#upright handlebars

[urbanadventureleague]

On drop bars, "serious" bikes, and possible changes to the Bantam

By Crystal Springs Creek in Westmoreland Park, 4 August 2023. Olympus XA/Lomochrome Metropolis Over the eight years of owning the Bantam, I’ve only had one type of bar: drop bars of the “dirt drop” variety. I’ve had two different versions, first Origin 8 “Gary” bars, which got switched a few years later, though I forget exactly what I switched to. (Nitto? Soma?) I wanted to try out a different…

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer Park Steve AU part 4

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

September

He doesn’t talk to the Munsons much. (Doesn’t talk to anyone, really, aside from his mom and Robin and that one older woman who keeps renting and returning Gone With The Wind as an excuse to leave her house.) He keeps his head down and his nose clean, doesn’t care to make friends with the neighbors; just wants to get by.

One day Eddie approaches their door, waving a gas bill that got mixed up in their mail, and Steve greets him pleasantly enough.

“Stab anyone today?”

“Eat glass, Harrington.”

So it goes.

Steve watches the world pass and the weather turn, lets the hours bleed into weeks and squeezes his eyes shut against the flashbacks when they threaten to overwhelm.

Things with his mom are weird.

They don’t really speak, preferring to shrug their way past each other with careful, tight-lipped nods, and his mom takes these pills the doctor gave her that keep her perfectly pleasant and calm. Silent. Physically present but not really here.

And he can’t imagine how it feels to be her: Florence Harrington, ripped from the comforts of the upper crust and left to rot in a tin can seven miles across town. She spends most of her time letting out weary little sighs as she swans from room to room, drifting like a shade on the banks of the River Styx. (He can make that reference now because Robin won’t shut up about mythology. “It’s so gay, Steve. The Greeks were literally so gay.”)

Anyway.

Shit’s weird with the kids, too. He still drives them around — lets them loiter at Family Video when it’s slow; hangs around when they need a ride to the arcade or the movies or the skating rink; and he’s still on the hook for ‘ice cream. for. life,’ so…

It’s just not the same.

Like. Not to be dramatic, but who the fuck is Steve Harrington without the house and the pool and the free-for-all fridge? Just some kid with a car and a bat and a punchable face. And he can barely afford to keep the car now, anyway, so pretty soon they won’t need him for that, either. They’ll learn to drive; they’ll get their own jobs. Maybe Lucas builds enough muscle to take over as the party tank.

Maybe it’s better if he shelfs himself now before they realize he’s become obsolete.

“Oh, my god, you’re being pathetic,” he groans to himself. His voice is muffled where he’s lying face down on the couch. Ridiculous behavior, because everything is fine; Steve is fine. In the grand scheme of things where there are monsters and melted corpses and all kinds of crazy, horrible shit?

Yeah.

He’s being obnoxious. It’s a lovely sunny Saturday afternoon with just the right Autumn breeze going — gentle but cool; long sleeve polo weather; his favorite kind — and he’s sitting inside throwing himself a pity party.

Fucking absurd.

…Five more minutes.

Just five more minutes, then he’s getting off this couch.

He gets to a minute and a half when he hears the crunch of tires against the gravel, the clanging of a little bell from the handlebar of a bike, and then:

“STEVE!!!”

And that’ll be Dustin, trying to bang the door off the hinges and piss off the whole park at the same time. Kid’s nothing if not a multitasker. Steve lets another aggrieved groan loose into the couch cushion.

His mom’s out with the car; the lights are all off. Maybe he can just play dead ‘til Dustin leaves? He loves the kid, he really does, but his left ear is full of static, and he just wants to fucking sleep. Or sulk. Or both.

“STEVEN CHRISTOPHER, I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.”

Jeeeeesus Christ. “Okay, chill,” Steve grumbles as he hauls himself upright and throws open the front door. His limbs feel like lead; there’s drool on his chin. “Wake the whole goddamn neighborhood, why don’t you?”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, and half the people here work nights.”

“Oh-kayy,” Dustin drags out the word, “but you don’t.”

Ugh. Whatever. He’s not gonna be shamed by a toothless teenager for his depressing loser tendencies. “Did you need something?”

Steve scratches at his belly hair through his shirt, feels a muscle twinge in his shoulder and send a spark of nerve pain skittering up to the base of his skull.

Dustin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Steve’s body is falling apart where he stands, because he just rolls his eyes and says, “Uh, yeah. I need to know why you’re avoiding everyone? Mom’s tried to invite you to dinner six times now.”

“I was working.”

“All six times?” Dustin glares. Steve feels a little pinned by it, feels guilt seeping through the cracks as he fidgets with his bad ear. This kid’s gonna be the scariest lawyer some day. “She’s worried.”

Goddammit.

Guilt squeezes hard behind his ribs; he knows Dustin uses his mom as a mouthpiece for the feelings he can’t express. “I’m fine,” he sighs, letting his eyes and voice go soft. “Honest.”

Dustin holds firm, gaze fierce and fists clenched. “Bullshit,” he insists.

“Man, don’t—”

“Bull. Shit.”

Suddenly, their impromptu interrogation gets interrupted by a crashing drum fill, a shriek of electric guitar as Munson’s van squeals into the lot. He’s blasting some melodramatic metal shit about wizards or whatever; Steve doesn’t know. He only knows that the skitter of nerve pain he felt is ramping up to a fullblown migraine now because this guy has to listen to his racket at full fucking volume, apparently, and isn’t this all just “fucking great.”

—

part 5

[tac-the-unseen]

Lost Boys x Injured Reader

CW: Gang violence, guns, blood, description of unlicensed surgery, minor gore

You and David were by a small brick wall with all of the boys parked bikes. While Marko, Paul, and Dwayne ran around and had fun with each other, you and David stayed behind. David stayed because he was scouting victims, and you stayed behind because you were incredibly tired. You had to work earlier than normal which threw off your whole sleep schedule, and the headache you were sporting wasn't helping either.

Dwayne had already told you how unnecessary it is for you to work. Not only do the guys have a huge amount of money and other values stashed away, you’ll only end up burning yourself out. You however were firm with working, it gave you something to do. While sitting back to never work again sounds like an absolute dream, the sinking pit in your stomach told you otherwise. You felt too lazy. Mix that with anxiety and you swiftly found yourself a job at the local mall.

You laid on top of Dwayne’s bike, the (arguably) most comfortable bike, while humming to keep your mind busy. You cross your arms over the handlebars and use it to cushion your head. Your legs are just short enough to miss the ground, so you swing them back and forth. Your eyes slowly start to close as your mind slips away into a light nap, but that's when your body jolts itself upright. Your body reacts before your brain fully understands what was happening.

Gunshots, several of them.

The fast pops whip through the air, then are quickly followed by more. It's not rare that Santa Carla has a few idiots with guns, but what is rare is a full on shoot out. You see several people running away from the middle of the boardwalk. You watch as they push past each other and you even catch sight of the poors souls that get knocked to the floor. You know those people will be trampled to death by the terrified crowd, but you can't help but briefly think about how horrible that cause of death is. Head trauma, crushed ribs, pierced lungs, snapped neck, all happening to you in a matter of seconds. It's truly a brutal way to go.

David grabs you by the arm and pulls you off Dwayne’s bike and into his chest. David turns himself around to cover you and put you onto his own bike. That's when a sharp, burning pain hits your shoulder. By the time you know what's wrong David has already started his motorcycle and is speeding off. You hissed in pain as the warm California air hits your red, hot, open wound. While David drives you slide off your jacket and press it into the hole in your shoulder. You lean into David's shoulder and bite down onto his leather coat. The stinging pain mixed with the bounce of the trail makes you nauseous, but before you know it, your home.

David wastes no time parking his bike and grabbing you, pulling you into the cave. He runs past the common room, kicking shit out of the way, and sets you into the nest. David is fast, his movements show panic, But oddly enough not his face. He's stone cold, you'd be almost offended if you didn't see the way his pupils are blown wide open. He is panicking, he's just not showing it.

In his haste he grabs some old clothes of his from what you can assume was the 1800’s. Lucky that old thing is clean, you know because you're the one that washed it. He presses the white cotton button up into your shoulders, your body reacts by trying to pull away, but David doesn't let you get far. “Hold still love.” He pleads gently.

You hiss at the touch, Your shoulder burns and stings with a dull throbbing pain. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears while David does his best to stop the bleeding. You're lurched back into reality as someone pulled you into their chest by the waist. You look back to find Paul pulling you in and hastily kissing the back of your head. You look around to see Marko and Dwayne finding more cloth to stuff the wound.

By the four shirt the bleeding slows and your vision is swirling. Dwayne holds your hand and presses kisses into your knuckles while Marko and David are setting up supplies to dig out the bullet and sew you shut. You see them using a lighter to disinfect a pair of tweezers and two needles. Your tears blur you vision so much there's no point in keeping them open.

“I know baby, I know.” Dwayne tries to reassure you, but they all know that's not going to work. You hear footsteps and open your eyes to look up. David is crouching down with the sterile tweezers and you catch the look in his eyes. He's clearly anticipating your reaction, they all know it's not going to be fun.

Paul grabs your other hand and interlaces his fingers with yours, Dwayne is quick to do the same. Another wave of panic shoots through you, while this is an act of love, they're also holding you down.

“Ready?” David says in the most delicate voice you've ever heard from him. You sob out and brace yourself, David knows you're never going to be ready, but has to do this either way.

When he begins digging you're met with what is now the worst pain you've ever been in. Being shit was one thing, this was 10 times more intense. You feel every jab and poke, the pain is nearly indescribable. You seriously would have rather been stabbed.

While you violently sob and scream, Paul and Dwayne hold you down tightly. You legs twist and almost kick David, but Marko was quick to swoop in and pin them down too. With all this chaos David is apologizing with every movement he makes. He shushes you while digging into your bleeding wound until he hits metal.

He slowly drags up the bullet. When the Damned thing is dislodged from your shoulder David quickly packs the wound again. “I'm sorry love, you did such a good job.” He praises while getting up.

They wait until your crying slows and you're no longer trying to kick the air...or Marko. Marko lets go of your legs slowly and stands you. He hurries over to the cabinet and grabs an already threaded needle. “It's not over yet, love.” Paul whispers in an apologetic way. Marko sprays the wound with a disinfectant before he begins his work. David is now the one hugging your legs as Marko gets in close to sew you together. “1…2…3!” Marko says before the needle pierces the lower part of the wound.

Your voice is hoarse from David's previous excursion, but you still manage to hiss and cry. Marko’s work is quick but not sloppy. He too is spewing apologies like a prayer. By the time he's done you've lost all your fight and lay limp and sobbing against Paul's chest.

Marko sprays some disinfectant on your wound and patches you up with cotton pads and a cloth wrapping. As soon as he's down you're pulled into a laying down position by Paul and all four boys start cooing at you.

You're surrounded by purrs and buzzing, praises and kisses, all around you. But that all combines into mindless ringing as you stare up at the ceiling. You still feel the stinging, pinching, and throbbing burn. The thumping of your heart hasn't stopped either, you're still in pain.

Finally your body gives in and your vision fades.

The first sight you're met with is the ceiling. As you blink away the sleep you catch a glimpse of fluffy blonde hair. You turn your head to see Marko asleep and more of Paul's hair. As you come too you realize you're still on Paul's chest. You look to your other side and see both Dwayne and David also asleep.

You gather that it's probably morning and that you probably missed your early work shift. While that thought flies through your head the second one to follow is ‘I’m fucking quitting.’

You slowly wiggle yourself out of your mates arms and the nest, and quietly leave the room. You're still in pain, and the wiggling around you just did wasn't helping, but it was manageable. What really bugs you right now is how thirsty you are. Your body is screaming for water like never before. You guess it made some sense, you did lose quite a lot of blood.

You shuffle over to the living area, in the corner are stacks of water bottles. You remember when you first began staying in the cave how you complained that the cave didn't have any running water. You half jokingly said you'd start bring jugs of water when you stayed over. The next day when you complained of thirst Marko busted open a large crate and pulled out a plastic water bottle with absolute glee. Bastards had waited for you to complain all day so they could show off the water they stole for you.

While making your way to the water supply you hear a similar shuffling behind you. “What are you doing up this early?” you hear Paul's groggy voice behind you. You lean over a grab a bottle, you don't even attempt to talk, you know your voice is gone by the way your throat is still raw. You just hum at him and chug your first bottle.

By the time you reach for your next his arms are around you and gently rocking side to side. You untwist the cap and chug your second bottle. “You're gonna need vitamins and shit.” he grumbles into your good shoulder.

“They’re gonna need more than that.” Another voice murmurs from the dark. You don't have to turn your head to identify David’s voice. “We'll get you plenty tonight, but for now we all need sleep.” He promises in a sleepy tone. You finish your second bottle but your thirst is still unmatched

With Paul holding onto your middle you make grabbie hands at the water stash. David grunts in response but get you your third water. “Finish that and we'll go to bed.” Paul says and kisses the side of your neck.

When you're done you're hauled off to the nest and tucked into place. Dwayne and Marko are just slightly awake and mumbles out incomprehensible words. You're put in-between them with Paul and David quickly to snuggle into your lower half.

Its uncharacteristically gentle of the, but you definitely don't hate it. Even more kisses are pressed into your hips and forehead, as they all settle back into sleep. You too fall under sleeps spell while you plan out what food you're gonna eat when night falls.

The last thing you hear are soft purrs.

Thanks for reading <3

I know it's not the greatest but I have like 5 finals to do. I'm in my last couple of days before I graduate.

[wheeboo]

when we were young | hansol vernon chwe

SYNOPSIS. the three times you and vernon went on a 'friend date' to your favourite places to go back down memory lane, and the one time it became a real one. PAIRING. hansol vernon chwe x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, best friends to lovers WARNINGS. mild cursing, a joke abt murder, playful bickering between them two lmao WORD COUNT. 4.9k

notes: my belated birthday gift to my beloved rachel @bananabubble <3

one.

Ding ding.

"Vernon, wake up, you stupid buffoon!"

The sounds that reaches Vernon's ears are quiet and muffled, but enough for him to rise upright from his bed. A yawn leaves his mouth as he brings his hands up to wipe at his dry, half-lidded eyes, feeling the ache leave his body as he stretches his arms up towards the ceiling.

Ding ding.

As he finds his conscious gradually returning, Vernon turns his attention towards his window, sunlight spilling in between the crevices of his curtains and casting a soft, golden glow across his bedroom. He blinks, feeling the pull of sleep still lingering, but the constant dinging that isn't coming from his phone doesn't give him much time to relish the comfort of his bed.

Ding ding.

Sluggishly, Vernon pushes the curtains squinting as sunlight floods the room more intensely. His eyes adjust, and through the brightness, he spots a familiar figure outside𑁋you. You're perched on your bike at the foot of his driveway, one hand on the handlebars, the other ringing the bell obnoxiously.

A small grin tugs at Vernon's lips as he opens his window and leans out slightly, the cool air hitting his face. Even though you're quite far from him, he can still catch sight of the frown at your face.

"I told you to set an alarm!" You holler out towards him. "I better see you down here in ten minutes sharp or I will tell your sister to lock your door!"

Vernon laughs softly to himself at your threat, shaking his head.

"Alright, alright, chill out,” he calls back, before pulling his back inside and shutting the window, trying to stifle another yawn bubbling out of him.

Ten minutes. That's the ultimatum.

Knowing you, you'd probably follow through on that threat if he didn't hurry up. With that in mind, Vernon moves quickly, grabbing his hoodie off the back of his chair and throwing it on while fumbling for his phone.

After a quick splash of water to his face in the bathroom, he snags his backpack and shoves in a water bottle and a few snacks before bolting out the front door, ignoring his mother's calls towards him to eat some breakfast first. He's barely down the steps when he sees you circling the driveway again like you're about to leave, an eyebrow raised in mock disapproval.

"Only thirty seconds left," You tease, your foot tapping on the pedal.

"You were about to leave," he huffs while grabbing his bike helmet.

You roll your eyes with a teasing smile, stepping up to him to help clip the helmet around his head. Vernon stiffens for a moment as your fingers lightly brush against his chin while adjusting the strap. The closeness catches him off guard, and for a split second, his breath catches in his throat. You don't seem to notice, though, quickly fastening the helmet on his head and stepping back with a satisfied nod.

"There. Now you won't crack your head open," You say, giving a few playful taps to the top of his helmet. "Take this as a lesson learned from now on: never be late to a friend date, or any kind of date for that matter."

Vernon snorts at that. "You sound like my mom."

"Glad I'm a great influence then," You remark, before pushing off with your bike.

Vernon rides after you, the morning air hitting his face and slowly filling his lungs with energy. The neighbourhood still remains quietly at peace, the sun slowly rising in the sky, and he finds comfort in the familiar routine. He follows closely behind you, your laughter ringing out as you ride ahead of him.

"Where are we even going?" Vernon asks as you both round a corner, passing by the little figurine store that the two of you used to frequent at when you were younger.

You simply smile to yourself. "Just one of my favourite spots."

From that, you both continue pedaling through the park that still looks the same even when you were born. Tall trees filter rays of sunlight, casting them gently upon the dirt road your bikes stumble over. It's one of those mornings where everything feels perfect, and the weight of the world seems to lift, if only for a moment.

The two of you then arrive in an open, empty area still surrounded by nature on all of its sides, perfectly hidden away from the paths that cut through the park and from the bustling noises of the town.

Your bike drifts to a stop, with Vernon following suit, and you turn toward him while taking off your helmet with a beaming grin.

"No fucking way." Vernon's eyes widen in surprise. "You fixed it?"

"I did!" You exclaim excitedly. "When you went to Korea last month I took it all into my own hands. She's as good as new."

A small treehouse looms above the two of you, its weathered wood now painted with fresh paint, sturdy frame reinforced with new beams. It stands confident and proud against the clear sky above, and Vernon swears the wave of nostalgia that hits him is unlike anything he's ever felt before.

"I can't believe you actually did it," he says, marvelling at the work you've put into it. "You were so determined when we were kids that you would fix it one day, and I thought you were just being sentimental."

You chuckle at that, a light blush creeping onto your cheeks. "I really wanted to bring it back to life. Besides, it was kind of therapeutic to work on it."

The warmth plaguing your words has Vernon gazing appreciatively at you for a few moments, watching the way your eyes are focused on nothing else then what was once a hidden gem of your childhood. There's a particular warmth spreading within his chest as well that he struggles to name, but it feels nice𑁋too nice, almost.

"Come on, we gotta go up!" You take Vernon by the wrist, startling him out of his thoughts.

The ladder is a bit crooked and unsteady as you climb up together. He follows closely behind, his heart racing not just from the excitement of being back in the treehouse, but also from the adrenaline𑁋the pure happiness𑁋that radiated from your touch, even if it was only brief.

Once you both reach the top, you pull yourself inside first and then help Vernon up, your hands steadying him as he awkwardly maneuvers himself through the opening.

The space is cozy, with enough room for both of you to sit comfortably on the wooden floor. Sunlight streams in through the small windows, casting over the blanket you've already laid out, and a tiny table you had made from reclaimed wood sits in the corner. An unlit string of lights hangs around the walls, waiting for an opportunity to brighten up the space as evening falls.

"Wow," Vernon utters out, peering around the space. It's like stepping back in time, but better. "You went all out, man."

"What can I say? I'm the man of this friendship." You say cheekily, grinning while settling down on the blanket. "I mean, can you believe we used to play here all the time? It still feels like yesterday that we graduated from fifth grade."

Vernon leans casually against the wall behind while unwrapping a chocolate bar and tossing another one towards you. "And we used to think we were the coolest kids in the neighbourhood."

You laugh infectiously at that, and the sound brings a buzz of flutters to his chest, his heart. He glances at you, a little bit taken aback by how easy it is to fall back into the rhythm of your friendship. It's moments like these that make him realise how much he missed this𑁋how much he missed you.

You lay back with him, brushing your shoulder against his. "We were so happy back then, weren't we?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice a tad quieter now. The nostalgia is bittersweet, reminding him of how carefree life used to be. "We were."

For a moment, the air seems to thicken. Vernon glances over at you, your expression contemplative yet hopeful, and he wonders if you're feeling it too.

"Do you think we could ever get back to that?" You suddenly ask, breaking the silence. "Or... has everything changed too much?"

Vernon opens his mouth to respond, but the words get caught in his throat. He's not sure how to answer. He tilts his head, staring at the ceiling of the treehouse, and takes a moment to think. Things have changed𑁋you're both older, life is messier now, and yet here you are, sitting in a treehouse like nothing ever happened, like no time passed between the years.

Something in his chest tightens𑁋something he hasn't quite acknowledged before.

"I hope so," he finally manages, a soft smile playing on his lips. "I really hope so."

two.

"You're telling me you don't remember this place?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," You huff, crossing your arms together and peering around this secluded spot that you're in, which was some sort of creepy ass alleyway between the comic book shop and the laundromat. "I've seen this place on TV, you know, where someone gets murdered."

"I think you should get your brain checked out," Vernon inputs, before crouching on his knees and reaching to get something out of his pocket.

You watch as he takes out a small Ziploc bag of what seems to be snacks, clearly not murder evidence, and opens it up. He grabs one of the snacks and holds it out. You could only stand behind him skeptically, eyeing him with curiosity.

"You're not seriously feeding whatever creature lives in this alley, are you?"

Vernon flashes you a knowing smile, ignoring your comment, and gently calls out, "Here, kitty, kitty."

Then your jaw drops down to the pavement below, and you find yourself kneeling right next to Vernon. There's some movement behind some boxes hidden away in the shadows, and before you can even process what's happening, a scruffy cat emerges. Its fur is matted and dirty, and it looks like it could use a good bath, but there's something endearing yet familiar about its wide green eyes and twitching whiskers.

You turn towards Vernon. "Wait. Is that...?"

"Matilda," he finishes for you, then meets your eyes. "Now you remember, right?"

"I didn't think..." You turn towards Matilda, watching the grey-coloured cat sidle her way up to Vernon and the snacks in his hand. "I didn't think she'd still be here. I remember when we used to come here after school and feed her our leftover sandwiches. She was such a little troublemaker."

"Right?" Vernon chuckles, reaching down to scratch behind Matilda's ears. She purrs loudly, nuzzling against his hand. "I thought she was gone for good. I mean, it's been years."

The memories of your carefree afternoons spent feeding stray animals that roamed the streets come flooding back all at once. You can almost feel the sun on your skin and hear the laughter that accompanied each of those moments. It was such a simple, innocent time.

Leaning in closer, you extend a hand towards the cat with a small smile. Matilda seems to recognise you too, her green eyes widening momentarily before she allows you to pet her.

"She's gotten even fluffier since we last saw her," You add, aimlessly letting your fingers get tangled in her fur.

"Or maybe she just hasn't seen a brush in a while," Vernon jokes, his laughter echoing in the alley. "But she seems happy. I wonder if she remembers us."

You laugh at the thought. "Of course she does. We were her favourite humans, right Matilda?"

Matilda only lets out a soft meow in response, leaning into your touch as if she remembers every moment you shared. A blanket of contentment wraps around you comfortingly, chuckles leaving you and Vernon's lips as Matilda rolls over on her back to expose her belly for a good scratch. Your hands keep moving instinctively, gently brushing over her fur, and for a moment, the world around you fades away.

You nudge Vernon lightly with your shoulder. "Should we make her a house? In case it rains or something?"

Vernon doesn't even take a second to think before grabbing ahold of a box, briefly examining over it for any damage. "How about we start with this?"

"Sure. And we could stop by the store later to buy her some food, maybe a pillow or two?"

"Bet, bet."

The two of you work in comfortable silence as you piece together what could only be described as a makeshift cat house. It's made out of cardboard, but it was better than nothing.

At the corner of your eyes, you notice how focused Vernon appears, cutting small holes for windows while you line the interior with some old newspapers you found. Matilda watches curiously from her spot to the side, occasionally swatting at the scraps of cardboard that fall near her paws, her tail standing up straight in the air.

"Hey, Vernon?" You call out to him.

Vernon redirects his attention toward you, and imperceptibly, there's almost a twinkle of worry in his eyes as he looks up. You nearly forget what you were going to ask𑁋if you're even going to ask anything.

"Yeah?" he questions.

Then all you do is simply grin, shaking your head lowly.

"Nothing."

He narrows his eyes towards you, before letting a smile cross his own face as well.

"Okay." Vernon steps back a little, clapping away the grime that accumulated on his hands. "How does this look so far?"

You step back with him, taking a good look at the cardboard house you and Vernon had just put together. It's rough around the edges, but for something the two of you put together in the middle of a dark and suspicious alley, it looks pretty sturdy.

Even Matilda herself seems pretty satisfied with the final product, already crawling her way into the tiny house with a curious sniff. She circles around the small interior, settling down comfortably on the crumpled newspaper, her tail twitching contentedly as she curls up into a ball.

Then, you turn to Vernon, studying his profile as he gazes down at the little cat house. The familiar curve of his jaw, the way his eyes soften when he's focused on something𑁋it's all so... Vernon. For a moment, you're not just in some random alleyway, but back in those simple afternoons when things were lighter, easier.

"I think she likes it," Vernon coos softly, reaching over to pet Matilda's hand. "Don't you, Matilda?"

Matilda responds with a contented meow, making you and Vernon exchange a set of chuckles.

Later that evening, after the two of you take a quick pit stop at the pet store to buy Matilda some food and setting it for her, along with a small, cozy blanket, you find yourselves strolling down the street of your neighbourhood. The sun has started to set in the horizon, bringing an angelic, orange hue to the skies above.

"I remember you had such an obsession with Matilda after watching the movie," You recall as you teasingly lean your body against Vernon's side.

Vernon rolls his eyes, playfully putting his weight against you as well. "You were the one who was convinced you got telekinetic powers after watching it three times."

"You forced me to watch it!"

"No, I did not!"

Swiftly, you wrap an arm around Vernon, tugging him into lighthearted headlock, ruffling your hand through his hair. Laughs leave both of your mouths as he struggles to wiggle out of your grasp, but you only tighten your grip around him.

"Okay, okay, bro, chill," he manages to say through his laughter, finally breaking free from your grasp and turning to face you, his hair sticking up in all directions.

His cheeks are flushed from the laughter as he tries to tame the disarray on his head. And for a few seconds, you both just stand simply there, breathless and grinning like morons, and there's a pinch of awkwardness that floats in the space between you two, yet it feels so familiar and comfortable.

You used to have worries about you and Vernon drifting apart as life took you both in different directions. But for some reason, a small part of your mind is convinced that no matter how much time has passed, you'll always seem to find your way back to each other. As cheesy as it sounds, it's hard to imagine living throughout your life without a glimpse of him in it.

Somewhere in the background, somewhere in the crevices of your heart, there will always be a place for him to stay.

"First one to the end of the street owes the other a milkshake!"

Before Vernon could even blink, you're already bolting down the road.

"I𑁋You've got to be shitting me, dude!" he exclaims while racing to catch up to you.

three.

"Vernon, I think we should go. It's about to rain𑁋"

"I can't believe they closed it!"

"We're gonna get caught for loitering!"

You pull him by his hoodie, dragging him backwards from the empty building that was once the local arcade you both would venture to after school. It seemed to have closed down and ran out of business some time in the past years, and its faded, graffiti-covered exterior looked nothing like the vibrant, lively place you remembered. Broken windows, boarded up with old planks of wood𑁋it all told the story of abandonment.

Vernon just stares at the building, a dejected look to his features. "Just... remember how much fun we had here? And now it's all gone."

You do remember. You remember everything𑁋the colourful flashing lights, the sound of buttons being mashed in unison, the smell of greasy fries from the snack bar and spilled milkshakes on the floor, the way you and Vernon would challenge each other to every game in the room. You'd spend hours trying to beat each other's high scores on Dance Dance Revolution until your legs gave out from exhaustion, or battling one another on Street Fighter until your fingers cramped, laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

"Yeah," You mutter, glancing back at the broken windows. "I remember."

Vernon doesn't say anything for a moment, just keeps looking at the building like he's trying to hold on to the memories before they slip away completely. Eventually, he exhales and turns away, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

Above, the sky has seemed to darken quite significantly. Vernon kicks a pile of sticks in his path and watches as they scatter clumsily across the pavement in all sorts of directions. You look over to him.

"Are you okay?" You ask.

"Yeah," he says, but the thin line that forms to his lips doesn't quite match his answer.

"You don't have to pretend around me, you know," You tell him softly. "It's okay to miss it. I miss it too."

You notice the way his shoulders droop slightly, and you bump your shoulder into his to grab his focus.

"We still have the memories we made in there. Those will always be ours," You explain to him with a wistful look. "There's still plenty of time in the world to make more."

His gaze drops to the ground, but you can see a spark of something𑁋hope? Maybe even longing?𑁋flicker in his eyes. "You make it sound so easy."

"It is easy," You prod lightly, yet affirmatively. "We're making new memories. Like now."

"Now?" He casts a glance towards the empty street and the shrouded sky. "We're walking down an ugly road, and it's about to storm."

A sudden boom of thunder claps in the distance, making you jump a little. Raindrops start to fall down to the ground below, beginning to land on top of your head and dampening spots on your shirt. You exchange a brief look with Vernon, and before any one of you could say anything, you're running down the street.

Vernon might never understand your sudden bursts of energy and probably never will, however he takes off after you. There's this surge of worry that courses through him that you'll be sick the next day if you get soaked.

"Y/N, wait up!" he yells out after you, shielding his hands from the rain landing on his face.

You dart down the sidewalk, splashing through puddles and dodging the splattering raindrops, feeling as if you're in a scene straight out of a movie. The rain begins to pour down even harder, soaking your hair and clothes, but you don't care. You're alive, and so is this moment.

Every step you take makes laughter bubble up from somewhere deep within you, spilling over and blending with the sound of the rain. But just as the thrill of it all reaches its peak, you notice Vernon lagging behind, his expression shifting from exhilaration to worry.

"Y/N!" he shouts again. "You're going to get soaked!"

You look back and see him running, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his hoodie completely drenched from the rain. The sight is endearing and oddly captivating. You slow down a little, letting him catch up as you both take a moment to catch your breath.

"Come on, let's go find some cover." You take him by the wrist and lead him towards a nearby overhang, its metal roof jutting out like a protective arm from the side of a small convenience store.

Vernon leans against the wall and wipes his face down with his sleeves, while you shake off the water like a dog. He can't help but chuckle.

"I hope you know that you're fucking insane," he says casually, voice coming out in puffs as he attempts to catch his breath.

"Maybe a little," You say as you lean on the wall right next to him, the two of you finding yourselves gazing out at the falling rain all around you. "But you still put up with me."

Vernon faintly smiles at that, letting out a sigh. "Unfortunately."

Some silence passes as the two of you stare out into the rain together, a singular light fixture brightening the area around the overhang the two of you are standing under. Even if the world was crashing down loudly, the quietness that settles in the space between you and Vernon is comforting.

You let your eyes drift to Vernon, taking him in for a few seconds, noting the way his hair clings cutely to his forehead and the way his cheeks glisten from the droplets running down his face.

"You know," You start, a thoughtful tone to your voice. "there were a lot of chances for you to leave."

Vernon turns to you, a bit puzzled. "What?"

"Like, you could've, you know... stopped being friends with me for whatever reason at any point in time," You continue, voice growing softer. "But you never did."

His tongue feels too tied together to think of a proper response to that, so he just settles with a quiet, "Oh."

"Why?"

Vernon blinks at you, caught off-guard by your question. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his damp hair, letting out a soft laugh that almost sounds nervous.

"I don't know," he simply answers, and when he turns to meet your eyes with you this time, you refuse to acknowledge how you've always wanted to say how beautiful they are to look at𑁋how beautiful he is to look at. "I guess I never wanted to."

four.

A deep breath that almost resembles a snore makes you lightly kick Vernon in the leg with your knee.

"Ow," he squeaks out, shooting his eyes back open to glance at you. "What was that for?"

"You were falling asleep," You mutter out, before resting your head back on the hard surface your body was sprawled upon.

You don't exactly know what time it is because you left your phone back inside Vernon's house to charge. Vernon's own phone was resting right by his head, playing calming tunes that float up into the cool, night air, yet the boy himself appeared too relaxed and unbothered to check the time either.

Both of you are lounging in the open trunk of the truck in his driveway, the tailgate down as your legs nearly dangle off the edge. You lie side-by-side, staring up at the night sky through the thinning clouds. A few stars peek out, twinkling faintly, and the world around you feels like it's at complete peace, as if there was no such thing daring to disturb it.

You even allow yourself to close your eyes for a few moments, letting the peacefulness of the night wash over you. It feels like one of those nights that stretch on forever, where time doesn't seem to matter, and you could stay like this for hours without a care in the world.

"Vernon?"

"...hm?"

"Can I pick your brain for a moment?"

Beside you, his chest rises and falls slowly. "Shoot."

"When I said we should have friend dates to our favourite places, I didn't think the trunk of your mom's car would be one of them."

Vernon lets out a soft chuckle at your comment, his hand lazily reaching up to rub his eyes. He props himself up for a minute to check the time and skip the song that was playing on his phone, before laying back down right next to you. He doesn't give an answer right away, the silence easing its way between you again, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels easy, familiar, the way it always does with Vernon.

You don't notice the small, amused smile that plays on his lips as he gazes back up at the twinkling sky again.

"I probably could have thought of somewhere better, huh?" he muses lightly as he stretches out his limbs, his arm brushing against yours. "Sorry."

"It's okay," You reassure him. "But seriously, is this one of your favourite places?"

You swear you could hear him pondering the question, can even visibly see the way contemplation flows over his features as he stares upwards, even if you weren't exactly looking at him. There's a nervous stutter to your own heart as you wait for his response.

"Nah," he finally answers. "Not at all."

You click your tongue at that. "Okay... so why are we here? Let's go to another one of your favourite places, please."

But Vernon only refuses to move. "I'm already in it."

The confusion hits you even more, forcing you to sit up and look at him with a teasing, annoyed expression. However, Vernon doesn't budge from his spot, simply taking the moment to find a bit of delight at how you look so perplexed.

"Gosh, maybe you should sleep. You're not thinking clearly." You jab a playful, threatening finger in his direction, but he just laughs it off airily, carrying enough warmth to make you drop your head back down.

"I'm thinking just fine, thank you," he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. His eyes flicker to yours for a brief moment before they return to the sky. "You just haven't figured it out yet."

"Figured what out?" You feel a slight twinge of impatience, but mostly curiosity. His cryptic tone is starting to mess with you.

Vernon exhales slowly, as if whatever is inside him is anticipating coming out any second. He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a soft smile. "You asked if this is one of my favourite places, right?"

You nod, trying to read the expression on his face, but Vernon keeps his gaze on the stars, his words floating out into the calm night air as smoothly as the music playing beside him.

"It's not the trunk that makes it my favourite." He pauses, then glances at you, appearing a bit unsure of his next words, before adding, "It's because of you. Wherever you are... that's my favourite place."

You blink rapidly, trying to process his words. He looks back up at the sky, like it's the most natural thing in the world to admit, and that familiar stillness settles between you again. Only this time, the air that you breathe into your lungs is a bit more heavier than before. But it's not painful𑁋not even close𑁋it's quite the opposite, actually. Relieving, even.

"Vernon, I..." You start, but the words stick to your tongue. "You really mean it?"

Vernon huffs another deep breath, still fixated on the sky above.

"Yeah," he states. "It's simple, really."

Your mind can barely comprehend everything he's just said, or everything he's said to you up to this point. It's even harder to put it to actual words.

So you choose to lay back down next to him, placing yourself down beside him. Your arm momentarily touches his, but you don't pull it away; instead, your let your hand drift a little, until you feel the slightest, most unnoticeable touch of his pinky finger against yours. You don't go any farther than that. Not right now, at least.

"Vernon?"

"Mhm?"

"Is this... still a friend date?"

Some thoughtful silence passes. You hold your breath. Vernon shifts his face to look over at you.

"Do you want it to be?"

Another round of silence rolls over.

"No," You confess quietly, almost like a whisper.

Vernon only blinks once, before exhaling softly and bringing his gaze back up at the stars, which seemed to have gotten brighter.

"Okay."

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[miguelhugger2099]

Punk!Miggy using Pastel!Reader’s hair ribbons as handlebars as he takes her doggy style 🤭🤭🤭

me when i’m NOT TAKING REQUESTS but the miggy simps discord server went ballistic with the punk!miguel headcanons (you KNOW who u r) 🫵

You were too soft for him, too sweet, it was intoxicating. Miguel loved to look at you when fucking you. Normally he did missionary, the sight of your face moaning and teary eyed from his cock was better than any position he could’ve put you in. If not missionary, then at least any position where he sees every single reaction.

So far, because of your inexperience, you never really asked him of anything kinky except now.

At first, you came to him shyly. It’s already a few minutes into making out, his ringed fingers bumping against your swollen folds as he curls them inside you. Miguel always preps you first, easing you open for his girth to slip inside.

But you stop him with a hand on his chest. “Wait, can we…” You lick your lips, your cherry lipgloss smeared off you and transferring it onto his lips. “I-I wanna do something different. Try something different.”

Miguel cups your chin between his thumb and index finger and gives it a little squeeze. “Of course. Que quieres, mi muñeca?”

He expected you wanted some more praise, you did love his sweet talking. Or maybe even some extra foreplay on your wet cunt, you always creamed earlier than normal when the ball of his pierced tongue lapped up inside you.

He’s pleasantly surprised when you’re on your knees, arching your ass up with your head turned over you shoulder. His cold silver bracelets graze your ass as he gropes the flesh in his hand. You feel his jewelry run down your back and stopping at the nape of your neck. It makes you arch higher, presenting yourself to him like it was the first time.

The new angle is heavenly and it’s much easier to roll his hips in thorough strokes, slowly becoming used to the sight of your ass jiggle when you back up on him. His hands grip your hips, pushing you on and off his cock while he rolls up, stuffing you and feeling your slick coating his balls with each plap, plap, plap.

For you, your knees shake, body weak when he decides to start slow—like always—to tease you. His tip hits your walls and your pussy pulses and clench when you tighten around his throbbing vein. You desperately want to go faster but Miguel keeps you at his pace, enjoying the view of your body jerking forward, eyes half lidded against the pillow.

Today, your hair is in pigtails, your usual signature white ribbons tied to the scrunchies tied in your locks.

An idea lights up in his mind, his cock twitching with agreement. Miguel reaches forward to grab a pigtail, tugging the white ribbon along with it, and pulls your head up and back. You gasp and quickly set yourself straight with your palms on the sheets, neck bent backwards as he pulls you back. A whimper escapes your lips, pussy fluttering in excitement—which he notices.

“Oh, you like that?”

Your body arches, ass slamming against his pelvis as he makes you feel him, securing his hand around your hair. Fingers curl into the sheets and your arms are tense to keep yourself upright while he ruts into you.

Eyes rolled back and your moans are stuttering since he makes quick and hard thrusts against your body. Each rough fuck makes your tits swing that makes you wail in embarrassment and arousal.

He grunts and pants heavily as he’s overcome with desire. The pretty bows compared to the whore like position you wanted to try- your pretty makeup smearing down your cheeks from the pain of his pulling and the pleasure of his cock ravaging you in a new area. One that directly hits your spot to make you cum.

You scream and shudder, body tensed and weary from being used from behind. You need a minute to catch your breath, to process after trying something new but Miguel holds you up.

His hand is practically glued to your pigtail and when he feels you falter forward, he drags you back up again and keeps pumping. He hears you babbling and crying, whining about your sensitivity but he feels you. Your body is sucking him in deeper, your body can’t lie to him.

Miguel becomes addicted, adding his new favorite way to fuck you. He can never look at your pigtails the same way again. Not when you moan so prettily, forcing your mouth open by yanking your head back and seeing the way your white ribbons flail around while your cunt gushes around him, body bouncing on his cock.

A/N: i hope i described it as well as i wanted to i was stuck in the mental image of it all 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[melodic-haze]

☆ — DEMO TRACK: bottom!Robin (HSR) x top!Reader

☆ — GENRE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Semi-public sex (it's in a venue green room), reader has a cock/strap

Can't believe that my first post is Robin thirst (I say that when my acc theme is literally her 💀) but I REALLY can't stop thinking about fucking her in her private dressing room LOL

Like imagine she calls you in or smth as a form of "distraction" from "pre-performance jitters" with both of you knowing FULL WELL that she isn't nervous in the least. She's even acting the part: her eyebrows furrowed, a hand lightly tugging on the fabric of your clothes as she's asking you to stay with her

"I don't think I'd be able to get out there and sing without your help." Her eyes look at you as if she were pleading, though you've spent enough time with the singer that you easily spot the tiniest glimmer in that alluring sea of green, "Won't you care to stay a little while longer..?"

Doesn't really take long for it to go from simply talking and hanging out to bending her over on the table. All it took was a squeeze here, a graze there, and suddenly neither of you can keep your hands off each other

Could be that she's laying down on her back, legs spread and on your shoulders as you move your fingers in her to find that sweet spot that has her singing your favourite song made just for you on the fly. Could be that she's facing down as you use her wings as handlebars to keep her upright and she can see herself and her perfect image get absolutely RUINED and railed by none other than you on the mirror and her insides just clench at the sight

Her appearance is absolutely MESSED THE FUCK UP right now (the hair and makeup people are Stressing) but Robin really can't bring herself to care. Not when her brain's gone to who knows where. All that's important right now is chasing that high until she--

You hear a somewhat urgent knock on the door, your efforts stuttering at your moment's intrusion, "Miss Robin? We need to set you up in five."

You don't see or hear your pretty little angel respond, though judging by the dazed-out look on her face it's clear that.. well, it's not as if she's so dazed out that she can't begin to process the current events—it's more like she doesn't want to process it.

Apparently whoever it was didn't take the hint because the staff's voice rang past the door once again, "Miss Robin? Are you there?"

You eventually see her sigh resignedly, her eyebrows furrowed genuinely this time as she cleared her throat and answered awkwardly, putting all her strength into making sure she doesn't sound like some fucked-out mess.

"Yes, I'm fine! I'll be there on time," she let out a seemingly good-natured laugh to sell the charade, though the corners of her mouth twitched the slightest bit.. before she bit her lip as she slowly grinded herself on you. "Though careful there—worry like that and-- mm.. I might think you like me."

You hear the staff member stutter past the door before footsteps begin to scurry away. With the way your lover was just moving, you'd have thought that she wanted to continue.. but she pushes herself off of you and pulls up her panties with a small apologetic smile.

She tells you that as much as she really wanted to continue, she shouldn't. She has a job to do, and being late or skipping on a show just wouldn't do! She promises to finish things with you when she's done, and that promise comes in the form of cleaning her slick off of you and leaving a lingering kiss.. before asking you to help her with getting her appearance back to looking AT LEAST presentable LMAOOOO

It takes you both more than five minutes and the staff are baffled but it's not like you can explain it 😭😭 so have fun with the scrutinising stares 🫶

Robin's got better self-control than me I would've died if I had to perform while bricked the fuck up LOL. But trust me when I say that it's worth it when she gets off the stage and she pounces at you and begs you to finish what you started bc she deserves it as a reward after a hard day of work, right?

[maiiuelle]

˚❀˚

thinking about riding around on the back of rafe’s motorcycle <3

at first, it’s a hard no.

you just hopped out of his f-150, and the bike’s shiny red paint catches your eye. “rafe?”

“hm?” he rounds the truck, fixing his backwards cap as he makes his way over to you.

“you never told me you have a bike.”

you smile giddily, mind racing with the thought of how good he must look riding it. it’s hot that he can maintain his upscale exterior while feeding into your bad boy fantasies. you’re almost upset he didn’t mention it. rafe tongues his cheek, shrugging like it’s nothing special. “okay, so?”

you deflate, sputtering and motioning your arm at the bike dramatically. “so, we should go on a ride sometime.”

he squints at you in disbelief, not expecting you to be so excited by a motorcycle. “yeah—no. you know how dangerous that is, baby?” he laughs, slinging an arm over your shoulders. “cant even go on the shitty fair coasters and you wanna go on a ride?”

“don’t be mean, rafe.” you pout, and he just rubs your arm sweetly, still smiling at his own joke.

“m’not mean, just lookin’ out for you.” he turns you away, but your eyes linger on the bike, genuinely disappointed.

things change when he gets a text from you late one night a few weeks later, his phone screen reading:

"rafee whrer are u?"

"pickme uup? :) pls"

he's been waiting for this text all night. he told you not to go to this stupid party on the cut, but your friends insisted you couldn't miss it. the whole island already thinks he’s a psycho (including your friends), and he wouldn't confirm that by being overly controlling. he played along.

still, he was having a hard time knowing you were out drunk and alone. the few hours since you left were spent impatiently tapping his foot and staring at business emails he couldn't focus on. his blood was boiling at the thought of some pogue trying to talk to you. your invitation for rescue was exactly what he needed. the only problem is that ward took the pickup this morning, going on some impromptu trip to the bahamas and leaving the truck at the airstrip for his return. his only option is to zip over there on his bike. and that’s what he does!

he tears through the side of the island, pushing the throttle as far as it'll go to the cut.

he pulls up to the boneyard in record time, kicking his bike to stand and unlatching his helmet before following the booming music to the beach. he wouldn't be caught dead here on his own accord, and this reminds him exactly why. drunk teenagers sprawl the entire beach, most congregating around a raging bonfire. it doesn't take him long to find you lingering toward the treeline, your friends nowhere to be seen. he flips his keyring around his finger as he approaches you, then stuffs his hands in his pockets. you meet him with a sour look at first, glassy eyes squinted as you try to recognize who it could be, but you melt once you realize it's him.

"rafey!" you exclaim, shuffling through the sand with a dopey drugged-up smile. he meets you halfway, bringing an arm around your shoulders to pull you in. you happily attach yourself to his side, using his torso to stay upright. "missed you so much.”

"you good? the fuck did you take?" he chuckles, looking down and taking note of how low the neckline of your tank top is.

“jus’ some drinks, nothing good.”

“yeah—yeah, good.”

you slip your hand into his, and he wastes no time starting to drag you off the beach. you dont protest, your brain going blank now that he’s here. he pulls you up to the road, and the second your eyes land on the familiar red coloring of his bike, you’re ecstatic.

“you brought it!” you shout, covering your mouth after with a giggle.

“alright, yeah—relax.” he tries to bite back a smile, not wanting to be so obvious about going against his own word. he grabs his helmet from where it’s hanging on the handlebar, unclipping the chin strap and approaching you again. “c’mere, you’re gonna need this.”

you inch closer obediently, looking up at him with doe eyes as he secures the black helmet over your head, pulling on it to make sure it’s secure and tightening the strap. you feel like you’re dreaming, afraid to say anything and somehow change his mind about the whole situation. he knocks on the helmet, his gold ring clinking on the plastic and rattling your head. “feel good? you ready?”

all you can do is nod, the helmet’s weight helping. “m’ready.”

next thing you know, you’re out on the open road. the cut is so beautiful at night, it’s further away from the mainland so it’s easier to see the stars. you’re pressed into rafe’s back, the cheek of the helmet resting between his shoulder blades as you admire them. your arms are around his middle, hands clasped together tight like he told you to. without thinking you let your hands fall to his lap, and when the wind wrinkles the fabric, you slip your chilled hands underneath. lost in your own little world, you can’t help but feel him up a little bit, his abs warm under your gentle touch.

he doesn’t say a thing, only slowing to a stop at a red light. without warning, he curls his fingers under the chin of the helmet, tugging roughly so your chest smacks into his back. your neck pulls over his shoulder, and satisfied giggle falls from your lips. he him pulls on it again. “what do you think you’re doin? huh?”

"nothing!” you whine, pulling your hands off his torso innocently. “s’just cold!”

“cold. sure.” he tugs again to cement his warning, the light turning green and saving you from any further interrogation. for now. “think i can help you out with that back at the house, yeah?”

˚❀˚

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

HIII can u do the prompt number 5 for floyd pls :D (romantic)

Also i saw that you eanted ppl to put 2 backup characters and prompts so my backup characters are lilia and leona and my backup prompts are the fairytale scene and the taste of salt :D (also romantic)

Take ur time and ty ! 😍

Tandem Bike; Floyd Leech

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, established relationship

Content Warning; Swearing(?), semi-serious mortal peril /hj

Word Count; 650+

Author's Note; I hope you know how to ride a bike, cuz Floyd is no help in the matter! Hope you enjoy!

As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Floyd,” you gulped, looking down the hill.

Floyd laughed behind you on the tandem bicycle, and you could feel the bike reverberate from it. “Ehhh, are ya scared?~” 

You dug your heels into the ground, making sure that the both of you wouldn’t end up going down the hill without knowing where you were going. The last thing you needed was to hit a pothole or a big enough rock and end up getting hurt. “Not scared,” you huffed, “just thinking.”

Floyd rolled his eyes, “We’ll just be up here all day then! Come on, Shrimpy.” He nudged your feet, but you dug your feet in further, cementing the bike into place. Floyd sighed and slumped his head on your shoulder. “You were the one that wanted to ride this thingy, but now you’re gettin’ cold feet about it?”

You took in a deep breath. Yes, it was your idea to take the cute tandem bike you found in the shed out for a spin, but your cycling partner had never ridden a bike before, and you also didn’t want to crash. “Just give me a minute, okay.” You clenched your hands on and off the brakes.

Floyd just looked at you curiously, before a wild smile took over his face. And when you eased up on the brakes again, he pushed you both forward. “Minute’s up!~”

And down the hill you went. Being angry could wait for later, as your main concern was making sure you were both staying upright and avoiding the aforementioned potholes and rocks. Floyd was cackling behind you, helping you steer a bit, but mainly just enjoying the wind wiping up his hair and watering up his eyes. And eventually, you started slowing down, coming to a more manageable pace that didn’t leave your hands clenching for dear life on the handlebars. But once you came to a complete stop you exploded in laughter; a mix of relief that you hadn’t died, of pure joy, and the infectious cackle that was coming from behind you.

“See, Shrimpy! That was fun,” Floyd poked you in the back. 

You got off the bike, legs a bit shaky from the adrenaline. “Yeah, it was a little bit fun.” Wait, I'm supposed to be mad at him! You could never stay mad at him for very long though.

Well, gravity is a thing, a thing that Floyd was not accounting for, and he wasn’t supporting the bike up, so he and the bike tumbled to the ground. And instead of sulking, he just laughed and got right back up.

“Wanna go again?~ This time I’ll steer!” He laughed, and hugged you, squeezing you gently.

You let out a long sigh, decompressing. “No, absolutely not,” you pushed against him slightly so you could put your hands on his shoulders.

Floyd pouted, “You’re no fun ya know.” There was no bite, he was just being pouty since he was planning on making you shriek as you both had no idea where you were going, but downhill, and downhill fast.

You hummed, kissing his cheek to bring him out of the dour mood. “And you’re no fun if you can’t go on little adventures with me. Can’t do that if we crash on that cursed thing,” you pointed your chin at the bike.

Floyd looked briefly at the bike before turning his attention back to you. “Okay, okay, okay, I got the memo, Shrimpy…” He placed a quick kiss and bite on your lips before pulling back with a wink, taking a look at his handy work. 

You could feel the slight sting. His bite wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood, but it was enough to make them puffy. “Are you proud of your handiwork?” 

“Mhm!~” Floyd pressed another kiss to your lips, but this time it was gentle, soothing the stinging sensation.

And you bit his lip back, deciding that you deserved some sweet vengeance.

Floyd pulled back, and the shocked look on his face turned into pure glee and he was doubled over laughing again. “Damn, Shrimpy! I should do that more often!~”

Wait, what?

~~~~~~~

Tags: @azulashengrottospiano, @eynnwwyjth, @hydra-sea, @identity-theft-101, @krenenbaker, @officialdaydreamer00, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @xxoomiii

[duuhrayliegh]

I NEED MORE BARTENDER BUCKY I NEED HIM TO TAKE READER ON THAT DATE WAAAAH

AAAAAHHHH I DO TOO dw love bartender!bucky won’t stop obsessing over peanut. he keeps planting different thoughts and ideas in my head like he’s in inception or some shit. HOWEVER because you asked so ENTHUSIASTICALLY i’m going to give everyone a little sneaky sneak:

if you haven't read consequences yet, check it out here before reading the preview of part two!!!

“Sorry, Buck. I just—“ you trail off, not entirely sure how to handle yourself.

“Don’t worry about it, Peanut Butter.” You laugh softly at the lengthier version of your nickname while he continues talking. “Look, how about we meet somewhere so we can talk?”

“Aren’t you working tonight though? I can just come to the bar.”

No matter how appealing Bucky’s offer is, you don’t want him to risk his livelihood for you. You aren’t worth that, not really.

“Not anymore, Pea. You’re more important to me. The guys here can handle the bar while I leave to take care of my Ps and Qs.”

You giggle again, unsure of where he comes up with these iterations.

“There she is.”

The words are murmured low, as if he was just speaking to himself. As if it’s a remark not meant for public consumption, just for his adoration.

“There’s a little hole in the wall on 115th and North. It’s called Winnie’s. Meet me there and you can talk for however long they’re serving coffee.”

"Don't diners always serve coffee?"

"They sure do. And Winnie's is a 24-hour diner. Which means," There's a loud shuffle on his end of the phone and then his voice cuts through. "you can talk to me for as long as you want, Peanut."

"Thank you, Bucky." You aren't as loud as you meant to be, but you know he hears you when he hums before you end the call.

******

His feet rest on the ground beside the bike, holding it upright while it rumbles idly. Bucky leans back into you, his hands moving from the handlebars to your thighs. He traces the skin that's exposed by the rips of your jeans. The loose material allows just enough space for his fingers to burrow beneath and trace meaningless patterns into your skin.

Butterflies make themselves known in the pit of your stomach, along with another slightly less prominent heat building at his touch on your skin.

"We're almost there, Peanut Brittle." Bucky's voice is melodic through the microphone. You could fall asleep listening to him read a phone book.

The bike thunders to life again as Bucky releases the clutch. More buildings fade as he continues to steer the two of you down the less traveled streets.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere fun!"

He laughs at your little groan. Surprises aren't necessarily your favorite thing, but if it's Bucky, maybe it'll be tolerable.

[wizardofrozz]

hihihi 🥹

Could I please request a slightly custom prompt? 😂

“That was…”

“Yeah.”

With the addition of exceptionally tender hands? 😂🙈 just the most fulfilling fluffaroni ever?

Withhhhh… hmm… ah man, Hunter has me in a hold since my spicy dream last night. 😜 So it’s gotta be him!

Thank you so much and as alllllways, feel free to ignore!! 💙

The First of Many

Sergeant Hunter x GN!reader, mention of Tech and Omega

Word Count: ~1.4k

Warnings: mention of violence, slight angst but mostly just fluff

A/N: Thank you for the request Free! ❤️ I got a little carried away with this one but I'm not even sorry lmao. I hope you enjoy my silly Hunter fluff 🥺🖤

Wind whipped against your face as you jerked the speeder hard to the left, just barely dodging the shot from behind. Hunter grunted, the sudden movement throwing him forward enough to knock his chest against your back. 

“Careful!” he snapped, twisting around to fire a few shots at the troopers tailing you.

“Oh sorry, I’ll just let us get shot next time,” you yelled over the wind, swerving to avoid another speeder. The farther you got from the city’s main road, the narrower the streets got, forcing you to make sharper turns that threatened to toss you and Hunter off the speeder. Losing the imperial squad was proving harder than you anticipated.

“We can’t outrun them,” Hunter warned, pressing closer to your back. It took every ounce of willpower to keep your mind on escaping instead of the warmth of his chest against you. He wasn’t wearing his armor, an attempt at blending in, and feeling his body shifting against you through two thin layers was maddening. 

“Any ideas?” You leaned to your right, prompting Hunter to do the same, forcing the bike almost on its side and you managed to only graze the small stand on the side of the street. You threw your weight the other way, leveling the speeder out again, and glanced down at the map displayed on the bike's dashboard. Hunter leaned forward, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder, forcing you to suppress a shiver. Was he trying to kill you??

“Take the next right. Stay close to the left side of the street,” he ordered, finally leaning away. It felt like you could breathe a little easier and hoped your harsh exhale didn’t sound as strained as it felt. Making the turn took a little more finesse than you had expected, causing the back of the speeder to bounce off the building on the corner. Luckily, Hunter didn’t complain, already too focused on the supply truck parked on the side of the road. 

You yelped, fighting to keep the speeder upright when Hunter suddenly leaned to the left, grabbing at a crate near the bottom of the stack. You automatically twisted the throttle hard, pushing the speeder to its limit to outrun the toppling stack of crates. The angry shouts from behind you startled a laugh from you, some of the tension draining out of your shoulders but Hunter was still just as tightly wound behind you.

“Not in the clear yet,” he warned, craning to look over your shoulder again. “Make a sharp left up ahead. We need to lose the bike and the Imperials.” You blinked a few times before turning your head, stopping yourself from flinching when you realized how close Hunter’s face was. You didn’t get a chance to ask what the hell he was thinking though. “Now.” 

Your body acted on instinct, banking hard to the left. One of Hunter’s arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place when you nearly slid off the seat, while the other reached for the brake. You tried to keep your arms straight but the forward momentum sent you into the handlebars, Hunter’s added weight at your back making it harder to stop the mental from knocking the wind out of you. 

“Thanks for the warning,” you wheezed, trying to ignore the entirety of Hunter’s body pressing into your back. 

“Complain later,” he huffed, sliding off the speeder. Although, he paused to help you climb off the bike. You glanced around the alleyway, orienting yourself as you staggered for a moment, the ground still seeming to move under your feet. “Help me.” 

“Grab that tarp,” you whispered harshly, pointing at a pile of garbage over his shoulder. The power cell whined as you shut the bike off, shoving a few bags under the back end, hoping to make it blend in a bit better. You looked over at Hunter with a desperate expression but he seemed as calm as ever, offering a tight nod. 

“Come on.” His skin was warm when he grabbed your hand, partly dragging you toward the street again. You nearly slammed into his back when he stopped suddenly, cursing quietly under his breath. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was wrong.

“How many?” you whispered, trying to see around his broad shoulders. 

“Too many,” he mumbled, shooing you deeper into the alleyway. Time was running out and you frantically looked for anywhere to hide as the thump of boots grew louder. Hunter started to protest when you basically dragged him down the alley but his mouth quickly snapped shut when your back hit the side of the building, pulling him as close as possible. The large generator just barely concealed the two of you but paired with the dim lighting, it might just work. 

It felt like each of the troopers’ footfalls resonated through your bones, your breathing coming out harsh and fast. You jumped when a hand, hesitantly, rested on your waist, Hunter’s thumb mindlessly brushing over your last rib. 

“Hey,” he whispered, drawing your attention. He was so close, each of his inhales pushing his chest into yours. Oddly enough, it gave you something to focus on, syncing your own ragged gasping with his slow, measured breathing. “There ya go.” 

You tried to find his eyes but they were glazed over as he strained to sense his surroundings and you took the opportunity to admire him. The stray strand of hair that always flopped over his bandana swayed in the light breeze. The dim lights made his tattoo look darker, more menacing, although not to you; you followed the line of ink that curved along his cheek, down to the corner of his mouth. The corner of Hunter’s mouth lifted, making your cheeks burn as you darted your eyes back to his. 

“C - clear?” Hunter didn’t answer, his eyes softening as they flickered around your face. You didn’t miss the way they linger on your mouth before his lips parted, his tongue poking out briefly. The small space between you and him felt heavy, the tension stretched taut like it might snap at any second. 

Then Hunter inched closer, his eyes never leaving yours. A shiver danced across your skin and without your permission, your head tilted forward. Hunter gently squeezed your waist as your nose bumped against his, startling you back to reality. A reality you were not going to miss out on. 

Hunter’s lips were warm and a little dry but you melted anyway. He sighed through his nose, sending another shiver down your spine. You rested your hand over his heart, a little surprised to feel it hammered against your palm and it relieved some of the nerves bouncing around in your stomach. Hunter broke the kiss, letting out a shaky exhale as he rested his forehead against yours. The gesture brought a small smile to your lips.

“That was…” You were lost for words, still a little stunned that it had even happened. 

“Yeah,” Hunter laughed softly, mindlessly rubbing your side. A small smile spread across your face as you brushed your thumb in a slow arc over his heart, admiring the pleased rumble that vibrated through his chest. 

“I-”

“Havoc 1, do you copy?” The voice was quiet but you and Hunter still jumped, glancing down at his pocket. Hunter leaned back, narrowing his eyes at the end of the alleyway before pulling the com out. 

“Havoc 2, I read you,” Hunter huffed, sounding a bit exasperated and it made you snicker under your breath. 

“Wonderful. If you are quite finished fondling our travel companion, I would like to proceed with the extraction.” Your mouth dropped open as Hunter’s eyes widened; you glanced around the narrow alleyway, spotting the surveillance camera off to your left, and rolled your eyes. Hunter sputtered for a moment, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. He opened his mouth to reply but another, softer voice cut him off.

“What's fondling?” 

“Nothing, Omega,” Hunter rushed out, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just send rendezvous coordinates.”

“Sending coordinates,” Tech replied sounding infuriatingly smug. Hunter ended the call with a huff, shoving the com back in his pocket and you were fighting to keep your laughter under control. 

“Siblings are great, aren’t they?” you giggled, sliding your hand up to the side of Hunter’s neck.

“No, they aren’t.” You laughed a little louder this time and Hunter’s expression softened. 

“We should go,” you sighed, the smile never leaving your face. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hunter mumbled but he didn’t pull away immediately. His lips found yours again in a quick kiss that made your stomach flutter. When Hunter finally took a step back he didn’t break contact for long, holding his hand out to you. Your cheeks warmed as you threaded your fingers with his, squeezing his hand reassuringly. 

The walk back to the Marauder was quick and blessedly uneventful but you couldn’t seem to force the smile off your face.

Ragu list:

@a-single-tulip @wings-and-beskar @anxiouspineapple99 @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @starrylothcat @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @trixie2023 @wolffegirlsunite @clonemedickix @sev-on-kamino

[scrollonso]

Thank You — Strollini

The sun was high over Vale’s ranch, its golden rays beating down on the sprawling landscape. Dust floated in the air, kicked up by the bikes that roared across the dirt track. The heat was intense, making the earth dry and cracked, but the academy riders were unfazed. They were in their element, cutting through the sweltering afternoon with the precision and confidence of those born to ride. The track was their playground, each twist and turn a familiar challenge they eagerly embraced. Laughter rang out above the growl of engines, a sound of pure joy that echoed off the surrounding hills.

Among the seasoned riders, there was one figure who stood out — not because of skill, but because of his hesitance. Lance Stroll, usually at home behind the wheel of a F1 car, was out of his depth. His grip on the handlebars was too tight, his posture a little too stiff. The motorcycle beneath him felt foreign, its power more raw and unpredictable than the refined machines he was used to. But despite the nerves gnawing at him, he was determined. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, though it was more from sheer willpower than genuine confidence. He wasn’t about to back down, not here, not in front of Luca’s brother and friends. The embarrassment of admitting he wasn’t cut out for this would be too much to bear.

“Caro, you sure you’re okay with this?” Luca called out, his voice carrying a blend of concern and encouragement. He slowed his pace, falling back to keep an eye on Lance. He could see the tension in the way Lance handled the bike, the mix of caution and determination that marked every move.

“Yeah, I’ve got this!” Lance’s reply came quickly, his tone firm but betraying a hint of the anxiety he felt. He forced a smile, hoping it would be enough to convince Luca — and himself — that he could handle it.

Luca gave a small nod, though his eyes lingered on Lance, the worry not entirely erased. He knew how stubborn Lance could be, how much pride he took in proving himself. But this was different — this wasn’t the controlled environment of a racetrack he knew inside out. This was something wild, something that could easily go wrong. Even as the others zipped past them, their bikes leaning gracefully into the corners with practiced ease, Luca’s focus remained on his boyfriend. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.

Lance, meanwhile, did his best to keep up. His focus was razor-sharp, his mind blocking out everything except the path in front of him. The roar of the engine, the dust flying in his wake, the sun beating down on his back — it all faded into the background. He was getting the hang of it, finding a rhythm, even if it was slower than the others. The turns were still tricky, each one a battle to stay upright, but he was doing it. He felt a surge of pride with each successful maneuver, a growing belief that he could pull this off.

But as they neared the last stretch, something inside him urged him to push harder, to prove that he could do more than just keep up. He wanted to impress Luca, to show the others that he wasn’t just some car driver trying to play in their world. He twisted the throttle, feeling the bike surge forward, the speed intoxicating. For a brief moment, he felt the thrill of it, the exhilaration of matching the pace of the others.

Then it all went wrong.

As he approached the next corner, Lance misjudged his speed. The bike wobbled, the back tire slipping on the loose dirt. Before he could react, the bike skidded out from under him, the world tilting violently as he was thrown off. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in his body. Pain exploded through him, radiating from his wrists as he instinctively tried to break his fall. The breath was knocked out of him, leaving him gasping as he lay on the ground, his helmeted head resting in the dirt.

The sounds of laughter and chatter that had filled the air just moments before died instantly. The other riders, catching sight of the crash, skidded to a halt, their bikes kicking up clouds of dust as they did. Everyone, Marco, Pecco, Franky, Cele, and Mig, all turned their heads toward the scene, their smiles fading as they registered what had happened.

Lance lay there, unmoving, his bike a twisted heap a few feet away, smoke curling up from where the engine had stalled. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with a sudden, sinking realization.

For a moment, no one really moved. The dust settled around Lance’s prone form, the world eerily still compared to the chaos of just moments before. The academy riders exchanged uncertain glances, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion.

Pecco was the first to speak, trying to lighten the mood. “He’s probably just winded,” he said, but his voice lacked the usual cocky confidence. It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. “I mean, he’s not used to this, right?”

Marco forced a chuckle, though it came out strained. “Yeah, he’s probably fine. Just needs a minute to catch his breath.” But his eyes didn’t leave Lance, the doubt creeping in.

Franky and Cele stayed quiet, their attention fixed on Lance, who still hadn’t moved. Mig hesitated, taking a step forward as if to check on him, but then stopped, unsure of what to do.

Luca’s heart was pounding in his chest, the sound of his own pulse loud in his ears. Something was wrong — he could feel it deep in his gut. The others might have thought Lance was just being overly cautious or exaggerating the fall, but Luca knew better. He could see the tension in Lance’s body, the way he wasn’t moving his hands, wasn’t trying to get up. The laughter, the easygoing banter — it all felt wrong now, like a distant memory from a different day.

Without a second thought, Luca pulled off his helmet and dropped it to the ground. He sprinted toward Lance, his boots kicking up dirt as he closed the distance. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, fear gripping him tighter with each step.

“Lance!” Luca’s voice cracked as he called out, panic lacing his words. He dropped to his knees beside Lance, his hands hovering over him, afraid to touch but desperate to do something, anything. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Lance groaned in response, the sound low and pained. He tried to move, to lift his head, but the effort made him wince, and he collapsed back onto the ground. “Ange… I think… I think I broke something,” he gasped, his voice trembling with the effort of speaking. "God this is so fucking embarrassing" He almost laughed, shaking his head at himself.

Luca’s eyes widened as he saw the unnatural angle of Lance’s wrists. His heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to stay calm. “It’s okay, amore,” he said softly, his voice steady and soothing despite the fear gnawing at him. “Don’t move, alright? Just stay still.”

He reached out, his hands gentle as he took hold of Lance’s arms, careful not to cause any more pain. “I’m right here,” Luca continued, keeping his tone light, almost tender. “We’re going to get you fixed up. Don’t worry about anything else.”

Lance winced but tried to smile, though the effort was weak. “I’m such an idiot… I should’ve just said no,” he muttered, frustration and pain evident in his voice. “This is so embarrassing.”

Luca shook his head, brushing a few strands of hair from Lance’s forehead with a feather-light touch. “Don’t say that,” he murmured, his tone full of affection. “You were amazing out there. You tried something new, and that’s more than anyone could ask for. We’ll laugh about this later, okay?”

The others, realizing the severity of the situation, quickly gathered around. Marco’s usual bravado had melted away, replaced by a concerned frown. Pecco’s earlier smirk was long gone, his face serious as he looked down at Lance. Franky, Cele, and Mig stood a little further back, their expressions grim.

Marco knelt down beside Luca, his voice low and urgent, afraid to freak Lance out. “We need to call an ambulance. He might have broken both his wrists.”

Luca nodded, but his focus remained on Lance. “Marco, can you make the call?” he asked, his voice still calm but carrying an underlying edge of urgency.

Marco fumbled for his phone, his hands trembling slightly as he dialed. “They’re on their way,” he said after a moment, his voice tense. “They’ll be here soon.”

Luca turned his attention back to Lance, who was starting to look a little pale. He kept his hands on Lance’s arms, not moving them but offering a constant, reassuring presence. “Hey, look at me,” he said gently, trying to keep Lance focused. “We’re going to get you to the hospital, and they’ll take care of everything. Just keep breathing, okay? You’re doing great.”

Lance’s breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle against the pain, but he nodded slightly. The fear that had gripped him when he first hit the ground was slowly ebbing away, replaced by the comfort of Luca’s voice, the warmth of his touch. Even through the pain, there was a sense of relief that Luca was there, calm and unshakable.

Luca smiled down at him, his eyes full of warmth and affection. “We’ve got you, Lance. You’re going to be just fine,” he whispered, leaning in closer so Lance could hear him clearly. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

The sound of approaching sirens cut through the air, growing louder with each passing second. Luca didn’t look away from Lance, didn’t let go of him even as the paramedics arrived and started to work. He stayed right there, his voice a constant, soothing presence, guiding Lance through the pain, through the fear.

As the paramedics carefully moved Lance onto the stretcher, immobilizing his wrists with practiced precision, Luca kept talking to him, his tone light and reassuring. He climbed into the ambulance beside Lance, holding his hand the entire time, his touch gentle and steady.

The other riders watched as the ambulance sped away, their faces a mix of guilt and worry. The ranch, once filled with the sounds of laughter and the thrill of racing, now felt quiet and empty, the weight of what had happened settling heavily over them. But even in the midst of their concern, there was a quiet respect for Luca’s calm, for the way he’d held it together when Lance needed him most.

The ambulance ride to the hospital had been tense, but Luca never let go of Lance’s hand, his calm presence a constant source of comfort. As they arrived at the emergency room, the paramedics quickly wheeled Lance through the double doors, the cool, sterile air of the hospital a stark contrast to the hot, dusty ranch. Luca stayed close, his heart racing, but his demeanor steady.

Nurses and doctors took over, assessing Lance’s injuries with swift efficiency. They began speaking in medical terms that blurred together in Luca’s mind, but he stayed focused on Lance, squeezing his hand gently every now and then to remind him he was there. Lance’s face was pale, the pain evident in the way he bit down on his lip, trying not to let it show too much. He’d always been tough, but this was different — this wasn’t a race crash; this was a different kind of hurt.

“Okay, Mr. Stroll, we’re going to take you for some X-rays to see the extent of the damage,” one of the doctors said, his tone professional but kind. “We’ll take good care of you.”

Lance nodded, his eyes flickering to Luca, who smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be right here when you’re done,” Luca promised, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Lance’s forehead. “You’re doing great, caro. Just hang in there.”

Lance managed a small, grateful smile before the doctors wheeled him away, disappearing down the hallway. Luca stood there for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched them go. The calm he’d maintained for Lance’s sake was starting to crack, worry seeping through the edges. But he knew he couldn’t let it take over — not yet.

He found a chair in the waiting area, running a hand through his hair as he tried to steady himself. The hospital was busy, the constant hum of activity around him almost soothing in its familiarity. He’d been in places like this before, with racing accidents and close calls, but this felt different. This was Lance, his Lance, and the thought of him in pain, of him being hurt, was almost too much to bear.

Time seemed to drag on as he waited. Every few minutes, he checked his phone, responding to the messages from the academy boys, who were anxiously waiting for updates. They all felt guilty, even though no one could have predicted what had happened. Luca reassured them that Lance was in good hands, that he’d keep them posted as soon as he knew more.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a doctor approached Luca. “Mr. Marini?” he asked, recognizing him from the emergency room earlier. Luca stood up quickly, his heart leaping into his throat.

“How is he?” Luca asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile. “Lance has fractured both of his wrists,” he explained, “but the fractures are clean, and we’re optimistic that with proper treatment and rest, he’ll make a full recovery. We’ve set the bones and put casts on both wrists. He’s going to be sore for a while, and he’ll need some help with day-to-day things, but he’ll be okay.”

Luca let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief flooding through him. “Can I see him?”

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “He’s just coming out of anesthesia, but you can go in. He’ll be in some pain as he wakes up, but we’ve got him on medication to help manage it.”

Luca nodded, thanking the doctor before heading down the hallway to Lance’s room. When he entered, the sight of Lance lying in the hospital bed, his wrists encased in white casts, brought a fresh wave of emotion. But Luca pushed it down, focusing on the relief that Lance was going to be okay.

Lance’s eyes fluttered open as Luca approached, his gaze a little unfocused from the lingering effects of the anesthesia. When he saw Luca, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “Hey,” he croaked, his voice raspy.

“Hey, you,” Luca replied softly, pulling a chair up beside the bed and taking Lance’s hand — the one that wasn’t too sore — in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got run over by a truck,” Lance admitted, his smile fading as the pain began to register. He shifted slightly, wincing as he moved his wrists. “But the doctor said it’s just a few fractures, right? Nothing too serious?”

“Yeah,” Luca confirmed, squeezing his hand gently. “They’ve set the bones, and with some rest, you’ll be back to your old self in no time. But you’ll need to take it easy for a while. No more trying to show off, okay?”

Lance huffed out a weak laugh. “Yeah, lesson learned,” he muttered, though there was still a hint of self-reproach in his tone. “I’m sorry, Luca. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Don’t apologize,” Luca said firmly, leaning in closer so that Lance could see the sincerity in his eyes. “You did your best, and that’s all that matters. I’m just glad you’re okay. I was so worried.”

Lance looked at him for a long moment, the weight of his own fears and guilt slowly easing under Luca’s gentle gaze. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

“Always,” Luca murmured, brushing a soft kiss against Lance’s knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[lokisgoodgirl]

Full Throttle [Avenger!/Biker! Loki x Fem. Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A link to my Masterlist is HERE

Summary: (3) Wetsuit! Loki decides a change of travel arrangements requires a change of outfit, and other things. (w/c 3.1k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Language. Smuttish. Dirty talk. Biker!Loki themes. Dangerous driving. Mild Satchel! cringe.

“She’s gubbed, fellas.” Steve dusted his hands against his wetsuit, pretty face scrunched in dismay. “Comms, engine, satellite, everything.”

“Can’t Laufeyson do something...you know” Barton wiggled his fingers and leant backwards. The sight made you snort as Loki scoffed beside you.

“I keep telling you ignorant rubes that magic doesn’t work like that.” He folded his arms, peering suspiciously down the open ramp into the empty clearing.

Steve threw his hands in the air. “Then we’re jimmied.” he grimaced. “We’re...pardon my language ma’am, up crap creek without a pad-”

He stopped, eyes falling on something tucked behind the storage hold. On two some-things, in fact.

“Jeepers, how could I forget?!” he exclaimed, making you jump. “The Harley Davidsons, I was gonna…” he trailed off again, “-get 'em re-fuelled.”

Barton shot an expectant look at Loki, who shook his head. Clint rolled his eyes. “In that case, next town is three miles over. We’ll need to walk em’ there.” Everyone groaned.

Rogers walked ahead with Barton, deep in conversation over the seat of the motorbike. The endless landscape of unfamiliar foreign soil stretched before you, uneven dirt scattered in patches of green. Steve had insisted that they didn’t change back into uniform, ‘too conspicuous’ he’d said.

The damp wetsuit clinging to your body had now been a constant companion for several hours. A layer of sweat hung beneath the fabric, the warm scent wafting from your lowered zip.

Loki’s cum still clung to the insides of your thighs; fresh memories hammering into your brain with every drying, sticky step.

You could ask him to freshen you up a bit, at least make the suit less damp...but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. And besides, if you were honest; you kind of liked it.

You and Loki hung back from your companions, the Harley between you gliding upright placidly of it’s own accord.

“You could do this with theirs too, right?” you muttered, shooting a look at the god beside you who stared ahead at the beleaguered men with a playful smirk. “Indeed. But alas, Agent, they never asked.”

You could get used to this. Loki wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t being a petulant, arrogant pain in the arse constantly. At least, not to you. Perhaps I should fuck him more often, you thought; pushing the thought to the back of your mind as he cleared his throat.

“So Agent” he purred, “Are you looking forward to our little road trip? Barton seems to be under the impression that once we’ve refuelled, we should make it somewhere with communication capabilities in around an hour.”

Loki ran a hand absent-mindedly over his torso, straightening the neoprene. Your gaze hovered where his fingers rested on the hip harness, thumbs tucked into the tight cords pressed against his thick thighs as he swaggered forward. “Although it seems you may be pre-occupied with the past, rather than the future...Agent.”

His knowing words pulled your ogling eyes upward, meeting his gaze; sparkling with mischief. “You are so full of it.” you mumbled, resting an unnecessary hand on the handlebars. “Au contraire, Agent. Not even an hour ago it was you who was full of...it.”

You sighed deeply, teeth clenched as you pursed your lips. “As if I’ll be riding with you” you snorted.

Loki chuckled, “Would you prefer to ride on me, little one? Is that the source of your discontent?” he said, a bit too loudly for comfort.

“Shhhh” you hissed, eyeing your bulky teammates rolling forward up a coming steep hill. They had begun to bicker, Steve trying to wrestle the handlebars from Barton.

“You started it.” the god beside you mumbled coyly, lips stretching with barely-contained mirth.

“Can you even handle one of these things anyway? Might be a bit more complex than a horse.” you sneered, feeling familiar venomous adrenaline beginning to sizzle in your bloodstream.

Loki shot you a sideways glance, his brows lifting as he measured the weight of your audacious slight. He chuckled again. “Believe me, darling; I’ve yet to meet anything I can’t handle. Mare or otherwise.”

You grimaced, staring forward. “Well, regardless of your misplaced confidence- I’m driving.”

It was Loki’s turn to grimace. “I think not, Agent. Loki of Asgard will not be seen posturing like one of your screen maidens on the back of this contraption-”

“-and I’m not going to be spending the final minutes of my life clinging to your back as you kill us both with your arrogance, Loki.” you spat, walking faster to outrun his inevitable retort.

“Would you rather be clinging to my front, Agent?” he called innocently. His velvet tones were tinged with laughter as you stared resolutely ahead, trying to catch up to Clint and Steve.

“Count your blessings, darling – at least you had the best fuck of your life before your imminent demise...” he cooed after you, making you throw a silencing look over your shoulder.

That damn wetsuit still hung on him like a desperate lover; tightening against every decadent curve of muscle with each long stride. He ran a hand through his long hair, a smug look plastered on that devious face as he bit his lip through a smile.

Fuck, he’s insufferable; you thought, cursing the pool of re-warming arousal growing between your aching legs.

The ramshackle dot on the horizon had grown closer, a rickety tavern and make-shift gas station providing an oasis in an otherwise sparse landscape.

“This is the town?” you muttered to Barton. He nodded silently, gesturing to several shaky looking houses dotted further up the hill. Loki was currently occupied with another seduction, this time involving the middle-aged owner of the establishment.

“Cap should really get us some company credit cards or something, this is ridiculous…” you mumbled, making Barton chuckled beside you.

The grey-haired man’s sceptical brow furrowed in a scowl as he sucked a cigarette. He leant forward, increasingly spellbound under Loki’s honeyed words. Rogers held up two cannisters of petrol, the deep lines of the manager’s forehead softening as he nodded in agreement to the god’s proposal.

“Thank you so much, you shall be repaid...handsomely. This I swear.” Loki purred, giving a curt bow to the bemused manager as he retreated.

“You gotta tell me how you do that one day.” Clint said, eyeing the glass bottles lined up behind the smokey bar longingly. Loki grinned, pleased with himself. “Oh, Barton; would that I could. The truth is, I am simply gifted in the art of getting what I want.” He winked towards you, turning back towards Rogers with a satisfied smirk.

Over the next few minutes, you watched Steve and Clint awkwardly re-fuel the Harley Davidsons through the grimy window, swivelling back and forth on a creaking barstool. You looked over your shoulder, realising that the person who you had been very actively trying to ignore wasn’t even there.

A sigh built in your chest, the damp neoprene making your skin itch. ‘We should make it somewhere with reception in around an hour’.

With sudden clarity, you realised there was still time to make sure you didn’t end up on the same motorbike as Loki. Odds were if you went and sat on one, Barton or Rogers would join you first.

You jumped up from the barstool to make a hasty exit, turning just as the door at the back of the dingy bar swung forward; revealing a shadow-clad figure.

The dusty jukebox sprang to life, the familiar revving opening bars of Motley Crue shaking the small space as the manager dropped a glass, swearing loudly.

Your jaw dropped, the smokey haze clearing as the figure rested his elbow against the doorframe, looking up over a pair of vintage Ray-Bans.

Gone was the wetsuit.

Loki’s long legs were silhouetted in straight black jeans, his hip tilted as he tucked a thumb inside the strap of a sinfully low slung studded leather belt.

Fuuuuck, you thought; your stomach flipping. You’d lost count of the amount of times your pussy had shivered with need at the sight of this irritating man today.

What’s one more, you conceded; eyebrows scrunching together as you drank in his newest ridiculously theatrical display with a gulp.

He tilted his chin upwards, the sharp angle of his jawline devastatingly erotic in the hazy air. Long tendrils of hair skated over his shoulders, completely wild. He ran a hand through it, edging the bottom of his dirtied white t-shirt upward.

Hip muscles that had so eagerly pressed against your ass in the cave as he’d mounted you flashed into view; the grooves that lined in his taut skin making a violent shiver roll up your spine.

The t-shirt was tight. Flush against his chiselled abs dark streaks ran down the front like he’d rubbed oiled hands down it unthinkingly. A pendant hung against the v-neck at his chest, dull silver glinting in the low light between fine, dark chest hair smattered below his collarbone.

Loki’s lips curled in a smile below the dark glasses, the edges making his cheekbones sharpen.

He stepped forward, swinging a scuffed leather jacket over his shoulder. The thud of heavy boots stung the wooden floorboards, buckles clanking erotically with every purposeful step toward you.

“You look ridiculous.” you sniped, resting back on the barstool as Loki swaggered closer.

“Ridiculously handsome, perhaps.” he purred, “I’ve made a few physical alterations for the occasion, why don’t you see if you can spot them while we wait.”

You cast your eyes out to Steve and Clint finishing up with the bikes, before turning back to Loki now resting casually against the bar. He had pushed the Ray-Bans up, framing his perfect side profile. Christ, he looked so hot.

His finger hooked into the collar of the jacket resting on one broad shoulder, the leather worn with age. You reached out and stroked it. Still soft, though…- “Agent?” he murmured, raising an eyebrow.

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, before you frowned. “Jesus, Loki...what happened to your face?”

Automatically your palm cupped his cheek, rubbing your thumb over a deep scar which ran down his cheekbone. There was another running through his eyebrow. The skin was raised, even paler than his already fair complexion. It made him look...dangerous.

That’s ridiculous, you thought; realising you were stroking the skin. He’s already the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.

Loki chuckled, tilting his head to the side and capturing your thumb between his lips.

You felt his firm tongue press up the underside, catching the nail as he sucked backward. A small whimper escaped you at the sudden thought of that tongue suckling against your clit, those piercing eyes staring intensely from between your open thighs. The sight of your digit nestled in the warm heat of his mouth was almost too much to bear.

Loki’s eyes narrowed mischievously as he released your thumb with a soft pop. “Just a bit of fun, love.” he whispered mockingly with a smirk. “Call it, a...character study.”

You saw Loki’s fingers drum against the bar, feeling a cool wave like menthol roll over your body. Tattoos adorned his knuckles, the black ink of each letter slightly faded into his fair skin.

You squinted, mouthing the letters; C.H.A.O.S. It made you wonder if he’d added body art anywhere else.

Looking down, you were met with an unfamiliar t-shirt hanging loose; the top of a lacey bra just visible below the neckline. Black denim shorts hung low on your hips; a pair of heavy combat boots feeling solid against the wooden floor.

You raised your eyes to his, pursing your lips. “Easy Riders, Asgard…?” you said through gritted teeth, reciting the writing adorning your baggy tank top.

“I can change it back to the wetsuit, if you like?” he said innocently, making you roll your eyes.

“I cleaned you up a bit as well, darling. I hope that’s alright. Although the thought of you walking around with my seed smeared down your thighs beyond those little shorts was quite enticing.”

You smacked his arm, hard; the draped leather of the jacket providing a convenient cushion for the blow. It wouldn’t have hurt him either way, but it felt damn good regardless.

“Let’s not pretend you didn’t enjoy that.” he chuckled, as you turned to leave for the makeshift forecourt. “I did, actually.” you hissed, as the bell above the door tinkled.

“I wasn’t talking about your futile attempt at a punch, darling.” he purred, pushing off the bar and swirling the jacket around his head as he followed you, his arms gracefully finding their place.

The bright sunlight hit your face, making you screw up your eyes. Steve shouted over, beckoning you with one large wave of his arm. He swung a neoprene-clad leg over the red Harley, shuffling up to let Barton hop on the back. Shit.

“Well don’t you two look cute.” Clint drawled, chuckling to himself as he positioned himself behind Rogers.

You folded your arms, seeing Loki’s long shadow crawl into view on the broken tarmac in front of you. “You’re just jealous, Barton.” Loki hummed casually, sweeping his shaggy hair back where it had fallen over his shades.

“Dude, I wore that shit the first time around. I don’t think I could pull it off these days.” Clint smirked, running his eyes over Loki as his hands crossed around Steve’s stomach.

Loki drew a finger over the long handlebars of the empty green motorbike, circling around the front. “I was alluding to our riding partners, but I certainly agree with your assessment, Barton.” he quipped, before raising a leg deftly over the saddle.

He touched down in a manner that was entirely too sexual to be coincidental, hips thrusting forward as he settled against the leather seat.

“Think you can whip up some jeans and a t-shirt for us, Laufeyson?” Steve said hopefully, as the motorbike growled to life. Loki shook his head, “I’m afraid it-”

“-doesn’t work like that...got it.” Steve huffed. “We’ll rendezvous at the police station in the next town.” Loki rolled his eyes as his teammates’ bike wheels caught traction, carrying Rogers and Barton away in a swirling haze of dust.

The god slid up the long saddle, his spread thighs aching sexy encased in dark denim. Creases of fabric were raised at his hips, the bulge of his crotch outlined tightly against the jeans as he flexed his fingers around the handlebars. Rays of low afternoon light glinted on his glasses, messy curls falling around his face as a smile tugged his lips.

“Hop on, Agent.” he purred, kicking up the side-stand.

You sighed, accepting the inevitability of the situation. “Front or back?” you said mockingly, ambling over to the god straddled like a model atop the vintage bike.

Loki crossed his thick forearms over the handlebars, “Are you flirting with me again, love?” he goaded.

He smirked, watching your face harden with growing amusement.

You gripped the shoulder of his leather jacket, swinging your leg over the back of the bike. The curved seat fit perfectly to the space between your legs, pressing fiendishly against your throbbing clit.

How does he do this to me, you thought; rubbing needily against the hard leather between your legs for some temporary relief, suddenly realising Loki hadn’t manifested you any panties.

Loki straightened, one knee rising as he stomped down on the kick-starter to the side. The engine roared to life beneath his touch, the hum searing up your channel; sizzling every nerve.

He revved the engine; long tattooed fingers clasped tight around the throttle.

It felt fucking incredible.

“It’s so loud…” you yelled, feeling Loki’s back vibrate with laughter; his bladed jawline slicing into view as he threw a look over his shoulder.

“Things I ride have a tendency to be loud, Agent.” he bit his lip, eyes narrowing momentarily as you slid your hands around his waist. “You of all people should know that.”

Before you could think of a response, he revved the throttle again; louder this time, drowning out your gasp of surprise. Your fingertips dug into the leather tight on his torso, squeezing against the solid mass of muscle beneath the jacket as he pulled onto the open road.

Your thighs squeezed against the cool metal sides, pressing forward into the backs of Loki’s knees as you accepted your imminent demise. The engine growled louder as the god sped up, sporadic traffic beginning to appear in passing as you edged closer to civilisation.

“Watch out!” you screamed, bracing forward against his hard body as the motorbike swung to the left. You heard the low rumble of laughter through his back, pressing your forehead between his shoulder-blades.

“I was quite a figure on the drag-racing rally circuit in the 1960’s within this realm.” Loki said, his voice inexplicably clear in your ears as trees blurred at the side of the road. “You’re right. It is rather different to equestrian pursuits.”

Adrenaline soared, new confidence rising at the thought of that this was not, in fact, Loki’s first time. Of course it isn’t, you thought; raising your head to peer around his shoulder.

A car whipped past, making you jump as your hair whipped across your eyes. “Fuck!” you screamed, bursting into a peal of raucous laughter against the wind. Loki swerved again, tilting the Harley to the left as you clung on for dear life.

A wave rose in your stomach as a horn blared at his audacity, the roar of the petrol engine deafening you as he tore up the single carriageway. Huge potholes littered the unkept tarmac, every one dodged by the expert gliding movements of your Asgardian pilot.

His buffeting hair caught between your lips, making you rub your mouth against his jacket to free it.

“Loki, look…” you yelled, peering around his shoulder as your crossed hands tightened against his stomach. Cap and Barton came into view, trundling along at a very conscientious 30mph.

“Go faster, Loki!” you murmured against his shoulder, the leather moist under the condensation from your breath. “I can’t hear you, Agent.” Loki coyed, his voice breaking with mirth.

“Go faster…” you said, squeezing your legs on either side of the motorcycle like a stallion; nudging your breasts repeatedly against his back as Loki leant forward.

“Louder, Agent.” Loki yelled, the gravel in his deep voice catching as he commanded you.

“Faster, Loki!” you screamed, your face turning to the sky as he twisted the throttle all the way. You gasped as the earth whipped away from you, velocity pulling you backward as everything inside you tightened.

Exhilaration flooded your bloodstream, catching a glimpse of Barton’s utterly bored face turning to bemusement as you and Loki tore past at the speed of light.

A feeling of weightlessness filled you, the warning tones of Rogers whining voice passing as mere droplets on the tunnelled air; letting your arms fall to the side and be raised on the wind.

A primal roar erupted from Loki's throat, reminding you of the way he had lost himself inside you pressed against the wet limestone. He shook his head, curls flying backward out of his eyes.

Your palms were outstretched, fingers tracing the outline of every gust as your head fell back; hair buffeting wildly. Loki's victorious glee turned to something else as you felt him straighten at the loss of your touch.

“Agent...be careful.” Loki growled, one hand clasping like iron to your bare thigh.

His fingertips sank into the skin beneath the hem of your shorts as you laughed wildly, a whoop of freedom escaping your throat as you relished the turning of the tide.

“What happened to your ‘character study’?” you yelled, returning your hands around his waist, “I thought you were a badass, now.”

“I am, how you say...a bad ass.” he grumbled, pressing one large palm against your re-clasped hands. You pressed your forehead to his leather jacket as your body shook with laughter, tears pricking your eyes.

The engine hummed as miles flew by. Loki had slowed, slightly; and you found your attention wandering from the landscape at the side of the road to the one beneath your fingertips.

Your hands had fallen to rest on his hips, fingers sliding to gain purchase on the denim wrapped around those muscular legs.

“Agent…” Loki murmured warily, clear as day over white noise. The wandering hand slid over the curve of one thigh, squeezing firmly.

“Agent.” he growled, the menacing velvet rumbling through heavy breaths beneath the leather as he upped the speed once more. He swerved a deep crack in the tarmac, roaring forward into the path of an oncoming truck.

Palming against the rough denim, you felt the outline of his cock hardening furiously beneath your touch as he thrust upward involuntarily.

Fire sizzled through your core, feeling the thick meat of his manhood grow, inflating to fill the space of your flat grip. You moaned against the nape of his neck. Loki’s shoulders rolled back, a small judder shaking him as his breaths grew short.

A deep horn blared as Loki swerved sharply, feeling the rush of air sweep over you both as the truck thundered past inches away. You burst out in a screaming laugh against his back, giving his straining cock a squeeze.

There was a screech of tires as the god made another turn, braking harshly making the back of the Harley swing in a semi circle. Sharp gravel flew against your bare legs, dust filling the air; coating you both in a thin sheen of grey.

Loki swung a leg over the bike, twisting sharply and bunching your t-shirt in a fist. He hoisted you from the back of the bike, a flat surface slamming against your back before you had time to think.

“Chaos, Agent. Is that what you desire now?” he growled, tightening his grip. Your eyes flickered down to the fist clutching your tank top, the tattooed knuckles turning white as his gaze smouldered with rage.

“Doesn’t it make you feel alive?” you keened mockingly, echoing his earlier words of seduction in the cave. “I guess your ‘character study’ inspired me.” you quipped, making the furious god release you with a theatrical shove and a grunt.

“You think this funny?” he spat, towering over you with his hands on his hips. You shook your head, biting your lip. You didn’t know what had gotten into you, but judging by the warm juices seeping from your pussy underneath his venomous words; you liked it.

“I think you need some time to cool off, Agent.” he said, enunciating every word. He slammed a palm beside your head against ageing wood, the heavy scent of leather filling your flaring nostrils as breath caught in your lungs.

You stared up at him, his pupils blown wide. A cracked sign swung above your head, the force of his theatrics making it sway – alkohol I hotel, it read.

“You seem thirsty, Agent” Loki murmured, lowering his lips to your ear as you trembled with desire; fingers clenching and unclenching as you attempted to stop yourself reaching for his body.

His jeans were fighting a losing battle against his furious cock…long, thick and tempting against the line of his hip. “I shall pick up a key, and I shall meet you in the bar. Yes?”

You nodded, pulling at the pendant dangling from his neck. The dirtied t-shirt stuck to the thin sheen of sweat coating his abdominals. God, how you wanted to rip it off.

Your fingers drew down to rest on the studded belt, pulling his hips towards you with a pathetic whimper.

“Patience, darling.” he purred, “Let’s see how you and this particular side of me get along on a more intimate level, shall we?”

“W-hat do you mean?” you stuttered breathlessly, as Loki’s eyes narrowed.

“Let’s say that there are certain proclivities associated with this brand of myself that I look forward to introducing you to, Agent.” he smirked, thrusting the hard column in his jeans into your waiting palm.

Continued in: Full Throttle: Motel Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

@lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @gigglingtigger @holymultiplefandomsbatman @muddyorbs @xorpsbane @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @holdmytesseract @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @mrsbarnes32557038 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @ladylovesloki @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokisgirll @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @peachyymallows @soldeloki @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @ladyofthestayingpower

[possibilistfanfiction]

Delicate

it's been a weird day already.

but not, like, bad: the sky is clear and it's not windy, which is such a welcome break from the weeks and weeks of rain you kind of want to dance down the sidewalk or something (you don't, but only because you have on this cool new pair of pants you thrifted last week and one over-exuberant roll through a puddle and they'd be wet for the day); there wasn't a long line at camila's coffee shop, so you were early to work; none of your appointments, even, have been late. good-weird sometimes feels way more unsettling than bad-weird, though, or at least that's what you've told your therapist who nodded — trauma responses, this and that, or so she says.

your first two clients are easy — small, simple stuff, which is always nice to start off with. chanel is finishing her last session on a wicked cool back piece with a chill client, and it's all pretty vibey until you're outside on the little front patio of the studio eating the pizza you'd grabbed from down the street for a late lunch, casually people watching. it all happens so fast: you're taking a bite and then, bam, there’s someone on a bike skidding out of control and then falling with a thump, tangled up in the metal frame and pedals spinning.

'shit,' you say, even though the person is already struggling their way out from under the bike — a good sign, overall. but still, you put your pizza down on the table chanel insisted you buy and wheel down the ramp until you're on the sidewalk, close enough to be able to ask, 'are you okay?'

the person — a very, very hot person, in carhartt overalls, a pristine white t-shirt, and blundstones — groans but then nods, stands up fully from the street and hefts the bike back upright by the handlebars. 'yes. i'll be fine. a minor fall.'

there's an embarrassed blush rising behind freckles and, 'you're bleeding.' it's roadrash, nothing serious, along an elbow, both palms, but still — 'my shop is right here.' you point behind you. 'let me patch you up, we have all the sterile stuff and everything.'

'i — okay.'

you smile, then smile even bigger when this very hot bike-falling blushing stranger takes her helmet off and her short hair — slightly sweaty — is tousled, a little messy on the top, even messier after she tries to brush it back with her fingers. 'sweet.' you offer your hand, even though she's dragging her bike alongside her. 'i'm ava.'

she leans the bike against her hip, grants you a small smile, and meets your eyes, even though her blush gets worse. 'beatrice.'

her hand is calloused and warm and she locks her bike against your railing, then follows you up the ramp.

'so you're who moved in,' she says, not unkindly, and you nod. it's a beautiful studio — you'll claim it was 50/50 design choices all day long, but it really was mostly chanel who chose the perfect shelving, the easy colors, the furniture that was simple and comfortable and cool as fucking hell, all at once. 'me and chanel, the other artist and owner,' you say. chanel's gun is very quietly buzzing behind the partition that separates her station from the front desk, and you lead beatrice back to your station.

the scrape along her elbow — delicate, one of the most difficult places to tattoo properly, all small, sharp bones and live-wire nerves — isn't deep or particularly dirty, so you clean it quickly and without too much discomfort, if her comfortable quiet and measured breathing is anything to go by.

'you're an expert on this, i suppose,' she says, as you get out your second skin once everything is clean and dry.

you laugh. 'tattoos aren't too dissimilar.' you allow yourself to look — after a lot of restraint, thank you very much — at her nearly-finished sleeve: fine lines and tender greyscale of flowers and plants, a few bugs, woven together. there's space on the underside of her wrist, still, a little unexpected. 'this is beautiful.'

beatrice smiles softly, a little sad. 'thank you.'

'no, like, genuinely.' you take your gloves off once the second skin is on perfectly and roll back in your chair to see it a little clearer. 'it really is.'

that blush again. 'i'm a gardener,' beatrice says, as if that explains everything. you have a few silly tattoos along your thighs — some are from you practicing along your own skin, a perk of not feeling anything below your waist — and your favorite along the top of your right hand. it's the first chanel did for you, the start of how you became friends — and business partners, eventually — and it's not hard, really, to remember the control you felt when you got to choose to make your body in your own image, when you had someone you trusted to help.

'that's awesome.'

she nods, once, like it's a finite truth. 'along with my sister, i run the florist shop on the other side of camila's. we farm all of our own flowers, only local pollinators.'

'permaculture,' you say, 'sick.'

it gets a laugh out of her — fucking delightful, and, whew, you want to keep making that happen — 'it is.' she stands, looking almost — dare you say it — regretful. 'unfortunately, i do have to get back to said shop for the afternoon. but maybe i can buy you a coffee?'

'camila gives me my coffee for free.'

she blanches and it takes a few seconds before you reach out and pat her hand with a laugh. 'i'm sorry, i was just messing with you. i'd love to get coffee with you.'

'yeah?'

'dude, are you kidding? i want to know all about your plants.'

she's got the most proper accent of all time, and you're kind of wishing for her to say something like, and i, your art, but instead she just nods, a little tongue-tied, you think, which is endearing in its own way too. 'thank you again, ava.'

'anytime.' you pause. 'well, not the exact same circumstances. don't need you flinging yourself off of your bike just to say hi to me again —'

'i didn't fall because of you —'

'i know i'm, like, cool and stunning, but you really should be more careful.'

she rolls her eyes, but there's still a smile on her face. you know you're, as chanel puts it, dangerously charming, so you'll take it.

you watch her walk down the ramp and unlock her bike, then walk it two doors down to the florist that always had swathes of wildflowers in the windows. you've only been here a few weeks, and you'd been very busy setting everything up and getting your clients in asap, but you'd planned to check it out eventually. now, you have even more of a reason to.

and, like, maybe it's a little gay, whatever, but you transfer out of your chair to sit more comfortably at your station while you wait for your next client and start to sketch some wildflowers and their pollinators. bees, your favorites, and maybe it doesn't mean anything or maybe it means something. you don't really believe in everything but you do think that people can be kind and that the earth itself is overwhelmingly good. that's enough, most days, really.

chanel finishes with her client and it's a good-good-weird day because she offers to order dinner without you even having to whine. you fall asleep later at home thinking abt how warm beatrice's skin had been, how it had been easy to make sure she would heal well, all the flowers there, blooming; her freckles and her blush. maybe, if you're lucky, she's thought of you too.

[drabbles-mc]

Stickin' Around

Benny Cross & Cal & Johnny Davis

Warnings: 18+, language, minor injuries

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: shout-out to mj, my beloved, for bantering back and through this fic with me and thinking about how they all met just as much as i do. i owe you my life 😌

He came to with a wince. A wince that turned into a low groan as he lifted his head up off the asphalt. He didn’t even remember going down, really. There was a clank and a tiny sputter and now he was waking up on one side of the road while his bike was on the other side. He still seemed to be in one piece even if his bike wasn’t—small wins.

He tried not to think about the throbbing in his head as he propped himself up on his elbows, then got himself sitting fully upright. His legs were stretched out in front of him, denim a little ripped up but it did the job of saving his legs from road rash, from the long arduous process of needing asphalt and gravel picked out of the skin. His arms weren’t so lucky, smeared with blood and tiny little stones that were going to hurt like a bitch to take out when it was finally time to.

The least he could do was give himself a minute to get his head right. The throbbing would take a bit to subside, but what he was really waiting for was for the dizziness and the spins to stop. Once that happened he could get up and stagger his way over to his bike, check the state of it.

Another minute under the beaming sun, sweat starting to bead at the edges of his forehead, he decided it wasn’t going to be getting much better now. With a grunt he managed to get his feet under him so he could stand upright. Out of instinct he went to brush his hands off on his jeans, but all it did was smear the blood from his palms onto the denim, agitate the tiny stones buried into the meat of his palms because when he lost his last pair of gloves he hadn’t bothered to go grab another pair. That’d be first on the list now, after getting his bike fixed.

The road was long and flat enough for him to see miles in either direction. Even so, he’d probably hear cars or another bike way before he saw them. He still looked around though. Checking both ways before crossing seemed like a measure taken too little too late but he still spared a quick glance in either direction before limping over to his bike.

It was a moment before he even tried to lift it back up. He spent a minute just staring at it, looking at the parts of it that were scattered across the road and the grass lining the fields on either side. Little scraps of metal here and there, although from a quick glance it was hard to tell if any of them were necessary pieces. He’d ridden with missing parts plenty of times before—most of the time it hadn’t made things too much worse.

Sucking in a deep breath, Benny leaned down and gripped onto the handlebar of his motorcycle. The grunt he let out was mostly from the effort of pulling it back upright, but it was also from the jolt of pain that started in his hands and then shot up his arms and then straight back down his legs. It wasn’t enough to make him stop or drop the bike, just enough to make him cuss through the process of getting it back on its two wheels.

His bike didn’t start on the first try, but he was too disoriented to feel too much about it one way or the other. He gave it another try. Then another. When it finally rumbled to life, he could immediately hear that it didn’t sound right anymore. He couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with it based off the sound alone, but he knew there was something. That was an issue to worry about solving once he reached the next town.

The last road-sign he’d passed said that Chicago was only twenty miles out. That must’ve been close to twenty miles ago now. So regardless of what was wrong with his bike, he should be able to limp it into town. Even if he couldn’t, he was going to have to. It was all he had.

He was able to get it inside county lines without it crumbling apart or somehow catching on fire. The sounds it’d been making when he started it up were getting worse, but he knew that there was no point in thinking too much about it yet. Once he came across someone who looked like they had a shot at fixing it, he would worry about it then.

After everything that had happened over the last hour or so, Benny found himself on the receiving end of a small stroke of luck. He rolled just over a block into town when he came across a gas station. While the amount of gas in his tank was the least of his issues, he also noticed that there were two men there with their own bikes. Matching patches on their backs that Benny would have to take the time to be curious about later when his vision wasn’t still fuzzy around the edges.

He'd barely gotten his back tire onto the lot at the gas station when both men that he’d been looking at before turned around to face him. When he got a little closer he could see that their expressions were laden mostly with confusion, almost concern but not quite.

“Hey,” one of the men called out as Benny rolled to a stop a couple yards away from them. He had dark hair, slicked back real smooth. There was a grin on his face as he walked up to Benny’s bike while he was putting the kickstand down. “Hardly got a bike left to stand,” he joked.

Benny didn’t say anything at first, just watching as the two men looked not just at him but at his bike. The other man who’d been standing with him started to walk around Benny’s bike to get a better look at it. He cocked his head one way then the other, earring swinging as he did. The man had stains on the white t-shirt he wore underneath his colors, grime in the beds of his fingernails that told Benny that the man was looking at his bike with the eyes of someone who might be able to fix it.

“Jesus, man,” the guy finally spoke up, shaking his head as he ran his fingers back through his hair, managing not to mess up the strip of fabric that was currently passing for a headband. “What’d you do to her?”

Benny was still sitting on his bike as he looked at the two of them. He shrugged, leaving his hands on the handlebars because it hurt to put them anywhere else. “Cracked up on her just outside of town.”

The first man laughed. “Well what’d you do that for?” He shook his head, not really expecting or waiting for an answer. “What’s your name, anyway?”

Benny sniffed, looking the guys up and down. “Benny.”

“Benny,” they both parroted back in unison, differing levels of amusement in their voices.

“I’m Wahoo,” he reached out, clasping Benny’s hand in his own despite the lack of an invitation to do so. Benny winced but didn’t pull away until Wahoo dropped his hand. If he noticed the traces of blood that had smeared onto his palm from Benny’s, he didn’t say so. “This is Cal.”

Benny nodded in recognition of what Wahoo had said to him, but he didn’t repeat their names back the way that they had done with his. They were at a bit of a stalemate. Even though Benny had come here with the hopes of getting help, he certainly wasn’t going to just sit there and ask for it. The guys seemed to be sizing him up, although the lingering grins on their faces certainly didn’t seem to make Benny think that he was in for any sort of trouble with them. Cal was chuckling, shaking his head, his attention more on Benny’s bike than Benny himself.

“You won’t even make it to the other side of town with this, man,” Cal said as he finally  made eye contact with Benny.

“Probably not,” Benny agreed, his tone flat.

“Where you headed, anyway?” Wahoo asked as he pulled out and sparked up a cigarette.

Benny shrugged. “Nowhere. Ridin’. Passing through.”

Wahoo laughed, watching as Cal squatted down to get a better look at the extent of the damage. “I think you’re done passin’ through anything. Least ‘til you get this bike fixed.”

Benny raised his eyebrows a bit. “You know somebody?”

Wahoo groaned. “Don’t—”

“Do we know somebody?” Cal repeated as he popped back upright. He placed his hand to his own chest, grin stretching across his face. “Man, you could not have rolled into a better gas station.” He patted the handlebar. “I could fix her up.”

Wahoo was still shaking his head. “Don’t let him—”

“What?” Cal said, holding his hands out disarmingly. “Don’t let me what?”

He didn’t look at Cal, instead keeping his eyes on Benny. “Let him work on that bike and you’ll never get it back. He’s gonna keep messin’ with it.”

Cal gave him a playful shove. “I swear, I will return your bike to you in a timely fashion.” He grabbed his own pack of smokes and lighter. “No one knows ‘em better than me.” He put the cigarette in his mouth, mumbling the words out around it. “Even Wahoo’ll tell you that.”

Benny didn’t have much of a choice, really. He needed his bike fixed. It wasn’t like he had any other friends in Chicago that he could call up to help instead. So he nodded, carefully flexing and unflexing his hands as the burn and the ache started to come back into them.

Cal’s grin split a little wider as he nodded in approval, ignoring the joking, nettling comments that Wahoo was making. “I’ll call my buddy, have him pick this up and bring it to my garage. I can get ‘er running for you no problem.” He watched as Benny simply just gave another nod. “Did your fall knock all the words out of your head? Or you always this quiet?”

Benny shrugged, earning a laugh from both men as it reinforced their sentiment. Cal scampered off then, heading to the payphone that was bolted to the side of the gas station. Neither Benny nor Wahoo could hear what exactly he was saying, but he was gesturing around with his hands as though the man on the other end of the line could see him.

It didn’t take long for Cal’s friend to show up with the truck. Didn’t take long to drop the bike off, either. It wasn’t until the pickup was fading off into the distance once more that Cal really recognized the fact that Benny was sort of, for lack of a better phrase, at his mercy.

He pulled the half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear. “You seem alright.”

Benny gave a small shrug and nodded, finally picking the tiny stones from the palm of his hand.

“Wanna meet the guys?”

Benny’s eyes lifted even though his head didn’t. ��The guys?”

Wahoo slapped Cal’s chest with the back of his hand. “Cal.”

“What?” He lit his cigarette. “What do you want me to do with him? Leave him sittin’ outside my goddamn garage?”

That was how Benny ended up sitting on the back of Cal’s bike, heading back into town with him and Wahoo. They took a longer route back than they’d taken going out—any excuse to have a few extra miles on the bikes. Even though it wasn’t his hands on the handlebars, Benny still enjoyed it. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sun was starting to go down, the sky starting to change color. Only a few of the lamps had come on along the sidewalk.

When they parked the bikes outside the bar, Cal hopped off and motioned for Benny to wait. “Just hang here a sec. I’m gonna talk to the guys, let ‘em know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” Benny said, figuring that now was as good of a time as any to finally have a cigarette.

He was watching the two of them as they made their way towards the door. He caught snippets of what Wahoo was saying, still chastising Cal for the entire situation that they were now in.

Johnny was looking up at Cal from where he was camped out at his usual table. He was shaking his head. “We don’t need no fuckin’ strays.”

Cal laughed. “Nah, man. You gotta meet this kid.”

“No I don’t.”

“C’mon. I wouldn’t have said anything to ‘em if he seemed like some sorta guy.”

“I’m not—” Johnny stopped himself short when the door to the bar opened. He turned and looked at the person who was standing in the doorway. When he didn’t recognize him, he had to assume that this was the guy that Cal had been talking to him about.

Cal gestured to the door before waving Benny over. “That’s him! Look at him, man. He’s cool.” He waited for Benny to make his way over. Then it was the two of them standing in front of Johnny, somehow the noise of the bar didn’t seem to burst the bubble that the three of them were in for the moment. Cal clamped his hand down on Benny’s shoulder like he was someone that he’d known for years, not hours. “This is Benny.”

Johnny nodded, looking Benny up and down as he did so. “Benny.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m Johnny.” He gestured to Cal with the hand that was holding his cigarette. “Cal says you’re alright.”

Benny cast a glance at the man standing next to him, and all Cal did in response was crack a toothy grin.

“You stickin’ around?” Johnny asked.

Benny shrugged. “Might be.”

The frown on Johnny’s face was a thoughtful one as he nodded slowly. “You should. You should stick around.”

Another shrug, another nod. “Okay.”

Something about the flippancy of Benny’s response got Johnny to let slip a smile too. Kid came crashing into town, in the most literal sense, and he was standing there like he’d simply stepped off the bus at just the right stop. Blood still smeared on his jeans, tears in his clothing, but the expression on his face completely unfazed.

“Alright,” Johnny said, still grinning. “Grab yourself a beer, then.”

(divider by @saradika-graphics 💞)

The Bikeriders Taglist: @narcolini @garbinge @sirbogarde (if you'd like to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

[glorified-red]

Autopilot (Damian Wayne x Reader)

summary: After witnessing an event that hit just a little too close to home, you were left at the mercy of your own memories. All the usual tactics Damian knew weren't helping. It's a good thing he had a little helper.

word count: 4,070~

warnings: flashback during a panic attack, disassociation and driving through it, reference to past physical abuse (not specified from who or if it's domestic, it's very vague. But is heavily implied to be from a male), depictions of physical abuse in terms of verbs (punch, kick, hands on body, etc. Nothing more. Aka no bodily harm, just the feeling), and reference to passing out from a panic attack in the past.

Nothing quite like real world events to jerk me out of a writer's block, aye? This is based on a personal experience from just a few days ago so if there is a complaint with this story being too specific, I will ignore it. This fic means a lot to me so please be kind to it. Dont hesitate to let me know what you think of it! For those wondering, yes, I did finish writing that essay. Have not submitted it because I would love to read it and edit it at not 1 am, so that's a task for tomorrow while I dye my hair.

Autopilot — acting or functioning without conscious thought, as a result of routine or habit.

That was one way to describe what was happening. 

From the second you put your helmet back on to the moment your hand closed the front door, you couldn’t pinpoint a single frame in between. The entire world around you was a blur, even as you zipped through Gotham traffic on a busy afternoon. 

Distantly, you knew you should be aware of the wind hitting your skin, especially as it assaulted your jacket with its wispy breath. Each red light and your boots hit asphalt. You should’ve been able to register that feeling shoot up each of your legs, maybe feel the way your body shifted into an upright position.

 But instead, your eyes were blank behind the tinted lens of a bike helmet. 

You didn’t even try to fix it, not yet anyway. Not when there were cars blocking you in from every angle; not when one wrong move—one stuttered breath—could mean your bike jerking into a freefall. 

So you didn’t even try to fight for awareness. If you did, maybe your hands would be gripping the handlebars a little tighter, maybe even twisting the kevlar of your gloves into the grooves until you felt something. You would’ve rubbed your hands down your thighs, dragging the fabric along your skin just enough to force your body into consciousness. 

But you didn’t. 

You just let yourself run on autopilot. 

It was safer that way anyway. Safer than having the worst panic attack of your life while driving at least. You didn’t even want to think about how Damian was going to react when he found out you were driving this far down into your subconscious—on your motorcycle no less. 

He really was going to murder you one of these days. But then again, you had countless retorts ingrained into your repertoire, countless callbacks to days where it wasn’t you in the driver's seat doing this, but the hypocrite himself. 

So you didn’t worry enough about it. You gave it maybe two seconds of thought before you put your helmet on and rolled out of the parking lot. Should you call Damian? Wouldn’t it just be easier for him to pick you up and worry about the bike later? 

Your brain sighed, maybe your body did on instinct, if it did, you wouldn't have known. He was at home—which was barely fifteen minutes away, you could survive that long—waiting for you, it’d worry him too much to get a phone call two hours after you were supposed to be home. 

Somewhere between hues of gray, your legs guided you through the maze of a familiar home. There was a buzz in your ears, like the poor organs were trying desperately to comprehend the noise around you but fell short every time. They were filled with water then dried with cotton only for it to dissipate with water once more: a ferocious cycle that left you a stranger to the greeting happening right before you. 

You shouldered passed . . . something? It didn’t matter. If it did, surely your brain would let you know later . . . right? Then came the mechanical routine of finding a place to bring yourself back. But when every wall looked the same and your boots trudged against the carpet—Damian was so gonna gripe about shoes in the house later—it felt like a losing game. 

So you stuttered to a stop, somewhere. Arguably the worst place because the only tether you had to the outside world was the ground under your boots, which you couldn’t even feel because there was at least an inch of rubber tread between your reality and everyone else's. 

The same buzz hit your ears. Maybe if you tried hard enough, you could blame the disconnect on the inner padding of the helmet stuffed against your head. It’s worked before, it’s not like it’s easy to hear with this thing on, let alone when your brain didn’t even want you to. 

You could start to feel the autopilot wearing thin, the remnants of it dissolving with each passing second you remained idle. You tried to tap each of your fingers against your thumb one at a time to cling to what little autopilot was left. All you got from your body was a single twitch in your thumb. 

A tap, a click, and a slide. All sounds you saw rather than felt or heard yourself. The tinted panel in front of your eyes lifted slowly until your grays turned into greens. You could get lost in that green for eternity and your soul would find contentment. You could find that green from memory, even when your eyes were filled with grays or your body turned blind to it. That green was one you would never lose. 

It came naturally, locking your eyes into his. You could almost laugh at the fact that the last wisp of autopilot was used connecting yourself to him, as if your body had formed a habit you didn’t even know about until now. 

You knew those eyes better than he did himself, even if he’d spent years staring at them before you. It was an easy victory when you traced them in your memories. So you knew each crease of worry that outlined the narrowness they had at the moment, the subtle squint as he tried to reach you. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, he succeeded. 

Your next breath came right before your lungs were punched by reality. The sheer weight of it was enough for you to struggle for air. It was like you were trapped as Atlas once was. But instead of holding the weight on your shoulders, you were crushed underneath all the rubble, having failed to keep everything upright. 

You choked out a sob, hating the way your own breath ricocheted off the helmet back into your skin. You were suffocating. Your hands shot to the offending metal and clawed at each of the safety latches built in. Shaky fingers didn’t have enough dexterity to succeed which only made you gasp harder. 

In an instant, there were skilled hands overtaking your own, practiced enough to succeed where you had failed. 

“—eathe, I’ve got y—”

Newfound peripherals blindsighted you, they were both a blessing and a curse. While the new vision made it easier to protect yourself, the responsibility of having to do so was far too heavy a burden. You wanted to keep living in your tunnel vision and pretending it was safe there. 

You were still suffocating. Air was scarce to come by and when it did travel through you, it scorched your lungs until you considered if air was truly worth the fight if it hurt so much. The same shaky hands grasped for the collar of your jacket, suddenly far too tight against your neck. It was as if the fabric itself was choking you and not Reality. Thready hands were better to imagine than calloused ones. 

You didn’t notice your feet tripping backwards until your back collided with a wall, you didn’t even care, you just wanted this stupid jacket off. Agile hands swifty unlatched everything, unclasping safety mechanics and helped shrug the leather bind off of your skin. 

“—ok, it’s off. Brea—”

The wall was solid; the wall was good; the wall was safe. You let yourself slide all the way down until you hit the floor, your green easily followed. You coughed on an exhale, your inhale having hurt far too badly to finish. 

Your hands settled together behind your neck, fighting to grab at something, might as well protect your pulse points. 

“—off?”

Your gaze struggled to lift up to him without staggering. When it settled back into his calming hue, you choked out a response: “What?” 

Realistically, you exhaled far too much on the word when you received another kick to the chest but you figured he would get the gist. He’s smart. 

“Do you want your boots off?” His hands floated in the space between you both, where your bent legs ended and his crouch began. 

With a tilted comprehension, it took a few breaths—albeit pretty quick ones—for the words to sink in. When they did, you jerked out a nod. Without hesitation, he made quick work of velcro, buckles, and zippers, forcing you to trudge through heightened awareness alone. 

Awareness was always worse than letting your mind shift into sand to pass through fingers with ease, free from the pain those fingers always left. Especially when Reality was combing through sand with a sharp comb, breaking each particle down to the atom. Water couldn’t wash away atoms the same way it could sand. 

Your lungs convulsed again just as your socked feet felt the bite of cold tile, boots long since forgotten. 

“Breathe,” he said simply, telegraphing his movements slowly. “Can I take off your gloves?” 

You liked the safety of where your hands were, but feeling a leather mesh on your neck wasn’t exactly the most comforting feeling.

You jerked your hands out slowly, seeing for yourself just how much you were shaking compared to his steady hands. His movements were slow and deliberate, testing the waters to see how you reacted to his touch on your skin. The second both hands felt air instead of fabric, they retreated back to safety.

“You need to breathe.” 

You shook your head, feeling the muscles under your hands twist along with the motion. “I—” you choked, “I can’t” 

“Yes you can.” Damian shifted from his crouch to sit before you. “You’ve been through this before and you always come out of it, don’t you?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping it would help somewhat. Another kick to the chest and you were back to scrambling. 

“ ‘t hurts,” you whined. 

“I know it does, but you have to breathe. Breathe with me.” You opened your eyes to look at him through the blur of watery tears. 

That was a mistake. 

Reality was finicky at best. It shifted like the waves in its fluidity, morphing into new forms and combining within itself. Your fingers twitched against your neck. 

Focus on the green. 

But then his hands slowly laid atop your knees, a familiar trick he did every time. Innocent touch, a tethered connection between you two to bring you back to him. The further the attack would go, the more weight he’d put into his palms until your legs unbent without your knowledge. It was an easy way to open your chest cavity to make breathing a little bit easier while making it seem like nothing is changing, especially when your brain is occupied with other things. 

But this time, his hands felt bigger, they felt more calloused, and held more weight in them. You jerked in an inhale. “Sto—stop touching me.” 

Immediately his hands lifted off of you. “Okay, I won’t touch you.” His palms raised in the air so you could see them, an emphasis to his word. “But we’re going to breathe together.” 

Damian waited a single moment for you to register his words, for your eyes to shift from his hands to his eyes, then finally, to his chest. 

“Breathe in.” He exaggerated his chest visually for you to replace touch. Usually there would be some comfort in the way your hand was guided to his sternum, fingers spread out to feel the fabric of his shirt and the way his chest rose with each inhalation, only to fall when he exhaled. Yet this time, his chest would’ve felt different and that thought alone was enough for your breath to stutter. 

“And out.” You envied the way he released his breath so slowly and with so much control where yours was rushed and clunky. 

He praised you all the same. “Good. Again. In,” he breathed in, you followed shortly after, “and out.” 

You fell out of the inhale before he did, your lungs quivering under an invisible hand. Your head hit the wall with a whine. “I can’t.” 

“You can,” he stressed. “I know you can. Try again.” 

You wheezed where he inhaled, you coughed where he exhaled. Your hands sunk from your neck to your chest, gripping on tight to the kevlar.

“That’s it,” he said, just before another set of breaths. You hated this part the most. You could live with the shakiness afterwards, the pain and the burn of your lungs once they finally settled down. You could ignore the feeling of being on edge for hours after, the feeling of fragility, like someone could blow and you’d wither away with the feeble wind. 

But the feeling of true hopelessness that came from this part was always the worst. You couldn’t fathom succeeding at this simple human task, a task that comes mechanically—completely on autopilot. Yet for some reason, it was a monumental task for you. 

Before Damian—and a little bit during—you let yourself get consumed by the darkness. You let the hands squeeze your lungs until your brain fizzled out, the consequences to be dealt with once you woke up. It was far easier than fighting for consciousness, especially when said consciousness was so painful. 

He didn’t like that very much. 

So here you were, clamoring your way through a breathing exercise as if it wasn’t the most painful thing in the world. As if your lungs weren’t burning with rage and your muscles weren’t aching with tension. 

As if you couldn’t feel hands all over your body with each step back into awareness.

As if you couldn’t hear and see things just passed Damian’s silhouette. 

“This isn’t working,” you bite out. Your head had sunk down to face the floor at some point. The carpet was a darker shade of beige than it was a moment ago. Maybe it was your shadow affecting it, but considering everything, you didn’t think so. “I need—” you choked. 

You saw the way Damian’s hands twitched against his pants, fighting to do something to help you. “Tell me what you need.” He tried searching your eyes like before, that tether was one that could bring up to him from just about anywhere. But you were studying the carpet as if it had wronged you on a visceral level. 

You closed your eyes, trying to think past the echoes of an old voice and the remnants of old touch. You were stuck in limbo, caught between two realities that somehow merged in a single moment. Another kick to the chest and your body caved inwards—the same way it had before. 

You could feel your grip on Damian’s reality fading. It was the one you’d prefer any day and it was the one you should be in. Not this one. Yet here you were, taking the hits of hands long in the past. 

But . . .

Damian. 

“When did we meet?” you demanded more so than asked, the words coming in and out with your breaths. 

Despite his shock—and extreme confusion—he didn’t hesitate to answer with a number of years that have passed you by. Questioning you, especially your needs, at this moment wasn’t going to help.

You shook your head, your legs twitching together and back apart, the muscles contracting at random. “What year?” you said, trying to keep your oxygen inside for just a second longer. 

He responded simply, your ears catching the sound with ease. The outside chatter cut down to a buzz. You breathed out a little slower. 

“How?” you breathed in, your inflection cut off just slightly. 

Damian didn’t waver. “We met in high school. I transferred in late and you were assigned as my peer guide to the Academy. You gave me a tour around campus to help figure out my schedule,” he paused, gauging your reaction before adding on just a bit more. “We ended up having a few classes together that year.” 

“How old—” you breathed in, “How old were we?” 

Damian blinked, his eyes shifting to the side as he recalled, probably doing some kind of mental math in his brain. “I started school when I was fourteen. You were probably fourteen or fifteen at the time.” 

You blinked your eyes open, your lungs expanding happily at the information. Realities were disconnecting slowly, each question cutting a strand of fate that had sewed them together. Since neither could coexist, this new information was proof that the voices were just that, the past. Damian didn’t exist in the same era of these voices—these hands—him being here was a testament in it of itself. 

The carpet was tinted just so, but it was enough to make it lighter. 

“What about now?” you asked. 

“What about now?” Damian echoed you, his confusion still prevalent in his voice. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed down the fire. “What year is it?” 

For someone so intelligent, he really was not catching on to what was happening. Knowing him, he was probably scanning your head for a concussion right about now. But he didn’t show it outwardly. As much as he was confused and incredibly concerned, this was helping. So even if he didn’t sign up for trivia night, he’d play along—and he was sure as hell gonna win. 

He responded factually. The math not only aligned, but since it was late into the year, it wasn’t exactly hard to remember. The buzz got even softer than before. You were able to breath out shakily, the intake was sharp in return but the progress was showing. 

“And the date?” 

Your eyes had closed softly, a sense of calm starting to breach through the anxiety. 

Damian’s response immediately shrouded that progress. Suddenly the voice was right next to your ear and a foot was on your chest, constructing any airflow from ever hoping to come to your lips. The same date. A stupid number that just so happened to align, an anniversary, was enough to derail everything. 

Damian’s voice turned to nothing but a buzz, a low rumble with a worried inflection. 

He had asked a question. That much you knew. But your eyes had opened to a shade of dark beige and dreary grays, completely at the mercy of a dissociative state. 

Even your hands lay limp from where they were resting between your knees, your wrists balanced atop the bony joints. You let it happen. You let your breath get squished underneath calloused hands along the back of your neck and a knee to the spine. You let your fingers go numb and your skin go cold as the room around you soured. 

Suddenly it was a different time and a different place entirely. 

Just dark beige and dreary grays. 

The thuds of footsteps were easily drowned out until it was a simple buzz, just a low static rumbling beneath your skin. 

But then your hands lifted at the feeling of fur underneath them. It was soft to the touch, the small fibers splitting away underneath your fingers. The fur shifted, it nosed in-between your pointer and middle finger before sliding down your palm, leaving a slight trail of warmth along your skin. 

Your fingers twitched, the ice around them thawing slowly with each press of warmth until you could interact with it yourself. The fur morphed from a body to a small head that could fit just along your palm. Whiskers pressed into your hand as it was used as a scratching post. A head bump and your palm raised with it, only to slide down the back automatically as if your hand had done it a thousand times before. 

Just along the back and up to the tip of the tail, just for the head to return for more scratches. You felt the tail wrap loosely around your ankle, shifting and swishing, but always remaining against you. 

You scratched at the chin, your chest feeling lighter when the gentle creature tilted their head back to accept more. Reality itself couldn’t deny the creature’s existence, even if they truly wanted your reality to morph into the past. 

Yet here it was, defying Reality, with nothing to say aside from a purr. Your hands touched black and your fingers graced white until you could make out the cat yourself, perched contently between your legs. 

“Alfie,” you sighed out, half out of astonishment and half out of relief. 

“I always seem to find you two together after a hard time,” came Damian’s voice, cutting straight through the static with his deep timbre. “He can help you where I can’t.” 

There was still a shake in your breath, your chest still rising and falling with great difficulty, more than Damian liked. He looked up at you briefly before looking back down at the precious cat, one that only seemed to like a few people on this earth. Even if he liked Damian, it was a hell of a taming. But with you, you two clicked instantly. 

Damian would never forget the day he found you holding Alfred, hugging him close and the content kitten doing nothing but hugging back with its smaller limbs. Alfred’s little head perched on your shoulder, eyes closed in pure bliss. You were swaying slowly, humming in harmony with the soft purrs omitting from the shorthair. 

You were waiting on him, that much he remembered. It was years after you two had met, just shortly after high school graduation and just before Damian started college. That was the blissful moment of limbo where it was just you two hanging out for the summer and getting his apartment together. 

That was the day Damian Wayne fell in love with you. 

So here you were, years later, yet all the same. 

“Alfred gave him to me my senior year,” Damian started. He knew you already knew Alfred’s origin, you were there. But for some reason, exact details of dates were helping you, so he was happy to recall a core memory. “He called it a graduation gift even though the meeting was pure happenstance. He didn’t want to admit the cat reminded him of me, but I knew.” 

You glanced up at Damian and he glanced back. 

He stated the year easily, the fricative consonants adding to his timbre. “That was the year I fell in love with you. I was nineteen. It started with prom night, I should have known what that feeling was by then. But it wasn’t until late summer that I finally realized I could see no other future than one that was beside you.” 

He pointed down at the fuzz ball that was now laying across your crossed legs. “It’s all because of him.” 

Your hands pressed into the fur and massaged the skin underneath gently until the final strand of fate was snapped. You looked into the green, seeing each shade of bright emerald and late spring, eucalyptus and summer leaves. 

You found your voice and it was among his, miles ahead of the distant voices of the past. You said the same year, finding that your consonants blended with his after being around him for so long. Your voices intertwined in some ways and diverged in others. 

“That was the year I fell in love with you.” You responded. “We got bored and decided to paint your bedroom a different color.” You found yourself smiling at the memory, not even thinking twice about how your voice became steady against the mechanics of breath. “We were trying to figure out how to use the paint rollers and you learned the hard way that too much paint was in fact, not, more efficient. You had paint all in your hair after just one swipe.” 

You laughed and Damian found himself smiling at the sound. “I managed to get some on your cheeks,” he recalled.

You nodded. “You did,” a slight chuckle shaking your shoulders. “I got you back though.” 

“Please,” Damian rolled his eyes, “you were covered in far more paint than I was at the end of the night.” 

“Was not!”

Damian hummed in absolute confidence. “As I recall, Alfred gave you a far more disproving look than he gave me.” 

“Because he found me first!” 

Sometime in the near future, you would retell the events that led you to this moment. From witnessing an event that hit just a little too close to home to the police report that followed, you’d tell him everything. 

But for now, you were happy just enjoying the moment with him. 

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

[ciginatree]

Baby- Justin Morrow x female!reader

Content warnings- domestic fluff, smut, PiV, talk of pregnancy, sub!Justin if you squint, language

Word Count: 1.4k

Anonymous request

This story is a complete work of fiction portraying the likeness of a real person or persons in a fictional situation.

Justin drops the gallon of milk into the shopping cart and leans on the handlebar and top basket as he pushes back through the aisle. He’s tired; he never really enjoys grocery shopping, but he’d rather go than make you go right after work. So, he continues to push the half-full cart over the linoleum floor. He starts to turn down the bread aisle, but stops at the wet floor sign blocking his way. He groans and turns his cart down the next aisle over, sticky wheels skidding over the floor. Dead eyed and tired, Justin pays no attention to the contents of the aisle, until his eyes catch on a small article of clothing hanging off a rack. “Daddy’s little rockstar” reads the white, blocky lettering on a blue and white striped onesie. He slows the cart and straightens up with intrigue, reaching out to touch the miniscule piece of clothing. How can a human even be this small? He holds his hand up beside the garment and chuckles at the comparison. His hand extends to where the baby’s armpit would be, taking up the majority of the garment. He presses the soft fabric between his fingers and ponders it, a warm idea overtaking his annoyance. He gently slides the hanger off the rack and places the item in the basket of the cart and continues on to the check out.

You hear the sound of the front door closing and plastic bags of groceries being lowered to the floor with a thud. “Babe?” You call out and stand from where you were doom scrolling on the couch to make your way to the front of the house. You smile when your bear of a husband comes into view. “Hey, how’d it go?” You raise yourself on your toes and place a hand on his cheek, sweetly pressing your lips to his. Anxiousness bleeds off of him and he tenses, causing you to retract a bit. You furrow your eyebrows in concern and he looks down, biting his lip. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” 

“No- nothing’s wrong, but-” An unexpected object in one of the gray plastic sacks catches your eye and you cut him off.

“What’s that?” You start to reach down for it, but Justin places a hand on each of your upper arms, pulling you back upright.

“Baby, wait. I need to talk to you first.” You’ve only seen him this nervous a couple other times: the night he proposed, and the day he found out his dad was sick. 

“Justin, you’re scaring me,” you say, feeding off his anxiousness. Is someone else sick? Did someone get into an accident? What has he been hiding from you?

“It’s nothing bad, not- well I guess if you don’t want it- but, we just- we’ve never talked about it and-”

“Justin,” you say firmly. “What are you trying to tell me?” He takes a breath and squeezes your arms, looking at you like he might drown if he looks away.

“I think I want a kid.” You’re silent. Stunned at his sudden confession. Neither of you speak for a few moments, both of you simply search each other’s expressions as the buzzing quiet fills your ears.

“That’s what you were so scared to tell me?” He nods and you hang your head, trying to contain your laughter. Justin looks at you apprehensively, not sure if he should be scared or hopeful.

“What?” Your laughter crescendos and you look up at him with a lighthearted look of shock.

“I thought someone died or something! You scared the hell out of me!” Justin lets out a few sheepish chuckles of his own, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Your laughter dies down to a loving smile. “I want a kid, too.”

Justin’s smile grows to a look of elation and his eyes grow lighter with hope and wonder. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I”m sure.” The words have barely left your mouth before you find yourself swept up into his arms, legs dangling over his forearms. You shriek in laughter and grip his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“We both want kids; I’m not wasting any time.” He takes quick steps to the bedroom, leg swinging behind him to shut the door. He tosses you onto the bed and yanks his shirt over his head. You take initiative and undress yourself, your pants landing draped over your nightstand, the rest god knows where else. Justin wastes no time in climbing over you, a dopey, lopsided smile tugging at his lips as his hair dips down over his forehead. 

You grin in return and grasp his cheeks in each of your hands, pulling him down into a heated kiss. The warmth of his skin radiates into your chest as his brushes against you, his hips lifted barely above yours. Your lips work in tandem, throbbing heat coiling between you as each kiss deepens in passion. When you don’t think you can take anymore, the tip of his cock nestles against your opening, both of you moaning in unison.

“You ready, baby?” Justin pants against your lips. All you can do is nod. With a small grunt, he pushes his way inside you, breath suspending as he’s enveloped in your heat. You grip his shoulders, mouth dropping open as your head tilts back in a silent moan. It’s overwhelming; the feeling and the stretch of him inside you numbs your mind every time. Justin bottoms out and pauses, hips resting snug against yours. He lowers himself to his forearms once again, his face mere inches from yours. You both work to catch your breath. 

With a deep inhale Justin’s eyes flutter open, searching yours for confirmation. You simply stare up at him, knowing he’ll get the message when you hook a leg over his hips. Eyes locked on yours, Justin withdraws his hips and pushes forward again with a moan. As he finds a rhythm, his mouth drops open to release obscene sounds. His eyelids are heavy as he completely surrenders to you.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, hands clenching the sheets on either side of your body. You grab a fist full of his hair and tug lightly before carding your fingers through the faded green tufts. Justin groans again and shifts his weight to one hand, using the other to grip your thigh as it lays anchored to his waist. Your body pulses with heat, each thrust sending a wave of overwhelming warmth through your system. “C’mon,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “Need a better position if we wanna keep a baby in you.”

Your eyes flutter open in surprise just in time for both of your legs to be thrown over his shoulders. A choked cry escapes your throat as your neck cranes back into the pillows, legs bouncing and swaying as his hips settle into yours with each thrust. Lewd sounds of wetness and panting fill the space between you, luscious heat settling deep in your gut. Your hips writhe up to meet his as best they can and Justin drops to both forearms. Sharp aches spread along your calves and arches of your feet, but you’re too far gone to care. 

“Justin,” you strain desperately. Each thrust grinds his pelvis hard against your clit, walls clenching tight around him. A depraved whimper echoes from his throat before quickly pitching down to a groan. His jaw goes slack, eyes rolling as his hips stutter forward and still against you. His cock pulses and twitches heavily, hot cum spurting deep inside you. Justin can feel it, he knows you didn’t cum and he knows he has more to give you. He blows out a quick breath and drags himself back, slowly burying deep inside you again as his hand wedges between the two of you. He keeps steady pressure and lazy thrusts, slowly working you back to oblivion. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers breathlessly. He’s so sensitive, body shuddering involuntarily. One of your legs slips slickly off his shoulder, the other plastered in place with body heat and tacky skin on skin. You gently take his face between your hands, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. 

“Baby,” you mutter, chest arching up as your core tightens. “Baby!” You cry out desperately. “Fuck!” Your nails dig into Justin’s cheeks, core pulsing tightly around him, and body flooding with a rush of unimaginable pleasure. Your orgasm triggers his second and he can’t hold back his wanton cries. He rides out both of your highs with slow, spastic thrusts before stilling, completely buried inside you. His chest heaves with overstimulation and aching breaths. A tired grin cracks his feature and he tilts his chin to brush your lips with his. 

“You’re gonna be the best mom.”

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