#the thing that’s going to manifest in back aches and shoulder tension and more thoughts about dying than usual

[sleepymaddy]

.

[batboysanonymous]

Bed Chem

Cassian x Reader

Summary: The first time you met Cassian, you were in a rush—just a fleeting moment, a passing glance, a brush of something unspoken. But Fate is a cruel, insistent thing, and now, standing before him once more, you realize the pull between you isn't just chemistry—it's destiny.

Based on the song: Bed Chem by Sabrina Carpenter

Continue reading below ⬇

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"I was in a sheer dress the day that we met We were both in a rush, we talked for a sec..."

The first time you met Cassian, it was the kind of moment you could’ve blinked and missed. You were leaving a meeting in the House of Wind, your mind a thousand places at once, and then—him. A wall of muscle wrapped in leathers, hazel eyes sharp and assessing, lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t quite polite either.

“Hey,” he had said, voice rich with amusement, stepping aside just before you collided with his chest. “Careful, sweetheart. I don’t bite.”

“Good,” you shot back, already moving past him, “because I do.”

A chuckle followed you down the hall, something warm flickering in your chest, but by the time you reached the steps, you’d shoved it away.

Cassian was Cassian—impossibly beautiful, impossibly charming, impossibly unavailable in every sense of the word. It didn’t matter that you could still feel the ghost of his presence long after you left.

It didn’t matter at all.

"And what are the odds? You sent me a text And now the next thing I know, I'm like Manifest that you're oversized..."

The second time you saw him, it wasn’t Fate—it was Feyre.

"You're sparring with Cassian today," she’d said, far too casually, handing you a set of training leathers.

You’d gaped at her. "What?"

"You're training with Cassian," she repeated, smiling in a way that made you suspicious. "It'll be good for you."

Good for you. Right. Like throwing yourself into a storm just to see how well you could swim.

When you reached the ring, Cassian was already there, rolling his shoulders, wings flexing in the late morning sun. He turned at the sound of your footsteps, that same knowing smirk pulling at his mouth.

"Well, well," he mused, eyes dragging over you, slow enough that heat licked up your spine. "Look who decided to show up."

"You sound surprised," you shot back, tightening the wraps around your wrists.

"Not surprised. Just… intrigued."

That should’ve been your first warning.

"Ooh (ah) Who's the cute boy with the white jacket And the thick accent?"

It was supposed to be training. It was supposed to be just another sparring session.

Instead, it was him pressing you into the dirt, his body flush against yours, his breath fanning over your lips.

"Give up, sweetheart?" Cassian murmured, voice dark, rough.

Your pulse pounded in your throat. You could feel the sheer power in him, the way he was barely restraining himself. You should’ve been irritated, should’ve shoved him off, but all you could think about was the way his hands pinned yours, how perfectly you fit against him.

"Not a chance," you whispered.

His grin was wicked. "Gods, I like you."

And then he let you go.

And you realized, as you stumbled back to your feet, breathless and aching, that this wasn’t just chemistry.

It was war.

"How you pick me up, pull 'em down, turn me 'round, oh, it just makes sense How you talk so sweet when you're doin' bad things..."

It escalated after that.

Every interaction turned into a battle. Every glance, every accidental touch, every teasing remark—it was all fire, all tension so thick you could barely breathe through it.

And then, one night, it snapped.

You were alone in the House of Wind, pacing the balcony, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. And then he was there, stepping into your space like he belonged there.

"You're avoiding me," Cassian said, voice low, accusing.

You huffed a laugh. "I'm not avoiding you."

"Liar," he murmured, tilting his head, studying you. "You feel it too."

You swallowed, pulse hammering. "I don't know what you're talking about."

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying against your hip. "Yes, you do."

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was a collision—wild, desperate, inevitable.

And just like that, the war was over.

Or maybe, it had only just begun.

"Are you free next week? I bet we'd have really good—"

"Tell me," Cassian whispered against your skin later, voice thick with something you couldn't name. "Tell me you knew, too."

You let your fingers trace his jaw, memorizing the feel of him, the weight of him.

"I think I knew the moment I met you," you admitted softly.

His breath hitched. "And?"

"And," you murmured, pulling him closer, "I'm free next week."

Cassian laughed, a low, warm sound that curled around your heart. "Good," he said, kissing you again. "Because I have no plans of letting you go."

Not now.

Not ever.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

[weepylucifer]

4 or 48 for steban/ulixes?

4. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

Steban sighs and stares down at his desk. His unfinished essay stares back at him, accusing. Really, the only thing he still needs is a strong conclusion, but he's never been good at these, and he's tired. Then the draft will need to be edited. Steban considers the vast arry of edits that likely needs to be made, and contemplates going missing.

His wrist is cramped from writing. His shoulders ache from having sat hunched over the desk for hours. His eyes are disgustingly sticky with exhaustion. Vaguely, he notes that it has grown dark outside, most probably a while ago.

"Are you about done?" Ulixes asks, shattering the silence.

Uli has been so quiet, Steban almost forgot he's there. But all evening he's been on Steban's bed, a small pile of books close to hand, doing research for an essay of his own.

"I want to walk into the pale," Steban tells him.

"Succumbing to the pale constitutes defeatism, which is the enemy of the cause," Ulixes says, which, Steban has learned to identify in the two years they've been friends, is an Ulixes Joke.

He's too tired to laugh, though, so he just says, "Yeah. Good reminder." He rubs his aching wrist, trying to coax some life into it. It doesn't really help. Besides, he's starting to feel a tension headache coming on. "Alright, let's get it done."

Ulixes cocks his head like a curious creature. "I didn't mean to imply... you don't have to finish it right now. Take a break?"

"I'll fall asleep." He tries to relax his shoulders. Something crackles ominously. "Ouch. This chair might be really bad for my back."

When Steban cranes his neck to look back, Uli has sat up straighter on the bed. "Are you okay? Are you in pain?"

It's sweet, Steban thinks, how Uli wants to look out for him, but he startles so quickly sometimes. It reminds Steban of when he tried to raise his first plant: he'd plied it with attentions, completely overwatered it, and when it inevitably died, he'd lied on the floor and reproached himself for hours. Okay, the metaphor is getting away from him a little. It reminds him of somebody who's been tasked with safeguarding a fragile, precious thing, who has no experience with fragile, precious things.

"I'm fine," he says, "just tense."

Ulixes fidgets a little. Then he asks, "Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?"

This is so unexpected, it snaps Steban clean out of his fatigue. It's not that he has a problem with the suggestion, but... Uli doesn't really touch people, in general. "Do you know how to do that?"

Ulixes blushes faintly, for some reason, and admits, "I read a manual. From the bookstore." He gestures in the rough direction of the bookstore. Before Steban can ask why he did that, Uli adds, "I thought it would be edifying to... acquire a set of diverse skills. You know, like Nilsen."

Steban nods. "Ah. Of course, that makes sense." Wanting to emulate Nilsen... it checks out. "Well, if you want a test subject for your new skill, here I am."

For a moment, Ulixes seems hesitant. Eventually, however, he approaches. "I haven't done this before," he says. "I can't guarantee it will be good."

Steban smiles at him, because Uli starting a hobby that is something else than reading about war crimes, debating war crimes, or sitting very quietly and thinking about war crimes must be encouraged. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

Slowly, skittishly, Ulixes moves to put his hands on Steban's shoulders. "Um... may I...?"

"Hmm?" Will he just start already, Steban thinks.

"Your hair."

"Oh. Right. Of course." He feels Ulixes brush his hair off to one side, and then, finally, Uli's hands settle on his shoulders. He expects Uli to squeeze way too tightly, but this doesn't manifest - his touches are light, gently prodding, checking for tension points. Testing the waters, almost. Eventually, he begins to rub his shoulders, still so lightly, like he doesn't trust himself with more.

"Go on already, I can barely feel it," Steban mutters. Then - and he doesn't quite know where that thought came from, only that it makes him feel a strange thrill, "Actually, should I take my shirt off?"

Uli makes an odd sound, like he just swallowed his own tongue. His voice sounds choked when he says, after a beat, "Yeah, okay."

Steban shrugs off his shirt, folds it neatly and puts it on the desk. He's not squeamish about this stuff, and Uli has certainly seen him shirtless before in the summer, when he just overheats so terribly, but there is a sense of heightened intimacy to it when Uli actually touches his skin. That hasn't happened before, as far as he can recall.

Is he imagining it, or does Uli's breath hitch minutely at the touch?

Then Uli's hands settle finally on his shoulders, and his long, clever fingers begin a kneading motion.

It's surprising how much it hurts - "Oof, you've got some knots here," Uli mutters, and Steban has to gasp mutely as his knuckles dig into a tight, tense spot along the back of his neck - but it's a good pain, benevolent, cleansing, and when it fades, it leaves behind... lightness. Ulixes is squeezing that sore and heavy feeling out of him, and Steban almost gets teary at the intense pressure followed by intense relief.

"The manual said this could hurt a little," Uli explains, and Steban shakes his head and breathes, "You're good. It's all good" as he, his head a little swimmy, has to imagine how it would feel if Uli's hands were on him everywhere like this, stroking and pressing, traversing every inch of him until no part of his body remained unmarked by touch. If he reached around from his back to his chest, palming his nipples, then down his stomach where he's been accumulating just the slightest sliver of softness since mums started sending all those care packages, then down his thighs and up again...

A shivery little sound of pleasure escapes his lips, almost a moan, but Steban can't bring himself to feel embarrassed by it. It simply feels too good to be touched by Ulixes, his comrade, his dearest friend. Alight, elated, he doesn't even mind that he's getting hard, shifting surreptitiously in his seat to build up friction. He hopes Ulixes doesn't see it, but it's a detached hope, and he can't even dredge up the wherewithal to be genuinely apprehensive about it. He bites his lip and contemplates, hazy and needful: he knows Ulixes focuses intently when he's immersed in a task, maybe, if his focus is deep, he won't even notice if Steban cums quietly in his pants, and that'd be that taken care of... he's just not sure if he can cum quietly. Already, he's making all kinds of small noises without wanting to that he can only insufficiently muffle or hold back.

No, undoubtedly, if he doesn't get himself together, Uli will notice, will look him over properly, concerned, and see the bulge in his pants. And that'll likely be the end of this, or maybe... maybe he will see the need in his lap and lean forward, reach down there and take him in hand, cup him in those slim, pleasing hands and draw heights of pleasure out of him...

...Nn-no. That's a little too much. He can't expect that of his friend, nor ask it... Uli has done him a great kindness today already. It would be uncomradely to exploit it, or even entertain the thought. With a great mental heave, Steban jolts himself back to reality.

"Okay," he says when he thinks he can trust his voice to come out relatively firmly, "that was... good. I think... enough, for today."

Ulixes takes his hands away. A part of Steban is relieved, another part wants the touch back. "Did..." Uli clears his throat. There's something odd about his voice. "Did I do okay?"

"Of course." Now, Steban reflects, he only has to get out of this situation somehow with his dignity intact. Maybe he didn't think this whole thing through.

Trying to shield his still-unflagging erection from view, he attempts to half-turn towards Ulixes, heeding too late Uli's startled cry of "No, wait!". He takes Uli in like seeing him clearly for the first time in a while: his hands still raised, his flustered expression, the flush on his face, the... quite sizeable tent in his pants.

"Ah. Hah. Well." Steban is keenly aware that his attempt at an urbane laugh just comes out... weird. He can feel his face heating up. But surely this isn't... well... they both understand these things, don't they. They're progressive, forward-thinking individuals, men of the world really, and as such enlightened intellectuals, they don't make a big deal out of it when they get hard touching their best friend. Right? Certainly.

...they're not men of the world, actually.

Steban realizes he stands at a crossroad: they can either try to politely ignore this situation, clumsily make light of it, and allow awkwardness to permeate the space between them. Or they can come together, press against each other, unite in a glorious, hungry kiss.

Steban makes a choice.

[misfits-of-zaun]

“You really don’t get it. Do you?”

Jinx almost sounded as tired and fed up as he felt. Maybe he wasn't the only one who'd had a sleepless night over this, then. Albeit probably for very different reasons.

The side of Ekko's mouth twitched infinitesimally; the faint ghost of a wry smirk.

"I could say the same about you," He returned without any real bite, taking advantage of this temporary lull to sweep his gaze over the room for signs of any damage, missing or moved objects that could grant further clues as to her headspace - or indicate any efforts to construct traps.

After all, if Jinx had been effectively trying to pull the pin on all of this, she would have likely been expecting the next set of feet entering her room to belong to her executioner. And whether it genuinely was the outcome she'd decided she wanted or not, Ekko found it impossible to believe she'd accept anyone coming to kill her without putting up one final fight and going out with a - probably literal - bang at least.

The back of his neck prickled as Jinx finally sat up and fixed him with the full weight of her attention. Reflexively, Ekko felt his chin lift upwards and his shoulders shift back a fraction as he met her gaze, emulating the unflinching confidence he so desperately wished he could manifest. At least he had the muscle memory to carry him through.

Keep your shit together.

For a horrible heartbeat, he thought Jinx was going to fly at him again. His stomach tightened; the ache in his chest intensified, like the cruel heel of a palm pressing into a deep bruise.

Then Jinx was up and moving towards the window, making a point of peering out as if to survey the bloodthirsty mob surely waiting for her. She made a sound of scornful disappointment at the obvious lack of an audience, and paced back away again, directing a spinechilling look over her shoulder at him as she went.

Swiftly stomping down on how that made him feel and stuffing it into his bulging box of Things To Deal With Later, Ekko made a point of remaining precisely where he was, and raised a single challenging eyebrow at her.

What, were you expecting me to bring backup? Go fuck yourself. I'm not scared of you.

On the other hand, the concept that he could be about to get forced into a kill-or-be-killed stand-off with what was left of his childhood best friend, purely because being dead with Silco was that much more preferable to Jinx than being alive with him?

Yeah, that fucking terrified him on a deep visceral level.

Don't think about it. Just keep your damn shit together.

“Hmn.”

In an unexpected turn of events, Jinx elected to flop back onto her bunk and stare up at the ceiling with a reticent sort of expression - a disarmingly unthreatening move.

“We both know I don’t wanna do that.”

With anyone else, in any other context, this behaviour would have demonstrated a tacit surrender.

But something about Jinx's expression, about about her tone of voice, about the way that neither of them defused the oppressive tension lingering in the air, just made his stomach curdle in grim anticipation. Ekko couldn't put his finger on why.

He knew better than to question such a strong gut feeling, though.

"Well, it's your choice. I'm not here to make you do stuff you don't wanna do." Admittedly, the choice of words was rather pointed, and there was a note of faintly acidic exasperation seeping through into his voice now.

Don't you dare. Whatever it is you're thinking about, don't you fucking dare.

"Instead of talking about what we already both know, then, are you gonna tell me whatever it is you do wanna be doing? Because you were on such a roll about your thoughts before - you might as well get it all out."

@f1shbonez

Charred Bridge

Ekko splashed some water on his face, and resignedly set about re-applying his face paint. Sunlight was filtering through his window now; he had to face the day and whatever came with it, whether he felt ready or not.

He hadn't slept. He'd spent hours unpicking what had happened. Repeating the memory in his mind over and over, analysing every freeze-frame in his memory, in an effort to glean some new detail he'd missed - as if the key to what to do next was buried somewhere, waiting to be gleaned from the right scrap of information.

Mostly it had felt a lot like going blindly in circles and clutching at empty air.

His friends had tried to help. Eve in particular had been surprisingly diplomatic and compassionate about the whole thing. There had been no "I told you so", or any pressure towards a certain specific decision, in spite of what he knew they were all thinking.

Is this it, then?

The redness was gone from his face now; there was no lasting physical mark, only a little residual tenderness. Just like last time, the real damage from the blow was in the resounding devastation of what it represented.

A lot of the violence Jinx committed was from a distance. Shooting, blowing things up. It was easy to be detached with that kind of distance. A slap was up close and extremely personal. It wasn't her style.

And yet she'd gone for precisely that with him twice now.

He now knew where she'd learned it from - and it made it sting so much worse, that she was trying to hurt him and push him away in the exact way Vi had hurt and rejected her.

I don’t wanna be rescued. I'm Jinx now.

You’re not my family. You’re not! You’re not -!

Ekko shut the glass cabinet above his sink with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and turned away from his reflection. He could fix up his hair and clean up his face to make it look like he hadn't been up all night over this shit, but the real armour he needed was calm, decisive action.

By the time he reached the stairs, that strange, seething feeling started up under his skin again. He felt twitchy, on edge, as he descended the steps on autopilot. He didn't know what he was heading back into. The quiet on the other side of the door told him nothing.

It took a moment to spot her (was not getting immediately attacked a positive sign or not?) But when he did, fhe sight of her triggered a strong gut reaction - a violent swooping sensation in his stomach with a sharp pang, not unlike missing a step on the way down the stairs and then getting impaled with a broken piece of the bannister while trying to regain his balance. A jolt of apprehension and hurt and bitter grief that he had to swallow down, down, down.

You get one shot at this. Make it count.

"...So, are you coming down for breakfast, or are you still feeling like an asshole?"

The query was dryly sardonic, his expression deliberately neutral and bordering on nonchalant. But his eyes were unflinching, shrewdly evaluating.

He made a point of folding his arms and leaning against the doorway, as if this was business as usual and there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. As if his heart wasn't absolutely hammering, as if he wasn't waiting to find out whether the childhood friend he'd worked so hard to reach for was about to drop another match and send his world up in smoke for a second time.

This was the only card he had left to play.

Either this would work, or it wouldn't.

Either she'd understand what he was trying to say, or she wouldn't.

Do I look like I'm running away?

@f1shbonez

[beverlyonvinyl]

wasteland, baby! - JJ Maybank

summary; after a jealousy-fueled fight with your Kook ex-boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, the hot-tempered JJ has a long awaited meeting with you on the dock.

warnings; swearing, underage alcohol/drug consumption, plenty of angst, fluff.

word count; 1.5k

song; wasteland, baby! by hoizer

[ gif via pinterest ]

wasteland, baby / i’m in love / i’m in love with you.

The Boneyard was crowded with all walks of life tonight. Slimy Tourons looking for a girl to hook up with before they left town, rich Kooks getting drunk off of just a few beers, and the almighty rulers of the Outer Banks, the Pogues. Party animals by nature and fighters by chance, whether a nosy Kook got in their business or a Touron took something too far, a Pogue was always up to throw punches.

One of the Pogues stuck out, a particular blond-haired boy that was consistently sporting some kind of gnarly bruise or cut. The infamous JJ Maybank was always getting into of trouble, typically for a good cause. He's a ticking time bomb, and he can't keep his hands to himself.

The sandy-haired troublemaker was currently surrounded by a small arena of people, unbeknown to his circle of close friends that were sipping on bitter alcohol on the opposite side of the moonlit beach.

"JJ has been gone for like, twenty minutes," a girl with caramel skin and the most annoyed expression on her face pointed out to her other friends. "He probably found a girl."

The boy across from her looked behind him, he was a bit more sober than his reckless buddies.

"Kie... are they screaming his name?" He asked, still gawking at the large swarm of people behind him.

Another girl chimed into the conversation. "I bet someone is—"

"Is he in a fight?" Kie set her solo cup down on the ground and stood up. "What is his deal?"

The ringleader of the Pogues, and the boy who had thrown this party in the first place, came striding over to his other three friends with a freshly filled cup in his hand.

"John B.," the other boy stuttered. "JJ is beating the shit out of someone..."

His drunk and tired features expressed enough that he was done dealing with JJ's outbursts. Honest to god, everyone was tired of it. Picking him up from police stations, icing his bruises, making sure he didn't break something, he was acting out more than he ever had previously.

"Go deal with it," John B. gestured to the girl that wasn't Kie. "He'll listen to you."

Y/N raised her eyebrows at her best friend, contemplating if what he was saying was the truth, or just bullshit to get out of meddling with JJ's antics.

"I'm not getting between him and whoever he's kicking in the ass," she took down a gulp of her beer. "He's dangerous when he's angry."

"You make him less angry," John B. countered. "Now go fix it and I'll get the rest of these assholes off our beach."

Y/N headed for the crowd of onlookers, kicking up the sand with her worn, green Vans. She could hear another voice barking back at JJ, and unfortunately she recognized it.

She pushed her way through some brainless Tourons in cheap shark tooth necklaces, shoving them to the side and ordering them to scram. This was between her, JJ, and the guy that had got beaten to a pulp.

"Fucking Rafe," she sneered, watching JJ throw another punch to her ex-boyfriend's bloody face. "What did you do this time?"

JJ turned his head, his cerulean eyes piercing into hers. Rafe took this precious moment to breathe, for JJ's very violent assault had offered him little time for that.

"Everyone out!" Y/N yelled at the last few nosy people that surrounded them. She watched Rafe catch his last breath before he took another blow to his jaw. "Stop it, J."

"What?" He pushed Rafe's limp body to the side and looked at the frustrated girl standing above him.

She disregarded JJ's questioning look and crouched down next to her quivering, former lover. He was still very much alive, lord be damned if Rafe Cameron ever lose his life to a weed-smoking, beer-slugging, couch-surfing Pogue like JJ, but he had stil been pummeled horribly.

"Tell me what you did to make him hurt you," she muttered in Rafe's ear.

Rafe chuckled at her. Once his beaming girlfriend that thrived in country clubs and sundresses, she traded her perfect Kook life for a life full of treasure hunting and disappointing her parents.

If only he hadn't started with the cocaine.

"Just told Kelce some stories of how good you were in bed," he smirked at her with dark eyes.

JJ came stomping back towards them, open lighter in his tight grip. "You're fucking disgusting..."

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. "Wait for me on the dock."

He let out a huff of aggression, not feeling free of the anger he had towards Rafe. His heavy boots hit the frail wooden planks of the Chateau's dock, and he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift to maybe, just maybe, Y/N wanted her dickhead of an ex-boyfriend back. Maybe they were out in the Boneyard reminiscing of old times when they would go to the country club and sneak kisses when their parents weren't watching. Maybe she wanted to help Rafe get clean so they could be together again.

JJ looked out at the calm water, such a contrast to the storm he was feeling in his chest. When he felt that strike of hurt, that pain and fury within him, he took it out on the nearest thing that crossed him.

"I'm sorry about that," a small voice hummed from behind him.

He turned around to see Y/N's figure framed by the blue moonlight.

"I should be the one that's sorry," he mumbled.

She sat beside him on the splintering dock. "J, I would've cut his face up with a beer bottle if I heard what he said."

He laughed at her a little. "So what'd you say to him?"

"That I'd cut off his dick if he talked about me like that again."

JJ looked at her in pure admiration. He knew when he first met her that she was locked up in the gates of the Kook lifestyle. Rafe always made him jealous, whether he spotted them holding hands while he was busing tables or sharing a drink while he was at a party with his friends. It dampened his mood and he wasn't afraid to show it... until she became a Pogue herself.

It would be an instant crime to make a move now. Pogues don't mess with other Pogues.

"I've always liked you, Y/N," he observed the way her eyes sparkled, even though it was dark.

She backed away from him every so slightly.

"No! Wait— not like that," he put his paw-like hand on her shoulder, cold rings creating a vibrant contrast against her hot skin. "As friends."

"Oh," she glanced down at the water. Endless nothingness.

There was a string of tension between the two rebellious teens that just couldn't be cut. Every time he saw her it made him dizzy, and getting drunk or high in her presence seemed to be a risk. If he let out even a whisper of how he felt, she'd hear him.

Y/N took his chin in her delicate hand, bringing his face towards hers in a moment they had both long awaited. His golden strands of hair fell in his entranced face. The ice had melted from his doe-eyes and the curve was back in his lips, formulating the smile that she chased after.

"I've always liked you too, JJ," she ghosted her lips over his. "Not as a friend."

He tried to stutter something out, tripping over his own tongue, but he was cut off by her plush lips on his own. The pungent liquor that she had been downing in the wake of her boredom met the smokiness that laced his breath. His warm hands found her waist, wrapping her in an embrace that he didn't want her to get out of. Maybe he would wake up in a cold sweat on John B.'s couch, this whole ordeal just a result of attempted manifestation, but he just wanted to indulge in her soft skin and sweet nothings. Even if they were a figment of his imagination.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her mouth. "Closer."

She whined at JJ's words, propping herself in his lap and kissing him harder. He had been waiting so long for this to happen, and now that he was getting it, he couldn't believe it was real. It was better than he had imagined it late at night when his heart and body ached for her. This was a new kind of euphoria.

If the world was ending, he would have no idea.

“Why didn’t we do this ages ago?” Y/N breathed against him as she left little pecks along his jaw.

JJ melted like a burning candle into her touch, praying that the flame in her that had ignited for him would forever stay lit.

“The Pogue rules,” he answered.

She cupped the side of his flushed face with her hand. She had never seen him so malleable for as long as she’d known him.

“I’d break all the rules for you,” she hummed. “I’m in love with you, that’s it.”

[clairecrive]

“Closeness”- Bane x reader

A/N: I’m back you guys! Writing this was like a breath of fresh air and it got me back to writing.This was supposed to be short and sweet but it turned out long and fluffy. I mean I’m not mad about it and I hope you won’t either. 

Summary: Bane comes home after a long work day, his mind still caught up on something that happened during the day, so his significant other takes it upon themselves to cheer him up.

Word count: 2.4K

Tw: cockworming, nudity but it’s mostly fluffy 

Tag list: @mollybegger-blog​, @evelynshelby​, @br0ck-eddie​, @of-love-and-of-the-sea​, @shadow-of-wonder​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @fandom--0verdose​, @sopxhiea​, @fuseburner​, @ashesbelle​, @kind-wolf​ (let me know if you wanna be added or removed)

The bed creaked when Bane sat on it to remove his shoes. It was late at night and he had just gotten home while you were engrossed in the book you decided to read while waiting for him.  The scene was familiar for both of you as this happened almost every night: if he'd come home at a reasonable hour, he'd find you in bed with a book or watching tv so that you wouldn't fall asleep and could see him whenever he'd get home. You had learned not to approach him right away, as when he had had a bad day he would usually come home still worked up about it and was liable to snap. So you waited for him to give you some kind of signal, wondering what was going to be tonight.

It came in the form of a long sigh. The boots were discarded on the floor and the bones in his neck popped as he stretched it to relieve some tension. It caught your attention as it was an unusual sound to come from him. Anger and stress translated into restlessness and groans and while he manifested rage by being extremely calm and cold on the outside making him look scary and unpredictable, observing him now you deduced that that wasn't it. It was something else.

Closing the book, you kept a close eye on him. His stance didn't appear tense, on the contrary, his shoulders slouched. And if the sigh hadn't alarmed you enough, noticing this certainly did. Bane never slouched. His posture was always correct and proper, his back straight and chin up.

Something was definitely bothering him.

"Babe?" you quietly called him trying to test the waters. A grunt was all you got.

"Everything alright?" your voice a little stronger, your worry evident. He just lowered his head and held it in his hands and although he didn't say anything out loud, his body let you know everything you needed to. You crawled on the bed stopping behind him. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you gently started massaging the zone trying to make him relax.

"What's wrong?" you softly in his ear after he had lifted it from his hands.

"I had a bad day but I do not wish to talk about it." He slightly turned his head to you and his tone matched yours albeit it came out a bit harsh because of his mask, but you had learned to understand him by now.

"Alright." Leaving a small peck on the side of his neck, you moved to climb off the bed. Bane's hand reached out to yours to stop you from getting away as if to check in with you and make sure he hadn't offended you somehow. Holding his hand, you gesture that you'd only be a moment, letting him know that he was fine.

Both of you had always been adamant on sharing whatever was troubling you right away instead of keeping it all bottled up as you both agreed on it being a bad habit. It didn't always work as it's easier said than done and while Bane, true to himself, came in strong and usually ended up demanding you to speak, you tried to be more mindful of his needs. You knew firsthand that sometimes you don't have the right words to express what you're feeling or you're not in the right state of mind to talk about it, so you tried to keep it in mind when dealing with him.

What you found always worked with him was creating a safe zone where he felt comfortable enough to share whatever was on his mind. Due to his lifestyle, Bane doesn't let go easily. This meant that he did not trust easily but even once he had allowed you in, he still tended to keep everything to himself. At the beginning it was a problem, you didn't know each other that well and you took his reluctance to open up as a lack of trust from his part. Filling the tub and lighting some candles, you smiled fondly at the memory of his awkward attempt to explain and to reassure you that that wasn't the case. His eloquence oddly failing him when he had to talk about his feelings.

When the water had reached the desired level, you turned the tap off and poured your rose-scented soap that you knew he secretly loved.

"Babe, come here." You knew he was probably already looking at you, he had a problem with staring that you had already addressed before, but either way, he kept doing it and with time his eyes on you didn't make you tense or anxious but felt natural.

"I would have thought you had already taken your bath seeing as it's past midnight." He said once he saw what you had been up to, totally misreading the situation.

"This isn't for me," you cooed at him implying that it was for him but all he did was arching one of his eyebrows and look at you sceptically. So you took matter into your own hands and started unbuttoning his vest. With every garment that came off, a kiss was placed in its place.

"A hot bath will do you good." His stance previously so tense, grew looser as the items of clothing came off and your kisses and caresses were the only things he could feel. Trailing softly on his skin from his collarbone, one of your hands came to his and gently coaxed him towards the bathtub. It seems that whatever put him in this mood was so bad that Bane let you lead him where you wanted without making a fuss.

He lowered himself in the bathtub and as soon as the warm water hit his aching muscles a groan left his mouth. Happy that it worked, you watched as he shuffled to find a comfortable position to lay in and when he settled, you reached for the soft sponge you had already set out and gently rubbed it on his chest.

He opened one of his eyes at the new feeling, "I am no longer a child, I am capable of washing myself", he stated in his usual as-a-matter-of-fact tone but he didn't make a move to stop what you were doing.

"Close your eyes and relax," you replied without missing a beat. "You've had a bad day so I'm taking care of you. I know you're capable of doing it but I am also capable of washing and pampering you and so I'll do it." Sarcasm filled your voice - you were amused at his antics more than anything. You didn't stop your movements, scraping away the dirt with the sponge and then making sure to give more attention to all the spots you knew were bothering him; you take your time and make sure that every part of his body is taken care of. Soon enough you reached his legs and took your time in rubbing his feet. You could only imagine how sore they were after more than 24h of standing. You've never met someone as hardworking as Bane in your life, it was one of the things you admired in him but at the same time, after living with the man for a while, you realized with what personal sacrifice it came with. He was one of those men who put work first- not only above his personal life but also his health. You had tried countless of times to get him to find a healthier balance and if the walls of your home could speak, they'd tell of his stubbornness.

"It's late y/n, you should be in bed."

"Don't worry babe, I don't mind. I like taking care of you." You smiled at him before moving your attention on his other foot.

You knew he was deep into the narrative of "I'm the man, therefore, I'm the one who has to take care of you", however, you thought it was utter bullshit. Yes, you liked how careful and mindful of you he was. What you didn't like was him refusing to accept the fact that you wanted to take care of him too and that allowing you to wouldn't make him less of a man. It was just a way to show him that you loved him. And maybe he had finally got it too because he doesn't fight you anymore as much as he did in the beginning.

"Why don't you join me?" he asked after a while and when you opened your mouth to answer him he spoke again as if he already knew what you were going to say, "I'd like to hold you."

Sometimes, Bane had the ability to disarm you. To leave you completely clueless as to how to react to what he did, or in this case, said. Usually, it was with his eloquent way of speaking and his complex thought process that he would always leave you to marvel at him and at how lucky you were to be with him. Very rarely though, he'd say something so sweet, in a way so simple that a warm and fuzzy feeling took over your body and you were suddenly rendered speechless.

So, you usually gave up trying to give him a worded answer and resorted to action, quickly undressing so you could join him.

He was so big that he took up all the available space in the tub but before you could wonder where to sit, his hands steadily guided you until you were laying on him. As your arms circled his chest, your face buried in his neck and he guided your legs around his waist. You couldn't be closer than this and as his arms tightened around you, you figured it was exactly what he wanted. And as for you, you'd never turn down cuddling time.

"Sometimes, I find it hard to believe that you're mine." His voice cut through the quiet atmosphere of the bathroom, his mask stroking your shoulder where it was resting. There was something in his voice that gave you chills. Sensing that this statement hide something more serious underneath, you pushed yourself up and gently perched on his chest so that you could look into his eyes while speaking.

"I don't know what happened today, but whatever it is, it has nothing to do with how I feel about you. Nor could it ever change it." You reminded him while his face leaned on your hand that was stroking his cheek.

"Unless what you did today was cheating on me. That would definitely change things," you added to lighten the mood sure in your heart that he'd never do it. "But I'm sure that's not the case, is it?" It was more of a rhetorical question really but it was to lure him out of that bad space his mind was in at the moment.

"I would never do that to you." He confirmed and you smiled brightly at him. Words failed to express how much you loved this man, you hoped that your eyes were doing a better job.

"You are loved and you are worthy of it." You continued with a more serious tone.

"You are lovable and I do love you, Bane." You pecked the grate of his mask letting your words sink in before speaking again. "Do not listen to that nasty voice in your head that tells you otherwise. You are everything I need and even more that I could want. I am lucky to have you because you're special. You're brilliant, the brightest man I know, fiercely loyal, you're good at everything you do and you're so hardworking. Last but not least, you make me feel like the most special girl in the world."

"I am the lucky one." His fingers trailed lightly your back while he mirrored your smile. At least you figured as much by the way his eyes narrowed.

"Let's agree the universe smiled at both of us that day, hm?" Another peck was left on where his mouth was supposed to be and you went to your comfortable position on his chest when something poked your attention.

"I thought you were tired," you gasped in mock surprise when there was no doubt on what it was. And, as a matter of fact, Bane didn't even attempt to hide it. His hands simply moved to your lower back and pushed you to him to create some friction.

"I crave the closeness, nothing has to happen." Almost as if to shush you, one of his hands cradled your head and pushed it further into his neck while the other moved you up on his body so that you were perfectly aligned with him.

"Baby, there's no way we can get closer than this." But of course, he was already working on proving you wrong. And you understood you were once he slowly pushed into you and despite being skin to skin, only now you felt like you were one.

"I never would have guessed you liked cock warming," you pointed out after a while. Both of your fingers were caressing the other's skin at leisure. The water was still warm and the soft light from the candles only added to the already relaxed atmosphere. There was nowhere else you'd rather be right now. Not even your bed.

"I'll admit that I've never cared for the intimacy it offered before." Ugh, this man was definitely after your heart.

"I can see what you mean. I agree It's not something you can do with everyone." You ought to be comfortable enough with your partner to do something like this. Now, being comfortable with yourself was a challenge of its own for you, so for you to be naked on him while he could see and feel everything was a love confession alone. And Bane knew that it was why he had never asked to this before.

In your own way, both of you was saying something to the other just by laying there together. And being so in tune with the other, both of you were aware of it. With every caress and every second that passed, the only thing you could feel was your heart swell with gratitude for the human you held in your arms.

[butchdanvrs]

Today I... Pictured I Was Driving Home To You

rating: Teen & Up

pairings: Carol Danvers/Reader

word count: 1.8k

content/info: alcohol usage, drunkenness, mutual pining, possible unrequited love, fluff, nb friendly <3

Every time you thought you had it. Every time you thought you were good. Every time you thought you could move on and that feelings would fade.

Every thought, every time-you were wrong.

Carol Danvers had you. And she didn’t even fucking know it.

Every time you shared a kiss with someone you wished it was her.

Every time hands landed on your hips or waist; you wished it was her.

Just the sight of her made your heart race and blood pound in your ears.

You had it bad for her-but you already knew that. Really it was more than that.

For what felt like forever, this unknown feeling would twist in your stomach along with stealing your breath away and you didn’t know what the fuck it was... until you did.

You were in love with Carol Danvers.

Hopelessly, stupidly, deeply in love with her.

Your eyes are on her long enough that you’re grabbing another drink-some unassuming and pretty looking cocktail that’ll get you on the way to being fucked up if you have more than one.

After an hour of dancing your clothes are sticking to your skin, and heat washes over every inch of you as you down the cocktail-too consumed in your own mind with thoughts of Carol.

If it wasn’t her eyes, it was her smile; if it wasn’t her smile, it was her voice; if it wasn’t her voice, it was the way she moved and the energy she exuded.

You were so past whipped it was almost fucking pathetic.

And it was-is pathetic. Because Carol Danvers had no interest in you.

You were only ever spared a close-lipped smile, a wave, a polite and friendly hand on your shoulder… nothing else, nothing more.

You ached for more.

You wanted her to look at you. To smile at you-one of those big, bright, wide and cheerful smiles that fucking melted your heart.

You wanted her to touch you, in more than a friendly or polite way. The touch of a lover, filled with intimacy and cherished thoughts and intent.

And you needed her to see you-to see you out on the dance floor, to look at you as being more than a friend.

But for now, you’ll settle with agreeing to dance with a cute stranger-the music flowing through your every movement and keeping you occupied.

So no, you don’t care really, when someone pulls you into them, wordlessly asking for a dance. You just smile and start dancing-not minding much when they get a little too handsy and participate in a little bit of mouth on mouth.

You’re feeling warm and like you’re floating, so yeah, you let a few people kiss your neck-too needful of the person you want the most, but are scared you can’t have in the back of your mind.

The night rolls on quickly and slowly all at once, and as it gets later and later the crowd dissipates.

Then it’s nearly 2 am and she’s still here, and you’ve pathetically counted each time her eyes fall on you-which is easier to see now than in the middle of dancing bodies high on alcohol or pure adrenaline.

By the fourth look you head over to her, head still floating and stumbling a teeny bit.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” She smiles-and you swear it’s different from the ones she usually gives you. Whipped.

As you try to sit on the barstool next to her, your thigh slips and you grip the edge of the bar-your body feels like it’s on fire when Carol touches you; a hand soft and strong on the middle of your back, anchoring you.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Her eyes crinkle a little bit, the corners of her lips twitching upwards like she’s trying not to laugh at you.

The realization of how drunk you’ve gotten sinks deep into you and makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“I… I gotta go home.”

“Where’s your ride?” You shrug absentmindedly, and then scoff once you realize-your ride is gone.

“...I forgot I made a dumb choice and wanted to stay when they said they were leaving.” You groan a bit, cursing the decision.

Even though your body feels loose and light while your mind grows heavy, you’re hyper aware of how close Carol is to you.

You can almost still feel the warmth from her hand when it was on your back.

God, you had it so fucking bad for her.

You’re both silent for a short moment, watching each other, and time feels like it’s stuck, or maybe you feel like you’re stuck-stuck in her reach, stuck in her gaze.

But you break the moment, blinking a few times and looking away as you unnecessarily narrate your actions. “I’mma call a cab or somethin’...”

Her hand falls on your arm as you start reaching for your phone, and it stops you right in your tracks.

“No, come on. It’s 2 am in the city, let me take you home.”

The skin of her hand touches the skin of your arm and you can’t help but shake your head “yes”, watching her with-no doubt-wide eyes as she steps down off the stool.

Time freezes again, and you linger in a moment that you wish could last forever.

Stepping outside is easy, the smell of colognes and perfumes mixed with sticky liquor and sweat is replaced with smells of the city-exhaust fumes and aromas from a Chinese takeout place two blocks down.

The ride to your place is mostly quiet but not uncomfortable, soft tunes playing from the speakers on a low volume along with a comfortable silence was a big relief-after such a loud night with the bass so deep and heavy you could feel it bumping in your chest.

It’s like a cool breeze of air against your skin when your body temperature is rising. Or when you have a drink and it fizzes in your mouth, filling an unsatisfied craving.

Again, time plays a game with you as it seems to skip over itself, because one minute your head is lolling back onto the headrest and next thing you know, you’re walking to your front door-with Carol right beside you.

Your heart flutters at the consideration she shows, helping you get inside because she can tell you’re struggling with the lock on the door… and with taking off your shoes.

A groan of relief as soon as you hit your bed-the small part of your brain that’s not intoxicated cringing at the fact that you’re in your bed… in sweaty and boozy clothes random people grinded up against.

You don’t even realize you’d closed your eyes until you hear footsteps, panic rising quickly in your throat until you remember that Carol was there.

Carol Danvers was in your apartment with you.

Carol. Freaking. Danvers.

Carol Danvers was bringing you a glass of water to drink.

You hate to admit that you grumbled a bit like a child when you were given it, but drank most of the glass anyway because it was refreshing and most definitely needed.

She helps you put the glass on your nightstand to prevent it from falling and the feeling of her fingers against yours makes you feel a little jittery with nerves.

Now you’re wide awake, toes fidgeting under the sheets at the end of your bed as you watch her.

”Carol… can I tell you something?”

She’s listening, you can tell, brown eyes looking into you as if she can read your thoughts like an open book. It almost makes you backtrack-the words never mind it’s not important sitting on the back of your tongue.

“I-… Thank you for taking me home.”

She smiles and your heart aches as you sit up, willing yourself to summon a little confidence, a little bit of bravery.

But Carol’s still looking at you, eyes still searching you while you fidget with your fingers, heart beating a million times a minute when she asks, “Was there something else?”

You nod jerkily, your throat tightening, “I...I love you. I’m in love with you. A-And I have been for a while now.”

Your eyes blink back nervous tears, and there’s only a few milliseconds of silence before you’re talking again-feeling a weight come off of you that pushes you to keep talking until it’s all gone and no longer suffocating you.

“I should’ve told you a long time ago, I know, and ‘m sorry that I’m dumping this on you now but… I just- I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you. I don’t want anyone else. Just you.”

Your eyes are flitting all around her face, nervously trying to read it and gauge her reaction. It’s only ten seconds later but feels like forever, the anticipation and anxiety of the moment of waiting for her response sat in your throat like a thick ball of regret about to manifest itself in tears.

“I’m sorry… I’m drunk, I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry. Just forget I said anything, okay.”

A hand on your shoulder stops you from turning your back to her, making you flinch as you look up at her. You’re still so terribly embarrassed and are dreading her reaction-expecting a negative one.

Instead, she steps closer to you, her head nears yours and your heart leaps a little in your chest at what she does next-her lips planting softly on your cheek in a small and sweet kiss.

You think for a second that you probably hallucinated it, wanting so badly for something to happen that your alcohol-induced brain conjured it up just to trick you.

But you know it was real when you realize her lips linger, and then she leans back, her hand slowly leaving your shoulder to rest on your cheek, her thumb rubbing it almost affectionately as her lips twitch upward, her eyes shining in the dark.

“Hey, tell me again… when you’re sober in the morning.” Her hand slyly moved from your cheek, fingers grabbing your chin softly and letting go of it as you nod somberly.

“Can… Can you stay with me? Please?”

She smiles warmly, an almost tender look on her face that makes your heartbeat a little faster-not able to help the feeling of hope coursing through your veins. Hope blossomed and bloomed in your heart so quickly you felt like you could burst.

“I’m not gonna leave you by yourself, princess. Get some sleep... I’ll still be here when you wake up. Okay?”

You nod softly, whispering a small “okay” in response. On the outside you’re silent and sitting still, but on the inside-the weight on your shoulders is gone and the tension in your muscles loosened in relief.

For the first time, with Carol, you allow yourself to feel hope as you fall down into your pillows, squirming until your sheets are tucked over your shoulders and under your chin-falling asleep comfortably but delighted about what’s to come.

[dickgrayson80sremixmp3]

jason_the_midnight.mp3

(baby wrote a songfic like it’s 2012)

writing tag/ ao3

People never look up in Gotham.

First of all, it's practically always raining. Heavy, slanting sheets of rain which more often than not sting the eyes in a way that pure water really shouldn't do. Secondly, you're likely to look up and see some supervillain cackle as they ready their death ray and then what? Better not to look at all.

All this means that a vigilante not long returned from the dead can observe the city go by beneath him in relative peace. Jason Todd, at twenty two, finally finds a sense of quiet he hasn't felt in a long time when he's perched up high on one of Gotham City's ubiquitous gargoyles, rain soaking his hair and the white streak the Pit gave him (that still surprises him in the mirror), watching cars drive past and Gothamites go about their business. The whole event makes him calm enough to finally give some thought to you (as if he hadn't thought of you every day since he'd come back, even when he was too raving with Pit madness to know who the girl in his mind was.)

                                                            ~

After some digging, he'd discovered that you were studying at Gotham University, just like the two of you had planned at age fourteen, perched on the roof of the manor and staring at the stars, revelling in the moment before Alfred inevitably found you and made you get down where it was safe. Jason had always planned to major in English literature and minor in creative writing, and even today he feels the tug of need unfurl deep in his heart whenever he thinks of hurrying between lectures, scribbling lines into his notebooks, losing himself in the university library. Your plans had always been more hazy, swinging wildly between dreams of ancient philosophy, or sustainable development, or Asian cinema,  or climate science. He wonders what you've settled on. He could easily find your transcript and know for certain but he still harbours a dream of making up with you, having you tell him your major and your plans and your dreams like a friend again.

Three nights a week, he discovers, you sing and occasionally play bass in a four piece band, performing in bars across South Gotham. You've been together since junior year of high school (after him, after he'd left you alone and gone and got himself blown up, a poisonous voice whispers in Jason's head as he hunches over his phone, reading your Spotify bio) - you the beautiful front woman with three other men on guitar, drums, and keyboards. Looks like she forgot you quickly enough, the voice suggests slyly and Jason can't find any way to argue. The few songs posted on your page reveal a dedication to the 80s retrowave, synth heavy music you'd loved back when he first knew you, a love shared by Dick. Jason remembers sitting in roiling jealousy as you and Dick excitedly swapped recommendations, as you sat up in the front seat of Dick's car while the two of you blasted your favourite tracks, Jason forgotten in the backseat. Just one more thing Dick had that he didn't.

 The videos he finds under your tagged mentions show you in smoky, dingy bars, tall in platform sandals and wide, high waisted jeans, casually stunning in tiny strappy tank tops and dark eyeliner. His breath catches high in his chest as he watches these videos, heart hammering in his ears as he sees how you've grown up, hears your sultry, magnetic voice wind through his thoughts. The secret crush he'd always harboured rears itself with a vengeance at these moments, torturing him with images of what could've been, with the reminder that he really never had got over you.

 Eventually Jason leans into the inevitable and turns up to some of your regular spots, nursing a surprisingly cheap drink and lurking towards the back of the room, where he can watch you but you can't spot him. Not that you would, even if you thought he looked familiar - your Jason was dead, wasn't he?

 You look like a dream, hair loose, eyes sparkling in the dim lighting of the bar. The pink and blue neon lights flicker across the lines of your face, catching on the gold of your jewellery and dazzling him. Not just him, he quickly realises, as he hears the man to his left order a drink 'for the gorgeous singer' and he can't help but look. Blonde, well dressed in suit and tie even though his top buttons are undone and his hair is askew. He just screams 'financial district' and there's a smug surety in the way he stares at you, like he's confident you won't be able to resist him. Jason grits his teeth as he watches the barman catch your attention. You lean down to hear what he says into your ear as he hands you the glass, hair falling over your shoulder. As you straighten, your eyes scan the bar and Jason instinctively sinks lower into his collar. Your eyes slide right over him. The banker asshole raises his glass at you and you smile sweetly.

 "Thanks for the drink Darren" you say, eyes crinkling at the edges, and "Darren" visibly puffs his chest, eyes trailing over your body shamelessly. Jason notices however that you only take one sip of the drink before setting it aside and not touching it again, and his shoulders release a little of their tension.

The bar closes at around 2am, and the band packs up just before this. You hop down off the stage, retrieving your bag from behind the bar, your platforms already swinging in your hand as you jam your feet into sneakers. You drag a huge grey hoodie over your tiny, spaghetti strap top, an old red jacket following quickly after. It's not until Jason's fifth or sixth time watching that he recognises the jacket as the one he used to wear everywhere as a fifteen year old, and his heart clenches a little at the realisation. A Styrofoam box of leftover bar food is pushed into your hands as you swing your bass over your shoulder, and you grin at the old barman as you wave to your bandmates, pausing at the door only to pull the hood up over your head as you run to catch the last night bus heading north towards 24th and Fairway. From the rooftops, Jason observes as you drop into a window seat, leaning your head against your bass and watching the raindrops slide down the glass for the forty five minutes it takes to get to your apartment building. He knows it’s weird to watch you like this, but panic claws its way up his throat every time he even imagines telling you he's still alive. Better that you never know, better you remember him as he was than be confronted with how he's changed, better that Jason never has to see Bruce's look of disappointment as it manifests on your face.

 Far, far too early the next morning you emerge again, this time with sweats replacing your jeans and a backpack replacing your bass. Earphones jammed in your ears, you nod your head absently as you walk to class. There are dark circles under your eyes, and your hair is still wet from the shower and pulled into a hasty braid, and Jason can never bring himself to look away.

                                                            ~

 Some days he indulges himself, tucks one of the battered paperbacks he's swiped from the library at the manor into his back pocket, walks around the campus like he's a student. It's stupid, really, and the shame he can't shake makes him a little awkward, but none of the other students look twice at him, even on the hot days when he's still in long sleeves and jeans, keeping his hands tucked into his pockets to hide the thick bands of scar tissue across his knuckles. He's not even the biggest guy on campus, considering GU's mediocre football team, and generally Jason finds that an old ballcap to cover the white tuft in his hair and keeping his head bowed prevents anyone's gaze ever resting on him longer than a second.

 It's useful, being so invisible, but lonely, and inevitably Jason gets too used to it.

 He gets a fright, one day, when he's reading alone under a maple tree in the middle of the quad (Ray Bradbury, an old favourite) and suddenly hears your voice, loud and laughing, only a few feet away. He jumps, eyes flicking to you in panic, before he remembers himself and tucks his chin, lifting his book slightly to cover the bottom half of his face. His caution is ingrained but unwarranted; you never even glance at him. Safely unnoticed, he watches with an ache in his chest as you hurry across the grass, kicking your flipflops off as you go until you're barefoot, casual in a big white t shirt and cycle shorts. The man walking besides you carries your backpack, and hands it to you once you flop down besides a group of people just over from Jason (unlike him, they bask in the sun). He recognises your bandmates, young, handsome, confident, as well as some girls he's never seen before. They heckle through their laughter as you hug your companion goodbye, and the two of you grin good-naturedly as he says his goodbyes and continues across the quad. The chapter heading squiggles and winds across the page, and Jason can't keep his eyes off you now, however pathetic he feels. He notices everything, from the way you giggle wildly and whisper to your girlfriends to the way the boys grab at your bare legs and pinch your sides trying to find out what you're saying. You look comfortable and relaxed and so, so happy, as you pull your ponytail loose and flick the hair tie at the dark skinned boy besides you, that he almost can't stand it. He breathes through it, slowly, like Alfred showed him so long ago, and the lump in his throat lessens, and he's able to return to his book, even if the appeal has worn off slightly and he can still feel your presence burning in his peripheral vision.

That day, when he returns to his bare, empty apartment he resolves to at least try to stop torturing himself. It doesn't stop him dropping in to your shows at least once a week, but he's working on not wanting to cry every time he sees you. He cuts down on campus visits too, and squashes the disappointment when he doesn't see you in the quad again. Mostly. It's hard being dead.

                                                           ~

"This is a new old song" you say one night, just before closing. "I wrote it a while back but I've never felt comfortable to sing it before now."

 You pause for a moment, eyes casting down, and the blonde man in the denim jacket, the guitarist on your right, pats your arm gently. Jason recognises the longing look in his eyes as he looks at you as an expression he himself had worn most of his teen years. Hell, he's probably wearing it right now.

 "It's about loving someone you can't have" you say, looking back out at the crowd again determinedly, "and it's called Jason"

 Jason starts at this, his drink sloshing over the edge of his glass and onto the bar in front of him. Distracted by the heat curling up over his cheekbones, he almost misses the next words out of your mouth:

 "Jason in this song is a bit of an asshole" you say, your lips quirking on one side, "which is a little unfair to the real Jason, who was wonderful."

 Your eyes are soft as the band counts in and Jason stares unabashedly as you start to sing.

 You were right, this Jason is an asshole, and it stings a bit to hear you sing  'he'll only let you down', but it's nothing compared to the ache he gets when you reach the chorus -

 oh, Jason, tell me what you're chasing,

because the night will never give you what you want,

oh, Jason, and if you can't escape it,

I hope you find whatever you've been looking for'

- because even though there were never any other girls, not for him, it was true that he'd left you, ran out of your life calling something about finding his real mother and never came back...

Lost in his memories, his blood is rushing in his ears and he's rooted to the spot. Normally he's long gone by the time you're heading out but this time he's still sitting at the bar and you hurry past close enough to touch, close enough for him to briefly feel the warmth of your skin on his back. Luckily for him your attention is focussed on your phone screen, cursing as you see the time, and you pass by without noticing him. His breathing is unsteady as he grapples with the realisation that all that time he'd spent silently loving you, you'd been loving him right back.

Go after her! Something whispers to him, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Dick.

Yeah. Yeah, maybe, Jason finally thinks, breathless.

 Maybe.

                                                           ~

(is the music based on my favourite music? yes. are the outfits based on my outfits? also yes. are the fuckin classes based on classes i’ve taken? i’ll give you three guesses)

tagging a couple of my favourite dc writers bc i am stupid and now can’t remember anyone else i like to read lmao anyways <3 @prettylittlebrownskingyal  + @ereawrites + @angelz-dust <3

[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Drive By ~ L.P. (Part 1)

A/n: I have a discord I’m part of! I’m gonna add it to every jatp fic I have, so you’ll get updated links as I post or if you just ask because I don’t know how to do permalinks lol. Have fun reading!

Word Count: 5300+

MASTERLIST

"What are you smiling so widely about?" The teasing question came from Luke and was directed at Alex, who had come into the room blushing with a smile wide and bright enough to outshine the artificial lighting.

"Nothing," Alex dismissed, hopping down from the piano he'd manifested on top of. "Willie just answered a lot of questions and now I feel a lot better about what's going on." They'd just gotten done talking about Julie joining the band and how Alex had met a new ghost friend on his walk.

Reggie's eyebrows came together and he reached out, catching Alex's wrist with both of his hands to still the boy. "What's that?" In dark ink, almost like a tattoo, words were set into the base of Alex's wrist. "I didn't know you had a tattoo, and why does it say 'I think you dinged my board'?"

Alex ripped his arm away from Reggie, but the damage had already been done. As Alex looked over at Luke, he could see in the guitarists' eyes what was about to happen. "You found your soulmate?" Luke asked, a slightly bitter tone already in his voice. His nose was scrunched up a little. Not in hate or disgust per say, but edging toward those emotions. Like he was ready for Willie to be a total jerk or hurt Alex.

"Yeah," Alex slowly admitted. Reggie shot Alex an apologetic look but Alex just shook his head. Reggie hadn't done anything wrong. Normally it would even be a good thing, like when Julie had spent hours talking to him about Flynn and how happy she was that Flynn had been her soulmate. Luke wasn't Julie though. Before Luke could go off like he was getting ready to, Alex stood up to his full height, determination setting in his eyes. "And you know what? I'm glad I did. Willie is really great, and it's nothing like they used to say soulmates were. It isn't forced or weird or magically easy. I don't feel addicted to him. It wasn't even like we were flirting with each other or anything. It was really chill and nice, and he was funny and easy going and listened to what I had to say and understood my feelings and helped me. He's a good guy."

Luke was suddenly very interested in his guitar. "I'm happy for you." His tone didn't support his words.

It was hard, because Alex knew that any other time Luke WOULD have been incredibly happy for him. He'd have wanted to know every detail and have hyped him up and been excited and invested in the story like he always was. Luke would have been more than happy to tease and laugh and be so, so very happy for him just like he said. He'd have smiled and hugged Alex, because he knew how hard this had been for Alex. How he'd always thought he'd die without ever really falling in love and then he DID and now despite everything he has answers and a cute boy who's interested in him and a promising relationship waiting to bloom.

But Luke wasn't, and it was all due to the fact that Luke had a soulmate once and swore them off ever since. Sometimes... Sometimes Alex wished Luke had never met Y/n.

-

It had been a good performance, and Luke was tired. He wanted to go back to the studio and burn off the rest of his performance high with lots of snacks and a good movie, right beside his best friends, like they did after every performance. Before that though, they drank lots of water so they could drive home without passing out. It had happened once and Reggie had sprained arm. He'd sat out the next performance and they all made a rule to be more careful about self care so it wouldn't happen again. They would have just canceled the gig but Reggie would have killed them. They did learn however they hated not performing with everyone present, so here they were.

Because they were just performing at a little bar on a slow night, there weren't many people around. They also weren't a big enough band to perform at somewhere they could get a real bad stage, so they all just sat on the bar, sipping on water so they wouldn't hurt their stomachs. Luke had thrown up once and it was another lesson they'd taken to heart.

As the guys were refueling, a girl approached them. Her smile was wide and she took the open seat next to Luke. Alex had been sitting there but he'd gotten up to use the bathroom. "Hi," she greeted. Her cheek rested on her hand and her eyes sparkled.

Bobby was immediately returning a flirty, "Why hello." He'd always been more of a charmer than the others. Luke was a close second, but Bobby did it more often than he did because Luke didn't like what usually happened when you flirted with someone.

The girl ignored Bobby though, turning to the lead singer, who currently far too busy shoving his face full of food to pay attention to her. 'Hey, slow down or you'll get a stomach ache," Reggie reminded.

Luke nodded and then swallowed, breathing for a few seconds before going to take another, smaller bite. He paused when the girl cleared her throat. "Uh, hi," he said hesitantly, only now registering she'd been talking to him. For some reason.

Her smile grew when he greeted her. "You're Luke, right?" She leaned against the counter, draping herself in an odd way.

Despite how much he hated when people did this, he wasn't thick enough to not know when it was happening. He wiped his mouth, offering an awkward smile. "Uh yeah. What's your name?"

"You can call me anything you like," the girl responded evenly. Her bright hair moved fluidly as she twirled it around her finger. She was pretty, Luke could admit that. Her eyes were a bright blue, and her clothes were a nice silver, which went well with her deep tan.

Unfortunately for her, he wasn't interested. "I'd prefer to just call you your name if that's okay with you."

Her eyebrow arched in surprise. She seemed like the type of girl who dealt with people like Bobby or Reggie. People who were into her and didn't often say no when offered the chance. She was attractive, and probably popular. Luke just... didn't want what she did, and what she wanted was getting more clear by the second. Before she could make some comment that would probably make him feel even more awkward, he slipped off the stool and began to move away from his friends, using it as an excuse to dismiss the girl. She only followed after. "Oh come on," she drawled. "You're hot. I'm hot. We'll have lots of fun. I promise I'll be worth your time." She stepped in front of him, stopping his path and hooking her finger into his collar, pulling him closer to her.

Luke felt panic begin to rise. He'd never had someone come onto him this strong before. Usually they backed off pretty quickly after he made it clear he wasn't interested. What could he say to her to make her lose interest that would make sense without offending her? He didn't want to be mean but... he was the last person to sleep around, even after Alex who was gay in a world that hated people like him. A world that demanded him to keep it secret. HE was more sexually active than Luke was. To say, Luke wasn't. "Listen..." he began slowly, feeling his nervousness twist his gut. His friends had told him so many times that it was okay he didn't want to be with people like Reggie and Bobby did, the same way that Alex didn't want to be with girls like that. It was fine. Yet, every time he had to face it in a situation with someone who might not be so forgiving, he felt the weight of the world on his chest. Not all people were like Alex, Bobby, and Reggie.

"Darling, you're breathtaking." The low purr came from a new body. A hand touched Luke's arm with the most gentle pressure, just enough to nudge Luke backward so the new person could pay attention to the girl. All Luke saw was hair and broad shoulders, but he was distracted suddenly by a weird tingling where the person had touched him. A guy, he realized. "I can't believe there's anyone here that can't see how absolutely beautiful you are." The man rose a hand to brush the girl's cheek with a thumb. Her shining eyes turned to him, taking in his charm in gulps. The man's arm moved to go around her shoulders as he tucked her into his side, burying his nose in her hair to leave a little kiss on her forehead. "What do you say we ditch this poor soul who's so obviously blind and have some fun of our own?"

The girl blushed. "Oh definitely."

An odd feeling went through Luke when the guy made eye contact with him and winked. He turned away from the couple as they began to walk away, hurrying back to his seat. He sat down, trying to get the guy's face out of his head. He'd never been exactly blind to how attractive some people were, but usually it was easy to ignore or forget. This guy... his mind was packed with this guy. Everything about him that Luke had seen in those short moments before he'd left. How he'd smiled at Luke with a look that said he knew Luke had been trying to get out of the situation. Almost like a little 'you're welcome'. And if he was honest, he was thankful.

"Hey, what's that?" Reggie grabbed Luke's shoulder, stilling him so he could get a better look.

"What?" Luke looked over, but he could only see the tip of something inked on his shoulder. It was just out of view for him to see any better.

Bobby moved over then, a smirk growing on his face as his eyes widened. "That's a soulmate mark."

There was a tension between the three boys for a second. Everyone knew that soulmates were a huge taboo, but with all the things between them that were taboo, it was kind of thrilling too. Bobby shrugged off his jacket, offering it to Luke. "Probably a good idea," Luke agreed, putting the jacket on and covering the mark. Even if all of them were cool about it, other people might not be. He could get it tattooed over later or something.

-

Three full days and no one had stopped talking about Alex and Willie. Willie seemed really cool and Luke was easing up a bit, but when the conversation turned that way he found himself usually drawing away, focusing on cleaning his guitar or writing more lyrics. Today he was fiddling around with a melody quietly, a pencil in his mouth and his lyric journal on the floor next to him. He absently rose a hand to tug at the collar of his shirt. He'd never really gotten used to how high the collar went, or the feeling of fabric against his shoulders. He had always worn cut off sleeves, but had changed it after...

He felt suddenly ill.

"You know we still have some of your old shirts," Alex comments casually. "Most of them are cut off actually. You could wear one of those instead." He spoke with a soft voice, and Luke looked over to see Julie and Reggie going off about Flynn. Of course Alex wasn't one to call Luke out in front of anyone else, but he'd still had to check just in case.

Luke's eyes fell back to the song he was sort of writing. "No it's fine. The sleeves cover... my shoulder."

Alex didn't have to ask, but there was something in his expression. "You know you don't have to hide it here," the blonde reminded gently. "Julie and I have our marks too, and-"

"I know," Luke cut off. "I just... don't want her to ask about it." His eyes flickered to Julie before moving away again.

This time Alex nodded and let it drop. "What song are you working on?" Luke smiled, appreciating his friend more than ever. Luke didn't get to respond though because Reggie began to come over. He was holding Julie's glass of water, thrilled by the fact that he wasn't dropping it.... He tripped though, spilling the water all over Luke's shirt.

"Crap!" Reggie hissed, his eyes widening with guilt. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

Laughing it off, Luke rolled his eyes as he moved to his feet, putting his guitar down. "It's fine Reg." He pulled out another shirt, pushing down the way he wanted to glare at it as he pulled off the wet shirt to change into the new, dry one.

Julie's eyes went wide. "You have a tattoo?"

Luke suddenly froze. He tossed the wet shirt by his other stuff, forcing himself to move to cover his midrift again. "No, I don't."

Alex made an expression between pained and amused. "Guess there goes keeping Julie from asking," he mumbled quietly.

As if on que, Julie asked, "What is it?"

Now, Luke could have lied. But he hadn't, and he didn't want to. He hated lying, especially to bandmates. "It's a soulmate mark. It appeared the first time my soulmate touched me." He pulled his shirt the rest of the way down, covering the mark. Without even thinking about it, he tugged at the sleeve. He'd never worn sleeves before using them to cover his mark. He'd always passed it off as a tattoo, but when the mark had just turned into a bad reminder, he'd started covering it up for himself.

Julie didn't pick up on the tone of his voice though. He had played it casual, so he didn't blame her, especially as she rushed up to him with shining eyes and a wide smile. "Wait what? You have a soulmate? How come you never told me?"

"Because I HAD a soulmate," Luke answered softly, offering a small smile in response to her enthusiasm. It turned a little bitter when he continued, "I don't. Anymore."

Suddenly Julie looked really guilty. "Luke, I-"

"It's okay," he dismissed quickly. "That's just why I don't usually engage in soulmate conversations." He forced his smile to brighten. "Now, where were we?" Seeing his urgency, the others shared looks before moving the conversation onward. They talked about soulmates around him a lot less after that.

-

Hey, wait!" Luke's eyes had caught the guy that had saved him earlier as he moved through the crowd. Luke picked up his pace, reaching out to catch the guy's arm. Suddenly they were looking at each other straight on. Luke was a little shorter, but he was a little shorter than most people so it wasn't new. "Sorry, I just wanted to thank you for earlier." He felt his body heat up under the stranger's gaze. "I... thought you would have left."

A smile rose to the stranger's face. "I don't exactly require a lot of space to handle business." When Luke drew back, the man ducked his head. "Sorry I didn't mean to be vulgar, I'm just used to people... anyway." He shook his head. "You don't have to thank me. Not everyone likes to get attention like that from people, and I have no issue stepping in when it's required." His fingers tapped against his leg, his demeanor a lot different from the flirty, confident front he'd put on earlier. 

Luke swallowed, trying to pull himself together. "Uh... what's your name?"

The guy's shoulders sagged, as if he was disappointed by the question. "Y/n. Yours?"

"Luke," Luke responded. "Listen, I was just wondering-"

"Look," Y/n began, a sudden tiredness coming into his features. "I get that you're not into girls and that's fine, but I've already had sex tonight and I'm really not in the mood to-"

"What?"  Luke's face screwed up in confusion. "I don't want to do that. With anyone, let alone you. I... I'm into girl. And guys. But- I- That's not why I-" His face burned hotter. "Listen." He reached forward, grabbing Y/n's palm. He turned it up, to reveal what he was so hoping would be there. A mark, in the shape of a rose. It looked a lot like a tattoo, just without any color. The details were outlined in black ink - even the thorns on the stems. He felt thrilled when he saw it, angling his body to show the exact same mark on his shoulder. "I know we all grew up on the same stories. But I thought... maybe we could get a drink? Talk? I'm the first one of my friends to get a mark and I'd hate to lose the chance to act on it." He shuffled nervously, ready for rejection.

By the look on Y/n's face, it might be harsher than he wanted to face. Y/n surprised him though with a gentle, "I don't think you want me. I- I know we're soulmates, and this has nothing to do with you being a guy, or the whole weird thing most people have with soulmate bonds. I just... I'm not the best person. People don't usually stick around for long."

There was something in what Y/n said that pulled at Luke. "Maybe I could change that. I'm planning on sticking around for a while. How about you?"

Hope of the kind Luke had never seen before filled Y/n's eyes and Luke was rocked breathless by the sight. "You promise?"

"On my life," Luke swore. "At least give me one date to prove I'm not a total waste of time."

Y/n grinned. "You have one date." Luke pumped his fist and Y/n laughed. "Now what did you have in mind?"

-

Luke plopped next to Julie on the couch, concern already on his face. "Are you okay?" He asked softly, slowly reaching out to rub her arm. Alex was on the other side of her, laying on his chest. The two had gotten really close in all their talk about soulmates but when Alex had shot him a plea for help, Luke had been plenty willing to jump in.

"Yeah," Julie sides, picking up her head. "Flynn and I just got in a fight. It was dumb, I just... Someone made a comment asking about 'my boyfriend' after the performance yesterday. Claiming we were together. They were talking about you." She sighed and Luke felt like he was the worst person to get involved in this, but one look from Alex made him stay where he was. "I told them you weren't my boyfriend, and the conversation moved on. She was a little annoyed that I didn't mention she was my girlfriend, I guess? And then went off about how you're into me or something?" She shook her head.

Luke's eyes went wide. "Wait what?"

"I know!" Julie gushed. "I tried to defend you, because we all know that's kind of just how you are with everyone. I mean people also think you're dating Reggie and that's not true..." Suddenly her head tilted. "Is it?"

Despite the tense feeling of the situation, Luke laughed. "Uh, no." Then he considered it, and tilted his head in thought. "I mean, not that I'd pass up the chance if it came. Just-"

Seeing him struggling, Julie supplied, "Your soulmate?" Luke hesitated before sighing and nodding. "When did you..."

"Not long before the night we died, actually. A month max? Time started to kind of blur  as things got more intense and trying to get over a break up and stuff." He shrugged.

Julie nodded. "That makes sense." She hesitated, but finally asked, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, of course, but... what was she like?"

That made Luke smile. "He."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

He laughed. "Yeah, really. Uh, I mean it was actually Alex who helped me come to terms with that whole me being attracted to dudes thing." He shook his head. "Anyway-"

Julie chuckled. She calmed, her eyes settling on Luke with a gentle curiosity. "What was he like?"

Immediately Luke remembered a time when things were amazing. When life had seemed truly good since he'd run away from home. "He was... like, a light. In a really dark part of my life, he came to me like sunlight in the morning? You know when the nights really dark and the clouds cover the stars and the moon just isn't enough and then the sun rises and it's almost a relief? It's like that. I had enough before him, but after... It was like everything I needed - everything I'd ever wanted or dreamed about or thought of - it was just right there. A whole person made of my dreams." He got a sort of dreamy smile on his face. "He was always so warm and soft. He used to... trace it." He rose his hand so his fingers ghosted over the mark on his shoulder. "When he did, it sort of tingled. Like this warm sensation that rippled across my skin. It always did that when he touched it. I usually did it more though. I'd hold his hand in my lap and just like stroke the mark. Cause his was on his hand, below his thumb. He used to call me his flower because of it." A bubbly laugh rolled from him and Alex and Reggie looked at each other in surprise. They hadn't seen Luke like this since...

Julie's eyes were very soft. "He sounds amazing."

"He is." Luke's smile suddenly faded, slowly. His fingers grazed the rose again. "He dances like I play music. He was really good at it. All kinds of dancing actually. He used to slow dance with me all the time. Just pulling me close when it was just us and swaying back and forth. He did actual dancing too, but I loved slow dancing with him the most. If he was feeling really restless he would HOARD spray paint and sneak out. The next day we'd wake up with some street art of our band. It's how we did most of our advertising back then. No one could ever pin it on us because we didn't do it, and no one knew me and Y/n were..." Suddenly Julie realized why Luke looked so sad while talking about something that was obviously such a happy time. "I mean, two guys are soulmates in a world where both soulmates and anything nonheteronormative is demonized? I was trying to make a band that was gonna get really popular and do a lot of incredible things and we couldn't even DREAM of being caught together, let alone going public. Girls would still flirt with me all the time, and I got distracted really easily with practices and writing music." He shrugged. "I always thought that soulmates were... different, I guess. I learned my lesson." He stood, putting his guitar down. "I'm done for today. I'll see you guys later." He walked out and Julie almost went after him, but Alex shot her a look.

"Well that went well," Julie mumbled, sitting down again and rubbing her face.

Alex sighed. "About how well it always goes." He shook his head. "But anyway. How about we figure out how to get you back on Flynn's good side?" He winked and Julie managed to actually smile. Luke hadn't had luck with soulmates, but she had. The past was the past. It was time to enjoy the now, until Luke was ready to really talk about it.

-

Luke wasn't sure what he had walked in on, but it was obviously something he wasn't supposed to have. When he opened the garage door, the muffled sounds of an argument trying to be hushed died out immediately and of all people, Reggie and Y/n were the ones who stepped away from each other to break out of whatever heated exchange they'd been having.

Since Y/n and Luke had started... whatever it was they were, Y/n and Reggie had become like best friends. At first Luke had been a little jealous, but at the end of the day he was just glad that his two favorite people had someone when he was busy as he so often was. Bobby and Alex were important to him of course, but Y/n was his soulmate and he and Reggie had known each other the longest. Sometimes he felt like there was a disconnect between him and Alex; the same with Bobby. He and Reggie were always on the same wavelength though. Even when Reggie missed something, he always got the idea or figured it out after a second. He was slower to do so when it came to the others. Y/n was the same way, as if he was just an extension of Luke's body. Rather than an echoed return, it was just one fluid motion. He and Reggie bounced off each other and built; he and Y/n slowly grew together, feeding off a constant wave of energy. Reggie and Y/n were like a game of hot potato, where the potato got hotter each time they threw it. They had that same gaining effect, but not an echo or a constant, just a little bit of energy from each until it was overflowing. The three of them were kind of unstoppable and anytime they could all hang out, it was the most fun any of them had ever had.

That didn't seem to be the case right now.

Y/n snagged his bag, throwing it over his shoulder. "Hey." His voice was strained, and all of his muscles seemed to be tense. He couldn't focus directly on Luke, his eyes constantly drifting to the door. He wanted to book it.

Luke caught Y/n's shoulder, his eyes full of concern. His eyes drifted between the boy trying to run and the one still in the studio, retreating to the furthest corner - seeming just as desperate to escape. "Wait what's happening here?" Luke asked. "You guys never fight." When they didn't answer, he pressed, "Come on, maybe I can help. Friends argue all the time; it's not a good idea to leave on a bad note."

Despite how odd it was, he did not miss at how the two flinched at the word 'friends'.

Finally, someone spoke. "It doesn't matter, dear." Y/n didn't relax, and the small smile he managed onto his face was so forced it was painful to look at. Luke went to argue, but Y/n rose a hand and caressed his cheek and Luke got distracted for a second - just long enough for Y/n to add, "Just some talking between friends." The word came out harder than the others. Friends. Luke was even more confused. "It was stupid to argue about. Some people just have their minds set, and that's it."

Luke's eyebrows came together, eyes moving between Y/n and Reggie. "You know you guys could... tell me, right?"

"Of course," Y/n reassured. "We just..." He sighed. His walls fell and Luke relaxed, knowing whatever was about to come out of his mouth would be genuine. "Can we just not talk about it please? It's something we need to deal with."

That was understandable. Luke could let it go for now.

-

Luke was glad he couldn't dream anymore. It had taken him a while to figure out he could go to sleep. He didn't tire like he used to, and usually any exhaustion he felt faded pretty quickly if he just sat down and relaxed for a few minutes. He had been nervous the first time he'd fallen into what he now considered sleep, and had woken up pretty quickly. But then he realized he'd been out for half an hour and he hadn't had any dreams. Not like when he had when he was alive.

Y/n wasn't in his dreams now that he was dead.

If he was being honest though, in the very back of his brain, he did miss it. He missed going to sleep knowing that he would be lulled all night by imaginary arms, dreaming of a life he yearned for. A life he missed. A relationship he so regretted losing.

Without the dreams, he started to imagine. Just out of nowhere, if he wasn't engaged in something important, he might just sort of... zone out. And he would think. Think about what things used to be like when Y/n was still around. What life might have been like if Luke had been better. Just, in general. They'd never even called each other boyfriends. The title had never been used, and Luke knew it was because their relationship didn't deserve that. They cuddled sometimes and kissed sometimes and knew each other well, but Y/n had never been Luke's first priority. Of course his music was important but...

The night they'd... broken up? No, that was for people who dated. It was more of just a parting of ways. They'd argued and then Y/n had walked out and like an idiot, Luke had let him. He hadn't gone after Y/n, or tried to fix it after. He'd just lost himself in music and the thrill of being so close to fame and victory. It hadn’t been until he was dead and had realized he’d missed twenty-five YEARS that he even thought about Y/n again.

And now he couldn’t STOP thinking about Y/n. How wonderful and special their time together had been and how much Luke absolutely didn’t deserve it. How he had ruined everything and just let it be ruined. He had been too ashamed to go looking for Y/n because he knew it would only bring him pain. Seeing him with someone else - or even worse, still alone - it would kill him. Again.

What really sucked is that Luke was back to exactly where he’d been when he was alive, after Y/n had left. He was distracting himself with music and work and shutting everyone else out and refusing to talk about it or acknowledge it or anything, and WANTING to go back and fix it but being far, far too terrified to. The result was that Y/n was just always on his mind, more prominent than ever, because now he had so much more guilt. So much more pain, watching all his friends be happy and in love. It was all so much harder to ignore.

Maybe that was why he saw Y/n across the street as they stood outside Bobby’s house, Julie telling them off for going after Bobby and holding onto the past when there was so much in the present to focus on.

Luke suddenly couldn’t hear a single thing Julie was saying.

He stepped past her, eyes wide and heart racing. He had forgotten how beautiful Y/n was. Maybe it was a weird word to use for a guy but... GOD it fit.

The weird thing was that Y/n wasn’t a day older than the last time Luke had seen him. So for a second he thought that maybe he was just imagining it. But the longer he looked, the more clear Y/n became. He wasn’t looking at Luke. His eyes were focused on Bobby’s house, anger twisting his features. And then someone passed him, a woman and her child, and they walked right through Y/n and the small child, a little girl, jumped, eyes wide as Y/n seemed to become clear to her. She dropped her toy and Y/n ran to pick it up and hand it back to her, a soft smile on his face. She took it back with a look of awe and then hugged her little toy close, a huge smile on her face.

She said something to her mom and Luke didn’t know how but he HEARD it.

“Mommy! Mommy! The angel helped me!”

Luke took another step forward. “Y/n?” He only whispered it. He was sure the others hadn’t even heard it, let alone Y/n from all that distance away. But he looked anyway, as if answering to his name, and his and Luke’s eyes locked.

Behind him, someone gasped and someone else shouted in a voice flooded with concern.

Then Y/n disappeared, and with him, Luke felt his heart shatter all over again.

[barnesandco]

Blame it on the Heartache

A broken woman finds a lost man, and they try to put each other back together.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo​​ 2020. Word count: approximately 2219. Square filled: “Morning Sex”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence, warzones, and one brief mention of persecution of LGBT people in Chechnya. Oh and also smut. Lots of smut (18+ only). It was supposed to be just smut, but then angst happened, and here we are. 

A/N: There’s some talk about blame in this fic, and honestly, I blame (and thank) @heli0s-writes​, this post, and this one. Also, there will be a part 2 some time next week.

You find him by accident. Kiev bar just after dawn, with wooden bar tops and table tops all rotting with the steady decay of time and too little money, disguises his head of dark hair and grimy outline in a corner booth perfectly but your eyes lock onto the side profile, the slope of his nose and the bow of his lips arching against the light of the snow outside. The Winter Soldier, or the shell he has left behind, sits with a shot glass clutched loosely in a gloved hand, the other one’s fingers decorated with rings.

They’re intriguing things, that you watch closely from the bar, pounding head distracted by the scent of hot chocolate and the jewellery that is both the manifestation of wishes for a prettier life, and the mark of a roughened man at the same time. The light catches on a round ruby set on a silver band on his forefinger. It reminds you of the red star painted on gleaming gray you first saw smuggling political refugees from one warzone into another. The time you were a spy, before you were an activist, before you gave up all hope of NGO pretenses and took things into your own hands, helping people with only the wind to guide you.

Not that you succeeded much. Now, days after desperate depression and harrowing hopelessness thanks to only having managed to rescue half as many queer Chechen teens from their torture cells as intended, you are aching with the weight of your uselessness. The air around you, the tonnes of the morning sky are pressing down on your shoulders, and the whiskey in your hot chocolate is doing little to relieve the tension.

The sorrow is what you will blame, later. Or perhaps, the alcohol, although there is barely a syringe’s worth of it in your system with less than half your mug still empty and going cold quick. You’ll fault the loneliness of decades helping a world that does not want to become better for how you rise from your stool and sit down across from the man who thinks he is a stranger to you.

You’ve read the stories. Seen the videos of the helicarrier falling apart above the Potomac, the camera footage captured by a daring chopper, and the Smithsonian’s exhibit on Bucky Barnes. The eyes staring back at you, calculating, clever, above cutting cheekbones, are the same as the ones on the wall in the museum. He’s had a century of pain and you only tenths of one, but the hurt rings out and resonates clearly, a sonic bell of a distress signal, captured by wandering eyes and inexplicable want.

You wonder what he will blame for his response to you unbuttoning the top of your shirt, and your hand over his. Possibly, the fact that he’s been on the run for a year. A year out of the cryostasis detailed by the files the Black Widow leaked in D.C. A year of running, of being alone and sometimes worse -- only the haunting nightmares for company. Your sympathy, the same one that pushes you to keep at your job when it is forever hopeless, is what pulls your heartstrings closer to him.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you blame desolation. You blame the flaming burn of want that shines from his eyes when he sees a face that is not just friendly, but maybe familiar, too. Something tells you you ought to be scared, as he rises and drops a hryvnia bill on the table, and leaves, still holding your hand, but the strength of his grip deters you. The hold is gentle, calloused, the rings grazing your palm as he adjusts to intertwine your hands, so each metal band comes to rest against the sensitive skin between your fingers. Tight enough to feel coarse skin and trembling desire, but loose enough that you can easily leave. Run. You are not being forced anywhere.

The streets of Kiev become a shimmering, white backdrop to his face that looks even more stunning in the light. How much of your last encounter does he recall, if any? New Mexico, 2001, protection detail for war scarred children who needed to evacuate, one of which was an heir to a throne. A brawl in a market, sweat-sticky sundress flaring furiously, the heat of the American sun no match for that of his arms around you. A dance, a twirling battle, and the gasping from breath in the aftermath was one hell of a challenge. Something that restored your faith in your job.

But you’re far from Albuquerque, now, and are reminded of that fact as he leads you to the polar opposite of a southern tavern. It’s an inn. A quaint, small place, more wood, this one gleaming brown on the walls and the hardwood floors and the mahogany counter, all well kept. He strides past the burning fireplace in the lobby and climbs the stairs two at a time, as you struggle to keep up. Part of your lust-addled brain thinks to joke about how he has you panting before he’s even gotten you in bed.

All thought of laughter evaporates when he shuts the door and presses you against it with his human forearm pressing on your neck. Tight enough to threaten but loose enough to let you breath. Your heart beats faster, the pulse of your veins thrumming a little closer to the surface. 

Who are you? he growls in Ukrainian, eyes shifting between threatening and offering little hints of fear. When you do not answer, he asks, who sent you? 

The material of his jacket is rough where it pushes into you. You have to fight to speak. “Nobody.” The English makes his eyes widen, and you barely have time to question whether this move killed you or saved you, when he takes his arm off your neck and replaces it with his mouth.

Heavenly heat, hellish white light, blinding ecstasy erupts like a volcano where he begins to devour you like he hasn’t for centuries, for millennia of loneliness, and there, in the innocent hotel room, your head fills with images of everything but. Hands find his hair, knock the woollen hat off his head while his teeth trace a pleasure-trail down your neck and to your collarbone, his fingers clenching on your hips. 

You push back, off the door and into the room, standing now, supporting your own weight on weak knees and shaking breath. He steals the last of it you have left when he leaves your collarbone -- a bruise blooming ripely in the color of a plum -- to find your lips, and this, this is what salvation tastes like. Vodka and whiskey and chocolate, on lips chapped but lush and soft beyond the rough exterior. A gasping sound of want released in a hurried exhale between kisses makes him growl from somewhere in his chest. 

The vibrations reach your heart, heavy and loud and beating a march of deathly desire on your rib cage. You hold onto him with tight fists, like he will float away, because this is the only way to let go. There is a reassurance, in his hands clutching your jeans tighter, that he isn’t leaving. His fingers slip under your sweater, and then under your shirt, and you break away with a gasp as cold metal -- full hand on one side, and slim rings on the other -- meets your skin.

Then you press his hands to you tighter, let him tear your upper layers away, tug his jacket and sweater off his shoulders as he becomes well acquainted with the tops of your breasts, the parts visible above your bra. Head bowed in sacred confession, he finds rescue in your body, skin shining in the light of the beginning day behind you. A new start.

A new hiding place, he goes down on both knees, laving at your belly button, leaving you spit-shiny and cooling in the chilly air. He takes your jeans off slowly, a contrast to every other step made so far, and mouths at your mound, soaking your underwear further with slow, maddening movements of his tongue. You’ve had enough. This buzzing heat has turned to forest fire in your pulse, and you take your bra off and pull him up and towards you. 

His chest is warm against you when you fall back against the bed, his weight recognizable. The Soldier -- James, you think, for now -- buries himself in your neck with a renewed vigor. Begins to move down your body to the apex of your thighs, where you are wet. Dripping, soaking wet, just for him. The first touch of his tongue to your honey-sweet slick is an electric spark, and he lights you up like the fourth of July with every touch after. Fireworks in your irises mirror the flames licking up your spine, and his eyes meet yours when he opens them in moments of reprieve from enjoying the taste of you.

Purgatory, this limbo between right and wrong, is the closest you have been to joy in as long as you can remember. It aches in your limbs as you inch closer to the cliff’s edge of delectable joy. 

“Enough,” you say, when you ache for more, when you are empty and wanting only him inside of you, all of him, and he moves away. Trepidation in his eyes at the thought of being pushed away evaporates when you pull him back, the flow of your pushes and pulls echoing with the power of the moon, and how it brings the waves to lap at the land a reflection of how James’ chest meets yours when you have opened the buttons of his shirt.

It hangs open, a curtain around you, and you dexterously strip him of his jeans as well, toes pushing at the waistband and belt falling off the bed with a clink that sounds like the final nail in the coffin. You’ll gladly die a little death here, if he’s the executioner. 

His cock is leaking with arousal, hard against the lines of his abdomen begin to smear a shiny trail against you as well, and you take him in hand and he groans. Throbbing hot in your hand, velvet heat over solid steel hardness, and you spit in your hand before slicking him up a little more, his moans louder and unreserved in your clavicle, teeth grazing the spots he has made tender. 

Desperate man. Lonely, sweet, sad man. Your heart aches for him, and you want to give him more than his cruel lifetimes have so far. You want to give him warmth, starting with the warmth of your silk body, as he slips inside of you, slumping, his forehead pressing into your shoulders and murmuring what you think is a prayer into you. 

His hands are moving with feverish intensity over you, metal warmer now, as he throbs and pulses and then adjusts to your heat. All that while, you hold him. Hands first over his shoulder blades, then moving your right hand to his left, slipping under his hold on the sheets to entwine his fingers with yours the way he did in the street that feels miles below wherever you’re flying.

He’s so big, and you are so full, nerves prickling with electrostatic lust, that you have to focus on the swell of him above you, the hand holding yours and the shape of the rings on his fingers not to lose it right there. Then he starts moving.

And you’ll swear you’ve never felt true bliss before this moment, because James moving inside you, with slow thrusts, stretching your walls in delightful pain, is a luxury you’ve never lived before. Stealing your breath, his pace picks up, and you feel every ridge along his length on the inside of your body. Fire pools in your belly, and his hand is drawn to it. He supports himself on his metal arm, and trails the other down your torso. Obsidian shimmers on his ring finger and there is the unmistakable wink of vibranium on his little finger, as his hand dips lower to your clit, and you watch the spot where he moves in and out.

Lascivious eyes watch you watch his fingers circle your nub, tracing the path to your gratification, and they shine when you mewl, arching up, circling your hips. Climbing higher and higher, he moves faster, hits a spot in you that burns brighter than the Sun rising in the sky, and everything explodes in a supernova of heat, color behind your eyelids and warmth flooding your insides as he spills deep, growls against your throat, hand clutching your wrist when he falls forward. 

You are marked up in his artistry, a painting of pleasure in the mouth-made bruises on your neck and the fingerprints on your hips, and the circular indentations from his rings on your neck. He softens inside you, as you overflow with your combined pleasures, and you hum against the crown of his head, as you run your fingers through his scalp. Sated man, grateful man, miracle pleasure, purring in your arms, too dangerous to keep, but too comfortable a weight to let go of so soon.

[delimeful]

you will see a better day

donation drive commission for @starrykid with the prompt: Remus dealing with intrusive thoughts and the others helping him through it.

warnings: canon setting, intrusive thoughts (a fair amount), gore mentions, implications of thoughts of self harm, Remus Going Thru It

-

Before, whenever he had a Bad Day, it was just more fuel on the trash fire that was his brain. 

It was routine: Remus would wake up with a litany of grotesque images on the back of his eyelids, present every time he blinked or squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. These thoughts weren’t the fun kind of gross, the type that was fascinating or funny. They weren’t fun because he didn’t choose them, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get rid of them if he didn’t like them. 

Guess that was how everyone else felt about you. Remus mashed a pillow over his own face as though it would muffle his own mind. What a stupid thought. He was a luxury few could afford, thank-you-very-much!

Back then, as soon as possible, he would find someone else in the Mindscape to bother, because if he had to deal with the awful thoughts carving and chipping away at the inside of his skull, it was only fair to share. 

That was before, when things had been black and white and he could be a monster all he pleased because it wasn’t like anyone else thought differently. It wasn’t like Thomas thought differently. 

Until he did.

And now they were all in one muddled up Mindscape and the others were trying, making an effort to clot their own bad habits and setting a place for him at the table. It was slow-going, like shoving a square peg into a circular hole, but it was also the most he’d ever had. Until something splintered, he was going to soak in every minute of it. 

Or at least, that was his plan, up until he hit another Bad Day like a semi truck hit thrice-dead roadkill. 

Same thoughts, same pounding (heh) headache. The difference was, now he couldn’t go word-vomit all over the nearest Side until he felt a little less like he was drowning. He was working to keep the delicate peace in his own way, and that meant not bothering the others with his… himself-ness on days like these. 

He couldn’t stay in his room all day, though. For one it was boring, and for two, ever since they’d all agreed to try and cohabitate, Patton and Janus in particular were insistent on checking in if anyone acted strange. Cooping up in his room and not being his usual fantastically sickening and outrageous self would definitely pop up on their radar. If that happened, there was no way he could fool Janus outright. He preferred his own brand of frank honesty anyways, so clearly the only solution was to behave normally enough that nobody looked twice. 

His version of normal, anyhow. 

He groaned loudly and then dragged in a breath, manifesting a pair of slippers that looked uncannily like dead fish onto his feet. He would just have to put his excellent acting skills to use. 

—- 

Remus’s willpower was put to the test as soon as he reached the kitchen. A new record of his ability to destroy plans, this must be why Janus never told him anything. 

Patton was spinning himself in circles on one of the round stools by the bar counter, humming a cartoon theme brightly to himself. At the stovetop, Virgil was sedately flipping pancakes, an easy set to his shoulders that meant he had probably recently taken a long-overdue nap in Logan’s room.

Normally, Remus would already be halfway into teasing the hell out of him, but now his brain felt scrambled with panic. Virgil was particularly susceptible to getting dragged into the cycle of intrusive thoughts on days like these, which meant the anxious Side was the last one he wanted to run into at the moment. 

Two birds with one brick, his stupid hell brain suggested slyly. Send Virgil into a spiral and then it’ll be him who gets nagged, his fault for ruining the friendly atmosphere. 

Stop it. Remus’s face twitched into a self-directed snarl for a moment, and he forced the thought away as Patton finally slowed his rotation to smile dizzily at him. 

“Remus! Good morning!” 

Virgil glanced over his shoulder, sending Remus’s heart rate briefly into the triple digits. Be normal be normal be normal. “Hey, Re. Morning.”

He didn’t even notice. So much for being your friend. If you’re subtle enough, you could sidle up behind him and smash his face into the hot burner—

“WHAT’S UP, FUCKERS!” Remus shouted, teeth spread in a too-wide grin. He bounced into the kitchen, depositing an assorted handful of teeth (his preferred currency) into the swear jar before Patton could say anything, and planted himself on the middle bar stool. 

Patton scooted one stool closer to be next to him, because of course he did. Remus resisted the urge to start prying out handfuls of hair, his own or— no. Toned down, he was keeping it toned down. Buttcheek on a stick, this was difficult.

“Want to spin with me?” Patton asked, shifting antsily from side to side with barely contained energy. 

“Whoever pukes first wins?” Remus replied automatically, and felt a bright burst of giddy joy when Patton giggle-snorted instead of recoiling. 

“I think upchuck is actually supposed to mean you lose your lunch and the spinning contest, kiddo.” 

Of course it did. You were designed to be the loser, even if you try to change the rules. 

Remus knew that this time Patton had spotted the way his lips twitched down into a grimace, but before the fatherly side could say anything, there was the clink of ceramic plates on the counter in front of them. 

“No spinning and/or vomiting if you want to eat my pancakes,” Virgil demanded, wielding a spatula threateningly at them as he clicked the stovetop off. “We’ll never hear the end of it from Princey if he has to reconjure all the furniture.” 

Irrational, heated anger burned through him. Like Virgil could do anything to stop you. Social interaction was enough to give the guy a panic attack, he couldn’t tell Remus to do or not do anything— 

“You good, Re?” Virgil asked, and he jerked, avoiding the other Side’s gaze as though eye contact would expose his thoughts. After a beat too long, his mind finally caught up with the plate in front of him. 

His pancake was covered in a truly disgusting amount of cheese and ketchup, the way he always requested it back when they’d all been Dark Sides. Despite the fact that he always made a face back then, Virgil had made a point to remember, had done it without asking. 

Like ravenous wolves, his thoughts instantly turned against him. 

Pathetic. How could you think things like that about people who trust you? You shouldn’t even be here, pretending to be a person. You deserve everything coming to you. 

His hand made it halfway to the fork sitting innocently next to his plate before he remembered himself. Virgil was still looking at him, clearly having caught the motion, and Remus lowered his hand, white-knuckled. 

“Me, good? That’s a funny one, V-mo!” he tried to joke, but the odd edge to his voice made it fall flat. Virgil was outright frowning now, and out of the corner of his vision Patton’s eyebrows were drawing together.

“What’s wrong?” Virgil asked, his frame tight with tension and his gaze drilling into Remus. “Are you hurt?” 

“I could be!” Remus blurted, trying to keep his tone saucy but ending up with something closer to desperate. “You ever think maybe bashing my skull in would be better than having to deal with its contents?”

The two of them winced, and he knew he’d given himself away completely. Shit.

Virgil reached out, and then stopped himself before he could make contact. Can you blame him? Jumping into an electrified tank of leeches would be more comfortable than willingly exposing himself to you. 

Something of his internal diatribe must have shown on Remus’s face, because Virgil’s hesitant expression flickered into regret.

“Shit,” he swore, and this time Patton didn’t chide him. “I can’t-- I don’t want to send you into a spiral, Re. If I touch you, we’re just going to be stuck in a feedback loop of bad thoughts.” 

“Like how you’re perpetually stuck in 2009?” Remus offered, instead of listing all the ways he could feasibly remove Virgil’s eyes from their sockets. It would almost be fun, if it wasn’t his friend’s eyes he was contemplating prying out with a spoon handle. 

Virgil’s lips pulled up slightly. “Yeah, just like that. I’m gonna go get the others. They’ll be able to help you for real.” 

He sunk out, and Remus’s head started to ache more severely as terrible and often gory predictions for the future began to crowd his mind. He shoved his hands into the roots of his hair and tugged ferociously. 

“Hey, buddy, you shouldn’t pull on your hair like that,” a concerned voice chimed in. Remus had almost forgotten Patton was still there, sitting only a seat away. 

He pulled harder on his hair, both out of spite and to distract himself from the urge to summon a weapon and see if Patton would still look at you with so much pity if you shanked his ass and tied his intestines into little bows. 

“Hey, what do you call a seasick croc?” Patton asked, abruptly enough that Remus managed to shake his train of thought. He glanced up to look at the Heart, who offered him a tremulous mischievous smile. “A crocobile.” 

Remus snorted, and Patton’s smile seemed to firm up. 

“How about, why do ducks have tail feathers?” the moral Side asked in that same leading tone. 

Remus thought for a minute. “‘Cause otherwise they’d lose their balance in flight and go splat against the nearest window?” 

“I mean, maybe, but also!” Patton held up a finger for emphasis. “They have tail feathers to cover their… butt-quacks.”

There was a beat of anticipation where they both stared at each other, and then Remus threw his head back and outright cackled. Patton fist pumped in delight. 

“I thought you might like that one, kiddo,” he said, beaming. Before Remus could reply, possibly with an atrocious pun of his own, Roman strode into the room. 

There was a brief, awkward pause as the two of them made eye contact. Patton looked rapidly between them with concern, and Remus couldn’t blame him. Even now, their one-on-one interactions tended to end with vicious spats. They were too good, too practiced at pressing each other's buttons to settle into the newfound peace easily. 

“... Bad one?” he finally asked, as though he could spot the wrong-evil-awful all over Remus from a mile away. Remus felt his expression drop into an irritable glower worthy of Anxiety, but before he could retort, Roman was seating himself primly on the communal couch.   

He ran his hand through the hair at the nape of his neck in a nervous habit Remus constantly teased him about, and then straightened his shoulders and patted the cushion next to him. “I’ll… like when we were kids. If you want.” 

Despite Patton’s confused head tilt, Remus got it immediately, and ignored the screaming violence in his head in favor of bodily throwing himself over the couch, jostling the hell out of his brother and eliciting a Grade-A Bitchface from him in the process. Remus grinned maliciously in return.

“Do the one that looks like a snake,” he demanded, running a hand through his hair and lengthening it. Of course, in addition, thick clumps of hair ended up falling out entirely, leaving weird-feeling bald patches that might have been interesting if he’d actually intended to create them. 

“On purpose or don’t want it?” Roman asked, echoing a familiar question from their childhood. It had been a royal decree, before they grew so divided, that one had to ask before ‘fixing’ anything the other did, just in case it was on purpose. 

“How are you supposed to braid what isn’t there?” Remus grumbled, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he unwillingly imagined restapling his hair to his skull. “Don’t want it.” 

Roman dragged his fingers through Remus’s hair, lengthening it until it was long enough to do all sorts of stupid-complicated braids. He also made the new hair unforgivably glossy and apple-scented, but Remus could get him back for that later, when he was sure it wouldn’t be (nails through nasal cavities, a cloud of suffocating darkness, decaying hands pulling you down into freshly turned soil and burying you alive) disproportionate retribution. 

Two braids later, Logan appeared, rising up in the mindscape with his tie perfectly aligned but lab goggle imprints around his eyes. He only took a moment to absorb the scene, as though it was normal that everyone was crowding around Remus attentively. “Virgil informed me that you could use some assistance?” 

Remus snorted. “Maybe you can perform some impromptu brain surgery to stop me thinking? Hey, if you don’t use anesthetic, I promise not to squirm too much, doc.”

“I don’t believe that man’s ever been to medical school,” Roman quoted absently, still caught up in combining three braids together into one. 

Logan rolled his eyes. “Regardless of my unfortunately lacking PhD status, I believe brain surgery to ‘stop one thinking’ is also colloquially referred to as an induced coma.” 

“Perfect!” Remus cheered, and then yelped when Roman tugged on his hair harshly in retribution. Patton was making that half-pitiful, half-furious face that he always made whenever the emo talked bad about himself, strangely enough.

“There are plenty of adjectives I could use to describe such a solution, but none of them would be ‘perfect’, Remus,” Logan continued. “A more effective and patient-friendly answer would be addressing your irritating or harmful thoughts through the use of various mental health tactics.” 

Easy for him to say. “That might work for Tommy-boy, but I am the harmful or irritating thoughts, remember?” 

“Falsehood.” Logan declared, proving that no matter what aspect of Thomas they were, the Sides were all dramatic theater kid bastards at heart. “It has become increasingly clear that while we all formed to handle certain tasks or aspects, we are all increasingly complex at heart. None of us can be diminished to simply one trait. In the same way that Virgil is much more than the experience of anxiety, there is no logical reason to reduce yourself to the thoughts that you struggle with.” 

Remus shook his head, though he wasn’t sure what part of the assertion he was resisting. Logan folded himself into a sitting position and reached over for Remus’s hand, his touch grounding. 

“You’ve gotten through days like this before. You’ll continue to do so after,” Logan told him. 

“I got through Bad Days by making everyone’s day bad,” Remus retorted. “I’m not you, but I’m not stupid. Nobody wants me making it into a communal event.” 

“That’s what family’s for though,” Patton said, shifting closer from his own spot on the rug. “Listening. Helping. Having each other’s backs when things get tough!” 

Logan’s grip didn’t falter. Roman’s presence was solid at his back. Remus was beginning to wonder if he’d snorted something hallucinogenic recently.

“The sentiment is admirable, if a bit hypocritical,” a familiar voice chimed in, and Remus looked up to see Janus leaning elegantly against the kitchen archway. Virgil elbowed his way past, ruining the dramatic pose and flopping down on the couch next to Remus. He bumped his shoe against Remus’s leg in quiet camaraderie.

“Hypocritical?” Logan echoed, raising an eyebrow. 

“Unless you’d like to tell me that everyone here has no problems whatsoever asking for help or expressing vulnerability on their bad days,” Janus proposed, smugly. 

Logan inclined his head slightly. “Point.” 

“Regardless, that doesn’t make Logic or Morality incorrect.” Janus looked at Remus intently. “None of us are allowed to simply suffer in silence, anymore.”

“I didn’t exactly suffer in silence before,” he pointed out, sounding uncannily sensible. Probably from the nerd’s proximity. 

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem now, hmm?” Janus replied. 

Logan sighed at them all, collectively, in general. “Look at it from this angle, Remus. Your previous coping mechanism was generally detrimental due to your lack of options and isolation. Now, you have neither of those holding you back. With knowledge and assistance, you can only improve from here on out.” 

Now, that was doubtful. “And what if I don’t, huh? What if I just get worse?” 

“Then we’ll still be here.” Logan squeezed his hand, and Janus confirmed his words with a nod, and even though his mind was cluttered and overwhelming, they were all still there at his side without complaint. 

Maybe it wasn’t too much to ask, after all.

“Well, what are we trying first?”

[spaced0lphin]

Bailie and Jeff debate comic hero powers. - @virusq

The orange lights on Tactical's display blurred together into a hazy line. Blinking sleepily, Shepard pressed her palms to the heat between her hands, a sealed tumbler full of coffee clutched in her lap. She sank back into the big, bulky chair, usually vacant in the cockpit. Joker was right, the leather on these things was butter smooth. A long, soft sigh escaped her. Everything hurt. The exhaustion was an ache living deep inside her bones, yet still she couldn't sleep. If it wasn't the dreams, it was the duty.

Joker sat a ways off to her left, in his usual and rightful place at the helm. He was staring intently at his displays, occasionally tapping out something with astonishing speed. Every once in a while, he'd smile at whatever he was reading. In those instances the light would catch him in a particular way, framed in the holopanes and surrounded by stars dragging on by. These were the kinds of moments no holo could capture. Comfortable silence.

She swiveled the latch on her tumbler and brought the coffee to her lips.

He focused on her with laser-like intensity. "Hey, you can't have that up here," he said, although it was more of a complaint than an instruction.

"Mmm, I know," she replied. Vanilla roast. The good stuff.

"Look, we lose grav and that stuff blorps out everywhere, it'll get into everything, cause all this sensitive stuff to short out and then bam, we lose life support. Turning us all into meat popsicles wouldn't be your best command decision."

"It has a lid," she said, holding it up and closing it with a click. The way he narrowed his eyes at her made smile. He was too much fun to wind up.

"I thought you went to flight school? That's like day one stuff," he grumbled.

"I remember on day one reading that beard hairs can detach and get into the console." She tapped her finger against the cup. "Technically speaking, you know," she continued, going for another sip, "your face oughtta be smooth as a baby's butt."

He tugged sharply on the bill of his cap. "Pfft, yeah, don't threaten me. You're bluffing. You know how I know?"

"How's that?"

He shot her the kind of grin that made little butterflies in her belly take wing. "I know you think it looks good."

She shook her head and smiled. "The urge to issue orders right now is almost overpowering."

"That would be a flagrant abuse of authority," he sniffed.

"Hmm," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "You didn't seem to think it was a flagrant abuse of authority when I ordered Miranda to stop snooping on your extranet activity."

"Well, I-"

"Or when I let you write off that holovid array as a business expense."

"Yeah, but-"

"Or when I ordered Gardner make you a different curry because you hate coconut so much."

"It's an allergy!"

"No, it isn't." She sipped again. His frown was adorable. "I trust you not to get beard in the console. You can trust me to shut this lid if we lose grav," she said and winked. "Besides, you're just jealous that I have one and you're not due off for another three hours."

"Stop being so right all the time, it's annoying. It's like your superpower or something."

"Right all the time and annoying? I don't know. I can think of a few people who have that market cornered," she laughed. "Though if we're talking what superpowers we have, I think you have too many to name."

He paused, the ghost of what might have been a warm smile flickering across his features. "Anyways, you're not supposed to say something nice. You're supposed to say how mine is I have a deplorable excess of personality or whatever."

"Hey, you went there, not me." Shepard smiled. Trading jabs was fun, but glimpses of the softness he was almost open with was where it was really at. It was amazing, really, the ability he had to ease away some of her soreness. All it really took was a laugh, a shared look, a flash of genuine affection in his smile and she forgot how much she hurt. Everything was just easier around him. Some tension melted away from her shoulders.

"If you could choose, what superpower would you have?" he asked. "And don't cheat and say to just think the Reapers out of existence. Everyone wishes for that."

Shepard pressed her lip to the coffee lid in thought. "Regeneration, I think," she said after a moment. "Just keep going, no matter how much damage I take."

"You already kinda have that one," he said with a grin. "Try again."

"Well, with regeneration I'd stay young forever," she added, making sure to bat her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Give an asari a run for her money."

Joker shrugged. "You haven't aged a day since I've known you. I mean, let's not get technical and count the reasons why. Just take it as a statement of fact and move on." He turned back to his viewscreen, scrolling lazily through whatever he was looking at, leaning on his elbow closest to her. "I guess mine's obvious."

"Flight?" She asked. "You've already got that."

"Yeah, I was gonna say 'be irresistible to women,' but you know. Then I figured, damn, already got that too."

Shepard swigged the last of her coffee. "Ugh, don't say what we both know out loud like that. Cheapens it."

He paused in his scrolling and looked off out the window. The smile in his voice was clear as he said, "You know, sometimes you make it really hard to keep it professional when we're at work."

"Oh, is that what we were doing?" She chuckled. "Apologies, then, Flight Lieutenant Moreau. As you were."

"Okay, okay. I think the power I'd have is the ability to manifest coffee whenever I want." He said and stretched his arms in front of him.

"Again with these things you can already do," she said as she lifted herself up out of the seat. She folded her arms. "How do you take it?"

[lamen-trash]

Can I place a written request for Captive Prince?on a rainy day, laurent arrives tired after a day of school in college and damen is home to welcome him. damen makes popcorn and they watch movies on the couch.damen gives Laurent a little massage so he can de-stress(pls make Laurent wear glasses,I've been obsessed with it since I read his fic for the most recent rehearsal request!)they have 3 cats(or dogs,you decide)

Domestic Damen and Laurent

Set one year after part 1. 

The rain that had drenched Laurent’s thin clothing on his walk home seemed to soak through his skin, the biting cold gripping his bones with a tight, unyielding fist. He saw no one as he trudged along a dark street against the wind, only a few minutes away from his destination. 

He ached for Damen. It wasn’t the first time he’d missed his lover recently. The day had dragged along dreadfully, and the only thing getting Laurent through it was the thought of Damen waiting for him at home. 

Home. It was a new thought – once tentatively hopeful, but now certain and bursting with unimaginable joy. It was still unfathomable to Laurent, sometimes, that he could share this life with someone who matched him in every way and gave him a newfound sense of ease, of comfort and belonging. 

At first, when Damen had suggested they move in together, Laurent was speechless. Even after being with Damen for many months, he still managed to get caught off guard by the abundant proof of Damen’s love. But he was serious, and Laurent was helpless to the thought of rarely having to leave his side. 

Laurent almost groaned in relief as he entered into his apartment building, the dry air of the lobby area a welcome feeling. He practically sprinted up the stairs, exiting on the second floor before arriving at apartment 226. 

A shift of the lock, and he was inside. The light from within was warm, the air warmer. 

After quietly hanging up his coat and bag, Laurent went toward the kitchen doorway, its light and the promise of Damen calling to him like a beacon. And there he was, a large and welcome presence putting the last of the clean dishes away. 

“Sweetheart,” Damen grinned when he caught sight of Laurent and a moment later opened his arms. Laurent fell into them without hesitation, burying his face into the warmth of his lover’s neck and sighing. Two of their cats – Auggie and Sylvia – leapt down from the counter to weave between Laurent’s legs, meowing up at their owner with excitement. 

It felt good to be home.

“Long day?” Damen murmured. Laurent squeezed him harder. 

“You have no idea.”  

Damen pulled back for a moment, his hands on Laurent’s shoulders. “You’re soaking wet,” he said, concern furrowing his eyebrows. 

Laurent smiled sheepishly. “It rained on my walk home.”

Damen shook his head once, then pulled Laurent back into his embrace for a few moments.

“Do you want to take a bath?” Damen murmured, and Laurent acquiesced without hesitation; baths were one of his few guilty pleasures. 

They entered into the bathroom together, and Damen wordlessly went to turn on the bath’s faucet and pour lavender-scented bubble bath into the pooling water.

As the bath began to fill up, Damen sat Laurent on the edge of the tub and kneeled before him, his hands reaching up to peel Laurent out of his soaked clothing. Nothing was said between them, the silence a comfortable blanket that warmed Laurent up almost as much as Damen’s touch.

The cold had rendered Laurent’s skin almost translucent, his blue veins standing out starkly against their pale canvas. Damen frowned when he noticed, and quickly began kissing warmth back into Laurent’s flesh. He started on Laurent’s right wrist, reverently pressing his mouth to the soft inside before moving up a centimeter, and then another, heated breath fanning out over pale skin. Laurent sighed, and let his head tip forward in thoughtless surrender. 

Damen worked his way up Laurent’s arm before moving to the other one, and Laurent closed his eyes and just felt as Damen’s lips covered his shoulder, neck, chest, stomach, the faucet running like white noise in the background. His breath rushed out of his mouth when Damen’s lips ghosted over the insides of his thighs, and he was met with a warm pair of brown eyes and a wicked grin upon opening his eyes. 

“Get up here, brute,” Laurent breathed, and Damen surged forward to kiss him. He tasted familiar.

They got lost in each other for a few breathless minutes before Laurent whispered against Damen’s lips, “I think the bath is ready.” 

Taking a tender step into the bath, Laurent hissed for a second before his skin started to adjust to the blistering heat. Damen knew just how he liked it. A moment after he settled down into the water, Damen undressed and entered behind him, plastering himself to Laurent’s back and wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s midsection. Laurent leaned back with a hum, which prompted Damen to nuzzle his head into the enticing space between Laurent’s neck and shoulder. 

Minutes ticked by, interrupted only by the gentle sloshing of water that moved with their hands sweeping across each other’s bodies. Nothing existed except the feeling of their skin pressed together and the slow glide of their touches. The bathroom filled with steam, and Laurent basked in the lavender scent of it, letting it lull him into a light sleep in Damen’s arms. 

It could’ve been a minute or an hour later, Laurent wasn’t sure, when he drifted back to consciousness to the feeling of Damen massaging his shoulders. 

He sighed, and nuzzled his face into Damen’s neck. 

“What’s this?” Laurent mumbled. 

“You seemed so tense,” Damen said, his thumbs digging a little deeper into the muscle, making Laurent groan in a heady mix of ecstasy and tenseness. 

“I’ve been leaning over a desk studying and taking notes non-stop all day while sitting in the most uncomfortable chairs. It’s not exactly my dream day.”

Damen’s grip changed as he worked his way across Laurent’s shoulders before making his way up to his slender, elegant neck. The noise Laurent made was downright sinful, and Damen had to bite back his grin. Someone was definitely enjoying themselves. 

It continued on like that for some time, as Damen worked his grip across the tight spots in Laurent’s body. Laurent basked in it – the way Damen handled him both firmly and gently, his love bleeding through every touch. 

Eventually, the bath water ran cold. Laurent did not mind, though; he and Damen had plans to watch a movie together that night, and he was excited to cuddle up on the couch under blankets with his stupidly loving boyfriend. 

Damen towelled Laurent down thoroughly before wiping himself down much quicker. He then stepped forward and delivered a peck to Laurent’s lips. 

“You take your time getting dressed. I’m going to heat up the takeout I got for you and get the movie ready,” Damen explained before jogging out of the bathroom completely naked. 

Laurent had to restrain his laughter. Sometimes Damen was just so ridiculously Damen and the man didn’t even realize it. 

A rush of private joy swept through Laurent upon entering the closet and seeing their clothes hung up side-by-side together. Two months had passed since their move-in, and Laurent was still not entirely used to these little reminders of the ways their two lives were now intertwined. 

After dressing in his usual cotton shorts and one of Damen’s large t-shirts, Laurent grabbed his glasses without hesitation and headed into the living room, where Damen was placing his takeout onto the coffee table. 

Damen smiled when he saw Laurent, coming over to slip his arms around Laurent’s slender waist. “Mm, you put them on.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Do you even like me or just the glasses?”

Damen let out a hearty laugh at that, and his delight was contagious. 

“I like it when you’re comfortable, and yourself,” Damen explained, brushing his thumb down a porcelain cheek. “The glasses are just a manifestation of your trust in me, so of course I love them.”

Suddenly feeling like he was going to burst from all the emotions pushing against his ribcage and the blush rising in his cheeks, Laurent pushed past Damen into the kitchen. 

“You’re making popcorn?” Laurent asked, when he heard distinct popping noises coming from the microwave. 

“It is a movie night,” Damen explained simply, before directing Laurent to the couch. “Now pull up our movie options.”

They ended up going with a romantic comedy Damen had wanted to see, and though Laurent resisted and rolled his eyes, he was secretly excited to see Damen become engrossed in a cheesy plotline. Laurent could feel any remaining tension ease out of him as he settled on the couch with his food, lover, and cats around him. 

Sylvia, who was still a kitten, climbed onto Laurent’s shoulders and pawed at his glasses before wrapping herself around his neck, while Auggie laid against Laurent’s leg. Damen had his arm wrapped around his boyfriend, its weight like a security blanket, and they were about to start the movie when Laurent realized something. 

“Buttercup!” he called out into their apartment, hoping the seclusive feline would show. “Come here, baby.” 

Sure enough, a minute later, a calico cat slinked around a corner with all the attitude of a movie star before hopping up into Laurent’s lap, almost sitting directly on his food. Both men laughed, and Laurent reached out to stroke Buttercup’s soft fur while Damen started the movie. 

It was cheesy, but it was perfect. Laurent could feel all the cats purring while he petted them and devoured his food. Damen was a constant presence by his side, ceaselessly stroking Laurent’s hair and delivering random kisses to the crown of his head. He even came up with a game where they “had” to kiss every time the two protagonists kissed each other. And even though it only happened three times, Damen found other ways to sneak in more kisses throughout the movie. Laurent wasn’t complaining. 

That night, as Laurent fell asleep against Damen in their shared apartment, surrounded by their pets, no coherent thought besides formless bliss entered into the confines of his mind. He was home, and he was safe.

Read this ficlet on AO3. 

[sleepawaywriting]

Mornings, Part II

[Piers x Reader, NSFW]

I was actually planning on finishing a chapter about Gordie before this one, but the surge of love for Piers from his 3 second twilight wings finale cameo inspired me to finish this first, so enjoy! (Sorry to whoever made that Gordie request, HE’S A-COMING DON’T YOU WORRY.)

NSFW (18+) UNDER THE CUT

A deep bass throbbed beneath your feet, thrumming up your legs, through your bones, and resonating within your chest. An indigo-tinged darkness bathed your surroundings, a forest of nondescript figures with blurred faces limiting your movement, and in front of you, raised on an invisible stage, was your boyfriend and his band, backlit by a constellation of stark white, neon violet, and hot pink—the colors undulating to and fro like luminescent inkblots. Everything felt too out of focus, your senses phasing in and out like a radio signal in a storm. You almost felt intoxicated, but surely you would have remembered drinking? The music sounded too warbled for your liking, so you closed your eyes, zeroing in on your boyfriend’s distinct voice, his siren song sweeping through your eardrums, swirling around your disoriented mind, suffusing your senses with warmth and familiarity.

Opening your eyes, you were suddenly being pressed against a brick wall. Where were you? A nearby alley? Wait, wasn’t there a concert going on? But your thoughts were put on hold, because Piers was right there, entire body flush against yours, face mere inches from your own. He was fully clothed, but the heat radiating from his body amorously dripped down onto your own, seeping into your skin, as if both of you were completely naked. His face moved down to your neck—arms caging you in—and you felt the tickle of his long, silky hair at your collar and across your shoulders. You wanted to say something like, “Piers, we can’t do this here,” but he was already kissing slowly down the smooth column of your throat, sucking sharply at the junction of your neck and shoulder. You exhaled in a shudder as he moved down to your collar, and your stomach flipped at the possibility of being caught like this, but your jaw was sealed shut by some magical force, your tongue caged hopelessly behind your teeth. Suddenly, the top half of your body was bare, exposed to the chilled nighttime air and dim light of the alleyway, but any confusion you felt was overrun by desire as the musician began to caress you chest.

The first inklings of heat pooled between your legs, which, like the rest of your body, was chained back against the wall by an unseen force. You were at the complete mercy of the singer working his tantalizing lips and searing tongue over your flushed skin, leaving a trail of faint, rosy marks in his wake, pulling you apart bit by agonizing bit. You couldn’t see much, not that you could move your head to begin with, but you felt his bangs brush across your sternum, hot breath tickling your goosebump-laden skin. You felt his tongue encircle one of your nipples, slow and teasing, before capturing it in his mouth and sucking salaciously. Your breath hitched, his mouth sending a pang of arousal deep into your lower belly, a sweet gush of warmth permeating your gradually soaking heat. You felt him smirk before continuing his ministrations, alternating between persistently sucking on one nipple, and gently playing with the other between his thumb and forefinger. You couldn’t stand it, not being able to look at him, not being able to run your fingers through his thick, two-toned locks, not being able to tell him how good he was, how you so desperately needed more. You writhed slowly when he switched sides, an image painting itself in your mind—he was staring up at you, under long lashes and sharp eyebrows, his striking blue eyes—rimmed with faded charcoal—gleaming with lust and mischief. His mouth against your breasts, wet, hot, and so inviting, made your mind wander to other parts of your body, parts where the press of his lips and sweep of his tongue would work you over so sinfully, shattering any semblance of composure as you devolved into an absolute wanton mess. A gentle bite around your nipple drew you from your thoughts, gasping against the delicious sensation. Drawing away, he replaced his mouth with his other hand, squeezing your breasts together and playfully encircling each nipple with the pad of his thumb.

“Always so sensitive here, love,” he purred, voice muffled and too far away, yet still dripping with unbridled arousal, “Wonder if I can make you come just by doin’ this,” he mused, pressing against your flushed nipples for emphasis.

If you had a voice you would keen, whimpering like the hopelessly needy thing you were, but instead you could only sigh, arching into his touch with what little strength you had. You gasped when he gave your nipples a loving pinch, chuckling lowly, the rich, melodious sound shooting straight to your dripping pussy, aching and clenching fruitlessly around, well, nothing. Gods, you suddenly felt so empty. Another image manifested itself in your haze, of him pressing you further against the wall, wrapping your legs around his waist, burying himself inside of you to the hilt with a husky groan, and pounding into you with wreckless abandon, not caring if anyone heard or saw the two of you in such a compromising position. Would he even stop, if you were caught? The thought made heat bloom in your cheeks and spread down your neck, imagining your chaotic, fearless rockstar making it clear to whomever stumbled upon you that only he could make you, the literal Champion, fall apart so beautifully. You were drawn from your fantasy by the feeling of Piers’ lips traveling down your stomach. He paused to nuzzle your soft belly, humming in appreciation as he squeezed your supple hips, the tender gesture making your heart melt. You deeply cherished the way he made every single part of you feel so attractive, so loved.

You sensed him kneel down, feeling your legs being shouldered further apart, and the rest of your clothing seemed to make itself scarce. You barely had time to dwell on how impossible that was, because the next thing you felt was your boyfriend’s breath tickling the course hair between your legs, the gentle suggestion of what was to come making your clit throb. Softly, so softly, he drew his thumb up the length of your heat, not nearly close enough to give you the sweet contact you needed.

“Hmm… so wet already, love,” he hummed, “Y’ such a good girl.”

You wanted to moan, but you could only exhale in a lustful huff. He chuckled again, his voice utterly intoxicating, and several moments passed thereafter—no sound or movement to ease the tension in your gut. You were holding your breath in anticipation, when finally, he moved, but instead of diving into your aching pussy, like you so desired, he moved back, clearly wishing to torture you just a bit more before indulging your wishes. Nuzzling into your plush inner thigh, he released an affectionate sigh, his breath fanning along your skin, igniting your nerves. Legs tensing around his shoulders, you felt his lashes graze flirtatiously against your thigh, before he moved upwards, kissing and nibbling on the delicate skin all while his hands roamed and massaged the outside of your thighs, reaching around and giving your ass a sultry squeeze. When he reached the space between your thigh and groin, he sucked harshly on the tender area, drawing out a breathless whine from your throat, and before he moved any further, any closer, he retreated again, repeating his smothering affections up your opposite thigh. You were panting by the time he reached your groin again, or whatever the approximation of panting was in your paralyzed state, and to your utter delight and horror, he denied you yet again, drawing back to tease both of your sensitive thighs once more. By now, you felt your heartbeat pulsing between your legs, despite the fact that he had barely given that area any attention. You wanted nothing more than to grab a fistful of his thick, beautiful hair and shove his face into your eager cunt, and you knew for a fact that the handsome bastard would love nothing more. He enjoyed doing this sort of thing to you, drawing you to the absolute brink of neediness and desperation, always ever-so-patient and frustratingly thorough to the point where you were practically begging for release.

Your hips were trembling by the time he reached your upper thigh again, mere inches from where you needed him most. Something within you gave way then, allowing you to cut through the invisible strings that wired your jaw shut. It felt as though your body was working in slow-motion, every movement like wading through glue, but you managed to make a noise.

“Piers…” you breathed his name, just a hint of a syllable, tumbling from your lips in an amorous whimper.

The wanton sound seemed to destroy his resolve, as the next thing you felt was his long, smoldering tongue flush against your sensitive heat, parting your folds with a thick stripe up the length of your pussy. A surge of warmth shuddered up your spine, and the alleyway began to melt around you, brick and mortar giving way to pillows and wrinkled sheets, the darkness absorbed by the soft golden hues of morning’s light.

You awoke with a whine into the heated atmosphere of your shared bedroom, body melting against the mattress as you carded your fingers through your boyfriend’s tousled hair. Blinking the haze from your eyes, your lids felt heavy as you gazed down at him. His bangs were hooked behind his ears to gain uninterrupted access to your pussy, exposing both of his gorgeous, tired eyes, gleaming against his beautifully flushed cheeks as they regarded you lovingly from between your thighs. You had no idea how one person could look so adorable while ravishing you so fully, and from the look he was giving you, you could tell he would be smirking if his mouth wasn’t otherwise preoccupied. Your stomach erupted in butterflies as you watched him lick another languid stripe up your dripping cunt, your head falling back against the pillows as you tugged on his scalp. He groaned against you, the sound making you shudder, the vibrations of his husky voice drawing a sigh from your throat, and you practically keened when he twirled his tongue around your clit, ending in a gentle suck that sent sparks dancing down your legs and into the soles of your feet. Everything about him was overwhelming—his mouth insufferably warm, lips impossibly soft, and tongue absolutely ravenous as he tasted every inch of you, making your toes curl. It all felt so wonderfully slick, and at this point you couldn’t who was making more of a mess. His movements were somewhat sloppy due to what you assumed was sleepiness, but the unpredictability in his actions only added to the tightness building in your hips. The pressure in your abdomen built with ferocity as you squirmed, forcing him to hold your hips down with both hands, chuckling at your eagerness.

His tongue drew more lazy circles around your pulsing clit, before sliding down and diving deep into you aching entrance as far as he could go. Your walls fluttered, body desperate for something thicker, longer, and your grip on his scalp tightened as you dug your heels into his upper back.

“Please…” you whimpered, shocked at the desperation in your own voice.

He needed no further encouragement, sliding a hand down between your thighs, slowly pressing his middle and ring fingers into your welcoming heat while planting a heated kiss to your clit. You almost came from the sensation alone, his long, nimble fingers working you open so much more beautifully than yours ever could. Groaning into you, his movements became more insistent, purposeful, moving around your clit in feverish patterns, your body jolting whenever the flat of his tongue slid across the exposed bud. The noises emitting from the two of you were obscene—the wetness of your heat providing a filthy accompaniment to your pants and moans, as he pumped his fingers deep into your pussy and borderline slurped on your clit. You gasped as he curled his fingers inside of you, your back arching up off the mattress when he pressed against your sweet spot, rocking his hand against your entrance and creating a delicious pace of varying pressures against your inner walls, your pussy squeezing around him instinctively.

“Piers—!“ you cried, losing any semblance of self control and moaning shamelessly as a coil of pleasure tightened inside of you. It was white-hot and exquisite, magnifying every little movement the singer made against and inside of you, until it snapped and released, careening you over the edge as you gasped his name at the ceiling, eyes rolling back before shutting them tight. He groaned as you pushed his head against your quivering heat, grinding against his heavenly mouth and skilled fingers, prolonging your orgasm as your thighs tensed around him. Waves of warmth shuddered through your body, starting deep within your pelvis and working out to your fingers and toes, until finally, finally your body relaxed, whimpering as your boyfriend gave your oversensitive clit one last kiss, before slowly pulling his fingers from your heat. You fell limp against the mattress, your chest heaving as you steadied your breathing, head spinning as you descended from your magnificent peak.

You looked down just as he began to sit back up, his hair cascading in loosely-tangled waves down his pale shoulders, and watched, captivated, as he shamelessly licked your essence from his fingers, an impish gleam in his eyes. You squeaked and covered your face, cooling cheeks now reheating in embarrassment.

“Un-believable,” you groaned, voice muffled by the palms of your hands, “One of these days you’re going to kill me with something like that, I swear.”

He chuckled deeply, and it sounded like a song, sweet like a spoonful of honey and warm like cashmere. You felt a weight land carefully on top of you, followed by the faint whiff of spiced soap, and you lowered your hands to find your boyfriend nuzzling into your chest, gazing up at you with tired, lovestruck eyes and an adorable, lop-sided grin. Your heart fluttered. Gods, you loved him.

You smiled, cradling either side of his face in your hands and pulling him into a kiss, humming affectionately when you tasted yourself on his lips, combing your fingers back through his hair. He moaned softly when you rubbed the sweet spot at the base of his skull, and you giggled as he nibbled lazily on your lower lip. The two of you lingered for a bit, simply enjoying the closeness, before Piers broke away, yawning and burying his face back into the swell of your breasts. You smiled, yawning yourself as you soothingly played with his hair, bringing a sigh from his throat.

“You tired, love?” you asked, pressing a tiny kiss to the crown of his head.

“Mhmm,” he hummed. You felt his voice resonate against your chest.

“I can imagine…” you mused, pondering for a moment. You were still reeling from the earth-shattering orgasm he had so generously gifted you, but something was bothering you—and that something was the long, firm erection pressing insistently against your upper thigh through the musician’s briefs. Going down on you had always managed to rile Piers up, which was something you found incredibly attractive about him, but he usually wasn’t one to ignore it completely, let alone fall asleep before resolving the issue. Although, this was the first time he had done it right after waking himself up, you assumed. Perhaps giving incredible head this early in the morning had knocked the wind out of his sails.

“Babe?” you started.

“Hmm?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” you asked, a hint of flirtatiousness in your voice, shifting your leg ever-so-slightly to rub your thigh against him, his cock practically jumping in response to your gentle attention. Piers sighed heavily, turning his head up towards your face, not yet opening his eyes, and you smiled at the way his cheek smooshed against your skin.

“Yeah, but… ‘m real sleepy… kinda jus’ wanna nap,” he mumbled.

A soft laugh rolled through your chest, lightly jostling the musician’s head. He smiled into your skin, your joy soothing like a lullaby.

“Here,” you started, running your fingers across his scalp one last time before shifting beneath him, “Come and lie next to me, love.”

He mumbled something in response, before lazily crawling up the bed and plopping down beside you, wrapping a long arm around your waist and nuzzling into the small of your back. Biting your lip, you began slowly grinding against him, the soft curve of your ass making his cock twitch. He groaned, pulling you closer and grinding up into you in kind, the friction utterly delicious and tempting.

“We can do it like this, nice and slow, if you want” you hummed, your voice soft and sweet, turning to look back over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes for extra effect, “Please?” your voice lowered, dripping with desire, “I… I want you to come inside me, Piers.”

You couldn’t help but laugh when he immediately shot his hand down to fish out his cock, grumbling into your skin as he did so. You arched your back slightly, lifting your leg to get into position, breath stuttering when you felt his hot member flush against your bare ass.

“It should be easy… since you did such a good job already,” you cooed, shifting against him as he guided his cock to your entrance. Piers shuddered as he dragged the entirety of his aching erection across your pussy, and you gasped when his tip grazed your clit, still sensitive from your previous climax. He helped hold your leg aloft as he began pressing into you, squeezing your inner thigh as he slowly, carefully sank into your folds, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. Flames began to lick at the edges of your mind, within your chest, and across your lower regions as he pressed further, and you gasped as his head gave way to his shaft, tensing as he stretched you further than his fingers had before. Piers immediately froze.

“You alright?” he asked, his smooth, silky voice against your ear, helping you relax.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reassured him, “It didn’t hurt, just caught me off-guard, is all.”

He hummed in response, and you smiled. Even in his sleep-addled state, he was still so attentive and careful with you, warmth blooming in your chest and traveling down between your legs as he continued to press inch by gentle inch, until he was finally sheathed inside of you.

The feeling of fullness sent a shudder clambering up your spine, your walls fluttering around him instinctively, feeling absolutely weak when he groaned in response, his tired voice rich and husky as his breath fanned across the shell of your ear. Gods, you were already so hot and bothered for the second time this morning. How the hell this musician always managed to turn you into a sopping wet mess was beyond you, but you were by no means about to complain.

There was something uniquely intimate about this position, despite not facing each other—his heated body pressed flush against your back, face buried into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent as he sighed fondly at the absolute perfect feeling of his cock enveloped in your snug, tight heat. You laid together for a moment, simply basking in the sleepy atmosphere of the room, the morning sunshine filtering through the blinds, bouncing off the ceiling and bathing the room in a soothing glow. Piers’ breathing deepened, relaxing even further into you, and you wondered if he had somehow managed to fall asleep while rock-hard and fully inside of you. You were about to turn and look over your shoulder, but you gasped when he suddenly moved, pulling your leg further upwards and bending it closer to your side, hooking the crook of his elbow into the inside of your knee. You barely had enough time to appreciate the new position, when his long, slender forearm managed to reach perfectly between your legs, his middle finger pressing against your swollen clit. You whined, arching your back as he began to toy with the sensitive nub, your hips beginning to rock of their own accord.

Piers didn’t move just yet, choosing only to swirl his agile fingers around your quickly-soaking heat, reveling in the way you ground back against his cock, squeezing his shaft so sinfully with every sweep of his fingers over your throbbing clit. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted more of his tantalizing fingers or more his wonderfully stiff cock as your hips swirled, your heated breathing turning into desperate panting, shuddering when he licked a hot stripe up the column of your neck.

“Piers���” you moaned, lifting your arm and drawing a hand back through his hair, your nails scratching along his scalp, causing the other to groan softly into the crook of your neck.

“You’re so good for me,” you praised, looking back over your shoulder, your beautifully debauched voice and heavily-lidded gaze tugging at his cock, as well as his heartstrings.

“I love you so mu-uch!“ you gasped as his hips jolted, thrust shallow, yet unexpected, watching as his eyes squeezed shut, the rouge in his cheeks deepening in hue. You couldn’t help but smile, grinning so wide that your eyes crinkled.

“Piers…” you breathed, asking for his attention. He opened his eyes, bright, crystalline, and glossed over with a combination of sleepiness and arousal.

“I love youuu,” you purred, giggling as he buried his warm face back into the crook of your neck.

“Stop…,” he groaned, his cock throbbing inside of you, transforming your laugh into a moan, “You’re gonna make me—ah—‘m not gonna last, if ya keep sayin’ that,” he breathed deeply, steadying himself. Your heart swelled within your chest. You truly loved your sweet, caring, sappy musician so, so much.

Piers reigned in his own pleasure, focusing all of his energy on the finger circling your clit. You felt that familiar coil tighten deep within your gut, your orgasm an inevitability, torn between wanting to savor this moment for as long as possible, and succumbing to sweet euphoria. The way your voice grew louder and more strained, the way your entire body began to writhe, and the way the fluttering pressure around his cock became more frequent, told Piers how close you were to coming undone. The movements around your clit increased in intensity, one finger turning to two, then three, as he massaged your heat at a scorching pace, sending shockwaves through your body and setting your nerves ablaze.

Feeling that something was missing, you drew your hand back, tugging on your boyfriend’s hair. He raised his head with a groan, and you twisted your upper body around, pressing your lips against his own. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but completely worth the effort once his tongue slipped past your lips. Everything built so nicely as you panted against his eager mouth, and when the pleasure boiled over, you were forced to break away as your entire body writhed in ecstasy. Piers watched, completely enraptured as your back lifted in a gorgeous arc, eyes screwed shut, face flushed, and head thrown back against the pillows, moaning his name like a prayer as pulses of warmth surged through your body. His breath hitched as you rode him through your climax, gasping as his hand returned to your thigh, gripping it for dear life as he began pounding into you. His thrusts were slow, deliberate, and powerful, fully indulging in the way you clenched so sweetly around him in your euphoria.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice hot and heavy against your ear, “Keep tight, just like that—good girl.”

You sighed at his praise, whimpering as the rhythm of his cock prolonged your orgasm.

“So fucking good—you feel so fucking good, I fucking love you so much,” he shuddered, voice ragged, practically babbling in his pleasure. You adored the way he came undone when he was close—praises, curses, and declarations of love tumbling freely from his lips as he completely lost himself in you. You rocked your hips back against him, matching his pace, biting your lip as you voluntarily clenched down around him to further draw out his orgasm.

“Shit! Ahh—you’re so good, love, fuck ‘m so close—!” he gasped in your ear, voice pitching in the most vulnerable, sexy way as he came, giving way to shameless groaning as he spilled inside of you. You shuddered at the feeling, almost embarrassed at how much you enjoyed being filled with his cum. It was a reminder of how good you were for him, and you couldn’t help but feel a special type of pride that you could make someone so beautiful, so kind, so talented, feel so good.

Piers panted for a few moments, before exhaling deeply, gently lowering your leg, moaning softly as he pulled out of you, making you shiver at the loss. You sighed as everything softened, muscles relaxing and body sinking into the mattress, the warm, hazy aura of the room tempting you into sleep. Despite your better judgement, you really didn’t want to move, let alone get out of bed, so you decided to save cleanup to future you, who would very much spend the entire time cursing present you. Piers seemed to agree, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you in and spooning you as he buried his face into the nape of your neck, breathing softly, dreamily, as he mumbled against you.

“Seriously love you so much…” he confessed, placing a soft kiss to your cooling skin, “…’m so lucky to ‘ave you…” his voice grew softer, slower, as he was lulled into sleep, “…wanna spend the rest of m’ life with you…”

You hummed happily, relaxing against the sheets, breathing in the scent of cotton and the lingering amber of his cologne, until you fully registered what he had said. Your eyes snapped open, contemplating whether you should ask for further elaboration, but as you felt his body fall limp, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady against your back, you decided that conversation could wait for another day. For now, you chose to bask in the afterglow, allowing the warm, comforting presence of your blissfully snoozing boyfriend to pull you swiftly into dreamland.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, smiling to yourself, placing your hand over his.

[ernest-shackleton]

Aftermath

Read on AO3 (1443 words)

Jaskier wants to say he is an optimistic person - maybe that is even an understatement, after all, he followed around a man who didn't even want him there for two decades. He muses briefly if that is the point where "optimistic" became "pathetic" but decides not to dwell on it; his situation is depressing enough as is - sitting on the ground of a witcher keep, freezing and shaken up after the fight, or fights of the last day... he isn't really sure.

Ciri is sitting on a bench in the hall, staring ahead blankly, pain written across all her features body language as agonised as the burning behind her startlingly green eyes. Jaskier has yet to get over how much she looks like her mother, shivering with grief whenever the thought crosses his mind. But he is a bard without a lute and Cirilla is a deeply traumatised teenager and the last thing Jaskier wants is to fuck up again - to fuck up more.

Lambert is in bed. Jaskier likes him, from what little time they spent together, the few remaining witchers (a phrase that fills Jaskier with grief, stronger than he would have thought himself able to feel before) have gone to meditate, heal, or at least catch a breath after Yennefer haphazardly patched them up and ripped them from the grip of death.

The sorceress is leaning against Jaskier's shoulder, both of them sitting against one of the many crumbling walls of the keep. The icy air seems overpowering, even through walls this thick and sturdy - Jaskier supposes that they haven't been what they once were in a long, long time.

He chances a glance at Yennefer. Her eyes are closed, but there is a tension in her body that lets on that she's not asleep. Carefully, Jaskier reaches out and puts his hand over hers. He feels bad - he hurts, physically and emotionally, limbs aching and heart aching at a different frequency, dissonant and grating. Jaskier can't even fathom how much Yennefer must feel as someone who had - to put it plainly - a much more active role in the day's events.

To his mild surprise, Yennefer doesn't move away, instead leans almost imperceptibly closer. A tear escapes the corner of her eye, a silent sob shaking through her despite her obvious efforts to suppress it. Jaskier begins rubbing his thumb along the back of her hand, gentle motions that he hopes will soothe her, even as they irritate the still-new scars on his own fingertips. He is filled with dread at the thought that his fingers may never completely heal, but forces himself to calm down - to remember that he has powerful friends with powerful spells and salves now. Friends who know how important music is to him.

The thought of music makes him yearn for his lute, but the pain is dull in comparison to the loss that echoes hollowly through the keep. Jaskier is never wanting for inspiration or drive to make art, and he hasn't graduated from Oxenfurt with seven degrees to get hung up on the lute; sure, he misses the instrument on a deeper level, the memories it held of Geralt and their first adventure, and the elegant and masterful finish of it from a crafting standpoint, but not having his lute isn't going to stop Jaskier for long. His prison stay and the smashing hit he debuted there are proof enough of that.

Yennefer's breathing slowly evens out and Jaskier realises that he has been humming quietly, under his breath - a sound that shouldn't be as clearly audible as it is, carrying through the room almost magically. An idea manifests in his grief-ridden mind.

"Yennefer," he says softly, taking her hand between his, as he slowly gets up off the floor. His bottom is numb, both from the cold, and from sitting on the floor for gods know how long, and his legs ache from strolling alongside Roach after a year of more leisurely travelling. Yennefer lets herself be pulled to her feet without a word of protest and Jaskier takes full advantage of that, interlacing their fingers and coaxing her along with her in the general direction of ... he's not sure. He vaguely remembers a tower with an open stairwell - a gigantic construction with the most stunning... bare brick walls.

After a surprisingly short walk, he actually finds the building. They step through the door and Jaskier guides Yennefer to a lone chair, abandoned next to the far wall, which she slumps into, violet eyes huge and tired but trained on Jaskier with an almost uncomfortable intensity. Luckily, Jaskier is used to Geralt's staring, which means that Yennefer's gaze seems no more than a little curious to him.

He looks away, collects his thoughts.

Jaskier is an optimistic person, that much is sure, but that just means that if bad things do happen, even though he hoped for the best, even if there's a moderately happy outcome to them, they leave him all the more destroyed. He can't count the scars he acquired in the last several weeks, he's not sure if he can ever comfortably sit next to a campfire again. He doesn't know if he can ever play the lute again. But despite all the losses, too severe to wrap his head around just now, Jaskier's mind is filled with music.

There are words there, and a melody so sad that it makes him ache all over. So Jaskier trots over to the middle of the keep tower's structure, takes a deep breath and begins to sing.

He pauses, revelling in the way his harmonies ring through the building, echoing off the walls in a magnificent show of acoustics. The verse is a bit rough still, not flowing as nicely as his usual work, but it’s a first draft – the next lines are clearer in his mind already. He turns on the spot, shooting a glance at Yennefer from the corner of his eyes before he continues.

Oh, hear me, good lady of fortune,

hear my pleas and hear my words

for once there was pretty a maiden

whose burdens you'll hear and you'll hurt.

Her eyes rest on him, tears falling onto her cheeks, but she seems entranced, almost relaxed and he knows that whatever he does, he cannot stop singing.

A movement at the other side of the room catches Jaskier's attention when he opens his eyes during the last line. When he blinks away the tears, he realises that it's Ciri, her hair messy all around her head. She's gripping the door frame with one hand, knuckles white like she can barely stand up, and Jaskier knows she needs someone to share her pain. He looks at her and his voice breaks as he continues.

Her love was a beauty unrivalled,

and tempted away one dark night.

Unknowing, the maiden stood waiting,

'till news reached her ears of a fight.

Through meadows and forests she searches

in vain for her lover to help

to save what is left to be cherished,

then finally breaks with a yelp.

Jaskier lets the note ring out, the last verse forming in his mind when he sees Geralt stepping into the dim light behind Ciri, seeing her lean back into his embrace. He turns away, closing his eyes for his final words.

Her love in death's hands she finds lying,

mere yards from their shared, sacred stead.

Not tears and not howling will help them no more

as the maiden's lap pillows their head.

Jaskier stills, feet suddenly heavier than ever, even as the lst note rings through the tower. He drags himself over to Yennefer, collapsing hard on the floor next to her chair. She surprises him by settling a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Forgive me," those last words ring hopeful,

shared breaths and shared words in the haze.

Forgiveness they gift one another,

yet never themselves that same grace.

Footsteps draw near. Geralt is in front of him faster than Jaskier can process, then next to him, on the floor, thigh pressing against Jaskier's own, then an arm comes to rest around Jaskier's shoulders, Geralt's hand on top of Yennefers, as Ciri quietly slumps down at Geralt's other side. Jaskier takes a deep breath and wipes the tears from his eyes clumsily. He feels a bit lighter than before.

Jaskier is an optimist, and even though they barely made it through the day, they're here now and they're all together, and most importantly, he knows they actually want him there now, and that counts for a lot.

He is convinced they will heal from this, as well.

[hoodoo12]

What if sad-jerking Beej couldn't keep it up during one of his fap-training sessions? 😭🤔

BOGO! My apologies for taking so long to write and post this.  Enjoy! `

Compromise

“I can’t! I can’t tonight!” “Hey--hey, it’s okay! Listen--” But he was borderline inconsolable, and you were fairly sure that if you didn’t have a hold on his elbow he’d have spirited off somewhere. There was still that possibility; the arm in your hand was full of tension, like wires about to snap. “Beej, baby, sweetheart, it’s okay--” “No it’s not! It’s not okay!” he agonized.

It’d been some time since you’d seen him so frustrated like this. He’d gotten, if not eager, at least comfortable with touching himself in front of you. Tonight however, like he’d exclaimed in a wail of anguish, he simply couldn’t keep an erection. The more he tried, the more he couldn’t weighed on his head, smothering him. A vicious cycle of failure. 

The specter yanked himself away from your grasp but to your surprise, he didn’t disappear. Beetlejuice sat up, his legs over the edge of the bed, hunched on himself, his hair now the color of a bruise, the picture of misery. You sat up too, and tried again. “Beej, it’s okay--” “It’s the furthest thing from okay,” he spat, but it was directed at his hands in his lap and not at you. You sighed. He flinched at that noise, like now he was expecting you to agree with or finally berate him. When you did nothing but lean into his side, he curled a little further over. You didn’t chide him for sitting bent in half, you just stayed still. Eventually he spoke up, answering as if you’d pressed him. “It’s not okay because you wanted sex tonight.”

You sighed again. This was a long-standing argument, one that seemed even more deeply rooted, something winding tightly around his core: desperation to be seen, and a misplaced drive to do anything for anyone who showed him the slightest bit of positive attention. Chewing on a thumbnail, thinking things through, you might have come up with a solution. “Okay, Beej. You’re right. I did want sex tonight and--and--” you raised your voice to drown out his whimper of dismay, “--right now you can’t. It’s okay. I promise. Would you like to watch?”

Watching usually was enough to arouse him, especially if he didn’t touch himself. Mutely, he nodded, although it was still a bit more morose than you’d prefer. “Would you do me a favor?” He managed to turn his head a little, to look at you. “You want me to sit back and not touch you?” You nodded. “Yes . . . and something else. Would you call up a clone for me?” It was a risk, asking for one of his clones to come out and play when he couldn’t personally perform. You weren’t sure if his clone would have the same issue, or if he was going to be insulted and--justifiably--storm off, or--

Beetlejuice’s brows furrowed and he cocked his head. “A clone? You want a clone?” You tried to shrug it off like it wasn’t important, which was the truth. “Just a thought.”

He turned his attention back to his hands again, and you thought that was it. That was your answer: no clone, no sex, nothing tonight. You continued to lean into his side and opened your mouth to repeat it was okay even if you were disappointed.

He replied before you could get the words out. Out of thin air, he pulled a clone into your room. 

None of them were exact replicas, although this one was close. A tad bit shorter, a tad bit stouter, but the suit and hair and scruff were exactly the same. He also smiled in delight when he took in the state of nudity you were in. “Hey babes--it’s showtime?” You truly had no idea how much control Beetlejuice had over his clones. There’d never been a time you’d asked if he could feel what they felt, or if he directed their actions, or anything. The way the clone had lilted his sentence like a query made you think, however, they weren’t all privy to everything. Maybe they lost some of the connection when they were summoned. “Hey,” you replied, pushing yourself off the mattress to go to him. His height was closer to your own, and that was interesting as he opened his arms to welcome you. You stepped into his embrace and he didn’t waste time planting a kiss on your bare shoulder. Glancing back at Beetlejuice, you saw he hadn’t lifted his head at his clone’s appearance or after you got up. “Beej, I know you like to watch me. Will you watch me now, with your clone? This is for you too.” “Is it?” he mumbled half under his breath. Immediately you pulled out of the clone’s embrace to turn back to him. You leaned into his personal space and lifted his chin. “Yes. Yes it is,” you replied. “I want you to keep your eyes on me. I want you to know that every single thing I do with this clone is for you. Every moan, every gasp, every movement I’m thinking about you. About your mouth. About your cock. About how good it feels when you’re inside me--” You hadn’t whispered, and the clone took the opportunity to step up behind you and take your hips, subtly rocking his pelvis into your ass as you told Beetlejuice in no uncertain terms the reason behind you wanting a clone. “--okay?” you finished, still focused on him. “If it’s not okay, send your clone away.” The clone stopped rocking, and you waited with bated breath for a response. 

“Okay. I’ll watch you.” You grinned and gave Beetlejuice a fierce kiss, boldly shoving your tongue through his lips to lap at his. He groaned and reached for you, but you batted his hands away as you straightened back up. Leaning back against his clone, you told him to get off the bed and take a seat somewhere else. He cocked his head again as the threw his gaze around the room. “On that chair over there, or on the floor?” With a one shoulder shrug, you conveyed you didn’t care. As a matter of fact, you ignored him completely for the moment as you took his clone by the elbows and turned him so he was on the bed now, sitting in almost the same spot Beetlejuice vacated. He seemed startled but pliant, letting you maneuver him just as you wanted. You heard the specter settle into the chair behind you.

What you wanted was to put on a one-woman show, something to turn your lover on so much he’d get out of his own head.

So you leaned over the clone, just as you had with Beej a few moments ago. With your fingers working his fly, you whispered to him he was going to stay dressed. You were going to be in charge. You needed him to hold you, support you--he’d know when. The clone’s amber eyes were bright with agreement. 

You managed to open his zipper enough to slip a hand into his trousers and find his cock. 

Giving him a quick kiss and then with a grin only the clone could see, purposefully staying bent at the waist so Beetlejuice had a fine view of your ass and a peek of your pussy between your legs, you leaned even further over to take the cock in front of you into your mouth. You’d discovered one thing: the original’s performance issues didn’t manifest in a clone.

Keeping your knees locked but your hips loose, you bobbed up and down on the clone’s cock, letting the movement of your upper body undulate to the lower. A hand threaded through your hair and the moans above you sounded just like Beej. With just a little imagination, you could pretend that there was no one else in the room, but that wasn’t your goal. Yes, you wanted to get off and yes, you wanted your lover to do the same; just like so many things with Beetlejuice you had to redefine your expectations. Not even bothering to attempt to swallow any excess spit, you gave the clone a sloppy, loud blowjob. He, like Beej, didn’t care you were soaking his trousers, or that the position wasn’t the greatest. His hand tightened and relaxed in time with your mouth. His fingers became painful when you took him to his balls and held yourself there, until your lungs demanded air and you had to pull off him with a gasp. The faintest groan came from behind you while you caught your breath.

Grinning to yourself, you risked being unbalanced by slipping a hand between your thighs to play with your pussy as you went down on the clone again. It wasn’t that arousing for you because standing and bending at the waist while blowing someone made your back ache, but you still made a show of it: making sure it was obvious you were pushing a finger through your folds, and tickling your own clit. You even threw in a moan or two of your own, but it was mostly for show. The main event was going to be better. When two audible things happened--the clone’s moans hitched, like any second was going to be his last, and Beej behind you gave a long, low moan--you stood up without warning so abruptly you made yourself dizzy. The clone stood and caught you as your knees buckled a little, and it sounded like Beej had started up out of the chair. Quickly, you regained your balance and told him to stay where he was. He was sinking back down onto the seat when you turned around, keeping the clone’s arms around you. You kept direct eye contact with him as you snaked an arm around the clone’s head; he immediately complied with the pressure and nipped at the delicate skin of your neck. For a moment, you ground against the solid body behind you, using the clone like a stripper’s pole, bending your knees but keeping your back straight. The fabric of the suit he hadn’t taken off at your request was a bit rough, and his cock dragged a wet line on your back. Beetlejuice shifted in his seat, letting his knees fall open a little. You were pleased to see his cock wasn’t completely soft now, but didn’t say anything about it. Because his attention was still riveted to you, you didn’t turn away from him again. Instead you simply told the clone, over your shoulder, to sit down again and walked backwards with him as he complied. When he was on the mattress, you had to drop your eyes a moment to maneuver enough to straddle his thighs, then asked him to scoot forward. Again, he complied. It was a slightly awkward position with him sitting up, but you didn’t care. You wanted Beej to have a front row view to this show.

Obligingly the clone helped you position yourself over him. If Beej expected you to move into your more typical position--on top, hands on his chest, face to face—he was going to be  surprised. You opted for a reverse cowgirl, spreading your thighs widely in front of him. After a few seconds of testing your balance--the clone assisted with that too, supporting you by holding your waist--you reached forward, took his cock in hand, and guided it into yourself. You hissed as you lowered your hips and, lubed with spit, he sank deep into your pussy.

You’d shaved, and the sensation of the clone’s cock slipping into your smooth pussy was almost beyond good. You rocked back and forth a bit, just enough to make faint wet noises between the two of you. The clone started his low level keening again, and your moans joined his. Still in control of all the movement, you tested how much you could bounce. As you’d predicted, the clone under you understood you needed support, so his hands cupped your tits and he did his best to be a solid base for you, even as he moaned each time he bottomed out inside you. It was your goal to hold Beej’s eyes, but that became difficult. Pleasure built in you more quickly than you anticipated and you dropped your head. The juxtaposition of being completely nude and exposed while the clone was fully dressed gave you a thrill of excitement; seeing the familiar black and white striped trouser between your legs, knowing you were soaking them with your wetness felt debauched. Fucking yourself on the clone, moaning wantonly as he pinched your nipples, the same noises filled the air behind you as well. While pleasure grew exponentially in you, you couldn’t help but lean forward a little, but did manage to lift your head again. Raptly, Beetlejuice’s eyes were locked on you. The cooler, darker colors in his hair had fled, replaced by the more typical green with locks of aroused pink interspersed. A hand had dropped to his groin and he was, despite his hang ups about it, stroking himself off, his pace the same as yours. 

Bolstered by the fact he was so into it, you sat back up again, arching your back so your torso was stretched, exposing yourself to him even as you continued to fuck the clone beneath you. Your legs began to tremble with the effort you were putting into this. The clone’s hands went to your hips and he managed a combination of lifting you and keeping you tight to his pelvis whenever you were back in his lap. His groans, your cries, and Beetlejuice’s moans vied for dominance. You were almost there, almost there, just a little more and then you could rest your legs--the next downward stroke you gave, the clone pinned you in place, not allowing you to rise up again. He howled as he came, and the pressure of his throbbing cock sent a final burst of pleasure through you as well. Your muscles tightened, then gave out as you came, collapsing heavily down onto him. For a moment, you couldn’t open your eyes. You were panting too heavily to concentrate on anything else, but a hand cupped your chin and lifted your head. You found Beetlejuice standing in front of you, cock still in hand. Wordlessly, he nudged it against your lips and you opened your mouth. He slipped it between your lips and over your tongue and you closed down on it, creating a vacuum for him. He held himself steady, never moving his hand off the base of his cock. While you were held in place with the clone’s cock still in you and supported by him, you obligingly sucked the specter off till, a small amount of time later, he also came, filling your mouth. You gave him all the time he needed. When he finally backed away, groaning as his cock left the wet heat of your mouth, you swallowed. He helped you to your feet and when your knees buckled again, he kept you against him. Wet ran down your inner thighs. “That was okay?” you had to ask . “Yeah. Yeah it was.” You wanted to ask again, to make absolute sure, but accepted his answer. Beetlejuice wasn’t known for having a stiff upper lip or being demure when it came to jealousy.

“Thanks, baby.” You kissed his chest. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Did you enjoy it?” You answered with a bite on his chest, this time. “Yes, duh. Your clone was fun--” You turned to address him, but he was gone. “--but more than that, I’m glad you got off too.” “Yeah well . . . I’m still a work in progress.” “So long as you don’t just give up and send in a clone all the time.” “So long as you keep wanting to have sex with me and not ask for a clone all the time.” You chuckled, and he chuckled, and you both promised.

fin