#maybe i just like how he looks in leather

[neontiger]

breakfast downtown

♡ MDNI 18+

♡ Jason Todd x fem!reader

♡ Bad week at work? Don't worry, princess. You can take your frustrations out on Jay. He's a big boy, he can handle it. Maybe. Smut served with a side of angst.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A scream bubbles in your gut as glass crashes to the floor into a million pieces. Maybe the stars were out of alignment, or mercury was in retrograde, or some other bullshit – something to explain the absolute mess of a week you’d had. Maybe you’d done something wrong, pissed somebody off, and they’d put a curse on you.

That guy on Tuesday, the one in your section at table three, the one who’d flirted with you relentlessly and then called you a bitch when you turned him down. Maybe he’d fucked up your week. It certainly had thrown you off-balance enough that by Friday night you were demanding Saturday off because you couldn’t take it anymore. Thankfully you had sick days saved up.

The elevator is still out of order, and you have to make the hike up three flights of stairs. A normal week that would be fine, but tonight each step sounds like echoes of bullshit. You wonder if Jason will be waiting or if he’s already gone for the night.

That pisses you off too. He’s always running away. You’ve never spent an entire night together – no, that would be asking too much of somebody who thinks of themself as some sort of savior of a city that could not give less of a shit about him. He’s like a goddamn cat, coming and going as he pleases, with a set of morals to match. What are you to him? Is your apartment some sort of fucking safe house?

What the fuck is he planning with you? Is he even planning anything, or is he just here to get his dick sucked?

You forget to remind yourself to rein it in before you shove open the door to your apartment. The first thing you see is Jason’s mask on your kitchen counter next to a sink full of dishes. Your bag drops to the floor with a loud thud.

Jason gets up from the couch. He’s half in his uniform; the leather jacket is thrown over the back of the couch along with the multitude of holsters. He walks up like nothing in the world is wrong and leans in to kiss you.

You turn your head. His lips land on the corner of your mouth. He grips your chin in gloved hands and turns you back to him to steal the kiss you don’t want to give.

“Stop.” You shove his hand down.

“What’s wrong?” Judging blue-green eyes look you up and down underneath a furrowed brow and a curl of white. You roll your eyes and push past him, not bothering to be pleasant when your shoulder meets his arm.

He doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t reach out. Just stands there, staring at you as you head to the wardrobe by your bed and rip out clothes to wear.

He takes a few steps and stops by the kitchen counter. There’s no space to hide in the studio apartment except the bathroom, so you gather your clothes to take them in there to change. He blocks your path. “What’s wrong?” He asks, again. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.” You could cut skin with the sharpness in your tone. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Here, I think,” he says. “If you don’t want to talk –”

“I don’t,” you snap. “I’m tired and I want to go to bed, so can you get out of the way and go do your stupid – whatever it is you fucking do, Jason!”

That’s not how you meant for it to come out, but you don’t come to that realization until too late – by then his eyes are narrowed with hurt and his fists are clenched at his sides, his mouth closed tightly, his feet taking a step back for you to move past. You don’t, not right away, frozen with the fear in your gut that you just fucked up something.

Jason lifts his hand, gestures for you to walk. It hurts your entire body to take that step.

You watch from the bathroom door as he clips on his holsters. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He nods, pulls on his jacket. “Okay.”

Okay is a brick to the head. You watch him put on the mask, and the Jason you know disappears. The Red Hood looks at you for a moment before leaving through the fire escape. You fucked up.

─── ⋆⋅❤︎⋅⋆ ───

Sleep doesn’t come until the sun does. You spent the night waiting for Jason to return, but he never does, and you fall asleep with tear-stained cheeks and tired eyes just as the morning light is peeking through your window. Hours later, after nightmares that have nothing to do with him, you wake up to the smell of coffee wafting through your apartment, and the sounds of the street below – cars honking, people talking and laughing. Music plays from somewhere and knocks on your skull, furthering the birth of a headache.

“Good morning,” Jason says dully.

You sit up halfway and frown at him in the armchair by the window. He’s out of uniform, now in a black tank top and a pair of black sweats. You want to admire his arms and chest, the muscles and the scars that mark him, tell his story…but you can’t, not now. There’s a new injury, still red and raw, on the knuckles of his right hand.

There’s also a tray of food on your nightstand, where the coffee you smelled in your sleep sits next to a plate of french toast and a bowl of berries sprinkled with sugar. You glance at it.

Jason frowns. “Or, good afternoon. Sleep bad?”

You sit up more, pulling your knees in. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m really – I didn’t mean it, Jay. I’m really sorry.”

He nods. “I think you meant it.”

You bite your tongue, but it does nothing to stop the tears that bubble at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head, and open your mouth to say no, you didn’t, that you were just angry at everything in that moment, but he speaks first.

“It’s okay.” Jason runs a finger absentmindedly over his injured knuckles as his gaze remains on you. “I figure it’s not easy. I didn’t think we’d get this far, honestly. I thought you’d be tired of me.”

“I’m not,” you rush out with a choke.

He nods again. You’re beginning to hate that, but you say nothing, instead squeezing the fabric of your blanket to hold back your fears. “Are you sure? It’s okay if you are. We can…” His voice trails off and his gaze drops away from you to the floor. “Stop here, if you want. It might be better for you.”

“No.” You sound like a toy with a broken squeaker. You swallow, clear your throat, fight the tremble in your body to repeat the words, firmer and more sure. “No. I don’t want to stop here.”

Jason’s eyes jump back up to meet yours. “Are you sure?”

“Very. I'm sorry,” you say, more confident now as his gaze softens. “I didn't mean it, Jay, really. I've just…it's been a shitty week. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

“Oh.” Surprise flashed over his face. “Next time just tell me. I can help you…with your frustrations.”

The breakfast he brought sits at the back of your mind. You don't think that's what he meant, not with the way his mouth curls around his final words. “Where'd you get breakfast?” You ask.

“That place downtown. Remember the one on the water we went to last month?”

“You went all the way downtown to get me breakfast?” A soft laugh escapes your lips, something you didn't think possible moments ago. Then it hits you. “Did you think I was mad at you?”

Jason stands up suddenly and stops by the bed, towering over you and blotting out the sun with his broad frame. The weight of the morning seems to lift from your shoulders at the delicious sight of him, and you can finally take him in as he deserves, dragging your eyes down from the scar on his cheek to his body, muscle rippling under tanned skin. The autopsy scar cuts across his chest and dips under the dark fabric of his fitted tank. You stop short of the waistband of his sweats and wrench your eyes back up. The ache between your thighs demands otherwise, however.

“I guess I should make it up to you. Last night.” You run your fingers lightly down his arm, tracing over a vein that runs down his forearm, until you reach his hand. You take it in yours and press your lips just above his knuckles. ‘What would you like?”

Jason smirks. “I was thinking the opposite. Gonna take care of you, get your mind off whatever's pissing you off.”

You blink up at him. “What? No. I was…I was mean. I should –”

His large hand keeps you in place as it grips your cheeks and his mouth crashes on yours, silencing any protest you might have had left. Spit connects your lips as he breaks from you. “Lay down,” he orders, breath hot on your skin.

You throw yourself back onto the pillows. Jason grins, a dark look in his eyes, one you've come to know well. You've wondered before if it's the same look he gets when he's on the streets at night, but you hope not.

“Uh-uh, princess. On your stomach.”

You roll onto your belly without second thought, sticking your ass in the air for him. Your attire is far from sexy, an oversized shirt (Jason's) and a pair of pajama bottoms that hang off your hips, but he quickly remedies that problem by tugging off your shirt before pulling down your pants, leaving you in nothing but gray cotton panties. He snaps the band once before slipping them down your ass and legs.

If he was being honest, he'd admit this was his favorite view, you ass up, face down, pussy already slick with arousal. Yeah, he likes all versions of you, but this one hits him differently, twisting his stomach into anxious knots and rushing all blood to his cock. He strains against his sweats, has to fight the urge to stuff you full of him this very second.

Jason swallows. “Keep that ass up,” he instructs, lifting off his own shirt now. You bite your bottom lip, savoring the reveal of his upper body. He places a knee on the edge of the bed and moves out of view, positioning himself behind you.

“You want to tell me…” His breath brushes over your slit, hot and cold at the same time. “What happened? Why are you so upset?” He blows gently on your clit, sending a shock through your body. You push back in an attempt to connect with his mouth but he pulls away.

“It’s stupid…it’s not – ah…” Cheek pressed into the pillow, your gasp is still audible enough to motivate his tongue, causing it to dart out from his lips to flick your clit again. His hands keep you in place with a solid grasp on the back of your thighs, preventing you from trying once more to quicken his pace.

Another lick, this one longer, slicking up through your folds. Your eyelids flutter, mouth suspended in a moan against the flower-patterned pillowcase. In an effort to keep still, you squeeze the life out of the pillow as your core burns with impatience.

This time Jason’s tongue presses inside, deep enough you feel the tip of his nose against your slit. One hand lets go of your thigh so he can press the pad of his thumb to your clit, making small, teasing circles. His tongue retreats and you nearly cry. “If it’s stupid, then why take it out on me?”

The question ruins the work he’s doing. Your cheeks flush red, guilt bubbling in your stomach. “I shouldn’t have,” you say. “The week – rough mm –”

His tongue shoves back inside your heat as he works his thumb with more sincerity, clearly seeking to see you undone. Your body trembles in his grip and the fight to keep still and not shove your whole cunt in his face starts to feel impossible. His hand brushes up your thigh to cup your ass, lifting you higher for him. “Make you feel better,” he whispers, the words vibrating against your pussy. “You want that? Kiss away your problems.”

You mumble against the pillow. “Uh-huh…I want…”

Jason runs a finger through your folds, teasing the entrance with the thick digit, and lowers his lips to capture your swollen clit in them. “Mm. What do you want, princess?”

“Jay.” At the moment you want to kick him, make him stop teasing with his fingers threatening to sink inside your heat but never making the connection, his lips brushing your clit, every word a jolt that doesn’t complete. You whine, squirming in his grip. He tightens his hold on you in response and pulls his mouth away from your cunt completely…to bite you on the fat of your ass.

You cry out, jerk your head around to glare at him. “What the fuck, Jason?”

Jason smirks, kissing the same spot. Heat emanates from the mark left behind by his teeth, a pulsating type of warmth that echoes in your core. It felt…good, maybe. But you don't want him to know.

“What do you want?” He repeats the question with his lips pressing your ass again, teeth scraping the skin like a threat.

He always does this – wants you to say it. Exposed as you are, arousal dripping down your thighs in his face, you still find it difficult to get the words out. Clothes on, maybe you've got an attitude – last night proved that completely – but like this, under him? You whine into the pillow. All that does is get him to sink his teeth into your soft flesh again, this time the back of your thigh. Your walls clench desperately around nothing.

“Want you to fuck me,” you mumble, whiny and feeling hot.

The tip of his finger presses inside your slit. You inhale, forget to exhale, as he takes his time sinking into you. “Like this?” He drags his finger almost out. You tighten around the digit instinctively, refusing to let go even though it's not exactly what you're looking for. This ache cries for something bigger, deeper.

Jason adds a second finger and scissors them in your cunt, stretching you out. His other fingers pinch your clit lightly. “So wet,” he whispers, almost too low for you to hear. “For me. All this…huh…”

You try to glance back, realizing he is talking to himself. He mumbles against your cunt words you can't make out, and fuck if it doesn't stoke the fire in your belly, the way his lips wrap your clit with intent, fingers fucking into you slowly, coiling you tight. He moans as he sucks. You watch him through clouded eyes, his free hand palming the front of his sweats, his cock in desperate need of some friction.

“Jay, please,” you whisper. Why is your voice breaking? “Fuck me now. I’m sorry.”

He pulls his fingers free, leaving you empty, and runs both hands up your thighs to your lower back as he gets up on his knees. The touch continues up your spine and guides you to flatten on the bed with your thighs pressed together, your skin soaked. He leans to whisper in your ear. “I know. It’s okay.” He sighs, and presses his lips to your neck. “You scared me. I’ve never…” He laughs softly, shifting above you as he pushes down his sweatpants. The bed shifts but he keeps you in place, sits on the back of your thighs, and kisses your cheek. “Never been scared like that.”

You twist to look up at him but can barely turn halfway with his weight holding you down. “I won’t do it again. Promise,” you say.

Jason says nothing. There’s no smile on his lips, but a tender look in his eyes remains locked on your face. He swallows. “I…” His mouth hangs open, a thought just on the tip of his tongue that doesn’t complete. Lips move, but nothing comes out.

“What?” You run your fingers up his arm, his hands on either side of you the only piece you can comfortably reach.

He exhales shakily. “I…uh, you’re beautiful.” He wets his lips before leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Gorgeous. Can’t wait to make you a fucking mess.”

You roll your eyes. Jason straightens up and places a hand on your lower back as the other grips his cock. The tip nudges your entrance, and you arch and lift as best you can to urge him on. He fills you achingly slow, spreading you open and stealing your breath until he bottoms out. His hips sit flush against your ass as he gathers your hair in one fist, tugging it gently out of the way for him to press his lips to the sensitive skin of your neck.

His teeth sink in – this time there isn’t an ounce of protest in your cry and your walls clench around him as he leaves his mark. His hips pull back and snap forward roughly, slamming the head of his cock into your cervix. You grab onto his hand where it fists the mattress for stability as he repeats the move. He flattens his hand and laces his fingers through yours.

The bed creaks underneath you, the headboard smacking the wall almost as loud as the sound of skin meeting skin and the squelch of your needy cunt. Jason fucks a quick rhythm, hardly pulling out enough and never leaving you empty, like he can't stand the feeling of being apart from you right now. Neither can you, your walls clenching around his cock every slight draw backwards, slick coating his length. You squirm, make small circles with your hips that pull groans deep from his throat.

“Fuck yes,” Jason pants, pulling on your hair and lifting your head from the pillow. He watches where his cock is sucked into your greedy hole, mesmerized with how well you take him, how you can't keep still because you need him that bad. “That's good, baby…don't stop. That's a good girl…” He leans forward for another taste, biting into your shoulder as his pace shortens, thrusts becoming animalistic and hard.

Your lungs constrict, hardly able to suck down air from his weight on you, and moving becomes impossible. He jerks on your hair to expose your neck further to him and give his teeth purchase on your throat. Your hand almost breaks from his – would have, if he doesn't tighten his hand around yours the moment he feels you try to pull away. His cock grinds against your cervix with overwhelming pressure. You squeeze your eyes shut, crying out with pleasure. Another sink of his teeth in your neck has your legs trembling as the orgasm rocks your body, release dripping from your swollen cunt to soak your thighs and the sheets.

Jason grunts close to your ear. “Close, baby – fuck.” Lips press your cheek. His breath burns your already feverish skin. His words are strained, caught between heavy breaths. “Where…do you want – ahh – want me? Tell me, baby.”

“Inside,” you choke out. The single word is a spell that undoes him. His body shudders under climax, cock desperate to press as deep inside you as possible as he comes. Inside your core it's hot, close to burning, as you clench around his twitching length. You can feel it, his release coating your walls, overflowing to drip down and mix with your fluids on the bed.

Jason rests his head on the pillow next to yours. Your hands, palms sweaty, remain tangled together, but you make no effort to pull them apart now. Instead you let your eyes close as you relish in the full feeling of him still inside you. Gradually his cock softens but stays snug, and you could almost fall asleep like this…if it wasn't for the need to breathe.

Jason, on the other hand, seems to have gotten too comfortable. He snores softly next to your ear, and you almost feel guilty jostling him awake. “Jay. Jay, can't breathe.”

He groans as he lifts himself, cock slipping free at last with a soft plop that reddens your cheeks. You startle as you feel his fingers brush your sore slit. He mumbles to himself.

“Stop,” you say, shivering. Not that you don't want it, but…you feel too exposed like this, knowing he's devouring you with his eyes, taking in the mess he's made.

Jason leans to kiss your cheek. “Sorry. Let me get you cleaned up.”

“No.” It comes out so fast, surprising both of you. You turn onto your back, self-conscious of the dripping down your ass when you do. “It's fine. I'll take a shower later. Just lay down for now.”

The bed shifts as he collapses next to you, pulling you into his arms. You nuzzle his chest and find his heart beat, still fast, not yet come down completely. His fingers make lazy circles on your arm. You want to sleep, but any thought of it seems to have faded, and all you can think about now is staying in this moment.

“Do you work tonight?” Jason asks.

“No.” You match his circles with traces of your own, going over the scars on his chest with light fingertips. “I took a sick day. Go back in Tuesday.”

He inhales deep and sighs, rolling you with the motion. “I won't go out tonight,” he says. “There's nothing…important. I'll stay here, if that's okay with you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that's alright.” You prop your chin on his chest to look up at his face. His smile is soft, dreamlike. “Where do you live anyway?”

Jason shrugs a shoulder. “I've got a couple places.”

“Oh, really? Is one of them, like, an abandoned warehouse? A cardboard box under a bridge?”

He laughs. “You think I'm homeless?”

You hadn't really thought about it before, but the signs are there. “You always shower here. Your clothes are here, your toothbrush, and I've never seen your place…you just appear out of nowhere. I mean, shoe fits.”

“I like it better here,” he says.

“Then why not stay?”

He shrugs again, but this time it's almost sheepish the way he glances away, like he can't look at you. “Stay,” you say, before he can object, find some excuse. “I mean it. Move in with me. You pretty much live here anyway.”

Jason reaches to the tray on the nightstand and picks up the cup. He takes a sip and frowns before replacing it on the tray. “Coffee's cold. Let me up so I can make a new pot.” He starts to sit up, pulling his arm away and letting you fall softly to the pillow.

You stare at his scarred back as he tugs on his sweats again. “Jason, we're talking.”

He shakes his head. “Later. I have to think about it.”

Maybe an hour ago he was upset because you hadn't talked to him, hadn't told him what was wrong. He'd been scared. And now you can only stare at him in the kitchen, scooping coffee grounds into a thrift store coffee maker. You don't reach out. You don't know what you're supposed to say.

You say nothing. A scream bubbles in your gut but goes nowhere.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes

Note: It's hump day, my dudes.

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You don’t see Bucky at all the next day. His motorcycle is gone when you leave for work and when you come back. You assume he has his own work to do, or some running around. He did just move in. You try not to take it personally but you are disappointed. 

This is a lot more fun than all those other times. You’re not as stressed, not as insecure. Maybe it’s because you’re not hoping for more. Because you took a page out of Angelique’s book and stopped caring. One way or another, you’re going to get rid of your v-card. It doesn’t have to be special, it just has to happen. 

On your day off, you decide to get rid of the prickly weeds around the front porch. It's the perfect opportunity for you to show off your shortest shorts and blast some tunes while you’re at it. You put on your rose gold headphone and the best of girly pop. 

You smell coffee but don’t see your neighbour. You don’t want to be too obvious. You get down on your knees and pull-on the dollar store gardening gloves. You’re not good at any of this but these damn plants keep scratching your ankles. 

Before long, your alternative motives drift away as you wrestle with roots. You yank free a particularly stubborn weed and send up a cloud of dandelion fluff. You sneeze into the back of the glove. A shadow passes over you and a gentle tap lands on your shoulder. 

You squeak and drop the leaves. You pull off your headphones and twist to look up at Bucky. Your shoulder tingles where he touched. It’s hard to think someone like him can be so soft. 

“I’m headed into town...” he crosses his arms, the cleft in his chin deepening as he mulls his words, “you said you wanted to test out the motorcycle...” 

“Oh really!” You exclaim as you look up at him. You focus on his face, even as you’re innately aware of how close your are to something else. “Oh, Bucky, that’s so awesome. I’ve been so excited for this.” You gather up the compost bag and he offers his hand. He hauls you up to your feet and reluctantly let go. “I’ve been so patient.” 

He hums, “you can’t wear those. You’ll get burned.” 

He looks down at your shorts. You giggle. You pull off your gloves and clutch them together. “I’ll get changed. I have the perfect pants!” 

He just nods. 

“I’ll wait,” he assures and points over his shoulder. 

You grin and spin to rush away, headphones bouncing around your neck. You dump the gloves and bag on the porch and clatter through the door. You stop to wipe the dirt off your knees and strip off your shorts before you get to the bedroom. 

You search out the fake leather leggings with all the fake zippers. The sun won’t be kind but you don’t mind. You slip into them and find a strappy red top with a bandana style cut at the hem. The bejeweled letters across the front read ‘sinful’. It’s cheesy but you love it. 

You find a pair of sunglasses with thick black cat eyes and trade your sandals for leather booties. You hook your purse across your body as you come out with a jangle of your keys. You zip those away with your phone as you come down the stair. 

Your chest jiggles with each step as your upper tummy peeks out beneath the fabric. Bucky looks over and arches a brow. You approach as he takes a helmet from the handlebar. 

“Found a spare,” he offers. 

You take it and thank him. His eyes skitter between you and the bike. You giggle and tap your heels in excitement. You're genuinely amped up for this. 

“It’s so cool!” You say, “oh, will you take a picture of me with the bike?” 

He squints and his cheek dimples. He shrugs, “sure.” 

“Amazing,” you unzip the small crossbody pouch, “here.” 

You unlock your phone, your background a picture of you, Angelique, and another friend, Tracy, your backscreen. You bring up the camera and hand it over. 

“Oh, can I get on or?” You face the motorcycle. 

“Sure, be careful.” 

You put the helmet on and let the straps hang loose. First you pose in front of it and cock your hip. He aims the lens, your flowery blue and purple case looks dainty in his large tattooed hands. Then you cautiously approach. He comes closer and puts his hand under your elbow to help you onto the backseat. You notice the backrest that wasn’t there before and the shining new chrome bolts that hold it on. 

You straddle it as he backs up. You stick your tongue out for another picture. Then you smile and give a peace sign. 

He lowers the phone and nears, offering it to you. You snag his forearm, “and a selfie? Together.” 

He twitches. “I don’t much like pictures.” 

“Just a memory. Promise, I won’t show anyone.” 

He growls and shows his palms, “what... what do you want me to do.” 

“Here, turn,” you direct him, “put your arm around me and get in frame.” 

You flip the camera and extend your arms. He moves stiffly and hovers his arm over your shoulders. He smells like oaky cologne. You smile as he growls at his own reflection in the phone. You lean into him and watch his features calm then snap the photo. 

“So cute,” you exclaim. “That’s my new wallpaper.” You tap on the three dots and quickly replace the pic of you and your girls, “see.” 

“Huh?” He stands straight. 

“Everyone’s going to think I’m so badass. I mean, I’m not, but they’ll think I am,” you chime. “Oh, uh,” the straps tickle your neck as you put your phone away, “Bucky, I’m so dumb. Can you help?” 

You pinch the straps and flick your lashes at him. He exhales again. You stare at the front of his plain black tee. It clings to his muscles and squeezes his thick biceps. He takes the straps and loops one through the metal ring. His fingertips brush your throat and chin. 

He slowly tugs it snug and his hands freeze. He stares at them and his gaze slowly crawls up to your lips. The air turns stolid around you. He winces and puts his hand on the helmet, wiggling it to test it. 

“Good to go,” he drags his hand off and turns his back to you.  

He grabs the other helmet and pulls it on over his hair. He slides on his sunglasses before he straddles the bike in front of you. He grips the handlebars and takes it off the stand, kicking it back as he easily supports the heavy beast of a bike. His strength is felt in the shifting axel. 

“Gotta hang on unless you want road burn,” he says over his shoulder. “Gonna be loud.” 

“I can handle it,” you assure him as you lean in and wrap your arms around his middle.  

You feel his stomach clench. He turns the key then brings his hand back to turn the throttle, making the bike roar. He walks it back and angles it down the street. He gets it rolling then puts his feet up, zipping off through a tunnel of wind. 

You let out a gleeful holler. The rush is unlike anything you felt. Your heart is pumping and your veins are on fire. You hug him tighter and laugh raucously. 

He stops at a sign and plants his boots, “you okay?” He calls over his shoulder. 

“I’m perfect. I’m-- I’m in heaven!” You answer and wiggle in the seat. 

He takes off again. You squeal and cling to him. You watch the smear of the buildings, trees, and pavement. You feel like you’re flying. Not to mention, you’re vibrating. You feel your leggings getting wet. This is more than fun, it’s fucking hot. 

At last, he stops and quiets the beast. You look around the plaza as he kicks down the stand. He waits and signals you off first with the tilt of his head. You get off and he follows. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “Boring stuff.” 

You look over at the organic shop sign. You laugh, “are you buying gluten free granola?” 

“Something like that,” he almost smiles. Almost. 

“Hang onto that,” he taps the helmet. 

You unloop the straps and hang it from your elbow, “yes--” you have to stop yourself from saying daddy. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or serious at this point. “Sir.” 

He eyes you then scoffs, “alright, then, doll, let’s go.” 

His cheek ticks and he looks away. He turns his back to you quickly and beckons you with his hands. You follow. 

“Doll,” you say. 

“Sorry--” he begins. 

“I like it. It’s cute! Like a Barbie, right?” 

He sniffs and opens the door of the shop, “sure, something like that.” 

Or a sex doll? You think to yourself. You nearly dance through the door. This is an amazing day. 

He enters behind you. You radiate to the rack of plant-based candies. They are all so colourful. He sidles along to the bin of trail mix. He takes a paper bag and dumps a scoop inside. 

“They have any with M&Ms?” You shuffle up next to him. He grunts. “Kidding.” 

“Good food,” he mutters. “Nice place.” 

“I’ve never been before,” you say. “You’re not vegan? That pie I made had real meat?” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “nah, just... try to appreciate the small things, these days.” 

“Right. Well, it’s a really cool place—oh, cookies!” 

You brush by him and snag up a box of the vanilla glazed shortbread. They look delicious. You turn to him and grin as you show him. 

“Small things, right?” You bounce back toward him. 

He stares at you a moment, “yeah.” He nods and folds over the top of the paper bag. “There’s... there’s a bar around the corner.” 

“Oh, a bar?” You chirp. “How about I buy you a round? For the ride?” 

“Mm, I was just gonna run over and deal with... talk to a friend.” He browses as he speaks. “Thought you could wait with the motorcycle.” 

“Oh,” you deflate, “whatever you like.” 

“Or... you can sit for a drink. Won’t be long,” he shrugs. 

“Bucky, I’m all yours. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

He coughs and grabs a loaf of ten grain. 

“One drink,” he grits out. 

👙

You buy your cookies and Bucky his small haul of groceries. He fits it all in his saddle bags as you watch. He comes around and points you around the other side of the plaza. He walks beside you. As you think about how you must look together, you get all fluttery. 

You’re tempted to grab his hand but you don’t want to spoil all your progress. After all, he invited you. And now he’s taking you for a drink. Sort of. 

He holds the door at the bar for you, greeting the bouncer with familiarity. You look around the dim space. It’s just after noon, there’s not too many people there. He points you to a table. 

“What do you drink?” He asks. 

“Do you think they have appletinis?” You ask. He blinks. You laugh at him. “Joking, I’ll have a light beer. Any brand.” 

“Right, doll, coming right up.” 

You sit and watch him go. He talks to the bar tender and points to the table. Then he walks up around the curve of the bar and into the backroom. You narrow your eyes curiously. Huh. 

The bartender pulls a tap and pours the pint. He brings it to you. “Miss.” He retreats as if he’s afraid of you. Before you can even thank him. 

You pull the tall glass close as condensation hazes along the outside. You taste the thin layer of foam. It’s a bit tangy. You peer around listlessly. This isn’t very exciting. 

This isn’t the typical sports bar. There's a pool table and a dartboard but no TVs for the games. There’s leather jackets and skull emblems and a few disarmed guns on wooden plaques. 

There’s a thunk from the back of the bar then the slam of a door. You peer over as Bucky emerges and stops at the bar. Without a word, the bartender pours him a dark glass of liquor. He grabs it and marches over to you. He sits and sighs. 

“Had to hit the restroom,” he says. 

“No worries,” you make yourself drink the beer. Wheaty. 

“You make up your mind?” He asks. 

“Hmm,” you wipe foam from your lip. 

“About the motorcycle. Still want one?” 

“I definitely want one!” You grin. He brushes his fingertips over his knuckles. They’re reddened. Is one of them split? Were they like that before? 

“It’s an investment. Those new ones are... well, if you’re looking for a vintage model, I know some people. I could do any bodywork you need,” he offers. 

“Really? Oh, Bucky, you’re so sweet!” You chime. 

His mouth slants, curving at one corner. He takes a swig of his drink. 

“Not really, doll,” he rests his chin in his hand. “But for you, I’ll try.” 

[0bticeo]

mark grayson | boyfriend material

summary:

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

tags: mlw, aged up a little (early 20's), idiots to lovers, pwp, mark is adorable, pining, sexual tension, making out, fingering, edging, marking, biting, loss of virginity, use of the pull out method (wrap it before you tap it), mark is down bad and so is reader, no y/n, lowercase intended.

there’s a ringing in your ear. nagging, persistent, strident little thing. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue, and your shoulders ache, skin too warm under the tight leather of your catsuit. 

movement to your right. invincible, landing next to you, his hand steady on your shoulder. you lean back against him, panting, just the time for the taste of blood in your mouth to recede, for you to breathe-

a commotion.

your head tilts in its direction, your weary gaze hidden by your domino mask. journalists. it’s almost funny, how they swarm scenes of wreckage, flies drawn to a burning carcass. ruins stretch around you. the wounded are under the GDA’s care. you wonder what the fuck cecil was thinking, sending a team as uncoordinated as the new guardians of the globe on the field. you barely work for him, and neither does invincible, yet- 

here you are, stumbling down a pile of rubble, invincible’s grip steadying you.

“you okay?” he breathes. 

you know he can hear the erratic drum of your heartbeat. smell the blood dripping down your split lip.

“i’m fine. really.”

a flash. a journalist. tall, sharply dressed in a black tailored suit, with a cute pencil skirt, long red hair falling graciously on the long slope of her neck. striking green eyes. the embodiment of the office siren, coming straight at you to sing her pretty song and coax the filthiest gossip out of you.

you share a look with invincible and watch as his lips curl into an exasperated smile.

and so it begins. lights, camera, action!

“my age?”

you frown a little, titling your head to the side. besides you, mark - invincible - snickers. you can almost hear the words. like a cute little puppy. insulting. you’re more of a cat person.

you grin, two fingers tapping your chin. 

“that’s classified.”

the journalist in front of you - twenty something, almost made your jaw drop and did cause you to get slammed into a nearby wall by the lizard league, because wow - groans, green eyes rolling playfully.

“come on, shadow,” she grins, extending her mic a little more. she’s close enough for you to grip her arm and disarm- relax. civilian. “you can’t leave us hanging! we barely know you!”

that’s the point. the voice in your head sounds oddly like cecil. done with this shit, done with life, done with this conversation. but the GDA can and will be up your ass if you unleash a PR disaster, so you humour her.

“and i don’t even have your name, hun’.”

a little blush creeps up her cheeks. your smile widens a little, sharp in all ways it shouldn’t. besides you, invincible rolls his eyes, exasperatedly fond.

“meg.”

“ooh, pretty name. right, ask me anything.”

she seizes you up. you, clad in a catsuit so dark it looks like it’s absorbing the very daylight. you, hip cocked to the side, gloved fingers tapping at your hip bone. the way the lapels of your coat brush the bloodied ground, dripping red. invincible at your side, lazily leaning on your shoulder. you, swatting at him with a tired grin because blood on leather is a pain to clean up. 

meg pulls out her phone. you lean forward a little, intrigued, and catch a glimpse of what appears to be a list of questions.

“are you aware you have a fanbase?”

you exchange a glance with invincible. you may not see the soft melted brown of his eyes, but you know there’s a little spark of mischief beneath his mask. 

“oh?”

“yeah, you guys are as popular as teen team, if not more. how do you feel about them? any gossip you want to share?”

a pointed look. between rex’s… explosive relationship with eve and… well, his other relationship… relationships? with dupli-kate, you’d be stuck here for a while. you settle for a lesser evil. gotta throw a bone or two to the press. makes for nice trivia for fan books. 

“robot recently discovered that he has a fondness for junk food.”

“yep, he’s been pretty unsettled by it.”

meg stares at you with a pointed look. no juicy drama. both of you refuse to play the game. infuriating but understandable. she checks her watch, grimaces.

“shit, gotta wrap this up. ugh, if i had it my way, the two of you would answer the web’s most searched questions.” her gaze snaps back to you, green eyes rooting you in place. “the two of you work incredibly well together. what’s a usual mission like?”

it’s a relatively innocent question. you describe it, invincible occasionally chiming in, still leaning on your shoulder, hovering a little above the ground for comfort. (a flash. you staring up at mark after a mission as he pulls off his mask, feet a few inches off the ground. flying just… feels natural, y’know?)

usually, you get to the scene, assess the situation, neutralise the villain of the day and rescue those caught in the crossfire. get in, punch some people, get out. try not to have a heart attack when you watch invincible getting the shit beaten out of him by aliens/wizards/mafiosi/clones/dragons. cradle his face after a mission while scolding him because that was reckless, you idiot.

meg hums, perfectly manicured finger scrolling down on her screen, on the lookout for the next juicy question. her lips split in a slow grin.

“no… longer missions? undercover missions?”

oh, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. there’s a little curl to her lips, the sweet professional smile bordering on something more cutting. invincible laughs. you feel the vibration of it seep under your skin, percolating straight to your heart. you think you’re getting a little warmer, the summer sun high above you.

you think invincible’s blinding you with how wide he’s smiling.

“we’re superheroes. not spies.”

she hums, steps closer, fingers lightly trailing over the fabric of your coat.

“people have noticed this little number.”

“oh, yeah, it’s fairly new.”

meg looks up from her phone and smirks.

“we have a question from inviciboyfan25: is it boyfriend material?”

undeterred, you lean a little closer, until all the camera can see is the sharp edge of your smile.

“too heavy for that. the real deal? boxers and oversized tee. unparalleled.”

**

a smack at the back of your head. you let out a little yelp, your phone landing flat on your chin, cradling the sore spot with a pout.

“what was that for?”

mark glares at you, holding up his phone. on it, images of your encounter with that cute journalist three hours ago. he’s got a bandaid on his cheek, another one on his nose, both of them pink with hello kitty patterns.

he’s frowning. you gaze up to the small crease between his eyebrows and wonder how to smooth it away. you boop his nose instead, giggling when his frown deepens. he swats your hand. 

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

he groans, leaning back on his pillow. his fingers close on the sleeve of your (his) shirt, the one with seance dog proudly taking off, all heroic blues and reds. 

“but why?”

you grin up at him, scooting a little closer.

“because it’s comfy. and smells like you.”

you’re delighted when you watch the blush blossom on his cheeks, all soft pink awkwardness. he averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the video on his phone. you shrug and grab a nearby comic - seance dog, again, because markus sebastian grayson totally isn’t seance dog’s biggest fan. nope. doesn’t have every collectible on earth. 

you’ve juuust started to get invested in the plot, something about a meteor shower the loyal hero must stop to protect billions from dying, when mark groans again, his hand leaving the sleeve of your t-shirt to cover his eyes.

“dramatic much?”

a muffled groan. you cup your ear, the back of your hand brushing his thigh, the corded muscle of it tensing by a fraction under your skin. 

“sorry, what was that?”

“people are dogs. just… look at the comments!”

you lean back further into him, craning your neck.

“if you’re not planning on reading some out loud, at least lower your damn phone before i break my neck.”

he complies with a grumble, arms framing your head as he holds up his phone for you to see the comments. your eyes widen upon seeing the amount of views under the video.

“one million? you’ve got to be kidding me.”

you scroll down the comment section, the heat of mark seeping into you, your index near his thumb. progressively, your eyebrows raise. something like giddiness takes hold of your heart. people are dogs. you see it all, from people commenting on how sick that coat is, to complaints about property damage, to-

“no way. ‘i just know they be fucking nasty?!’ ”

“that’s one of the tamest ones. someone wrote a literal fanfiction in there.”

you look up at him, neck craned back. mark swears he’s never seen a sight as endearing as this one. you, snuggled up against him, drowning in his favourite shirt, so close he’s freely running his fingers over your shoulder, thumb occasionally creeping up your trapezius.

“you are not shaming fanfiction on my watch, grayson.”

“it’s about us!”

you poke his thigh. he twitches uncomfortably.

“like you haven’t read at least one.”

he flicks your forehead. you squeal, grinning wide.

“you can’t prove anything.”

a pointed look.

“fine. yes, i have. it’s… i don’t know. weird.”

you turn around, flipping on your belly, palms cradling your cheek as you look up at him. his breath hitches in his throat. you’re playing with the hem of his shirt absently, nails lightly scratching the navy fabric, the back of your fingers a light pressure on his adonis belt. you narrow your eyes, and he’s able to make out each individual lashes fanning your cheeks. 

there, in the quiet light of melting sunset, molten golds and pinks frame the edges of your face. he wants to cradle your cheek. he wants to trace the slope of your nose like you do his, down to your split lip, still swollen from that bastard king lizard punching you in the face. he wants-

“you do know invincible shadow is a thing, right?”

he blinks back to reality.

“uh? like a ship name?”

you nod, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt. despite the cool air breezing in past his open window, heat creeps up his neck. his fingers flex in the sheets, nails digging in the cotton threads - egyptian cotton, because dad knows a guy who owes him a favour or two and you don’t say no to omni-man anyway. 

“yeah. a ship name. super popular too. crazy, right?”

right. right. like you’re totally not molding your body to his. he can feel you, down to the bone, pressing against him, skin impossibly soft, lightly smelling of his own laundry detergent, something barely there because viltrumite senses are sharp. he feels the pounding of your heart in his throat, the way your lips part, tongue darting out to wet them. 

“yeah,” he mumbles, voice a little choked. “crazy.”

and fuck, where’s his bravado? fighting alongside you as invincible, when all you can see of each other are smiling, grinning, bloodied mouths, blood drip dripping down chins, is easy.

he thinks you might as well be a part of him, with how the two of you move around each other like you know what the other thinks. he has your six, you have his. his fists back you up at the slightest inconvenience, your shadows ripple whenever someone gets so much as an inch closer to him. 

it’s easy. when he snatches you by the waist after a mission, pressing you close enough to inhale the marrow of you without burying his nose in your hair - doesn’t need to. viltrumite senses are sharp, y’know.

when he zooms insides the drive thru and orders your favourite - that one greasy cheeseburger with french fries. when you remind him for the nth time that, first of all, there’s no way these qualify as fries. this is mcdonald's, for christ’s sake. second, fries are belgian, and- and that’s no reason to steal your fries, dammit!

it’s easy, being with you. when you’re sitting together, shoulder to shoulder on the edge of a skyscraper, your head lolling on his shoulder because you get sleepy once the adrenaline dies down. 

it’s easy. he thinks he’s going to die of a heart attack, with how fast it’s beating. here lies markus sebastian grayson, killed because his best friend is too beautiful for this world and sent him into damn cardiac arrest.

the day melts away. you don’t talk anymore, just bask in each other’s presence, his hand in your hair, your cheek a little beside his knee. his thumb brushes a fading bruise on your cheek bone and he winces in sympathy.

your fingertips run over his knuckles, finding them bruised and torn. you want to press your lips to them. you want to cradle him against you and never let go, because hero work may suck, and his civilian friends may not understand what he goes through every day, getting bloody and beaten and worn down down down, but you’re here.

“so they ship us, huh?” mark mumbles.

“mm.”

“crazy.”

you snort.

“i already said that, dummy.”

he flicks your forehead.

“m’not dumb.”

“are too!”

“that is not true.”

“please, you’re like. the embodiment of the jock stereotype. the kind jock, of course.”

he rolls his eyes, ruffling your hair, ignoring your soft cry of protest because it’s hair day, nooo don’t mess it up!

“i’ll have you know, i have more than decent grades.”

“they’ve been slipping ever since you started out as invincible, though.”

“ouch.”

you chuckle.

“you do have the physique though.”

“yeah, whateve- ow!”

he looks down at you incredulously. did you just… bite his thigh?

your teeth press against the corded muscle, bone over tender skin, a hint of warmth from your breath, and he thinks he’s dying. everything is too hot. too fucking hot, nevermind that it’s the middle of autumn and the air is getting colder and colder. 

shit. he sees the imprint of you in his skin. his hips shift uncomfortably. your tongue laps at the bitemark, soothingly. it’s almost tender, the softness of your tongue against him, scorchingly intimate.

your eyes meet his. time stops. he’s only aware of the metronome beat of his heart and your own - fuck, he can hear your heart, the way the blood rushes south. he lets out a shuddering sigh, and almost moans when he smells it. your arousal. 

something snaps. 

you’re kissing up his thigh, lips a lover’s breeze over his skin, the dips and curves of his muscles. you feel him gasp more than you hear it, when you put your mouth to him through his briefs, pressing soft little kisses to his bulge.

his fingers cup the back of your neck, weave through your hair, a gentle pressure, desperately trying to keep his strength under control. he could crush you like he did with komodo dragon, brain matter staining his fingers, drip drip dripping down to the ground. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t, yet you can feel him strain against the weight of his desire, tensing beneath you, breath shallow and wanting. you nip at his thigh again, a gentle press of tender teeth. he shivers, legs parting for you.

you nuzzle against him, feel the sheer heat of him against your cheek, like the warmth of a blazing sun. you want to melt into him until you don’t know where you start and where he ends.

“w-wait,” he groans. 

heat pools between your legs, and it’s hot, and - and his hand cups your face and he pulls you in until finally, he’s kissing you. it’s soft. a brush of his lips against yours, until you’re melting against him, arching into him because his hand - broad and calloused and heavy - is cupping your breast.

he pulls you close before you can react, lips brushing yours again and again until you’re not sure you can breathe without him. your nose brushes his. your eyes open and you meet his, dark pools of molten desire. 

“hey, you.”

“hey.”

he grins, something a little soft, a little shy. you inch closer and bite back a soft whimper when the motion has your core grinding down against his hardening cock. it strikes you, then. the thin edge you’re walking. he’s your friend. you can still back away. pull away, mumble something about your mama calling you - and it’s quite the walk, so you should go home-

fuck it.

you trace the shape of his abs, nails digging in his skin, and he arches into you, hips bucking up, desperate for friction. you’re dizzy. dizzy with him, with the way his hands encircle your hips, with the way his fingers dig into you, grinding you down on him with barely controlled strength.

“mark-” you gasp.

it’s not enough. doesn’t matter, there’s too much fabric between you, you’re not close enough, you need him in you, you need him to make himself at home between your ribs and burrow himself there, bloody and viscous and yours. 

he cups your cheek, thumb brushing against the plush of your lower lip, gaze impossibly soft.

“have you ever… ?”

you flush a little.

“n-no.”

he pecks your nose, your forehead, your eyelids.

“s’okay. lemme make you feel good…”

he pins you down, fingers slipping under your shirt until he pulls it off you, discards it in the corner of his room. he runs his fingers up your side, brushing against your bruised ribs, lips ghosting the contusion, knees bracketing your hips. you shiver, lips parting in a soft sigh of his name. he grins down at you, a little soft, a little feral, a white flash of too-sharp teeth.

“so, so pretty…” he mumbles, mouthing at your neck, teeth dragging up, up, up, until-

until you let out the softest whimper. he grins against your skin, nipping at your neck, his breath burning brands on that soft spot under your ear. his hands roam your body, trailing lower and lower, dipping past the waistband of your boxers.

“so wet,” he moans, and he sounds as wrecked as he’s making you feel.

his touch is tentative, you can feel the trembling of his fingers as they brush against you, lightly dipping between your folds, almost.. almost petting you. your hips grind against his hand, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist to get him to please, please more-

he tuts, pinning your arm to the side.

“no, no, no, lemme- just relax, i need- please, i want to make you feel good-”

you bring up your other arm willingly for him to keep pressed against his pillow, fingers flexing against your wrist in an unbreakable grip. your thighs part for him and you desperately try not to moan, because- fuck, because his dad may be home, you think, and what if you’re too loud, what if-

he curls his fingers - so pretty and slender and long - and you keen, back arching off the bed. he laughs at that, something breathless and teasing, claiming your lips for himself again and again and again, swallowing your moans. his tongue coaxes your lips open and he lets out a low growl as he finally gets to taste you. 

you think he made you come. you’re not sure. you’re panting. there’s a ringing in your ear. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue - he bit you - there’s a ringing in your ear, and everything is too much- 

mark worries his lip between his teeth, tugging down your boxers, fumbling a little, eager, so very eager to taste you, to make you feel as good as you do him.

you’re squirming in his grip, you realise, distantly, as you try to press closer to him, breasts brushing tantalizingly against the fabric of his shirt and-

“what’s wrong? 

“i need- please let me touch you, mark.”

he blinks, a little owlishly. 

“you- yeah, yeah okay-”

he lets go of your wrists and your hands slip under his shirt, nails raking down his chest, a thumb teasing his nipple and he groans, panting hot against your neck. his hips rut against yours, mindlessly, each thrusts having you biting your lips because the friction is just too much and- and he’s cupping your breasts, mouthing at them.

“ah!”

“too much?”

your breath catches in your throat. he’s looking up at you, chin resting on your chest, a lazy smirk on his lips, one long finger lazily trailing around your nipple, thumb flicking at it. and fuck, the way he looks at you, eyes dark and wanting, like you’re the most precious thing in the universe…

“fuck me.”

he raises an eyebrow.

“are you su- mn...”

you pull him to you, hands cupping his cheeks, kissing him like he’s the very air you breathe. the earth rotates around the sun. the sky appears blue to the human eye. you’re in love with mark grayson.

he knows, you think. with the way you whisper soft praises against his ear, with the way your fingers thread through the baby hairs on his nape. he knows.

he takes it slow. leans back on his heels, taking off his shirt. the moon is kind to him, silver light hiding in the dips of his collarbones, draping the sharpness of his chest, his abs, rippling down his arms, to the edge of the veins curling around his inner wrist.

you trace the shape of him, your touch reverent. he guides you, leading your hand from his chest, from the strong beat of his heart, to his adonis belt. you think you’re dying with how dizzy you feel, your thighs desperately pressed together for some friction.

your fingers wrap around the base of him and you let out a strangled sound. he’s big. he-

“fuck, you’re never gonna fit-”

he laughs at that.

“wanna bet?”

you groan.

“you’re horrible. you’re not the one getting nine inches of your crush-”

his eyes widen. you flush, mortified, eyes darting away, your grip on him faltering. gently, he tilts your head back towards him.

“yeah?”

you nod.

“yeah.”

he pecks your lips, gentle.

“me too.”

he eases you into it. takes you apart, bit by bit, until you’re dripping for him, babbling an incoherent mess of his name as his fingers spread you open, knuckle deep in you. when he lines himself up with you, leaking tip dragging against your entrance, he groans, low and deep and primal in a way that makes your core throb with need. 

a damn tease is what he is, with the way he barely slides in you, tip sliding against your cunt with wet, sloppy little sounds, lightly brushing against your clit in a way that has you biting back a desperate little whine. he pants.

“need- fuck, baby i need you, please lemme-”

“yeah, yeah mark, just-”

your words die on your tongue when he slowly pushes himself into you, holding your thighs apart. he bites his lip at the sight. you, spread wide under him, chest littered with love bites, lips parted as you whisper his name. you, nails digging in his shoulder blades until you draw blood, begging him to please, please get closer. he spreads you open, thumbs holding your folds apart, watching as your walls flutter against him, as you drip down his length, slick and filthy. 

“please, move,” you whisper. “i can take it, i need-”

“yeah? you need me?”

“mn.”

he smiles at that, a happy little lopsided smile, as he slowly starts thrusting into you, biting back a groan at how tight you are. 

“shit, baby-”

he pulls you up, hand cupping the back of your neck as he plunders your mouth, lightly suckling on your tongue. he’s everywhere, hands reaching for you, pulling you closer, and closer, until your chest is flush to him and he’s fucking himself into you with reckless abandon, hips snapping against yours. 

and what else can you do but take it? but wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself closer, nipping at his earlobe, the vein jutting out of his neck. but let your nails dig in his back and feel his muscles ripple with contained strength - and fuck, if the thought of him holding back for your sake doesn’t make you wetter. 

“m’gonna cum, mark-”

he grins at that, something like a broken chuckle escaping his kiss swollen lips. he tilts your head back, one hand on your hip as he drills himself in you, the other under your chin. 

“yeah? gonna cum for me, baby?”

you nod, heat burning across your cheeks, your chest, your core. he hums, hand pressing against your abdomen, where he can feel himself move in you. satisfaction flashes in his gaze, at having you this full of him. (at having you.)

“good girl.”

that does it for you. you come apart, face buried in the crook of his neck, choking on his name. there’s that ringing in your ear. you think you hear him chuckle. you do know that he slides out of you, leaving you empty, hollow, and you reach for him with a soft whine of protest. he leads your hand to his leaking cock, guiding you, hips stuttering towards you as you pump his length, until he cums, thick ropes of it landing on his stomach, on your hand.

everything is still. he reaches for the tissues on the nightstand and cleans the slick mess between your thigh, something like longing on his face. his eyes meet yours, and you feel heat creep up your neck, gaze darting away from his, stuck on the way he wipes away his cum, abs rippling under the crumpled tissues.

“what?” you mumble.

“next time, i’ll eat you out.”

you let out something like an undignified squeal, burying your face in your hands. he laughs. strokes your cheek, lowering you down on the mattress, cradling you against him. he pulls the covers over you, a hand on your hip, the other lacing with yours.

“feel okay?”

you smile, a little sleepy, nuzzling against him, pressing a soft kiss to the hello kitty bandaid on his nose.

“mn.” you let your finger trail down the slope of his nose. “love you.”

he gives you a closed-eye smile, and you think you’ve met your sun.

“love you too.”

[mattscoquette]

reader going through perv!matt’s journal

“i’ll be back in a sec, i just need to run downstairs and help chris with something really quick.”

that’s what matt told you over ten minutes ago, and he’s still gone. you were over at the triplets place hanging out with nick, when matt insisted he show you both his new pc set up. it only took nick five minutes to be over it, but you felt bad when you saw matt’s defeatist expression after nick went back to his room. you decided to stay, but soon after matt abandoned you to go do something with chris.

you could’ve gone back upstairs with nick, but you let your curiosity get the best of you, and somehow you were going through matt’s bedside drawers, seeing what he had in there.

you knew matt had a thing for you, he made it very, very clear. although those feelings weren’t really reciprocated, it was fun to tease him. like, really fun.

before you could stop yourself, the leather binding of matt’s journal was in your hands, itching to be opened and read. you thumbed through the pages, reading matt’s chicken scratch handwriting while he wrote about whatever. you didn’t want to be too invasive, but his journal piqued your interest a lot. you wondered if he ever wrote about you, or if he only kept those thoughts in his head.

your eyes skimmed up and down the pages, nothing really standing out to you until you saw your name.

today y/n came over to see nick. she had on this rly short skirt, i think they were going out to a bar or something later. i don’t really care. i overhear her talking to nick about the guys she gets with. i could be so much better than them. i would make her feel so good, where she’d be begging me for more. god her moans are probably so fucking pretty.

your cheeks got hot as they blushed a deep red, fingers flipping to the next entry.

it’s been a few days since i saw y/n, i miss her so much. i’ve probably touched myself to her more times than i can count in the last day or two. i don’t know what it is with her, but she just gets me so worked up. she doesn’t even have to do anything and i’ll literally get hard from her. a couple weeks ago we were at her place and i heard her in the shower. it turned me on so much i couldn’t handle it. i want her so bad.

there’s gotta be something seriously deranged about me. every time that y/n sleeps over here, i always sneak up to nicks room and take a pair of her panties. she has to have noticed by now. i can’t help it though. i use them to get myself off. sometimes she has really pretty lace ones, other ones are really really skimpy. i don’t care though. i wonder what they’d look like on her. she’d probably think im a fucking creep if she ever really found out. i wonder what she’d do.

at this point, your stomach was doing somersaults, and your thighs were pressed together, trying to relieve the ache that had grown in your cunt. maybe it was weird what he was doing, but the level of obsession was turning you on. bad.

you were quick to find a pen somewhere in the bedside drawer, popping the cap off and scribbling underneath the entry in your loopy handwriting.

you naughty boy. you didn’t learn that stealing was wrong? i would probably punish you and not let you cum. i would tease you, get you all wound up and make you hold it. id use my pretty pink panties around your cock to get you off and let you cum in them after edging you for so long. maybe i’ll use my hands too, or my mouth if you’re really good for me.

you grinned to yourself as you shut the journal, drawing your bottom lip in between your teeth before returning the notebook to its rightful place, exactly how you found it.

you knew that matt wouldn’t do anything about it, either. he would see the note, and probably get off to it a million times, but never actually reach out to you. until then, he’d just have to learn how to keep pleasuring himself alone.

© mattscoquette | taglist

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ inspired by this fic from my girl @st7rnioioss ♡︎♡︎ perv!matt is soooo back i miss that freak

[sirxlla]

Hey! Can you make a hc of the batboys with their S/O getting wasted and claiming they have a boyfriend when they are their boyfriend. Thanks

You're Drunk & Telling Them You Have a Boyfriend

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

Dick: "Uh, Uh. Get your slimy hands off me, Miiissster...I know karracheee." You slurred your words as he held you up in his arms to get you to the limo, maybe drinking so much at the gala was a bad idea. You made what your drunk self believes is karate hands at him.

"Wow, Karache? Really?" He laughs as he slowly lowers you into the limo onto the long seat.

"You'll seee...you'lll seeee I promise." You slurred as you rolled over face down into the long leather seat.

"Oh no, I'm sure I will, Pumpkin."

"Who you callin' pump-e-kin? Thats- I- Onllyyyy my boyfren allowed to call me that." You said a bit aggressively; it was like a baby bunny trying to take on a lion: attack = a hundred, damage = zero. You quickly fell asleep. The booze got to you, and when you got home, he had to remove you from the seat, your face red where the leather stuck to your face. He unzipped and pulled your dress off and your shoes and let you go to bed before kissing your head.

"G'Night, Pump-E-Kin." He teased you even though you couldn't hear it. "Pump-E-Kin." He whispered to himself with a huge grin before heading to the shower.

Jason: "Ohhhhhh, slow your roll, Muchachos. I got a boyfriend." You said as you waved your finger in Jason's face when his fingers even grazed your hips.

"Oh, yeah, who's this boyfriend? Tell me about him." He so badly wanted to know what drunk you would say about him considering he's never seen you drunk before.

"He kicks names, takes asses." You giggle, not even noticing or thinking for a millisecond that you said that phrase wrong.

"He takes asses? Is that what happened to yours?" Jason was always quick with it and it was even more fun with the idea that you were drunk.

"Hey, that's not nice. I'm gonna tell my boyfriend." You huffed like a cute angry kitten.

"Oh, yes. Please do tell your boyfriend. I'd love to know this boyfriend." He was making the most out of this moment; he'd cherish this forever and tease you just as long.

"Jay-son" You sounded it out as you went to call Jason, slowly scrolling through your phone. "Jay-son" You kept scrolling.

"You got a picture of this Jason?"

"I got millions." You pulled up a picture and showed him.

"Hmmm, this guy is pretty handsome. He looks familiar? I don't know where..." He watched as you zoned out while looking at the picture.

"I just love him so much." You turned into a puddle of tears within a few seconds. "He's everything to me."

"Awww, Babygirl. It's okay." He said as he hugged you and rubbed your back as you sobbed over the man you were right next to.

Bruce: "Y/N, that's more than plenty. No more drinks for the night." He tried to get the drink from you and could if he really needed to.

"You can't tell me what to do, you're not my boyfriend." You down another shot, and before it, you're trying to dance on the bar.

"I- Im, Yes, I am." He looked so confused at your words and how you were claiming not to be his girlfriend.

"My boyfriend's Batman. You know?" You made yourself look like you had pointed little devil ears. "Like Na Na NaNa Na Ba Batman!" You giggled completely out of it before nearly slipping on the bar

Of course, Bruce caught you before you fell too far. You started laughing so hard from being so intoxicated. He carried you out of the bar while paparazzi took pictures of you. If the alcohol in your system didn't have you disoriented, then the flashes from the cameras sure did. They gave you a horrible migraine which slowly pulled you out of your drunken state and back to a sober one.

"Mmmmm...my head feels awful." You grumble as Bruce helps you inside the manor.

"I'm sure it does, you had a lot to drink. We should get you out of those heels and into bed."

"What even is the difference between and manor and a mansion." You asked as he kneeled down to take your heels off.

"Well, A manor is a large estate with a historic significance and is a primary residence. A mansion is a large house that is over 7,000 square feet." He explains as he sets your heels down in his large walk-in closet.

You look at him with a face of complete confusion. Bruce laughs and smiles as he heads back over to you, taking your dress off.

"If you're still interested in the morning I'll explain it all to you." He took his mother's pearls off your neck before laying you down. Bruce put you under the covers and tucked you in like a little kid.

"Good Night, Beautiful." He kisses your forehead and heads down to the Batcave to work on a case he's been trying to break.

Tim: "Don't touch what you can't buy, Bub!" You said as Tim politely tried to guide you away from the party with a hand on your lower back.

"What are you even talking about?" He laughed as he slowly herded you like a cat towards the kitchen on a higher level so you could sober up somewhere quiet.

"Do you think Taco Bell called themselves that because it sounds like Del Taco? Is that like who came first the chicken or the egg? Mmmm, my boyfriend would know..." You grab your phone to call your boyfriend, which makes Tim give you a look of almost humorous astonishment. He laughs as he picks up the phone.

"Yes, Baby? What can I do for you today, Sweetheart." He asked as he stared at you, trying not to laugh.

"I'm with this guy, and I asked him if Taco Bell came first or Del Taco, and he doesn't know...Do you know?"

"Taco Bell, I believe, Honey." You hang up your phone before looking back at Tim.

"My boyfriend said Taco Bell."

"Your boyfriend sounds really smart."

"Oh, he really is and he's so nice to me. He got like so so many squish mellows, and they're so soft." You start getting emotional, and he can see the tears in your eyes, and he realizes he needs to get you into bed quickly because the last thing he needs is to carry you through a lot of drunk party-goers.

Tim very slowly gets you back to your room and gets you laid down on the bed you two share. He grabs a squish mellow that he knows you love most and puts it in your arms.

"You know my boyfriend would really like you; you're so sweet and caring, just like he is. He wants to make sure everyone's safe and happy. He's like a cute lil guy and he's just so amazing."

His heart swells about five sizes, and he thinks it might burst. It's sweet how loyal you are when you're drunk but also how highly you think of him, it means the world to him. Just as he thought he couldn't love you more, Tim finds himself being sucked deeper and deeper into the hole that is his love for you.

Damian: "Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah. No. I have a boyfriend and he'll kick your ass." You said as you waved your finger in his face as you swayed from side to side.

"Yes, I know I am your boyfriend." He asks with a stern and annoyed look.

"Then what did I eat for breakfast and the color of my underwear?" You slurred with a smug voice.

"Cinnamon French Toast, and they're Burgundy; I know cause I made you breakfast, and I bought them."

"They're red." You giggle, which is bothering him even more; he's annoyed mainly because he needs to get you out of here. He's worried about the company around here, so therefore, he's worried about you.

"Burgundy is a color of red, Babe. Come on, we need to go. Come on, Beloved." He tries to help you up on the floor before you turn into dead weight in his arms.

"Well, isn't that just great?" He picks you up and puts you over his shoulder to get you out of the bar. Some creep acts like he might try Damian like a dumbass, he stops them in their tracks with just a single glare and his resting bitch face.

"Ha, Ha. Pussy." You laugh at the guy as Damian gets you out of the bar and twords his car.

"Hey. Hey, don't antagonize people. Lay down." He says as he puts you down in the back of the car. "Be good." He gets in the drivers seat and starts driving to the manor, he calms as he gets you both further and further away from that sketchy bar. He glances back at you every so often as he drives.

Once he parks the car he gets out and picks you up to get you inside. Between the front door and his bedroom theres a large pool of drool on his shirt from you. He smiles and lays you down before taking your heels off. Damian heads of to shower and change before climbing into the bed with you, gently moving hair away from your face that was stuck in your chapstick.

"Get some sleep, Beloved."

Send me prompts if youd like. ♡

Masterlists

[bullet-prooflove]

Steel: Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @kishie8 @darqchilddaydreamz @privatetruths @ilariyalavorowrites

Companion piece to:

Unburied - You're forced to make a choice when one of your secrets becomes unburied.

Kings & Queens - You and Chibs marry under terrible circumstances.

Just A Story - You and Chibs get a surprise when you turn yourself in to David Hale.

Yet again there is an Irish King in your kitchen. Only this time Declan Brogan isn’t making tea and sharing shortbread, he’s handing you the metal plate that used to reside in your ex-husband’s left arm, the one he broke tripping over a coffee table trying to smack the shit out of you.

“Cleaned it up for you.” Declan Brogan says as he presses it into your palm. “I thought you’d want proof that we took care of him without the gristle.”

The plate feels heavy in your hand, your fingers gripping the shiny stainless steel as you study it. To think this stupid little piece of hardware almost derailed your life, it’s unfathomable.

Beside you Filip shifts, his hands coming to rest on his belt and closer to the Glock that resides in the shoulder holster underneath his jacket. “I guess that solves the mystery of where the bodies went.” He remarks, his eyes firmly fixed on Declan. “But it doesn’t explain why.”

“You know why Filip.” Declan asserts as he reaches for the door handle to leave. “You knew what Galen was capable of and you put her right there in the crosshairs. I'm just paying the debt I owe. Maybe you should find a way to the same.”

The door slams shut behind him and it feels like the air has been sucked right out of the room. You have never discussed what happened that night with Filip, you didn’t want the horror of that weighting on his conscience. The physical marks, the scars Galen left on your back, they’re bad enough.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” You ask Filip. His jaw clenches as he rubs his leather gloved hand across his mouth.

“It doesn’t change anything.” He says forcefully, his voice raw with emotion. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you, how I love you…”

“Filip…” You whisper as your palms come to rest on his chest. He draws in a breath, the scent of your perfume flooding his senses as his hands come to rest on yours, holding them against his heart. “You had no idea what he was going to do that night. That guilt, that shame, it belongs to him. It has no place in our lives and I need you to get on board with that because otherwise this can’t work, we can’t work.”

“I know…” He murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know that we can’t go back, that we can’t change what happened…”

“But it’s hard.” You say with a heavy heart. “Because when you look at me that’s what you see isn’t it? Someone ruined, someone broken.”

“No.” he whispers, taking your hand and pressing it to his face. Your fingertips trace along the indentation of his scar, his lips brushing over the hollow of your wrist. “I don't see any of that I just see my fucking queen.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[zeroseuniverse]

Ruin Me

Word Count: 624 Summary:"You should know by now," he murmurs, his voice edged with something dangerous. "You can’t win against me." Your fingers tighten around his wrist. "Then why do you keep letting me try?" Pairing: Yuta X Reader

Navigation

The gym smells like sweat and leather, the air thick with the rhythmic sound of fists hitting heavy bags, the occasional grunt of exertion cutting through the dull hum of conversation. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker slightly, casting an unforgiving glow over the cracked floors and scuffed-up rings.

And there he is.

Yuta stands in the center of the ring, rolling his shoulders, his gloved hands flexing at his sides. His hair is tied back in a messy half-up style, a few strands slipping free, damp with sweat. His skin glistens under the lights, a living work of art carved from chaos and brutality. He looks up just as you step forward, his lips curling into that familiar smirk. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"You always show up when you shouldn’t," he murmurs, voice low and teasing, yet carrying the weight of something unspoken.

"And yet, here I am."

The fight starts before either of you throw a punch.

You step into the ring, wrapping your hands, tightening the fabric over your knuckles. His eyes track your movements, dark and unreadable. This dance, this ritual—it’s never been about winning. It’s about something neither of you can name, something neither of you can walk away from.

Yuta tilts his head, rolling his neck until it pops. Then, he moves—quick as lightning, a blur of power and precision. He throws a feint, just enough to make you react, to see how far you’ll go tonight. You don’t flinch, and that earns you another smirk.

Then he strikes for real.

You barely dodge, feeling the wind of his fist graze your cheek. Your heart pounds against your ribs, your breath sharp as you pivot, throwing a counter jab. He blocks it easily, his glove pressing against your forearm, the heat of him searing through the padding.

And then, just like that, you’re too close.

His breath fans against your skin, your bodies almost touching, every nerve in you screaming at the proximity. The tension hums, electric, the same way it always does before everything goes up in flames. Your chests rise and fall in sync, sweat dripping down the sides of your face, mirroring his.

Yuta exhales a laugh, shaking his head slightly. "You should know by now," he murmurs, his voice edged with something dangerous. "You can’t win against me."

Your fingers tighten around his wrist. "Then why do you keep letting me try?"

Something snaps. Maybe it was always meant to.

The fight shifts into something else—something raw, something neither of you have ever been able to control. His gloves fall away, discarded without thought, and then his fingers are gripping your waist, yanking you against him. The taste of sweat and blood lingers between you, but neither of you care. His lips crash into yours, searing, brutal, like every kiss before—like every kiss that should’ve been the last but never is.

It’s a curse, this thing between you.

Every touch burns, every inhale drowns, and yet, you keep coming back. His hands are rough, desperate, as if he's trying to hold on and push away at the same time. You’re no better, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling, needing more, needing everything. The kiss is a war, a collision of something far beyond love, beyond reason.

"You ruin me," you whisper against his lips, breathless, your pulse hammering against his.

He chuckles darkly, his forehead pressing against yours. "You love it."

Maybe that’s the problem.

Because this was never meant to be peaceful. It was never meant to be soft.

It’s chaos. It’s addiction. It’s the fight neither of you will ever surrender.

And you don’t want to.

Tags: @selcayuri

[dcviated]

Wylan stares at her with amusement. The grin spreads in a manner that, perhaps, Sonia may regret asking such a thing immediately. "Twenty? Damn. I really do look good for my age, don't I?" A pleased noise that can hardly be summed up better than 'gyuhuhu' follows. But the guesses are waved off. "I turned twenty six not too long after we uh. Had our split in Vegas. Maybe it's the skincare?" He hums in thought as the pair continued. "I have to keep that up to some degree otherwise when I get scars, they'll heal up horrendous. And all the more aggravating to conceal, when I can."

It wasn't long until they had hit the clerks to finalize said purchases. For all of Wylan's exploits, he didn't quite consider retail or shopping theft to be a preferred one under the majority of circumstances. He'd recount the times he did so as a child, if it came up. But he'd quickly add that the person he was then and the person he was now were two far different people.

For better? Or worse?

When a pretty little leather choker is not quite so sneakily snuck into the items, it could be left for Sonia to ponder just how wise it was to marry a man like this. For a Libra, he really did force one to make observations between the pros and cons. A set of scales that refused to balance simply because they were.

Wylan would fight back the smile, but the question of what to do next hung much tighter than that collar would on Sonia's neck. There were quite a few options, weren't there? This strange honeymoon period complete with denials and elations between the two. Kids in a candy store.

So it was with a little bit of bitterness that he spoke up the question underneath all those frivolities. Lest it be buried further.

"Sonia. We gotta go back before too much longer, don't we? I mean what was your schedule before I came here and flipped it over? My plane back to America... ah that doesn't matter. Uh. Yours though. I'm sure it does. Who knows now about us? Who's gonna... where do we... I... go? From here? Because if we do too much it's gonna get back to them and I can't see it reflecting too great."

Wylan's face wrinkles, squeezing as though he were holding back a phantom pain in some limb.

"I want to do ... fun stuff with you in Paris. But. I'm not oblivious that I'm not... gonna be received well. And the more this goes on that'll just make it- Ha but I don't exactly have a chance to make a good impression to begin with, so what does it matter, really, right?"

Hands rub down his face.

"I don't know. I can't relax enough. I think. Is the biggest issue here. None of this feels right. And I have no idea what is."

Hell. Even the collar purchase felt stupid in the immediate hindsight.

Well, at least he realized it early on. Considering geography and that she assumed Wylan knew where Novoselic was: it bordered the country they were currently in. That meant that snow was a certainty. "I apologize on behalf of my country for the weather you will encounter from around the end of October until April," She told him sincerely, but with a grin as she plucked out various pieces for him to try on. "If it is of any reassurance, it is very common to go out of the country during the two weeks' holiday in January that the Royal Council is in recess, often to somewhere warm." She usually chose somewhere tropical and her family had a preferred resort in the Maldives, but Sonia was open to trying something new. She briefly wondered what Las Vegas weather was like that time of year before going back to browsing. His only other option, besides going along with whatever she chose, was learning how to ski and enjoying it.

Unfortunately, she doubted ski gear would include cartoon character prints: or at least the sort of gear her family would approve of anyone being seen in. "And what age is that, exactly?" Sonia asked, half-teasing and half out of ignorance as he appeared to disapprove of her clothing choices. She'd never exactly asked Wylan his age, it wasn't exactly a polite question and despite how much he enjoyed taunting, Sonia found it in poor taste to be rude in return. Now that they were dating, however, the rules were relaxed. He had seen her naked, after all. "Twenty? Twenty-two? And you can wear your cartoon characters in private. I certainly do." Though hers were, admittedly, more horror icons and anime characters on the occasional t-shirt or sweatshirt.

Still, she pushed the clothes into his hands and ushered him into the changing room with far more effectiveness than any staff member. She was used to getting her way, save for the people she needed to stand her ground with the most: that was what happened when your father ruled a country and your mother was...

Well. She could only hope that Wylan would meet her wearing trousers. Sonia couldn't hide her shock when he emerged without them, causing several men in the vicinity to cough and turn away in disapproval. A turn of her head left and right was enough to indicate that they were her incognito security, and Wylan had managed to startle them. Sonia gave a deep sigh in return: they'd have their hands full trying to keep watch over him, and this was before her parents even knew that he existed. Again. As far as they knew, for now at least, he was a random American who had abandoned her there, never to be seen or heard from again.

She politely declined a coffee but accepted a bottle of Perrier from one of the salesmen, with an empty glass to pour it in. The carbonation was a welcome distraction from her two dueling thoughts: how handsome he looked in a proper shirt and how he would tolerate it: starched collars, no logos, winter, being seen, at least for some time, as an extension of her and the Royal Family. He'd lived a life of independence, albeit one with a likely target on his back, but independence nonetheless. Was it worth giving that up?

Was she worth staying for, with all of the imposed rules from etiquette to dress to royalty-approved conversation topics?

Sonia let the bubbles fizz and dissipate on her tongue, leaving the mineral taste of the sparkling water in her mouth before swallowing. A fitting analogy to his life, perhaps: fizzy and exciting before becoming dull and tasteless upon staying by her side. She had to ensure that didn't happen: she was a princess, yes, but she was also his partner. She wanted, needed, to make sure that this was a life he could not just live but thrive in, as opposed to feeling resigned to it. Resentment of being her support would not do, ever.

"Don't worry about it, I am, as you say, 'thrown under the bus' for quite a lot and I probably only have earned it half the time," She insisted with a smile, getting to her feet. At least these would last until they returned home and royal seal-appointed tailors got their hands on him. Sonia supposed she should be present for the first few fittings, at least: Liam would only encourage him, Sam wouldn't hide his annoyance, and Cecily might burst a blood vessel from stress. "But I think you look wonderful and, ah, appropriate for the autumn weather in this part of the world. Not as warm as you'd like, I presume: for anything above 60 degrees Fahrenheit, one must go towards the Mediterranean. But let's get these and decide what to do next. I am open to ideas." She'd been to Paris more times than she could count, but she presumed it was the first time for him. Or at least the first time he didn't have to kill anyone, which was significant indeed.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Payback (Dean Winchester x female reader)

When Sam goes into the Cage, Dean leaves you behind for a shot at a normal life. But you can’t wait to see him again.

Read it on AO3

My 2024 Kinktober series

Rated E. 2k words. Cheating. Rough sex. Sorry, Lisa.

You walk into the nearly empty bar, dressed exactly the way you need to be to get what you want, and when you see Dean sit in the booth at the back, a pleasant shiver runs through you. You catch his eye and slowly walk towards him.

He looks different, just enough to be noticeable. Maybe a little softer around the edges, but more than that, cleaned up. It’s not flannel and an old leather jacket anymore, but a nice shirt that is actually, honest to God, tucked into his pants. Good haircut, clean shave.

All the things he needs to make him look like he’s just a good, decent average Joe.

“Hey stranger,” you say with a smile when you reach the table. Dean grins up at you, and you wonder for a second if he’ll get up, hug you. The thought makes your skin prickle, so you sit down quickly opposite him. He has a beer in front of him and waves to the waitress for another.

“So what brings you to my neck of the woods?” he says, leaning back. You shrug like it’s whatever, before you answer.

“Looks like a Wendigo,” you say, just before the waitress puts your beer in front of you and you nod at her. Dean narrows his eyes.

“Wendigo?” he asks. “Down here?” You take a sip, lick your lips.

“I thought the same thing,” you reply, adjusting yourself in your seat, not missing the quick look Dean shoots at your breasts. “Maybe it likes the climate.” Dean huffs.

“So what do you need my help for?” he asks, watching you intently. You shake your head.

“No help,” you reply. “Not with the case, anyway. But I don’t have a good source for Anasazi symbols, and I thought you might still have some documentation lying around.” You take another sip, then tilt your head. “You and Sam hunted one a few years ago, right?”

You don’t miss the slight tensing of Dean’s jaw, the subtle twitch in his hand. Mentioning his brother is a dangerous line to cross.

“Yeah, I might have some stuff,” he says, then takes a long sip, stares at the table. You nod, still watching him.

“So how are you doing?” you finally say. Dean looks up at you, runs his hand over his mouth, looking almost like himself again for a second.

“Good,” he says, after just a second of thinking about it. A second that holds a world of meaning.

“You enjoying your little suburban dream life?” you say, grinning at him over the rim of your bottle to take the edge out of what you’re saying. Dean gives a one-sided grin, raises his eyebrows.

“Not too shabby,” he replies. “Sure has its advantages.”

“Right,” you say, tone suggestive. “Like waking up next to your hot, domesticated girlfriend every day?” You frown. “What was her name? Lena? Lizzy?”

“Lisa,” Dean says, voice firm, like he knows damn well that you know. You let your features soften, swallow.

“Sorry,” you say, voice quiet. “I don’t mean to be an ass about it.” Dean shakes his head a little.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t expect you to be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you, Dean,” you say, leaning forward a little. “I really am, okay?” Dean looks down at the table, shame on his face.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t, considering how I left,” he mutters. You press your lips together, for a moment. Try to control your voice.

“Well, that’s all in the past,” you answer. Dean nods, still having a hard time looking at you, takes another sip.

"Yeah," he says, and nothing else.

“But do you ever miss it?” you ask after a little while. Dean looks at you, opens his mouth, then closes it again.

He knows just like you what a sick thing it would be to say yes. He misses his brother, sure, but what kind of freak would miss the dangerous, horrible, violent life of hunting when he has a warm bed and a pretty house to hide in, a family, a job, neighbors to have barbecues with. What kind of freak, indeed.

“Come on,” you say, egging him on. “Some of it was good.” Dean chuckles, but you can tell he feels a little uncomfortable.

“Like that time in New Mexico,” you continue. “The vamp nest?”

Dean slowly looks back at you. Sure, you’re talking about the case, the one where the two of you had to hack and slash your way through an entire family of vampires. But afterwards, still covered in guts and blood, you fucked so roughly that you’re not sure if you had more bruises from the hunt or the sex.

You see Dean swallow, telling you he’s thinking about the exact same thing. You press your tongue against the inside of your teeth, Dean’s eyes moving to your mouth.

He can pretend all he wants. He can wake up early and go to work and sit at a dinner table and hold hands in public until he’s blue in the face. But the fact is, he still picked the booth at the back of the bar, the one from which he can see all the exits. If you were a betting woman, you’d put money on the belief that he has a knife tugged into his boot or his waistband. That he’s keeping a record of those Anasazi symbols somewhere in his girlfriend’s house, just in case he needs them again.

This is Dean Winchester. He’ll never change. And just because he left you in the dust, abandoned you the moment he lost Sam and moved into all that soft, domestic lightness, it doesn’t mean that the man you know isn’t still in there somewhere. You can see him now, hungrily staring back at you, like a predator about to pounce.

“I have a room,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “Just down the street.”

“I can’t,” Dean says, voice raspy with how hard he has to force it out.

“Come on, Dean,” you say, already breathing hard. “For old time’s sake.”

Dean basically throws you against the door the moment you close it behind you. He kisses you so angrily and roughly that it would terrify a weaker woman. But not you.

You press your hand against his cock through the fabric of his pants so hard that he winces, grabs your wrist, twists it behind your back and slams his lips against you again. You tear at each other’s clothes like maniacs, and you bring your mouth to his neck.

“No marks,” he pants and you nearly laugh at him. What a fucking fool.

Both naked, you push Dean down on the bed, but he grabs your arms, pulls you down and your back hits the mattress so hard it knocks the air out of you. He’s on you the next second.

While you’re stroking his cock, Dean’s hand wanders over your ass, then to your asshole. He fingers it and you gasp, and he kisses you again. Dean doesn’t have any condoms on him, so maybe he really has changed, but you’re carrying.

He pushes into you in one rough stroke, making you whimper. He shushes you, immediately picks a quick rhythm. A life of hunting has made you crave the pain and damage, the hurt just a spice that makes the pleasure all the more delicious.

Dean fucks your pussy first and then flips you over, presses into your ass, as you whine and mewl. He goes slower, fingers gripping your waist so hard you think he’ll rip through you. He pants at your tightness, sounds downright desperate. You bet Lisa doesn’t let him go there.

Your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, and Dean keeps fucking you through it roughly, and because he knows what you like, remembers, he wraps his hand over your mouth, but he can barely contain the sounds you’re making. You suck one of his fingers into your mouth, wrapping your tongue around it.

Dean pulls out, turns you around again. He presses your legs high, presses back into your ass and then kisses you again. He turned you around so he can look at you. It stirs something deep in you, something you need to press down. What you used to have, that clear understanding of each other, a closeness that despite the fact you fucked like animals, you’ve never had with anyone else. And he left.

He left to go to some woman he spent one night with years ago. Left you like you were just some hook up and nothing more, but now he wants to look at your face while he sodomizes you. It makes you want to scream and thrash and cry. But you push it down.

Dean comes and you scratch your nails down his back, and he’s too in the moment to stop you. It’s not hard enough to leave a mark, not really, but you like to think he’ll feel you there for a while.

He drops on his back, breathing hard, eyes closed. For a moment, it’s quiet in the room, only your twin panting breaking the quiet. Then Dean rolls over to you, goes to kiss you, but you pull your head back.

He raised his hand to hold you, and when you get out of bed, he still has it raised, but he looks confused. You grab your panties, pull them on, then find your bra. You hear it when Dean’s hand drops onto the bed. He watches you for a moment, not saying anything.

“So, I’m gonna see if I can find those symbols,” he says, voice awkward. You frown and turn around just as you’re pulling your shirt over your head.

“What symbols?” you ask. Dean opens his mouth, and then he understands.

“There is no case,” he says, voice low and he swallows. You shrug.

“Wasn’t sure you’d see me otherwise,” you say, picking up your jeans and you step into them. You pull them over your ass, button them, locate your socks.

“Why?” Dean asks. You take your time to answer, step into your shoes, before looking back at Dean.

“Maybe I just missed you, lover,” you say, voice dripping with disdain and sarcasm. “Maybe I just wanted to see what your brand spanking new life is like.” You straighten, look at Dean, let your eyes run up and down his body that’s only covered by the cheap motel blanket.

“Looks like it’s really working for you,” you say with the fakest earnestness you can muster. You see Dean clench his jaw. He actually looks a little scary.

“You bitch,” he mutters and you actually laugh this time.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, as you’re putting on your jacket, reach for your duffel. “You can stay, maybe take a shower.” You can’t hide the smirk on your face.

“Probably best if you don’t smell like sweat and come and another woman’s perfume when you go home to little Lisa.” Dean’s nostrils flare. Time to get out.

You sling the duffel over your shoulder, and open the door, but not without throwing another look over your shoulder at Dean. He’s staring at the foot of the bed now, slow realization of what he’s done seeping into him.

“Bye, baby,” you say and his eyes flicker up to you just before you close the door behind you.

Dean might have left the life, might have left you, for whatever fucking PG alternative he has in that pretty little house of his. But he’s never gonna stop being him, not really. Deep down, he’ll always be down in the muck with you, no matter how clean he tries to get.

And all you wanted was to make sure he doesn’t forget that.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Six: no good deed ever goes unpunished

tw: violence, non-con

Small chunks of salt stick to the tips of Simon’s fingers, dusting them like fresh snow. You were right—a simple order of chips really isn’t enough to keep him going throughout the night. 

If anything, the saltiness makes him hungrier. It pummels his stomach until it’s grumbling at an annoying frequency, and it doesn’t do much to help the dryness in his mouth either. He would have tried to order something if it wasn’t damn near impossible to get anyone to deliver to the club, and god forbid John Price actually install a proper kitchen. But there would be no use for any sort of kitchen in a place like that, as it’s not good food that makes people swarm to Terminus like brainwashed zombies. It’s the booze. The music. A quickie in the stall. 

Shady activities in an alleyway. 

Simon huffs as he tosses the empty chip container in the small bin that sits in the corner of the surveillance room. Monitors upon monitors line the wall on the far side of the room, illuminating the concrete floor with a grey glow as faint music pulses through the air. He hates this room. Small, stuffy, and overheating with the computers and servers; he’d rather be out in the bitter November winter right about now. He’s out of luck tonight, because after nearly two weeks, Johnny’s research has finally bore fruit. 

About time, too. All Simon has been able to think about for the last few days has been you. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can still see the outline of your body. It’s ingrained in his mind. He still sees your limp, exhausted form as you rested in the conversation pit—too overwhelmed to keep conscious. It follows him like a bad dream. He doesn’t know why you haunt him so terribly. Perhaps he has Aelin to blame; she knows how he never likes leaving a job half done. 

Or maybe it’s because you’re so… peculiar. For a woman he can only describe as being a skittish cat, you’ve suddenly melted into some other version of yourself. Your dislike of his proximity to you is obvious. Short words, gauche exchanges; yet you have this impulsive need to constantly get even with him, like you’re trying to sweep up the breadcrumbs that lead to your door lest he get hungry and follow you home. 

However, when he visited you a few days ago to check on your hands—as promised—you seemed to be a whole new person. Well, not entirely. If you were the world’s most skittish cat before, you have now become the feral stray that would maybe eat out of the palm of his hand if he doesn’t look at you while you do it. He asked you questions and you responded with something more than simple words or an uneasy, anxiety induced joke. 

I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.

He still wonders what you meant by that. 

“Hey, you paying attention?” Johnny whines. 

Simon blinks the glaze out of his eyes—one which carries a now greenish-yellow hue around his cheekbone—and pushes the thought of you out of his mind as his attention fully settles on the monitors in front of him. A chair squeaks as Johnny settles back against the worn, faux leather. He’s already got everything loaded up for whatever presentation he’s about to give. 

“Waitin’ on you, Johnny,” he playfully retorts. 

“Right,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “So, I’ve been trying to do some research on your dance partner here, and he’s a slippery fucker. Whoever he is, he’s good at covering his tracks up. At least through the methods I use to find people. Nothing on the media or anything like that. Might as well not exist at all in the tech world.” 

A hum rumbles in Simon’s throat as he crosses his arms. “You drag me in here just to tell me you found nothing?” 

Johnny’s neck cranes to the side where he then looks up at him with a wide smirk. “Come on, Riley. When have I ever wasted your time?” 

Both men turn their attention back to the monitor as Johnny begins to rewind through the footage from a few days ago—the day Simon found you in the alley. Everything happens fast as he speeds through the film. Bodies dart across view like ants, and there’s a comedic speed up cars driving along the road as they slice across the monitor like knives. Static streaks across the screen as the footage warps before it suddenly pauses again. 

“Since I wasn’t able to find anything on this guy, I decided to sleuth through the footage again, and I found something a little odd about this bloke here,” Johnny explains as he points to a male figure. Whoever it is, they’re faced away from the camera with their hands shoved deep into their pockets to stave off the cold. “He enters the alley before your pal does…” 

The video plays at normal speed, and the faceless man vanishes behind the brick corner of the building a few meters down, just as Johnny described. He fast forwards, and everything plays at triple speed. Simon’s seen it all before. The man who accosted you enters the alleyway, and then you unfortunately come across him a bit later, but then something happens that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to before. 

The man Johnny pointed out leaves the alley, this time facing the camera. He’s fiddling with something in his hands, and upon closer inspection, Simon’s able to tell it’s a small wad of cash. It’s quickly stowed away in his pocket, and that’s where Johnny pauses the video. 

“He leaves as soon as Chip arrives, shoving a couple quid into his pocket like he struck a deal,” Johnny concludes. 

Tense fingers grip the back of the office chair as Simon leans over Johnny’s shoulder, squinting at the face on the screen. He scrutinizes every detail possible through the fuzzy footage, and his jaw flexes as he huffs. 

Square jaw, visible stubble, and eyes just as shifty as his character. 

“He looks familiar,” Simon mutters. 

“He oughta. Fucker works here.” 

A rancid taste floods the back of Simon’s throat at that revelation, and his fingers tense so greatly that the imitation leather of the chair threatens to crack beneath his grip. Fury rises in the dark irises of his eyes as he leans back and grumbles. It seems like such a simple detail to miss. Something that he should have caught the other night, even in his sleep deprived state. If he had, he would have been several leaps closer to the real issue ages ago. 

“Who is he?” Simon demands. 

“Marcel Wylder,” Johnny answers as he twists in his chair to face him. “Works part time as one of the bartenders in the VIP lounge. Only really works on the weekends, and according to the floor manager, he’s a good kid. Twenty three years old. Always shows up on time, things of that sort.” 

“Good kids don’t meddle with men who like to scare women in alleyways,” Simon retorts. 

Johnny shrugs. “Guess we all have our dark sides… some are darker than others.” 

It takes a few more moments for Simon to finally get himself to look away from the screen, and his eyes land on Johnny with a malice not meant for him. He’s not quite sure why this revelation angers him so. The sting of failure pricks at his skin too violently for him to ignore it. 

“He here tonight?” he asks. 

“Yeah, he’s working on the second floor right now. Or, at least that’s where he was last, according to the cameras,” Johnny answers. He pauses to lick his lips and tilt his head. “You’re brewing something in that head of yours. I can tell. None of it looks too cheerful.” 

Swarthy eyes glare back at the monitor as Simon commits this new face and name to memory. Marcel Wylder. Twenty three. Square jaw. Stubble. Thin eyes. 

“Thanks for the intel, Johnny,” is all Simon says as he turns on his heels and walks towards the exit. 

A high pitched squeak echoes off the dull white walls of the room as Johnny excitedly watches him leave. All he can make out are a straight set of shoulders, clenched fists, and an aura that demands blood. 

“Go easy on the kid!” Johnny calls after him—his voice is too saccharine to truly mean it. 

There are very rarely any times when Simon Riley feels like a savior, but he can’t deny the fact that he feels like Moses when he’s walking through Terminus. Eyes snap to him, wary of the large brute attempting to slice through the club like a dull axe. All it takes is a single glance or a firm hand on someone’s shoulder and the mass of pulsing bodies splits open for him like the Red Sea. 

This trend continues as he jogs up the wrought iron spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, and his path to Marcel is highlighted by the mob of patrons crowding the bar. He looks nicer tonight than he did the previous night, and his square jaw almost appears defined now that he’s shaved that fuzz off of his face. Pristine dress clothes mark him as a perfect employee as he quickly fills orders and stuffs tips in his pocket all with a thankful smile. Doesn’t look like he’s doing half bad for himself, considering there’s a near topless woman serving booze next to him. 

“Marcel!” 

Simon’s voice booms louder than the bass of the music and is so sharp all other sounds nearly seem to cease for a moment. That pathetic sod glances up from his work like a schoolboy being scolded, and his face grows pallid. All it takes is a simple gesture of his fore and middle fingers to get the man to slip from behind the bar and join him in the crowd. 

He leads Marcel out behind the building like a lamb to slaughter. Just like a good offering, he’s quiet. Hardly asks anything besides is everything alright? to which Simon doesn’t respond. Biting wind attempts to tear through the formidable fabric of Simon’s clothes, but it seems to really do a number on the kid. Hardly even ten seconds out the door and the poor boy is wrapping his arms around himself and trying hard not to shiver, lest he look pathetic in front of the head of security. 

A flickering halogen light is the only source of illumination in the shady alley, and even in the bleakness of winter the garbage spoils and festers with a stomach-churning odor. Marcel stands cornered with his back to the wall, and he watches with trepidation as Simon’s hand dives into his pocket. Relief doesn’t fill his face until his eyes catch sight of a pack of cigarettes. 

The cancer-stick sits at home between Simon’s lips as he lights it and puffs out a steady stream of smoke until it’s well lit. A gentle breeze whisks it away into the air where it quickly dissipates among the smog smothered stars. Once he’s satisfied, he holds the pack out toward Marcel. 

“You smoke?” he asks. 

“Yes sir,” Marcel answers. 

Simon shakes the pack, prompting him to take one, and a smile pulls at the boy’s lips. “Cheers.” 

As Marcel’s trembling hands work on igniting the lighter, Simon takes a better look at him. There’s hardly a single scar on him, and his hands are much too soft to truly be a part of any violent syndicate. Still, anyone can be a mole, even if they’re a smooth faced kid. 

“What do you do outside of work?” Simon asks. It’s kind enough. Simple, polite conversation—but there’s nothing civil about the look in his eyes as he chews on the filter of his cigarette. 

“School, mostly,” Marcel replies. 

Simon hums. “Uni?”

“Greenwich.” 

“Smart.” 

Another exhale of smoke dances between Simon’s lips as he huffs, dark eyes still trained on Marcel. He’s damn near shivering out of his skin as the black fabric of his uniform is designed to whisk away sweat and keep you cool in warm, humid temperatures. No matter; the boy can warm up soon enough. Simon intends for this interaction to be quick. 

“Since you’re a smart kid, you’ll do well to be truthful with me then, yeah?” Simon prompts as he flicks a bit of ash onto the ground. “That bloke you met up with the other night? Who is he?” 

Trembling muscles suddenly freeze, and the cigarette seems stuck against Marcel's lips. There’s no exhale of smoke. The embers don’t brighten at the tip to show he’s inhaling. There’s nothing. 

“Bloke?” he repeats. 

“The fucker you met up with in the alley a week or two ago,” Simon snaps, already impatient. 

Marcel jumps and the cigarette falls free from between his lips and fingers. It sputters and whines on the ground, where the boy quickly puts it out of its misery by stomping on the embers until they’re no longer glowing. 

“Right, erm, Andrei I think it was.” 

“Andrei who?” 

“I dunno. I just know him as Andrei. Honest,” Marcel insists. 

“What did he want?” Simon presses. 

“Well, he had this picture of someone. Some bitch he didn’t want hanging around here I suppose. Was asking me questions about her and stuff,” Marcel replies earnestly. 

A bright pink dusts the tips of Simon’s ears. The muscles in his jaw begin to flex. “What did she look like?” 

“She was dressed mostly in black, kind of similar to our serving uniforms. It looked like it was taken through the window of some restaurant. I don’t know which one it was. I swear!” 

Sapori. 

Teeth nearly cut through the filter of his cigarette as Simon’s jaw clenches. He rips the thing out of his mouth and tosses it on the ground, not even bothering to stomp it out. This man—this Andrei—is getting too close to you for comfort. He thinks back to the way you reacted in the alley; how petrified you were. A terrible thought plagues his mind as he wonders what has been done to you to get you to fear someone so terribly. 

Simon doesn’t like where his mind is wandering. 

“What questions did he ask about her?” Simon continues. 

“Dunno, just regular stuff? I suppose? He asked when she was here and who she was with. Things like that,” Marcel replies. 

Simon raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I told him the truth. About how she was here on Halloween. I mean, I didn’t see much of her so there wasn’t a lot I could tell him. Honest. I think he was mostly looking for confirmation that she was here at all. He didn’t ask for anything else after that, and he sent me on my way.” 

Acid eats away at Simon’s stomach. The chips he devoured before this seem to have a hard time settling with the heavy ire disrupting his mood. Dense feet scrape against the ground as he takes a few steps closer to Marcel, who puts his hands up in defense as if that’s going to do anything against the rating storm barreling straight for him. 

“That’s it, that’s everything, honest! I swear!” he pleads. 

“I know. I believe you,” Simon says through gritted teeth. 

Worn knuckles crash into the tense flesh just underneath Marcel’s sternum, stealing the very breath from his lungs. He sputters miserably as his back crashes against the brick wall behind him, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t breathe. A deep purple hue stains his face as his body begins to jolt and spasm uncontrollably. It’s impossible to keep himself upright with the wind knocked out of him—diaphragm screaming in protest—he slowly slides onto the ground with his hands over his stomach like he’s trying to stop blood flowing through a wound. 

“You’re a smart boy, so listen close,” Simon says as he crouches to Marcel’s new height. He rubs at his sore fist, but his eyes don’t stray even an inch from his target. “Be careful who you call a bitch ‘round here, because if I ever hear you refer to a woman like that again, I’ll knock your goddamn teeth out like the sorry sod you are, ya hear?” 

Still sputtering and heaving, Marcel nods. 

“Good. Now, that woman Andrei showed you? Forget her. She doesn’t exist to you. If he comes ‘round here askin’ about her, you tell him you haven’t seen her, because you won’t. You’ve got nothin’ for him, yeah? Nod.” Simon’s tone is too severe to deny—Marcel complies easily. “If anyone ever starts askin’ about any of our patrons or workers, you bring that shit right to me. Don’t you ever go ‘round behind my fuckin’ back again. You think there’s anything that happens here that I don’t know about? Huh?” 

After an eternity of struggle, Marcel is finally able to get a good gasp in, and a few subsequent breaths after that. That bright purple begins to fade from the paleness of his face, and he quivers and shakes his head. 

“N-No sir,” he stutters. “Sor-ry…” 

“Good. Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget that.” 

Simon pushes himself up to his feet and looks down at Marcel as he writhes and chokes on his achy diaphragm. He haphazardly digs around his pocket for his pack of smokes before he retrieves a single cigarette and tosses it toward the pathetic lump of a man at his feet. It bounces on the slimy ground before rolling to a stop with specks of dirt sticking to the filter—Simon’s half-hearted attempt at an apology. 

“Take a breather. Have yourself another smoke, then get back to work,” he orders. He turns to leave, but only gets a few steps away before he pauses. A stiff finger points at Marcel. “Keep in mind, that's not even half of what I’ve got, yeah?” 

Marcel’s pathetic response is drowned out by the uproar of music that fills Simon’s ears as he returns back inside of the club. A thick wall of heat melts the frost off of his skin as his brooding figure cuts through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. His blood continues to boil with clenched fists and heavy breaths. It’s all consuming. Swallowing him whole. Simon doesn’t like being angry. He feels too much like his father, and sometimes he fears that he looks like him, too. 

Violent, angry, sinister—his intimidating build and threatening demeanor have always been something he’s tried to rage against. A stereotype he’s been attempting to break. Yet now that he’s gotten one step closer to uncovering the monsters hiding in your shadows, he’s grateful for it. For once, it’s a tool he can use to his advantage. Something he can use to help you. 

Except, while Simon is busy taking baby steps through this web of lies, you’re already in the maw of the beast. 

Frayed string tangles around your fingers as trembling hands attempt to keep themselves busy with a solo game of cat’s cradle. It’s already the 25th again, and just like every other month, you’re in perfect position. Sitting properly on a bench with a wad of cash tucked neatly into the envelope that sits inconspicuously on your lap. This is a dance you know well. A dance you don’t think you’ll ever be free from. 

Washers and dryers hum around you and clash terribly with the ringing of your ears and the violent pounding of your heart. Trepidation plagues you worse than it usually does on your due date. Every other month is predictable. Something you have memorised. But this month? You don’t know how Marco is going to react about what Simon did to Andrei. 

You keep going through possibilities in your mind. Things you need to say to keep him off of Simon’s trail. Ways to apologize to keep him from getting upset. You’ve gone through every option your mind can come up with, yet it doesn’t feel like enough. There’s something you’re still missing. 

But you’ve run out of time. 

Frosty air slices through the warmth of the laundromat and you try your best not to shiver. Not that it does you any good—you’re already shaking. Marco’s cologne drifts along the air, mixing in dissonance with the fragrance of soap and fabric softener. Green eyes scan the small room as he takes note of the single mom folding clothes in the back of the building as her young son watches videos on her phone. It should be comforting to know that you’re not alone—but you’ve learned that you’re never safe. Horror does not wait for eyes to turn away before sinking teeth into flesh. 

Your attention stays firmly on your hands as Marco waltzes up and makes himself at home next to you on the bench. The scent of him scorches your nose as his arm wraps around your shoulders. You try not to jump as he involuntarily pulls you closer to him, and you find your fingers clamping down hard on the string in your hands. 

“Long time, no see,” he greets. 

He’s more cordial than he usually is, and that terrifies you. His thumb rubs at your arm through the fabric of your jumper and you feel your heart leap into your throat. He knows. He knows, and you’re about to pay for it. 

“Did you hear about our good friend, Andrei? Got scuffed up pretty bad the other week,” Marco prompts. 

You swallow your heart down your throat and back into your chest. “Is he alright?” 

“Define alright,” he hums. Long legs spread apart and bump into your thigh, crowding you further like he’s trying to lock you in a cage of your own flesh. “Busted lip, broken nose. His face is so goddamn swollen he sounds like he’s got a cold.” 

Images of Andrei’s wounded face sear your mind. Bright red blood trickling down his lips, an appalled expression on his face as if he had never met anyone capable of putting him in his place before. You should have known then that you wouldn’t walk away unscathed from something like that. Simon’s protection can only reach so far. 

“What were you even doing there, anyway? At Terminus?” Marco then asks. 

“I was delivering food,” you answer truthfully. 

“Oh, you’re a delivery driver now? I thought you were a waitress,” he digs. 

“Hostess…” you correct. 

“Who were you delivering to?”

“My friend… her husband owns the club and she was hungry… so… I, well…” you stumble over your lie. 

Firm fingers dig into your arm as Marco pulls you closer. You try to keep your bottom lip from trembling. “Ah, right. John fucking Price.” 

Shocked, you finally bring yourself to look at him. There’s faint amusement on his face as he stares at the washers in front of him. A mixture of soapy water and colorful clothes dance around in the machine as it gently spins and agitates the fabric. 

“You know him?” you venture to ask. 

A smirk pulls on his lips as he turns his attention to you, and your blood screams at how close his face is to yours. “Don’t worry about that, babe.” 

His eyes capture yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away—like you’re an unfortunate deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car. He wanders down. Down, down, down until he catches sight of the unmarked envelope on your thighs. He grabs it and isn’t at all courteous about where his fingers brush in the process. 

“How did that guy even know you were in that alley? That prick who fought with Andrei?” Marco ponders. 

As he waits for your response, he hits the envelope against the top of your thighs as if he’s bored. Tap, tap, tap. Each time it touches you, you feel your stomach twist. 

“I, uhm, asked the same thing. Said he heard us like… talking and… he thought I needed help. Guess he was the bouncer outside of the VIP entrance. M-My friend said he’s the head of security,” you reply, weaving truth and lies seamlessly together. 

“Yeah, I know who the bastard is,” Marco mutters in reply. 

Something lugubrious tingles up your spine as you have the slight urge to press him for an explanation. You bite that urge away as he folds up the envelope and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, not even bothering to count the cash. Your gaze finally breaks away from him as you glance back down at your hands. They’re almost fully healed—nothng but faint scars and scabs now. You untangle the string from your fingers as you begin to wind it up, hopeful that he’ll leave soon after this interrogation. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it was all one big misunderstanding. No use in getting worked up over it, babe,” he sighs. A pause follows his words, one that’s interrupted by the quiet giggling of the child still playing on his mother’s phone as she folds clothes somewhere to your right. “Still, some damage was done. Andrei’s been an annoying fuck ever since the altercation. As much as I would love to let you get off easy, it doesn’t really look too good if I’m letting some sweet, pretty thing walk all over me, now does it?”

Your eyes flutter shut as he speaks, and you attempt to mentally prepare yourself for whatever blow he’s about to deal. Of course it was naive to think you’d get out of this easily. Really, you were prepared to be hurt in some type of way from the moment you stepped foot in the laundromat. All you wanted to do was throw Marco off of Simon’s trail—to not drag someone innocent into this mess—and though it feels like you’ve succeeded for now, you’re not quite sure you even accomplished that much. 

“It doesn’t,” you pitifully agree.

Marco smirks. “Because of that, your monthly payments will be increased by five hundred starting next month. That ought to be enough.”

The very blood coursing through your veins turns to ice, and tears blur your vision as you try to make sense of his words. Five hundred. A brutal panic wreaks havoc in your chest. You want to sob, and scream, and thrash with frustration but his hand is still on your arm, keeping you chained to him. Gluttonous fingers stain your skin and his leg is still pressed against yours, and you can feel the disgusting warmth of his body and you can’t—you can’t. You want to rage, but you’re cornered and trapped, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

“B-But that’s… that’s fifteen hundred a month, I… I’ve hardly- I can’t make that.” 

You’re crying now, and you hate it. You hate how weak and pathetic you are. You hate how you have no other choice but to be this way—malluable like molten metal and just as brittle. White hot tears cook your cheeks as they travel down your face, and you’re trying your best not to hiccup. Suddenly, you’re a kid all over again. Fawning, trying not to flinch as his hand reaches for your jaw to turn your face to him. His breath smells minty as it fans across the wet streaks on your face—he’s so close you can almost taste the menthol. There’s a small frown on his lips, something that almost looks sincere. 

Almost. His eyes are too hungry for it to be real. 

“Look at you,” he shushes. One hand moves up to cup your cheek while the other stays steady and firm around your shoulders. His thumb caresses your face, catching the briny tears and pushing them to the side. “Getting all upset over this? If it means that much to you, we can always negotiate lower, babe.” 

It takes an eternity for his lips to meet yours, and once they do, everything freezes. The only thing you can comprehend is the ringing in your ears and the warm shame on your skin. It’s degrading. Humiliating. A terrible reminder that you’ve never really belonged to yourself—that you’ve never belonged to anyone or anything but him. 

Things get worse when his tongue pushes past your lips. Everything becomes overwhelming—the washers and dryers, the video on that damn phone, Marco’s slight moan against your skin. You make a pitiful attempt to fight back by pressing your hands on his chest, but you’re met with harsh resistance and rigid muscle. He pulls you closer, holding you tight like a coiling snake. 

Something in you demands blood. You feel obligated to bite down, to sink your teeth into his tongue until the mint in your mouth is replaced with iron and copper. When you were a kid, your dad had taught you how to throw a punch. You wonder what he would think if he saw you like this. Sniveling and too afraid to fight back. 

Once he’s had his fill of your fear, Marco pulls away, but you still can’t breathe. He continues to wipe more tears from your face as if he can’t comprehend why they’re flowing in the first place. 

“For that, we’ll drop it down to only two fifty,” he whispers. He places another kiss against your lips—something chaste and quick. “Unless… you wanna take me up on that deal?” 

“N-No,” you stutter, then sniff. “I’ll get you the money.” 

Humming, Marco finally releases you as he stands to his feet. He looks down at you with a self-satisfied smirk as he gently kicks the side of your foot. “See you next month, babe.” 

Marco leaves just how he arrived—with a gust of bitter, algid wind. He’s taken something from you that you won’t get back, and it’s left you feeling empty on that bench. So void, so barren of anything that you can’t even bring yourself to move. All you can do is sit there and curse yourself for being just as worthless now as you were the day when you first got yourself stuck in this mess. 

Shuffling sounds on your right, and you nearly jump out of your skin as you look up at the source. It’s that lady and her son. You’d nearly forgotten about them. A small basket of neatly folded clothes sits on her hip as she holds the boy’s hand to lead him out of the laundromat. Her face twists with disgust, like she can smell every single sin that’s ever been forced upon you. As if you are at fault for the grotesque display of affection you were made to endure. 

As if the gaping hole in your chest is your fault. 

As she exits, you try not to think about why she didn’t help you. If anything, you’re grateful for it. No more favors. No random acts of kindness. It never turns out well. No good deed ever goes unpunished. 

Instead, you rise to your feet a few minutes later once you’re able to stitch yourself back together. Wiping your face clean, you brave the cold streets of London as you take the transit back home. You swear to yourself that the moment you step foot in your apartment, you’ll rinse your mouth clean until even the thought of Marco is gone. Then, you’ll call Sapori to see if you can pick up an extra shift.

This is how your life was always going to go—you’ve known this whole time. Pathetically slow, time wasted away at work trying to scrounge up enough cash to keep yourself alive. To pay for the right to continue to draw breath. You think of Marco’s scheming words—his terrible offer that he keeps attempting to shove down your throat—and you try not to squirm in your seat on the bus. 

Maybe one day you won’t have any choice but to endure his whims, but for now you’re content on working until your hands bleed.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[1byhwng]

“You’re so ambitious for a juvenile.” — bangchan

The soft hum of the city outside is a stark contrast to the silence that fills your mind. The café is quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, the clinking of cups and low murmurs of conversation all that remains of a world you once felt part of. You sit at a small table, your coffee going cold, staring out at the bustling street as if it holds the answers you’ve been yearning and searching for.

"Slow down, you’re doing fine. You can’t be everything you want to be before your time," the song drifts softly from the cafe’s speakers. You let it wash over you, the simple words echoing inside your chest, reminding you of how far you've come—how much you’ve pushed yourself to be something, anything, other than just… you.

"You’re so ambitious for a juvenile," the words hang in the air, and you feel a tug at your heart. All this ambition, all these dreams. But for what? You feel the weight of your constant striving, as if you’re chasing something that’s always just out of reach.

You’re not sure when it happened, but the lightness you once carried in your chest has slowly morphed into a weight. Somewhere along the way, you stopped living for yourself and started living for the next task, the next project, the next expectation. Each day feels like it’s defined by the things you need to do, the things you should do. And the dream of Vienna, something you’d always pushed to the back of your mind, has somehow become a distant hope—a place to breathe, to be free, to just… stop.

But just as you're lost in the silence, the door to the café opens, and a new presence walks in.

A man, about your age, with dark hair, wearing a worn leather jacket and an easy, effortless style that makes him stand out immediately in the crowd. There’s something magnetic about him. He moves with a kind of quiet confidence, the opposite of the frantic energy you’ve become accustomed to. You glance up for just a moment, your eyes meeting his, and you quickly look away, your heartbeat suddenly a little too fast. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does, but if he does, he doesn’t make it obvious.

He orders a drink, and you try to go back to your coffee, but your gaze keeps drifting back to him, as if something pulls you in without you even meaning it. He sits at the table next to yours, his attention on the book in front of him, his eyes moving across the pages with that same quiet intensity that makes him so intriguing.

You’re not sure why, but after a few moments, you feel the sudden urge to speak, to bridge the gap between the silence.

"Do you always drink your coffee this slowly?" His voice is calm, soft, with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You blink, caught off guard by his question. "I—uh—just needed a moment," you reply, unsure why you’ve opened up so easily. There’s something about him, something in the way he listens without judgment, that makes you feel at ease. You can almost feel the tension leaving your shoulders just by speaking to him.

He laughs softly, and the sound is warm, genuine. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’ve known him longer than just a few seconds. "I get that," he says. "Sometimes, it feels like the world’s moving a bit too fast, doesn’t it?"

You nod, surprised at how easily the words spill from your lips. "Yeah, exactly. Like you’re always running and never actually getting anywhere. Then you feel the stress and you..” The honesty surprises you, but with him, it feels natural. Safe. “Shut down?” He finishes, letting out a low chuckle.

He studies you for a moment, as if seeing something deeper than just your words. "I’m Christopher," he says, his voice steady but with a slight hint of curiosity. "But you can call me Chan."

"Chan," you repeat, testing the name on your tongue. It feels right. "I’m… well, I’m just… me." You offer a half-smile, realizing how vague and cryptic that sounds. "I guess that’s all I’ve got."

"Just you," he echoes, a knowing look in his eyes. "That’s the most important thing to be, don’t you think?"

His words hang in the air, settling over you. There’s a kind of simplicity in them, a truth you’ve been too busy to see. It’s almost laughable how long it’s been since you allowed yourself to just be—without expectations, without chasing, without trying to be someone you thought you had to be.

The conversation continues, light at first, a back-and-forth exchange about the usual—work, life in the city, and the oddities of living in a world that feels like it’s always in motion. But as you talk to Chan, you begin to notice how he listens—not just with his ears, but with his whole being. His eyes never stray, and there’s a focus in his gaze that makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the room. It’s rare, almost disarming.

As the days pass, the interactions become more frequent. You both find yourselves at the café at similar times, almost like clockwork. At first, it’s the occasional exchange of pleasantries—a smile, a hello, the occasional comment about the weather or the coffee. But soon, the conversations deepen. You talk about everything—your hopes, your fears, your frustrations about feeling stuck, the pressure you put on yourself. And as the moments stretch, you start to see something in him, something beyond the easy smile and the casual conversation.

There’s a warmth there, something genuine, but also a quiet sadness, a weight in his eyes that mirrors your own. You wonder if he, too, has been running—chasing something, anything.

One afternoon, it’s just the two of you at the café, the rain pouring heavily outside. It’s colder than usual, and the lights inside are dim, casting soft shadows across the room. The conversation meanders through a variety of topics before settling into a comfortable silence. The only sound is the soft patter of the rain against the windows, a backdrop to the quiet understanding between the two of you.

"I don’t know what it is about this place," you finally say, breaking the silence. "But every time I come here, I feel like I can think. Like I can finally stop pretending to be something I’m not."

Chan looks at you, his gaze soft, understanding. "Maybe that's because this place doesn't expect anything from you. You don’t have to prove anything here."

You nod slowly, letting his words settle over you. It’s true. For the first time in so long, you don’t feel the pressure to be anything but who you are. The ambition, the drive—it all feels a little less important in this moment, when you’re simply being.

"I’ve been thinking about something," you admit, your voice quiet. "I’ve been running so hard, trying to build something, trying to be something, but I don’t even know why anymore."

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still. He’s not rushing, not pushing, just waiting for you to figure it out on your own.

"Maybe," he says gently, "it’s time to stop running."

And in that moment, you realize—you don’t have to run anymore. You don’t have to be anyone but who you are. The idea of just being, just existing, feels like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You’re not sure when it happened, but you realize you’ve been falling. Falling in small, quiet moments—over shared laughter, in the way he listens to your thoughts without judgment, in the way he makes you feel like it’s okay to just be.

And when Chan catches your gaze, his eyes soft but searching, you wonder if he feels it too. The moment stretches, fragile and delicate, and you know deep down, this is just the beginning of something new. something good?

[beef-brisket]

((Just so everyone knows, Abel, Charlie, and Alastor are around the same age. So, about 15-16))

As the last bell of the school day rung, all the students and teachers bolted out of school, ready to start their summer vacation.

Alastor's smile did little to hide his contempt for fellow students.

He never understood why his mother stayed in this hick town. How is he meant to work towards being on the radio if he was trapped here until he's eighteen?

Standing on the last step, Alastor watched as the school yard emptied, and students walked off.

Rolling his eyes, he decided to walk around the school. He still had twenty minutes before his mother came to pick him up.

Alastor: I loath this damn town.

Looking out into the woods, he wished he could run away, but there was nothing worth wile in running away distance.

Walking towards the forest, Alastor decided to sit and wait. It was better to hide just in case someone from his school saw him waiting.

Dropping his bag on the ground, Alastor sits down on the gass and crosses his legs. Suddenly, he felt a dip in the ground, some dirt giving way.

Alastor: The hell?

Sitting on his knees, facing the dip in the ground, Alastor started to dig. He usually hated getting his hands dirty, but he had a strange feeling about this. Like something important was hidden here.

After dirtying his hands and sleeved, his fingers finally hit something hard.

Alastor: There you are... let's see what we have here.

Pulling out an old looking velvet bag, he started to unwrap it and gasped when he saw the spine of a thick, leather book.

Taking it out of the bag, Alastor ran his hand over the sigil on the front.

Alastor: A hand with six fingers... the number two... what does this mean...?

As he flicked through the book, Alastor's interest was doubled as he saw the detailed drawings and paragraphs about strange happenings and creatures.

Alastor: Amazing... maybe this place isn't as boring as I thought...

Falling for the Dream Demon

@adambrainrot I blame you lol I hope you like it.

-

Adam had always been brilliant, Lilith knew that her brother was going to do great things one day like find life on another planet or find the cure to cancer. She was always in awe of him when he would speak with such high intelligence that sometimes she got lost in what he was actually saying.

They were twins, bound together by blood and have always been close. She always looked out for her nerdy little brother and wouldn't let anyone hurt him.

Except, as they got older, she was the one to hurt him. Not physically, but when they were in senior year of high school together Adam was being offered scholarships left and right from schools all around the country and the one he wanted the most would take him over seas.

Lilith let her jealousy get the best of her and ruined his chances by messing with his project.

Adam, being the genius he was knew it was her.

It wrecked their relationship and he never forgave her.

Adam slammed his car door shut and stomped away to get into the driver's seat.

"Adam come on, I said I was sorry" Lilith was leaning on his car and he all but pushed her away.

Adam glared at her "I don't care about you watered down apology, Lilith, do you have any idea what your childish tomfoolery has cost me?"

She didn't understand why he had to talk like he was 80. "You still got into your second choice! That's good right?"

Adam got into his car and gripped the steering wheel, his 12 fingers nearly turning white from the amount of rage he felt. "You just don't get it and you never will." He's never held his sisters lack of intellect against her, not everyone could be a genius like him, but in this moment he couldn't believe how stupid she was.

Lilith felt her chest get tight, she didn't like this. "Addie please......"

"No, I'm going to follow my dream and no one, not even you will stop me." He's already said goodbye to their mother and father. He doesn't need to be here anymore.

Before she could say another word Adam sped off into the distance, leaving his old life behind.

-

As the years went by Adam got three PhDs and a doctorate, he wanted to major in the anomalies of the world and there seemed to be a huge influx of them in this place named Gravity Falls.

He bought a cabin in the woods to live in and work in.

That's where he met the woman that would help him with his study, Dr. Eve Gardener.

Adam decided to keep a log of journals to keep track of everything he found. He's always been different with no one understanding him.

But being a genius and having someone who's brilliant to help him can only get him so far. He's hit a dead end in where everything comes from.

"What can I do?" Adam mused to himself as he tapped the pen on his journal. So far him and Eve have only found gnomes that talk and throw up rainbows.

He decided to go to the library to find anything that might help him. That's when he came across a book on demons.

Dream demons.

-

Adam had everything set up, maybe he was desperate and wanted to make things work so badly and obtain materials for his research.

Adam took a deep breath, "No turning back now." He spoke the spell that made the pentagram on the floor glow a bright red. From the glow stood a man in a white suit and top hat, short in height but that didn't matter. His face shrouded in mystery from the shadow of the brim of his hat concealing his face. When he looked up his eyes were red and yellow glowing brightly.

"Well hello there.~" The demon spoke smoothly, his voice deep. "And who might you be?"

Adam couldn't believe this actually worked. "My name is Dr. Adam Kadmon, I...... Who are you?"

"The name is Lucifer Morningstar! At your service handsome! Now, I assume you've brought me here for a reason?" Lucifer grinned and tipped his hat to Adam, winking.

Oh, so the demon is a flirt. Wonderful. Adam felt his smoldering gaze on him, it was intense and he..... Weirdly didn't hate it.

"I'm doing research about Gravity Falls and..... I've come to a bit of a stand still." Adam set the book down never taking his eyes off the demon.

Lucifer smiled so wide, showing off all of his pearly white sharp teeth. "Oh of course! I can help you with anything, whatever your heart desires I can give it to you Adam. You want to be rich, have great power, or even unlock the secrets of the universe I can give it to you! But, you have to give me something in return."

"Oh?"

"Yes! You can't get something for nothing you know.~" Lucifer practically purred, he leaned on his cain as he looked the human up and down.

Adam shifted on his feet, if this demon was telling the truth then anything would be worth it. "What would you want?"

Lucifer hummed, "All I ask, is that you let me into your mind, body, and soul.~"

"My s-soul?" That..... Sounds like a huge deal.

"Yes! How else am I going to be able to supply you with everything you need and secure everything you've ever wanted?~ I'm not asking you to give it to me, not completely. What do you say? We have a deal?~"

Lucifer held out his hand, it was gloves in leather and erupted in a red flame.

Everything Adam ever wanted was being given to him on a silver platter and even though he shouldn't he wanted it more. It could be years before he makes a breakthrough and he didn't want to waste his time chasing his tail.

Adam gripped Lucifer's hand, surprised that it didn't hurt when the flame surrounded his as well. He yelped when Lucifer pulled him in and dipped him.

Lucifer was smiling but it was far from innocent. "All demon deals are sealed with a kiss.~" He captured Adam's lips in a kiss, the scientist felt like his face was a flame and his heart started to pound in his chest.

He liked it, but why?

-

Lucifer kept his word and helped Adam discover all the secrets and knowledge that he was promised.

Adam recorded everything in his journal and it got to be to the point where he ended up with three of them he learned so much.

-

"You didn't forget your end of the deal did you Adam?"

"Of course not Luci."

Those nights that they had grown closer and had partaken in sins of the flesh. He let Lucifer ravish his mind and body anyway he wanted.

He never wanted to let his demon go.

-

Lucifer wants him to build a portal, he didn't see a problem with it. Surely Eve will love to help him.

-

"Eve!?" Adam cried out, he had secured himself to the floor with rope. Eve didn't get the chance as the portal turned on and nearly sucked her in, her foot caught on rope.

She screamed at everything she saw on the other side. Adam pulled her back and turned it off.

Eve was shaking and talking backwards? "Eve?" He reached out for her and she screamed.

"You have to destroy that thing! It's not safe!"

"What!? But it's my life work!"

Eve looked behind Adam and saw Lucifer standing there and her blood ran cold. She couldn't do this anymore!! "I'm sorry Adam! I-I-I can't do this!" She got up and ran out, Adam called for her but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

-

Lilith made the journey to Adam's cabin in the snow. She had to see her brother. Knowing on the door Adam answered shocked to see his sister of all people. "Why are you here?"

"..... Mom died."

That got her in the door to stay for the night, Adam cried for the loss of their mom. But that didn't mean everything was smooth sailing between them.

But still, he showed her his work.

In the basement she marveled at the portal. "What's the big red button do?"

Adam's eyes went wide, "Lilith don't!"

But she hit the button, ever curious. The portal turned on and it sucked Adam inside.

"ADAM!!!"

The portal malfunctioned and black smoke came from it turning it off nearly exploding it. Lilith stared in disbelief, what the fuck had she just done?

-

Adam looked around panicked, he had never been in here before and he didn't know if he could leave.

A gloved hand gripped his chin and Lucifer smiled at him. "Welcome home darling.~"

[97luvs]

he’s so gorgeous.

[mechazushi]

So, this isn't so much an "Incorrect Quotes"...

So much as an "I have a vision, but I'm not an artist so I have to settle for writing it out and hope someone understands what I'm picturing."

For starters, ya'll know about the artist trend of putting your OC's or favorite characters in a specific dress...

ya know... this one⬇

Yeah, just...ALL of Division Three. And I mean all + Narumi. Here how it sounds in my head. (Its more of a comic? It's just mostly dialogue than anything and they're just standing in a line talking to each other.) {And keep in mind....THEY ARE ALL WEARING THE DRESS AS THEY SAY THIS. ITS 90% OF THE JOKE}

Mina: When I said I was nervous about my first promotional modeling gig for Vogue, That didn't mean it was an open invitation to come out here and.... "Support me".

Kafka: Come on. This can't be any more embarrassing than that time you caught me in the sexy lingerie I was wearing for my high school prank.

Hoshina: *In air, eyes glowing woke spartan style, mid assassin strike aimed at Kafka with a training sword, ALSO IN THE DRESS* pics or it didn't happen-

Reno: Look. We're here, we showed up in the dress, can we leave now? I'm getting cold in places I don't want to be cold.

Iharu: Aww, come on! You look dashing! Few more pics! *Somehow managed to convince the photographer to take the shot of them*

Haruichi: The fact that you're filling this out better than me is disturbing.

Aoi:*Trying not to let his blush show* Are the lights getting to you because you're talking bullshit.

Minase: Oh my God! KIKORU!!!! You look amazing!!!

Kikoru:*embarrassed* Minassseee.... I-I'm with Reno. Can we change into our work jumpers now?

Hakua: Hey, can I take this one home? Makin' me feel hella confident right now. *Starts a gun show in front of a mirror.*

Narumi: *In front of the same mirror Hakua is in, serving cunt and taking selfies* Honestly, ya'll should just put me on the cover instead of Mina cuz' I'm pulling this off way better than her in the moment.

I also like to imagine that instead of Mina on the cover... It's Kafka in Kaiju form in the dress. The glowing abs would absolutely be visible as well....

[pipskippy]

reading dungeon meshi for the first time wheeeeeeee!!!!

[theinfinitedivides]

rewatched the Rebel MV for like the 987638638268290th time (bc Reasons) and like. just curious Cassies and i want to hear your takes on this what is with the focus on Yunho's left side. we know that's the side he gets cut on when he and Changmin break out of what i'm assuming was the mutant testing chamber but the skin basically regenerates itself there so that didn't last long. we know that's also the side that had some kind of reaction going on with the glowing vein pattern in that one shot when he looks up at the camera. he walks out of frame earlier (during the first chorus) with that side being the last thing we see. the dancers resurrect in the reverse shot and it's shot from that side, with most of his face hidden by the shadow of the cap. towards the end when he and Changmin are walking next to each other through the hooded Gottasadae meets Face ID(?)-esque crowd like the f*cking power couple they are tyvm we zoom in on that side again. someone explain to me what is going on here Changmin gets struck by lightning multiple times possibly levitated has his face glowing like he's been in the Old Testament and seen God (Moses ref????) meanwhile Yunho just seethes. figuratively, ofc, and serves c*nt while he's at it, but still