#i’ll send you the fucking invoice

[mkaleidescopel]

college really ain’t built for the neurodivergent

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 22

part 1 | part 21 | ao3

“…Go ahead,” he relents with a heavy sigh.

He turns the radio back on for background noise, and Robin launches herself into a breathless recap of every minute detail she’s ever learned about Eddie Munson. Genuinely impressive how quickly the words come out; Steve thinks that if her dream of becoming a linguistics researcher ever falls through, she’s got a bright future ahead of her as one of those speedreaders who rattle off the fine print at the end of pharmaceutical ads.

Warning: Discussion of Eddie Munson may cause nausea, heartburn, palpitations, sweaty armpits, and an inconveniently timed half-chub any time you use a pocket knife. Talk to your doctor to see if Discussion of Eddie Munson is right for you!

“Which brings us to tonight,” she’s saying when he zones back in. “Let’s examine the facts, shall we?”

“Must we?”

“Yes, we must.”

She makes a loose fist, lifting her pointer finger with an aggressive flourish to kick off her ‘list of reasons Eddie has a big, fat crush on you.’ “Fact number one: he was conveniently wearing a super nice outfit.”

“He said he ran out of laundry.”

“And we’re buying that?” she scoffs. Her middle finger springs up to join the first one. “Two: he was so disgustingly up in your personal space. Like, you really should have seen it; it was—”

Mwah. Mwah mwah mwah. “Yeah, I don’t need another demonstration.”

“Three” —there goes her ring finger— “he came to a movie rental store that you just so happen to work at and then left without renting a movie.”

“Because you did something to spook him!”

“Which brings me to my fourth and final point.” Her pinky lifts up to join the team, fingers spread wide like a paper fan, and she telescopes her arm to shove them back and forth under his nose until he goes a little cross-eyed and bitches about her distracting the driver.

“Cut it out! You want me to drive us into someone’s trash cans?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, well I’m sending you the invoice when it scratches up the paint.”

She retreats to her side of the car, curling her back against the door and repeating, “My fourth and final point: I think he thinks we’re dating.”

“And? Everyone thinks we’re dating.”

“No, everyone wants us to be secretly dating,” she corrects. “But I’m pretty sure Eddie actually thinks I’m your girlfriend. You remember last week when you dropped me off at school?”

He does. Eddie had actually been there early for once; had been sitting on a bench out by the soccer fields, looking surly and half-asleep while he sucked down a cigarette. Hair all messed up by the wind. Looked kind of dangerous. Wild.

“He was, like, fully glaring at me when I walked into school that morning, and then he was super rude to me in band. Which, at the time, I was like, ‘oh, well I guess that’s just Eddie no one can ever tell what his mood’s gonna be like from day to day,’ but noo-o-ow…”

She starts squirming in her seat again, excitement overflowing as she finally cracks the case. “Now it all makes sense! Oh, my god! He totally hates me because he thinks we’re dating, and I’ll bet you anything he either didn’t know we work together or didn’t expect me to be there tonight and he totally, one hundred percent was there to flirt with you because he’s in lo—”

“Okay, Detective,” he cuts her off, because the tips of his ears are burning, and he doesn’t think he can handle her saying the L word out loud right now. “You’ve made your point, thank you.”

“Tell me I’m right.”

“Uh, no.”

“Come on.” She jabs at his side. “Tell me I’m right tell me I’m right tell me I’m—”

“—A fucking menace? Gladly.”

“Translation: I’m right and you’re mad about it,” she smirks, victorious.

Steve knocks his forehead against the wheel as he pulls up to her curb. “Why do I drive you places?”

“Because you love me." She flips her visor down to freshen up her lip balm, mumbling around the chapstick, "I’m adding Surly Best Friendlish to my list of fluencies; I think it'll really make my college applications pop."

"Yuh huh," Steve grumbles. The thought of Robin leaving for college always sits in his gut like raw bread dough — thick and heavy and gross, rising to form a swollen lump in his throat. "Didn't you already submit all of those?"

"Yes, I diiiid," she sings, shimmying her shoulders with pride. "Duke's gonna say yes, I just know it. Picture it with me: Robin L. Buckley," she gestures to an imagined marquee somewhere just beyond the windshield, "class of 1990."

Steve swallows the urge to be a sulky dick about it. "They'd be lucky to have you," he says quietly.

"Nope. No no, none of that. No moping." She tugs at his arm; links their elbows together. "You're not allowed to mope when we have a party to get ready for."

"No, you have a party to get ready for. I'm going home."

"Steeeve-uh!" Holy shit. He just had to be soulmates with the whiniest lesbian in a 500 mile radius, didn't he? "Come to the bonfire party with me!"

"Yeah, that's a no."

“It’ll be fun!"

It most certainly will not be. "You really want me to go freeze my ass off in the woods all night while a bunch of former classmates talk shit about me the second they think I'm out of earshot?" He's been to enough of his parents' 'networking events' over the years to know exactly how that'll go. A full night of subtly closed-off body language, smirking whispers and judgmental glances that dart away as soon as he meets them head on. Fuck that. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

He just wants to go home. Feels momentarily sick with the desire to drive himself to Loch Nora.

"What did I say about moping?" Robin asks. She shoves into his space, hugging his arm tighter and deploying her most lethal sad wet kitten face (and Steve doesn't even like cats; this shouldn't fucking work on him.) "Pleeeease," she begs. "Vickie's going to be there, and I could really use a friend."

"So ask a friend!"

"I am, dipshit!"

Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Goddamn this woman. Steve hangs his chin to his chest in defeat, notices the weird stain he got on his shirt during work. "I have some conditions," he concedes.

She throws her arms out wide. "Condition me, baby!"

"First— ew. Okay, I don't like that; don't call me baby." Yeesh, and furthermore, yuck. "First, I'm borrowing one of your shirts, and you're probably never getting it back."

"Understandable,” she nods as she gets out of the car. Steve follows her out, propping his elbows on the roof.

"Secondly,” he continues, “I'm getting very drunk at this stupid party, and you're figuring out how we get home."

She reaches out over the top of the car; gives his hand a quick squeeze when he puts it in hers. "That's three things," she says fondly, "but I can work with that."

—

part 23

tag list part 1 below the cut; comment if you'd like to be added tomorrow (not tagging ageless or under 21s unless we're mutuals or you let me know your age ✌️)

@a-little-unsteddie @ahsokatanoss @alyelf @anne-bennett-cosplayer @aol19 @awolfstudio @bambibiest @bananahoneycomb @bronwenmarie @cheonsazu @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @courtjestermunson @dauntlessdiva @dawners @dontwasteyourchances @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @eriquin @estrellami-1 @fandomfix8 @griefabyss69 @grtwdsmwhr @hallucinatedjosten @hellion-child @hiimlevi @honoragreyskull @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @kas-eddie-munson @littlebluejane @marvel-ous-m @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @milklechee @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @munsonslure @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @questionablequeeries @runninriot @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutabed @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: A New World {7}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: It's summer break and that means drunken shenanigans. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, fluff, alcohol, sexual themes WC: 1.8k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight

A gentle melody echoed down the hall and you smiled at the sound as you quietly closed the front door. A soft moan escaped your lips as Lando eased your coat off and kissed your shoulder. 

“I think Charles beat us home,” he whispered against your skin. 

“Or there is a very refined intruder here.”

Lando chuckled as he kicked his shoes off and laced his fingers with yours. You stepped carefully along the wooden floorboards, creeping your way to the arch that opened into the larger living space. Deep in his zone, Charles sat shirtless in front of the piano and didn’t notice your arrival until you and Lando slipped onto the bench chair beside him.

“Keep going,” you urged when his fingers stilled and the note rang out. “It’s beautiful.”

Lando lightly tapped a higher key and Charles reached for the lid with a shake of his head. “It’s not ready yet.”

He was always a little shy with his music, until he was certain it was complete. It was challenging not to press him when you weren’t the most patient of people. But you tried. 

“Have you had lunch?”

He shook his head again, water drops flicking from his wet hair and tickling your skin. “I just got home too.”

It had been a long three days apart but if you wanted to have a few weeks undisturbed then you had to go to the factory for some work. Lando had been in Woking, Charles in Maranello and you had gone to the new HQ in Silverstone. Everyone was happy to be home in Monaco, together. 

“How about we go out?” you offered. “It’s officially holiday mode…and August.”

“You just want to get drunk,” Lando teased with a wink. “I’m in for some bottomless mimosas. Charles?”

“Only if I get you all to myself for the rest of the weekend. I don’t want to leave the apartment at all, especially if I am hungover.”

“I suppose I could handle that,” you said with a playful eye roll, “but you'll have to find some way to keep us entertained.”

He looked down with a smile and nodded. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

Half an hour later you were almost ready to go out when there was a call from the concierge about an oversized delivery. “Did you guys order anything?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I have some new Quadrant hoodies but they shouldn’t be oversized.”

You curiously hung around the front door waiting and frowned at a crate that arrived in the service elevator. “Is that Heineken?”

One of the men looked up at the only apartment door on the floor before double checking the name. “Delivery for Verstappen?”

“That would be the next block over,” you said pointing to the identical apartment tower across the street, until you saw the first name on the delivery notice, your name. “What the hell is my brother up to?” 

You swiped the invoice off the top of the crate and tore it open to see there were 30 boxes of Heineken’s 0% alcohol beer, courtesy of Max’s latest commercial he had done for the brand. Pulling your phone out, you hit Max’s contact and stepped out onto the balcony that faced his apartment from the guest room.

“Hello, zusje,” he greeted with a smile in his tone. “How can I help you?”

“Step outside.”

You heard the scrape of his door sliding open before he stepped out onto his balcony and waved across the street. Cupping your hands around your mouth you shouted to be sure he heard you, “What the fuck, Max!”

“I’m looking out for your health,” he laughed into his phone. “Tastes good, you should try it.”

“I didn’t just go a month without alcohol to drink that shit. Come and get it before I get home or I’ll get a slingshot and send it back the fun way.”

His curiosity was piqued as he took a seat in the shade. “Where are you going?” 

“Lunch and drinks, then see how we go.”

“I’ll see what Kel’s plans are but meet you at Jimmyz?” 

You gave him the thumbs up. “Sounds good if we can still walk by then.”

The room spun as you tried to stand up. You no longer had a brain, just a constant beat of a drum that throbbed painfully in your head with every movement. The air was stale in the room but the smell of rum was stronger and you opened a window to save your stomach from heaving. Images of the night before came with sporadic bursts that made zero sense and your boyfriends were of little help as they lay comatose on the bed. 

You were in desperate need of water so you grabbed one of the silk robes abandoned on the floor and stepped out into the hall as you tied it around your waist. You had barely finished tying it off when you stumbled past the guest room and saw a pasty white ass on the bed. 

“Pierre?” 

“Je dors, go away,” the man groaned and rolled over to barely lift his head from the pillow, both confirming his identity and also scarring your eyes as you rushed out of the room. 

 You were still trying to erase the image of him when you ran into Kika leaving the kitchen with a mug of coffee. “Are you okay?” she asked as she placed a calming hand on your shoulder. “You look sick.”

“I feel sick,” you grumbled as you stole the coffee. “I saw more of your boyfriend in the last three seconds than I have in three years of knowing him.”

Kika giggled sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone else would be awake so early. You guys were pretty hammered last night.”

“I’ll be honest, I can’t remember anything.”

Kika grabbed your hand and towed you back to the kitchen, placing you on a stool at the breakfast bar before making herself another cup. You weren't sure about actually drinking the coffee just yet but the scent alone was enough to bring some life back to you as you watched Kika take a seat on the bench next to the coffee machine while it made another espresso. 

“You guys went fucking wild last night,” Kika started with a laugh. “You were already wasted by the time Charles called Pierre to invite us out. It’s a surprise they even let you into Jimmyz.”

“I can act sober when I need to.”

Kika snorted a laugh. “That’s exactly what you told the bouncer too. Good thing Charles was able to convince him.”

That wasn’t anything new, Charles could sweet talk his way out of anything, especially in Monaco. “Fuck, I can’t remember any of that.”

“I’m not surprised,” Pierre chuckled behind you, surprising you enough that the coffee splashed over your hand. “I should bill you for emotional damages.”

“Me? I had to wake up and see your ass, when I was already feeling nauseous. You need to get some sun on those buns, dude, I thought it was a full moon. You should pay me.”

“At least you didn’t have to listen to a pull out competition on the other side of the wall.”

You froze as you felt the whispers of the memory on your skin. Lando and Charles had made a bet when the alcohol was running rife in their bloodstream. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said with a dramatic shiver.

The machine beeped and Pierre stole the drink before Kika could and she huffed as she made a third attempt at getting her coffee. After shoving a fresh cup under it and hitting the buttons, she leaned into Pierre’s side and said, “From the cheers it sounds like the boys won.”

Your cheeks heated with embarrassment and you buried your face in your hands as they continued to tease you with the sounds you had made last night. 

“Mate, some of us are trying to sleep,” Lando grumbled as he lumbered into the room in a daze, rubbing his bleary eyes. Charles was only a few steps behind him having the time to pull on sweatpants unlike Lando who was happy to wander around in his boxers. 

“Well some of us were trying to do that last night,” Pierre replied as he draped his arm over Kika’s shoulders. “Right, babe?”

“Please tell me they are joking,” you begged as your boyfriends sat down at the breakfast bar with you. “They think you two were stupid enough to try pulling out.”

Lando scratched the curls at the top of his head, his biceps flexing as he tried to distract you from the shrug he gave. 

“No,” you groaned, turning the other way. “Charles?”

“Mamour, you dared us. You bet we couldn’t, and we are competitive people.”

“Fuck…”

“If it makes you feel better, love, you lost.” A warm hand drew soothing circles on the small of your back and Lando kissed your cheek before whispering in your ear, “But it wasn’t really losing, you were very much happy with the results, in your mouth, on your ass. I think we all won.”

You pushed him away before you made another stupid decision and busied your hands with the coffee, taking a sip in the hopes you could wash away the dirty thoughts. They had ignited the memory and it came on so suddenly you nearly choked on the drink as you heard your taunt. 

“Godammit,” Lando huffed as he struggled to open the foil wrapper on the condom. “I’m still not used to doing this shit again.”

“If you had pull-out game you could already be inside me,” you teased him as your fingers ran down your body and you spread your legs for him. “But your self control is shocking.”

“Is not,” he scoffed indignantly, tossing the packet aside. “I can pull out.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“This is not a good idea, mamour.”

“Are you scared you will lose? Tsk, tsk, I thought you were braver than that Charles.”

Charles grabbed your hand before you could reach the juncture of your thighs and pinned it above your head as he smirked to Lando. “Fuck it, lets go.”

Click here for the next part.

[theyjusthowl]

WIP Monday

I'm trying out a new thing to be more consistent with my writing, so maybe my beta won't have to wait a month for the next installment of this WIP from hell.

I'm currently working on a Sterek longfic that somehow got away from me and is now 50k of pure hurt/comfort, and this is one of my favorite scenes, so cue the angst.

---

Lydia says, “We could use a place of our own.”

Her gaze hungrily prowls around Derek’s loft like it’s Versailles, as sterile and empty as it looks. The cheap pieces of sparse furniture he bought to appease Stiles back when they were together remain the only clue that this space has been lived in.

She knows his bedroom is still presided by a bare mattress and a busted alarm system.

Peter hears, “Derek could use a place for himself.”

His mind helpfully supplies, one that’s not littered with phantoms.

Isaac broaches the subject with Derek, one morning, in the small office space of the warehouse, as Derek works on an invoice.

“All I’m saying, Derek, is that the pack could benefit from a bigger place,” he says, towering over the desk. “I could move back in if we had enough room for everyone. You don’t have to sell the loft, you’re still running your business from here so maybe turn it into a decent office space?” He moves his arm in a sweeping motion. “This is still a great headquarters. Keep a guest bedroom in case you end up working late.”

Derek nods. He thinks of the key he gave Stiles, two years ago, the last time he asked him to not to leave them behind.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to Peter, see if he can find a plot of land that’s to his liking.” He stacks a thin ream of papers on top of a folder, closes it and stands. He files it away in a cabinet behind him and looks at Isaac. “Are we done?”

Isaac leaves the warehouse triumphant.

Peter donates the Hale property to Beacon County to do as they please, on the condition that no private businesses are to be raised on the extensive terrains. They set up a few cabins for lost campers and a small wildlife shelter. Scott is more than happy to volunteer as often as college will allow; Isaac fixes a coyote’s paw after the animal stepped on a pine needle and tells the whole pack approximately twenty times before Derek snarls half-heartedly to stop, for fuck’s sake.

The Sheriff finds a parcel, just fifteen minutes from the western border of the preserve, and it’s not exactly Beacon Hills but it isn’t anywhere else either and still within the county limits, which is apparently relevant for werewolf politics. He makes sure to push forward the copious amounts of red tape and Jackson hooks them up with a magnificently expensive and completely booked contractor, probably under duress. He’s still hell bent on crawling back into Lydia’s good graces. They raise the pale, solid bones of the house in two weeks.

It’s still three more months of plaster and tiles and wood boards and hanging wires before the smooth walls wrap around the house. They’re bare, but the light shines through the windows and bathes the stark white rooms and the sandy floorboards in a warm glow. Cora stands in the middle of the foyer, right under the big skylight, and imagines the first full moon run starting and ending right there.

Lydia commandeers Derek’s soccer mom SUV a little too gleefully and Peter side eyes her, unsettled for the first time in many years. She chooses all the furniture, the decorations, the full works, and Derek pays, only mildly infuriated. Scott sends Lydia a few pictures he took during the house works. Isaac is in all of them, front and center. She chooses one of Derek and Isaac going over the blueprints on a makeshift table, with a few workers lifting the first panel off the floor; she wraps it and gives it to him as a housewarming gift and Derek smiles and runs his fingers over the silver carvings and the edge of the frame.

The last screws are tightened into place the first week of June, and Peter brings in a landscaper to finish up the backyard. There’s one room though, and Derek won’t allow anyone in. Isaac thinks it’s a sanctuary, some sort of hideaway. It’s probably full of the stuff that survived the fire and what little he salvaged from Laura’s apartment in New York, and no one gives it further thought. If Derek wants to be left alone, they can only oblige.

The construction crew wraps up just in time for the summer of their third year. Isaac is unrelenting about a housewarming party. Derek acquiesces, on the condition that Cora and Peter tend to the barbeque.

Just about everyone Derek knows drops by: Lydia tells Allison, and she comes with Chris Argent and Melissa McCall, who somehow make it work, despite having the odds stacked against them. She’s been doing diplomatic work, restoring the Argents’ reputation as fair hunters, writing treaties for warring packs. Lydia fawns over the engagement ring on her finger and Scott hugs her warmly, the same old puppy eyes he used to put on for her, but it’s friendly and Derek knows that he’s sincere in his congratulations, genuinely happy that she’s happy. Isaac tackles her the moment he sees her, picks her up in the air and twirls her in a bone crushing hug. They catch up over a beer, Isaac casually leaning on Scott, with that unaffected demeanor of his. Scott’s hand wanders, subtly scenting Isaac. Isaac’s eyes go soft. Allison smiles and nods and hugs them both.

They’re all out back, milling around the yard. Derek watches on as he grabs two beers from the fridge. One for him, one for the Sheriff. Over the years, they’ve come to a quiet understanding, one reserved for family. Derek calls him Noah now. Noah is still convinced that they’re just one tiny hiccup away from being family. Derek’s not so sure. He entertains him, though, and more importantly, doesn’t pester him about his eating habits.

He leaves through the kitchen and finds Noah talking to Melissa, hands him his beer. They talk about the Mets’ performance, Derek nods along enthusiastically. Then they switch to cars; Melissa’s old sedan has finally given up and she’s looking to buy. Noah tells her he knows just the guy and claps Derek’s back, laughing.

When the initial bustle winds down a bit, Derek offers to do a house tour for Noah.

“They’ve all seen it, helped build and decorate,” he explains offhandedly. “Isaac’s moving in next week.”

He walks Noah through the kitchen, the living room, the study on the ground floor. He points to the basement door offhandedly. “It’s empty now, but we’ll find a use for it. Let’s show you upstairs.”

The upper floor consists of an open space that overlooks the foyer, and a corridor littered with doors. Derek points towards them. “Plenty of room for everyone up here. Peter insisted. Extended packs live together,” he explains.

Derek stays behind while the Sheriff ventures into the room to the far right end of the corridor. The room that’s off-limits to everyone else.

The walls are painted a soft shade of slate gray, with a white upper trim. To the left, a double door awaits, wide open, leading to the master bath. There is no back wall, just a continuum of floor to ceiling glass panels overlooking a deck that wraps around the corner of the building and continues behind the right-hand wall. In the distance, the woods get denser. The view is breath-taking and the sun shines high in the sky. It’s the perfect spot to watch the sunset over the forest.

There is just no furniture. Not a single piece in sight.

“It’s the master bedroom” Noah notes, words carefully measured. “It’s empty.”

Derek chuckles lowly and stares him back bemusedly. “I have no use for it. The architect insisted. He had a vision.”

“He might have been on to something,” Noah says.

He walks further into the room and waits for Derek to join him.

“It’s proofed, I assume.”

Derek nods. “Sound and scent.”

“Ah,” Noah sighs. “That explains that.”

Right there, on the right hand corner, the only clue that this room has a purpose lays in plain sight. There’s a wooden clothes rack. Neatly zipped on a hanger, Stiles’ lacrosse hoodie presides the room. It reads Stilinski, 23, and it looks well worn. The sun coming in through the back wall casts a long shadow on the floor.

(Just as Isaac had suspected, it is, in some ways, a sacred space.)

[atinylittlepain]

hi!! first, i ADORE your writing!!! congrats on 2k! that is so amazing. you deserve all the love 🤎 this is for your celebration!

joel miller X coworker au

maybe you did something that he didn’t like and it was just the last straw and he is so grumpy all the time but now he’s mad and you’re so tired of his attitude, but he’s hot when he’s angry and one thing leads to another and…🤭🤭

hey there, thank you for the love!! gotta love a quick hit of grumpy joel :)

Pay Raise

joel miller x f!reader

warnings | 18 + smut and nothing but y'all

..................................

How the hell did she end up here?

It must have been somewhere between fighting over the last pour from the coffee pot this morning, griping about having to stay overtime to fix his fucked-up books, and their shared frustration at the seemingly neverending crunch of numbers for Miller Construction that she now finds herself with her hips smashed up against the edge of her desk, pencil skirt rucked up over the swell of her ass, and her boss looming behind her.

“The tights you just ruined are getting filed under expenses, you owe me a new pair after this.” 

“Buy you all the fucking tights you want if you just shut up. That sound good to you, sweetheart?” 

“I’m not your sweet–” before she can finish, Joel lands a hard smack to her ass, sending her lurching forward, her front pressing down against the desk as he holds her there with a palm between her shoulder blades. 

“Been on my damn nerves all day.” 

“Me? I’m not the one who’s been keeping invoices in their toolbox like a fucking pack rat. If you had been just a little more organized we wouldn’t be here in the first place.” She glances over her shoulder at him, barely catching his snide grin as he squeezes her hips and grinds the hard bulge of his jeans into her cunt.

“Aw, you saying you don’t wanna be here with me? You want me to stop?” She bites back a groan at the grind of his hips, gritting her teeth as she glares over her shoulder at him.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He laughs, the jerk, giving her hips one more hard squeeze before fumbling with his belt. She can’t help the way her muscles jump when she feels him, warm and solid, smearing pre-come over her ass.

“Little skittish, huh, sweetheart? What’s got you so tense?” It’s all she can do to bite out her answer to his leering question, her mind going hazy from the feel of his tip dragging through her folds.

“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because my boss is a huge fucking asshole who doesn’t even pay me overtime.” Joel lets out a huff, notching his cock at her entrance as he leans over her, crowding her against the desk and tickling the side of her face with his scruff. His hips arch forward in one strong stroke, and this time, she can’t stifle the groan that runs through her chest as he spreads her open. 

“Guess I’ll have to give you a raise when I’m done with you, sweetheart.”

[meitantei-lavi]

guh. well. I wasn't looking forward to making another commissions post yet here we are.

here's the deal: on Feb 15/16, i had to go to the ER for some serious abdominal pain and other unpleasant issues that i won't go into. while i'm still waiting on the results of their labs (they're assuming it's an infection of. some variety), i'm also waiting on the bill. which i know won't be pretty. i'm estimating at LEAST $2k. that coupled with my other medical expenses from past and future appointments (as well as my cat's medical expenses) puts me in a position where i COULD potentially pay everything off with my savings, but then i would have literally nothing left. which isn't great since i do still have to pay bills and buy groceries and such.

to avoid that, i am once again asking for commissions. i'm putting my rules/price structure under the cut. PLEASE consider commissioning a small trans artist like moi and PLEASE reblog this post to spread the word (but don't tag as s*gnal b**st, thank you!)

pricing and rules:

prices depend on time and medium, but expect the base price for most pieces to be around $170. as always, i am willing to negotiate pricing so long as it’s reasonable HOW I CALCULATE FEES: $170 (rounded up from 168 cos i like numbers that end in 0’s and 5’s)  = $28/hr * 4 (the average amount of time I spend on a fully colored/rendered commission) + the “Starving Artist Fee” (50% of the hourly sum, this pays for gas, groceries, and cat food)

i will only start a piece after i have confirmed payment through p*ypal or v*nmo. please tell me the best email to use for invoicing and i will send you an invoice (through p*ypal) with the price we discuss. dm me for my v*nmo username 

i am also taking commissions for D&D miniatures. my goal is to buy a light box for photography so i can better advertise them. the base price for a standard 28mm mini is $50. if you’re interested, please message me for details

additional info:

stuff I’ll draw: Oc’s (references/descriptions please!) D&D characters (same as above!) Mild blood/gore LGBTQ+ stuff Furry stuff

stuff I won’t draw: R-18 Hate speech (if ur a terf or a nazi or whatever, get the fuck off my page, numbnuts, lol!) Excessive gore/violence Mechs (i have no patience for it) P*dophilia. Fuck off with that i will report u

COMMISSION SLOTS:

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

~*~*~*~*~

If my commission prices are a bit out of ur price range BUT you’d still like to support my art, check out this post detailing my ko-fi prices!

[wren-devereaux]

“Hello?” Wren answered the unknown international number with confusion lacing her voice as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, attempting to simultaneously rock and soothe the fussy baby in her arms. “Is this Wren?” The accented voice on the other end was the only hint she had as to what the purpose of the call was. “Speaking.” She replied tentatively, brows furrowed, as she switched Ivy from one arm to the other and resumed rocking the bundle that had fallen asleep in her arms. “My name is Celeste. I’m calling in regards to your step daughter, Natalie Stevens.” The woman on the line kept speaking and Wren was thankful she was simply on a phone call because the shock on her face would have given away the truth. “She was caught shoplifting this afternoon with her friends in my boutique.” “Oh.” Wren deadpanned before Celeste’s words really sunk in. “Oh!” Wren exclaimed, widening her eyes as she looked down to make sure she hadn’t woken Ivy with the near shout. “I…I am so sorry. She has never done anything like this and I assure you she will absolutely never do anything like this again.” She said in her firmest mom voice and it sounded foreign to her. Ivy was still a newborn, she hadn’t perfected the tone yet. “I was a teenage girl once, too, I know how…difficult it can be.” Celeste mused and Wren snorted, unable to stop herself from cutting off the shop owner. “You can say that again.” “You remember as well.” The professional tone on the other end shifted, it sounded more wistful for a moment before the mask went back up as she continued. “That’s why I won’t be pressing charges but I do expect to be paid for the stolen merchandise and once that’s been taken care of, I don’t want to see Natalie or her friends in my shop again or I will be forced to involve the authorities.” “Of course.” Wren agreed immediately, rattling off her email address. “Send me the invoice and I’ll have it cleared by the end of day tomorrow. Again, I am so sorry. Natalie and I both appreciate your merciful kindness.” “Have a good day, Wren.” The dismissal ended the call abruptly and she gaped at the phone in her hand. What the fuck? Natalie’s mother, stepfather, and Dylan were all more than capable of getting the girl whatever she wanted. On top of that she had lied. Wren wasn’t her stepmother, not even close, but she had played along, knowing the consequences of the lie would only make the stealing worse. Sighing, she tapped the phone screen and lifted the phone to her ear. Natalie answered on the first ring. “Please don’t be mad!!!” Her voice was thick, like she had just finished crying and may start again at any moment. It softened Wren’s irritation and she sighed. “I’m not mad but you are going to have to explain everything to me. Start to finish and not the TLDR version, Nat.” Natalie didn’t answer so Wren repeated her name, this time in full. “Okay…okay….but just please don’t tell my mom?” “I won’t but you know I have to tell Dylan and I can’t promise he won’t.” The silence lingered between them before Natalie sniffled and blew out a breath before launching into the whole chain of events. 

[gleppy]

Hey gleppy If you make an envy fic That’s long running and doesn’t turn into nuzi and/or isnt abusive I’ll buy you a Big Mac

wow, making this kind of demand of me is insane work! i don’t take requests in general and i’ve made that crystal clear but i especially don’t take requests for long running fics! i’m in the middle of a passion project that i’m not even halfway done with yet, i don’t know where you got the idea that i would ever throw a wrench in my progress on it to appease the whims of some rando by writing a ship that i have no interest in writing and have never even alluded to wanting to write. a great thing about humanity is that we all have free will, though, so if you’re this desperate for a fic that meets all the specifications you listed, you can always visit https://archiveofourown.org/works/new, type whatever you want into that funky little text box, and voilà, you’ve got yourself a long-running, non-abusive, nuzi-free envy fic, baybee!

that said, we all have our calling in life and if writing isn’t yours, it’s alright - i do take paid commissions! my time is not free and neither is my art! i’m a grad student with a job and several chronic health conditions, taking on another big project isn’t something i can handle at the moment but in this fucking economy there’s little i won’t do to keep food on the table! and no, a big mac isn’t sufficient payment, i don’t eat fast food and i’m boycotting any businesses that openly support israel. i charge $10 per 1k words so if you want something that’s the current length of tiny angels we’re looking at about $1700. i also charge extra for ships i hate so that puts you at $1800, not to mention the surcharge for being a rude bitch, which bumps up your total to $2000! i take venmo, zelle, paypal, or cashapp, so go ahead and dm me with your info on any of those so i can send the invoice. once payment clears i’ll get started on your commission! thank you for supporting my small business! happy new year! 😘💫

[kaisacobra]

I’ll be sending you the invoice for the therapy session I’ll be needing after reading “Second Best”, I should’ve stayed curious😔. KIDDING, I fucking loved it and can’t wait for the emotional turmoil you’ll be putting all of us through in part two!

I vote on R being alive, you said you weren’t sure if you’d kill her off for the angst but I think having to grieve somebody who’s still alive in this particular story would be very interesting. If she dies, no doubt in my mind that R would forever infest Tara’s every waking moment but I don’t want her to die sad. It’s not even that I want a happy ending for Tara, I want a happy ending for R, whether or not that’s with Tara(if it’s with Tara she has A LOT of groveling to do).

When it comes to situations like this, one of the things I think that levels the playing field is if R says something hurtful (maybe more hurtful cause what I wrote down below, R is just spitting FACTS). I already know nothing she can say would ever be as hurtful as what Tara said but something along the lines of.

Tara: Alright my bad, can we just forget it ever happened?

R: Why should we? So you can do it again next week?

Tara: Y/N please… -

R: No I’m sick of this! You know what your fucking problem is? I’m the only person who’s never left you, who’s always been there for you! But you’re the most selfish and self-serving person I know and you’re so fucking used to being abandoned that you actually think I’m obsessed! I mean you care more about your dead ex who tried to murder us- more than you care about me, and it’s made me realize that just means you don’t care about me. You never have. You’re more trouble then you’re worth Tara, I think-… I know I’d be a lot happier if I never hear from you again.

You said you weren’t sure if you’d follow the plot of the Scream movies, whether or not you do. I think Quinn getting close to R would hurt Tara. After the first chapter I do believe R wouldn’t really be around the group much, because subconsciously she’ll still value Tara’s comfort over her own and want them to be there for Tara instead of her. So that would leave R in a vulnerable position and make it incredibly easy for Quinn to befriend R, all it would take is R seeing her do things for her that Tara wouldn’t do. Since Quinn is Tara’s roommate and they hangout in the same friend group I think having to see that in person would not only make Tara jealous but really magnify her neglectful and harsh treatment of R. ESPECIALLY if Quinn is still a murderer in the next chapter because then Tara would undoubtedly blame herself for R’s death near experience, because she’d be the reason that all it took was someone doing the bare minimum (I’d want Quinn to do more than just the bare minimum for revenge jealousy but that’s just me) to get R to trust them.

Your writing is really good so at the end of the day I’ll be happy with anything! Thank you for sharing your work with us and I hope you have a wonderful day, you deserve it babe.

First of all, I really appreciate the words and i absolutely LOVE your thoughts on it. Seriously, you wrote them so well, i honestly think you could also write some great stories someday if that's something you would want to do. (If you do, please tell me because I'll be eagerly reading it🤭)

I'm trying my best to keep things mysterious so the stuff you read on part 2 can still be surprising BUT you make some great points and I wouldn't be shocked if some of those things actually end up happening, but who knows🤫

Thank U so much for sharing your thoughts and i also hope you have a wonderful day (or night, yk, timezones)

[wolfprincesszola]

Echoes of 50 Chapter 3

As always, check the TWs and CWs in the masterlist. Platonic Analogical has to be one of my favorite things to write. Genuinely, platonic love in general is my absolute baby. Enjoy <3. ——————– Now Playing: Preventative Medicine by Ananya Tare

<Masterlist>

<Previous Chapter> <Next Chapter> ——————–

“L, open up!”

Logan paid no attention to the man pounding at the door for the fifth time in five minutes.

“I know you’re in there! I’m going to break your door down if you don’t open up.”

“For the fifth time, Virgil, there is a cat on my lap.” Logan scowled, petting Luna’s head as he scrolled down on the research he was assisting in. “I am not getting up just to open the door for you.”

“Damn you, Luna.”

“I heard that, Virge! I will not be having you desecrating my cat’s image.”

“Fine. You leave me no choice.” Virgil’s voice groaned through the door as the door swung open, an annoyed Virgil leaning against the front door.

“I’ll send you the invoice for my door.” Logan replied, sipping on the tea he had prepared moments before sitting down and becoming trapped by his Bombay cat.

“Oh, fuck off. I just picked the lock. Your door is completely fine.” Virgil rolled his eyes as he came in with two bags of pick-up. “I brought Chinese.”

“Must I stress the importance of eating healthy?” Logan raised an eyebrow as he gathered his papers to make way for the food on the coffee table.

“Must I stress?” Virgil raised an eyebrow in response before sitting down next to Logan. He placed the bags of Chinese takeout on the coffee table before going to scratch Luna’s head. Almost immediately, Luna purred and transferred from Logan’s lap onto Virgil’s.

“Traitor.” Logan scowled at his cat as he went to pack his research up and grab two plates for him and his friend.

“Luna just likes me better.” Virgil smirked as Logan started to grab his food, “Also, for someone who’s really into a strict schedule, you sure are researching late at night without food to energize you.” “You texted me you were coming over with food. I took that as a sign that I did not need to cook dinner.” Logan stretched, knowing that he had been sitting for way longer than he had anticipated, having been enveloped in his work and also having been stuck by his cat on his lap.

“And here I thought Logan Sanders was a person who never cared about what other people were doing.” Virgil smirked.

“Unfortunately for me, having friends was necessary in the brutal battlefield we called high school. And unfortunately for me, you stuck around after that point.”

Logan had met Virgil Grey, his best friend, in his sophomore year of high school. Knowing everyone’s thoughts since birth meant that any fake attempts at trying to be friends with Logan were dismissed. Logan hated fake kindness and false sympathy. High school was filled with fake kindness and false sympathy reeking from the different teenagers who just wanted nothing more but leaked secrets or homework help. It got worse when he had come out as gay to the entire school, causing people to flock over to ask if he wanted to be their gay best friend. It was awful. There were a few genuine teens that he befriended, but they were few and far in-between. Emilie Picani, Remy Somnus, and Virgil Grey. After high school, Logan really only stayed in contact with Virgil and to the man’s reluctance, Virgil’s presence from time to time was appreciated. Logan sometimes got so tangled in his work that he forgot to eat and Virgil always knew when to come by to help Logan out. To his reluctance, Logan could call Virgil a friend…even a best friend.

“Aw, L. I know you love me.” Virgil gave a grin as he grabbed some food to eat with one hand while still petting Luna with the other hand.

Logan rolled his eyes as he grabbed a Crofters jam inside the fridge to put some into his fried rice. “I don’t believe I ever said that.”

“Dude, ew. That’s so gross. You have an addiction.” Virgil made a face, changing the subject as he stared at Logan eating his jam-covered rice, “You need to get some help.”

“Sue me.” Logan deadpanned as he continued to take bites into his food.

“What are you even working on? The last time I talked to you, you said you were stuck with no evidence to help you whatsoever.” Virgil raised an eyebrow as he reached for the stack of papers.

Logan slapped Virgil’s hand away, “That’s pristine evidence. There is no way I will let you examine it while you are still eating.”

“Jeez, touchy.” Virgil grumbled, “You usually aren’t like this with evidence.”

“This evidence is new. I need to have sufficient time to examine the paperwork before you soil it.”

“Stuck-up prick.”

“I heard that, Virge.” Logan rolled his eyes as he finished his food before washing his hands and returning back to his research.

“What’s it even about?”

“There’s something special about this evidence. Not only is this new information I would’ve never stumbled upon before because I had never thought about using the dark web, but also there may finally be the biggest lead in all of history. What this evidence may lead to is a human account of what is happening in all the government buildings.”

“Hold on. How do you know this evidence is valid? Where’d you get these things from?” Virgil raised an eyebrow as he looked over Logan’s shoulder.

“A reliable source. At least someone who thinks they are reliable. They snuck into the government buildings for this.” Logan cleared his throat, not wanting to say more. He knew that Virgil would get even more upset to find out that a reliable source came directly from his CEO because it seemed more of a risk than a reliable source.

“Alright, fine. I’ll trust it.” Virgil replied warily before reading the file Logan was stuck on, “Patient 506174746F6E? That’s a long name. How many patients would there be that would need that long of a name?”

“It says the patient was often called Patient 50 for short. It seems that Patient 50 may have been one of the key items in defeating the Medeis, but it ended up being a failed experiment. I have looked at the other evidence I was given. Materials the government is purchasing, the employment rates of the Impotens over the employment rates of the Medeis, funding for organizations determined to take any advantage the Medeis have in fear that they will rise up against the Impotens. None of which directly help me too much, but if I can get into contact with Patient 50, I could get an account of what their true goal is, deduce what the materials they’re purchasing are used for, and brainstorm about ways to stop it from happening.”

“Great. So how are you going to do that?” Virgil raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

“Get to Patient 50? You don’t even have more than a picture of their back that you can go off of.” Virgil pointed to the picture of a person in a hospital gown.

From the figure, Logan could see it was a man with brown hair and a taller figure, but there was nothing else he could go off of. At least, except for some black lettering on the man’s neck. The middle trapezius, to be specific.

“But there is a discerning feature of this person.” Logan replied, pointing to the text on the man’s neck. “If I took a picture of the photo on my phone, I could possibly zoom in and enhance the letters to spell something out.”

“No need. I have 20/20 eyesight.” Virgil smirked as he put his food that he still hadn’t finished down. Bringing the photo closer to his eyes, Virgil began to read out the text. Logan fumbled to grab a pen, scribbling down exactly what Virgil said on his arm.

“Five, zero, six, one, seven, four, seven, four, six, f as in Frida Khalo, six, e as in Evan Edinger.”

“506174746F6E.” Logan read back before scrambling to the patient's name, repeating the same values. “Patient 50 has their name tattooed on their middle trapezius.”

“Oh, that’s kinda fucked up.” Virgil frowned as he gave Logan the papers back before going back to smothering Luna with cuddles and finishing the rest of his food.

“But it’s somewhere. Now…I just have to figure out what 506174746F6E is and what the importance they have to the government.”

“Hm, good luck.” Virgil remarked, “I will not be helping you in that escapade.”

Logan looked at Virgil with a sense of irritation. He knew that Virgil didn’t care as much as Logan did about this research, but sometimes, Logan would wish Virgil would pretend to care. At least then, Logan could pretend to ignore Virgil’s complaining thoughts.

“Then, can you at least keep your mouth shut so I can focus on my research?” Logan asked as he turned back towards the photo. He was one step closer, but it felt as if he had taken fifteen steps back from the original goal. He frowned as he looked at the bigger picture.

“How do you know you can even interrogate the patient?”

“It says he managed to escape the facility a while ago and that he has been escaping the sights of the guards in charge of looking for him. There is no doubt he is still in the city considering the technology the government has around this city. The facility probably would have had the patient chipped even before they were testing whatever they were testing on him. Now, the public can rely on RFID circuits which are too weak for anything this dangerous and big-scale. It aligns with the amount of electricity and computer boards that were created for a couple of years. Maybe they found a stronger satellite field or perhaps they figured out the idea of blood chemistry. Either way, there is nothing that surrounds this city and in a big open area, it would make sense that the patient would be undetectable within the city, but their location could be broadcasted within seconds of leaving.” Logan lit up at the idea.

Working at a technology company meant that he got to work with pieces of tech all the time. Understanding how everything came together and actually having a moment to apply his knowledge into his research was possibly Logan’s dream come true. If the government was using advanced pieces of technology that even Logan was not familiar with, it would mean disaster and also a new expansion in how the city could be working.

“I got lost when RFID circuits were mentioned.”

“English, L?” Virgil raised an eyebrow, confusion written all over his face.

“The patient is still within the city because the tracker they implanted into the patient will only start marking their specific address in a big open area. Big open area surrounds the city, so the patient’s only choice–if they do not want to be captured once more–is to stay in the shadows of the city and to stay out of sight from all the different guards. At least until they find a way to remove the tracker and I doubt the patient has even taken a look at how to remove the tracker within a few years of escaping the city. They would’ve been busy trying to make a life of themself in the city.”

“Doesn’t answer how you’re supposed to find them. There are over 3.5 million people in this city.”

“That is the Herculean task.” Logan sighed, “I will get back to you about that.”

“Well, either way, you shouldn’t stay here cooped up all of tomorrow.”

“Why not? It’s a Saturday. I have no work, no overtime, and all the free time. I could and should spend most of it researching instead of just standing around.”

“Come with me down to the coffee shop. It’ll be good to get some Vitamin D. For both of us.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, “What?”

“Come on. You need a break anyways.”

Logan groaned, knowing that Virgil was correct in some sense. “Fine.”

Staring at the numbers, Logan knew that there was someone out there that he needed to go and find. They would be the key to his research and the solution to his life goal. He was sure of it.

[crngefail]

“ oh fuck no. ” bobby rushes over to the stalls and smacks whatever monty was holding out of his hand. “ don’t even think about it, ” he warns, then turns to the people behind the stall. “ the fuck are you doing? don’t sell anything to this guy. you know what, i’ll take everything. send me an invoice. ” it all looked like a load of crap anyway. “ she’s not gonna take you back, bro, ” he says, obviously talking about mari. “ so don’t even bother. ” @montyrichler​

[ajathings]

Mixed Feelings

I fuckin’ hate you, you know that right? You and your authentic Timbs from yesteryear that still haven’t fallen out of style simply because they are on your feet. I hate how they compliment your outfits while you stop into my job just to say “hello.” I hate that you even know where my gallery even is–who even fuckin’ told you? 

I hate how you stepped out of my college hoe days and into my present day, somehow looking sexier than before. Dark skin, white teeth; I hate the contrast on your perfect face because I compare it to the chiaroscuro technique that the Renaissance made popular, and if there is anyone unworthy of the comparison, I’ll be damned if it ain’t you. I wish you’d take your magazine-billboard-black man on Vogue–million dollar smile somewhere else. Stop haunting me with it, with you, with your presence. 

I hate how you like my coffee. I hate how you know my gallery is struggling. You use those two tidbits of knowledge against me, knowing I need a pick me up at the end of the day because by closing, the only person to walk into the gallery is you, with the comfort I need You and your weaponized sympathies, your sharpened cadences and well-wishes, and your poisonous pick-me-ups at the end of another disappointing day. You tell me that things will improve and that one day, I won't need the Met Museum anymore. You fill my head with fantasies about this gallery being my full-time job.

Fuckin’ opportunist asshole preying on weak women. Fuck you for ever making me label myself as a weak woman in the first place; I never had to face the truth of the matter until you came back into my life and declared with your actions that you never lost hold of me. Fuck you for remembering that your fingertips, calloused and precise, still sing me lullabies that I adore. Fuck you for realizing that my need for a sense of release was your way back into my life. That’s the ticket! you probably said. That thing with her chin that she used to like! Pair that with my golden eyes and she’ll dance to any tune I play her.

Fuck you. I hate you even as you corner me in my gallery’s door frame, eye fucking me with sparkling irises that God should have never blessed you with. I hope you taste my hate on my lips. I hope you swallow it and it goes down like acid. I hope it settles in the pit of your stomach like rat poion. I hope there is anything on my face that portrays just how much your presence irks me, even if my body welcomes you like it used to.

What I really hate is how soft the ground is wherever I happen to be kneeling. I hate how your wife probably knows that her husband’s dick was carefully and lovingly polished by another woman’s lips, all because the word no tends to drop out of my vocabulary when you call me “babygirl.” I hate that I still know that trick you like, and I hate the myriad of wildcats I compare you to in the moment when I make you groan with it. I hate that you have no regard for my closet. I wear nice things to both my jobs and not everything I wear I pair with a pair of fuck-me-drawers. So fuck you in particular for helping yourself to my skirt on Tuesday, and my slacks on Friday. I liked those panties. I loved those pants. They weren’t yours to tear/break the zipper off of, so you best believe that as good as your fingering game is, I will be sending you the invoice for those. As soon as I figure out how to quit you.

I hate how your fingers find their homes on my hips, your manhood between my thighs. I hate that you're well-blessed and still considerate to remember that I don’t need all your inches, just a few. You find your rhythm and respect my limits and for that, I particularly despise you, because for once, someone isn’t thinking they're the shit just because of size. And that someone is a filthy cheater, home breaker, treading familiar ground just because he married a safe woman who loved him just as much as I used to, but not enough to satisfy him. 

You bring shame to all of us with every thrust and I bring shame to all of us by letting this happen.

I hate that my coffee’s half-drunken and cold by the end of it. I hate that I’ll probably see you again in a couple of weeks. I hate that I’m down a couple of items of clothing. I hate that your presence is twice as hollow as your absence, and I am somehow more full, more comforted as a woman when you’ve finally disappeared into Manhattan.

I hate that I stole your wife’s number when you weren’t looking. I hate how she isn’t even saved in your phone so that when it rings, I can memorize it, even in the middle of sex. I hate with a burning passion how you can talk to her and fuck me at the same time. 

I hate that when I call her, she immediately agrees to coffee at the small local shop not far from where I work. I hate how when I tell her that I’m the other woman, she doesn’t slap the shit out of me. She smiles, shakes her head, and fights tears but never blames me. She blames a man who believes he’s entitled to every woman he wants.

We talk and we talk. The sun sets. There’s a lot of remorse floatin across the table My coffee’s half-drunken and cold by the end of it. We actually get along nicely. I’m an art historian, and she dropped out of a political science program for financial reasons. I point her to a few resources to help get her back into college, and when she says her time has passed, I remind her that it's never too late to chase passion.

I’d try to hold onto the hate that you’ve inspired, but she sucks the hate out of any room. The last thing I remember hating was the fact that you married a woman you didn’t deserve. A beam of light caught in the sucking, black abyss that is you and your sexual ego. When I told her how you pulled me back in with your fingers, she didn’t seem surprised. That’s how she got trapped in you too. Rough, calloused, cracked, indicative of a strong, working man. We both understand the appeal.

But only when we shake hands do we understand. Soft, gentle, kind, understanding, worth exploring further. When she sobs into my lips, she says she hates you. Not me: you. And I reply “Yea, me too.” And for the first time, our skin matches what we’re thinking.

I love how you probably hate me as much as I hate you now. I love how she offered to host me, and when I told her my apartment has a lovely view of the sunrise, she didn’t hesitate to stay the night with me just to see it. I love that I woke to her and that she said “You’re right. It’s lovely.” I love that she curled up in my embrace, not all that eager to just to up and leave when the fun is over. To us, this was part the fun. I love how we’ve both been missing the same thing.

I love hearing you shout over her phone when you call her, asking where she’s been. I love how you choke on your bravado when she says she can’t do “this” anymore. I love how she lets me be nosy; how she allows me come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist and listen to you beg and plead. When I tell you it’s music to my ears…

I love how she lingers with me, her brown skin glistening in the sun pouring in through the window. I look at her and I see beauty I appreciate. It’s not wasted on her like it is on you. I love how she thanks me for the evening, for the chat, for the coffee, for teaching her that the trick you like works better on women anyway. And I tell her that even if this never happens again, but I’d love to be friends. She’s traditional, and so she initially believed that people who had sex could never be friends. But I get dressed, and I reintroduce myself as the remorseful other woman and she laughs. We shake hands and decide to give friends a try. A couple of years later, I’m glad we did.

I love you for bringing me to her. Seeing her smile down the aisle earlier this year was among my greatest joys, along with wearing the dress she picked out for me to wear as her maid of honor. I love how we transcended our beginnings. I love how our relationship is transparent, real, and nourishing. I love that we can acknowledge the elephant in the room, forgive each other, move on, and grow. I love how we both escaped you.

I would say that I hate that I cost you your wife, but I’d be lying. She’s happier than she’s ever been. I’m happy that, in my own misguided way, I freed her from you. And I love that I’ll leave you where you stand without being tempted by you. I guess she and I both did some growing.

It’s your turn to do the growing. I hate that you’ve probably learned nothing from this. I hate that you’ll probably hate me, blame me, but never examine yourself. I hate that you’ll leave here, call some other woman from your past and fuck her just to feel better about yourself. In truth, I could find many reasons to continue hating you, but I refuse to. Maintaining that malice is kinda like maintaining any relationship with you…

I’d tell you what that means but hate is exhausting. 

Anyway, I apologize, but I don’t need your forgiveness. I’m in the process of letting go of hate and coming clean to you was all I needed to do. What you do with any of this is your business. I’m late for my friend’s babyshower. 

I’ll Cash App you for the coffee.

[campbluelake]

hell in a cell

Black and red streak past the group at blinding speed. There’s no time to redirect your attention from the demon, but there’s also no need; with a familiar angry screech, Max barrels into Vual with enough force to send them both rolling across to the ground, abruptly cutting the duke’s words short.

“Enough.”

Guess Mothman’s not a fan of evil monologues.

“Fiend– Pest– Worm–” There is nothing human in the voice that berates Duke Vual, nor of the accompanying screeching and roaring to come from both parties as they thrash and struggle against each other. “Sniveling, cowardly, vile thing–”

The demon breaks himself free of claw and talon, and appears further disheveled and off-balance. His suit no longer pressed and form beginning to show signs of injury, he lets out a growl and prepares for a battle with beings of his own size. Max roars again, eager to take advantage of the opportunity Malyce has afforded him.

But already, the smallest trace of blood can be seen matting a portion of Max’s fur from just this initial altercation. Vual’s not exactly weak. So before he pursues the duke further–

“With me, Niko.”

The lack of hesitation makes it seem he is fully confident that one of Hell’s pencil pushers can even the odds. (Because he is. For some reason.) Instead of waiting for any confirmation, Max takes off at high speed to throw himself at the demon again.

“...Eh?”

Niko, left standing alone when Max flies off, sort of awkwardly points at himself. 

“I’m– you know I’m not allowed to do that, right? I swear I explained this, I can’t fight a demon like that or I’ll super turbo die, I’ve already been stretching the rules–”

One of Hell’s pencil pushers is evidently far less confident in his ability to contribute to this fight than Max is on his behalf. Clearly unsure of what he should be doing, his wings flap uselessly once in a facsimile of Max’s much cooler departure and his hand tightens on the handle of his scythe. 

…And then the pendant he’s been wearing this entire time starts to pulse with a dull red light. He startles, blinking and then reaching down to pick it up, the confusion evident on his face. His clawed thumb digs into the side of it, where a visible hinge has appeared, and it pops open like a compact mirror. In fact… if you look closely, it is nearly a compact mirror, a red eye glowing and reflected on the top half. Niko frowns and then brings it up closer to his mouth. 

“...Sir?”

His voice takes on an undertone that hurts your ears slightly as he speaks into it, but the voice that pipes out in return is far worse in this regard, burning in the way you now know demonic voices to. It’s also worse because it’s, hm… how to put this… a bit annoying.

“Nicky! Hey, I’m sure you’re busy and all, but this is much more important than all that, so, hey–”

Niko already looks exhausted. “I am busy, sir.”

“Yes, I said that, now, you know, things are really exciting down here! I hope you have all your reports filed– well, of course you do, you wouldn’t slack like that, ha-ha! That’s why you’re my favorite, Nicky! Anyway, anyway, you know Vual?”

“Yes, I know V–”

“Of course you know Vual! Well, thanks to whatever’s been going on up there, we’ve finally decided that he’s gone too far and we’re going to make a move– so guess who’s going to coooooourt~!”

“Gee, sir, I’m not–”

“Ha-ha, not me, of course! Him! Anyway, that means restrictions are temporarily broken as we’ve got a warrant out for him, and you can’t be that busy, so do you think you could go round him up? Just add whatever power it takes to your invoices, okay? It shouldn’t be too bad!”

Niko looks wearily up at where Vual is engaged in combat with Max. Wearily, but also with a hint of confusion. And also wariness. He has to fight that? He’s a fucking salaryman. It’s not like he doesn’t want to get some revenge for his… friend, though. 

“You’ve got it, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“Of course you will, Nicky! That’s why you’re my favorite employee! Oh, by the way–”

Niko promptly hangs up before who you presume must have been the Barbatos you’ve heard mentioned a couple of times can go off on another tangent. He sighs and spins his scythe into a more ready position. 

“Okay, never mind, guess I’m fucking– allowed to do that after all, Max!”

His form ripples into a pool of shadow, dissolving into the ground and ripping across the grass to where Max and Vual fight. When he reforms, it’s with fangs bared and a slash of his scythe at the duke. 

[meitantei-lavi]

why hello there again darlings, it’s ya boi once again with another commissions post. 

so here’s the sitch: because rent in colorado is SO fucking expensive and i have bills and such to pay, i have about $800 to my name atm. while i’m looking to pick up some overtime at work and even doing some more drag shows in the near future, i’d like to make sure i’ll be able to eat and feed the cat. fortunately, my grandma is offering to fix my computer (YAY), so i’ll be able to do digital commissions once again. i’m hoping to get my computer battery fixed on or before August 26, so if you’d like to commission me for a digital piece, i’ll send you a traditional sketchy draft sometime before the 26th.

here’s some recycled info from one of my previous comms posts: 

here is my art tag, and here is my p*ypal. if you prefer v*nmo, please message me for my username.

pricing and rules:

prices will continue to depend on time and medium, but expect the base price for most pieces to be around $115. as always, i am willing to negotiate pricing so long as it’s reasonable

i will only start a piece after i have confirmed payment through p*ypal or v*nmo. please tell me the best email to use for invoicing and i will send you an invoice (through p*ypal) with the price we discuss

although they aren’t included in the examples above, i am also taking commissions for D&D miniatures. my goal is to buy a light box for photography so i can better advertise them. the base price for a standard 28mm mini is $50. if you’re interested, please message me for details

additional info:

stuff I’ll draw: Oc’s (references/descriptions please!) D&D characters (same as above!) Mild blood LGBTQ+ stuff Furry stuff

stuff I won’t draw: R-18 Gore/excessive violence Mechs (i have no patience for it) P*dophilia. Fuck off with that

COMMISSION SLOTS:

Taken!

Taken!

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

(reblogs>likes)

[comfy-whumpee]

Mistake

CN: BBU, head injury, hand injury, forced skimpy outfit, Tyler has certain repressed feelings about Roman.

BIrdhouse Taglist:@neuro-whump​​, @rosesareviolentlyread​, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpsday

“You useless fucking idiot!”

 Roman didn’t have time to even look up from the misfiled receipt before he was being slapped hard enough to send him to the carpet, body thumping down and knocking all air from his lunge. He stared in shock at the fuzzy static swimming in front of his eyes, buzzing grey like when the old TV in the treehouse had lost its signal—

 “Joel! What the shit?”

 Where was he? He didn’t know. Something hard slammed into his ribs and the air exploded out of his mouth again and he whined, scared, hurt, not remembering how to put his feelings to words. The handler was speaking. That’s it, stop trying to talk back. He was sneering. You don’t get to ask for things anymore.

 Oh no, he didn’t want that thought. He wanted to keep that thought locked away far from where he was, he wasn’t supposed to think those thoughts unless he was breaking training, and he couldn’t break training, Handler put thoughts there to punish him if—

 Mr Harden kicked him again and Roman felt a low cry emerge from his mouth, the closest he could get to begging for it to stop, but it didn’t stop, never stopped.

 Better. You don’t show pain, no matter what they do to you. Nobody will care.

 Nobody had cared.

“Leave him alone, for Christ’s sake,” someone snapped, someone real. Someone in the office, his office, his home.

 “Stupid piece of shit fucked one of our invoices,” Joel replied, and he was angry, so angry he hurt Roman again, thumping a fist down into his stomach as he crouched to collect the piece of paper. He brandished it to the others. “We have to refund the Elm account. They were overcharged.”

 There was silence but for Roman’s breath, a thin and strained wheeze.

 “Jesus, Roman,” someone said, and tears filled Roman’s eyes because he knew that meant it was okay to hurt him, that he’d deserved it.

 “There goes our fucking weekend,” someone else muttered. “I’ll make the call.”

 “No, don’t call yet. We need a timeframe. And an excuse.”

 “Well, here’s a sorry one,” someone joked without humour, and he couldn’t place the voices while his head was ringing, and a different foot kicked the back of Roman’s head.

 If they wanted brains, they would have hired a person. Why do you think they chose you? Everyone gets trained for pain, 993948. Why do you think that is?

 On his side on the floor, blood dripping from somewhere on his body, Roman shifted on one elbow and managed to bring up the arm that had been trapped underneath him. He forced it up against an aching shoulder to grab onto his collar and hold it tight.

 Trick question. You don’t think either. Stop that pathetic whine.

 They chose him. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why they couldn’t have spent the money on someone trained, someone to hire, an intern, a secretary. He doesn’t know why they picked him from the catalogue.

 But they chose him. They brought him here, showed him around, introduced themselves, and they gave him this collar. The leather was cracked in places but the buckle was secure. He had never touched the buckle, but he tugged the band sometimes, and he tugged it now to make sure.

 Real. Firm. He belonged to them.

 No matter how angry they got, no matter how badly he made mistakes, no matter if they hurt him, he belonged to them.

 You can’t make mistakes. Help at Home pets don’t make mistakes. You have to be perfect, or don’t you want to be bought?

 “P-Please,” Roman echoed, remembering what he had said back then. “Please, I’m s-sorry.”

 “Sorry isn’t going to fucking cut it, dumbshit.” Feet walked away from him, and then came back again a moment later, stopping right beside his prone form.

 “Joel…” someone said warningly. Mr Charlie? Maybe he was trying to help, trying to save Roman. He turned blurry eyes to the figure. Not being able to make him out clearly, he just closed his eyes.

 “He deserves worse. That’s a few thousand out of the account because of his little fucking oopsie. I told you I didn’t want him near important shit, Charlie. You fucking ignored me.”

 “Mistakes happen.”

 You have to be perfect.

 “You don’t give a pet rock control of the stock market and then say mistakes happen when it crashes.”

 A hand fists in his hair, near the skull rather than down the length of it. If he was sent back, he’d be remade into nothing. He’d become a punching bag, a prototype, some kind of experiment. Or worse, he’d become nothing at all.

 Mr Harden grabbed his hand by the wrist and yanked it up, and something clunked, and Roman’s mouth opened in an unvoiced scream as the staple embedded itself into the back of his hand.

 Silence, but for the ringing in his ears, and the shuddered breaths he gasped until he heard himself, and stopped breathing altogether.

 Someone sighed, disappointed or disgusted, he couldn’t tell. They walked away.

 Wide, blue-and-brown eyes tracked blindly across the ceiling before Roman found a face pressing into his field of vision, huge and unsympathetic. Mr Harden’s lip was curled, his hand still tight around Roman’s wrist where the wound throbbed sharply in time with Roman’s frantic pulse.

 Roman clutched his collar so hard it hurt his hand, and didn’t breathe. He knew he’d be too noisy if he did.

 “Stay the fuck away from my paperwork, you piece of shit,” Mr Harden said, and he was still furious.

 Roman nodded, then nodded faster, unable to breathe or think or talk.

 With a scoff, Mr Harden threw his hand to the ground, and went back to his desk, slamming down on his chair.

 The hand in Roman’s hair released too, and Roman slid to lie prone, doing nothing but covering his injury with a loosely-closed fist, as if he could hide from the thing embedded in it.

 It hadn’t felt like this at first, making mistakes. Before, punishments would have been private and small, a curse or an insult thrown his way. Half the time he’d get a pat on the head and told to go make drinks while the real people got it sorted. But as the accounts grew, and the business developed, things got bigger and busier. Everyone was getting more serious. Mr Charlie didn’t step in anymore to stop them from hurting him too much. He was the one who did it most, and not even usually for things Roman did.

 They were his only friends in the world, but if they were angry, he took the fall. He had to be perfect.

 When he peeked through his hair to check where everyone was, he found himself lying alone in the middle of the carpet, as everyone sat down to work. Mr Dillon had earphones in. Mr Charlie was in his office, door closed. Phil was on the phone. Tyler was typing fast.

 Mr Harden was hunched over his paperwork like a living storm cloud.

 Roman held his breath so he wouldn’t sob. He didn’t want any of them to be disturbed, hear him, and remember that he was bad. He didn’t want any of them to remember they were angry.

 He rose onto tiptoe and edged out of the room to hide in the kitchen and cry.

 It was only when he had recovered, decided to clean, and put his hands in the soapy water for washing up that he realised the staple was still in his hand, a line of silver grating his skin.

 His stomach oozed up his throat and he tried not to think about it. He was okay, he wasn’t hurt. He could feel the pain and, underneath that, stronger than that, he could feel the panic buzzing, but nothing was happening to him anymore. He just had to take the—

 No, no, he couldn’t do this.

 He just had to take the staple out of his hand—

 No, no, no, no, he couldn’t, but he couldn’t wash up either, and he would need to go to the bathroom eventually, and someone might notice, and what if it went bad, and what if it dug deeper, and and and—

 In the bullpen, Tyler lifted his head from its position inches from his screen. He could hear Roman hyperventilating in the kitchen, little high-pitched wheezes that were pretty much the only sound he ever made.

 Poor fucker. It wasn’t his fault he was dumber than the dumbest sexy secretary. Pissing off Joel was a death sentence.

 Returning his gaze to his screen, Tyler finished his sentence. Every ten seconds or so, he caught the hiss of another breath. His desk was closest to the kitchen, and – he glanced over his shoulder – Dillon had earphones in, so he was no help. Phil was tied up on a call. Charlie’s door was shut and Joel was the cause of the whole fucking shebang.

 He pushed his chair back from his desk, picked up his mug as an excuse, and headed through.

 Ah, shit. It was worse than he’d imagined. Roman was in a pile of limbs on the floor by the sink, holding his injured hand away from his body with his eyes squeezed shut. He was as white as his shirt and shivering like a leaf. When Tyler put the mug down on the side, his eyes flew open, and fixed with teary need on the potential saviour.

 Tyler scratched the back of his head. He crouched down, feeling like he was trying to befriend his sister’s skittish cat. He lowered his voice to what he hoped was a soothing volume. “Hey, Ro. Your hand hurt?”

 Roman nodded immediately, begging with his miserable stare. He was so goddamn cute like this, and the thought made Tyler feel vaguely slimy.

 “I’ll help you out. But you gotta do something for me after, yeah?”

 Nod, nod. Anything.

 “Yeah. Alright.” Tyler took Roman’s hand, feeling his stomach flip. He told himself it was at the sight of the staple. His fingers pressed along the edge of the metal, feeling where its teeth were sank into Roman’s hand.

 Roman stopped breathing, looking away, tense as a board.

 “Joel really is a savage sometimes,” Tyler muttered. He fit a nail under the edge of the staple and, figuring it was better to get this over with, flicked it out. He felt it catch before it came free, and Roman gulped down air like he was about to choke, but then the staple pinged against a cupboard door and landed.

 “There you go,” Tyler said gently, feeling like a douche. “You did good, Ro. You’re a good boy.”

 This, if anything, made the pet cry harder. He probably felt like shit after screwing up so badly, but hey. Everyone screwed up sometimes, even designer pets, right?

 It was pretty embarrassing seeing a guy his age crying like a baby, but whatever. Nobody else was here watching Tyler coddle him, but he didn’t want to linger. He’d never live it down. It was time to put this whole thing behind them. The sooner they moved on, the sooner Ro would feel better. They’d all cheer up then, and Joel would stop being such a fucking monster.

 “Okay, you gotta do something for me now,” Tyler said, reasserting control. “You ready?”

 Roman nodded, keeping his eyes on Tyler, and not on the bleeding hand still kept safe by Tyler’s grip.

 “Good boy,” Tyler said, just to see the stars in Roman’s eyes as he heard it again. So cute. Better already. “You’re gonna cheer up the others, yeah? Remember that bunny outfit you got last Halloween?”

 Something cracked in Roman’s eager little smile, but Tyler told himself he didn’t notice. He’d be fine.

 “I want you to come out in that. It’s still in the coat cupboard. We need some eye candy. You’ll lift everyone’s spirits, yeah?”

 It wasn’t for the others, really. Joel would find it annoying and Charlie would probably act high and mighty about it. But Tyler thought the pink leotard and tutu were…compelling. He’d never seen Roman show so much skin before last Halloween.

 And anyway, it was just a joke. Something dumb to remind everyone he was just a pet, and they didn’t need to get so worked up about him. They didn’t need to hurt him.

 Roman got up willingly enough, swaying slightly. He wasn’t really bleeding, but for some reason even the slightest pinprick of his own blood knocked him flat. He wasn’t looking at his hand.

 Tyler got up with a strained smile and left him to get changed. Returning to the floor, he was motioned over by Dillon. “How’s our favourite blond?” he asked with a grin.

 Dillon was weird with Roman. Tyler didn’t want to know what went on when Roman went home with him.

 “Yeah, he’s all better,” he said casually. “And he’s gonna show how bad he feels by cheering us all up.”

 Dillon’s eyes glimmered with the light of interest. Tyler thought a lion probably got eyes like that when it spotted a gazelle with an injured leg. “Yeah?”

 Mustering a grin, Tyler waltzed back to his desk, throwing over his shoulder, “You’ll see.”

 Dillon did, two minutes later, when Roman stepped out of the coat cupboard wearing the ridiculous fucking bunny costume. He was still pale white and swollen around the eyes, but there were two adorable ears rising from his head, so nobody seemed to mind.

 Phil wolf-whistled. He’d finished his call. “Trick or treat!”

 Tyler glanced over to see Dillon looking flustered, almost disapproving. Like he wanted to tell Roman to cover up. He turned his eyes back to his computer screen and pretended not to feel smug.

 Working for Charlie’s company was brilliant in a lot of ways, but spending five days a week with the Hawaiian-shirted, goateed jackass from your Brand Building and Awareness class was not one of them.

 Dillon cooed only once before Roman was kneeling at his feet, getting his hair petted right between the bunny ears. Dillon had a way with Roman, despite being a creep, or maybe because of it. He could always bring a smile to the pet’s face.

 Tyler looked back again at the screen. He needed to put something out on the website. He’d forgotten what it was.

 “We all know you’ve got no brains, Blondie. It’s in your nature to fuck things up. But we got you.”

 Dillon’s fingers combed through Roman’s pale blond locks, and Tyler clenched his teeth.

 “Even if you get kicked out, I’ll take you home,” Dillon continued, quietly enough that he must think Tyler couldn’t hear. “You like it best at home, don’t you?”

 Tyler couldn’t tell if Roman nodded himself, or if Dillon’s hand on the back of his neck was making him. But it didn’t really matter in the end.

 "Yeah. Just relax. Punishment’s over. Good boy." Dillon’s fingers curved through Roman’s hair over and over. "Good boy, Blondie. Good boy."

 It had been a stupid fucking idea. The outfit. What was he thinking? It had seemed funny at Halloween, or maybe he’d been drunk. Had Dillon always talked to him like that? Why was he so worked up about it? Joel had put a goddamn staple in his hand and he was more upset about Dillon saying something Tyler had told him literal minutes ago.

 He huffed, and looked back to his screens. The copy he’d written seemed fake and shallow. He wanted to start over.

 He opened Reddit instead.

[shin-city]

Damage Control [Katsuki Bakugo x Reader]

pairing: prohero!bakugo x sidekick!reader

genre: angst, fluff, smut

word count: 3.7K

tags: sexual content, oral sex (female & male receiving), praise kink, semi-public sex

a/n: well that’s one way to overcome your fear of elevators

~

“Fifty-thousand dollars in damages!” you reiterated to the fiery man in front of you, who made no effort to mask his indifference towards what you were saying to him. He didn’t even bother looking at you until you’d thrown the invoice from the city on his desk, offering you a stale, blank stare. That look usually served as your warning that you were on thin ice, but you were too agitated to heed it.

“Are you even listening to me right now, Bakugo?”

The blonde rolled his eyes before setting his brows into that signature frown. “It’d be damn hard not to with all the yelling you’re doing.”

You let out a sardonic laugh, not believing that him of all people had a problem with yelling. Working with him for so long was the reason you even yelled so much in the first place. “Well, don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Bakugo grunted lowly, glaring as you chastised him. He hated when you reprimanded him like this. He hadn’t put in all of that hard work over the years to become a pro hero, just to have to answer to others for his actions. Especially you- his sidekick. While he didn’t treat you as his lesser just because of your title (not as much as he used to, anyways), he still expected you to treat and speak to him respectfully.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?” he scoffed. “Just send the invoice to All Might; he’ll take care of it. He always does.”

“We can’t just keep expecting him to cover the costs of you being irresponsible. And even if we could, it isn’t just about the money. It doesn’t look good. What if you get in trouble with the Hero Public Safety Commission? What if your hero ranking goes down, or worse- you get demoted entire-”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched as he slammed a fist on his desk to shut you up, your body jumping and your eyes widening consequently. He didn’t mean to startle you so much, but he did relish in the submissive way you looked at him as a result.

“Do I pay you to bitch at me about how I look to the public?” he challenged.

You blinked at him, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

“Pay me? You don’t pay me anything! I’m your sidekick, not your publicist.”

“Exactly,” he retorted. “So why don’t you quit acting like one, and leave it to the people who are supposed to handle it- like a good little sidekick.”

This particular comment had you fuming, and he could tell as you stood there with your arms crossed and a frown on your flushing face.

Cute, he thought, before dismissing the rumination.

“My quirk is explosion,” Bakugo continued. “Shit is going to get blown up. If you don’t like it, then maybe you should’ve applied to work under a different hero. There are plenty of sidekicks who would kill for the opportunity to be where you are right now.”

He was only bluffing. He’d never say it to you, or even himself, but Bakugo wouldn’t want you working with another hero; nor would he want to work with another sidekick. His hero office had plenty, and yet he chose you. He always chose you. Though, clearly you weren’t confident in his loyalty to you, because his words had tugged at your heartstrings more than he intended.

It wasn’t like you only cared about how he looked to the public. You cared about him in general, which was why you were so hard on him about things like this, but clearly he didn’t realize that.

“M-maybe I should’ve!” you snapped, desperately hoping that he hadn’t seen the glint of moisture in your eyes. “I would’ve taken Izuku up on his offer if I’d known you’d be so difficult to work with!”

Bakugo blinked at you, his head tilting to one side as he registered what you’d said. Midoriya had asked you to be his sidekick after graduating from UA, and several more times after that. You’d never mentioned this to Bakugo before, and you were smart not to. Anything that had to do with your green-haired friend triggered Bakugo to some extent; which was why saying that was the perfect ammunition to retaliate his comment- even if you didn’t realize it.

“What the hell do you mean you would’ve ‘taken Izuku up on his offer’!” he called after you, but you were already turning on your heels, storming out of his office and toward the elevator. You hated taking the elevator, and on any other day you would’ve taken the stairs; but at that moment you needed to get as far away from Katsuki Bakugo as fast as you could. You weren’t sure you’d be able to live with yourself if he saw you cry.

Over the pattering of your rushed footsteps, you hadn’t even heard him exit his office in pursuit of you. All you were focused on was getting out of there, and you were grateful that the elevator was already there on the fifth floor when you pushed the button to summon it. You wiped a stray tear from your eye as you stepped in, pressing the ‘1’ button, followed by the button used to close the doors; but they only managed to close halfway before a hand appeared between them, halting the process.

Before you knew it, an irate Bakugo was stalking into the elevator. He glowered at you as the doors shut behind him, though his expression eased when he noticed the tears that threatened to spill onto your cheeks.

“H-hey...why the hell are you crying?!” Bakugo stared at you incredulously, not believing the sight in front of him. He’d never seen you cry before.

You wiped furiously at your eyes, turning your back toward him as you did so. You made no effort to respond to him, especially once the elevator finally started moving. He frowned as you ignored him, glancing at the elevator’s digital display of what floor you were on. He watched anxiously as the numbers passed.

4...

3...

2...

 He couldn’t let you get to the first floor. He worried that if you left in this state, you might not come back. Or worse: you’d go running to Deku. He couldn’t have that.

Bakugo clenched his hand into a tight fist and before he could stop himself he was punching through the control panel of the elevator, ripping out some of the wires as he retracted his fist. The elevator immediately screeched to a halt, stopping just between the second and first floors. He turned to face you, who was now looking at him with sheer panic etched on your features. You were scared enough of elevators already, and this was like a nightmare come true.

“Have you lost your damn mind?!” you yelled as the ominous sparking of the control panel died down.

“Have you? What’s with all...this? Over an invoice?” he matched your tone, gesturing wildly at your distressed state.

You exhaled an exasperated sigh, shaking your head at him. “You don’t get it, do you? It isn’t just about the invoice.”

Bakugo took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down for your sake. He knew he could be difficult to talk to at times and he didn’t want to say anything that might scare you off. Though, it wasn’t like you could go anywhere anyways. “I don’t. Tell me so that I can fix it.”

You gave him a quizzical look, perplexed at the sudden decline in the volume of his voice. It almost made you want to give in and tell him what was on your mind but in fear of inciting another argument, you decided against it. Besides, you were now focused on the illusory feeling of the elevator walls closing in on you. You stood in the corner farthest from Bakugo, trying to increase the distance between you two. He noticed this and began to slowly creep toward you.

“Y/N.”

His firm tone coupled with his intense gaze had butterflies erupting in your stomach; of course now of all times.

“It doesn’t matter,” you uttered. “Could you please just get us out of here?”

“Is it what I said about you working with another hero?” he asked, completely ignoring your request but hitting the nail right on the head.

You didn’t answer him, instead crossing your arms and staring at the floor. Your body language was more than enough to confirm that he was correct, though, and he took one more step to close the gap between you. His close proximity had your head reeling as his scent enveloped you; it was almost comforting. You were so caught up in it that you hadn’t even noticed his hand cautiously reaching toward your face until he was already gripping your chin, tilting your head to look at him.

“Answer me.”

You let out a shaky breath as your eyes met his. Bakugo had never touched or looked at you like this before. Yes, he was frowning as usual; but it was out of concern instead of anger. The expression softened once you nodded, answering what he already knew. Still, his fingers never left your face.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he grumbled. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Do I?” you retorted, cursing yourself as your voice broke. “You think I don’t already know how expendable I am? How easy it’d be for you to replace me? You don’t have to throw it in my face.”

“I wasn’t trying to-”

“I’m sorry for always nagging. I’m sorry for caring. But if you don’t, someone has to, Bakugo,” you vented. “If we’re even close enough for me to call you that. Sometimes I feel like I should just address you as Ground Zero like everyone el-”

Bakugo’s grip on your chin tightened before he pressed his lips to yours, his other hand moving to the wall to support his weight as he leaned into you. You were far too stunned to kiss him back, but that was to be expected. The man in question had never even shook your hand before, let alone kissed you. He broke the kiss shortly thereafter, pressing his forehead against yours as his breath fanned over your lips.

“Don’t. Don’t ever stop calling me by my name,” he articulated, pulling away a little to gaze into your eyes and make sure you understood how serious he was. “You hear me? I’ll always be Bakugo to you. I don’t give a fuck what everyone else calls me. You’re not everyone else. I...just wanna hear you say my name.”

Your eyes began to tear up again, but this time out of relief. This was all you ever wanted from him: to act like he cared. To show you that he cared, and that you were more than just a sidekick to him.

You bit your quivering lip, nodding as you looked up at him. You meant to keep eye contact, but your gaze dropped to his lips. You desperately wanted him to kiss you again, and you weren’t doing the best job at hiding it.

Bakugo chuckled and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. He wanted to do much more, but not before making sure that he’d made things right with you. “I’m...sorry, okay?”

As simple as it was, his apology meant the world to you; especially since he wasn’t exactly known to be someone who ever apologized. It was actually quite humorous.

“You’re sorry?” you quizzed, stifling a laugh.

“Shut up, dumbass,” he retorted playfully before pressing his lips to yours again.

If someone told you just a few minutes before now that you’d be kissing Kastuki Bakugo, you’d have thought they were severely deluded. But you couldn’t deny how right it felt.

He caressed your cheek and lowered his other hand to your waist, clutching it softly. He was so delicate with you, touching you as though you’d break if he didn’t restrain himself. It was such a strange contrast to how he usually was, but you didn’t mind one bit.

“Bakugo,” you whimpered into his lips as you clutched his shirt, prompting him to slip his tongue into your mouth as a response.

He groaned lowly into the kiss as your tongues danced. You slipped your fingers underneath the material of his tank top, raking them along his soft abs and relishing in the warmth of his skin. He decided to match your pace, dropping his hands to your ass and squeezing it with much less caution than he’d touched you before.

His lips left yours, pecking them once more before attaching them to your neck. Your small moans were music to his ears as his tongue laved at your throat.

“I want you-” he groaned into your skin. “-need you.”

He hooked his fingers into the loops of your jeans, pulling your hips into his. And after feeling what pressed up against your thigh, it became very evident just how much he needed you.

“I’m yours, Bakugo. Please.” You sighed as he rolled his hips against you: so tantalizingly slow.

He kissed his way back up your neck, across your jaw and to your lips, kissing you once before gripping the hem of your top. He dragged the material up, your arms automatically raising to aid him in removing the garment. He was grateful that you’d forgone wearing your costume that day, knowing it’d be a pain in the ass to remove; though he’d worn his, save for the mask, gloves and grenades.

His rough hands slid up your torso and cupped your breasts through the material of your bra briefly before reaching around to unclasp it. He threw it to the ground before reaching for you again, calloused fingers tweaking your hardening nipples.

You grew exponentially wetter when he enclosed his lips around one, his fingers tugging at the other, and then alternating. He did this back and forth until you were a whining mess.

“Katsuki,” you mewled, subconsciously grinding your hips into his. “Please touch me.”

“Aren’t I?” he murmured into your chest, and you could feel his smirk. Though, he didn’t torture you for long, dropping his hand to the waist of your jeans and undoing them. He lowered himself onto his knees as he dragged them down your legs before throwing them atop the pile of discarded clothes. Your panties were torn off before joining the pile.

You squirmed as Bakugo’s eyes raked your naked body; his mind memorizing every inch in case this was the last time you’d ever let him see you like this (though he was confident it wouldn’t be). He traced his fingers up the length of your leg before gripping your thigh and lifting it to hook your leg over his shoulder.

“So pretty,” he breathed as he looked up at you, eyes lowering to meet your dripping core. “Even down here.”

Your mouth fell open as he flattened his tongue against your core, groaning as he tasted you. You whimpered as he licked you slowly, stopping to kiss your folds every so often before increasing his pace, devouring you like his life depended on it. You entangled your fingers in his hair, alternating between pulling at his roots and rubbing circles into his scalp.

He’d grunt every time you tugged particularly hard, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel heavenly against your clit.

“Bakugo~” you moaned out once he sucked harshly, sensing that you were already almost there. “Ngh- feels so good. So close...”

“Yeah? Gonna cum on my mouth, princess?” He pushed his tongue into your cunt, burying his face between your thighs as he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed circles into the swollen bud.

“Oh my god, yes,” you squeaked, fingernails scratching at his scalp as you neared you’re release. “Coming!”

Bakugo growled into your pussy as you came, the vibrations from his mouth intensifying the sensation tenfold. He watched in awe and adoration while you writhed above him, licking you clean. Once you came down, he rose to his feet, kissing you to allow you to taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

He pulled away to hastily undo his harnesses, pulling off his shirt in the process. You eyed him hungrily as he stripped. Your mouth practically watered at the sight in front of you. You waited until he reached for the button of his pants, catching his wrist in yours to stop him before sinking to your knees. He panted as you groped him over the fabric, rolling his erection into your palm.

“Off,” he groaned, his hand coming down to rest atop your head. “Take them off.”

You obliged, popping open the button and dragging his pants down to around his thighs. You looked up at him as you pressed your tongue against his shaft over his boxers, causing him tug at your roots.

“D-don’t tease me, dumbass.”

You bit your lip as you hooked your fingers into the band, pulling his underwear down slowly. Your heart rate quickened as you revealed his length, inch by inch as you pulled them down his thighs. He was big; so girthy, and the precum that leaked out of the tip only made him look that much more appetizing.

He hissed as you took him in your hand, pumping his length slowly before licking the head of his cock. You lapped up his arousal before taking him in your mouth and sucking as your tongue swirled around the tip. You quickly grew eager for more, taking him fully into your mouth until you were sputtering around him.

“Shit,” he swore, petting your head. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

Bakugo’s words encouraged you and you began to bob your head up and down his cock, humming around it. He gathered your hair into his fist, pulling it as you deepthroated him.

“Ngh, so good. So fucking good,” he moaned, thrusting into your mouth.

As good as it felt, if there was one place Bakugo wanted to cum more than your mouth: it was inside you. Therefore, as he felt himself nearing his release, he reluctantly pulled out of your mouth, groaning at the sight of the saliva that connected your lips to his cock.

“I need to fuck you now,” he informed you as he pulled you up by your shoulders. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

You did as he said, turning to press your hands and face against the wall of the elevator. You chewed your lip in anticipation as you heard him stroke his wet cock behind you before pressing the tip against your folds.

“Katsuki,” you moaned, pushing back against him in a desperate attempt to feel him inside of you. “Please.”

“Please what, princess? What do you want?”

Whimpering as he ground the head of his cock into your clit, you responded. “I want you to- ahh~, fuck me. Please Bakugo.”

You must’ve appeased him, both of his hands coming up to grip your ass and he slowly pushed into you. His name fell from your lips in a long, drawn out moan as he filled you. He stilled once he was entirely in, relishing in the feeling of your warm cunt contracting around him. He could probably cum from that alone.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he commented, pulling out halfway before pushing into you again. He did this over and over until you’d stretched enough to his liking, beginning a steady rhythm as he thrust into you. The elevator filled with the sound of his skin slapping against yours, drowning out your moans. His fingers dug into your hips as he increased his pace, slamming into you as he fucked you.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck yeah,” he moaned out, and you had to grab hold of the elevator railing to steady yourself as he pounded you. “Look at you taking my cock so fucking well. You’re such a good girl.”

Your heart fluttered at his praise, crying out his name as he angled his cock to brush against your g-spot with every thrust. He thrust into you like that just a few times before pulling out of you.

You were about to protest but he spun you around to face him, guiding your arms around his neck and picking you up by the backs of your thighs. He pushed your back against the wall to support you in the new position.

“Wanna see your pretty face when you cum,” he mumbled through clenched teeth, slipping back inside you.

“B-Bakugo,” you whined, finding it difficult to speak with how he was slamming into you. “So close.”

He reached a hand down between you two, rubbing furiously at your clit. “Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock. Fuck.”

You threw your head back in sheer pleasure as your stomach tightened, digging your nails into his back as you reached your climax. You clenched around him, your pussy getting impossibly tighter as you came around his cock.

Bakugo’s thrusts grew sloppier but quicker, exerting the last of his energy as he finished inside you. Thick ropes of his warm cum painted your insides, filling you up along with his cock. He groaned out your name as he let out the last of it, burying his head in your shoulder as he caught his breath.

The two of you stayed like that for a few moments before he pulled out of you and let you down slowly. His cum leaked uncomfortably down your thigh, and suddenly he regretted ruining your panties, wishing he had them to help keep his cum inside of you.

You were caught by surprise when Bakugo wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as he embraced you.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized to you once again. “I need you, and...I don’t wanna do this hero shit if I can’t do it with you.”

 “Me neither,” you assured him, softly kissing his shoulder.

*

“Bakugo?”

“Yeah?”

“How are we getting out of here?” you inquired, remembering that you and him had been the only people in the office on that Sunday night.

“Shit.”

~