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lemontwst · 4 years ago

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crossing the line. ❤️ ace x m!reader

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: in which ace runs his mouth and then gets his cheeks clapped by an mc with immense big dick energy.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: ace trappola x m!reader

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 4.2k

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: non-con to dub-con, revenge/hate sex, mentions of voyeurism, public sex, enemies to lovers, mc has magical devices he definitely should not be having, grim is not present in this particular scene.

“You don’t even know about the Great Seven?—”

His malicious voice bounces around your skull like thunder, drowning out the rest of the world like you've suddenly plunged into deep, cold water.

“Are you that ignorant?"

Tranquil rage licks at your insides, your stomach twists with nausea and your hands twitch with the impulse to wrap around his neck.

“Maybe you should go back to kindergarden before thinking of coming to this school.”

Don't punch him. You dig half-moons in your palms, inhaling a deep, shaky breath. Your muscles tighten from the strain of holding yourself back, from resisting the urge to punch this idiot's face in and drag him across the boulevard by the hair. Your heart thump thump thumps against your ribcage like it wants to jump out of you. Don't punch him.

"Aww I'm sorry, did I offend you?" The redhead's features morph into an expression of cheap remorse. His hands clutch his chest like he's so heartbroken, then the joke is over and that obnoxious smirk curves his lips once more, "—just kidding. Why don't you go cry about it to your mom? You won't last long in this place if you can’t stand up for yourself.”

Your reach into your pocket and your fingers brush against one of the slips of paper Crowley gave you before you parted. Paralyzers, he called them. They look pretty useless to you — just a bunch of small, fragile talismans cut from some yellowed paper, but according to Crowley, these things can subdue weaker magical beings for a limited amount of time. The headmaster gave them to you predicting that you would end up in less than savory situations, being the only ordinary human in a school full of wizards, shapeshifters and God knows what else.

“The immobilizing effect will last for about ten minutes,” Crowley had mused as he handed you the talismans, “Do try to escape the situation before the time runs out, would you? It would reflect poorly on our beloved school if one of our students were to die, after all.”

Escape. You snort, your eyes slowly appraising the other student who is still mouthing off. This place still doesn’t know you’re not one to go down without a fight. You’d much rather cling to the monster that’s tearing you apart, digging your teeth in its flesh even as you bleed out all over the pavement than turn tail and run. The carrion on your skin is a hard enough shield, the rot that stains your soul a powerful balm that turns the sting of your wounds into repugnant adrenaline.

"...Anyways, unlike you I actually have classes to attend to," The redhead throws you one last condescending smirk before turning around and giving you a half-assed wave, "Have fun cleaning the halls, janito—"

The words catch in his throat as you stick the Paralyzer to his vulnerable back, grabbing him by the hair and throwing him not so gently behind the obnoxiously large statues and out of the open street.

The student rolls a few times across the grassy side of the road, almost crashing into the flowerbeds that fence the statues off, then he finally lands on his back, coughing and spluttering more from the shock of the sudden fall than actual pain.

He quickly tries to hoist himself up, but his arms and legs feel boneless and he falls back down, eyes wide and panicked as a jolt of electricity runs him from head to toe. He tries to get up again, but it seems like the more he struggles, the weaker he becomes. The talisman saps every ounce of his energy in a matter of seconds, leaving him unable to do anything more than lay there, eyes to the sky as he tries to catch his breath.

"What—the fuck—did you do?!" He snaps, his crimson eyes filling with hate when you slowly enter his field of vision, blocking out the sunlight and hovering over him with disinterest written all over your handsome face.

His temples throb with the strain of his thoughts traveling at supersonic speed, his head hurts like he just slammed it against a wall, and the cold look in your eyes makes his stomach twist into tight knots in what he stubbornly decides to be fear—even as his skin starts to heat up like he's been sunburnt the longer you look down at him.

"Oh, you know…" You casually put one foot on his stomach and lean in, ignoring the long, pained gasp that scratches his throat raw, "Just thought I'd teach a cockroach in my path a little lesson. I was thinking of letting you go quietly, but all your whining really got on my fucking nerves." You step off of him and he twitches and coughs, trying and failing to curl into himself for some sort of comfort.

"...Ha...so what, are you just gonna beat me up?" He says, smirking through the pain as if he's used to it. You don't doubt it—his mouth has probably gotten him in trouble plenty of times before—but simply hitting him would be so boring. You kneel between his legs, spreading them apart with ease and his smirk falls, "Hey—what are you doing, you idiot?! Get off me!" You ignore him as he tries to squirm out of your grasp.

"Since you act like a little bitch..." You take his shoes off without untying them and throw them somewhere behind you, then you unbuckle his pants and do the same thing, slightly annoyed with the way he whines and struggles—as if he has any chance of wrestling you off when his body is about as responsive as jello, "I'm going to fuck you like one."

The redhead's breath stutters and he stops moving, looking at you like you just escaped the nearest psych ward, but the sudden flash of crimson that lights up his face and the subtle way his eyes fall to your crotch before quickly focusing back on your face betray just a smudge of confused desire—he's probably seen something like this in porn and he’s relieving it in his mind.

"W-we're in public, you bastard! Are—are you insane?! Get away from—" His brain slams on the brakes and his head empties like it's hyperspace.

A shocked gasp leaves his lips when you bring your index finger to the front of his boxers, lazily drawing a circle over the growing hardness beneath. His stomach clenches, ripples of pleasure seemingly falling from where you're touching him to pool in his belly like molten lava.

His breathing picks up the pace, loud and humid in his ears as his eyes stay on your hand like you've hypnotized him, "...H-hey, s-stop that—this isn't fucking funny—"

"Says you." You hum, stopping your slow circling on his now visible erection to finger the elastic band of his boxers. The intimate touch makes his muscles clench and his head fils with air, "I find the way you're sprawled on the grass with no pants on absolutely hilarious." He makes a sound between a shriek and a gasp when your fingers grab his cock and pull it out of his underwear.

This isn't happening. He looks at his cock standing out in the open with a horrified look on his face.

It's not happening—it's a dream—the thought of other students walking the boulevard and seeing him there, behind the statue of the Queen of Hearts, his erection out and his body unable to move makes bile pool in his mouth—and his dick throb, but he doesn’t have time to consider his fucked up reaction because you suddenly blow on his glans and his entire body spasms, his head hits the grass and his eyes find the clear, blue sky once again. He briefly registers the feeling of his underwear sliding off his legs. This isn't happening.

You ignore his useless protests and start unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it off his shoulders roughly but not quite taking it off -- the contrast of his pale, heaving chest and his flushed face as he lies helpless in front of you with his dick out almost makes you forget how irritated you are with him. Almost. But just because he’s cute doesn’t mean you’re not going to make him pay for daring to talk to you like you’re a piece of garbage on the side of the road.

You envelop his hard shaft with your hand and start pumping, slowly, letting him feel the soft texture of your palm and ignoring his pleas for you to wait. With every stroke his sensitivity increases, the thought of being caught flies away as if someone just blew in his skull and the redhead can only claw at the ground and pull at the grass with jerking fingers as a sweet voice starts spilling out of him.

It's just broken gasps at first, confused, scared and excited in equal measure—and then the world loses focus and it's full blown moans, little sighs that grow in volume the more you manhandle him. His shaft and your fingers become slick with precum and the movements become easier and smoother, the tingles in his crotch fly up his spine and he has to remind himself that this is wrong to keep himself from bucking up into your hand.

Stubborn as he is, he almost succeeds in resisting you. But you know just how to break him, allowing yourself a few seconds to listen to his cute moans while you wet your fingers, saliva dripping down your wrist as you methodically suck on the appendages as if they were the hard, leaking dick in your hand.

When you decide your fingers are wet enough, you bring them down to his ass and spread his cheeks to find that tight hole no one has ever touched before.

His entire body jolts when you start circling it, the sensation completely knew and so unexpected that he momentarily comes back to reality. "Wait—not there!" He tries to raise his head but his willpower leaves him when your middle finger draws a deep semi-circle around the rim.

It feels so fucking weird, he jerks his head this and that way as he tries to focus on the hand on his cock and the finger prodding at his hole at the same time. It's tingly and intense and he doesn't want it, his hot asshole parts under your push, welcoming you in a cavern of velvet, and the gasp that leaves him is the loudest one yet.

"Relax, you little moron." You stretch him carefully, briefly wondering if he's going to come from your handjob before you even have the time to reach his prostate. He's so fucking tight, unused, pure and yet vulgar as he moans and twitches under your skilled hands.

You insert another finger in and his voice turns high-pitched, then you brush against that little button inside his ass—barely, just the ghost of a touch—and he falls off the edge, convulsing like he's been electrocuted and cumming all over himself.

His semen lands on his chest and jacket and as he slowly comes down from cloud nine, eyes glazed and drool on his chin, he briefly wonders how the fuck he's going to go back to his dorm with cum on his uniform. Then he feels you crawl on top of him and that thought too seems to dissolve into thin air.

No one can blame him for being unable to think, unable to act and, somewhere in the deepest recess of his mind, unwilling to move when you start stroking his sensitive dick again, your hair tickling his chin. He can feel how warm your body is and how nice you smell now that you're so close. If you weren't such a fucking demon it would almost feel nice.

"What's your name?" You exhale next to his ear and he shivers, feeling sick to his stomach when he realizes it's because he wants your lips on him.

"A-Ace…" He mutters, tilting his head away from you as much as he can. The white expanse of his neck is right there and you place a few slow, open-mouthed kisses on his vulnerable skin. Ace's heart does a fucking pirouette, little sparks of pleasure run down his abdomen and he lets out a soft moan, one he wishes he could stuff back in his mouth as soon as he hears it.

He feels the sudden urge to cling to you as he lets you kiss him everywhere. He wonders how it would feel to have your mouth draw a line from his collarbones to his stomach before you take his cock in your mouth and the thought alone makes his entire body tremble with need, little gasps leaving him as you lick the curve of his jaw and then blow on it.

"Ace." You growl his name against his skin and the vibration threatens to destroy the rickety dam that keeps his sanity in place. You're doing something unforgivable to him, fuck, Ace knows it and he hates you for it, but the way you say his name makes him so fucking glad to be born, glad to be lying in the grass like a slut with his pants discarded somewhere and your hand slowly stroking his cock.

"Fuck—don't say it like t-that…" He practically wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses on the scorching waves of pleasure that pulse through his abdomen when you chuckle against his skin. This feels so fucking nice, one of his hands reaches down to grab your wrist while you continue to stroke him and he absentmindedly caresses your hand as you pump his cock.

He curses loudly as he takes in the hard curve of your knuckles and the wetness of your fingers. Your touch is different than what he's used to, rough but with a regular rhythm that pushes him closer and closer to his orgasm with every flick of your hand. You lazily nibble at his jaw and he suddenly finds himself overrun by the universally irresistible urge to come. Fuck, he's gonna come so hard in a hand that's not his own—

"S-so—sensitive—fuck, gonna cum all over your fingers—" His other hand grabs your shoulder in a way that almost feels too romantic given the situation, but Ace doesn't give a damn. The only thing that matters right now is your hand jacking him off and the trail of stars that dances behind his eyelids as you shatter his galaxy.

So close—so close—his moans become loud and shameless as he bucks up into you, ignoring how useless his body still feels because right now he really fucking needs to come again.

The muscles in his abdomen tighten, hot white pleasure flashes in front of his eyes and Ace is so fucking ready when he arches his back, but instead of feeling relief, a tidal wave of frustration and disappointment crashes into his electrified body and his loud voice trails off in a pained whine as you suddenly take your hand off his dick, denying him the sweet mercy of orgasmic bliss.

The disparity between what he’s feeling and what he expected to feel is so vast it takes him a minute to realize what happened, the dam in his head breaks and he’s left gasping and sobbing and twitching, hands flying and grasping at the grass beneath him as he struggles to catch his breath.

"—What the fuck?!" He basically screams, looking at you with teary eyes and a face that screams betrayal, "W-why did you s-stop?! I told you I was close!" His chest heaves and he looks almost possessed when his own hand reaches for his abused, throbbing cock, fully intent on finishing the job one way or another.

You stop him before his fingertips even reach the shaft, meeting no resistance when you pin his hand back against the grass.

Ace glares at you but it's feeble and pathetic, the last remains of his rejection completely snuffed out by the shock of being denied an orgasm for the first time in his life. He doesn't look proud and hateful anymore; he’s now just a brat naked from the waist down, this close to crying because he didn’t get fucked the way he wanted.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought you wanted me to stop? Did you change your mind, Ace?” The voice that whispered his name almost lovingly in his ears now drips with venom, almost as if you’re imitating the way he talked to you just a handful of minutes earlier.

Ace flinches, his heart sinks and he looks fucking crushed as he takes in your cold expression. You’re not going to stop, are you—? Not now that he actually wants you to touch him—?

“No...that’s not—I didn’t—” He splutters, flushing up to his ears when he realizes he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. Do you want him to beg? Because at this point Ace doesn’t really care enough to even object to that. He just wants you back on top of him. He wants to feel your warmth and have your scent fill his head while you bring him to his release again.

“Dont...be like that...come on,” He groans, letting his head fall to the ground. His dick hurts. His back hurts. Fuck, everything hurts, even his heart for some fucking reason. He doesn't like it when you look at him like you hate him. If anything he should be the one looking at you like that, not the other way around.

"Y-you want me to beg? Is that it?" Ace scoffs and weakly spreads his legs, leaving his cum-stained self complete exposed to your scrutiny. He has the decency to look embarrassed, but when his glazed eyes slowly go from your face to the tent in your pants, what you see in them is not disdain or shame, but pure, unbridled lust.

"You'll beg without me having to ask for it." Ace follows your hand as it goes to your belt, and when you unbuckle it, the soft, erotic click makes his body tremble and his heart flutter.

It's not like he wants to see it—his eyes stay on your crotch as you slowly pull your pants down, revealing the black underwear beneath.

Are you—are you going to pull it out? Out here where everyone can see?—Ace momentarily forgets that he's had his dick out in public for more than it's considered appropriate in every fucking country across the world. Every one of his thoughts comes to an abrupt halt, like he's suffered a concussion.

Except he hasn't, he's just drooling in his mouth at the thought of your cock.

"You don't get to come again, I told you you're going to be fucked like the little bitch you are." You finally pull your dick out, hissing when the air hits your feverish skin and Ace thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust.

The rush of heat that flares beneath his skin is unlike anything he’s ever felt and his slow mind has trouble comprehending whether he suddenly feels on fire because he can see your erection right in front of him or because of the sound you just made. Both. It’s probably both.

“Is that right…” He probably sounds as dazed as he feels—his breath catches in his throat when you lean down again, hovering over him but not quite touching him, the ghost of your breath on his lips threatening to turn him delirious.

You teasingly drag your wet erection across his stomach and Ace moans, his eyes falling shut when your dicks touch. He grinds up against you without thinking and suddenly his body is weightless and he's on the verge of coming all over himself. It feels like every nerve he has is experiencing its own little earthquake, the sound that leaves your lips makes his mind fall apart at the seams and the only thing he can say is a long, desperate "Fuuuck."

His eyes flutter open and he finds you smirking down at him; the sight is so surprising and so beautiful that Ace’s heart lodges straight in his throat.

"Turn around and raise your ass." You chuckle and he goes redder than his hair, but ultimately doesn't protest, waiting for you to give him some space before complying.

The sleeves of his uniform are completely ruined at his point, wet with dew and mud and grass as he pulls himself up on his elbows and gives you an expectant look from over his shoulder.

What he doesn't expect is to feel your thick fingers push into him again. He almost falls face first into the dirt as he gasps, waist shaking as he's once again wrecked by the feeling of his rim being teased.

You stretch him more insistently then before, the saliva and cum on your fingers aiding you in your preparations. You try to avoid his prostate, because Ace is already shaking like a leaf and you know how close he is to his climax, but your redhead seems to have had enough of being edged and insistently grinds back into your fingers until you touch that sweet spot inside him that makes his dick leak precum like a faucet.

He's still not used to it however, and the shock of such an intense stimulation makes his elbows give out as he falls unceremoniously on his face. But he doesn't seem to care, cheek pressed against the grass and eyes squeezed shut as he experiences having his prostate massaged for the first time.

Fuck, he’s sure his legs are going to give out soon too. If just your fingers feel this good, what’s going to happen when you stick your dick in—? Is he going to lose his mind—? Somewhere along the line he seems to have completely forgotten that he's outside in broad daylight with his ass in the air. But even if someone were to see him getting fucked like a slut, would it really be so bad—?

"Hold on tight, stupid," You take your fingers out and he whines softly, sounding surprisingly disappointed for someone who has never had their ass played with before, "I'm gonna make sure you can never come just from touching yourself ever again."

You line your hard cock against his opening and Ace shivers from both anticipation and fear. You’re so big—is—is this gonna hurt? I mean, after everything you've done to him this should be a walk in the park, right—?

It isn't.

You slowly push your dick inside and Ace's first instinct is to scream.

His mind shatters into oblivion as he takes in the feeling of your thick cock stretching him like he's a fucktoy. But this is still nothing, you haven't done anything yet and he's already broken. You pull your hips back and thrust into him hard, your dick scrapes against his prostate and Ace falls into a state of euphoric delirium.

He was made for this, he thinks. Born with the sole purpose of being your slut, ass up and legs spread as he invites you to plow him harder, to mess up his head until your cock is the only thing he can think about.

And he doesn't even know your name, Ace realizes as his body bounces back and forth against the grass with the force of your thrusts, his tongue lolls out and he tries his best to match your movements with his exhausted body, his hole squeezing your dick like it doesn't want to ever let go.

"Fuuuck—can we do this like…..every day from no—ah!—now on?!" He'll let you do anything you want if you promise to keep fucking him like he's your girlfriend. On his bed in front of his roommates, in class, on the headmaster's desk, anywhere you want him, Ace will be a good bitch for you.

In response to his nonsense you griiind into him and the explosive pleasure that flashes in front of his vision is almost seismic, devastating like nothing he's ever experienced as he breaks and cries and cums all over the grass, eyes rolling back when you roughly grab his hair and thrust a few more times before painting his insides white with your own release.

You make sure to fill him to the brim and Ace doesn't pull away. Instead he remains obediently glued to your crotch as the feeling of hot semen running down his legs completely obliterates his sanity.

Your nasty temper placated for the time being, you pull out in one swift motion and let his boneless body fall to the ground.

Ace groans and curses you under his breath, then he very slowly rolls onto his back, still dazed by the fact that you just came inside him.

If he thought everything hurt before, now he thinks he might actually need to pay a visit to the nurse's office. The effects of the Paralyzer have worn off by now but he's so fucking tired—he startles out of his drunk reverie when something like a curtain falls on his head.

Except it's not a curtain, but his pants. He takes them off his face and gives you a weak glare as you adjust your belt.

"Wear a skirt next time," You throw him a smirk over your shoulder and Ace hates the way his heart quivers, "Like a good girl."

You barely have the time to dodge the shoe that comes hurtling towards your head, Ace quickly reaching for the other shoe when you start running back towards the school building.

"Fuck you!—"

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #ace trappola #ace trappola x reader #citrus #scenario #m!reader

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dudeandduchess · 4 years ago

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Obsession: Yandere!Kyōjurō x F!S/O (NSFW Scenario) [Part 1]

Summary: After years of planning out how to get and keep (Y/n) for himself, Kyōjurō finally gives in to his baser instincts and lets the yandere inside him take over. He’d expected her to run away from him, yet he was in for a big surprise when she was more than willing to be consumed by him. Heart, body, and soul; his eternal captive.

Note: Hope you like it, bbys. 🥰 Tho if there will be a part 2 or not will depend on how well this is received. 🤔 Care to share your thoughts about the darker theme?

Warnings: Smut, Yandere Themes, D/s Themes, Possessive Kyō, Cumshot, Mentions of Breeding Kink, Choking, Language, Bondage, Dry Humping, Implications of Somnophilia, Dub Con (Non Con?)

Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

***

Red-tinted eyes looked back at (Y/n); filled with so much heat and lust that it had her moving to cover herself from the intense gaze. However, the moment she tried to move her arms, she realized that they wouldn’t move— rather, they couldn’t.

She wasn’t even sure if she was dreaming or not, but everything seemed too surreal to be reality. After all, she was sure that she had fallen asleep as soon as her head had hit the pillow. So, she rationalized it as something that was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

The bite of the rope around her wrists felt all too real, and the cold nipping at her skin was something that felt real as well— yet the man looking down at her seemed too ethereal to be someone that wasn’t a dream.

Her heart hammered inside her chest; full of fear and trepidation at the unknown man, yet no matter how hard she tried to fight, she couldn’t even move her limbs. And it was only then that she realized that her ankles had also been bound to the frame of her western-styled bed; much like her hands.

Even with her yukata covering her body for the most part, she may as well have been naked beneath that fiery gaze.

“So beautiful, my love. You’re so beautiful,” The man whispered in a rasp, reaching his hand out to her and tracing the swell of her cheek in the most reverent way possible; as if she was going to break if he got any rougher with her. “And all mine.”

At his words, his hand drifted down to her neck and began squeezing; light and barely perceptible at first, until (Y/n) felt his fingers slowly digging into her skin.

It made it extremely uncomfortable to breathe, and even made tears spring up in her eyes, yet she still tried to take in a lungful of air out of reflex; to keep herself conscious, at the very least.

Still, she could feel her heart hammering even harder inside her chest— out of genuine fear.

“Tell me you’re mine,” The young man whispered in a lilting tone, moving even closer to her face and letting the faint glow of the lanterns outside illuminate his face.

(Y/n) felt even more breathless at the sight of how truly handsome he was; with his blond hair tied back, and his sharp features trained solely on her. She had to admit to feeling herself get wet for him.

However, when she didn’t speak, the hand around her throat tightened even more; prompting her to clamor for breath as her muscles tensed up to try and fight him off. Only, she could barely even lift her hips off the bed, what with him resting snugly between her spread and tied legs.

“Tell me, my sweet flame. ‘I’m…’” He began in a prompting manner, sounding so soft and indulgent even to her own ears; a total contrast to the hand he had wrapped around her neck.

“I- I’m…” She gasped for breath then, eyes getting a little heavier with the lack of oxygen. “Yours.”

To her utter relief, the man’s hold on her loosened, as he smiled while letting his eyes take in her heaving chest and parted lips.

Slowly, with the smile remaining on his face, he leaned down and brushed his lips against her own. It wasn’t the first time that he had kissed her, but it was his first time doing so while she was conscious; and it felt so much like a heady drug, what with the way his lips tingled and how his entire body felt like it was slowly going up in flames.

“Yes, my love. You’re mine. Such a good girl,” Kyōjurō whispered, holding her captive in another heady kiss; only, that time, he made a bolder move and forcibly slipped his tongue past her lips. He tangled it with her own, letting his eyes fall closed as he tasted her sweetness on his own tongue.

He couldn’t help himself then, as he felt his cock twitch within his pants. It demanded attention, and fast.

So, with one hand snaking itself down to unfasten his belt and undo his fly— and the other caressing down (Y/n)’s torso before parting her yukata at the slit— he pulled his cock out and tapped the head against his beloved’s panty-clad cunt.

His pre-cum left a stain on the pristine material, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to care as he slipped himself beneath her underwear and began to rub against her pussy.

At that point, (Y/n) was frozen in shock. It was as if her entire world had stopped turning, and there was only her and the unknown man between her legs— thrusting his cock against her, and deliberately hitting her clit; which had her head reeling even more.

“I can’t wait to be inside you, my love. I’m going to breed you so good, fill you up with so much cum that you’ll never get enough of me,” He murmured through his semi-frantic thrusting, holding his cock down against her slit as he kept rutting his hips against her.

The more that he thrusted, however, the louder that the wet and lewd squelching sounds echoed within her room. Yet, (Y/n) couldn’t deny that she was getting even more aroused by the man between her legs.

She tried to move her hands then, out of reflex, to clutch his shoulders— to hold on to something as she felt her walls trying to clamp down on nothing but emptiness. But her ties restricted her from moving them even an inch, so she resorted to closing her hands into fists then.

Even closing her eyes and biting down on her bottom lip as she felt her orgasm course through her.

Meanwhile, Kyōjurō could only look on in wonder as his beloved threw her head back against the pillow; baring her neck to him as she tried to keep herself from moaning aloud.

The mere sight alone was enough to propel him closer to his own orgasm, and he found himself pressing his cock further against her slit; deliberately rubbing the head of his dick against her clit. “That’s it, my love. Cum for me.”

(Y/n)’s hips jerked involuntarily with her orgasm— thighs quivering, and body becoming lax with the aftermath of pleasure, as Kyōjurō kept moving atop her.

And before he knew it, he had already pulled back from her and pushed her panties aside; fisting his cock in his right hand and jerking himself off to the sight of her glistening cunt.

With one last pass of his hand down his length, thick spurts of cum shot from his tip— coating (Y/n)’s slit with his warm seed, while he watched it drip down and drench her entrance. He wanted nothing more than to push it inside her— either with his fingers or his cock— but Kyōjurō knew that he had to wait.

He had to be patient.

He had waited years, after all; a few more weeks was nothing to him.

#rengoku kyoujurou x reader #kyoujurou rengoku x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku kyoujurou #demon slayer fanfic #rengoku x reader #demon slayer rengoku #jen writes

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0lshadyl0 · 5 years ago

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Indifferent, yandere Hawks x Reader

warnings: little NSFW, yandere themes, obsessive behavior, kidnapping, curse words

word count: 1.433

You were really his kind of woman, with fine facial features but strong character and sharp eyes, beautiful and strong, a true beast difficult to tame, Hawks really fell in love when he met you, although it was not easy to start a conversation with you since you didn't seem to be in the least interested in knowing him or even greeting him just for being polite. yeah, you didn't usually speak to him or take a look at him, it didn't matter that he was the hero number two, to you, he didn't exist unless it was necessary, after all, you were a hero too and from time to time two had to do collaborations together. he remembered well his first meeting, when you had just arrived in Japan and coincidentally you two had to fight against a group of mercenaries who tried to assassinate an important businessman, to see you fight firmly against enemies with strength comparable to Nomu's was incredible, but what had hooked him at that moment were your eyes, oh those bright eyes, full of life and passion, he could watch them all eternity and never get tired of them but unlike you that from the beginning you simply saw him as an unimportant person, and a very immature one, who later became an annoying person who seemed amused to be constantly calling your attention, something you never pleased him because that lazy looking flying chicken wing definitely was not worth your time, not even your attention, Hawks could not stop seeing you, every day that passed, the heroine was more and more stuck in his mind, it was that much than he had begun to dream of you, at first they were kind dreams, where you dedicated soft looks at him and little smiles, the winged hero always wished to see one of your smiles

"It must be a beautiful sight" he mutters to himself as he watched her discuss something he had no idea because he stopped to paying attention just to admire you from afar, with Endeavor from the other side of the room, after all, nobody had ever seen you smile or have any kind of facial expression beyond a neutral face or a look of contempt, for that reason you entered the category of heroes who looked like villains, something that Hawks disagreed with since, for him, your image was angelic, not villainous

the winged hero centered his gaze on your back although little by little his curious eyes went down to see your hips and as a final goal your delicious ass, oh man what he would give for having that ass in his hands, better yet, having his cock in the middle of those cheeks, stroking himself between them while you get wet, getting yourself very nice and ready to take his cock inside of you until he cums so much that all your insides get painted with his milk, making you his lover

just imagining you naked, waiting yearningly for him to claim you as his own, make the hero's member throb he also could feel a little of his precum staining his briefs, he was forced to pretend that he was scratching over his pants to accommodate his dick so no one saw his growing erection, 'shit, this is bad...' he thought, after all, as the days went by and the real you ignored him, those dreams began to take darker directions, because his desire was ceasing to be innocent like seeing you happy, to something more... lewd, now he wanted your body, to possess you and that you only see him, not with just a kind smile but with bright eyes full of passion, of love and desire for him, just as his own eyes looked at you since the first time his eyes met with the indifferent yours Hawks must have been very lost thinking about everything that he will do to you in the bedroom or anywhere, the feathered hero was beginning to care very little where he would claim you as his, to not realize when you stoped the conversation with the number one hero to half turn around and catch him as he basically eats you with his pervy eyes, you couldn't do more than sigh heavily while rolling your eyes thinking 'here we go again with this pervert' because of course, it would not be the first time that you discover him watching your ass, in fact he never stopped looking at you as if you were a piece of meat and despite the fact that you wanted to show that you are more than him, being professional and ignoring his staring eyes at all your intimate areas all the fucking time, you couldn't help bothering yourself "Could you please not be a stupid dick and stop looking my ass?" you say without any expression on your face, you won't give him that satisfaction, but by your voice, the two men in the room knew that you're getting angry at the flying hero

"Sorry Y/n but you're very beautiful, and in my defense is almost impossible not look at your behind" Hawks smiled lazily doing his best smiling idiot face, he had well known that if he acted like a stupid jerk you will ignore him like always and although he hated that when you do that, for this situation it was handy

"You're an idiot, I am leaving" With a slight expression of frustration, you decided to leave the room despite Endeavor's call to continue discussing the details of the mission of the three to attack a base of villains 'do not worry I will handle it' was the last thing you say before leaving the place

Endeavor directs his eyes to the winged hero to argue with him about his inappropriate behavior towards the heroine but when he sees it, he does not see his quiet almost lazy expression of always, instead, he sees a look full of pain somewhat distressing but above all he sees that look of intense desire that could almost scratch the obsessive and he most of all can recognize well that look since he once had it too, that kind of look never meant something good, Endeavor knew that he has to be careful with Hawks he was dangerous now

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

"where is she, Endeavor, please... tell me where is Y/n!" Hawks was the vivid image of anguish, his feathers were rampant and he looked disoriented, but he still had someone in his mind and she didn't look anywhere, he was desperate where are you? are you ok? are you safe? did you survive the explosion?

"I... I don't know, she was inside and..." the number one hero was lost of words

Endeavor also did not know the location of the heroine and the desperation of the hero number two, who usually always acted calm and rational in every risky situation, to act like it was the end of the world, at this crucial moment where the only missing person was you, this did not help the flaming hero at all; there was a miscalculation, nobody knew that the building was full of explosives and you who went back to that place because you heard a kid calling for help, just when you got in the building it exploded... and probably you died, he knew it and Hawks too, when he looked into his blue flaming eyes and saw them full of regret, he confirmed the hurtful truth that's why that he threw himself on the floor while he cried all his lungs, after all the winged hero had lost the woman he loved

or that was what he made them all believe

Hawks was always someone very capable of expressing himself, hiding his emotions and especially lying without anyone being aware or notice, so it was relatively easy to put an audio of a child crying for help, knocking you out with his feathers and then abducting you and just for return quickly, of course when he made sure to keep you in a place where you could be safe and more importantly where you can't escape, then he just had to put a show, do a bit of drama and voila, everyone thought you were dead nobody will search for you or try to find your body and in a couple of months you will be forgotten by the media and the public, which it means that he can enjoy you for himself for all the rest of your life, whenever you liked or not

#bnha #bnha imagines #hawks #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami #yandere #yandere bnha #yandere hawks #endeavor #enji todoroki #little lemon #shady spicy #yandere keigo takami #hawks x reader #yandere hawks x reader #indifferent

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junova · 4 years ago

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↬ 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

pairing: au!steve x fem!reader

summary: the one where you meet steve rogers.

word count: 3.8K+

[author’s note]: hello my sunshines! welcome to the first installment of a short series i’ve been working on. hope you enjoy reading it as much as i loved writing it! lmk what you think <3

warnings: angst, slight dose of baby fluff (if u blink), cursing

*: ･ﾟ ✧*: ･ﾟ✧ *: ･ﾟ ✧*: ･ﾟ✧ *: ･ﾟ✧*: ･ﾟ✧

THE FIRST TIME IT HAPPENED was a slight shift in priority and truly, it wasn’t a big deal. You understood the two of them worked together, and time had run over. Later in the evening when he returned home, he apologized to you. Forgetting the two of you had plans while he with another woman, but you didn’t let it get under your skin. Above everything else, you trusted him.

Until the first time moved to the second one, than the third, until you couldn’t keep count of how many times he had ‘forgotten’ the dates the two of you had made. Still, you let it slide. This was your sweet, tender boy. You knew despite the growing tension he would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Just like the past couple of months, you chalked it up to him just being too busy.

It had to be it.

—

Maybe more than anyone else, you understood. His step-father was pushing all his unrealistic expectations of their first and only child. Continuously pushing him to be the best of the best no matter the cost. Maybe in the past, he would have blamed his parents, specifically his father for pushing him so harshly to attend Winter University.

He had become resentful towards his father after his first year. He was stressed more than he liked to admit and the pressure to please him was always at an all time high. Heading into his third semester, he wanted nothing more than to drop out. The high intensity of each course he took too much to bear along with the very high expectations everyone in his family had for him. Just waiting for him to either succeed with grace or fail with shame.

As everyday passed, essay after essay, he regretted the life which was chosen for him. He feared of sounding like a spoiled brat who was gifted the riches of the elite and acted like it was a burden. It certainly was the reason why he never complained. He knew what it meant to have nothing. It didn’t cost a thing. Now with the world at his fingertips it felt it may cost him everything.

—

Tony suggested he should join the soccer team this year, so he did. Just as he was asked.

It’s not as if joining was ever completely out of question. Steve had played it in high school, but he never thought he would be good to make the team. As it turned out, he was.

He joined the team and it turned to be a good outlet for him to escape to. When everything seemed too much to juggle, he something in his life to blow off some steam. His roommate, Bucky, even made tryouts himself.

As the weeks droned by he found a nice balance with his assignments between practices. It certainly wasn’t easy at first, but he adjusted quickly. His body soon became acquainted with waking up for practices at the crack of dawn. Was it enjoyable? Hell no, but Steve was starting to feel like he truly belonged to something. He was part of team. He was part of a unit. He didn’t even knew he craved it until he had it.

The team captain, Wilson, urged Steve to attend the house party after their first win of the season. He was more than reluctant to attend when Bucky basically all put pushed him out of the dorms. He really did want to go, but the idea of all the assignments he was neglecting while he was partying didn’t quite sit right with him.

If it didn’t sit right with him, he’s sure it wouldn’t sit well with Tony.

Before he could offer some half excuse to ditch the party, an ice cold beer was shoved into his hand. Urging him to join the celebration activities.

So he did.

He played one too many games of beer pong, indulged himself in a few more drinking games before he felt slightly buzzed. It was the only time he let himself let go and not worry about a damn thing.

Then a few women came onto him, interested in something more than just platonic company. He took it as his cue to leave. Close to midnight, his muscles tight and restricting due to the game he had played, craving nothing more than to find the comfort his bed could offer.

He let Bucky know he was leaving so he didn’t worry and started to make his way back. Making his way through the house just moments from stepping out the front door, when he heard a small cry.

There was a small bar in the room adjacent to entrance Steve was hoping to make a beeline exit for, but then he saw you sitting there. On the countertop with tears in the most captivating eyes he had ever seen. You really didn’t seem to be looking at anyone in particular. Your eyes following the bodies that passed you almost as if you were in a haze.

You still hadn’t connected the dots on how intently Steve was looking at you and he was more than appreciative. He really didn’t want to be perceived as a creep but you were alone and probably drunk. He just wanted to make sure no one would take advantage of you.

As carefully as he could, he approached you with a peace offering at hand. He picked up a red velvet cupcake with frosted icing on his way out, planning on munching on the delicious treat on his way home. He sensed maybe you would need it more than he did.

The moment he stepped forward, you were acutely aware of his presence. His broad shoulders with his muscular build did nothing to diminish the fear you held when he approached you. Not looking at you like you were something to be owned or possessed, but as a bystander just wanting to offer a helping hand.

He was so much taller than you. Even as you sat on the counter of the bar, as soon as he close to you, his soft eyes connected with yours. Maybe it helped he didn’t lure over you at the moment, he just looked at you.

Then as if it was the most mundane act in the world, he reach into his back pocket to pull out a silky, lavender handkerchief and handed it over to you.

“Thank you.” You felt over the handkerchief, smoothing it out between your fingertips. More than hesitant to due so, it felt nice. Expensive, too much for you to be drying your wasteful tears with it. He was offering and you thought it might be rude not to, and you really didn’t trust your voice to say anything more than pleasantries.

So, you wiped your tears with it and it felt heavenly. Much like the boy in front of you looked. A few minutes passed, and your cries had settled down. The presence of his body protecting you or maybe it’s just what it felt like. He still hadn’t said a word to you.

Maybe an attempt to not scare you in the other direction. Naively, you thought he might be protecting you in some way shape or form. You knew you could take care of yourself if push came to shove, but the idea that maybe there was still some human decency out there was a nice thought.

It could be possible not every man preyed on women when they were at their most vulnerable. Of course, this one was wrapped in pretty packaging, so maybe that put you at ease.

“Do you have a safe way to get home?” Oh? He finally speaks.

“I can manage just fine.” You chipped, quite shortly to him. Watching him carefully, as he took a step forward. He reached in the same pocket from before, pulling out a small index card, with a number printed on it in small red ink.

“On the small chance you can’t, ask for Happy and he can take you home. No charge, no hassle.” He then places the cupcake he had been holding in his right hand before placing it where you sat comfortably along with the card, before leaving you alone.

You watched as he walked out the door, not sparing you a second glance.

—

Maybe it was naive to let your mind drift back to the boy who had showed you kindness. Anytime another person spoke to you it was easy to assume they only wanted something from you. Searching for a reason to exploit the dean’s daughter.

Just two weeks ago when you were caught in a compromising situation you had been set up in, your mom had paid them off before the vulgar photograph spread throughout campus. The way she scolded you still fresh in mind.

The absolute disregard for your own feelings, but total care for her reputation was nothing short of surprise. Above all, her career had come first and you were just a simple pest threatening to ruin the life she had built.

Never neglecting to remind you of it.

You really wish you could just be the like her. Fiercely strong, not putting up with anybody’s shit but you were the complete opposite of her. Weak, fragile, more sensitive than you’d like to be.

She never quite missed a beat to let you know even if it’s what you wished for.

Her disappointment weighed heavily on your shoulders that night and Finnick abandoning you for the pretty blonde across the room did nothing to help your self-esteem either.

So, you sat on the vacant bar and cried. Only because you thought everyone was too engrossed with their preferred vices and the burn of vodka numbing their senses to hear you.

But a boy with silky, shining hair as golden as the sun sought you out like a moth to a flame. A large part of you waiting for crude, perverted comments to fly right out his mouth with no intention of catching them.

Then he left as soon as he came, not even leaving his name with you. Not as if you cared, you would never see him again.

Until you did, two weeks later to be exact.

Now, you were beginning to think he only came into your life when you seemed like a damsel in distress. Not only did a thunderstorm decide to show up on your supposed date night, but Finnick had decided to be a world colossal dick.

At this point it shouldn’t surprise you. He had shown you time after time it’s who he was and to think he would change was an idiots’ dream. Your dream, so to speak. This time he crossed the line, pushing you to your brink.

“Please baby. I’m sorry. It honestly was just a slip up, an oversight. Truly. It won’t happen again.” You regret even picking up his call in the first place. Now more than ever, hearing his sorry excuses wash over once again filled your venom to the brim.

“I don’t give a fuck what your excuse is, Fin. This is the forth fucking time this week alone. I’m done with your bullshit.” Your anger once again getting the best of you, but you were well within reason to be bitter about him forgetting a date the two of you had planned once again.

“Can we just talk? I’m finished and I’m free for you.” His tone was small, minuscule, almost like he actually cared he had let you get your hopes up.

“Go talk to someone who fucking cares, Finnick.” You hung up on him as he was mid-sentence, because dear god lord help you if it actually became any importance to you.

Now, it no longer mattered to you. You had given him more chances than you could count, but he always fell short. Maybe you expected more than you should from him. On the other hand, you been with him for over a year.

If you were you honest with yourself he acted the same as he did before. The only difference is the love had dissipated into dust, no longer letting you be blinded by him. His eyes didn’t glow with love but rather with an emptiness you couldn’t fill. Even if it’s all you wished for.

Now, on this shameful night, you stood outside waiting for a sign. Maybe a beacon of hope letting you know not everything was lost.

Hoping your four year relationship wasn’t tumbling down the drain.

Then you saw him, again.

Just like before you were struck by just how beautiful he is. Without a shadow of a doubt, he was the most attractive man you had ever encountered with.

His build made you recognize him instantly. The man who had given you the handkerchief to remedy the loss you felt that night. An act of kindness which hadn’t been reach out to you in so long.

Now, here you were crying in front of the handsome stranger again. Surely, he would think you were nothing more than a pathetic little girl.

This time he wasn’t alone which only seemed to triple your embarrassment. Accompanied by a man who seemed to be twice his age, more than likely his father. He hadn’t noticed you yet, thankfully. Even if he had, you doubted he would realize who you were.

He surely could have been drunk or out of his mind on the night he found you. Part of you knew he was of sane mind, but the shameful part of you wished he wasn’t so there would be nothing familiar about you.

Simply, you be a single face in a sea of many.

Fate would not be on your side today, because he approached you. Loudly enough to make his presence known but not too loud to scare you off.

Is this what it felt like to die inside?

He was even more beautiful than last time. A pure vision and by the way he carried himself, he knew it, too. Although, the mysterious blonde wasn’t arrogant but held confidence so infatuating you could help but be intrigued.

“Here.” He gestures softly, your big doe eyes meeting his own. He held the umbrella under the both of you, shielding you from the pelts of Zeus. “I can’t imagine you would want to get more drenched than you already are.”

Part of you wanted to dismiss him, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t let you even if you tried. Especially from the judgement from the man who was tucked safely by the front door.

Now, that he mentioned it, you hadn’t noticed you brought yourself out onto the curb from the restaurant allowing yourself to be coated in your shame.

The rain, too.

“Thank you. Again. Seems like I only know how to make myself appear as an emotional idiot in front of you.” Now, the two of you so close to one another the concept of breathing was hard for you to grasp.

It wasn’t lost on you the death glare the man he was just with looked at you like vermin. How you could anyone ever be associated with someone who looked as pitiful as you did?

Trust me, I was asking myself the same question.

“Take the handle.” The golden boy guided the umbrella towards you, all but shoving it into your hold. You thought he was going to walk away from you again but he took the moment of his gloved fingertips freed to remove the wool coat off of his muscled back. Carefully, placing the dry material on your shoulders.

He didn’t miss the quizzical frown upon your face, maybe if you weren’t crying you might have been the most stunning women he had ever seen.

Not even the rain could hide those puffy cheeks and under eyes from him. It wasn’t important to him now, not when you were shivering half to death.

“You’re freezing. You need to warm up.” His fingertip fastened the buttons on the coat, wrapping you in what smelled like him. A musky scent so refreshing you let it consume your senses. Immediately two sleek, jet black town cars pulled up to the curb where you stood by the mysteriously chivalrous man.

“C’mon doll.” He grabbed the umbrella, holding it firm as he reached his free hand out for you ready to take.

For an unknown reason, you latched on to him. Surprising even yourself.

The older man skipped in front of you opening the door, before hopping in with the man you still didn’t even know the name of.

In hindsight, probably wasn’t the wisest decision you’ve made but there was this underlying feeling. You trusted him. He had given you no reason not to, only providing his aid and care one both occasions.

Mindlessly offering him your address, now aware of how fucked you were if he wasn’t as kind as he seemed to be. Not only were you with one unidentified man, but two.

“Are you okay? Are you still cold?” He peered down at you, his eyes piercing through you with a soft warmth. In stark comparison to the man sitting across from you, his brown hues watching you for any sudden movement.

“I’m warmer now.” He nodded, accepting your affirmation for now. Itching to say more, wondering if you were as well.

The heater inside the vehicle seemed to leave him warmer than he would normally prefer, but kept it on even if it was making his body sweat profusely. Almost worried he might be making you uncomfortable, eyes following yours just to make sure you weren’t looking as he removed the blazer only know allowing his true physique to be exposed.

But god were you fucking looking.

You knew he was jacked, but to this extent? You didn’t know it was possible to look this good.

As soon as his eyes found your own, shamelessly checking him out, he figured now would be a wonderful time to insert himself in.

“You know, sometimes it’s easier to tell strangers your problems than the people closest to you.” Lowering his voice, so the older gentleman couldn’t hear him. “I-I don’t know why you’d assume I have a problem.” You looked at him and you felt like an unopened book but he still managed to know every little thing about you.

“Just a feeling, maybe. That’s all.” He didn’t bother you again the rest of the ride home and it bugged you. He clearly wanted to say something but he bit his tongue instead. Keeping his hand in his lap, making sure he kept his distance from you.

“Smile snowflake, you’re not getting soaked anymore.” The older man finally addressed you. Focusing his fury gaze upon you, waiting to elicit a certain reaction from you.

Snowflake?

“Tony, leave her be.” He hissed at him. For a moment, you thought he was being protective. He doesn’t know you idiot, think straight for once.

“Why? You decided to bring a stray without my consent. I’m just having fun, Steve.” You didn’t miss the tension growing between the pair, ready to brawl right here in front of you.

Steve.

Why did his name sound familiar to you? Do you know him? Is that why he was being kind to you? Did he somehow know you?

“If you don’t drop this I swear to god, Stark.” Thankfully enough for Steve, Happy interrupted the two men.

“Sir, we’ve arrived at the designated location.” The car coming to a halt and you couldn’t wait to bust out of here. Desperate to dry yourself, hopefully you still had time and you wouldn’t catch a cold.

Just as you feared, it was still pouring down. Fantastic.

“Thank you for the ride, really. You didn’t have to.” Your small, angelic voice barely ascending to a volume loud enough for Steve to hear you.

His eyes getting lost in you for a moment before looking through the window, the rain morphing itself into larger specs of hail.

“Jesus, it’s still fucking pouring. Let me walk you up.” He reaches towards the umbrella he had tossed into the empty seat.

“Steven. We need to go.” Tony had lowered his voice an octave lower, demanding Steve actually listen to him just this once.

“You can wait two minutes.” Rolling his eyes at him, before he intertwined his hand with your own. “C’mon.”

Held you right against his muscled chest as he pulled you out of the car and into him. Under the umbrella, tucked safely away from getting sick even further. He moved until you were under the protection for your patio. The rain once and for all shielded away.

“I’m sorry about, Tony. He means well but he’s a bit of an asshole.” Steve smiled down, looking like he had just won the lottery. “Really? I couldn’t tell.” Just like that, Steve let out a soft laugh. Showing off his perfectly aligned pearly whites, with a subtly you wished to possess.

“Oh shit! Here.” You begin to take off the coat he lended you, but his calloused hands stopped the gesture.

“Keep it. Please?” He questioned, almost like he was unsure of the words falling out of his mouth.

“Why?” You thought it was a simple question, but he must have stood there for a couple of minutes before actually responding you.

“It really just doesn’t fit me right, would hate for it to go to waste.” He mumbled it out, almost as if he was struggling with the concept of flirting with you.

“Okay, then. I’ll keep it.” You agreed with him, gripping it closer to you. Taking in his smell once again.

“Alright, then. You should get going. Wouldn’t want to keep Tony waiting.” He nodded, stepping away from you, battling a war with himself.

Just do it, dummy. This is your chance.

When you thought he was going to walk away, he took you in his arms. No longer caring about the damage your wet hair may cause to his suit. Not that Steve really cared to begin with.

“You don’t deserve whatever he’s giving you. Just know there’s always something better at the end of the tunnel, maybe even someone else willing to offer you more.” He breathed into your ear, before kissing you sweetly on the cheek.

“I’ll see you soon, angel.”

Leaving with more than enough to think about.

—

taglist: @tonystankschild

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

Text

II. Solipsis

Summary: Rogers isn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, he’s incredibly perceptive and remarkably intelligent.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about him or how you feel about this situation; there’s only two weeks to let it go. Both of you must relinquish every individual sentiment to each other and obey the system or else the neural handshake collapses and you’re crushed inside a Kaiju’s maw.

A/N: Video reference for Greco-Roman Wrestling. Please do yourself a favor and imagine Steve Rogers owning your ass. 7.8k words.

Warnings: Language. Bucky angst. Tension.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

You wake around 0500 and flip on the light—a jaundiced splash of color that makes your skin gleam sickeningly yellow. You shake your head, rub your eyes, and try not to linger on last night’s dream.

Lashing rain. A metal shriek. Your world bursting with red.

There’s movement outside the hall—appreciated distractions to rouse you from your thoughts. Footsteps, wheels on smooth concrete, muffled alarms, all sorts of noises clanging around together in the distance. Small comforts of familiarity; you remember how these facilities work.

There’s always something to improve in a Shatterdome. Data to analyze, parts to product and repair, training to be done. From the highest to the lowest position, every single bit needs to run tirelessly like a well-oiled machine.

You will need to as well. The war clock demands it.

You have a maximum of two months to be combat-ready, but you’re not pitching your hopes on that timeline; Kaiju have been known to emerge earlier than K-Science predicts. Rogers broke it down last night: evaluations and endurance building the first week. Sparring the next. Week three will intertwine both more intensely. Week four will be when you face him in front of Fury in the Kwoon Room—prove yourself well-suited to be his co-pilot.

And you had argued shouldn’t we do that earlier? If we’re already not compatible, why waste anyone’s time?

What would waste my time is you fighting me when you’re not ready and throwing the match. You agreed to this, so start acting like it.

Out of all the rattling noises you can hear, his phantom voice rings the loudest.

Drift compatibility doesn’t happen for just any Dick and Jane, and you’re betting on that—but let me tell you again, we’re compatible. Got it?

Fine. Fine. Fine. You’ll keep your thoughts to yourself, but they’re bitter thoughts, truths that he isn’t keen on facing. No, compatibility doesn’t happen for any Dick and Jane. It doesn’t happen much at all.

Most co-pilots are related or coupled for a reason. The potential for alignment is higher with these pairs because they’ve already established a personal connection and know how one another work. There’s history, trust, and something more. Something deep and intrinsic. Something that binds you until you die.

You used to joke that you and Natasha got lucky finding each other at Kodiak. Two misplaced orphans finally given a home in the shape of Decima Red’s Conn-Pod. It was metal and cold, but it was home, even if it was too brief.

Three minutes after waking and the dread has already settled in your gut like debris floating to the bottom of a lake— another layer on top of all that old sludge inside your body but there’s no time to ponder it. You have precisely one hour after breakfast to let your food settle before he joins you in the Combat Room. You brush your teeth and dress.

“Again.”

His voice cracks through the quiet space. Fury’s closed it down for today, keeping the session private. The staff in his right hand hovers above your shoulder before it retreats. From behind a wet curl of hair, you glare.

It’s 2015 and you’re back in Kodiak Island. Except this time, instead of sparring with Nat, Steve Rogers is there in all his effortless glory. Clean-shaven, jaw set, stoic, not a single hair out of place. Ruthless.

And it’s not like you’ve been slacking these past two years; you’ve been on army bases, worked on construction sites, did a short stint in security. You’re in shape and you remember how to fight.

But he is ruthless.

1300 and you’ve been whacked in the head, chest, thighs, ankles, back, and up and down both arms. You’ve gotten a few on him. Some good, most laughable. Only six more hours to go and you’re not sure if there will be lunch in-between.

At this point, you’re too tired to think about your burdensome conscience. Too tired to feel anything but tired. It must be a purposeful tactic from him because the less capable you are to think, the less you’ll worry, and the less you’ll feel inclined to dive into Victoria Harbor and swim yourself away.

“Is this your idea of a partnership?” You snarl when your side contracts in agony, an ache burrowing beneath your soaked shirt. You grasp the staff firmly, ignoring way the muscles of your wrists beg you to stop.

“This is my idea of an evaluation. Focus.” He says it calmly, like you’re supposed to be grateful. “You’ll be better for it tomorrow. In a month, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

Well, you’re not grateful.

“I’d rather not recognize you.”

His grip falters, features flashing amusement at your comment.

You momentarily ponder a few things: the pros and cons being insolent again on the second day when he’s liberally kicking your ass; that the last memorable thing you said to Steve Rogers was fuck you three times in a row; and suddenly, the way he looks with the corner of his mouth turned upward, lips slanting.

Moment over. You take the opening and the tip of your staff stops half an inch from his Adam’s apple, letting it bob up and down. Then, you press it gently to his throat. His lips part, jaw sliding forward incrementally with attitude and another emotion you can’t place.

“I’m hungry,” you assert.

He stops breathing and closes his mouth. When he opens it again, he takes a shallow breath and says, “Alright.”

Taking advantage of your surprise, he immediately seizes the same opportunity you took. His staff pushes against the side of your neck, the cool, smooth wood landing on the slope connecting to your shoulder. The slant of his mouth grows an inch wider. You gulp at the crescent shape of his eyes, bright with mirth.

“Hit the showers,” he says, passive again, “You have one hour for lunch.”

No such luck. Not even twenty minutes pass before someone else fucks up your day.

Across the table, a man sits down with his tray, smile wide and handsome. He’s been watching you from the corner of his eye for a few minutes now, probably wondering if he should come over. Other residents of the Shatterdome have been equally inquisitive, but none as bold.

“Saw you go into the fight room with the big guy. I’m surprised you’re alive.” His head tilts forward as he inspects you playfully, “I’m Sam Wilson.”

You remember your manners, no matter how exhausted you are, and extend your hand, “Good to meet you, Sam Wilson, but I’m not sure about being alive yet.”

An understanding laugh, “Can’t help noticing you’re new. Steve training you for something?”

You shrug, sidestepping his inquiry, “You a pilot?”

Sam Wilson is polite enough to follow your path. “Yeah. Avis Dominion—the flyest girl in the game—that’s me and Riley.”

You know of Avis Dominion. Maroon and silver, propulsion rockets attached to her ankles. She doesn’t fly, of course, but she’s lithe and graceful, the jets giving her quick bursts of speed. Avis has particle dispersal cannons on her back, firing plasma charged ion rails to wound and cauterize. She’s simply incredible, and Sam beams expectantly.

“Think I’ve heard of her,” you respond, lightened by his humor.

Suddenly, a pair of heavy bootsteps pulls your attention sideways. Not even twenty minutes and Rogers is marching forward, hands clenched in fists by his side, mouth pressed into a worried and thin line. Wilson doesn’t even have the chance to greet him before Rogers stops by your hunched-over form.

“He’s up.”

And the partly chewed bite in your mouth threatens to turn sour.

He’s up means he wants to talk to you. And you couldn’t have avoided it forever, but you fantasized that meeting James Barnes might be put off indefinitely.

He’d been in and out of consciousness since last night, lucid enough to speak and question his state, enough to raise hell when he looked down at his left side, and certainly enough to thrash himself open and bloody and needing to be sedated again.

You run your hand through your hair, grip it tightly for a second out of frustration, and finally rise. You’re an eloquent orator in a pinch, so, you groan.

“Fucking fuck me.”

Back at the table, Steve’s attention never leaves the way you uncomfortably walk down the hall. To his left, Sam’s leg bounces impatiently because Bucky’s injury still hasn’t been announced and CNN has called the facility every six hours since they landed post-battle. Everyone has questions and suspicions, and Sam’s last three minutes of snooping wasn’t enough to glean a clear answer.

“Steve, man—what is going on?”

Steve looks gravely back at Sam, watchfully inspecting his expression as he admits, “That was Decima Red’s former pilot.”

A beat passes. Sam blinks once, then twice, and then his eyes fly open.

“Decim—shit— Anchorage 2017? Natasha Romanoff?” Sam clamps his mouth shut, at a loss for words, outraged and impressed all at once.

Decima Red’s story is one of those tales Rangers pass around a campfire—or in their case, a boiler room. Natasha Romanoff was a stiletto dagger— elegant and lethal and blood red. She would show up to events like a goddess, always stunning and magnetic and she never took a bad picture. Sam met her once, at some award show where he had too much champagne and Riley asked him to kindly stop drooling on the pretty lady.

He’s never met her co-pilot until now and he’s not sure if anyone outside The Icebox has. Romanoff would laugh it off when reporters would ask. She’d say her partner’s camera shy and doesn’t like crowds. Then her long lashes would flutter, her sly smile glittering, and men would drop like Kaiju in the ocean.

She was extraordinarily skilled and beautiful.

So when Decima Red washed up as a devastated heap on Anchorage’s shore with only one pilot, no one thought it would be her partner who survived. Romanoff handled the right side, after all. She was the dominant one. The stronger one.

Sam shakes his head, “Steve, what the hell are you up to? Where the hell did you find her? How--”

The slew of queries slowly tapers out as Sam lights up in understanding. But it’s a joyless light and he shakes his head again, dismayed. “You’re recruiting her. She’s replacing Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Steve frowns deeply. The truth always sounds worse from an outsider’s point of view but he didn’t expect much else because it sounds bad in his head, too.

“He’s gonna hate her,” Sam mutters, cracking a joke because if Steve’s had to bring in a new Ranger, it means that Bucky’s more hurt than they’d thought. And the two of them? Closest co-pilots he’s ever had the pleasure to meet.

Their drift was immaculate. Absolutely seamless. As if they were brothers—as if they were twins. And that’s not even – look, Sam Wilson knows some twins. There’s a pair here in Hong Kong and even their connection is nothing like Steve and Bucky’s.

From the moment they step into their drivesuits to the very last blow they land in combat, you’d think they were one single person spliced into two like a damn science fiction novel. The simple sight of Rogers and Barnes walking into the Jaeger bay was uncanny and nearly an act of God. They moved the same. They breathed the same.

Sam knows what happened to Bucky, and what Steve must do in its aftermath, must be killing him.

James Barnes is upright in bed, sheets around his waist, right fist over his thigh. He hasn’t said anything or even looked at you yet and in the strained silence, you find yourself absurdly craving the fight room. At least you know what to expect in there.

Outside of his Ranger biography—which is public knowledge—you know nothing about him. Barnes is reserved on T.V. and in interviews. Having grown up with his co-pilot, their biographies are eerily similar, and so he rarely slips out from Rogers’ shadow and is rarely anything more than stoic. He smiles for the camera, sure—real big and pretty—but never quite true.

It unsettles you. Here sits some kind of modern-day Achilles, heel pierced and torn through-- still more powerful than you.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other when his eyes flicker over to your boots before darting to your face, a quiet breath leaves him. His left shoulder jerks and you look away, tense and apprehensive, not wanting to stare.

A few curious seconds pass before his right hand shakily rises to run through his hair. His fingers tremble as he pinches dark strands, jaw ticking, and you realize James Barnes just had that moment—that moment—when he catches himself trying to use his left arm.

And you know there will be many more of those.

“Jesus...” he mutters, breaking reticence with a venomous hiss, “Fuck!”

Your tired body takes the impact of his words like a car crash. The fight has fled your heart at the sight of him and you’re left regurgitating all those jumbled-up-worse words every Jaeger pilot vomits sooner or later:

You owe a debt. You need it paid. He can’t take it personally. This is neither about you nor him.

“Look,” you begin apologetically, “I didn’t— this wasn’t my idea.”

“I know that,” Barnes retorts, scrubbing his face with the heel of his palm, the skin of it scratching against his chin and jaw. He’s grown a bit of stubble, his usual smoothness replaced by a grey-green shadow. He props himself up with his right arm, legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

“Maybe you don’t think you can do this,” he snorts derisively, “But you better.”

His line of sight is fixed on the floor, right arm flexing with the pressure he exerts on the poor mattress and you watch the way his muscles ripple up into the shade of his sleeve. When he turns to you after a deep breath, his face—sharp cheeks and dignified brow; tall, straight nose bridge; strong jaw and his distinctly wide lips—is fatal.

“Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about who gets into the robot as long as when your fucking feet hit the rig, you’re one-hundred-percent in.”

Barnes’ eyes are piercingly blue. They’re reflective like frosted gunmetal. Cold. Hard. He bares his teeth.

“If there is even one tiny bit of you that doesn’t believe you can, and in the middle of the drift you chase that rabbit, and you get him killed?” His mouth is a wide and devastating slant. “I will dig your corpse out of the Pacific Ocean--”

The door slams open with a crash. Rogers barrels inside with a cafeteria tray of food in hand. They stare at each other before Barnes shoots him an annoyed look and suddenly the threat from only seconds ago disappears with a blink of his silver-blue irises.

“You ruined my moment, Steve.” He states plainly, grabbing at the tray. He gives you a look— half of an amused quirk, tongue flicking at the point of his canines— and then tucks into the meal, moving the platter with his knee. You’re staggered.

It’s silent other than the sound of his chewing, rhythmic and carefree. He even folds a square bit of napkin inside the neck of his shirt to catch crumbs and you’re helplessly trying to reconcile that this is the same person who just promised you he’d find your dead body 10 thousand miles underwater.

The more time passes between his verbal gutting and his cheerful eating, the more your sympathy rots.

A pop of his blue Jello container opening and you snap.

“You know I just fucking got here, right? You—” your finger jabs accusingly at Rogers, “kicked my ass all day, and you—” your finger turns to Barnes, who stops slurping midway, “—sorry about your arm, that’s not my fucking fault—"

“Hey—” Rogers warns, stepping forward, hand out to derail the impending shouting match.

“No. Fuck you, Rogers.” He stumbles back with the force of your two-handed push on his chest, stunned at how quickly you leapt from the wall, “I agreed to it already, assholes. Maybe it’ll help your cause a little to not keep pissing off the other half of the fucking robot.”

And because you’re both incensed and starved from having lunch interrupted, you yank Barnes’ Jello from his shocked-slax grip and shake it into your mouth. A loud crinkle fills the otherwise silent room when you fiercely throw it into the trash bin and stomp off.

All the atmosphere gets eaten up by your temper. It’s silent like a black hole, nothing but the receding clomps of your irritation in the distance.

Bucky waits for your footsteps to pass before he begins to laugh, bright and astounded, quick puffs of air passing over his lips. He looks at his hand, still out in front of his chest, fingers curled around nothing. He looks at the trash bin by the door, plastic liner crumpled inward with the force of your arm.

He looks at Steve, standing with his hands uselessly by his side, an array of emotions passing over his face. He’d been calm—really, really calm—kept it pushed down and pacified, but it’s just the two of them now, and Steve looks like he could cry when he sees Bucky’s shoulder. He looks like he could level the Shatterdome.

“I’m fine.” Bucky says, rolling his eyes dramatically, humor gone. “Quit your blubbering.” He tilts his head towards the open door, “She’s tough, like you said.”

Decima Red’s pilot, the one who brought her skeleton back to Anchorage through a storm, of course she’d be. When Steve proposed it— explained it to him, practically wheeled out a chalkboard so Bucky could see his whole plan—Bucky was pissed. He’d just lost a fucking arm, after all. And now he was losing his fucking robot.

But he slept on it, thought about it some, knew Steve was right.

He trusted Steve. Always have, always will. Whoever Steve decided on needed to be more than just tough. Steve needed reliability. Conviction.

They needed to match that Rogers persistence. Stubborn. Smart. Torn open by guilt and walking around with the world on their shoulders as if it’s their burden alone.

Yeah. It’s perfect.

Bucky looks at the blue specks of Jello clinging to his fingertips and sighs, “You’re gonna have to break her.”

Steve nods. He knows.

Time blurs as routine gives way to monotony.

Your sanity is precariously tethered to lunches and dinners between psych evals and full-body exams. In the two weeks you’ve been here, maybe there’s been one rest day. You hoard what comfort you can from the time you limp from the fight room to the second your back hits the mattress to the bedside alarm blaring.

Ephemeral relief also trickles in by way of conversations with other inhabitants of the facility.

The rest of Hong Kong’s STRIKE team take to your presence well enough. Co-pilots Wilson and Riley; the Maximoff twins, Wanda and Pietro; cousins from Wakanda, Erik and T’Challa; Odinson brothers, Thor and Loki.

They’re supportive and encouraging, but certainly not naïve. They keep their distance, the entire thing like a caged animal they can view, but not interact with wholly. You’re here as James Barnes’ tentative replacement, still just a prospect before anyone can entertain the idea of becoming attached to you.

Not to mention, you’re a deserter. Fucked off from the Ranger life and went off the grid. Most co-pilots died together—which was the honorable thing to do—and the rare few who are unlucky enough to survive at least come back to their Shatterdomes to continue their righteous work. You understand why they’re guarded.

Sam Wilson is the one person most willing to ignore all that, it seems. He hunts you down in the dining hall, finds you on morning runs, is kind and easy-going. He grabs an extra tray when you’re hobbling into lunch and plays basketball with you when you’re well enough to amble around the court.

He keeps you grounded with reminders: Rogers is a hard ass, but look—past that, he’s just a dude, you know? Trying his best to keep it all together—and there’s a lot to keep. Shit… you seen this place. I couldn’t do it.

The whole world wants to suck his dick, Wilson. You too?

Appreciate you, but man’s not my type. But hey, I’m just sayin’—maybe the world’s onto something.

You get a laugh, and you get to complain to at least one sympathetic ear about how Rogers seems adamant on turning you into a blood bag, or how Barnes is gleefully spectating, or how Fury is willfully ignorant. You get at least one person in your corner when Rogers yells at you for mouthing off—for fighting him in a wrong way—again.

You wish you were jogging the perimeter with Sam now, but this morning there’s only persistent torture.

Apparently today is, once again, exclusively about kicking your ass.

The rules are: no kicks, no punches, nothing below the waist. Traditional wrestling only, which means your hands can barely get halfway around him before he takes you to the mat effortlessly.

All morning you’ve been pinned. Shoulders and waist constantly under his palms, flipped sideways and upside down. His reach is longer. His hold is stronger.

Barnes stands against the wall, shoulder in a sling, observing with amusement. Sometimes he clucks his tongue. Other times he smirks. He walks in and out like he’s at the movies. Fucker.

You cuss when you land on the mat for the hundredth time. The wet smear of your forehead glistens when you roll over, clutching your side. You’d woken up this morning feeling alright, taking to heart some of Sam’s advice, attempting to be understanding a little more each day, but with the way this session’s going, you’re headed for a backslide.

Your legs are shaking. Too hot all over even with your pants rolled up and shirt knotted at your hip. You plant your feet stubbornly, pacing around Rogers. A touch too soon, a weave too late. He slams you on the floor.

“This is—fuck!” you scream, “—a fucking unbalanced fight, Rogers!”

“I know,” he responds from above you, a single bead of sweat collecting on his placid brow. He gets up, yanking you along, and watches you try again.

Two seconds pass before he’s hooked, biceps locking beneath your chest, spinning you through the air, and coming down hard on top of your back. Another crash into the mat, another muffled scream of pure, helpless rage.

You’ve had it. It’s been hours of his domination and your humiliation. You’re done with wrestling and done with him. Your knees and hips dig into the plastic, fury stoking the fight, fully intending on throwing him off but he shifts immediately. His chest presses into your spine, thigh flexed diagonal over both of yours.

“Don’t.” He says, shallow breaths heavy over the top of your head.

“Get off me, asshole! You’re too fucking big to wrestle with—I’m not Barnes!”

Rogers only grunts and bears down until you’re motionless and gasping beneath him. The air is hot, too hot. Scorching waves roll from your body, between his chest and your back, scalding with heat and embarrassment.

Your cheek drives into the plastic, burning with submission. Early stinging of pre-emptive tears prickles your eyes as frustration comes to a head, seizing your body and mind, and you feel up to your throat in despair. Anger makes you want to thrash but weakness makes you obedient. There’s nothing to be done but clench your fists and bite it back, swallow the tears, chew your lip bloody.

He is too big and too strong and too overpowering.

It was different wrestling with Natasha; you were closer in size and well-matched. It was a good recreation of what Kaiju combat may be if ranged weapons were to fail. She’d be the Kaiju, you the Jaeger. Then you’d switch. It felt like preparation.

This doesn’t. This feels like a setup for failure. This feels like a lesson.

And suddenly, you shut your eyes. God damn him. God damn him. God damn him.

Allowing insight to cool your temper, you stop resisting and go slack. Your fists unclench, head dropping to lay on your sweat-slick forearm. Surrender vibrates through your chest, tremors undulating to the rhythm of his breathing.

You’ve figured it out.

Rogers lets off some pressure and you can finally take a good breath. Slowly, he moves. His weight carries to one side of his torso, then his knees and he rocks off you, rising.

His hand splays over your shoulder blade, thumb pushing gently against the back of your neck before he hoists you up by the collarbone. It’s a delicate grasp as opposed to his previous ones. Calloused finger pads avoid the bruising on your shoulder from old hits.

Barnes looks on as his hand curls over your bicep, melting around the shape of your muscles, vice-like but merciful. The heat of your body becomes indistinguishable from his as he props you securely.

“You understand?” He asks gently, “Why it’s an unbalanced fight?”

His brow furrows, earnest blue eyes respectfully apologetic, searching yours for acknowledgement and perhaps forgiveness. You press your lips together tightly.

Of course you do.

He’s breaking you piece by piece until you’re malleable and pliant, willing to surrender your ego and give yourself over to a force much larger than your personal reality. You haven’t vocalized rebellion since the second day, and many days have passed, but it’s obvious how you struggle against the current.

Rogers isn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, he’s incredibly perceptive and remarkably intelligent.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about him or how you feel about this situation; there’s only two weeks to let it go. You can’t hold onto your pride, your resentment, or your reservations about any of it in the con-pod, and you can’t have one single fleeting thought about failure.

Both of you must relinquish every individual sentiment to each other and obey the system or else the neural handshake collapses and you’re crushed inside a Kaiju’s maw.

Barnes was right: you’re either one hundred percent in, or you’ll get him killed. So in today’s simulation, no, you’re not the Jaeger and Rogers isn’t the Kaiju.

He is the drift. It’s equal parts cruel and effective.

Today’s session is a reminder. When you fight the drift, it will take you down hard and fast, there’s no changing that. Only in silence will it support you, and only in silence will it keep you alive.

“Do you understand?” He says again, in a whisper. His lips are parted, turned down solemnly. “You can’t push back. Do you understand?”

Sam Wilson’s petition for Steve Rogers’ character echoes.

He’s just a dude. Trying his best to keep it all together. And there’s a lot to keep.

You manage a nod despite the aching throb of your skull. Shame crawls up your arms, erupting beneath the clutch of his fist. You nod. You’ve learned your lesson. Of course you understand.

After that, everything seem to flatten itself out. You heed Sam’s words, bitterness chipping away in the patient flow of Rogers’ direction until it becomes smooth like a time-worn pebble. You no longer fight the slipstream of your situation and rather become more mindful of his labor-- more appreciative.

You can either be a fatalist and fixate on how much you’d rather not be here, or, like he said, you can get on board.

If Barnes is a modern-day Achilles, Rogers might as well be the Hercules. Some radiant demi-god tasked with backbreaking labours in the form of beast-slaying. Unlike Hercules though, he’s all mortal, burdened even worse with mortal toils.

You might as well not be yet another thing that gets him killed in the end. It’d be further hell on your conscience and Barnes would personally scalp you, anyway.

So you iron out your attitude and grow friendly, and on a Thursday morning, he shows up with his hands tucked into his pockets. Barnes is to his side, matching in posture, his new prosthetic arm gleaming black and gold.

“Ready?”

They walk in conjunction. Left foot, right foot, hips following a perfect cadence.

His blonde head turns back at you with an expectant grin, “You excited?”

A snort, “You’ve dangled it in front of me for weeks. What do you want to hear, huh?”

There’s no offense in your words, only a hint of mischief because you’ve discovered the joy taunting him brings. Amusement in the form of riling him up because he’s surprisingly easy to rile, because there’s many ways to do it, and because you’re a damn fast learner.

Steve Rogers might be athletic and quick, but he’s terrible at guarding his legs. It makes his cheeks flush when you repeatedly strike his thighs and even more so when Barnes cackles from the corner. It’s infinitely better than any entertainment you can buy.

He gets you back, though, biding his time until your jogs, then laps you twice to keep you humble. The best kinds of friendships are built off torment, besides. You’re hopeful.

“I’m not convinced you’re excited,” he sings now, stopping abruptly so that you bump into his back with a grunt of surprise.

Barnes smirks, “He gets you every time. It’s sad.” Cheeky bastards, but they pick up the pace again, threading through the hallways.

They’re finally taking you on a proper tour of the Shatterdome. Four weeks and you still need a map to get around. They’ve kept you from wandering, kept others from being your guide, kept you on your fucking toes because they’re absolute little shits.

It’s friendship.

The first stop is the enormous Jaeger hangar.

Stretching on and back, it’s a mess of moving parts and electricity. Cranes up and down, engineers and workers in constant motion. They walk you across the main bridge of the perimeter, taking leisurely steps to let you catch your dazed breath and absorb the view.

The anticipation was clever provocation on his part, created in jest, but the sight of it now in front of you feels like a kick to the teeth. Your teasing demeanor drops.

The Mark-3’s are beautiful despite their conditions. Scratched and dented, wind-bleached in places, but all gorgeous and exclusively equipped to best fit their Rangers. Titanium cores, angel wings, plasma casters. Assault mount sting-blades, K-Stunner warheads, sentry treads. The list of features running on and on and on.

Unique traits for unique pilots.

Pain strikes your heart.

Decima’s Crocus-9 reactor core was uranium powered and instead of angel wings or blades, she had extendable plasma batons. You and Natasha amputated six Kaiju with them. A 1700-ton ballerina, she was created to fit your partnership’s style— brutal but dexterous. The fight was always good in Decima—always, always, good.

You’ll never have that with Orion. You’ll never have that with Rogers.

In the distance, voices shout and echo over gears and metal joints. Forklifts whirr and beep, personnel scrambling like dedicated worker ants.

Two years without Decima and Natasha. Over seven hundred days and each one felt too long, stretched, infinite, miserable. Waking up was just another twenty-four hours to bury like how you buried Nat. But now, here you stand—returned to the front of the continued Jaeger Program that’s moved on without her, and the last two years comes to crush you in a tidal wave all at once.

You feel powerless, distraughtly wishing you were back in your Jaeger. You wish you were stronger than you are— wish you could take on the tidal wave.

“Hey,” Barnes calls, urging you forward his perceptive, sharp eyes. “Stay with us.”

You quell the hurt and keep up.

At the end of the ramp, Tony Stark teeters on a crane. His face is covered by a thick iron mask and he’s welding something tiny on Orion Bravo’s left flank. Over the banging machinery and screeching blades of metal on metal, he yells, “Good to finally meet you, kid!”

You don’t get a chance to holler back.

“Gotta say, Decima was one of my personal favorites,” and you flinch.

Nobody notices. Life moves on. Tony Stark does so even faster.

“Still damn proud of her after all these years! I know exactly where she is in Oblivion Bay—if this—” he gestures vaguely to the three of you on the walkway, “—doesn’t work out, let me know and I can go get your girl. Sure, her chest’s all ripped out—” he motions to his pecs, and you recoil each time his blowtorch sizzles past, “—and I’d be breaking my back to get those pieces right— but hey, a little boob job isn’t gonna hurt anyone. If you ask me, people could use more of ‘em!”

You’re speechless. You finally meet the Tony Stark—the genius mind behind every single Jaeger. His endless vat of brilliance designed them, breathed them to life, equipped and armed them, made them perfect, and— boob job?

“What?” You whisper, feeling your entire body drain of warmth.

Rogers tucks his chin to his chest in an attempt to hide his smile. Barnes speaks up, dismantling the silence of your shock with strategic and considerate intention. He snorts a clipped sound at Stark and says simply, “He’s on speed. Don’t listen to him.”

Life is moving on all around you in rushes of sound and color. The noises of the Jaeger hangar blare in your ears. The blues of Barnes and Rogers’ eyes flash like lighthouse beams and you feel yourself ebb and flow in the current of time, like a buoy floating toward the shore, and suddenly— strangely— you realize you’re laughing.

They share looks before grinning themselves. You wipe the corners of your eyes with a final smirk and run your hands through your hair.

He was right: you hardly recognize yourself. Monotony has come and pass and now you find comfort in the routine. You’re stronger, too, hitting harder and moving faster, matching his tempo and technique. You parry his every punch, slip from his grasp, deflect his force with your skill.

There’s louder talk in the Shatterdome the closer you get to proving day. Your presence no longer feels uncertain.

“Stop dicking around, Steve.”

Barnes is leaning against the wall, watching the way Rogers pads around you like a panther. Two long strides and the heavy staff comes down an inch away from your forehead. He spins it in one hand like a drumstick, kicking his legs leisurely as if you’re no threat at all.

“Point,” Barnes comments. He’s acting as judge today, another perspective on the potential of compatibility. The Kwoon Room’s got your name on it next to a time slot, the official fight scheduled for tomorrow when you’ll be proving yourself in front of a crowd.

Rogers backs up with a chuckle, goes right too carefully, and you land on his thigh in retaliation. The smack sounds like it hurts. A few feet away, the Maximoff twins pause their sparring to look over in amusement.

“Point.”

A huff, he hisses between his teeth at the sting. “This how you wanna play?”

A return whack on your arm rings out before you can respond- much harder than you hit him originally. It burns. Steve fucking Rogers. Oh, you wanna play.

“Point. Hey, careful.”

You slap his bicep with your staff and it leaves a red welt on his skin.

“Watch it. You’re gonna mark each other up.”

He returns it to your lower back and you hit him next in the same spot. His mouth opens indignantly, but Barnes has had enough of childishness, coming up behind him and yanking the back of his head. Quick as a whip, he kicks Rogers’ knees out and picks up the weapon, aiming it at you menacingly.

His arm glimmers like a warning beacon.

“Drop it, sweetheart.” And you grin.

Sweetheart. Barnes only says it when he’s feeling fully annoyed, which, both you and Rogers are particularly good at making him. If drift compatibility could be determined by how much two people can piss off another one, Orion would be looking at a new pilot right the fuck now.

You put both hands up in the air in mock surrender and he rolls your staff away with his foot. Rogers is on his back, chuckling and rubbing the back of his knees.

“Isn’t it obvious the two of you are suited?” Wanda speaks up from the corner.

Pietro stands by her side, fists wrapped in bandages on his hips. “Three of you, truly.”

“It’s just formality,” Rogers replies to Wanda, “Fury wants what he wants.”

“What Fury wants is for the two of you to get in the robot.”

From the shadows, because he’s a dramatic son of a bitch, the marshal steps forward. You immediately fix your posture, pulling Rogers up by the hand until he stretches himself tall next to you.

“I’ve seen what I needed to see.” The marshal looks you up and down, standing stiffly next to your awaiting co-pilot. “An estimated three weeks before the next breach and time is of the essence, Rangers.” He pulls his wrist from his sleeve and taps on the leather watch rhythmically, not bothering to give any of you another glance as he sweeps himself from the room.

“Hangar. Suit up five minutes ago.”

In his wake, your harried expression says it all: I’m not ready—I don’t think can. Your eyes frantically find them, emotions spiraling out of control, panicked and shaken. There is a logic to formality—you’re still working yourself up for the fight. You were supposed to have more time to prepare for the next part. Twelve hours or not, that’s still time.

But you’re being thrown into the cockpit now.

They compose themselves for your sake, all hints of levity gone. There’s determination and severity in their expressions.

In unison, because they know each other in ways you don’t yet, because they’ve been in each other’s heads, two pairs of controlled blue reply: You can. You must.

Rogers stares at your chin in the Drivesuit room, both stripped down to your underwear. His muscles are sweat-slick, dappled rose with exertion as the two of you shove your limbs into new skin until you’re encased in black circuitry. Technicians zip the first layer up, then retreat to other cabinets with haste.

Your hands are balled into fists, mouth set grimly as you fight the urge to scream or crumble. It’s been two years since you’ve been in battle armor. Even worse, it’s been two years since you’ve been in someone else’s head.

The polycarbonate shell gets snapped on. The spinal clamp sinks its hooks in.

He steps forward, geared up in matching polished white. The technicians nod and leave the two of you to privacy knowing that in just a few moments there will be none left; the entire hangar will be an audience.

“Hey,” he calls, voice low and rigid, “You’ve done this before—you know how it works. It’s just a test run. No rabbits. No modesty reflex. Got it?”

The biggest setback to the neural handshake—besides chasing rabbits—mistakes made by rookies and greener Rangers, are what PPDC psychologists call the “modesty reflex”. It’s the instinctive shielding of personal information during a drift, cluttering your thoughts with barriers to keep someone out, and the exact thing that will shut down any chance of alignment.

Simply put, it’s about sex.

“You just eye-fucked me in there. I think we’re past modesty.” A useless attempt at a joke to soothe your rattled mind. Sex is the lowest on the totem pole of things you give a fuck about in the drift. There’s nothing Rogers could learn about you that he likely hasn’t ever thought or experienced for himself. You’re both adults. Sex is merely biology.

He takes the helmets off their stands, holding one to you. Your fingers curl underneath and press tightly into the molding to keep themselves from shaking.

“It’s Tasha,” you whisper with a tremble, “I’ll find her in the drift. And—”

The admission makes him swallow, thick and nervous. You mean to say, and you’ll find Barnes.

It’s a trauma that’s been seared into his brain—a cruel truth to air—but it’s true all the same. The worry is that once you see Nat, he’ll see Barnes, and you’re afraid that after all this time avoiding her memory, you won’t be able to let her go again. Your weakness will dislodge his focus, ruin the drift, tear apart the alignment. Tear yourself apart along with it.

You’re afraid.

He’s still holding onto the other side of your helmet. His grip is tighter and firmer, and it keeps you steady enough.

“You can’t chase her,” he urges, “But if you do, I’ll come find you.”

He sounds sure, and you nod for both your sakes.

A hundred people stand in wait, hands on their hips in anticipation as Steve enters the cockpit with you by his side. Sparse clapping begins behind the glass. Engineers, flight crew, technicians, Rangers. Bucky is next to the LOCCENT officer, Shuri, at her monitors, watching electrical impulse levels rise and fall.

He’s spent all month with you, mentoring in some ways, giving space in others. He meant it on that god-awful hospital bed—get Steve killed and Bucky’s wrath would move heaven and earth to wreak vengeance. Steven Grant Rogers, his whole life being Bucky’s responsibility, now placed into two hands that are not his.

He looks at his left arm, the Stark-made prosthetic leering up at him like an excruciating reminder. Not his. Not his. He looks to the blue screen, projecting lines of data. Two bodies slowly arranging into one. One similar, one—not his.

He wants to trust you. He’s learning to trust you. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth.

The rig locks in place. Feet, shoulders, arms, backs. It’s comforting and jarring, facing the flickering projections of the heads-up display, seeing the skeleton of Orion Bravo so similar yet so alien from Decima’s. You don’t dare look to your right, don’t dare think about Nat’s face over his.

You miss her, god damn it, you miss her. A panicked breath. A low, quiet, whine you hardly register as yourself.

Shuri’s voice comes over the speaker. Her usual cheery tone has been replaced with firmer speech, all business, “Orion, are you ready?”

Rogers mouths calm down and punches the corresponding buttons. He gives you a nod and you return it in good faith. Calm down.

“Initiating Neural Handshake in three—” Shuri activates the system, “—two—” Electricity shoots up your spinal column.

The first rip of immersion is searing hot and freezing cold. You try to remind yourself you’ve done this before, that you know what to expect. It’s been done—yes—and it’s been done well.

Trust the drift. The drift is silence.

Your thoughts subdue as the first tendrils of Steve’s consciousness bleed into yours in the form of red-bricked alleyway and summertime. There’s a sweet breeze rushing over your face before time slows and the seconds stretch into years.

A silver bicycle. His feet on the metal pegs. Barnes, plump-faced and pink-nosed from sunshine, grinning and whooping. Seven and eight. On top off the world. “—two—“

Past and present cease to exist. You’re in the sun, too. They’re older now. Thirteen, fourteen. Bruised from street fighting, sharing popsicles as both a treat and an icepack.

All at once, it comes.

Art school, army, academy. Graduation, first drift, first drop. Barnes by his side every step of the way. They laugh, they cry. Flashes too highspeed to be wholly memory, but you feel it flooding and soaking your brain. You feel it like intuition. It burns. It chills. It’s gone. “—two—”

His hands become your hands. His body, your body. He’s swimming in your every thought. A flash of crimson streaks through your line of vision. You impulsively turn to face it. “—one—”

Hey! Let it go. It’s your voice and his voice blended. You listen, flinching at the abrupt sound, knee-jerk reactions firing off, fear beginning to chew at the center of your brain, spreading out slow and thick.

Don’t chase the rabbit. “—one—”

A figure appears at your side, tall and quiet. He’s half torn open, red like Nat, with big, ghostly irises peering down and you hear yourself calling his name:

Bucky?

Don’t! Steve demands, don’t look, please. I can’t— I can’t either. You quiet your pounding heart at his pleading, forcing the image from your mind.

Trust the drift.

Steve continues to sink in like a palm running from the edge of your temple to the back of your skull, tugging your head toward the blue sky of his eyes. It feels like his hand— it feels like your hand. Your body lifts, weightless, secured only by a single hold. He’s everywhere, inside your muscles, your pulse, your heartbeat, like he’s been a part of you your entire life. Like the way Natasha used to feel, he’s vivid and alive, thoroughly woven through.

Okay?

The two of you look each other without looking at each other. A nod of his head— your head— vaguely registered as real movements.

Shuri returns both of you to time’s fixed pace. Her voice lifts the trance.

“—Neural Handshake complete.”

Steve’s right arm moves forward. Yours continues the motion. Orion brandishes its shield in salute.

The drift is silent, but the entire facility has erupted into cheers.

“Yes! It’s good!” Shuri exclaims from her seat. A loud exhale followed by victorious punches at the air and she can’t help grinning so big her face begins to ache.

She looks over at Bucky, standing with a smile, both proud and pained, and places a gentle palm on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says calmly, eyes still shut. “It’s good.”

#marvel #pacific rim #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes

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chelseamount · 4 years ago

Text

Carpool Karaoke - Tom Holland x Reader

BEFORE YOU READ IMPORTANT

when there are songs

cursive is you

BOLD is James

and This is both of you

this story was requested by @tomsirishgirlx

---

"Thank you so much for helping me to work today the traffic is crazy" James

"yeah no problem," I say

"you wanna listen to some music?"

"let's do it"

"Are we gonna have a problem?

You got a bone to pick?

You've come so far why now are you pulling on my dick?

I'd normally slap your face off And everyone here could watch But I'm feeling nice Here's some advice Listen up beeyotch"

"I like"

Lookin' hot

Buying stuff They can not

"I like"

"Drinking hard Maxing dad's credit card"

I like

Skippin' gym Scarin' her Screwin' him

I like

Killer clothes

Kickin' nerds in the nose

If you lack the balls You can go play dolls Let your mommy fix you a snack(whoa)Or you could come smoke Pound some rum and coke In my Porsche with the quarterback (whoa, whoa, whoa)

Honey, what you waitin' for? Welcome to my candy store Time for you to prove you're not a loser Anymore And step into my candy store

Guys fall At your feet Pay the check Help you cheat

All you Have to do

Say goodbye

To Shamu

That freak's Not your friend I can tell In the endIf she Had your shot

She would leave You to rot

Course if you don't care Fine, go braid her hair Maybe Sesame Street is on(whoa)

Or forget that creep And get in my jeep

Let's go tear up Someone's lawn (whoa, whoa, whoa)

Honey, what you waitin' for? Welcome to my candy store You just gotta prove You're not a pussy Anymore And step into my candy store

You can join the team

Or you can bitch and moan

You can live the dream

Or you can die alone

You can fly with eagles

Or if you prefer

Keep on testing me

And end up like her

Honey, what you waitin' for?

Shut up, Heather! Step into my candy store

Time for you to prove You're not a lame-ass Anymore And step into my candy store

It's my candy store It's my candy It's my candy store It's my candy It's my candy store It's my candy store

"I think I just got chills there," James says as we laugh "so Y/n it's so great to have you here"

"it's so great to be here it's like a dream come true" I smile

"y/n you are a Broadway singer and actress"

(all of these musicals and movies don't really make sense with the years they were made in but just imagine that they fit the age the reader is if that makes sense"

"yes that's correct"

"so what was your first role like ever"

"ever was Jan in grease"

"really" James looks at me

"yeah I was so happy"

"that's amazing and you were how old"

"fourteen"

"wow and what was your first broadway musical"

"that was heathers as the role of heather chandler as we just heard"

"I love the heathers songs and you are still in contact with some of your co-workers right"

"right I am really close with Barret who played Veronica but we don't get to see each other too much but when we do it's amazing"

"but you two played in mean girls too right"

"right I played Regina George and she played Janis, and that was probably one of my favourite musicals I have been in because obviously mean girls was like my favourite movie when i was younger"

"yeah so what was your favourite song from mean girls"

"oh totally world burn I think it's amazing"

"My name is Regina George And I am a massive deal I will grind you to sand Beneath my Louboutin heel This is what I get for helping Helping someone lame fit in Cady Heron, enjoy your temporary win" I sing "My name is Regina George "Regina is a fugly cow." Hey Cady, how ya like me now? I wanna watch the world burn I got the gasoline I wanna watch the world burn And everyone get mean I wanna watch the world burn I got the gasoline I wanna watch the world burn And everyone get mean Cady, time to watch your back Cady, time to turn and cough Because you took me down But you didn't finish me off My name is Regina George And in case you're keeping score Cady may have won the battle But I will win the war, for I wanna watch the world burn Trang Pak is a grotsky bi-otch! I got the gasoline Ms Norbury is a drug pusher! I wanna make the world burn Janis is a space dyke! Regina is a fugly cow Regina is a fugly cow And you can quote this Ohh. Woah-oh-oh! Who wrote this? Who wrote this? Who wrote this? I wanna watch the world burn I got the gasoline! I wanna watch the world burn And everyone turn Mean So mean! Mean So mean! Mean! I wanna watch the world burn Who wrote this? Who wrote this? I wanna make the world turn So mean! I wanna watch the world burn!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"y/n you were in les misérables too"

"yes I played fantine which was amazing but it hit hard you know it was very much touching

There was a time when men were kind When their voices were soft And their words inviting There was a time when love was blind And the world was a song And the song was exciting There was a time

Then it all went wrong

I dreamed a dream in times gone by When hope was high and a life worth living I dreamed, that love would never die I dreamed that Go

d would be forgiving Then I was young and unafraid And dreams were made and used and wasted There was no ransom to be paid No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night With their voices soft as thunder As they tear your hope apart As they turn your dream to shame He slept a summer by my side He filled my days with endless wonder He took my childhood in his stride But he was gone when autumn came And still, I dream he'll come to me That we will live the years together But there are dreams that cannot be And there are storms we cannot weather I had a dream my life would be So different from this hell I'm living So different now from what it seemed Now life has killed the dream I dreamed

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"that literally just made me get tears in my eyes," James says as he points to his eyes

we laugh and talk for some time when the thing I have dreaded the most comes up

"so y/n I have to ask you this because everyone wants to know encluding me"

"oh no gosh I know what it is already"

"are you dating tom holland"

"oh god Tom and I are just good friends"

"really because your two have been spotted a lot of times holding hands"

"friends do that"

"sure"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Regina George is the queen bee

She's always dressed up She always wins Spring Fling Queen We're just drones that work for her And then die"James says as he turns on the radio

"My name is Regina George

And I am a massive deal Fear me, love me Stand and stare at me And these, these are real I've got money and looks I am, like, drunk with power This whole school Humps my leg like a chihuahua the prettiest poison you've ever seen I never weigh more than one-fifteen My name is Regina George And I am a massive deal I don't care who you are I don't care how you feel"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"so y/n, let's get a little serious"

"yes" I say

"in this song, you sing 'i never weigh more than 115' but you said something in a video that Regina doesn't have to be that and that you aren't and i found that amazing"

"thank you I really don't think that she has to be that and I am not and will never be near that and I'm proud of that you should be proud of how you look"

"I love that. you're also in a musical right now hamilton"

"yes I am in England"

"so any plans for what you are going to do after hamilton"

"yes but it's a secret for now

"Okay but you play one of the Schuyler sisters"

"yes I play Eliza"

"and you're amazing in it I saw it some time ago and I love it as I wrote to you"

"it still warms my heart"

"but my biggest dream is being in hamilton but as one of the Schuyler sisters"

"mmm-hmm" I laugh

"I wanna be angelica"

"you can be James"

There's nothing rich folks love more Than going downtown and slumming it with the poor They pull up in their carriages and gawk at the students in the common Just to watch 'em talk

Take Philip Schuyler, the man is loaded Uh oh, but little does he know that His daughters, Peggy, Angelica, Eliza Sneak into the city just to watch all the guys at

Work, work

Angelica!

Work, work

Eliza!

And Peggy!

Work, work

The Schuyler sisters

Angelica!

Peggy!

Eliza!

Work!

Daddy said to be home by sundown

Daddy doesn't need to know

Daddy said not to go downtown

Like I said, you're free to go

But—look around, look around The revolution's happening in New York

New York

Angelica

Work!

It's bad enough Daddy wants to go to war

People shouting in the square

It's bad enough there'll be violence on our shore

New ideas in the air

Look around, look around

Angelica, remind me what we're looking for

She's looking for me!

Eliza, I'm looking for a mind at work (work, work) I'm looking for a mind at work (work, work) [x2] Woa-oah

Woa-oah

Work!

Ooh, there's nothing like summer in the city Someone in a rush next to someone lookin' pretty Excuse me, miss, I know it's not funny But your perfume smells like your daddy's got money Why you slummin' in the city in your fancy heels? You searchin' for an urchin who can give you ideals?

Burr, you disgust me

Ahh, so you've discussed me I'm a trust fund, baby, you can trust me

I've been reading Common Sense by Thomas Paine So men say that I'm intense or I'm insane You want a revolution? I want a revelation So listen to my declaration:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident That all men are created equal"

And when I meet Thomas Jefferson (unh!) I'mma compel him to include women in the sequel

Work!

Look around, look around at how Lucky we are to be alive right now Look around, look around at how Lucky we are to be alive right now

History is happening in Manhattan and we

Just happen to be in the greatest city in the world In the greatest city in the world!

---------------------------------

"All my dreams just came true," James says as I laugh at his comment "okay now time for something a little different"

"oh gosh," I say "what is it"

"we're going to take a lie detector test"

"nooo"

after some time I'm all strapped up while a man is on a computer checking whether I speak the truth or not

"okay let's start out by some to test if it works"

"okay"

"is your name Y/n"

"yes"

"true"

"are you currently in hamilton"

"yes"

"true"

"did you play Regina George"

"yes"

"she's telling the truth"

"Great let's start easy so...Y/n"

"yes"

"Which one of your castmates is your favourite"

"Barrett"

"true"

"great, y/n am I your favourite host"

"oh absolutely"

"true"

"yes you had to get that right, okay this one is the best one are you dating tom holland"

shit

"no"

"lie"

"YES I KNEW IT I KNEW IT OMG YES" he smiles

"no that's the truth," I say

"you can't lie on accident"

"well fuck me then"

"how long"

"not long"

"lie"

"okay five years almost"

"WHAT," James says in shock

"I'm sorry we just didn't want our relationship the get ruined by hate"

"five years"

"yeah"

"When were you going to tell everyone when you had seven kids"

"haha no I don't know when but I guess it's out now"

"well some people are going to get heartbroken, someone gets hurt"

-----------------------------

Ice queen, that's what you see It's what they all expect from me But it's all show Face it, you used me You saw the sexy clothes My supermodel pose But did you know?Was I a game to you? Was I way to be cool? I truly cared Was I the fool? It's fine for you It's fine to flirt It's fine 'Till someone gets hurt 'Till someone gets hurt

----------------------------------

"Y/n it was amazing to have you here"

"it was amazing to be here James, even tho I now have to go home to Tom and tell him the news, gosh this is so fucked"

"wait you guys live together too"

"bye James" I run out the door

--------------------------------

"Baby I'm home" I smile

"hi love," Tom says as he walks over to me and kisses me, gosh I missed him

"I missed you," I say

"I missed you"

"you love me right"

"more than anything my - wait what did you do"

"well"

228 notes · View notes

stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland · 4 years ago

Text

🕊 Melville and Hawthorne

I remember when one of our mutuals received submission from an anonymous named Dove. I remember that insider mentioned many things about the girls but he also spoke about a particular character whose life caught my attention. Herman Melville. Melville was a New York poet who fell madly in love with another writer named Nathaniel Hawthorne. They had a very intense love affair, but it had to be hidden because it was the 19th century and homosexual love was forbidden. But it was not forbidden to write about it. This is an article from the page:

https://www.brainpickings.org/2019/02/13/herman-melville-nathaniel-hawthorne-love-letters/

Herman Melville’s Passionate, Beautiful, Heartbreaking Love Letters to Nathaniel Hawthorne:

“Your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God’s… The divine magnet is in you, and my magnet responds.”

BY MARIA POPOVA The summer when nineteen-year-old Emily Dickinson met the love of her life — the orphaned mathematician-in-training Susan Gilbert, who would come to be the poet’s greatest muse, her mentor, her primary reader and editor, her fiercest lifelong attachment, her “Only Woman in the World” — another intense, label-defying love was igniting in the heart of another literary titan-to-be some fifty miles westward. That other love unfolds alongside Dickinson’s in Figuring — a book I wrote to explore, among other existential perplexities, the bittersweet beauty of asymmetrical and half-requited loves. (This essay is adapted from the book.)

On August 5, 1850, Herman Melville met Nathaniel Hawthorne at a literary gathering in the Berkshires. Hawthorne was forty-six. The achingly shy, brooding writer, once celebrated as “handsomer than Lord Byron,” had risen to celebrity a decade earlier, much thanks to a glowing endorsement by Margaret Fuller. Melville — whose debut novel had rendered him a literary star in his twenties — had just turned thirty-one.

Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne A potent intellectual infatuation ignited between the two men — one that, at least for Melville, seems to have grown from the cerebral to the corporeal. Within days, the young author reviewed Hawthorne’s short story collection Mosses from an Old Manse in Literary World under the impersonal byline “a Virginian Spending July in Vermont.” No claim of this intentional ambiguity was true — Melville was a New Yorker, the month was August, and he was spending it in Massachusetts.

The review, nearing seven thousand words, was nothing less than an editorial serenade. “A man of a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion… His wild, witch voice rings through me,” Melville wrote of reading Hawthorne’s stories in a remote farmhouse nestled in the summer foliage of the New England countryside. “The soft ravishments of the man spun me round in a web of dreams.” Melville couldn’t have known that his allusions to witchcraft, intended as compliment, had disquieting connotations for Hawthorne. Born Nathaniel Hathorne, he had added a w to the family name in order to distance himself from his ancestor John Hathorne — a leading judge involved in the Salem witch trials, who, unlike the other culpable judges, never repented of his role in the murders. Unwitting of the dark family history, Melville found himself under “this Hawthorne’s spell” — a spell cast first by his writing, then by the constellation of personal qualities from which the writing radiated. Who hasn’t fallen in love with an author in the pages of a beautiful book? And if that author, when befriended in the real world, proves to be endowed with the splendor of personhood that the writing intimates, who could resist falling in love with the whole person? Melville presaged as much:

No man can read a fine author, and relish him to his very bones, while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind… There is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, as the indispensable complement of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet. Or, love and humor are only the eyes, through which such an intellect views this world. The great beauty in such a mind is but the product of its strength.

After comparing Hawthorne to Shakespeare, he writes:

In this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth, — even though it be covertly, and by snatches./// This words came from the original 🕊 wrote

“I am Posterity speaking by proxy,” Melville bellows from the page, “when I declare — that the American, who up to the present day, has evinced, in Literature, the largest brain with the largest heart, that man is Nathaniel Hawthorne.” In an aside on the process of composing his review, he notes that twenty-four hours into writing, he found himself “charged more and more with love and admiration of Hawthorne.” Quoting an especially beguiling line of Hawthorne’s, he insists that “such touches… can not proceed from any common heart.” No, they bespeak “such a depth of tenderness, such a boundless sympathy with all forms of being, such an omnipresent love” that they render their author singular in his generation — as singular as the place he would come to occupy in Melville’s heart.

Hawthorne’s home, Old Manse. Concord, Massachusetts. (Boston Public Library.) Fervid correspondence and frequent visits followed over the next few months. Only ten of Melville’s letters to Hawthorne survive, but their houses were just six miles apart and they saw each other quite often — “discussing the Universe with a bottle of brandy & cigars,” as Melville put it in one invitation, and talking deep into the night about “time and eternity, things of this world and of the next, and books, and publishers, and all possible and impossible matters,” as Hawthorne recounted in his diary. Punctuating the invisible log of all that was written but destroyed is all that was spoken but unwritten, all that was felt but unspoken.

Melville’s ardor was most acute during the period of writing Moby-Dick, which he dedicated to Hawthorne. Printed immediately after the title page was “In Token of My Admiration for his Genius, This Book is Inscribed to Nathaniel [sic] Hawthorne.”

(The two lovers lived very close to each other, isn’t sounds familiar folks?)

Art by Matt Kish from Moby-Dick in Pictures: One Drawing for Every Page One November evening over dinner, a restlessly excited Herman presented Nathaniel with a lovingly inscribed copy of the novel whose now-legendary protagonist sails from Nantucket into the existential unknown. I can picture the brooding Hawthorne turning the leaf and suppressing a beam of delight upon discovering the printed dedication. In the following century, Virginia Woolf would perform a similar gesture with her groundbreaking, gender-bending novel Orlando, inspired by her lover Vita Sackville-West and later described by Vita’s son as “the longest and most charming love letter in literature.” On the day of Orlando’s publication, Vita would receive a package containing not only the printed book, but also Virginia’s original manuscript, bound specially for her in Niger leather and stamped with her initials on the spine.

But after the elated private presentation, a very different public fate awaited Moby-Dick. Its 1851 publication was met with a damning review in New York’s Literary World, which set the tone for its American reception and precipitated its decades-long plunge into obscurity. The reviewer’s chief complaint was that the novel “violated and defaced” “the most sacred associations of life”—an indictment aimed at the homoeroticism of Melville’s choice to depict Ishmael and Queequeg as sharing a “marriage bed” in which they awaken with their arms around each other.

Queequeg’s favorite dish, cooked and photographed by artist Dinah Fried for her project Fictitious Dishes: An Album of Literature’s Most Memorable Meals. Ten days later, Hawthorne lamented the obtuseness of the review and praised Moby-Dick as Melville’s best work yet. Touched to the point of delirium by this “exultation-breeding letter,” Melville hastened to reply:

Your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God’s… It is a strange feeling — no hopefulness is in it, no despair. Content — that is it; and irresponsibility; but without licentious inclination. I speak now of my profoundest sense of being, not of an incidental feeling.

Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon of life? And when I put it to my lips — lo, they are yours and not mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the Supper, and that we are the pieces.

Aware of how his intemperate fervor might incinerate his relationship with the cooler-tempered Hawthorne, Melville reasons with himself for a moment, then chooses to abandon reason:

My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepticisms steal into me now, and make me doubtful of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe me, I am not mad, most noble Festus! But truth is ever incoherent, and when the big hearts strike together, the concussion is a little stunning.

After signing, he adds a feverish postscript:

I can’t stop yet. If the world was entirely made up of [magicians], I’ll tell you what I should do. I should have a paper-mill established at one end of the house, and so have an endless riband of foolscap rolling in upon my desk; and upon that endless riband I should write a thousand — a million — billion thoughts, all under the form of a letter to you. The divine magnet is in you, and my magnet responds. Which is the biggest? A foolish question — they are One.

The intensity proved too concussing for Hawthorne — he pulled away from the divine magnet. Melville seems to have presaged the eclipse of their relationship in the review in which the magnetism had begun:

It is that blackness in Hawthorne… that so fixes and fascinates me. It may be, nevertheless, that it is too largely developed in him. Perhaps he does not give us a ray of his light for every shade of his dark.

As Hawthorne retreated into his cool darkness, Melville suffered with the singular anguish of unreturned ardor—anguish that stayed with him for the remaining four decades of his life, for he eulogized it in one of his last poems, “Monody,” penned in his final year:

To have known him, to have loved him, After loneness long; And then to be estranged in life, And neither in the wrong; And now for death to set his seal — Ease me, a little ease, my song!

By wintry hills his hermit-mound The sheeted snow-drifts drape, And houseless there the snow-bird flits Beneath the fir-tree’s crape: Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine That hid the shyest grape.

Herman Melville in his final years. Meanwhile, the gaps of the invisible and the unspoken are filled with posterity’s questions about specifics that vibrate with the universal: What happened between Melville and Hawthorne in the unrecorded hours? Why did Nathaniel ultimately repel the divine magnet of Herman’s love? Most probably, we’ll never know. Possibly, they themselves never fully did. It is almost banal to say, yet it needs to be said: No one ever knows, nor therefore has grounds to judge, what goes on between two people, often not even the people themselves, half-opaque as we are to ourselves. One thing is certain: The quotient of intimacy cannot be contained in a label. The human heart is an ancient beast that roars and purrs with the same passions, whatever labels we may give them. We are so anxious to classify and categorize, both nature and human nature. It is a beautiful impulse — to contain the infinite in the finite, to wrest order from the chaos, to construct a foothold so we may climb toward higher truth. It is also a limiting one, for in naming things we often come to mistake the names for the things themselves. The labels we give to the loves of which we are capable — varied and vigorously transfigured from one kind into another and back again — cannot begin to contain the complexity of feeling that can flow between two hearts and the bodies that contain them.

_____

I don't think I can add anything to what Maria described that doesn't remind me of Camren. Or Camila. Sometimes I feel that Lauren and Camila are two reincarnated souls of former lovers who could never live their love in freedom, even these days. Where the love between homosexual couples will always be condemned and criticized and hated and will have to continue living in the shadows having only freedom in song lyrics, in poetry, literature, cinema. How much more time will it take for those ancient reincarnated lovers to live in freedom? In how many more generations can they really be free? I do not know. I only know that I hope I don't die before I get to see it Thanks Dove, whoever you were for showing us that story. If you read this, we are still here supporting the girls and that hidden love.

#dove #herman melville #nathaniel hawthorne #love story #poets #camren #forbidden love

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repmet · 4 years ago

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Fic: Iris

For FowlFest2020: Obscure Character Appreciation Day. Iris is actually an OC, but her family is mentioned so... that counts right? Shoutout to @ms-nothingspecial for betaing and listening to me stress about word choice for far too long.

The fairy shuttle port at Tara was an impressive operation. Ten thousand cubic metres of terminal concealed beneath an overgrown hillock in the middle of the McGraney farm. For centuries, the McGraneys had respected the fairy fort's boundaries and, for centuries, they had enjoyed exceptional good luck.

- Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident

Iris McGraney is born at midnight on a full moon, which for a McGraney is the very best of luck.

The birth goes smoothly and without complications, and Iris is born quietly, wailing briefly to let the world know she’s arrived, before settling on her mother’s chest, quietly basking in the comfort of her family around her.

Iris McGraney is born lucky. Then again, her family always has been.

When Iris is 7 she gets sick, as children do.

Plans are made to see the doctor in the morning, but McGraneys have a certain way of treating illnesses first that most others don’t.

Iris is well enough to listen to her Dad tell her to keep the bedroom window open all night, even as he bundles her up in blankets and turns the heater on.

He puts a note on the sill along with a single gold nugget, just in case.

“We’ve invited them in before, but it’s better safe than sorry, isn’t it? And you should never ask without offering something in return. It’s rare they take it but it’s only polite.”

The McGraney’s were always digging up gold, especially near the fairy fort. Iris knew it was a secret though, or else everyone would want to come dig on their farm which would make the cows sad.

“Now, go to sleep,” her Dad tells her, tucking her in tight. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Iris doesn’t wake all night, and in the morning, the note is gone, the small piece of gold now sitting on her night stand.

Iris picks it up and runs to the kitchen.

“It moved, Daddy!” she announces proudly, the picture of a healthy child. “They didn’t take it but it moved.”

Her father laughs and hugs her.

“That’s how they let us know they were here.”

When Iris is 14 a severe looking boy in a suit sits down across from her at a cafe she’s in, and puts a phone on the table.

Iris recognises the model, it’s seven months away from being released and the hype is already intense.

“For a moment of your time.”

Iris stares at him.

“My parents are gonna think I fucking stole this.”

The boy sets a letter down on the table as well. Iris has a brother so she ignores the letter at first and continues staring at the boy, hoping to unnerve him. He seems unbothered, maybe he has siblings too. She picks up the paper and reads a very official looking letter from the phone manufacturer congratulating her on being selected to test an early release prototype.

It’s fake of course. Iris isn’t an idiot, she is however a teenager in a tiny village with not much going for it. In short, she’s bored and whatever the hell this is, it’s interesting. Also her parents don’t know shit about technology or how major releases work.

She shoves the phone in her backpack.

“What do you want?”

“The fairy fort on your property, I want to know about it.”

Iris raises her eyebrows, that’s hardly top-secret information.

“I don’t know, man, it’s been there for ages. We take care of it, respect the boundaries, and we get lucky.”

“In just the past fifty years your family has uncovered a lost work of Holbein the Younger, a sword owned by Íriel Fáid and seven seperate stores of gold. You’ve also never lost an animal to bovine spongiform encephalopathy in all the history I could find of your farm.”

Well it was more gold than that at last count but they’d stopped being so vocal about it and also-

“Yeah... what’s that last one?”

The kid gives her a disdainful and patronising look. “Mad cow disease.”

“Right.” This dude is a dick. “Like I said. Lucky.”

“It seems a bit more than lucky.”

Iris shrugs. “Look man, you don’t need to believe in the People if you don’t want but you’re in the wrong town. We eat that shit up here, the Hill of Tara borders our farm, there’s three fairy-dedicated gift shops in this village alone.”

He looks interested now though, leaning forward in his seat.

“The People?”

His eyes are weirdly intense, Iris can’t wait to tell her friends about this. Orla is super into vampires right now, she’s going to love it.

“Fairies, the fae, the fair folk, aos sí, whatever you want to call them. Maybe it is just luck, I’ve never seen one-” She frowns, a memory bubbling up then she shakes her head, brushing off a dream of a small winged figure on her windowsill one night. “The People is what my grandparents called them though. Capital P.”

“What else did your grandparents tell you about them? Did they have any superstitions specific to your family?”

Iris doesn't even need to think on that one.

“Grandpa Rob had this thing where he would make everyone wash their hands after we came back from church. Said it was not to harm the People with the holy water, but no one else I know does that, even the Creideamh Sí families.That means -”

“The Fairy Faith,” he interrupts. “Yes, I’m aware. I’ll need to know anything else your family knows about them.”

He pulls a laptop out of his bag which looks like nothing Iris has ever seen and her family is pretty well-off (selling lost works or art tends to help).

“This is getting to be more than a moment, dude.”

“I can take the phone back.”

Iris laughs, he’s not wrong that the phone is worth more than a short conversation, but the threat is just plain funny coming from a pre-teen who looks like he’d never seen the sun in his life and a stiff breeze would knock him over.

The man standing behind him, who Iris initially assumed was his dad but now isn’t so sure, clears his throat and there’s something in the way he does it, or maybe the way he glances down at her, that makes it very clear this tiny undertaker looking child would be leaving with either his answers, or the phone.

If Iris were older or wiser, she would be suitably unsettled but today she just waves a hand at the mountain of a man.

“Chill, I don’t mind, just weird to be honest.”

“You’re welcome to whatever opinion you please so long as you answer all of my questions with as much detail as possible. Now, tell me more about the holy water.”

This phone better be worth it. (It is.)

When Iris is 19 the world ends.

Kinda.

Her PlayStation is ruined at least which is annoying as shit.

More importantly, the fairy fort is gone and there’s an actual fucking fort there.

“I always thought it would be a bit less… concrete.”

She’s not sure who she’s talking to, her brother’s moved to London and her parents are out at lunch with friends. But it’s rather the sort of day where Iris thinks she might not believe anything at all if she keeps it just in her head.

The door gives a loud bang and Iris yells and leaps backwards. The banging continues and she realises there’s someone on the other side.

“Are you okay?’ she calls, trying to keep the sudden nervousness in her chest from coming through the words.

“There’s a fire in here, and the suppression systems aren’t working.”

Iris takes several long breaths, processing several things. One, her family is not mad, fairies do exist. Two, they do in fact have a fort on their farm. Three, she might be about to meet them for real. Four, it’s kinda ugly and dull, she expected a bit more… magical?

She looks up to try and centre herself and catches sight of a plane, trailing smoke and flying disturbingly low before it disappears over a hill. In the distance there’s the sound of thunder.

Right, the world is possibly ending, perhaps that should be higher on the list. That part is plain not registering in her head.

She tells herself she imagined the plane, there’s no room in her head to process the alternative right now.

“Who are you anyway?”

Iris’ head snaps back up at the question. Right, fairies trapped in a burning building. Focus.

“Iris McGraney! Stand back, I’ll kick the door in.”

“This door is built to withstand more than you, human.”

Iris frowns, annoyed. “You prefer to suffocate?”

There’s a long pause then, from what sounds like a distance, the voice calls back, “Alright, give it a go.”

Iris is a farmgirl through and through. She’s been stacking hay and climbing fences and eating well her entire life, she wouldn’t be carrying the Dinnie Stones any time soon but she could best all the local boys in an arm wrestle and carry a small calf several fields if she had too.

Her first kick connects with a satisfying crack. The second gives more of a crunch and on the third the door snaps and slams inwards. It’s a pretty cool moment, Iris wishes the day wasn’t so surreal so she could bask in it more.

Smoke starts to billow out as soon as it meets the outside air and there’s a lot of yelling and organised panic as thirty-odd fairies of differing colours and various sizes of small come pouring out, most coughing.

One, in an official looking uniform, makes a line for Iris.

“You’re a fairy,” she tells him.

“Yes, a gnome if we’re getting technical.” He pulls out a handkerchief and starts dabbing at his forehead. “Thanks for that, by the way, Frond only knows what’s going on. One moment we’re getting the call that Haven’s locking down the next the electronics start sparking and melting off the walls.”

“The same thing happened in the house.” Iris tells him, rapidly compartmentalising, there was far too much to take in today. Fairies sure, but gnomes? She pushes it in a box for later. “My phone melted, and the TV almost started a fire.”

The gnome shakes his head worriedly. “This is not good, not good. No contact with Haven and all our tech going bust. I bet it’s that Koboi pixie somehow, right crazy one she is.”

Iris nods for a moment, then shakes her head. “No, I don’t know what that means.”

“Not good, is what it means.”

Iris looks across the fields to several columns of smoke rising in the distance, the further she looks in every direction the more there are.

Not good at all.

When Iris is 32 her parents die.

It’s sudden and so plain, after a life of quiet magic and unrelenting luck. Her mother took a turn too fast and hit a patch of ice.

They didn’t suffer at least.

She blames the People at first, but even as the anger bubbles inside her she knows it’s only grief behind it. She’s learnt over the years they’re just people themselves, no capital letter. They can do extraordinary things but miracles are miracles for a reason.

After the wake is passed and the friends gone home, her brother reluctantly back across the channel, promising to call that same night, Iris is at a loss.

She had expected to be but still.

The knocks at the door are so frequent she doesn’t even startle when another comes. She’s not sure she’s in a mood for more well-wishers but she’s not doing well alone either so- she sighs and goes to open the door.

On the other side is a black-haired man in a three-piece suit, still pale but Iris felt less concern now that he might combust if the sun ever does manage to find him.

“Artemis Fowl, I didn’t expect us to meet again.”

“You remember me.” He doesn’t seem surprised.

“Being interrogated by a ten year old tends to stick in a girl’s mind.”

He smiles. “I was 12.”

Iris invites him in and makes tea.

It’s a welcome distraction right now because you have to be living under rock in Ireland not to know how just very extraordinary Artemis Fowl the Second is. Three doctorates, Time Man of the Year at 22, already one Nobel Prize and smart money’s on a second soon.

If anyone could have done it at 12… well.

For a moment she almost hesitates, but Artemis gives her a real smile, as if he already knows what’s on her mind.

(In the years ahead she will come to know him well enough to realise that’s exactly the case.)

She hands him a cup and sits down.

“Tell me, Dr. Fowl, did you ever find the People?”

#artemis fowl #fowlfest2020 #artemis fowl fanfic #prompt: suggests named characters #me: but what if that one family briefly mentioned just that one time and never referred to again #fanfic #fanfiction #do you know how long it's been since i posted a fic #like damn

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rizlowwritessortof · 4 years ago

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The Pool House

This was inspired by a VERY inspiring dream I had the other night, and also urged-on by my lovely bestie (and fellow degenerate) @jensensgotyoudean - Liz, this one’s for you! (And me. Not gonna lie.) Hope y’all enjoy!

Pairing: Dean x Original Female Character

Word Count: 2365

Warnings: None, oral sex, Dean having fun for a change

The scent of the sweet almond verbena and wild roses planted around the pool almost won the battle to overpower the smell of chlorine, a strangely pleasing combination. But then, everything was pleasing at the moment – warm water lapping against her skin, only the underwater lights from the pool to brighten the scene, the muscles of Dean’s back gleaming in the reflected glow as he dived beneath the surface.

It seemed like a dream, this whole night. The wealthy owner of the sprawling home across the enormous lawn from the pool had been incredibly grateful for their work of the past couple of days, ridding him of a particularly nasty poltergeist that had caused minor injuries and constant damage to the house. He had offered them the weekend use of the guest house/pool house, free use of the pool, and had stocked the guest house kitchen with food and drink enough for an army. Or Dean. They had made a flying trip to the mall for suits, then headed for the pool.

They swam together for a while, laughing and splashing like a couple of twelve-year-olds, but now she was lounging against the side, sipping at an icy margarita. Dean was having the time of his life, completely embracing the moment, and she couldn’t help but smile. He needed this, to drop the weight that he usually carried on those broad shoulders, and opportunities like this were rare. He occasionally stopped by her side, pulling her close, his body warm and slick against hers, his fingers dipping beneath her bikini top to tease a nipple as he kissed her senseless.

Watching him like this was almost more intoxicating than the margarita. And his teasing was driving her crazy. He came to a splashing stop behind her and kissed her neck, sending goosebumps over her body as he slipped his hand into her suit bottom, then deftly penetrated her with two fingers, his other arm pulling her tight against his chest. “Baby, I know you’re wet, but… you’re wet,” he murmured into her ear, then continued nibbling at her as he stroked slowly inside her.

“You’re such a tease,” she whined, her head thrown back against his shoulder.

“Makes it so much more fun later,” he taunted, sucking a mark into the tender skin at the slope of her shoulder. He brought her so close to the edge that she began to tremble, then pulled his hand back slowly and whispered into her ear again. “So much more fun.” He took off with a wicked chuckle, diving again like the world’s naughtiest dolphin, and she hung on to the pool edge for dear life as she struggled to calm herself again.

“You are such a dick!”

“You love it!” Jerk. He wasn’t wrong.

“You two havin’ a good time?” Their host strolled into view, and they greeted him with a smile.

“This is amazing, you have no idea how long it’s been since we were able to do something like this,” she answered. “Thank you again!”

“No, thank you. If y’all hadn’t taken care of that thing, I mighta just sold the damn place. Hey, just wanted to let you know, I have to leave on a business trip...”

“Oh.” Dean’s broad smile had faded, but he was hiding his disappointment well. “Hey, we can get our stuff together and get out of your way,” Dean said, heading for the side of the pool.

“Nope.” The owner was shaking his head and holding up a hand as he continued. “Wouldn’t think of askin’ y’all to leave. I’ll just lock up the main house, and I’ll lay the keys to the pool house inside the shower room, just lock up when you two leave and stick the keys in the mail slot at the house. No reason you need to go. Just wanted to let you know I was leavin’. You two enjoy yourselves, now!”

A few minutes later, they heard a honk from the BMW’s horn as their host left the property. Dean’s eyes were sparkling with delight as he swam to her side again, a lecherous smirk on his face. “Skinny dip time!” She couldn’t smother her smile, shaking her head as he reached around to undo her top, then helped her shed the bottom half. He tossed her suit on the side of the pool, and then stripped his own off and added it to the pile. “Come on, baby, swim with me,” he coaxed, pulling at her hand, and she responded with a playful splash to his face before diving under the surface. “Ohhhh, that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

They played for a while, chasing each other and, even more fun, catching each other. Dean finally trapped her against the side, tickling her until she could barely breathe. “Dean… stop, I mean it!” she managed to force out, laughing, and he took mercy on her, resting his hands at her waist and kissing her.

“I love how slippery you are,” he grinned, moving his hands over her body, then cupping her breast and kissing her again, the playfulness shifting to heat in a matter of seconds. He was moving his hips, his very evident erection trapped between their bodies, and she reached for him, feeling him gasp into their kiss.

“Maybe it’s time to get out of the water,” she mumbled against his lips, and he nipped gently at hers before nodding.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He moved away reluctantly, giving her one last kiss before climbing out of the pool and holding a hand out to help her. Once she was standing beside him, he smiled, his eyes lit up with mischief again. “Naked race to the pool house!”

Holy shit, the man was fast. She shouted, “No fair!” as she took off after him, but there was no way she’d catch him. She was caught in his arms as she reached the shower room, and he laughed, an unrestrained, full-bodied laugh that made her heart sing. This was what she wished for him all the time - freedom from the ever-present responsibility and worry, allowing him to let this side of himself out to play. God, she loved him.

A stack of fluffy white towels sat nearby on a counter top, and she grabbed one with determination in her eyes. Against the opposite wall sat a bright white Adirondack chair, and she began to push him in that direction. He stumbled a little, a bemused smile on his face, and let her guide him. After she covered the seat of the chair with a towel, she nodded towards it. “Have a seat, cowboy, it’s my turn to play.”

“Oooh, I like the sound of that,” he responded with a grin, sitting down and relaxing against the reclining back of the chair, his arms laid along its arms. He was sprawled in the perfect position, knees spread, his cock jutting up proud, and she couldn’t help but stare for a moment. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, but it would embarrass the hell out of him if she said anything like that, so she’d just have to show him.

She lowered herself down between his knees, watching his chest rise and fall with the quickening breath of anticipation. She trailed her fingertips up the insides of his thighs, then let the tips of her nails drag lightly back towards her. His eyelids fluttered almost closed, his tongue gripped between his teeth for a moment, his skin beginning to flush a little with arousal. His cock gave an anxious twitch, and she smiled. “Hello, gorgeous,” she said softly as she moved closer, stroking up his length gently, then leaning in to kiss the tip.

“So fucking sexy,” he panted, almost whimpering when she kissed him again, sucking gently and playing her tongue over the soft, warm skin. He swore softly and finally let his head drop back against the back of the chair with a thud.

This was exactly what she wanted, for him to just surrender himself to the pleasure, and she gave him a predatory smile before licking her lips and taking him into the welcoming heat of her mouth. She encircled him with one hand, a gentle twist with each bob of her head, working more of his length between her lips. She sucked as she drew back, then plunged him back inside further, fighting her gag reflex to take him in as far as she was able. He jumped as he hit the back of her throat, almost shouting, the sound echoing in the empty tiled room.

“Holy fuck… FUCK...” he just kept swearing, an endless mantra, squirming in the chair, his arms flung out and his back arching as she continued to work him over. She cupped his sac with her free hand, massaging him and letting the nail of her middle finger trail whisper-soft over his perineum, almost coming undone herself at his desperate, whining moan in response. “I can’t… I can’t… I’m gonna...” he was incoherent now, fighting to keep from bucking up into her mouth, and she pulled off slowly, staring into his glazed-over eyes.

“Stop fighting it. Just let go. I want you to,” she said firmly. He stared back, an almost pleading look in his eyes, their green hue dark and intense with arousal. “Please, Dean. I need you to.” Finally he gave a barely perceptible little nod, and she bit her lip, then smiled softly before lowering her head again.

She took him in slowly, reveling in his long, low, gut-deep groan at the sensation. She worked him in as deep as she could and then braced her hands on his thighs and gave a little nod. He didn’t move for a moment, and she sucked, digging her nails in a little, and he let out a growl that resounded through the room as he let himself go.

She was whimpering, fighting to relax her throat as he fucked up into her mouth, growling and grunting like a wild thing. She was on the edge herself, quaking, unable to catch her breath with the speed of his thrusts. He let loose with a savage shout as he came, the sound reverberating in the room, and she struggled to swallow as much as she could as he flooded her mouth and throat. He dropped back into the chair, panting hard, and she suckled at him gently, coaxing out the last drops of his seed.

She pulled off of him carefully, bending to wipe her face on the towel dangling from the chair between his legs. She leaned forward to kiss his belly, then laid her head there, relishing the ache in her jaw and throat.

They sat like that for several minutes, both of them too spent to move. She smiled, sighing contentedly when his hand touched her hair, his fingers stroking through it. When he shifted, moving to sit up, she sat back on her knees and looked up at him. He stared down at her, soft wonder in his eyes, reaching to cup her face in his hands. “Hey, sunshine,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, then leaned in to kiss her, tender and thorough. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shook her head with a smile. “I’m good. So good.” She met his gaze again and her smile slowly faded as she lost herself in his eyes.

He stroked over her cheek with a work-roughened thumb. “When you look at me like that… there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.” His voice wavered just a little, and she closed her eyes against the sting of happy tears, leaning up to place a lingering kiss on his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~

Late – very late – the next morning, she lay sprawled on a lounge chair near the pool, basking in the sun, feeling lazy and sated and positively decadent, her mind lingering pleasantly on the perfect day and night before.

They had both showered and then stuffed themselves from the amazing array of meat, cheese, and fruit trays in the fridge, along with a few cold beers. Then she had crawled into bed, mere minutes ahead of him, and promptly fell asleep, unaware of Dean smiling indulgently down at her with a shake of his head before pulling her into his arms and joining her. She had pleasantly drifted back to consciousness a few hours later with Dean’s head between her thighs, his hands kneading at them as he drove her to a shattering climax. This time it had been her turn to fill the room with rasping, desperate cries and blissful sighs until she was begging him to fuck her, and he had pinned her down and given her exactly what she’d asked for.

She opened her eyes with a gasp as a spray of water doused her from the pool, Dean’s laughter contagious as she sat up, trying and failing to glare at him. “You’re in trouble.”

He grinned up at her from the water, droplets coursing down his face and shoulders. “Why don’t you come in here and teach me a lesson?” He swam to the middle and turned back, shouting, “And leave your suit. I don’t know why you’re wearing it, anyway!”

“Because sunburned nipples would be very bad.”

He made a pained face. “Ooooh, yeah. Well, I guess you’ll just have to stay in the water with me. I know, just turn yourself into a mermaid.” She jumped into the water and he swam close, pulling her in for a wet kiss, letting out a pleased hum as her breasts slipped and slid against his chest. “Yeah, I think we should look into a spell for that.”

“Not sure you’d like it,” she retorted with a little smirk. “Mermaids are missing something that you’re kinda fond of.” She laughed as his eyebrows drew together, then raised again as he nodded.

“Yeah. I’m real fond of those parts. Damn.” He kissed her again with a little squeeze to her breast and swam a few strokes away before turning, pointing towards her with a grin. “I know! Naked water sprite!”

God, she loved him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags for mah babes! As always, PLEASE let me know if you want off this train!

@saenalife @deanscarlett @jensensgotyoudean @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @geeklibrarian @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @aprofoundbondwithdean @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @mrswhozeewhatsis @littlegreenplasticsoldier @sleep-silent-angel @darcia22 @winchesterprincessbride @cavillanche @ellen-reincarnated1967 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @deanslittleangel2y5 @melanie451 @lovin-ackles @spectaculacular-sammy @bookchic20 @jodyri @selma-jean @savingapplepie-eatingthings @angelofwinchester17 @kittenofdoomage @masked-maiden42 @lean-mean-deanwinchester @ericuhlorain @undecided-garden @ceeceewinchester @typicalweirdbookworm @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @youtoldalie @tanithlowisabamf @deandoesthingstome @jxackles @nerdwholikesword @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic @kreweofimp @gabavaldman @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog @darkx143 @disassociativedogma @ioanashalala @jencharlan @deansthirstblog @dorky-and-i-know-it @mischief-maker1 @hamartiamacguffin @winchestersandwordprocessors @percussiongirl2017 @bringmesomepie56 @akshi8278 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @torn-and-frayed @sandlee44 @kathaswings @wingedcatninja @evansrogerskitten @emoryhemsworth @peaceinourtime82

#the pool house #dean fic #dean smut #dean x female oc #happy dean #no angst here folks #not today #here's hoping for more naked jensen dreams

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thorne93 · 5 years ago

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Teacher’s Pet (Part 2)

Masterlist for Teacher's Pet

Prompt: You're a college student, who is having a tough time of things. that is, until there’s an offer made between you and your favorite professors

Word Count: 3957

Song: Do with it by Betty Who

Aesthetic: by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo Warnings: Flustered OFC, professor/student smut, SMUT galore that’s what this is,Dom/Sub, spanking, Sir troph, oral female receiving, beard kink, fingering, baby girl kink, professor kink, rough sex, desk sex, mentions of voyeurism, toy use, seducing professor,Daddy/baby girl, teasing, ice use, neck marking, blindfolding, nothing under a skirt, hair pulling, choking,

Note: This is basically porn in writing. If you're looking for super sound plot, you won't find it. Its sex. I focused on the sex. And my first crack at a threesome. I wrote this for my super amazing best friend @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So there you were, doing something you never thought possible - a salacious affair with your professor. Not that you didn’t want it - no, you’d wanted it bad ever since you laid eyes on him. But it wasn’t just a one time deal in his office. It was almost every day you came to class. You would wear a skirt, uncross your legs, spread them slightly, then recross them. This exposed you weren’t wearing anything underneath the skirt.

Tony would see during the lecture and each time he’d smirk or stutter, adjusting his tie. Then you’d get to his office after class and he’d punish the hell out of you. Bending you over his desk while he fucked you from behind, telling you that you were such a good student. Feeling as his dick slowly went in and out of you while you stood on your tiptoes over other students papers. He’d cover your mouth so no one could hear your near screams of pleasure.

He didn’t want to push the envelope too much though. After a few fuck sessions in his office, he finally decided to take you to his place - with a real bed and shit. Getting nailed in his office on your knees or bent over or even straddling him in his chair was all good fun, but eventually eyebrows would raise as to why you were always in Tony Stark’s office, with the door shut, in a skirt.

Now he could somewhat pamper you on the softed bed you’d ever known, worshipping you, even sleeping into the next morning. He never kicked you out or made it seem like you weren’t wanted there. He bent you over his couch, which was a bit voyeuristic as he had a wall of nothing but floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the city. In fact, one time he did fuck you against a window. He bent you so that your tits pressed into the cold glass, keeping your nipples hard and constantly getting touched by the glass. He also lifted you and fucked you standing up, your back on the window.

He didn’t care who saw. He was proud to have you as his toy, his sex kitten.

He bought new toys to use on you. Dildos of all kinds. Ones he could control with his phone, one he manually used on you, some with vibration, some that simply felt like a real dick. He loved watching you skirm on the hard pieces in your cunt, writing on them. You two showered together.

If you were around each other, he was doing something to you - kissing, penetrating, teasing, touching your neck.

But all this time with Tony wasn’t enough to save your grade in the other class. You still studied on the weekends, sometimes even at Tony’s house after a few hours of sex, but your other class with Dr. Bruce Banner was proving troublesome.

With some newfound confidence, you wondered if Dr. Banner would take you up on the proposal that Tony had offered you (albeit a false one) - sex in exchange for some extra credit. You didn’t want sex to give you the A, you wanted the sex to change his mind in order to give you some extra assignments to try and bump your grade.

Dr. Banner was hot as hell and he was another professor you wouldn’t mind having inside you.

But Bruce was different. Where Tony was boastful, proud, confident, Bruce was reserved, introverted, and quiet. But knowledgeable nonetheless, and he cracked a few jokes here and there, but he wasn’t the life of the party.

After class, you stopped by his office. Your heart was pounding just before you turned the corner. This was a huge step. But Tony was doing it without a care in the world, why couldn’t Bruce?

“Um, Professor Banner?” you greeted tentatively as you poked your head into his office.

He looked up from a book he was reading. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you responded in a small voice.

“What brings you by?” he questioned, putting his book down and leaning forward.

“Uh, well I wanted to talk about my grades,” you informed, toying with your hands.

Were you really about to proposition your professor? While you were fucking another one?

Yes… Yes you were.

“Ah, yes. I’ve noticed the last couple of quizzes and homework problems have been a bit dicey for you. I’m sorry for that. Is there something I can do to help?”

You leaned forward, pushing your breasts together with your arms, your shirt unbuttoned so low there was almost no reason for the shirt. “Actually, yes. There is. I was wondering if there was something I could do… for you… to help my grade?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Y/N. What could you do for me? Do you mean like extra credit?”

You stood up and rounded the desk, making sure your skirt bounced on your ass as you walked. He turned in his chair to face you.

“Y/N, what--”

“Shh,” you said sweetly, pushing him back slightly in his chair before you threw your legs over his, sitting on him as you grabbed his tie.

“Y/N, this is highly… Uh.. unconventional,” he stammered, getting red.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” you whispered in his ear, starting to slowly move your hips.

He started to put his hands on your ribs, about to pick you up.

“Hmm, if this is your idea of a protest, I can feel your hard cock in your pants,” you teased with a bit of a giggle.

He let out a soft moan at your words, letting you grind on him.

“Look,” he finally said point blank, glancing to the door to make sure no one was there, “it’s not that I don’t want this. I just don’t want it here, okay?”

“Oh?”

“My house. Thirty minutes. I’ll meet you there.” He wrote down the address and handed it to you.

“See you in a bit, professor,” you said as you got up, swinging your hips on the way out. Bruce was nearly in pain with how hard his dick was watching you walk away. He’d dreamed of that for quite some time, but to actually have you dry hump him in his office was a dream come true.

When you got there, it was a huge mansion in the elite part of town. Bruce arrived just a few minutes after you, inviting you inside.

“Care for a drink?” he asked.

“Sure, ice water.”

He went to get the drink as well as make himself something. “You’re bold, Y/N. I’ve had you for a few classes and had no idea you felt this way.”

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, Dr. Banner.”

“Hmm,” he hummed as he walked over, handing you the drink. “I think we’re going to have to change what you call me. Doctor and professor are a bit stiff, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Well, what do you suggest?” you inquired.

He brought his hand up, snaking it around the back of your neck, the feeling of his fingers in your hair sending chills down your spine. He leaned forward, his lips just a hair above yours as he whispered, “How ‘bout Daddy?” He planted his mouth on yours, his lips a frenzy on yours, making you breathless.

You shivered.

“Oh, do you like that, baby?” he asked once he pulled back and you nodded.

“Then you’re going to love this.” He leaned away from you, forcing you to spin around, and he bent you over the arm of his couch. “Fuck, you’re not wearing a damn thing down here, baby girl.”

“Nope,” you boasted, wiggling your ass in the air.

“Daddy loves that,” he responded, admiring your ass and pussy on full display.

He dropped to his knees, kissing up the back of your thighs, making you shake with anticipation. He breathed you in, worshipping your body as if you were a Goddess, made only for him.

He pulled away for a moment and you whimpered.

“Patience, baby girl, Daddy’s just grabbing something,” he assured soothingly. The next second, you hissed, because on your skin was suddenly frigid.

The freezing sensation trailed up your legs to your ass, over your lower back, then down. You were shivering from the cold and the fact that his hands were all over you.

“Aw, you cold, dove?” he cooed. “Here.” He leaned down, wrapped his hand around your neck from behind, and slowly pulled you up. Your back was against his front before he turned you around and lowered you onto the couch, giving your backside some warmth. He walked over and turned the fire on before returning to you, hovering over you. “Is that better, baby girl?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you said, nodding.

“Good,” he growled before grabbing your shirt and tearing it.

“Wow, bit of a temper, huh?” you teased. Buttons had gone flying, exposing your braless chest. He grinned widely down at you, marveling.

“My god. I’ve wanted these in my mouth every day since you walked into my classroom.”

“Well, they’re waiting,” you prompted with an eyebrow twitch.

“All in due time, my girl.” He leaned down, put the ice in his mouth, then ran the tip of the ice over your nipple.

You sucked in a breath, shocked at how intense it was. Your back arched.

“Fuck,” you hissed.

He smirked and continued to roll the ice over your nipple, circling it, getting your bud to plump up for the taking. He trailed the cube down your breast, in your cleavage, then back up to your other nipple.

This time the shock wasn’t as much but it still made you bend into it. You bit down on your lip, praising him. “Damn, Daddy, that feels so good.”

He continued, circling, rolling it all over your nipples before he cast the ice cube aside without a care and like a hungry animal, he captured your breast in his mouth, as much as he could fit. He started sucking, hard. The warmth of his breath was a stark contrast from the iciness. It was welcome and wanted. You cried out at the sudden sensation, your back arching even further as you squirmed beneath him on the couch. His beard was scraping the underside of your tits and lower chest, but you didn’t care. In a way, the burning, scratching sensation felt damned good. Your legs had been spread, with him between you, but nothing was anywhere close to your wanting pussy.

You were growing impatient. You just wanted him in you -- NOW.

He pulled away from that breast and then attacked the other one, sucking just as hard. You wondered if you’d have a damn hickey on your tit. He was relentless. His tongue flicked your sensitive bud over and over, rolling the tip around it as he sucked.

“God damn, you’re like a god at that,” you swore.

Tony might’ve been the master of oral, but Bruce here was sucking your tits like it was his last meal.

He pulled back and slapped your tit slightly before grabbing it. “These are mine, right baby girl?”

“All yours, Daddy.”

“Good.” He smiled before leaning down to kiss you hard, parting your lips with his tongue. “Here,” he said before he undid his tie. He fashioned it in a funny way for a moment before he put it over your eyes. “Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

“I trust you,” you breathed as the blindfold went over you. Everything was black now and your senses were on high alert. He grabbed your knees and pulled your ass to the edge of the couch. He nestled between your legs, his head right in front of your aching pussy. You waited patiently.

“Mmm,” he hummed before kissing the insides of your thighs, biting as he did. You yelped in pleasure before he finally got right to your pussy, his lips on it, just resting there, kissing your cunt slightly. It felt good, it felt nice, but god damn you needed some action there. You moved slightly towards him and he laughed against your folds. Even the slight vibration made you shudder with arousal.

“My eager, eager student. Well you were always willing to jump right in,” he appraised. He took his fingers and spread your lips open, exposing your clit and getting your hole wide open. He dove right in. He leaned forward, his tongue snaking from your hole up to your clit, repetitively. Just as you got used to one, relishing that feeling, he’d go back to the other, keeping you on your toes. It was as if he was licking a lollipop or a popsicle. Bottom to top. Bottom to top. Bottom to top. Your toes curled as he hit a sensitive spot, making you slightly jump and your head rolling back.

He let go of your lips with his fingers, reaching up and twisting your nipple in his finger, the other hand going to your throat to squeeze slightly. The more he licked, the harder he licked, the more he squeezed, making you grind your pussy on his face.

If he didn’t stop soon, you were going to cum.

He knew this. He could feel your legs get a little tighter around him.

“Not just yet, baby doll.” He pulled back. “On your knees,” he ordered. You got up, turned around, put your knees on the cushions and leaned over.

“Like this Daddy?”

“Just like that, baby girl. Very good.”

His hand lifted your skirt slowly, exposing all of you but you were still wearing it.

“What a sight,” he mused before a sudden smack came to your ass. It stung a bit but you could take it. “Was that too much, darling?” he wondered as he rubbed soothing circles on the spot.

“Nope.”

“Good.” He reeled his hand back and smacked you again, sending you forward a bit, your tits hitting the back cushions on the couch. You grinned wickedly to yourself. “God, I love seeing that ass shake.”

“It’s all for you, Daddy,” you assured, wiggling it.

He reached forward, grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled, making you lean up. The pain felt like pleasure though as a wave went through you.

“I know it is, baby girl,” he said darkly in your ear, his beard touching your neck. “It’s all mine.”

He let go of you and you leaned forward again. You heard him unzip his pants and you waited greedily in anticipation.

“Am I about to get a reward, Daddy?”

“You’ve been exceptionally good,” he said happily. “I’m happy to give you this cock, if it’s what you want.”

He slapped your ass check with a sudden thick, hot, fleshy item. You assumed it was his cock.

“I do want it, Daddy. Please!” you nearly begged.

“Such a greedy doll. That’s okay. I like knowing you want Daddy’s cock.” He got closer to you, positioning his dick between your legs and smacking up, hitting your clit. It made you yelp. He smiled at your back and ass in response. He loved how responsive you were to every little touch of his. He smacked you again on the clit with his head and you jumped. He finally started rubbing your clit with his head, going in and out, mocking the motion of actually fucking you and you thought you were about to lose your mind.

Finally, as if he heard your thoughts, he slowly pulled his cock up just outside your pussy, the head just barely putting pressure on it.

You couldn’t help but push back on it, but his hands were on your ass and he stopped you. He was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. You grunted in frustration.

“But Daddy!” you yelled out.

“Good baby girls wait,” he retorted. “Are you good?”

You wiggled your ass before trying to push back. “No, I’m a pretty bad girl,” you assured.

“Just for that clever comment…” he said, trailing off, letting his cock push into you. You were extremely wet from his tongue and your own juices, lube was beyond not necessary. Then he slid in quickly, feeling your pussy just coat his dick like no other. “God damn,” he nearly cried out. “You’re fucking tight!”

“I know,” you said happily, proud of your pussy.

“Such a mouthy dove.” He wasted no time pushing all the way into you.

While Tony was fairly long and thick. Bruce was a little shorter, but damn did he make up for it in girth. You’d never had anyone with a dick this fat. You felt like he was spreading your pussy the widest it’d ever gone. You nearly went limp just at that feeling alone.

Your hands were on the back of the couch, holding on to it, waiting for him to move after the adjusting period. But he barely waited. As soon as he bottomed out, he started moving. He wasn’t slow like Tony was. Tony loved to savor it. Bruce was a lot more aggressive.

He pulled out until just the tip was inside you, then rocked back inside you, quickly. He’d pull out far, then slam back in fast.

Tony took his time, he’d slowly move in and out. Tony would bottom out and move just a little bit. He’d pull out slowly.

Bruce was a fucking power house. He was slamming into you relentlessly, giving you everything you wanted and more. Every time he swelled back into you, you were reminded of how fucking wide his dick was and it made your legs ache. God damn his dick alone and his rapid movements were nearly enough to send you careening.

“How’s Daddy’s dick, baby girl? You like it?”

“I love it,” you nearly shouted. “It’s so fucking big. It’s the biggest I’ve had.”

“That’s so good to hear,” he said as he gripped your hips, slamming into you over and over again.

“Fuck, oh god, oh god, oh, fuck!” you screamed, the sensation over taking you. Every time he slammed back in, that little curve in his dick would hit that sensitive spot in your pussy. You were biting your bottom lip to keep from shouting.

He slowed down, finally taking a moment to simply move within you, getting you all the way on the hilt before wiggling his hips a bit, making you shudder in ecstasy. He pulled out slowly, then he was entirely out and you whined.

He smirked before he grabbed your hand, everything had been so dark, but he reached up and pulled your blindfold off.

He laid on the floor and coaxed you to sit on top of him. He took both of your hands in his as you straddled him. His dick stood straight in the air, just waiting for you to slide your wanting cunt down on it. You did so without hesitation, not wanting to not have him inside you any more. You lined the cock up, moving your hips carefully to do so, your fingers still intertwined with his and you sank down, spreading your legs far so you could take all of him in.

“Ooh,” you cried out. God did he feel fucking amazing nestled inside you.

“That’s it baby girl. Fuck, Daddy. Ride me as hard as you want,” he assured.

“Oh, Daddy, Thank you.” You leaned back on your hands, moving your pussy in a circular motion, reveling how it felt. Then you leaned forward, your clit pressing into his pubic area, giving you a bit of friction. You put your hands on the side of his head as you grinded on him, his dick moving in and out of you, stretching you each time. It kept hitting that special spot, making your toes curl.

That familiar heat began in your core as you stared into his eyes and continued to slam your pussy down on him before slowly starting to grind again. He reached up and took your tits in his hands, his fingers and thumbs expertly twisting your nipples just on the edge of pain.

“Ah,” you cried out, the feelings overwhelming you.

His thick cock moving inside you, the friction of his hair on your clit, your nipples, the way he was staring at you as if you were made just for him and his cock. You grinded two more times and suddenly the wave crashed over you. He pushed deep inside you, his hips coming up to keep you nestled firmly on his cock.

“That’s it, baby girl, cum for Daddy,” he said.

You cried out, the orgasm washing over and over you until you went limp above him. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before he started slamming up into you. Your core was still sensitive but you didn’t care. His dick still felt damn good.

“Who’s your daddy?” he asked as he held your hips in a tight grip, keeping you in place.

“You are,” you answered, peering down at him with lust.

“Say it again,” he ordered.

“You are!” you cried out, leaning back, letting his cock hit you in that spot again.

“Damn right,” he said before he suddenly cried out, loudly, his head going back. The sight of him in the throws of ecstasy sent another shocking orgasm through you. Your pussy gushed out fluids all around you, some yours and some Bruce’s warm cum that was still spurting inside you from his insanely hard dick.

The two of you laid on the floor for a second, catching your breath. After several minutes and after he got done tracing random patterns on your back, he gently coaxed you to the side of him. He got up, got both of you something to clean up with, and a pair of pajamas.

“I’m staying here?”

“And showering here. In thirty minutes, you’re mine again, Y/N. I’m not through with you. I intend to fuck you senseless tonight so you don’t even look at another man.”

You blushed and bit your lip.

He took a drink of water before handing you one.

“Also, your grades will be fine. I can give you two more homework assignments. Get those done in a few weeks and I’ll give you credit, baby girl.” He leaned down and kissed you.

He made good on his promise too. You two ordered pizza, ate, watched one episode of a random show and he was back at fucking you. Hell, he was fingering you the whole show, his eyes on the screen as if he wasn’t even doing anything to you, but your skirt was still on, your breasts were still out from the tattered shirt, and you still had no panties. He just slowly pumped his fingers in you, to keep you on the edge. As soon as the show ended, he carried you to the bed where he made you his all over again, slamming his cock inside you. He tied you to each bed post and choked you for the entire time he was fucking you missionary style.

He’d fuck for a bit, then jump down and suck on your clit a bit, then he’d hop up and fuck for a bit longer, then back down to sucking and licking your pussy. He did this over and over -- it drove you mad. You couldn’t do anything because you were bound.

But you loved it. He finally showed mercy, eating you out and fingering you until you gushed all around his gorgeous bearded face.

He let you rest, then got you two in the showered, where he ate you out again.

And that was the beginning of the affair with Dr. Bruce Banner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#smut #professor! tony #tony stark x ofc #teacher's pet #tony stark smut

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arthurflecksgirl · 5 years ago

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STOMPIN ON A DREAM *erotic Arthur Fleck short story *

Arthur Fleck and Reader

Involves: mental hospital, mental illness, sex

It was a quiet night in Arkham state hospital.

The only noise that was quietly floathing through the air was someone humming a song. Not loud, but still noticeable from the other side of the door. Doctor Finn didnt payed much attention to it. The patient with the case number 064823 did it since he came here 7 months ago. He always seemed to live in his own world. Most days it doesnt even seem to bother him that he is locked up in here. Thats how it seemed. But you knever know how it looks like on the inside of the patients heads. Especially when it came to Arthur Fleck.

He was very nice most of the time, not paying much attention to the other patients. Unless he wants to tell some jokes he just wrote down in his messy looking journal he carried with him everywhere he goes. Even to the bathroom. The doctors checked the diary daily, to make sure its fine for him to have it with him. All in all he was one of the most quiet patients, which doesnt mean that the doctors felt comfortable around him. He was still an unsolved mysterie to them. Even to himself. Always in his own world but still observing. Always daydreaming, talking to himself but still having the presence of someone who can change not only his but your own reality within a second. Some new doctor even left weeks ago because she was so drawn in by his presence, she was afraid to fall in love with him. Even though he never even talked to her or even noticed her. The intense look in his green eyes, the smirk on his face and the scar on his upper lip which made him look unpredictable and vulnerable at the same time was too much for her to handle. He was in his mid 30ies, his face slightly weathered but insanly attractive. You could hear him dancing through the hallways some nights, always playing a song in his head. His slim body moving graceful, light as a feather. Always an undefinable expression on his face. A very beautiful but somehow broken man with a traumatic childhood. And alone. Always alone.

Arthur was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling in his white room. White exept for the red , big, messy written letters at which he was staring at.

"I thought of quitting baby, but my heart just ain`t gonna buy it"

He was closing his eyes. The red letters were still there. Now with a black background.

"Quitting" stood out now. The letters started to vibrate in his head. He got nerveaus, so he tried to calm himself down by humming the words. "I thought of quitting baby..." his voice as soft as his hands. His lips shaking a bit while trying to concentrate "...but my heart just aint gonna buy it...." his hands checking his chest, if he still had a heartbeat "...and if I´d think it was worth one single try..." he felt his heart beating, so he must have been still alive. "I`d ride on a big bird and then i´d fly". He opened his eyes. The letters were still there on the ceiling. Bt they stopped moving. He wasnt sure if it was a good thing that his heart was still beating. So many times he wished for it to stop. Just to get rid of all the darkness around him. Of all the blood. Like the blood onthe ceiling which stared down at him. Judging him.

He tried to remember why he even came here. Why he spent the last months in this room. But nothing came to mind. He looked at his wrists and noticed some cigarette burns. Maybe he tried to hurt himself. Maybe thats why he got locked up. He checked his wrists for more. No scars. "Who knows" he whispered to himself as the door suddenly opened and Dr Finn came in.

"Good morning Mr. Fleck. Could you please starting to get ready? Today is your day, remember? You can go home."

Arthur kept staring at the ceiling "Maám?"

"Yes Mr. Fleck?"

"Why havent you cleaned the ceiling? The bloody letters made me nerveaus all night"

The young doctor with her long, black hair smiled "Thats no blood, Mr. Fleck. You took a lipstick and wrote it two days ago. We cleaned it so many times but you still keep writing it again"

"I see. Its...its my fave song, you know?"

"Mr. Fleck did you hear what I told you? You can now pack your stuff and go home. But no hurry, just take your time, okay?"

The door closed as Arthurs mind wandered again.

He closed his eyes.

"Hey Arthur, how is it going? Did you missed me?"

He saw you standing there on other side of the room.

"I think I did (YN) ... oh yes.. I did !"

"Good to hear, Arthur. I missed you, too. Its been so long."

He kept staring at the corner of the room. You were beautiful, smiling at him.

"I cant wait to touch you again, Artie. To kiss you"

Arthurs hand was still lying on his chest, now making its way down. He felt his ribs popping out. His skinny body looking starved. He wasnt eating like he should. All the meds stopped his appetite. His hands sliding over his hollow belly, further down and stopped between his legs.

He could hear your voice from across the room.

"Touch yourself for me, Arthur. I am watching you"

He nodded and grinned at you. Then focused on his own body again.

He was in his underwear only and stuck his left hand in it.

The letters on the wall now a lighter red. Lipstick. Obviously.

"You know this is my lipstick right there" he could hear you say.

"The same lipstick I kissed you with, remember?"

He softly started to play with his dick.

"I`m ...not sure (YN) "

He closed his eyes again. He thought it was the lipstick he owned by himself back from the days when he used to put clown make up on. He was a great party clown. With a huge painted on smile. But maybe that was just a story someone told him.

"Oh sure it is mine, Arthur. And I will kiss you again with it. Till you`re out of breath. I will smear the red all over your face"

"Yeah?" a smirk on the left side of his lips which lifted up his scar. Made him look even more attractive. His almost shoulder long, brown hair messy pressed against the pillow.

"Sure. And I wouldnt kiss you on your lips only."

Your voice echoed through his head.

"Where else?"

"Keep on touching youself, Arthur. Its my hand doing it."

"Its your hand (YN). Yeah I....I can feel it"

He softly squeezed and caressed the part between his slender legs, biting his lips.

He imagined you, lying on top of him, petting his sweaty curls. Calling him beautiful. It was your hand between his thighs as he felt waves of lust beginning to floath allthrough his body.

He now got rid of his underwear, his gentle hands around his dick which is getting harder as he imagines you rubbing yourself against his shaking body.

"Arthur, I can feel you all the way inside of me. Pull me closer. Please Arthur! Its could be never close enough!"

His hands up and down faster now.A silent moan coming from his thin lips.

He wanted to come closer. Entering your body, wearing you like a coat that keeps him warm in this cold, dark world.

He wanted to get closer to you, so he pushed himself into you. So gently but with an almost unbearable intensivity. Just like when he was dancing. His face expression somewhere between pain and bliss.

"Arthur. You`re everywhere"

So were you. Your voice was everywhere. It wasnt only whispering in his ear. It filled the room, echoed from the walls. Your voice was a vibration between his legs, telling him to love you till you can`t breathe anymore.

"Do you love me (YN) he whispered.

All he wanted was to be loved. To be touched. he was graving it all through his life.

All this lonelyness was laying heavy on him, like a straight jacket. Holding him back from dancing with the ones he loved.

"I love you more than anything." your voice came from the letters on the ceiling.

"You have so many different sides. And I love every single one of them"

He masturbated harder now, humming.

"I`ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate a poet"

Your moans echoing through his head.

"...a poet, a pawn and a king"

"No matter how many ups and downs you may have, Arthur. I will never leave your side. We are one! Can`t you feel it? We are one body, one mind"

""I`ve been up and down and over and out..."

His eyes twitching from excitement. He is breathing heavier now, his long, dark eyelashes fluttering like butterflies.

He can almost taste your tongue in his mouth. Feel your hands touching the sweaty curls in his neck.

His voice still whispering "I have waited so long for this".

He could feel the blood pulsing in his sensitive parts.

You were the girl of his dreams.

The one he thought about in his darkest hours.

All of his sexual fantasies he wrote in his journal were written about you.

His only light in a world of white walls and darkness.

He felt the weight of your body on his fragile pelvis.

Arthur pressed his head into the white pillows as he was about to cum.

He couldnt take it anymore.

"(YN) *moaning* Oh my god, this is just....fuck me. Please (YN). Love me!"

Red lettering blurring his vision.

He couldnt read what it says cuz the feeling of being able to cum this hard overwhelms him.

Black out.

Melodies.

So many melodies which don`t fit to each other.

So many colors blurring his mind.

Arthur presses his hands against his ears.

The sound won`t go away.

"(YN) ? "

No answer.

His hands are touching the sheets, so he could check if he was still lying in bed.

He was. Wet sheets.

His eyes wandered across the room.

He was alone.

Arthur touched his forehead to check if he had a fever dream.

He was unsure.

His greasy curls hanging in his tired eyes.

He felt a bit ashamed while he was putting his white underwear back on.

He crawled back under the sheets which he wished smelled like him but they didnt.

Another stare to the ceiling.

Red letters.

Lipstick. Blood maybe.

Someone was knocking at the door.

"Knock knock" he said as the door opened.

"Mr. Fleck, time to wake up. Maybe you will try to eat a bit more today?! You lost some weight again"

Arthur closed his eyes.

"You came earlier and told me I can go home now"

Dr. Finn picked up the diary from the floor.

Taking a close look through the new written pages.

"More song lyrics, huh Mr. Fleck? I am afraid you can`t go home. Its the first time I visited you today. Have you took your medication?"

"Mhhh hhmmm"

"Did you had some visions again, Mr Fleck?"

The melodies got more quitet now.

The walls looked bright and shiney.

Even the lettering on the ceiling was gone.

All cleaned up.

He put his finger upon his lips, looking in the doctors eyes. Humming. Silently. But you could still hear the words coming out of his mouth.

"..some people get their kicks, stompin on a dream"

Arthur smiled.

THE END

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthurfleck fanfiction #joker fanfiction #joeker #joker #shortstory #dc #writing #mental illness #arkham

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loxbbg · 5 years ago

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Hell Cant Be Heaven without You

Chapter 6

Masterlist

Hey guys so it’s been a while since I’ve updated any of my titles but I hope this holds y’all down till I’ve come up with more chapter content

Warning: this is a Tom Holland mixed with Bat fam And my friend pointed out to me how I flipped an endgame reference

Y/N POV

I flew further into the heavens faster than my wings have ever taken me. Everything was so calm, no tension in the air. Heaven never looked so beautiful - the mix of the red, black and white colours all together, all the demons and angels mixing together. The children with black and white wings. Some with hallows, some with horns, some with none, some with both. It was everything you could ever ask for. There was no more pain and no chaos unless it was called for.

"Love, the ceremony is going to start." Your soon to be husband, Tom, grabbed your hand. He kissed your black engagement ring.

"Euphoria looked beautiful from up here. Tom, I never stopped and looked at it." After the merger of Heaven and Hell, Tom and I renamed it. It was our home. Our kingdom.

"It really does, love. We can look at it for however long we want after our honeymoon."

"Aren't you not supposed to see me on our wedding day?"

"I don't believe in that mundane myth, love." He pulled me closer to his chest wrapping his arms around me.

"Well I do."

"Okay, love. I will see you down the aisle when you officially become my queen." He kissed my cheek slowly flying down to get ready for our wedding and coronation.

"I was always your queen Tommy."

"You know it, Darling." The ground around us started to shake. Everywhere around us was shaking, including the sky.

"Tom, Tom what's happening." He looked hurt. He wasn't telling me something.

"Tommy, tell me, please!" He came closer to me putting his chin on my head.

"We're dying Y/N."

"W-what?"

"We're dying, love, it's the prophecy; a royal angel and the king of Hell will be mated together; if pulled apart, they will die. We aren't together physically and it's killing us."

"Then how are you here? Am I dreaming?"

"I thought that too, but I think maybe it's our souls trying to be together one last time."

"I don't want to die, Tommy."

"I don't either, Y/N."

"Stay with me...till we go." My voice cracked as my tears spilled onto his shirt, as the world around us shook violently, everything falling apart.

"Always."

No POV

Both families rushed to prepare the sick love birds. Alfred had dressed Y/N in a simple white dress. Her wings were down to its last row of feathers, her bones displayed right under them.

Harrison put Tom in a black shirt and a pair of jeans. He looked as if he was already dead, his bones prominent, his face pale. He was not a king, but a corpse.

Both were taken to their respective portals, each meeting in the living room of where they found the lovers first.

"What do we do now?" Bruce asked. "They're here." He's never seen anyone look so dead. Let alone his own daughter.

"It looks like it's too late," Jason said, taking a step towards them. Nikki held her hand out, keeping him from coming any closer.

"You have to back away from them. The power that might be released if we are too late can wipe out the earth. We need to bind them. Draw a circle of heavenly fire and Hell's light and put candles around it."

Sam, Tom's younger brother, came along to help. He grabbed a piece of chalk from the woman's hand and drew half a circle. He then began drawing the symbols. he grabbed the other chalk, connecting the two. When the symbols were finished, the floor beneath the pair slightly glowed. Everyone took a far step back.

Tom and Y/N did nothing as the circle glowed more intensely. Then suddenly, it stopped glowing. The room was silent. Dick and Jason fell to their knees

"Y/N." They muttered.

Harry and Harrison were consoling Nikki.

"It was supposed to work!" Bruce yells out at the crying mother. "It was supposed to work."

His voice quivered as he slowly slid down the wall behind him. The remaining boys comforted the others.

They lost.

Tags:

@dutchiewhotriestowrite

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littlemisskookie · 5 years ago

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Loveless: Chapter 3

Loveless: Index Ship: Reader | OT7 Description: Spy/Men in Black!AU | You worked at an institution that dealt with aliens- aliens that were the fictional creatures we were told were from fairy tales. The job entailed love only for it, and nothing else. That’d all change when a mission goes wrong. Warnings: Future Smut, Comedy, Torture, Lots of Manipulation, I promise the next chapter will be farrrr more light-hearted, Angst, general guilt it’s pretty intense Word Count: 5,003

You opened your eyes, adjusting ever so slowly to the blinding white of the walls and lights. You blink, slowly processing the machinery around you, busybodies in scrubs or suits. Beside you sat Jungkook, dark circles beneath his eyes, seeming more corpse than human. As soon as he sees your waking form, he sits up abruptly, as though the 5-hour energy drink was finally beginning to kick in.

You felt sore, as though every muscle, even those you didn't even know you had, was aching. You groan, sitting up slowly, noting the fact you were in a hospital bed, an IV attached to your arm. Ah, were you sick? Injured? You felt a bit tired and drained along with the sore ache of your body. You also felt very hungry. But for what you weren't sure.

"What's up, Agent Z? Mind filling me-"

Your sentence is cut off abruptly as you he tangles his long fingers in your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you forward to bring your lips against his. Your eyes widen at that, taken off guard by what was happening.

Since when did Jungkook like you?

He presses his lips firmly against yours, as though trying to make sure you were real. His eyes are screwed shut, almost as if he were trying to embed this moment into his memory. If you weren't trying to figure out exactly what was going on, you would've seen it as more endearing.

He lets go, breath heavy as he shakes, almost collapsing into your arms. He wraps himself around you like ivy, using you for support despite how much bigger and stronger he was in comparison. It takes you a moment to comprehend the fact that he's shaking.

"Jungkook?" You decide to use his real name now, too perplexed to think first about his code name. What was going on? You had never seen the younger boy so shaken, so broken. It was just everything an agent was supposed to keep hidden.

"I'm sorry, I just- I thought you were dead, and you were all hurt because of me, and I'm so so so sorry," he sobs. You feel some of his tears on your skin, but you console him nevertheless, hugging him tightly. "You got hurt because of me. It was all my fault. I should've done better, I should've done anything else. You tried to stop me, you tried to warn me, but I was so stupid that I let my overconfidence get the better of me."

"Agent Z, give her a minute to at least gather herself, will you? I'm sure you can kiss her to your heart's content when she's at least out of bed."

You hear somebody else grumble beneath their breath. "No doubt she's got morning's breath, anyway."

You look up to see Jin walking forward beside Yoongi, both shocked, despite how they were trying to compose themselves. You had a feeling it wasn't because of the kiss, either. They weren't as good at hiding feelings as you were, however.

"I'm glad you're ok, Agent Q," Yoongi says gruffly, aloof as always. You could sense the sincerity in his voice, however, and it warms you to the pit of your core.

"Oh? Is the infamous Agent D admitting he cares about me?" You wag your brows up and down to tease him.

"Never mind, I change my mind."

"How do you feel? How much do you remember?" Jin questions, sitting at the foot of the bed.

You slowly piece together what had happened, blurry fragments coming to mind. "We were meeting the new species, trying to ally ourselves with them..."

"And their leader attacked you. Bite into your jugular and ripped it out," Yoongi finishes. "You were dead before you hit the ground, no doubt about it."

"How am I still alive then?" you question, eyes wide, hands flying to your neck. It felt completely fine.

"That's what we're trying to find out," Jin says, hands ghosting along your neck to examine it. "You've got a bit of scarring where the bite mark was. But of white but nothing that you can feel. I'm going to leave for a bit and bring the others, ok? Stay here. Not like you have much of a choice." He chuckles a little at that before departing.

"How'd the paramedics even fix me or revive me?" There was one power no one was able to have, as it was the way of life. No one could bring anyone back to the living from the realm of the dead. Any misconceptions were brought upon by hopeful humans and no one else. If what they said was true, how on Earth were you still alive? "I should really thank them."

"That's the thing- they didn't do anything. You began healing on your own," Jungkook explained. "Flesh and skin just began to grow where it was before. We have no clue what happened. You were about to be brought to the morgue and we were setting up a funeral. Instead, you began breathing again, and all the... emptiness began to be filled. We couldn't believe it."

"They wanted to wait for you to wake up before they began to question you," Jin confirms. "This one here's been waiting beside you every day for the past week. Refused to leave your side. Of course, we all took shifts to look over you, but the kid decided sleep wasn't a necessity."

You give Jungkook a soft look, stroking his cheek fondly. "You didn't have to do that, Kook."

His eyes water up again with tears. "I did, though. It's my fault that you were injured. That you were killed. If I weren't so stupid-"

"Shh, don't say that. Ok? I'm alright, see?" You stretch your neck for emphasis, tilting it from side to side. "Next mission we'll just be more careful, don't worry. Live and learn."

"Next mission? You're going to have bed rest, no way we're letting you out yet. We don't even know what really happened to you or your body," Yoongi reminds you.

"I'm not going to just sit here while you guys are out-"

"Actually all seven of us have refused to begin any missions until you woke up. Part of the whole staying next to you and keeping watch." Jungkook looks a bit nervous, pink dust covering his cheeks.

You give him a warm look, pulling him into your arms once again. "I really appreciate you staying by my side, Jungkook, coma or not. It was kind of you to do."

Yoongi coughed, interrupting the moment. "You know the rest of us looked over you as well."

You quirked your brow at him, a cocky smile pulling at your lips. "Oh? Do you want a hug too, Agent Dick?"

Yoongi scoffed, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. "You wish."

You laugh at that, outright and easy. "Tsundere as always."

Jin arrives, the other four boys traveling behind him.

Hoseok seems to be in a state of shock, frozen. It was as though he were paralyzed at the very sight of you. "Oh my god, you're actually awake."

You smile back at him, beaming. "You doing alright there, Agent A? You look scared of me."

He shakes his head, walking forward. "No, no of course not. I just can't believe it, you know? I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead. I'm just... I'm really happy you're ok."

"It's definitely assuring, for sure," Namjoon says, pulling your hair over your shoulder. "May I?"

"Go ahead," you say, twisting it around and tilting your head back. You try not to shudder at the feeling of his fingers against your neck, tracing the scars.

"And all this time I had been trying to convince myself it was just a bad dream," he whispers softly to himself, disbelief lacing his words.

"I can't be more ecstatic!" Jimin says, hugging you tightly and giving you a kiss on the head, holding you close as though trying to imprint the feeling of you in his arms into his brain, like a new tattoo that would never fade away. "It's a dream come true!"

You smile, hugging him tightly too, despite how it hurt your aching body. "I missed you too, Agent P."

You look over to Taehyung, confused as to why he hadn't greeted you yet. He catches your eye, and with a shaky hand reaches forward, as though to touch you, make sure you were alive and well. His hand shakes, however, and he pulls it back.

"Agent V? What's wrong?" You give him a worried look, wondering if everything was alright.

"Nothing. I'm very happy, it's just..." He trails off. "I need to go to the restroom."

"Oh, alright." You don't bother to cover your expression of disappointment, watching as he walked out of the ER room. You look to the boys, all of them wearing the same look as they tried to avoid your eye. "What happened?"

"Agent V is doing worst off, admittedly," Jimin tells you. "When you died, he took it the hardest. He had a panic attack, and ever since he's been a bit like a ghost. I don't blame him. It's confusing going through the stages of grief, and in the middle of it what you're grieving over changes? He's scared he's going to break you or hurt you, and by extension, him."

Your face crumples at that. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I want him to know that he shouldn't be scared of that. I can handle myself."

"Of course he knows. He's just worried, that's all. It really shook him up. All of us," Namjoon explains. "It was traumatic."

You chuckle, shrugging it off as you try to joke. "The traumatizing part is when I tried to heal, I bet. You thought you finally got rid of me."

"Y/N, this is no joking matter," Yoongi tells you seriously.

"Yeah, we were all pretty shaken up over it. We might be coping better than Agent V, but we weren't handling it hot ourselves," Hoseok assures you. "If you had seen what it was like after you died... the moment right after... It was like our world came crashing down. For all of us."

"It was the worst pain any of us could've felt. And that's saying a lot for agents like us," Jungkook tells you.

"Oh." Your face softens at that. "Why are you so shaken up by my death, though? We've seen agents die. We've seen friends die. We've gone through traumatizing experiences, all of us. I would've figured this would just be another day."

"You don't get it, do you?" Jin says, sighing.

"Don't get what?"

Jimin chuckles, ruffling your hair fondly. "For such a smart agent, you sure can be dense sometimes."

"Just explain to me already, then."

"Don't you see? You're... we..." For once Namjoon seems to be at a loss of words, unable to even finish the sentence. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, mouth dry.

"We care about you and we aren't complete psychopaths," Yoongi finished. "Simple as that. We know you better than we knew the others who died, it's only natural you're the one we're going to be affected by."

"Oh, alright." You felt too tired to pry, but sensed something was up. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, though, still a bit disoriented.

"I'm going to check on Agent V," Jungkook says. "He's been gone for a while. He just needs to compose himself."

The boys watch as he leaves, and Jin turns to you with a questioning look. "Why'd the kid kiss you anyway?

"Wait, Jungkook kissed Y/N?" Jimin questioned, eyes wide.

"Yeah, walked in and he was shoving his tongue down her throat. It was the moment she woke up, too." Jin laughed a bit at that.

"Alright, he didn't shove his tongue down my throat or anything. I think he was just happy to see me, alive and all." Besides, Jimin, you've done more than just kiss me. You shouldn't be so shocked."

"We were all happy to see you. Even if some of us have a harder time of expressing that," Hoseok bluntly says.

You soak in his words and wear a sorrowful face. "I'm really sorry about Taehyung. I know there's not much I can do but... I don't know. I feel bad."

"You just need to assure him you'll be ok. For the first time, we really saw the mortality of you and how fragile human life is. None of us had really taken much consideration in losing you. We'd figure you'd last long when we were all in perhaps our thirties and experienced. We didn't think it'd be in front of us in one of the most vicious ways possible. So... young. We knew you could take care of yourself, but another part of it was the fact that we couldn't protect you. We all felt... useless. And I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we would've traded places with you in a heartbeat," Namjoon explains.

"Don't say stuff like that," you tell him. "I'll talk to Taehyung. I don't know how much I can do, but I do what him to be able to look me in the eye and heal. I'm sure he's expecting me to drop dead in front of him any moment."

"Just give the kid time. You've always meant a lot to him. Losing you was a reality of his worst fear. Healing doesn't happen in just a day, and getting over a death takes a while, whether the person ends up alright or not."

For a moment you think back to your family, who you faked your death to. Would they feel that way if you suddenly showed up at their front door? Would they react the same way Taehyung did? Did they grieve your death? Did they get over it? Would they see a walking corpse before them?

"Ah, gentlemen, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave Agent Q with me a bit. I'm the head doctor at this institution, and it'd be best if I examine the patient alone. Even with her lovers here."

You turn to look at the woman, a doctor who matched the cold, distant, and cleanly atmosphere of the ER. The boys didn't comment further, instead shuffling out to join Taehyung and Jungkook.

You smiled up at the woman, smoothing over your bedsheets as you stood up a bit straighter. "So, when will I be able to leave and get back to kicking butt, doc?"

She didn't seem humored by your enthusiasm, instead looking through her clipboard, flipping over papers.

"Never, I'm afraid."

Your expression turned blank with disbelief. "I'm sorry- what?"

"Never," she repeats, looking up at you. "Please look at this, Agent Q."

She hands you the clipboard, the page turned to a picture. In it were red blood cells, though some of them looked... different. Tiny patches of the universe in the shape of the blood cells, as though a virus had infected some of them. You began to look throguh the other pages. It detailed your own background, as well as other papers that detailed all known information about the species that had attacked you and your group. The other papers described the healing process, as well as day by day photographs of your healing neck. You winced seeing your corpse, the bloody and gruesome death tangible past the ink.

"What is this?"

"It appears that you've been injected with the Anancite's DNA, and it's becoming intermingled with your own. It explains why you were able to heal so quickly and be brought to the death practically, and this sort of thing we can't simply have running around the country, disarming bombs in South Africa or flying aircrafts."

"What else am I supposed to do? I'm an agent! I'm supposed to be on the field with my fellow men defending my country! I'm supposed to be out there creating harmony for humans and aliens alike! I can't just sit here in a bed and let some goddamn DNA get in the way of that. I earned my position just like anyone else, and the only way I'm leaving it would be through death."

The woman sighed as though both agitated and expecting your answer. She seemed prepared to counter it, however. "You signed up to protect your planet, no? Well, sometimes it isn't always chit chat or karate with aliens. A lot goes behind the scenes. Who do you think makes your weapons? Your jets? Your goddamn suits. Who do you think takes care of all of you and gathers enough intel for you to carry out your missions? There's a lot more that can be accomplished besides running off to the middle of nowhere. One of those things is through data and research and science."

You open your mouth to argue, but she holds up a finger, indicating she wasn't done.

"I don't think you realize just how special all of this is. Never before have we seen this species, and never before have we had half human half alien. Try as some might, the most we could get would be full alien spawn from incubi and succubi, and full vampires from the vampires who infect humans. However, yours seems to be mingling enough where you still have human characteristics. We don't know what else will be brought to you by the alien DNA, but looking at how fast you healed, I think it's a safe bet to assume there's more. Now, tell me, are you really going to let this pristine opportunity of doing something no one else has accomplished, to discover something that's never been done, all for your own selfish qualms of running around with your boy toys?"

You're quiet at that. She continues.

"As a woman, I would assume you'd want more for us. Contributing to science, a field so many men occupy. Finally, we have something for ourselves. Think about how many will look up to you for your noble sacrifice. How much knowledge this will bring the world. And all because of a woman. You'd be doing the world a great justice. You said you'd give your life to serve this planet, and you won't even have to do that. You said you'd do anything for this planet though and now is your chance to prove it. I ask you, Y/N, as two women who are trying to make our mark on the world, are you really going to give up all of this opportunity, for not only yourself but for billions all over the world?"

"No," you confirm. She had brought up many great points. Were you really going to be so selfish when you had signed up offering much more? You put your life on the table. You should've suspected at some point they were going to take it. Still, you didn't expect it to be so... soon.

She gives a victorious smile taking the clipboard back from you. "I knew we could trust in you, Agent Q. Your name will be remembered for generations to come."

She turns to a tray of tools, rolling a small bottle between her fingertips before plunging the needle inside, filling it all the way. She held it up, some of the liquid spilling from the tip, which was long and intimidating. She reached inside your mouth, her rubber covered thumb pressing down on your tongue as she forced your mouth open.

"Now, say 'ah'."

You lost time of how long it was since they started doing experiments on you.

Most of the time you were kept in a solitary room, bound to a hospital bed as though you were in an asylum. They claimed it was for the doctor's safety and your own. After all, they didn't know what you were capable of. Truth be told you suspected that it was because you were slowly becoming the creature that attacked you.

You had to face the facts. You were no longer human to them.

The experiments were closer to torture in your opinion. Every day they would draw blood. Every day they would poke and prod you. Every day they would push you to your limits pain wise and psychologically wise, trying to see how far they could go before they got an unnatural reaction. Sometimes things would happen, little or big, and they'd get excited, talking amongst themselves and repeating the process a dozen time more before they figured out another way of bringing you misery.

It wasn't long until you broke, crying and sobbing for them to let you go. You'd thrash about, demanding they'd let you go, lest they wished for each torture session they indulged in to be brought upon them times three. They'd never listen, however, looking at you as you pathetically pulled at your bindings, only sedating you when you began to hurt yourself, letting the leather burn or cut into your skin.

You wanted this, they said.

You asked for this, they said.

You agreed to this, they said.

No matter how much you begged for it to stop, they insisted that ever since you agreed to the process, you were no more than agency property now. You had been reduced to nothing more than furniture, or a pet.

You belong to the agency now.

You can't hurt yourself. That's destruction of EAA property.

Property. Property. Property.

After a while, you began to believe it.

And by god, you were tired. No matter how much they fed you or gave you, you felt completely drained. Your face had sunken in, dark circles beneath your eyes no matter how much sleep you got. You actually looked like a walking corpse now, and it wasn't pretty. You were becoming no more than a skeleton, withering away before their very eyes, becoming a skeleton with skin. They were trying to fix it, though. Couldn't have their favorite guinea pig die on them.

You wondered to yourself how you let it get to this. You were one of the most esteemed and respected agents in the field, at the top of the world, and you crashed to the bottom as nothing more than a lab pet. You hadn't seen any of your friends since you got locked away. Did they think you abandoned them? Did they miss you?

You felt abandoned. The worst moments were after all the experiments, when you were just left alone in the dark, bound and unable to move. You were alone with just your thoughts.

You got a lot of thinking done during that time, not all of it pleasant.

You thought a bit about the boys, and all the fun adventures they were going on without you.

You thought about the new Agent Q they inevitably got to replace you. Was it a boy or a girl? Did the boys like them better than you? Were they glad you were gone? Despite how frazzled they had seemed after your death, your mind wandered to dark places with your isolation.

You thought a bit about your family. You wanted to apologize to your mother for leaving her. You thought about your little sister. She'd be a grown up by now. How much you had missed in her life. You missed her getting her license, her graduation, her getting into college. You wondered how many birthday parties, love interests, and more you had missed.

If you knew things would've gone like this, you would've never left.

But you couldn't repeat the past. You couldn't rewind that clock and change what would happen.

You were glad for one thing, though. That it was you that got bitten rather than Jungkook or one of the boys, as originally intended. It was better for you to be here enduring this fate, rather than any of your friends. If one of them had to go through this, you didn't think you'd be able to handle it. You'd go mad on your own.

You deserve this.

It's your fault.

No one will even notice you're gone.

You squeeze your hands into fists, tugging against your bindings.

Fuck the paramedics.

Fuck the aliens.

Fuck everybody.

You hear a rattling above you, and strain to listen in. Finally, you hear it.

"Agent Q?"

"Yes?"

"It's me, Hoseok. Where've you been? What're you doing here?"

Figures he couldn't see in the dark. You had no doubt he was in the ventilation system, but none of it entered your room. He wouldn't be able to get in that way, but the most he could do was hear you.

"Oh, y' know, getting experimented on. Apparently, I'm part alien which has never happened before. Who knew, right?" It felt good to finally talk to a friend. Even if you couldn't see him, you knew that listening to his voice would be enough to get you through at least a few more days of torture. It felt good to quip again. "Other than that, pretty standard. How's your day been?"

"Wait- did she say she was getting experimented on?"

"Ah, Agent P, is that you?"

"Agent Q, what's going on? What're they doing to you down there."

You chuckle, leaning back into your bed. "Better me than you, Jimin. Better me than you."

"Are you alright at least?"

"Never been better!" The sarcasm drips out of your voice like honey, slow and sweet.

"Is this why you've been gone so long? Have they taken you away from us because..."

It was hard for Hoseok to wrap his head around this, evidently. You didn't blame him in the slightest.

"Well apparently I was injected with some of that alien's DNA, and now it's spreading throughout me to the point I'm half alien. I've got some superpowers or whatever, which I'd say is neat if I were able to use them. But hey, beggars can't be choosers, am I right?"

"Jesus Christ- are they ever going to let you out?"

Your face sours, and you can hear the worry in his voice. "No."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I'm afraid that for once I'm completely serious. Apparently, this is a 'divine opportunity' for our planet that can't be compared. If I were to leave it'd be a disaster. A stolen opportunity to get information and research and data- I'm the first of my kind."

"This... This is inhumane!" Jimin sputters, guffawing.

"Well, I'm reminded often I'm officially property of the EAA. I wouldn't say they still see me as human."

There's a moment of silence between all three of us.

you take a deep breath, as much as it pains you to say the following. "Guys, I know what you're thinking. It's going to be harder than you think it is because they also know what you're thinking. I don't advise it, it'll cause more trouble than it's worth. And... And as much as I hate to admit it, it might not be safe for me to even be around you. I can do things now that I was never able to do before. I can't even control it because they just keep me bound and locked away. The last thing I'd want is to hurt you in the process."

"To hell with that!" Hoseok spits. "I don't care if you're part alien or full alien or whatever! This is wrong and we're getting you out of there no matter what, you hear me?"

"Agent A...."

"Don't 'Agent A' me. This is non-negotiable. "

"It's a bad idea. You'd have to be on the run for the rest of your life. There'd be nowhere to hide. They'd find us and they'd kill us. I'll just be brought back here at square one."

"Agent A is right, though. We can't just leave you here," Jimin protests.

"Guys, it's alright, really. I... I agreed to this."

"You... agreed to this?"

"Not necessarily the torture part but... yeah. I agreed to this."

"Why?"

"Is it important? The point is what's done is done. They probably wouldn't have given me a choice anyway. It'd be best to leave me here. It'd cause way more trouble to try and rescue me and I've sealed myself to this fate. Better me than you, as I said."

"No, it's not. You don't deserve this, Agent Q. Any of this. We're getting you out of here," Hoseok insisted.

"No. Please, don't that's not what I want. Maybe just... Just talk to me once in a while, like this, y' know? It helps. It gets so negative, being here... all alone with my own thoughts. The paramedics don't exactly help. But I feel a bit more like myself when I'm with you guys, even just listening to your voice. I think I can get through this if you guys just talk to me once in a while. I hate to admit it but... it's lonely. I'm so tired now... So drained, I guess? I feel like I'm slowly withering away so my last moments, and I don't think I'll last long. They don't even know what's wrong with me. So please... I don't want to ask for too much or impose, but just talk to me a bit in these last moments, ok? It's ok to say no, but I'd appreciate it. I feel a little bit stronger, more human, with you guys. Makes me feel like I can last at least another day in this hell hole."

There's a moment of silence.

"We'll talk to the others about it," Jimin promises.

You close your eyes, nodding despite the fact they can't even see you. "That's all you can do, I suppose."

"We'll be back, though. We promise," Hoseok assures you. You can hear a bit of rustling above you, and before you knew it they were gone.

No one came to talk to you again.

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