#i have a few wips that need attention as i speak

[gunstellations]

🚬

[eoieopda]

tidal.

but vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “i don’t need a sales pitch. you will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.” 

pairing: vernon x afab!reader type: one-shot (fluff n’ smut) au: est. relationship wc: 4.8k rating: 18+ a/n: i didn’t plan this whatsoever, but i felt so weirdly compelled to write it that i avoided eye-contact with all of my wips, and now… here we are, lol. cw: pov switch, reader is afab + on their period, gender identity + pronouns aren’t designated, blood mention (obvi), unprotected p in v penetration (ill-advised!!), wee bit of dry-humping (ig?), a lil massage, pet names (baby, sweetheart), self-indulgent ref to a favorite docu of mine, and lastly — vernon (yes, this is a warning 🧍🏻) 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

Vernon isn’t blind. 

He can see you out of the corner of his eye, laying flat on your back, several unexplained centimeters away from his side. With the duvet clenched in your fists, you stare intently up at the ceiling, like you’re waiting for it to move — or trying to move it yourself, telekinetically. You keep your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, as if you expect it to make a run for it.

So, yes, Vernon can see you. 

He just can’t figure out what’s wrong with you.

For a few minutes, he attempts to pay attention to the documentary lighting up the screen on the wall ahead. You were the one that picked it — some wild tale about mother-daughter recluses in New York — and he finds it hard to give a shit about it without your usual commentary. Your hot takes are his favorite part of any movie night, after all.

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off you. Try as he might, he can’t glue his gaze to the television; each glance in your direction sticks longer than the one before it, testing the waters. Minutes slip away just like this until he completely caves, turns his head fully, and stares at you outright. 

You still don’t seem to notice.

His brow scrunches up as he watches you, caught in the middle between concerned, confused, and amused by how absolutely ridiculous you look right now. When he speaks, he tries to sound stern, like he isn’t fighting the urge to laugh.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” is all he gets in response. 

You don’t even look his way. If anything, you tense harder now that his attention is on you. 

None of it makes sense. Not the weird gap you’ve left between your body and his, your total refusal to look him in the eye, or the fact that there wasn’t an argument to precipitate any of this distance. It’s a symptom with no apparent cause, and it’s totally baffling. Brain-breaking, even.

Frowning, Vernon scoots himself across the bed to get closer to you. 

You don’t reciprocate. 

He tugs gently at the hem of your sweatshirt in a silent plea for your attention and receives radio silence in response; unless he counts the way you swallow thickly.

Which, for the record, he does not.

This close, Vernon can feel the anxious energy pulsing out of your tensed-up body in waves, so he leans away and props himself up on his elbow. Desperate to know what broke you and how to fix it, he mutters, “What is happening right now?”

Ope. 

It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, reading more like annoyance than worry, so he immediately clears his throat. Gently and with a brush of his knuckles against your hip bone, he tries again: “Are you okay? Did I do something to make you mad at me?”

A fly on the wall might get the wrong impression and think he stroked you with a live wire instead.

“Oh, my god. No!” You sputter with a jolt, shifting gears quickly from vaguely on-edge to horrified. You shake your head so frantically that Vernon fears you’ll detach it. “No, you haven’t done anything. I’m fine, I just —”

He interjects with a laugh, “— I don’t necessarily believe that —”

Visibly cringing with every muscle in your body, you cover your face with your hands. Not long after you take a deep breath does a meek voice slip out through your fingers, sounding beyond embarrassed.

“I’m so incomprehensibly horny right now that I can’t even look at you.”

For a second, it’s dead silent because he can’t quite process how much of a weirdo you are, or how completely and hopelessly enamored he is with you. But then the dam breaks. His laugh comes out so forcefully that you pull your hands away from your face, eyes wide.

“Is that so?” He smirks, nodding his head towards the television. “Grey Gardens really gets your motor running, huh?”

Absolutely aghast, you swat at his bicep. Then, you sling your arm over your eyes and groan, “I got my period. It has turned me into a sex-crazed monster, I fear.”

Vernon nods in understanding, even though you can’t see it, and hums, “Ahh.”

And he leaves it at that, only because you seem to have more that you want to say. Something you want to ask, maybe, or a reason you may want to give for not jumping his bones at the first opportunity. He’s down, he thinks without hesitation, so long as you are.

But you don’t say anything.

Maybe you aren’t actually down after all, and that’s why you won’t look at him. Shit, are you embarrassed? Should I say something? Silence falls overtop like a weighted blanket, smothering the two idiots who can’t tell whose turn it is to talk. 

Do you or do you not want this right now?

You mumble something that he can’t catch, so he nudges your side gently with his knuckles to encourage you. Just as nervous, you repeat yourself without looking at him, “Period sex is supposed to help with cramps, I think.”

He thinks he’s read the exact same article you have. More than that, he wishes you’d look over at him and see for yourself how completely unbothered he is by this concept.

“If you think about it, it’s kind of like a natural lubricant,” you add in a voice that’s even smaller than before.

Your shyness really might kill him, so he reaches over to grab your hand and gently pull your arm away from your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since you laid down — since you put your self-imposed no-contact order in place — and he feels his stupid heart swell.

For what it’s worth, he feels his dick twitch, too.

You open your mouth to speak again, likely to continue your unnecessary campaigning; Vernon is having none of it. He tugs your wrist just enough to tilt you inward, then he kisses you hard enough to shut you up. A tiny whimper slips out of your lips when he pulls away, and it almost makes him regret his decision to do so. 

But Vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “I don’t need a sales pitch. You will never — ever —  have to convince me to fuck you.” 

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, like this is somehow news to you. It shouldn’t be. He’s told you a thousand times in as many different ways how thoroughly crazy you drive him just by existing so closely to him, but maybe you didn’t take him seriously then.

To emphasize his point, he slips his hand under the hem of your sweatshirt and finds your bare waist with the pad of his thumb. It spirals slowly against your warm skin, making both of you dizzy. Then, sick of the distance, Vernon dips his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Like, ever,” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your jaw. 

Soft, slow kisses trail behind him as he travels down to your lips. Your head tilts further backwards with every single one, providing him with more and more access. 

He states it matter-of-factly because, to him, it is. “I’m down so bad for you that it might be terminal.”

“Oh?” 

You try to laugh but turn to putty when his palm rests fully on the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him. The surprised gasp you let loose confirms his suspicion: You can feel how serious he is, affirmation throbbing against your abdomen in time with his heartbeat. 

Vernon smirks to himself, relishing your reaction, and bypasses your mouth entirely. A moan escapes from you, soft like an exhale, as his lips move slowly down the length of your neck. Every so often — just to feel you shiver — he flicks the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin he finds there.

“It might be messy…” 

The rest of your needless warning gets lost in a dreamy sigh as he suckles at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Shifting even closer, your desperate fingers reach out and cling to his t-shirt.

Vernon licks a stripe over the galaxy blooming on your skin. He hums, hand traveling upwards from your waist, “Don’t care about a mess.”

And he means it. 

Mindful of any soreness, he smooths his hand over your left breast and massages it tenderly, swearing to himself that he’ll throw the whole fucking mattress out if that’s what it comes down to. For you, he’ll race across town on foot to buy another one, and — fuck it — if the store is closed, he might just break in.

You’re growing impatient; your fingers let go of his shirt and tangle themselves in his hair.

“So needy,” he chuckles low in his chest, teasing. “You know, I think you’re lying. I think it is this bat-shit insane documentary that’s driving you wild, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Stop,” you whine, dragging out the vowel sound. 

You don’t, though; you throw your left leg over his right thigh and shimmy forward until your cunt grazes his dick. Involuntarily, he groans at the warmth radiating off your core. Every part of you drives him just the slightest bit insane. You seem to know it, he thinks as he watches your pupils dilate in real time.

But he can play games, too, so he rolls his hips forward and grinds against you. He pushes you further, “Don’t get me wrong, baby. I’m not kink-shaming you —”

“Hansol Vernon Chwe!”

Oh, shit. Government name?

“— I’m just a little surprised, I guess.” He sighs with a shrug. “Think you know somebody…”

Your impatience is scribbled all across your scrunched up face. It seeps into your voice when you crash back against the pillows and huff, “Can you please stop fucking with me and start fucking me?”

“Sex-crazed monster, huh?” Leaning over, Vernon punctuates his question with a quick press of his lips to yours.

You whimper, “I’m so serious. I might explode.”

“Then go take care of whatever you need to take care of.” He kisses you again, smiling so fondly that his eyes may even be twinkling. “And I’ll go get a towel.”

You wait until Vernon clears the threshold before launching yourself out of bed at breakneck speed. Stumbling all the while, you race off to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door forcefully behind you. When it clatters against the frame, you finally admit to yourself that you might be a little bit eager.

Maybe.

Opting to keep your baggy, bleach-stained sweatshirt on, you wiggle out of your shorts and — what he refers to as — your crisis diaper. The high-waisted, frumpy, beige panties are utilized exclusively during your period, and to your surprise, they’ve remained spotless. It’s only ever the pretty and expensive pairs that wind up as collateral damage, isn’t it?

As they pool around your ankles, you can’t help but think that Vernon’s nickname for them is pretty spot on. That’s partly why you figured he might need to be talked into this. Unsated arousal aside, you feel as far from sexy as you can possibly get.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, kick what you’ve discarded into a pile near the hamper, and let your sweatshirt shift down to cover as much of your ass as it’s capable of managing. You grab a square of toilet paper; then, you go to work excavating the wad of cotton that separates you from everything you want in this life. 

It is within the realm of possibility that you’re a little bit eager and a little bit dramatic. 

Perhaps.

After discarding the evidence in the small trash can under the sink, you wash your hands as if you’re about to step into an operating theater and not the bedroom you spend half your life in. When you finally feel sterile, you lift your head and catch your reflection in the mirror. Instantly, you make eye contact with the painful, hormonal pimple on your chin — the one you’ve been waging a retinoid war against for days.

“Bitch,” you mutter, like calling it names will be the one thing that finally gets it to shrink. Of course, your plan doesn’t work, but you feel a little less powerless. That’s good enough, you think. At least, as good as it’s going to get.

Now half-naked and certifiably unobstructed, you tiptoe back to your bedroom much more carefully than you left it. Vernon enters from the opposite doorway at the same time, jumping slightly the second he notices you. You ignore his frightened eyes and glance down at the crisp, white towel he’s clutching.

You open your mouth to suggest anything otherwise, but he beats you to it. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead as his mouth widens outwards, a self-aware rectangle. Otherwise expressionless, he lets go of an atonal, “Aaaaaaah”, that tells you he’s caught on.

He says nothing else before turning around and walking back the way he came. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from cackling.

That one’s mine, you think, still as infatuated as you were at the start. I chose that one.

While he’s gone, you try not to move, not to breathe too heavily. Vernon said he didn’t care about a mess, but when he said it, he was speaking theoretically with his hand on your tit. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken recklessly with your body melting under his touch.

As far as you know, he hasn’t had any experience with this mess in practice. He could wind up finding you about as sexy as you currently feel — to wit: not at all. So, erring on the side of caution, you turn yourself into a statue and wait for the boy and his towel to find you again.

When he comes back, he plants a drive-by kiss on your unsuspecting mouth before skirting right around you. With shocking finesse, he grabs the corners of the — thankfully — black towel, which unfurls in the seconds before he flicks it upwards. It lands perfectly in the center of the bed, flat without needing to be fussed with.

“Wow,” he mutters to himself, taking in his clean work with raised eyebrows.

The impressed look is still on his face when he turns around, but you don’t have time to comment on his feat because he laughs as soon as he sees you.

“Kinda look like Donald Duck with the whole top-on, bottom-off situation.”

I chose this one?

You pout with an indignant gasp, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not wearing a sailor hat, so…. bad analogy. Rude, even.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you in close. You stumble a little on your way into him; the jury’s still out about whether it’s his hushed tone or the sudden movement that trips you up.

Between his thumb and index finger, he gently captures your chin. You follow along with his unspoken direction, tilt your face up to meet his. This close, you can see your own reflection in his pupils, black dilating against the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.

Vernon takes a moment of silence as he takes in your features, and he studies them so intently that his eyebrows crinkle on their own. He sighs, sounding so completely serious. “You might get prettier every time I look at you.”

It’s unclear if you’re melting, or gushing; and if it’s the latter, you can’t say which biological process is at fault. Thankfully, the hand at the small of your back keeps your weak knees from buckling when his lips brush over yours.

“Even if you’re dressed like Winnie the Pooh.” 

You feel him smirk even before you hear him laugh at his own joke. Then, you feel his hand slide down to cup your bare cheek, squeezing affectionately. You want to tell him that this analogy is still inaccurate because you’re not wearing a crop-top; but he gently instructs you to ditch the sweatshirt and get on the bed, and your body moves automatically. No questions asked.

Carefully, you crawl up onto the mattress, then you center yourself on the towel. Still on your knees, you tilt your head curiously and ask, “Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere,” he breezes, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser nearby. He amends, “Everywhere. All the time, and then some.”

“Better be careful,” you tease. “Talking like that might have consequences. You may never be able to get rid of me.”

His joggers are the next to go. Your sanity follows shortly thereafter, hungry eyes lingering on the imprint of his cock underneath his boxer briefs. You have to clamp your mouth shut to keep from drooling.

Brown eyes sparkling, he steps closer to you, kicking his pants aside as he goes. “Be careful,” he echoes, not a hint of cockiness to be found — just softness. “Saying it like a threat doesn’t make me wish it’s not a promise.”

I choose this one.

Crossing all the way to you, Vernon reaches the bed and climbs up with significantly more grace than you did. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels right in front of you, mirroring your posture and causing your stomach to flip with anticipation.

You can’t help yourself; you lick your lips and look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Naked, please. Like, right now.”

“Damn, I gotta do this myself?” Incredulous, he holds his hands up while glancing pointedly down at his underwear, then back at you. 

You arch an eyebrow, unfazed. 

“Depends.” You shrug. “Do you want to keep them? Because I really will rip them off of you.”

He concedes quickly; he always does. Sighing, he shakes his head and tuts, “Sex-crazed monster,” before pushing his briefs down his thighs. His length hangs heavy between you, but you swear you can feel its perfect ache inside you already.

You have a one-track mind, so you don’t hesitate to reach out and wrap your hand around him. A groan crawls up from the bottom of your chest when you feel the weighted warmth of his cock in your palm. You don’t hold that back, either.

“Fuck,” he sighs, head tilting as far backwards as it’ll go. Unexpectedly, he laughs. He doesn’t catch the quizzical look you shoot him, though he explains himself anyway, “Your hands are so fucking cold, but it feels so good.”

Swiping your thumb over his tip, you spread the pre-cum you find there down his shaft and stroke him slowly. He grows harder with every gentle squeeze, every pass of your fist. 

“We’re learning a lot of new shit about each other today.” You lean forward to pepper kisses across his collarbones. The hum of your mouth against his skin when you talk makes his cock twitch in your hand. “You might have a temperature kink and a thing for Winnie the Pooh.”

He snorts, nowhere near serious, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” you counter smugly, and you do mean it.

Vernon tilts his head forward to stare back at you. You’re already turning into a puddle, but if the look he gives you says anything, it’s that your melting isn’t enough for him. His voice is low and velvet-lined when he responds, “How about I just make you cum instead?”

“That could work, yeah.” You shrug.

He runs the pads of his fingers down each side of your waist to your hips, then back again; and each time he does it, you shiver. Reflexively, your back arches, chest pressing against his.

At this, he smirks, “It could? Maybe?”

“We can workshop it.”

“Or,” Vernon so generously offers, “You can turn around and lay down on your stomach. You know, if that’s sufficient.”

It’s not until you whip around and flop down onto the towel that you realize you never responded with words. Oh well. You figure he gets the point, judging by the quiet laughter you hear as he settles with his knees on either side of your upper thighs.

You don’t know what his next move will be — you don’t care, either, as long as he moves in your direction — so you don’t anticipate his palms flattening against your bare back, applying perfect pressure with his thumbs while he rubs away the soreness at the very base of your torso.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as the heels of his hands work out the tension in your muscles. “Have you always been good at this?”

You feel his chest brush against your shoulder blades when he hovers over you. Against the nape of your neck, he murmurs, “Nope.”

He kisses down your spine, mouth trailing after his hands as they work their way back down your body.

“Lemme guess — you read an article? Studied up?”

You get a snicker, then an affirmative hum, then another kiss. This time, it’s at the curve of your spine, just above your ass. Seconds later, he’s kneading the doughy flesh of your cheeks until your whole fucking body tingles.

That’s when it hits you:

Under normal circumstances, Vernon would be face-first in your pussy by now. Devouring you in earnest, like he’s starving. He can’t do that now — and you don’t blame him — so he’s making up for what you both view as a loss.

God, you want him.

One hand disappears from you, but you don’t have to guess where it went. You can hear the barely-there hiss of breath through his teeth when he takes his cock in that hand; as well as the very faint shift of his palm while he pumps himself.

“You’re gonna have to navigate, baby. I dunno how sensitive you are like this, what’s too much — any of that, so you need to tell me how you want me to move.”

Suddenly dizzy over how badly you need him, all you can muster is a nod. Vernon must want a verbal acknowledgment, though, because he leans back over you with one hand bearing his weight beside your head.

He kisses your shoulder and urges you, “Please say so if you need to stop or switch it up. Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe. “But I can’t even articulate how much I need you inside of me right now, so please — pretty please — fuck me.”

The tip of his nose bumps your temple affectionately. Right beside your ear, he teases, “With a cherry on top?” And it vibrates down your whole goddamn spine.

“Vernon!” You whine, burying your face in the comforter. It’s muffled, but you warn him nonetheless, “Don’t make me come back there.”

“Aish. Calm down, sex monster.”

The instinct to twist around and glare at him over your shoulder is strong, but every feral urge you feel is stronger. So, when he tells you to spread yourself open for him and tilt your hips back, you do so without even a hint of complaining.

With the crown of his cock slipping through your folds, inching towards your entrance, you hear him curse under his breath. Suddenly self-conscious, you finally crane your neck to the side and glance back at him. 

“We don’t have to,” you whisper. “If it’s gross and you don’t want to anymore, I get it —”

He balks at your suggestion without letting so much as a beat pass. “None of that, sweetheart; no spiraling. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of, like… how to survive how good this already feels.”

Struck dumb, all you can muster is a peep, “Oh?”

“Shit, yeah.” His response comes in a low groan. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

It’s a good call on his part, a suggestion you’re glad to have taken, because the pressure of him entering you is intense enough to knock the wind out of you. Empty lungs likely would’ve led to your untimely demise.

You whimper, already overwhelmed with the combination of pain and pleasure; the best kind of ache. The little, breathy moans must freak him out, however, because his fingertips caress your waist as he checks in: “This okay?”

Your limp arm lifts off the mattress, which you’ve melted fully into, and you form a circle with your index finger and thumb to indicate that you’re okay. The light is bright fucking green; you’ve just maxed out your capacity for speech.

Vernon continues his slow thrust forward, giving you ample time to adjust to his size.

“Oh my god,” he grunts, “This is — shit, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. If I knew how good you’d feel like this, I wouldn’t have waited around for you to ask me.”

That hits like a truck.

He was waiting on you. 

You spent months convincing yourself that he’d need to be convinced, and chickening out before you could raise the idea. Months, and months, and months, of craving him during your werewolf transformation; wasting away over a shitty assumption that Vernon is anything like the people you’ve been with before. 

Christ. 

His credit for putting up with you is long overdue.

Too tongue-tied to speak any of that out loud, you settle for a summary that you hope conveys the message: “I love you so fucking much.”

Mindful of how deep it will push him into your cunt, he leans down over you carefully. Weight balanced on his knees and forearms, he envelopes you in his body heat, trails kisses across your shoulder, and echoes your words back at you between each one.

“Is this too much?” He whispers, rolling his hips slowly.

You feel him everywhere, with every drag of his cock along your walls; and you can’t tell where that throbbing sensation is coming from, him or you. 

You shake your head and sigh, “‘s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Like he knows it’ll unravel you, his large hand comes to rest over the back of yours. His fingers slip through the spaces between and squeeze you much more gently than the vice grip you hold on the bedding below you. He keeps holding you — just like this — through every movement.

The sensation of being this surrounded, this loved, this whole crashes over you like a wave and knocks you off balance.

“I’m so close,” you pant, voice as ragged as your breathing. There’s nothing that he isn’t already giving you with every deep, deliberate thrust into your heat; but you beg nonetheless, “Please, please, please —”

His speed doesn’t increase, but the intensity does. The smack of his hips colliding with your ass does, too, and you feel it reverberating in your bones. Buried as far inside of you as he can be, cock tip kissing your cervix with every high tide, length rolling across your g-spot with every low.

You cum so hard — so completely, invoking every single muscle you have — that you forget how to breathe. With a choked-out gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and let your orgasm devastate you. 

“Fuck!”

Vernon gets caught up in the current, too, grinding desperately against you until he’s swept up in your wake. You feel him twitch inside you as his release floods, leaving you so lost in his warmth that you feel boneless underneath him.

His face winds up hidden in the crook of your neck, somewhere amidst the baby hairs that cling to the sheen of your sweat. You feel his lips fluttering against your skin when he laughs, “Oh…my god.”

“Mmphf.” You nod weakly in agreement. Beyond blissed, your body still tingles too much to move.

Slurring, you add, “‘s good. ‘s really…”

The rest of that thought dissolves into something between a moan and a yawn.

Just as tired, Vernon pats your ass cheek affectionately and mumbles, “Well said. No notes.”

You tilt your head far enough to free your face from the sheets. When you do, you find your boyfriend fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. In the rare seconds he can, he looks back at you in a daze that seems even more adoring than it does fuck-drunk.

“I think I need to hibernate now,” you announce. “Think you just fucked me so well that I need to take a sabbatical.”

He counter-offers, “Shower first, then sabbatical?”

You wiggle so that you can pull your joint hands to your mouth. You can’t kiss him properly while he’s laid out on top of you, but you can press your lips to the back of his hand and hope he feels how much of you that you pour into it.

“Okay, but, like…. who’s carrying who?”

[vibingandsimping]

Literally NOBODY asked me this in my inbox. Got tired of waiting, smh… So I wrote it. Consider this my community service. Halsin teaching an inexperienced reader how to give a handjob. That’s it.

EDIT: Getting back into posting and this is a wip I’ve been working on. I added a little more to it for some length but this will likely be all. Unless you all want to see this finished.

———————————-

Admittedly, you hadn’t expected to get this far. Nor did you have any clue what to do at this point. Things between you and Halsin had intensified in a short period of time. His passion as a whole was almost infectious. He gave you a sense of comfortability in your self. Always putting you at ease whenever he was in your company. Short pecks turned into long kisses. Fleeting touches into longer embraces… more intense touches. What was a make-out session now Halsin laying under you hard. The feeling of his hard length against the inner of your thigh enriched the pre-existing butterflies fluttering inside you. He trailed a hand down your side before kissing along your neck, earning a whine of pleasure. The intensity of flame between your thighs gradually increased with each touch. You needed to do something to alleviate this itch inside you. With a shaking breath- you spoke.

“Can I touch you, Halsin?” The words were timid. Nerves shook your voice and made you tense. The man-bear chuckled and slid his arms down your back to your waist. Sitting you upwards before he spoke himself.

“Of course, my dove. Let me teach you.” His large hands shifted his pants down his hips til his engorged erection bounced as it escaped it’s confines. It was intimidating, frankly. The tip red and swollen, along with the shaft reflecting a similar pink. He stared at you affectionately as you took in the sight of him. He understood- he was a large man. His fingers interlocked with yours and he raised your hand towards the head. With precarious movements, and a reaffirming look (which you mutually shared), he wrapped your fingers around it. It throbbed at your touch and felt impossibly hot. Like his groins were truly aflame. You did this all to him by yourself?

“Slide your hand down. Slowly, and work around the tip each time you go back up.” You nodded attentively and promptly followed his instructions. Te precum drizzled from his cock as you gently pulled the foreskin down. Of course he was uncut, as Astarion would say, this man is all about nature. Each jerk slowly worked it down slower before you had his full length exposed and reddened. His stomach tensed and released from the stimulating friction. Drawing his lip into his teeth.

“Good. Keep doing that…” He uttered firmly. His dominance enraged the fire inside you and you returned to stroking him with newfound vigor. ‘Shlicking’ up his length and back down. His precum dribbled onto your palm and aided your journey to helping him achieve orgasm. You studied his face and watched as each feature changed with your movements. His lip remained in his teeth- seemingly drawn tight. He reached a hand down to your hip and held you in place. Confidence bubbled to the surface with his motion. In turn, you began rubbing your thumb over his slit with each jerk.

“Holy. Gods, you’re such a minx. Mm, just like that.” He laughs out loud as he speaks. You can’t help but smile cheekily at his response. Even when being jerked off he was still Halsin. His stomach and thighs began to shake and his head tilted to the side. If you had to guess he seemed close. Already? You pondered mid-stroke. Hand working harder on his hard cock as the wet shlicks filled your ears. He began to softly moan in response to the rapid increase in pressure and pace. It was only a few minutes before he began to spurt his seed across your chest and hand. Growling out primally as he reached his climax. Hands holding your hips so firmly you were sure you’d bruise after. Halsin’s face squished in a look of ecstasy. Tinged with embarrassment. He flopped down after and released his harsh grasp.

“Apologies. I just find you so captivating that I couldn’t hold myself back. How about I return the favor, honey?” Yeah, that sounded nice.

[shina913]

Merger | KNJ, CSC

Merger

Pairing: Namjoon x Fem!Reader x Seungcheol

Rating: M 🔞; NSFW

Genre: Smut; pwp; non-idol AU

Warnings: Threesome; porn with the barest of plots; cussing; alcohol consumption; voyeurism; fingering; clit play; breast play; oral sex; spit-roast(😬); handjobs; penetrative, protected sex; masturbation; multiple orgasms; pearl necklace; soft aftercare

Word count: 6.1k words

Summary: “Oh, so you guys are like a package deal then?”

A/N: It’s been ages since I’ve written and finished any WIP! This is probably the filthiest thing I’ve written--ever! It's completely indulgent, and since my moots and I have been kicking around the idea of a leader-line/crossover fic, I figured, why not? Thank you, @roaminginthenights and my Discord loves for enabling me!

Full disclosure: I’ve never written a poly fic before, so please be kind! Anyway, I'll shut up now. Enjoy!

You’re still shaking hands with Namjoon and Seungcheol, when you suggest getting celebratory drinks. They’ve just accepted your firm’s very lucrative offer to invest in their business, one you identified and insisted your firm consider. There’s still plenty of paperwork to complete, documents to sign, but for now, after securing the biggest deal of their lives, they (and you) deserve one night to bask in their success before the real work begins.

As a new partner at your firm who finds and manages ventures, you want to be seen as both an advisor and a peer. You aren’t just another representative of the new majority shareholder; you listen and care about their needs.

Just hours ago, they appeared as slightly awkward but well-rehearsed tech geeks, hoping to secure funding for their business. This more casual setting is exactly what they needed. And frankly, after a couple of drinks, you realized that you needed it too.

In a quiet corner of the bar, with loosened ties and rolled-up sleeves, your newest clients seem much more relaxed, blending in with the tech and finance crowd that frequents this part of the city.

Unlike the old crowd, Namjoon and Seungcheol stood out to you. They brought new energy and enthusiasm instead of the burnt-out, jaded-looking faces you usually saw. They had a spark that made you believe in their vision, making you excited to see where this partnership could go. It also didn't hurt that they were very attractive (objectively speaking), which was rare for guys in their industry.

“We can’t thank you enough,” Namjoon says. He handles operations for the business, led the pitch, and hasn’t stopped expressing his gratitude since you left the office.

“We promise you won’t regret taking a chance on us.” Seungcheol adds. He oversees the tech front and was quieter in comparison. He let the demonstration do all the talking for him, and you were very impressed, but now he seems to be livening up.

“Well, you guys made a convincing pitch. I think that the service you offer and your business model is unique and we see a significant untapped market for it. All you need is scale, and we’re very excited to be involved in that effort.”

Namjoon turns serious for a moment, “To tell you the truth, we’ve been used to hearing ‘no’ in the last few months, so we were shocked by your offer—I mean, we still are.”

You smile. “All you need is that one ‘yes,’ to get you going! I’m glad you both persisted and that we can be part of what we’re confident is going to be a huge success.”

“To getting rich!” Seungcheol roars, raising his glass, making you and Namjoon laugh in response. You then tap your glasses against his, echoing his sentiments.

Peering past the rim of your drink, you observe their banter and laughter at techy inside jokes you're not privy to. Outside the conference room and clearly more relaxed, you start to see their individual charm, which would knock the socks off anyone who stopped and paid attention.

You shift in your seat, leaning just a tad closer to Namjoon—close enough to catch a hint of his scent, but with enough distance to keep things semi-professional.

“So! I feel like I've been going on and on about how we like to work with our portfolio companies. But what about you guys? Tell me more about how this partnership works,” you ask, gesturing between them.

To your surprise, Seungcheol clears his throat and answers first. “We complement each other well. Joon is more articulate than I am, while I’m more comfortable working on the technical side of things.”

He seems shy, often hiding his face when laughing as if to avoid drawing attention to himself. Yet, his confident demonstration today—and the obvious technical expertise behind it—suggests that he’s more self-assured than he initially lets on. He may not talk as much as his counterpart, but when he does, he demands that you focus on him and nothing and no one else. With those dark, deep-set eyes and plush lips, you wouldn’t even think of diverting your attention elsewhere.

…Unless Namjoon was in the same room.

“Cheol is quicker at troubleshooting and debugging,” he says. “He prefers rectifying things right away, figuring things out as he goes. My approach is more theoretical. I prefer to take my time, gathering more information, maybe drawing things out a little longer than they need to be…”

Namjoon had your full attention from the moment he introduced himself. He had a boyish, dimpled smile that could make anyone swoon—a stark contrast to his tall and broad frame. He was mostly formal during the presentation but unafraid to go off on smaller tangents that showed his passion and kept you hanging on his every word. At certain points, you wished he would keep going, especially with that deep, rich voice of his.

However, as the night progresses, Seungcheol gradually draws your attention toward him as well.

“Let’s just say that Joon likes to play with his food, while I just want to get right to it and eat,” Seungcheol says, tipping his glass to his partner and winking playfully at you.

Your jaw drops at his unexpected comment, surprised by how bold it is. Normally, you'd think something like that would be out of line, but instead, you’re amused by it.

Little by little, you start to pick up on the subtle nuances in Seungcheol’s behavior. He has this laid-back attitude that contrasts with Namjoon's more reserved demeanor. It's fascinating to see the differences between the two, and you can't help but be drawn further into their intriguing dynamic.

Namjoon clears his throat, giving Seungcheol a subtle warning. “Uhh… please excuse my friend here. He offers the most colorful analogies.”

You wave him off. “I think he’s pretty funny, actually.”

“Why, thank you!” Seungcheol beams, takes it as a compliment then takes a sip of his drink.

“Besides, we need a little humor to get through the day, right,” you add.

You see Namjoon’s shoulders visibly relax. Your carefree reaction seems to give him a sense of relief.

With that awkwardness out of the way, you press on to get to know them better. You feel there's something more about them you can't quite put your finger on. Against your better judgment, and maybe due to one too many drinks, you’re dead-set on finding out.

You switch tact to keep the conversation going. “Has anybody ever pulled one of you aside to offer you an individual deal?”

“It’s happened before, but we’ve always turned them down,” Seungcheol replies.

Having been friends for over a decade, Namjoon nods in agreement. “Cheol and I have this pact—it's either both of us or neither of us.”

They’re young, business-savvy guys who haven’t lost their earnestness despite the ruthless competition. But the skeptic in you decides to test their ‘pact.’ “Oh, so you guys are like a package deal then?” you tease.

Seungcheol lets out a low laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

The look he gives you after he says it makes the words sound naughtier than they seem. But you brush the comment aside, keeping your thoughts PG since this is still technically a business meeting. Though, if you’re being honest, Seungcheol’s responses have been toeing the line between professional and provocative. His comment about preferring to eat his food rather than play with it makes you curious about what other colorful analogies he can come up with when he does cross that line. Frankly, you hope he would run through the entire spectrum.

Namjoon gives him a furtive look. “What he means is that this business wouldn't succeed if one of us walked away. It's better to hire both of us so you can get the best possible return on your investment.”

You scoff in disbelief. After years in this industry, you know that somebody is always looking to get ahead, as long as the price is right. “You mean to tell me that you’re perfectly fine settling for a 50/50 share when one of you could just take it all?”

“We don’t mind sharing.” Seungcheol bites his lower lip to stifle a smile, while his eyes glistened hotly in the muted lighting.

And just like that, this business meeting has evolved into something completely different. You’re not stupid, and neither is he. Deep down, you want to squeal from excitement. At least one of them is feeling you.

Before you jump to conclusions (or onto Seungcheol’s lap), you turn to Namjoon, expecting him to once again rein in his friend’s spicy comments. Instead, you’re surprised to find him staring, a smile ghosting his face.

“Do you disagree?” You ask him, rubbing the back of your neck to relieve some of the tension you were feeling inside. You’re interested to hear how he would try to spin Seungcheol’s comment.

There’s a slight pause before he smiles wider, flashing a dimple on his cheek. “Nah. I don’t see anything wrong with sharing… or taking turns, for that matter.”

You inhale sharply, holding that breath for a moment as your stomach drops. “Taking turns?” you ask carefully, brows furrowed in curiosity.

Unfazed, he answers, “Leading projects, of course!”

Your lips form an ‘o’ shape, and you nod slowly. “Right…”

The room suddenly feels hotter. Feeling parched, you tip your glass to your lips and drink, but it doesn’t help. Your body is telling you that you need something else to relieve your thirst.

Namjoon tilts his head, still appearing nonchalant. “What did you think I was referring to?”

“Nothing,” you reply. Narrowing your eyes at him, you ask, “What did you think I was thinking?”

They both stare at you quietly before bursting into laughter. Touché.

You’re laughing along with them when your phone chimes, reminding you about tomorrow’s meeting—something your boss has mentioned multiple times this week. When you look up from your screen, you notice the bar is nearly empty. You didn't realize it was so late. Even though you're reluctant to leave things…unsettled tonight, duty calls.

You motion for the server to bring the check, then hand over your credit card with a sigh. Guess you'll have to handle things on your own tonight.

Noticing your change in demeanor, Namjoon turns to you again. “So, are you one of those partners who pays for dinner and drinks, takes their commission, then we never see them ever?”

You soften at his question. “I’m sorry that’s been your experience in the past but I guarantee you, that’s not how I, or my firm, operate. I actually answer my phone and return calls,” you assure him.

He nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer. At least one of you is. You watch him toss back the last few drops of his drink, some spilling onto his chin. He picks up a napkin to clean up, but before he can, you see an opportunity and take it—swiping your thumb across his chin, surprising him and Seungcheol.

“I like to be hands-on with my clients.” Enough with the innuendo tennis! You're done playing games and want to see if one of them is willing to put their money where their mouth is. Meeting be damned, you’ll deal with the fallout later.

Namjoon is stunned into silence, trying to process what just went down. While you wait for him to get his head around it, Seungcheol jumps in. “Hmm, is that right?” His voice is low and husky, sending a chill down your spine.

You turn your head towards him. He appears to be pouting slightly, clearly jealous of the attention you're giving his friend and business partner. You smile, satisfied to provoke that bit of aggression in him.

You shift and bring your face closer to his, your voice steady. “Why? Is that hard to believe?”

He purses his lips, his dimples prominently on display. Normally, you'd find them adorable, but not now, as he looks like he's stalking you as his prey. “Well, there are two of us, you see…” He glances at Namjoon past your shoulder, as if giving him a silent signal.

Not a second later, Namjoon’s hand is under the table, sliding up your thigh. You’re thankful your table is tucked away in the back corner of the bar, keeping the lewdness out of sight.

“And we can be very demanding,” Namjoon breathes into your ear, while Seungcheol, humming in agreement, nuzzles his nose against your neck. “You think you can handle us both?”

Now that ache in your chest has traveled down between your legs. You press them together to hold off a bit longer, but it’s a futile attempt.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me, you know.” You lean in, your mouth hovering close to Namjoon’s. “I’m an excellent multitasker.” You push him to the brink when you touch the tip of your nose to his. Pulse racing, he closes the gap and seals his lips over yours. The kiss is soft at first, before he gradually deepens it. You succumb to the moment, letting out a soft moan when his tongue licks into your mouth.

You’re breathless when you pull away from him and turn to Seungcheol. He cups your chin to draw you closer, his eyes dark with desire, and captures your mouth in a hungry kiss. There's a hint of urgency in it that could be mistaken for impatience. But you like it, just as you enjoy Namjoon’s unhurried pace. You lose yourself between them, forgetting all the professional boundaries you were supposed to maintain.

You barely step into the room when Seungcheol tugs at your wrist, pulling you back and kissing you. Your fingers tangle in his hair while he holds your jaw, his mouth moving over yours, licking and sucking. You hear the door shut in the background, then feel Namjoon’s arms wrap around your waist. He starts kissing the exposed skin between your neck and shoulders.

Two pairs of hands explore your body, taking off your clothes, mouths trailing kisses everywhere. Your head spins as you’re caught between these two in nothing but your underwear, and all you can do is moan as they ravish you. You’re aching for attention. You arch forward, grinding your hips against Seungcheol’s thick thigh, desperate for some friction to ease the ache between your legs.

He pulls away, chuckling. “Someone’s a little eager.”

Namjoon murmurs in your ear, “Are you in a rush or something?” His hand slides between your legs, pulling you against him so you can feel his stiff cock against your ass. He cups your clothed pussy, fingers grazing over the damp material. You moan in response, your neck falling back on his chest.

“No rush,” you manage to say, “But aren’t you guys a little overdressed?” You reach back to palm Namjoon’s hardon through his pants, making him groan in your ear. You were wound up so tight at this point that you hoped one of them would break that seal, and fast.

“Ooh-ho-hoo…alright. C’mon then,” Seungcheol chuckles softly, pulling you away from Namjoon.

He leads you further into the room, until you find yourself standing by the foot of the bed.

“Before we start, is there anything you won't do?” Seungcheol asks.

“Or is there something specific you’re curious to try?” Namjoon adds, gauging your comfort level.

You appreciated their thoughtfulness and took a moment before sharing your boundaries with them.

“I’m not into DP or any kind of anal play. Choking is a no-go, and hard pass on any degradation. Besides that, I’m open to trying stuff.”

Namjoon nods. “And hey, if you're not feeling it, just let us know. We'll stop right away.”

Nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead, even in a threesome.

“Alright, that's settled then,” Seungcheol grins, but his smile quickly shifts to something more serious. “Now, sit,” he says softly. Without missing a beat, you sit down on the edge of the bed.

With his eyes locked on you, he slowly unbuttons his shirt, then moves to undo his pants with the same deliberate pace.

Your pulse races, your body buzzing with excitement and impatience. “We don't have all night, you know,” you said, watching his hand slip past his boxer-briefs’ waistband, stroking himself underneath.

“I know,” he says.

Movement from your periphery distracts you. You see Namjoon settling into one of the chairs by the window. He looks just as mouthwatering outside of his suit, all bare-chested and—

You yelp when Seungcheol jerks your hips to the very edge of the bed, your thighs on either side of him. Lowering himself, he whispers a warning into your ear. “And I also know that you want him…”

He glances at Namjoon, then back at you. Suddenly, you feel sheepish, like you've been caught trying to sneak another serving of cake before you've taken a bite out of the first slice you were given.

“I can make you feel good, too,” he breathes. He nips your earlobe, then rubs his hard length against your center to tease you. You moan, bucking your hips to feel more of him, but he’s got you pinned to the mattress.

“Besides, my buddy here prefers delayed gratification, and you—look really needy right now,” he points out. “I can help with that.”

Your core clenches desperately at his offer. “Please,” you whine.

He decides to taunt you, to make you squirm a little more. “Please, what? Use your words,” he says with a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Make me come… please.” You smile sweetly and bat your eyes at him. “Didn’t you say you preferred to get right to it, and eat?” You remind him of what he said earlier, hoping he'd finally end your torment.

He grins at your pouting, clearly amused. Teasing him a bit more, you reach back and unhook your bra. As you slide it off your shoulders, you catch his gaze and notice him licking his lips in anticipation.

He tilts your chin up and leans in for a kiss. Your hands instinctively wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. You sigh in contentment, lost in the moment, as his tongue explores your mouth, savoring you.

“Let’s get rid of these,” he says before slipping your panties off. He moves down, leaving a trail of kisses on your chest. He takes a hardened nipple in his mouth. You inhale sharply at the feel of his tongue circling and teasing it.

He moves lower, settling between your legs. Spreading them wider, he traces your inner thighs with his lips. He gently sucks at the flesh, purposely avoiding your center, prolonging the ache between.

He lifts your legs and props them on his shoulders. With his mouth lowered, his nose grazes your folds, making you shudder. He inhales deeply. “You smell intoxicating,” he says, before you feel his mouth on your clit. You let out a lingering moan at the contact.

“Ohh, right there,” as you push your hips shamelessly at his mouth. Your hunger builds as his tongue licks and flutters over your slick.

Your back arches, gripping the sheets as he inserts a finger, then a second. You throw your head back, eyes shut, lost in complete pleasure.

The mattress dips gently above where you lay. Feeling a warmth on your cheek, you open your eyes to see Namjoon lowering his lips onto you. You moan softly into his mouth while Seungcheol continues to lap at your soaked core, with his fingers dipping in and out of you.

Namjoon palms your breasts, teasing and pulling at your overly sensitive nipples.

“I love how responsive you are.” His tone carries that deep rasp that tickles your senses. You were incredibly turned on, feeling both the thrill of submission and the power of being serviced by two insanely hot men. Every touch, every whisper heightens the intensity, leaving you on the edge.

“I cannot wait to taste you,” Namjoon says, punctuating every word.

His voice triggers your release. That last bit of control snaps, and your body goes rigid. Your jaw goes slack as your orgasm takes over.

“F-uck…” you barely manage to say. Namjoon keeps caressing your face, helping you come back to reality.

Just as you're catching your breath, Seungcheol looms over you. He reaches above your head to grab something from Namjoon. After slipping on the condom, he hooks your leg around his waist to open you up for him. In one smooth move, he's in deep.

You moan breathlessly, wrapping your other leg around him as he finds his rhythm. Your fingers dig into the curve of his ass, leaving little crescent marks all over his skin.

“So good…” he breathes out.

Hearing rough groans above your head, you crane your neck. Namjoon is leaning against the headboard, fisting himself. His eyes blown out with arousal while watching you get fucked by his best friend. You want to take him in your mouth, but his cock is out of reach.

“I want him,” you say with a hungry look in your eyes. Then, turning your attention back to Seungcheol, “But I also want you to keep fucking me.”

His brows shoot up in surprise at your bold request, and he and Namjoon exchange looks, slightly taken aback.

“I did say I could multi-task,” you remark with a smirk, your confidence unwavering.

Slowing his hips, Seungcheol grins devilishly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Greedy girl, huh?”

Your reply is straightforward and unapologetic. “I want what I want,” you shrug. 

With a quiet laugh, Seungcheol pulls out, leaving you feeling bereft, but the promise of what’s next keeps you eager. Then, getting on your knees, you crawl over to Namjoon, your movements slow and calculated, savoring the anticipation. You look up at him and smile, then plant a swift kiss on his lips.

You dip down and give his cock some light licks, teasing the sensitive skin with your tongue. A deep groan rumbles from his chest, giving you a surge of satisfaction. You lower your mouth, taking your time, making him inhale sharply when the tip hits the back of your throat.

As you find a rhythm, Seungcheol watches intently, riveted at the sight before him. He traces your spine, trailing his fingers down your lower back. He presses lightly, urging you to bend further and lift your ass higher. He uses his thigh to push your knees wide, ensuring you're in the most optimal position for him.

Your cheeks hollow as you take long, deep pulls. Your tongue traces his length, flicking the tip when you reach it. Then, your body stills, pausing to let out a strangled moan at the shock of Seungcheol burying his cock in you from behind.

Namjoon looks down at you, his eyes filled with lust. “Don’t stop,” he begs softly.

Once you gather your bearings, you lower your head again. He runs his fingers through your hair, gathering it in one hand to keep it away from your face.

“Ahh…shit,” he hisses through his teeth. With a hooded gaze, he watches his cock slide in and out of your mouth.

He writhes in pleasure, giving into your ministrations, resisting the urge to push your head down and fuck your mouth mercilessly. His self-control turns you on even more, so you take him in deeper, pumping him with your hand while your mouth works up to the tip. You moan around Namjoon, and the vibrations from your lips send him into a frenzy.

Although you wish you could fully relish in satisfying him, you can’t help but get distracted by your own arousal as the heat in the pit of your belly grows.

Seungcheol’s hips churn, rubbing and thrusting into you, hitting the spot that makes you want to come more than anything. His fingers dig deeply into your flesh, likely to leave bruises the next morning, but right now, you couldn’t care less. You are getting fucked good and plenty tonight.

The air fills with the sounds of your moans and the rhythmic smacking of skin against skin. The room is thick with the unmistakable scent of sex. It’s a heady mix that you’re happy to surrender to. Your free hand finds your pulsing clit, knowing that one stroke would send you right over the edge.

You pull away from Namjoon seconds before you cry out, your core spasming with your climax—this one more intense than the first. Your walls clenching within sets off Seungcheol’s own orgasm.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” he breathes out, followed by a drawn out groan when he releases inside you.

As the euphoria fades, he pulls out and collapses to one side of the bed, utterly spent. Meanwhile, you slump onto the mattress, feeling the lingering warmth and the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He gets up, intending to make his way to the bathroom, when you suddenly reach out and give his ass a playful smack, catching him completely off-guard.

With a soft laugh echoing in the room, he continues toward the bathroom, his hand instinctively rubbing at the stinging skin, a smirk playing on his lips.

Namjoon lays next to you, his fingertips gently brushing over your bare skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Leaning in closer, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. It’s a sweet gesture, considering the debauchery that just occurred moments ago, and you don’t mind one bit.

“You okay?”

Your lips curve lazily. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Fine,” he replies.

You roll over to face him, drawing closer.

“You should rest a little more.”

Your hand playfully traces patterns on his chest for a moment before sliding down to his stomach. “I’m good to go, and you,” your eyes flit downward, “…look like you’re ready, too.”

He was half-hard seconds ago, but just before you can touch him, he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand up to his lips to kiss it.

You can’t help but frown at his rejection. “But you still haven’t—”

“I know. Let’s just take a minute,” he suggests. “Relax.”

Usually, when someone tells you that, you do the exact opposite. But his voice was so soft and reassuring that your furrowed brows start to ease. He seems to have other plans.

You keep your eyes on him, watching his every move—deliberate, and intentional. He gently strokes your cheek. You watch his hand travel slowly down to your neck, savoring the warmth of his touch as it lingers there for a moment. His hand continues down to your chest, pausing to stroke your nipple. Your eyes shut at the feather-light touches that send goosebumps racing across your skin.

When he reaches the juncture of your hips, he gently pushes you flat on the bed, with little to no resistance from you.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he breathes into your ear. You do so, then feel his hand move past your stomach. You hold your breath, expecting his fingers to touch your wet folds. But instead, his hand stops on your upper thigh, leaving you a bit disappointed.

His lips graze your cheek. “Tell me what to do next.”

Whatever complaints or protests you were about to voice out die out instantly, and instead replaced by growing anticipation. “Rub my clit,” you gasp quickly.

You hear a light chuckle from him before his hand reaches down between your legs.

“Like this?” He asks, then begins to rub slow circles on the sensitive flesh.

“No, up and down,” you tell him. You let out a sharp breath when he does so, and at the right pace. “Ahh, yes…up more…” You hum in pleasure when he strokes the most sensitive spot.

“What next?” He patiently awaits your instruction.

“Talk to me,” you croak out.

His breath blows gently by your ear. “What should I say?”

“Anything…” you pant, “Just want to…hear you.” You didn't think you had a voice kink, but listening to Namjoon speak earlier today was…a revelation, to say the least.

With his silky-smooth tone, he starts whispering the naughtiest, filthiest things you can think of, each word dripping with seduction. His voice wraps around you like a cozy blanket, pulling you deeper into his steamy fantasy.

You’re so wet for me.

So sexy.

As soon as you walked into the room, I wanted to bend you over that table and fuck you senseless.

You beg him to finger you, and he does so, sliding into you, working your sensitive nerves, and building up your need even further with every movement. There's something incredibly erotic about him asking you what you want and you telling him exactly how to please you. This is the kind of fantasy fulfillment that most people can only dream of.

“Should I eat that pussy after I make you come like this? You were making a lot of noises back there for Cheol. Will you do the same for me?”

You nod frantically.

“Yeah? Will you come hard for me?”

You nod again. “Yes, yyesss…don’t stop…”

“Tell me when you’re close.”

“Ahh yes, I’m there…s-slow down.”

He does as he’s told, coaxing your orgasm out of you. “C’mon, baby…let go.”

“Mm…coming—” As you say the words, he presses his fingers up against the roof of your cervix, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

“Let me hear you.”

You let out a deep, prolonged sigh that echoes in the room.

Namjoon’s fingers continue to pump slowly into you, stretching out your orgasm. “There we go, atta girl.”

Your legs tremble, breaths turn into shaky gasps as your walls clench and release around his fingers.

“Holy shit, that’s hot,” Seungcheol says from afar. Fresh out of the shower, he finds himself wishing he hadn’t missed the scene that has your face contorting in pure, unbridled pleasure.

While you’re still reeling from coming, Namjoon turns you onto your side. He then pulls your back flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around you to hold you close.

“You ready for me,” he asks, his teeth grazing your ear. Your body responds instinctively, trying to roll your hips into him. You feel his hard cock against your ass cheek.

“I want to ride you,” you plead.

“You do?”

You want to set the pace, the rhythm…the depth…You turn to face him, tilt your head up, and playfully bite his lower lip. “I want to be on top.”

He laughs, deep and husky, and eventually gives in. He pulls away to reach for a foil packet on the nightstand, sitting up against the headboard as he sheaths himself.

You move up to him, even though your legs feel like jelly. You straddle his hips and drape your arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer. With your eyes locked on each other, you slowly lower your hips. Your lips part with an involuntary sigh as you sink deeper. You fight to keep your eyes open, savoring the feel of him stretching you, filling you completely. 

Catching your hips, Namjoon looks up at you. “Ride me good, yeah?”

Your core clenches reflexively at the challenge.

You lift again, slowly, making you both feel every nuance of that mind-numbing friction. Then, you slam back down, the fullness, the connection, was too good to contain. He shifts restlessly, his hips moving tightly, wanting to feel more of you.

Seungcheol sits beside Namjoon, wanting to get a front row seat. He reaches for your breast, palming it as he lazily strokes his cock. “She feels good, huh? Nice and tight.”

“Mm-hmm,” Namjoon agrees. “Sweet mouth on her, too.”

Seungcheol hums, his lips curling into a dark, enigmatic smile. “Mm, I’ll have to try that for myself,” he says, his voice dripping with need.

Just thinking about having Seungcheol's thick, hard length in your mouth drives your senses wild, making your walls clamp around Namjoon, causing him to hiss through his teeth.

Seungcheol chuckles softly and decides to tease you a bit more. He rolls and tugs on your nipple. “Can I come on your tits?”

“Hmm… yeah…” you hum vaguely as another wave of throbbing hits your center.

With a soft growl, Namjoon captures your mouth, sliding his tongue into it. His hand cups the back of your neck, holding you right where he wants you. You kiss him back, matching his ardor while you rock back and forth against him.

He pauses the kiss and supports your back as he changes position. He gently guides you to lean back, allowing him to go deeper. You place your hands behind you for balance, steadying yourself on his thick thighs as he moves inside.

Seungcheol watches with a lust-filled gaze, his eyes darkening with desire as you and Namjoon fuck. Each movement heightens his arousal, and his breaths grow rougher. His hand moves in sync with your rhythm. His strokes grow more rapid, but still controlled; he wants this to last as long as possible.

You gaze at them with heavy-lidded eyes. Namjoon looks so tempting beneath you, his neck straining with effort, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and his breath coming in ragged gasps. Seungcheol, with his jaw slack and eyes half-closed, has every muscle in his body taut with anticipation.

A sob escapes your lips  as your entire body trembles with another promise of an orgasm.

Namjoon places his hand just below your belly, teasing your clit with slow strokes of his thumb as his thrusts turn messier.

“I’m close…don’t…stop,” you stutter, thighs burning as sweat breaks through your skin.

“Fuck,” he bites out, his teeth grinding,

Burying his face in your neck, he tightens his grip on your hips, holding you firmly in place as he continues to slam harder and deeper into you.

You cry out, your body shuddering as pleasure washes over you. Every nerve ending is alight, and you’re fighting to catch your breath.

His hips start to slow down, and you can feel his muscles tense. He tightens up for a second before finally letting go, the rumbling in his chest reverberating as he groans deeply into your shoulder.

Peering in Seungcheol’s direction, you wrench away from Namjoon, a soft moan escaping his lips as you get off him.

“May I?” Your lips hovered over his cock, waiting for him to give you permission.

Nodding, he moves his hand to give you enough space to scoot closer to him. You lick your lips, then take him in. He throws his head back and lets out a deep sigh, gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white.

You hollow your cheeks, and his response is immediate, his breath hitching as he fights to maintain control.

He sucks in a sharp breath when you run the flat of your tongue up his length before your head dips down again. “Geez….ffuuuckk, this feels so good.”

He looks down at you, cups your jaw, and holds your hair with one hand to guide the pace. With a deep groan, he shifts his hips, pushing into your mouth.

Driven by the desperate sounds he made, you suck harder, determined to make him come again. Face flushed, and stuttered breaths escaping through his parted lips, he is completely at your mercy.

“I’m close, I’m close,” he says in a hurry.

You pull away, but remain bent over, pushing your tits up toward him, offering yourself to him.

He sits up, balancing on one knee. With a few definitive strokes, he spurts onto your chest. His moans of pleasure fill the room, his face grimacing in agonized bliss as he rubs out the last remnants of his release.

Namjoon approaches, handing you a warm, wet washcloth. A shower would be ideal, but this will do for now as exhaustion finally hits you. You fall backward onto the mattress, with Namjoon and Seungcheol sitting up against the headboard on either side of your legs.

The three of you lay in silence for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, heartbeats settling, basking in your post-orgasmic haze.

Namjoon interrupts your thoughts. “Are you alright?”

With heavy eyelids, you look at him, muster a hum, and offer a weak nod before your head lolls back on the bed.

“Tired?” Seungcheol asks, massaging your ankle.

“Naaahh, I can totally go for a couple more rounds,” you reply sarcastically, making everyone burst out laughing.

“Well, now you know how our team works,” Namjoon remarks with a chuckle.

You snort. “Interesting team-building activity.”

“I think we should do more of these, don’t you think?” Seungcheol counters.

You sit up, laughing and shaking your head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We could always arrange another meeting if you need more... convincing. Over dinner, maybe?”

Namjoon chimes in, “We can add it to the contract? Make it official?”

They both stare back at you with eager eyes, waiting for your response.

Pursing your lips, your mind races with possibilities, and you can't help but feel a thrill deep within you.

“Maybe,” you smirk.

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[lees-chaotic-brain]

if the world was ending you'd come over right?

summary: you're not at home when the earthquake happens, but your ex doesn't know that and sees that your apartment building has collapsed on the news...loosely based off this song

cw: ex! osamu, mentions of blood, earthquake, angst, a little bit of comfort, not as fluffy as i promised sorry

wc: 923

note: this was a sponsored fic for @ficsforgaza's fundraiser!! check out how to send in a request here, or sponsor a wip here! i initially had a different idea for the fic, but it ended up like this. however i may write the other version i originally planned at some point in the future!!!

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You were returning to your apartment from getting your morning coffee when the earthquake hit. One second you were walking along, the next the ground was bouncing and you were thrown to the ground. You slammed your head hard against the pavement, and instinctually curled up into a ball, wrapping your arms around your head to protect it from further harm. 

After what felt like an eternity, it stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving you laying dazedly on the cracked pavement. You knew something was wrong with your head, that you were likely concussed and couldn’t fall asleep, but your body was battered and aching and you couldn’t bring yourself to stand.

Time was moving weirdly, so you didn’t know how long you laid there, but by the time you managed to stagger to your feet the blood dripping from your head had crusted in your hair and on your face. It took you a bit to find your footing, but once you were upright you began walking unsteadily towards your apartment, distantly realizing that you should go check on it.

“Maam! Hey! Are you okay? Do you need help?” A middle aged man you vaguely recognized as owning the grocery store you frequented approached you, concern evident on his face. “You don’t look too good. Where are you trying to go? I can help.”

It takes you a few tries to speak, your mouth sticky and dry from inhaling dust and a lack of use. “My apartment. It’s right around the corner. The one across the street from the park.” As you speak, the pounding in your head only increases and a wave of nausea washes over you, causing you to stagger.

Pity crosses over the man’s face as he reaches out to steady you. “Ah, well, I saw on the news that the buildings in that complex collapsed, so I don’t know if there will be much to see. It might be best if we try to get you some medical attention for your head…”

“I’m fine.” You attempt to keep walking, but he has to catch you as your legs give out. “Whoa. Take it easy. It looks like you hit your head pretty hard.”

“I need to go home.” You know it’s not logical, but you want to see the extent of the damage and try to salvage what you can despite knowing it was very unlikely anything remained.

The shop owner sighed, slinging your arm over his shoulder to support you better as he helped you limp along. “Fine. You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you. We’ll go to your building, but we’re going to find someone to look at your head after that.”

You don’t have the energy to reply, focusing on putting one foot ahead of the other, not the throbbing in your skull. After what felt like hours, but was probably only around five minutes in reality, you got back to your building, and were immediately greeted by chaos.

EMT’s raced stretchers with people covered in dust and blood on them to waiting ambulances, new helicopters whirred overhead, neighbors and other onlookers gathered to the side in shock, a man fighting tooth and nail to get into the building screaming at the men holding him back-wait.

“Hey, that’s your boyfriend, right?” The shop owner pointed at the man thrashing against his captors. “I’ve seen you two together in the store before. We should probably get you over to him, he looks worried sick.”

And sure enough, upon closer inspection it’s Osamu who’s raging against Kita and Atsumu as they each hold one of his arms to stop him from charging into the unstable building. 

“Uh, well he’s my ex. I don’t really know why he’s here. We broke up months ago.” You’re too tired to try and puzzle out what was going on, overwhelmed by everything that had happened so far. Then you heard your name.

“LET ME GO! SHE’S STILL IN THERE! GET OFF ME YOU MOTHERFU-”

“She’s over here! YN is over here!”

Somehow Osamu manages to hear the shopkeeper over all the noise, and instantly stops raging against Atsumu and Kita, whipping his head so fast in your direction you’re surprised he didn't break his neck. Seeing you, his brother and friend release him, knowing that there’s no danger of him charging in now that he knows where you are. 

He makes his way across the courtyard and is in front of you, frantically checking you for injuries in three seconds flat as the shopkeeper pats you on the arm and walks off.

“Yer here. Oh my god. The news- I thought, I thought ya were still in there. Ya can’t do that to me.” His eyes zero in on the blood caking your head. “Yer head! Yer bleeding. C’mon we need to get you to the hospital-”

He begins dragging you off towards an ambulance but you’re still unstable and your legs give out. Crumpling to the pavement you look up at him, your mind still foggy.

“Samu…? Why are you here? We broke up…” You can hear your words beginning to slur, and the last thing you see before your eyes close is his stricken face, his eyes fearful as he frantically pats your face and yells at you to stay awake.

Slipping into the soothing darkness, you think about how much you’ve missed him the past few months, and can’t help but be grateful he’s here.

Even if took an earthquake, he came. That was all that mattered.

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[chimindity]

Stepbro!rafe x reader

"exhausting day"

You come home frow work exhausted, having such a bad day the only thing you want is to lay down on your bed and get rid of your frustration.

It was already past midnight, since you work as a barmaid you always finish late at night, usually you don't really mind it, but this night was one of the worst, you almost got fired when a group of men came to you and kept asking inappropriate questions, you started to get angry, which is pretty normal until your boss comes and tells you to go serve them but you didn't want to, affraid of what they could do, so you just skipped their order.

Your boss noticed it and almost made you cry infront of everyone telling you how bad you are as a barmaid.

As you walk into your room you start undressing yourself changing into more comfortable clothes, choosing a baby pink nightgown.

Switching on the light on your vanity you sit down and sigh, being too tired to even remove your makeup so you take a cotton disk and start wipping off your mascara.

A few seconds later it still hasn't come off, looking at yourself, eyebrows furrowing on the mirror you sigh again this time louder.

You throw in anger the dirty cotton disk, almost dropping everything from the vanity, as you burst out in tears, your face hiding behind your hands you don't hear your step brother walking in your room.

-"shit you gonna wake the whole neighborhood up if you keep yelling like that" his sudden voice gets closer making you jolt, but it only makes you sob harder feeling not understood, not even by your step brother.

-"hey what'd i just tell ya?" He frowns gently nudging your shoulder, as you look up at him, your smudged mascara under your eyes make his cock throbs in his shorts, seeing you in this vulnerable state.

-"I just can't remove my mascara" you sniff handing him a cotton disk he looks down at it, giving you a confusing look.

-"what the hell am I supposed to do with that uh?" He huffs poiting at it, causes you to roll you eyes at his reaction.

-"I have a bad day and uh i just need to sleep and i feel overwhelmed" you whine throwing your hands dramatically in the air, not paying too much attention to Rafe while his smirks widens on his face, he grabs your forearm pulling you on his laps facing him as he sits down on the edge of your bed.

-"a'light, let me take care of you, uh why don't you let me do all the thinking for you a'right?" He starts getting flustrasted as he feels the silkness of your nightgown on his thighs, not expecting it to be this close.

You simply nodd your head, being exhausted at this point to even speak, he gently rubs your eye trying to remove the makeup as you sight a little bit of his tongue between his lip, you never noticed his habits as a sign of concentration.

But you find it extremely hot, until he catches you guard off admiring his face, -"stop looking at me like that" he grabs your face with his other hand, squeezing your cheeks.

-"where am I suppose to look then?" You squirm on his laps making him grab them firmly, as you start feeling something poking your inner thighs, but you don't really pay attention.

-"hey, hey look at me" his tone softens and his eyes don't leave yours, bouncing his lap as if he was trying to comfort a toddler, and somehow it works.

-"there we go, now what don't you let me make you feel better?" He doesn't let you have time to reply, he lifts you up under your armpits and turn you the other side, so your back is now pressed against his torso.

You tilt your head confusedly, when you feel your hips being lifted up and down repeatedly you grip his laps to keep you still.

-"rafey?" A whimper comes out as you feel his boner rubbing against your ass cheeks, your cheeks immediately redden when you realize it, and try to pull away from his grip.

-"shhh, don't you trust your big brother? Here take off your shorts" you are taken back by his demand, but after all you trust him cause he always told you that he knows better.

Still sitting on his laps, you try to slide down your pink nightgown when you hear him sighs behind you, his hands grips and pull down your shorts quickly.

-"do I have to do everything?" He huffs as his eyes glance at your puffy cunt all swollen from the friction, which causes him to smirk.

He pulls you closer in his laps wrapping his arms around your body, his hand reaching your private part making you squirm in his grip as he starts touching your clit.

-"rafe! This is wrong, we just we can't do this!" You cling at his forearms trying to get away from his laps but it only make him tighter his grip.

-"stop, i'm being really nice so fucking be grateful" the more he is beind rude the more he is being turned on, after he has enough of you squirming, he lifts you legs up pressed against your chest.

-"what'd i tell you uh? Stop moving" his pace gets faster as you soak his fingers causing you to moan, your eyes widen at the noise you just made and you hide your face out of embarrasment.

-"nah nah none of that" he smirks and pulls your hands away from your face, feeling a warm feeling in your lower stomach you start getting worried.

-"rafe! S-something's wrong uh" you hiccup trying to speak as the pleasure overwhelm you, Rafe knew what's happening to you just by the way you squirm and moans.

-"I know, I know just let it out 'kay?" He keeps rubbing your clit as you close your eyes and moan louder feeling your clímax getting closer.

-"fuck Rafey! R-rafe" you're whining his name being out of breath, your eyes become heavier than earlier you feel a light spank on your cheek.

-"hey wake up sis, I gotta clean you up lay down on the bed" he helps you stand up and walks out of the room, you lay down on the bed slowly drifting off.

-"didn't know I would be the first to give you an orgasm" he mumbles to himself as he walks back in your room watching you sleeping already, getting closer to you and gently clean you.

After he was done, he gets back in his room with a hard on ready to blow his load as soon as his eyes lands on your pretty face smudged mascara under your eyes, he was sick and he knew it but your obliviousness makes you adorable he couldn't help it.

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[scarletwinterxx]

wake up to your sunset - yoon jeonghan imagine

so i really woke up and started my day with tears🥺 saw a twt saying this will be the last time jh flies before his e- 😭😭😭😭

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"Hyung she's crying again!"

You hit Seungkwan on the back, quickly wipping your tears before your boyfriend sees you. Jeonghan walks to the living where you were, in contrast to your somber mood he is all smiles todaay.

"Where, let me see. Aw jagi don't hide, I wasn't going to tease you" he says as he teases you

Seungkwan shakes his head, he takes his bag before walking to the door "I'm leaving, I can't handle you two this early in the morning. Hyung we need to leave in an hour" he reminds the older one before leaving out the door.

When you hear the door click, you walk back towards Han's bedroom to help him finish packing "Is this all you're bringing?" you ask

"Were you really crying?"

"Where's your passport? toothbrush? medicine?"

"It's a few days, I'll come back"

"You should bring an extra jacket just in case, you get cold easily" you ignore your boyfriend's words, opting to do it yourself instead of answering him.

You fold the jacket and put it beside his bag, double checking everything even though you know everything's already there.

"Will you look at me? I'm leaving in an hour and you're avoiding me"

This finally got you to stop tinkering around his room and finally look at him, it's like your eyes first reaction whenever you see him nowadays is to start tearing up.

"Aw baby, why are you crying so much nowadays? Are you pregnant?" Han walks over to you, giving you a hug

"Shut up" you hit him on the shoulder, "It's just... this will be the last time you go overseas for a schedule before you know..."

"I always go though, how is that any different? I'm still here"

"It is different. When you're on tour I know where you are, I know when you're coming back. I know you're just out there living your best life. I can text you anytime and you'll call when you're free. It's fine with me because I know you're coming home"

He listens attentively to your words, patting you on the back to give some comfort. "I'll still come home, we still have some time before I go. Besides it's not like I'm not gonna be your boyfriend after I enlist"

"Don't say that!"

"With the way you're crying it's like that's what's happening" he laughs, giving you a loving kiss on top of your head.

"When I get back, let's go out. anywhere you want to go. You and me"

"Okay" you answer sadly

You feel Jeonghan take a deep breath, hugging you even tighter before speaking up again

"I'm not going anywhere, you're going to be stuck with me even after the buzzcut and bald head. They allow phones there now so I'll call you after trainings, we'll see each other on my rest days. It's like I was never gone" he promises "You won't even know I'm gone" he tells you

"I will, I'll know" you mumble, such simple words but he can feel the sadness in your voice.

Jeonghan's sad too. He might not say it out loud for your sake because he's trying to show you a strong front but he's sad, he's so used to you being one call away. Despite his very hectic schedule, you always make time for him. Sometimes he feels guilty for always making you wait for him.

"This will be the last time you wait for me, okay? After this I'm all yours" he tells you.

He don't say it outright but his words mean so much more. He don't want you to wait for him anymore and he's not talking about this schedule overseas or his enlistment.

For now he don't elaborate, for now he hugs you and kisses you goodbye. It's just a flight away, after all what matters is as long as the two of you are under the same sky and looking at the same stars.

You'll always be right there, right where he always comes back for you.

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you WIP excerpt behind the cut, as promised, friends; 7k of kidnapping your soulmate for fun and profit. (and non-chrono link for anyone on the app.)

Tana Moon follows Leech over to the group, looking a little wary herself. Tim sizes her up in his peripheral vision, pretending not to notice her approach. He’s “just” found out who his soulmate is, so he can sell the illusion of only paying attention to Superboy right now. It’s not an unusual reaction. 

It’s a pretty typical one, actually. The fact that Superboy decided to immediately show him off to everyone he knows is actually the less usual option, in fact. Not unheard of either, of course, but still. A lot of newly-discovered soulmates tend to just forget about the outside world for a few hours. Or days, even. A few missing person cases that Tim’s been involved in solving turned out to be cases of “I met my soulmate and we just eloped/ran away/went on a road trip/holed up in a hotel room without telling anyone”. 

Tim had thought it was ridiculous at the time, if obviously preferable to ending up with either a dead body or a traumatized victim, but Tim is currently in the process of planning an ethically-necessary kidnapping less than twenty-four hours after first cracking into Superboy’s file, so he supposes soulmates just bring out most people’s less pragmatic sides. 

Though he personally thinks carefully-planned ethical kidnappings are an improvement on spontaneous weekends in Vegas, pragmatically-speaking. But whatever. 

“He showed you?” Tana Moon says, glancing Tim over suspiciously. Superboy’s face reddens this time and he tugs at the slash in his own suit. 

“He, uh, saw mine first,” he says. “Kinda got into it with a dude downtown and Tim here was in the area, and like, he recognized it, obviously.”

“It’s fairly noticeable as a mark,” Tim supplies helpfully, figuring he should be being supportive of his soulmate here, and also be shutting Rex Leech up as efficiently as possible. “And Superboy came over to check on me after the fight, so it was hard to miss.” 

“Sure it was,” Leech says, his face souring. “So then you won’t mind showin’ yours to–” 

“Shut up, Dad!” Roxy hisses, kicking him viciously hard in the ankle. Leech yelps in pain. Roxy is immediately his favorite, Tim decides. By far Roxy is his favorite. The dog’s kind of cute and Dubbilex seems decent, but definitely Roxy is his favorite. 

Her dad definitely fucking sucks, though. 

And as for Tana Moon . . . 

“You’re a tourist?” Tana says, just barely frowning down at Tim. She’s taller than him. She’s also taller than Superboy, because she’s a grown-ass woman and why, exactly, is a reporter even here right now? How is that necessary or reasonable? 

. . . admittedly she’s also taller than Leech and he’s a middle-aged man, but that’s not the point here. If Tim has to “no comment” this situation and figure out how to get either his parents or Bruce to kill a story, he absolutely will. He isn’t even slightly gonna hesitate there. He is gonna the opposite of hesitate, in fact. 

“Yes,” he lies, which might not endear him to Moon, given she’s a native, but is better than confessing to having premeditated designs on kidnapping a teen idol superhero. Especially to a reporter. 

Even if it is legally salvage. 

“I’m just in town for the day,” he continues. “I needed to get away for a little while, you know how it is.” 

“Sure,” Moon says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Who doesn’t.” 

“He’s from Gotham. And he helped the civilians get out of the area while I was fighting that guy downtown!” Superboy says eagerly, which is . . . odd, actually, and throws Tim off a bit. That seems like a weird thing for Superboy to be eager about, considering. Like . . . just very weird. 

“Well, that’s a Gotham thing, probably,” Tim says, putting on a sheepish Civilian Smile (#7). “We’re used to rogue attacks with area of effect concerns involved, so we get pretty good at clearing a street.” 

“You did awesome,” Superboy says, grinning excitedly at him. That is . . . still weird, yeah. Tim really doesn’t get it. 

Well, maybe Superboy’s just relieved to have a soulmate who knows how to stay out of the line of fire and what to do in a crisis, given how often crisises probably come up in his life. That would make sense, considering. 

“It was nothing, just a little light crowd control,” Tim tries, assuming that’s what a normal civilian would say. Probably, right? Almost definitely. “Nobody even needed any urgent medical attention. And you used your TTK really strategically and contained the guy too, that was much more impressive to pull off in a mess like that.” 

Yeah, that was normal civilian talk, he thinks, pleased with himself for managing it. 

Superboy turns pink, then grins again. Dubbilex . . . tilts his head. 

Normal. Normal. Normal civilian. That’s what Tim is. A civilian! Who’s normal! Very, very normal! 

Normal. 

He smiles Normal Civilian Smile #4 and pats Krypto’s head again. Krypto makes an enthusiastic attempt at licking his fingers off. 

Ew. 

“‘Light crowd control’,” Moon echoes. That’s what Tim said, yeah, so he’s not sure why she’s repeating it. Well–reporter, again, so It’s probably a trap. 

It’s almost definitely a trap, actually. 

Really definitely it’s a trap. 

“Sorry to just show up like this, hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says to Roxy and Dubbilex with a smile, politely pretending not to be ignoring Moon. He is definitely ignoring Moon, though. Again: reporter. She may not be a Lois Lane or even a Vicki Vale, but he’s still not giving her any information he can avoid giving her. And he’ll just ignore Leech while he’s at it, too. 

“I invited you, man!” Superboy says with a laugh, shaking his head. “We’re gonna hit the beach for a while, go hang out. Just swung by to grab Tim a swimsuit I can lend him.” 

“You came to Hawaii to ‘get away’ and didn’t pack a swimsuit?” Moon says skeptically. 

“Yup,” Tim replies with the most placidly innocent expression he’s ever worn in his life. Nothing. He is giving her nothing. Let all her reporter instincts strike against mirrored glass and high-security privacy windows and come to naught. 

Moon stares at him in silence, clearly waiting for him to fill it. Tim doesn’t fall for the incredibly obvious bait and just keeps the placidly innocent expression on. 

She frowns. 

“C’mon, man,” Superboy says cheerfully, apparently–and fortunately–oblivious to their stand-off. He grabs Tim’s arm and drags him towards the front porch. Tim seriously doubts its structural stability, from the look of it, but tactile telekinesis is hard to argue with. 

The steps manage not to collapse–possibly also because of tactile telekinesis, Tim can’t help suspecting–and Superboy pulls him straight into the house, which is . . . not particularly well taken care of, no surprise. The furniture looks like it all came from a thrift store, and not a nice thrift store. 

Admittedly Tim’s upbringing might be showing here, but also the corners need swept and there’s random boxes of assorted Superboy merch everywhere, most of which looks like cheap junk, and a huge stack of mail and four empty pizza boxes on the coffee table and overflowing trash cans with random junk scattered around, and it’s just . . . it doesn’t look taken care of, no. Which is something Tim would expect from a teenager or two, and maybe Dubbilex doesn’t know how chore wheels work or whatever, but fucking Rex Leech should at least be capable of getting out the broom once a week. 

Assuming there is one, anyway. Tim isn’t particularly optimistic on that one, honestly. 

Superboy’s room is even messier than the living room, covered in dirty clothes and abandoned comics and crumpled-up papers, but Tim’s bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it so he’s not gonna judge. Anyway, that’s Superboy’s personal space, not a common area. He can keep it however he likes, Tim figures. 

Somebody should really sweep that living room, though. And throw out those old pizza boxes, too. 

Tim isn’t judging, just–well, no, he is very much judging, actually. Specifically what he’s judging is Rex Leech, noted asshole sleazeball manager with predatory business tactics. 

Fuck that guy, seriously. 

“You want trunks or a speedo?” Superboy asks as he lets go of his arm to fly over to the cluttered dresser. Tim turns seventeen different shades of red and nearly disassociates. 

“Trunks,” he says quickly. “Please.” 

“Gotcha, man,” Superboy says easily, and then all the dresser drawers yank out at once and dump out crumpled piles of . . . mostly swimsuits and super-suits, it looks like, yeah. Like, basically nothing else but swimsuits and super-suits and a couple of cheesy-looking Hawaiian shirts. 

Well, that might be one lonely, lonely pair of cutoffs sticking out from underneath the swimsuits. But otherwise, that’s pretty much it, yeah. 

Fuck, that’s depressing, Tim thinks. 

Superboy comes back over with an armful of swimsuits, just about all of which have the S-shield either printed or stitched on them. Tim wonders why the guy even has this many swimsuits, especially considering he barely has any other clothes at all. At least not as far as he can see, anyway. 

He also wonders if he’s gonna die if he wears Superboy’s clothes. Is that a thing that might happen? Because it really might happen, yeah. 

Also wearing something with an S-shield on it feels like just a little too much to handle right now, so Tim’s hoping for a basic black option to be buried somewhere in that pile. Given Superboy’s apparent fashion sense, it seems unlikely, but hope springs eternal. 

“Take a look, see what’s good,” Superboy says, dumping the entire armful of swimsuits on Tim. Tim’s just grateful he remembered to stick to just the trunks, at this point. 

“So you spend a lot of time on the beach, huh?” he says wryly. 

“C’mon, man, it’s Hawaii,” Superboy says with a sheepish grin. “And I mean, I look good in anything but wet leather is just not a comfortable fit, you know?” 

“I guess it wouldn’t be, no,” Tim says, giving him Civilian Smile #4 again. Superboy’s ears redden a little again, and then he leans back and zips back across the room to shove all his drawers back shut. Tim lays out the pile of swimsuits on the bed, since it’s right there anyway, and then immediately feels embarrassed to be this close to Superboy’s bed. Which is stupid, even if they aren’t platonics. They’ve just met; it’s not like anything’s gonna happen. 

. . . even if Superboy is a notorious flirt and totally shameless and–

Tim is just not gonna pursue that line of thought right now, he decides. Just for his own sanity and all. 

He accidentally knocks some paper off the bed as he’s laying out the suits to get a look at them, and reflexively leans down to pick it up. The room’s a mess, yeah, but it’s Superboy’s mess. It’s still rude to just drop shit wherever. 

The paper isn’t as crumpled as some of the others, and Tim sees a glimpse of color as he picks it up. His inner detective reflexively wonders what it is, and . . .

Tim uncrumples the paper a little, and blinks down at it in surprise. It’s a little kid’s drawing, it looks like. A sunny beach rendered in bright colored pencil and simple, awkward shapes all painstakingly but clumsily colored in and–

Superboy’s suddenly right back next to him snatching the paper from him and immediately hiding it behind his back, looking absolutely mortified. Tim’s confused, for a moment. What’s he embarrassed about? It’s obviously not anything he’d have drawn himself. It’s probably just something a fan or a neighbor’s kid gave him, or . . . 

Tim pauses. Then he recontextualizes just how much of the crumpled-up paper is lying around Superboy’s room and wonders, very briefly, if a bunch of STEM majors with delusions of grandeur would’ve bothered programming their custom-designed “Superman” with anything resembling art skills. 

So . . . maybe that is something Superboy drew himself. If Cadmus didn’t program him with the muscle memory or knowledge of how to draw . . . well, then he probably would draw like a little kid, wouldn’t he.

And given Superboy’s cocky, braggart personality and defensive ego and how all that paper is all crumpled up as if in frustration . . .

“Gift from a fan?” Tim “assumes” with Smiling Civilian Face #4, pretending to be oblivious. 

“Uh–yeah!” Superboy blurts quickly as he jumps on the provided excuse, though he keeps the paper behind his back. “Yeah, just–you know, just some kid gave it to me at a signing, whatever. Uh, bathroom’s through there, if you wanna get changed. Or like, whatever.” 

“Thanks,” Tim says, and resists the itching urge to peek at a few more of those crumpled-up papers. It’s just a lot of paper, especially if Superboy’s upset with the results.

He wonders why the guy draws so much, if he’s that frustrated and embarrassed by it. Maybe it’s a rebellion thing, since it’s something Cadmus didn’t want him to know how to do. Tim would definitely understand that logic, if he were in Superboy’s situation. Or maybe he’s just bothered not to know how and trying to teach himself to make up for the perceived failing. 

Or maybe he just likes it, Tim supposes. That’s an option too. 

Probably a less likely one, though, given that it’s Superboy. Not to be an asshole or anything, just it’s a lot easier picturing the guy assuming he should be able to do something and getting fixated on trying to pull it off than just, like . . . liking to draw. Also, judging by all that balled-up paper, it doesn’t seem like there’s much there for him to “like”, either.

Tim takes the plainest set of trunks with a drawstring waist, which are black and dark blue but still have an S-shield iron-on patch sewn onto their waistband, for whatever reason, and ducks into the bathroom with them. He realizes belatedly that said S-shield is probably going to rest right up against his soulmark, then feels like an idiot for feeling flustered by that idea and just sets his bag against the wall and starts getting undressed. 

He’s definitely wearing one of the spare shirts in his go-bag for this, he decides as he stuffs his clothes into his bag. Just–definitely, yeah. 

The trunks fit once he cinches the drawstring enough, but the S-shield definitely does rest right against his soulmark. Tim has never actually considered the sight of the S-shield to be, like . . . relevant or interesting outside of work, but he’s realizing that he sure does feel differently about it now that he knows his soulmate’s one of the people wearing it. 

Which is a little ironic, really, considering Superboy wears the S-shield as a branding thing or whatever and lets Leech slap it on whatever cheap shitty merch he can think of. Like, he’s probably the least respectful S-wearer there is. 

Tim pulls on a plain clean T-shirt and a short-sleeve button-down to go over it, figuring that’s beach-friendly enough. He should’ve packed sunglasses, probably, but he was a little distracted by his kidnapping plans and didn’t think to. 

Seriously. He didn’t think to bring sunglasses to Hawaii. 

This whole situation definitely has him off his game, yeah. 

Soulmate thing, he guesses.

Tim eyes himself in the bathroom mirror, mentally decides he’s being an idiot to worry about how he looks right now, and then grabs his bag and heads back out into the bedroom. Superboy’s changed into low-waisted S-shield-themed trunks of his own and flip-flops and nothing else, which does in fact give Tim an embarrassingly good and embarrassingly distracting view of their soulmark. It’s not quite distracting enough for him to miss the fact that the amount of crumpled papers strewn around the room has noticeably decreased, though. And there’s definitely more of them sticking out from under the bed and dresser and in the back of the closet than there previously were. 

Which is kinda cute, honestly, but Tim should probably not say that. Like, ever. 

“Thanks for waiting,” he says, smiling Normal Civilian Smile #4 at Superboy as he hitches his bag up a little higher on his shoulder. “And for the loan.” 

Superboy stares blankly at him for half a second, then seems to startle a little and puffs himself up. 

“Uh–sure, yeah!” he says quickly. “No problem, man. Anytime.” 

“‘Anytime’ seems pretty open, as an offer,” Tim jokes, because normal civilians make that kind of joke, and Superboy turns red. 

“Oh, uh–you know what I mean!” he sputters awkwardly, holding his hands up, which seems kind of a lot as a reaction, and then somehow manages to nearly knock over his dresser without even touching it. Well–that'd be the TTK, Tim guesses. 

It wasn't even that much of a joke. Like, lame suburban dad joke territory, that's all. 

“I do, yeah,” he says with a wry smile. Superboy finds a way to turn even redder and shoves his dresser back into a corner. That also seems like kind of a lot as a reaction, but Tim doesn't comment. Just seems, well . . . awkward? Unnecessary? “Are we good to go, then?” 

“Um, yeah, yeah,” Superboy says, clearing his throat and then zipping out into the hall. Tim wonders if he always flies indoors this much. “All good, dude! Let's head out.” 

“Sure,” Tim says, keeping the smile on. Superboy is still red, but floats along down the hall. Tim follows. Okay. They’re almost definitely not platonic, but Superboy clearly isn’t any more sure what to do with that than Tim is, so . . . small favors, he guesses. Like–that they’re at least roughly on the same page there, he means. 

Unless he’s just reading into things because of weird personal biases he didn’t even know he had, and Superboy is completely straight and just kind of socially awkward around civilians, and Tim’s just being socially pressured by the background radiation of living in a society that over-values romantic soulmates in comparison to platonic ones and sometimes disavows platonic soulmates altogether. 

He supposes technically they could be familial, rare as that is. It’s not like he really knows how he’d feel about having a brother. Dick’s the closest thing to one he’s ever had, and that’s just . . . not actually the same thing, obviously, even if sometimes he wishes . . . 

Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s pretty sure having a brother wouldn’t in any way involve this level of embarrassment and unexpected hormones and just general sexuality-questioning over every little thing. Like, that seems very much not like what having a brother would be like. 

So–maybe he isn’t straight, or maybe Superboy’s not actually a boy, or maybe both of those things are true, or maybe he’s just really, really bad at having a soulmate.

Entirely possible, under the circumstances. Tim’s not really all that good at getting close to people. If he got a little confused about how to handle having a soulmate, well . . . that wouldn’t really be a surprise, would it. 

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to have to figure out how to come out to his dad or Dana or the goddamn Batman. 

One or the other, probably.

. . . statistically speaking, the likelier explanation probably is not wanting to come out to the goddamn Batman. 

“Wanna fly someplace or just chill on the beach out front?” Superboy asks as he floats backwards into the living room. Krypto runs up and jumps on Tim excitedly, his tail wagging so hard his whole little body’s wagging with it. He’s a weird-looking little mutt, but he’s really friendly, apparently. “Krypto, oh my god, get off him.” 

“I don't mind,” Tim says, leaning down to give Krypto a polite little pat on the head. Krypto barks happily and wags his tail so hard he knocks himself over. 

Yeah, weird dog in general, Tim thinks. But again, really friendly. 

“We can go wherever,” he says. “You're the local, you know the best places to get a little time alone to hang out, right?” 

“‘Alone’?” Superboy repeats, his ears reddening again as he somehow manages to trip in mid-air and hits his head on the doorframe. Tim can probably safely write off the idea of “platonic” at this point, but is still a little bit wary of his personal bias interfering. Though . . . “Uh–yeah! Totally! Yeah! We can do that!” 

Yeah, Superboy really isn’t selling the “platonic” idea here either. 

Does Tim have a boyfriend now? Is this how boyfriends happen? 

. . . well, or a girlfriend, maybe. He still hasn’t ruled out the “maybe Superboy’s just trans” option. That seems like a thing that might confuse his sexuality a little, if nothing else. 

This is definitely not anything like any previous girlfriend-getting he’s experienced, though. Like, not even a little bit. He’s not complaining, exactly, because admittedly it’s actually a little bit easier going into a new relationship with a plan and a cover established, even if the plan is admittedly still in flux and the relationship’s “romantic" vs "platonic” status is still unclear. It’s still something he can approach like a case, which is much more straightforward than just floundering around trying to figure out how normal people work. 

And Superboy’s about as far from a “normal person” as it gets, so really, this is a pretty ideal set-up on Tim’s end. 

Hopefully Superboy feels similarly, though he also, like . . . is lacking some pretty important information there, so . . . yeah, that might be an issue. Bruce would definitely not have appreciated Robin telling Superboy he was his soulmate, though, and who knows how Superboy would’ve even taken that. Going in as a civilian is going pretty smoothly, though, so Tim’s pretty sure it was the right choice. 

Hopefully it was, anyway. 

“Cool,” Tim says, keeping up the placid harmless civilian face and thoughts and Totally-Not-A-Vigilante vibes. Superboy does a very bad job of pretending he didn’t just bump into the doorframe and ducks back outside, putting on a cocky grin of his own as he does. It occurs to Tim, briefly, that maybe Superboy has his own catalog of performative expressions. None of his friends really seem to, but Superboy is in the community too, so . . . well, it’d make sense, right? 

Also he does sell his likeness via a sleazy manager’s sleazy business deals, so yeah. It does kind of make sense. 

Huh. That’s . . . a thought, he guesses. 

Not a thought he’d really had yet. 

Just . . . something they might have in common, Tim guesses. 

Though so is being in the community to begin with, obviously. And they're physiologically about the same age and have similar coloring, though Superboy is–well, not actually mixed with East Asian, because Krypton did not have an actual place called “Asia”, but he does have subtle hints of that look, same as Superman. Easy to mistake for just being white, but recognizable if you know what you're looking for. Superboy would be at least half-white given Westfield's DNA, Tim guesses, but . . . 

Yeah, no, he doesn't even know how to begin to figure out the nuances of racial identity on a dead planet he knows next to nothing about, much less any potential experience parallels there might be for a second-generation half-alien immigrant with effectively zero access to their own culture, but maybe he could–

Right, okay, he needs to focus here. There's some fascinating stuff there that he can theorize about and investigate later, once he's kidnapped Superboy properly. The kidnapping is the current priority, though. Like, it is very much the current priority. 

Tim follows Superboy back out onto the porch. Everyone else is still out there, which is fine in regards to Roxy and Dubbilex and not fine in regards to Leech and . . . well, jury's out on Moon, maybe. 

Also the dog. He doesn't really know about the dog. Though said dog does run after him and jump up for attention wagging his scruffy little tail hard enough to wag his whole little body, which is sort of cute. 

Or as cute as a wet dishrag can get, anyway. 

Tim’s trying not to judge Krypto for that, since obviously he didn't ask to be born as the living embodiment of a wet dishrag, and anyway he's a really friendly dog, so judging by appearances seems like a dick move. Even if Tim kind of wants to iron him, to be honest. Steam-clean, maybe. 

At least take him to a decent groomer, if nothing else. 

“Down, you little shit, Jesus!” Kon says, scowling down at Krypto and trying to shoo him away. Krypto growls at him, which seems weird, then goes back to fawning all over Tim. Tim leans down and pats his head, figuring it might calm him down. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “He is cute.” 

“Whatever,” Superboy grumbles, folding his arms and inexplicably glowering at his dog. 

“You gonna go swim, or just hang out?” Roxy asks curiously as she comes over to them again. 

“Oh, we’re–” Superboy starts, but Moon cuts him off. 

“Want some company?” Moon inquires, pleasant and suspicious all at once. Superboy looks–conflicted, momentarily, and then awkward. 

“Um, well–Tim’s only in town for today, so . . . next time?” he hedges. Tim resists the urge to eye Moon. Can I just spontaneously insert myself in your first day with your brand-new soulmate? is incredibly rude, as a suggestion. And incredibly fucking disrespectful to boot. Like, what entitled-ass kind of thing is that to ask, exactly? 

How old is she again? Twenty? Twenty-one? He should look that up later. Well–no, she’d graduated college and started her career by the time Superman had died, which was a good eight or nine months ago now, so unless she skipped a grade or two in there, she’s gotta be closer to twenty-four, if not twenty-five or twenty-six. 

That’s . . . a thought, considering there is definitely news footage of Superboy kissing her in Metropolis. Like, Tim very definitely saw news footage of Superboy kissing her in Metropolis. And she was very definitely kissing him too.

In retrospect, that seems like something someone should’ve, like . . . done something about? Or at least addressed? And is definitely further proof of how fucking useless and slimy Rex Leech is. Sure, let the five-minute-old clone make out with a twentysomething reporter and hang out with her at home; all publicity is good publicity, so it’s fine, right? Sure. Why wouldn’t it be? 

Tim is going to absolutely decimate that bastard’s credit the first chance he gets. Leech probably already has terrible credit, mind, but he’ll make it worse. He’ll find a way. 

. . . though he’ll wait until he’s sure Roxy is eighteen and financially independent, he doesn’t actually know if she is or not. Roxy seems nice, she doesn’t deserve that particular fallout. 

“It’d be nice to get to know each other later, I’m sure,” Tim says before Moon can say anything, smiling Gala Smile #1 at her, which is a targeted psychological attack and not actually very moral to be trotting out this quick, probably. 

He has no regrets, for the record. Absolutely none. 

Moon narrows her eyes suspiciously. Tim blithely strokes Krypto’s ears, Gala Smile #1 flawless and unphased. 

“I’m sure,” she “agrees” frostily. Superboy remains apparently oblivious to the tension and grins brightly at both of them. 

“Cool!” he says. Oh, sweet summer child who has clearly never socialized with sharks, Tim thinks resignedly, petting Krypto again. Has Leech taught him literally nothing about conversational warfare, for fuck’s sake? At least living with your sleaze of a manager should be good for that, dammit! 

Then again, Leech is probably not actually competent enough to teach Superboy anything actually useful, so maybe that’s for the best. 

If nothing else, Superman could’ve taught him a bit of “bless your heart”, but apparently that’s not a thing either. 

Tim has a brief moment of dread that maybe underneath his personal list of performative expressions, Superboy might just be a straightforward and honest person, which is a concerning thought. He doesn’t even know how to talk to a straightforward and honest person at this point, after this long as Batman’s emotional support sidekick. How do you form a lasting relationship with someone who isn’t habitually using at least three layers of double-talk and constantly locked in on all your microexpressions, anyway? 

That’s going to be a weird experience, yeah. 

“Ready to go?” Superboy asks Tim, grinning brighter at him. Tim feels momentarily overwhelmed and just sort of . . . has to collect himself about that, a little. 

Or a lot.

“Lead the way,” he says, smiling at him. He’s flustered enough to forget to use an appropriately-planned smile, which is embarrassing, but Superboy just grins even brighter–which should not be physically possible, but apparently is–and reaches out to scoop him up into his arms and into the air again as Krypto lets out an offended bark. It’s totally overkill and not even slightly necessary. 

Tim isn’t complaining, just–well–

It’s really flustering. 

“Air Superboy up, up, and away!” Superboy says cheerfully as they float up over the others’ heads. His face is way too close to Tim’s face. 

Tim is gonna need a bit longer to collect himself this time, he’s pretty sure. 

“Do I get an in-flight meal?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Superboy laughs, which is even worse than his grin, and then takes off across the beachfront with him. It’s another bridal carry, which is quietly mortifying but could be worse, probably. Maybe. 

Somehow. 

Superboy flies them straight across the beach and then straight out over the water, skimming them along just above the waves. Tim makes a briefly startled noise, reflexively tightening his grip on the strap of his bag. 

“This isn’t waterproof,” he says just as reflexively, and Superboy laughs again. 

“I’m not gonna drop you, dude,” he says. Tim actually more assumed Superboy was intending to either dive-bomb them both into the water or just dump him in on purpose, because that seems like Superboy’s sense of humor, but maybe that was an unfair assumption. 

He really is not prepared for how it feels to be held in close against Superboy’s bare chest and arms like this, even if he’s still wearing a shirt himself. The idea of possibly doing that while they’re both wet seems a lot worse. 

Yeah. Definitely worse. 

Tim should’ve worn long sleeves. And maybe a wetsuit. And maybe a few layers on top of that. 

Jesus. 

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he says, barely resisting the urge to loop his arms around Superboy’s neck as the other hangs a right and swoops them back around towards shore. Flying over the water like this is a pretty cool experience, admittedly, now that he’s not worried about Superboy dumping him in the water. 

Well. Less worried, anyway. 

Camera next time, Tim promises himself, glancing back over Superboy’s shoulder towards the shining horizon. The sun reflects off the waves bright and beautiful, and the sky is a smooth and perfect blue dotted with sparse but billowing clouds, and everything smells like salt and sea and leather, which is probably Superboy, even without the jacket on anymore. 

Definitely camera next time.

“Definitely holding you to that, actually,” he says, and Superboy laughs again and brings them down in the surf just past the tideline with a splash. Neither the splash or the water goes high enough to soak Tim's bag, so he figures it could've been worse. 

Assuming Superboy isn't planning to toss him or anything before he can put his bag down somewhere safe, anyway. 

They both settle down into the surf and onto their feet, and Tim becomes very aware of how close together they’re standing and also how very, very shirtless Superboy is, and in fact the only thing between their soulmarks is the very thin layer of cotton of Tim’s own shirt, and if he leaned in just a little bit . . . 

Jesus, Tim thinks faintly, and forces himself to take a step back before he can make it weird. 

He smiles Generically Pleasant Civilian Smile #2 just to make sure he doesn’t look like a creep or anything, and Superboy grins excitedly at him. Tim allows himself all of two seconds to be overwhelmed by that gorgeous expression and their physical closeness and the reflection of the light in Superboy’s eyes, as bright and perfectly blue as both the sky and water, and then reasserts standard operating procedures and keeps Generically Pleasant Civilian Smile #2 locked in place on his face. 

“The water’s really warm,” he observes, glancing down at it. “Is that normal?” 

It’s probably not an impending supervillain thing, he tells himself. 

Maybe global warming or something, though.

“I mean, feels normal to me?” Superboy says with a shrug. Tim considers mentioning the average ocean temperature, comparatively speaking, or at least the average temperature of the water off the docks in Gotham. Admittedly, Gotham waters barely count as “water”, legally speaking, but that’s not the point. 

“It’s pretty out here,” he says instead, and Superboy grins at him and leans in. He’s pretty sure it’s more an instinctive thing than a deliberate one, just from the way Superboy does it, but that doesn’t exactly make it less flattering. 

Or flustering. 

“I mean, it’s Hawaii, man!” Superboy says, grinning wider before kicking at the surf. “‘Course it’s gonna be pretty!” 

Actually you specifically are possibly the prettiest damn thing that I have ever seen, Tim thinks, but isn’t stupid enough to actually let out of his mouth. Superboy, unfortunately, continues to be all warm and grinning and lit up by the island sun. Tim did not come prepared enough for this. 

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’d be the guy who came to Hawaii and got a monsoon,” Tim says wryly, and Superboy laughs brightly. 

Tim really did not come prepared enough for this. Like, not at all. Not even slightly. 

“Guess you’d just have to come back, then,” Superboy says, grinning wider again and kicking at the surf again as he floats back up out of it. It’s–weird, a little, looking up at him like this. 

Well, not weird, just . . . yeah. 

Something like that. 

“Guess so,” Tim agrees, feeling embarrassingly flustered. Superboy’s friends can probably still see them from the porch, distant though it is, but part of him is still just considering very weird and dumb ideas like maybe tugging Superboy back down to earth and into the surf and just . . . confirming the little sexuality crisis he’s been having since breaking into the other’s file and seeing their soulmark in it, maybe. 

Just, you know, ruling things out. Making deductions. Going through the process of elimination. 

Kissing him, maybe. 

He could very, very much kiss Superboy right now. They’re on a gorgeous beach in the surf and under the sun and Superboy is floating in front of him and grinning as happy and excited as could be and Tim’s stomach is fluttering in a stupid and also-embarrassing way, and . . . 

He could kiss him. That’s all. 

“I mean, it’s a nice place to visit, right?” Superboy says casually, linking his hands together behind his back. 

“The tourism industry seems to think so,” Tim says wryly, and wonders what the “normal civilian who didn’t come here specifically looking for his soulmate to kidnap/salvage him to begin with” thing to say is here. He has absolutely no idea, because he actually has absolutely no idea how normal civilians react to superheroes. Robin is . . . not exactly an urban myth, necessarily, but definitely not a publicly-recognized superhero. He’s a vigilante that’s just barely allowed to operate outside the law, and not one with any kind of publicity or celebrity involved. 

eSuperboy, on the other hand, is not only a superhero, but a professional superhero. He’s selling his likeness and doing events and has signed a stupid predatory contract with a sleaze of a manager that technically shouldn’t even be legal, given Superboy isn’t even considered a legal person by the government. Apparently no one has ever realized that, though, or at least no one’s ever let Superboy realize that. 

Tim really doesn’t love that that’s a thing, to put it mildly. 

Actually, he just fucking hates it. 

Superboy laughs, and looks very, very pretty doing it. Tim continues to wonder what a normal civilian would do here, and for lack of a better idea falls back on small talk. 

God, his best plan right now is small talk. What is his life, even? 

No wonder he’s gonna have to take six months to kidnap Superboy, ugh.

“So, uh–this seems like a weird question to be bringing up this late in the conversation, but what’s your name?” he asks, because it’s occurred to him that he actually has no idea what Superboy goes by when he’s off-duty. He knows he doesn’t have a secret identity, of course, but there’s no way his friends just call him “Superboy”. Well–maybe his slimy asshole manager does, but otherwise. “I mean, if that’s okay to ask. Marks or not, I understand if you don’t feel like we’re there yet, given the whole superhero thing and all.” 

Robin knows Superboy doesn’t have a secret identity, after all, but Tim Drake is a normal civilian and shouldn’t act like he knows too much about any superhero in general, so–

“Naw, it’s fine, I don’t even have one,” Superboy says, for some reason just beaming at him, which is . . . weird, Tim thinks, but nowhere near as weird as that answer is. 

“You don’t . . . have one?” he repeats slowly, and Superboy shrugs easily. “Like–not at all?” 

“Yeah, everybody pretty much just calls me 'Kid' or 'SB', when it's not Superboy,” Superboy says. “Oh, and Knockout calls me 'Pup' when she's around but like, that's really just a 'her' thing. So, you know, you can call me whatever.” 

Tim stares blankly at him for a long, long moment, speed-runs all five stages of grief, and also discovers a couple of new and unexpected ones. 

Alright. Well, he officially regrets literally nothing about this impending kidnapping. 

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Um–sorry, I guess I just assumed you’d have a more . . . civilian-ish name too, I guess?” 

“I’m a clone, man,” Superboy says, looking amused. “The only other name I’ve got is ‘Experiment Thirteen’, which is definitely not something I answer to."

Tim discovers a few more stages of grief that hit with all the subtlety of a spiked baseball bat and makes himself nod as much like a normal person as he can. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d go for that one if I were you either,” he says. “Kind of a mouthful, if nothing else.” 

Superboy laughs, then grins at him again. He is actually doing so, so much of that, Tim’s realizing. Tim was really not prepared for how much of that he’s been doing, in fact. He just did not come prepared for any of that at all. He’s got some nebulous kidnapping plans, but everything else here–from the supervillain attack to Superboy’s ripped suit and exposed soulmark–has been a crime of opportunity. 

He probably should’ve done more research. Actually, he definitely should’ve done more research. He kind of just panicked and bought a ticket and flew right over, and just because Dick didn’t stop him doesn’t mean it was a good idea. He just–he should’ve done more research. Planned more. Not shown up without something concrete. 

Admittedly Superboy doesn’t hate him yet or anything, but this was just . . . yeah, this was not his brightest idea at all. Not even slightly. 

Why didn’t he do more research? 

“You really can just call me whatever you wanna, don’t worry about it,” Superboy says with an easy shrug as he settles back down into the surf, which, unfortunately, puts him back into kissing range and is therefore incredibly distracting. 

Dammit, Tim thinks, trying to beat his stupid teenage hormones into order. 

“Whatever I wanna?” he repeats. 

“Except for Experiment Thirteen,” Superboy says with another grin. Tim politely pretends not to notice the slight tightening of the corners of his mouth as he says the word “experiment”. 

“Uh, okay,” he says, clearing his throat. He guesses Superboy doesn’t really care what his name is, then, but being told to just call him whatever he wants to is . . . well, a weird feeling, maybe. “What do you do when you just want to be a civilian for a while, though?” 

“I don’t,” Superboy says. 

“. . . don’t . . . what?” Tim asks slowly, not sure if he should be dreading the answer or not, but–

“Be a civilian,” Superboy says. 

Tim’s running out of new stages of grief, he’s pretty sure. 

“Ah,” he says. 

Superboy–for a second, Tim thinks he looks self-conscious, but then he’s grinning again before he can be sure, and . . . 

“Why would I?” Superboy says, puffing up proudly. “I’m Superboy, man! Nothing else I’d rather be.” 

Given how limited Superboy’s options for anything “else” he could be probably are . . . well, Tim’s not sure what to think of that statement. 

He doesn’t think it’s anything good, though. 

Yeah, no, he thinks as he looks at Superboy’s too-bright grin and thinks about how he just said "nothing" and not "no one". Definitely not anything good. 

Who wouldn’t pick being “Superboy” over being “Experiment Thirteen”, after all? 

And what else would Superboy even know how to pick, if he thought those were his only options?

[pulisicsgirl]

breathe, you're okay - mason mount

summary: when the mounting pressure of a Women's UCL run is falling on Y/N's shoulders, she isn't handling it by herself as well as she would like everyone to believe she is

pairing: Mason Mount x footballer!reader

word count: 2.9k

warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, no established relationship, !!descriptions of a panic attack!!, discussions about mental heath, supportive Mase

requested: no

notes: surprise!! I'm sorry I haven't posted in months-- my life kind of went up in flames over the summer and I haven't had the time to write that I was hoping to. I have a few WIPs in my drafts, and I am still working on all of your requests! Please let me know what you think of this!

The hot afternoon sun beat down on you, and you felt the drops of sweat sliding down the side of your head and tickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you ran up and down the field, weaving between cones, carrying the ball at your feet, running through a series of consecutive drills that were designed to refine your skills and test your endurance.

You did your best to recall the instructions that your coach had carefully laid out before the team began the drill, but with the heat and the fatigue that was seeping all the way into your bones, it seemed impossible to remember. You wound up relying on the teammate in front of you to recall what you needed to do next.

You let out a heavy sigh of relief when you heard the sound of the whistle—two short chirps, signaling for you to halt your movements. You draped your arms over your head, drawing in deep, heaving breaths as you attempted to get your heart rate under control.

You joined the rest of your teammates as they gathered around the coach, preparing for his parting words before everyone was dismissed.

“Good session today, ladies,” he clapped his hands in front of him, looking around the circle. “I’m seeing a lot of good things. A lot of improvement in our touches and finishing. You all are looking really good.”

A couple of the girls clapped at his words, the rest too exhausted to do anything but listen.

“We have the day off tomorrow, so use it well. Rest, recover, and come back Monday ready to go. We’ve got some heavy prep next week before the second leg on Friday,” he continued, and a couple others whooped, getting excited for the upcoming big game.

“They’re gonna be a really tough opponent, I’ll be honest. We know that their back line is really strong, tough to break through.” Your coach’s eyes fell on you, and you knew what was coming next before he even began to speak, your stomach sinking slightly. “But that’s what we have Miss Y/N, for, right?”

Several of the girls cheered for you. The girls near you slapped you on the back, trying to get you hyped up. And the weight that had settled in the pit of your stomach grew heavier.

The Manchester United women were on an impressive UEFA Women’s Champions League run, overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds to make it to the semifinal. And according to the media (and now your own teammates and coaches), it was all thanks to you.

In the group stage, a decisive game in which your team had gone down 2-0 in the first half had seemed hopeless until you had scored two goals in the second, assisting on the third to put your team through to the knockout games. Another three goal contributions in the quarter-final matches had put you in the spotlight of all of the team’s media coverage, thrusting a wave of attention upon you that you had never asked for.

You had gone down 1-0 in the first leg of the semi-final, and now you were playing from behind. And it seemed that everyone expected you to be the one to pull them out of it.

So now, you were left feeling the pressure as the second leg was fast approaching.

“Alright, ladies. Have a good rest of the day and a great day off tomorrow.” He clapped his hands, dismissing you all. The circle of girls dispersed, chatting among themselves.

“Am I still leaving the cones out for you?” the coach raising his eyebrows at you. You only nodded in return. “Okay, don’t work yourself to death.”

You laughed humorlessly as you fiddled with the ball at your feet, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, resting a hand on your shoulder to try to draw your attention to him. “Get some rest tomorrow, okay? We all see how hard you’re working. Give yourself a break.”

Another nod is all that you can muster, and you don’t miss the short sigh that he lets out as he drops his hand from your shoulder and walks to join the rest of the group moving indoors.

You repositioned a few of the cones to set up your own drill and got right into it.

Across the field, on another training pitch near yours, Mason watched as you carried the ball with you up and down the field, weaving between cones, practicing a few skills that he had seen you implement in games, and taking a shot on the goal at each pass.

He was supposed to be doing a bit of extra work with a few of the boys. The men’s team had finished their training session about an hour before, but a few of them still felt like they wanted to get a bit more done before calling it a day. So here they were, running a few small three-a-side games to utilize the last of their energy that day.

But he couldn’t help but notice how you never stopped.

During the team training, you were always one of the hardest-working ones out there. When he had returned to the pitch from lunch, you were taking shots on the goal with the rest of your team nowhere in sight. He wasn’t even sure he had seen you eating lunch inside when he thought about it.

And now here you were, sprinting across the length of the field, over and over, after the rest of your team had hit the showers.

He felt a twinge of worry for you but brushed it off as one of his teammates called his name to pull his attention back to the game they were playing.

Your head was spinning as you pushed yourself to keep moving. Your entire body was drenched in sweat. Every muscle ached from overexertion as you gritted your teeth, forcing them to keep moving. The sun was dizzyingly bright as the evening set in. You could feel the heat practically radiating off of your skin. Your lungs were burning with your heaving breaths and your mouth quickly grew dry.

“That’s what we have Miss Y/N for, right?” Your coach’s words echoed through your head as you carried the ball down the field.

“Y/L/N carries the Man U Women through to the semifinal!” You recalled the title of the article as you weaved between the cones.

“I really believe Y/N Y/L/N could be the one to lead Manchester United to their first Women’s Champion’s League trophy!” You heard the words of the pundit clear as day as you planted your foot, striking the ball cleanly. It soared through the air, curving toward the goal, and struck the crossbar. The ball flew away from the goal, bouncing pathetically on the ground in the penalty area.

You took a pause, the words and expectations crashing around your mind leaving an unsettling feeling in your chest. As you stood there, you couldn’t seem to get your panting breaths to grow steadier.

Your shirt suddenly felt too tight on your neck. You grasped the fabric, pulling it away from your body in an attempt to allow yourself to breathe easier, but nothing seemed to be helping.

Your head was spinning. You felt your stomach sink, a feeling like when you plummeted down the tall hill of a rollercoaster, a sick feeling settling in your abdomen. Your skin began to crawl, and you just couldn’t stop hyperventilating.

You began to panic. Eyes searching frantically for relief. You weren’t sure what you were looking for—something, anything.

You suddenly felt like you were too out in the open, needing to seclude yourself away from the sight of prying eyes. You set into a sprint, off of the field and around the corner of the nearest part of the building to you, trying to find some shade from the hot sun and hide yourself from anyone who might see your pathetic state.

But it was too late. Mason had seen the whole thing.

They had just paused their game for a short water break. He had seen you take the shot, instead hitting the crossbar. It only took him a few seconds once you paused to realize that something wasn’t right.

He watched the way your chest rose and fell rapidly in quick, short breaths. When you began attempting to pull your shirt away from your body, he instantly knew what was taking place. He’d recognize that feeling anywhere.

You were having a panic attack, whether you realized it or not.

As soon as he saw you take off for the side of the building, he was running after you without so much as a word of explanation to his teammates.

Once in the shade of the wall you hid behind, you began pacing, unable to keep still. Every inch of your body felt jittery, and you felt unsteady on your legs. You couldn’t manage more than rapid, shallow breaths. Your throat felt tight, your breaths sounding more like wheezes, and it was starting to make your head spin. Your hands flew to your head, scratching at your scalp in an attempt to somehow rid yourself of the feeling.

You were startled by Mason swiftly rounding the corner, concern written all over his face as he stopped in front of you.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay,” he spoke calmly and evenly. He quickly reached up, taking your wrists in his hands so he could gently but firmly pull your hands out of your hair to keep you from hurting yourself.

“I can’t, Mason. I can’t,” you panted, shaking your head ‘no’ frantically and still trying to weakly pull your hand from his grip.

“You’re okay, Y/N. Try to slow down your breathing,” Mason’s calm voice directly contrasted your frantic behavior, speaking in short sentences so as to not overwhelm you more. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

A short sob fell from your lips, and you felt the tears spilling over and down your cheeks.

“We’re gonna lose,” you sobbed, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. “The semifinal, we’re gonna lose it, and it’s gonna be all my fault.”

In that moment, everything clicked into place for Mason-- the UWCL run, your success in the games leading up to the semi-final leg, the pressure from the fans and the team, the countless extra hours you had been putting in.

A loud noise in the distance, coming from the direction of the parking lot, startled you, snatching your attention and you whipped your head to the side, eyes searching frantically for the source. He released your wrists from his hand, testing the waters as he turned your head back to look at him with a hand on your cheek.

He cradled your face with a hand on either side, keeping your focus on him. His thumbs wiped the tears away that had slipped down your cheeks.

“Hey, look at me. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you,” he repeated the affirmations he had already been telling you.

As he stroked his thumbs softly over the skin of your cheek, he felt that your breathing was already growing a bit slower. You had reached up, holding onto his wrists with both of your hands to steady yourself, feeling too unsteady on your feet. His hands were gentle and soft on your skin.

Mason watched your expression, taking long deep breaths for you to emulate. Your eyes were still wide, darting frantically around his face, but you were trying your best to follow his breathing. He continued whispering short reassurances.

“You’re safe.”

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

You were beginning to calm down, but your eyes darted to something behind Mason, pulled away from the calm atmosphere he had tried to create for you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he spoke gently, pressing his forehead to yours so you would only focus on him. You were shocked at how little the intrusion on your personal space bothered you. In fact, to your surprise, the closeness seemed to settle you a little more.

You continued focusing on your breathing, gripping tightly to his wrists as if you thought he’d disappear if you let go. Your eyes were clamped closed, listening to Mason’s soft and slow breathing. You felt your pounding heart being to slow its pace.

The panic you had been feeling subsided, leaving behind a wave of extreme fatigue. You felt completely and utterly drained.

Mason must have noticed the way that your body slumped over, and he guided you to sit down on the grass, leaning back against the brick wall of the building. He sat down next to you, leaving space so he didn’t make you more nervous. But in the haze you felt in your mind, you felt a need to still be close to him, leaning over so you could place your head on his shoulder. A short pang of guilt washed over you as you noticed the crescent-shaped indents you had left on his wrists, your nails digging into the skin as you had held onto him.

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your eyes slipping closed as you continued focusing on breathing slowly. A gentle breeze blew through, cooling your clammy skin and brushing through the blades of grass.

“I used to get them sometimes, too, you know?” Mason broke the silence, speaking softly.

You responded with a quiet, “hmm?” unsure of what he meant.

“Panic attacks,” he explained. “At the end of last season, before I left Chelsea. There was a lot of pressure. Any time I played, everyone had something to say about it. Even when I didn’t play, some would find a reason to be upset. It all just got to be too much.”

A deep sadness filled you while you listened to his words. “How did you get through it?”

“Ben found me having one in my car after training one day.” He was quiet for a moment. “I tried to power through it—like you. Skipping lunch and staying late to train a bit extra on the field or put in an extra session in the gym. But once Ben realized what was going on, he made sure that I was taking care of myself properly and wasn’t dealing with it on my own anymore.”

You sat up so you could look at Mason’s face, and you saw a hint of sadness there. “So I’ll tell you what he told me. There are 10 other people with you on that field at all times. If you fall down, there are 10 pairs of hands ready to help you back to your feet. If you succeed, there are 10 others to celebrate with you. But it’s not all on you.”

Your eyes were misty, welling up with tears at his words. He slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a secure hug as the tears began to stream down your cheeks.

“No matter the outcome of the game next week, you’re an incredible player, Y/N.” He placed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “You’ve already done so much so early in your career. The media and the fans will say what they want—don’t let them get to you. And your coaches may get carried away with their expectations for you, but it’s just because they’re so excited to see you succeed. Just be the player you know how to be, and your achievements will speak for themselves.”

“Thank you, Mason,” you whispered after pondering his words for a moment. No words could express the gratitude you felt for the relief he had brought you just by letting you know that he was there and he understood. But as he squeezed your shoulders lightly in response, you hoped he knew just how thankful you were.

Eventually, Mason helped you to your feet, guiding you back toward the fields. You were still feeling a bit weak and unsteady, so he made sure you remained upright with a gentle hold on your arm as you walked. Deciding it was time for you to call it a day, he insisted on collecting the cones that you had been training with, not allowing you to help him by picking up even one of them.

It took some convincing but you told him you would be fine to drive yourself home—his only condition was that you texted to let him know you made it there safely.

“Alright, then. Rest on your day off tomorrow. Give yourself a break, okay?” he spoke as he put the last of the cones away. “I’ll check in with you on Monday, if that’s okay.” He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. The two of you had been friendly before today, but you wouldn’t have considered yourselves close friends. He just wanted to be sure that you knew you had people in your corner.

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot,” you nodded, smiling at him. With a final hug, he sent you on your way as he turned to rejoin his (undoubtedly confused) teammates where he had left them.

“Remember: rest!” he shouted back at you as you parted ways, and you couldn’t stop the blushing smile that worked its way onto your face.

tag list: @landoslover @chelseagirl98 @thoseboysinblue @lovelynikol16 @swimmingismywholelife @masonsrem @bracedes @neverinadream @lizzypotter14 @notsoattractivearenti

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All the Good Girls Go To Hell 17

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, power imbalance, injury, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come home for the summer but your break is not as relaxing as you expect.

Character: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Note: people are testing me today.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You idle across the street from your mother's place, staring at the white siding and dreading your next move. You don't know what to say even as you rehearse a dozen different takes in your head. You can admit you’re wrong, but that’s the problem. You’re not. Something inside you wants you to resist but you never been very good at being stubborn.

Naomi leans against the door, half-awake. You're worried about her too. She's still out of it. Even after eating, she barely has any energy. 

You shift into gear and slowly pull into the driveway. Better to just get it over with. You don't have much of a choice. You need somewhere to stay. If only your father would answer his phone.

You play with the dangling keychain and leave the keys in the ignition. You won't bring Naomi in right away, that'll only trigger your mother. One step at a time.

"Hang out here," you turn up the radio, "I'll try not to be long."

She murmurs and nestles into the door. How did your summer end up such a mess? You want to blame her but she's just so pathetic. Steve definitely caused a lot of shit too. He seems like the most obvious culprit in all of this.

You get out of the car and as you head up the walkway, you hear your name behind you. Speak of the devil. You ignore Steve as you march up to the door. He catches up and latches onto your arm. You face him as he holds a cardboard tray of coffee in his free hand, barely keeping it from tipping as you try to wrench away.

"Let go--"

"Wait a minute, sweetie, I just wanna talk."

"I don't want to talk to you--"

"And you think your mom wants to talk to you? You haven't even called these last few days. You hurt her. I'm offering you a favour here, I can make her listen to you."

"What are you even talking about? How about I tell her about your wife? Maybe she'll listen then."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, looking towards the car, "and what are you going to tell her about that slut? Hmm? Your mom wouldn't be very proud to have you hanging out with some OnlyFans whore. She certainly wouldn't appreciate those photos of you in front of the mirror."

"What photos?"

"Don't play dumb, honey," he lets his hand slide down your arm, "she was showing them off at the party. Everyone saw you with your tits half out."

"Stop!"

"I'm tryna make you a deal. You keep your mouth shut, I'll do the same," he winks.

You yank away from him and puff out, "whatever. She's my mother. She'll believe me."

"Did she believe you before?" He asks as you spin on your heel. "When you lied about me the first time?"

"I didn't--" You keep from arguing as you approach the door. You let yourself in as Steve follows. You quickly shut the door and lock it from the other side.

You wander in cautiously, listening to the silence of the house. You enter the kitchen as you hear the faucet running. Your mother stands at the sink rinsing out a carafe.

"Hey, mom," you squeak.

She turns her head and looks at you from the corner of her eye. She doesn't say a word as she returns her attention back to her task. You exhale and come closer.

"Mom, I'm... I'm sorry. Really. This summer's been so weird and I think-- maybe I overreacted. About Steve? It's a lot of change--"

"I know it's a lot of change," she slams the faucet off and plunks down the carafe, "I got a divorce, I had to be alone in this house for months, and I find someone to keep me company and you have to try to ruin it all."

"No, mom, I wasn't. I swear, I just... there's something I need to tell you about Steve."

"I don't want to hear it. Whatever lies you've come up with now."

"I ran into him last night and I have to tell you--"

A pounding comes at the door and Steve hollers through, "hello!"

"Save it," she waves you off and storms out of the kitchen.

You trail her as she goes to unlock the front door. Steve strolls in, presenting his tray of coffee, "hey, hon, thought I'd surprise you with a good morning."

"Oh, sweetie," your mother fawns and gives him a kiss as he tilts his head down.

"I thought I saw you," he nods at you past your mother, "welcome home, kiddo."

You frown. Your mother turns back to send you a bitter look. You give a helpless shrug.

"Mom, please, listen to me. He's not what he seems."

"Stop," she warns.

"I won't. I'm trying to protect you, okay?" You throw up your hands, "ask him about his wife."

Silence. Your mother's forehead wrinkles and she lifts a single brow. She gives a guilty look and peeks at her feet evasively.

"I know about his wife, sweetheart, alright? That's how we met. In a group. We're both divorcing so naturally--"

"He's not divorcing her. I saw them last night--"

"Look, Yvette, I didn't want to worry you. Wanda called me last night. She got wasted again and I had to drive her home. I know, it's awkward but I just felt bad leaving her somewhere in that condition," Steve says somberly, "you know, I thought separating might clean her up..."

"Oh, sweetie, it's okay. I understand," your mother preens at him, "you're so caring and she takes advantage of that--"

"No, I saw him with her. They were--"

"Why don't you tell your mom where you saw me carrying out my drunk ex? Hmm? I'm sure she'd like to know about the old man you've been entertaining. The one who bought you those shiny new glasses."

Your mouth drops open. Oh no. Oh. That sounds a lot worse than the truth. You sputter and look your mom in the face. She's mortified.

"Old man?" 

"No, I was at Naomi's, I swear. My glasses broke so her dad--er, Bucky, he--"

"An older man? Her father? You..."

"No, mom, it's not like that. I didn't do anything with him. I wouldn't. He's like... he's Steve age."

"And that makes it even more nasty, he could be your father."

"Noooo, no. No. I'm not-- I'm not involved with him. I was just hanging out with Naomi--"

"Oh, and such a good influence she is," your mother hisses, "she's really rubbed off on you, hasn't she?"

"Mom!" You shout.

"Do not raise your voice with me. I have put up with you long enough. Running out, disappearing on me for days, lying to me, and on top of all that, making those gross allegations against Steve," she snarls, "You are not welcome in my house."

"Mom," you gulp.

"That might work on that old man you're messing around with but you're an adult now. You can take care of yourself--"

"Mom, no, I didn't... I wouldn't... you can't really think that I'm like that?"

"I don't know what to believe with you," she sniffles, "you just can't stand to see me happy, can you? You're just like your father, you're selfish."

"Please, list-en--"

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" She shrieks and covers her ears, turning and devolving into quaking tears. Steve puts down the tray and swiftly wraps an arm around her, pulling her head to his chest. He smirks at you over her head, "you've done enough. Oh, Steve, get her out. Get her out!"

You're stunned. Speechless. You've never seen your mother like this. Her and your dad argued but she was always so calm. What did he do to her?

"Yvette," he says softly, "at least let her grab some stuff before she goes."

Your mother whimpers as she clings to him, "oh, you are too nice, Steve, too nice..."

"It's okay, I'll make sure she goes after she packs a bag. Come on, why don't you go outside and have your coffee," he reaches for a cup and pulls it free of the cardboard tray, "let me get you settled, alright?"

Your mother blubbers as Steve carefully leads her away. You shake your head and stomp towards the stairs. You can't believe this. That man is a psychopath and he's got your mother all twisted.

You go to your room and find it in a state. What the hell? Your panty drawer gapes open and several pairs are strewn on the floor. You sift through and grab a handful, shoving them into a bag with some shirts and a couple pairs of jeans. You don't have a plan beyond filling your duffel bag.

You go to your bed but keep from putting the bag there. You notice the white string crust only your pillow. Ew. Oh my god. He-- You shudder and back away.

Laptop, charger, a bunch of odds and ends before you head for the door. 

Steve meets you at the bottom of the stairs. You stop a few steps above and glare at him.

"I'm leaving. Move."

"Sweetie, if you need somewhere to go..."

"You are deranged."

"I'll take care of you. Wanda would really like you, I think."

You suck in air and barrel down, shoving past him. He curls you up in his arms and pulls you against him, flush to you as he rubs his pelvis against you. You squeal and wriggle in his grasp.

"Feel how hard I am? Not as bad as when I came in your bed. Fuck, I nearly choked on your panties--"

"Get off!" You elbow him and he releases you reluctantly.

"Think she'll let me fuck her in there? I mean, so far, she's let me do whatever I want--"

You swing your bag at him and stammer. You are repulsed to your core. You feel as if you could wretch. You don't want to leave your mother with him but you have no choice. Just as she said, she's an adult, she can take care of herself.

"I would never touch you. You're a disgusting old man," you yell and bluster away, "I hope you rot."

You charge out the door and try to escape the lingering warmth of his touch. He makes your skin crawl. You’ve never felt anything so visceral and vile. You open the back door of the car and toss your bag in before slamming it and plopping in the front seat. As you hit the locks, Naomi taps her finger on her phone and tucks it under her leg.

You blink and look at her. You grip the wheel as the card idles, the AC cranked to full blast. You exhale and let your shoulders slump. “We can’t stay– were you talking to someone?”

“Uh, yeah, Harry,” she wets her lips with her tongue, “he’s having a party.”

“Oh, a party,” you face forward and buckle your seat belt, “do you think that’s a good idea? After last night?”

“Why not? It’ll give us some time away, to hide out. What were you saying? That we can’t stay here? So, where else do we go?”

You nod and frown. You wish you had a different answer but it seems she has the only one. You really don’t want to go hang out with her old crowd but the alternative is hardly preferable.

“You have to promise me to pace yourself. Naomi, I don’t want to be peeling you off the floor again.”

She’s quiet. You rest your hand on the shifter and look at her. She has the grace to look guilty.

“Why do you care so much?” She asks; not accusative, more disbelieving, as if you’re wasting your energy.

“Because you deserve it. You’re a person and I like you, Nay. You’re a bit lost but you’re my friend. To be fair, I’m a bit lost, too.”

You pull the stick back and push down on the pedal, reversing out of the driveway. You crank the wheel and set yourself straight. You languish in the dull buzz of the radio, the volume cranked just above silent. You furrow your brow as your memory tweaks sharply.

“Naomi,” you say, “did you show Steve those pictures?”

“What pictures?”

“The ones from the bathroom. He said–”

“No, I told you, I wouldn’t. Those were just for me. For both of us.”

You grip the wheel tighter, “ but how did he know about them?”

She clucks and sits back. You glance at her from the rearview. She seems genuinely perplexed as she holds her forehead.

“Do you think maybe Bucky told him about it? He walked in on us. Maybe he didn’t see the pictures, maybe he just heard?”

You roll your tongue and think, clamping your lips together. You know you can’t trust Steve or anything he says. She could be right. He could be exaggerating for effect, just like he does with your mom.

“You aren’t lying to me?” You ask sternly, stopping at the red sign.

“Really, I wouldn’t… I might be okay sharing my pictures but I wouldn’t do that to you. Those pictures… they’re special…” she puts her hands in her lap and twiddles her thumbs, “you’re so gorgeous in them.”

Your cheeks heat up at the unexpected compliment. You steer on and chew your lip before mustering an answer, “thanks, that’s sweet.” You roll past the next intersection, “um, Nay? I don’t know where Harry lives?”

“Yessss,” she claps her hands, “we’re going to have fun. Forget about all that drama.”

You nod, hoping she’s right. You’d give anything to not feel, to not think, to be bound up with the knots of anxiety clustered in your chest and stomach. Maybe Naomi’s way is better. Just one night of fun can’t be bad, right?

[hastalavistabyebye]

Hiii :3

How about jedi Fox and the seagulls?XDD That sounded so fun :D

Hi !! Here's for you <3

The Jedi Fox au is one that's been rotting in my brain for quite some time x'D (I will properly get to it soon enough)

The starting idea is that Fox is Force sensitive but also Force exhausted, which is what keeps him far from any Jedi attention. That is until Palpatine tortures him so bad, he screams in the Force loud enough for the entire Temple to hear him, up to the younglings. (Palpatine doesn't notice his pain is a little bit too psychically clear because he's too focused on cackling evily between other reasons).

Some things happen (among which Fox escaping the Jedi for a little bit longer because he's a slippery little shit like that who learned to escape by evading angry medics and senators) but Palpatine gets killed and the guard gets bundle up in the Jedi's custody and healing halls, Marshal Commander first in line.

Then it'll follow Fox's adventures with his force sensitivity and the beginning of his path as a Jedi learner.

Have the very beginning of it :

Fox had always felt like he was running away.

When he was a cadet, he was running from the Kaminoans and the trainers. Hiding behind his perfect marks. If he was the best they couldn’t harm him. They would only see how good he was and none of his defects. Escaping in the vents when things were getting too much, when he needed to disappear completely. He tried his best to be a shadow, a ghost when he wasn’t observed in training or safely tucked away in his bunk with his batchers. He ran until he escaped Tipoca and its sterile, white, sealed off walls. 

He succeeded. Fox ran straight to Geonosis. And he ran straight through Geonosis. 

Seagulls stop it now is part of this au, after the main story. It follows poor Oops (a Guard no longer shiny) having the misfortune of mishearing something Yoda said and be vocally confused about it to Visor, one member of B Squad (aka the guard mayhem and trouble makers of an illegal black ops squad).

What Oops misheard is obviously Yoda singing about seagulls. What B Squad ends up doing is a audio montage thanks to recodings of Yoda speaking, to make it a song about seagulls poking at his head. Then they anonymously broadcasted it in the Vode Holonet server, of course.

Oops was standing guard next to Kara while a few of the ex-High Generals were having a meeting. She knew it was regarding the Younglings and the crèches. Well, it was supposed to be about the Jedi tubies. But she had been toying with her helmet’s mic sensibility last night, because Ghost, Grabber and her were trying to improve their voice-to-text software. Not only would it help the Vode gone deaf, but it would have helped her with her own hearing problems too. If she could read what was being said, she couldn't misheard anyone anymore ! But as of now it was only a problem. Her mic was picking grating in the vents. It was barely audible, but it seemed to cover every other sound to her. She just couldn't hear anything else. Grat grat bzz gratgrat. 

And she really was focusing on the meeting ! She wanted to ignore that mouse droid. But it was so loud, so distracting. The voices seemed all mushed up and muffled by that noise.

Until she heard something really weird and blurted a question in internal comms without thinking.

“Why is Grand Master Yoda talking about seagulls ?!” 

WIP game

[blood-grove]

unnatural bleeding

merfolk au!

previous <- part 5 -> WIP

parings: gaz x reader

chars: gaz, price , soap , ghost

tws: blood, injuries, violence, past abuse, language, slow burn.

a/n: hehehhehehe finally new update :3 got rid of the rude reader tw cuz reader is gonna be annoyed at the world at best angry at worst plus i dont think ive been writing them rudely so also forgive me if the writing pov changes weirdly idk i have a hard time staying focused and consistent ill try better

tags; @chickennn-soupp @cassiecasluciluce @sans-chara @lethargicluv  @kaoyamamegami

What the hell was this place.

It seems all they did was stare at you and when you would clearly get sick of the mumbles and looks you'd splash them and they'd fucking laugh.

They were weird and the Gaz guy was weirder.

You found later his name was actually Kyle and he meant to clarify earlier.

But you found the silly nickname funny.

But this wasn't fun.

Being propped up on a large mat next to the side of the pool the leather felt uncomfortable under you, You also felt way too exposed as a few humans looked over your stitches and wrappings.

It felt weird there hands weren't rough but no one besides a few have touched you like this they were talking about something you'd care less to pay attention too.

As they examined you, Gaz kept trying to pull your attention away from the other humans.

Oh?

Was he jealous?.

Humans are so fickle it's funny.

-

Christ.

Even working with merfolk in the past Gaz still never got used to the bigger ones like you.

Scarface as you've been suitably nicknamed for the moment been alright and cooperative so far no biting or thrashing.

He'd likely guess the wounds were causing you to be so irritable they didn't look good when they first arrived problem had a couple of parasites on them along with other infections that are still being treated.

Price was observing the whole check up process.

You didn't speak much at least not to any of the other staff.

There were a few problems though.

Firstly they found you solo but there was still likely you belonged to a pod but which is the question.

Secondly, they couldn't keep you in the medical pool forever you were wild to some extent it would be cruel to keep you from you family.

Thirdly during your surgery, they'd found a piece of metal that didn't look important it was kept to be looked over in case it helped discover why you were in such a state, Price already guessed territorial fighting but you clearly (no offense) couldn't pick your battles.

Some of these scars and bites could have been lethal.

He was pulled out of his thoughts as you shifted clicking in annoyance he was quick to reach over for another fish from the bucket nearby by offering it up in an attempt to distract you.

"Are all humans this pokey?"

"No Scarface we just..need to make sure your healing okay..Then we can release you."

Kyle huffed as he gave you an honest smile ignoring the glare and grumble he received in return, You still took the fish though idly crunching on it.

They eventually finished the examination without much fuss except for you not so subtly tripping the newest volunteer who honestly should have been starting off with a much smaller mer than you.

But you start off somewhere.

Speaking of which it's about lunch time for them now and his break time, Kyle oversaw you getting back into the pool without much struggle before he left your area visiting by Price to mention he was going on his break before grabbing his lunch and heading to the docks.

He'd usually not have to wait long before they'd show but it'd seemed they were late.

It wasn't long till a familiar face popped up flashing teeth and all.

"Hey, Soap!" Kyle grinned as he looked to see the shark mer propping up his elbows onto the dock.

"Ghost comin'..?"

"Ah in a bit he's still getting his bearings.."

Now he was confused the last time he'd seen the pair and given them there updated shots and tags they'd been great.

The pair were unusual a Shark and Orca together seemed unheard of but yet just a few years ago now when Kyle had fallen overboard during an solo observation trip Ghost saved him from drowning.

Both of them were odd in a good way, Simon having been outcasted by his pod but he doesn't like to talk about it.

He had lots of scars all telling of countless battles of either for his territory or from just fights.

As for Soap, Sharks were solitary regardless but Soap had his own set of scars from fights some he shouldn't have tried starting.

"Bearings? What happended?.."

"Another fuckin' Orca smaller not as experienced grabbed me a few days back, Si really fucked em' up till the bastard clocked him on the head with there tail-"

Wait.

"Jesus , Where is he? I can get a team out and-"

"Ah ye know how he feels about humans..Plus he seemed to be swimming straight.."

"But Soap , He could have a concussion or maybe a facture-"

Soap sighed as he glanced back to the water before back at Kyle.

"Look..You can try convincing em'"

Soap frowned as Simon finally surfaced propping himself up onto the dock as well the wood creaking slightly under the weight of just Simons upper half.

"Ghost"

"Kyle."

Kyle huffed as he didnt even need to say anything as he went up to him giving him a look before he huffed grumbling quietly adjusting himself better so that Kyle could assess him.

Taking his time looking over the newer injuries they had healed well enough fishing out his little hand held flash light from his keychain in his pocket he checked Ghost's eyes.

After a bit of checking Kyle felt satisfied ignoring Ghost annoyed clicks.

"Mm..Now Soap you said it was another Orca right..? Did it come back?"

"Nah..Fucker swam off after bashing Ghost head..Pretty sure I could smell em' bleeding though for a bit till they got too far."

Right this was looking to be way too convenient and fitting to not match up with good ol' Scarface's condition.

"Mm..Alright..Anyway I brought some-"

"Treats?!" Before Kyle could even move his lunchbox away Soap had snatched it and Kyle let out a exasperated sigh not even fighting for it risk of being pulled into the water.

"Jesus Soap my lunch is still in there be careful- And dont eat the plastic!"

[stabbyfoxandrew]

I am proceeding orderly to your askbox, totally not running and stumbling over myself, humbly requesting the light of my life, Angel Neil. Or Mer AU, if Angel Neil isn't behaving and needs quiet time in the corner. (I haven't been paying much attention to Tumblr lately, I hope you're doing well!)

WIP Wednesday (9/25) | Guardian Angel Neil AU (Part 239)

"Her name was Lacey,” Bee says finally. “She said she saw ghosts."

"Past tense?"

"Past tense." Betsy repeats, looking solemn. "But there are no similarities between you and Lacey. You describe Neil as an angel, a being who would not hurt you. Her case was... Very different. I just wanted to be sure. And now I am. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, I have plenty to worry about. Neil is not on the list.”

“If that ever changes, if Neil ever threatens you, I need you to tell me."

"He won't." 

"But if he does."

"Then I swear on hot chocolate and reality television that I will come to you first." Andrew says, holding up his hand as if he's testifying in court. Bee seems pleased by that. And amused. Andrew puts his hand down. “So… You're still of the mind that Neil's my imaginary friend, correct?"

"Or a harmless side effect of your medication."

Andrew sits there for a moment, pushes his tongue into his cheek. "What if he's not?"

"What if he's not harmless?" Bee asks, looking the slightest bit alarmed.

"No." Andrew gestures with his hand, trying to communicate without having to come up with words. "What if he isn't a side effect?"

"Are you suggesting that he is actually an angel here to protect you?"

"What I am suggesting, Betsy, is that it's a bit strange for him to only have shown up a few months ago when I have been taking these things for years."

"I…” Betsy closes her mouth. “That's a good point."

"So, what if the drugs have nothing to do with him? What if I'm just plain ol' psychotic?"

"I'm not sure that's a possibility, Andrew," Betsy says, flipping through his paperwork. "You have no family history of psychosis—"

"Oh Betsy, you forget who you're speaking to. I have no family history, period. If you recall, I only have two living relatives and they're both my age. My sperm donor could be tied down in a psych ward anywhere in the country and I would never know."

"Okay. You're right. It is possible. But I think the chances are pretty slim.”

“How slim?”

“Nearly non-existent.” Bee says. After a moment, she continues, “I have patients who are psychotic, Andrew. I’ve had patients who were schizophrenic. You do not exhibit the same symptoms as they do. I promise.”

"So I don't need to get fitted for a straight jacket."

"Exactly. Andrew, I'll reassure you as many times as you need me to. But I think you're fine. After June, we'll know if Neil was a side effect. If he sticks around after you're off your meds, we'll talk about it more. Okay?"

“I don’t think he’s a side effect, Betsy.” Andrew says. “I’ve seen him without them.”

“Without them?”

“At night when I come off them to sleep. Early in the morning before I’ve taken them.”

“Ah. Then, like I’ve been telling you, he’s a coping mechanism.” Betsy says. But she's wrong. Andrew has seen Neil eat and drink and hold things. He’s felt the angel’s warmth when they sat side by side. If Andrew has seen him sober, Neil is not a side effect. If Andrew is not psychotic, Neil is not a hallucination. That means he’s real. 

Boo hoo for Lacey, but Andrew's got an angel.

"I think you'd like Neil," Andrew says randomly.

“Of course I do. He’s good for you." Bee says, taking Andrew by surprise. She's said as much before, but not in so many words. As if answering an unasked question, she continues with, "You've told me that Neil encourages you to take care of yourself, to spend time with your family, to catch up on school work, and to take exy more seriously. These are positive things." 

“The rest I’ll give you. But exy will never be a positive.”

[lavender-butterfly-cookie]

https://www.tumblr.com/lavender-butterfly-cookie/767967059709739008/teddy-anon-and-ok-here-i-go-then-lol-and-got?source=share

Teddy anon here and Idea for a another part...imagine if the cookies you adored the most started approaching you lmao...another incentive to be tempted to stay lol! Personally I simp for a lot of cookies so ye lol...like I can name a few...like affogato, red velvet, dark choco, Caramel arrow, Shining glitter, Clotted cream, Royal margarine, cherry blossom are a few examples...named so many incase we had atleast one in common lol...

Still imagine them coming to the castle and being extra cuddly with the reader knowing they are favorites lol!

Boy oh boy- this one's gonna be something huh? (I don't- I don't seee what anyone sees in affogato- I'm sorry. I gotta side with Caramel arrow cookie on this one, why the purple as twink???)

(You had me for Red velvet, Dark Choco and Caramel arrow.)

The idol of your idols

"Ah, Y/N cookie, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've heard a lot of talk about you. Happy to finally meet the cookie who caught the attention of my liege himself. If you ever need some medicine I'll be to wip up a sweet batch just for you."

"A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Y/N cookie. I do hope the gifts chiffon delivered to you were of your liking. I know it was sudden, but after hearing of such a cookie as yourself, I thought it was only right to show my respect and admiration for you."

"Ah, and so I finally get the opportunity to meet the one they call Y/N cookie. Whether intentionally or by accident, you've clearly already made quite a reputation for yourself. I hope the gifts I sent you were satisfactory and it's truly an honor to stand in your presence."

"Y/N cookie, we meet again! It's good seeing you. It's been boring not having someone to speak with at the gate. You certainly left a good impression on his majesty. He wishes for more future interactions with you, and so do I. If you ever feel unsafe then just know I'll be ready to protect you."

"Is that THE Y/N cookie I've been hearing so much about?! Your name's so famous it's even more popular than me, and I've been here longer! It's so cool to meet you in person. Tell ya what, maybe we could hang out after my concert, if ya like. Or you can watch me in rehearsals. Either way, hope I get to hang out with you some time!"

"Ah, and you must be Y/N cookie, the baker themselves. A pleasure to be meeting such an honorable cookie. Word about you has spread like wild fire amongst the republic and frankly all over the the country. If you'd allow me, I'd like to show you around the place a bit. What do you say?"

"Well well, do my eyes deceive me or am I getting the pleasure of meeting the one and only Y/N cookie? Now aren't we just both lucky, hm? I get to meet the baker and you get to meet your favorite dragon rider. A win-win, aye?"

"Hello baker! I've been waiting for when you'd come by here. After all, how could one not want to come here on such a beautiful spring morning? I know, you should come have a picnic with me. I promise it'll be worth your time."

[insert-witty-user-name-here]

WIP Wednesday

Hello, it’s me- the angst fairy- back again with something needlessly angsty. I was reminded recently about a scene I’d deleted from an old fic of mine. No regrets about deleting, it was the right decision, but I was sad to cut it. B-15 deserves more character analysis. So sharing it now.

Tagging just a few folks who I don’t think will mind the angst but anyone else who sees this and wants to participate in sharing their art or writing- please do! 💚 (And please tag me in your posts so I don’t miss it) @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @lgwilt @dewdropreader

Deleted scene from a fic where Mobius is trying to ignore his trauma but the memories of those he’s pruned keep on coming. B-15 helps him through it. (I noticed on B-15’s Funko Pop that she tracked her kills on her helmet and decided, as I do, there’s an angsty story there.)

Verity stopped and opened a small door to their left, pulling Mobius inside an empty room.

“I thought you said we were running late to another meeting?”

“There’s no meeting,” she said. “Just looked like you needed a break from the briefing. Take a minute.”

Mobius nodded and let his head fall against the door behind him, relishing the feeling of cool metal against his skin. It was quiet. There were no glaring lights, no beeping machines, no questions he didn’t know the answer to. Mobius took a few steady breaths until the headache pounding in his head subsided. He opened his eyes to find Verity watching him closely.

“Thanks,” Mobius said, pushing himself from the door and straightening his tie. “I feel better. Don’t tell Loki he was right. He warned me that a meeting on numerical code methodology for new timelines would put me to sleep.”

He turned to share a laugh with Verity but her face didn’t show any amusement. Instead, she looked concerned.

“I don’t think this was as simple as you falling asleep in a meeting,” she said carefully.

Mobius stilled. He had hoped his episodes weren’t noticeable but he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep them from Verity. She was smart. It’s why he named her Deputy Director.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked after a few moments of silence.

Flashes of a park on a sunny day, a couple laughing, a timestick in his hand, a scream of terror, and a case file— variants eliminated— sped through Mobius’ mind before they were gone.

“No… I don’t remember what I was thinking about,” Mobius answered honestly. It was probably for the best he didn’t remember.

Verity frowned. “You shouldn’t repress your memories.”

Mobius slumped back against the door with a groan. She was right. While they still didn’t quite understand what the TVA had done to them, they were beginning to understand how they could heal their broken minds. Mobius knew the steps a TVA worker should take when they felt their memories resurface —he’d help write the protocol— but it was time consuming. For an organization that existed outside time, Mobius sure felt they were constantly running out of it. He didn’t have time to practice the techniques he’d taught others.

“There are too many cases that need my attention right now,” Mobius said.

“You need to offload some of those. I keep telling you-”

“I know, I know. I will. I just need to get through this Mandarin case first.”

“And then?” Verity pressed.

“And then I’ll take a few days off and sort through some of this… stuff.

Verity gave a disbelieving huff.

“I will.”

A heavy silence fell between the two agents and Mobius looked at the room around them. They were in one of the storage rooms that used to hold confiscated variants’ possessions. Without the stolen artifacts filling the shelves, the room seemed hollow. Purposeless. Mobius didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it in the reallocation.

“You’re not the only one who’s struggling,” Verity whispered. Her voice was soft, so soft that even in the silence of the abandoned room Mobius hardly heard her. At first, he wasn’t sure she intended to speak the words out loud.

“That’s how I knew you were having an episode,” she continued, twiddling with the cufflinks on her new suit in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I get these… headaches sometimes. Everything blurs together and I can’t remember where or when I am. It’s like I’m lost in my memories or, no, it’s like I’m trapped… trapped by him again… like we never escaped.”

Verity clenched her eyes shut with a sharp inhale of breath as if she were trapped inside a memory right now and Mobius reached out, taking her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He knew how terrifying it was to be stuck in your memories, to feel like you were back under his control. They may have defeated He Who Remains but he was still here. He always would be. There was no amount of running they could do to escape him entirely. It made Mobius feel weak. He hated thinking Verity felt the same.

“Did you know I used to track kills on my helmet?” Verity asked.

Mobius nodded. He remembered. His memories might be splintered but he remembered enough. He remembered what they were a part of.

“I hated that thing,” she scowled. “I hated that number printed on the side. The paint was fresh when I started but sometimes I swore I could see the etchings of another number. The number of whoever I replaced when they were deemed ineffective. I wondered how long it would be before they replaced me.

“I thought if I marked my helmet as my own, if I made it look different, I would feel better. They wouldn’t paint over it so easy. I thought if I pruned more than anyone else, I could prove to the Timekeepers that I was better than everyone else in my unit. That I would feel useful, good, like what I was doing mattered but-” Verity’s voice cracked and Mobius squeezed her hand tighter. “I only ever felt more angry. So, I pruned more hoping that feeling would go away. It never did. It just kept getting worse and worse and worse until…” Verity trailed off.

“Until Sylvie,” Mobius finished.

“Until Sylvie,” Verity agreed, wiping her eyes and pulling back with a soft smile on her face. “Sylvie showed me everything I lost and suddenly it all made sense. I knew why I hated that number. I knew why I woke up furious at the world, looking to punish anyone who got in my way. It’s because that number wasn’t my name. Who they made me wasn’t me.

“They took everything from us and while we can’t travel back in time and change what was done, we can change our future. We have the opportunity to fight for something we believe in now. Sylvie and Loki gave us that.”

Warmth spread through Mobius as the mention of Loki’s name. He looked down at the ring on his left hand and smiled, running his finger along the band again. He would never understand how he’d gotten so lucky; he would do everything in his power to be the man Loki believed him to be.

“You gave us this opportunity too,” Verity added. “When we burnt down our old TVA, you built a new one and you didn’t dictate a new purpose but rather showed us what a new purpose could be. We chose to follow you. We choose this life. And…” Mobius felt Verity give his hands a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to carry it alone. We want to help you.”

Mobius carefully untangled his hands from Verity’s and took a step backwards. “I know.”

“Good,” Verity nodded with an air of finality. “At least let Loki help you. I don’t know what’s going on between you two but he’s started helping me with my cases.”

Mobius snorted. He could only imagine how that was going.

“It’s not funny, Mobius. He’s driving me nuts. You need to let him return to smothering you otherwise I might just send him to the Void without his TemPad.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mobius chuckled at Verity’s hollow threat. “I’ll talk to him. Now, come on. I think we both deserve a little treat after all this. Let’s see what Processing confiscated today.”

Verity hesitated. “Mobius, I don’t care how many different variations you force me to try, I’m not going to like any timeline’s Josta.”

“What?? After all that talk about hope and change. One day I am going to find you a Josta you like. But no, I actually wasn’t talking about Josta this time. I heard Processing just got back with a case full of strawberry margarita mix. If that interests you.”

Verity’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. “Now, you’re speaking my language. Lead the way, Director. Josta aside, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I’ll follow you anywhere.

Mobius’ steps faltered as he swallowed over the lump of fear in his throat at the words. Verity and the entire TVA would follow him. They were depending on him to show them the way, to fix things and Mobius couldn’t let them down. He wouldn’t.

Okay, I’ll write something fluffy and cute for next time. I promise I do know how to write sweet things 😅

[bokettochild]

WIP Wednesday

I haven't done this in a good bit since I haven't been writing as much, but I finally have something to share today! This bit is from the currently in the works chapter of Blood of Heroes' History

He’s not meeting their eyes as he speaks, hand still caught up in hair that drips dark patches over his shoulders (they’re shaking). “Consider my words to him a sort of threat to remind him to let us leave.”  There’s a second of silence, one where those who’d been below hold their tongues for lack of knowledge of what had gone on above and those who’d been there just stare at each other for a moment, save the vet. Legend's still taking measured breathes and gripping at his hair.  “Understood,” Warriors says at last, tone even, still cautious though. “I’d appreciate if you voiced those concerns to the rest of us in future though.”  “As though you weren’t already strung out as is these last few days,” Legend scoffs, but he’s still not meeting the captain’s eyes.  Said eyes flash slightly, hands flexing briefly as though to clench but thinking better. “I don’t take well to folks gawking at my companions.”  “Jealous?” Comes the snort, a brief flicker of violet upwards and a tense little smile that lacks any real joy or humor. It’s almost a sneer really. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they noticed you too, pretty boy.”  Hyrule knows he’s not imagining the flinch he sees from the older man, or the way Wind’s gaze goes from questioning to immediately cold, near defensive, mouth opening to say something, only for Time’s tone to cut through.   “That’s enough! Legend, kindly hold your tongue if you can’t do anything useful with it!”  All eyes turn to their leader, shocked, surprised, and, in the case of the captain, oddly fond, although it’s wary as well. “Time,” he sighs, “please.”  A single blue eye blazes, but like a dog called to heel, the man turns away, attention focusing on his protege who’s still curled up and miserable, enough so to not be able to contribute to their conversation. The gentle stroke of a big hand through sweaty brown is somewhat assuring though, although the man is now shaking as well.  Hyrule feels the need to break the sudden silence, turning to stare at the three others, trying to catch any of their eyes and finally landing on Wind. “What happened up there?”  

This chapter is going to kill me, but I think it'll kill the boys first LOL