#the atom x reader

[akariamai]

Sunshine

Pairing: Ray Palmer x FutureSoldier!Reader

Word Count: 793

He was the personification of sunshine itself. A man seemingly untouched by the evils of the world with the ability to carry on with such merriness. You envied him. All that surrounded you was darkness and misery. It covers you like a favorite blanket on a cold winter night. The darkness acted as your lifeline because you had nothing else to keep you afloat from the somber abyss you’re exceedingly close to suffocating into. Your nightmares and memories tormented you every single day.

You found yourself watching him tinker with one of his projects. Schematics and a variety of familiar tools covered almost every inch of his workspace. All within reaching distance if he urgently required it. “How do you do it?” It was a question you wondered about since your first meeting. The endless optimism radiated off of his figure like the rays of the sun. A, rather large and muscular, ball of sunshine. 

Once he finished screwing the screw, he looked up into your eyes, face contorting in confusion, “Do what?” It was a very open question and he had no idea what you were referring to. He did not want to bore you to death with the mechanics of the machine he was building in case it was not prevalent to your question. Nor did he want to confuse you even more with the logistics and probability of his machine functioning.

“Your eyes,” You began, “they show loss and heartbreak and yet you are contempt and happy. How do you do it? Staying happy when the darkness knocks on your door.” You both come from different times. He was born and raised into a time with a false security of peace. So fragile it's just waiting to shatter with a push of a button. You were raised in a time of death, war and disease. You’ve seen cities crumble into nothing but ashes. Family and friends perish operating as pawns for someone else’s game.

The team, with the exception of Gideon, was aware of the bare scraps of your past. They did not need to bear the burdens of the future that was set in stone. They did not need to hear the horrific truths of what lies ahead for humanity. That happiness came and went in an instant. Only misery and death lingered on the outskirts of the horizon.

He scrunched his eyebrows together, pondering over his answer thoughtfully. He had no true answer to your question, only speculation and even so you might not find what you intend with said hypothesis. “Admittedly, there’s not much to say. It can be the type of mindset I try to instill within myself. The experience one goes through can remarkably impact one’s frame of mind and outlook on life. While I have had my share of…” He paused for a brief moment, “distressing moments, I wholeheartedly accredit my perspective of life to those moments. Why do you ask?”

 “I’ve never met someone like you. Someone who genuinely cares about others with no ulterior motive. It’s…” You huffed before continuing, “unheard of to be as happy as you’ve shown since I arrived.” There was no place for kindness in war. Merely acceptance of the violence that loomed out into the abyss of politics and billionaires.

An unfamiliar emotion rippled within the drift of what laid ahead for humanity. You had not specified in the horrors you and the rest of your time had faced but Ray was not senseless. There was a slight anguish to your inquiry, a ghastly tragedy harrowing into your soul. It was prominent in the approach you chose to express. Heartbreaking. “I’m not that special. I’m sure there were plenty of people like me that you haven’t met.”

You were thankful that he was not born in your time. He surely would not survive. Whether it is the disease to end him or the unspeakable conviction of war. You were but a number. An asset. You were not special in any accent of the word. You were a soldier. Breathed and trained to be a mindless killing machine. A pawn for someone else to control. Given pretty lies, in all shapes and sizes, to diminish the guilt that ultimately dwelled in your psyche. All in the name of peace. But peace in itself is fragile. True peace was all but a false belief. It would continue to be so as long as greed and power triumphed over appointed leaders. 

You shook your head, “I don’t believe so. You’re too good for my time.” That kindness would dwindle down into nothingness. The extermination of human life was not for the kindhearted and Ray, in all his goodness, did not need to know the long lasting aftermath of doing so.

Masterlist

[sky-is-the-limit]

[sstrwbrryccke]

— bullying him | sub choi soobin

part 2 | part 3 | part 4

tags: mean reader, bullying, dacryphilia, perv soobin, humiliation, public fondling??, somewhat nonconsensual

yes this is the third time im reposting this drabble because i accidentally deleted it three times 💀

another hard thought because i can’t stop thinking about a school au where you bully the studious and nerdy soobin!! its just sooo unlucky for him to sit right next to you, where you torment him almost daily. he keeps his gaze down on his book as you shove him against the locker (high school tv show style).

he spends most of the time quiet, never retorting back to you. It was almost irritating to you and your bully friends at a certain point because he almost never reacted to your taunts. just his bunny eyes occasionally making eye contact with you before he quickly lowers his gaze. what did it take to break this guy? your friends egg you on to increase the intensity, and you started to seek him out intentionally.

just as lunch break started, when all the students have left the classrooms, he was putting back his books into his locker. you walk up to him, making sure the vicinity was empty before you push him against the locker like always. but this time you kept going, trapping him in-between your arms and berating him about anything from his clothes to his hairstyle. he doesn’t respond once again, but with the close proximity you can see the blush on his cheeks, and when you looked down, you saw his thighs clenched tightly together.

oh… so that’s what was happening all this time? you feel a grin coming up as you shove your leg in-between his, exposing his hard-on. this time he does react, sputtering out panicked sentences and trying to hide himself. you found his weakness, and it was you. this newfound power spurs you on and you lean into his ear, whispering how much of a pervert he was to get off on getting tormented, how you could feel how hard his small cock was against your knee. he was petrified, not only was his secret exposed, but it was exposed to his biggest bully nevertheless. the worst part? he was getting harder.

you could tell he was a virgin with the way he swallowed his spit, eyes tearing up in embarrassment and body frozen in place from sheer humiliation. it only takes a little knee grinding and degradation in his ear to get him close. but that wasnt enough for you, you wanted to see him cry. so you whisper in his ear again, ordering him to jerk himself off in his pants. his breath hitches, gaze low as he takes a moment of consideration, and to your surprise, he obeys, shaky hand coming down to feel himself through his pants as he shyly tries to get himself off. tears fall from his eyes in humiliation and it was a few excruciating seconds. you finally decide to be nice and help him, your hand sticking down his pants to grasp at his cock sticky with precum. just the contact itself made him come into his pants, in the high school hallway. his eyes streaming with tears. before you know it, he quickly pushes you away and runs off to the bathroom.

and you found him, cute. really really fucking cute. the type of person you wanted to dominate and play with until he cried. so after school, you trap him again, though this time it wasn’t really trapping. because he willingly stopped for you, his gaze still low as you told him to follow you home. he obeyed, hands jittery and sweaty. when you get to your family’s rather well off house, you lead him to your bedroom, where he nervously asked you if you were going to do that again. and you grinned, asking if he was hoping for something. he stuttered again as you chuckle, before he meekly admitted yeah, he was. you feel your need to ravish this guy skyrocket and you push him onto your bed, roughly kissing him.

good thing tomorrow is a saturday, huh?

[sweaterrat]

I redrew that one really really old drawing but made it 10000 times better

[n3rdy247]

HELLOO!!

can i just get a john dory x female reader! headcanons!

john dory met while crashing the wedding and immediately started to flirt with dispite just meeting her. 🫣

THANK YOU!!

HIYAAA!! CAN YOU??? 🤔🤔🤔

girl be so fr OF COURSE YOU CAN!!!

ALL ABOAAAARD THE JOHN DORY X FEM!READER HCS!!!!! WOOOOOOOOO

Okay, so, you know the whole 'watching a cute, romantic ass wedding' plans everyone had for today? Just...watching two bergens have a nice, uninterrupted marriage?

"STOP THE WEDDING!!!"

well fuck those plans. ★ Starting off the bat, when he was literally parkouring his way down that building which just happened to be the MOMENT he noticed you from the crowd, he couldn't help but throw a wink your way right after (even though he had his goggles on, that stupid mf) which led to him face-planting to the floor because his ass was NOT paying attention to stick the landing. YIKES. ★ He also DOES notice when you are at the edge of your seat to hear what the hell is going on. Apparently, he was Branch's brother (figures since both are fine ash, MUST be in the genetics), he was in a band, and his other hot brother was in danger?

remember the wedding? yeah me neither atp

★ He can't help but steal occasional glances at you when the others talk, and when he does, his smile almost seems to widen, even if it's just for a split second. He just saw you, yet look at you go! Making him all giddy and shit inside 🤭 ★ And whenever Poppy and Branch turn their backs to discuss the whole situation, you just KNOW he would be smirking at you with a smug-ass grin, trying to strike up a conversation. Keyword? TRYING.

"Soo...come here often?" lord almighty sir THIS IS A WEDDING.

"Damn, I could really go out for some fresh air right now, because I think you took my breath away." SIR WE ARE OUTSIDE WHAT

Needless to say, this man does NOT know how to strike up a convo.

★ If you do end up getting flustered about his horrendous pick-up lines somehow, he will be so fucking proud of himself for getting a reaction out of you, and WILL keep going at it. What a charmer. (Unless you are uncomfortable with that of course, he might not know how to talk to people, but he has human (troll???) decency.) ★ I'm talking him leaning slightly closer to you with half-lidded eyes, a huge smirk plastered on his face as his voice gets lower and lower, though internally I feel like he'd be going 'LET'S FUCKING GOOOO I STILL GOT IT' since he would be a bit unsure if he was doing well in the first place. It's probably been years since he had any sort of interaction with anyone other than Rhonda so it's understandable. ★ Not to mention BROZONE. MY GOD. If you know about his band? NICE! If you don't know anything about it? NICE! Either way, this man will absolutely brag about it to you. Even if it has been AT LEAST 20 YEARS. He will absolutely talk about 'the good old days' as if it was just yesterday. Bro would probably talk about how he wrote the hits "Girl Baby Baby" and "Baby Baby Girl" on the same day. ★And who knows? Maybe at the end of the wedding when sadly he has to go to save his brother with Branch and Poppy, you'll end up getting a way to contact him after the whole thing ends. You will see him sooner than you think, that's for sure though!

(please keep in mind this is the first time I've written any serious headcanons like these and not just stuff like 'he would be a great hugger' or 'he was a 7.5-inch haver 🤯🤯🤯')

GRAAAGH I'M STILL SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE THIS THOUGH, I STILL HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT EVEN IF IT IS SHORT AS HELL

[megantheestallion-ismypresident]

I need Bill skarsgård x reader asap please someone make fanfic of him I swear to god,He's so fine. I need more fanfics of this man in real life and his characters that he plays like I'm begging 😭 😩 😫 🙏

[supercap2319]

"Hey, Tony? What kind of insurance do you have?" Y/N asked over the phone.

"Why? What did you do? Who was it this time?" Tony asked.

"What makes you think it was someone?"

"Was it Al? Did he destroy the building again by growing too big? Or was it Billy "shazaming" all around the apartment? Or maybe Jaime blasted the building once again?"

"No, it was me. I was trying to figure out how to get Peter off the ceiling with a spell, and it all blew up in my face. Literally."

Tony sighed. "How is it you five cause more damage than Thor and Hulk?"

[the-sanest-person-here]

mark grayson and clark kent are my boyfriends

[yeyinde]

This might sound so cringe and cliche, but I wanna be of help in some way-

how about price faking injuries to see a specific nurse he has a crush on but won’t admit.

Cringe and cliche are quite on brand for me, tbh.

It starts as a concussion, a stiffness in his neck. A pinch in his shoulder. 

Then it changes shape, shifting, evolving, into something more. A tenuous dance held together by silken threads. He tugs on the ends sometimes, just to watch little pieces of you begin to unravel. Raw skin, untouched and new bared to his curious eyes. 

You’ve thrown him off-kilter, left him feeling strange. All asunder. 

He shouldn’t be too surprised by the way you unmoor him so easily. Your eyes swallow the atmosphere around him, eating through gravity. Weightless, he’s left to drift in the aether until you snatch him from the air, leaving him wing-clipped, and kept cupped in the soft swells of your palm. 

It’s greed, he thinks. That awful little thing that makes him keep coming back for more.

The helicopter crash did a number of things on him—mild concussion, a fractured rib, sprained wrist; it seemed to have flipped his insides all askew for a moment when he plunged to the earth before somehow righting themselves when he'd landed—but in retrospect, hindsight, whatever, it could have been a lot worst. 

A fact Gaz seemed to have picked up on quicker than he had when they'd met in the medical bay together, holding their broken bodies with trembling hands. 

(Or maybe threaded together by a statuette of Nefertem laced in the fibres of their hearts.)

"What's this now," Gaz asked when he limped in, knee smarting without the surge of adrenaline keeping him upright. Mirth rolling through his teeth, ge offered Price a fractured grin that very likely might have been a grimace. "Two for two? Might be a sign, cap…"

"A sign for what?"

Gaz shrugged, pressing tender fingers against the gash on his forehead. "Stay the fuck out of helicopters. Take the bloody bus instead."

There's a retort in the back of his throat, but it's swallowed when you walk in, hands gripping a medical bag between blanching knuckles. He's closest to the door, and you turn to him with an air of pensive uncertainty that nudges the spot inside of him that preens under authority. That likes law, order, and the simplicity of life. A natural-born leader. He plays the part, of commander and captain, and dips his head toward Gaz, a silent motion meant to convey him first. 

The always in that is ironclad, he thinks. Brassbound. Even if he was bleeding out on the pavement. His men, his boys, first. 

Except, he catches Gaz doing the same thing toward him. A stalemate, then. 

You're new, he notes; ears still wet, face still green. He braces himself to step in, to lay down the authority you need before you flounder, unsure what to do, but instead of being met with uncertainty, he finds himself breathing in your ire. 

"Well, heroes," you snip, brow pinching together in displeasure. "One of you has to go first, don't you? So while I put my stuff on the table, I expect you to have figured it out amongst yourself, yeah?"

And it's—

It's something. 

A strand of static in the air. Direct current to his heart. It thuds in a strange murmuration, off rhythm, off balance. But it makes sense. You'd thrown him so wildly off kilter. 

He clears his throat of the soot that congeals the back, and nods once. Sharp and jerky. 

"Right, yeah…" 

Price turns to Gaz, brows pinched in the middle. A messy bow. 

It isn't like him to be so askew, but you turned everything upside down before he could familiarise himself with the world in its right state. He's adrift for a moment. Floundering, he notes, tasting something sweet behind his teeth. 

Gaz meets his eyes somewhere in the fog, the furrow in his brow asking the questions he won't voice aloud—you alright, cap?—but he isn't sure what he's meant to say. Everything feels like it was knocked loose inside of him, left to roll off shelves and clatter to the floor. Disorganised chaos. Awash. Lost in tangled webs. He isn't used to this. To feeling so useless, so askew. 

He later finds it just the concussion warping the edges of his mind, turning his thoughts into a slurry. That the mild part was an oversight, one that was immediately corrected by you—firm fingers holding his chin still, nails scratching against his beard as you peered into his eyes with a clinical air of detachment that shouldn't have made his heart beat as loud as it was. 

You smell of summer rain. The musk of water on a hot pavement. He breathes it in until it's clogging the back of his throat, so thick he can almost taste it. So heavy, so heady, his head swims. Ozone. Charred wood. War tucked in a bottle.

The soft fingers against his pulse was a shock, made potent by the little curl of your brow when you counted the beats per minute and found they were much too fast. He isn't embarrassed. Doesn't think he has it in him anymore to feel that way, but there's a sense of frustration in the back of his mind as you move around him, commandeering him with an ease that leaves him feeling a little breathless. 

"You're concussed," you say at last, lips pitching downward as you read his charts, the scrawl left behind by the nurse who'd seen him earlier. The one who promptly sent him to you. "And it isn't mild."

With that, and a list of things he ought to do (non-negotiable), you send him on his way. Gaz, too. Fixed up with gauze and made shiny and new. 

Soap asks why he's so quiet later when they meet for a debriefing later on (one that he knows is definitely on the list of things you told him not to do), and has to stop the rip current from spilling past his lips. 

"He's concussed," Gaz supplied, narrowed eyes clipping the side of his face when it lands; a physical blow. "Doc said he needed rest. But good luck telling him that."

"Don't need rest," he grumbles. There's a blossom of pain in his temple. A little sapling that flourishes under the waning sunlight. "'M fine."

They don't believe him, but the debriefing is too short to push him to lay down, and he spends the next hour pretending he's not seeing shadows in his periphery. That the words on the pages don't bleed together. 

(That the scent of Petrichor doesn't glue to the back of his throat.)

When the hurt in his head dims, he finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Meek and unassuming. A wolf in sheep's clothing. It lingers long after the meeting has ended and he's ushered to the barracks for rest. Home tomorrow, Gaz promises on the tail end of yawn. Gonna sleep for a whole year, I think. 

Aye, gonna head home in the morning, Soap murmurs, but his eyes don't stray from the corner where Ghost leans, chin dipped low to his chest. 

(Price wouldn't put it past him to be asleep already.)

They tell him to get some sleep, dressing the worry in their voice as a friendly admonishment, and he takes it as it is. 

But rest doesn't come. 

He's curious about you. The little hellion that managed to snatch him clean from the air, and cup him in the palm of your too-small hands. 

(He wants to feel it again.)

It begins as idle curiosity.

Price is a large man full of bulk and grit. The snarls in his throat command authority, respect. He isn't used to feeling so wing clipped, sidelined, and he blames that on why he seeks you out. 

A pinch in his shoulder. His chest feels swollen around the broken rib. His knee hurts. There's an ache in his throat. A throb in his kidneys. 

Each time is met with the same stern expression, firm hands. You commandeer him around the room, dragging out the ailments with ease that always seems to leave him off-kilter and breathless. 

He realises what it is the fourth time he comes to your office, exacerbating some mild pain. 

You take up space. All of it. Any crevasse, or corner is immediately filled by you. You have this presence about you that is so at odds with the meek façade you carried on your countenance like an ill-fitting mask when he'd first laid eyes on you. 

You're an enigma, a paradox. A riddle begging to be solved. He wants to take you into his hands and pull you apart until your insides are bared to him, true and real, and known. 

He's met people like you in his lifetime. Leaders in roles that don't fit them. He thinks you belong in worn pages of history, tucked behind a desk as you commandeer the world around you with firm hands and a gnarled smile instead of standing before him, musing softly at whatever ailments he throws your way. 

Despite his plethora of issues, you tackle them all with an air of severity and seriousness that he finds kinship in, touching softly at the twined mass that writhes before him. The cuts in your gaze are made from the same shorn razor as his, and he wants to see what's behind that ill-fitting mask. 

He wants to see you slip. 

But you don't. 

Tongue between teeth, clenched so hard that blood blooms and swells in the tip, you keep everything locked tight to your chest, and usher him out with pantomime remedies to heal his farcical hurts. 

Price isn't sure why he keeps going—curiosity, maybe. An attraction that cracks like lightning striking through his chest. A gale of turbulence that leaves him seaswept and standing on shaking knees. He doesn’t know what to do with the kinetic energy that buzzes in his veins, begging to be free, and so he tests. Pulls and tugs at the seams that keep you spooled tightly together just to see that fissure that once split across your face, leaking fury and fire into the air until it ripped through his nerves, an electrical fire, and set him alight from the inside out. 

(He finds he likes the way it hurts.)

As much as he tugs, he finds he likes it when you pull back. 

"Should be careful," you coo, and the syrupy sweetness of your voice sparks against some dormant part of his mind. "You seem to have a lot of bad luck when it comes to ailments."

He shrugs. "Just unlucky."

"Or you're being cursed." 

"Oh, yeah?" He hums. "Could be." 

You offer a flimsy smile, but it’s enough to soothe the ruffle through his plumage. 

"What's your name?" He asks, fingers plucking at the gossamer that sits between you, unsettled by the quiver in his chest. 

The smile you flash at him is all teeth. "Sekhmet."

Laswell doesn't ask why when he requests your records, but he senses the confusion in her voice when she calls. 

"All of them?" 

He grunts in response. 

"I vetted them personally, John… but," there's a shuffle in the background. Boxes sliding on linoleum. She's overseeing the tearing up of Shepherd's office, and this minute request suddenly turns his stomach sour. "Fine. If that's what you want."

"It's just—"

He isn't quite sure what to say. He was weakened and flummoxed by the world around him. You turned the tipping axis on its head, leaving him feeling asunder. 

"Heard they were quite rough with you," she teases, an olive branch. An excuse. "Bossing around the boss. Is this what it's about?"

He scoffs, then, and only feels an inkling of pain. "No, Laswell. And I wasn't bossed around."

"Manhandled?"

It gives him pause. That feeling from before swells in his chest. Soft hands against his talons, clipping his wings. 

"No," he mutters, but the airiness of his voice gives him away. 

Laswell, in a feat of mercy, just hums. "They're good, John. Good for this team."

Good for you, she doesn't say. John thinks she doesn't have to. He hears it, anyway. 

There are cracks inside of him, ones made from the chipped clay that once concealed an unslaked black hole. 

You fill space, he thinks. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fill the gaps inside of him, too. 

He goes again, but this time it’s real. A bullet grazed his shin, deep enough to warrant stitches, and finds you waiting for him with that clipboard pinched between your hands. 

The look on your face gives him pause. It’s pulled taut, coiled like a defensive viper, but where he expects the same clinical efficiency and detached airs, he instead is met with a palpable sense of uncertainty—too much, he thinks, like the first time you walked into the room, unsure and wobbling on unsteady feet. 

His heart thunders under your prying gaze. “Need some stitches,” he says, if only to fill in the terse silence that settles over the room, hushed and aggrieved. 

“Right,” you echo, eyes dropping to the blood that runs in streaking rivulets down his leg. 

And you say nothing else after, working quietly as you knit skin back together and sponge the drying blood from the wry thatch of curls that blanket his shin. 

Price takes in the paleness of your lip, pinched tight against your clenched teeth. The deep ravine that cuts a line between your brows, heavy with shadows and flooded in some strange amalgamation of anger—potent enough that he can catch the embers in the air on his tongue—and this uncharacteristic sense of disquiet that makes your shoulders tense, your hands slacken. The firm, sure touch is gone—replaced, instead, with clouded unease—and you no longer commandeer him around the room, catch him from the air and manoeuvre him to your fanciful whims. You nudge, now. Soft utterances; requests. 

You don’t move space to fit yourself between the brackets. You linger in the periphery. 

He isn’t accustomed to this, and the hesitancy in your brow needles behind his ribs, pinching and pushing until he’s left feeling that same, strange sense of weightlessness as before. But where you led him around by the tip of his ears, he finds himself unmoored. 

(He likes the loss of control, but only when it’s tethered to your hand.)

His wound is patched up, skin knitted together with silken black lines that cut a neat crisscross through his tumid skin. There is no reason to linger, despite the weight on his tongue urging him to speak. 

But you strike first, catching him at the door. 

"Is there a problem?" You ask, words stripped bare, and masticated between clenched teeth. Reluctance is a heavy weight on your brow when he turns to you, as if you don't want to ask, but are compelled to. Forced to. 

It's the first time he's felt any sense of control around you. He stretches his wings. 

"Problem?" He echoes, and tucks his hands beneath his arms. Steadying his stance. Preparing for the fight. 

You mimic his pose, but grab the knobs of your elbows between tense fingers instead. There's fire in your eyes. The room fills with smoke. 

"You asked for my papers."

The meagre file tucked away in his cabinet spoke of your accomplishments in the same detached, clinical distance as one of the many façades you adopt. It listed your education, your former employment, and your accolades in Times New Roman, all standard affairs. Impressive, of course, but he found it all to be quite lacklustre. 

It didn't mention the firmness of your fingers when you take his pulse or commandeer him to your liking. It said nothing about the paralysing weight in your gaze, vipers tucked in the corners of your eyes when he meets your stolid authority with his own fiery wrath. 

(Or the softness of your cheeks when you try to hide a smile. The admonishing pinches made in jest when he says something that distracts you from your task.)

"I did."

"Okay," you breathe heavily through your nose. "Why?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?" 

"You just—" another breath. He has the peculiar urge to syphon the next directly from your lungs, to taste your air on his tongue. "You come here, week after week, with some—illness, and just—"

"Just what?"

"If you have a problem," you say at length, eyes flashing. "You could have come to me? One on one. I would have—"

"A problem?" He singles the word out, tossing it back at your teeth. “I don’t have a problem.”

You laugh, but it's scathing. "Are you undermining me? Is this—hazing?"

“Hazing? No,” he shakes his head, chasing the tail end of your derision. “Consider this vetting.”

And there it is—that fissure. Heat pops from the lavascape, spilling down the split of your lips. 

“Right.” You snip, shaking your head. “Well, I hope I met your expectations, Price.”

He huffs, then. The noise is a broken facsimile of a laugh forced through crooked teeth. “Of course you do.” The pinch in your brow wobbles. “Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, love.”

He rents the air with his admission, splits the seams of this tenuous dance you make each week he shows up, speaking of some phantom pain ripped the pages of the textbooks that sit, worn and well-loved, on the shelves behind your desk. 

You say nothing when he leaves. 

(Or when he rests a piece of himself on the doorframe—a glossy feather from his primary remiges just for you.)

He doesn’t go for the next three weeks, but it isn’t cowardice that drags him away from this oddly shaped choreography. He’s caught in a storm halfway across the world with sand in his hair, and the curve of your confusion nudged between the fibrils of his chest. 

In the softness of night, he wonders what you've done with his clipped feather. 

Price meets you at the beginning, but this time, he stands in the medical bay with firm knees, and a clear head. Searching, seeking. 

The thread vibrates, and he finds you with your back to him, doling out gentle, firm, commands to the medical staff congregated around you. Clinging to your breathy orders with the same listless uncertainty that makes his chest swell with the urge to lead whenever it's rested on his shoulders. 

He isn't sure if you can feel the reverberations through the thread, the leftover sutures from when you weaved a needle over the cut on his forearm, and accidentally sewed a piece of yourself into his skin, or if it's just the heavy weight of his gaze burning brands into your back that draws your attention. 

(It certainly garners enough from the staff around you, their flighty eyes flickering from the mountain of a man seething at your back, to you—feigning obliviousness as he strips you bare beneath his glacial gaze, cutting a path to your membrane where he knows he'll find the piece of himself that you snipped off months ago.)

When you finally turn, you give a peculiar look over your shoulder, eyes clouded over, gaze inward. He watches you for a moment, taking in the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose. Foreign, of course; but familiar under the cloak of darkness and the hail of gunfire. 

The fire still burns in your unreachable depths, but the embers are smouldering. He feels the heat even from this distance, but when you return from whatever thoughts were racing through your head, he finds the look that fixes itself there to be strange. Pensive. 

A quiet contemplation as you take in the length of his shoulders, the width of his chest. 

His heart hammers against the cages of his sore ribs, leaping to the base of his throat where it pulses like a raw wound. 

The whole of his body smarts like a massive contusion—muscles bending at odd angles, bones brittle—but he knows in an instant that he won't mention it to you. He'll tuck the hurt aside. Let it moulder. Let it rot. 

This thing between you—crafted from the design of his heart—has been pulled and pinched, flexed and stretched too taut. It's ready to snap. To break. 

He waits for that moment, bracing himself for the inevitability of the recoil clapping him against the chest, but it doesn't happen. 

You give a small dip of your chin. 

Then, you're gone. 

You've been moulding him between form hands since the beginning, moving him around however you please. 

So, it just feels natural when he follows. 

This time it's his chest. 

You go through the same dance, steps known. Ingrained in muscle memory. Your hands are firm, authoritative as you lead him on this little chase, pushing and pulling, tugging on the threads that keep him sewn up and whole. 

But an incipient path is born. A new routine. The hand on his cheek, as you read his temperature, lingers, thumb brushing over the dividing line that separates skin from wry curls. 

The touch is familiar. You’re no strange to feeling around the phantom aches and pains he presents to you, but this is an electric shock that rattles through his nerves. The trail your thumb leaves behind as it strokes idly at his skin prickles and burns. Goosebumps rise, creating cresting hills and peaks along his topography. You map it all with nimble fingers, firm and sure. 

You take the thermometer out of his mouth after a moment, not even pretending to read the results (thirty-seven degrees, always), and it’s tossed back on the tray quickly before your hand returns to his skin, drawn there by that same innate pull he feels in his iron bones. The warmth of your palm threatens to suffuse his skin, mated together in ferromagnetism. 

His chin rests, plinthed in your palms, and there’s a sudden swell, a rush, that gorges on his heart. The façades fall, clattering to the ground. The broken pieces lay in remains by his feet. 

Price doesn’t spare them a glance. 

Can’t, maybe, because in azimuth he finds that solidary feather he plucked for you resting between your teeth. 

Wonderment. Awe. He feels the surge of something ripping through his body—a paroxysm—but he can’t look away from the shapes of your bare face; the imperfect asymmetry, the wrought iron lines, the convulsing atoms. It’s mesmerising. 

And maybe it’s an electrical phenomenon—no let go—but he doesn’t spare it a single thought, even as the current burrows deeper into his chest, igniting his tissue until red-hot, blistering, charred. Even then, even with the scent of smouldering, necrotising flesh brimming cloyingly into his scenes, the absolute apathy he feels for himself at that moment is a testament to the unshakeable draw, that primal magnetism that glues him to you; met in perfect equilibrium in the middle.

It’s you who moves, who splints the poles until they fall apart when you let your hand drop.

But you’re not finished. The tips of your fingers move, a long peregrination down the twisting, sloping topography of his visage; snaking down his temple, the dip of his nose, the rough bushel of curls, the soft pout of his lips, the ulotrichous hair along his cheek and jaw, the long decline of his check, the ridged of his collarbones, the swell of his chest. It’s there where it lingers, fingers spreading like webs along the birdcage of his thundering heart. 

Price watches you, rapturous and nearly choking himself on the avarice that spills from his heaving lungs. 

You rest the flat of your palm there for a beat; lost in perambulation. Feasting on the thud of his heart. 

He thinks you’ve had your fill. Quenched yourself. 

But when you look up from the slight tremor of your hand, pulsing in time with his hurried beats, the look in your eyes is distinctly unslaked. 

(—and he can’t stop the rumble from spilling out of his chest at the sight.)

Price isn’t sure how long you stay like that. Minutes, seconds, hours. Aeons might have passed since you let your mask slip. Since he plucked at threads keeping it upright. But he shakes back into cognisance when you pull away, cutting through space and time, and filling the gaps once more with the heavy weight of your presence. 

“You’ll be fine,” you say over your shoulder, reaching for your clipboard. “A little rest is all you need, captain.”

There’s an insurmountable number of things he can say, but you press on his throat, and he swallows them down, nodding at your back instead. 

The cloven strands fall around him, broken with distance. There’s an urge in his bones to sew back into his skin, to press them like drying flowers into the folds of his heart where they’ll say, nurtured on his blood and suffused into his being. He rests his laurels on it for a moment, feels the weight of his want, his desire, and compares it to the fraying wisps dragging along the linoleum. 

But he doesn’t reach for them. 

He is wing clipped and flightless. You hold the only feather that gives him lift between the monoliths of your teeth. 

A fine place to keep it, he thinks and turns around, ready to leave on unsteady feet, but—

"Seven," you say, firm and sure. No nonsense. But when he turns, he catches the pallor of your knuckles gripped tight around the clipboard. You hold it to your chest like a shield. The vipers in your eyes quiet their hissing, tongues lashing out to scent the air. "There's this place in Manchester that makes the best Beef Suya."

You're not asking him. 

(But you don't really have to, do you?)

His lips pull up. He catches the drifting threads in his bare palm. "Manchester, mm?"

"I hope you like a little bit of spice."

"I can handle the heat." 

You swallow thickly, and he thinks the action on anyone else might be easily mistaken for nerves, but the livewire that pulls taut between you thrums with a heavy sense of anticipation. 

"I hope so, John," he startles at the mention of his name. It makes your lips curl back, and he shouldn't find it so mesmerising when can't tell if it's a smile or a sneer. "Otherwise I'd be quite disappointed." 

His chin dips to his chest. It renders his voice to little more than smoke and ash, but you shudder from across the room at the growl. 

"Wouldn't want that, now, would we?" 

It isn't breathless when you speak, but he licks his lips and tastes the pulsing excitement that sparks in the air. It curls in his lungs. Saltwater on burning coals. 

"Don't be late." 

It's a promise, he thinks; a warning, too. A threat. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."

He turns away from you, shielding the growing smile from your searching gaze, but your voice stops him short at the door, fingers curled around the frame.

“And Price?”

“Yes, love?” He calls, featherlight in a way he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen and free. Ready to soar, to fly.

"You know," you say, brows knotting together. Despite the severity of your expression, there's a note of playfulness between your teeth. "If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked." 

After dinner, they fucked so nasty that Qadesh could be heard gagging across the aether.

[zombieunicorngamerzu]

(Lorraine Broughton x fem reader)

[Warnings - GIP, oral, fingering, blowjobs, PNV sex, rough sex, passionate sex, praising, creampies]

“Why are you following me, little spy?” Lorraine husked out with a smirk, sitting at the bar with a drink to her lips as she eyed you from the corner of her eye. You froze. Shit. We’re you really that bad at being subtle? You blushed, making your way over to sit with her, shaking your head, “I-I was simply curious, that’s all.” She just nodded with a hum of response, “Is that why you’ve been following me, curiosity?” She chuckled, “You know what they say about how curiosity-“ You cut her off next, gently snagging her drink from her to take a sip as you watched her eyes darken from your lips to the glass, “Killed the cat? Are you gonna kill me?” You teased her.

She shook her head with a small smile, “No, no, little spy, I’m not going to kill you.” She spoke out as she leaned forward, caressing your jawline with her finger, “I’d be such a waste of such a pretty face.” She purred out, it made you shiver. The way she was looking at you, eyes darkened as they switched from your lips to your eyes, observing you, you couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her, which she took gladly, her lips soft and delicate to yours but a dominance behind them she showed into her passion before she stood up, placing her hands on your hips as she spoke, “Let’s go, your coming with me, little spy.” She smiled as she pulled you up, her voice softer in your ear, teasing, “Look who’s got who now…”

You just shuttered and walked when she pushed you gently forward. She led you out of the bar and into a taxi, her hand rubbing your thigh the whole way, inching up just enough to tease you at certain intervals. It was torture, and she was living for it. Teasing you until you reached her hotel room, shoving you in as she slammed the door before shoving you up against it in a searing kiss. You didn’t have the chance to even catch your bearings as she shoved her knee between your thighs, a arm across your chest to pin you as she attacked your neck with kisses and marks. All you could do was go along with her movements unless you wanted to fight her for it, moaning as she threw you onto the bed, immediately straddling you to rip off your clothes, ripping your fishnets and throwing the rest to the floor.

“Fuck, your gorgeous.” She husked out as she ran her hands over your breasts, squeezing before sliding her hands down to your thighs, pulling them so your core was flush with her bulge in her tight leather pants straining to keep her inside. She wiggled her hips against yours, “Feel that, little spy, is that what you expected from me?” You shook your head quickly with a whimper, trying to reach up to touch her but she pinned your hands down, her face ghosting over yours, “Be a good girl for me.” You whined but nodded as she worked her pants undone with her free hand, she didn’t even take much time before she was pushing inside you, making you both moan as she thrusted deep.

Your moans echoed out through the room and apparently Lorraine could multitask well because you noticed she was now fully naked, hands on your hips as she held you tight, thrusting her hips into yours with vigor, her moans husky and deep as she panted and groaned from how tight you felt around her cock, “Good fucking girl… God, Ugh… you must have been made for my cock, huh?” She mocked you as she rammed her hips into yours, making you cry out and arch up as she started to grind against you, her lips meeting yours as her hands danced over your skin, it was all so much, “Fuck… Ah fuck, gonna cum, do you need me to pull out?” She grunted out as she held you still, her hips twitching to buck harder inside you so she could cum. You looked up at her with a soft moan at the idea, pulling her down for a passionate kiss that made her cock throb as you nodded,

“Cum in me.” That alone made Lorraine whine against your lips with a growl before she was pounding into you with a new passion, all you could do was let out cries and whines from the way you felt her cock stretching and filling you with each thrust, hitting your sweet spot each time before Lorriane was moaning out lowly, bucking her hips roughly into yours before you felt her twitch inside you, her cum spilling inside you as she trembled above you, moaning, her eyes closing for a moment as she rested her hand on your neck in a show of dominance, catching her breath before she spoke, “I’m gonna have to keep you close little spy, can’t have you running off.”

[matcha-milkies]

sapphic !! atom eve x reader ⚢

food for thought (all sfw):

☁︎ she absolutely loves manifesting new clothes for you. cute jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, jackets, dresses, overalls, bucket hats, heels, sneakers, boots, whatever your style is, she’s all too happy to oblige and bring to life your deepest pinterest-board desires.

☁︎ if you can’t fly but you want to, she will take you flying, bridal style. if you can fly, she loves to skim the clouds while holding hands with you.

☁︎ she lets you brush her hair a lot (and likes to brush yours if it’s long enough).

☁︎ sometimes you two just sit on her bed and make out for a little while her parents are away.

☁︎ if you’re going to school, eve is happy to do chill study sessions with you where the two of you vibe and listen to lofi beats together. if you struggle with anything science-related, it’s eve to the rescue.

☁︎ most of your dates are in gorgeous, secluded areas untouched by civilization, where you have the absolute best view. you sit together on a cliff watching the sunrise, or have a picnic, or sometimes just walk along the beach holding hands.

☁︎ adam is weird about you two being together. not blatantly queerphobic per se, but he has an unsophisticated grasp of sapphic love, i.e. assumes you both have to be lesbians as opposed to bisexual. if you are femme he might be confused because eve is also femme and he does not understand the concept of femme4femme or butch4butch.

☁︎ betsy is well-meaning but doesn’t really get it either. but she adores you and loves to make snacks for you whenever you come over. she’ll always try to make conversation although sometimes it gets awkward.

☁︎ not to be cliche, but rex is extremely jealous at first (maybe of both of you?) he makes little digs at you, but he doesn’t dare do it in front of eve because the one time he tried that, she turned all his meals that day into stale soggy burger mart fries. eventually he does warm up to you, especially if you’re a supe and go on occasional missions together, he would come to respect your skill and your desire to help others.

☁︎ mark is of course a sweetheart to you because he’s just a good kid. he tags along sometimes on missions (if you’re a supe). otherwise you guys just hang out together at the movies or whatever.

☁︎ sometimes eve takes your hands in hers and just stares into your eyes. or brushes her thumb against your temple as you lie across from each other.

☁︎ if you like flowers... you are going to get a lot of them.

[sky-is-the-limit]

𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚞𝚜, 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚙, 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌, 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 ��𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚞𝚋𝚎, 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝, 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖.

[bratdotcom]

DOMESTIC!INVINCIBLE X READER - RAPID FIRE HCS!!

- Rex loves holding your hand as you both flip through home and furniture magazines. He loves leaning his head on your shoulder as he points out what he thinks is best for your shared apartment.

- William enjoys hanging and framing both of your favorite bands and artists on your walls, he also loves hanging your favorite jackets on display racks in your shared bedroom.

- Mark loves the look of joy on your face when he flies up to grab a bug off the ceiling, the sigh of relief from your lips when he throws the bug out makes him smile.

- Seeing the way you fawn over what she made for you makes Eve feel proud of herself. Whatever you want for your home, she'll gladly make it for you with her powers. Who needs IKEA when you have a girlfriend who can just rearrange atoms into existence?

🛸 : I'm sorry this is so short 😭 visit INVINCIBLE DOT ORG for more longer fics !!

[superyum]

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 𝐊𝐞𝐲𝐬:

𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐭¡𝐜𝐚 💦 | 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 🃏| 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 🪼| 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ☘️ | 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭🍦| 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 💉 | 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 2 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 🎻 | 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 🔌 | 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 🧸

☆ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬/𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬/𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 ★

*𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙚𝙨 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣

☆ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬/𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ★

☆ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 ★

[gutlessbarbara]

Are the Charlize theron simps/fandom still alive??????????????? ?????? Plz I need to know 😭

[artemisia-the-turtle]

(Name): "How do you connect with a fictional character?"

Leo: "What?"

Raph: "What?"

Mikey: "What?"

Donnie: pulls up a 500 slide presentation "I'm glad you asked."