#this was so fun to write Omg

[hellsite-detective]

I have a true challenge for you, if you dare to accept it… This mission will, most likely, require you to go… off-site. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to locate the origin of the picture in the screenshotted post below, preferably the title of the book.

friends, tumblr users, anons, lend me your ears!

i have brought upon thee that post which you seek. that which marks the account of the final words of that Roman, Julius Caesar, and cites the marked spite upon his lips likened to that of of such aggressive vulgarities. thy post was hard sought and eluded my grasp seemingly forevermore. however, that post, foolhardy and bold, reared its head to me in a moment of weakness for it and one of luck for me. this singular moment granted me my victory upon that treacherous post and delivers unto me and to thee, my friends, that lost post of yore. gaze upon its glory not in reverence for its worth, but in mocking for its failure to evade my capture. gaze upon, and go forth. to send this post to the only punishment deemed necessary, to be reblogged and reblogged anew until it has been thoroughly spread and may never again be lost to any who seek it...

to put it simply... see you in hell, post!

Post Case: Closed

[romanscool]

maxiel kith (kiss) prompt 27 on a place of insecurity if you want :))

#27: a kiss on a place of insecurity - maxiel: sfw

hi anon!! thanks sooo much for this prompt, I've actually giggled when seeing it cause I've been wanting to write it so bad haha

I hope this is what you had in mind when you asked for me this!

anyways, enjoy <33

->

Max had seemed down all morning. It’s not usual for him to be this way.

Actually, he’s generally pretty open about everything. Daniel likes to jokes that he literally wears his emotions on his face like his goddamn Red Pull polos and skinny jeans, to which Max always answers, in usual Max manor, ‘fuck off.’

Classy. And, open. 

But now, Max is weirdly backing up. He’s hiding and holding his own hands under said disgusting Red Pull polo merch, and his socked to ankle feet are together in a way to bend his knees and make him look like he’s those insects that roll up. Rounding up. He looks seventeen again with a little baby fat still hanging to his face, red round splotches of teenageness like constellations on his jaw. He looks young, Daniel realizes. 

Except not the right young version of Max. Young Max was brash. He was frank, and frankly blunt, and Daniel liked that about him. He doesn’t really like that weird dystopic version of young Max that has him belittling himself on his own sofa, cat on his lap burying his hidden hands under its little fur body. Daniel still can’t decipher Sassy from Jimmy, but right now it doesn’t seem like it matters. 

« Hey, Maxy what’s going on? » 

Max turns to him, chin propped on his chest. Daniel hears the familiar ‘ding!’ of the lunch that’s been cooking in the oven for the past hour signaling it’s done. He ignores it when he sees Max grimace. 

Daniel circles round the sofa and sits by Max’s feet. He takes one and puts it on his lap, silently asking Max if it’s fine with him. Max doesn’t answer. Daniel takes it as a yes, and holds Max’s other ankle just above the sock, which he accidentally pulls down a little as he sets Max’s left foot with the other one. Daniel has always liked that about Max, too. How pliable he always was. He’s a little tense, Daniel can see it in the twitch of the muscle in his shin, but he still lets Daniel in a little. 

Daniel pulls the sock back up and asks, « Wanna tell me what’s been on your mind this morning? ». He’s gentle with it, too, setting what he hopes to be a comforting hand on Max’s leg, where the peach fuzz sits so pretty and is the perfect amount of rough under Daniel’s hand scar. 

Daniel tries to find an answer in the way Max’s brows furrow, and usually he does, but apparently nothing about Max makes sense today. 

Max takes out his hand from his t-shirt in one quick motion, pulling the hem of it over his sleep-shorts over it as soon as he’s done. Daniel can’t even stop to stare at Max’s little trail of hair there. He doesn’t wonder why he’s a little disappointed at that, because he knows. He’s been with Max long enough to know he’s crazy about anything Max. Even the weird shit. 

« There’s nothing, Daniel. » Max answers, but. Daniel doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t. Not when Max gives him this awkward little smile that barely lifts the corner of his mouth, the one that doesn’t make his eye crinkle and soft, soft, soft. 

Daniel shakes his head. His hand goes up Max’s thigh on its own. « Nah, don’t believe you. » When it reaches the bottom of Max’s shorts, it stops and goes back down. Leaves little goosebumps in its trail. « Tell me what it is, » He sees Max opens his mouth, and can sense it in the air that Max is about to say one of those PR-friendly answers the team has taught him to say when he doesn’t want to comment on something but has to, so Daniel stops him, « also, yeah, no, none of that please. » He keeps his tone light, sing-song-y and all high pitched on the ‘please’ to drag the truth out of Max. It’s been a while since he’s had to do that. 

« No, it’s just-, » Max stops for a second, and Daniel relishes in the dutch accent peeking out during the ’s’s, making them sounds like little waves that never crash on Monaco’s shore. « It is stupid, really. »

« Nothing’s stupid. » Daniel says, and he sees Max kind of pouts and the expression on his face is back to very much translating ‘fuck off’ but Daniel brushes it off, though he’s glad Max is starting to open up a little. Crack like his voice used to do in the early years of his career. « No, nothing’s stupid, Maxy. ’Specially if you get all grumpy like that. » 

Max’s lips turns just the smallest turn upwards and Daniel wants to kiss them. « You always say I am grumpy in the mornings. » 

Daniel giggles, because it’s true, Max is always grumpy in the morning, and Daniel does have an habit of pointing it out. 

« Yeah, you are. » Daniel says it so fond he’s worried for a split second if maybe it’s too much, but Max doesn’t say anything about it, just has to weird downturn smile plastered on his face that makes his chin wrinkle slightly, and Daniel’s hand seems to think that’s enough of a reason to allow itself to go further up Max’s shorts. « It’s not that this morning, though. » 

Daniel hears Max take in a short breath more than he sees it, because he’s following his tattooed hand closely, gaze fixated on it, so much that he has to tear his eyes from it to see Max’s flush spreading just below this awful navy polo. 

« So, you gonna tell me what it is? » Daniel adds a small smile of his own, just for good measure, just to really relax Max. 

He sees his shoulder slump a little and Sassy-or-Jimmy stretches on his chest and claws at his collarbone slightly. Max goes to pet her-slash-him, but the cat gets frightened and runs away quickly. Jimmy, then. Daniel feels his hand bob up and down a few times as Max chuckle. Feels fucking amazing.

« It is stupid, Daniel. » Max says it like a warning, but it’s hard to find it convincing when his furrowed brows ease just slightly, and his bottom lip is a little tucked between two rows of perfect straight teeth. 

Daniel shakes his head and takes Max’s feet from his lap and sets them back on the sofa. He climbs slowly between them and sets his head on Max’s clothed thigh, just a little higher than he’s allowed his hand to roam up to. « Tell me, baby. » 

« It has been a while since the last race. » 

And, yeah, that’s true. Just a couple month ago, Abu Dhabi happened and Max got out of the car for the last time of 2024, fourth championship tucked away safely in his pocket and a big smile on his face. 

Daniel remembers it very clearly. Remembers the sweat pouring down Max’s forehead, meddling with the champagne that Lando showered him with, even though he was the one that had won the race. He remembers the white fabric of his fireproofs turned a little yellow and transparent during the podium, remembers the way he could almost do more than imagine Max’s pinkish nipple under them. Daniel wanted to lick then, and he wants to lick now, nipples under Red Bull merch that Max has been wearing for two days straight. Disgusting and sweaty, just as he had been then.

« Yeah, and? » 

Max flushes again, probably from the long time Daniel took to answer him, probably because he remembers that night too, the hotel and the morning. « It’s been a while since the last race, Daniel. » Max says, again, parrots, really, with that insisting look on his face that Max wears when he’s trying to Make Daniel understand something. 

Daniel doesn’t understand. « Yeah, I got that. Two months, it’s been Maxy. » He tries to think harder, to put the pieces together, and he suddenly gets an idea, « You miss it? Racing? » 

« No, this is not, » Max sighs, and intertwines his hand on his belly. The fabric of his t-shirt ruffles and Daniel can just see the skin above Max’s boxer’s waistband. « I mean, I have been in vacation for too long. There is, uh-, » Max closes his eyes and the back of his head hits the arm of the sofa, « Photos. On the internet. » 

What. « I don’t get it, Maxy. » Daniel picks up his hand from where it’s been staying on Max’s thigh and starts to trace that little band of skin. Pale and so so pretty. 

« Daniel, just, » Max sighs again, long and desperate. « I have been letting myself go a little. »

Daniel feels himself frowning. His cheeks smushing up against Max’s sleep-shorts. « Well, yeah. It’s winter break, Max, what the hell you gonna do? » 

« Train. » Max swallows and pulls down the t-shirt way more than it should be, « Control myself, maybe. »

And that’s such a weird thing to hear Max saying that, because he’s never been that way. Self-conscious. He’s never been the one to-, « Are you quoting the media, Max? ‘Cause if you are, and I mean it, what the fuck. » 

Max suddenly gets this strange look of impeding doom fall on his face, melting all his feature in the wrong way, « You have seen it, too, then. » 

Daniel lifts his head for Max’s lap and sits on his knees between Max’s legs. « No, no, I haven’t-, Max, you-, » He sighs and leans down to kiss him. Just a quick one, to make his brain stop screaming ‘what, when, why, who, why’, « The media all say shit. You know that, they don’t-, they don’t fucking speak the truth. Like, ever. » 

Because Daniel has seen the fucking articles, in a way. He’s seen shit talk about the way Max’s chest looks at the beach, or how his t-shirt hugs him tighter than it used to on his lower belly, on his shoulders, his arms. How there’s more of him. Daniel has seen this shit and thanked the fucking world that Max looks like this, that there is indeed more of Max, more to love, to fucking worship and touch, swallow, bite into.

He hadn’t thought for a fucking second that what those dumb reporters had said was true. He doesn’t understand how Max could, either. 

« I know, Daniel, I know that. » Max sighs, and Daniel tries to search for the smallest hint of something that isn’t shame in Max’s eyes but he can’t find it, so he has to listen to Max say, «  It is only that, I’m starting to see it. »

And Daniel wants to scream, throw middle fingers at all the fucking people who make a living on hating Max fucking Verstappen, four times F1 world champion, biggest dork on the planet, and perfect, perfect, perfect man. 

The only thing that Daniel can say is, « Maxy, » and Max doesn’t seem to understand, eyebrows together and bottom lip slightly jutting out, so Daniel makes him understand. Makes him see himself like Daniel sees him. 

Daniel climbs between Max’s legs again, and takes hold of Max’s waist. It’s such a perfect fit too, the curve of it allowing Daniel’s palm to slot just right, to hold and dig his fingertips in the flesh that has Daniel’s brain think crazy thoughts. Daniel leans down, rubbing soft circles on Max’s waist and starts to kiss over the fabric of his polo. Just soft pecks of fucking gentleness that Daniel wishes Max had for himself. He curses the world as he starts working up Max’s chest, landing on his neck. 

« Daniel, » He hears Max whisper, but Daniel acts like he didn’t hear it. He continues his way up, planting his lips on Max’s jaw, where pebbles of pimples used to sit, now replaced by awkward and unevenly shaved stubble, and Daniel is glad for it, glad for the slight itches he gets on his mouth as he kisses there and higher, on Max’s ears and cheekbones, going left to land on his eyebrows and eyes, which Max closes, bracing for Daniel’s lips on them. 

Daniel kisses there as he starts working his hands up Max’s t-shirt, whispering a small, « this okay? » centimeters away from Max’s lips, getting a silent nod and a hot breath on his own mouth that has his fingers dig on Max’s hips. He pulls away for a second and takes Max’s shirt off, Max’s back hitting the sofa again in a dull thud that has him giggling and Daniel wish he could record the sound and listen to it every fucking hour of the fucking day.

Daniel kisses Max a small kiss on the lips, one that has Max whining a little, a small sound in the back of the throat he always does to ask Daniel to do something again, whether it’s pass a hand through his hair of put toothpaste on his toothbrush, because Max is weird and has decided when he was a kid that using three times the amount of toothpaste required was a good idea. 

Daniel kisses and kisses down again, hands still rubbing soft circles on Max’s waist. He kisses between his pecs to his belly button. He finally gets to see the little trail of dark dirty blond hair that half-hides under Max’s boxers. He leaves it hidden but doesn’t forget to plant kisses on top of the weirdly smooth material of Max’s shorts. 

Max giggles, and Daniel feels it under his fingertips, feels it under his breath and in his ears, tingles all the way to his toes that are starting to cramp up. « I get it, Daniel, please I-, » 

« Ticklish? » Daniel teases, plants another kiss just under the bare skin he’s kissed countless times, just above what he doesn’t want to think about right now, because this isn’t about that.

« Kinda. » Max’s voice cracks and Daniel thinks he’s just heard the fucking world speak to him. « You’re so fucking weird, Daniel. » 

Yeah, Daniel thinks. So fucking weird. « Obsessed, too, maybe. » Daniel knows his voice is breathy, but he doesn’t really care. Max is open, bare skin all over the leather sofa, clammy hands far, far from his stomach, and Daniel’s been allowed to kiss him better. That’s like a fucking victory.

I've started to post those on ao3 so please check them out!

don't hesitate to leave a comment/ask/tag for other (kiss or non kiss) prompts! I always appreciate them a lot <33

lots of love, and see you in the next one!

[bunnies-and-blues]

─꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱─ slam dunk : a date with sannoh's ace

⸝⸝ tl;dr : sawakita eiji, and you ! general date headcanons for japan's #1 high school player <33

⸝⸝ note : thank uu @slamdunkhcs for requesting this ! and im sorry for taking this long to get to it T-T ; but i hope you enjoy regardless ! (also, tysm for ur character analysis on him, it helped me SO MUCH)

i'll preface this by saying that i know absolutely nothing about this man ; however, from what i've read about him, he seems genuinely fun and easy to be around, so i can summarize dates with him as : carefree

so i'm thinking arcade dates, afternoon walks, amusement parks !! and if you're available, an evening out at the pier or the fair, or food trips at the local food hub !! neon signs and laughing under the stars, all that jazz !

i don't think he'd generally plan dates, if that makes sense ? like, if he sees a place he'd like to go to or an activity he'd want to do with you, he'd let you know on a whim !! this doesn't mean that he doesn't put effort into dates (please i can see him paying for everything that you want ..), but i just personally think that he prefers dates wherein both of you can laugh freely and be yourselves .

he'd demolish you on arcade dates . no additional info needed. (he'd make it up to you though, don't worry !! he'll get you whatever arcade prize you want .. even if that means being broke in the end LMAO)

on the topic of carefree dates, may i present : HOUSE DATES ! movie marathons, with the scariest horror films and the lights turned all the way down; cooking dates, with flour everywhere and grins on both of your faces; just hanging out in general, idle chatter while you're cuddling; hell, sleepovers, if you can manage !

dates with him generally feel like a breath of fresh air, and in a way he treats it as such. i can see him giving you a call after a particularly hard training session, and you swear you hear the smile in his voice, the excitement building in his tone as he asks you out. his teammates tease him so much about it, but he doesn't care; he just wants you.

bottom line ? dawg he loves you so much. that's it, that's the post.

[baby-fever-anon]

YouTube Clickbait Faces

Inspired by this post by @wolflyndraws :3

wc: 1727

Teagan has been out of the hospital for a week, and Dream has realized he has no photos of her with George.

He's taken pictures of her while she was in the hospital. He took pictures of George in the hospital.

But he doesn't have any of them together.

Which, to be fair to him, isn't really his own fault. For the first week or so of her being in the hospital, they weren't allowed to hold her at all.

And in the time they were allowed to hold her, they were both more focused her and spending time together than they were about taking photos.

As a result, the closest thing to a photo of George and Teagan he has is one of George watching her in her little incubator.

It's a good photo. A great photo even. But it makes Dream sad.

He needs more pictures of the two that will make him happy.

It's this thought process that leads him to pull out his phone during a moment of downtime.

He aims the camera at where George is laying, flat on his back with Teagan lays on his chest.

The shirt George is wearing is dumb. In the best way possible.

It says "Spawn Point" in cluncky, pixelated letters. It was a gag gift from Sapnap but George, like the nerd he is, immediately fell in love with it and has taken to wearing it constantly.

He says it's comfortable, and Teagan seems to agree with the way she's clutching the fabric in her small fists as she sleeps.

George himself looks asleep, eyes closed and breathing even, but Dream can tell he's not from the uneven pattern of his breaths.

He manages to snap two quick photos before George peaks his eyes open to look at him.

George rolls his eyes and smiles.

Dream prepares to take another photo, wanting to capture George's fond smile.

However, as he's clicking the button, George drops his mouth open. He brings his hands up and presses them against his cheeks as he widens his eyes in faux shock.

It's the typical YouTube thumbnail face.

The photo is taken.

"George, what the hell." He asks, voice incredulous.

George is giggling to himself, clearly amused by his own antics.

"I was trying to get cute pictures. Not whatever that was." Dream whines, not actually upset.

"L." George responds through his seemingly endless laughter.

The shifting of George's chest as his laughter rouses Teagan. She squirms as she wakes, letting out a soft whimper.

George stops laughing in an instant. He turns his attention to where Teagan has continued whimpering quietly.

"Oh, baby... " He coos. "You're ok. Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

Dream takes another picture as George works soothe Teagan back to sleep.

☆

As Teagan is getting older waking up in the morning is getting easier.

She's not quite sleeping through the night yet but she's getting close. Close enough that Dream and George are able to get enough sleep that they don't feel completely dead.

This also means that they, George especially, are in much better mood first things in the morning.

Dream is eternally grateful for this fact when he walks into the kitchen.

George is already up with Teagan, having gotten up when she did.

Currently, He's holding her in his arms. He's swaying back and forth and bouncing in circles.

He's humming under his breath as he does so. When Dream listens in a little harder he recognizes the tune of Kind of Love. The knowledge makes him feel fuzzy.

Teagan is giggling like mad, her little face lit up with joy.

He pulls out his phone. He wants to capture the moment so he can play it on repeat whenever he's sad or mad or even just if he wants to.

He manages to record in silence for thirty seconds before Teagan's loud laughter causes him to laugh. He's not able to contain it, the joy of the two people he loves more than anyone else bringing him joy.

The noise causes George to whip his head around. The smile on his grows when he sees Dream.

George turns his body towards him and holds Teagan out in front of him as if he's handing her to him.

There's still a large smile on her face and the sight of her daddy makes her kick her feet and squeal excitedly.

Dream ends the video and takes a quick photo.

At the sound of the camera shutter George's jaw drops open and he widens his eyes.

"George," He mutters, exasperated. "Stop making YouTube click bait faces when I'm trying to take a picture."

George drops the face long enough to say "Just take the picture, idiot." before returning to the face.

Dream rolls his eyes and takes the picture.

After he does so George rushes forward. He hands Teagan to Dream and snatches Dream's phone from his hand.

"Good morning, Tea Cup." He mumbles to her as he presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

George let's out a laugh.

"This is epic." He mutters, looking at the photos. He turns to show the phone to Reagan. "Look, baby! That's you!"

☆

For the past week or so, Teagan has been attempting to stand on her own.

She's gotten pretty close, managing to use the couch or a chair or just about anything she can get her tiny hands on to pull herself on her feet.

That's about as far as she can get though. The second she let's go she falls on her butt.

She doesn't let it discourage her, simply letting out a frustrated huff before trying again.

It both excites and terrifies Dream.

Excites because it's a new mile stone. She's growing up and learning new things!

But also she's growing up. She's growing so quick and before long she won't be his tiny little baby anymore.

There's also the added factor of how much more potential mischief she'll be able to get into once she's not longer restrained to crawling.

Him and George are watching her attempt now. She's already tried four times and she's getting increasingly frustrated each time.

As time goes on, he's getting increasingly worried that she's going to work herself into a tantrum.

As he watches her slowly pull herself up, he decides that if she falls again he's going to scoop her up and distract her. Redirect her attention until she's calm enough to try again.

He watches as Teagan pulls herself to her feet. She wobbles for a moment before she's able to use her grip on the couch to stabilize herself.

She looks to Dream and George for approval.

"You've got this, baby." George says to her.

She looks back and forth between her feet and the couch. After a moment of contemplation she let's out a determined huff.

Distantly, Dream is amused by the theatrics of their child. It shouldn't be that shocking though, considering how dramatic both he and George can be.

She let's go of the couch and Dream holds his breath as he watches her wobble.

Teagan continues to struggle with balancing herself for a moment before she manages to plant her feet and stand firm.

When she does so she looks back up at them and let's out a soft "ah" of excitement as she bounces gently in place.

George stands up before squatting down beside her. He looks up at dream and says "Take a picture." Before making the thumbnail face.

"Are you serious?" "Yes! This is a big moment take the picture!"

Dream scoffs out a fond laugh as he does as he was told.

After he does it George turns to Teagan and scoops her into his arms. He holds her up above his head. She squeals in excitement.

Dream takes a picture of that too.

☆

Dream has been on the verge of tears all day.

Teagan, his baby girl, has just graduated high school. As in, just walked across the stage and gotten her diploma fifteen minutes ago.

Now Him, George, Sapnap, and the rest of their family are pushing through the crowd looking for her.

Her graduating class is nearly three hundred kids. That combined with all of the parents and family who came means there's a lot of people to sift through.

Thankfully, after just another minute of searching, they find her.

Or really she finds them.

As Dream is scanning the crowd he hears a distant "Dad!" called through the groups of people.

He turns just in time to catch Teagan as she basically throws herself at him.

The two lock into a tight embrace. When he pulls away he cups her face in his palms.

"I'm so proud of you, Tea Cup." He whispers to her as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Thanks, dad." She whispers back, tears in her eyes.

The two pull away and she turns her attention to George.

George throws his arms around her shoulders and pulls her close.

He doesn't hear what George says to her but when they pull away their faces are both wet with tears.

Sapnap is up next and her pulls her into a bear hug and ruffles her hair.

She's so much taller than him now. When did that happen? He remembers when her head was just barely past his hip.

After everyone gets their hugs they decide it's time for photos.

When everyone herds Dream, George, and Teagan together they get a few normal ones before George and Teagan make eye contact.

Mischievous grins take over their faces.

"Do the face with us." Teagan says.

Dream rolls his eyes fondly.

Ever since Teagan was old enough to take directions, George has had her doing the click bait face.

It's as amusing as it is infuriating.

He never participated, having decided years ago that it was a mommy and daughter activity that he didn't encroach on.

Now though? With both of the people he loves more than anything looking at him with pleading eyes?

"Fine." He relents, fondly laughing as his daughter and husband cheer at their victory.

With a sigh he places the palms of his hands on his face and barely contains his laughter as he pulls a shocked face.

By the time all of the cameras are put away, all three of them are laughing.

[nevaronn]

In Your Arms [I Am Whole Again] is now live on AO3, FFN, and LiveJournal! (Links Below)

Pairing: Yumichika Ayasegawa/Ikkaku Madarame

Rating: M

Warnings: None

Status: Complete

Tags: 5 +1, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Lap sitting, cuddling/snuggling, Drunk Yumichika, Shikai Reveal, Pre and Post TYBW themes

Summary: 5 times Yumichika gets in Ikkaku's lap and 1 time Ikkaku puts him there himself

______________________________________________________________

Finally she's done, though she is unbeta'd lol. I think she turned out great all things considered.

As I mentioned before, ikkayumi are kinda OOC in this. The amount of Soft just isn't their reality, but I really just needed to get it out of my fingers for now lol.

Next fic upload is scheduled to be Tangled Up chapter 2. Do let me know what you think!

See you all soon~

-Nev

AO3 | FFN | LJ

[tolkienrulez54321]

2

17

(edit: I have been informed by this kind user (@captainwaffles) that this is in fact for the ask game I reposted a bit ago, so I will answer their questions accordingly!!!)

2. Q: If you were the Middle Earth race that your personality most matches, which would it be?

A: So for the first question I would’ve said an Ent, but if we’re talking about which one I would probably be anyways, I would definitely be a hobbit. :) Not to go all JRR with this but they’re Literally Me. I am sentimental and love my home, opposed to change, and very happy with a simplistic life. I love all growing things (esp trees of course!!!) and will go feral over mushrooms.

17. Q: Tolkien’s works are full of songs and poetry. Which is dearest to you?

A: There are genuinely so many I love that this one is hard to answer. But honestly, I think it HAS to be the Song of Beren and Luthien from FOTR. I swear to god this poem has altered my brain chemistry. I have listened to it (specifically the Tolkien Ensemble’s rendition of it) at least once almost every single day since I first heard it. It’s genuinely one of the most beautiful pieces of literature I have ever laid my eyes upon and I envy Tolkien’s skill with imagery in it. My favorite verse would have to be when winter passes into spring and it’s describing how the forest changes (‘…like rising lark and falling rain, and melting water bubbling’). A close second is this line: ‘Tinuviel the elven fair, immortal maiden elven-wise.’ IT IS JUST SO GOOD.

holy shit this post was long but oh well, i just have a LOT to say about tolkien.

[deepspacenova]

Under Pressure

running into your main lads man (boyfriend) while you're out with your second favorite lads man (as a friend) and how they would react.

➻➻ ABOUT | 1700 words. sylus x gn!reader.

➻➻ TAGS | banter. tension. jealousy. possessive sylus.

NOTE: Written for this round robin/challenge by the lovely @jinwoosbabyboo -- it's open for anyone, by the way, so consider yourself tagged if you're interested! (:

The smell of antiseptic mingled with the earthy scent of Vagrant's Land while the pop-up clinic buzzed with organized chaos. Patients with various illnesses and injuries stood around waiting for the moment they'd be called back and have their ailments treated or cured.

The welcome tent’s fabric flapped in the soft breeze as you let the nurse manning the check-ins know why you were there. When you were shown inside, you noticed the open space had been outfitted with portable medical equipment to create a busy hive of treatment cubicles and testing areas.

You glanced around the crowded space until you found him. Taller than most of the room, intent on his work, and confidently in his element, Dr. Zayne scribbled onto the clipboard a nurse was holding toward him. Finishing his last marking, he looked up, cool hazel eyes thawing ever-so-slightly and dented with a happy crinkle as he straightened and dismissed your escort.

"Right on time," he murmured, grabbing two latex gloves, a yellow file folder, and his medical bag.

"Miracles can happen when you least expect them," you teased with a grin.

Zayne started to usher you toward a makeshift examination corner since all the cubicle curtains were closed. "Medical miracles, maybe," he quipped. "But you being on time? That’s a phenomenon even science can’t explain."

You laughed softly, sitting down as he gestured to a folding chair and rested his medical bag on the wobbly table next to him. "Careful, Dr. Zayne, your bedside manner is slipping."

With an amused shake of his head, he reassured, "This shouldn't take long. Just a quick exam, same as always."

You nodded, rolling up your sleeve as he pressed his cool fingers to the inside of your wrist and got started. His touch was warm but impersonal, his attention fixed on his readings. He moved methodically, pressing the tips of his fingers over your heart and chest.

Though the process was clinical, you couldn't help but study Zayne with fondness — the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his nostrils flared when a loud noise interrupted him, the way his breath became a tickle on your cheek when he leaned in to adjust his stethoscope.

That was the moment you heard his voice.

“Don't tell me you're afraid now,” Sylus demanded from the clinic's entrance, making nurses and bystanders alike stand to attention, as if they couldn't help but wait for his next directive. “I could put you two into far worse situations.”

Two hooded boys in medical masks shuffled in behind him, the defiant puff of their chests doing little to hide their apprehension. At Sylus' words Luke scowled but didn’t argue while Kieran kept glancing toward the exit like a cornered animal. Giving them a pointed look toward the nurse they were supposed to follow, he took a few steps forward before his eyes landed on you.

The vision of the leader of Onychinus halting in place with a satisfied smirk spreading across his face was unnerving enough to straighten every spine in the vicinity. But he barely noticed as he waved off the boys and made his way toward you.

Then his eyes flicked to the person next to you. To the stern yet striking man whose face was so close to yours he was practically stealing your fucking air from you.

Jaw tightening — the only outward sign of his discomfiture—Sylus strode toward you with deliberate, measured steps, his posture casual but predatory.

A fluttering of wings had taken flight in your stomach as soon as you'd heard Sylus' gravelly voice, but for the sake of Zayne's time and not raising any eyebrows in the semi-public setting, you'd resolved to find Sylus after your check-up. Unfortunately for you, Sylus never much cared about the concept of discretion when it came to you.

Stopping behind you, he placed the edge of his palm on your shoulders, spreading his fingers across your chest in a rather over-the-top display of possessiveness.

Doctor Zayne hadn't even looked up at the interruption and had moved on to digging for a tool in his medical bag when the hand-shaped barrier blocked his access to your heart.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?" Though the words were casual, his tone was wrapped in barbed wire.

"Sylus!" You said, hoping the breathlessness in your voice wasn't too noticeable. Looking up at his sharp features, which managed to be frustratingly beautiful even upside down, you smiled and moved his hands from your chest to your biceps, patting the tops of them twice. "I didn't know this is what you meant when you said you were taking care of some business with Luke and Kieran. Shouldn't you be with them?"

A low chuckle emerged from his throat, laced with both amusement and menace. "I was, sweetie. That is, until someone else piqued my... curiosity." His hands slid slowly down to the crooks of your elbows and then disappeared. Suddenly, the chair next to you was occupied with your boyfriend's imposing form, eyes boring into Zayne's unflappable figure. "I didn't realize doctors from Linkon City made special appointments when they visited Vagrant's Land."

“I volunteer here once a month,” Zayne said matter-of-factly. He didn’t look up as he re-focused on his examination of you, ignoring Sylus' eyes — one, a muted scarlet, the other an angry vermillion — trained on every movement. “It’s a good way to reach those who can’t make it to a hospital.”

Sylus’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a tight smile. “How noble of you. I see you're very—” His eyes lingered on Zayne’s hand, still resting against your chest. “—thorough with your patients.”

"Sylus," you cut in quickly. "Have you met my childhood friend, Zayne? We recently reconnected when he became my doctor."

But Sylus' attention didn't move from Zayne.

“Any good doctor is thorough,” Zayne replied, turning to jot down notes into your file. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if Sylus’s presence barely registered. “If something's off, it's important to work on her as soon as possible."

“I’ll bet it is,” Sylus muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his seat.

Recognizing the simmering menace in his tone, you jam your elbow into Sylus' narrowing your eyes in a silent warning. Your string of bad luck continued however, when, after he placed a dramatic hand over his elbow, Sylus went back to watching your childhood friend with the kind of intensity that made most people fear for their lives.

Zayne, of course, was not most people.

“Do you mind?” Zayne asked, flicking a quick glance at Sylus through his lashes. “I’m trying to work.”

“Not at all,” Sylus replied smoothly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Another tense few minutes pass, and the balloon of pressure in your chest expanded second by second as the tension between Sylus and Zayne crackled like static.

You were caught between irritation with Sylus for his uncharacteristically territorial behavior or shock with Zayne, who was acting more aloof than usual, almost like he was... purposefully fueling Sylus' ire.

“So, Sylus,” you said brightly, trying again to diffuse the situation. “Why'd you bring Luke and Kieran here?”

“Do they seem like the guys who'd show up to update their vaccines if I didn't drag them myself?” he shot back with a smirk, jerking his head toward the cubicle Luke and Kieran were in.

“That’s admirable,” Zayne remarked, his tone neutral. “More people should take an interest in the well-being of others.”

“That's me, a real caretaker," Sylus drawled, eyes narrowed. And just like that, any hope for the peace you'd been building toward popped like a bubble. "Though I can't say I'm as hands-on as you, doctor. At least... not in public."

"A shame." Zayne raised an eyebrow, his expression faintly amused. “Hands-on can be very effective when done correctly.”

The implication hung in the air, subtle but deliberate. You groaned internally, feeling like a rope in an increasingly taut tug-of-war.

“Alright, enough,” you snapped, looking down at them with your hands on your hips. “Sylus, this is just a check-up. Zayne, stop provoking.”

Both men fell silent, though the charged atmosphere lingered.

Sylus had the nerve to look almost... chagrined for the first time in his life, which alone worked wonders on your frustration — though from the way he stood and rested his hand on the back of your neck, it might've been more placating than chagrined.

Zayne, who also stood up, simply adjusted his glasses, his composure as unshaken as ever.

“I’m done here,” Zayne said, handing you a slip of paper. “I've updated the schedule according to your upcoming work trips. Other than that, you're fine.”

“Thank you, Zayne,” you smile warmly, stuffing the paper into your bag.

Zayne nodded, then turned to Sylus and held out his hand in a begrudging truce. “She’s in good health. You can relax.”

For a moment, you stared at Sylus' stoic expression and worried all hell would break loose in Vagrant's Land. Then, he linked his hand with Zayne's and gave it a firm, business-like shake, turned you around, and led you back to the entrance to wait for Luke and Kieran.

You couldn’t help but glance back at Zayne as you walked. He'd already moved onto his next patient, but caught your eye when you look around. And you could've sworn that Zayne, Doctor Zayne, your childhood friend, winked at you.

Once you were far enough to feel the afternoon breeze sweep over you, Sylus' gaze softened as he searched your face. “You feeling alright?” he asked, looking at the place where her aether core rested. His voice was quieter now, the edges of his tone no longer sounding so ruffled.

“I don't know. How should I feel after I've been pissed on by my boyfriend at my doctor's appointment?” Though you try to sound angry, it comes out as nothing but pure amusement.

At your smile, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and the corner of his lips curved. "Pissed on? I'd never do something so crass, kitten." He leaned down, his breath gliding over the crook of your neck like a feather, and rasped, "You know I'm more of a biter."

[heyimkana]

S-Rank Hunter ❌

S-Rank Husband ✅

"S-so, umm..." The cashier begins awkwardly as she spreads a selection of pads on the counter. "We have reusable pads, regular pads, ultra-thin pads, maxi pads, overnight pads. These ones are scented, these are not. Oh, these ones are exceptionally soft, but they can be a bit expensive. And these ones..." Jinwoo stares blankly at the items, listening but not digesting her explanation. The introduction seems endless, and he’s losing it. “Why, uhh, why are there so many different types? Don't they have the same purpose?” “Why, yes, Sir, but every woman has their own preferences. Some may want to wear the scented ones to mask the natural odor of menstrual blood, while some people prefer to…” She begins rambling again, and his brain is turning into mush. "All right... Which one is the best?" “Like I said, Sir, it depends on what you need.” “Which one do you use?” “Eh?!” She blushes and he’s so out of it right now to notice that he just asked something terribly personal. “T-This one, Sir.” She pushes forward a pack of pads with quivering fingers, unable to meet his eyes. When she woke up this morning, she did not think the handsome S-Rank Hunter, Sung Jinwoo, would bless her eyes with his presence and ask her about her pads. “They’re made from cotton, so they’re more, umm, breathable.” “Okay,” he nods. “I’ll take that one.”

“Right. What size do you—I mean, uhh, your wife usually use?" He stops and stares. Of course, they come in different sizes, too.  Seeing his soul leaving his body, she suggests, “You might want to give her a call." "Give me a sec." With his head throbbing, Jinwoo closes his eyes, speaking telepathically. Beru. The shadow soldier's response is immediate. Yes, my liege. What pad size does my wife usually use? She usually uses the overnight pads that claim to be for 'heavy flow', my liege. Jinwoo opens his eyes, relaying the information to the cashier. "Uhh... Can you give me the overnight pads, please?" "With or without wings?" He stops and stares. Again. "O-one moment." Beru. With or without wings? She has mentioned that she prefers the ones with wings, my liege. "With wings, please." "Scented or unscented?" Fucking hell. He tosses his head back, refraining himself from swearing—or contemplating suicide. Beru. The scented ones can cause skin irritation, my liege, so I suggest— “Unscented, thanks.” Please, no more questions.

READ THE FULL FIC HERE.

[seokminfilm]

just friends ── kim mingyu

🤍 pairing, kim mingyu x reader

🤍 warnings, non-idol au, fluff, implied childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, mingyu is kind of a flirt, kissing, confession, long-haired mingyu (we moved on too quickly from him), reader sits on mingyu's lap, reader calls mingyu 'gyu'

🤍 summary, you and mingyu realize you aren't just "friends".

🤍 author's note, saw these mingyu pics that screamed 80's college student and had to write something about it cause long-haired mingyu is literally my roman empire🧍consider this to be a LATE mingyu birthday gift cause i planned to do something for his bday the day OF and couldn't think of anything ☹ anyways enjoy!!

🤍 now playing, show me how (men i trust)

🤍 word count, 984 | for @kstrucknet, @maestro-net

"oh, come on. a few kisses will not ruin our friendship." mingyu has a whine to his voice you can't help but laugh at, cheeks heating up nevertheless as you side-eye him.

"mingyu, do you hear yourself right now? are you sure you aren't drunk?" you ask, and mingyu grabs your hands, dark eyes serious as he holds your gaze. his hands are warm, and his body radiates heat, the blush on his cheeks matching yours as he shakes his head.

the two of you had settled in on a quiet friday night to binge-watch your favorite childhood movies, and the two of you had just finished watching flipped, laughing and cringing at the bonus clips of the kissing scenes.

if you thought hard about it, you would have noticed that mingyu was acting differently tonight. he had been really touchy with you lately, hands always somewhere on you as he carried on conversations.

you didn't think about it much at first, but you had started to get distracted by it, body warming up as soon as mingyu had attempted to put his arm around you. it was awkward, seeing mingyu trying to flirt with you, but it made your heart skip nevertheless.

it seems that the little childhood crush you swore you had successfully hidden wasn't truly hidden at all.

"you're seriously asking to kiss me right now? friends....friends don't kiss each other on the daily, gyu." you laugh, trying to shrug off the feeling of thousands of butterflies in your stomach.

mingyu stares at you with puppy-like dark brown eyes hidden behind wire-framed glasses, lips parting to reveal sharp canines as he thinks better of his sentence and closes his mouth. he shifts a little bit, broad shoulders blocking any way of escape from the couch as he nods slightly.

"i know that. i know that friends don't want to kiss each other. they shouldn't want to, anyways." mingyu exhales again, pretty eyes downcast to the cushion under him before he looks back up at you again.

"we're not just friends are we?" mingyu asks quietly, eyes piercing as he holds your gaze. you choke on your words, eyes widening slightly as you lock eyes on his frame, fingertips twitching with the urge to push his neck-length hair back.

you were already dancing the fine line between 'friends enjoying a cute movie' and 'friends two seconds away from kissing each other', and you had a feeling that tucking mingyu's hair back for him would be the amount the two of you would need to cross the line into the latter.

"do you want to kiss me?" you ask softly, and mingyu's eyes jump up to meet yours. he's staring down at you, obviously too tall for you to look him straight in the eye.

you had no clue where the confidence to ask that question came from, but you found yourself praying that more would come.

"...maybe." mingyu has the gall to smirk at you, soft lips even more taunting as you heave a sigh, shaking your head slightly.

"i can't believe i'm doing this." something between a sigh and a laugh spills from your lips, and mingyu watches you relapse in judgment, taking your chin in his hand as he pulls you to him.

"don't you dare back out now." mingyu's voice is low, delicate as if he's scared that the moment will pass. you search his eyes, heart slowing down as he traces your jawline with his finger. "i want this. ....o-only if you want it, though."

the nervousness seems to leave your body with mingyu's slight stutter at the end of his sentence, showing that he's just as nervous as you are.

you let your shoulders drop slightly, relaxing your body as mingyu notices the way you lean into his touch. "i want it, gyu."

the words seem like a dream to you as they come out of your mouth, but your heart and mind finally agree on something for once: you want this kiss like your life depends on it.

"good. let me show you what i've been wanting to do to you for ages." mingyu's voice lowers to a whisper as he leans in. his lips lock with yours a few seconds later, massive tanned hands cupping your face as he molds his lips to yours.

your hands are flying to mingyu's tousled hair in an instant, fingers combing through his dark locks as he presses into you. you always knew mingyu's lips were soft, but you never expected they'd be this soft—and on your lips, for god sake.

after a few seconds of silence, the two of you pull away from each other, still in a dazed state of mind. mingyu's glasses had been discarded somewhere, and he sits in front of you now, eyes piercing as he studies your microexpressions.

"you know i've liked you for the longest time, right?" you decide to state the obvious, now that you just kissed your childhood friend.

"yeah," mingyu shrugs nonchalantly, and you take hold of mingyu's broad shoulders quickly, shaking him as he laughs happily.

"seriously? why didn't you do anything about it!?" you pout, and mingyu smiles, finger running across your cheek as he shrugs. "i wanted to see how long you could wait."

"kim mingyu!" you whack mingyu lightly, a smile cracking across your face as mingyu falls back against the couch. you find the confidence to climb up upon mingyu's lap, his hands taking place on your hips as he smiles up at you.

"i love you." the words fall from his lips before you can beat him to it, and your heart flutters, finally hearing mingyu utter the words you had only heard him say in dreams.

"i love you too, mingyu." you smile softly, leaning down to get what's owed to you: mingyu's searing kiss that tastes of a long-waited confession.

[sceletaflores]

GOT YOUR HEART IN A HEADLOCK…

꩜ masterlists ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

ೃ⁀➷ pair: bruce wayne x vigilante!fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 3.6k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, nat can’t stop making oc reader characters, somewhat angsty cause i need it to function, bruce's pov, p in v, not rough sex and not love making but another third thing, unprotected sex (do as sex ed teaches, not as i write), slight pain kink, biting, finger sucking RAAAHHH, one tiny mention of blood, bruce wayne experiences feelings, ending is basically the “fucked in missionary and got emotional about it” meme, porn with a little too much plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat’s note: oh em gee...baby's first dc fic...i'm so terrified to post this LMAO but i need to because this man just makes me want to write all the sad, angsty, pining/longing filled fics in the world. it’s his beautiful tortured eyes, they’ve transfixed me. title is ofc from imogen heap's 'headlock' cause i'm clearly too obsessed with that album i've named like three fics after it's tracks AND it's just such a bruce song i had to. hope you love it, kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

bruce wayne gets an unexpected visitor…

Rain pelts at the spotless windows of Bruce's office. Sharp and impossible to ignore in the deep silence shrouding the room.

The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the only glow in the room the flickering monitors lining the top of his desk. Bruce is hunched over them, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tired eyes fleeting over grainy security footage and recent police reports.

A tension lives in his shoulders as his hands fly over the expanse of his keyboard. The kind that never leaves. He’s chasing patterns again—strings of mob movement, scattered drug shipments, whispers of reemerging cartels. 

It’s not often that he brings his, nightly work, to the tower—but something about the cave felt too heavy. Too suffocating, too soaked in grief and memory for him to get any real work done. Wayne tower, with its sleek sterility, gives him just enough distance to pretend silence is solacing instead of crushing.

Bruce needed that silence. Or maybe he needed the illusion of it—the unostentatious stillness of glass and steel, high enough above the rot of Gotham’s underbelly to try and escape the weight in his chest.

He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, forearms tensing as he rewinds the surveillance footage for a third time. The storm is growing merciless—thunder cracking like bones, lightning throwing brief, jagged shadows across the gleaming floor. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just leans further into the static buzz of his monitor, the comfort of control.

Until he feels it.

That shift. 

That slow coil in his gut. The cold drag of something other licking at the edge of the air. A chill snakes its way up his spine and stirs the hair on the back of his neck, pressing against his senses in a way he’s become all too familiar with.

He cuts his eyes to the wall of windows before his desk. At first, he sees nothing but a dark sky. The rain clouds so thick and imposing they mute the shine of the stars, leaving behind a sea of pitch black.

A bolt of lighting rips across the sky—and for half a heartbeat, you’re there.

Seventy eight stories up, floating just outside the glass, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Your form is only half-phased, half solid. Raindrops slip right through you, never landing, never soaking. You press a hand to the glass, head tilted slightly as though amused. 

Bruce doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave yours.

You don’t knock. You never do.

You phase through the glass like it’s water, it doesn’t creak. It hums—a low rumble of energy. When your boots touch the polished floor, your form sharpens into full opacity, but the essence still clings to your skin. He can smell the ozone.

You don’t speak, not at first. You just stand there, dripping with power instead of rain, head tilting the other way now as you study him like you always do—like you’re looking straight through the flesh and bone, into whatever broken thing is holding it all together.

Bruce forces down the unease curling in the pit of his stomach, he turns his eyes back to the monitors. “You’re late.” His voice is low, sandpaper dry from disuse.

You hum, gliding a few slow steps toward his desk. He can feel the shift in the room—colder, tighter, like the air itself is shrinking away from your presence. 

“I didn’t know we had a date.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then I’m on time.”

Files appear out of thin air, materializing right in front of his eyes. They simply hover for a moment, bathed in a flickering white hue and edged in smoke—until they fall onto his desk with a muted thump. The pages glide their way in front of him with delicate flutter—chilled only by the cold that clings to them from your plane. 

“Where did you get these?” he mutters, scanning the top page. Intelligence. Photos. Notes scrawled in your familiar handwriting. It’s a roster—names he recognizes, faces he’s seen before in police reports and coroner files. All connected to the Falcone remnants. 

“You’re welcome” you say dryly, turning to lean against the edge of his desk. You cross one leg over the other, arms folding over your chest. “Or do I only get a ‘thank you’ if I come gift-wrapped in latex and a chipper attitude?”

Bruce bites back a scoff, brows drawing together the more he reads over the pages. He knows this isn’t a friendly transaction, that it’s the furthest thing from you simply helping him from the kindness of your still heart. You come bearing gifts because you need something.

Bruce doesn’t rise from his chair. He just leans back slowly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “What do you want, Spectress.”

Your head tilts, he can’t help but let his eyes run along the smooth column of your throat. “You.”

A beat. Bruce’s jaw ticks.

Then you add, “Well not you, you. Not yet.” Your lips curl around the words like they’re a dare. “Your eyes on something for me. There’s been a shift in the Veil, someone’s poking holes again. Thought some of your fancy tech might catch the bleed.”

Bruce stares, hard. He hopes you can still feel the weight of it—like the point of a blade pressed to skin. It’s his default, the way he carves answers out of people who fear the Bat. But you’re not some masked rookie wannabe he can intimidate into compliance with a look. If anything, the pressure only makes your smirk deepen.

“A shift in the Veil,” he repeats, voice low and quiet. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just…curious.

You nod, leaning a little closer, your body an elegant portrait of muscle and menace draped across his desk. “Someone’s not just brushing against it, Bruce. They’re trying to punch through. It’s not subtle.” You inhale a breath you don’t need. “The air is wrong. I can’t reach them. Dead things don’t stay quiet.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost a scoff, though there’s no humor in it. “And you think I can track the metaphysical footprint of a ghost hacker.”

Your smile blooms, sharp and lovely like a blade catching the moonlight. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a priority. The last thing I want to admit is that I need your help. But it’s like something’s…tugging. Someone reaching across, but they’re messy. Clumsy. They don’t know what they’re doing, just that they have the power to do it.” 

Bruce’s fingers twitch over the papers, they crinkle softly under his palm. The only sign that your words have sunk teeth into him. This isn’t some abstract ghost story you’re using to toy with him. This is intel. This is you saying something’s coming.

And The Batman doesn't deal well with what he can’t predict.

“Black Mask?”

“I think Black Mask wouldn’t have it in him to stay quiet if it was.”

Your voice is softer now, the flirtatious edge dulled to something more dangerous. The lights of the monitors cast a faint, blue halo over your face, catching in the slight glow that never leaves your eyes. Bruce notices the way your hand flexes on the desk, your nails dragging faint lines into the polished surface, like you’re grounding yourself—fighting the urge to phase away.

He sits forward slowly, reading the movement for what it is. “You’re scared.”

That makes your smile twitch. Not gone—never gone—but something in your face flickers. Like a candle too close to the wind.

“I don’t scare when it comes to the dead, Bruce.” A pause. “I’m what they whisper too.”

Bruce says nothing. His throat works around a swallow. Your presence has always rattled him. Not because you’re terrifying. He’s faced terrifying. It’s because you see him. 

You see the pulses of emotion he tries his hardest to keep buried, all haloed around him in a hazy smoke of aura and vulnerability. You don’t only test the limits of his control, you blow right through them with all the ease in the world. 

It grates on every inch of his nerves.

And still—still—he can’t help the way his eyes drop. The subtle arc of your hip against his desk. The glow of your power against the dark fabric of your suit. You shouldn’t look this soft, not with the weight you carry. Not with the death you wear like a second skin.

But you do. And it kills him.

Bruce swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to your face. You’re watching him with something like amusement, like you know exactly where his thoughts just wandered.

“You came all this way just for a file drop and a metaphysical theory?”

You don’t answer, letting the silence swell between you until it starts to choke. The room hums with it—something unspoken and aching. That same tension that’s always been there between the two of you, taut as wire. Neither of you ever acknowledge it directly. You dance around it like a live current, but tonight—tonight it feels closer to snapping.

You finally speak. “I saw the Gazette.” You look out to the skyline, eyes shining. “Wayne tower, only the second best view in Gotham, doesn't that just drive you crazy?”

Bruce doesn't take his gaze off you. “Not particularly.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

The unexplainable feeling between you both is pulsing now, alive and unbearable in a way that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. He leans back in his chair, watching you, not sure if he’s challenging you or waiting for you to make the next move. Your gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, his posture—always studying, always probing.

“Are we done here?”

You hum absentmindedly, pushing off the desk in a fluid motion. The air shifts again as you move. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The rain outside intensifies, and with it, the tension in the air thickens. Bruce can almost taste it—something sharp, eclectic, but also heavy and unwilling to settle.

You walk closer, slow, like you're testing how close you can get before he tenses.

He doesn’t.

That’s the game you always play.

Your tone is velvet stretched over teeth. “I’ve seen inside you, Bruce,” you whisper, the sound pressing against his ribs. “The regret, the rage. The rot. The want. You keep it locked down in suits and silence, but I see it. And it calls to me.”

You circle the desk slowly, not bothering to hide the way your fingers trail across the back of his chair as you pass. Shadows twist and turn around your boots, clinging to the shape of you like they miss you when you're gone. The storm throws another bolt of light against the glass, and your shadow cuts across the floor, long and spindled. Almost wrong.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver when your fingers drift to his collar and toy with the loose button near his throat. Your touch is cool, just wrong enough to raise goosebumps in its wake. A phantom’s touch.

“You always want what you can’t have, Bruce.”

Your words hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and raw, and before he can stop himself, he’s standing. The chair scraping against the floor feels like a bomb going off in the silence. But it’s not the anger that drives him. Not entirely.

No, it’s the undeniable attraction. The way your presence disrupts everything he’s spent decades building. The way your very being forces him to question everything he knew about control, power, desire.

“You should leave.” It’s not a command. It’s not a suggestion. It’s…a warning, maybe. He couldn’t tell if you’d heed it. You both know you never do.

“I won’t ask twice,” you whisper, spectral power curling from your skin in soft tendrils that graze his chest. “Help me find who’s bleeding into the Veil , and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

Your hand flattens against his chest, his heartbeat loud and strong beneath your palm. The only warmth in the room.

His hand shoots up fast—too fast—and grabs your wrist. Not rough, but not soft either. Just enough force to anchor, to test the reality of you. His grip burns against your chill.

“I don’t need incentive.”

Your smile curls dangerously, and you phase. Right through his grasp. His fingers snap closed around air, and you’re behind him now, voice purring against the back of his neck. “Liar.”

Bruce rounds his desk with an almost inhuman amount of speed, caging you against the windows. You let him. 

“This isn’t a game, Spectress,” he snarls, eyes burning. His face is close to yours now, too close. Your noses nearly brush. He should pull back. 

“So serious, Bruce,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. All that control, all that rage, and you’ve never even let it out the fun way.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You think that this is fun for me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

“I think you don’t even know how badly you need to come undone.”

Your words hang there. Heavy. Weighted. Inescapable.

And then your mouth is right there—sinful lips brushing against his ear. “Let me show you.”

It’s laughably desperate when your mouths finally meet. Fire and ice coming together in a blaze of teeth and tension and unsaid things. A war between two people who don’t know how to surrender without blood. Neither of you gentle. Neither of you soft. His hands grip your hips roughly, your back hits the glass with more force he’d use on any other woman. 

You bite his lip as he lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing—like the world could end beneath his feet and he wouldn’t notice as long as your lips stay on his. Your legs wrap around his waist, strong as they drag him further into you.

You meet him with all the power in your bones, your body flickering with that unearthly light as your hands fist the collar of his shirt and pull him impossibly closer. You taste like the dead. Like smoke. Like something Bruce shouldn’t want, and can’t stop needing.

His hips slot against yours, and he’s hard. The heavy weight of his cock pushing against the front of his slacks. You moan low into his mouth, and it’s not ghostly—it’s human. Raw. And that’s what undoes him more than anything. The reminder that beneath all your power, your secrets, your cold—

You’re real.

"You’re soaked in death," he mutters against your mouth, voice raw. "And I still—"

“Still want to fuck me,” you finish, breathless, smirking against his lips. “I can feel it. You think I don’t know what your need tastes like?”

Your hand slides down between your bodies, cupping the thick heat straining against the front of his pants. Bruce hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, and you laugh—low and lovely and full of wicked delight.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with sin as you stare down to take in the way his cock strains against your stomach. “So fucking hard for the dead girl.”

It’s more than he can stomach, and Bruce snaps.

He uses a single hand to rip his belt open, the other bracing your thigh against the window so hard the glass groans. Your suit splits open at the hips with a flick of your fingers, the obsidian fabric shifting and slithering like something alive, giving way to skin that’s too perfect, too cold, and he groans—low, rough, helpless. Your suit gone, his shirt shoved up, his pants shoved down just enough for skin to meet skin—desperate and unfiltered.

There’s no ceremony. No slow lead-in. Just the stretch, the pressure, the way your body clenches around him like you’ve been waiting for this—aching for it.

The whole damn building seems to shudder, and your laugh comes out breathless, thrilled. Gotham burns beneath you in the stormlight, streaks of red and gold and shadow, a perfect backdrop to something that was never meant to be soft.

You gasp, sharp nails raking welts down the muscle of his back at the sting of his thick cock forcing a place for itself inside of you. He can feel the way the walls of your cunt flutter around him, gentle caresses that have something dark and consuming blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against the hollow of your throat, dragging his mouth down the glowing seam of your collarbone, sucking a mark where the light pulses the brightest. “You like this.”

You don’t answer, locking your ankles behind him, digging your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him snarl. “Harder, Bruce. I can take it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Every thrust is deep and mean, hips slapping against the cradle of your thighs mercilessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene. You clench around him, and he groans, fingers digging into your hips so hard they’ll bruise if you let them. 

You meet every thrust with a vicious grind of your hips, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once—hand reaching back blindly to slap the glass, leaving a foggy print behind. The groan that rips its way from his chest is filthy, guttural, primal.

You’re impossibly wet, impossibly tight, and the angle—Christ, the angle—lets him grind so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your spine. Bruce’s eyes fall to where your bodies are joined, he watches the way his cock punches in and out of your swollen cunt. His skin is coated in your messy wetness, glistening in the moonlight each time he pulls out before disappearing back into your addictive warmth.

Your power lashes around you both, the lights flickering, the storm outside growing louder. Somewhere, the shadows moan.

“You love it,” he growls, voice like thunder against your ear. “Getting fucked like this. Against the glass. Knowing anyone could look up and see—”

“Bruce.” Your voice is the deepest form of sin, soaked in gasoline and waiting to be ignited by the match that only he has the ability of sparking.

Bruce can hardly stand it. The nasty, possessive feeling beats against his ribcage almost as hard as his heart. Scratching and clawing and demanding to be set free. His cock throbs inside of you. He’s close, and the incoherent gurgle of his name passing through your lips only spurs him on.

He’s moving before his brain can process it, his hand loosening its unrelenting grip on the muscle of your thigh to cradle your cheek. It’s heartbreakingly tender, in such a way that he’d never use even when he’s playing up the soft, faux-sentimental fucks of Brucie Wayne. 

His thumb swipes across your slick bottom lip before he can think better of it. Your mouth falls open with a pleased moan, devilish tongue sweeping out to brush against his skin teasingly. For a heartstopping moment, Bruce wonders what it would be like to sink between those plush lips.

The cool kiss of them, or the sweet caress of your tongue, on the scorching tip of his cock. Just the thought has him shuddering, a bitten off curse falling from his lips as he pushes his thumb into your wanting mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over your cheeks as you hollow them and suck.

“Fuck.” Bruce sets a brutal rhythm, hips pistoning into you with a desperation that belies the calm mask he wears for everyone else. But not for you. Never for you. You get the real thing—unfiltered, cracked open, all ugly need and unbearable weight. You take it, welcoming it with a tilt of your hips and a hiss of pleasure through your teeth as they bite down on his thumb roughly. 

You try to phase, instinctively—too much, too fast—but he grabs you harder, pins you down, keeps you there in your body. “No,” he growls, lips against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Not till I’m done.”

The coarse, dark hair dusted along his abs grinds over your sensitive clit with every thrust, the blunt head of his cock hammering against the sweet spot inside of you. His heavy balls slap the bruised, raw skin of your ass.

Bruce tilts his hips just so, and you howl.

Your orgasm hits like a supernatural event, your body clenching around him, pulsing with energy that sinks into him, through him, like it’s marking him from the inside out. He chokes on your name—your real name—and it sends another shock through your system.

Bruce spills into you with a growl that rattles through his chest, buried so deep he forgets what it feels like to be hollow. The pulse of his cock is in time with the pounding beat of his heart.

And he watches, eyes rapt, as you come back down. The heave of your chest as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air you haven’t needed in decades, the glowing satisfaction swirling through your cloudy eyes, your swollen lips slick and parted around the soft pants of pleasure—stained with his blood.

He watches the power only barely contained beneath your skin. The shining white of it swimming through your body languidly, like pure white ink spilled along the surface of a lake, pulsing with life. So fucking alive.

Bruce realizes then that he’s found it.

The best view in Gotham.

mini nat’s note: tagging some lovelies that showed interest in this mess @ebodebo @ovaryacted @lordlottie @wlwloverwrites @dixie-isnt-cool! i love you all...bad! bruce wayne isn't on my taglist, but i might add him later! i do possibly want to write more for him in the future, so yell at me to add him if you want! thank you for reading! mwah <3

[hellsite-detective]

*takes cigarette from mouth and breathes out a large puff of smoke* What kind of holiday goes on in a city like this? *replaces cigarette and disappears in the rolling fog*

*stares off into the distance, brooding*

this is a city devoid of color. it’s drab and it’s constantly rainin’. i look out the window of my office only to see overcast skies and rain poudin’ down on the pavement below like a boxer goin’ a bit too heavy handed on his final swings. it’s wet, it’s dreary, and it’s miserable…

but around this time things feel like the lighten up a little. the rain is switched to light snow and the once dark city is lit up with lights. at night it shines like the stars above. in the center of town there’s a big tree with a guidin’ light shinin’ from its apex. the smell of wet concrete is replaced with hot cocoa and everything just feels a bit more cozy…

you’re askin’ what kinda holiday goes on in a city like this? well, it’s a holiday that warms the cold, jaded heart of this detective.

*i turn to face you, but you disappeared into the fog around the time i started talking*

damn… the fog here is ruthless…

[lewkwoodnco]

a week in the life of London's youngest agency head (insp.)

[teencopandthesourwolf]

now on ao3 HERE

.

“Holy crapsticks, Derek! Some sort of warning of your imminent wolfy arrival wouldn't go amiss you know? You do own a cellphone—I've seen it with mine own two eyes!”

Derek goes to close Stiles's window, choosing to ignore Stiles jabbing his pointer and middle fingers at 'mine own two eyes', and his vicious thrusting of them toward Derek in traditional I'm Watching You fashion. Derek turns his head away to hide his almost-smirk, because he's feeling somewhat generous today. Sue him. 

“Hey, are you—you're laughing at me right now?” Stiles asks. It's an accusation, really, the kid clearly affronted by Derek's mocking.

As if Stiles has any room to talk. 

Derek guesses he must have hidden his smirk badly. Or maybe it's just that Stiles is better at catching him out than most people. Or all people. 

Stiles whips off one of his socks and balls it up before launching it directly at Derek's head. Derek catches it easily, obviously, before he's even fully turned back round.

He then makes a show of sniffing at it eagerly, just to gross Stiles out, and it smells—nice, honestly.

Stiles gags, in the most dramatic way.

“Oh my God, you are such an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Derek shrugs.

He kind of can't help himself. It's fun getting snarky with this shithead kid, and it's been a minute since he's known what fun looks (or smells) like

Derek is an asshole. Selfish, too.

Does selfishness make you an asshole by definition?

He wonders or ponders or—whatever. 

Derek figures he's allowed to be a bit of a prick after everything, and stopped caring to pretend to care about things like social niceties a good while back. Stiles—even if he's undeserving of an asshole of the selfish variety wading into his life and making it more of a mess than it already is—is also an asshole, one who doesn't seem to give two shits about niceties and that sort of thing as it is.

It's more than that, though. There is just something awfully delicious about watching Stiles get riled up. That little jackrabbit heart of his thumping even faster than usual against his frail human ribcage; those usually pale as the moon cheeks flushing as he blushes beautifully from baby pink through to a deep, blood red.

Yeah, Selfish Asshole is a pretty good position from where Derek is currently standing, watching on as a satisfyingly scarlet-faced Stilinski now flails his skinny arms about like an inflatable tube man outside a cheap car sales room.

Moron. 

Stiles huffs and asks Derek what the hell he wants, and Derek thinks you.

It's not exactly a revelation. He's had thoughts. Thoughts he's acted on from time to time when horny with a precious few moments to himself. He'd guessed it was just that, at first—a purely physical thing.

Until the high school swimming pool.

Which is kind of why he's here.

He licks at his lips, tasting both Stiles' irritation and desire.

It's the same for Derek; Stiles vexes the living crap out of him but he makes his dick hard, too—plus his heart a little soft, dammit.

It's fucking annoying.

Even more vexing is how there are rules for this courting shit, rules he actually finds himself wanting to abide by, for once. He doesn't really know why that is, either.

Although, now he's thinking about it, it could be because the few people he's fucked since the fire had all believed him to be human, which he'd obviously had to pretend to be. With Stiles, he doesn't have to bother pretending. Doesn't have to put on any sort of act at all, he can just be himself.

An asshole. 

Maybe he just likes Stiles more than he thought he did.

He rolls his eyes (not just at Stiles) and shucks Laura's old record bag off his shoulder before unzipping it to carefully get at its contents, which he then shoves in Stiles's general direction along with a scowl he doesn't feel the need to hold back. 

“Here, take this.”

Stiles eyes him and the bundle with suspicion.

He then gingerly reaches out to pluck the thing from Derek's grasp, turning it over, then back again, looking at it with definite disdain as if it might be poisoned. It could be for all Stiles knows, he supposes. Regardless, the kid dares to take a sniff at it, albeit with a mere fraction of the enthusiasm Derek had for scenting Stiles's sock.

Jesus, why does Derek care so much? 

He'd reserve the right to be offended at Stiles's asshole-ish reaction, if he weren't for him being such an asshole himself. 

“Um, dude, why in the name of all that is sacred and holy have you brought me a frickin nosegay? Like, what in all of fuck is this shit, man? Looks like really old Dolmades made by some idiot with thumbs instead of fingers, and it smells like—like—I dunno?” He sniffs it again. “Okay, yeah, like if somebody shoved a bunch of dead flowers in my years old Dan-O's jar of Italian Herb seasoning that doesn't get throw away because we've had since before... Whatever, actually just—dear lord. You are so fucking strange, Derek Hale.”

Stiles then pulls a ridiculous face of complaint while holding the homemade smudge stick up in the air between a finger and thumb, as if it were a dead rat that Derek expected him to eat. 

Which—hey, Derek very much could have chosen to go with the gift of a kill instead of an Apotropaic charm. Although, to be fair to him, if he had have picked a blood offering as a token of his affections, it probably would've been something a little larger. Like a rabbit, or maybe a baby deer. And Stiles wouldn't actually have to eat it. Not unless he really wanted to, that is. 

Bambi Eyes over here should think himself lucky, the ungrateful little shit. 

To be fair to Stiles, though, Derek's DIY garden magic doesn't exactly look like the kind of smudge stick you'd find on Amazon dot com.

Uncaring for Stiles's theatrics but always all about the aesthetics, Derek rolls his eyes again. For good measure and sound reason, he would argue.

“It's a smudge stick, you idiot,” he informs Stiles, tacking on the insult because fuck this brat and his bullshit, Derek's trying to be nice. His sockets perpetually ache around the certified dumbass, werewolf or no. Bizarrely, he's coming to find that he almost enjoys the feeling.

Asshole. 

He tosses his bag onto Stiles's desk chair and himself onto Stiles's bed because he's tired of standing and the kid's mattress is really soft. Hiding out here a while back left Derek fairly comfortable around the place, truth be told. 

Selfish? Tick. Asshole? Tick.

Yeah, whatever.

“Make yourself at home why don't you? Asshole,” Stiles mutters. 

See?

Derek doesn't even try to feel bad about it. 

Then the kid says, somewhat reluctantly, “This is actually pretty cool. I've seen them a ton on like, wicca and magic sites and shit, they just looked—I dunno, kinda different. I've never actually seen one IRL.”

Derek scoffs. “This is real magick, Stiles. Of course you haven't seen one like this before. And nobody actually says 'IRL' in real life, genius.”

“Well clearly they do, Douchey McFuckbag, seeing as I just said it, right fucking here and right fucking now, at today o'clock. So how about you go eat a dick, A-hole?” Stiles sasses back, pulling his tongue out at Derek, the petty little fucker. 

Derek wants to bite and suck on it. And eat a very particular dick. 

He really can't be bothered to come up with synonyms for the words 'selfish' and 'asshole' anymore, even in his own head. 

“You don't count,” Derek counters.“ You're not real; you're just one of my recurring nightmares.” He opts for sassing Stiles right back because it's just too much fun not to.

“Awwwwww, Der-bear!” Stiles then practically squeaks at him, making him both flinch and wince because what the everlasting hell? “I just realised you not only brought me what is essentially a bunch of flowers on Valentine's Day—thanks for that by the way, pookie—but you're admitting that you dream about me, too? Honestly, big guy, I didn't know you cared!” the idiot moons at Derek, clutching the smudge stick to his chest like the obnoxious court jester that he is. 

There's then a record scratch moment where Derek has to go back over what Stiles just said to him.

It's... Valentine's day? 

Before giving himself a chance to mildly panic at the extra pressure this brings, he hears himself saying, “So what if I did?” and then,“And what if I do?” because maybe, actually, now he thinks about it, a Valentine's gift might make the idea of werewolf courting rituals a little easier for Stiles to stomach.

Derek instantly changes his mind about that; it's probably way more likely Stiles would be into it, the little freak.

He almost smiles. 

That jackrabbit heartbeat stutters as Stiles processes and sucks in a big, staccato breath, one Derek doesn't necessarily believe he meant to take. The kid sounds a little incredulous when he whispers, “What?” on the breathy exhale, blinking ten to the dozen. 

Derek pushes himself up off the bed and lopes over to where Stiles is standing, planting himself directly in front of the lanky shithead, toe-to-toe, their noses practically touching. He inhales, purposefully. Then he watches, rapt, as Stiles' cheeks go from moon rocks to rose petals to warm pools of blood, in a matter of mere seconds.

Stiles smells like he knows Derek wants to eat him—up or out, whichever is fine by Derek. Both, really. 

He scents Stiles again, then says, “There's white sage and sweetgrass and cedar. And yarrow. Wild indigo. Marigolds, too. And, uh, chamomile and mugwort and rosemary and bay,” Derek recalls everything he used for the spell bundle in fits and starts, suddenly infuriatingly nervous for some reason. “It's... for protection.” He takes another hit of citrussy-cinnamon teenager. Stiles. “For you, because—” He pauses, before thinking fuck it and barrelling on. “Because I want to protect you, you dip-shit,” he finally admits, going for broke, and hoping, hoping, hoping.

I don't know who's gonna protect you from me though, he thinks as Stiles swallows and Derek wants nothing more than to bite into his bobbing Adam's apple. Stiles gulping like that reminds him of a rock sinking into a lake, and at once Derek is picturing them skinny dipping down at the preserve when it gets warmer, and him swallowing this boy whole. 

“Oh,” Stiles breathes, batting those long, pretty lashes up at Derek as if he has no idea what effect it has on Derek's predatory nature.

He knows. He fucking knows. 

What Derek's never known is Stiles speaking in one word sentences, and he realises he very much likes knocking the verbal stuffing right out of the little brat like this.

He wonders, idly, if Stiles would enjoy being bruised, by means of Derek's mouth. Maybe Derek will ask him. Or maybe he won't, and just do it anyway. 

Stiles is now squirming a little under Derek's beastly gaze.

“Um, I feel kinda bad,” he lies, looking down at the singular sock he's still wearing. wiggling stupidly long toes at Derek, the tease. Stiles doesn't feel bad at all. He stinks of self-pride and excitement and arousal. “I don't have anything to give to you.”

Now very much sure of himself, Derek answers, “Sure you do, Stiles,” and smirks at the boy, letting his teeth sharpen into fangs, just a touch. “You started leaving it unlatched again,” he reminds Stiles, nodding his head towards the bedroom window.

He knows they've both figured out that, ever since the pool, Stiles wants to trust Derek.

This is not a good idea, he thinks. Derek is a selfish asshole though so it doesn't change a thing.

He licks at a canine, and Stiles whimpers.

Fuck, Derek thinks as he says, “Also, you could let me do this,” and then he licks Stiles, from jaw to hairline, before comfortably nestling his entire face into the crook of Stiles's pale, mole-peppered neck with a rumbling, satisfied growl.

Stiles bleats, “Oh my fucking fuck, Derek, I am so fucking nosegay for you,” and then literally whines, long and loud.

Derek grins at the proposterous statement and the pretty noise Stiles is still making, all wide and toothy and possessive as he nips at the delicate skin of kid's throat. He shudders when Stiles makes a little wounded sound when Derek creates tiny half moon dents in the flesh there with the tips of his fangs.

Stiles, the beautiful fool, then murmurs, “Well, I guess it's Happy Valentine's to the both of us then, huh?” as he flings the smudge stick onto his desk before pushing Derek backwards, causing him to fall gracelessly, happily, onto Stiles's bouncy bed.

And for what is the first time in his very weird life, Derek very weirdly thinks: Thank fuck for Saint Valentine's.

God, what a pair of assholes. 

.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY 💕 ...awoooooooo!

[bitter-goodbyes]

What’s Going on with Soundwave???

https://archiveofourown.org/works/ 62280430

If there was one thing Rumble loved to do, it was to cause chaos wherever he could with Frenzy. It was always a good time, making Grounder’s fall over anything and everything, smudging the polish on particularly vain Seekers, randomly attacking anyone in the vicinity. And the best part? Soundwave basically always lets them get away with anything. Well, truthfully, it was more of most every Decepticon being at least mildly scared of him that let them do whatever with no consequences. The only mech they couldn’t go after was Megatron himself!

It was even better when Soundwave decided to lie to others about their pranks, because no one would ever think Soundwave was lying. He never joined in directly, though, too dedicated to being the sole reason this faction ran so smoothly.

All of this to say, when Soundwave started acting off, he had a front row seat to all of it.

Or: Starscream and Soundwave swapped personalities due to something in Shockwave's lab!! It sucks that that isn't wide spread knowledge among those on the Nemesis... now with 100% more Soundwave!!!

Once again based on the lovely comics by @zorangezest !!!! Please check them out!!!! :D

[limerlove]

Abby and reader getting into an argument where they both know r is right but Abby is just being so goddamn stubborn ohmygod. So r just ups and flashes Abby with their tits to shut her up. Abby stutters and slowly loses her resolve until she finally shortcircuits

❛ THE PRETTY GIRL BEHIND THE BAR. ❜

♱

†⠀warnings y disclaimers — eighteen+, dom!reader, sub!abby, poc!friendly, jealous!abby, soft nsfw, stubborn!abby.

Abby never should have been flirting with the bartender. She knows it just as well as you do. You had every right to be upset. Abby was your girl, not anyone else's, and she just let it happen. Right in front of you.

It made you sick and God, her dismal of it was even more infuriating. Her stubbornness shining through as you tried to make her see where you were coming from, but it seemed the attention was going right to her head.

"So, what if she was flirting? Why does it matter?" Abby was trying to worm her way out, but you wouldn't let her. Not this time.

"It's one thing to entertain it Abby but c'mon, look with your eyes. You let her feel you up right in front of me. Do you seriously not see how disrespectful that is?”

"She was not all over me and she did not feel me up." Abby defended.

"Really? You're going to play dumb right now? That's the side you want to take. You've got to be kidding me." Clearly, you were frustrated but your words only angered Abby.

"You're calling me dumb right now? For the love of god, she didn't touch me."

"Maybe you didn't notice because you were too caught up in the pretty girl behind the bar but anyone with eyes could see she was all over you." You walked away from her as the two of you walked into your shared apartment as Abby slammed the door behind her.

"She kept touching your arm and you did nothing. She tugged at the end of your braid; you did nothing. Anderson, she was looking at you like you were a piece of meat and you just let her! It was like I was fucking invisible." You were beyond pissed and the smirk on her lips wasn't helping.

Abby was too damn confident for her own good, always putting her foot in her mouth before she even spoke.

"Anderson? Wow. You're really angry, baby." She took a step closer, but you took two steps back.

"Don't 'baby' me. Are you being serious right now?"

You couldn’t believe her. She had the nerve to stand there, beautiful as can be, with a smile you would kill for but right now? You wanted nothing more than to deck her in the face. Abby always did this, and it pissed you off to no fucking end. Abby always had to let you know how wanted she is and how lucky you were to have her. It truly was nauseating.

“Just admit it, Anderson. She fucking touched you and you let her.” You threw it back at her, tired of this back and forth.

“If you call me Anderson one more time, I swear to god.”

“You’ll what? Flirt with someone else in front of me?” You stepped forward, cocking your head to the side. “I have to say, the more you do it, it might just lose it’s impact.”

“Are you sure? You’re pretty wound up right now, baby. Just can’t stand when my attention is elsewhere, can you?” 

You wanted to scream at her, but you couldn’t. Even if the chances of those baby blues welling up into tears were slim, you couldn’t let your anger get the best of you. All of this was intentional. Her pressing, her flirting, her acting like she oblivious to it. Abby wanted a reaction out of you. Boy, was she getting one. Still, you didn’t want to do anything to upset her, even if it seemed she was trying to do the opposite for you.

If she wanted to play with fire, so be it. You’d just have to cool her off enough so you could have a conversation about this without her cocky persona jumping in at any given moment.

The smirk dropped from her Abby’s face as soon as her brain registered what you were doing. Carefully, nimble fingers were unbuttoning the vest top you had on. You’d worn it just for her too. Abby loves the way it makes your breasts look, cleavage busting at the top. It usually would make her insatiable, but no. Tonight, she decided to keep her attention elsewhere.

You would make her pay for it.

“What are you doing?” Her breath hitches, and you try to smirk but you’re failing just as she was before.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“W-We’re fighting now, right?” Abby was so unsure of herself. Part of her believed she was imagining this. You slowly taking off your top, and God you weren’t wearing a bra either.

You really were trying to kill her, Abby thought.

“Yep, you’re really pissing me off, Anderson.”

“T-them, uh, why- oh fuck.” Abby tried to speak but it trailed off to a curse as you tossed your top onto the back of couch and made your way right to her.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly why your attention was elsewhere?” Your perky tits on display for her was torture, because she knew if she tried to touch you, her hand would be smacked immediately.

“C’mon, don’t be shy Anderson. Tell how much of a crazy fucking girlfriend I am. Go on. Fucking speak.” You demanded from her, but the blonde still found herself tripping over her words, unable to complete one sentence.

“I-I, um, y-y-you know, fuck, what do you want me to say baby? Please, I’ll do anything. Jus’ want to make it up to you.” Her eyes maintain eye contact with flesh exposed for her enjoyment, or rather yours. You liked doing this to her. Flipping the dominate switch to submissive and watching her crumble.

Abby knew it would be more than worth it once you had the harness and strap on, fucking her so dumb. Her pussy fluttered at the thought of it. She wanted you to stretch her out – turn her into your little fuck toy. You liked it, loved it even. Tearing apart someone so strong, until she was putty in your hands and begging for it.

It’s what she deserved after pulling the little stunt today.

She needed to be put in her place and you were more than happy to oblige.

“For starters, stop looking at my tits and look in my eyes.” Abby obeyed you, anticipating your next move.

“Now, be a good girl. Go upstairs, strip for me. I want you naked on the bed, and Mommy will be up there to remind you exactly who you belong to.” You slapped her ass as she moved hastily up the steps leading into your bedroom.

Let’s just say, Abby was in the for a long night.

[specific-dreamer]

i love paul holden but don’t ask me anything about paul holden. every hc i have for him starts and ends with darry

the quote “Barbie has a great day every day, but Ken only has a great day if Barbie looks at him.” but paul is literally ken