#they would’ve got me hook line and sinker

[xeniums]

heeheeeheee james mcavooooyyyyy

(was he absolutely demented and toxic and hulk-level angry in the movie? yes. was I very thankful for the copious amount of tank top wearing? also yes.)

[atyourmerci]

♡ Hook, line, and sinker (sub!abby // follower req)

Basketball!abby X nerdy reader

Next chapter

♡ ♡

Summary: Abby is the head captain of your college basketball team, a known player in more ways than one…but you knew her dirty little secret

Warnings: smut, MDNI, porn smidge of plot, sub!abby, top!reader, cunnilingus, fingering if you squint, abby is sub inexperienced, abby is a whiny little sub, author enjoyed thoroughly, no y/n, no physical description of reader

A/N: first req!! So thank you for sending it in. Hopefully this will hold y’all off till I can get out a full fic :// (this was supposed to be a drabble and I got carried away oopsies). Psa wrote this at 2am so it’s probably a MESSSS

♡ ♡

She was dangerous force, intimidating just by the sheer sight of her. She was the kind of girl that people walked on the other side of the road when she was coming, afraid of what would happen if she snapped. Hell even the girls on the court would run from her, and not in the way the game was supposed to happen, they just knew she broke bones.

Abby was brutal, she was a hard hit, she was uneasy to break… she was a fucking whiny sub.

No one knew that of course, none of the girls she tossed around like dolls as she rammed into them emotionlessly, it would ruin the reputation she had built, right?

But you knew.

She was embarrassed you ever saw that side of her, but fuck did she need you. Only you could let her beg and plead to let her cum after denying her over and over again. Only you were allowed to see that pretty pink pussy drenched in slick that ran down her muscled thighs. Only you ever made her cum.

The situation she had you in was less than practical. Abby begrudgingly asked for your help in physics since you were undeniably the smartest in the class…oh if she would’ve know the things you’d teach her. 

You weren’t her type, she liked easy girls, the ones that threw themselves at her so she never had to even try, open up to anyone. Some girls had pressed for more, to which she’d move on to the next.

You…you were difficult, hard to read. She was surprised you didn’t use the chance of meeting with her to study to get a good fuck out of her. You were strictly business, even when you couldn’t stop thinking about what she would look like with her legs wrapped around your head.

♡ ♡

That day had started just like the others, abby sprawled out on your tiny dorm bed while you sat neatly across from her, textbooks giving needed separation between the two of you. She always felt the need to dominate every space she took up. If only you could just break her…

“I- I don’t fucking get this. I’m not going to.” Abby says dragging her large hand cross her face. She was usually frustrated when she came to you, but today was the worst you’ve ever seen. She’d leave in a much better place than you had started, but after 3 hours there had been an unusual lack of progress.

“You’re not using your head,” you say growing impatient. You let out a sigh of equal frustration, knowing you’d have to break down the first wall of unspoken territory with her, “what’s wrong with you, you seem off today.”

She returns a scoff back at you, head tilting up to meet your eyes, “I’m fine.”

You shake your head knowingly back at her, “Abby you-“ you begin to protest as she cuts you off defensively, “I said I’m fine. Now are you actually going to teach me? Or would you like to keep interrogating me?”

Your mouth opens in anger. She wants to play this game, let’s play. “Don’t come at me because you were too busy fucking the entire woman’s soccer team last night to be prepared for this midterm.”

“Why the fuck do you care what I do,” she barks back with just the same vengeance.

You laugh at her blatant assumption, “I didn’t say I did.”

“Then why are you breathing down my neck,” she says narrowing her eyes on you, in an almost curious gaze, still laced with anger.

“I just think you should worry about yourself more than making half of Yale’s female population come.”

She returns a breathy laugh, shaking her head turning away from you, “and you don’t think I get off?”

You cross your arms with a testing gaze on the profile of her face, she couldn’t even look at you talking about herself that way. “I know you don’t.”

“And how the hell would you know that.”

“You’re so fucking tense I’m sure you haven’t gotten off in years, can’t even let yourself do it.” You watch as she twists her fingers around themselves nervously, still unable to meet your eyes.

“Y- you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says unsure, barely above a whisper.

Any assumption you had made had been completely checked off now, and you were ready to completely destroy her. Before you could make out a rational thought your hands were at the textbooks in front of you, the separation between you and your weary opponent. You moved everything off onto the desk next to your bed, closing the once necessary gap.

“Come here,” you say as she finally meets your gaze again. “W-what?”

“You heard me, lie down completely,” you demand, and she reluctantly agrees, unsure of her fate.

You make your way to the side of her, brushing your bare knees against her side which causes her to flinch as her fists are closed tightly next to her.

You place a hand on her abdomen first, trying to ignore the chiseled muscle beneath her black tank, “have you been touched here?”

“Yes.”

You then move your hand to the bicep caged around the outline of your legs, she was sure not to make direct contact, “have you been touched here?”

“Yes.”

You move the same hand to her cheek, cupping the sharp line of her jaw, her eyes now drowning in yours, the anger that had held her down now disappearing. “Have you been touched here?”

“Sometimes. N- not often.” Her gaze falters, fluttered down out of your reach at the vulnerability.

Your hand drags down to her neck, this time you let it roam, dragging your fingers across her pulse, “and here?”

“No.”

You click your tongue at her, “shame,” bending down on your knees to scatter slow kisses up the throb in her neck. You feel as she squirms slightly beneath you, “such a sensitive area, really,” you say returning upright, dragging your fingers down to her raised nipple, hardened by your kisses.

“Here?” You lay light circles around the heightened bud as her mouth falls open, quickly closing it with her top teeth on her lip to make sure she doesn’t crack.

She shakes her head rapidly in response, eliciting a giggle from your throat as you move to her other nipple, sure to give it just as much attention.

You let your hand drag down to the seam of her sweats, toying with the exposed skin between her shirt and pants with your fingertips. You watch as her teeth let the grip of her lip go and her head fall back to the ceiling.

The tips of your fingers ease under the sweats over her boxers, inching your way in till your hand cups her mound to which she lets out her first groan of satisfaction “Have you been touched here, Abby?”

“Fuck- no. never.” Her chest rising and falling heavily now, unable to catch her breath.

“You want me to touch you there abby?”

“Please- please touch me there,” her fist that was caged around your bent legs now gripped into your thigh, large hand almost completely engulfing your leg.

“Well since you asked so nicely, take off your pants. Only your pants.” Within seconds she had them down to her ankles, ripping them off and discarding them to the floor. Her hand returned to your thigh, eyes now trained on you.

You moved your hand back to her mound, covered by her black boxers. You began rubbing down to feel how soaked she was, pooling already. You wouldn’t give her much, not yet, only rubbing slow and soft stripes up and down to hear her breathy moans from the stoic woman.

“Does that feel good?” You ask her doe-eyed as she stare’s pathetically up at you, so needy for anything you’d let her have. “Y- yes.”

“Take off your boxers.” With the same enthusiasm she rips them down at your command, returning her gaze back to the ceiling, still embarrassed at her vulnerability but unable to stop herself.

“Open up those legs for me pretty girl,” you say rubbing your palm up her thigh.

“You can’t talk to me like that… I- I’ll come” she breathes out, bucking her hips slightly into the air to no sense of relief.

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” you let out a small giggle at her admission, continuing to rub in her inner thigh.

“Y-ou don’t h-ave to- I’m close enough.”

“Awh pretty baby, all from some talking?”

She continues to buck her hips in hopes that your hand will meet her in the middle. “Please touch me before I finish.”

She had been so good, so pliable, so you honored her wish by placing your fingertips to her raised clit, soaked by her arousal. “Oh fuck!” She yelps, raising her hips into your touch, the hand on your thigh digging crescents into your soft flesh.

“So swollen, just for me?”

“Yes! Yes! Fuck- don’t stop. Please don’t stop,” she begins to plead. You know she won’t last much longer. And you had to taste her.

You whip your legs around her backwards to straddle her, getting a perfect view of her sopping wet cunt, pretty pink lips coated in white slick. You lick a fat stripe down her slit, tongue pointing into her leaking entrance to get a taste of her.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck” she begins to babble as you lap at her hole. She moves her wide hands to grasp at your covered ass in search of stabilizing herself.

You return to her swollen bud, immediately sucking it into your mouth, pulsing it systematically as you hold her wavering thighs open.

“I- im- FUCK-“ she begins to shake under you, whimpers flying out of her as she bucks into your mouth, riding out her early orgasm.

She continues to shake as you try to suck every last bit of her climax out of her, letting her revel in her pleasure. You wish you could talk her through it now, but you’re sure she’ll let you do it over and over again.

As cries of overstimulation flood her voice you let off her clit with a pop, eliciting one last whine from her throat. You return next to the half naked brute, right back to where it started.

She hops of the bed and lazily returns her clothing back to her body.

“No one hears of this. No one.” She says with a pointed look, deep into your eyes.

Ah, the reputation must be upheld. Whiny fucking sub.

Follower req by: @ghgygd

Taglist: @wishbones999 @bookpagecandlescent @littlegingerperson5 @lookforthelight1 @fict1onallyobsessed @shewantstoknow

[ryebread0605]

Breeding kink with Lilia plz I’ll kneel for it

OH BOY ANON YOU GOT ME HOOK LINE AND SINKER I AM AN ABSOLUTE FERAL WHORE FOR BREEDING 

This is also gonna be a response to another ask that wanted Lilia with a female reader

Hope you enjoy! 

 (Ik it’s short I’m so sorry my brain just blanked on how to write Lilia)

When you got news from Silver that something was wrong with Lilia, you probably should’ve stayed to listen to what exactly was wrong. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be pinned to the former general’s bed currently. His hard on was pressed to your ass, your chest against the soft mattress as he grinds into you. The feeling was something that caused arousal to pool in you and you were sure the fae could smell it.

“M-my dear,” the former general began with a shaky voice, “I’ve been thinking recently..” his hips ground against your ass harder, more desperately as he groaned softly and leaned closer to you so he could whisper the next words into your ear, “I’m ready to raise another child”

If you weren’t already aroused, that would’ve opened the floodgates immediately. The image in your head of your belly swollen with his offspring, part fae and part human, giving Silver a sibling, sevens it sounded heavenly. You hadn’t even known that was something you desired, always fearing pregnancy in the past. And yet, this felt right.

“Lilia, a-are you sure? I mean, with me?” Your face was flushed red as the man chuckled softly and gently bit your lobe, 

“My dear, I wouldn’t want anyone else to mother my child. But, do you want this too?” His words held his restraint, he oh so badly just wanted to take you now but he couldn’t possibly do so without permission. It was completely against who he was, the values and morals he held, to force you into this major decision. But with a nod of your head and a feeble ‘please’, that restraint snapped.

The sound of his balls against your ass, both your fluids running down your legs as he had you on all fours, one hand holding your hips up while the other pressed your head into the pillows. You didn’t mind it at all, however, as you could barely think about anything other than his cock moving in and out of your cunt at a rapid pace one wouldn’t expect from the fae. His grunts and your moans were loud enough for everyone to know what you two were doing, you could only hope out of some miracle that Malleus had taken Sebek and Silver out of the dorm as otherwise you two would get another very lengthy lecture from a very flustered Sebek and be ignored by Silver (not because he is angry, he’s just embarrassed). 

With one final groan, he stilled inside you again and painted your fluttering walls white. Panting heavily with sweat coating almost every inch of his body, he pulled out with a slight pop and lay beside you on the bed. With a love drunk smile, you lay your head on his chest and kiss the numerous hickeys lining his neck as he runs his finger along the bite marks on yours. 

“So, are you hoping for a boy or a girl?” He wriggled his eyebrows at you teasingly as you laughed and playfully slapped him, a bright yet tired smile on your face as you kissed his cheek. You weren’t nervous at the idea of being pregnant anymore, as long as it was his baby in you and him by your side throughout this journey

[darthannie]

kinktober day two: somnophilia with raymond leon

pairing: Raymond Leon x f!reader word count: 712 warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, somnophilia, basically dbf (dad's business friend) a/n: Writing somno is a challenge for me but I'll accept it every time. Enjoy!

Kinktober Masterlist

Your father had more than enough time to set you up for centuries. He gave you 50 years as a gift for your 25th birthday. That was around the time you met Raymond Leon. He was a timekeeper hired by your father to investigate a string of time theft going on in his company.

He spent a lot of time at your house, working out of one of the offices your father had set up on the estate. He was never home, so the house was completely void of anything stopping you from being with Raymond. 

You and Raymond had set up an arrangement. Not quite a relationship, but you were his and his alone. He wasn’t the doting man you’d always wanted, but there was a thrill that ran through your body whenever you were around him. 

His dark hair and light eyes did a number on you. The first time you felt his hands touch your smooth skin was a day you’d never forget. Since that day, he had you, hook, line, and sinker. And because of you, he had all the time in the world. 

On one particular day, he found you asleep in your bed under a fleece blanket. That’s a shame, he thought. He had expected you awake and waiting but, making the most of it, he thought he’d play a little game. He wondered how long it would take for you to wake up. 

He removed his trench coat and reached for your blanket. He dragged it off, slowly revealing your naked body. He breathed out and blood rushed down to his dick. He took this as an invitation, a bright green light telling him “go”. 

He started by softly grabbing your breast, feeling your soft skin in his hand. He pulled down his pants and started stroking himself, contemplating his next move. You breathed out softly and hummed. She must be dreaming, he assumed. 

You rolled over onto your side, arching your back and making your ass more prominent. He would’ve thought you were awake if it wasn’t for the way your wrist went limp when he picked up your arm. 

Now with the assurance you were fast asleep, he got bolder, and spread your ass so he could get a better look at you. He laid on the bed next to you to get in the just right position where he could put the tip of his cock in you. 

He hummed at the feeling of him stretching you out ever so slightly. He tried his luck and pushed in slowly. He got as far as he could before stopping as you began to stir. 

You stretched out your arms slightly and yawned. Raymond felt you clench around him. You were in a daze and unaware of what was going on. He pulled out and slowly, slowly thrust back in. That earned him a soft moan from you. 

He shifted his body in such a way that he was now over you, watching your face as he fucked you. You were coming into consciousness as he picked up speed. You breathed in, about to say something a little too loud, and Raymond put his hand over your mouth.

“Shhhh. Go back to sleep,” He cooed.

He removed his hand and laid down behind you, lifting your leg, and spooning you as he thrust deep inside you. He held your arms close to your chest.

You moaned quietly and he placed his hand over your mouth again. You didn’t know if what was happening was real but you didn’t want it to stop. You let him fuck you in your drowsy state, not opening your eyes again. 

He pulled out and came on your thighs. He looked down at the mess he made and was satisfied. He laid with you for a while, dragging his thumb back and forth on your arm.

After a few minutes, he got up and got himself put together again. He threw a washcloth on the bed and checked his time. He walked over and grabbed your arm, giving himself an hour for good measure.  

He leaned over to your ear and said, “When you decide it’s time to wake up, clean yourself up and get dressed. Your father’s here.”

Taglist:

@devotedlyshadowytheorist, @dxnger-dxys, @tommyshelbywhore, @quinnlilias,@madnessandobsession, @mvpr-moon, @nela-cutie, @faebirdie, @charmed-asylumm, @anasanthology, @ilikefictionalmen, @akanne-aka, @no-fooking-fighting, @queenofstresss

(If something is up with your tag or you would like to be added, let me know!)

[rqgnarok]

dial drunk - tommy miller

fandom: the last of us (tv show and video game)

wc: 2,703

warnings: alcoholism and mentions of alcohol abuse, drunk character, maybe PTSD? pre-outbreak. no use of specific pronouns. 

summary: tommy calls you in the middle of the night, hammered and asking for a favor.

inspired by noah kahan’s dial drunk. author’s note at the end.

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

Tommy knows the drill.

He’s been here enough times to recognize the officer pulling him over, asking after his wife and kids as he steps out of the truck on unsteady feet. He’s all Southern charm and pleasantries as he fails his breath test and is unable to walk in a straight line for the officer to see. 

“Come on, man,” he says, aiming for placating and pretty much landing it. He’s not his mama’s favorite for nothing, getting out of trouble Joel would’ve been grounded over when he was his age with big cow eyes and flimsy excuses. “Paperwork’s shit, right? Lemme make a call and someone will take me off your hands for the night.”

The officer tightens his mouth into a grimace, unconvinced.

“Look, if this gets nowhere then I’ll ride with you nice and quiet,” he bargains with as much honesty as one can convey when being the youngest boy in a nice Catholic Texan family. There aren’t better credentials than those when pleading your innocence. “I’ll even play it up in front of your boss to make you look good, yeah? Just one call, promise.”

Hook, line, and sinker. The officer’s shoulders drop a little and he’s offering his cell phone for Tommy to call. “One call. Then you’re done.”

“Yessir.”  

Tommy grins innocently as best as he can with double the legal limit of alcohol in his blood and a phone between his ear and shoulder. The man stands there with his arms crossed looking like he’d rather be anywhere but bringing his ass in for a DUI at two AM on a Wednesday.

“‘lo?” you call sleepily, finally picking up. Tommy doesn’t restrain his victorious grunt. “...Tommy?”

“Hey, sweets,” he slurs a little, clearing his throat. “Sorry for wakin’ you. I need a favor.”

“Tommy,” you say again, tired. If Tommy were any less drunk, he’d realize it’s not lack of sleep that has you sounding like that. He’s shitfaced and thinking about the monumental kick in the ass waiting for him at home when Joel realizes he hotwired and stole his truck to get a drink at the nearest bar. 

“I know, I know, listen,” he cuts you off before you can say anything else, sneaking a look at the officer’s crossed arms and disappointed stance. “You remember the way to the precinct, right? From last time?”

Last time, when Tommy got into a brawl outside a bar he was not supposed to be in, and accepted your worried fussing with barely concealed annoyance, gripping your wrists and taking your hands off his bruised face. You’d driven him to your place because he’d promised Joel to steer clear of trouble for at least a few months, and his breath still reeked of alcohol by the time you came to pick him up.  

You told him then you weren’t doing this again. But you always say that. And you always come when he calls.

Your moms had grown up together in Texas and were ecstatic about the fact that their two littlest ones would come into the world so close together. You and Tommy were inseparable because the universe had dictated it– and nothing could interfere between you. Not his dad dying when he and Joel were still too young, not Tommy having to repeat fifth grade and no longer sharing a classroom with you, not you going off to college and Tommy joining the army straight out of high school.

But then he came home. And he came home different.

The shit he’d seen overseas was nasty, but that’s not what drove him to drink himself stupid every night. At least that’s what he thinks. Soon his habits began seeing the light of day; vodka mixed in his morning coffee and hidden in a water bottle during lunch with the boys at the construction site. Life became a blur when he was drinking and an agonizingly slow nightmare when he wasn’t.

Joel wasn’t the first to notice but he’d been the first to say something about it. Next time you come to my home reeking of a cheap ass bar in front of my kid I’m kicking your ass out. I’m serious, Tommy. This shit has to stop. 

And Tommy had believed him. So he turned to the next person he knew that would do anything for him. You came home from college despite your dreams to outrun this town, and soon it was your number he had memorized even when his brain called it quits and left him alone in his blackouts.

“I do,” you say, and Tommy’s already thinking about sleeping it off on your sorry excuse of a couch. It’s a slow night, only a couple of drunken bums sleeping off their hangovers in a quaint police station in fucking Arlington, Texas. But Tommy would take your couch any day, even if it means fucking up his back for the rest of the week. “But I’m not coming to get you, Tommy. Call Joel.”

“Sweetheart,” he croons into the phone, low and mellow like he’d talk to pretty girls at parties in high school. The same ones you’d go to only because he begged you to come with, acting like a jealous boyfriend when someone wouldn’t leave you alone. “Please. I’ll pay you back, you know I’m good for it.”

He’d put a possessive arm around your waist, standing behind you and smiling icily at whoever was pestering you. We got a problem here?

There’s silence at the other side of the line, sheets rustling. Tommy can picture you sitting up, phone to your ear, biting the inside of your cheek nervously. 

More like Joel is, but hey. He took the big brother act to heart the second Tommy was born. He’s been bailing him out of shit as long as Tommy’s been alive, why would tonight be any different?

Joel, who’s always told him, first jokingly and then not so much, that you were too good for Tommy. Too smart, too kind, with too much integrity for someone like his little brother. 

The older Miller had taken a liking to you pretty soon after Tommy did; wiping the dirt off scraped knees and your tears from chubby child cheeks after placing a bandaid with gentle, unsure fingers. Giving you a ride when you insisted on walking home, leaving the back door open for you whenever being home got too rough for you. 

That man knew you’d be the best thing to ever happen to his brother in his entire life. Too bad the idiot didn’t realize it, pushing your limits until you couldn’t take it any longer. 

“I’m not bailing you out of jail, Tommy,” you sigh, annoyance creeping over the hesitation in your tone. You were never good at saying no to him, even when you were both in diapers and Tommy wanted your dinosaur plushie so bad he threw a tantrum until his mom took him in her arms. “When I said last time was the last time, I meant it. I’m sick of this shit.”

“Come on,” he scoffs, saying your name in a way he knows you hate, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “I’ll give you a kiss and everything. You still like that, don’t you?”

“Fuck you,” you snap on the other side of the line. He knows you well enough to know what buttons to push. Reminding you of your first kiss is a trick he’s never, never pulled on you before, though. “Don’t fucking say that, don’t use that against me.”

You’d been seventeen and without a date to the prom. The guy you were thinking about asking had laughed in your face when you offhandedly mentioned going together and Tommy had refused to let you sulk alone. He’d climbed into your room through your window and wrapped his arm around you the second your lip wobbled, tears wetting your cheeks.

Tell me who I have to kill, he’d said before you ever told him what was wrong. He’s always been like that, hot-headed and protective, especially when it comes to you. Willing to fight anyone who’s ever slightly wronged you but not realizing when he’s done it himself.

You laughed into his shirt, snotty and miserable as he tightened his grip around you. Come on, sweets, fuck that guy. Like he’s even good enough for you.

You confessed with a burning embarrassment how you’d seen yourself kissing him– more out of the need to get your first kiss over with than actual want– and Tommy’s face had gone through a bunch of complicated emotions before settling on something sweet, shy, resolute. He’d thumbed at your chin thoughtfully, fingers just barely brushing over your bottom lip. 

Tommy had his first kiss when he was thirteen with Amy Hill behind the church his mother dragged them to every Sunday morning, but you’d never seen him that nervous. He failed to look into your eyes as he stuttered out his suggestion. If you wanna get it out of the way then maybe– I don’t know. Why not do it with someone who actually cares about you?

You’d looked at him in scrutiny as if you’d never taken a good look at him before. He self-consciously thought about his fair skin and his freckles, if his hair was still a mess from football practice, and if his breath smelled somewhat okay after having that sandwich for lunch. 

You offerin’, Miller?

Yeah, he’d said instead of something stupid like haven’t you heard? I’m a catch. He murmured bashfully, finally meeting your eyes. Yeah, sweets, I guess I am.

He’d licked his lips and drew a path with his fingers from your temple to behind your ear before cupping the side of your jaw, breath hot. Just– punch me in the face or something if you don’t want to.

You hadn’t. He’d closed the gap between you and you kissed him back slowly, hesitantly, diving back in again after he drew away. He was too short of breath for a chaste kiss that had lasted a couple of seconds, and the second time around his tongue flickered past his lips. Your hands on his shirt tightened in response, a helpless sound leaving your mouth that neither of you had been expecting. 

He hadn’t known about your crush then. Maybe that’s when it first started, some Tuesday night with a kiss in your childhood bedroom, but Tommy doesn’t remember ever becoming aware of it. He just knew, suddenly, and enough things had happened in the in-between from then to now for him to consider using it against you.

His drunken brain thinks differently, though.

“Don’t be like that, sweets,” the nickname had never bothered you before, born out of Tommy watching too many old movies one night the babysitter failed to show up and Joel fell asleep on the couch. You’d never questioned him when he started calling you that, probably liking it a little too much for it to be a friendly thing between you. “You can act all high and mighty next time, alright? Just come pick me up before Joel realizes he ain’t got a ride for work tomorrow mornin’.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you curse vehemently. You haven’t been to church in the years you’ve been back from college, much to your mama’s dismay. “You know what? Whatever. That’s Joel’s problem now, not mine. Call him.”

“I’m asking you for a favor,” he says through gritted teeth, suddenly irritated. His characteristic charm is gone just like that. “Why are you being so fucking difficult?”

“I’m done watching you wreck your life, Tommy,” you say with finality. He scoffs pettily. “I’m not picking up again, tonight or ever. Call Joel.” 

A click. Then nothing.

He says your name and the dial tone laughs back at him. And Tommy–

Tommy can’t actually believe it. He takes the phone off his ear and stares at it, dumbfounded, like looking at it long enough will get you back on the line. 

He hears the officer blow air out his mouth and the evening suddenly comes into sharpening clearness; the cold November air biting at his face, the taste of whiskey in his mouth. His hands are sweating from where he’s gripping his phone, the tag of his jacket is rubbing uncomfortably against the back of his neck. 

You’ve never hung up on him before.

“That it?” the officer asks with the lack of patience that’s characteristic of the night shift. 

“I– what? No, no,” he shakes his head, already dialing again. “Just– just give me a second.”

“Night ain’t young, man,” he grumbles, already reaching for his cuffs. Tommy takes a step back, suddenly out of his depth. “One call. Time’s up.”

“I’ll– I’ll go okay? I’ll go, just let me– let me call again,” the trembling of his fingers has nothing to do with his current state– Tommy feels like every single drop of alcohol has vaporized from his blood and now he’s left cold and in trouble and alone.

Fuck. Fuck, you’d never hung up on him before.

He calls again, once, twice, before the officer finally loses his patience. “Alright, kid. Whoever you’re callin’ they don’t wanna answer. You can have your one phone call at the precinct. Get someone else, though, huh?”

Tommy doesn’t want to. Tommy shouldn’t have to, a sudden rush of self-righteous anger washing over him with enough force to gridlock his entire body with tension. His jaw tightens and teeth grind together, his shoulders straighten into a taunt, painful line, holding onto the phone so tightly it shakes, the shapes of it making indentations on his skin.

How dare you? How fucking dare you? Friends since fucking birth, does that mean nothing to you? Now you’re throwing him away like a fucking dirty rag? 

Call Joel, you had said, and Joel is enough of an asshole to keep Tommy in the can overnight to teach him a lesson, but you? You two have always looked out for each other, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go–

“I don’t have all night, buddy,” the officer gets his hands on him to take back his phone and beckon him to the car. Tommy flails as an automatic response, fighting back against the unwanted touch. But whether he feels like it or not he’s still drunk and in the blink of an eye he’s got his face against the hood of a police car, red and blue lights hurting his eyes, and a tight hand around the back of his neck keeping him somewhat still. 

The officer mumbles something about Tommy causing more trouble than he’s worth and ain’t that a popular opinion tonight? “You’re gonna cause yourself any more trouble, son?”

Tommy snorts. Son, like the guy’s not just a couple of years older than him. He’s pretty sure they crossed paths once or a hundred times back in high school. 

The ride to the precinct is as uncomfortable as it gets. The heat in the car isn’t working so Tommy’s freezing his ass off in the back of the car, handcuffs digging into his wrists. His nose is bleeding all over his clothes, and hurting like a bitch where the officer had to punch him when Tommy’s fight response wouldn’t quit. 

And you, in the back of his mind. He pictures you asleep after his little interruption and his anger is enough of a fire inside of him to drown out the disbelief, the blatant hurt that threatens to kill him more than his broken nose does. 

He’ll pop the thing back into place later in the cell but this? You? As the hours pass by and clarity regains its home in his awareness, he doesn’t see a way around this. A scenario in which he calls again and you listen, where you talk to him and he doesn’t feel like you kicked him to the curb over fucking nothing. A few drinks. A favor. Best friends, his ass.

He’ll keep calling, though. Even if he has to spend the night in jail because you don’t pick up. He’ll dial drunk until he dies, just for you. 

______

tommy u silly little goose

since noah’s album came out last week i’ve had this song on repeat and i desperately wanted to write a fic about it. idk why my mind instantly went to tommy. i’m thinking of a post-outbreak sequel but i won’t confirm anything until it’s actually in the works. 

thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it! the lack of tommy fics is astounding to me, especially since gabriel luna is one of the most beautiful and talented men i’ve ever seen. 

reminder that commissions are open and support is always appreciated!

<3

[wttcsms]

phillip graves fic concept... NOW HEAR ME OUT OKAY, YOU HAVE TO BECAUSE IT’S ALREADY IN MY DRAFTS:

reader is the daughter of a powerful general. as the only daughter of his, you’re sheltered, treated like a princess locked up in a tower. never really had a good relationship with your father since he spends most of his time at work + he’s always so controlling of your life, always keeping you under a watchful eye that you feel more like a prisoner than the pampered princess his soldiers consider you as. enter in a young phillip graves, 25 years old and making a name for himself that will only grow to strike fear in his enemies. phillip is close with another general who wants to take your father down & of course, wanting to prove himself and climb the ranks, phillip will do anything he can to see his own favored general succeed, collateral damage be damned. 

unfortunately, you happen to be said collateral damage. 

SO I’M THINKING!!!!! that phillip basically starts getting close enough with you to the point where you trust him with your whole heart; even worse, you love him. and once he’s gotten you to the point of no return, the moment he realizes he’s got you hook, line, and fucking sinker, he gets you to betray your own father and expose his own transgressions that will make it impossible for him to come back from. after exposing your father, you expect phillip to at least take care of you in the aftermath; after all, your family’s name and reputation have been tarnished, you have no real world experience to fall back on, and he’s the love of your life. of course he would take care of you. he promised he would. but they call it whispering sweet nothings for a reason. everything he said was a lie; you didn’t mean as much to him as he swore you did. he used you. he betrayed you. and now he’s abandoning you. 

some tags + inspo: slight age gap (reader is 19, graves is 25), manipulation, loss of virginity (oh girlie, you gave him everything :(, didn’t u), jealous sex (for someone who supposedly only wants to use you for the mission, he sure is possessive 🤨), literally inspired by miss taylor swift’s “all too well (10 min version)” + her “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve” so you know this fic is gonna be a BITCH 

[tragedy-peanut-gallery]

rank jaehaerys's and alysanne's children from best to worst

Gladly!!

1. Gael. She’s a horrifying footnote in history but she’s MY horrifying footnote in history!!!! I cry every time I think about her so she gets immediate fav

2. Viserra. There was probably something horribly wrong in her life that made her fall for that incest thing hook line and sinker…. Idc, they could never make me hate you bbygirl <3

3. Vaegon. Look. He may be an asshole butttttt…… who cares, objectively hilarious that he said no to both the incest AND the throne because he hated his family. Lol. Lmao even

4. Daella. Also a very horrifying sad story :( jaehaerys I will see you in HELL for allowing your teenage autism-coded daughter to be terrorized without any empathy for her!!!!!!!!!

5. Saera. She’s also an asshole but idc, objectively iconic. Product of her parents’ neglect who are surprised when said neglected daughter acts out in increasingly dangerous ways like…….. ough. Good on her for cutting her family out of her life and making her own empire. She still deserved way better tho

6. Maegelle. Something was probably horribly wrong with her to be covinced to gaslight her mom into forgiving her asshole husband <3

7. Aemon. Idk I don’t hate him butttttt….. he’s just a guy imo. I respect him for not forcing his wife to have five thousand kids and I wish he lived just so he could let Rhaenys be queen after him. I have a hard time believing he was Caraxes’ human like. HUH

8. Alyssa. I think I like the version of her in my head way more buttttttt…… tbh she still deserved way better than what she got. What the fuck were you cooking with her George

9. Daenerys. She was just a little kid. Little baby :’( would’ve been nice if she could’ve lived to be queen in her own right but that’s not the story she’s in rn :(

10. Aegon. Dead baby

11. Gaemon. Dead baby

12. Valerion. Dead baby

13. Baelon. HATE HIS ASS!!! Idk he was probably a normal guy before but he absorbed the “overthrow your brother’s descendants and cause a succession crisis to put your own kids on the throne” grindset through the VisenyaVhagar pipeline and I still believe it to this day. Also slept with his sixteen year old sister when he was twenty??? Ik this is asoiaf but idc I can pick and choose what to be icked out by and this is criminal offense side eye to me. Would’ve been more interesting if he was weirdly in love with Aemon imo

[sock-to-the-third]

Off Rock [pg147]

By Kieran Shea

I’ve previously read Koko Takes a Holiday and Koko the Mighty. I never got around to Koko Unchained but I thoroughly enjoyed the first 2 books. I had Off Rock in my read later list at the library for so long I forgot why I had it there in the first place.

If I had known, I would’ve been ecstatic. As it is, that’s probably for the best that I didn’t so I could judge the book on its own merit.

Let’s start with the good stuff.

The opening

*chef’s kiss* hooked my ass line and sinker. A nice action packed intro to make you wonder how the hell this regular jo miner, Jimmy, got into this mess. I especially love how the landing space ship shifts the fight. Also there’s something so satisfying about watching Jimmy get his ass handed to him.

Setting

As much as I enjoy a complex setting with unfamiliar culture and vocabulary, sometimes I just want to see “random dude gets into trouble.” Let the writing speak for itself and have minimal thinking like you’d have watching a Hollywood blockbuster.

Ignoring the weird gendery stuff, I like the criminal underground built up, how the mining operations works, the tech. It seems like Shea put some legit effort into thinking through some of the mechanics and how it’d mesh with the story.

Jock

He has such a fun introduction ripping off a couple of new hires. I love how Jimmy’s perspective brings up how nobody initially comes to Jock’s defense but when a new hire calls him on “cheating” and then makes a move that the very atmosphere shifts since Jock is your go to guy for contraband. Ironically, contraband literally could be something as basic as a plant for a terrarium since the company takes years to acqusition things from off station.

Another point, I love how Jock illustrates the gaps that come from companies being jackasses.

When there’s a market, somebody’s gotta fill it.

Leela

Leela Leela Leela. Where do I start? She’s a staunch company manager who’s got asperations of moving up in the food chain. Previously dated Jimmy and I got to say I do like their banter. Jimmy has this suave way about him that Shea excells at writing good back and forth that excels the story.

Thing is that Leela doesn’t have like any life outside of Jimmy. Literally when the only other character whose interesting who interacts with her— part of the conversation is about her ex.

If she doesn’t have much to do with Jimmy outside of being a pawn, I wish that Shea gave her less screen time.

Piper

I love her. Hard core fella who knows how to scare a bartender shitless into getting her peaches. Then there’s also scenes with her having this cute pendant from her future hubby who she’s doing this job for.

The more I think about it, the more I’m confused why she had so little time on the page. She’s super fun to read about and I love how she shook up things.

Zaafer Daavi

The only non-white person with page time and man do I love him. Loves the fuck out of sweets, polite, thoughtful and makes me really wish he had a friend to beat the shit out of Jock because omfg, that asshole.

Also he made a little storyline out of candy before eating them. Very endearing.

.

Basically, this has alot of good bones but it didn’t really pull together in a way that maintained my focus.

Still, dialogue was fun and I like how Jock’s background informs how he acts. Idk. I really like how his charactsr comes together. I feel like too often we get bogged down in the bad. I do the same thing in my own write- come reading it six months later I fall in love with the story again.

This story might not be my cup of tea but for a light heist flick, it took a shot and I can respect that.

[joe-moi]

https://www.tumblr.com/joe-moi/735900849956634625/httpswwwtumblrcomjoe-moi735899706701529088l

have you seen the photos of him when he was in hs/college theater ☹️ he had the lamest glasses and the worst haircut. he would have had me in a tizzy i love a funny nerd

this is such a funny thing to think about. Because I totally would not have gone for the dorky theater kid in high school or college. In college, I was like hooking up with athletes. I think the one thing about JK that would’ve got me hook line and sinker would been if he said that he played hockey. Which is why so funny that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve fallen more for the kind of dorky guys.

[jvngkook97]

The Red Peony

pairing; idol!jungkook, dad!jungkook x non-idol!reader, mom!reader

genre; angst, fluff, slice of life au, established relationship, jungkook and reader are still married, Hiro is 16 and Aera is 11

warnings; this deals with the menstrual cycle, mentions of blood, overprotective daddy koo, this is a time skip from the ‘chubby bunny’ family au

rating; 18+

w/c; 2,542

a/n; they’re baaack! inspired by the movie turning red, watching the father’s reactions immediately made me think that jungkook would be that kind of dad, and reader would be that kind of mom, lol. so here it is, enjoy!

Jungkook wasn’t home when the event occurred. Probably for the best.

But you were.

Thankfully, you were prepared for this moment, for years.

The moment when the red peony bloomed.

You wished you could say the same for your husband.

Jungkook was currently backstage at the American Music Awards just messing around with the other members to pass the time. He was showing Hoseok and Jimin a home video he recorded on his phone of his now sixteen year old son, Hiro. Said son, became a global sensation of his own at the age of five years old, during one of their concerts in Las Vegas for knowing the chorus choreography for Permission to Dance and running on stage to join his father and uncles in it.

Ever since then, he continued to hone his dancing skills with the dancers of the group, Hoseok and Jimin fighting over whose the best uncle on a daily basis. But Jungkook knows that he’s his son’s favorite dancer, his son saying so whenever they leave the room. Otherwise they would just call him biased. But Jungkook doesn’t have the heart to let them know the ugly truth.

He’s even showing up during group rehearsals, or when he knows his father is going to leave for practice by himself. Only if he’s not working on his homework, has good grades, has free time, and gets his mother’s permission can he attend.

You always did let him go, knowing no matter what you said he would find a way to charm you into letting him, cause he was just like his father in that aspect. It didn’t help that he had the same bunny toothed smile that he knew was your weakness. The Jeon’s always got what they wanted, of course. Including your now 11 year old daughter, Aera.

In fact, you would be so bold as to say, she had her father wrapped around her finger. All she had to do was bat her eyelashes at him, give him those same big doe eyes that he shares with her, and jut her bottom lip out cutely. Then she would use her princess voice, as you like to call it, and say ‘please, daddy?’

Hook, line, and sinker.

He could never say no to his little girl.

Though I guess in most cultures she would be considered a woman now.

But, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Let’s backtrack to this morning, when the event occurred.

Jungkook had left with his fellow members the day prior in order to start the dress rehearsal at the venue the awards were being held at, so he wasn’t laying in bed next to you when you first woke up. You think you would remember that he wouldn’t be there, him having woken you up with a kiss goodbye before he left for the airport, yet you still reached for the empty space in hopes of snuggling into a warm body to keep sleeping. The cold and merciless sheets are what woke you up. But what got you out of bed?

A shrill scream that would rival those from a horror movie, coming from the mouth of your daughter.

When you say that you’ve never moved so damn fast in your life, you’re not lying. Your children were just lucky that you decided not to sleep nude for once. Otherwise you would’ve had no qualms with traumatizing them with your naked body just so you could see what has your daughter screaming bloody murder so early in the morning.

Barging into her room, door slamming against the wall in the process, did you quickly survey her room looking for the culprit. She was nowhere in sight, so she had to be in the bathroom. Just as you were about to walk past her bed to knock on her bathroom door that connected to her room, did you notice something odd. Her bedding was completely stripped from her bed, leaving the once white mattress, bare. You say once white, due to the blazing red spot that now adorned the mattress directly where her body would lay. Or, more specifically, where her bottom half would lay.

Your eyes widened, as a low gasp escaped your mouth, hands immediately covering your mouth to silence it. Eyes darting over to the still closed bathroom door, you inched your way over to it, and gently leaned your head sideways against the door, ear pressed closely, trying to hear any sign of your daughter’s current state of mind from the new milestone her body hit.

All you could hear was low sniffles that broke your mama bear heart, and just as you were about to knock on the door to have a mother daughter heart to heart, your head whipped towards your daughter’s door hearing the loud stomping coming towards the threshold.

“What’s going on in here?!” Your oldest son, Hiro, exclaimed with wide eyes. He was holding a baseball bat tightly with two hands, ready to swing it at anything that moved that wasn’t you or Aera. Cause he knew with his father gone, he was the appointed protector of the family. Your heart swelled equally with warmth, and slight terror at seeing your son wield the baseball bat so menacingly.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding upon the sudden intrusion. Placing your hand over your heart, trying to settle down your adrenaline rush, you waved your other hand at your son dismissively.

“Everything’s okay, honey. There’s nothing to worry about. Your sister just isn’t feeling well at the moment.” You reassured calmly in your motherly voice.

Hiro’s shoulders immediately sagged in relief, bat now loosely hanging by his side. Though he still carried a look of worry on his face as he took a few steps into the room, ready to help you with whatever you or his little sister needed.

“Sick? What’s wrong with her?” He asked his mother, voice laced with worry. His eyes darted to the closed bathroom door in wonder. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He first directed the question towards you specifically, before leaning his head towards the bathroom door and directly asking his sister instead.

“Hey, sis. You good in there? Do you need anything?” He knocked on the door lightly for good measure to make sure she knew he was there for her. He was ever the empath within your family, that’s for sure, you thought staring at him lovingly. How did you get so lucky?

The only response he received was a loud, watery whimper. Which broke both of your hearts and made Hiro’s emotions skyrocket.

“Should I call dad?” He asked you, feeling helpless.

You gave your son a small smile and shook your head, your hand coming to lay on his upper arm, rubbing it in soothing circles.

“No, baby. There’s no need to call your father just yet. He’s probably in rehearsals right now anyways and can’t even get to his phone. Can you do me a favor though?” You know he needed something to occupy himself, so you thought you would give him a task to do.

“Can you walk to that corner store down the block and get your sister’s favorite chocolate candy? Get yourself something as well. You can get some money out of my purse on the kitchen counter.”

He nodded and gave you a hug before turning to leave the room.

“Oh, and be careful please! I love you!” You threw at his back as he crossed the threshold into the hallway. He pivoted on his feet and gave you a thumbs up, walking backwards down the hallway and out of sight from the door. A few seconds later you could hear a faint, ‘I love you too!’ be yelled from the direction of the front door, then hearing said door open and close, signaling that you were now alone with your daughter.

Now it was time for the talk.

“Sweetie, can I come in, please?” You lightly knocked on the door and asked gently.

“Is brother gone?” She asked quietly in reply.

“Yes, baby. He’s headed to the store to get your favorite chocolate candy. Cause I have a feeling you’re gonna be craving that soon, right?” You asked through the door knowingly.

“You can come in, momma.”

You twisted the doorknob and slowly pushed it open. What you saw made your eyes water. There was your sweet little girl, curled up in the bathtub in the fetal position. Her bloody clothes lay forgotten behind the door, but she stayed in her underwear. You softly shut the door behind you and locked it, not wanting to chance your son randomly poking his head in, even if he means well.

“Oh, honey.” You said softly. She whimpered in response and gave you grabby hands, a gesture you haven’t seen her do since she was a baby. You immediately fit yourself in the space next to her in the tub, and drew her body towards you, enveloping her in a hug only a mother can give in these kinds of situations. Gently, you started to rock you both side to side as you hummed her favorite song of her fathers, Magic Shop. Her body naturally relaxing to your warmth and humming, made your heart swell inside with pure love.

And for the next 15 minutes you stayed in that position as you educated your daughter on what changes her body would be going through and why they were happening right now. Then you explained how she needs to take care of her ‘delicate petals’ and clean them regularly. Even going so far as to list the many different variations of pads and tampons alike that she can choose to fit with her lifestyle as she grows older. Questions were asked by Aera, and answers were given by you.

“Was there anything else you wanted to know, baby? Any other questions you might have?” You asked her, wanting to make sure that she now fully understood what came with having a menstrual cycle.

“I’m good, momma. Thank you, for everything.” She gave you a smile you have yet to see all day, and you knew, she would be fine. You gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Would you like me to leave so you can take a shower? You’ll feel a lot better, honey, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, I will. Can you–“ having already maneuvered your way out of the tub to standing back up, you held a hand up giving a thumbs up, much like what your son gave you not too long ago.

“I got you, baby. I’ll take your dirty clothes and bedding to wash them. And bring you some pads and tampons from my bathroom for you to try. Is that okay?” You wanted to make sure you weren’t forcing her to take any steps she wasn’t ready to take yet.

She gave you her own thumbs up in response.

Smiling, you walked out of the bathroom and shut the door behind you. Then you made true on your word and lugged both her dirty clothes from the bathroom and her bedding to the laundry room to start a cycle. Once done, you grabbed a variety of pads and tampons you personally liked using, and brought them into her room. Seeing that the bathroom door was now locked and hearing the shower on, you placed the stack neatly in front of the bathroom door. Just as you shut her bedroom door behind you, you heard the front door open and close, alerting you to your son coming back from his errand you gave him earlier.

Heading to the kitchen, where your son now was with a bag full of goodies on the table. You thanked him with a kiss on the cheek. One he immediately wiped off with the back of his hand with a playful grimace. You rolled your eyes at his teenage antics. Boys.

“How is she?” He asked right away.

“She’s feeling much better, just taking a shower and then she’ll be right out.” You explained nonchalantly, sifting through the bag of goodies and plucking out your favorite candy to hide from your husband’s sweet tooth and to eat at a later time.

“She started her period, didn’t she?” He stated casually, but yet, you weren’t surprised he knew. He was always intuitive like that.

You nodded your head solemnly in response.

“Oh.” Was all he said as he walked away into the living room with a handful of candy and junk food alike, surely about to start a lengthy gaming session with his online friends.

You sighed in content as you sat in the lazy boy chair in the living room in the company of your son. Aera following the loud gameplay into the living room as well after she was done with her shower, her hands just as full of goodies as her brother’s as she plopped onto the couch next to him, immediately opening her favorite candy and taking a bite.

The day passed by without much else happening, other than your individual daily routines. It wasn’t until the kids left to their respective rooms to go to sleep, did you think of looking at the clock hanging on the wall, noticing how late it was. Though the darkening sky should’ve been a tall tale sign. Jungkook should be done with his performance by now, so you thought that you would try calling him. Dialing his number, you waited by turning the channel on the tv to the live interviews that occurred after the show was over. And would you look at that?

‘Stay tuned for an exclusive interview with Kpop boy band BTS!’ The female announcer exclaimed enthusiastically.

Perfect, you thought mischievously.

The call connected as your husband’s voice both appeared through the phone, and through your television screen. You could tell he was trying to discreetly answer your call by placing himself towards the back of the group. Jimin was blocking him along with Hoseok while Namjoon took control of the interview questions for the group, with side comments from Taehyung and Jin. Yoongi opting to stay quiet, as per usual.

“Hey Baby Girl, we’re in the middle of an interview right now–“

“The red peony bloomed.” Was all you said, very effectively cutting the unprepared father off from what he was about to say.

“….What?” He couldn’t have heard you correctly, he thought in denial.

“I said, the red peony bloomed, Jungkook.”

And this time he did hear you, picking up on the code name you both came up with for that time of the month, giving out a loud response that would be caught on television and within your memories for years to come. One that would have ARMY doing their gifs and memes for months about it, and have the members howling with laughter, never letting the golden maknae forget about it, always finding someway to bring it up in conversation. Never in front of your daughter, of course. That was the only rule.

And to your daughter’s embarrassment for the rest of her life. Jungkook forever having to make up for it. A fact she fully took advantage of.

“SHE STARTED HER PERIOD?!”

[insult-2-injury]

Take a Seat- Chapter 5

After a skirmish up top, your failing shop falls under the watchful gaze of the Eye of Zaun. And his blue-haired gremlin daughter.

Silco x Fem!Reader | Total WC: 34k | Eventual Smut | Slow Burn | Eventual Romance | Angst | Found Family | Fluff |

AO3 Link

Prev Chap | Next Chap

It was a few days after the explosion. The roof was already repaired, a Band-Aid slapped over a wound that you sensed was much deeper than the general public realized. This early in the evening, the bar was as empty as it ever got. You could get used to this, you thought, the lulling sounds of gossip and laughter in a steady flux, like a boat tossing side to side. It was chillingly easy to forget, at times, that the Last Drop was the heart of one man’s massive criminal empire. And that said man, the backbone of it all, lived quietly upstairs.

You were cross-legged on a barstool, chatting with the pink-haired bartender. Cecil was her name, and she’d been working there for a few months. Surprisingly, she quite liked the gig, never having found a reason to fear for her life other than the all-embracing threat of working under Silco, but she’d said she’d never had to deal with the intimidating man, nor did she see him except for rare occasions when he materialized on the balcony like a ghostly specter. But never did he set foot on the bar room floor during business hours.

You shared with the older woman that you’d be watching Jinx there on Friday nights now and as you spoke the words aloud for the first time, you realized how suspicious it sounded that you’d entered Silco’s office with a target on your head and come out fifteen minutes later with a job. She didn’t push the subject.

“So, Sevika, huh?”

“Oof. You noticed?”

You steadied yourself with two hands on the counter, where you’d been pivoting back and forth incessantly for the past ten minutes.

“You kidding? That tension was thick.” You placed a fist under your chin to look at her earnestly. “That was exceptional flirting, don’t get me wrong. You would’ve had me hook, line, sinker. Super unfortunate it ended in a death threat. Sevika is just…” You scanned the bar, paranoid. “Weird.”

“Well, I won’t be trying that again in a hurry.”

Cecil smiled lightly but you got the impression she was still generally unsure of you. You suppose you couldn’t really blame her, considering.

The woman walked over to serve a cheap beer to a glum-looking man who had just slumped down at the opposite end of the counter, and you admired the compassion in her eyes as she leaned over to murmur to him.

You hardly knew Cecil, yet there was an inherent trustworthiness about her, a rare kindness she possessed in its purest form. She appeared, on the surface, the direct antithesis of Sevika, so you’d been surprised, to say the least, at her romantic interest in the hostile woman. Yet, somehow, when you’d really considered the pairing, it had potential, like two neighboring magnets of opposite poles.

If you could just get them close enough.

In the distraction, you found yourself side-eyeing the shadowy upper levels of the bar, not fully understanding what you expected to find, what you wanted to find.

It wasn’t a Jinx day, but you’d found yourself antsy the past couple weeks, becoming more intolerant of spending all your time alone. It appeared, unsurprisingly, that the more you ventured out of your house for socialization, the more you felt starved for more, as if you had to atone for years lost. On the whole, it was probably a good thing that your machines were becoming less and less interesting to talk to, but it did mean it took more convincing to yourself in order to sit still and work at them for the long hours you did.  

Cecil clapped the man on the back once and strode back over to you, propping herself up on her forearms as she leaned in.

“Seems everyone’s having troubles on the relationship front.”

You settled your cheek into your palm and looked at her crookedly, contemplating. “I think you should try again. Death threats don’t mean much, really. She threatened my life just seconds before yours, maybe it’s her love language.”

Cecil laughed, the sound rich, like a dark cup of Noxian coffee. You grinned back at her.

“So, you’re saying I should keep pushin’.”

You pursed your lips, reconsidering. As someone with a more recent habit of prancing around the limits of Death’s patience, maybe you weren’t the one to ask for advice about how far to push things. Your head jerked slightly as you again stopped its unconscious turn toward the crime lord’s lair, like a lamb, oddly intrigued by the idea of its own slaughter.

“No. Probably not.”

Cecil considered you, then tapped the bar with two curved fingers before straightening.

“You’re awfully confusing. But I like you.”

She snagged a honey-colored bottle of whiskey from the shelf, shaking it in silent question. You shook your head and made a gag face.

“Hate the stuff. Sorry.”

“Don’t drink?”

“Oh no, I do,” you blurted. “Just not looking for anything strong right now.”

“You sure? I can-“

“Nope, nope I’m good.”

Cecil gave you a strange look and then flipped the bottle expertly, placing it back before tossing a rag over her shoulder and turning back to you.

“So, what about you, darlin’? You got a partner down here?“

“Oh, no. Nothing even close. I’ve been kind of a hermit recently.” You cut your words short, feeling, unreasonably, as if you’d just given a deeply personal truth away.

Cecil looked at you deeply.

“Well, it makes sense now why you burst in here talkin’ a blue streak.”

You slapped your palms over your eyes and clawed your fingertips dramatically down your face. “I know. It’s like a disease.”

Cecil snorted.

“No problems here.” She grew serious suddenly, her voice lowering. “Hey. I wanted to say thanks for the gift. You didn’t have to do that, and I’m still not sure why you did. But I won’t be scraping the barrel for this month’s rent.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Cecil nodded. You propped yourself on your elbows as you leaned toward her, deadpan.

“No, I really mean that. Don’t mention it to anyone.”

__________

You were on time. Extremely on time.

Taking every possible obstacle into account (roadblocks, unexpected crowds, kidnapping, the subsequent, time-consuming escape), you’d left your house an hour early, your satchel still packed with the same candy and games as last time.

For the second week in a row, you weren’t greeted at the door by your notably impatient, blue-haired friend. Earliness aside, you couldn’t help but feel troubled. You wondered, in heart-pounding anxiety, whether you’d gotten something wrong, checking your watch several times.

Shoving your way through the swaying crowd to the lesser populated side of the bar where your booth was located, you were remiss to find that it was occupied by a man and woman. The latter was side eyeing the bathrooms as the former chatted away obliviously. By the looks of it, you were near certain it was a first date gone bad.

You did a lap around the bar, hoping they’d get up and leave of their own accord. Cecil’s presence put you slightly at ease and you felt exceedingly grateful that she worked this shift, even though it was too busy to chat with the incessant flow of thirsty customers. As your time approached, you leaned your elbows back against the bar counter, scanning the room for Jinx and her flying, sentient braids. Noticing your nervous glances, Cecil offered to make you a drink and you declined with a stiff shake of your head.

Craning your neck around to where you were meant to be sat in less than ten minutes, you cursed loudly, the words swallowed up by the hungry bass rattling the walls and floor beneath your feet.

Silco had said it had to be that one. The bastard stated that rule explicitly yet hadn’t reserved the booth in any discernible way, and now you were meant to fight for it. Irritation rose to a low simmer in the pit of your stomach as something told you he hadn’t just overlooked this possible outcome.

Grumbling, you rolled your shoulders back and approached the table, branding a placating, apologetic smile on your face.

“Hey guys.”

The woman looked up at you from where she’d been staring dully at the surface of the table, the life in her eyes seeming to flood back.

“So sorry to butt in here.” You shot her a knowing look. “Truly. But there’s been a mistake, this table is supposed to be reserved for me and my friend. I-“

The man interrupted you, waving his hand in the air as if you were a pesky fly.

“No, no, no.”

“…Pardon?”

“We just sat down. You and your friend can find another table.” You recoiled at the man’s unwarranted cockiness.  He turned back to his date, who was starting to look as repulsed as you felt.

Attempting appeasement, you placed your palms lightly on the surface of the table.

“Listen, I understand the frustration. Really, I do-“

“You need to get out of our face. There’s a booth right there.”

So much for appeasing.

“Here’s the thing,” you snipped. “I need this one.”

The woman started to get up, gathering her things. The man gestured to her. “Sit back down, she has no right to-.”

“It’s reserved,” you interrupted, taking a page out of his book.

“I don’t give a shit what it is.”

The wood of the table clacked as you tapped your knuckles against it. A meanness began to corrode its way through your chest cavity and your lip curled nastily.

“I’m doing your date a service. She’s been eyeing the exit ever since you opened your mouth.”

The booth squawked as the man stood up. You stumbled backward a few steps. In a second, the man was in your space, finger pointing at you furiously, attempting to intimidate through bullying what he couldn’t with his stature. Your hand danced across the outside of your pockets instinctively, feeling the indent of the pocketknife within. In your periphery, his date threw her purse over her shoulder and rushed out, cursing softly.

“Relax,” you said, forcing yourself to stop in your nervous retreat as he crowded you so closely, your nose scrunched at the cloying smell of his hair gel.

“Just who the fuck do you think you are?”

The perks of your new reality struck you then, your arms dropping loosely to your sides as something powerful and undefined began to lap at the edges of your consciousness.

“I’m going to ask one more-“

“It’s reserved by my boss,” you said abruptly, heart pounding in anticipation as you lined yourself up for a home run.

“Oh yeah? And who’s that?”

You closed the space between you further, inches from his face, hardly believing your own gall.

“Big eye symbol hanging outside this place, you seen it?” Never had you seen anyone’s face drain of color so quickly. You drove the nail home. “That guy.”

You exhaled as he took a troubled step back, looking you up and down, fear and residual anger dueling on his features.

You grinned. “Sorry about the date, but she wasn’t going to fuck you anyway.”

He seethed, lips curling into a snarl before he turned to stomp away, before he could do anything stupid. Your eyes tracked his movement with a heady self-satisfaction.

You turned to claim your prize, and shrieked, hand leaping to your chest.

“How the hell did you manage to sneak by?”

Jinx concluded a wild round of applause from where she was perched on the table, legs dangling off the edge. The wide grin on her face was eerily pronounced under the flare of the purple and blue strobes.

“That was amazing.”

“Really?” You wiped your sweaty palms down the front of your pants. “I totally just used your dad to save my own ass.”

“Uh-uh, no way, you were cruel as a cucumber.”

The mis-phrase made you smile up at her, and you decided you never wanted to hear it spoken the correct way again. Coming to a stop in front of her, you wriggled your bag off your shoulder and plopped it onto her lap.

“I think I looked like a deflating circus balloon.”

“Only a little.”

Jinx rifled through the bag, eyes glimmering with a manic kind of joy.

“You bring the best stuff. No wonder my dad is keeping you around.”

Your brows knitted together in confusion, and a little bit of annoyance at the idea of him keeping you around. “Meaning?”

“Just surprised is all. He’s picky about people.”

There was no trace of mischief on Jinx’s face. If anything, she seemed completely oblivious to the impact of the casual, cryptic words. What they implied, you weren’t sure and knew, at least for now, that you didn’t want any clarification.

Not appreciating the direction your stream of consciousness was flowing, you dammed it back with silliness.

"Alright, let's go, you clown," you said, latching your fingers onto the wooden framing that arched over the booth and swinging your way in, landing in a gargoyle-like crouch. With zero hesitation, Jinx followed suit, laying backwards onto the table and rolling sideways until she toppled, her forehead smacking against the leather upholstery so loud that you both fell into a bout of keeling laughter. Her twig-like legs kicked wildly into the air from where she lay across the seat.

Catching your breath, you snagged a box off the counter and crossed your legs beneath you. “Ever play Candyland?”

She popped back up, her hair wild and staticky, strands reaching out in every direction but her head.

“Only with my dad.”

You snorted again, heart warming at the bizarre, yet sweet visual. You couldn’t help it: mothers doting on their children at the marketplace, fathers with toddlers high on their shoulders, cackling with glee. Ruthless crime lords playing a game of Candyland with their adoptive daughters between high-stakes criminal dealings. You’d never had anything of the sort, at least in your formative years, but had wanted it more than anything.

“Is he any good?”

“No.” She frowned. “But I think he lets me win.”

You hunched your shoulders and lunged toward her fiercely.

“Well, I won’t. I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”

Fireworks exploded in Jinx’s pupils, her lips curling into a cunning, feline smirk, eerily resemblant of her father’s.

“Bring it on, knife girl.”

You played Candyland for a bit, both of you cackling as the other lost a turn or were sent back to the start. You stood up at one point, bashing your fist down on the table, sending pieces flying, as the two of you got into a heated, but playful argument over the fact that you had once again lost, despite the game being entirely chance-based.

It was about an hour in when you’d made your first mistake.

“I’m sorry about last week.”

It was a simple apology. Clearing the air. Or so you’d thought.

Jinx’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly. “No biggie.”

“Biggie.” You placed your palm gently on your bag, where Jinx was fishing at the bottom for candy like a cat rooting around the inside of a cardboard box. She peered up at you, eyes glazed over slightly. “I should’ve let you know I was going to be late.”

“I wasn’t mad.” Her voice had a hard edge to it.

You studied her agitated expression and immediately wished you hadn’t said anything. From her eyes alone, you could tell you were treading some delicate line, that just one more snap of an invisible rubber band had the potential to send her skyrocketing somewhere unreachable.

“It was an accident.”

You concluded, then and there, that Jinx did, in fact, have a propensity for exploding things and had used the Last Drop as her personal demolition zone last week. And based on Sevika’s reaction, you could assume that it hadn’t been the first time she’d flown off the handle. You thought back to what Silco had said. That you’d put her into a state of distress.

You lifted your palm from the bag as she stared at you with bladed eyes.

“I know it was.”

The rest of the night, Jinx was noticeably quieter, that same crackling, electric energy she possessed very much present, but manifesting differently. Her impossibly expressive eyes painted a portrait of the state of her mind, two live wires of different voltages, forced together repeatedly in a flurry of sparks. She would be poking her tongue out, giggling at your silly faces, and the next moment her eyes would be glassed over, glancing around uncertainly, as if trying to place where she was. Then, you’d have to reel her back in again.

Once, you’d asked her if she wanted to call it quits early, but she’d shaken her head, beaming at you eerily. “What, you a quitter?”

Later on, you spotted one of Silco’s crew lumbering toward you and you knew he’d come to fetch Jinx, that the night was coming to a close. Jinx noticed, too, a pout plumping her bottom lip.

She slid down in her seat, like she’d suddenly morphed into a blob of gelatinous goop.

“Next week, you bring something to do, huh? Since my games are too easy for you,” you said.

Two blue eyes popped over the edge of the table, shining at you dangerously.

“Anything?”

“I mean.” You were already biting back your words. “Within reason.”

What that meant to Jinx, you had no clue, but she hopped up out of her seat excitedly.

“I’ve got some ideas! See ya next time!”

Jinx waved at you emphatically and made to skip away, but paused abruptly, turning back around. Her searching gaze danced across your face for a moment before she lunged forward, nearly knocking you backward in an unexpected hug. You were as stiff as a sheet of plywood, the contact unfamiliar and strange, arms raised awkwardly in the air as you made startled eye contact with Silco’s crew.

There was a long moment where you didn’t respond. Didn’t know how, really. It wasn’t that you didn’t like hugs, you had just never quite gotten the hang of how to properly receive one. Relaxing slightly into the young girl’s hold, you delicately encased her.

You felt, more than heard, the quiet muffling into your shirt.

“Hm?”

“You’ll come back?”

You rested your chin on top of her head and glanced toward the balcony, wondering what Silco truly thought of the girl's immediate attachment to you. That same sense of protectiveness surged in your chest.

“I’ll see you next week, Jinx.” You emphasized with a squeeze, before releasing her into the swelling crowd of the bar.

The warmth of Jinx’s hug quickly dissipated from your skin and you found yourself sitting and staring at the spot the girl had occupied, unable to comprehend how a simple hug left you feeling more bereft, lonely. Time by yourself really had done a number.

You’d half expected the crew man to be carrying your payment, but all he’d done was shrug when you asked him what you were supposed to do. You considered not going upstairs at all, forfeiting your weekly stipend altogether, the idea of it suddenly seeming distasteful, wrong, after the vulnerability Jinx had just shown you.

You sighed, placing your head in your hands, losing yourself in thought.

____________

Back and forth. Back and forth. It was the slow, steady pacing of a predator.

You knocked.

The creaking of the floorboards paused.

“Come in.”

Your legs turned to jelly, toes curling into your boots to steady yourself outside of the tiger’s den before entering.

At his jarring nearness, your heart catapulted recklessly across your ribcage. He wasn’t close by any means. He was across the room in fact, yet he felt inches away, nothing between you and him this time. No desk. No balcony railing.

Silco’s slender frame stood at a diagonal, still slanted marginally away from the door, as if he’d frozen mid-step. The same crisp maroon shirt clung to his form, a brown, exquisitely detailed waistcoat hugging his torso down to the tops of his narrow, streamlined hips, where his left hand was perched loosely.

On the couch, an intimidating overcoat of the same two colors, emblazoned in gold detailing, lay neatly, as if he’d returned just recently from an outing. There was nothing about the man that wasn’t expensive, that didn’t feel masterfully crafted.

Silco hadn’t acknowledged you yet, his head turned just a fraction, side profile cutting severely through the gentle, bathing glow of the Undercity behind. You admired the way his aquiline nose jutted out, giving him a haughty, yet undeniable charm.

It was as if he had been erected right there in the middle of the room, an unmoving, ethereal statue. He required no words to intimidate, the force of his presence was enough to claim ownership of any room in which he merely stood.

Silco’s unseen arm lifted as he quietly took a sip of the drink you hadn’t realized he was holding. You felt an urgent, all-encompassing need to break the silence as you watched his lips capture the glass, throat bobbing.

“Hello.”

Only his orange, burning eye was visible as it darted over to seize your inquiring gaze. Your skin prickled as it trailed down your figure lazily, sizing you up as a spider would, deliberating on the contents of its web. His eye rolled back up to meet yours. The scarred corner of his lip quirked slightly.

“Hello.”

You toyed briefly with the idea of performing a dramatic pivot and marching back out his door and down the countless number of stairs you’d just climbed. But instead, you shut yourself in, noticing for the first time, the thick, golden deadbolt locks that adorned each double door, at the very top and bottom. Safeguards to keep people out. Or in.

Silco sighed, almost bored, eyes dropping to his drink that he swirled lazily in his hand. “I suppose you’ve come for your pay.”

He placed the half empty glass down before finally moving, prowling the front edge of his desk, dragging the tips of his fingers absentmindedly as he went, as if picking up dust. He pinched his fingers, holding them up to the light dispassionately as he rounded the side of his desk.

Something dangerously on the brink of disappointment poked at you sharply. The money, the moment it hit your hand, would officially end the night.

“You might get an anonymous complaint,” you said.

Silco stilled, seafoam green singling you out this time.

“Oh?”

“I had to break up a really uncomfortable first date. To get that booth.”

Slowly, he turned, leaning his hip into the desk and hinging one ankle across the other, his half-lidded eye glazed with indifference.

“And you wish for what, a congratulations?”

“No, no.” You adjusted your tight grip on the bag you were holding. “Just wanted to cover my ass in case there were any wild accusations.”

“Such as?”

“Like that I weaponized your name. Or something.”

His orange eye flashed.

“A hypothetical, I take it.”

“Most definitely.”

Beneath dark brows, Silco observed you steadily. You swallowed dryly, his burning scrutiny tracing the quick movement.

Ages passed before he reacted. From where his palm rested on the desk, his index finger tapped once in affirmation of something before he pushed himself to his full height, stalking over to a well-stocked drink cart, where he grabbed another tumbler.

“That bad?”

You grinned, despite his back being turned.

“The woman was about ready to lobotomize herself with her own straw.”

The clink of glass on glass in the quiet room was startling as he poured from a dark-colored decanter. You wished you could see his face.

 “I suppose I should thank you for saving me the mess.”

“No need.”

In the silence that followed, you took the opportunity to glance about the room. Under the blinding tunnel vision of your nervousness, you’d never actually absorbed any of your surroundings. It wasn’t a revelation that the man had a theme, crimson and gold, but the office, through a fresh lens, was surprisingly colorful. A blue, diamond-patterned rug beneath the gold talons of his desk. A soft, rose-shaded leather couch with a large painting above it, depicting a tumbling boat crashing across treacherous waters. A beautiful gramophone sitting on the dark wood of a side table next to his desk.

It was a collector’s den, with a variety of antiques that spoke of his taste for collecting the finer things and putting them on display. You smiled softly at the mug Jinx had painted, sitting proudly at the very front and center of his desk.

The sound of a decanter being corked brought your attention back to Silco, who, to your utmost surprise, was turning with two drinks in his hand.

“Must you linger in every doorway? Or just mine?”

You blinked at him owlishly.

“Just yours, honestly.”

Your eyes fell questioningly to the second glass in his hands.

“Is that…”

“No. I was so thirsty I fashioned myself two whiskeys,” he said impatiently. “Take it.”

It didn’t appear as if he had any intent to harm you, but it was always prudent to keep your wits about you when in the presence of a wild animal. And that’s what he reminded you of, a beast you must always approach with caution, lest its jaws surprise you by clamping down.

Your nose twitched irritably, and an arrogant curl of his lips told you he could sense your restraint. Where he drew his lines, you had no idea. Best to take these things one step at a time, much like your current, literal approach toward Silco’s outstretched arm.

You tilted your head up in false bravado but couldn’t help the way your knees quaked as they jerked you forward across the room and toward the looming man.

You tilted forward to pluck the drink from his hand, the side of your index finger grazing against his in your haste. With a small shock, your hand jerked backward, liquid sloshing lightly, a droplet landing on your exposed wrist bone. You took a step back, stomach pitching at the way he carefully scrutinized you down his nose.

”Thank you,” you muttered.

”You’re welcome.”

You couldn’t help but avert your eyes, his voice closer than ever.

Silco made his way to his seat, a whisper of amusement on his face, and so did you, feeling thoroughly humiliated by your uncharacteristic submissiveness.

Silco settled into the pompous highback, swirling his drink in his palm. “Any other hypotheticals I should be made aware of?”

You dropped your bag onto the ground at your feet, reeling at the fact that he was indulging you in conversation. “I told him you’re my boss.”

“Is that so untruthful?”

“I don’t know. It seems kind of…” you looked at him, conflicted. “Ingenuine.”

Silco’s eyes fell in silent scorn to the way your nails clanked restlessly against the glass in your hand. “Elaborate.”

“The title. It implies that I’m working for you… Which I guess I am. Or that I’m doing this for money... Which, I guess I am.” You slapped your palm noisily against your forehead at how stupid you sounded. It was exceedingly difficult to form an intelligent sentence while his eyes burned into yours, so you found yourself glaring, exasperated, at the silk, white tie cinched perfectly against his throat. “I just can’t help but feel lousy accepting money to hang out with Jinx. Because if I had the money to spare, I’d do it for free. It feels like I’m being… dishonest or something.”

Silco’s head cocked as he scrutinized your words, a peculiar emotion knitting his brows together before his features smoothed into an icy indifference.

“Were you hoping I’d soothe your conscience?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling no different than any of his antiques, your restraint on full display for the impudent man.

“If I needed my conscience soothed, I’d go to Babette’s.”

"Ah yes, if you're seeking honesty, go to Babette's." You were taken aback by the acid in his tone, his eyes flashing wrathfully.

“Detestable Yordle,” he growled low. Your fingers tightened on your glass. “Impossible to dispose of.”

It was abundantly clear there was bad blood there, but you barely contained a snort at the visual of the tiny, wise-cracking woman getting under Silco’s skin. He was at a loss, though. Babette’s would go belly-up without, well, Babette.

“I hear she loves fresh peaches if you're ever looking to make nice."

The look he gave you could freeze hell over twice. "Make nice."

"Bad choice of words." 

He sighed, tilting back into his chair, leaning one elbow on an armrest while he studied you heatedly over the rim of his swirling glass.  

You readjusted the nervous grip you had on your own drink, finding yourself at an unusual loss for words.

“So.” The lull in conversation made it suddenly necessary to fill the silence. You gestured with your head over to his coat laying on the couch, “Do anything interesting today?”

Right away, you blanched, realizing how suspicious you sounded.

Silco's good eyebrow cocked slightly.

“Don’t answer that. I regret the question.”

With deliberate leisure, he polished off his drink, setting it on the desk with a soft thud that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. The chair creaked as he crossed his legs.

“Is that why you're here, then?” he asked softly.

The room dropped several degrees.

“To share a drink? Infiltrate my good will?" A corner of his lips lifted into a lethal smirk, chin dipping. "Clever. Perhaps I should've been keeping a closer eye on you."

Your narrowing gaze darted between orange and green. He couldn't possibly think...

”Hm?" His head tilted, prompting.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“You should be. Sorry.”

The seconds drew out like taffy and you felt the first bead of perspiration on your forehead as you sat with a growing nervousness. He stared at you, calculated, like a cat would, curiously batting a mouse between its paws.

"I haven't done anything," you whispered indignantly to him, leaning in, as if the real accuser was pointing at you from across the room.

"I know." Silco sniffed dispassionately. “You’d make a terrible spy.”

There was a long silence before your shoulders dropped. You weren’t foolish enough to say it out loud, but you made sure he saw the sentiment clearly in your eyes.

Asshole.

Silco’s soft chuckle reminded you of the first roll of thunder before a storm.

There was a lull of silence while you clenched your cup tightly with both hands on the desk, ears burning with annoyance at having to hold your tongue. A mysterious heat was bleeding out of you, concurrent with your adrenaline. Instead of using words, you held his gaze, nails clanking out a purposefully loud, frenzied tune on the outside of the gold-rimmed glass.

Silco frowned, and then looked in disapproval at your untouched drink. You practically huffed, raising it to your lips. You thought you were prepared, but the liquid rolled down your throat like a freight train and you just barely managed to swallow a single sip, grimacing like you'd just taken a shot of lemon juice.

"Holy-" you began, coughing. "That's really strong."

Silco hummed, eyes glittering.

"I think I'd manage alright," you dared to finish, drawing his attention away from your display. You cleared your throat of the burn, voice hoarse. "As a spy."

"You read like a picture book."

There was a long pause.

"Interesting, at least? Good plot?"

"No.”

It was your turn to frown.

It wasn't long after that when you felt your banter easing to what felt like a natural close for the night. You thanked him for the drink and excused yourself, not wanting to overstay. The man had a city to run after all. But as you turned, he called your name softly.

A money pouch dangled between his fingertips and he noticed the way your lips twisted with no small amount of guilt. Silco tilted his head sharply toward the couch.

“I was overseeing the disposal of an old friend.” His gaze honed on your hands fiddling at your sides and then rose again. "River."

His unwavering, expectant stare heated you like a coal forge, growing uncomfortably warm the longer you stood inside it. As you studied him in kind, you wondered whether he felt the same ineffable pull. Or if this was just a part of his magnetic craft.

His words were strangely affirming and you drifted back, allowing him to drop the pouch into your open palm. You stood staring at it for a long moment, before raising your eyes to his, allowing your lips to slowly curl into a sly smile.

“How mundane.”

You received a vicious smirk.

“And tedious.”

_________________

When you were younger, the older kids at the orphanage had allowed you to tag along on their criminal escapade to the Piltovan Zoo after hours. Ecstatic to be included, but quietly nervous, you’d clung onto your brother’s arm as you’d stood before the enchanting, golden arches of the admissions gates, your friends dancing in the fountain out front, water raining down from a marble elephant’s trunk.

You'd felt invincible, evading the night guards and climbing your way over high walls so as not to set off alarms. Safely inside, you’d followed Stefan to the koi pond, where you'd sat, watching the fish flail their plump bodies across the water for bits of bread.

At a low growl, your head had turned to the shadows.

You’d peered around, finding the older kids still laughing with the howling chimpanzees and their babies, who poked tiny fingers through the cages. Stefan remained hunched over the pond.

The darkness called to you like a siren. Quietly, so as not to alert your brother, you’d ventured alone toward the shadowy enclosures in the back, your friend’s laughter growing dim as you’d tip-toed toward the source of the snarling fury.

A light flickered feebly over the head of a lone female tiger, pacing back and forth. Back and forth. Scattered around her were bits of newspaper, a silicone ball, ripped and toothed way past its expiration date. A pull-rope, intended for stimulation, was hung untouched along the concrete wall. But still she’d paced, shoulders rolling hypnotically, hunched low.

Climbing over the first glass partition, you had sat cross-legged in front of the metal cage, a sense of familiarity drawing you into her delicate solitude.

“Hello,” you’d said, fingers lacing through the bars, head pressed hard against the cold metal.

The tiger had paused in her distressed musings to pin you with her gleaming, yellow-eyed stare. Licking her chops, she had hung her head, and you’d watched, enamored, as she had approached, coming to a halt before you.

In a moment too swift for the human eye, she had lunged, her snout jamming against the bars in a clash of teeth and metal. You’d never thought to scream, just gasp as the creatures nose huffed inches away from yours.

Scooting backward in heart-pounding anxiety, you’d studied her from the floor as she did from above, paws framing where your head had been, her claws oddly retracted.

And then she’d resumed her pacing, as if it were her born duty.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Throned at the top of the food chain, utterly alone. Unchallenged. Bored to madness by a brain too intelligent, too hungry. 

You think you understand now.

<3 <3 <3

I'm still pretty new to tumblr so if you enjoyed and/or feel inclined to help me get my writing out into the ether, I'd be ever so grateful. But if not, I am still just very happy to be here existing in such an amazing fandom.

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Stay unhinged, my friends

Love, Sulty <3

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maybe a jealous Annie in Off The Beaten Path

placated by plaits

off the beaten path (a trnt side story)

ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢѕ ᴀᴘᴘʟʏ

setting: building the cottage

ao3 | the road not taken | cottagecanon

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author's note: testing out how the people (that means you) feel about other relationships besides annie/reader

word count: 2.4k

Annie is chatty. Very, very chatty, when she’s comfortable. It takes you by surprise at first, because you’re so used to constant silence from her. After the initial shock, you quickly become endeared with it. Every word that comes out of her mouth is something that you deeply want to hear, no matter what it’s about. 

You’ll listen to her ponder the pros and cons of different materials with hearts in your eyes enraptured just because she talks about it with such passion. After a while, you come to the conclusion that it’s the least you can do to give her an audience. 

She spent four years with nothing but her thoughts, and you genuinely want to hear every word she has to say. Sometimes it even feels overwhelming, how much you want to know. It doesn’t feel like there’s enough time in the world to cover everything. 

The two of you have so much to tell one another. There are so many things that you want to talk about with her, from the big conversations about her wants and needs, to the stories she’d never told you, to the tiny details that don’t really matter. You want to hear every opinion she has about every little thing; oftentimes you’ll sit enraptured at the most mundane of topics. 

She goes on for hours about drywall and insulation, and you hang onto her every word. You’re honestly not sure what you’re doing half the time. You observe what Annie is doing and copy her, and as long as Annie is still talking then you figure you must be doing it right. 

Whenever you do inevitably fuck up, she just teaches you how to re-do it. Other people, she is not so patient with. Somebody else fucks up, she bans them from the project and does it herself, as demonstrated when Connie is sent down from setting roof tiles to help you, Pieck, Jean, and Armin finish up the deck. 

Whenever your friends are there, too, you quickly realize why they didn’t come more often. Annie herself doesn’t seem to fully be aware of it, but a certain green-eyed monster comes out in a way that you’ve never really seen before. She has to know that she’s got you hook line and sinker, but even little things seem to set her off. 

It’s a pretty hot day. The summer is coming to a close, though with the different climate and lack of predictability you end up regretting that this is when you chose to do heavy work. Annie and Reiner are still up on the roof while the rest of you either work on the stairs or the railing on the back patio. 

You and Pieck finish up with the railing before anybody else. After the final nail had been driven into the last post, you sigh in exhaustion (overdramatic maybe, since you had the least exhaustive task). The dark-haired girl next to you sets aside the toolbox and the two of you walk back over to the shade, where you eventually end up sitting on the makeshift brick counter. 

Both of you chug water until you catch your breath. You tuck a loose strand of hair back behind your ear, happy you wore it out of the way to begin with. Pieck, on the other hand, whose loose hair is plastered all over her face with sweat, was not so fortunate. 

Just looking at her makes you feel like you’re cooking. “Would you like me to braid your hair for you?” you offer. 

She perks up. All at once, she tries to start combing through it, pulling back all the loose and frizzy strands to make it somewhat workable. “Oh, would you really? I’ve stopped trying at this point. It’ll all fall out in half an hour if I put it in a ponytail,” she admits. 

Braiding hair has always been something that you’ve been called upon no matter where you go. Everyone wants their hair done, but far fewer people actually knew how to do it than you would’ve expected, so therefore you were voluntold to braid at many a sleepover or party throughout your life. 

You smile, and the familiar pride of being able to help swells up inside of you. “Yeah, of course. Sit on the grass here.” 

Pieck complies, folding her hands in her lap as she sits cross-legged in front of you. You don’t have a brush or anything, so you just use your fingers to comb out the worst of the tangles she didn’t get. 

It’s not too bad, actually. The biggest obstacle in your way is the slight dampness of sweat that leaves her hair sticking to itself. You don’t want to break the hair up into too many pieces, but you want everything tied back, so you section her hair into a top and bottom half. 

Braiding the top part is easy enough. It gets a little sticker when you’re trying to separate the strands as your fingers struggle to hook strands from the bottom section, but you end up with a solid result. 

It’s not particularly pretty, but it’s a structurally solid braid. All of her hair is tied back, even if it’s a bit lumpy. Pieck sits still throughout the process, eyes closed happily all the while. It takes an extra couple of minutes for you to thread the b

Jean walks over right as you’re tying off the end of the braid. He watches you loop the 

“Wait, can you braid mine, too?” he asks. There’s too much of a hopeful look on his face for you to bear to dash his spirits. 

If you’re going to let him down, you want to do it easily. “Is it long enough for that?” 

“Not if you do one on each side,” he pleads, wringing his hands. Alas, the puppy dog eyes win you over. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? 

You sigh in resignation. “Okay, fine.” 

Pieck scoots over on the grass as Jean comes over to take her place. He’s more helpful than you anticipated, finger-combing through his own hair to smooth it out. 

Genuinely, you don’t expect it to hold. You’re pleasantly surprised when you find that if you start small, two braids does trick quite quite nicely – perhaps just barely so, but his hair is indeed long enough to stay in place. It’s not quite as easy as you’d like, but you do manage to keep it going a good inch or two past the base of his scalp. 

He shifts and turns his head, then smiles when he makes eye contact with Pieck. She returns the smile then giggles, which in turn, immediately makes him blush and bury his face in his hands. And even though you really can’t blame him – you’d probably have the same reaction if she looked at you that way too, but it makes you drop his hair. 

You’re debating whether or not you should chastise him, but he apologizes before you’d even get the chance. He fans his face in attempt to cool himself down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s fooling anyone… 

“Sorry,” he mutters sheepishly, “I’ll be still.” He puts his head back into place. 

To his credit, he does stay in the same position despite the fact that he’s still pretty visibly flustered. He blinks, averting his eyes from Pieck and trying to hold himself together. 

You twist his hair underneath itself one strand after the other, switching how you hold the loose hair throughout. There isn’t much hair left at the bottom, so the hair ties you use to secure the ends overlaps on itself so many times that it bunches up. It looks a little bit like a pom-pom, but it holds. 

Pieck picks a tiny yellow flower from the grass nearby, and leans forward over Jean. She threads the stem through a segment of the braid just behind his ear, taking a moment to adjust it before she sits back down aagain. Her fingers graze his jawline, lingering for just long enough that it makes you stare shamelessly. 

The chemistry is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Honestly, you’re so enraptured by whatever is going on right in front of you that you didn’t even notice that more people are approaching until you hear Annie’s voice. You smile as you turn to look at her, only to see her frowning. 

“You’re braiding hair over here? And you didn’t come get me?!” She has her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face while Reiner trails behind her by a few feet. 

You’re still so distracted that you don’t register that she’s upset with you until you try to wave her over, and all she does is narrow her eyes in response. Her nostrils flare as she exhales hard, her eyebrows knitting. You might mistake her expression for anger if it wasn’t for the tell-tale tears glistening in her eyes. 

No, it’s less rational than anger. It’s that jealousy again, rearing its ugly head. Poor thing… 

Pieck giggles again. “It’s okay, Annie, I asked her to. Jean and I were being demanding.” 

Yet still, the blonde girl pouts. “I wanted to be a part of it.” 

“You’re not too late! Here, come on,” Pieck waves Jean over, and he crawls out of place to go sit next to her – right next to her, you can’t help but notice – oh god, all you want to do is do a double take. No, that’s not your focus right now. 

Annie. She needs validation. She still looks displeased, though when you see her lower lip wobble you realize it’s just insecurity. She just wants your attention and she doesn’t know how to ask for it. 

“Come over here,” you invite her, gesturing Annie to the now-empty spot in front of you, “it’s your turn.” A big smile blooms on your face. You wiggle your fingers to invite her closer, raising your eyebrows. 

She scowls for a minute, and just shifts her weight. Finally she seems to consider it seriously when Reiner gently nudges her shoulder. He chuckles nervously when she glares at him, but he still encourages her. 

“Hey, if you don’t go down there then I’m gonna take your place. I want my hair braided too,” he jokes, ruffling his hand through his cropped cut.

Finally, Annie cracks. A smile slips out, and she shoots you a look out of the corner of her eyes. She seems nearly embarrassed  

As she sits down, she pulls her hair out of its updo and shakes it out. Even though she doesn’t make an attempt to comb through it herself, you’re more than happy to take that up yourself. Out of the three of them, her hair is the easiest to work with. 

It’s also the messiest of the three but fine enough that it untangles as soon as you pull at the knots. Both Jean and Pieck had much thicker hair, so Annie’s is a breeze. The braid takes shape easily and quickly, enough so that you feel like it’s too soon to end the experience. You unravel the braid so you can spend more time playing with her hair.

You grab the strands at the top and separate them out. Pieck’s hair was too thick and Jean’s too short, but hers is perfect for more of a waterfall look. The length makes it stay in place easily. You continue on while taking your time making the hairstyle look pretty, much more so than you did with the others. 

You take time to carefully weave the strands evenly, symmetrically. You tie the band at the base of the braid, then pull at each link of the braid to fluff it out a little. Once you’ve fiddled with it until you’re content, you take the braid and drape it over the side of her shoulder. 

“All done, beautiful,” you announce. You let your fingers trace down the back and sides of Annie’s neck softly, and as you do, you shoot Pieck a pointed look. The message comes across perfectly: I saw what you were doing. I see you. 

She simply smirks and arches an eyebrow at you, and leans back on the heel of her hands. Instead of backing down, somehow she gets even more bold by resting her free hand on top of Jean’s thigh. He hardly reacts when her fingers slide upward, though you certainly do. 

You think about that interaction for three days straight afterwards, and every time you see the two of them together after that. Even months later you’re unsure about what’s going on between them. The looks and lingering touches certainly continue, but their relationship seems platonic at face value. Over time, you come to the conclusion thay Pieck seems to enjoy teasing you with the knowledge of this little secret just as much as she teases Jean. 

After you’ve all rested up, you all get back to work in the few remaining hours of sunlight, with the three whose hair you braided keeping the hairstyles for the remainder of the evening. You’re proud of yourself, both because of the pride your friends have in hairstyles you gave them and because you were able to find a way to bring everyone together in an unexpected way. 

The exterior of the house is fully bricked up and left to cure over the next few days. Gutters and channels for water to drain out of the yard are dug out and paved. Roofing goes up and scaffolding comes down. Even though the inside still looks pretty rough, for the first time when you look at the house it actually looks like a house. 

[foli-vora]

more than words - pt.1

A/N: I’ve had this in my head for forever and a half so it feels good to finally sort my thoughts and random notes out. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: The one person who you thought would be happy for you finally getting with someone decent was your best friend. After all, he had set you both up. Who would’ve thought he’d be the reason it all falls apart?

Pairing: best friend!Benny Miller/f!reader, Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales/f!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: alcohol consumption, swearing, mentions of sexual acts/sexual refences (no smut yet but it’s coming so this is strictly 18+)

pt.2 / pt.3 / pt.4 / pt.5 / pt.6

+++

Wednesday nights were pizza nights. A rule established in the early stages of your friendship with Benjamin Miller – a loud mouth, golden hearted ex-spec ops mess of a human being. A chance meeting one stormy day on the freeway, led to something you weren’t expecting – a friendship, and a solid one at that.

“– she damn near tried to suck the life out of me!”

“Jesus Ben, there are kids a table over.”

“So? They shouldn’t be eavesdroppin’ on conversations that don’t concern them.” He grins lopsidedly at your scowl of disapproval, ripping off a mouthful of pizza and humming as he chews it, head swaying to the faint music playing behind the bar. “You’re payin’, by the way.”

You snort quietly, “Don’t I always?”

He recoils, blinking in playful surprise. “Excuse you? I paid last…” he trails off, eyes rolling to the wall as he thinks but a frown soon pinches his brows. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I love you and I appreciate you.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you signal for another round. “Anyways, reverting to our previous topic before you got carried away with your blowjob story.”

He makes a noise, snapping his fingers as he tries to rush chewing and swallowing his mouthful. “So,” he starts, “I’ve got a friend…”

You groan immediately, letting your head lull back. “Ben –”

This wasn’t anything new. Benny took it as his own personal mission to fix you up with anyone he thought could give you a good time and treat you well. Friends, colleagues, Hell – even his brother at one point. Will was lovely, by all means, but not your type. Both you and Will had agreed you were not a match in the slightest early in the evening, enjoyed a night of beer and pool, and then went your separate ways.

Although, now that you thought about it, Ben hadn’t mentioned setting you up with anyone for a long while. Not since before his mysterious trip.

You still didn’t know anything about it, other than he and some old work friends went on an apparent ‘vacation’. It was more than that – you knew it, and he knew you knew it, but you didn’t push the topic. Instead of interrogating him, forcing question after question on him, you let it go, sensing it was something he really didn’t want to talk about.

He had returned from that trip a few months ago, heavy with exhaustion and usually bright eyes dull and weary. You tucked him into your bed, and left him. He slept for hours. It wasn’t until much later that evening that you crept in to see how he was doing, and found him thrashing silently in the sheets, sweaty and incoherently mumbling, face pinched and puckered in pain. You didn’t wake him. Instead, you knelt beside the bed, softly stroking along his forehead until his erratic movements and breathing calmed. You didn’t bring it up.

“I know, I know,” he threw his hands up in defence with a small grin, “but I think you’ll like this one.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“No, I mean it this time. He’s a real good guy – one of my closest. I think you guys would really hit it off. I haven’t tried to set you up before because he was with the chick but she upped and left him alone with the baby and –”

“Sorry, what?”

“What?”

“He has a baby? Like a… like a child?”

Benny frowns defensively, “You’ve always said you want kids!”

“It’s still a huge commitment, Ben.”

“Jesus, I’m not walking you down the aisle! Just meet him and see where it goes. If it ends in some good sex, you say ‘thank you Ben’ and we move on. And if it ends in something more, you guys take it slow and buy me wings as a thank you.” He shrugs, looking thoroughly impressed with himself, and reaches for his beer, polishing it off in one swig.

“And what if it ends in bad sex?” You challenge, crossing your arms on the table and leaning forward to eye him critically.

He scoffs, “Woman please. I know my brothers. You’ll be in good hands.”

You take a moment to thank the waitress as she stops at your table with your beers. She lingers just a little on passing Ben his, an act he didn’t miss as he shoots her a wink and a honeyed, thanks sugar. She smiles, cheeks flooding with colour before she turns and waltzes off towards other customers, swinging her hips as she goes.

You’re expressionless when he finally turns back to you, “Sugar?”

“Shut your mouth.”

Façade cracking, a snicker falls past your lip and you chuckle. “Alright,” you concede, “you’ve got my interest. What’s his name?”

“Fish.”

… what?

“Come again?”

“Francisco – we call him Fish. Catfish, actually.”

“Your age?”

“Bit older.”

You sigh deeply, rolling your head on your shoulders in thought. You were curious, no doubt about it. Despite never being able to make anything last long-term out of the list of men Benny had set you up with, none of them were bad guys. They were all kind, funny and incredibly respectful. One great thing about Benjamin Miller was that he had an impeccable taste in character.

“I don’t know, Ben –”

He slips his phone from his pocket and swipes away at his screen before wordlessly handing you the device. It was a photo, taken from one of Benny’s many weekend trips into the wilderness. Your eyes are dragged from the incredible background of snow peaked mountains and lush green forests to the man standing beside Benny, tucked under his arm. Average build and height, a well-loved trucker cap hiding dark hair. Warm brown eyes, crinkled from a large dimpled grin between dark patched facial hair.

Benny, seeing the sudden spark of interest, grins around his beer bottle. “So, I’ll slip him your number?”

You tighten your jaw and hand his phone back, sniffing impassively as you reach for your beer. “If it means you’ll leave me alone, then fine.” You mutter coolly, ignoring his quiet chuckle.

+

“Wait, wait – you have a best friend and it’s not one of us? I’m cut, Benny. Cut real deep.” Santiago Garcia was curious, to say the least. For years, he had known the youngest Miller and he had never mentioned anyone beyond their little circle or their families. “She cute?”

Benny huffs a chuckle, leaning across the pool table and lining up the final ball. “Hell yeah, she’s cute.”

“Where you been hiding her?”

“She moved away – only came back late last year.”

Santi hums, “Ironhead – she cute?”

Will half smiles, dragging his attention away from the pool table to shrug. “She’s alright.”

His bait works. Benny snaps it up – hook, line and sinker. He stands abruptly from his shot, cue just skimming the white ball, and points an angry finger in his brother’s direction, “I won’t take that shit. She’s a damn angel and you know it.”

Will chuckles to himself before returning his attention to Santi. “Yeah, she’s cute. Show ‘em.”

Benny briefly steps away from the pool table, opens his phone and brings up your Instagram profile, throwing it to Pope and letting him scroll through your feed.

“How come you’ve met her and we haven’t?” Pope aims his question at the older Miller brother, currently bent over the table and pocketing the black ball.

He half shrugs, straightening. “He set us up. It didn’t work out.”

Santi’s face puckers into a teasing glower, and he pouts at the younger Miller. “So, what? You set everyone else up and just leave me to die alone? What’s that about, Benjamin?”

Benny holds his arms out in obvious exaggeration, gesturing deliberately to himself. “You’ve got me.”

Frankie quietly sips his beer and watches in fond amusement, content to stay in the background and away from the bickering. Like Santi, his interest had been piqued but he was somewhat nervous about the situation. He already had feelings of apprehension returning to the dating scene after the shit show of a year he’d had, and those feelings tripled when it came to potentially dating someone close to one of his longest friends. He hadn’t dated in years. He was rusty. What if he disappointed you and Benny ended up kicking his ass? It could get messy real quick.

“I don’t know, man.” He finally pipes up, crossing his arms comfortably across his torso and reclining in the bar stool after peaking over Santi’s shoulder and at the screen he was lazily scrolling through. Ha. Way out of his league. “This kinda shit never works.”

“You sayin’ she’s not good enough for you?”

Frankie shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “You know I’m not.”

“Sounds like you are.”

“Quite the opposite.”

“I’ll take his spot. Give me her number.” Santi holds a hold out, clicking his fingers impatiently when Benny merely rolls his eyes. Pope grins, settling back into his seat and elbowing Frankie softly. “I think you should go for it, man. She seems great, and you need to get back out there.”

“I can’t, I’ve got Mena –”

“And Mena’s got her tío. Go for it. You’re just looking for excuses – no seas cobarde.”

Frankie chews on his lip as he gives it a bit of thought, wondering what’s the worst possible case scenario that could come from it. A busted lip? His self-image in ruins? Scared off from dating for the rest of his life? All things he could live with.

“… alright.”

Immediately, Benny perks up from setting the pool table with a large grin. “Yeah?”

Fish sighs, long and drawn out as Pope playfully pokes his side. “Yeah. Give me her number, I’ll message her now.” Before he freaks and changes his mind.

Maybe he was just thinking too much. What’s the worst that could happen?

+

Tags: @anu-simps​

[voiceless-terror]

(I’m picking a number randomly) 54 for the kiss prompts 😘

this turned out to be ‘against a locker,’ so have some jonmartin apocalypse never happened silliness <3

“You didn’t have to come in, I was just about to leave.”

“Heard that one before.”

Jon rolls his eyes but nonetheless gets to his feet, wincing as his joints protest the movement. Martin’s not entirely wrong; it’s easy for Jon to lose track of time, and what’s ten minutes to him could in reality be an hour.

He likes staying after school for a few hours, when Martin gets a late shift at the store. He’ll wander the stacks, humming as he re-shelves any misplaced books. The students who occasionally stay after don’t cause much in the way of trouble - the library isn’t exactly a hub of socialization. It’s unexciting, but there’s always something to keep his hands busy. He enjoys the routine of it.

“Besides, I kind of wanted to scope out the place. You’ve been here for a half a year and this is the first time I’ve been inside.” Martin pokes at a cart of books, making a startled grab for it when it moves. Jon stifles a chuckle as he makes his way over to the circulation desk to grab his coat and bag.

“As dull as expected?” Jon gives him a sardonic smile, throwing his bag over his shoulder. 

“Not at all, actually. Cause it’s got you.”

“Sap.”

“Naturally.” He bends down and presses a kiss to Jon’s head, intertwining their hands as they start down the hallway. “You know, I used to feel bad about dropping out. Not so much anymore, but...I feel like I missed out on some experiences, y’know? Memories.”

Jon snorted. “You couldn’t pay me to be a student again. I do not miss those days.”

Martin nudges his side. “Worse than being an archivist?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon replies, butting his head against Martin’s shoulder in retaliation. The halls are barren at this hour- most sport practices are done, and clubs generally disperse around five. He finds himself appreciating the blessed silence, their voices echoing around the empty hall. “It was a different sort of bad. Mundane. The terror of the everyday.”

“Bringing home a B to your Nan?”

“Oh, she didn’t much care about that,” Jon dismisses. “And I never brought home a B anyway. I was thinking more about the whole ‘getting shoved into lockers’ business.”

Martin’s grip around his hand tightens incrementally. “I probably would’ve too, if I didn’t hit my growth spurt at age eleven.”

“Would’ve been nice to have you around,” Jon murmurs, giving him a sly glance. “I’d have much fonder memories of the place.”

Martin pauses his steps, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tugs on Jon’s hand, coaxing him towards the lockers. “Yeah? You think we would’ve liked each other back in secondary?”

Jon smiles, allowing himself to be led. “I think you would’ve worn me down, maybe. Some cheesy love poetry-”

“I’ll have you know I wasn’t cheesy, even back then-” a gentle nudge and Jon’s against the lockers, Martin towering over him with a smirk. He pretends his heart does not skip a beat, he’s not some teenager. “How about we give you a fond memory now, hm?”

Martin, when he wants to be, is irritatingly suave, and Jon falls for it hook, line and sinker as Martin places one finger under his chin and tilts it up, leaning down for their lips to meet. It’s warm and sweet, just like the man himself, and Jon’s tempted to take a fistful of his jumper before a cough has him springing away.

“Sorry!”

It’s Sophie, a sixth former who spends most of her mornings in the library. She looks between the two of them, shooting Jon a sly grin. “Stayed late for practice - I just needed to get my textbooks-” She gestures to the locker that Jon’s currently slammed against.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry-” He tugs himself out of Martin’s arms, who’s looking at him with nothing but amusement in his face and not a hint of embarrassment. He watches awkwardly as Sophie spins the combination and grabs her book, giving the two of them a wink. “I’ll let you get back to it, Mr. Sims and...friend.” With that, she dashes around the corner, leaving a gaping Jon and a smiling Martin in her wake.

Martin shrugs it off, moving in to kiss Jon once more before he bats him away.

“Oh my god, I’m never going to hear the end of that.” He puts his head in his hands, bemoaning his sudden lack of control. Martin, it would seem, brings out the worst in him.

“It’s fine, it’s not like we were full-on making out or anything-”

“You know I hate that phrase-”

“Fine, snogging-”

“Stop!”

“Alright, alright.” Martin laughs again, grabbing at Jon’s hand. “Any other places you hate that I can fix up for you?”

“Never really liked the boy’s locker room, but I doubt you’ll want to go in there.”

“Home it is!”

[liyazaki]

I feel like the black sheep sometimes of the itsay/ipytm fandom because I feel like ipytm played out mostly like what i expected after watching the first two installments. Maybe it was a bit of confirmation bias because I somewhat knew what was going to happen going in since I watched after it aired. But I didn’t think for a second that they were gonna have an easy relationship in college and I didn’t think ipytm being mostly happy would’ve fit the vibe of the overall story. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed it more than others, I went in expecting pain that would lead to individual growth (which they both needed sorely) with an eventual happy ending and that’s what I got.

If you're a black sheep, then so am I: while I didn't anticipate the direction IPYTM took (I was watching while it aired), and though it hurt like absolute hell to watch- it made sense for me in the context of who Teh and Oh are.

Teh- ohhhh, Teh. What a beautiful mess, with the self-awareness of a rock and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He tends to have a one-track-mind (friends or enemies; acting or nothing), an aversion to change and- perhaps his hallmark personality trait- a knee-jerk ‘emote first, think second' way of interacting with the world.

Emotion runs through that man like a wildfire: it's chaotic, visceral and he doesn't seem to know where it's all coming from until it’s ravaged and nearly broken him. Aside from their history, I think that intensity was what set Teh apart from everyone else for Oh. To be at the center of all that passion, attention and singular focus- even at the risk of being burned yourself? It's a trade-off many of us would make in a heartbeat.

On the flip side, while Oh went through some serious growing pains in figuring out his major and coping with loneliness before finding his queer tribe, he was already incredibly self-aware for someone his age. He listens to his gut, trusts his instincts, has a good handle on who he is and what he values (Teh, friends, family, being true to himself).

When Oh rips off the red bra or when he sobs to Teh, "I know you feel it too, so why?", with the enormity of his grief crashing down on him in those moments? We know exactly what's happening and what he's going through- and so does he. Oh struggles just as much as Teh, but his emotional maturity put him way ahead of the curve going into IPYTM.

It was only a matter of time before Teh and Oh reached an impasse (to put it mildly). The only question for me was what it would look like, and what would bring it about.

Teh and Oh's world opened wide in IPYTM: gone was the safety of home and suddenly they were thrust into adulthood. They were still basking in the afterglow of their just-realized love when the world started encroaching in, bringing with it new doubts and insecurities they'd never experienced.

Enter stage right: the snake, the master manipulator, the eats-freshman-souls-for-breakfast Jai.

I've never encountered such a calculated, despicable character who manages to be incredibly nuanced in just how toxic he is. Often it's subtle and other times it's blatant- like assigning Teh the task of not just journaling his innermost thoughts, but turning them into Jai like the "How to Emotionally Manipulate Teh" manual it was.

Was it a shock to me that our human bulldozer of a boy ended up falling for the ruse hook, line and sinker? That he didn't stop to question or pump the brakes when he was hit with waves of new emotions amidst questioning everything he felt for Oh? Absolutely not.

Was IPYTM an easy watch? Hell no- the journey cracked my chest open, ripped my heart out and smashed it to pieces. Watching Teh have to live with the reality of his choices while Oh was thriving, culminating in them coming full-circle as two changed, mature adults on the beach where it all began- healed me.

Call me a masochist, but I loved every minute (even as I was screaming crying throwing up).

[bakatenshii]

Flushed

Dabi x Reader (BNHA)

word count: 5.1k

TW: 18+, smut, dub/noncon, drug use/abuse, corruption, virginity, (mild) blood

A/N: I am 12 days late for Sunny’s birthday, but my heart beats for one person and one person only— the light of my life, my wife @blahkugo​, who wrote me two (2!!) Shig fics for my bday Charity & Sludge, that I reread on the daily like the morning news. Cheeky shoutout to @thisisthehardestthing​ for writing one iconic sentence in here that I would have framed if I could. 

flushed

/fləSHt/

(of a person's skin) red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.

cleanse (something) by causing large quantities of water to pass through it. 

Dabi doesn’t prowl for prey, he’s not on the lookout for fowl to take home for dinner. No, they come to him. It’s easy, always so obvious, he plucks them out like chicken in a hen house, ripe for breeding. 

It wasn’t hard to spot a desperate girl burning out, Hell, the campus’ full of them. But you had something more, something fun, something that made his lips quirk up and his dick twitch— you were uncorrupted. 

He can just tell, despite the airs you try to give, the aura of a virgin’s akin to an omega in heat to a starving alpha. Sweet, honeysuckle, the tiny flinches when a man gets too close, the breathy lilt in your voice when they propose something too risque; he inhales it all, commits it all to memory like you were desperately trying to do as you chewed on the tip of your pen and scratched out lines on the book in front of you. 

He didn’t need to push, you were already teetering the line, but he did it anyways— because it was fun. 

It was elating to watch you stumble into class the next day, eyes dark with sleepless anxiety, misery painted into every crevice of your features while your notes were tucked neatly into the drawer in his room. Really, you shouldn’t have left them so open on the lecture hall table, it’s like inviting a robber home and cooking him a three course meal. 

Finals season marked the end of your social life, and the beginning of Dabi’s career. It was almost boring, the repetitive nature of his job; too easy, too simple, a mockery of the entitled bookworms who look down on scummy repeaters like him. But the entitlement is what fuels him, over-achievers fearing for two simple digits on a crumpled sheet of paper as if it’s worse than death itself.

He thrives off of their stubbornness to accept anything below perfect; the hilarity of it all, the irony that their insurance to achieve higher standards than that of a scum like him only fuels his lifestyle, bringing him deeper down the depths of degeneracy. 

He sat behind you closer than usual, spoke a lil louder than usual, dropped in the most nonchalant comment about a study drug kids are crazing over these days. He watched as you flinched, hands stopped moving to listen in to the spiel he was spewing, the fishing hook he was dangling in front of you. 

A magic pill, one that’ll help you concentrate, kill any sleepiness, get you buzzed for hours on end— best of all, it’s totally legal, he gets it from a pharmacist, scout’s honour. 

That’s what he told you when you turned around to him at the end of class, whispering in hushed fear, nerves bouncing off your skin in goosebumps on your exposed arms.

Why he’s selling it? Because he needs some extra cash, he said. He knew you didn’t believe him, but he knew you were desperate enough not to care. 

When you met him in the dead of night at the empty carpark of his building, he knew he’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. No self-respecting girl would meet bottom-barrel trash like him in a deserted location at half three in the morning, no, you were untainted, but you weren’t pure.

He didn’t need to know it worked, doesn’t matter what your test results reflected, all that mattered was that you came back to him a few weeks later, met him at the same dingy carpark, hands trembling slightly less this time. 

He pretended to scold you, reveled in the way your lips curled into a soft pout, and warned you that tolerance builds fast. Do it in moderation, he had said— he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite. 

You came to him only a week later this time, and Dabi had pretended to be shocked. He wasn’t, he gave you a lower dosage the last time, there was no way you’d have been satisfied. Microdosing leads the unsuspecting to addiction, the one fact he learned from school. He lectured you, asked you if you’d built up tolerance too fast, if you wanted to try something different?

He watched as your eyes lit up, pupils dilating in excitement at the promise of something different, something better. It really was too easy. You were too easy. 

That night he invited himself over to yours, said he’d wanted to make sure you didn’t have any side effects. It was new, after all, and it was stronger. He’d sit there and be quiet, he promised; it was all out of the kindness of his own heart. 

It was almost embarrassing how eagerly you’d lie to yourself in hopes of a better grade.

Dabi wasn’t gonna do anything to you that night, trust takes time to build up after all. Besides, it’s no fun to pounce on the prey before they started running. You studied the nonsensical scribbling on annotated novels, he studied your tiny movements, twitches, nervous habits; etched them into his brain for future use. 

A too-long breath, a gasp, a clench of the fist signaled your come-up. He timed it, approximately thirty-five minutes for the initial peak, then smaller spikes at half hour intervals, totaling in four hours before you came down. Impressive, still, considering he’d given you the same dosage as the first time. 

He stuck to his words, staying quiet only until prompted, offered you water every once in a while, really, he deserved an Oscar for playing the best supporting dealer. It only took two more sessions before your tolerance peaked again, calculated and timed to perfection right before the next assignment.

The beauty of seeking out an English major was that they’re always searching, reaching into the void for any type of inspiration to translate into eloquently formed words. The beauty of seeking out you, was that you were already in too deep, hooked by the lil pills and plunged into the bottom of the ocean. 

Your grades rose while your inhibitions sank, a dramatic irony, isn’t that what they called it?

It’s cute, really, he only had to give you a nudge this time. Asked you how your assignment was going, played the sympathetic friend, and offered you something completely new, completely different. ‘Have you ever tried 2CB?’

Silly question, rhetorical, almost; of course you hadn’t. Innocent sweet girl like you never would’ve even touched weed, much less a hallucinogen. But he poses it to you in an eager tone like he’s genuinely waiting on an answer, like this isn’t just one big game to him. He laughed when you said no, asked him what it was— do you want him to show you?

You trust him, don’t you? He’s helped you through your exams, supported you through your assignments, honestly, he deserved a pat on the back. Don’t tell him you didn’t trust him, come on now, that’d break his heart. 

He didn’t expect you to put up a fight, but you gave in almost too easily, guess those lil pills really did migrate and nest in your bloodstream. 

The safety of your own dorm room was always granted to you, a faux-sense of security to veil you in, shield you from the true depth of depravity you’ve sunken to. He held you underwater in a net, ensuring you that he’d pull you up whenever— ‘just say the word.’

The net had long been cut, he’d admired the way you’d comforted down there, paddling aimlessly in hopeful conviction. 

It’s become routine, almost. Dabi lets himself in easily, settles into the couch across your desk, pulls out a baggy and passes it to you. “A psychedelic,” he explains, “you’ll see colours you’d never seen, find beauty in everything, an artist’s best friend,” if he does say so himself. 

He watches you pop the lil pill in your mouth, follow the stream of water pour down your throat, traveling the rips and divots of your tongue, before it drops down your throat into your bloodstream with a bob of your larynx. You’re so pliant, so obedient, he reminds himself to thank your parents for grooming such a cute lil doll.

You let out a loud gasp an hour and a half later, and he watches your fingers curl into themselves; and for the first time he speaks unprompted. 

“You good?” It’s almost genuine; the curiosity, at least. He wants to know how articulate you are, needs to know how deeply submerged your consciousness has become. 

He watches as you meet his gaze, little tongue dashing out to wet your lips, and nods once, twice, slowly. You shake your head almost immediately after, croaking out an, “I feel ill,” before pushing meekly at your desk to stand your body up. Cute, weak.

Just how he likes them.

He reaches an arm out to you, pulling you into his chest easily and nests your head into the crook of his neck. “Nauseous, aren’t you?” You nod, and he smirks. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just a rough come-up. I’ll make you feel better, I promise.” 

It’s almost believable, how sickly sweet he sounds. Too many sitcoms accumulated in recycled dialogues to woo girls in any situation; mix and match, simple yet effective. 

He can feel the restless rise and fall of your chest pressing against his, short quick pants as if gasping for air, a small hand scraping at his arm; yeah, you’re definitely coming up. 

He picks you up and nestles you into your own couch, so easily as if handling a ragdoll, then walks to the kitchen and pours you some water. The perfect friend, the perfect support, the perfect dealer. You’re so vulnerable, so exposed, you don’t even know it; it makes his brain fog over with carnal desire to pounce— but he doesn’t. Not yet.  

He lays back on the couch with you, arm snaking around your shoulder to coax you into a subdued euphoria. All the words he’s garnered throughout the years of fishing for his next meal come bubbling out so naturally in practiced scripts, “It’s okay princess, it’s a stronger pill. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” He’s promising a whole lot, tonight. 

“Hey,” he tips your face to meet his with all the tenderness of a lion stalking its prey, “I’m here, right? You trust me, don’t you? I’ve never let you down. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

It’s hard to force down the gagging noise on cue with his disgustingly fake, rom-com lines, but the way he can feel your body loosen, relax, and mold into his tells him he’s close. So close. 

This is the best part, this is what he’s good at; the last stretch of patience while stalking his prey, with footsteps so light, treading so carefully, until the air slows down around him and he can taste your scent wafting through the air.

It happens in an instant, a whole-body jolt as you tense up, euphoria announced with a sharp gasp. The smile that crawls up his face is nothing short of sinister, predatory, but he knows you don’t notice. You can’t. Your eyes are strewn shut, basking in the high, and he takes the moment to swallow the pill he’s held under his tongue. 

It’s no fun to tripsit, he doesn’t get anything out of that, and Dabi doesn’t do things for free. He feels your head fall back onto his shoulder, short breaths warming a ripple of goosebumps up his neck, and watches as you push your heavy lids open to gaze at the ceiling.  

He can feel your giggles reverberating through his chest before he hears them, innocent, pure, unsuspecting. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, because virtuous girls like you like to be treasured, made to feel special, safe— he can make you feel safe; no one’s told him not to play with his food before he eats it. 

He watches as you flutter your eyelids at him, sigh into his touch, really, you’re the textbook prototype, he doesn’t even need to adjust his tactics. “You feelin’ good?” A hot breath into your ear, and he revels in the way your lips pout to let out a soft sigh. 

Funny how differently you react when you’re high out of your mind, maybe it’s the drug, or maybe it’s just Dabi? You’ve always wanted a bad boy like him, didn’t you? Good girls like bad guys; it’s textbook cliché, and you’re the blueprint. 

He doesn’t wait on an answer, he knows it: you’re feeling good, great— divine. He’ll be right there with you soon, he promises.

“Tell me what you see, princess,” Dabi’s not listening when a cascade of nonsensical descriptions come bubbling out, he doesn’t care. It’s all to get you to keep talking, shift your attention elsewhere while his hand slithers down your arm to play with the hem of your shirt.

At the first brush of his finger on the bare skin of your waist, he feels you purr into him, eyes rolling back in bliss. It’s his cue to give you more, invitation for him to snake his other hand up your naked thigh and knead the flesh gently. 

Gentle does it, he’ll bring you higher as you go. 

He ghosts a breath just under your ear, nipping at your lobe, and admires the full body shiver tumbling through. Moans, loud and needy, come panting out past your lips and echoes off the walls before bouncing back to him. He lets you symphonize short breaths and whiney pleas with each lick and suck traveling down your neck, painting blooms of purple and red as his hand travels dangerously high. 

A firm grip is all the warning he gives you before he tucks his fingers into the crease of your thigh, laughing almost at how obediently you spread your legs. What happened to that pure, innocent girl? Guess under all that laid a dirty whore, just like the rest of ‘em. 

It was slick, so wet, pussy dripping past the delicate lace and drooling over his fingers. Lace, befitting of a slut who lured him in with the fake charms of a virgin. He slides a finger down your slit, gathering up all the juices before presenting it to you. 

“What do you see?” He holds up his finger, slick dripping down like syrup, and watches your pupils dilate in effort to focus. He can see the way your lips part, string of saliva connecting the two soft molds, before gasping out, “melting ice cream.” 

“Want a taste?” 

You clamp over his finger before he even asks you to, sucks on the digit like it’s a melting ice lolly, before your eyes shoot open and mouth twists in disgust. Of course it doesn’t taste nice, normal food isn’t even edible when you’re rolling like this. You’re sticking your tongue out, in an attempt to air out the taste, or maybe you’re just a dumb dog, a dumb bitch, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. 

The same hand, now slick with saliva, grips your chin and crashes your lips into his. His tongue finds yours first, tip licking up the crevice of yours lolling out, and he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a crime for it to be kissing the air. 

There’s no modesty, no gentleness, his tongue pries your lips open, and he feels the weakest form of resistance before he’s thrusting the muscle down your throat. He lapping over the back of your teeth, traces over each bump and rugae on the gummy sides, and snickers at your shit attempt to kiss him back with your slack mouth drooling out the corners. 

He feels a pawing at his arm— your hand meekly grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt to bring him in closer, press his chest into your soft tits, crowd him into you more, more, more. 

It’s cute; it’s stupidly desperate. 

He gets it though, it’s no worries. Human nature is all it is; the desire to climb higher and higher— he wonders if he can get one out of you before the pill hits him. 

There’s no gentleness in the way his hand slots between your legs and cups your dripping cunt this time. He wishes he has more time to admire the way your legs quiver and twitch with every firm pat against your clit, but he’s on a time crunch. There’s so much time to spare, he can play with it all he wants later.

He can feel your needy moan vibrate through his lips and reverberate straight into his brain, sloppy mouths working simultaneously together and against each other as he rips your panties and shorts off in one go. Any self respecting girl would shut their legs in shame, in embarrassment, any attempt to protect their dignity, but you don’t. He doesn’t let you, anyways. 

A hand moves under your shirt to roughly grip at your tits in the same breath he sinks a finger into your sopping hole. Inhale; squeeze, thrust, exhale— you moan. It’s tight, as tight as a virgin pussy should be, but not too tight that it fights against the foreign digit ramming into it at a relentless pace too rough and quick to befit an unexplored hole. 

He can feel the pulsing around him, gummy walls milking his finger for all its worth, and he digs his palm into your swollen bud; it’s all he needed for you to come undone. You don’t squeal, you don’t scream, the 2CB in your system rendering you incapable of anything except long breathy sobs of his name. 

His finger pops out with a wet squelch, and he brings it to his mouth to taste it; tarty, thick— he’s still sober. You’re blubbering out drivel about the stars you saw, the colours swirling around at the peak of your euphoria, you think you saw God— is Dabi God? 

Dabi had to laugh, pat you on the head with his hand covered in syrupy slick, watch it leak and clump your strands of hair. He picks you up with your shorts and panties drenched through dangling at your ankles, and walks you to your bed.

You don’t notice, still basking in the afterglow; he knows this. Not that you’d push him off, tell him to stop. Not in your state anyways. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

He drops you once the bed’s in frame at the same time he feels his pulse rise, heart palpitate, and a wave of nausea threatens to bubble over. It doesn’t; he doesn’t let it. An experienced veteran would never. It’s a welcomed sensation, one he’s all too familiar with, and he gives himself a brief minute to breathe it in, savour it, before glancing back down at your limp body on the bed. 

Is it your body? He can trace your silhouette from the dip of your waist, the full of your hips, something glistening, gleaming in the light— your pretty little virgin cunt. His eyes roll back at the next inhale before he finds himself landing on the bed on top of you, forearms digging into the soft mattress of your bed. 

He hears your voice singing into his brain, soft lulls of his name stringing out in DabiDabiDabi— the desperation and need shooting straight to his cock, he doesn’t even need to look down at your soft pliant body, welcoming him, inviting him in. 

“Feels good, yeah?” His voice comes out rougher than usual, low and strained, and laughs at how eagerly you nod, watches your chin catch the air and paint strokes of colour following the route it takes, “Who makes you feel this good?” 

He knows, he knows because it’s all you’ve been able to say the past while, the only word on your mind that you can even blubber out— 

“You, Dabi,” your pants grow heavier; his pants grow tighter, “it’s you Dabi, please—“

A hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, your soft, uncalloused, hand, and he grips it by the wrist before bringing it up to his face. He traces every line that curves and meets on your palm with his tongue, letting it be covered entirely with drool before wrenching it down under his joggers and into his boxers to cup his aching erection. 

His hips rut into your palm almost immediately as a knee-jerk reaction, every hump into your tiny hand has him panting into your face, sweat beading at his temples. His tongue drops down to lick at your lips, asking for entrance, begging for access. Your lips might’ve parted just a fraction, maybe just to let out a breathe, but Dabi takes it as permission to thrust his tongue in and prod at your dormant one.

He can feel you gag at the sudden intrusion, throat convulsing to push back the unfamiliar slimy muscle, and he briefly considers yanking your hand out and shoving his cock down that pretty little mouth of yours. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have the patience. He needs it urgently, needs your tight virgin cunny stretching and agonizing over his overbearing size, needs to feel the flutter of the gummy walls with each thrust; he needs it bad, he needs it now—

Your hand is wrenched away as he yanks both waistbands down to his thighs. He looks at you, eyes blurring through kaleidoscopic vision, and makes out your disoriented gaze staring back at him. Disoriented with toxins, disoriented with need, lust, desperation— a hand reaches behind Dabi’s neck and pulls him back down to crash bruised lips together. 

It’s all the invitation he needs, not that he needs it, no, what he needs is to sink his painfully hard cock into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. There’s a faint squealing coming from underneath him, and he thinks he can feel nails digging crescents into his nape, but all he can feel is your warm, wet walls clenching around him. 

There was no need to prepare you for any longer, there’s no point if he doesn’t stretch your virgin pussy out with his own cock; it’s wasted on fingers, his fingers don’t deserve to feel the way you walls quiver and contract around it. The pitched cries stop eventually as he feels your body go pliant and soft, and he has half a mind to realize you’re probably starting to come down soon.

He doesn’t wanna deal with that, you won’t be sober for another few hours, but you’ve peaked already, and not with him; that’s not fair, that’s no fun. His cock stills inside you with half still unsheathed and he reaches down into his pocket to take out a baggy of powder. There’s a spoon in, thank fuck, and he feeds a small bump right up to your nose. 

“Inhale,” he slots it right up your nostril, “it’ll make you feel good, didn’t you feel good?” Your head lowers to nod, bumps the edge of the spoon right into the cartilage of your nose, and inhale. Good girl. 

The baggy is tossed haphazardly before he’s working his dick into you again, cockhead pushing through the doughy walls in search of that pocket at the end of your pussy.

You don’t struggle anymore, instead clinging onto his shoulders and carving half-moons into the flesh. It hurts a lil, and Dabi doesn’t like it when it hurts, not when he’s the one hurting.

He snatches your hands off him and pushes them above your head, into the plush forgiving mattress. His teeth are back on your neck, biting over the ripples of purple and green and red and blue, reveling in your cries and moans that come out in symphonies. 

It feels good, great— divine, it’s what he deserves for bringing you to Nirvana. He’s basically your muse, after all, how can you truly describe rapture without experiencing it first? 

He can hear your moans ringing out from underneath, can see them traveling in the air in hues of reds and pinks and reds and reds— there’s red on your bedsheets, of course there is. He forgot that’s what comes with a virgin cunt; blood, mixing with the translucent coating his cock, dripping down and painting the crisp white sheet red, drifting into the air and congesting the whole room with red. 

He inhales the colour, sucks it into his lungs, and uses it to fuel the pistoning of his hips. Your breaths turn to pants, turns to sobs of his name leaving your lips again, and he thinks you look good, so good, taking his cock like this. You should thank him for bringing you to your second orgasm. 

Just look at you, crazy isn’t it? Crazy what a lil pill can do. But he’s got something better, something so much better, something that’ll bring you to a new dimension. You want that, don’t you? C’mon don’t be shy, Dabi will bring you right there, don’t you worry.

There’s still the faint cries from your orgasm when he flips you over and pushes your face into the untainted sheets. He watches as your hands sprawl up to grip and grasp at something, anything, and his hands ease up on the hold on your skull for a second to let you wheeze and greedily gasp for air.

He flickers a trail of blue down your back, watches the flames dance and rage in a mirage, every bouquet indented by the ligament of each tender rib, and there’s a faint scream. The pitch rises with the flames, taunting it to go higher, faster, paint murals in every swell of your back until he can’t see anything except ash coal char. 

Dabi blinks, squints his eyes as he throws his head back to focus on the paint chipping on the ceiling. It cracks and crinkles, shying away from his pointed glare, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks back down at you. 

There’s no ash, no char, only warm tanned flesh, pressed flush against the pristine white sheets underneath. It burns against the pads of his long fingers splayed out across your back, and he winces in annoyance at the irony.

You don’t seem to notice his pause, too fucked out or fucked up to register what’s going around you probably. A mixture of both; Dabi can’t really remember what he’s given you or how long he’s been there. 

He can’t decide if he wants to stay there anymore,  can’t make out the pros and cons of either. He counts them off with each painful yank of your hair, each harsh thrust into your abused virgin cunt— it was that, wasn’t it? 

He was there because he sniffed out a cute lil virgin, one so untainted and untouched, one begging for him to corrupt. He’s not known to be very generous, but sometimes he gets into one of those moods; it can’t be helped when there’s a desperate doll waiting to be torn apart. 

He knows what you want, can read you with his eyes closed— you don’t need eyes to feel the pulse of a greedy cunny; it clenches with every slap of the face, damn near clamps down entirely as his slender fingers slither around to the front of your throat.

Two fingers shove past your lolling tongue and yanks your head back by the digits hooked on the corner of your mouth. There’s drool, and spit, and so many fluids coming and entering all at once— and then you’re coming, again, probably, for the third time that night. Fourth? 

It’s methodical, straightforward, he reads the instruction manual once, maybe twice if the first one’s a bit faulty, and he’s got it down to muscle memory.

At the sound of heaving he looks back down again, admires the feel of two of his fingertips fucked straight into the back of your throat, and pushes down on the rugged gummy wall. You gag, and he laughs. It’s cute, so cute, you’re real cute, you know?

“Such a good lil whore aren’t you?” He digs his nails into the flesh of your hip and rams his cockhead until he can feel the kiss from your puckered cervix. “All fucked out of your mind, bet you can’t even hear me, can you?” 

He watches as you gurgle out words past his fingers wedged down your slack mouth, and choke on the pools of saliva drooling out. It’s the funniest sight, fascinates him to death, really. 

A slap to the face might bring you out of your daze, so he slips his hand back out of your sloppy mouth and revels at your body propelling forward straight into the headboard. He grasps at the tips of your hair and wrench your body back towards him before any satisfying impact could sound out. It’s a shame, but concussions are not in his agenda. 

“Been fucked so loose, filthy slut can’t even keep your body up,” he rolls your hair around his hands and yanks back until your skull meets his chin; it’s excruciatingly painful, probably, and that’s why it’s the best. 

It’s the perfect way for your mouth to fall open naturally, to scream, squeal, fluster around in attempt to be freed from the position— it creates the perfect hole for him to spit in. He watches as your face contorts in disgust, tongue pushed out to let his spit drool out the sides, but that’s no fun, not very nice of you, is it?

“Swallow,” he assists you with an extra hard thrust, and you choke on the moan coming out. His hand comes forward from your hip to rest under your chin before pushing it up so it clamps shut, “I said, swallow.”

Your eyes flood with tears that waterfall down your face, and God, he thinks you look the best like this— wrecked on his cock, body littered in purple and red, covered in sweat and blood and cum; his perfect lil cocksleeve, just for him. 

It’s emotional, almost— religious, even, he can feel the palpitations in his heart thumping against his chest echoing off the headboard banging against the wall, and lets the euphoria consume him, wash over him as he coats your walls with hot ropes of cream and white, hips stuttering with your greedy cunny fluttering and clenching around it, milking and sucking in his cock in deeper, deeper, more.

He thinks you might’ve cum, might still be cumming, but all he can hear is the Messiah calling for him, choir singing lulling him into an infinite jubilation; he closes his eyes to bathe in it, let himself be cleansed and washed over with ecstasy. 

When he pulls out, your body flops onto the mattress, and he watches as white dribbles out your quivering hole, mixing with the red on the sheets, creating a puddle of pink and magenta, before passing out in the fuschia.