#it's so fuckin cool man i can stare at these for hours...

[funkbun]

the progress of this one triptych seen throughout the game cause it's my favorite thing ever

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Proposal Headcanons for Task Force 141 + Graves

Soap

Soap cannot play it cool. The man tries, but the moment he realizes he wants to marry you, it takes approximately 36 hours before he blurts it out mid-date, mid-bite, mid-everything.

“I love you. You love me. Let’s just do it, yeah? Marry me. Right now. I’ll steal a ring if I have to.”

You think he’s joking—until he pulls out an actual ring box from his cargo pocket. It’s dented. A little dirty. But the ring inside? Stunning. Soap actually planned ahead but couldn’t contain himself long enough for the ‘perfect moment.’

He kisses you before you even say yes, whispering, “You’re gonna be the death of me… but what a way to go.”

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom.

The moment you say yes, he tackles you onto the couch, hands everywhere, breathless laughter between frantic kisses. His mouth is on your neck, mumbling, “You said yes—you said yes, I’m gonna ruin you for the next three days.”

He gets downright feral. Clothes ripped off, ring glinting as he grips your hips and mutters filthy praise in your ear. “Say it again. C’mon, sweetheart, say you’re gonna be my wife—while I’m deep inside you.”

You’re so sore the next morning you can barely stand. He carries you to the shower, grinning the entire time.

Gaz

Gaz puts in work. He’s low-key about it, but he plans the proposal down to the smallest detail: your favorite place, the perfect playlist, the exact time the light hits just right.

He gives a small speech about all the things he loves about you—your laugh, your stubbornness, how you make coffee wrong but he drinks it anyway—and then casually drops to one knee like he’s done it in his head a thousand times.

“You don’t make sense with anyone else. You make sense with me. And I want that for the rest of my life.”

You’re a mess. He’s a mess. Even the waiter cries.

He starts slow. Intense eye contact. Whispering thank you against your lips as he slips the ring on your finger and lays you down like you’re sacred.

But once his lips are on your skin? He loses control.

Gaz eats you out like he’s starved, murmuring, “My fiancée tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” between strokes of his tongue. You’re trembling before he even gets his pants off.

And when he finally pushes inside? It’s deep. Slow. A claim.

“I’m gonna make you feel me for days,” he breathes, forehead to yours, hips rolling with purpose. “This is how your husband loves you.”

Ghost

Ghost doesn’t plan to propose. Not because he doesn’t want to—it’s because he’s terrified. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of messing it up.

But then one night, he wakes up after a nightmare and sees you asleep, soft and peaceful beside him… and it hits him. He needs to make sure you never leave.

Next morning? He slips a ring onto your finger while you’re still sleeping. Sits beside the bed, just watching.

You wake up to him staring at your hand, expression unreadable.

“Hope that’s alright,” he says softly. “Didn’t think I could get through asking without losin’ my nerve.”

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him—and the most sure he’s ever been.

You see a side of Ghost no one else ever has.

Once you say yes, the mask comes off—literally and figuratively. He holds your face, kisses you like he’s drowning, and when he lays you down, it’s pure worship.

But when he’s inside you? All that control breaks.

Rough thrusts. Low growls. Hands gripping your thighs like he needs you to anchor him.

“You’re mine now,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Gonna fuck you until that ring rattles on your finger.”

After? He buries his face in your neck and whispers, “My wife. Mine. Mine.” Over and over like a prayer.

Price

Price goes traditional—old-school, respectful, completely heart-melting. He asks your parents (imagine his old ass asking your parents LMAO (he's only 37)), he wears a suit, he brings you somewhere meaningful.

He drops to one knee with total conviction. Eyes steady. Hands only slightly shaking.

“You’ve stood by me through everything. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything I’ve got left.”

It’s not flashy. It’s intimate. He looks you in the eye like a man who already sees your whole life together—and you say yes before he even opens the box.

Bonus: He tears up. Silently. And tries to hide it with a “Might be dusty out here.”

He pours a glass of champagne, gives a toast to Mrs. Price-to-be, and then takes you to bed like a gentleman…

…until he’s got you pinned under him, writhing, one hand wrapped around your throat just enough to make you whimper.

“This is what forever looks like,” he growls, sliding in with maddening control. “You wanna be mine? You better be ready to take every fuckin’ inch of me.”

He makes love like a man with something to prove—and he proves it again. And again. And again.

After? He smokes a cigar with your head on his chest, murmuring, “Next time, I’m bending you over the vows.”

Phillip Graves

Graves turns the proposal into a production. Champagne, string quartet, five-star dinner, and probably a drone flying a banner overhead.

He gives a speech in front of everyone. A loud one. “This woman right here? She’s the best thing I ever got my hands on—and I’m damn sure not letting her go.”

He definitely drops to one knee in slow motion. Probably has a photographer hiding in a bush. Maybe two.

The ring? Custom-made. Probably with your initials engraved inside. He flashes that smug grin and says, “You didn’t think I was gonna do this halfway, did you?”

After you say yes, he yells “She said YES!” like it’s a victory and kisses you like he just won a Super Bowl.

Graves worships you that night like a man obsessed. Pours champagne over your chest just so he can lick it off. Tells you exactly what he’s gonna do with his wife in every room of the house.

“Gonna fuck you in silk sheets and marble floors, darlin’,” he purrs. “You think the ring’s nice? Wait till you see what I do with this body.”

Takes his time ruining you. Bent over the bed. Face down on the counter. On your knees in the living room.

Every time he makes you come, he taps the ring and says, “Mine now. And I’m never lettin’ go.”

[preciosapascal]

Sleepless Nights

Summary: another sleepless night in jackson for both you and your neighbour Joel.

Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+, NSFW, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), pinv, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, pet names, fingering, pussy pronouns

Word count: 3.4k

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!reader

A/N: thank you guys for so much love on my first post last week!! <3 (that you can read here) I’m trying to get through my drafts because I have far too many. Ty again, feedback is appreciated 💝

Reading a book in front of the fire every night was becoming overwhelmingly tedious. You've read the books you have from cover to cover so many times you could probably read them with your eyes closed.

And then one night a month or so ago, you decided to sit on your porch in the middle of the night and saw your neighbour Joel on his. It quickly became a sort of habit for the two of you. Talking til the sun comes up a few nights a week.

Tonight’s no different. Tossing and turning in bed, books boring you half to death, the sound of the fire crackling becoming somewhat annoying at this point, so you step outside.

Joel's already out there, a glass of whiskey in hand, and staring up at the night sky. His head turns as you open your door, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Here she is. Can’t sleep again?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

As soon as his raspy voice reaches your ears, your skin prickles with goosebumps and it's not because of the cold breeze.

"Can I ever?" you reply, scoffing a laugh quietly.

He lets out a soft hum in response, nodding in agreement. "Nah, me neither recently." he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “What’s keepin’ ya up tonight then, darlin’?”

"I have no idea, it's driving me crazy." you sigh, wrapping your plaid blanket over your shoulders a little tighter and sitting on the old used-to-be white wooden chair on your porch.

He hums in agreement, seemingly a man of few words tonight. He silently observes you as you sit down before speaking again.

“You tried countin’ sheep?” He quips, taking another sip of whiskey.

“and the pigs and the horses and every other fuckin’ animal on that damn ark.” you mutter, scooting the chair sideways to face him better.

He can’t help the gruff laugh that escapes him, shaking his head. It makes you smile as you wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders when a cool breeze runs through you. A brief silence falls, but it’s comfortable.

"Can't remember the last time I slept through the night. Been a long damn time." he admits, exhaling softly from his lips and shifting in his seat on the bench, resting his free arm over the back. "it's a nice night, though."

You nod with a small smile and look up at the night sky, taking in the stars and the deep blue colour. "Yeah. Makes a change from what’s happening outside these gates.”

He looks over at you as you take in the beautiful sky above you. Every damn time he looks at you, it drives him almost insane. He turns his head forward, swallowing.

"Did you wanna-" the words escape Joel's lips before he can think about them first, leaving him staring straight ahead for a second. When he glances at you he's met with a nod, urging him to continue. He hesistates for a moment but decides to run with it.

"-wanna...join me?" he finishes, nodding towards the empty space on the bench beside him and the bottle of whiskey on the floor.

Every time you've done this, you've been on your respective porches that're directly next to each other. The prospect of getting closer to him makes your tummy flutter.

You nod softly as you rise from the wooden chair and step down your porch steps, boots crunching in the blanket of snow that’s fallen for what seems like weeks, and up the steps of his porch before sitting next to him, the old bench creaking softly.

Joel looks at you as you sit down. The thought of having you this close crossed his mind a few times as you spoke till the early hours.

Seeing the moonlight touch your skin, the way you wrapped yourself up in the plaid blanket, you were just the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

You could feel the warmth of his body against your side, making you want to wrap yourself around him. He holds up the bottle of whiskey, in your direction.

You take the bottle from his hand and swig it, letting the amber liquid warm you up on it's way down.

He takes the bottle back from you when you offer it to him, also drinking from the bottle since his glass is now empty. He wipes his bottom lip with his thumb and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

You both relish in comfortable silence again for a little while, sharing the bottle of whiskey. You realise something feels different. Like a shift of energy.

When Joel eventually sits back, you rest your head on his shoulder. He looks down at you, shocked at first but enjoying the feeling, and rests his arm on the bench behind you. He could smell the vanilla from the soap you use and it took all his strength not to bury his nose in the crook of your neck right there.

Your head on his shoulder and the weight of your body against his was both simultaneously soothing, and incredibly torturous. For weeks, he’s spent countless hours of the night talking to you. He loved listening to the sound of your voice, making him wonder what it would sound like to hear you whispering his name.

What you don’t know, is whenever you go back inside, he spends the night fisting his cock in his bed, imagining being buried inside of you. And what he doesn’t know is you’ve let your hands wander in the early hours, imagining his huge hands all over you, fingers inside you, mouth on your cunt…

It didn't take long until both of you had nearly finished half the bottle of whiskey and with each passing second, Joel's guard was lowered more and more. The buzz he was beginning to feel was only adding to his internal struggle.

He glances in your direction again; studying the relaxed look on your face. His self restraint was quickly becoming non-existent.

Without thinking, he suddenly raises his hand, slowly running his fingers through your hair and tucking a strand behind your ear. The small gesture, combined with the soft look in his eyes made your thighs squeeze together.

And, it didn’t go unnoticed.

He feels the way you shift against him when he does that, sees the way you squeeze your thighs together. How could he not? Joel lets out a shaky exhale, his free hand flexing on his thigh.

You notice his hand on his thigh, as if he’s itching to do something with it and you snap.

“Joel…” you speak, the breathy tone unintentional.

Joel nearly chokes. The way you just spoke his name, he’s never seen you like this. His hand stops in your hair, fingers curling slightly in the soft locks. You’re already looking up at him as his eyes roam down to your face.

Even in the dim light of his porch, Joel can see the lust in your eyes, realsing they must be mirroring his own. It ignites something inside of him, his hand moving from your hair to wrap around the side of your throat. His thumb brushing along your neck.

“Please kiss me.” you whisper, not caring how desperate you sound.

Joel was a strong man, but he was only human and even he could only handle so much. Hearing those words from your lips, in that voice, he was fucked. His fingers trail from your throat to the nape of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss.

You’re unsure how it happened, but one minute you’re making out on the porch and the next you’re straddling his lap on his couch. Your boots and blanket on the floor in the hall.

Joel’s hands slide to your hips, gripping them tightly, his lips traveling to your jawline and down to your neck. “Mmdarlin’-” he mumbles against your skin, nipping and sucking at the sensitive flesh.

You gasp quietly and instinctively roll your hips as his hand slides up your shirt, fingers splayed over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your right breast.

He groans at the sudden movement of your hips, his own bucking up in response. “S’all it takes, huh?” He murmurs, continuing to kiss and nip your neck with his hand up your shirt. “Few kisses from me and you’re a mess, ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Fuck, he was so right. You’re soaked already and he’s barely fucking touched you. A pathetic “yes” is all you can muster. You can’t get enough of him, hands roaming over his broad shoulders, fingers straying to thread through the greying curls at the nape of his neck while still rolling your hips.

He moans low in his throat when your fingers brush against the back of his neck, his eyes falling shut. “Shit-” Joel murmurs, his hands moving from your hip and side to grasp them hem of your shirt.

His eyes are still closed at the sensation as he blindly pulls your shirt off of you. He opens them to discard your shirt somewhere behind him and sucks in a sharp breath when he looks back to you.

“Fuckin’ Christ…” he whispers before pulling you closer to kiss along your collarbone. His kisses move lower and his hand pulls one of the cups of your bra down, then he flicks his tongue against your nipple.

“Oh-” you gasp softly, hand trialing up to his curls once again. A low moan escapes him at the taste of you and he continues for a little while before moving to the other one, giving it the same attention.

While his mouth is occupied by your chest, his hands travel over your body, resting on your ass and encouring you to grind on him a little harder.

“Tha’s it, baby.” he rasps against your skin as you grind yourself down on him harder. He reaches one hand from your ass to unclasp your bra.

Baby baby baby. It echoes in your head like a beautiful symphony. You want to hear him to say it over and over again.

When your bra falls away, he throws it aside with your shirt and then kisses up the valley between your tits, his hands coming up to cup and squeeze them gently before kissing up the side of your neck and back to your lips.

You kiss him back, your fingers pulling at the buttons of his shirt, trying to undo them. When they’re undone, you push it off of his shoulders. He’s so hot.

He taps you, signalling you to stand up and when you do, he pulls you closer by your belt loop. “C’mere.”

He starts unbuttoning your jeans and yanks them off your legs, leaving you in only your panties. His eyes zero in in the damp patch, then he turns you around you pulls you onto his lap, your back against his chest and his thighs spreading yours wider.

You want to protest that you can’t see him until his hands trail over your thighs. One comes up to hold you against him by your stomach and the other slips into the front of your panties, making you gasp. His index and middle finger tips tease you, running lightly over your folds.

He’s teasing you, and he’s enjoying every second with his smug ass grin against your neck. “Look at you.” he coos, “she’s achin’ for it, baby.” he whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder as his fingers move further down, collecting your arousal before using it to rub your needy clit.

“Shit…Joel…” you whimper, as his fingers rub tight circles against you.

“I know baby, I know.” he says between more kisses and nips to your shoulder. “you just keep on makin’ them pretty sounds, hm?”

His fingers rub a little faster and it’s as if he knows exactly what you need, how your body works. “just gimmie one like this, sweet girl. one like this and then you can have my cock.” he promises, salt and pepper scruff tickling your skin as he speaks.

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. His body against yours, his lips and tongue on your skin, his fingers working you over - you’re a mess, whimpering, moaning, letting any noise out that wants to escape. Your fingers dig into his jeans clad thighs, desperate for him.

“need your- hmmph -your cock, Joel. Please.”

“Y’do?” He coos, his fingers slipping down to your needy hole once more to collect more of the wetness there before returning to your aching bud. “come for me like this first n’ I’ll fuck you real good, darlin’.”

Those words have you moaning and whimpering even more. You’re squirming, desperately clinging onto his thighs as you feel yourself reach that edge. “Tha’s it, baby. Tha’s right, c’mon now.”

His gruff words are what does it for you, your back arches off of him as you come, thighs trembling and a string of moans, and breathy whispers trail out of your mouth.

“Good girl.” he murmurs praises against the shell of your ear, fingers still coaxing every last bit of your orgasm from you. His fingers gradually come to a stop against you and he places a quick kiss to the spot under your ear.

“Wanna see ‘er.” he mutters, carefully plopping you down on the couch, ripping your ruined panties off and spreading your thighs for him. He watches as your cunt clenches around nothing, begging to be stuffed full of him. A low moan escapes him at the sight as his thumbs spread your lips apart.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

You watch him in awe as he gets a proper look, his thumbs gently running over your glistening folds before one prods at your entrance, illiciting a moan from you. “Can I give ‘er a little kiss, baby?” he asks, already leaning down, brown eyes on yours.

You’re nodding your head before you even fully process the question. You’ve imagined this so many times. He wants to tease you, wants to tell you to ‘use your words’ but he can’t, he needs this just as much as you do.

He wastes no time, diving in like a man starved. He licks a longe stripe from hole to clit first, moaning against you, sending shockwaves through you.

His lips and tongue don’t let up, tasting your release, the tip of his tongue teasing your still sensitive nub gently before sucking it into his mouth, making your hips jerk. He chuckles lowly at that and then moves down and fucks you with his tongue, his beard scratching deliciously against your thighs.

“Oh god-” you whine, fingers threading through his curls, making him hum appreciatively. You don’t give a damn how desperate and needy you sound, this man is working you over like you’ve never been before.

He replaces his tongue with two fingers, teasingly dipping them in and pushing them slowly all the way in before he pulls them all the way back out to do it again. “So fucking sweet.” he groans, flicking his wrist up to curl his fingers inside of you. Your moans, your body, you, have got him rutting against the couch like a teenage boy.

“Need to fuck this pussy now, baby. Can I?” he asks, looking up at you, though you and him both know the answer to that. His cock strains against his jeans to the point it’s starting to hurt.

You nod eagerly, letting go of his curls. “Yes, please, need you.”

He pulls his slick coated face and fingers away from your dripping heat and you almost whine at the loss of contact. He stands up and you can see he’s rock hard through his jeans. He unbuckles his belt, the sound of metal clinking exciting you as you track his movements.

When he’s free of his jeans, he sits down, patting his legs for you to come over and you obey quickly. As you move over, he pulls himself out of his boxers, resting the waistband under his heavy balls. You glance down, almost salivating at the sight.

You run out of time to look as he pulls you over, gently but impatiently. “C’mon, sweet girl.” he mutters, lazily stroking his huge cock from base to tip a couple times and you position yourself above him. He runs the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, touching your clit and making you moan. He chuckles, doing it a couple more times before notching at your entrance.

You move forward slightly before slowly sinking down onto him, both of you moaning. One of his hands grip your hip as the other grabs one of your asscheeks as his head falls back against the couch. “Goddamn…” he grits.

You slowly move against him, grinding your hips. “Fuck…needed this….needed you.” you ramble as his cock fills you perfectly. He matches your movements, thrusting up into you. “Yeah? Me too, fuuuck, me too.” he groans, his breathing picking up.

“Look at me, baby. Yeah, tha’s it. Wanna see that pretty face while I fuck ya.”

You meet his eyes and he looks as wrecked as you. Pupils blown, cheeks flushed, panting. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You interlock your fingers behind his neck, riding him faster now. It’s as if you have zero control over what comes out of your mouth.

“C’mon now, ride that cock, pretty girl.” He grunts, smacking your ass and encouraging you to move against him a little faster now.

You ignore the burning sensation in your knees, making it your mission to be full of his come as soon as possible. His hand slides from your hip to the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a messy kiss.

The lewd sounds of skin meeting skin fill the room, you can hear how wet you are and it only spurs him on more. He swallows all your moans, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

He hold you in place and ruts up into you, hitting that spot over and over, making you clench around him. “Makin’ a mess a’my cock, fuckin’ drippin’ all over me ain’tcha?” he almost growls against your lips, pistoning his hips into you.

Your eyes roll back as you moan his name like a prayer. “M’gonna come inside this pretty pussy, baby. That what you want?”

You’re cockdrunk. Everything he says, everything he does just makes you want him even more. “Yesyesyes.” you whine. “Gonna come.”

“Yeah? Gonna milk my cock for all its worth? jesus you’re so fuckin’ tight.” His words are filthy, a stark contrast to the tone he speaks them in, making your cunt clench around him as you teeter right on the edge.

“Mmpleasepleaseplease.” you whine, fingers tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck again. That makes him moan and he buries his face into your neck.

“Fuck, I can feel it. C’mon, gimmie another one. Lemme feel you.” he murmurs against your neck. You can feel his warm breath agaisnt your skin, and that mixed with his cock hitting the right spot over and over and his massive hands gripping you send you straight over.

“Joel-” you try to let him know but it happens so fast, your back arches and your head falls back. His movements falter slightly as you grip his cock like a velvet vice.

“Ah, fuck, look so pretty like this baby- shit-” he mutters as his orgasm washes over him too, his head rolls back, his brow furrowed and his mouth open as he lets out a string of breathy curse words and grunts and fills you up with ropes of his hot load.

You’re both in a state of bliss, breathing laboured, skin shining with sweat. Joel rests his forehead against your shoulder, trying to control his breathing. His hands now delicately running over the parts of you he gripped tight as your cheek rests against his head.

“Y’know what?” You say after a moment, moving your face from his head, your arms hanging loosely over his shoulders.

He slowly lifts his head up and tucks your hair behind your ear. “What, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

“For the first time in months, I’m actually tired.” you say, a lazy smile on your face. He exhales an amused puff of air from his nose, smiling up at you.

“Yeah, yeah me too.”

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

cowboy like me | r. reynolds

a/n: guess who's back. haha. sorry i said i was on hiatus and then wrote this. i saw thunderbolts and made it everyone else's problem so here is a fuck of a long fic. i dont know i just wanted to put all my ideas in one so there is a lot going on in this one but yeah. uhm. no real smut because i didn't wanna write because they fuck a lottt also the entire concept is based off this one screenshot i have and i do not know where i got it (it was from some sort of meme) but yeah! warnings: SELF HARM!! no really super serious descriptions but the reader is mentally ill and so is bob and reader does hurt herself at some point and bob wraps them. lots of talks of addiction and alcoholism and sobriety. lots of kissing and allusions to sex and teasing and everyone (bob and reader) is mentally ill and, yeah. sentry and void have a conversation with bob in his brain. also book club. word count: 9.4k summary: you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits. pairing: bob reynolds x sober!reader now playing: cowboy like me - taylor swift "now you hang from my lips/like the gardens of babylon/with your boots beneath my bed/forever is the sweetest con."

The first text comes at 5:43 on a Tuesday.

‘do you wanna start fucking again like maybe once a week?’

You must’ve sat, staring at your phone for twenty minutes. Who the fuck..?

The second text comes at 6:32.

‘it can be like a little book club, we can read the same book and discuss’

Book club..?

You ask yourself if this is some sort of joke, and another text shows up three minutes later--

‘i also have a real bed now.’

And then you remember this meth head you used to sleep with, some Florida guy who was always taking odd jobs to fuel his addiction—Cashier, house sitter, alligator hunter, amusement park mascot.. until he got fired, which always seemed inevitable.

You suppose you have no room to judge. You had only been in Jacksonville after your last friend in New York told you no more, that they wouldn’t watch you destroy yourself. But you didn’t need them to, you never needed an audience to fuel the urge to rip every little bit of your soul apart.

You had taken a job working at a Dunkin Donuts that was right next to a liquor store. It seemed as if the universe had given you a sign. You could retire here. Nothing but part time shifts, a bottle of vodka, and a shitty room for rent from the kinkiest 72-year-old lesbian you had ever met.. You had a little bit of respect for her, a sort of ‘good for her’ attitude.

And then, you met Bob.

You met Bob at a dealer’s house.

Romantic, right?

Bob was about to take his first hit in six or seven hours, and you sat uncomfortably scrunched against the couch, trying not to think about how many fucked up things had happened there.

And he sat on the other side of the couch, Bob sat, flicking his lighter on and off while he waited.

..The girl you were with was currently.. paying for the coke she wanted. You were never a fan of drugs, alcohol was your one and only, your soulmate—you could never cheat on her. But this girl promised to buy shots at the next bar. And now you had to listen to her ‘pay’ her dealer—and you presumed Bob’s dealer in the other room.

“Hey.” He speaks first.

You give him a side glance.

“Hey.”

“Waiting for.. stuff?”

“Just waiting for my friend.”

“Oh. Cool.”

A beat.

“What’s your—“

“Alcohol.”

“Oh. Cool. Mine’s meth.”

“Great.”

A beat.

“I need a fuckin’ hit man, I don’t know what’s taking her so long to fucking pay—”

God, you wanted a drink in that moment.

“So, he’s your dealer?”

“Yeah. And my roommate. My rooms the one down the hall.”

“Cool.”

Another beat.

You began tapping your foot against the carpet.

“Oh my god, it doesn’t take that long to—”

“It fucking takes a minute, relax,” You scoffed.

“Not this long.” You caught the unspoken words.

And then, almost in sync, you looked at each other, fully turning your heads to really see what one another looks like. Your eyes flickered up and down his features. Drunk as you were, you knew you could do much worse than this guy.

But before you could say anything, he spoke again,

“Wanna see my room?”

Your ‘friend’ didn’t really seem to be finishing up her transaction anytime soon. Plus, it.. had been a while.

“Sure.” You said, and you followed Bob two steps behind on the way down to his bedroom. When he opened the door, you know deep down sober you would be mortified—well, only if the sex was bad.

His room was small, clothes laid about in various piles across the room—a few lighters, a coin or two next to the odd chip bag.. and in the corner of his room, a twin sized mattress laid on the floor, black sheets and a red blanket, one that had been clearly loved.. and a very old pillow.

You just stared until Bob grabbed your wrist, pulling you along to the bed. He sat on the bed first, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and gently prompted you to ‘c’mere.’ As you sat on his lap, you realized that this guy was cute enough for this to become a regular thing.

Your lips locked with his, slowly pulling him in with slow, gentle kisses as if the two of you weren’t giving plenty of time for the moment to be interrupted by the end of the transaction in the other room.

And then, your hands traced up from his shoulders, past his neck and ears, curls wrapping around your fingers.

As if you couldn’t help yourself, you found yourself gently tugging at his hair, listening as he let out this soft moan, and you couldn’t deny—you could totally get used to this. 

And after, when you laid back on his stupid twin sized mattress without a bedframe, your finger stayed twirled in his curls. Then, when he heard the other bedroom door open, he pulled on his boxers and got up, grabbing a sweatshirt as he headed to the door. He glanced back to you to ask,

“’m going to take a hit, want anything?”

“Something to drink?”

“I’ll get you a beer.” He had offered, and you found yourself smiling.

So, you came back. Again. And again. And again. And again. And then you got sober. Or at least, that’s the version you’d give your therapist when you next spoke.

When you got sober, you had gone from a smartphone to a flip phone, deleting and blocking many of the numbers from your party days.. until you had gotten to Bob. All you did was delete his contact from your phone—he still had your number if he wanted to reach out.

But he hadn’t. Not for the past nineteen months, and you’ll be honest—Month eight was such a big month for you (being able to babysit your niece by yourself for the first time, saving up for your own apartment, no roommates or family, and enrolling in a night class or two), so you had forgotten the meth head who purred when you played with his hair.

And yet..

You felt this.. tug. At something.

You found yourself responding—

“hey, i’ve been sober for nineteen months. not interested if ur still using.”

Your texting habits reflected your archaic tech.

But you meant it—Bob was.. well, you didn’t like to think about the things you felt for him, but it was enough to make you bury it as deep down as you could.

“me too”

And then, seven minutes later,

“therapy too lol.”

You glance at the time. You think about your favorite bar’s bottomless margaritas on Tuesdays, and you realize it has been a while.. it was typical for people not to date within a year of sobriety. But it had been nineteen months..

And this wasn’t a date.

It was book club..

“what do u want to read?”

You toss the flip phone on your bed and walk over to the shelf in the corner of your room. You inspect the spines of the few books you have and realize they’re not book club material.

You pick your phone back up to read the text—

“great gatsby? i never read it in school”

Neither had you. Maybe you had been assigned it once upon a time.

“okay. next thursday enough time?”

You were serious about the book club aspect of this. You know two things—

One, no mater how he answers, you’ll have to talk this over with your therapist. Maybe even your sister. You barely ever take risks, not since getting sober, and this risk scares the shit out of you..

Two—You are almost giddy at the idea of tugging at Bob’s hair. You’ve been alone for too long, but you can’t seem to trust yourself enough to download a dating app and hook up with strangers (you theorize you could become as addicted to hookups as you were to alcohol) and the idea of getting into a serious relationship makes you feel sick.. so maybe this is a good compromise.

You glance at the phone in your hand and see one more text--

“sure :)”

So, you send him an address to a coffee shop near your apartment. He asks you if three works. You say yes.

When you tell your therapist about it the next day, this huge smile grows on her face as you tell her about your dilemma—to be or not to be, to go or not to go, to fuck Bob or not to fuck Bob.

You debate this back and forth, and your therapist eventually tells you—

“As your therapist, I shouldn’t and couldn’t push you to do this. Read the book. Go to coffee. At the very least, you’ll get some closure. Or.. you could have an outlet. Remember your boundaries, and don’t pursue anything you aren’t comfortable doing. Ask him questions about his sobriety if it’s important for you to know to feel comfortable. Think about it, and we can talk about it next week before you go.”

And that was pretty good advice. You contemplated it, back and forth, bouncing a mental tennis ball off a mental wall in an imaginary room. Sometimes, there are bottles of booze in the imaginary room, and other times, Bob sits in the corner. Quietly watching you ‘throw the ball.” Somedays it’s just you and the tennis ball.

You’re very normal.

When you told your sister, she just laughed.

“So, at what point did you start seriously considering this?”

“..When I realized he had an actual bed now.”

And that’s all you can respond, because you can’t explain how curious you are. He was a meth head named Bob who had no bed frame, and yet.. you want him. After nineteen months, you think about the way he focused his attention to you in between sips, in between hits, in between fucks.

How his hand rested on your side, how those stormy eyes studied yours as you talked, asking questions about your delusional rambles—

“Right, but what does that mean?” He had asked one night.

“What does what mean?”

“What the fuck does it mean that I ‘am’ the.. hanging gardens of Babylon?” You had rolled your eyes, and the pads of your fingertips against his lips.

“They were a uh,” Your eyes flicker up and down his face. “These.. gardens. City of Babylon, a long long time ago-- They were supposed to so beautiful but there’s no archeological proof they ever existed, except they’re mentioned in poetry, so.. They may or may not be real and we’ll never know. You remind me of them.”

Bob just stared at you for a long time. He didn’t say anything but the way his eyes fixated on you made you alive.. And maybe more alive than the booze, and that thought petrified you because up until that point, drinking was your life. So, you ignored it. What else were you supposed to do?

When you’re done with therapy for the day, you go to the closest bookstore. You pick up the cheapest paperback you can find of Gatsby and then, your eye wanders, as it always done in a bookstore. You spot a book on The Seven Ancient Wonders of the world.. And you decide to buy it when you see the large chapter on The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

///

The week passes quickly because you find yourself filling any free time you have with reading, underlining and circling quotes and words that F Scott Fitzgerald decided were good enough to convey his themes.

You barely register that it’s Thursday morning when it comes because all you want to do is reread your favorite parts over and over again while you get ready for the day. Before you know it, it’s.. time for book club.

You decide to get there ten minutes before three, hoping you’ll be able to grab a drink and relax before Bob shows up. The bell on the door of the café rings when you walk in, and there are a couple of patrons..

But you find yourself stopping in your tracks when you see a familiar face in the corner, a book on the table, as his finger traces a pattern on the cover.. absently. Like he’s somewhere else.

And then his head picks up, and he notices you. Neither of you say anything, neither of you smile.

In an instant, you’re not sure if you can do this, if—

“Decaf red velvet latte with whipped cream and cinnamon for Bob?” The barista calls, and he stands and approaches the counter, mumbling a thanks to the barista. When he glances down and notices your name scribbled on the side of a cup marked ‘half n half’ and ‘two splenda’, he picks it up and turns, handing you the cup.

“Hi.” He says, and you find yourself reaching out to take the cup, as if you just saw Bob yesterday.

“Hey.” You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Wordlessly, the two of you sit at the table.

And there is quiet.

Until, Bob asks,

“So.. how have you been?”

“..Fine.”

“..Cool.” You remember this awkward feeling. Like right before the first time, you slept together. “Thanks for meeting with me.” He breathes after a moment, and you nod.

“Yeah.” You breathe, and then he asks,

“You’ve been sober since the last time we—”

“What did you think about the book?” You ask, reaching to take a sip of your coffee. Bob nods, taking the hint.

“I.. liked it.” He says, “It was a good first book for this. I liked that.. that Nick reflects on his life through these other characters and realizes what he does, or doesn’t, want.. How about you?” He asks.

“I liked it too,” and you find yourself wanting to just ramble about your analysis but you bite your tongue. “I think Daisy is a fascinating character too, especially in the way she seems so trapped in her situation. Like being with Gatsby is the only way she can feel alive or free or something.”

Bob considers this for a second.

“Yeah,” He starts, “But she’s.. a rich woman. She’s inherently part of the system that you claim traps her and is actively benefiting from her wealth.”

Wait.. was your awkward meth head situationship kinda.. smart?

You adjust from your rigid position and lean into the conversation a bit.

“Well, Why can’t it be both?” You wonder, “She can benefit from these systems and be miserable in them—she’s miserable, maybe because she’s benefiting from it, and her wealth doesn’t negate the abuse and strain on her marriage.” You say and go to take another sip of your coffee.

Bob is quiet.

Then, he says—

“Yeah. I think you’re right.”  He smiles a little, and you feel your heart in your throat. “So do you think the green light was actually supposed to be as important as pop culture makes it seem, or was that just..”

“I think it is as important as we’re led to believe, because it’s a symbol of what things could be.” And then, before Bob can say something that would lead you to change your mind, you say, “Yeah, I stayed sober since the last time we talked.. When did you quit?”

He inhales and then closes his mouth, and you watch as he holds his breath, noting that his mouth is sort of puffed like a chipmunk. When he exhales, he responds,

“Right after that, I guess. I joined this.. medical.. study and quit to do that.. Then, I guess I just.. stayed sober.” He says, and you laugh, so with a bit of a smile, he asks, “What’s so funny?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Then, Bob starts to laugh too.

“Do I?” He leans forward like he’s about to tell you a secret, and he says softly, “Because some days I feel like I’m drowning and maybe meth would be the key to being able to breath again..”

“So, what do you do when you feel like that?” You ask softly, not because you’re looking for an answer but because you need to know if sobriety is as big for him as it is for you.

Bob gestures to the table.

“This. Sugar, reading—” He cuts himself off like there’s something else when he meets your eyeline. “Do you want to go to your place or mine?”

And there’s no hesitation when you answer,

“Mine.”

///

Bob spends a long time studying the details on your shelves. He notices the pictures of a seven-year-old he doesn’t recognize and you, the small lego structures in between them, and he finds a small jar next to your TV with little chips in them.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He hears you ask.

“No, thanks.” He calls back, and you appear in the doorway.

“Too much sugar in that latte you had?” You tease, and in that way you love, he just stares at you for a long time, in that way that makes your heartbeat too fast.

“Can’t help it,” he says, “No meth means lots and lots of sugar.”

“Right,” You nod.

Your fingers itch by your side, and you decide—Fuck it. You’re not getting any younger, any more sober. So you go over to him. Like a scared deer, Bob just stares at you, while you try to not scare him off. Your hand ever so gently reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

Then, he shakes his head a bit.

“I haven’t done anything with anyone in a while.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Then, because you think you’ll tell him to leave and never come back if you don’t, you lean forward and kiss him, and as if that is how he gets air when he feels like he’s drowning, his hands are on your side, slowly stepping so that you’re backing up towards your bedroom.

Then, you pull away,

“Bob,” You start, “I’m not really looking for a serious relationship right now,” You start, and his lips begin to leave sloppy kisses, first along your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck.

“Mhm,” is all he responds with.

“I’m being serious,” You sigh as he continues to step forward, pushing you back towards the bedroom, his mouth hot on your skin. “I’m still working on getting my shit together,” You continue.

“I get it,” he says, his voice gentle.

“Do you?” You ask, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “Because it seems like you’re trying to sleep with me—”

“No, No,” He shakes his head a bit, “I’m not going to sleep with you, silly girl,” He hums, and you never want this moment ends, “I’m going to fuck you.” He says gently. It makes you laugh, and he chuckles too.

You decide to take the initiative and slip your shirt off-- Then, he takes off the sweater he’s wearing, and you have to take a second. You really look at him and begin to smile.

His stomach is rounder than it was nineteen months ago when you last met. He’s.. thicker. His rips aren’t poking out of his stomach. No, thicker isn’t the right word.. He looks.. healthier.

And that is hot.

“What?” he asks, “What is it?” he wonders, and you just shake your head.

“Nothing. You were saying something about fucking me?” You wonder, and he nods.

“Right, right.” He says softly, grabbing your face and bringing you in for another kiss. Your hands trail up his neck and find his hair as he slowly sinks down, so he’s kneeling between your legs.

Your hands find his hair, and in between kisses, you gently tug on his hair, and just completely melt when you hear a soft moan leave his lips..

And old habits die hard.

So, you do it again.

///

You lay on your stomach, your face smooshed against the pillow you have your arms around. Bob is sitting up in bed, and you find yourself looking at him for a long while.

“So, What are you doing for work now that you’re sober and in New York?” You ask.

Bob plays with your sheets.

“Uh,” He lets out a soft half chuckle. “..You know the uh.. New Avengers?”

“Vaguely.” You shrug. You don’t really have the time to keep up with that sort of thing, between your job, between babysitting your niece, between being sober.. And it’s not like you have social media, so.. yeah. Vaguely.

“..That.”

“That what?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

“That’s what I’m doing now.”

“Bob, I’m not following.”

His finger begins to run down your arm.

“I guess I.. sort of count.. as a.. New Avenger.”

“…What?”

“I need you to stop asking me that,” He sighed. “Do you remember the uhm.. medical study thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Something they did.. it changed me.. A serum.”

“So you’re like, some sort of superhero or something?” You wonder, and you say it like it’s funny. Bob looks uncomfortable—much more than he usually does.

“..No. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” He says. “I’m dangerous, I.. Do you remember last year when the.. the Void attacked New York? Right around the time that the New Avengers got announced?” He asks.

You pause.

“I mean, yeah, but I was in Jersey at the time, at a wedding.” Your first since getting sober. It was a rough weekend.

“Yeah, that was me.”

“..What was you?”

Bob wishes he could sink into your mattress and never show his face again.

“The void.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m not allowed to go on missions or.. get into any emotionally challenging situations..” he sighs. “Because I.. I can barely keep him.. or even the.. Sentry at bay.. I’m working on it.” He finally looks at you. “Which is why I don’t want a serious relationship either.” He says. “We.. we could just be friends.”

“Friends who fuck.”

“Book club with Benefits?”

You smile.

“Friends who discuss literature and also fuck.”

Bob rolls his eyes a bit, his lips pursing into a reluctant smile.

“Book club with benefits.” His pointer finger starts at the top of your back and travels down your spine, “Lots.. and lots.. of benefits.”

And if you could focus on anything other than how good that felt, you might’ve noticed the flicker of gold in his eyes.

///

“Decaf Caramel Frappuccino with extra caramel and whipped cream, and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” The barista calls, and you step forward to grab your drinks.

You hand Bob his glorified milkshake and sit at the same table you sat at last week.

“So,” You start, “Lord of the flies.”

“Yeah,” He breathes, “I.. I didn’t really like this one.” He shrugs.

“I think the concept is interesting enough.” You respond, “And it’s interesting that the group is only made up of privileged little British white boys. The horrors they put each other through might never have happened if they had been a group of schoolgirls, or if they had faced any hardship before this.” You shrug back, taking a sip of your coffee.

Bob nods as he studies the atmosphere of the café.

“Hey, do you wanna split a slice of cake or pie or something?” He asks, and you find yourself giggling.

“You’re ridiculous.” You scoff. Bob huffs.

“You’re boring.” He accuses and you just laugh more.

“I am not boring, I’m consistent.” It makes Bob shake his head.

“Coconut cream pie?” And the way he makes those puppy eyes makes you sigh.

“Fine. But you’re one piece of pie away from me accusing you of being addicted to that in place of Meth.”

“You wouldn’t.” He smirks, like he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Sure I would.” You shrug, “I’m just a concerned friend, Robby.” You smile, and then you watch as Bob gets up to get a slice of pie, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

///

“And then I said to him, I say, ‘If you want to hire spider-man to try and do your bidding, be my guess, but I—”

Bob is biting his tongue as he listens to everyone talk. He’s sitting on a chair at the kitchen island, watching as John moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. He’s been staring at the same page of The Outsiders for ten minutes, just thinking.

Bucky is complaining about Sam, and before anyone can respond with anything, Bob clears his throat and puts his book down.

“Can I ask you guys something?” he wonders, and everyone’s head immediately turns to him. He barely talks in these group settings, so Yelena, who sits by his side, nods.

“Sure, what’s up?” She asks.

“..I need.. advice. I need to get a birthday gift for.. a friend of mine.” is how he starts.

“Not anyone in this room, right?” John asks, and everyone, including Bob, just looks at him.

“No. I know you think I’m socially inept, but I know not to ask what I should get someone while they’re in the room.” He huffs.

“Alright, who’s the gift for?” Bucky asks.

Bob wants to tell them all about you—your quirks, your laugh, the way your brain works, the way you feel wrapped around his—

But he hesitates.

“Just.. a friend.” He breathes. “From.. Book club.”

“Book club?” Ava answers, and already it feels like a mistake to have asked them but they’re his only friends besides you.

“Yeah, we.. choose a book to read every week and we meet up for coffee every week to talk about it.”

Yelena glances down to the book on the counter.

“Book club..” She nods, “And how long have you known this friend?”

“…It’s complicated.” He breathes.

“And do you hangout outside of book club?” John asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush.

“Sort of.”

“What does that even mean?” Ava asks, and he shrugs.

“We.. do some other stuff. I don’t know, she—”

“Oh, she?” Alexei finally pipes up, letting out a gruff laugh. “So you like her?”

“It’s just difficult to explain!” He snaps, and everyone pauses when the lights flicker. For a moment, no one says anything.

Then, Bucky huffs,

“So just try.” He gently prods. Bob hesitates.

“She’s.. I do like her. We started book club last month, but.. We met before.. Y’know.” He gestures around, “We..” his cheeks are red as tomatoes now. “When we’re done with coffee and talking about books, we.. we go back to her place, and we..”

Immediately everyone either groans or laughs. Bob feels like he might die on the spot.

“That is so weird,” Yelena laughs, and Bob groans as he covers his face with his hands, shaking his head.

“Never should’ve told you guys.”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky says after a moment. “You knew this girl before the Sentry project?”

“Yeah. We both were.. were addicts in Florida. We started hooking up, and I knew from before I went to Malaysia that she was moving back to New York, so I looked her up and—and you all said I needed to get a hobby!” He offered.

“We meant like,” Ava shrugs, “Knitting or—”

“Book club?” Yelena smiles. Bob bites the inside of his cheek.

“So, what should I get her for her birthday?"

“Well, what kind of message do you want to send?” John asks. “That you want to be more than.. whatever it is that—”

“..Book club with benefits.”

Everyone looks at him.

“What?”

“..That’s what we call it.”

“Oh, my god,” Yelena and Ava are giggling now.

“Okay. What kind of message do you want to send?” John asks again, and Bob hesitates.

“..That I care about her, that..” he shakes his head, “that.. I’m sorry for..” he picks his head up and notices everyone staring at him. He can hear the Void laughing at him in the back of his head.

“For..?” Bucky offers gently and Bob shakes his head. And then, he begins to tell his teammates about the last time he saw you.

///

Nineteen Months Ago

You and Bob had been sleeping together for months. Hanging out in between fucks and hits—or drinks. He had burrowed his way into your heart and taken up this big chunk of it, replacing booze in your late-night fantasies.

When he wasn’t extremely high, and you weren’t extremely drunk, you found yourself falling for him. The attention he showed you had been it’s own high, and you had let yourself become addicted to someone who you would never have a normal life with.

But he was there, waiting for you with a shot after every shift. You often helped him light up. The two of you encouraged each other’s destructive behaviors. Became each other’s self-destructive behaviors. Like the mentally ill addicts you were.

Your sister had flown down to Florida to see you.

You hadn’t asked her to. You knew she wouldn’t approve of this.. lifestyle. And at first, you wished she had never come to see you, because you did not want to stop drinking.. and then she wore you down. Your big sister always knew how to get you to do whatever she wanted.

So, the night before she was scheduled to fly back to New York, you went to see Bob. His roommate let you in, and you found him high and on his bed.

“Robby,” you said as you walk in. He smiled twenty seconds later when he registered your presence.

“I love it when you call me that.” He spoke.

You smiled weakly. You took a seat on his mattress.

“I have to talk to you.” You had said. He sat up, leaning forwards.

“Mm, All you do is talk to me,” he said slowly, and his hand grabbing yours. “Come kiss me instead—” His lips catch yours, in a soft, sweet kiss. He pulled away, and you whispered,

“Robby, please.”

And only then had he registered an important detail.

“You don’t taste like booze.”

You always tasted like booze.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “that’s why I wanted to talk to you—”

“No,” he said softly, “No, don’t—”

“Tomorrow, I’m flying to New York with my sister. I’m going to rehab.”

He shook his head, sighing.

“What.. what changed your mind?” He asked, and you shrug.

“My niece. My sister told me that.. she’s sick of having to talk about me like I’m dead. That she wants to know me. She’s six. Her names Ella.” A smile tugged at your lips. “She does dance. And she.. she loves to read, my sister said.. It reminded her of me.” Then, you shook your head, tears brimming your eyes. “I want to be in her life. I want to taste my mom’s cooking again. I.. I want to get better.” You cleared your throat.

“I’m going to Malaysia tomorrow.” Bob said, and your eyebrows furrowed.

“What?”

“I got fired from my job, so they gave me my last paycheck.. So I spent it on a plane ticket. I’m going to Malaysia with.. thirty bucks in my pocket. Maybe I’ll find the answers. Or, at least more drugs..” He shrugged. “Come with me.” He had offered.

You just shook your head.

“No.”

“No?” He scoffed, “What do you mean no?”

“No. I won’t go to Malaysia. I’m going torehab..” You started, and you inhaled before you asked, “And you should come with me.” You offered.

Bob let out a humorless chuckle.

“You..” He shook his head. “You’re just like everyone else.” He sighed, and you shook your head.

“Robby,” You whispered. “Please come with me. Get clean. Be.. be with me.” You said quietly, and when you leaned in to kiss him, he tilts his head away from you.

Oh.

“You should go.” He huffs. “I need to pack.”

You nod.

“You’re right. I should go.”

You stand, and make your way to the door, wiping your tears as you go.

Bob doesn’t say anything.

You stopped in the doorway, turning around to look at your sweet boy with no bed frame one last time.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

And then, as if you weren’t soul crushingly and devastatingly in love with him, you left. And you hadn’t seen him again. Not until you started book club.

///

“Decaf vanilla bean macchiato with whipped cream and cinnamon and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” Bob grabs the drinks today, and when he sits across from you, you start—

“So. Frankenstein?”

Bob sighs.

“I liked that it’s the first ever sci-fi novel, and it was written by a young woman. It’s interesting.” He shrugs.

“Yeah.” You nod, and you open your mouth to say something but Bob beats you to it,

“I mean, I don’t.. I don’t know. Victor is just.. so stupid but also so.. self-centered. He’s— He’s the one who created the monster, why can’t he take accountability for it? Why is the monster doomed to always.. be a product of his creator?” He sounds frustrated, so you gently shrug.

“It is bullshit. But I think the person aspect of him, the human aspects of the monster are all him.  The best parts of him comes from the work he does on himself.” You shrug, and Bob knows this conversation has strayed from Frankenstein. Kind of.

“Yeah.” He sighs softly.

A beat.

“And I agree.” You shrug, “Victor is a fucking idiot.”

Bob just smiles, and then asks,

“Wanna split a chocolate chip muffin with me?”

///

Bob calls you on a Saturday afternoon between book club meetups.

“Hey,” You say into the phone, “Everything okay?” You usually don’t talk except for your weekly meetups.

“Yeah,” He says into the phone.

“Okay.” You smile. “Do you.. need so—”

“Come over.” He gently requests, “I- I mean, You don’t.. you don’t have to, I was just wondering if you wanted to—I guess..” He breathes.

“Robby, it’s not even Thursday.” You tease.

“I don’t.. care,” He breathes.

“I..” You start, “Would.. really love to, but I gotta do laundry.”

“Do your laundry here.” He offers.

“Bob.”

“What?” he whines, “I..I just need.. to see you.”

You bite your tongue, but it would be nice to see him. To see his new, full bed. And you know that if he has a washer and dryer, it would make laundry a lot less frustrating than doing it in the laundry mat down the road from your apartment.

“Okay,” You sigh. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” You promise.

Bob meets you in the lobby of New Avengers tower, watching as you walk in, holding a bag of laundry as you make your way to him.

“This place is crazy,” You tell him, and Bob just smiles awkwardly.

“It’s.. just a tower.”

“Yeah, but like.. It’s definitely not just—” You cut yourself off when you realize how out of his element Bob looks. “Where’s this awesome new bed I hear so much about?” You ask, and it seems like it’s enough for him to relax.

“Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.” You follow him into the elevator, and when the doors close, he says, “So.. You’ll.. probably meet the team, or at least some of them.”

“Oh, I get to meet—” You clear your throat and wipe the smirk off your face. “That’ll be nice.”

Bob just looks at you for a moment.

“They’re.. kind of.. intense.” He breathes.

“Bob, we were addicts in Jacksonville, I can handle a couple of.. teammates.” You shrug.

Bob gives you an awkward smile.

“Yeah, sure.” He sighs. The doors open, and you follow Bob out, looking around the apartment. Like he’s looking around for trouble.

“Bob, seriously I—”

“Heads up!”

You and Bob duck at the same time when a football comes flying towards your head.

“Sorry,” a voice says, and you see.. The US Agent and The Red Guardian, coming to retrieve their ball.

“Ah, Bob,” The Red Guardian says, “Who is your girlfriend?” He smiles. Your cheeks flush.

“Uh, She’s.. just my friend. Who happens to be a girl.” He says.

“Right, right.” He nods.

“We’re in a book club together,” you start and both men start laughing while Bob looks intensely embarrassed.

“Oh,” One laughs, “You’re the book club girl.. I’m John. This is Alexei, are you staying for dinner?” He asks.

You glance to Bob, who looks back to you.

“Uh,” He shrugs, “I don’t.. maybe.” He breathes.

“Maybe isn’t—”

“Too late, we’re doing laundry, Bye!” Bob says, grabbing your hand and pulling you along. You just smile and bite back a comment about how jealous he seems.

“They seem nice.”

“They aren’t.” He grumbled, and you just laugh.

When you’re done putting on your laundry, Bob takes you to his room, and you can’t help the smile that stretches across your room. It’s a little messy, but there are books here and there, cozy blankets, warm lighting, and.. no meth. No booze.

You jump onto Bob’s bed, stretching out with a soft laugh, this stupidly large grin on your face.

“Oh, My Robby situationship has a real bed now, how divine,” You hum, and Bob just stands in the doorway with a soft smile on his face.

“I missed you.” he says softly, and you shake your head.

“Well, I’m here now,” You offer. He scoffs and walks over to the bed, finding his place on top of you as you lay back.

“Not really good enough for me,” He confesses.

“Needy Robby.” You jest, but before you can tease him further, he kisses you.

Your fingers find his hair in familiar movements, and Bob deepens the kiss further, his tongue slipping past your lips. His fingers dip under the shirt you’re wearing, and a soft shiver runs down your spine as he scratches up your sides, and when you moan in response, it seems to make him more confident in his movements.

Your fingers curl around his hair, tugging just barely on his hair. In between kisses, you mumble,

“Need you,” And he just catches your lip in his teeth, tugs a bit, and goes back to kissing you. And kissing you, and kissing you—

Until you hear the shatter of a glass on the nightstand. Both you and Bob pull away and your heads turn to look at the pile of glass and the water dripping off the nightstand.

“Did you..”

Bob’s face flushes.

“I-I didn’t mean to, I just—”

There’s a brief knock on the door, and then it opens, and a short blonde woman walks in.

“Bob, is everything okay, because—Woah,” She stops, noticing the compromising position the two of you are in, just as Bob takes his hand out of your shirt. “Oh, this is what happens at book club, huh—”

“Yelena!” Bob snaps, his cheeks red with embarrassment. Your eyebrows furrow when you see his eyes flicker gold.

“I was just trying to make sure you’re okay! The lights were flickering..”

Bob groans and rolls off of you.

You just smile awkwardly to Yelena.

“He’s fine, we were just..” You shrug. “Uh..” You chuckle awkwardly.

“Right, just.. Tell him to relax whenever he comes back down to earth,” She says, and then steps forward and holds out her hand, “I’m Yelena, it’s nice to—”

“Okay,” Bob stands suddenly, walking towards Yelena, “I’ll see you at dinner, okay?” He says, and she just smirks.

“Have fun at uh.. Book Club.” She says, turning to leave. Bob closes the door behind her and then glances back to you, and then groans, covering his face with his hands.

“Bob,” You grin, a soft laugh lacing your words, “Baby, it’s really not that bad.”

He looks at you when you call him that.

“It’s not..?”

“No.” You smile. “Come back to bed..” And then, you try, “Please, baby?”

Bob moves like lightning to kiss you again. It’s actually impressive. Not as impressive as breaking the glass or turning off the lights because he was just too.. needy. But, his speed is pretty impressive.

///

“Decaf pumpkin spice chai with extra cinnamon and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” You take the drinks from the barista, and slide into the seat across from Bob, glancing over to him.

“So,” You start, “1984.” You sip your coffee.

Bob gestures to you.

“Go for it.” He smiles gently.

You begin to talk about the political implications of the novel..

And Bob becomes slowly lost in thought. It starts out simple enough.

He notices how gorgeous your hair looks. You’re always so pretty.

We could take such good care of her, a voice says in the back of his head, She should know everything we could offer her.

Or..

No, Bob thinks. It’s bad enough that the ‘Sentry’ wants a piece of you, he wouldn’t be able to stand it if he entertained any thought of letting the Void out.. especially if he wanted to get anywhere near you.

Why not?, the voice asks, you could help.. We could help. She wouldn’t have to worry about her sobriety or any of her silly thoughts.

He’s right, The Sentry agrees, and Bob feels like he might be sick, How could you even know what she wants if you haven’t asked?

Because, Bob thinks, you don’t even want him. Why would you want either of these—

Because I’m better than a God, The first voice tells him, And he’s..

Everything you aren’t.

Exactly.

Shut up, Bob thinks, She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t at least a little bit into me.. right?

You’re so naïve, Bobby, He could hear the Void mocking him, and it was even worse when Sentry cut in—

She could get a fuck from anywhere, and let’s face it, you’re not particularly tal—

“Let’s go back to your place,” He says suddenly, cutting your rambles off.

“Everything okay?” You ask, watching as he stands, grabbing his jacket.

“Uh.. Yeah.” He smiles awkwardly, “I’m just..” He shrugs, “In a.. a giving mood.” His cheeks flush when he says it, and the tips of your ears go red when you realize what he’s saying.

“Okay,” you nod, “No, like—pastry or brownie or—”

Bob clears his throat and inhales like he doesn’t want to regret what he’s about to say,

“I’ll have something sweet real soon,” He says. Your ears get redder.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You stand up and take the last sip of your coffee.

“Okay.” You say, throwing out the cup on your way out the door.

“Okay.” Bob smiles, following you to your apartment.

///

“Decaf caramel dolce Frappuccino with cinnamon and extra whipped cream and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” Bob takes the drink from the Barista and slides into his usual spot.

He hands you his drink, and then you start,

“I cannot believe she married Rochester!” you whine, tossing the book down on the table. Jane Eyre was the book selection for this week—well, two weeks, it took you guys some time to get through it.

“Yeah,” Bob breathes, shaking his head, “I.. I mean—”

“Do not defend the man who kept his mentally ill wife locked in an attic and got with a nineteen-year-old,” You start, and Bob smiles a bit. He stares at you for a long moment and then you ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, no-nothing.” He shakes his head. “I was just..” He shrugged, then he clears his throat, “She got a family, right?” You sigh.

“Yeah, she did.”

“And yeah, it would’ve been.. nice for her to end up with someone her age, but..” he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s really good for her.” You just look at him. “Or maybe he died tragically young and left her his money.” You smile then.

And after a moment, you say,

“I guess everyone deserves a second chance, right?” You wonder, and he nods.

“Yeah.”

Bob feels like he can’t breathe.

You notice he looks it too.

“Wanna split a brownie?” You ask, and Bob smiles.

“Yeah.”

  ///

1:32 A.M.

You’re not sure if this counts as relapsing. You twist your phone in your hands and try to focus on breathing. In and out and—who should you call?

Your therapist? Your sister? What would you even say? ‘Sorry, I know you’re usually worried about me drinking but I just couldn't fight off the compulsions or the depression tonight, so can I come over so I don’t do what I just did again?’

You open your stupid fucking flip phone and dial Bob’s number.

“Hey, everything okay?” You note the lack of sleep from his voice. He must’ve already been up.

You inhale to try and answer, but you hesitate. You don’t want to start crying.

“Can I come over?” Is all you can say.

“Sure,” he answers immediately. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

You do. You want to see him as quickly as possible, but.. you have this insane thought that you don’t deserve the comfort, that you must wait to see him.

“I’ll walk,” And if Bob notices the distant tone, he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay. I’ll see you in ten, I’ll meet you in the lobby.” He says gently, and you nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Okay.”

You get up from your place on the bathroom floor, but you don’t hang up, so after a moment, his voice comes through the other end of the phone,

“Everything okay?” And you wish he would stop asking it.

“Mhm,” Is all you manage as you get your shoes on. You make your way down the stairs, the phone pressed against your ear.

Maybe he knows something is wrong, so he asks,

“Have you started reading The Hunger Games yet?” He asks. It was for ‘book club’ this week, and he just needs to hear you talk so he knows you’re still there.

“Yeah,” You breath as you walk down the stairs, the movement down the stairs more instinctual and second nature than conscious movement, like your brain is fixated on the fact that if you can get to Bob, you’ll be safe—safe from what, you do not know.

“What did you think?” He asks, as he slips on his own slippers, trying to think of anything else he can ask.

And in your daze, in your foggy brain that you try to stumble your way through, as you walk down the streets of New York, the cold air sending goosebumps up your arms, the breeze even stinging the fresh cuts on your arms. A group of girls about your age come down the street past you, drunk and giggling and you think about how alone you feel.

Your feet stop in front of a bar, and you take a moment to just stare at the neon sign, thinking about how easy it would be to get a drink. Another breeze plucks you out of your spiral. You wish you had brought a sweater or something.

Your head turns and you can see the ‘new’ Avengers tower just a few blocks away. So, you keep walking. You can make it there. Bob is waiting for you in the lobby.

“I like that the first thing we learn about Katniss is that she loves someone,” you say, walking towards the tower now. Your hands are beginning to shake. “We don’t know anything about her, her name, her place in the world, or even anything about the world.. we just know that she loves someone.” And when you say ‘someone’, your voice cracks. You can see the doors of the tower now.

“Yeah,” he says on the other end of the phone, and as you get closer you see him there, a small smile on his face as he stands there, and it registers in your brain that he is smiling as he’s talking to you. It registers, just barely. “Sometimes I.. I can’t believe how smart you are.” He says, and it makes you feel almost.. anxious. Like he’s lying.

You hang up as you walk through the doors, and Bob’s shy, isolated smile falls when he sees you. When he sees your arms.

“Holy fuck,” is what he says, and that does not make you feel better.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your tears now falling freely, and not because you’re sad, but because you’re ashamed, and because you feel bad that Bob has to deal with this and because..

This definitely counts as a violation of your ‘book club with benefits’ agreements.

“It’s okay,” he starts, “it’s alright, we can handle this,” He says, but you hear the shakiness in his voice. You know he’s pushing through his own terror in this moment.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taking a step back from him, but he shakes his head as you continue, “I.. I shouldn’t have come here,” And you go to turn but you feel Bob’s hand grab yours.

“Yes, you should have.” He says, “Because if it were me and I didn’t call you, and I just let myself spiral further, you’d be so mad at me.”

You know he’s right.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“But I want to.” He says gently. “So let me.”

And you nod, because you know the path you’re on. You know what letting him in leads to.

So does he.

You don’t say much else, but you let him lead you upstairs, his hand clutched around yours.

The ride up the elevator is quiet. Bob just keeps his grip on your hand and then he asks,

“What else did you.. like about the book?” He asked.

You search your brain for an answer. You know he’s trying to keep you distracted.

“I like Peeta. He’s a sweet character.” You say gently. And then, before you can stop yourself, you say, “He reminds me of you.” Your hand shakily comes up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. You notice the way a small smile tugs at his face. His head tilts and he kisses the palm of your hand.

The doors to the elevator open, and Bob’s fingers lace with yours.

“Let’s..” he nods towards the door, and you nod in return. He walks just a step ahead of you, but you notice the way he takes the occasional glance back. Both of your heads pick up when you hear footsteps approaching, and there stands Yelena, in these plaid pajama pants and a big tee shirt for some beer company. She looks half asleep but she smiles when she sees you two.

“Oh look, book club meets late now, how—” she stops, her face growing concerned when she sees your arms, “What did—” But she stops when she sees Bob shake his head. Instead, she glances back to you and in a way that leaves no room for argument, she says, “You call if you need me.” And without another word, she turns and makes her way past you down the hall.

You and Bob find the bathroom. “Take a seat,” he gently says, and you decide to sit on the edge of the tub. He shuffles through the supplies and pulls out some bandages and some antibiotic spray. He takes a rag from off the counter and soaks it in some warm water. Then, he turns back to you. “Can I see?”

You just hold your hands out, and Bob starts by just looking at the cuts. There’s not a ton of them, but there are enough for him to notice. He gently cleans them with the warm rag and then sprays your wrists with the antibiotic spray.

“When did you learn first aid?” you ask.

Bob shrugs.

“When.. when you’re the standby in a team of superheroes..” he shrugs. “You pick up on a few things.”

“You’re a hero too.” You say softly. Bob doesn’t respond, he just wraps your wrists with the bandages he holds. He doesn’t want to tell you that he’s no hero, that he’s hurt so many people that he thinks he’ll be repenting for the rest of his life.

He turns around to put the spray and bandages away, and when he turns back, he sees you sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub. He sighs and sits next to you on the floor. Then, he asks,

“Do you want to talk about it?” You shake your head. “C’mon..” he says softly. “It’s just me.” He reminds.

“I..”  You sigh. “I haven’t.. self-harmed like that since.. middle school. I just wanted to feel something, anything that didn’t feel like I was drowning.” You confess. “I’m sorry I bothered you, I don’t know—”

“Stop,” he says softly, “We’re..” He sighs. “I meant it. I want to take care of you.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling as you shake your head.

“You wanna know the worst part?”

Bob’s voice is genuine when he says,

“I want to know all of it.”

Finally, you turn your head to look at him.

“I’m falling back in love with you.” You tell him. He nods.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks softly. You feel a smile tug at your lips, and it makes Bob smile too.

“Sure.” You answer.

“I never stopped.” He said, “When I saw you again, it was like..” He shook his head. “I should’ve gone to rehab with you.” He whispered. Your heart aches. “I never.. never should’ve went to Malaysia or..” He frowns. “I could’ve built a life with you. A real life, not just.. One where I have to pretend like I don’t.. like I don’t want to ask you to stay.”

Your heart breaks when you see tears brimming his eyes.

“Robby,” You whisper, even though it’s just the two of you in this bathroom. The lights flicker just a bit, so you lace your fingers with his.

“I.. I was so.. so stupid.” He shakes his head, “I never..” His eyes meet yours. “I really screwed it up, and.. I’m sorry. And I love you.” He confesses.

“What about uh..” You sniff, “What about neither of us wanting to be in a.. serious relationship?”

“Fuck that.” He says, and his confidence in it takes you back, “I’m tired of.. of not seeing you everyday. A week is too long to go without seeing you.” He confesses, and your free hand comes up to tuck a curl behind his ear.

“I love you too.” You tell him. You lean your forehead against his and then say, “So ask me.”

“Ask.. Ask you what?”

“Ask me to stay.” You whisper, “And maybe I will.”

“..Just.. Just maybe?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask and see.”

“..Stay.” He says softly. You can’t help it, so, you say,

“That’s not really a question—” Bob stares at you for a long time, a smile making his glare much less intimidating.

“Will you stay? Here, with me?” he wonders, “Be with me.” He requests.

You kiss him, but there’s no expectation in this one. You don’t expect him to want to fuck, to want to sleep with you. This kiss is pure, with no strings attached. No benefits.

When you pull away, you nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.” You promise, and Bob smiles a bit, looking down to your intwined fingers.

“That’s.. nice.” Your awkward Loverboy responds, and you’re shocked when he asks, “Do you.. uhm..”

“Do I..?”

“Do you.. wanna watch.. Star Wars with me?” he wonders.

You can’t help but smile.

“Which one?”

“The best one.” He shrugs. “Revenge of the Sith?”

“Sure. That sounds nice.” You confess.

Halfway through the movie, you would fall asleep right on top of him, and Bob would realize that this was always where he was meant to be.

///

For your birthday, Bob hands you a small present, wrapped in paper decorated with sprinkles. When you open it, you find a copy of The Great Gatsby.

Only this copy is bound by leather and has this beautiful dark blue and gold cover on it. It must’ve cost Bob—well, it wasn’t cheap, but It’s gorgeous, and inside, you find a note scribbled onto the title page—

“I found what I was looking for.

Love, Robby.”

[enhaflixer]

ENHYPEN ASS vs. TITS - ENHA HARD HOURS MDNI 18+

cw: smut obvs like so much, but also riki's has a lil ass eating at the end so if ur not comfy w that don't read it, i personally think its hot sexy mwah mwah mwahiasd ydgwieudnoedoqwim asf so...

-

HEESEUNG — TITS MAN TO THE POINT OF SPIRITUALITY

He loves them. Loves them.

Big ones, small ones, soft, perky, natural, fake—he’s an equal opportunity worshipper. But yours? YOURS?

He treats them like holy ground. Kneels for them. Sleeps with his face in them. Whines when you wear a bra like it’s a personal attack.

“Why would you trap them like that?”

“They need support.”

“I support them. Every day. Emotionally. Spiritually.”

You’re doing dishes? He’s behind you, groping.

You’re getting dressed? He’s on the bed, hands behind his head, smiling like an idiot while watching them jiggle into your bra.

You take your shirt off? He sighs, like something’s been healed deep in his soul.

He’ll pull your top down mid-makeout just to cup them gently and go:

“Sorry, I needed that. I’m better now.”

In Bed? He’s feral.

Titty-fucking? Yes. Every time you offer. Sometimes when you don’t.

He’s panting the second you squeeze them around his cock, groaning “oh my god—your tits are so fucking perfect—” while leaking all over them. He’ll finish on your chest and just… stare.

Sometimes traces your nipples with his tongue and mutters praise like a man possessed:

“So soft. So pretty. Look at you. Let me suck on you, baby. Let me have you.”

He cums harder when he’s touching them. Moans louder. Cries a little if you let him fuck them and your mouth at the same time.

Soft Hours? Heeseung, Please.

When he’s falling asleep?

Face planted right between them.

Wakes up and kisses them before he kisses your mouth.

If you ever even joke about disliking them?

“Hey. Don’t do that. Not to my favorite girls.”

He holds them during cuddles. Talks to them sometimes. Probably has a little name for them. Definitely has a favorite boob.

If you ever walk in wearing a loose tank top, no bra, all soft and sleepy?

He goes feral.

Like, drop-the-controller-in-the-middle-of-a-game feral.

“No. Come here. No, I’m not joking. Get over here. You look like that and expect me to focus? Be serious.”

JAY — ASS MAN TO THE GRAVE.

This man is not okay about it.

He tries to play it cool. He tries to pretend he’s above it. But his eyes? They betray him every. single. time. You bend over in front of him once and he forgets his name, his birth date, his purpose in life.

“What did you say?”

“I said pass me the—”

“No, I’m sorry. I blacked out. Say it again but maybe… don’t arch like that this time?”

You walking around the house?

He’s watching.

Not even subtle. Doesn’t blink.

You turn around and catch him, and he just smirks like—

“I paid for dinner, I get to look.”

If you wear leggings or those tiny shorts he hates but secretly loves? He’s groaning the second you leave the room.

If you wear nothing? He’s hard before you even speak.

In public?

You’re his plus one at a fancy dinner. You lean forward to pick up your bag and his hand is immediately on the small of your back.

“Don’t bend over in that dress. Unless you want me to ruin it.”

He’ll whisper filthy things in your ear just because he knows your thighs will clench.

“Gonna have to remind you who that ass belongs to when we get home.”

You do not make it home.

In bed? Jay doesn’t play.

He lives for taking you from behind.

Spreads your cheeks just to stare. Smacks it once. Then twice. Then again—just because he can.

“Look at this fuckin’ view,” he groans. “Tell me who it’s for.”

He grabs handfuls of your ass while pounding into you, low moans spilling from his lips with every bounce.

“That’s it, baby. Make it clap for me.”

He’ll cum and stay inside, pressing his palm to the curve of your back like he’s still claiming it.

If you’re riding him in reverse? He’s DONE. Gripping your hips, whispering, “that’s it, baby, give me the show,” while he holds your ass open and watches himself disappear inside you over and over.

Soft Hours? He’s down bad.

He walks up behind you when you’re brushing your teeth, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder just to grind the smallest bit against your ass.

“Just letting you know I’m thinking of your ass.”

Worships it like it’s art. Might kiss it before kissing your lips. If you’re lying face-down on the couch, he’s kneeling beside you and purring.

“This is where I wanna live. Right here. I’ll build a house.”

Bonus Jay Dialogue:

“If I die and come back as anything, I want it to be your ass.”

“You’re unwell.”

“No, baby. I’m obsessed. There’s a difference.”

JAKE SIM AND THE TITTY ERA™

It starts as a joke.

You’re lying on the couch, wearing the tiniest tank top known to mankind—braless, of course. Jake’s head is resting on your chest, dead silent, completely still, until—

“Left one’s Luna,” he mumbles.

“I’m sorry??”

“And the right one’s Veronica. Luna’s a little softer. Veronica’s got attitude.”

You blink.

He looks up, dead serious.

“What? I see them more than I see half my friends. They deserve names.”

From that point on—it’s over for you.

Jake is no longer a man. He is a titty prophet. A chest scholar. A boob poet.

And he has zero shame.

When You’re Just Hanging Out

He’ll be cuddled up next to you, arm around your waist, hand casually resting on Luna like she’s his comfort plushie.

“Veronica’s in a mood today. She keeps poking out.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re just jealous you don’t have Veronica and Luna.”

He will say good morning to them.

He will say good night to them.

He will literally bow to them when you take your shirt off.

When Things Get Heated

You’re on top of him, tits bouncing in his face, and he’s fully whimpering.

“Oh my god, look at them.”

“They’re literally just—”

“No. No they’re not. Don’t disrespect them in front of me.”

He talks directly to them while fucking you.

“That’s my girl. Look how good you look. You’re stealing the whole show.”

And then moans like he’s being blessed.

He sucks on one, then the other, then goes back and forth like he’s trying to make them jealous of each other.

Titty-fucking? Oh, baby.

It’s not a kink. It’s a calling.

He’s panting, groaning, fully worshipping the view with his cock between them and his fingers gripping your sides like he’s trying to survive it.

“Luna, you’re an angel. Veronica, stop staring at me like that—fuck—fuck.”

He finishes all over them, then kisses the tops like a gentleman.

When He’s Being Soft™

He lays his head between them to fall asleep.

Literally nuzzles like a baby.

If you move, he groans dramatically and pulls you back in.

“You’re squishing them.”

“Good. That’s where I wanna die.”

When you’re feeling insecure?

He gets angry.

“Don’t talk about them like that.”

“Jake, I’m just saying—”

“No. No self-slander. They’re iconic. They’re powerful. They’re literally the best part of my day.”

He’ll kiss your chest over and over until you melt.

Then look up with that soft, sleepy smile and go:

“Tell them I said thank you.”

SUNGHOON — TITS MAN. DEADPAN. UNWELL.

“I wasn’t staring.”

He says.

While blinking at your chest.

Not moving. Not breathing. Just… evaluating. Deep in thought. Like your tits are a visual exam and he’s making sure he gets every answer right.

The Outside: Composed. Cold. Deadpan.

You walk out of the bedroom in a braless tank top? He doesn’t say anything.

Just glances once. Looks away. Then glances again.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

Stares harder.

You lean forward on the counter. He zones out so hard he doesn’t hear what you said. Eyes locked. Hands twitching.

“Are you even listening?”

“I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind, actually.”

The Inside: Imploding. Exploding. Melting.

Sunghoon’s not dramatic. But your tits?

They undo him.

He acts like he doesn’t care, but you catch him gently adjusting his sweatpants every time they bounce under your shirt.

He tries to make it your problem.

“Why would you wear that?”

“I live here??”

“Okay but you know what that top does to me.”

When you finally take your bra off in front of him?

Silence.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

Then:

“…Yeah. Okay. I’m gonna need you to come here right now.”

In Bed? He’s Possessed.

He doesn’t even go for your mouth at first.

Just pulls your shirt up and moans the second he sees your chest.

Stares. Palms. Thumbs your nipples until they harden. Watches you squirm.

“Sensitive?”

“Yes—fuck, Hoon—”

“Good.”

He loves sucking. But not sloppy. Not rushed.

Slow. Purposeful. Alternates between kisses and tongue. Stares at your face while doing it. Groans when you moan.

“Keep making those sounds. It makes them feel appreciated.”

You ride him? His hands are locked behind his head, watching them bounce with that lazy, half-lidded gaze like he’s hypnotized.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Making them bounce like that. You’re evil.”

Sunghoon’s Tits-Man Greatest Hits:

“You were talking and I heard nothing. They were bouncing and I panicked.”

“I’ve been really good today. Can I put my face in them?”

“They’re prettier than I deserve. But I’ll worship them like I do.”

“If they had their own fanclub, I’d be president, secretary, and treasurer.”

“I come for you. I stay for the tits.”

SUNOO — THE SNEAKIEST ASS MAN ALIVE

He is so unserious about it.

Pretends it’s not that deep.

But if you bend over in front of him, he gasps. Loudly. Like it’s the most disrespectful thing you’ve ever done.

“You can’t just do that while I’m eating!!”

“I dropped my phone!”

“I dropped my soul???”

Around the House? He’s Acting Up.

You’re in shorts? He’s watching.

You walk away? He hums under his breath like he’s rating it.

“Mhm. That’s a solid 9.6 today.”

If you so much as climb onto the bed in front of him, it’s over. He’s crawling after you. Hands out like a cartoon character.

He doesn’t even pretend he’s not obsessed. If you catch him staring?

“Yeah. And? I bought dinner. I get ass privileges.”

Loves pulling you into his lap just to squeeze. Always sits with you facing away so he can rest his head on your back and just hold. The ass. Casually.

“This is therapeutic for me.”

In Bed? He’s OUT OF CONTROL.

Sunoo doesn’t just love your ass.

He performs rituals on it.

Spanks it lovingly. Stares like it’s art. Spreads it slow and dramatic just to whisper:

“This is my happy place.”

Loves when you ride him in reverse so he can watch. Bites his lip, tilts his head, and says the nastiest shit in the softest voice.

“Bounce like that again, baby. Just like that. You’re showing off, aren’t you?”

He’s fully vocal. Gasps. Whines. Might literally sob if he finishes while holding onto your hips.

Loses all composure when he takes you from behind. Like—whimpering, full-body shaking, face buried in your neck groaning “you’re too good to me—”

Sunoo’s Ass-Man Greatest Hits:

 “This outfit is so disrespectful and I support it fully.”

 “No offense but if I die it better be face-down in that thing.”

 “You jiggle when you walk. That’s poetry, actually.”

 “It’s giving… distraction. It’s giving… girlfriend tax.”

 “Bend over one more time and I will moan. I’m warning you.”

JUNGWON — SWEET. TEASING. CRAZY-IN-THE-HEAD. ASS MAN TO HIS CORE.

He’ll help you clean the house, fold your laundry, and refill your water bottle like the perfect boyfriend he is…

…then immediately pull you into his lap while you’re still wearing your cute little shorts and whisper:

“Sit still, baby. Let me feel it again.”

Sweet on the surface… always.

He’ll come up behind you while you’re cooking, wrap his arms around your waist, and nuzzle your neck.

But it’s not romantic.

Because his hands are gripping your ass the whole time. He’s swaying his hips into you, barely hiding his hard-on, mumbling:

“You’re doing great. Just… keep standing like that for a few more minutes.”

But once his brain short-circuits? He’s GONE.

You bend over once—to pick up a sock, fix the blanket, anything—and his hands are on you.

Not playful.

POSSESSIVE.

Spreads you apart with both hands like he’s checking if you remembered who you belong to.

“Pussy's dripping already?” he murmurs, smirking. “Told you it missed me.”

Loves watching his cum leak out of you—loves it—mouth open, eyes wide, licking his lips like he’s about to dive back in.

“Look at her. it's still hungry, baby.”

He will eat you out from behind just to stay close to her.

Face deep. Hands gripping. Moaning like you’re his last meal.

He groans when you cum, tongue flat and wide and messy—then keeps licking just to overstimulate you, hands spreading you wider until you’re whining.

“Don’t run. You wanted me back here, didn’t you?”

“W-Won—”

“Nah. Be a good girl. Let me finish worshipping you.”

Jungwon’s Wild-Ass, Sweet-Boy Ass-Man Dialogue Greatest Hits:

 “Spread your cheeks for me. That’s it. God, look how pretty that is.”  “you’ve always been a lil slutty, haven't you? You’re leaking just from my tongue.”  “You said you wanted soft tonight, but your ass says otherwise.”  “I’m serious. If you keep arching like that, I’m not pulling out.”  “I’ll kiss your ass good night every day if you let me.”

RIKI — UNBOTHERED. UNHOLY. THE MOST CASUAL ASS OBSESSION ON EARTH.

He’s quiet. Chill. Always lounging.

But his eyes?

They never leave your ass.

You turn around and he’s already smirking, legs spread, head tilted back like—

“Damn. Look at her go.”

And by “her,” he means your ass. He says it with his chest.

So casual it’s actually terrifying.

You walk past in sweatpants?

He stares.

You bend over to grab something?

He groans.

You sit in his lap, all soft and cozy, and his hands immediately slide down to squeeze—hard.

“What?” he shrugs. “She said hi.”

He talks to her like she’s got a personality. Blames shit on her.

“I wasn’t trying to get hard. She was grinding.”

“I wasn’t staring. She winked first.”

And in bed? He’s… not normal.

He flips you over. Spreads your cheeks.

And just stares.

Doesn’t even blink.

Tilts his head. Brushes his thumb across your hole.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says quietly. “She’s so needy. You feel that?”

He lives to fuck you from behind.

Hands on your hips, pulling you back onto him like a toy. Mutters things like:

“Look at her swallowing me. Damn.”

When he pulls out and watches his cum leak out?

He presses your cheeks together and moans.

Takes a picture. Doesn’t ask. Says:

“This one’s for her. She earned it.”

And he eats ass like he’s trying to win a gold medal.

Doesn’t warn you. Doesn’t stop.

He’ll lick��everything with slow, lazy circles—palms keeping you wide open, breath warm, tongue deeper than it has any right to be.

He loves how sensitive you get.

He teases. He talks through it.

He chuckles when you shake.

“You always this shy, baby?”

“You’re licking my—”

“I know. She’s delicious.”

[loser-mobile]

Future Lover - Chapter 3 - Jason Todd x Reader

Synopsis: Trying to make it in Gotham, you are dragged clawing and screaming into a time travel mess with a man who claims to be your future husband.

Author’s Note: Holy fucking shit you guys I cannot express how elated I am at the engagement from my last two posts. I have been thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking about how to beat my last chapter and make the next one something special, and I just spent the last 2-3 hours polishing this off. For reference, it is currently 3am where I am. I am one silly noodle.

I think now is officially the time for me to state MDNI. 18+, not just for this chapter, but more broadly for this fic because I am planning on having more explicit content in future.

Content: Mild mention of injuries, and SA implied.

Word Count: 4.2k (Somehow??)

The small backseat of the batmobile was cool. The dark gray seats felt like cold slate, and you awkwardly sat on your hands in an effort to warm them up. You peer out the dark tinted glass as the city passes you by. 

Your eyes dart forward, and timidly meet the eyes of Batman. The white lenses of his cowl are inscrutable. They look like they could be looking at you, and the road ahead, at the same time. All-knowing, the eyes of Batman. 

“Hey.”

You turn your head to the right. Sitting beside you in the backseat is Red Hood, well- the old, no, future Red Hood? Who exactly is this guy? He smiles at you warmly, red muzzle still pulled down to hang around his neck, domino mask still pressed firmly on his face. White lenses meet your gaze, and you stare at each other. 

He whispers again, in a hushed tone.

“He’s really not that bad, y’know. I know he looks scary, but he’s a big softie.”

You blink. “Who? Oh, yeah, Batman. Right.”

You chuckle breathily. 

He smiles back, a little awkward. But there's something else there too. He smiles at you like he expects you to know him. Like he can’t believe you don’t. 

You look away, a little flustered. What the fuck is his deal?

After the fight had concluded, you had watched as Batman made a series of executive decisions. It was awe-inspiring, simply watching the half-man half-legend expertly delegate tasks in his team. Red-Robin is injured, and can’t get back on his own. Spoiler voiced her prognosis, then agreed to meet back at the Cave. They help Red-Robin into the front passenger’s seat, the seat in front of you. 

Then they turned to you. The loose end, the civilian. Before they could say anything, Future Hood had stepped in front of you and insisted, insisted, that you come along. So, here you were. In the Batmobile. After getting caught up in a fight that nearly killed you. What a time to be alive.

You can see through the gaps in the seat, and hear the costumed vigilante groan and grunt in pain as he clutches his side. He thankfully received basic medical attention. You feel as if you should suggest going to a hospital, but you know better. Hell, they probably have one back at the… wherever you’re going. Cave? Okay.

Nightwing and Robin were charged with tracking the two attackers. Ophelia and Max… no… Ophelia and Fred.. Oh whatever, it doesn’t matter. 

Red Hood, that is to say, current Red Hood took his motorcycle, scowling the whole time at his counterpart, who regarded him with almost bemused apathy. Fuckin’ freak, he had said, under his breath to the older Hood, shaking his head. It was obvious that he wasn’t convinced of the Future Red Hood’s story, or whoever he claimed to be. Matter of fact, you weren’t entirely convinced either. There’s plenty of weirdos in Gotham. That’s why it’s so cheap to live here. 

It was disconcerting, being called someone’s wife, especially by a man that had at least 20 years on you. Especially since his current self was someone who, up until this point, had been more of a title than a real person. The Red Hood, the Child of Crime Alley. One of Batman’s army, a formidable adversary. Oh, and just by the way, your future husband! Your mind pictures a Married At First Sight style wedding, with you walking down the aisle in a beautiful white dress, and him at the end in a tux, still wearing that iconic red helmet. You snort softly. Yeah, right.

Future Red Hood shifts beside you, and you sense him looking at you. You shoot a glance over at him, wide-eyed, and catch a knowing smirk on his face, before turning to face the window again. The less yearning eye-contact, the better. Also I should stop binge-watching MAFS.

The batmobile pulls down a hidden tunnel, and out again into an area thickly shrouded with trees. You hear the dirt path under the tires of the sportscar as it peels around another corner and into another long tunnel, this one lined with cool-white lights. The engine whirs as the car glides down the ramp and into the alcove of a large cave. This must be it. 

Batman parks the engine and other vigilants are quick to arrive to aid Red Robin. He’s aided by Signal and Spoiler, as they guide him towards a chair, where an older man with a long face quickly attends to him. 

Future Red Hood hops out of the car, then reaches out his hand to help you out as well, a charming smile plastered on his rugged face. You pause, then decide to just ignore him and lift yourself out of the lowrider alone.

“C’mon, sweetheart, you can’t keep me in the doghouse forever!” He quips, amused. 

The hulking man stands before you, arms crossed now in a relaxed posture.

You gaze back up at him, wide-eyed and aloof. Taking him in again, you notice that if you stand too close to him, you are forced to crane your neck up to meet his gaze. Just who the hell does this guy think he is?!  Your jaw tightens defiantly, and you squint your eyes. 

“You-”

“Jason?” 

Your attention is pulled to your side, to see Signal approach the two of you. The bright yellow and black of his suit cuts through the sleek black surroundings of the cave.

“Jason, what the hell happened to you? You look like shit, man” Signal chuckles, dryly. His gaze shifts to face you. 

“And who’s this?”

Before either of you can respond, the rumble of Red Hood’s motorcycle cuts you off. He pulls up beside the Batmobile. Signal does a double take.

Batman approaches behind the three of you. His deep growl responds.

“Signal, we need to conduct a DNA test. Draw blood from the two Red Hoods and begin a profile match. We need to be sure.” 

Red Hood dismounts from his back and stomps past us. Under the mask, it’s impossible to tell, but deep in your gut you know he’s scowling. The Red Hood beside you chuckles.

“Always so broody.”

Signal huffs out a laugh. “Right?”

He turns to face Future Red Hood, and his smile falters as he receives the older man’s glare.

“My bad.”

-

You are later invited to take refuge on the dark gray modular couch in the Batcave, by the butler, who introduces himself as Alfred. As he gently tends to your scraped hands and knees, you glance around the large room. The sprawling computer, with its multiple monitors, towers over you as you sit, letting the older gentleman clean and dress your wounds. You would feel intimidated, if you weren’t so damn impressed with the whole operation.

Red Robin lays on the medical bed, getting some much-needed rest it seems. Spoiler leans on the side, her golden hair spilling out from under the hood of her purple cloak. Over by the computer, Batman, Signal and Red Hood speak in hushed voices, casting glances every so often towards you, or the older Red Hood, who seems undeterred by the suspicious attitudes, choosing instead to meander around the cave, looking like a mildly entertained museum-goer, and not like someone who is in the fucking Batcave. 

“Ma’am?”

You head snaps to the side.

“Huh?”

“I said, shall I prepare some tea, ma’am?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Thank you, Alfred.”

“Very good.” He nods sagely, then quietly walks off to disappear into an adjacent room. Christ, how big is this place?

You chew on your lip a moment, then decide to just go for it. Gingerly standing up, you slowly walk over to the older Red Hood, wrapping your hands around your arms to feebly self-soothe. You walk to stand beside him, as he observes at a ginormous green t-rex statue, arms crossed.

You don’t speak for a moment. You're not quite sure what to say. But you clear your throat.

“Hey.”

“Hey. All patched up?” He asks, softly.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Alfred, the butler. Although he seems to be much more than a butler, in terms of responsibilities.”

“He is.” Is the simple response you’re given by the older Red Hood. You turn to face him. He looks somber.

“So.. future husband, huh?”

“...Yeah. I know it sounds insane.” He sheepishly confesses, turning his head to finally face you.

You huff, dismissively. I mean it is, obviously, insane. He’s an insane person. But the DNA test will soon confirm that. May as well see why he’s so obsessed with you in the meantime. You decide to play along; be affable. 

“I live in Gotham. Nothing’s off the table here.”

He chuckles at that. Good. Good?

“You don't believe me, do you?”

“No, I- I never said that.” You rebut, a little frustrated now.

“You didn’t have to. I can read you.” He states, like it's a fact.

“Oh, yeah, cause you know me so well.” You scoff, dismissively. 

“I do. We’ve been married nearly 20 years now.”

That shuts you up quickly.

“I know everything about you.” He murmurs, looming a bit closer. When did he move closer? It doesn’t matter, the only thing you can look at are his eyes.

“DNA doesn’t lie. You should come clean now, while you still can.”

“I’ll prove it. You’re 22 at present, so right now, you’re living with..” He takes a beat, turns his head to the side and closes his eyes briefly, seemingly conjuring up a memory. “Alice, Harrison, Mike and Sarah.”

“Tch. Any creep with Facebook would know that.” You cross your arms and arch yourself up to him, puffing your chest out defiantly. This guy has done his research.

“Harrison recently hooked up with a guy who turned out to have a wife, and Alice broke your favourite bowl a few months ago.”

That one gets you. Your eyes widen for just a moment. You take a step back. That’s too eerie to be from Facebook.

“Stalker.”

“No. Your husband.”

You practically hiss back. “Get a grip.”

“Your favourite band is-” 

Signal’s voice rings out and interrupts him. “We have the results!” 

You quickly walk towards where he stands, with Batman and the other Red Hood. Older Red Hood trails behind, hands in the pockets of his worn cargo pants.

Signal and Batman part to reveal the screen, showing the results of a positive match. You turn, facing both Red Hoods, who now seem to be in some sort of glare-off. 

“It’s a match.” You state, a bit in shock.

“Whatta surprise. Told ya so.” Older Red Hood replies, eyes not leaving his younger counterpart.

“How did you get here?” Batman booms to your left.

“I already told you. I followed Ophidia and Felix through, after my daughter was taken. Our daughter.” He says the last bit to you, pointedly. 

“This doesn’t prove anything! You could still be lying about us being married!” You protest back.

“She’s right. I don’t know her from Adam, and you’re telling me we’re gonna get married?” Younger Red Hood pipes up, voice slightly muffled under the muzzle still. “I’ve never met this woman before in my life. This isn’t Married At First Sight!” 

HolyshitheknowsMAFS. Your heart lurches for a moment at the mention of your current viewing obsession, before your brain brings you back down to Earth. The two Red Hoods continue bickering, each one getting louder and louder, before Batman interrupts.

“Enough!”

They both fall silent. It’s almost comical how close in age Batman and the Red Hood from the future seem to be, and yet he falls in line almost quicker and more obediently than current-day Red Hood. There’s a reverence, a gleamingly proud respect that your so-called future husband has for the caped crusader. It’s almost like he’s honoured to be in the presence of Batman at all.

“The argument can wait. We have two new super-powered threats loose on the streets of Gotham and people are in danger. We need to focus.”

“Three.”

“What?”

“There’s three. Ophidia and Felix. He’s otherwise known as Bullseye. You met them both today. But their leader, Sergio. He’s the real threat. And he has Iris. Our girl. She’s only fifteen.”

You stare at him, this time without malice or suspicion. Despite everything he might be lying about, you can see the very real fear for his daughter’s safety. 

Then, there’s the name. 

Iris

“Iris.” you murmur, quietly, to yourself.

“What’s their angle?” Current-day Red Hood pipes up, interrupting your internal spiral.

The older Red Hood responds. “They want me to suffer. They’ll do that by hurting everyone I love. And Sergio… Sergio.. plans to hurt her. Our Iris. Says he wants her to… start over with. Make a family.”

You can’t hold back the gasp that slips from your throat, as your eyes widen in horror. Despite yourself, your heart sinks to your feet. 

Beside you, Signal bristles, while Batman remains as stoic as a statue. But you watch as the two Red Hoods have virtually the same reaction. Jaws tightening, fists clenching, shoulders tense. Despite having delivered the news himself, the older Red Hood seems to have no easier time containing his reaction to the disturbing revelation, as if he had been trying to put it out of his mind for a while now.

“I have some leads.” He announces.

You step aside to allow him to access the computer keypad, as he marks down several locations on the giant map of Gotham. Nightwing and Robin's trackers are shown to be somewhere near the Cave, seemingly retreating after losing the scent of Bullseye and Ophidia. 

The older Red Hood begins to explain as he clacks away at the keyboard. “Sergio Sharp. He and I have history. I disrupted his father’s plans to create a machine that could essentially bend space and time. The project was being funded by Lex Luthor, and it was for a client of his that was… well, he wasn’t a saint, alright? But they were getting real close in their research, and I was only going in there to convince him to stop and put an end to the research, but…”

He takes a beat, and straightens up.

“Sergio’s father ended up being killed. It was… unintentional.” 

We all look at the older Red Hood as he provides us with some much-needed context. His shoulders slouch as he recalls the events that led to his daughter’s capture, and you can clearly see his remorse over Dr. Sharp’s death. It’s quiet for a moment.

But the younger Red Hood speaks up. “Well I’ve never heard of these guys. The Sharps, you said? When did you say you first met them?”

His older counterpart replies. “I didn’t. Dr. Sharp died in November of 2025.”

“That’s only a few months from now.” Signal remarks.

“Exactly. Sergio is likely trying to track his father down right now to give him the completed research and save his life. We do have an advantage, though. Sergio, his father, and their team were kept in a secure location during the course of their research. Secure, and unknown, even to them.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Red Robin pipes up from a few feet away, voice slightly weary from his injury.

“They slept, ate and worked in the same place for years. They weren’t allowed to leave, and when they did, they were drugged. LexCorp did it for “security” reasons, but we all know it was to avoid loose ends. Sergio doesn’t know where the hell he or his father are at this time. But I do.”

“So, let’s go there!” Young Red Hood exclaims.

“We can’t” Batman shuts him down quickly. “We need to regroup. Breaking into a LexCorp facility is a risky process, and we don’t even know if the older Sergio is there yet.”

“He’s right” The older Red Hood nods his head. “Besides, our main priority right now should be getting Iris.”

You feel that familiar maternal instinct swell up inside your chest. From your years working as a social worker, you’d learnt to balance that instinct with practical solutions and a healthy dose of boundaries, but this time it felt… different. Unshakeable.

You sigh. “Where do you think he’s taken her?”

Both of the Red Hoods look at you, but the older Red Hood meets your concerned gaze. “I have a few ideas, but we’re gonna need to do some digging. Cards on the table, this guy has the upperhand on me in many ways. He’s been obsessed with me for nearly twenty years, and I- I haven’t thought about him in a long time.”

“So, you’re saying we need to do some detective work. The family of detectives need to do some detecting” Signal’s voice chirps over from where she sits and listens with Red Robin.

“Tch. Yup.” Comes his response. “Think you can handle it?”

“Let's get to work.” Batman concludes.

“Just one more thing.” The voice comes from behind you. Nightwing. And, in tow, a scowling Robin. You hadn’t noticed them come in.

“What about her?” Nightwing points to you, smirking softly.

“What about her?” The older Red Hood quips back, defensively.

“Well, what does she get to know, B? And do we really believe she’s Hood’s future wife?”

“Not future. Very much current.” The older Red Hood pulls out a chain from under his outfit, and dangles it above his chest. On it is a simple silver wedding band. Smart. Avoiding degloving. 

“You know what I mean, man.” Comes the retort from the black-and-blue vigilante.

Alright, that's enough. 

“Do I get a say in this? Like, at all?” You pipe up, a little ticked off.

A somewhat tired sigh comes from Batman, as he considers all that they’ve just learned.

“Well, thats up to you.” He states, plainly. 

You shift your gaze from him, to Signal, and then finally back to the two Red Hoods, who now stand slightly adjacent to each other. You make eye contact with the older Red Hood.

“You said her name was Iris, right? Our- your daughter.”

He nods once.

You take a pause, and breathe in deeply.

“Th-”

The older Red Hood interrupts you. 

“That was your best friend’s name. From when you were little.”

You stare up at him, wide eyed. 

“She died when you were 9. Before she did, she gave you a locket, with a butterfly engraved inside. You used to say you were the butterfly girls.”

Your mouth parts slowly, and you feel like you can barely breathe, though your heart is pounding against your ribcage, like a rabbit in a cage.

“And you made a promise, when she died, that you'd name your daughter after her.”

Holy shit. He wasn’t lying. 

“And you loved her. Loved her dearly. But after she passed, you couldn’t speak about her anymore.” He concludes.

Tears well up in your eyes, and you feel your face scrunch in emotion that you can’t control. “I.. I haven’t told anyone that. Any of that.. I never- I couldn’t. Hurt too much.”

Hot tears spill down from your eyes and your hands rush up to cover your face, but he’s curled his arms around you in an instant. The faint smell of sweat and smoke, and the feeling of his leather jacket envelope you as you shudder into him, letting the sobs come out. After a long day of nothing but fear, confusion and frustration, it’s all too much.

“So it’s true.” You hear from behind him, the familiar voice of Signal.

No response is heard, but the room seems to concur. That this Red Hood, the one holding you right now as you cry, has been telling the truth. He’s from the future, he’s the same man as the current Red Hood, and eventually, the two of you will, inexplicably, be married.

You sniffle. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” You blubber, composing yourself as you peel away from the Future Red Hood’s arms. “I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“Don’t apologise. Never apologise.” The tall man responds, seemingly reluctant to let go of you as you break from his arms.

From your right, Signal holds out a box of batman-branded tissues for you to use, and you chuckle softly and take one, thanking him. He smiles warmly.

Steadying yourself with a deep breath, and composing yourself as much as one can after breaking down in front of the Batfamily, you turn to face Batman, and nod.

“I think he’s telling the truth. Iris is someone very few people know about. And he knows details about her I’ve never told anyone. Ever.” You confirm, voice slightly wobbly still.

Batman meets your gaze, and is silent for a moment, before nodding. “Very well.”

Then, without hesitation, pulls off the cowl to reveal..

Bruce Wayne.

He smiles at you, and nods slightly.

Your eyes practically bulge out of your head. But before you can say anything, Signal removes his helmet, and sticks out his hand.

“Duke Thomas. Ward of Bruce Wayne.”

You mechanically meet his hand with yours, still glancing from him to Mr. Wayne in shock.

From behind you, Nightwing clears his throat and removes his white-lensed domino mask, revealing the iconic blue eyes of Dick Grayson. One of Gotham’s heartthrobs, and adoptive son of Mr. Wayne. Beside him, Robin groans. 

“Yes, yes, you’re all very impressive. Perhaps we can do our introductions to this complete stranger later?" The short teenager huffs, practically stomping away. You bite back a grin, and share a mirthful look with Duke.

“He’s always like this, don’t worry.” Duke whispers to you.

“I heard that!” Comes the biting, yet admittedly high-pitched response from the little Robin.

Turning from Duke as he rolls his eyes, you face the two Red Hoods. One gleams at you, with all the familiarity and affection that comes from nearly decades of marriage. Well, you can only assume.

The other has his arms crossed, and though you still can’t see him under the mask and muzzle, you just know he’s not happy. You swallow apprehensively. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“They could both be lying, you know.” He says, addressing Mr. Wayne. “Some sorta long-con.”

“Jason, why would they lie? I mean, why would your future self lie?” Dick counters.

“I’m just employing some healthy skepticism, that’s all.” The younger Red Hood replies, somewhat haughty.

“She’s not lying, asshole. She wouldn’t lie about something like that.” The older Red Hood steps forward towards him, his broad back partially obscuring your view of the impending dick-measuring contest.

“And why should I believe you, prick?” Comes the retort, as the younger Red Hood steps up to the challenge. “You could be a clone, a freak that she made to infiltrate us, or to stalk me!”

“You arrogant piece of shit!” The older Red Hood swings a clenched fist at the younger one, which is swiftly blocked.

“Enough! ENOUGH!” Bruce’s deep voice cuts through the fight before it really even starts, and both men back off, steam practically billowing out of their ears.

Nightwing pipes up, chuckling humorlessly. “Yeah, that’s you, Jaybird. Ain’t no way to clone that kinda rage.” It earns him a glare from both Red Hoods.

You cut through, trying to refocus the two fuming men. 

“So… are you gonna tell me who you are? I mean, I already know your first name; Jason, right?” The request comes out more timid than you would’ve liked it to, but oh well.

The older Red Hood, or Jason, looks over to the younger one, who stands further away from you. He squints in response, then groans out his response. He unbuckles the muzzle fully, then removes the domino mask, and runs a hand through his hair. His… white striped hair..

Hang on, is that the crazy guy from the bus? The one no-one would sit next to?

He steps closer towards you and holds out his hand. His face is neutral, a little stern.

“Jason. Jason Todd.”

You take his hand, and shake it firmly.

“Nice to meet you, Jason Todd. My name is-”

Epilogue

Later that evening

Stephanie Brown swoons theatrically, trailing a very unhappy Jason through the hallways of Wayne Manor. Beside her walks Duke, hands in the pockets of his jeans, with a puzzled look on his face.

“How does it feel to be living my dream, Jason? I mean, you’ve got living, breathing confirmation that you’re not gonna die alone. Well, not again, at least.” Steph prods him.

She doesn’t get much more out of him than a grumble.

Duke chimes in, with seemingly more concerning matters to discuss. Seemingly.

“What I’m wondering is, what do we call you now. Y’know, since there’s two of you. Future Jason, and Current Jason? That's a bit of a mouthful. Jason One and Jason Two?”

“Nah, that’s too ‘Cat in the Hat’.” Steph comments.

“You can call me absolutely nothing, and fuck off.” Jason spits back, shoulders hunched defensively as he ascends the stairs.

Steph and Duke exchange a wide-eyed look as he disappears into the second floor of the manor.

“Drama-queen…” Stephanie warbles softly, making Duke giggle softly.

“How about… Red Hood and Blue Hood?” Tim peers from behind a corner.

“Again, we’re not looking for Dr. Seuss references, Tim.” Duke dismisses him. “This is strictly strategic. Battlefield. Code names.”

“Well, maybe you should ask the older Jason. He seems kinda okay.” Tim suggests.

“Mm.. he’s kinda scary, no? Besides, what if he tells me my future? What if I hate it?” Stephanie responds, biting her lip anxiously. Duke nods in agreement.

“Well,” Tim remarks. “Guess we’re just gonna have to sleep on it. G’night, guys.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night”

A/N: K so obviously that last bit (pre-epilogue) was you saying your name, but I refuse to put y/n after that goddamn hilarious y/n meme on tiktok, so you can all use ya brains!

Just kidding. love you.

Also I hope my ability to write well is still alright. Since I am writing the majority of these at night/early morning like a bloody nutjob, I am a little nervous that I just ramble. And this chapter is... like... 2k longer than the two before. Anyway, like always my DMs are open for feedback and I love reading your responses in the comments/tags :)

So I'm not sure if it's completely obvious at this point but I'm not a super avid comics reader, so if the characters are a bit mischaracterised, I'm sorry, but tbh im NOT SORRY and these are MY DOLLS and I'll play with them how I WANT.

okay goodnight love you MWAH

Taglist:

@c4xcocoa

@coffeemin

@theendofthematerialgworl

@daffy-the-duck

@phoenix666stuff

@coralineyouareinterribledanger

@sinnamon-bunn

@ohgodimgoungtodie

@4rachn3

@ye-olde-trash-panda

@truthdaze

@arkham-hoods

@salvatt1

@krys0210

Biting my hair right now im so friggin excited for you guys to read this.

[kingkunigami]

This man needs to leave me alone, I can’t think😭

Warnings: 18+, public sex, fucking in your childhood bedroom, Oliver is obsessed with eating pussy, Oliver is a menace.

Pairing: Aiku Oliver x f!reader.

Word Count: 0.8k.

Oliver doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.

It’s almost as if the word doesn’t exist in his vocabulary, as he’s pawing at your ass and pulling your panties to the side. Never mind the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a packed bar, patrons all around you as his fingers brush through your messy slit.

“Come on, baby,” He gives you that shit-eating grin and you swear you could smack it off his face as he presses a calloused finger against your puffy clit, “At least your pussy’s fuckin’ honest, I can feel her dripping for me.”

It doesn’t matter if you argue back, complain that you’re in public and he can survive until he gets home— Oliver always gets what he wants.

Which is why he managed to get you.

He doesn’t care if you’re getting ready for work, slipping into a fresh pair of tights as you slide them up your thighs. His hands already poised and ready as he presses you over your vanity, a shrill rip sounding through your bedroom as he tears straight through. Pushing his throbbing length through the gaping hole to press against your slit, a satisfied grunt vibrating deep in his throat when he feels you hug his cock.

“I’ll be quick,” He groans, fucking into you with swift, sharp thrusts but it still doesn’t mean you make it to work. Stumbling into the office an hour late with his cum still nestled between your thighs.

You can try as hard as you like to push his head away after he tries to settle between your plush thighs when you’re trying to video chat your friends, messy stubble tickles the supple skin as he mouths at your clit.

“Not now, Oliver.” You push at his brow as he latches on to your clit, flicking it with his tongue.

“Just mute yourself,” He groans, letting his tongue drag lower as it prods against your tight hole, “Or don’t, you know I don’t care.”

He even has the gall to blame you for it, it’s not his fault you have such a pretty pussy— why wouldn’t he want to devour it?

He’s especially a menace when he finishes a match, dragging you into the showers even as you’re trying to bat him away. Pining you to the cool tile as he works his frustrations out on you, unbothered about who sees and hears as your head lifts over the stalls. Leaving the venue with your skin dewy and damp hair a mess, a clear indication of what you were both up to inside.

“Tell your pussy to stop being so pretty, then I wouldn’t want her so bad.” He’s unbelievable.

It doesn’t matter if your poor little cunt is sore from the previous nights activities, or that you tell him you’re dirty. It only spurs him on more as he breathes in the scent of you, committing it to memory as he drags his tongue through your folds.

But the problem is you’re in your childhood bedroom with your parents down the hall. Certain he’s attempting to kill you when he suggests just letting him have a quick taste, promising that he won’t be long. Which we know is another big fucking lie.

He’s got your legs strewn over his shoulders as he feasts on your cunt like a man starved, even your hand over your mouth to keep quiet is no match for the debauched sounds of him lapping at your messy sex, practically slurping your essence into his eager mouth as you try to keep him quiet.

“But she needs it, princess. I can feel her clenching around me.” He’s insufferable as he continues to delve his tongue inside your fluttering walls, nosing your clit as he works you towards your climax.

You think you’ve found salvation when he makes you cum, your desperate cries of his name muffled by your hands as he works you through your climax. Fingers dragging against your ridged walls as he tongues your sensitive clit, eyes staring up at you with mischief and intent as he keeps going.

Your thighs clamping down around his head to try and push him away does nothing but goad him on, his strong palms grip you tight. Fingers dipping into the plush skin as he parts your thighs like the Red Sea, leaving you exposed for him as he continues his meal. Dragging his tongue from your clit all the way to your tight asshole as he does as he pleases. His face glistens with your release, your slick drooling down his chin as he gives you a smug grin. Reaching up to wipe the back of his hand along his mouth to clean it off before lapping it up with his tongue.

Oliver is used to getting what he wants, when he wants. Especially when it comes to you.

[misguidedswagger]

trust: chapter 3

trust masterlist

masterlist

w/c: 2.6k

The final note of ‘Time to Dance’ rang out through the makeshift studio in the Urie garage. The group had been reworking the song to sound cleaner, including a few lyric, note, and tempo changes. Brendon sat in thought for a second before shaking his head and taking a sip of water, smacking the space button on the keyboard, “I don’t know, something is throwing me off…” Brendon let out a soft grunt of frustration before staring into space and disappearing for a second. Spencer hummed in his direction, 

“But.. you just said this was the best version like an hour ago?” Spencer looked at him and noticed his face hinted at his displeasure over something, “What’s eating you?” He asked, waving a hand in front of Brendon’s face. Brendon shook his head and pushed Spencer’s hand away from him, “It’s nothing, I’m fine.” Brendon assured, albeit gruffly, but Spencer didn’t believe him. He gave his friend a look, leading Brendon to finally give in with a sigh. “I don’t know who it was, but someone fucked her.” Everyone went silent and their heads shot to Brendon. 

“Huh? Who fucked who? Who is her?” Spencer asked for the room, just as surprised as the others. 

“Y/n.” Brendon said shortly, staring off once again, digging his fingernails into his palms.

“Holy shit. How do you know?” Spencer leaned back to give Brendon a little extra space. He chuckled and shook his head again,

“Was dropping her laundry off in her room the other day. You all know that I got a fuckin’ cold from our signing party and was sick for like, a week almost. So, when I ran out of tissues, I went to grab one from the box in her room, and the box was right there on her nightstand. I went to throw it away when I was done, but I missed the trash can. When I went to pick it up, I saw a Durex in there. At first, I laughed a little bit because it was the same brand I use, but then I had a weird feeling that it was mine. So I threw away the tissue, then went to grab my unopened box in my drawer to soothe my gut and shit. And guess what the hell I saw in the drawer? That same box, open. Someone literally went into my room and not only stole one of my condoms, but then disrespected me even further by using it with my sister while I was home. So, was it one of you?”

“Dude, you really think one of us would do that to either of you? C’mon. How do you even know it was her for sure, though? What if it was just some other horny couple that broke into her room and they’re the ones who got nasty?” Jon suggested. Ryan nodded along, taking a sip of water.

“Good afternoon gentlemen! You sounded great! I made cupcakes!” Y/n chirped, startling all four of the boys. Ryan took one look at her and choked on his water, sputtering for a couple seconds. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on Ryan now and Jon was the one who broke the initial silence,

“You good, man?” 

“Just…Just fine. Wrong pipe.” Jon finally looked up at Y/n and had to make an effort not to choke on his own water too.

“Where did you get that shirt, Y/n/n?” Brendon glared at his younger sister, seeing the all too familiar shirt on his sister’s frame. It was a stark contrast from what she’d usually worn. Y/n would usually wear brighter colors, but instead, today, Y/n rocked a grungy, old, black t-shirt in place of some frilly shirt she’d bought from the mall. She seemed to not even notice her brother’s anger. Y/n pulled at the shirt to look at the design better, “Oh, I was trying to clean the mixing spoon and the sink splashed the water all over me, so I just grabbed the first shirt I saw in the laundry room. Why? Is it yours? Do you need it back? I can change real quick?” She offered, shrugging at him as she held the shirt forward as if she were going to take it off in that exact moment Brendon asked. Jon looked at Ryan’s shirt on Y/n’s body and hardly missed the glint in Ryan’s eye. Jon nudged his leg gently, Cool it, Ryan… He thought. Ryan had remembered exactly when he had received that t-shirt: for his fourteenth birthday, from Brendon, over three years ago. He used to wear that shirt all the time, as he appreciated that his best friend knew him well enough to get him clothes he was actually keen on wearing and comfortable. Ryan used to wear the shirt to practice often, everyone in that room knew who that shirt belonged to, and how terribly incriminating it looked.

Even though it was probably the best case scenario for this given moment, Ryan couldn’t ignore the lightning bolt of hurt overtaking his chest that resulted from her nonchalance. He internally begged for Y/n to yearn for him the way he did for her. He blinked back his emotions and swallowed some more water breaking his gaze from Y/n. As he swallowed, he let out a breath, finally reconnecting his eyes with her, purposely ignoring the sympathetic look on Jon’s face. The harshness of Brendon’s demeanor faded ever so slightly, seeing as she remained nonchalant about the shirt being Ryan’s. He let up on her and leaned back in his chair before standing up and holding out an arm for a side hug, “My bad. I just…” Y/n found solace in her older brother’s arms before pulling away to place down a freshly filled water pitcher on the table, “Not only you lost someone two years ago.” An anxious tension entered the room, everyone present affected by the night in question. The older Urie sighed before walking forward towards the door with Y/n in tow, pulling her away before she had a chance to reply,  “Now let’s go eat those cupcakes you made.” He teased Y/n, eliciting a soft laugh from her as she ran towards the kitchen, completely unaware of the crossfire she’d almost caused.

As the two Urie’s ran off into their house and dug into the cupcakes, the other three remained stagnant in the garage before Spencer took a step onto the garage steps, opening his mouth to say something before abruptly shutting his mouth and walking towards the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. Spencer left Ryan and Jon with nothing other than an anxious and uncomfortable silence, “Do you think-” Jon started, 

“That we should go eat some cupcakes? Yeahlet’sgodothatrightnow!” Ryan spoke quickly, grabbing Jon and yanking him up the stairs and into the house. ~ In the passenger seat, Ryan stared out the window at the blue sky slowly turning into a piece of pink, purple, and orange abstract art. He didn’t know how long he’d been zoned out for, only being interrupted from his reverie by none other than his best friend, 

“Fuck, dude, nevermind.” Brendon huffed, annoyed. Brendon’s fuse had been incredibly short lately, ever since he’d found the used condom in Y/n’s trashcan. Brendon reached into the glovebox, grabbing his wallet before slamming the car door shut, always searching for the most dramatic exits and entrances it seemed. 

Ryan groaned, rolling his eyes as he massaged his sore temples, “Sorry, dude. ‘ve been sleeping super shitty lately.” Ryan yawned almost on cue, Brendon glancing at him sharply, “Yeah? Is it because you’re fucking my sister?” Brendon said in an accusatory manner, causing Ryan’s eyes to damn near burst from his head. “Jesus Christ, Brendon, how many times do I need to tell you I didn’t fuck Y/n! What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like a fucking psycho about this? I get that Y/n got hurt with Brent, I care about her too, you know I do.” Ryan exploded, annoyed that Brendon wouldn’t trust his word after more than four years of friendship. Ryan was even more upset at the fact that he himself didn’t trust his own word. Brendon’s angry features softened slightly, “I just can’t have another Brent situation.” For a brief moment, it looked like Brendon wanted to apologize, but held it to himself.  It was a short reply to Ryan’s small outburst, but Ryan couldn’t even reply before Brendon walked into the corner store. With a long sigh, Ryan once more rubbed at his eyes tiredly, whipping out his phone and punching out some quick messages to Y/n. hey. your brother’s bein super pissy just warning ya 

he’s been distant and short with me since … also nice going wearing my shirt earlier lol Y/n read Ryan’s messages and replied almost instantly, shit

ok

thx

fuk u lol

Brendon exited the store in a much better mood, his phone pinned between his shoulder and ear, his signature smile on and flashing bright, “Yeah, no worries. Be there at 9.” Brendon laughed excitedly after hanging up the call. He turned to Ryan, forgetting about their small disagreement from earlier, “Pete invited us to a big party tonight. Apparently he wants us to perform because some of his connections are gonna be there.” Brendon's smile was wide across his face, his eyes lit up gleefully. 

Ryan’s eyes widened and a grin soon overtook his face as well. “No shit…” He murmured before Brendon’s hand connected with his, their shared handshake second nature. Brendon placed the stack of notebooks he’d grabbed in the back of his car before buckling in and starting up the car. 

“This is gonna be insane. Pete Wentz invited us to a party… to meet his connections, holy fuck, Ry, do you fuckin’ understand how big of a deal this is?!” Brendon spoke excitedly, his heart damn near pounding out of his chest in excitement. Brendon’s phone buzzed with another text from Pete and Brendon immediately shoved his phone at Ryan, “Read it, dude! What does it say?!” 

Ryan narrowed his eyes at the text before glancing up at Brendon as he approached a red light, “Pete said to ‘bring your sister, it’ll be even better publicity if you guys have a hot chick supporting you guys.’” Ryan suppressed scrunching his face in disgust. He knew Y/n was gorgeous, but it still made his blood boil to know that other people found her as attractive as he did. He wanted to keep her safe, he wanted her to be his. It made him sick to his stomach that she wasn’t already his. 

Ryan didn’t really remember much of the car ride home, let alone Brendon’s reaction to Pete’s text. But, when he watched Y/n walk down the stairs in a shorter-than-he’d-expected black dress, his breath caught in his throat. She accessorized her entire outfit with the color red, her entire ensemble resembling the theme of Panic!’s album. Ryan damn near started drooling at the sight of her, she looked stunning. Her makeup was beautiful too, he was almost in shock at how much she’d stuck to the theme of their album, how much she cared. 

He watched as she walked to the full body mirror next to their stairwell,  watching as she fixed minor things about her outfit and placed some finishing touches on her makeup. 

Ryan’s cheeks were heated up in a bright blush, grateful he’d elected for a more full coverage makeup look, his eye makeup spanning halfway down his cheeks. He cleared his throat, walking up to Y/n, his heart in his throat as he gave her a hug from behind, placing a gentle kiss behind her ear. “You look beautiful.” Ryan’s low voice danced across both of her ears, sending chills down her spine. 

Y/n’s bright smile overtook her face as she turned around to give Ryan a tight hug. The two separated upon hearing the descending steps on the staircase ahead of them and it was back to mutual longing glances. 

The boys quickly lost themselves in excited chatter, Y/n’s main priority on Ryan. Their relationship was complicated. Yes, they’d been intimate, yes, her brother was a force to be reckoned with, but she was worth it. She was worth everything in the world. If I could tell her…Ryan thought to himself before letting his attention be redirected to whatever Brendon was saying.

Nonstop did Ryan and Y/n think of each other, nonstop did they zone out thinking about, or looking at the opposite. The band and Y/n filtered out of the Urie house as the limo that Pete had called them arrived, the air electric with excitement. 

Brendon climbed in first, Spencer second, then Jon, and Ryan. As Y/n tried to climb into the limo, her heel caught on the door and she ended up stumbling. Ryan caught her arm before she hit the floor, a soft smile shared between them as she took the seat next to Ryan. 

Brendon was ecstatic, too much to notice the tension between his younger sister and his best friend, already excitedly chattering with Spencer and the driver. Jon watched both Spencer and Brendon, and Ryan and Y/n. He could’ve rolled his eyes at how motherly he was being, but he simply shook his head and remained vigilant. 

The ride to the party was a blur. Before they knew it, they stood outside the mansion, hearing the blaring music and the dull hum of its guests speaking, yelling, or whatever the hell else they were doing. Brendon looked like a kid on Christmas with his larger than life smile, immediately pulling his band mates forward to look for the man who invited them.

Y/n followed behind them for a moment before realizing Brendon hadn’t heard her calls to wait up. It seemed like he didn’t even remember that she was there either. With an annoyed sigh, she told herself to be grateful Brendon even brought her, promising not to let her annoying older brother ruin this fun night for her. She watched at the group vanished into the house before looking around at the environment of the party.

She walked over to the bar, pouring herself a rum and coke, something simple to start the night. She took a sip and winced, not realizing her nerves had provided her with a heavy hand. Shaking off the taste of the alcohol and letting the warmth spread through her chest, she let the feeling of the rum’s toxicity run through her lungs before taking another soothing-to-the soul sip. 

When it was time for Panic!’s performance, Ryan seemed to be the most nervous. It made a lot of sense, considering it was his writing, his lyrics, his blood and tears so to speak. Brendon was obviously the most excited, that was more evident than Ryan had anticipated, but he said nothing. 

The four stood on the stage, all nervous but excited to perform for the first time in front of an audience other than only Y/n. Y/n stood directly against the gates of the stage, an encouraging smile on her face. She was the source of a lot of Ryan’s nerves, yet, she seemed to be the only thing able to calm him right now. She made eye contact with Ryan, watching as he nervously started their countdown. She took a deep breath and smiled even wider, mouthing the counts with him. 

1…1, 2, 3, 4!

[spencewalterreid]

The Red Means I Love You

Summary: Spencer came into the restaurant you work at when you were in a bad mood, but nonetheless he has to see you again.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female First-person POV

Category: Fade to Black Smut (TV-14)

Warnings: dirty talk, switch!Reid!!! switch!Reader, first person pronouns no use of y/n, date nights,hair pulling, neeeerd spencer, reader works at a truck stop, fade to black smut, smooches, second base. I think that should be it?

Word count: 4.3k

Author's Note: Hello again ladies!! I'm not sure how I haven't yet come across a riff fic off of Spencer and Cat's scenes, but here it is!! Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying they were a good pair, but the way their characters played off of one another was positively scrumptious. Here's an indulgence into that.

The first time it happened, I was working a 14-hour shift at a truck stop diner. I’d started my shift right out of school, and I was working until the next morning. Just an hour before he’d come in, we were slammed – every table in the store was full, and I’d only just gotten all the tables bussed. I was exhausted, my manager was hounding me, and I was on the verge of a full-blown breakdown. When refilling a Dr. Pepper for the jackass at table 32 who I had to argue with over the burger that he specifically requested onions on, I glanced up at the door as the bells rang. Oh.

He is... stunning.

My attention was abruptly yanked out of my daydream about the gorgeous boy that had just walked in with a handful of other people, and I looked down at my right hand wrapped around the plastic cup, which is now cold and drenched in the sticky beverage. Goddamn it.

“Boys, are you dining in?” I asked cheerfully as I grabbed a new straw, a smile plastered across my face. Stay professional. Stay professional. Stay professional.

“Yeah, we’ve got–” he paused to turn around and count heads– “six,” said one of the three men. Not the pretty one, though he was by no means ugly. He was tall, but not the tallest of the group (that title belonged to the one that caught my eye), with broad muscles laced under dark skin. He had a great smile. 

I glance back at table 32, who was rolling his eyes at the few-second delay. “Wherever you like,” I reply, swiftly returning to this grumpy-ass trucker. “Your refill, sir! Anything else I can get for you?”

He blatantly ignores me.

“If you change your mind, just holler,” I added, and as I turned to walk away:

“You can get me a new fuckin’ burger, this one got cold while I was waiting for you to finish flirting.” He slammed the second burger I’d brought to him back down onto the tray. Fuck you, dude. I’m already getting chewed out by the kitchen, but cool! Yeah! Okay!

“Yes, sir. I apologize, I’ll be right back out.” As I walked away with his tray, shifting it between fingers so as not to scald my fucking hand, I let a subtle sigh escape from my lungs.

10 seconds at the door. 30 seconds at the table. 15 minutes for food. 1 minute to bus.

I remind myself for the umpteenth time today of what’s supposed to be the restaurant policy. That had been out the door since 4:30 that afternoon and it is now… I glanced at the clock above the window as I slid the tray back onto it… 12:57 in the morning. Sick. Can’t wait to see the reviews.

“What was wrong with it this time?” The chef snapped, yanking the tray back.

“I’m just as annoyed as you are, I promise. He said it got cold. Just…”

She cuts me off. “Leave it there for a few minutes and come back. I’m not making a whole new burger.”

I did not roll my eyes, thank you very much.

Wheeling around on the balls of my feet and carefully controlling my breath, I picked up 6 menus and a matching number of silverware on the way to the round booth the group had settled into. I flipped on a positive tone to greet them. “Howdy, howdy! How are you folks-”

“Just say the word, and I’ll see him out,” the dark man interjected. The rest stared at him in partly shock, partly reprimand. I think the silver-haired one was his superior, he was carrying the ‘don’t interrupt her, asshole’ look.

“Uhm, sorry?” I glanced around the mostly-empty store, divvying up the hardware on the table in the meantime.

“The old fuck over there. If you want him to leave, I’ll make it happen.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking me dead in the eyes. I chuckled uncomfortably.

“No, that’s okay.” I have a feeling he was not kidding. I swept my eyes along the table to make eye contact with each person as I introduced myself, but I risked a few seconds longer for the boy on the far left. “I’m gonna be your server tonight. You folks know what you’d like to drink?”

They rattled off their drink orders one by one (The dark-haired woman asked for scotch and I’m only a little sure she wasn’t being serious, and the one with the colourful clothing almost squeaked in joy when she saw strawberry lemonade on the menu), but the sweet-looking boy on the end took the longest.

“Sir?” I nudged, tilting my head down to catch his gaze under his hair.

“Yes, uh, what kind of coffee do you serve?” he inquired, pushing his menu in front of him on the table, trying to straighten the edge flush against the side of the table.

I stammered. “It’s just black coffee…” I replied uncertainly, glancing at the other members of the group.

“They don’t serve frappuccinos, Reid. Do you want the coffee or not?” the second blonde woman sighed, and I think she was probably just as far down her rope as I was. That slips from my mind, though, at the mention of his name. Reid. Cute.

“No, I just meant the roast,” he clarified, but at the uncomfortable look on my face, he conceded. “Yeah. Black coffee, please.”

If he slumped any further down, I think the booth would swallow him.

—-—-

The second time it happened, he caught me on a better day. Our breakfast rush wasn’t too bad, and I actually had a second server helping me that day. It was almost noon, and I was feeling far lighter than I was the last time. When I glanced up at the chime by the door, a smile far more genuine than last time crossed my face.

“Hello again!” I chirped, wiped my hands on my apron, and pretended not to notice his flinch. “Just you today?”

He returned my smile, albeit feeble. “Yes. It’s just me.” 

“It’s Reid, right?” Grabbing a menu and silverware, I followed him over to the same booth he’d occupied with the other five people last time.

“No, I- Well, yes. Derek uses my surname. It’s Spencer,” he replied, sinking into the fake leather and glancing around the store. “It’s busier than last time.”

Setting the menu in front of him, I followed his gaze. “Well, yeah, it was the middle of the night.”

“The coffee was Colombian roast with hazelnut,” he said. Huh? “You seemed confused when I asked what kind it was.” He nodded, like he was trying to remind himself. “That’s what it was.”

“Oh.” Did his lips look that soft last time? His sleeves are folded up his arms this time. “Your hair looks pretty,” I said before I could stop myself. Shut up, shut up, shut- “It matches your eyes.” My smile softens the compliment, but I don’t think that made him any less confused.

“T-thank you,” he replied softly, pushing it back on instinct. Change the topic.

“Do you, uhm.” I clear my throat and shift my weight. “Would you like a coffee, then?”

He shook his head with a grimace. “Absolutely not. It was awful.”

He’s funny. I guess I didn’t throw him too far off-course.

“Why did you order it, then?” I asked, not unkindly. He turned pink. Pretty.

“I didn’t want to make you more stressed than you already were.” Reid– No. Spencer adjusted the strap of his cross-body bag. 

“Did I seem stressed?” I asked, quickly chancing a look behind me to check for my manager. We’re in the clear.

“Ye- No, not like that. I’m, uh. I’m trained to read people well. You were walking at an abnormally quick pace, and you kept looking around when you were at other tables, even though there were very few, as though any second you’d be pulled away." He straightened slightly, setting his shoulders, as if he were in his element, but he still doesn't look at me, his eyes cast down. "When you were filling our drinks, you poured some out and refilled it more than once, which I assume was to achieve a perfect ratio, or at least one you perceive as such. And–” he looked up from his menu that I’m positive he wasn’t reading to look me in the eyes. “And the man at table 32 was being very curt with you. That would cause stress. Your manager behind the window wasn’t making it any better, I bet.”

I scoffed incredulously. “Good memory,” I said with a smile. “That was impressive. Yeah, I wasn’t in the best mood that night.” My voice lowered to a conspirational whisper, but I didn’t let my facial expression change. “But you helped. You have no idea how far a little bit of kindness goes. And hey, I never got the chance to tell you I was sorry for messing up your order.”

Spencer shook his head, stretching and relaxing his fingers above the table for something to do. “It was just a salad. I just took the tomatoes off, it was no problem.”

I smiled softly. He’s so sweet. “Do you know what you’d like to drink, Spencer Reid?”

He let himself genuinely laugh. “Good memory,” he repeats, an air of light-hearted sarcasm to his tone. “I’d like a sweet tea with lemon and– actually. I know I shouldn’t ask, and you absolutely do not have to answer, but uhm… when do you have a lunch break? Maybe we could-”

“Right now. I’ll be right back,” I replied, taking off my apron and walking to the back to alert my manager (thankfully, different than the overnight one.) They could manage without me for an hour. I was not passing him up a second time.

——

The third time it happened, we were on our third date. Spencer wanted to go to a museum, I wanted to do something a bit more interactive. We agreed on an aquarium.

“Actually, Parrotfish are one of my least favourite of the wrasse family, and definitely least favourite of the Labridae,” he countered when I insisted their colours were pretty.

“I didn’t say they were my favourite, Reid, I said they were pretty."

“No, I know, but I’m just saying.” He was practically vibrating, balling a fist and unballing it, and I could tell he needed to tell me number 1,001 of his facts in the last hour.

I sighed, an affectionate smile on my face as I turned around and leaned on the rocky wall. “Why are they one of your least favourites?”

Reid offered me a toothy grin. “The parrotfish has a tendency to coat itself in a bubble of its own mucus and saliva in order to protect itself from parasites and predators. It’s intended to mask their scent. Many refer to it as an underwater sleeping bag,” he explained with a grimace. Oh, that’s why. “I’m positive it only spreads bacteria, and if fish could get sick in the same way as homosapiens, they would all be sick all of the time.”

“You know, not for nothing, but I wouldn’t mind your saliva all over me.”

“Ugh! Gross!” Spencer staggered backward, glaring at me. “Don’t say things like that.”

I pout. “You’re not even a little curious what I taste like, Dr. Reid?” I stalked up to him, mocking a femme fatale in one of those cheesy black-and-white spy movies.

“Stop it.” He swallowed thickly and when I went to lay my hands on the sides of his neck, his instinctively found my hips. He glanced at my lips. I stared at his.

“Make me,” I whispered, deciding eye contact was a better choice. Good god, his face was red.

His mouth parted slightly and he squeezed my hips, then adjusted his bag. “Enough,” he asserts, and I’d be lying if that didn’t turn me on. In all honesty, I was totally doing a bit and I was just about to back off anyway, but yeesh. For the sake of my own sanity, I giggled and pushed off of him. He sighed in relief.

“Fish can get sick,” I said, changing the topic back to what he'd said about the parrotfish to ease his nerves. When he took more than a half a second to reply, I started to doubt myself. “Can’t they?”

“Well, yes, but not… not ill. They can’t have a sickness like we can. They just feel sick. Like, if they swim upside down, or have issues breathing, or if the water quality is poor.”

I pushed myself off the wall and linked a finger around the strap of his bag, dragging him along behind me. “Alright, last section. Lock and load, you’ve got…” I glanced at my phone. “13 minutes to give me as many facts as you can. Go.”

–

Spencer insisted (according to Date Etiquette 101 from Professor Derek Morgan) that on the third date, he had to take me to a romantic dinner. He still wants to stop by his apartment to get changed, so we’re on the way there now, and have 1 hour, 42 minutes and counting to get to our reservation. I brought a bag with makeup and a change of clothes so I could get done up too and not have to go all the way across town to my place.

Y'know, you wouldn't think it, but he's really a reckless driver. It isn't that he doesn't understand the rules of the road or how to follow them. It's more that he knows them well enough that he feels confident in breaking them. It's kinda sexy. He drives with his left hand only barely touching the wheel and his right hand in mine. It took him a long time of being around me to be okay with physical contact, but now that he's to that point, he's incredibly clingy. He turns a 25-minute drive into 18, and I guarantee that's only because there was a fair amount of traffic.

–

“Are you almost ready?” I hear a rustling sound on the other side of the door, then a muffled, soft scraping noise that suggests he just sat on the floor (which by the way, is clean enough you could eat off of it) against the door. I’m in his room also sitting on the floor, utilizing a full-body mirror against his wall, carefully tweaking my eyeliner. Reid didn’t want to see me before the date, said it was bad luck. It’s strange what he chooses to be superstitious about.

“Almost. 1 minute.” I lean back, raking my fingers through my hair and checking my appearance. Not to toot my own horn, but toot fucking toot, I look downright strapping. “Okay!”

Just as the word leaves my mouth, the bedroom door is flying open and he’s barrelling in, but he stops dead in his tracks as he sees me. “Wow.”

I spin in a little circle, my black, mid-thigh corset dress making a dome around me. “You like?”

Spencer approaches slowly, his eyes scanning me head to toe, right to left, and everything in between. “You… are magnificent.” His fingers twitch when he’s about a foot away from me as though he wants to touch me but chickens out. I gently take his hands and place them on my hips, emboldening him to slide his touch upward, over my waist and around to my back. I pretend not to notice his repeated glances at my breasts, as does he.

“Et toi, mon amour,” I reply, a fresh grin painted across my lips. “You look hot.”

He makes a sour face. “You ruined it.”

My jaw drops and I take a step back, feigning offence. His grip falls from my sides. “Fuck did I do? I can’t call you hot now? I’ve said that a thousand times, calm down.”

“I was being a gentleman,” he pouts. “You’re just being crude.”

“That’s not crude, Dr. Reid. If you want crude-”

“No! No, don’t do that. Save it.” He chuckles, stepping forward again and putting his hands right back where they were. I don’t stop him. “Just hush.”

I let him look at me for a few seconds, and I, him. Just a few until I started getting squeamish under the scrutiny. “Okay. Enough, we need to go,” I interject, pressing against his chest gently with my fingers splayed out. With a glance at the clock behind me, he nods.

“Après toi, ma chérie.”

–

Fancy, fancy FBI boyfriend-not-boyfriend rented out a whole room for us. Candle in the middle of a two-seater table, a window into the main room so we can see what’s going on, and a record player in the corner. The decor is upscale, but not obnoxiously proud. Lots of wood, mostly dark, but light walls. He even goes so far as to pull out my chair for me. 

We’re almost to the end of our meal and I’m taking pin-sized bites to try and draw out the time it takes to finish my lava cake. Reid has already called me out for it twice, but I have blatantly ignored him.

“Spencer,” I begin, cutting off a conversation about the history behind the Hays code and its relevance in a specific episode of Supernatural.

“Hm?” He straightens up, clearing his throat.

“I have a stupid question. You don’t have to answer it.”

“Go ahead.”

“What was your first impression of me?” My voice is low, unsure. I have time to cross my legs, then uncross them, then look at him, then back at my lap before he begins to reply.

“I thought you were pretty. You seemed agitated,” he says, slow, haltingly, like he isn’t sure if that’s the answer I wanted. It wasn’t.

“No, after that. When we started going out. What kind of person do you think I am?”

Spencer hums, folding his hands and leaning back. The seconds tick by like minutes, and god he looks delectable.

“You’re self-assured and conduct yourself as though you think you’re the greatest person in the world. You hand out compliments like candy and you flirt like you’re dying tomorrow because you want people to find you exciting. You think you have to have major sex appeal to attract a partner, which isn’t true, it’s actually quite off-putting.”

“You think having major sex appeal is off-putting?” I interrupt.

“No, I think overdoing it to the point of-”

“I’m not overdoing it! It’s just the way I am.”

“I’m not saying-”

“It’s just that-”

“If you’d stop interrupting me, I’d answer your question.”

I shut my mouth. That was hotter than it needed to be.

“Thank you. As I was saying, it’s clear to others, or at least to me, that you do not feel that way about yourself in the slightest. For the sake of honesty and because I always answer your questions to the fullest of my abilities, I’d say you find yourself almost repulsive."

My stomach twists. Does he find me repulsive? Why would he think I feel that way? Better question: How does he know I feel that way?

"When you first began getting into relationships, you were probably up-front about that because you didn’t know any better, but quickly learned people internalize what you tell them. So, to combat that reaction, you started acting like all you wanted from people was sex so it didn’t matter whether they liked you or not, which led to a lot of meaningless flings that left you feeling worse than you did when you were single.”

If my jaw were any lower, it’d be on the floor. I swallow my arguments.

“Tell me more about my sex life, then, Dr. Reid. Since you know so much.” I’m hoping he knows me well enough to know I didn’t mean that to be as bitter as it sounded. He does.

“You project dominance because you fear loss of control, not to mention your hatred of your own body. You wouldn't ever want to be the receiver in a sexual situation, or at least you wouldn't ask for it for worry of your partner finding you less-than-satifactory."

I fight the urge to ask if he'd feel that way, even if I know his answer.

"You only lightly dabble in more aggressive sexual habits, but your enthusiasm whether or not it comes across as joking suggests there’s more truth in it than you’d like for there to be.” He pauses, and I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s trying to remember his next line or it’s because I distracted him when I leaned forward to lean my chin against my palm. I forgot how much of my cleavage this dress shows. He licks his lips and moves on more elegantly than I thought he would. I take advantage of his silence.

“What about you, Dr. Reid?”

He blinks. “What?”

“What about your sexual habits?”

“I, uhm-”

I stand up and walk over to him, placing my hand on his shoulder before I settle on his knee. His hand goes to my thigh nearest to him and he catches my eyes, careful not to look away.

“Well?”

His composure repairs itself like magic.

“It depends on my partner,” he says, his voice lower than it was before, and I swear his eyes are darker than they were a few minutes ago. “I tend to let my partner set the pace. I can embrace aggression if the circumstance proves it necessary.”

Holy shit.

This, my dear reader, was the third time I thought: I’d really like to see just how red I could make you.

“What about me?” I ask, my throat dry. I think I’m more nervous than he is, but I’m taking it like a champ. I look down at Spencer’s hand (his very pretty hand, his very big hand, across my entire thigh. Has it moved up?), but he’s not having it. His free hand goes up to hold my chin firmly, and with utter and total reverence, he lifts my face to look him in the eyes again.

“What about you, beautiful?" He watches me carefully, brown eyes full of intent. My self-control right now is dazzling.

And if I said a little thank-you prayer to God for not giving me a dick with which I would be cursed a boner right now, then maybe that’s nobody’s business.

“What kind of aggression would you use with me?” I bite my lip and swallow, staring at his lips. Perfect, perfect boy.

He studies me for a moment, and I think he’s trying to make me squirm on purpose. His hand hasn’t left my chin, the bastard.

“Keep talking," he prompts. Yes, sir.

I could not tell you, gun to my head, where the fuck I got my bravery from, but hallelujah holy shit.

“Would you grab me by the throat and hold me against a wall?" Woah, where did that come from? Go me. "Would you hold onto me so hard it bruised? Would you leave marks that wouldn’t go away for weeks? Would you ever hurt me, Dr. Reid?” If he notices my face getting so hot it would rival the sun, then it was sweet of him not to address it.

“Is that what you want?”

“I guess I just want to know if you could,” I reply, my left hand coming up to his face, my fingertips tracing his bottom lip, my eyes glued to the point of contact.

“You have no idea what I could do, given enough provocation,” he whispers, finally allowing his eyes to fall to my mouth, parted slightly in awe.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not, Spencer?”

Rather than responding to me, his grip on my chin loosens for favour of travelling down my jaw, then to the back of my neck, curling into my hair, pulling just hard enough for me to feel the tension. “Fix your attitude,” he asserts, and then his lips are on mine and it’s all passion and fury and the taste of chocolate. I moan into his mouth on instinct, and his grip on my hip tightens.

If there’s one thing about Spencer Reid, it’s that he exists as a multitude. And if there’s two things, it’s that he kisses like a man fucking starved. Like he’s been suffocating slowly in a room with no oxygen, and once he gets a mask, he’s not letting it go. He’s teeth in lips, he’s hands roaming, he’s furrowed brows and mouths parting.

His right hand roves over my thigh furthest from him, dipping under my skirt just barely. He stays under the fabric and moves his hand to the top of my thigh, then braving the inside. He’s squeezing once or twice everywhere he touches, like the cliche of saying pinch me. I spread my legs instinctively.

As quick as it started, it stops.

I whine, my eyes opening slow like molasses.

“This is an incredibly uncomfortable position,” he pants. I only just realized the poor thing is not exactly on a sofa made for two. I may be snug as a bug in his lap, but the arms of the chair are digging into the sides of his legs. The recollection of our being in a fucking restaurant right now hits me in the face like a fresh bucket of ice water. 

“Fuck. Sorry,” I breathe, my hands tangled in his hair, and I’m not sure when they got there, or when they managed to unbutton the top half of his shirt, or how the straps of my dress are halfway down my arms.

“Bathroom?” I propose, glancing at the adjoining one that I am thanking my lucky stars for as we speak.

“Bathroom,” he agrees.

[miguel-morillo]

10 March 2025 - Los Angeles, CA, USA Los Angeles Police Department

It was just going to be another Monday, Miguel thought, as he walked into the Los Angeles Police Department at eight o'clock that morning, a full hour before his actual shift would start. This had always been his routine, even before he was promoted to be a detective less than a year ago; the extra hour spent often gave him time to settle in before the start of everyday's hustle and bustle. He'd look over his cases, plan out his day, and actually enjoy his coffee instead of chugging it down, and burning his throat inside an already hot police car.

But that morning, as he began poring over a cold case he'd been assigned to, the precinct's usual chatter was suddenly drowned out by a man yelling in anger. It was Stan Brooks, the department's legendary detective for the past thirty-five years. With the shut door behind him, and the partially open blinds on the windows, he seemed to be having a heated, one-sided meeting with the captain.

"I will not have some naive young pup who thinks he can play with the big boys jeopardise this case for me, Laurie!" He yelled, red in the face. "This is my last case before I retire, and I am not putting my reputation on the line!"

On the other side of the large mahogany desk sat the precinct's head, Captain Lauren O'Connor, cool, calm and collected as always. Miguel couldn't make out what she was saying but whatever it was, it seemed to have enraged Stan further, causing him to storm out of her office and huff at Miguel on his way out.

What the hell was that for??

"Morillo!"

"Yes, Captain!"

The older woman motioned for him to come into her office.

Apprehensive, Miguel stood up and briefly exchanged a few glances with his colleagues. He didn't think he had a meeting booked for that morning. Was he in trouble, too?? Miguel made his way towards the captain's office and was about to close the door behind him, out of habit, when Captain O'Connor interrupted him.

"Leave it," she quietly commanded, though her attention was mostly on the open file she was skimming through. "Stan will be coming back."

Miguel nodded in silence, but it didn't relieve his confusion. Was Stan to be in this same meeting? What for? The two of them were working on two very different cases; Miguel was investigating a cold kidnapping case that happened years ago, while Stan was in charge of the takedown of Dax Holloway, the music mogul.

Is this what Stan was so miffed about?

"You ever heard of Dax Holloway, kid?"

"Yes, ma'am." Miguel was prompt to answer. "He's a musician, isn't he?" he went on. "I've only heard a few songs of his, but I know he's really popular. Even in Medellin," he added, referring to his hometown in Colombia. He paused, wondering what this was all about. "But I've also heard that he's involved in some really shady shit."

"That's right." Captain O'Connor leaned back against her large leather swivel chair, eyeing Miguel for a quiet minute. She looked to be contemplating something. "I need you to partner up with Brooks and co-lead Holloway's takedown."

Miguel stared at his boss. Of all the things he was expecting this meeting to be, this was definitely not it.

"Ma'am?" Dumbfounded, he shook his head, as if that would somehow rearrange what he'd just heard a bit more clearly. "Co-lead?You want me to co-lead. With Stan. Stan Brooks."

Is she for real???

"Yes." There was no mistaking the look on his boss's face — the woman wasn't playing around. "Is that going to be a problem?" she asked, looking him dead in the eye.

"No, ma'am," he replied without hesitation. "I'd be honoured to help—..."

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Stan had returned, groaning and reeking of cigarettes. "You couldn't have waited for me?" He was addressing the captain directly, and in turn, completely bypassing Miguel on his way to sit on the same seat he'd been occupying since earlier. Almost as if the younger detective wasn't standing there at all.

"No, Stan," Captain O'Connor didn't look like she would budge despite the older man's very obvious disapproval. "I'm not going to wait until you finish your umpteenth smoke break before I do my job."

That shut up Stan right quick.

"Now, both of you, listen to me," Captain O'Connor resumed, crossing her fingers together above her desk, looking at both men. "You two are my best guys here," she said, which earned an eyeroll from Stan, one that he didn't care to hide from his own boss. Clearly being the best detective didn't earn Stan Brooks any manners. Still, the captain ignored the disrespect for the time being. "And I need you both on this Holloway case."

"Come on, Lauren, you can't actually mean that. This kid is... He's just a kid!" Even then, Stan couldn't be bothered to look over at Miguel. He simply pointed at him, exasperated, which really pissed Miguel off.

"You better not be referring to me, old man..." Miguel started but his annoyance couldn't compare to that of the captain's, whose patience had finally reached its limit.

The woman fiercely banged her fist on her desk, surprising both men, and the entire precinct.

"Enough!" One would be able to hear a pin drop in that moment of silence. "This is not just any case, Stan," she spoke, her voice thick with irritation. "You, of all people, should understand that from having investigated this scum for months! And it has been months. Months and months yet no results. Well, I need results! And believe it or not, Miguel is going to help you do it!"

Stan opened his mouth to say something, but the captain was quick to silence him again.

"I understand that you've been at the top of your game for thirty-five years now," she spoke as calmly as one could through gritted teeth, "and he's only made detective last year. But you're not as sharp as you used to be, Stan, and you need to face the fact that you need help. And since I need this shit done before any more girls get assaulted or go missing or God forbid - both! - you're going to share everything you've got on the Holloway case with Miguel here and, together, hatch up a plan to take down that son of a bitch on the evening of the 29th." She angrily shut the manila folder, and added, "See me about your game plan before end of business. Today."

"Wait, what? What's on the 29th?" Stan grumbled irritably, looking very unhappy with the situation his superior had put him in.

"There's a party of some kind—..." Captain O'Connor started to explain, skimming the files inside the thick manila folder in front of her for a name.

"You mean Milo Nash's album release party?" Miguel casually piped in.

Both Captain O'Connor and Stan looked at him, astounded.

"What?" The young man blinked. "Everyone's talking about it."

Captain O'Connor smirked to herself, and shook her head, very amused. Without another word, she closed the Holloway file and slid it across her desk towards Miguel.

"And that, Stan, is why you need Miguel."

[koifishscribbles]

to hell with the glories of this loneliness

by koifishscribbles on ao3

5k and it’s the plot of a shitty porn flick where Pizza Delivery Driver Getou meets an intriguing customer late at night

Sneak peek below!

The doorbell is so fucking fancy it takes him a solid minute of staring to figure it out. Suguru is surprised that the man doesn’t just come to the door. Living in a fancy fucking building like this surely affords one a camera or two into the hallway. I mean, come on, he thinks going back over the night guard and the attempted valet and the secret-fucking-password (KIKUFUKU!) that he had to input to even get into the building. Ordering pizza right before closing is automatically a dick move, and then to add an essay’s worth of instructions to deliver the pizza. Fuck. Off.

He better get a big fucking tip.

Shifting the heated carrying case to his other hand, he runs the dominant one over the phony art deco display next to the door. Honestly, the different levels of the piece all feel like sturdy, cool pieces of metal. Isn’t being rich supposed to make life easier? It’s not just fucking pizza delivery drivers that ring doorbells. What if this ass-clown wants to have a dinner party?

He flattens his palm over the whole piece, pressing in hopes that one of them gives. Well, fuck him— the whole thing pushes in, and a muffled three-note chime is released.

Thank fuck. Suguru wants to go home so bad. Choso said he’d have a pizza ready for him when he comes to clock out. So all Suguru has to do is deliver this goddamned pizza, then stop by the shop for a few minutes. Pretend to shoot some shit with Sukuna as if they’re still the bestest of buddies, and talk trash on Choso’s current music kick: Mongolian throat singing— while secretly loving it (last week the dude was on a trap metal kick that also kinda sorta grew on him he can’t be trusted). Then shove pizza down his throat and crawl into his double bed alone in hopes of getting a few hours of sleep before he has to wake up and do prep again tomorrow. Yip-fuckin-pee.

Maybe— when Suguru finally gets a day off— he can hunt down that bitch-ass emo kid with the fuck-ass bob that quit by no-call-no-showing and kill him. Nahhhh, not a fitting punishment. Maybe he can treat the kid to some sleep deprivation and prop him outside of some rich ass-pricks’ doors covered in flour indefinitely. Suguru uses his free hand to attempt to dust himself off; he doesn’t actually care, but fuck this guy. Here, some flour for his doorstep.

Fuck!!! Where is this jack-off? He needs to roll the windows down on his car and chain-smoke cigarettes all the way back to the shop as post-shift cool-down and a pre-Sukuna numbing agent.

Suguru presses the button again, holding it down. Still, only a three-note ring. He releases pressure and then leans his whole body into a second push.

He’s about to unabashedly fist-fuck the doorbell when he hears a clatter on the other side, like the prick-hole on the other side just swiped a bunch of mahjong pieces off a table. A cacophony of obscenities promptly follows.

“Shit,” he mumbles as the door flies open. Revealing the craziest looking motherfucker alive. He’s wearing hot pink flannel pajama pants that ride up on him like high-waters because he’s built like a newborn giraffe and an oversized black t-shirt that reads: lesbians rule. And it’s not the fucking attire that this man has donned, but his physical being. Everything about him is as white as a fresh bag of flour—

Shit! Suguru drags his hand over his face, trying to stop his brain from short circuiting and becoming trapped in a pizza-based purgatory.

Everything about him is as white and chilling as fresh snowfall. Except his eyes. They’re a deep and dazzling blue. And blue barely fucking cuts it. They’re azure, cerulean, heavenly—

And Suguru stops himself right there. No broad shoulders or possible sculpted back. He doesn’t dwell on the angular jawline. And doesn’t acknowledge the lean, muscular limbs, covered in white hairs, giving all of the man’s exposed skin a slight iridescent quality.

Suguru is sure if he leaned in close enough he could fall down those irises and get trapped there. Infinitely stuck watching the whole world pass by him through the blue fractal perspective. with it.

But he’s not enraptured at all! Nope! And the other man’s ears are turning pink, perhaps from embarrassment as Suguru is pretty openly ogling him.

“Yeah, the white hair does that to people.” The man says, ruffling his white hair— perhaps for emphasis, perhaps he’s trying to kill Suguru.

He takes a deep breath, dropping his hand from his face before jumping into his spiel. Having already missed his cue makes it even worse, so he pitches his voice into a curt monotone. “Thank you for ordering from Shibuya Pizza. You need it, we knead it. Can I get your name to confirm the order?”

“You just said the same thing twice.” The corners of the man’s mouth creep upwards throughout the statement.

“No, I didn’t.” Suguru’s eyes roll back into his head. He gets this shit all the fucking time. It works when people read it— but spoken? Nah. And for some reason, people get pissed if he doesn’t say their fuck-wipe of a tag line, and then they call and complain about it. “It’s ‘you need— like require— and we knead— like the dough ‘cause it’s all made fresh and in house.”

“Damn, that’s the corniest shit ever,” the man says. “That must suck to have to say every time.”

“It. Does. Can I get your name to confirm the order?”

“I can tell you guys make the dough in house, you smell like a bakery.” Suguru’s ego bruises, despite how genuine and disarming it is. Maybe he wouldn’t have to smell like dough all the time if he made some good choices and didn’t have to move out on a lease and drop out take a semester off of college.

“Name, please?” Suguru sighs, but he comes out embarrassingly close to a whine.

“Gojo Satoru,” he quips with a smile before continuing onwards. “And yours?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah!” The man who is apparently Gojo smiles as if he’s just done the most normal thing in the world. “Yours?”

“I’m not telling you my name.” Suguru shoves the pizza over into the other man’s stupid fucking hands. If this is some serial killer type bullshit, he doesn’t want to get involved. He could be persuaded if there’s a sex dungeon-esque element.

“Why not?” Gojo’s pouting. Like actually pouting. Pink lip puckered out and glistening. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Conversation?” He challenges. This is absurd. Maybe this Twilight-Vampire-ass-fuck is actually an angel fallen from heaven because who the fuck makes conversation at 2:07 AM with the pizza delivery driver on their own doorstep?! And he tells him that. “Who the fuck makes conversation at 2:07 AM with the pizza delivery driver on their own doorstep?! Is it your first day on earth?”

Omitting the fallen angel part. Good choice, Suguru.

“Damn, I’m sorry—“

“Do you even know all the shit I’ve gotta put up with? There’s actually fucking crazy people out there that want to do crazy shit to delivery drivers because we’re broke and dropped right on their doorstep. No, of course you don’t know,” he laughs to himself, spinning around to head back down the hall. There’s not gonna be any tip on this order. He’ll be lucky if there’s not a complaint.

“I’m sorry!” Gojo hollers at his back. “If you want, you can come in and have some pizza.” Suguru takes another step forward. “I can’t eat it all by myself.” And another,“You should drive so angry.”

What The Fuck Is this guy’s deal? But it stops him in his tracks. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mommy. Plus, I don’t eat meat.” Suguru sneers.

“How ‘bout some coffee?” Gojo smiles, flashing less of the pearly whites than before. It’s so warm, despite everything else about him.

Gojo turns his head to the side, as if giving up. Suguru only catches the quarter turn of his profile. Hair like a chandelier swaying gently from the foot beats of a singular dance. And fuck, Suguru wants to run out there and join him. Needs too. Under his dazzling Swarovski crystal hair and diamond eyes and other cunt-fucky rich people materials that he doesn’t even know the name of.

He’s so alluring and disarming that Suguru’s sure Gojo’s gotta be some kind of siren or cryptid he’s never heard of. But odds are he’s just a normal, probably lonely man. With those circumstances, Suguru could probably take him in a fight if he tries anything weird, omitting the sex-dungeons.

“Fine.”

[cozm1xxx]

⭑𓂃˗ˏˋ CARS AND STARS ˎˊ˗𓂃⭑

˗ˏˋ aka: when Johnny and Francis met! ˎˊ˗

─ ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ ─

Synopsis…! one night, johnny sneaks around in an attempt to meet his idol, only to make a shocking discovery

Featuring…! @eepy-weepy-silly ‘s oc, Sergei Volkov!

── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ──

The breeze is soft and the night cool, as Johnny Cade sneaks quietly into the busy stands of the local drag racing arena. Dallas and Sergei follow behind him closely, glancing around to ensure nobody is following them. Once they’re in, they take their seats in the stands, trying to get the best possible position so they can actually see. Nights like this are important to Johnny, since racing is one of his favorite past times and very rarely does he get this good of seats.

They watch as the cars pull onto the track, lining up side by side, cheers roaring throughout the hundreds of greasers in the bleachers. Johnny’s eyes light up upon seeing his favorite racer — and his idol — stepping out of his car. Frank Turner, an infamous person in the Tulsa racing community. Nobody knows what he looks like nor his identity, only that he’s better than the rest. Cocky, arrogant, smug, all things that you wouldn’t expect Johnny to admire.

And yet, he does; quite significantly, to be totally honest. He watches with a grin on his lips as Frank waves to the crowd, a ski mask covering his whole head aside from a pair of smug eyes and an even more smug grin.

Johnny spends hours watching the cars speeding around the track, the sun falling over the treeline as time passes. As anticipated, Frank wins each one by a long shot. Cheers echo throughout the stadium each time he surpasses another racer, especially from Johnny.

However, halfway through the night, Sergei and Dallas run off, finding themselves bored and unamused, leaving Johnny alone. He doesn't mind, however, being content with watching by himself. That is, until the end of the festivities When everyone is leaving, Johnny finds himself desperately wishing to meet his beloved idol. So, he comes up with the bright idea to sneak down to the dugout. He knows it’ll be easy, considering the lack of security. It’s a local thing organized by greasers, for god’s sake, of course there’s no security…

Which is why Johnny now finds himself pressed against a wall, footsteps silent as the wind as he manages to sneak his way to the dugout where the racers hangout. The first sign that things are amiss is the fact there isn’t loud chatter, just two voices having a private conversation. Where the hell are the others? Shouldn’t all of the racers be hanging around, having fun? Alas, he presses on, determined to at least speak a word to his #1 idol.

The second sign, however, should’ve most definitely turned him away: the door leading to the back is completely ajar. Faint music plays behind it, alongside those two voices he heard earlier.

Now, him not seeing the third sign is purely him being an oblivious idiot: the female voice. Johnny doesn't notice it, not until he's pushing the door open, hoping to come face-to-face with this man he’s completely idolized —

— and is met with the face of a woman.

Before him stands a girl, leaning against the hood of Frank Turner’s car, his iconic ski mask and helmet sat on top of it. Beside her is Buck Merril, a cigarette between his fingers, now wearing an expression full of anger. The girl – who for some reason looks to be his age – has pure, terrified shock on her face. Both she and Buck can’t help but ask themselves, “how the hell did he get back here?!” It doesn't take Johnny long to connect the dots, and when he does, he can't keep himself from blurting out:

“I won't tell anyone! I swear!”

The girl simply stares at him, her expression softening at his promise of secrecy. Buck, however, steps up towards him, his brows furrowed and mouth set in a scowl.

“God fuckin’ damn, Johnny- You keep this shit secret, ya hear me, boy? Nobody can know ‘bout her. Not Dally, not Sergei, not fuckass Pony – no one.” His voice is practically a growl as he says this, his tone dripping in anger and frustration. He’s rightfully angry, this chick gets him a hell of a lotta money and he’s not giving that up just because some stupid kid saw who she really is; a greaser girl trying to make ends meet for her siblings.

“I-I promise I won’t tell anyone! Not a soul will know about this!” Johnny stammers out in reply, trembling hands held up in surrender. He glances between the girl and Buck, eyes full of fear, breaths shaky and labored.

Grumbling angrily under his breath, Buck stomps away, leaving Johnny and this random girl who he’s just discovered has been his idol for the past two years. The two stare at each other, wide eyed and confused, the only sound the chirping of crickets and rustle of the breeze. That is, until the girl breaks the silence.

“You seriously won't tell anyone?” She mutters, her voice carrying a pleading tone. Johnny doesn't realize it, but not only her own life and wellbeing but others’ as well rely on her racing job. If she couldn’t do this, she’d probably end up either dead or in the fucked up foster system.

For several moments, all he does is stare, before shakily nodding to her. He can see the way she relaxes, the way her shoulders go slack and her eyes soften. It suddenly hits him that he’s standing before his idol, she’s a girl, and she's speaking to him. Hell, at this point, it doesn't matter that she’s a chick, she's a hell of a good racer and he wants her autograph.

“Can I get your autograph..?” He suddenly blurts, cheeks flushing as he begins to regret his decision. But even as she’s replying, he feels embarrassed.

“D’you want my autograph or the autograph of the character I’ve created?” She says back, her accent making her smugness all the more prominent. She can’t help smirking at him, the cockiness of Frank Turner clearly the least fake part of his (lack of) existence.

Before Johnny has the chance to mumble out a reply, she’s grabbing a napkin and marker out of her pocket. He watches as she scribbles a couple words down on it, puts the cap back on the marker, shoves it in her pocket, then turns to him. Without another word spoken, she hands the napkin to him, grinning ear to ear.

“Have a good night, Johnny.” She drawls, grinning over her shoulder as she turns to walk off, boots crunching against the gravel road, her silhouette soon disappearing into the night. Johnny watches her go, the shock of it all still coursing through his veins, before looking down and reading what she wrote on the napkin;

“Call for a good time. . . just kidding. . . sort of ;)” Scribbled beside it? Not only a phone number, but the signatures of both Frank Turner and Francis Vendelini.

That night, Johnny calls the number, and when a feminine voice with a jersey accent replies, he feels an unfamiliar flutter in his stomach – and unknowingly establishes one of the most important relationships of his life.

── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ──

a/n: reposting this here cuz the link won’t work💔

[radioisntdead]

Hi again so I was wondering if you could do a angel dust x fem listener where we comfort angel dust and he talks about when he was a alive and the

Struggle he went though and he probably mentions his sister Molly

Good evenin' my dear! My apologies for this taking forever to get too! I did tweak it a little bit, Angel and reader just kinda talk about their siblings and being alive here, not really comforting each other but talking?

Late night talk

Angel dust & F! Reader

Warning: drugs, both reader and Angel are intoxicated, and canon divergent because I don't think we know much about Angel's being alive, ending is kinda abrupt.

It was some unspeakable late night hour and the two of you were in some rundown motel room, far away from Valentino, surrounded by all types of drugs, alcohol, a first aid kit and empty food wrappers.

The two of you were quiet, Angel was dangling off the bed while you were laying sprawled on the cold floor, staring blankly into the ceiling that felt like it could collapse at any given moment.

"Ya' know, I'm a twin," Angel dust said breaking the quiet, his eyes focused on the yellowing ceiling.

"Twin?" You glanced over.

"Yeah, I had a' sister, her name was Molly."

"Oh neat."

Silence filled the air again as a few minutes passed before he spoke up again,

"Ya' know I don't think I stood a' fuckin' chance when I was alive,"

You glanced up at him, only seeing the white fluff of his head, "Weren't you born in like, the big scary spaghetti mafia?"

"Ya' mean the Italian Mafia, the spaghetti mafia sounds like we were doing pasta crimes."

"Well you were doing crimes with olive oil,"

"Okay that was not me, I do not fuck with the olive oil!"

You broke into a laugh, "You haven't yet! No idea what grape man might try next." You heard him gag.

More silence passed before he popped up, "But seriously, I never stood a' chance, ya know my brother and I started bein' taught about the family business when we were like, twelve?"

"Yeah that's pretty fucked, I remember being twelve and playing video games not being taught how to commit crimes,"

"Right? gave me my very first gun for my birthday" Angel turned over on his stomach looking over at you, He was right honestly didn't stand chance, he never did.

Born in a mobster family as the second son, with a horrific father and a mother who could do nothing but watch as her sons were raised to live a life of crime, she wasn't the greatest person either though.

His sister on the other hand, was lucky, kept away from the whole crime business due to being born a daughter as opposed to a son.

"Who the fuck gives a twelve year old a gun?!" "My Pa did, twice."

You simply blinked, you were no saint, clearly, but you wouldn't give a kid a gun and just go, 'here kill people!'

"Ya' know the first time my brotha and I had to dispose of a body together we accidentally dropped it? The bag it was in ripped open and I just saw this guy with no face, torn clean off, It was jarrin' at the time,"

You grimaced, "Ouch, imagine getting your face torn off, he was probably alive during that too, eugh."

"Mhm, painful process I can tell you that much."

You got up from your rather comfortable position on the floor to grab a water bottle you had tossed aside on the table in favor of liquor instead earlier.

"Pass me the bottle o' whiskey' will ya?" He asked, you lazily grabbed it and tossed the bottle over to him, one of his four arms catching it.

"You know I had a sister too," you said as you popped the cap off of the water chugging it.

"Huh, Ya' always kinda stuck me as an only child"

"Yeah, well I practically was, she was prepping for college by the time I popped out," you wiped the residue of water off your mouth with your sleeve before setting the half empty water bottle back on the table and going back to lay on the floor, still slightly warm from where you were laying.

"I used to look up to her when I was younger, she was the cool big sister who stopped by every holiday or break, the one that said I could 'Tell anything too' and she'd be there for me," you let out a rather dry laugh, "honestly a load of bullshit."

"Damn," He took a swig of his drink, drinking the rest of the liquid before tossing the now empty bottle aside, you could hear the bottle crack on the ground.

"You know what's kinda funny? My sister was the only one in my family to get past the pearly gates."

"Huh, mine ended up down here, girl didn't last a week before extermination day," you went quiet for a few seconds, "What the fuck even is this conversation?"

"No clue, I was talkin' about how my sister went to heaven and you're over here talkin' about how yours is double dead."

"One twin going to hell and the other heaven is some book tragic book trope nonsense,"

"That nonsense is what happened,'' he said pointing a shaming finger at you, Sometimes he wondered how Molly would react to how he was now, she would be disappointed or maybe she'd pity him.

Maybe both.

After all he overdosed, ended up in hell and sold his soul to a purple psychopathic freak, and well look at him now! Laid on a cheap motel bed, under the influence, sharing stories about his sister and parts of his life on earth to someone called a friend.

Sometimes he wondered that maybe if he was born into a different family, in a different time things would've been different, maybe he would've ended up in heaven.

His sister was the only family member he could stand.

They drifted apart when they grew older, as he began to indulge in drugs, from cocaine to PCP to whatever he could get his hands on.

His sister tried to get him to quit, and to be fair he did try, a few times only to end up back snorting white power up his nose, and well, he ended up overdosing.

"I remember once our parents went out for the night, Molly took out a bunch of her dresses and had me pick one, then she did my makeup n' everythin' and we were just talkin' as she did it, just causal no judgement, nothin' just us bondin' I guess, I miss that.''

"Honesty I'm jealous, the best I got from my sister was her saying she was a safe space, that I could go to her about everything and then turning around and throwing it in my face," you took a moment to sit up, "Thank fuck I didn't tell her much, I can't remember exactly what she said but it just gave me this like, sickening feeling that just said 'You wouldn't be safe around this person if you told them what you are."

"I know that feelin' fuckin' hate it."

"Yeah."

"I'm hungry, I want whatever hell's equivalent to McDonald's is,"

"What the fuck is a McDonald's?"

"How the fuck do you not know what a McDonald's is?!"

Good evenin' folks! I do hope you enjoyed this, I edited this fic and decided to get it out today as opposed to Wednesday or Thursday, because my somewhat estranged brother is supposed to make an appearance tomorrow and I am positively nervous so this was fitting! I tried a little different way of editing dunno if it's noticable but I think I'm gonna stick with it! Also why did I think to write so much dialogue??

Anyways as always thank you for tunin' on in and I do hope you all have a wonderful night!

[beans-core]

So. Rambles under the cut. I’m a little feral cause I’ve been postponing watching this for a hot minute.

moments from Batman v Superman that made me Feel Something:

the gun that killed Martha being placed just right between her necklace so when it shot her pearls broke. Like. Ough.

“Do you bleed?”

said while staring into Clarks soul with your glinting crazy eyes. such a very normal thing to say bruce. If this version of Bruce wayne wasn’t running around in a bat costume I feel like he’d be a mad scientist. he and lex could be crazy scientist buds who experiment on aliens together. Also the following “you will” after Superman flew away was cringeworthy but the first bit made up for it.

The whole conversation Clark had with his mother, along the lines of “you don’t owe them anything” : Thanks Ma Kent for being so real and true. Also great how Clark runs to her for every emotional crisis what a mommas boy /pos

“I’m older now than my father ever was.”

yo what the fuck that came out of left field and kneed me in the kidney. No words just ouch.

“This is my legacy.” … “The first generation [of Waynes] made their fortune trading with the French. Pelts and skins. They were hunters.”

Olay the look on his face when he said the last sentence was lowkey bringing back the crazy eyes— tempered of course bc it’s Alfred. But jeez no wonder his mask doesn’t cover his eyes because when he gets that freak glare you know it’s scary af for an opponent. Or sexy. Distracting in many ways. Someone put that expression under a microscope. Someone put him under a microscope.

“No one stays good in the world”

Before flying off? Just like that? Had to pause, debate whether to laugh or be suprised, and then just ended up saying “what??” at the screen.

Batman’s metal suit. Brother please you look like if a soup can wanted to be a real boy. I know it’s for a reason, two of those being to look shiny and to include platforms in your boots, but it’s so goofy. Goofy in a cool way.? Like it’s corny because it looks overly intimidating and dangerous, but it also does actually kick ass so. Idk man. Mixed feelings but the majority is LMAO

When bruce hits Clark with the kryptonite poof for the second time, Clark collapses … Bruce goes out of his way to rip a sink off the wall and break it over Clark’s head… i CACKLED. You have so many weapons, multiple that you made specifically for defeating Clark, and you use the FUCKIN SINK.

Ohhh the whole “why did you say Martha!?” Moment. Bruce wondering what else Clark knows just for Lois to rush in and be like “no mr batman that’s his mommas name”. I was sooo expecting for Bruce to go “ah okay well atleast it wasn’t about me teehee” and stiLL GUT HIM LIKE A FISH. Forgot there was more to the movie than the girlies fighting for a minute. But yeah whatever they reconciled. Boooo the show must go on

“I don’t deserve you Alfred.” “No sir, you don’t.”

Yeah… yeah. Especially when Alfred then takes over the fucking batplane thing and continues to be a badass like a minute later lmao.

Bruce you little bitch you can’t introduce yourself as “a friend of your son” to Martha when you were trying to spear him dead not an hour earlier?? This part had me giggling hard. Also Martha you continue to be the best mwah kisses

“You lose.” “I don’t know how to lose.” “You’ll learn.”

CLARK. I don’t need to say anything for this other than CLARK *swoon*.

WONDER WOMANS INTRO MUSIC HAHAHAH

…And then the rest of the movie I forgot to have rational thought. Like a dog seeing a squirrel— Ooo wow fight scenes. Got me like 👁️👁️

Only zoned back in for a moment to laugh at how Bruce and Diana were standing behind Lois while she was having her emotional funeral moment like 🧍🧍.

Honorable mention (aka it’s impossible to narrow it down to my fav parts): every single thing about Lex Luthor Junior. Lex being a charismatic twitchy evil nerd who really really wants to dissect aliens is scarily endearing. Peeling off the dead-guy-kryptonian’s fingerprints— straight up skinning them off the body and wearing them to enter the spaceship is. Hah. Like yeah exactly, the dude you’ve introduced to me in this movie would definitely do that. Calling Superman and god and then full-naming his secret identity, like Lex is shoving the fact that there’s more under the ‘divinity’ right in his face. Oooooh yeah. Setting up a hero surprise date— a “fight night” for “god versus man”— like a deranged matchmaker? Kind of iconic. HOW HE REVEALED HE KIDNAPPED CLARKS MOTHER?? Oh, he’s AWFUL. and he’s GIDDY, completely unrepentant. I’m jittering just thinking about it he made it rain on supes with pictures of his captured mother. that’s a hilarious amount of emotionally fucked up. Fundamentally twisted, that goober is. “and now god bends to my will” AHHHH. But yeah just love how they made him batshit insane, pun entirely intended. The last bit w/ the “dingdingding” was funny.

Jesse Eisenberg played the whole ‘tweaky freaky psycho geek’ sitch sooo well like dude hats off. You found your niche— nerds, psychos, emotionally repressed people, or a wombo combo— and you stuck with it. Keep spreading your geek freak my beloved.

Bonus thirst:

BATTFLECK OH MY GODSHSJDHD… he’s so. Wow. And he’s so fucking large??? Idk how to word it because I’ve just never seen someone with such a stance. A presence. Like his shoulders are so wide? Broad? Genuinely how does he fit through doors being such a hulking hunk of a man. he looks HAWT in a suit, the suit is what enhances it. In his batsuit it’s personally no biggie but as Bruce Wayne he’s SCRUMPTIOUS.

WONDERWOMAN. good holy mama she’s gorgeous, of the drop-dead variety. Her accent is. I’m on my knees. The scene where she gets knocked down by the Monster Thing, huffs, smirks, and then gets back up to fight. WOOF. and of course she’s absolutely beautiful in her dresses but something about that hero costume… maybe it’s how nonchalant she is about killing the Monster Thing while Brice and Clark are both like “wait where did she come from. i thought you brought her.”

Clark is a cutie pie and I Would, don’t get me wrong. But also his cuteness for me is more based on his personality so I don’t classify it as thirst. Kansas boy earned his hotness for me by doing his hero thing, which is pretty on brand actually.

[themarginalthinker]

Centennial

(Dwayne is turning a hundred years dead. He and David go for a walk about it.)

-

It's a quiet night when they go for their walk.

They both know why, and both feel the need for the intimacy. David and Dwayne slip outside into the coolness of the fresh autumn night. It's not truly the height of the season yet, the leaves on the few deciduous trees not quite turned yet. It's in the air, though. The Wheel spins ever on...

Dwayne sets the pace, the direction. Really, they're not walking to any particular destination, but David follows along to wherever his packmate's heart desires.

Their stroll takes them over little streams, rock formations they clamber like squirrels over. It's nice to stretch their limbs, their claws, their senses. Not human. But not hunting either.

Eventually, on a tall ridge overlooking a deep valley, Dwayne stops. He sighs, leaning against a tree and staring out at the deep, clear sky. Never, never again will David be trapped under the glow of city lights, blocking the stars from view. But this night isn't about him. He takes a comfortable crouch, waiting.

It's a while before Dwayne slides down the tree to sit. Longer still until he speaks.

"A hundred years tonight."

David nods. "Almost to the hour, huh?"

"Can barely fuckin' believe it."

No. David neither. Between them in the bond, a hundred years passed, in memories and feelings. The wonderful, the fair, the bad, the hideous. People come and gone. Places seen and left behind.

"We finally did it. And it wasn't even us," Dwayne comments into the night.

David knows what he's talking about, because it's also on his mind.

"Yeah. Go figure."

Max was dead. Their sire, the reason for all of this in the first place. The monster who, from the very beginning Dwayne and David had been planning, hoping, praying a day would come when they could finally be rid of, was dead. And they'd not laid a finger on him.

"...Are we old, David?"

The vampire in question blinks, looking to Dwayne properly now.

Across the bond, almost as clear as words spoken aloud from so long having it, being as close as they are, sharing so much, David knows what Dwayne means. Watching the seasons, the years, the decades tick on, but here they were. Maybe not celebrating, but certainly commemorating after a fashion, the night Dwayne died at the hands of a beast the both of them only ever wanted to be free from.

"Not as old as some," David answers instead.

Dwayne hums, looking away, back to the valley below.

David cracks a smile. "I personally don't think you get to bitch about anything until you're at least a hundred 'n fifty."

Dwayne snorts at that, sending David a look. "Now you're just moving goal-posts to feel better about your own dusty ass."

"Heh. Not too dusty for the whippersnappers last night, apparently," David simpers.

They share a small, but genuine laugh.

It feels good. It feels freeing.

David moves first. Not rising from the crouch, but leaning into it, loping on all fours the few paces left between them. He's not a man, and hasn't been for a long, long time.

Dwayne meets him as he comes close, turning so his body is open to it. David fits himself beside Dwayne. Thighs pressed close, knee to hip. Shoulder to shoulder.

Tonight, a century has passed, and the two vampires, the eldest of their pack now, watch the stars pass overhead.

Maybe, a thousand years from now, they will be here again.

They find themselves hoping so.

[timaeusterrored]

(The Northern Lights)

Depression was a common thing in the Eurodyne household. It normally hit at different times luckily enough, their bad weeks never usually lined up. But the one time it did, Kerry booked them a trip. He needed to get them both out of the city, away from stress and reminders.

Kerry wanted to spice things up, go somewhere Vax had never been. He tried to keep it to his place in Florida or Italy simply for his husband’s comfort, but he felt they needed something new, and see something Vax would be all over.

So next thing he knew, they were on their plane to Iceland. Vax was mostly quiet, lost in thought as he usually was as Kerry answered emails and did the less fun part of his job.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head?” Kerry spoke up after about an hour of silence, making Vax look up. His exhaustion was hitting him hard, and Kerry wished he didn’t over work himself like this.

“Static. I think if I had a single thought right now I’d explode.” Vax got up from his seat and moved to cuddle up with Kerry, the older man moving his laptop away in favor of his favorite person.

“Understandable… try not to think too hard. You take your meds today?”

“Yes Vik.” Vax mumbled sarcastically.

“Hey now, don’t get sassy because I’m making sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to.” Kerry held him to his chest, looking out the window. He hoped he had planned this right.

When they landed, Kerry got them checked into their lodge as soon as possible, they had a tour to get too and he could see that Vax’s interest had been caught.

He had Vax out of the lodge in ten minutes flat, basically dragging him. Vax had no idea what was going on, but he was into it. And Kerry had to keep that interest for the next few hours.

Okay, the beginning of the tour was kind of a drag, Kerry wouldn’t lie… but goddamn was it worth it when he saw what he had dragged his husband all the way up for.

“Aurora.” Vax breathed, staring at the night sky with childlike wonder. Kerry was glad the Space station hadn’t completely ruined the stars for Vax.

Kerry leaned into his side, for warmth and support. This was totally worth it.

“Can I-“

“Yes you can tell me facts, that’s why we’re here.” Vax was his own personal stars podcast sometimes.

“So basically, the Northern lights, or Aurora borealis, is actually sun storms. But our atmosphere protects us from them, they’re as pretty as they are violent.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

“Yeah Venus is fucking violent sometimes-“

“You asshole. You knew who I was talking about.”

“A n y w a y, speaking of Venus, did you know that the lights were named after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora? And the Greek god of winds, Boreas?”

“I did not.”

“Yeah, it’s really fuckin cool when you think about it-“

Vax proceeded to take about the lights for the next 15 minutes, until they had faded and his face fell a bit.

“What?” Kerry frowned.

“It’s just said something so beautiful only lasts for a short amount of time. We’re lucky we even got to see them.”

“…kinda like life.”

Vax’s arm tightened around him, and Kerry looked up to find grey eyes staring down at him.

“You didn’t drag me up here to serve divorce papers did you? Because we are stuck in this shit together, no one else could possibly-“

Kerry cut him off with a kiss, holding his face with a small smile when they pulled back.

“I’m genuinely amazed you haven’t exploded yet… I’m not going anywhere.” Kerry whispered, bumping their foreheads together.

“Good…” Vax whispered back, looking back up at the stars.