely recognizes her. Madelyn has begun her “fertility journey,” words that set his teeth on edge, and has barely had a real moment to spare him as of late. The rest of his team doesn’t help abate his loneliness either; Marathon is a washed up hack who can barely sprint these days, Lamplighter is only ever interested in clubbing, the Deep couldn’t hold a conversation in a bucket, and Noir is a mute.

And so he soothes his solitude with thoughts of you. When he isn’t with you, he daydreams about it, imagining what life would look like if your worlds were to intersect. The more he learns about you, the more vivid his fantasies become, and the more intensely he aches when he still finds himself alone in his bed at the end of each night.

It spurs him to visit you more and more.

One particularly warm summer night, you leave your window wide open. He takes it for the invitation it is, drifting towards it under the cover of dark. Your screen is loose and pops out noiselessly. Not exactly safe, even if you do live on the fifth storey.

You just never know what might come lurking out of the shadows.

Slipping into your living room, he’s met with the sound of white noise playing from your bedroom. Is it the sound of the streets below that bother you? You’d never hear it from his penthouse a hundred feet in the air. You could leave the windows open all you like and hear only the roar of the sky, not unlike the ocean waves your phone is poorly mimicking.

He could take you to the actual ocean. A beach house far away from the buzzing neon lights and incessant honking and revving of traffic. Walking through your apartment, he makes his way to your tiny kitchen. The one in his penthouse puts yours to absolute shame, and yet the only thing in it that’s ever been used is the fridge. He’s certain he’s never opened the double oven or so much as turned on the gas range. Meanwhile, your kitchen is riddled with use, each cupboard stuffed with mismatched cookware and the like. It smells of grease and spices and love.

The sad irony of it is almost too much to stomach. You don’t belong in this cramped little sardine can. You should be in a proper kitchen. 

You should be cooking for him. The thought comes to him like a flash of genius. Of course. That’s the answer that will solve both of your little dilemmas. If he is a bird watcher then you’re a songbird snared in a net. It would be inhumane of him to leave you to die before you’re ever appreciated–ever seen–by anyone who matters.

You would worship him for rescuing you. His wealth and power would see each and every one of your material needs met with ease. You would never work for anything again. All you would ever have to concern yourself with was being loved and loving him.

He walks to your room with a hand pressed absently over his heart, cradling the anxious little bundle of nerves that have gathered there. He can tell by your breathing that you’re deep asleep, and yet he finds himself uncharacteristically nervous as he approaches.

His first time being so near to you after weeks of simply observing.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he steps towards you. The sound of him is masked by the ambient noise spilling from your phone, not to mention the fan you have pointed directly at your bed in a desperate attempt to save yourself from the summer heat.

You clearly weren’t built for this paltry life. Mary was no one before God chose her for greatness. Is that not what he’s about to do for you? It’s the will of a god that elevates you.

He kneels by your bedside, bringing himself face to face with you. Your breathing is even, each huff smelling faintly of mint. Your lips look soft, slightly parted in sleep. Everything about you is gentler, more relaxed than you ever are in the day to day grind of your life.

You could look like this all the time without it. He has the power to change your entire life with nothing more than a couple of numbers shifting from one space to another. Money has always been inconsequential to him, so abundant that it hardly means anything anymore. You, however, are ruled by it.

For the first time in his life, he recognizes the power in his wealth.

He brushes the tips of his gloved fingers along your cheek, down your jaw. He’s never used his hands so tenderly as when he traces your sleeping eyelids with his fingertips, imagining what dreams chase behind them and make them flutter.

You don’t stir. 

Emboldened, he follows the curve of your bottom lip with his thumb, imagining how soft you would feel against the bare pad of his finger. Leaning in closer, he indulges in the warmth of your breath tickling his lips. You’re a sound sleeper, the thud of your resting heart beating steadily in his ear.

Closing his eyes, he bridges the distance between your lips, pressing his own lightly to yours. For a second, he thinks he’s woken you, that you’ve caught sight of him and your heart is drumming loudly in his ears. He draws sharply back, but sees that you’re still deep asleep, your features peaceful.

It’s his heart that’s racing, a thundering sound that blocks out every other noise in the room. He’s breathing shallowly, excited in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. There’s a flush crawling up his throat, and it’s at that moment he breaks out into a wide, wondrous smile.

There’s no question of it now.

He has to have you.

The plan to acquire you ends up requiring very little setup. If Madelyn cares why Homelander’s suddenly spending so much, she’s yet to make a comment. 

Bitterly, he thinks it likely that she’s glad to see him distracted. 

He starts preparation by appropriately stocking his kitchen; you’ll appreciate the supply of ingredients, he knows. The quality of what he obtains for you is leagues above what you can afford, as is the cookware. He buys you new clothes, jewelry, imagining every step of the way how you’ll look in each piece. How you’ll look as he takes them off. He’s seeking to upgrade your life in every conceivable way, like bringing a cat home from the pound and teaching it the meaning of luxury.

You’ll want for nothing. You’ll be so grateful to him. And you, the sweet and perfect little thing that you are, make yourself painfully easy to ensnare. You come home under the cover of dark like clockwork, perfectly oblivious to his approach. You’ve just managed to fish your keys out of your bag when his hand closes a kerchief over your mouth and nose, stifling your cry. His other arm slips around your waist, holding you steady. The cloth smells overly sweet, ether-like, and though that scent has no effect on him, you respond to it almost immediately.  “Shhhhshhshh,” he soothes, letting the anesthesia do its job. Fuck, you feel good in his arms, back held tight to his chest, your delicate hands prying at his wrist as you kick, claw and scream–albeit muffled–into the cloth. He holds you with ease, keeping you close to his body, angling you in such a way that you won’t hurt yourself.

Despite your tenacity, you fight a losing battle. Your efforts grow weaker and weaker as you lose your grip on consciousness. He hushes you all the while, encouraging you. “That’s it, let it go. I’ve got you, I’ve got you...” Finally your head falls back against his shoulder, your face lolling into the crook of his neck, the rest of your body falling slack in his arms. He pulls the cloth away from your mouth, tucking it into your bag for now. He turns his head to yours, lips barely ghosting along your forehead. He takes in a deep breath of you, his eyes falling shut. Beneath the sickly sweet smell of the chemical mixture he knocked you out with, he can smell the remnants of your perfume. It’s not his favorite fragrance, but the underlying warm scent of you is intoxicating. He’ll collect whatever belongings you decide you want with you when he returns, if anything, but he doubts you’ll miss much. Your stuff will seem like a heap of rags and garbage by comparison. He’s looking forward to how the perfumes and lotions he’s bought you will smell on your skin, and how you’ll look in the clothing he’s picked for you. He adjusts you into a bridal carry in his arms and gently kicks off from the ground, holding you firm to his chest. The city is beautiful at night, a landscape of stars mirroring that of the sky above it. He’s always loved it here, and yet he’s shared it with a painful few.

Madelyn never lets him take her to the skies. Maeve had been wowed initially, but she had quickly grown disillusioned with it. With him.

You’ll be different. The trip back to his penthouse feels agonizingly slow, but he maintains a lesser pace to keep the wind from rashing your skin, savoring the featherlight weight of you in his arms at last. He lands deftly on his balcony, stepping through his open reinforced glass doors. After laying you down in his bed, he takes a moment to slip off your shoes, setting them aside. He eases your purse off of your shoulder, and places it on the nightstand. After sprawling a thin blanket over you, he takes a step back and puts his hands on his hips to admire the perfectly domestic scene he’s set.

Slowly, he breaks out into a smile. His bed swallows you up, makes you look small and lonely. He’s the missing piece, of course. He’s already looking forward to seeing himself complete the picture in the mirror above you. He imagines coming home to you like this, curled up in his–no, your shared bed, blanket pulled up over your shoulders to block the chill left by his absence.

Oh, how you’ll miss him when he’s gone.

You’ll have nothing and no one to concern yourself with except for him. No burdens, no dread, no stress. You’ll live in peace and security the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, spoiled rotten by the bounty of all that he is.

Neither of you will ever be lonely again.

Tilting his head slightly, he listens to the sound of you. Your breathing is shallow, the beat of your heart steady. Normal people don’t realize it, don’t have the capacity for it, but a heartbeat is as distinct as a fingerprint. Over the years, he’s learned to read them as such. He’s memorized yours. There isn’t much for him to do in the time that you’re asleep. He knows precisely how long you’ll be out; the anesthesia blend he gave you was straight out of Vought’s lab, and the dose he gave you leaves him with at least an hour before the two of you meet properly. The anticipation is enough to make him giddy. For all that Homelander knows about you, there is plenty he does not. The externals of your life have only provided him so much, but that will come in time. He didn’t bother with perusing your social media accounts, not being particularly proficient in them himself. 

Besides, he wants getting to know you to be an organic experience.

He remembers to take your phone out of your bag and dispose of that rag he used to dose you while he’s at it. He unlocks your phone the way he’s seen you do a dozen times before, and spends some time ensuring that no one will be expecting you anywhere any time soon. All it takes is one quick email and you no longer have a job. A few social media posts later, you’ve informed anyone who might think of you that you’ll be enjoying an impromptu sabbatical in Europe.

The power of technology. After that, he pops your phone into the safe behind one of the dozens of portraits on his wall.

When he hears you starting to stir, renewed butterflies start fluttering about in his stomach. You have no idea that your entire life–no, your entire perception of reality–is about to change. No more dodgy commutes, no more living paycheck-to-paycheck. You’ll be free to admire the world from the lap of luxury–his lap, to be specific. You make a quiet moan, the chemical fog wearing off gradually. He moves swiftly to your bedside, primed with a welcoming smile, hands on his hips. “Riiiise and shine, sleepyhead,” he coaxes, leaning forward at the waist. Still disoriented from the drugs in your system, you stare at him as if you’re dreaming. He doesn’t blame you. In almost every other reality, there’s no explanation for the fact you’re seeing America’s favorite hero, the Homelander, standing above you. He knows the side effects of the drug have left a strange buzzing in your ears, and that your tongue likely feels heavy and cottony. He’s already got water for you on the bedside table. “Home…lander?” You manage to get out. His smile broadens. That’s the first time he’s heard you say his name. You look cute like this, bleary-eyed and needy. He’s grown accustomed to seeing you as a put together provider, self-sufficient and tending to the needs of those around you, but rarely your own. Seeing you unraveled feels like a secret intimacy for him alone. “The one and only,” he preens. Now that you’ve seen him posed valiantly by your side, he takes a seat on the bed next to you, reaching out to brush his gloved knuckles along your forehead. He attributes the slight flinch to your drug addled confusion. Poor thing. If he’d had an alternative to using a sedative, he would have preferred that.

Not that it matters now. You’re finally here.

( chapter two )

[tsxkkis]

# tsukishima kei ‐ better for you

a/n: a request for anon that definitely took me too long to write T-T i'm terribly sorry for the delay .... also this strangely reminds me of my first ever fic on this account (which was also abt tsukki) so it's kinda silly :33

summary: tsukishima is jealous and not exactly good at hiding it.

warnings: none, pure fluff

tsukishima has been awfully quiet since you arrived at the training camp.

it's not like that was an unusual behavior from him - he was naturally a quiet, introverted person, so anyone with a basic knowledge about his personality would assume it's perfectly normal. but you knew better.

he was your boyfriend, after all. even if quiet and rather reserved, he would continuously taunt you with his snarky comments and witty remarks, almost twice as much as he would his teammates. but for the last two days or so, his demeanor changed; there was something that ticked him off, and, contrary to his beliefs, he was not good at hiding his jealousy.

figuring out the reason behind it was a no-brainer.

tsukishima adjusted his glasses as he observed yet another guy walking up to you, and he could already recite the way this conversation was about to go from memory. he stood next to yamaguchi, back resting on the outer wall of the gym, eyes staring daggers into the fukurodani jersey of the boy trying to hit on you. but of course, he didn't do a thing about it, instead opting for a low, annoyed huff.

you could see him from where you stood, and a sigh left your lips as you saw his eyes dart away from yours the moment they met, the blonde boy wasting no time in walking away to a spot where he wouldn't have to see the situation in front of him.

the boy in front of you, whose name you've found out to be komi, fukurodani's libero, kept on babbling about something, but you've stopped listening a while ago, quickly excusing yourself to follow after your boyfriend.

'wait.' you said, voice just loud enough for tsukishima to stop in his tracks, head turning around to face you, waiting for you to continue what you wanted to say. you caught up with him, eyes squinting a little as you looked up because of the sun positioned right behind his head. 'are you really jealous of all these guys?'

'no.' he rolled his eyes, a classic sign of frustration from him, almost as if he intentionally tried to show you that despite his words, he is indeed annoyed with them.

'i can clearly see that you are.' he didn't answer you this time, silence taking over as he avoided eye contact with you, acting more childish than ever. you couldn't help but smile, hand reaching out for his with a gentle squeeze. 'you know that they could never steal me from you, right?'

silence.

'oh, come on, you're sulking like a five year old baby right now.'

'says the one who acts like a baby all the goddamn time.' his remark made you crack a smile, happy that you got him to talk. 'it's annoying. and it's not like i don't trust you either. it's something different.'

'hm?'

he let go of your hand, taking a few steps forward, the setting sun hitting his face as he stared into the magine in front of him; the hill he had to run up and down at least five times that day, barely noticeable roofs of homes situated not far away.

'don't you think that at least one of them could be, you know.' you already knew what point he was trying to make, and yet hearing it from him made your heart break a little. 'better for you?'

a moment of silence passed, the chirping birds being heard from away.

'no.'

he could hear the sound of your shoes hitting the ground with each step you took towards him, your arms gently wrapping around his torso from behind, face nuzzling into his back.

'look at me, tsukki.' hearing your words, he slowly turned his head around, only to be met with your lips already on his in a sweet, short kiss. 'listen carefully, alright?'

'i'm.' kiss. 'not.' kiss. 'going.' kiss. 'anywhere.'

he couldn't help but smile at your actions, breaking out of his aloof persona for a split second, hand searching for yours to hold it tenderly.

'besides,' you added, lips curving up into a sly smile. 'none of them could give me the same level of sarcasm that i love so much.'

you continued smooching his lips, cheeks, forehead, nose, trying to cover his entire face with kisses.

'alright, alright.' he mumbled quietly, pulling you away as he adjusted his hair. 'don't be so touchy here, though. not that i don't like it, it's just-'

'i knew it!' you recognized the voice behind you immediately, and tsukishima's shocked face only confirmed your suspicions.

'let's leave the lovebirds before kei kills us with his death stare, bokuto.' another familiar voice was heard, and as you turned around, you immediately noticed the spikey black hair and kuroo's tall frame.

as they ran away, shouting a familiar rhyme of 'y/n and tsukki sitting on a tree', you couldn't help but laugh, resting your head on your boyfriend's shoulder. he didn't look half as content as you, lips in a straight line as if he just got caught doing something so utterly embarrassing he would never recover from it.

'if they continue this, everyone will know.' he mumbled, back to his usual, annoyed tone.

'look at the positives, kei.' you nudged him on the shoulder, smiling up at him. 'at least now no one will flirt with me anymore. no more frustrations for you.'

and maybe you were right.

or maybe you weren't, as he found out later, when the information of your relationship got to the ears of his overly excited upperclassmen.

taglist: @moonswolfie @wyrcan @kitsune-kita @haechansbbg @luvvrgirll @serotoninbarbz @sugaraddict301

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Still You Want Me

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, tooth-rotting fluff, pregnancy, a little angst if you squint, pre-established relationship.

Summary/Warnings: Dean's fought the worst evil in the world, but only one thing has really managed to scare him. His pregnant wife.

Author's Note: Request from an anon!! I got emotional with it, and I'm very sorry about that but I couldn't help myself. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.9k

“We got three hours left.” Dean returned to the parked Impala, sorting through the bags in his hands. “But we can make it back in two if I-“

Sam shook his head, taking his bag of bird feed—trail mix, but the pointless kind without any M&Ms—from Dean with a frown. “Two’s a bit stretch, don’t you think? I mean even for you, Dean, and it’s not like we’re in a rush-“

“You’re not in a rush, Sammy.” Dean muttered, dumping the rest of the snacks in the backseat. “I got a pregnant wife who’s left me three voicemails about how she’s either gonna castrate me or give me head, and-“

“Gross, dude.” Sam walked around the car, making a scrunched bitch-face of disgusting. “All you needed to say was that’s she’s got mood swings-“

“Don’t call them mood swings.” Dean dropped behind Baby’s wheel, saying Her name with a sigh. “She hates that. And you can’t charm your way out of like I can.”

“I think I could.” Sam shrugged. “She likes me more.”

“She’s my freakin’ wife-“

“She loves you.” Sam grabbed his phone as they pulled out of the lot. “She likes me. I’ve never been threatened with castration-“

“Yet.” Dean muttered. “Cas thought he was safe until he got a shade of yellow that was too red for the nursery. I mean, yellow is yellow, Sammy, but she threatened to cut off his wings-“

Sam frowned. “I don’t think she could do that-“

“Trust me, man.” Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “She’d find a way.”

Sam just nodded, because they both knew Dean was right. He was pretty goddamn sure that, if She wanted—or if Dean pissed Her off enough—She’d figure out how to send him somewhere worse than the Empty, bring him back, then start sobbing and apologizing on Her knees all within a ten-minute span. Then She’d probably give him a blowjob, he’d saying the exact wrong dirty talk, and she’d bite off Little Dean. Shit, he’d only been gone four days for the hunt, but half that time had been spent on the phone, reassuring Her he was being safe, the hunt wasn’t a part of any world-ending scheme from a new big bad, and he’d be home soon. The time that Dean wasn’t on the phone, Sam was, promising he wouldn’t let anything happen, that Dean was sleeping well and looking at the baby names list She’d sent, and that he’d called Eileen so she wouldn’t worry either.

Annoyingly, Sam had been keeping his promises to Her. Dean read the baby names list because Sam wouldn’t let him leave the table until he did, Eileen had gotten two calls, and Dean was being safer than he’d ever been in his freaking life. At this point, he was pretty sure the pregnancy was just one long scam to make him take care of himself. He was drinking and hunting less after Her breakdown that she’d lose him, driving a little slower—just a little, he wasn’t a blind old lady—after the ice incident got him the silent treatment for three days, and he’d even tried some of Sam’s rabbit food. He’d spat it out, but he’d tried it. For Her, for the baby, and because he was terrified for his life.

Dean loved Her more than every pie in the freaking universe, but She was freaking terrifying right now. She might be the only thing he’d ever really been afraid of. Planes he could avoid. Ghosts and monster he could kill. Hell, even Lucifer had been better. At least the son of a bitch hadn’t begged to give Dean a hand job, then started sobbing because Dean tried to move it to sex and they didn’t feel pretty enough for sex. And if Lucifer had done that, Dean wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t give a shit about Lucifer. 

But he gave a shit about Her. Every time She cried it felt like someone was stabbing him, but he had less and less of a damn clue for how to help her the more pregnant She got. She’d said she felt ugly, he’d told Her she was beautiful, and that her tits looked better than ever, and She’d started accusing him of not loving her tits before. He’d missed one phone call and She’d sent Cas to teleport him home. He’d gotten the wrong candy bar and She’d had a breakdown about him not loving her enough to get the right one.

That last one was why the gas station had taken so long. Dean had triple checked every single snack he’d bought, and added a few extras just in case she changed Her mind. He’d even had Cas text him a second list after She’d told him all her requests over the phone, out of fear that he’d missed even a single one. Even now, on the road, he was running through everything one last time, because he’d gotten five different Gatorade colors, but maybe She’d want a sixth, or two of the same color, or only one color and he’d get yelled at because She didn’t even like orange-

“Hey!” Sam pulled Dean out of his thoughts with a shout. “Phone!”

“Wha-“

Sam said Her name, holding Dean’s phone in front of his face. “She’s calling you-“

“I got that.” Dean snatched the phone, shooting Sam a glare. “And that’s not safe, Sammy. Gonna get us fuckin’ killed-“

“Yeah, sure, Dean.” Sam just shrugged—even though Dean was right, that was dangerous—and nodded to the phone. “I’d pick up if I were you-“

“Shut up.” Dean muttered, ignoring Sam’s laugh as he answered the call. “Hey, baby, we’re-“

“Dean!” Her voice was a half-shriek through the phone, and Dean winced. “Holy shit, you’re alive, that’s good-“

“Course I’m alive, I promised I would be-“

“But it’s not up to you!” She was pacing. Her voice had grown frantic and high, so She was pacing. “Monsters don’t ask before they kill you, and they’d defiantly want to kill you, and Sam told me he’d take that bullet but I don’t want him to die either, and you’re both amazing hunters but if you die now, you can’t come back, and I’d miss you, I miss you now, why aren’t you home, you dick, I fucking hate you-“

Dean swallowed, saying Her name slowly as Sam snickered at his side. Asshole. “Take a breath-“

“Don’t tell me how to breathe, Winchester, I’ve been breathing my whole fucking life-“

“I know, sweetheart, I have too-“

“You’ve never had to breathe while pregnant-“

“And I’m not planning to, ever, but- just listen-“

“We should get you pregnant, it’s only fair-“

Sam started to cackle, Her voice loud enough he could obviously hear every word. It wasn’t really helpful. 

“That’s not gonna happen,” Dean muttered, giving Sam a death glare that just made him laugh more. “Sweetheart, we’ll be there soon. I promise.“

“Okay, but don’t go too fast, if you’re far, because you promised me you’d drive carefully, and you need to be safer. I don’t want to lose you.” She started to sniffle. Shit. “I can’t lose you, De, I need you, the baby needs you, and Sam and Cas are cool but they’re not you and I want you and the baby wants you. It wants you more, it hates when your gone, it just keeps kicking me and if you die I’ll be a terrible mother with a baby who hates me-“

Dean snapped Her name, pressing the Impala’s pedal to the floor. He needed to be home soon. “Listen to me. I’m not gonna do anything stupid like die, and you’re never gonna lose me. Plus, our baby won’t hate you. It’s half me. It can’t.”

There was a slightly static hum from the other side, and Dean sighed.

“I know you miss me, baby, and we can get you whatever you’re craving, but-“

“I do miss you, De.” Her voice was soft and pleading through the phone. 

But it wasn’t Her crying voice. That was her-

“I miss your cock, too. I miss touching you, and why is your bed so stupid and big-“

Dean chuckled, shaking off the whiplash. “Because I’m stupid and big-“

He could hear Her pout through the phone. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid, and our baby’s gonna be a genius-“

“Because they’ll get their brains from you, pretty girl.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean leaned slightly forward, checking a highway sign. “Hour and a half, okay? Then I’ll be home.”

“Fine.” She mumbled. “I love you. Be careful.”

“I love you too, baby. And I’m always safe.” Dean waited for Her sigh, letting her hang up first. He’d learned to do that the hard way. “Not a word, Sammy, or I’ll shoot you.”

Sam raised his hands, palms up. “I didn’t even open my- got it.”

Dean turned his scowl back to the road, and he could be safe and get home in an hour. Both could be possible, and She’d never have to know that he’d been going 15 over the speed limit. And if She started to catch on, Dean could distract Her with his hands and dick and mouth, because—as hot as she was when she was pissed—Sam said stress wasn’t good for the baby.

They made it forty-five minutes of mostly safe driving—Dean’s hands gripping the wheel and listening to the music at a deafening volume, Sam texting Eileen and pretending he wasn’t bothered by the deafening music—before another incident.

Cas appeared in the back seat, said Her name instead of hello, Dean—already a bad sign—and looked almost genuinely scared. Dean had never seen his face do that before—red and sheepish like a child being scolded by a dinosaur—and it was a little off-putting.

He was used to Cas doing this enough to not swerve off the road, but he was still pissed. “Fucking hell, Cas, a warning would be nice-“

Cas frowned, then leaned forward, turning down the music. “Did you not hear what I said.”

“No, the music was on, I know you said-“

Cas said Her name again with Dean. “It was her message. I would, ah, prefer not to repeat it.”

Sam blinked, turning in his seat. “Why, is she-“

“She is well.” Cas’ eyes stayed on Dean in the rearview mirror. “She is feeling some very… confusing emotions. Towards Dean.”

Sam frowned. “Confusing? How-“

“She told me to relay to Dean that she hates him, and she hates hunting, and if he’s not home in forty-five minutes she’ll leave him, but she can’t leave him because she loves him more than life and she cannot live without him. Specifically his smile, voice, hands, stupid flirting that did this in the first place, and,” Cas swallowed, his voice dropping slightly as his face grew red. “Big cock.”

Dean smirked slightly—she was a menace, but damn it if he didn’t love his girl—as Sam paled next to him.

“By this,” Cas mumbled. “I assume she was referring to the baby. Which is in good health. I checked this morning.”

“Good. Thanks, Cas, but,” Dean sighed. “This could’ve been a phone call-“

“I was instructed to deliver it in person. To make sure you were safe, and driving carefully.” Cas leaned forward with a frown. “The speed limit on this highway is meant to be-“

“I know what the speed limit is.” Dean grumbled, refusing to ease his foot off the gas. “I’m tryin’ to get home, Cas.”

“I believe she would prefer you get home slower, rather than sacrificing your safety.” Cas let out a long sigh. “Although, I will admit I’d prefer you return quickly. I am not equipped to handle a pregnant woman alone, despite reading all of the books on the subject I could find. And, uh,” Cas said Her name with a red face. “Is frightening in this state.” 

Dean sighed. “Thirty minutes, dude, can you hold down the fort-“

“He could take you now?” Sam cut in with a small frown. “Cas could zap you back to the bunker, and I could drive Baby home.”

“Sammy-“

Cas nodded. “I agree with Sam’s plan. If you could pull over, Dean-“

“I’m not gonna pull over!” Dean snapped. “I can get back just fine myself!”

“But I could-“

“You won’t always be there, Cas.” Dean grunted through his teeth. “I gotta be able to take care of my family by myself. Shit, I’m doing all the safety bullcrap for it, and I’m hunting less.” He said Her name, his grip on the wheel painful. “She’s gotta know I can take care of her, and the baby. I said I’d drive home, so-“

Sam cut Dean off a sigh. “Dude, she’s gonna care way more that you’re home with her.”

“Sam is correct.” Cas said, and Dean could feel his gaze through the mirror. “I attempted to make her breakfast this morning, and she started crying. When asked, she told me that you make it better.” Cas frowned. “It was cereal.”

“C’mon, man. Let Cas take you home.”

Dean glanced over to find Sam giving him puppy eyes—the bitch—and groaned. “Fine. But if I see one scratch on Baby-“

“You’ll kill me, yeah, I know.” Sam unbuckled as Dean pulled over, not sounding nearly threatened enough. “Let’s move.”

It took a minute for Dean to get all the snacks, but the moment the last bag was in his arms Cas grabbed him by the shoulder, the world because a spinning rush, and he was home.”

“Dean!” 

He was barely on steady legs when She slammed into him, sending him stumbling slightly back as his arms wrapped around her, careful not to push too far into the baby bump.

“Hey, Sweetheart. I heard you missed me-“

“Of course I missed you, you asshole!” She pushed off of him, shoving his chest slightly. “Do you have any idea how many pies are just rotting in the fridge for you! You said the hunt would be fast, Dean, but I was stuck alone for four fucking days-“

Dean frowned. “Wasn’t Cas-“

“Cas doesn’t count!” She screamed, and over her shoulder, Cas didn’t look that offended. He’d probably gotten this outburst—and the following, tearful apology—at least twice already. “Cas isn’t you! He didn’t knock me up and then leave me-“

Dean thought about pointing out that he had not left Her, but thought better of it and let her keep shouting. She usually calmed herself down. 

Usually.

“And Cas is an angel, and he’s been okay, and I feel so bad because I was such a bitch to him, but he deserved it! He wasn’t you! And I missed you and I hate you, Dean, I fucking hate you, why weren’t you home-“

Dean caught Her hands in his, pressing a gentle kiss to Her knuckles. “I’m home now, baby-“

“I know.” She whispered, crumbling in half a second into Dean, clinging to him like a koala. “And I missed you so much, De. I can’t do the laundry with this stupid bump, I can’t do anything, I’m useless and I’m a bitch and I think made Cas cry-“

“I’d pay to see you make Cas cry,” Dean muttered Her name, running a slow hand through her hair. “And you’re not useless. You’re growing a person, that freaking awesome and insane-“

She tilted her head back, pretty eyes glossy and wide on Dean’s. “But what if I mess it up? What if I fuck the baby up and you leave me-“

“I’m never gonna leave you.”

“But I’ve been mean-“

“You’re always mean, baby.” Dean grinned at her, letting his affection show in his voice. “And it’s always pretty freakin’ hot. And you aren’t gonna fuck up the baby, and I’m not gonna leave you, but,” he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “If you wanna make Sammy cry a little more, I think he’ll deserve it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again. “I’m not making Sam cry-“

“He said you had mood swings.”

She gasped, hitting Dean’s chest.  “You’re a snitch-“

“Gotta spread the love somehow.” Dean shrugged, squeezing his hands on Her as he dropped his voice down. “But I can think of a few other ways, just you and me, to spread some better love.”

She flushed—already putty in Dean’s arms—and almost dragged him back to their room. 

And this made it worth it. All the screaming and flying objects and threats, all the living in cautious fear in his own damn home, was more than worth it for this. Not just the awesome sex—sex was always awesome, sex with Her was better than almost anything, and sex with pregnant Her was what Dean imagined crack was like—but the way that, in the end, She smiled at him no matter what. She smiled and giggled and moaned, proving to Dean in a million ways both between the sheets and after that she didn’t really hate him, and he got to rest his head on her stomach and feel a small kick near his brow. Her fingers combed through his hair peacefully, all her noises made of content, and everything was more than worth it.

Worth pushing through the worst of the screaming and moods—just like She’d pushed through all of his world-saving bullshit—to see Her peaceful face as she slept by his side. Worth letting Sam drive the Impala just once, so Dean could get home faster.

Worth the family he was finally getting to have, and being here with them. 

End Note: Sam Winchester once again being a true trooper in my stories.

Title from Next to Me by Imagine Dragons

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

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[peppermintquartz]

stuck in an elevator

Someone with a sick sense of humor must be writing my life, because a benevolent God sure as hell would never plan this, Tommy thinks in his bitchiest mental tone. Then he snorts. As if anyone would be interested enough to write a single paragraph about him.

The other occupant of the elevator pointedly does not look at him. Evan Buck keeps his tone so neutral, it's almost robotic. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I mean, of all the places in Los Angeles to visit on a day off, we end up at LACMA together. And now we're stuck in the same elevator. What are the odds?" The ludicrously serendipitous nature of this encounter is keeping Tommy from other, less-pleasant thoughts, namely being trapped in a space without a view of the outside world. His pulse is starting to race.

They tried calling 911, but the signal in the elevator was poor. Thankfully the emergency intercom did connect to the museum's operations office, who has contacted emergency services.

"I should've taken the stairs," Tommy grumbles. His skin itches with the need to feel fresh air.

"With that boot on your ankle? Then you're dumber than I thought you were." Evan Buck finally glances over, his blue eyes scanning him from head to toe. "How did you injure yourself anyway?"

"Tripped when I was getting out of the bird," Tommy replies honestly.

Evan Buck scoffs and shakes his head, but his expression softens. "You doing okay otherwise?"

There are so many ways Tommy can answer. He can pretend he is perfectly okay. Somewhat okay. He can claim that he misses Evan Buck, but he wants to be friends, just friends. He can be flippant. Make it funny, keep things superficial.

But this is Evan asking him.

"I miss you like a heartbeat" is what comes out instead. And it's true - Tommy feels like an automaton, moving through time, his routines carrying him along from dawn till dusk.

Entire days going by without a single text from Evan Buck feel empty and pointless. The bedsheets need to be laundered but Tommy doesn't want to lose the final traces of the last time they slept in the same bed. There are books Evan Buck brought over to read when Tommy wants to watch a movie.

And now they are stuck together, in an enclosed metal box, and Tommy is trying not to think about that while also trying not to think about how much he wants to kiss Evan. So he vacillates between a bone-deep phobia and a bone-deep yearning.

"I'm sorry. That was too heavy to lay on you like that." His fingers are clammy where his palms are on the mirrored wall. Licking his lips, he says, "But I don't want to lie to you. Not about anything. But I'm good otherwise, Evan."

"I'm not." Evan inhales deeply and blows out his breath. "I'm... I'm baking every time I think about texting you or calling you. The loft smells like a goddamn bakery. And still, still I can't forget the way you smell, the way you sound, the way you fucking taste. I want - I want so badly - to turn back time, figure out what I said wrong that made you run from me. Maybe I wanna be mad at you. I don't know. But I'm not good, Tommy. I'm not gonna be good for a long time."

"I'm sorry," Tommy begins, but Evan cuts him off.

"I don't want you to be sorry," he snaps, and to Tommy's shame, his eyes well up with tears. "I want you to be mine. I want to be yours. I want... I want us, together. That's what I want. I don't wanna be good, I don't want you to be sorry, I want us to be happy together, that's all I fucking want!"

The silence that falls between them is thick as concrete.

His hands and feet are cold now, and he thinks he is a little dizzy. Gulping down a breath, Tommy says, "I shouldn't have run. It was... I was afraid. That... that you'd see me and everything I'm not."

This is when Evan sighs and turns to face him. "I should've chased after you. I was afraid too. I moved too fast, I know now. But you running away and ghosting me after was a dick move."

"I guess we both have a lot to work through." Tommy manages a tight smile. He is starting to feel lightheaded, and his breathing is picking up pace despite his best efforts to stay calm and distract himself with Evan's presence. His hands are clammy and he tries to wipe them dry on his jeans. "Evan?"

"Tommy?"

"How long before 911 arrives?" Tommy's mouth is dry. His vision sparks and he is valiantly trying to hold on to his composure, but he feels like he's boiling in his dark blue henley; he needs air, he needs the sky, he needs space to flee-

"Tommy!" Evan is right next to him, keeping him from collapsing and hurting himself. His touch grounds Tommy in the present moment, and his face this close blocks out the sight of the metal coffin they are stuck in. "They'll be here soon, okay? It's all good, they'll be here soon. Breathe for me, come on, inhale , two, three, four; hold, two. three, four..."

Evan talks him through the breathing exercises, holding him up and against himself, all the way even after the elevator lurches back to life and delivers them to the next floor safely.

After he's helped out of the elevator, Tommy wretches and vomits all over the floor, some of the sick getting on Evan's nice shoes.

"Sorry," says Tommy, eyes tearing from the force of the nausea, his big frame trembling.

"They're just shoes," says Evan, soothing a hand along his spine. To the attending paramedic, he says, "He has mild claustrophobia. Not usually a problem, but we were in there a while."

Tommy follows the paramedic - Jefferson - to a bench, accepting a quick look-over. To his surprise, Evan stays with him. Jefferson doesn't see anything wrong other than shock and leaves them with a blanket when another call comes in, about some old man and a broken hip.

Tommy finally recovers after about twenty minutes. He smiles wryly at Evan. "Sorry. You don't have to stick around, there's a lot to see in LACMA."

"Tough luck chasing me off," says Evan. There's a determined set to his jaw.

"Evan, I mean, Buck, surely you have other places to go."

"First of all, I hate hearing you call me Buck. Second of all, I'm not going anywhere. I know exactly what I want, and I'm pretty sure I know what you want."

"Yeah? What do I want?"

"To be my forever," says Evan. He looks Tommy in the eye. "And I know enough about myself and relationships, a-and love, to say that I want you to be my forever too. So. Hah. I'm sticking around. Sucks to be you."

Tommy huffs out an amused and exasperated breath. "Still a brat."

"Yeah? Well, you can either put up with me, or you can do something about it." But there's no hiding the curl of his lips.

[lacrimosathedark]

Bat-Family Nicknames and Insults

So I went off the other day because fans keep having people who aren't Roy Harper call Jason Todd "Jaybird" and now I'm thinking about all the other nickname misconceptions so here's a probably non-comprehensive list of nicknames among the Bat Fam.

(Special thanks to @sohotthateveryonedied for a bunch of my data, she made a whole powerpoint with actual comic panels! Go check that out! Also got some info from @kiragecko who was writing some lists with more specific references.)

This list is an active document and will be edited in the event I find more nicknames or have more to say

Addendum note: I'm more than willing to add something I forgot, but you must have receipts. I'm not just going off of memory. Nothing will be added to this list without proof. If you don't have a source, please don't make a suggestion.

This is aside from assorted common insults and nicknames like jerk, ass, shorty, dude, idiot, etc.. Sidenote, every not-Steph Robin has been called “Little Bird”, “Birdboy” and/or “Wonder Boy” at some point. It’s kinda part of the job lol Secondary side-note, the only ones who REALLY use nicknames for people are Barbara and Jason. And Tim specifically in reference to Damian. Everyone else pretty much uses their names 98% of the time. Final note (sorryyyyyy) generally unless they're funny to me, I'm not including things used only once unless I have gotten vibes that it's a trend. This is an attempt to compile recurring nicknames. So ones noted to be used once are either I can only confirm it happened once but could happen multiple times, or I think it's hilarious.

Alfred Pennyworth

Al/Alf Seems to be a common nickname among the boys.

Alfie Dick, Tim, and Jason have all called him this.

Alfredo Jason called him this at least once and I think that’s funny. Not sure it’s exclusive though.

Mom Dick seems to have referred to him as such once…I’m sorry but that’s so funny.

Alfred also has specific ways of referring to everyone: Bruce: Master Bruce, Mister Wayne, Lad, Bruce, My Son Barbara: Mistress Barbara, Miss Barbara, Miss Gordon, Miss Oracle Dick: Master Dick, Master Richard, Master Grayson, Dear Boy, Young Sir, Young Man, Richard, Dick Cassandra: Miss Cassandra, Young Cassandra, My Dear Jason: Master Jason, Young Sir, Lad, Jason Tim: Master Tim, Master Timothy, Young Master Tim, Lad, Young Sir, Young Man, Timothy, Tim Damian: Master Damian, Young Master Damian, Young Sir, Young Man, Son, Damian

Bruce Wayne

Spooky Oliver Queen calls him this, others might as well but I legitimately have no idea.

Batsy Everyone and their goddamn dog, but Joker uses this notably a lot.

Detective RA'S AL GHUL EXCLUSIVE. I think? But this is how Ra's generally refers to Bruce.

B-Man HARLEY QUINN EXCLUSIVE...I think. She calls him this a lot though.

While Dick and Jason will internally think of Bruce as their father, Dick rarely says so and extremely rarely calls him “Dad”. Jason would only say so mockingly or under pain of a second death. Tim rarely even thinks of Bruce as his father (he didn’t become Robin to be Bruce’s kid, and he doesn’t want to replace his own father—much the same way Dana didn’t replace Janet) and never refers to him as such outside of WE work (where he very much uses that to his advantage). Damian almost exclusively refers to Bruce as “Father” but has called him "Dad". Steph sometimes calls him “Boss”. Everyone usually calls him "Bruce".

He refers to ALL of the boys as “chum” and “lad” at some point. It’s just how he used to talk honestly. He DOES NOT call them “sweetie” or “honey” or anything like that. He DOES, however, speak to small children this way. There are multiple instances of him using "sweetheart" and similar terms when dealing with young children. This differentiation I think is for two reasons. One, Bruce is emotionally stunted and being open with anyone outside of actively comforting is difficult for him, and two, the youngest child he has ever had himself was 9 years old so he's never had a small child he'd be likely more inclined to be extra super soft with.

Barbara Gordon

Babs Most people call her this. Bruce doesn’t seem to though, oddly enough.

Babsy/Babsie Both Dick and Jim Gordon have called her this. Very cute.

Barb/Barbie Nearly exclusive to Jason Todd, actually. I think her dad calls her this once in a while, but specifically Jason calls her this.

Babes A few of her friends call her this, but mostly Luke Fox when they were dating.

Red A few people call her this, but mostly Jason and not real often. Probably cuz we already have a red-head often referred to as “Red” (Pam Isely by Harley) and as to not be confused with the other two Reds in the family (Red Hood and Red Robin).

The High Priestess of Tech More of a reference than a nickname, but I think it’s funny. Dick referred to her as such.

O For Oracle!

Dick Grayson Exclusives because Boyfriend Baby Love Beautiful

Richard Grayson

Dick Everyone calls him this. Almost no one calls him Richard.

Dickie His parents also called him this, along with other people who knew him from Haly’s Circus, but otherwise it’s mostly just Jason.

Dickster I…hate that this is canon lmao. Dick has thought this one in his inner monologue, but Jason has also said it at least once. It’s…Something.

Circus Boy Common insult, Jason uses it a few times.

Tight Ass No comment.

Rob Kinda rare for him and more a Tim thing, but his Titans team call him this sometimes. I specifically remember Wally doing so, and Roy too I think.

Boy Wonderful Not marking this as exclusive because Babs probably used it at one point but, shockingly (or not) this comes from Wally West! Wally has also called his Titans team as a group “Dear Hearts” at least once which is just so fucking cute. Neeeeeerd.

Kid Not exclusive to him, but consistently called this by Slade Wilson/Deathstroke over most anything else.

Marcia TIM DRAKE EXCLUSIVE. A joke between him and Tim, assigning each Bat-boy a Brady Bunch member.

Little Robin MARY GRAYSON EXCLUSIVE. This is where the hero name Robin came from; Dick’s mom used to call him this.

Dickie-Bird JASON TODD EXCLUSIVE. Jason calls Dick this a lot during his weird appearances in Nightwing that I pretend never happened because it was weird and dumb. But it is a canonical nickname. And it’s funny.

Amy Rohrbach Exclusives because Partner Rookie Stud Cowboy Sherlock Mr. Confident

Barbara Gordon Exclusives because Girlfriend (and because she’s funny) Flatterer Boyfriend The Brightest, Sweetest, Most Handsome, Wealthiest Young Bachelor on the Entire East Coast Buckaroo Bucko Candy-Gram Darling Lover Love Hunk Wonder Man Wonder Hound Wonder Former Teen Wonder Twenty Something Wonder Blue Wonder Poor Lovable Naïve Dope Pixie Boots

Cassandra Cain

Cass Pretty much everyone calls her this.

Cassie Some people call her this, specifically the people closest to her; Stephanie, Tim, Barbara, Bruce, and Duke. It’s generally used sparingly, especially considering Tim is close to ANOTHER Cassandra who goes by “Cassie” almost exclusively, so Cass is generally preferred to avoid confusion. But Cassie is tossed around.

Batghoul Possibly Stephanie Brown exclusive, though easy enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if others called her that. She is notoriously spooky.

Bat-Babe KON-EL/CONNER KENT EXCLUSIVE. These two are actually good friends and dated for a short time. They’re very cute. And they met at the time Kon was just…Like That.

Jason Todd

Jay Literally everyone calls him this sometimes. It’s a common nickname.

Jace/Jase Also pretty common, but seems to mostly be among family. Dick and Bruce have at least both called him this.

The Toddster Was called such by Danny Chase, implying they were friends somehow? (Jason didn't have many Titans missions so idk how they were close enough for him to call him that). He calls him that when he discovers Jason’s status in the system is “unknown”, leading him to find out he’s dead.

Rojo Referred to himself as this once while he was still a crime boss, so presumably some of his gang called him this too. Obviously Spanish for red because Red Hood.

Little Bird Possibly exclusive to Barbara Gordon, she called him this in a flashback.

Jan That Dick and Tim Brady Bunch joke. Just imagine one of them looking Jason dead in the eye and saying “Sure, Jan.”

Little Wing DICK GRAYSON EXCLUSIVE. Called Robin Jason this in Nightwing Year 1 and it’s very cute.

Jaybird ROY HARPER EXCLUSIVE. The reason I’m making this post because no one seems to remember that Roy and only Roy has ever called Jason this. But any time these two appear together, it’s usually said at least once.

Stephanie Brown

Steph Pretty much everyone calls her this at one point.

Stephie A few people if I recall, but I know Tim’s called her that.

Blondie Pretty sure a few people call her this, but notably Harper Row.

Damian Wayne Exclusives because He Was A Brat Wench Fatgirl Girl Blunder

Timothy Drake

Tim Everyone to the point where it’s just his name.

Timmy A lot of people call him this pretty teasingly. Dick, Jason, and Babs do it consistently, but that’s older siblings for ya. Bernard has done it too.

Timbo Dick and Jason as well as his friend Ives have called Tim this at the very least. Tim notably doesn't seem to like it, though he has used it himself in a derogatory way in his inner monologue.

Timbers I’ve only ever seen Jason call him this, but I could be missing things. Would not be surprised if Dick did too, but it’s very Jason.

Rob Most of Young Justice called him that up until he revealed his name (which took a while because Bruce was being controlling and overprotective, as he does). Short for “Robin”, obviously, which is all they knew him as.

My Robin I’m pretty sure each member of Young Justice has said this about Tim, though Conner does it the most and has the biggest negative reaction to literally anyone but Tim being Robin.

Cindy DICK GRAYSON EXCLUSIVE. It’s that Brady Bunch joke again!

Little Brother DICK GRAYSON EXCLUSIVE. I didn't originally include it because it had the same vibes as like "dude" or "jerk"; something that's easily tossed around, y'know? And it feels like a descriptor, but it is actually used as a title/nickname several times, especially when Dick is messing with Tim.

Pretender JASON TODD EXCLUSIVE. Though it should be noted, he only directly called him this one time. Aside from that, he more refers to Tim as A pretender, not as like a nickname or title. It’s a description. (like “replacement” was but fandom made that a nickname yes I am in fact bitter)

Duckboy HARLEY QUINN EXCLUSIVE. She says this once, but it’s hilarious so I’m keeping it.

Detective RA’S AL GHUL EXCLUSIVE. Ra’s is very particular about titles. The only other person he refers to as “Detective” is Bruce, and Dick one time in his internal monologue, so he is acknowledging Tim’s competence. And then proceeds to get a large portion of his resources obliterated by Tim <3

Stephanie Brown Exclusives because Girlfriend Sweetie Muffin Boy Virgin

Duke Thomas

Narrows Almost Jason exclusively, though I think Harper has called him this once or twice. In reference to the neighborhood he grew up in, as opposed to Jason and Harper's Park Row aka Crime Alley upbringing.

Newbie Jason calls him this frequently, though it's likely the others have too.

Baby Bird ELAINE THOMAS EXCLUSIVE. Yeah, surprisingly Duke is actually called this by his mom.

Damian Wayne

Gremlin Mostly exclusive to Tim, but Jason has called him this too. This also seems to be Tim’s go-to for Damian when not using his name or codename.

Dami Used by Jon Kent and Talia al Ghul, so presumably those closest to him.

Little D I think Barbara Gordon exclusive but I’m not sure.

Cousin Oliver Not said to his face to my knowledge, but the Brady Bunch in-joke between Dick and Tim.

Prince/Your Highness (other royal variations) A common way to mock Damian for his haughty air and stuck-up attitude. More common in the past because Damian was The Worst and never shut up about being the heir to Batman and the Demon's Head. He's grown a lot since then and this kind of joke is used less. He is still pretty snooty though.

D JON KENT EXCLUSIVE. I have yet to see anyone else call him this at least, and this is how Jon almost always refers to him.

Baby Bird TALIA AL GHUL EXCLUSIVE. I’ve seen her call him this once, and I don’t recall ever seeing anyone else call him this. Just wanted it known that Talia is the only one to call Damian this.

Tim Drake Exclusives because Tim is Petty and Damian was a Brat Little Monster Hobbit Homunculus Little snot Spoiled, vicious and homicidal little punk Heir to the Kingdom of the Damned

Note on how Damian refers to others: Damian usually uses full first names or surnames, depending on circumstance and closeness. He occasionally calls Dick “Dick” or “Richard”, but often calls him “Grayson”. He almost always refers to Tim as “Drake”, but occasionally as “Timothy”.

Fanon names that I dislike

Replacement Jason never once calls Tim this, and refers to Tim as A replacement about as much as Dick did about Jason (Yes Dick has at least once when talking to Bruce referred to Jason as his replacement). How common it is in this fandom to call Tim "Replacement" (with a capital R like it's a name or title!!!) drives me absolutely insane. It's not canon and tbh you can do better. Hell, "pretender" is right there! And Jason's a nerd, he would do better.

Baby Bird Like…it’s cute, but given it’s used in fanon almost exclusively for Tim, and POST DAMIAN, it just feels infantalizing. Especially when the only canon uses are mothers towards their kids. I see this a lot with Dick and Jason using it, which is...just no. Like, Dick, I get it, but he's more likely to call Tim "Little Brother". Jason would never allow himself to be seen as this soft to Tim. If he were trying to be gentle with him, he'd probably call him "kid". He's done that before.

Baby Bat(s) I have seen this used literally twice. Once where a goon mockingly called Tim that, and once in an AU where Harley said it to Damian. "Baby Bat" isn't a thing. Sorry.

Big Bird More amusing than anything but a little annoying. No one ever calls Dick that in canon and whenever I read it all I can think of is Sesame Street so unless a giant yellow muppet bird is what you're going for, maybe don't do that lol

Demon Brat/Demon Spawn Not the most egregious thing, especially considering the numerous nicknames Tim comes up with, but the consistency of its usage in fanon is a little frustrating. This is never used in-canon, and if you want to use it in your fanworks, just maybe intersperse it with other more creative nicknames, yeah? It's just unoriginal at this point.

Jaylad I don’t hate this one, but it’s such a huge misconception that it’s canon. Bruce has said “Jay, lad” a couple times because he calls like every boy he meets “lad” and people made up “Jaylad”. Not the worst thing ever, but it's not canon.

Golden Boy I don't actually have a problem with this one, but I may as well clear up that this is canon as a descriptor but not as a nickname for Dick. Like calling Jason "the dead Robin". Like, people have said that about him in-canon, but they haven't called him that. The common derivative "Goldie" is entirely fanon.

Non-canon nicknames I think are funny

Dick-face/Dickhead I’m sorry, I find it hilarious whenever someone (usually Jason) in fanfic calls him this. It’s also to me just a silly exaggeration of the obvious joke that has been made at least once (but probably several times by now) in canon about someone being about to call Nightwing a dick and someone else reminding them not to use names in the field. I think it’s hilarious.

Timberly I can’t tell you why this specific deviation of Tim is funny to me but it is. And I'm surprised I haven't seen Jason call Tim this in canon.

[ma1dita]

kiss his face with an uppercut

smutty part 2 here-> heavy hitter

words: 4k

summary: james potter is so attractive you could beat him to death with a bludger. james potter x fem!beater!reader not from gryffindor (for the plot!!)

warnings: none! james gets physically hurt multiple times by reader, multiple innuendos, enemies to lovers kinda, less serious lovey dove more sexual tension!!! probably not accurate quidditch gameplay

a/n: sorry for the hold up guys this took almost a month of on and off editing lmfao— this whole oneshot makes me think of the filipino word ‘gigil’– simply translating to cuteness aggression; i barely know jack shit about sports much less quidditch but this concept had me looking up quidditch rules to be able to provide– eat up kids

Y/S- sibling name

Y/H- house

(posted & edited 10/10/23)

—

Oh BROTHER, this guy STINKS! I mean, how has he not gotten walloped at least once during this godforsaken game? You suck your teeth at the sight of James flying around the pitch blowing kisses to his fan club and Lily Evans, who turns her nose up at the sight of him.

Merlin, when will this game end?

The Hogwarts Quidditch Semi-Finals of 1977 was a game to watch… until both teams stopped scoring what seemed like hours ago. Both Gryffindor & (Y/H) were at a stalemate, down some players due to injury and now, even lower team morale. Gryffindor team captain and chaser James Potter, notorious Marauder, and resident flirt, is not someone who likes to lose. He’s spent all season drilling his teammates, memorizing plays, and thinking of every outcome possible to ensure another Gryffindor victory. James’ affinity to be right takes precedence over anything, after all. But after beating down almost all of (Y/H)’s reserves, James was almost vibrating with confidence. He really doesn’t lose, not if he can help it.

“AND ANOTHER (Y/H) IS DOWN WITH AN INJURY— Team captain Whithall calls for a timeout as they reconvene on what to do next! Hope you’re still comfy in the stands, folks….” the student announcer grumbles.

There’s absolute chaos on the field, and like birds scuffling over a piece of bread, (Y/S), the team’s last good beater is floating on a gurney, ready to be transported to the Hospital Wing.

“Oh, here comes trouble…” Sirius murmurs, smacking James on the back to grab his attention.

You jump down from the stands to check on (Y/S), and James is too busy reveling in the idea of winning the goddamn semi-finals that he doesn’t notice you putting Quidditch gear on.

“Easy win from here on out, Pads! The little lady’s just checking the damage. Not important,” he chortles before Sirius physically grabs his head to face the girl walking towards him, currently storming across the turf to meet him and his team.

“I’m subbing in,” you say, angry at how dirty Gryffindor’s been playing, and angry that you even have to play in (Y/S)’s stead.

“Sweetheart, this game is for serious, you know that right?” James says a bit dumbly with a furrowed brow. Both of you are head to head, and James sees the twitch in your eye as you cross your arms. Hot air is seeping out of your pores but James’s lip simply quirks up in intrigue. You’re someone he hasn’t noticed before, and the only thing running through his mind besides winning the game is that you’re really pretty. But then again, he’s always found angry women to be attractive, in retrospect.

“Yeah, for the actual cup, not…for Sirius… It’s the wrong time to joke, innit?” Sirius says to break the ice, noticing the palpable tension between your glares. Your faces are inches away from each other and he’s not sure if you two are going to fight or kiss, but it makes him grimace all the same.

“Who do you think (Y/S) practices with? Unlike you and your friends, I know when to take things seriously,” You say through gritted teeth.

“She’s legit, Potter. Got added to our reserves last week.” Whithall pipes up, ready to get back to the game. The crowd has been weathered down after hours of anticipation, and they want to see the end of it, no matter the outcome.

“Much to my surprise,” you grumble, elbowing the authority in the form of a teenage boy not much older than yourself. You should’ve known your sibling was looking a little too happy as they got floated off the pitch on a gurney.

“Then let’s play. Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” James says condescendingly, floating away on his broomstick like it’s a walk in the park, but the way you’re slapping the bat against your palm is getting Sirius a tiny bit nervous for his precious countenance. The whistle blows and the game resumes.

“A SURPRISE ADDITION (Y/N) JOINS HER HOUSE AS BEATER! Gryffindor better watch out for her swi—” You slam the bludger in James’s direction and it hurtles toward him so fast that he almost folds in half, barrel-rolling on his broom to dodge it. The move makes Sirius and a few of their other teammates gasp to see James scrambling back onto his broom.

“Oops! Looks like I missed.” you deadpan, balancing midair as you whack another one where it rebounds off the Gryffindor seeker and back towards James, hitting both of them in the gut.

“THIS GIRL’S GOT AN ARM ON HER! Though might I say her hits look a bit targeted…” The commentator says worriedly, and everyone in the crowd is leaning in their seats trying to get a better view.

“Merlin, are you trying to kill me woman?” he yells in outrage.

“I’m trying to finish the game. Your big head is in the way,” you say with a straight face as Sirius bats towards you, and you spin on your broomstick without shifting your posture. The smile on your face as you taunt him should be considered criminal, but he’s looking at you in a new light.

Yeah, now he’s paying attention. The other Gryffindor players can’t seem to figure out your next move and you bat another bludger towards Potter’s extremely large target of a head, and all of a sudden he’s freefalling through the air as his teammates fly to catch him, one by one. His nose still makes impact with the ground before Sirius catches by the ankle like Achilles taking a dip in the River Styx.

“AND (Y/H) HAS CAPTURED THE SNITCH! Good job to their Seeker, Appleby! Congratulations on a job well done, so that we can all finally go home.” The commentator cringes as McGonagall swats at him to leave the podium.

Who even is she, taking over the game and stealing his win like that?

He’s walking up from the sidelines with a bloody nose, going to shake Whithall’s hand and you’re standing behind him, a malicious grin plastered between your rosy cheeks, windswept and almost ethereal while he looks like he got flattened by a hippogriff. Fuck, she’s pretty. You look like you floated down from the heavens, and by the looks his team gives him, he may have just crawled out of the earth.

“Congrats,” he grumbles, turning to you. Really pretty. It’s even worse that you’re devastatingly stunning up close— with sweat glistening on your brow and a pearly white smile, he takes a good moment to really look at you and memorize the flutter of your eyelashes. He’s unsure if he’s concussed or maybe it’s his astigmatism, but there are actual stars in his vision as he peers down at you. Your confidence is actually kind of sexy.

“You look…um…you ride well.” He stutters, shaking his head from his personal reverie.

“Excuse me?” you say, your little mouth agape in what he hopes is not disgust. He looks pathetic, blood sopping down to his jersey as he looks at you like he’s only seeing you for the first time, acknowledging you closely. Something about seeing him flail makes you crinkle your nose as you stifle a grin.

“I mean…Um…” Damn.

Sirius pulls his best friend away before you can bite back your laughter, all of your teammates leading you away to celebrate.

“Mate, what the shit was that? Are you alright in the head?” Sirius says, and if James’ nose wasn’t already bleeding he was going to slap him silly.

“Just…Didn’t see that coming…” he mumbles, and his mind, along with all of Gryffindor is in disarray as they walk back to their tower. He’s got a lot of thinking to do on what his next move will be.

—

James Potter goes through life in three methodical ways: 1.) creating a strategy, 2.) making a scene, 3.) and dragging his friends into it— in that particular order, every single time.

Now notice how considering consequences is not part of said process.

His ego wouldn’t let him rest after a girl, much less a very pretty one that he’d never noticed before—beat him at what he does best; quidditch! In fact, the next few nights were void of sleep and filled with thoughts of you. The way your hair looked so soft in the sunlight, how your lip turns almost Gryffindor red when you bite it in concentration, and maybe how your delicate hands would look as they tightly grasp onto his bat...ahem…your quidditch bat. Some dirty delusions aside, if looks could kill, he’d be dead seven times over, but honestly? He’d probably thank you for it.

James’ new mission was to figure you out, and if that was his mission, it meant it was the rest of the Marauders’ too. For the sake of winning the Cup, of course. That’s what he tries to tell himself until his mates catch him ogling you again at breakfast.

“So what is it with you and girls that inflict you nothing but pain and humiliation?” Remus muses, as the Marauders watch James laugh at a joke you told your friends at the (Y/H) table across the Great Hall. He looks at you like someone who stares at the sun, squinting and burning himself as he ponders on why he’s unable to look away.

James fumbles a response, shoving Remus as they all laugh. “Listen, I’ve got a bit of a masochistic streak, Moony. Just…There’s something about her…”

Your friends are pointing at him now, and as you turn to meet his eyes, you lift a brow inquisitively and flip him off. Sirius’s face pulls up in shock at James’s growing smile at the interaction as he mumbles, “Maybe you’ve met your match, Prongs…”

The boy pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, anything to try to see you clearer as he leans over to put his head in his hands, sighing dreamily. His friends are not as easily amused.

“A match made in heaven, you reckon?”

—

“Match made in hell, more like!” You spit, almost choking on your scrambled eggs at your friends’ insinuations. Your back is as stiff as a board, shoulders tight at the notion of you ever liking James Potter triggering your fight or flight response. When it comes to someone as pompous as him, only the word fight comes to mind.

“Oh come on, love… He’s popular, funny, and quite handsome…It’s James freaking Potter we’re talking about!” your roommate gushes, but you're not the least bit impressed.

“Is that supposed to do anything for me? I can think of a few F words that middle initial can stand for…” Eyes rolling, you peek back at the Gryffindor table to see said boy wiggling his fingers at you teasingly until he accidentally smacks Peter in the face with his toast. Idiot.

“Only hot people get away with stupid shit. I mean look at the four of them!” you continue, gulping down the rest of your coffee. “Potter’s the worst out of all of them though. Big ass head must compensate for a lot of things." You say, shaking your head at your friends.

"And yet, here you are, talking about him for the fourth time this morning," your roommate replies, smirking. " You’ve been Potter crazy since you helped us beat Gryffindor in the semi-finals! Are you sure you don't have a crush on him?"

"No!" you say too quickly, too loudly, that the shrill noise of your voice makes your ears hurt and the shit-eating grins on your friends’ faces reflect how desperate that came off. You slump onto the table, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“You wanna kiss him, don’t you?” they tease, and you push away their puckering faces as you scoff, “With an uppercut, maybe!” Almost makes you want to stomp over there and wipe the stupid look off his face…and maybe sit on his lap. You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. All this aggression really needs to go somewhere, but unfortunately, James Potter’s lap is the only destination you have in mind.

“He’s just really punchable. I get so annoyed by the sight of him I just want to… ugh!” you groan, your hands shaking as you try to convince them (or yourself). Your friends cackle at the sight of you pretending to squeeze his curly-topped, mothball-filled head, but your brain changes course and you imagine what it’s like to hold his hand. Your fingers flex cautiously at the idea, wondering what his touch would feel like. Grabbing a glass of water to cool your thoughts, your peripherals reveal he’s still staring at you like you make night turn into day. His gaze is searing, and as you put your lips around your straw, he licks his lips slowly. Shit.

—

Availability bias is one hell of a mindfuck. If only they taught psychology at this magic school, maybe the wizarding world would have way fewer problems and more people would be straightforward and not.. Dead. James decides he can categorize his life now as before you, and after you.

Before you, well… he honestly wasn’t even sure if you were a student at Hogwarts until he saw you marching down the pitch, but now… You’re everywhere. He can spot your voice in a crowded hallway, and who was going to tell him you’ve had three classes with him this whole term? Even down to when he shuts his eyes, he’s convinced his eyelids are branded with the imprint of your silhouette. Every conversation he strikes with you ends with you laughing at him, and he’s unsure if that’s a step up or down from the many boisterous rejections from Lily Evans over the years. He sort of wishes you’d laugh with him, and do a number of other things, (heck he’s got a list of ideas he’s wanked off to), and well… His soul is tightly wound with thoughts of you and Godric, listen to this guy…. maybe the boys were right…. Maybe he really does need to get laid.

It’s funny how fate works, two people who’ve barely interacted in the past six years at Hogwarts are now paired together for a History of Magic essay worth 20% of the term grade. You’re trying to get this done as fast as possible, he notices, mapping out ideas and trying to discuss how to piece it all together, yet James does everything but that to get you to pay attention to him. He fills your head with mundane little questions, asking you what your favorite fruit is to the childhood bedtime story your parents told you as a kid.

“What’s your middle name, Potter?” You muse, finally entertaining him after endless chatter. His eyes trail to the exposed skin of your collarbones as you stretch in your seat, and well… you don’t look as menacing as you always do but did it seriously have to be this question? He scratches the back of his head, silent for the first time in the two hours you’ve been trying to craft this essay for the sake of both your grades.

“What? I can’t just go around calling you James Fucking Potter. Spit it out, you know too much about me already.”

He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s… that’s an intimate question, love… I…”

Your laughter at his response makes his senses shut down. “Oh, so it’s bad. What is it, Franklin? Fabio? Come on, I won’t bite.” A part of him wishes you would, your face equally flushed and so close to him right now, almost leering at him for an answer. It’d be easy to just lean over…

“Fleamont.”

Your lips quirk, until they pucker like you’ve guzzled a lemon. The blush on your cheeks intensifies, and the sound explodes out of you. You laugh so loudly Madam Pince kicks you both out of the library, James carrying both your knapsacks, a hand around your waist as you rush out of there. Your body is firm under his touch, pupils unfocused and dilated looking at him now that you know his dirty little secret. James thinks that if you keep looking at him like that, hell, you can call him anything you want.

—

Fleamont.

What a prick. A really attractive, clueless prick. The memory makes you giggle as you get ready for the Quidditch Cup and your team charges out onto the field to face Gryffindor again, as you’ve both advanced to the finals. He’s not as much of an asshole as you originally thought. It’s undeniable that something pulls you towards him, whether it be hormones, concern, or the fact that it’s actually adorable the way he writes his mother back weekly, or admirable how he moved Sirius out of Black Manor himself last year. Maybe it’s endearing the way he goes out of his way to make first-years smile or heartwarming how even Filch can’t find reasons to hate him. The golden boy. You get it now, why people get trapped in his web, and why many are unwilling to leave.

You pass him outside the locker rooms, bumping shoulders as he smiles almost bashfully. The golden boy, loudmouth, ball of energy is reduced to a nervous pile of teenage ineptness at the sight of you, every time. You could take him (not in a fight). In an actual fight, maybe you could land a few solid hits before his nice muscly arms hold you do—

“Ready to finish this, darling?”

Your eyes refocus when his hand nudges the small of your back, right above your hip. “Mhmm,” you clear your throat, “Ready to lose, Potter?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves closer, slowly backing you into the wall.

“Eyes on the prize Potter, I’m in this to win it.” You say, looking at the closing distance between both your chests. James nods, not taking his eyes off of you for a moment, even when the announcer calls out the imminent start of the game.

“WELCOME TO THE HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH CUP OF 1977 GRYFFINDOR VS. (Y/H)! I hope you are all excited as our last match between these teams was quite thrilling at the end of it!” The announcer says, hyping up the roaring crowd as your teams parade onto the pitch.

His eyes are still on you when he shakes Whithall’s hand and the whistle blows. It’s intense, and makes you feel like you’re burning, even if the wind is blowing like crazy today. You bat the bludgers toward anything red on the field that even dares to move toward your teammates. James won’t stop staring at you, and you both lock eyes across the pitch.

“What? Flirt with me later, Potter, I’m trying to win!” you yell.

He’s got you transfixed, and it’s crazy how his timing is always wrong. You bat the bludger away from your captain but don’t notice James flying towards you to respond as you give it your hardest swing, making the impact against his huge target of a head all the more painful.

Holy shit, did you kill him?

He keels off his broom like a shot bird and then he’s falling, and you’re the one chasing the Gryffindor chaser as he flaps his arms like the idiot you know he is as you push forward to catch him before he splits his skull open.

“I’msofuckingsorryJamesareyouokay?” You blurt out as you land, soft hands moving over his broad chest and quickly swelling face. He’s wearing that stupid grin again, and you think you may have finally broken Gryffindor’s team captain.

“You know my name?” he sighs happily, comfortable in your lap and maybe it’s the brain damage you’ve caused him or the way his glasses are bent beyond repair but you will every magical predecessor you can think of to stop you from punching him in the face right now.

“Are you fucking dense?” You scream, shaking your head, and jostling him as his arms try to reach out to swipe the hair away from your face.

“Must’ve hit him so hard you knocked his filter loose..” Sirius muses after he lands next to you two on the grass.

“POTTER’S TAKEN A HIT FROM (Y/H) and it doesn’t look good ladies and gents! Gryffindor calls a timeout to check on their captain!” The announcer calls out, and there are so many eyes on the two of you as James is simply giggling like a prepubescent schoolboy. Fuck, you’ve maimed the golden boy.

“Y’know, sweetheart. You’re…really sexy when you’re on top of me like this,” he says breathily, and you really can’t hit him, so you jab Sirius in the gut instead when he tries to laugh at his best friend’s stupidity.

—

James wakes up in the hospital wing with a blinding headache until someone gently pulls the curtains closed, stroking the hair off his sweaty forehead.

“Poppy you always take such good care of me…” he mumbles. A punch lands on his chest and his eyes rip open, not expecting to see you at his bedside.

“Idiot,” you mutter. “You’re always in my way and now look, you almost got yourself killed and it would’ve been my fault! How dare you, James…” The red is crawling up your neck like a brushfire as you berate him, and he takes it with a grin as you jabber on, putting his arms behind his head.

“Were you worried about me, love?” James smiles cheesily, catching your arm at its half-hearted attempt to slap him across the face.

“I was not. Stubborn people like you are hard to kill. I’m more annoyed that I can’t morally punch your face in since you have a concussion. Madame Pomfrey’s already healed your cheekbone.”

“That you broke,” he says matter-of-factly, taking a chance to kiss the palm of your hand. This concussion is working like a bottle of Felix Felicis. It’s endearing to see you taking care of him, whether you like it or not (even with the punches he’s sure it’ll come with).

“You’re sick in the head.”

“For you. I was trying to come tell you that I never took my eyes off the prize, but then of course you bludgeoned my face in before I could get sweet on yo—”

Your lips crash down on his, and nothing about it is delicate. It’s a month’s worth of yearning, imaginations coming to fruition as he grabs the back of your head to deepen the embrace. Your lips on his are hot and heady, and he could be easily convinced that he’s stuck there, cauterized to the shape of you.

“I know. I could feel you watching.” You breathe into his mouth, leaning up on his chest. His lips chase up again to meet yours, biting down on your bottom lip as you groan. He might like that noise better than the sound of your laughter. It’ll be fun to find out.

“Who won the Cup?”

Laughter spills out of your red, kiss-swollen lips as you pat his cheek gently, fingers grazing over his healed cheekbone.

“Not Gryffindor. But listen closely James, if you be a good boy and get past this concussion, I’ll make up for it by showing you how well I ride…”

He likes the sound of that, Quidditch Cup be damned. You see, James Potter never loses, ladies and gentlemen, not really—and well... there’s always next year.

—

“I like the way

you look at me

like you are

going to talk to me

or devour me

and I am fine with either.”

-N.R. Hart

taglist: @jsjcue