#whatever response it gets (if it even gets much at all) is the response it gets

[giftandhisoaks]

okay, can i summon the joined positive community for help and advice then🙏

due to very, very hard to change circumstances our household doesn't include any neurotypicals: i'm a depressed autistic man, my brother is left in my care, his schizophrenia is recognized by state as a disability so we receive a small pension ("we" rather than "he" because sadly last year his lapses of judgement cost us way too much money and now i'm the one responsible for our shared budget - no prob, i've implemented some systems to keep track of everything). And mostly we manage: i do the dishes, he's busy programming (his chosen hobby), i ask him to please stop kicking furniture, he answers he hates computers but he can be even more obnoxious if i'd like, i do the laundry, he needs to be reminded to take showers, i cook as systematically as i can, he spends five minutes at the sink at my request, i put all the "clean" dishes right back and start wiping the counters from whatever goo they ended up covered with, he insults my "made-up autistic rules" and "crazy expectations" and tells me to go to hell.

The thing is, i'm not an angel, i'm not a trained caretaker, i'm not even healthy. I am fucking depressed. It means i can relate to many of his struggles - it's hard for me to take showers too, hard to not get irritated at my friends' three-dish meals, hard to be organized, i truly understand a lot of this - but it also means i'm kinda at the end of my rope. My mom describes this whole situation as "please be patient, he's sick, he didn't choose to be this way and he suffers too". My psychologist describes this as "decidedly unfair" to me. I'm not going to describe it at all because i'm trying as hard as i can to be non-judgemental here, but can anyone share any advice on how to survive a double load of everything when you're mocked every step of the way? As far as i understand it, schizophrenia messes with people's routines, hygiene, sense of responsibility and empathy, but does it really have to be this bad? Will his caretakers always be taken for granted?

no neurodivergent infighting here

[0cta9on]

Love Premonition (恋の予感)

Length: +3k words

Genre: Fluff

Le Sserafim Sakura x Male Reader

(Author’s Note: Thanks to @octoberautumnbox for beta <3)

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Shit.

It happened again—you noticed the way the sun hits her just right, making her hair glow with a soft honey brown. The way her cheeks puff like the softest marshmallows when she laughs: a sweet sound you’d record on vinyl and rewind over and over and over again until the notes embed themselves into your ear canal. The way each footstep seems so graceful, carefree, weightless, without fear of ever misstepping.

And yet, you don’t even know her name.

It’s been a good couple weeks since she first arrived—out of nowhere, like a bolt from the blue, landing into English Lit and uprooting your entire life. New girl introduced herself during your regularly scheduled nap in the back of the classroom (“No worries,” you figured, “I’ll get her name eventually.”), but with each passing day of slowly sinking deeper into a quicksand of infatuation, it’s hard not to feel like the world’s worst stalker by knowing everything about her except her name.

It started with a simple hunger.

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Ill-prepared as always, you stare through the glass of the vending machine, clutching your empty stomach with one hand and your emptier wallet with the other. The shiny aluminum of the chip bags seems to mock you with their sheen, safe behind the confines of their metal box. Right as you’re about to drive your fist into the machine, you hear a voice next to you, so clear and pristine you thought it was your imagination.

“Which one’s good?” “Hm?” You find yourself staring at the side profile of what you can only imagine to be an angel in real life—an angel hungry for greasy potato chips.

“Which one’s good?” she repeats, turning to face you. “I can’t decide.”

For a moment, you forget all about the pang of hunger in your stomach as your eyes trace over her soft features. Curiosity or some inane instinct to humiliate yourself, you can’t seem to stop staring, even as the seconds crawl by and it’s becoming more obvious how much of a creep you must look like.

“Uh, hello?” Mystery girl waves a hand in front of your face, breaking the daze you were in. You figured she’d be running to the nearest police station by now, so the fact that she’s still here, and smiling—Christ, what a sight—is either a miracle, or the start of your demise.

“Oh, right, uh,” you mutter, “I usually just get salt and vinegar.”

“Hmm…”

She ponders your words, bringing a slender finger to her chin as if what flavor she decides on will have some bearing on the fate of the universe—with the way she looks, ethereal and impossibly out of place in this backwater town, it just might.

“They’re all the same, y’know,” you utter for no particular reason. “Greasy, cheap, always half-empty.”

She chuckles, and you feel your chest tighten. “Maybe so. But I’m craving chips today.”

You watch as she shoves a crisp dollar bill into the machine and presses the fading blue buttons—the same combination for salt and vinegar chips. The vending machine whirs to life, creaking as if it’s on its last breath, and drops one—no, two crinkly bags of chips to the bottom.

“Ooh, nice!” Mystery girl grins at you. Self-centered as it is, you can’t help but feel partially responsible for that smile, even if all you did was inadvertently raise her cholesterol. “Here.” She pushes one of the bags into your chest.

“For what?”

She shrugs. “Sharing is caring.” 

“Right, but—”

“Just take it.” With a smile like that, how could you say no? You take the small bag of chips from her and stare at—it’s the same light blue, with the same old logo and the same feeling of getting ripped off as you weigh it in your palm. Yet, there’s something peculiar about it; not bad, just different. Like a Macguffin, or whatever your English Lit teacher called it—the bullet that’ll send you falling into the abyss before you notice the trigger being pulled.

“Thanks,” you say. “I’ll pay you back next time—”

She’s gone as quickly as she came. 

As the aluminum bag crinkles between your fingers, your hunger is all but gone, replaced by something else. Something you can’t quite put to words; something far bigger than you could’ve ever imagined.

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Then, it was an instinct.

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You dribble the ball against the concrete, eyes focused, knees primed and ready to dash at the first opening. A bead of sweat drips from your chin, but you ignore it—on the court, there’s no room for distractions. From all the time you’ve known him, Min has always been a little taller, a little more muscular, but your skills overshadow any physical advantage he thinks he has.

Impatient as always, he reaches for the ball, only for him to misstep as you weave to the side and drive the ball to the hoop for an easy layup. Min slumps to the ground in utter defeat.

“You suck, man,” you joke, offering him a hand.

“Whatever.” Annoyed and exhausted, he swats your hand away. “The sun was in my eye that time.”

“Was it in your eye the other 20 times I scored?”

“Fuck you,” he snaps, making an unsuccessful attempt at kicking your leg before succumbing to the warm concrete underneath him. While he rests, you shut your eyes, feeling the breeze as it brushes past your cheeks. There’s a simple joy of a sunny weekend on the court with your best friend—a thoroughly uncomplicated way of living, void of whatever headaches life tends to throw your way.

And then she shows up.

The second you open your eyes, you see her again, walking arm in arm with Chaewon, the resident chatterbox of the school. As usual, she’s going off about some drama you don’t bother to keep up with, arm gesticulating wildly, while Mystery Girl just nods along like she somehow understands every bit of Chaewon’s barely coherent ramblings. Mystery Girl laughs, and you feel your chest tighten like it did before in front of the vending machine.

“Hey, Min,” you utter, eyes glued to the pair on the sidewalk.

“Hm?”

“What’s that girl’s name? The one next to Chaewon.”

Min brings his head up just enough to see the two of them in the distance. “Oh, her? I don’t know, we don’t share any classes. She’s hot though,” he chuckles.

Something about the way he regards her, like she’s just another pretty face, irks you for reasons you can’t put to words. You open your mouth to say something, but bite your tongue instead—what would you even say? He’s not wrong, but… But what? You barely even know the girl. You don’t even know her name.

With a huff, you pick up your basketball and toss it at Min’s face.

“Agh! What the hell, man?!” he barks, rubbing his cheek.

“Get up. Let’s run it back.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Quit being a bitch and get up!” you say a little too aggressively. You peer cautiously to the side, hoping the girls didn’t hear your outburst. Thankfully, Chaewon’s loudmouth seems to have covered up for you

“Alright, fine!” Begrudgingly, Min grabs the ball and heads to the three-point line. “I don’t even know why you’re in such a bad mood, you’re not the one who lost…” he mutters under his breath.

He checks the ball to you, starting the game. From behind him, you see Chaewon and Mystery Girl slowly nearing the basketball court. You try to focus on the game, but it gets increasingly harder to ignore the fluttering feel in your stomach that grows with every step she takes. Should you say hi? Give her a nonchalant nod? God, what is her fucking name??

Min rushes to the side, and you barely move in time to block him. He fakes back, sending you tripping to the ground and giving him an easy three-pointer.

“Oooh, get fucked!” he taunts, before shooting from the three-point line with all the grace of an injured deer. The ball ricochets off the rim, flying like a bullet through the air—right towards the girls.

“Shit, look out!” Min calls out. You’re already on your feet, making a dash towards them. You fight past the heat, the exhaustion, the pain, each step fueled by this indescribable feeling in your stomach. Chaewon and Mystery Girl give you odd looks as you barrel towards them—who wouldn’t be weirded out by a sweaty person sprinting at them?—before noticing the ball sailing right at their faces. Without thinking, you leap forward, swatting the ball away, before hitting the ground with a thud. 

A sharp pain shoots through your shoulder like a thousand knives stabbing into your bones. And yet, the first thing you do is check if she’s okay.

“Oh my god, are you alright?!” Mystery Girl asks, eyes wide with worry—those soft, round eyes like chewy boba, looking at you. For a moment, not a single word reaches your lips as your mind is too preoccupied by the girl in front of you. She kneels down next to you and inspects your arm, and you forget to breathe, to think, to function, her touch light and feathery against your skin.

“Y-yeah,” you mutter, “I think I’m—FUCK!” A jolt of pain hits your shoulder, causing you to collapse back into the grass.

“I’m gonna call an ambulance!” Chaewon exclaims, already taking out her phone. God, this is so embarrassing. All of this because of a stupid basketball. Why do you even play this fucking game?

You sit up, trying to ignore the fact that you can barely move your shoulder. “I-I’m fine, Chaewon, it’s just a scratch—”

“BRO!” To make matters worse, Min comes running towards you, getting the attention of the entire park in the process. “Are you okay?! Are you hurt?! How many fingers am I holding up?!”

You slap his hand away from your face in annoyance. “I’m fine! Just a scratch,” you lie through gritted teeth.

“Can you move your arm?” Mystery Girl asks.

“U-uh, yeah, I can—” You fight back a groan as another wave of pain ripples beneath your flesh. Tears well up in your eyes, threatening to pour down and make you look like even more of a loser than you already do. “I-I just need some ice and I’ll be good—”

“The ambulance is on its way!” Chaewon announces. A crowd starts to form around you, the sting of embarrassment hurting you way more than a broken bone ever could.

“Please, I don’t need an ambulance—”

Before you can even react, Min scoops you up into his arms like a princess. A wave of mortification washes over you as you meet Mystery Girl’s confused expression.

“Dude! What the fuck are you doing?!” With each passing second, your cheeks burn hotter and hotter.

“No time. I’m taking you to the hospital myself.” Min starts sprinting in the opposite direction, with you bouncing around in his arms like some poor damsel in distress.

“Put me down, you fucking idio—FUCK!” Your attempts at loosening yourself from his grip only worsen the pain. Mystery Girl’s lips part like she wants to say something, but all of it goes unheard under the haze of commotion and the voices in your head calling you a loser. Chaewon and Mystery Girl shrink in the distance, no doubt laughing about how stupid you must look.

All because she showed up.

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Finally: a long-awaited introduction.

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House parties—cesspools of mindless fun and bad decisions, where consequences only exist for tomorrow’s self. Hormones are high, shitty alcohol litters the fridge, and cheap disco lights cover the room with a filter that gives you a mild headache; a perfect recipe for nothing life-changing to occur. Surely.

You find yourself in an odd corner of the living room, nursing a red solo cup and recounting the story of your broken arm to a group of people you’ve never met (“You should see the other guy!” you say; cool, nonchalant, actively-suppressing the memory of Min carrying you in his arms). Deserved or not, you might as well milk as much street cred as you can from this injury.

Eventually, the group disperses naturally and you’re left to mingle around the room, shuffling your way through the crowd while trying not to hit your shoulder sling against anyone. You beeline it towards the kitchen to refill your cup—and there she is again.

Mystery Girl, her hair dyed a deep maroon that’s just barely noticeable over the colored lights, talking to some guy you haven’t seen before. That usual carefree look on her face is jarringly absent, replaced by a look that’s like gray clouds before a storm. Some voice in the back of your mind tells you to intervene—go, be the hero and save the girl!—but from the desperation on the dude’s face and the unwavering stoicism in hers, it seems like she has everything under control. Without a second glance at her, you refill your cup and head outside for some fresh air.

The chilly night breeze is sobering against your warm cheeks, reddened by the cheap booze in your system. Some stragglers linger outside the house, passing around a joint or invading each other’s personal space. You find an empty spot around the side, just outside the range of the dingy streetlights, the cold brick walls pressing up against your back. 

At one point or another, the novelty of a house party wears off and you’re left wondering why you ever attend these things in the first place. Min never comes, always making the excuse of “alcohol ruining his physique,” so you have no other choice but to tough these things out alone in search of a purpose. Are you trying to find a hookup? To feel like you belong? Some societal pressure that pushes you into following the herd? Hard to say. Maybe all of the above.

The sound of crunching grass nears the corner, and you brace yourself for the stoner asking for a light or the rowdy couple that couldn’t find a vacant bedroom inside. Instead, you get a voice:

“Oh, it’s you.”

Like a magnet, your eyes snap towards the owner of that voice. Your chest tightens as Mystery Girl joins you on the wall, that charming smile aimed right at you.

“Hey,” you greet her, the warmth on your cheeks from something more than just the booze.

“I saw you in the kitchen earlier,” she remarks. “I thought you’d come say hi, but then you just left.”

“Oh, right.” She saw you? And she wanted you to say hi? “I didn’t want to disturb your, uh… friend?”

She sighs, leaning her head back against the wall. “My ex. I didn’t even know he’d be here.”

“Oh. Bad break up?”

“You could say that.” Her gaze drops to the floor and her smile fades soon after.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright, not your fault,” she reassures you, meeting your eyes. “He dumped me out of nowhere a couple months ago. Turns out he was cheating and got the girl pregnant.”

“Yikes. That sucks.”

“Eh,” she shrugs, “I’ve made peace with it. He found out today that the kid’s not even his and now he wants me back.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck?! That’s crazy. You’re not gonna take him back, are you?”

Mystery Girl chuckles at the thought. “Hell no! No way am I dating that slime ball again!”

The two of you share a laugh that dissolves into a comfortable silence. She looks up at the sky, a blank sheet of indigo thanks to all the light pollution, and you follow her gaze because what the hell else are you supposed to do? As you stand here, just barely brushing shoulders with this girl you barely know, all the shitty beers and awkward encounters from every party you’ve been to all seem worth it. This could be the start of something bigger, or just a brief and fleeting moment in your lifetime; whatever it is, you want to hold it close to your chest until it’s gone.

“So,” she utters, breaking the silence, “how’s your arm?”

“This ol’ thing?” You raise up your sling as high as your shoulder will allow you. “Doesn’t even hurt.”

“Wow, you’re so tough and macho,” she quips, rolling her eyes playfully. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For jumping in front of the ball so I didn’t get hit. It was… cool.”

“Cool?” You raise a brow at her. “Did I look cool when I was being carried away like a princess?”

She giggles—you’ve never loved a sound more. “Hey, princesses can be cool too! Like, Mulan and that red-head with the bow.”

Now it’s your turn to giggle. “Okay yeah, but all I did was dive after a stupid ball and—”

“Oh shit!” Suddenly, Mystery Girl pins you against the wall, hands snaked behind your neck and her face close enough to see your reflection in your eyes.

“W-what are you—”

“Just shut up for a second!” she hisses. Her eyes immediately soften. “Please?”

Unable to think properly, you stay frozen in that position, one spontaneous decision away from a kiss. The alcohol has all but flushed out of your system, replaced with this lingering heat in your chest. Every passing second feels like an eternity, an eternity that you’re not sure you want to leave for fear of what would happen next. But, like all good things, this moment comes to an end as she pulls away.

“Phew,” she sighs, “sorry about that. I thought I saw my ex walking past and just, uh, y’know…”

“Y-yeah, no worries, um…” The tension in the air thickens, and you worry that the darkness isn’t enough to hide the burning red of your cheeks. 

Thankfully, the awkward silence doesn’t last for long as Chaewon rounds the corner.

“There you are, Sakura!” So that’s her name. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Oh, hey,” Chaewon says, offering you a brief nod.

“Why? Is something wrong?” Mystery Gir—er, Sakura asks.

Chaewon sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “It’s a long story. Can we leave? I want a pizza.” As if finally realizing your presence, Chaewon suddenly straightens up, eyes squinted as she looks back and forth between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?” “N-no, nothing!”

“W-we’re just talking and, uh—”

“I was just getting some fresh air and bumped into him—”

“I was actually just about to leave, so—”

“Alright, alright, damn!” Chaewon exclaims, causing the both of you to clam up. “Anyways, can we go now?”

Sakura looks back at you, a look of uncertainty in her eyes. You give her a nod. “Uh, yeah sure, we can leave,” she says.

“Cool, I’ll call us an uber. I’ll let you two finish whatever the hell this is.” Chaewon stomps off, leaving the two of you to… finish? 

“Um—”

“So—”

The two of you share a chuckle, relieving some of the tension. “You can go first,” you offer.

“Right.” She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and you swear your heart stops beating for a whole second. “Um, sorry about earlier. I swear I’m not usually like that. I just saw my ex and I sorta panicked and, uh, yeah.”

“Like I said, no worries. Shit happens.”

Sakura meets your eyes—the tingling feeling in your chest explodes, reaching to all the corners of your being until every cell buzzes with pure electricity. Something about the way her eyes peer at you, the way her lips smile at you, the way her touch still lingers on your nape makes you want to run away and never look back.

You must’ve been staring for too long as the sound of Sakura’s soft laughter breaks you out of your spell. “Do you have a staring problem or something?” she teases.

“Yes. No. Maybe?”

“You’re strange.” She starts to walk back, each step slow and playful, like she doesn’t want to leave quite yet. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” You smile back at her. “Definitely.”

You watch as her silhouette disappears around the corner, and you stay watching long after she’s hoping, slightly hoping that she’ll pop back, even if it’s just for a brief moment.

Sakura—the first coming of Spring.

Like pink petals littering the roads, remnants of her will be present in everything around you—your ears will hear the sound of her laughter where her voice is absent, your eyes will look for her face in every crowd, your mind will be filled to the brim with all of her moments—whether you like it or not.

And you just learned her name.

[jaeyundazed]

s.jy — save a horse.

SUMMARY: showing up to a concert in a skimpy outfit with the sole intent to get backstage might just be the most delusional act you've ever committed. except it works, and when the opportunity presents itself in a hushed proposal that only you can hear, the long flight to houston, texas doesn't seem useless, after all.

TLDR: save a horse, ride jake sim.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

ꨄ︎: heyyy everybody 🙃 this fic was anonymously requested to follow in the footsteps of non-disclosure! figured i'd put my own twist on it, because i have this thing for a man in a cowboy hat...and like, also jake. so like when he wears them...can you blame a girl for going insane???? aaaanyway, i hope you guys like seeing what my wet dreams look like 💔 enjoy, and as always, happy reading! xo

TAGS: smut, (semi) protected sex, you'll see what i mean by that, oral (f receiving), (semi) public sex, fingering, (minimal) dirty talk, jake is like, big, like she's stuffed, riding, jake's in a cowboy hat, reader is lowkey crazy lowkey me, she's delusional but it works so like is she though, experienced reader, jake calls her cowgirl, creampie

♫ — save a horse, ride a cowboy.

Eyes on the prize.

Follow that, and you’ll get whatever you want. You’ve done it since you were a kid, and you can safely say that it’s worked, for the most part.

Tonight, the prize was Jake Sim. And, well—you won it.

You traveled to see ENHYPEN in Houston, because you wanted—no, needed to see him in those goddamned cowboy hats. So what if you like a man in a cowboy hat? God forbid a girl has hobbies.

You decided to bring one yourself. Decorate it with gems, bedazzle the letters S.JY on it, so everyone would know it was for him. Handwrite ‘Save a Horse’ on the inside just in case he cared to look. And you? You’d wear the exact matching outfit to it and hope that it would be enough to catch his attention. You’re entirely aware that you’re good-looking, so why not take advantage of that in the only way you know how?

Flaunt it.

Black, leather cutout pants. A cow print top with attached lace straps that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. White pumps. You’re confident—perhaps even too much with the number of dirty looks you received when you arrived. But you didn’t care then, and you especially don’t now, standing at sendoff with him in front of you, practically undressing you with his eyes and making his best effort not to be obvious.

He wore the hat on stage, kissed it. Tossed it back to you. You gladly hand it to him again at the barricade when he asks. He studies it, reads the inside, bites his lip so discreetly that nobody even notices. When he looks back up, he studies you, if only for a moment, before he has to move on. Mouths you want to? and watches as you respond with a nod. And this time, he doesn’t give it back. Keeps it on his head when he walks to the other people around you, mumbles something incoherent to the guard behind him, and makes his way down the line.

You don’t think much of it until someone pulls you aside, and you turn to make eye contact with the guard from earlier. The look he gives you is telling, and when you return a confirming glance, he knows he doesn’t have to speak for you to put two and two together.

In short, you’ve come out the other end victorious. Now you have to retrieve the prize with more courage than you’ve ever needed.

The guard drops you at Jake’s dressing room and leaves faster than you can process. His demeanor the whole time suggested that he wants nothing to do with what Jake does behind closed doors, and he’s likely the one who always has to deal with it.

Your knuckles gently knock against the door, which you determine to be freshly painted and lacquered. You wait for a response, something to invite you inside, but instead, the door swings open, and you’re met with him.

Sim Jaeyun, in all his glory, his presence reserved for you only, with no other fans around to distract him. His smile is smug—confident, but not cocky, though he seems aware of the obvious dynamic between you two.

Still, you front a matching smile and walk in, although he gave no instruction. And from that, he knows he chose correctly. He likes you—the confidence in your stride, how you’re so sure of yourself, even when he hasn't given any indication that he’ll humor you. Your lips stretch into a grin when you catch a fleeting glimpse of his expression; he’s amused, and you’re proud.

“You know,” you finally break the silence, planting your ass on the nearest surface, which just so happens to be the back of the small sofa that sits in the middle of the room. “My mom always told me to go after what I want. Eyes on the prize, and you’ll get it. Isn’t that funny how things work out?”

He laughs. “You have a lot of confidence for someone who I could kick out with the snap of a finger.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but something tells me you wouldn’t do that, considering you and I both know why I’m sitting here,” you counter, crossing one leg over the other. “And I don’t think I have to be Sherlock to figure that out.”

He walks over, taking slow, calculated strides as he sizes you up. Motions you to stand with a curt jerk of his head, and you obey, standing before him, bodies but a few inches apart. You see the gears turning in his head, watch as his eyes lose focus and study your figure, mostly exposed from the sluttiest outfit you could conjure up.

“You got a name, Cowgirl?”

In his hand sits a piece of paper that you’re all too familiar with.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you retaliate, folding your arms.

He holds the paper out to you, along with a black pen. You take the pen, skim the page just enough to get the gist—it’s not like you don’t already know what it’s asking, or really demanding, of you. His signature’s already there. You scribble a lazy version of yours on the line and give him back the pen. He sets them aside. Deal’s made.

His hands perch on each side of your torso, finding purchase on your hips as he draws you closer, letting you feel his breath on your face when he exhales. He only remains this close, never more, not offering a release of tension with a kiss. He studies, looks through you, and decides how he’s going to have you because he’d be damned to give a choice to someone with your attitude.

He takes tentative steps forward, watching you catch on and move back to accommodate until the backs of your knees make sudden contact with an unfamiliar wooden surface that you quickly identify to be the vanity. He lifts you, and you assist him as best as you can, letting him place you atop the (semi) flat surface. It’s not all that stable.

“Kinda wobbly, don’t you think?” you point out with a raise of your brow.

“You won’t be here for long,” he replies with what you can only assume is attempted reassurance, and though it doesn’t quite serve its purpose, you guess it’ll do.

It doesn’t seem to matter when his lips find the soft skin just below your jawline, peppering kisses along it and down the column of your throat. You flatten your palms on each side of you and tilt your head to give him better access. Soft and warm, his mouth focuses on the place where your shoulder meets your neck, quick to locate the sweet spot there and coaxing a gentle moan from your parted lips, the sound like music to his ears.

His touch is at first reverent, worshipping your body, its curves and crevices, the thin clothes that inhabit it, and the warm, exposed skin he knows is only on display for him. His fingers glide along your side, studying your figure and committing it to memory, for later, he’ll need it. But for now, his hand dips lower and reaches the waistband of the useless shorts you opted for.

When he unzips them, you sit back, letting him slide them down your legs and lift one at a time to get them off. It leaves your lower half clad in only cutout pants and a pair of black lace panties, ones you chose to wear tonight with intent, accompanied by the matching bra that’s built into your top.

His fingers toy with the fabric, and he smiles when he looks down, admiring the sight. Then, his eyes are back on yours, gaze dark, but not daunting. Determined.

“These for me?” he asks, fingers dancing along the lace, and you offer a grin.

He seems pleased enough by that, if the immediate sinking to his knees in front of you is anything to go by. The smile on his face widens when he notices how wet you’ve become in such little time. You feel a little sheepish due to the obvious reason you’re like this already, but you figure it doesn’t matter in the long run. His finger hooks in the waistband, and his eyes trail up to yours, looking at you almost innocently, like a small dog.

“May I?”

You nod, and he pulls them down, letting you kick them off before peppering tiny, worshipping kisses along your inner thighs. He trails them up further until he reaches the exposed skin where the panties previously lay, and you feel his breath fanning against the skin, damp and inviting. Anticipating. His fingers pry your thighs further open. Let him slip between them.

The first touch is a slow, deliberate lick, parting you and collecting the slick on his tongue, a test of the waters to gather your taste and gauge your reaction. It coaxes a gentle moan, almost a whimper, from you, and your arms stiffen, hands digging into the vanity for stability.

Then, he’s kissing it. Slow, languid ones, almost teasing, yet it’s as if he’s still trying to gauge you. His lips find your clit and draw it into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then applying pressure on it with his tongue. He earns another moan, even gives off one of his own that vibrates against your skin. His intensity heightens when he licks again, picking up the pace only slightly, but adding more pressure and letting you feel his tongue against every bit of skin you have to offer. Your hips chase the feeling, rolling against him, his nose gliding between your folds with every movement.

A trail of spit leaves his mouth and lands on the soft skin beneath it. You gasp, the wetness cold to the touch, and suddenly, his fingertips are spreading it around.

It’s when his finger nudges inside, the slide made easy from the mixture of your arousal and his spit, that it becomes more than gentle caresses. He starts somewhat slow in the beginning, but the pace almost instantly becomes near relentless, teeth grazing your sensitive skin and pulling more breathy groans from your throat, needy and desperate, but ringing deliciously in his ears. Your hand snakes into his jet black hair, silky smooth under your fingertips when you fist it, keeping him closer, and you feel the pull of his lips into a smile against your skin.

He adds another finger and pushes them deeper, harder than before. Scissors them while inside to stretch you out, curls them to hit places that make you squirm and force him to hold you down. All the while, his mouth works at your clit, adding and removing pressure, sucking, doing whatever he sees fit to bring you towards your peak. He’s enjoying it all the same, speeding up as he becomes more desperate himself, mumbling nonsense into your skin, strings of you taste so good and various profanities that are just barely able to be deciphered.

You finally cry out, the noise too strained and broken to be considered a moan, and clench around his fingers, coating them in white. As he continues to work on you, prolonging the sensation, the warm liquid begins to drip down the sides of his pistoning fingers, eventually reaching the crevices between them. He finally pulls them out, drawing a whine, and stands up carefully. You watch as he brings them into the light, glistening and thickly coated, and cleans them with his tongue, the grin on his face unmistakable.

Before you have time to recoup, his hands are sliding beneath your ass and hoisting you up. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist—a little weak now, but you have enough strength to stay in place. With one arm holding you up and yours loose around his neck, he uses the other to sift through the duffel bag that sits on the coffee table, roughly pulling something out and stuffing it into his pocket.

Finally, he sits on the small sofa, letting you straddle his waist, and he breathes out, resting his hands on your hips, still bare beneath your waist, save for the pants that don’t serve as such.

“Still gonna hide that name from me?”

You look up, pretending to ponder his question, and return your gaze to him. “Yep.”

He laughs, “Why?”

“Gotta keep you guessing somehow,” you smile sweetly, subconsciously rolling your hips in anticipation. And he feels it, shooting blood straight to his dick, already hard, yet worsening with each fleeting second. But he offers an eye roll in response, paired with a laugh that sounds a little too pained to be sincere.

“Fine, then,” he replies, leaning over to grab the hat you gave him earlier and holding it up in front of you. “Saw what you wrote in here,” he says, his thick Brisbane accent suddenly sounding smooth as velvet. “You offered. You gonna keep to your word?”

“Gladly.”

His lips curve into a smirk as he places the hat atop his head, tipping it up just enough to see you from beneath the brim. Your fingers tactfully unzip his hoodie, worn as a part of their final stage outfits and now hanging open, exposing the lack of clothing beneath it. Soft, toned abs stare back at you, shining just slightly in the light from the sweat that must have formed over time.

You run a hand along his torso, from his stomach up to his chest, then slowly back down, discarding his belt and hooking your fingers in his jeans with one fluid motion. Your thumb loosens the button with ease. You’re more experienced than he probably accounted for, and it makes things easier for him, allowing him to sit back leisurely and let you do the work. Taking an educated guess, you stick your hand in his pocket to pull out what you can only assume is a condom that he shoved in there before. Your guess is right.

Within twenty-five seconds (give or take), you’ve managed to rid him of the jeans and boxers beneath, getting them down his knees enough for them to pool at his feet. You knew he was big because the tent he pitched in his pants was freaking massive, but even you hadn’t expected this, painfully hard and already leaking with pre-cum. Your thumb brushes the tip and collects the warm droplets on it so you can have your turn getting a taste, and it proves to be delicious, although it’s not something you’re inherently surprised by.

He watches it all, eyes glazed over, gaze dark. Anticipation clouding his features, his fingers pressing deep into your sides, skin on full display because you really pushed the venue’s dress code to its limits with that goddamned outfit.

Once you’ve finally secured the condom on, he wastes no time adjusting your position and sheathing you on his cock, drawing an elongated moan from you that he matches soon after. Based on the experience you seem to have, he didn’t assume you’d be so tight, but here you are practically fucking squeezing him like a constrictor around some poor guy’s neck. No matter how primed he thought you were, it doesn’t seem to have worked.

God, have you only slept with guys that have fucking micropenises?

Meanwhile, you’re already a mess on top of him, breaths coming out in waves as you try to adjust. Eyes squeezed shut, palms squeezing his shoulders under the hoodie, because they somehow ended up there, and, well—you’re clenching.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You’re tight.”

“You’re big,” you retort, rolling your eyes yet gripping him tighter.

He bites his lip and nudges your hips, urging you to stop talking and start keeping to that promise you made. “Come on, Cowgirl,” he all but whispers, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

So you start to move. Slow at first, because God only knows you’d snap in fucking half if you did the opposite. But fuck, he feels good, even at the stupidly crawling pace and with the condom separating you from him. You feel him, fucking feel every inch of him from whatever angle he perfectly managed.

It’s tantalizing. It’s embarrassing how frequent the noises spilling from your mouth have become in a matter of minutes. How stupidly hot he looks in that godforsaken hat you basically put on his head in the first place. His teeth still dig into his lip; you swear he’ll draw fucking blood at this rate. But hey—at least you know you’re doing your part, and damn good, at that.

You slide a hand down his front again. More sweat has beaded since earlier. You let your palm sit atop his abdomen, tense, hot to the touch. He groans, and fuck, if you’ve ever heard anything so profoundly filthy. And your moans don’t even sound familiar to you. Whatever noises he’s managing to pull from you are the first of your bloodline.

His hips are bucking. He’s growing out of the slow bullshit. You’re more than willing to give that to him.

So you speed up. You’ve gotten used to him, the length, the sheer thickness that feels like you’re stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. You’re in your groove—the one you’re almost always in instantly, yet it took much, much longer to reach that point of strength with Jake.

Perhaps you’re not as tough as you thought. Or maybe the guys you’ve slept with just fucking suck.

But you won’t let him know that.

It’s faster, harder, his hands are moving all over you like they can’t find a place to stay. You whine when he takes a handful of your breast into his hand, already sensitive, the other back on your waist, tightly gripping it like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

“Fuck this,” you huff, tearing the tube top off entirely and throwing it away irritably. And then his hand is back, gripping, teasing, kneading, making sure you feel every touch.

Strands of hair are starting to stick to your sweat-slicked forehead. Your mascara’s reached the middle of your cheek. The red lipstick has smudged itself to oblivion and isn’t even noticeable anymore. And your moans? They sound fucking wrecked. You’re babbling almost nonsensical words and phrases—a mixture of pleas and yelps of his name, which has left your mouth so many times that someone would think it’s some sort of prayer if they didn’t know any better.

In short, you’re a mess.

Which gives Jake the perfect opportunity to lift the hat from his head and place it on yours. God, and the look on his face when you just sit there and accept it, taking on the role and being determined not to do otherwise.

You can’t tell if you’re grinding or bouncing on it anymore with the adrenaline rush, the overwhelming sensation, and the obscene sounds it’s creating. Sometimes it’s skin slapping, sometimes the squelch of the sheer wetness being fucked in and out of you, and mainly the loud moans mixing and reverberating around the room like it’s a damn porno.

If you heard someone else being fucked this good, you’d probably think it was.

“That’s it,” he encourages, eyes honed in on the place you’re connected, watching his cock disappear into you repeatedly with each grind of your hips. His expression is a constant display of tension with his bottom lip pushed out just enough to be considered a pout, and you’d typically find it in you to point it out but with the nonstop surges of pain and pleasure shooting through you like a lightning bolt, you don’t really care that he’s getting off on your weakness.

The first push of his hips to meet yours hurts. Really in a good way, but still.

Now he’s hitting that spot. You’re not just crying out anymore—you’re actually in tears. They’re pricking at the corners of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks, bringing more of that smudged mascara right down with them. You look even filthier than before, and he’s eating it up, loving how disoriented he can make you look, despite the confidence you once strode in here with.

God, if he bites his lip one more time, you swear you’ll rip it clean fucking off.

But even in his expression, you can see the mental turmoil, the need for more—to cross a boundary you’re not sure he ever has in this particular situation. And to your surprise, he actually fucking does.

In one motion, he discards the hat by practically shoving it off your head, brings his hand to the nape of your neck, and yanks you towards him, lips crashing into yours in a hungry kiss.

There’s no hesitation. No gentle quality to it, if at all possible. It says everything it needs to without words, a transparent release of tension and desperation as any remaining shred of resistance fades away in the blink of an eye. His tongue is already dragging along your teeth, licking into your mouth with no warning and familiarizing itself with the spanse of it. The sheer intensity and deliberateness of it prove that he’s crossed the line he so carefully constructed all that time ago, because it would be ridiculous and totally fucking irresponsible to let that realm of intimacy be entered with someone who worships the ground he walks on and could get attached so easily.

Yet here he is, devouring your mouth with his because he clearly underestimated his weakness in this situation and decided you seem to have a decent enough head above your shoulders, and honestly, even if you didn’t, he’d probably have to convince himself otherwise because you’re fluttering around him, and he needs this to take his mind off of that, and you really have no clue at all.

You moan into the kiss and let it vibrate against his pillow-soft lips, feel him pushing you impossibly closer from the nape of your neck. Your hand, not sure what to do, slides into his hair all the same, tugging and curling into the messy, black strands with an intensity even you aren’t so familiar with yourself. It’s not enough. You need more.

You’re not quite sure what washes over you when you break away, only to lift your hips and reach between you to remove the condom altogether.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but you’re already slamming back down into his lap before he can even finish the question.

The slide is anything but easy, causing a wave of pain to shoot through your body, and you moan at the feeling like some sort of freak that gets off on it. Though maybe it could fall under the umbrella of ‘hurts so good’, because he’s thicker and hotter and pulsating, and you can feel all of it.

So much for those useless fucking boundaries. He set two, and his half-baked, debilitated ass discarded one himself and didn’t as much as protest to breaking the other. He is far too gone for that and at this point can only hope you’ve taken your own precautions because he’s not pulling out and he’s sure as fuck not going to stop now.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” he wonders out loud, and it only serves to make you grip him harder, pull yourself closer, sink further down. “Fuck,” he rasps, and your stomach curls.

You’re not really doing much work anymore when he starts fucking up into you, clouding every last sense. You hear his breathy groans, see the desire in his gaze between each kiss, taste him on your tongue, smell the raw air around you.

And fuck, do you feel him.

It’s not pretty, and it’s not calculated—it’s impulsive and reckless and full of want, dripping with it, despite how you’ve both been there, done that upwards of a hundred times. Yet still, it goes and will stay unspoken that both of you have proved yourselves to be different than your predecessors.

“Jake,” you moan weakly into his mouth as his hips continue to drive into yours, almost fucking you dumb because his name and yes are the only two things you’ve been able to properly choke out.

And finally, his hand moves to your clit, connecting with his pelvis with each disgustingly painful thrust, and rubs it with consummate precision that forces a choked-out cry.

As he keeps going, bringing you closer and closer to your release, his lips move again to your jaw. He kisses along your jawline and moves down your neck, finding that same spot from earlier and kissing the sensitive, marked skin like his life depends on it. The combination of that, his hand on your clit, the way he mumbles ‘come for me’ into your skin like a mantra, and the tip of his cock driving repeatedly into your sweet spot is enough to finally bring your orgasm to fruition.

It washes over you in a wave that forces a guttural noise from your throat, so loud and obvious that it would’ve been sure to bleed through the walls had he not decided last-minute to envelope your mouth with his again. He swallows every last moan, lets out one of his own as you completely unravel above him, nails forcing crescent-shaped marks into the golden skin they rest on. And still, he’s working you through it, milking every last drop from you and prolonging the sensation for as long as your body can withstand it.

As if it wasn’t tight enough, you’re practically strangling him now. Needless to say, it’s enough to bring him right along with you.

The noise that he makes is absolutely fucking obscene. And a string of incoherent praise follows in the form of a rasp that sends a shiver down your spine.

At first, you felt a pang of apprehension when he went in raw (albeit by your request), but the sheer feel of him in his entirety, warm and velvety and every inch without restraint? Yeah, it didn’t seem to matter anymore after that.

Besides, it’s not like you were actually stupid enough to show up completely unprepared for that possibility.

And it surely doesn’t matter now—not with the sensation that comes with him spilling into you, hot, white ropes decorating your walls like they’re a sacred painting. It feels so good and soars entirely above any other time you’ve had some guy finish inside (and it’s not many), because nothing, and you mean nothing, will compare to the feeling of Jake Sim fucking the mixture of his and your cum back into you until you’re both spent.

Then, stillness.

“Shit,” he whispers when a few warm droplets hit his bare thigh, a reminder of his blatant ignorance.

Your head rests on his shoulder, half-bare from the sweatshirt that has managed to slip off a little. You breathe in harmony, setting a pattern with him as you match one another, letting the sound hang in the space between you. It’s silent save for that and the faint back and forth of crew members outside the door that separates this closed-off world you’ve conjured up from reality. It’s now that realization hits, and you process who you’re on top of, who you’ve just let finish inside you with almost no forethought, and who made you feel higher than you’ve ever felt in your life, despite the body count that you’re not so sure you’re proud of anymore, seeing as it clearly lacks any sort of substance.

He’s bigger than all of them, better than all of them, and worst of all, more unattainable than all of them combined.

“Not so bad, Cowgirl,” he murmurs, fingers tracing gentle lines along your back.

“…It’s Y/N,” you whisper back, breathing softly against him. A quiet chuckle falls from his lips, and for the first time, he gives a smile that lacks its usual smugness.

There’s something beyond the surface of his gaze that sticks out to you, screams that you’ll be someone he remembers for a long time. A precedent you hoped to set when you first walked into this room. And now you almost wish you could backtrack, because he’s not the only one experiencing this feeling. Hell, you let him get away with things you typically have too much pride for, or at least…one thing in particular. The warmth still resides in your stomach to keep that decision fresh in your mind. Yeah, choosing to come back here probably wasn’t one of the smarter choices you’ve made. Yet still, you return the smile with a glint of softness in your eyes.

You suppose you won’t forget him, either.

— © jaeyundazed 2025.

[queen-of-gotham]

Pregnancy Scare

(Platonic!Batfam x Batsis!Reader)

Word Count: 2,200

Case Notes: for ✨this✨ request.

I got a bit carried away with this idea, word count includes the headcanons, the actual Drabble is only about 600 words.

Batsis!reader in this writing is Jason and Cass’s age, so an adult but like… barely ☠️🤣

Anyways, enjoy!

Dick

Immediately slips into big brother / part-time dad mode.

He sees how panicked you are and decides the last thing you need is someone yelling, so he tries to ground you with calm reassurance.

“Hey, hey, deep breaths. We don’t even know anything for sure yet, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

He’d offer to take you to get tests, hold your hand through it, maybe even cover for you with Bruce if you’re not ready to tell him.

Inside though? He’s spiraling. He’s absolutely worried sick, has a million questions. ‘who’s the guy, do I need to track him down, is he treating you right, oh god Bruce is gonna lose his mind-‘ but he swallows it down for your sake.

Later, when you’re calmer, he’ll gently ask what you want to do next and how he can support you.

Jason

Reacts way more emotionally in the moment than Dick does.

“You’re WHAT?!” Probably blurts it out before he realizes how much that ramps up your panic.

He paces, swears under his breath, tries to process while still watching you like a hawk.

Jason has this protective streak where he feels like anyone who might have hurt you (including the hypothetical father) is suddenly on his shitlist.

Once he calms down, he’s a lot softer, “Okay, look- whatever happens, you’re not doing this alone. If you need someone to come with you to the doctor or run interference with Bruce, I’m your guy.”

He’ll also try to lighten the mood with humor once he sees you’re overwhelmed, “Worst case, kid comes out with your brains and my looks. Not too bad a combo, huh?”

You’re just like, “Jay- we’re not biological siblings. My hypothetical baby can’t look like you.”

If the test comes back negative, he’s relieved but also still hyper-aware of how scared you were- he’ll probably keep checking in on you more after that.

Tim

At first, he thinks you’re joking, “…Wait, no, you’re serious? Oh my god.”

His brain immediately goes into detective mode, he’s running through scenarios, trying to figure out how to help, what resources you’d need, how to keep Bruce from finding out.

He’s not good at emotional comfort in the moment, he’s more solutions-oriented, “Okay, uh, do you need me to go buy a test? I can do that. Or, or we can look up clinics-“

You might have to stop him from spiraling into research mode while you’re still panicking.

Later, when it settles in, he’ll try to reassure you quietly, “No matter what, I’ve got you. You’re my sister.”

Lowkey feels guilty for not being older/stronger and worries about letting you down.

Duke

Duke is the most shocked out of all of them. “Wait. WHAT?! How- actually, nope, I don’t wanna know how.”

He’s not subtle, he reacts like a normal teenager faced with this kind of news, pacing the room with his hands in his hair, muttering “oh man oh man oh man.”

But then he realizes you’re scared and immediately reins it in. He’ll sit beside you, offer awkward comfort, “Hey, hey, it’s gonna be okay, alright? Whatever happens, you’re not on your own.”

He’ll text Cass or Steph for advice in secret because he doesn’t trust himself to handle it right without backup.

He’s very protective, like Jason-lite. Ready to throw hands if the guy involved hurt you.

Damian

He takes the news the most dramatically. “Tt. This is disgraceful! Father will end you! Who is responsible for this?”

Damian’s still young enough that his reaction is all righteous indignation. He’s furious at the hypothetical father and already threatening to sharpen his sword.

But underneath that, he’s actually terrified for you, he’s just too proud to show it properly.

Later, you might find him sulking nearby, clearly upset. When pressed, he admits in a quiet, begrudging voice, “You are my sister. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

If the scare turns out false, he’ll huff and say he knew it all along… but he’ll be unusually clingy for a while.

Cass

Cass notices immediately that something is wrong, even before you say anything. You don’t have to spell it out, she reads the fear in your body language.

When you finally blurt it out, she doesn’t panic or get loud like Jason or Duke. She just… nods and pulls you into a hug.

Cass isn’t wordy, but her silence is grounding, it’s the kind of hug that says, ‘I’ve got you. You’re safe.’

She’ll sit with you in the quiet, let you cry or rant, whatever you need.

When you’re ready, she’ll squeeze your hand and nod assuringly.

Cass will help you keep it secret until you’re ready to talk to others, she’s the best at covering for you. She’d run interference with Bruce, sneak out to buy tests with you, no questions asked.

If it turns out to be a false alarm, she won’t tease or judge, you’ll just get another quiet hug.

Steph

Steph is the one you probably go to first, because she’s blunt but nonjudgmental.

When you tell her, she blurts out, “No way. Shut up. Seriously? Oh my god.”but then she catches herself when she sees how freaked out you are.

Immediately switches gears into comfort + comic relief. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. Worst case scenario, kid’s gonna be a Bat-baby. You know how awesome that would be? Tiny cape, tiny utility belt…”

She’ll 100% volunteer to go buy pregnancy tests for you (“Don’t worry, I’ll grab snacks too so it doesn’t look sus”).

Tries to make you laugh, but underneath, she’s genuinely protective and checks in with you constantly.

If it’s a false alarm, she’s the type to say, “See? Crisis averted. But if it ever does happen, you’ll have me, no matter what.”

Babs

Babs is the voice of reason you didn’t ask for but probably need.

When you tell her, she’s calm, maybe too calm. “Okay. We can handle this.”

She’s not freaking out, but she is serious, “First step: we get answers. Then we figure out options.”

She’s fiercely protective, if she suspects the guy involved treated you badly, she’s ready to dig up dirt on him with Oracle-level efficiency.

Gives you practical advice, but also reassures you that she’ll back your choices 100%, “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me. Always.”

Out of everyone, she’s the one who helps you feel like you’re still in control, even while you’re scared.

If it’s a false alarm, she’ll give you a knowing look and a gentle, “Scary, huh? But you’re okay. And I’m glad you came to me.”

Alfred

You don’t even have to say it. He takes one look at you, pale, anxious, chewing your nails, and he just knows.

When you finally whisper it out, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just… sets down the teapot and gives you that gentle, steady look that has held this entire family together for decades.

Softly, “My dear girl… whatever the outcome, you shan’t face it alone. You have my word.”

He doesn’t panic, doesn’t scold. His instinct is to comfort first, practicalities second. He makes you tea, sits beside you, and listens, really listens to you.

When you’re done, he quietly offers solutions without pressure, “Shall I procure a test? Or would you rather we wait until you’re ready? There’s no rush, only what you feel comfortable with.”

If you’re crying, he’ll hand you a handkerchief, pat your hand, and remind you that nothing, absolutely nothing, can shake his regard for you.

Alfred is also the only one who can manage the other Bats once they inevitably find out. He’ll run interference, making sure they don’t overwhelm you with their panic.

And he’ll have very firm words for Bruce if his reaction veers too harsh, “She does not require judgment, Master Bruce. She requires her father.”

If it turns out to be a scare, Alfred doesn’t rub it in or make you feel silly, just quietly glad you confided in him, “A fright, to be sure. But a burden halved is a burden made lighter, yes?”

And if it had been real? Alfred would’ve already been ten steps ahead, researching doctors, baby supplies, setting aside one of the guest rooms for a nursery. The man would be ready to grandparent like nobody’s business.

Bruce

At first? Pure silence. The Bat-glare is on full force, and you can feel the storm behind his eyes.

His brain is moving a mile a minute, he’s cycling through anger (at the situation, at whoever’s responsible), fear (for you), and guilt (that somehow this is his fault because he wasn’t there enough, wasn’t watching closely enough).

The silence makes everyone else nervous, Jason probably mutters “oh shit” under his breath.

When he does speak, it’s surprisingly calm,

“We’ll handle this. Together.”

He doesn’t ask who the guy is right away because right now, you’re scared, and his first priority is you. But once you’re calmer? Yeah, he’s finding out. And that boy is getting the full Bat-dad treatment.

Bruce is intensely protective in his own way, he’ll quietly make sure you have access to the best doctors, best resources, best everything. No questions asked.

He won’t say “I’m scared,” but you’ll notice he hovers more than usual, checking in, making sure you’re eating, offering late-night tea when you can’t sleep.

If it turns out to be a false alarm, Bruce won’t scold you (though he will have a very pointed “choices have consequences” talk once you’re calmer).

But after the relief hits, he’ll pull you into one of those rare Bat-dad hugs and murmur, “Nothing you could do will ever make me stop being your father. You’ll never face anything like this alone.”

And if it had been real? He’d stand by you, no hesitation. Publicly, he’d protect you and the baby as Bruce Wayne. Privately, he’d move heaven and earth to keep you safe.

It’s late. You’re all in the Manor’s living room, there’s four pregnancy tests lined up on the coffee table like tiny bombs waiting to go off. Nobody’s touching them yet, the timer hasn’t beeped. You sit curled on the couch, knees to your chest, while the entire family hovers.

Dick is right next to you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders. He keeps whispering, “You’re okay. No matter what, you’re okay. We’ve got you.”

He’s doing his best “calm older brother” routine but his knee is bouncing a mile a minute.

Jason is pacing the rug, hands in his hair. Every five seconds he mutters something like, “This is insane. This is insane. I’m gonna kill the guy. Who is he? I’m killing him.”

Dick keeps snapping at him to shut up because you’re already panicking.

Tim is sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open, not because he’s working but because it’s how he processes stress. He’s rambling research, “False positives happen, you know. Statistically, there’s like a two percent chance-“

“TIM.”

“Right. Shutting up.”

Duke is by the window, looking like he might climb out of it. He’s muttering under his breath, “Oh man, oh man, oh man,” until Steph whacks him with a throw pillow.

Damian is perched on the arm of a chair like a tiny, angry gargoyle, “Whoever the culprit is, tell me now. I will handle it.”

Jason: “She doesn’t need a hitman, gremlin.”

Damian: “Tt. She might.”

Cass hasn’t left your side. She’s holding your hand in both of hers, steady and grounding on your other side, And it’s the only thing keeping you from totally falling apart.

Steph is trying (badly) to lighten the mood. “Look, worst case, we start a daycare. Little Bat Jr. gets a crib right next to Damian’s sword rack.”

Damian: “Absolutely not.”

Babs is in Oracle mode but gentle. She’s seated in her wheelchair across from you, arms folded, voice calm, “Whatever those say, you don’t have to decide anything tonight. You’ve got time. And you’ve got us.”

Bruce is standing by the fireplace, silent as stone. His arms are crossed, his jaw tight, and everyone keeps glancing at him like he’s about to explode. But when you finally dare to look at him, his expression softens just a fraction, “We’ll deal with the results together. As a family.”

Alfred is the only one who seems remotely unbothered. He sets down a tray of tea and biscuits like this is any other Tuesday, “I suggest we all take a breath. No sense in scaring the poor girl further.” He pats your shoulder gently before retreating to the corner, where he sips his own tea with serene patience.

Then the timer goes off. Beep beep beep.

The whole room freezes.

Jason: “Somebody check ‘em.”

Steph: “Not it.”

Duke: “Oh hell no.”

Tim: “Statistically-“

Everyone: “TIM.”

Finally, Cass reaches forward with steady hands, picks up the first test, and looks at it. Then the next. Then the next. Finally, she looks at you, squeezes your hand, and tilts the test to show you.

You say the results out loud, whispered and barely there.

And in that moment, the entire family either collectively exhales in relief… or the chaos level triples instantly depending on the answer.

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[technofeudalism]

i really do love this kind of smug, accusatory response over sub-150 word posts like this one, which i wrote while i was literally sitting around waiting to get a haircut.

you're right. science is an entire field. that's why it's extremely disingenuous to write this headline in this way in the first place. that was my entire point. and i DID read the article. for that matter, i already knew who Lysenko was and what his legacy is. Stalin backing him unconditionally in the way that he did was a massive L and lead to a lot of great scientists and biologists being suppressed or purged. i readily acknowledge that.

and yet in spite of this, my entire point (which you seemingly didn't get) is that a single prominent case of historical science denial is not a spooky Soviet anomaly driven by an innate Marxist denial of science - it's a GLOBAL pattern enabled by power, not ideology, even if ideology played a part in Lysenko's motivations at the time.

the USSR's failures in this regard were systemic. for example, Lysenko's vernalization techniques DID produce limited, short-term yield increases in specific contexts and he increased potato yields in cold parts of the country by modifying planting schedules, but none of this was scientifically robust nor sustainable, much like DDT or other pesticides initially succeeding in the West before ecological consequences emerged. Lysenko, being the charlatan he was, tended to exaggerate these successes far beyond their actual results and obscured much of the failures from Soviet leadership where possible and used whatever means he had at his disposal to do so.

Stalin ultimately (foolishly) supported Lysenko because he promised idealistic and immediate solutions to famine - not because anyone subscribed to the fantasy that Marxism required biological pseudoscience. case in point, in the mid-40s, during the peak of Lysenko's rise, several prominent Soviet scientists had already begun reviving Vavilov's research expeditions. this is because Russians, nor the colloquial Soviets, were not and are not a monolithic hivemind. framing the current situation in the US as something that can be defined as uniquely Soviet conveniently ignores 50+ years of comparable if not more, purposefully insidious and rampant suppression of science and outright deception of the public by the US government and western powers.

science denialism in western countries has persisted under democratic systems long after the fall of the USSR and long before Donald Trump's rise, driven by decades of unfettered corporate lobbying, outright bribery and political expediency. case in point, 123 current US Congress members deny climate science despite record breaking heat/extreme weather. collectively, they have taken $52,000,000 from fossil fuel interests to obstruct any kind of legislation that would impose regulations upon them. Stephen Harper spent an entire decade trying to completely gut Canadian scientific research. that wasn't even 10 years ago and is an almost picture perfect parallel to the current situation in the United States.

i wonder why none of this was brought up in the article, in spite of it all taking place within the same country or on the same continent? why feel the need to harken back 60-100 years to find a scary example from the Asian continent? why not mention the fact that the Democratic US president was aggressively pushing schools and workplaces to open in march 2021 in the midst of an ongoing pandemic, despite teachers, students and scientists saying it was a bad idea? why not mention the fact that the Bush, Trump, Obama and Biden administrations all poured BILLIONS into fossil fuel projects for over 20 years continuously that has lead to astronomical global carbon emissions on a damaging scale in spite of PLEADING from climate scientists to reverse course or face apocalyptic warming?

who knows! it's probably just a coincidence that this western news outlet ran and founded by western journalists living in America who went to college in America and have spent their entire lives working for western media outlets just so happened to use an example from the USSR, a country who once had 1/3 of the world's engineers and is often credited with ushering in or accellerating a golden age of science, to draw comparison to western corruption and science denialism that has been present for over 4 continuous decades unimpeded. not like there's historical precedent for that kind of thing that you should be wary of!

i cannot even begin to describe the feeling i have over this headline. in spite of their faults, unironically accusing the Soviets of being “anti science” or mentioning them in this context at all is absolutely batshit ridiculous on it’s own, not even considering the comparison being made here.

even if you put aside the space race and all of the Soviet accomplishments there (which, why would you????), they invented the fucking cell phone in 1957, over a decade before Motorola and invented the first artificial heart in 1937 (!!!!).

this obsession with painting the USSR as a backwater regressive totalitarian state with no burger is so fucking bad faith and Americans eat this shit up gladly because they think modern day Russia is built on the same principles as the Soviet Union. the red scare never ended in this country.

[mona-risms]

Okay!! First before I pop off with an idea for rumi, I just want to say I FREAKING LOVE YOUR BLOG.. SOOOOO MUCH!!

So my little idea you can turn this into a fic or blurb or whatever you want.!! I just want to share my lovely brain thoughts with you!!

Like a rumi x fem reader

So imagine as we are going with rumi being kinda most definitely touch starved and so WE NEVER GOT TO SEE RUMI WITH HER HAIR DOWN. so every chance I think rumi gets, she begs her girlfriend to do her hair!! Like she just loves her girlfriend's fingers brushing through her strands and massaging her scalp.

Letting her girlfriend braid her hair or when they finally get rumi into the bathhouse, Rumi get's a bit nervous asking her girlfriend to help her wash her hair.. but gets super flustered as Mira and zoey definitely tease her when her face is flushed from how soothing her girlfriend hands are when washing her hair..

I feel like rumi's girlfriend DEFINITELY experiments different hair styles with rumi's hair CAUSE IT'S SO LOOOOONG FOR NO REASON.

:)

also I wanted to ask if you do emoji anons?

I'm ngl I DO NOT remember which anon were you PLEASE SAY HI BC HIIIIIIIIII HELLOOKOOOO I'M GLAD YOU LOVE MY BLOG I LOVE YOU FOR THIS IDEA SO MUCH :((((

One of Rumi's FAVOURITE past times is definitely to have her hair played with :3c. It started thanks to Celine basically braiding Rumi's hair every day when she was younger, and she found that it brought her a different sort of genuine peace no matter what—she could be irritated or sad or REALLY bothered about her patterns, but the one thing that always works to calm her down and make her happy is the feeling of her hair being played with. It's a moment where she can just sit still and breathe despite usually being so gung-ho about everything, and there's just something grounding about the sensation of her scalp being massaged and her hair taken care of :(((

So having her girlfriend, her love of her life, play with her hair?? Her two favourites??? In ONE activity?????? SIGN HER THE FUCK UP she is Asking at Every opportunity like a lost child or a wet cat HAHAHA. She likes the feeling of your fingers through her hair, and I wanna think that she especially likes it when the two of you are sat in front of a mirror whenever you play with her hair—not only does she adore the feeling, but she gets to see your expression as you do whatever you want to her hair, no matter if it's you being content as you brush through it every night before bedtime or your expression being whack and all over the place as you try to figure out how to do a hairstyle on her EXTREMELY long hair 😭😭. Honestly it'd be so fun to experiment and tbh? She'd laugh so hard every time you do it, but also she'd be so very flattered :( and she wears it for the rest of the day (whether it's Shocking or actually good is up to you and your hairstyling skills, though Mira MAY or may not judge you while Zoey either laughs or takes burst photos at her look

Like I said, she asks you at every opportunity like a sopping wet cat, and yes this includes when you're all at the bathhouse. She tries to make excuses by saying that her hair is REALLY long and she needs extra help from her bestest girlfriend ever ("I'm your only girlfriend, Rumi" "And? Still the best!! Let me love you please :(") but honestly she's more than used to washing her own hair, she just really wants you close to her and feeling your hands on her scalp and tending to her hair carefully :3333. Just imagine her leaning back on you as you wash her hair, and her patterns are softly glowing in response to your treatment 🙂‍↕️ AUGHHH MY SHAYLA

You're so right though Mira and Zoey WOULD make fun of Rumi HAHAHA they'd ask for hair treatments too if you're doing Rumi already and she'd be like NO she's my personal hairdresser ONLY!!!! Rumi's very embarrassed ab how they point out how she's like an excitable little kid but honestly she plays along too, even if her brightly-glowing patterns serve as exposure for her embarrassment

[rosiestdreams]

[10:55 PM]—mine to cherish

—pairing: miya osamu x gender neutral! reader; genre: hurt/comfort, light angst, fullf, established relationship au! collegeau!; wc: 1.5k+; warnings: body issues

haikyuu masterlist

It was one of those nights. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyes hazy, lost in your thoughts. The shirt you were wearing wore a little tighter on your skin. Have you gained weight? 

You touch and squish around your body, feeling the way it spills in between your fingers. Every inch and crevice of your body suddenly felt foreign to you. The person in the mirror is unfamiliar. How have you changed so much in such a short span of time? Had you really let go of yourself that bad?

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, one that grows the more you prod and stare yourself down. Maybe it’s because you’ve been eating too much lately. More than you should. Three meals a day, all heavy, laden with carbs and muscle-building protein. Your stomach protruded, and you swear you look almost pregnant. 

You should definitely go on a diet. You can’t lose yourself any more than you have. You need to lose it all, return to your prime. After all, if you don’t, maybe your boyfriend will leave you. Maybe he wouldn’t love you anymore–

“Baby?”

The door opens. Miya Osamu, your boyfriend of 6 months enters your bedroom. You quickly cover up with a towel, a rush of adrenaline fueling you. He shouldn’t have to see the state you were in. What if that turned him off? Pushed him away? Stupid you. Why did you have to dwell on something like this when you were supposed to get ready for your date?

Osamu had been planning this date the whole week. He wouldn’t tell you where the two of you were going, insisting that all you had to do was dress up all nice and pretty and wait for him to pick you up. He had been excited for this date. He always was. In the past 6 months you’ve come to realize that your boyfriend had a thing for planning dates. It was one of his favorite things to do. 

But everything seemed to be going wrong today. You not only woke up late only to realize that you had fallen asleep in the midst of doing an assignment that was due last midnight. You were also unable to submit it. And worst of all it was for a subject that had a strict professor– one who accepted no excuses when it came to late outputs. As if your grades weren’t suffering already. 

It didn’t help that when you went to heat up leftovers for your late brunch, your microwave decided that it was the perfect time to malfunction. Rendering you no choice but to eat the last, measly pack of crackers that you had in your pantry. 

You didn’t even know what you wanted to wear for the date. All Osamu told you was to wear whatever made you feel good. But it had been an hour, and 5 outfit combinations later, you were still stumped on what to wear… leading to your predicament now. 

Osamu had let himself in with the spare key hidden underneath your porch’s plant. He had gotten here about an hour ago, and figured he would let you take your time to get ready, opting to watch one of his favorite cooking shows on your TV instead. But a couple of minutes ago, he had begun to get worried. He called your name, but to no response. 

In his worry, he had gone up to check on you, only to feel his heart breaking at the sight that greeted him. 

There you were, half naked in front of your full-body mirror, looking at yourself with disdain raging through your eyes. The way you immediately covered up and tried to hide the insecurity that was buried deep within your heart made him want to cry. 

He didn’t like seeing you so… gone. 

“Samu!” You say, voice chirpy in a fake way. “Sorry, was I taking too long? I’ll be done in a few minutes. Can’t seem to decide what to wear.” You try to laugh it off, but you can’t really hide from Osamu. 

Annoyingly enough, Osamu was one of the most perceptive men you’ve ever met in your life. Even without you saying anything, he just somehow knew when you were feeling sad, unworthy, pissed, happy. It was as if he was just in-tune with your every being. 

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise for you, when he could see right through your insecurities too. 

Osamu slowly walks towards you, gently grabbing your hand in his, simultaneously making you drop the towel you were holding on top of your form as a shield. You felt like you were baring yourself to him. You hadn’t really gone that far into intimacy with Osamu yet, but he never held that against you. But something about this moment felt so incredibly raw. A connection that went deeper than anything you had ever gone through with him before, 

Amidst the silence, Osamu holds your hand gently, guiding you back in front of the mirror. You look at him through the reflection, eyes full of fear bridled with miniscule hope. You weren’t sure what he was going to do. You try to avoid looking at yourself, not wanting to deal with the fact that you– imperfect, tragic you– was being held in his arms. 

But he wouldn’t let you.

With a gentle but firm touch, he grabs hold of your jaw, slowly running his fingers through the tapestry of your neck. His other arm finds itself curled around your stomach, pulling you in, flush against his body. You’re caged in his embrace, and the tension surrounding the two of you makes your breath hitch. 

“Look at you, baby.” He says, voice low and raspy. You try to look away, but he doesn’t let you, his calm aura encouraging you to look. To see what he sees. “So pretty for me…” 

There’s a glassy look in his eyes. And honestly Osamu finds himself completely enamored by the sight of you, so pliant in his arms. It’s the first time he’s seeing you like this. He feels like he’s just unraveled a new layer to both you and himself. You were so ethereal. And you were his. His to love. His to cherish. He would be damned if he continued to let your depreciating thoughts plague you deep. 

“Samu..” you’re breathless, completely overwhelmed by the pure devotion he was showering you with. There was no doubt in his eyes. He loved you. He didn’t have to say it because the way he was holding you, amidst all the things you seemed to hate about yourself, and was still able to look at you like you were someone straight from his wildest dreams, made you feel it. Clear as day. 

“Those thoughts that plague your pretty little mind aren’t true, baby,” He kisses your head softly, running his hand through your hair, consoling you. “You’re beautiful no matter what. All mine to love. I love seeing you so cared for. You’re so precious to me.”

Nothing but sincerity bled through his words. You’ve never felt so seen and cared for, the worries washing away. It was silly to worry so much when Osamu never cared about how you looked or whether you fit in with what society thought was beautiful. He cared about you. He cared about whether you felt loved. He cared about you being happy. Fed. Content. Cared for.

All Osamu cared for was making you the happiest in the world. 

So when you look back at him, eyes watery, tears threatening to fall from how touched you were, all he does is turn you around in his hold, hugging you as tightly as he could, grounding you. Comfort. Safety. 

“Hey,” he says, calmly rocking the two of you where you stand. “Please don’t cry, baby. You’re breaking my heart here.” It’s lighthearted the way he talks, and you can’t help but giggle as the tears fall, smiling into his chest. “We’re still going to go out on our date, y’know?”

Feeling a lot better, you look up at him, arms wrapped around his waist. You stare into his eyes, seeing nothing but love staring back. 

“I still don’t know what to wear.”

Osamu chuckles. “You could wear a trash bag for all I care, baby. I just want to be with you.” 

“Then let me grab a trash bag then–”

Osamu laughs, happy that you’re feeling a lot better than you were a while ago. He holds you in his arms, spinning you around until you fall flat on your back atop your bed. 

“Samu! Hey! I’ve got to get dressed,” you try to seem annoyed, but terribly, you fail to cover up your laughter.

“Just a little longer,” he says, going all soft, relaxing on top of you. “Let me hold you for a bit longer.” 

And you smile softly, running your hands through his hair. This was what you needed. Everything you could have ever asked for and more. Osamu brought you laughter and joy, silence and serenity. He was your pillar. A love so gentle, yet deep. And you were thankful to whatever god existed that you were his just as much as he was yours. 

finally got to upload something!!! school's been pretty hectic (rip, it's only the second week) but i'm trying my best to write as much as i can! lmk what u thing, would love to interact with everyone!

©rosiestdreams 2025. All rights reserved. Copying, reposting, translating, and modifying in any platform aside from a03 and tumblr or by any means is NOT permitted and will be dealt with accordingly.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

just another lazy day that you and your boyfriend xavier are enjoying.

you both decided to buy some snacks and hot pot ingredients for the entire week since your captain gave you a week off after days of nonstop fighting against wanderers, picking up shifts to cover for your team mates, with only enough sleep to survive during those days.

you both didn't give captain jenna another word, just agreed right away, sent your out-of-office email and auto-response, then clocked out happily.

so for the entire duration of your time off, you and xavier are not hunters, just regular citizens of linkon who are happy and in love, doing the usual lovey-dovey shit in private and in public.

and you both found it satisfying to be able to walk hand in hand, or with xavier's hand on your waist, or your hand on his arm, sharing subtle pda from time to time, not minding your surroundings... just lost in your shared, intimate bubble.

but then, being out in public with xavier is not always fun. not with some girls ogling your very handsome boyfriend, whispering loud enough for him to hear how good he looks, how his eyes are so captivating with their blue shade, how tall and lean he is, how they're speculating about what he looks like without his shirt on, and so on.

technically, they're not wrong.

and you're not exactly bothered by it that much.

except when some of them would interrupt your small talks about whatever shit just for a photo op, because some actually recognized him as one of the top hunters who would bust his ass for linkon.

and apparently, you have just learned that there is a community for top male yummy hunters online and xavier is the fan favorite at number one.

again, not surprising.

the annoying part is that, xavier doesn't like being in the limelight and some can't seem to get the hint whenever he politely declines.

so you took the matters in your own hands.

you grabbed xavier's arm, more like yanked him and made him turn in your direction, pulled his hoodie over his head, pulled the strings hard until his face was covered, with only his blue eyes visible.

"what are you doing?" he asked, voice muffled through the fabric of his hoodie, eyes wide in confusion as he stared at your determined face, "i look ridiculous."

you tied the strings into a neat ribbon, clapped your hands together and looked at your work, satisfied that his attractive face is hidden to the rest of the world.

"this is the only way we could shop in peace. cause if you're getting all the attention here, imagine how bad it'll be once we hit the grocery aisle," you pinched the bridge of your nose for dramatic reasons, "you're too handsome and the number one in the online community so you need to hide that handsome face for now."

he still couldn't understand what you meant, but because you look so cute and adorable, so satisfied with what you have done, he let it slide, let you tug him in the grocery aisle as you both made sure to get what you needed as efficiently as possible.

he caught on later on, as you were mumbling to yourself that girls are ridiculous, how your boyfriend couldn't even get a day off, how you wanted to check the website to make sure he (xavier) would stay on top, how you also find him too handsome and wanted to keep him all to yourself, that you'll do the grocery shopping alone next time.

then he pulled you to his arms, taking off his hoodie and kissing the top of your head, mumbling how adorable and clueless you are.

because what you didn't know was how xavier scared dozens of guys who were staring at you, some were even making their way towards you to ask for your number, even dared to snap a photo of you without your consent (xavier crushed that man's phone), glared at guys who were about to cat call you, and so on.

so, xavier simply said that grocery shopping online is now a trend, so there's more time for the two of you to stay in bed.

preferably naked, he added with a playful wink that made you blush in the middle of the grocery aisle.

just me crushing on xavier like a highschool teenager.

[wwinterwitch]

power couple (part 2)

summary: in the aftermath of you and johnny's fall out, you start realizing just how much he means to you (read part one here!) pairing: johnny storm x popstar!fem!reader word count: 9.8k tags: 18+ content, superhuman!reader, angst, it's always johnny having to make things right now it's reader's turn to get him back!, but reader is kind of a mess, pining, sharing feelings (and make up sex yay), kissing, brief mention of hair pulling (m receiving), softdom!reader, sub!johnny (we love to see it), dry humping, his fingers will be in your mouth <3, fingering, pussy pronouns (just once i promise), nicknames (baby, princess, beautiful), piv sex (save a spaceship, ride an astronaut!), creampie, superhuman orgasm (reader has a powerful voice remember?), reader's specifics (mentions of having hair, wearing a dress, being shorter than johnny), fluff

a comment and/or reblog is always appreciated!

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

All the silence is becoming…incredibly annoying.

The last you saw of Johnny was him walking out of your bedroom, throwing a tantrum because you didn't let him stay the night. Whatever. It's not your fault he was expecting something different because you've been extremely clear with him from the start.

What you have has never been and never will be anything remotely similar to an actual relationship. You'll never be his girlfriend, and he will never be your boyfriend. That was the deal from day one, and you vividly remember he was on board with that idea. 

At first you felt guilty when he left, though. Hell, you even thought about apologizing for it as soon as you woke up the next morning, but it's been a week since that night and you haven’t spoken to one another since then, so you figured that was it. You never reached out and he hasn't tried contacting you again. If he doesn't want to talk to you that's fine. Not your fucking problem. It’s actually better if you never talk to him again.

If only your pride would’ve lasted a little longer…

But no. Things changed after the second week, annoyance turning into something else. You can't quite explain what it is just yet, but it's something else. It’s one of the most uncomfortable feelings you've ever experienced and you absolutely hate it.

Johnny has been practically haunting you lately. You inevitably go back to that night, imagining all the different scenarios that could’ve taken place depending on each hypothetical response you fabricated in your head. It's like your brain tries to come up with various possible outcomes, and all of them casually end up with Johnny by your side, cuddling you all night. You don't know exactly how to feel about that.

But then your bruised ego makes a huge comeback, and you’re once again telling yourself he’s not worth your time. Life goes on. You won’t allow some guy to take over your life like that. Absolutely not! If anything, he’s doing you a favor by completely disappearing from your life. Just another stranger you occasionally have to see on television with his silly superhero costume that somehow looks incredibly good on him (has he always looked this good with that hideous thing on?), and some billboards here and there.

Easier said than done though, because it’s been a whole month now and you swear you’re losing your mind at this point. You’ve probably reached your lowest point. The silence and lack of communication is unbearable, and you feel guiltier than ever because this is definitely your fault. This rollercoaster of emotions was your creation. 

It feels like you need to fix something you didn’t even think needed any fixing at all– you didn’t even know that this broken something existed.

You’re fucked, basically. Because you care so much, which is never a good sign. 

It’s never a good sign because it leads you to do stupid shit like this. Like getting out of your car and having to endure the walk of shame from the vehicle to the Baxter Building, which is probably one of the most embarrassing things you’ve ever experienced. Too vulnerable, too uncomfortable. 

But what else can you do? Keep losing your mind about it? No way. There’s a conversation that needs to happen. Whatever shape it takes is completely unknown to you, but you need to talk to him. Perhaps it’s the only way you can finally get him out of your head.

You barely make it inside the building before one of their robots stops you. “Name?”

“Uh, I don’t think this is necessary,” you say, frowning.

“I need a name to make sure you’ve arranged a meeting,” the robot insists. 

“This is ridiculous. I just–”

“If you’re not on our schedule, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m sure Reed Richards programmed you, no? You’re as stubborn as him.”

“Mr. Storm programmed me.”

“Well…he’s even worse,” you sigh, crossing your arms across your chest as you stare back at the robot, who’s very much not letting you take a single step further inside the building unless you obey its instructions. “Listen, is your maker home? I just need to have a quick chat with him and then I’ll leave. I promise.”

The robot stays completely quiet, seemingly losing interest in you. It’s only when you hear the faint voice of Johnny that you realize the robot was trying to contact him. “There’s someone here who’s requesting to talk to you,” the robot says, turning to look at you again. “Name?”

You sigh yet again, informing it of your name before the robot repeats it back to him. There’s a brief silence before you hear Johnny saying something regarding your presence. The robot nods shortly, finally stepping aside. “Please, come in. Twelfth floor.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, voice as unfriendly as it can get, immediately heading towards one of the elevators.

The closer you are to your destination, your brain starts feeling more and more empty, unable to come up with any sentence. Like you forgot how words work. The little ding indicating you’ve arrived at the twelfth floor is beyond nerve-wracking, because you don’t know what’s going to happen next– you’re not entirely sure what you’re even doing here in the first place. Was coming here a mistake?

Johnny is the first thing you see when the doors open. Arms crossed, looking defensive and absolutely unreachable already. Great. “What do you want?”

You step outside the elevator, the imaginary wall that he has apparently built between you only contributes to make you feel even more on edge, because you’ve never seen him like this before. Ever. It was usually you the one building walls, and it was his job to try to come up with ways to break them down. You have absolutely no idea how to do that.

“Well, hello to you too,” you mutter ironically, although hopeful you might get a reaction from him. A clever little comeback, a smirk, anything. Any indication that there was any hope of tearing down that wall between you. But he doesn’t do or say anything, so you have to continue. “I wanted to talk to you,” you shrug, feeling extremely out of place.

“I don't think we have anything to talk about.”

“We clearly do. I mean…you’ve been ignoring me for weeks.”

“I’m not ignoring you. Not talking to you isn’t ignoring, it’s just not talking,” he replies, as if it’s obvious. And perhaps it should be obvious, because he doesn’t have an obligation to talk to you…yet here you are, demanding explanations for his silence like a fucking idiot.

You stay quiet for a bit, not entirely sure what to say. You feel extremely out of place. Confused, hopeless, stupid. It feels like such an unimportant misunderstanding with a very easy solution, but you’re trying to make it difficult– your fucking head it’s twisting everything to look a lot more complicated than it really is. He can go a whole year without talking to you and that shouldn’t matter, so why the hell are you this affected by not knowing anything about him in a month?

Is this how he felt when you left the country and didn’t even bother to reach out to him?

“Since when do you care, anyway?”

His question makes you snap out of your thoughts, staring back at him like a deer caught in the headlights. “I– I don’t know…”

“So, you care?”

Another brief silence. “I don’t know.”

Johnny lets out a laugh. Not a good laugh. It’s more of a way of letting out his frustration, while also indirectly mocking you. “I thought I was a mess, but you’re on a whole different level.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You clearly don’t know what you want!” he exclaims, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. This time, however, you can’t exactly figure out how is that so obvious to him. “You say one thing, then do something entirely different. And then I start doing the same thing you do to me and you start demanding explanations.”

“I’m not demanding anything.”

“And now you get defensive because I point it out,” he continues not too long after, and you hate how he talks almost as if he feels sorry for you. “That’s because you know I’m telling the truth.”

“That’s not– I…” you try, failing miserably. “You know nothing about me.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” he agrees, lifting both hands in the air. As if he’s not to blame for everything he’s saying. Like he couldn’t be responsible for it when he’s just stating a fact. “But perhaps you don't know yourself either.”

“Okay, no need to get all deep here,” you argue, starting to feel even more on edge for constantly being under attack for some reason. Did you really come here to get lectured by the Johnny Storm about not knowing what you want? Like he knows! Biggest womanizer in the entire word, an all-over-the-place kind of guy, and he’s talking about you not knowing what you want. Give me a fucking break! “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t holding any grudges against me. That’s all.”

“No grudges,” he replies in such a calm manner that it makes your blood boil. You would much rather see him having an actual reaction to your presence. To say anything that might give any indication that he’s at least a little excited to see you after a whole month. But you get absolutely nothing. 

“Good.”

Now he is the one who pauses for a few seconds. He stares at you, almost waiting for you to say something else. What exactly, you’re not sure. But you can see the silent expectation in his eyes, only to watch it disappear behind more nothingness. Empty, cold, absent. Like he’s not even there.

“I really can’t keep doing this, by the way,” he eventually says, briefly pointing at you before pointing at himself. “This– whatever it is, I’m out. I hate it.”

You would’ve never anticipated just how much it’d hurt to hear him say that. Again, it’s usually you the one pushing him away and him trying to reach out. How are you supposed to reach out? You’ve never had to do that before.

And, of course, instead of trying to reach out to him, you just do what you know how to do best: fucking everything up even more. “Oh, is it because I didn’t let you stay that night? I didn’t know it’d hurt your feelings that much.”

The wall feels bigger and thicker. If there was any possibility of tearing it down before, now it feels like it’s completely impossible. “Is that why you came here? To just rub that in my face?”

“No! I wanted to talk it out like adults, but you’ve been defensive ever since I got here!”

“You are being defensive too!”

“I will get defensive if you keep attacking me!” you snap, raising your tone just a little too loud. “It’s not my fault you were stupid enough to catch feelings or something!”

The lights above you flicker just enough when you speak, a few objects nearby shaking too. It is only then that you realize you probably spoke louder than you intended, feeling immediately regretful when you see nothing but disappointment in his face. It’s evident your words hurt him.

“I know,” he says, calm as ever. “It’s my fault. I should’ve known better.”

“Johnny, I–”

An unexpected ding from the elevator interrupts you before you could apologize. Reed, Sue and Ben step out of the elevator with a very confused expression when they notice you’re there. Just by the charged tension in the room, they know they just interrupted some sort of discussion.

“Oh, sorry, we didn’t–”

You cut his sister off before she could continue. “Don’t worry, I was just about to leave.”

“Yeah, like you always do,” Johnny snaps, offering you a fake smile. It cuts way deeper than he could ever imagine.

Avoiding eye contact with everyone, you walk straight towards the elevator. Luckily it’s still waiting on that floor, so you don’t have to awkwardly stand there for much longer before the doors open and you can finally escape that nightmare scenario.

As soon as the doors close, you look up at the ceiling in an attempt to hold back your tears. You can’t cry until you get back home. Still, it’s proving to be extremely difficult, nails digging in your palms as you try to distract yourself with another type of pain– the physical rather than the emotional.

You barely acknowledge the robot saying goodbye to you as you step out of the building, a group of reporters already there, perhaps being tipped off that you were somewhere around this building. Evidently, you don’t feel like answering a single one of their questions– mostly because you feel like you’ll start crying if you mutter so much as one word. 

What did the Fantastic Four wanted to discuss with you? Are they recruiting new members? Are you wearing the suit soon? Was the supposed rivalry just a rumor? Will they be in a new music video? That and tons of other questions are being thrown at you, each more delusional than the last. You can still hear their questions even after you managed to get inside your car. All you offer the reporters is a polite smile before driving away, still trying your absolute best to hold back your tears.

You had to keep it together until you were in the privacy of your apartment, because there's no way you'd risk anyone getting a photo or video of you crying. The last thing you want is the press making any sort of rumor as to what has you in such a mood.

Already in the safety of your apartment, not only do you cry, but actually bawl. Like you haven't done in a while. Stupid, pathetic, coward. That's exactly how you feel after that conversation.

Stupid, because you should've known better than to think that you could somehow have the upper hand in this situation. There was no way you could flip the script like that. It’s you the one who fucked up, so it’s obviously your job to fix things– which you clearly didn’t and, if anything, you only made it worse.

Pathetic, because you’ve always tried to present yourself as a collected woman who's very secure and upfront, but all you did was throw a half-felt apology like it meant something given the circumstances before getting unjustifiably defensive. And then you basically get dumped in front of his family. It's fucking embarrassing.

Coward, because you couldn't accept the reality of your situation until he was telling you he was done. You had to lose a good thing in order to realize you didn't really want to lose it. You had to turn into the villain to realize you've been in the wrong all this time.

It was never Johnny the one who didn't know what he wanted. He’s not the one who screams trouble. It's always been you. You, afraid of commitment and getting too close. You, choosing to disappear rather than facing your emotions. You, putting up your walls to seem unapproachable. You, incredibly addicted to self sabotaging.

And now that you finally realize how badly you need him in your life, he says he can't do this anymore– of course he can't. You wouldn't want to deal with someone like you either.

What a fucking disaster you are.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Just barely a week later and you’re trying to get over the whole situation, drowning yourself with as much work as you possibly can. Tonight you’re attending a late night show for a quick chat and a live performance. It’s the perfect excuse to get out of your apartment and forget all about your pathetic little bubble of sadness.

Your manager has been extremely on edge since the moment you stepped foot inside the car– she’s been on edge even before that actually, because her job is to know you like the back of her hand and she can tell something’s off about you. She doesn’t know exactly what it is yet. It’s not like you have been very open to tell her much about it. 

She does have her suspicions though. Especially after the two of you went over the topics you were open to talk about with the host to hand it over to the production of the show so they would keep it in mind. Music, upcoming projects and your latest world tour is a must. The supposed meeting with superheroes is a hard no. Anything ‘super’ related also no. Family, friends, love life yes, but only if the host keeps it extremely superficial– no names, no insinuations, nothing too specific.

Of course your manager wouldn’t dare to pry after you were very adamant about not wanting to speak about it in detail with anyone, but it’s pretty obvious to her that whatever is going on with you lately has to do with the last topic. You’ve never been too eager to talk about your personal life, so if you’re open to it now, it means there’s something you need to say– something to get out of your chest, perhaps in hopes of someone seeing it from home.

You change into one of your characteristic sparkly outfits before hair and makeup do their thing, leaving you completely ready to appear on television. The host greeted you personally before the show even started, wishing you good luck before having to go.

After years of doing what you do, you rarely get nervous to a point you think you’re not going to be able to do what you’re supposed to do. Of course you feel a little scared, because there’s always potential for something going wrong and adrenaline is never a bad thing, but right now you feel completely terrified of going out. 

It’s hard to focus and be confident when you know for a fact that something (someone) is missing from your life. It’s not fun having to pretend like you’re okay when you’re really not. And it’s definitely not easy having to lie to the entire world because you’re unable to show how you truly feel inside. But you try to stay positive, because maybe this little appearance might help you get a few things out of your chest.

One of the people in production comes to find you as soon as a commercial break starts. They instruct you to stand on a certain spot where a microphone set awaits you, having to stand there in dim lighting as you watch everyone around you finishing the last few details of the stage they set for you.

Live in three…two…one! That’s the last you hear from the crew before you hear the cheerful voice of the interviewer introducing their next guest– you, to the audience.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“What are you watching?” Johnny hears Ben’s voice behind him, startling him as he drops the remote to the ground.

He sits completely still, eyes glued to the screen. “Nothing,” he mutters, as if Ben couldn’t possibly hear you singing despite not being able to see the screen. “What? Her music is good,” he tries to defend himself after noticing the way Ben is looking at him.

“Right. Are you sure you’re just watching because of the music?” Ben insists, walking closer towards him. Just then, he’s able to see the screen, watching you perform.

“Positive.”

Ben sighs, leaving his friend be. He’ll have to get over you eventually. “If you say so…” he mutters, continuing his trip to the kitchen.

He prepares himself a late night snack, faintly hearing what Johnny’s watching on the television. You finish singing, finally being able to take a seat next to the host for your interview. Even though Ben is much more preoccupied on making the perfect sandwich, he still catches some of the things you’re saying– just random things about your career and details on upcoming music. The usual that an interviewer would ask to any popstar.

The guy asks something about your life as a performer impacting your private life, especially with all the world tours. “Yeah, it’s really not easy, but it’s part of the job. Besides, I enjoy traveling around the world and being able to perform for my fans, so…I’m very grateful I have those opportunities,” you reply politely to the interviewer. Again, standard stuff someone would expect from an interview.

The sandwich is long forgotten when he hears the interviewer directly asking about how that impacts your personal relationships. He even has to take a few steps closer to the lounge to hear the interview better. From there, he could see Johnny leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs, clearly interested in what you have to say.

“Well, I always try to always make time for my friends and family. They understand how busy my life can get, so I appreciate their support with that. Sometimes they join me on tours too, so that’s fun.”

“I know I might get on some rocky territory here,” the guy says with a chuckle, trying to ease the inevitable tension when he continues with his questions. “But I have to ask. I know you’ve always been very reserved about this, but do you think your busy schedule might be affecting your chances at finding that special someone?” he asks, and you can’t help but laugh nervously when the crowd cheers after the question. “Or perhaps you’re happy to be focusing entirely on yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t think my career is the problem in that department,” you offer with another chuckle, immediately shaking your head. “There’s a lot I need to work on to get to a point where I’m ready to be in a relationship.”

“So you think you’re the obstacle?” 

“Yeah, absolutely. And it actually took me a long time to realize that.”

“There’s a lot of bravery in admitting to our own flaws and work on improving,” the interviewer offers you, sympathizing with your statement. “And what do you think made you realize you needed that sort of inner reflection?”

Ben is already sitting next to Johnny at this point, both with their eyes glued to the screen in expectation of what you have to say. They both notice how you hesitate, taking a deep breath before smiling with a bit of uncertainty.

“Well, there was this guy…” you started, and it’s almost as if Ben could feel some sort of weight being lifted from Johnny’s shoulders. He doesn’t even dare to look at him yet, simply focused on you. 

The crowd cheers even louder and the interviewer can’t help but laugh at their reaction. “Looks like none of us were expecting that!”

“Trust me, even I was shocked that it happened,” you offer to him and the crowd before continuing your story. “This guy really means a lot to me and I…well, I fu– oops, sorry, I screwed up.” A soft giggle escapes you after almost swearing live on television. 

“I’m sure this guy will be open to give you a second chance, right?” The audience starts agreeing immediately with the interviewer, clapping and cheering, and you appreciate the way he’s trying to lighten up the mood.

“I think it’s a little late for that…” The audience boo’s just enough, and you have to immediately say something else to calm them down. “Sorry, guys. That’s just how life works.”

The audience quiets down eventually, giving the interviewer the perfect opportunity to continue. “Do you think he's watching this right now?”

“Uh, I don't know,” you reply with a light shrug. “I hope so.”

The interviewer turns to the camera now. “Hey, mystery man, if you’re watching this tonight…give her another chance!” he exclaims out loud, the crowd loudly clapping in agreement again. 

Satisfied with that information and the reaction from the public, the host finally changes the subject. The interview continues, Ben and Johnny staring at the television in complete silence for a few seconds after witnessing that whole thing.

“So…” Ben starts.

“Shut up.”

“She was clearly talking about you.”

“Shut up.”

“Holy shit, she was really talking about you on television!”

“Shut up!”

Ben rolls his eyes at Johnny’s inability to say anything else other than that, standing up from the sofa and leaving his friend on the lounge. Grabbing the sandwich awaiting him at the kitchen, Ben starts to make his way back to his bedroom. He only stops for a brief second, turning to look at a very troubled-looking Johnny, who still can't look away from the screen.

“I know you said she didn't care, but it’s obvious that you care, and I think she genuinely wants to make things right,” he tries. It's not like Ben wants to be on your side, but he does want to see his best friend happy. If it's you who might be able to provide such happiness, then so be it. He’ll be on your side if he has to. “Perhaps you should give her a chance.”

Johnny simply looks back at him as Ben walks away, complete silence except from the conversation happening on the late show. When he turns back to look at you, so calm and charming and annoyingly gorgeous, he can't ignore the longing feeling inside him– he’s been missing you like crazy.

But there's something else there. An uncertainty and fear that you might not be as truthful as you want the world to think you are. Why would he trust you now, when you've proven you’re an expert at running away every chance you get? Who says you won't run away from your feelings again?

So he just sits there. Defeated, confused, stressed. Trying to decide between his aching heart and his cautious mind.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The car stops right outside your building, your manager wishing you a good night before you step outside. A few photographers are there, ready to capture a few photos of you, shouting questions about this ‘mystery guy’. You don't pay any attention, smiling politely as one of the doormen in your building shields you from the press to get inside safely.

Already at your floor, you unlock the front door of the apartment and step inside, the automatic lighting immediately illuminating the entrance and the living room.

“Shit,” you mutter, visibly startled when you see someone standing outside on your balcony. The panic of an intruder being at your house disappears when you realize it's Johnny, but that immediately settles a different kind of panic because he obviously watched the interview. There's no other explanation as to why he would be here right now.

He stands there, looking at you through the window with this vulnerability in his eyes that makes your chest tighten even before you start walking towards him. It's almost as if he's sorry for being here, as if his presence would somehow be annoying– like you didn't miss him to death.

“Hi,” is the only thing you could mutter at that moment, carefully opening the balcony window, your heart almost jumping out of your chest.

“Hi,” he replies softly, a glimpse of a smile appearing on his face. “Can I come in?”

You stay quiet for a few seconds before offering him a playful grin, trying to test your luck. “I mean, unless you want to stay out there all night…”

Being able to hear his laughter again, even if it's just the tiniest chuckle in existence, fills you with a tremendous amount of happiness. It's almost insane how much a simple sound could mean to you, or the impact it seems to have on your entire mood.

Johnny steps inside your apartment, the atmosphere already feeling lighter than when you first saw him. “So, I saw your little interview,” he starts, but doesn't say anything after that, awaiting your reaction.

“I was hoping you would.”

Having this conversation is terrifying. It requires a level of courage and maturity you're not quite sure you possess just yet. Even when you know you want to have this conversation because you want Johnny in your life for as long as he allows it, it's still scary to fully admit everything you've been trying to ignore for so long.

But despite feeling absolutely terrified by the thought of having to open your heart to someone, you know deep down you can allow yourself to do that because it's Johnny the one you're opening up to.

Johnny Storm, the guy you claimed to dislike so much to distract yourself from the inevitable truth that you were actually falling for him. The one you swore you couldn't tolerate for longer than two seconds, when he's actually the first person you'd run to if you needed help with anything. Someone you treated like absolute shit, yet here he is willing to hear you out, even though you clearly don't deserve it.

So yes, it's scary to fall for someone, but it's not that scary if Johnny is that someone who’s there to catch you.

“I– okay, I'm really not good at this, so you'll have to bear with me,” you continue shortly after, feeling like you're already going to mess up again. “I’m really sorry for being so awful to you. It's not an excuse, but…I guess I was just scared of feeling any sort of way towards you, that I just kept trying to push you away until– well, until it actually worked.”

“You don't have to be so harsh on yourself,” he interrupts you. This is probably the first time you've ever had such a serious conversation with him. “I mean, I wasn't the most direct person about my feelings either.”

“Yeah, but it was obvious what was going on between us. Yes, we said nothing serious, but I mean…we’re not dumb. It was obvious.”

“Well, yeah, but–”

“And you tried to make things work and I just kept trying to run away.”

“You're not running away now,” he points out, and it leaves you speechless. “That's why I'm here.”

Staring back at him for a few seconds, you can't help but feel yourself growing more and more frustrated. Not at him, but at yourself. “I know, but it took me so long to realize,” you keep insisting, hating the tears that threaten to come out of your eyes. “I had to lose you in order to get my shit together.”

Johnny immediately shakes his head after your last comment, walking closer to you before wrapping his arms around you. Although it’s a nice gesture, it inevitably brings out a few tears from you. The second he hears a quiet sob, he tightens his grip around you, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I’m right here,” he whispers, not daring to let you go just yet. “You'll have to do a lot more if you truly want to get rid of me. I’m as stubborn as it gets, you know?”

His little joke does make you chuckle, but you still keep your face hidden in his chest. “I don't ever want to get rid of you.”

“That's good to hear, cause I don't want you to want to get rid of me either.”

Finally moving back just enough to look into his eyes, you offer him a smile as a silent sign of appreciation for his efforts to make you feel better. He takes the chance to wipe a few tears off your face, his touch so gentle it almost makes you feel goosebumps.

“I'm really sorry.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Stop apologizing. I think declaring your feelings for me on international television is more than enough to get in my good graces.”

“Oh, I bet your ego is off the roof now.”

“I’ll never shut up about it,” he replies, making you laugh. “Trust me, I’ll be extremely annoying.”

“I don't doubt it.”

He pulls you closer, the gesture barely perceptible but you still can perfectly feel it. “All jokes aside now, I felt like I was going insane without you. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” you reply with nothing but sincerity. No jokes, no urges to flee because ‘miss is such a big word’. None of that. You're way past that by now. “And…I’d like to make things right this time, if you give me the chance.”

Johnny looks back at you for what feels like an eternity, your nerves eating you alive because even when you see genuine happiness on his face, you don't have an actual answer yet. 

Although perhaps the answer is in the little details. How he keeps you close to his body while looking at you like you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand. Maybe there's really no need for him to say anything out loud for you to know his answer.

One of his hands moves up to the side of your neck, leaning closer to finally crash his lips against yours in a kiss that takes your breath away. The type of kiss that holds some sort of profound meaning that you've been wanting to find for your entire life, even when you weren't actively looking for it– a deep, fulfilling happiness that's extremely rare to find.

It's hard to ignore the massive grin on his face when the two of you pull away, half in disbelief for this turn of events and half excited to see where it leads. “We'll figure this out,” he assures you. “This– whatever it is. We’ll figure it out together.”

“Together,” you agree, before letting out a soft sigh. “You'll have to be patient with me, though. I’m still…terrified. I mean, I'm totally in, but I just–”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, his voice soft and understanding. “Baby steps. I’m definitely not a pro at relationships either, but I got you and you got me. That’s all we need.”

Now you're the one staring at him in silent appreciation. For his words, his calming presence, his willingness to make this a comfortable situation for both of you. It's just further confirmation that you wouldn’t want to face your fears with anyone but him by your side.

“You're way too sweet for your own good,” you warn him with a playful grin, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Okay, first thing to make this work,” he starts, pausing just briefly for a more dramatic effect, “you have to keep those compliments coming. It might be the first and only thing, actually.”

“So you’re more of a words of affirmations type of guy?”

He nods after your little follow up to his playful comment. “Affirmations, physical touch, gifts, I don't care. I’d gladly accept anything that you want to give me.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Anything,” he repeats, and you can't ignore the way his voice lowers just enough– enough for you to understand the hidden meaning behind it, and certainly enough to make you feel butterflies in your stomach. 

Of course that undeniable physical attraction between the two of you has and always will be very much present, but when your mind goes there, it's like that attraction just multiplies to a thousand. It's practically impossible to ignore it once it's there, refusing to leave your thoughts. An intense need begging to be satiated.

“Lucky guy,” you mutter, arms wrapping around his neck. “I might have a little something in mind.”

He smirks, hands resting at the very end of your lower back. “Yes, please,” he mutters, visibly thrilled by his own little ideas in his head.

You guide him to your couch, fingers gently pressing against his chest to make him sit down. He does without a single word, looking up at you like he's already having the time of his life and he just can’t wait to see what else you decide to do. His eyes darken just enough when you sit on his laps, straddling him. Your hands make his way to his hair, fingers gently pulling at it to guide his head back, which earns you an appreciative smirk. 

Strong hands immediately squeezing your hips, Johnny lets out a little groan when your lips press against his pulse point. It's practically impossible to ignore the way he rocks his hips upwards– just barely, but enough to provide himself a little relief in between the growing intensity of this shared moment.

He groans again when you dare to delicately bite onto his skin. This time he doesn't seem to have as much self control as before, gripping your hips even tighter as he forces you to move on top of him, desperately wanting any sort of friction.

“Someone's a little eager,” you can't help but tease him, pulling back just enough to look at him, gently grabbing his hands to remove them from your hips.

Johnny shakes his head, reluctantly allowing you to remove his hands from your body, intertwining his fingers with yours. “No, don't do that,” he warns, looking like he might actually lose it if you start with any sort of games. “Don't tease.”

“Why not?” you ask in a sweet voice, words accompanied by a slow roll of your hips, looking at him as if you have no idea what you're doing to him. “I think it's fun.”

He throws his head back when he feels you move, his own hips underneath trying to speed this up. “It's really not.”

“I don't know…I’m really enjoying this.” Grinding against him again, your hips move in such a slow motion that he might as well start complaining about it. “And I can feel that you're enjoying it too.” 

He curses under his breath, eyes closed and head tilted back still while you keep moving painfully slow. You try your best to keep your little moans to yourself for now, but it's proven to be extremely difficult, especially when he's already ridiculously hard underneath you.

“Can't help it,” he mutters. “You look so hot when you’re in charge.”

That comment brings a smile to your face. “Oh, so I'm in charge?” 

Johnny nods, opening his eyes to look up at you again, almost expectantly. He wouldn't dare to do anything, not unless you say he can. It's very evident in his eyes. You are in charge. It fills you with an indescribable feeling of confidence, encouraging you to take the lead for now.

Another slow roll of your hips has him letting out another sound that's in the middle of genuine gratitude and a cry for mercy.

“Hands off,” you warn him before letting go of one of his hands. He does as told, keeping it pressed onto the cushion of the sofa.

He watches in awe as you bring his other hand closer to your face, parting your lips before taking two of his fingers into your mouth. “Oh, my–” he gets cut off by his own grunt when he feels you grind against him with far more intention than before, totally catching him by surprise.

You watch him struggle to keep his eyes open when you speed up, frowning slightly like it's almost painful how turned on he is right now. It takes him a few seconds, but he's eventually opening his eyes again to watch you eagerly suck on his fingers. No way he’ll miss that show.

Self control slipping, you start grinding harder and faster against him, using the bulge inside his pants to provide much needed attention to your body, moaning around his digits whenever you rock your hips just right– angling yourself in the most perfect way to rub your swollen clit against his rock hard erection.

“You're so pretty…” he says, slightly out of it. Like it's hard for him to form a coherent sentence when you have his fingers in your mouth while practically using him to get yourself off. “So fucking pretty…keep moving, baby…keep moving…”

His available hand grips the sofa impossibly tight to remind himself he needs to keep his hands off your body, fighting the urge to grab you and practically force you to move faster. It takes everything in him to keep his hips completely still too, letting you enjoy yourself.

The encouragement makes you moan again. At that point, you just hope you haven't left a wet patch on the front of his pants already. It's actually insane how you managed to survive this long without his body pressed against yours.

Johnny watches as you take his fingers out of your mouth, visibly disappointed with such a show ending. His eyes light up as soon as he hears you speak, though. “Do you want to touch me?”

“Yes– yes, I need it,” he says, nodding almost immediately. You weren't expecting him to have this amount of self control, because he's still not doing anything. “Please, let me touch you.”

You take silent note of just how much he seems to be enjoying this, slowing your movements just enough while he looks at you like he's quite literally begging with his eyes. “Where do you want to touch me?”

“Everywhere– anywhere you’d let me,” he replies immediately, like he's afraid you might change your mind if he doesn’t act quick. “I want to feel how wet you are right now.”

“Yeah?” you ask sweetly, finding his desperation incredibly arousing. And his obedience too, because he still hasn't even attempted to touch you.

He nods again. “Please.”

“So well behaved today…” you point out loud, praising him, and you can just tell by the look on his face that your words certainly have an effect on him. Still holding his hand, you slowly guide it down, his eyes never leaving yours. Raising your hips just enough, his hand sneaks underneath your dress when you finally let it go. “You can touch me,” you softly whisper, both hands resting at his shoulders.

Not even a second later, his hand is inside your underwear, the same fingers you previously had inside your mouth now rubbing circles on your clit, making you squeeze his shoulders as you finally allow yourself to let out a proper moan.

“Oh– fuck, baby…” he lets out as soon as he's touching you, nothing but deep admiration in his voice as he uses his fingers to pleasure you. “She’s really missed me, huh?” 

You catch a glimpse of his playful smirk before he slides two fingers inside, the sensation making you close your eyes and moan even louder. He has no intention of being gentle, sliding them in and out at a furious pace, curling them just right to have you whimpering above him. The slick sounds are embarrassingly loud, confirming just how wet you are.

“Johnny…”

“I love when you say my name like that,” he groans again, breathing unevenly, watching you react to every single one of his movements. His available hand moves up to your waist, providing some sort of stability.

Your mouth finds his, crashing in a messy kiss as you try to muffle your moans. Legs trembling slightly, you can feel how Johnny's movements speed up just enough, knowing your body a little too well to know that you're about to reach your climax.

He only slows down when he feels your body practically spasming above him, hips rocking against his fingers in a desperate attempt to experience your orgasm to the fullest, nails pressed to his shoulders and legs barely able to maintain any sort of balance. Still kissing, you try your best to quiet your whimpers against his mouth, which he gladly helps with, until you have to move away in order to try to catch your breath and regain some control over your senses.

It's actually ridiculous how hard he makes you cum. Perhaps it was all the weeks that you've been unable to feel his touch, or maybe it has to do with your strong feelings for him, but there's just something about him. In that very moment, you fear no one will be able to compare to him. Ever. Not just when it comes to sex, but in general.

Grabbing your hips, Johnny looks up at you with a little grin. “You’re perfect.” It’s almost as if the words slip out before he even realizes he’s saying them out loud, too lost in your intoxicating presence to care. It’s like he can’t look away. He pulls you close, peppering kisses on your skin– collarbone, neck, jaw, shoulders, just anywhere he could reach. “And so beautiful, and sexy, and stunning,” he adds shortly after, which makes you giggle.

“Anything else?” you ask in a playful tone, wrapping your arms around his neck as you lean into his touch, enjoying all of his affection.

“I could sit here and list every single thing that’s awesome about you, but we might be here for a while.”

Another giggle escapes you, shaking your head. “I don’t see the issue there.”

“Of course not, cause your ego is as big as mine and you’d love that,” he replies with a playful roll of his eyes. “And I mean, I wouldn’t mind either, but…” The mischievous look in his eyes speaks for itself, but just in case it wasn’t obvious, he tightens his grip on your hips to hint at his intentions. “I think we could spend our time doing something else.”

“Something like what?” you ask, faking ignorance as your face inches closer to his. It looks like he thinks you’re going to kiss him, a hint of disappointment on his features when you don’t lean as close as he initially expected. “Like fucking me right here on this couch?”

He shakes his head with a smirk, almost in fake disbelief for the sentence that just left your mouth. “You’re driving me insane, princess.”

You lean closer again, making him audibly complain when you’re once again pulling back before he can kiss you. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Standing up from his lap, you slide your panties off your legs. He stands up way too quick, immediately taking his shirt off before starting to get rid of his pants. Rushed and frantic movements to get all his clothes off as quickly as possible, desperate to feel you against him again.

He’s grinning from ear to ear when you make him sit down again, perfectly reading your mind. He looks at you like you just told him the most incredible news. Like he’s the happiest he’s ever been. You don’t even bother with your dress, keeping it on as you climb on top of him. Johnny’s hands immediately find your waist, sliding up your dress just enough. He doesn’t dare to move now, looking up at you like you have all the answers– all the power, silently pleading for you to give him exactly what he wants.

And there’s absolutely no chance you’ll be able to resist him when he looks at you like that. It might be incredibly entertaining to tease him, but there’s no way you have the willpower for that now. Not when you’re on top of him, about to feel him inside you, and he looks like his sanity depends on you doing anything.

The sound he lets out when he feels your walls around him– wet and warm and so incredibly tight, it’s probably the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. A mixture of relief, gratitude and deep pleasure. He grips your hips so tight, he might as well leave bruises on your skin.

“How does that feel?” you ask him in a whisper, taking every inch of him, barely staying still for a few seconds before you raise your hips just enough, beginning to ride him at a slow, tentative pace.

“So– so good…” he’s barely able to reply, his grip on you helping you move as he guides your body. “You feel so good, baby.”

Your pace quickens with time, starting to ride him with more intent. His hands would alternate from your hips to your ass, urging you to keep moving. It’s like you can’t even think coherently at this point, too far gone. Too focused on how good it feels when he’s deep inside you, hitting that spot that makes your head spin. Too distracted by the sound of your skin slapping against his and the way he moans like he’s barely able to keep it together.

His hips would occasionally jerk up, meeting yours halfway, but it’s like he tries to stop himself as soon as he realizes what his body is doing, wanting to let you be the one who’s doing the work. But of course he can’t help himself, because he’s as lost as you are. 

“Johnny,” you’re able to say in between moans, feeling like you might combust any second now because holy shit does he feel good. “I– I’m gonna…”

He’s almost grunting when he hears you, throwing his head back. “Fuck– please…” he says, sounding like he’s been waiting for you to announce you’re close. “Please, let go for me, princess– need to feel you…let go…”

Now he can’t stop himself, hips thrusting up in a desperate attempt to get you to reach your orgasm. Your nails dig onto his shoulders in a way that might leave some marks, eyes rolling back into your head and walls squeezing the life out of him. 

“Please, please, please, please…”

What does it for you is that series of desperate little pleas that he starts mumbling, ragged breathing and absolute desperation in his voice as he begs you to cum. And that’s exactly what you do, letting out a shuddering moan that feels as though it echoes across the entire living room.

“Oh– oh, shit!” you hear him, giving you his last thrust before he’s spilling inside you with such intensity that you can feel his legs practically trembling. You weren’t expecting his orgasm would be that intense. It’s almost painful. He holds onto your body, a soft little moan escaping him as he coats your insides with his powerful release. 

Collapsing on top of him, you wrap your arms around his neck and he immediately wraps his around your back, keeping you close. He places short, gentle kisses on your shoulder, breath heavy and body still trying to fully recover. 

It’s only when he manages to slightly catch his breath that he speaks again. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do what?”

“That!” he exclaims, letting out a soft laugh when he sees the sheer confusion on your face. “With your powers.”

“I haven’t done anything, Johnny. I don’t–” you stop talking when an idea pops into your head, eyes widening just enough in realization. “Wait, did I–?”

“Make me have the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life?” he interrupts you. “I think you did.”

You can’t help but feel deeply embarrassed that your voice– your moans were able to immediately make him cum like that. There’s just no way. You couldn’t possibly be able to do that with your abilities.

“It couldn’t have been me,” you insist in disbelief, shaking your head.

“I think it was you. It felt like it, at least.” After insisting so much, there was a time when you used your abilities on Johnny. He wanted to know what it felt like to be ‘under your spell’, as he put it. If he says he experienced a similar thing as what he felt that time, perhaps there is a possibility that your voice can actually do that.

Now you feel even more embarrassed at that thought. “I’m sorry,” you offer him, not really knowing what else to say.

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” he immediately replies, smiling reassuringly. “It felt amazing. Really. If anything, I should be thanking you.”

The comment only makes you feel even more ashamed, covering your face with your hands. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he insists, reaching out to gently grab both of your hands to move them away from your face, bringing them to his lips to place a kiss on each of them. “You don’t need to feel embarrassed.”

You stay quiet for a few seconds, uncertain on what to say next. “Did you really enjoy it or do you secretly think it’s weird? Be honest.”

“I don’t think I can put into words how good it felt and how much I’d want to experience it again. It’s probably the coolest superpower in my opinion.”

His comment does bring a smile to your face, starting to feel more comfortable with this recent discovery. “I don’t like to call them superpowers,” you remind him in a soft voice.

“Right, sorry. It’s the coolest ability someone could have,” he quickly corrects himself, which only makes you smile wider in appreciation. “And if you feel like trying to study how it works or how to control it and all that, I’ll gladly be a test subject.”

“Jeez, you’re desperate,” you joke, giving him a quick kiss before finally standing up from his lap.

Despite how sore your legs feel at first, you ignore the feeling as you go get some much needed toilet paper for the mess the two of you just made. After cleaning yourselves, Johnny is getting dressed and you’re finally taking your high heel boots off.

You walk closer to him, and he can’t help but smile as he acknowledges the height difference now that you’re not wearing those massive shoes. “Do you want to stay with me tonight?” you ask him, a bit timidly because it’ll officially be the first time he’d stay over and you can’t deny how scary that thought is to someone like you, who used to run away from situations that came remotely close to any sort of commitment.

“I mean…only if you feel comfortable with that,” he replies. You appreciate that he says that, making sure you know that it’s perfectly okay if you want him to leave.

Taking a step closer, you wrap an arm around his neck to pull him down, just enough to kiss him. “I want you to stay.”

He returns your kiss with another quick peck on your lips. “Then I’ll stay. I have to go back though, but it’ll take me just a few minutes.”

“You have to inform headquarters when you don’t sleep there?” you tease.

“Oh, that’s funny,” he replies sarcastically, moving back from you to walk towards your balcony. “I just have to get a few things. You can’t possibly think this gorgeous face looks so good just because I wash it with a bit of water.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, of course! I should’ve known you have like a ten-step routine before bed.”

“Five-step, actually,” he replies with a little wink.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Spending the night with Johnny was somehow everything you were expecting and yet so much more at the same time. You didn’t even realize exactly when you fell asleep, too comfortable being snuggled up to his side under the covers, feeling his fingers gently massaging your scalp. The last thing you remember was feeling him kiss the top of your head before you completely surrendered to your exhaustion.

The comfort of being able to fall asleep next to him immediately vanishes the next morning when you open your eyes, realizing you’re completely alone. At first you thought that maybe he had to go because he had an emergency or something (he just wouldn’t get up and leave like that…right?), but that possibility was ruled out as soon as you realize that the bag he came with last night is still by your dresser…unless he forgot it?

You barely even have time to question the situation further when you see him unexpectedly walking inside the room with a tray in his hands and a cheerful smile when he sees you.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he greets you.

“Good morning,” you offer back, watching with evident amusement and a bit of skepticism as he walks closer to the bed, taking a seat on the side he was sleeping yesterday before placing the tray with breakfast in between the two of you.

“Your coffee machine is way too complicated, but I think I figured it out,” he half warns you, quickly hinting at the cup of coffee he prepared for you. “But you know, just in case you think the coffee sucks, it’s only half my fault.”

His little warning makes you giggle, deciding to try the coffee and announce your final verdict on it. Barely taking a sip, you immediately nod in approval. “It’s good, actually.”

You sit up on the bed, coffee in hand as you examine the rest of the stuff he brought with him. Scrambled eggs, toast, a bowl of cereal and a box with delicious-looking strawberries that he definitely bought this morning because you don’t remember buying them.

When you look back at him, you see almost concern on his face because he can tell you’re analyzing the breakfast he just made for you and perhaps he fears you didn’t like it, but he quickly tries to mask that worry with a soft smile when you lock eyes with him.

“You didn’t have to make all of this…” you say softly, still in disbelief that he did this gesture for you. And you almost want to hate him for it because it’s so incredibly cute and it’s making you feel all sorts of ways and now you just want to kiss him and tell him how nice this is and how much you appreciate it and just…he’s too much. This is too much. In the best of ways.

He shrugs almost immediately. “Yeah, but I wanted to.”

It’s impossible not to smile after his answer. “Thank you, Johnny. This is really sweet.”

“No need to thank me,” he replies, leaning closer to leave a quick kiss on your cheek. “It is my pleasure to serve you, m’lady,” he adds shortly after, making a small vow to go along with his playful comment. “I’ll make myself some coffee and I’ll be right back.”

He gives you another kiss, this time a quick peck on the lips before leaving you all by yourself again. It’s like a smile instantly appears on your face when you look down at the tray again, the unexpected gesture just immediately being added to the list of the many things you like about him.

You definitely made the right choice by giving this relationship an actual chance.

previous part

[finniestoncrane]

Hiii, I'm back with the Mr Terrific request 👉🏻👈🏻

(This is going to be a smut request cause I need this man so bad hello)

Ok so, Michael Holt with a praise/degradation kink, cause I can totally see him masterfully walking the line between praise and degradation, being both condescending and actually sweet with the reader (hope it makes sense)

To specify the reader pronouns i'd say gn if it's fine 💓

Can be headcanons, drabble, one shot, whatever inspires you more!

Thanks in advance and I hope you have a great day! Or night!

Mr Terrific x GN!Reader, word count: 650 i can confidently say that if anyone as beautiful and intelligent as this fucking majestic boy said any words to me, praise or otherwise, i would melt into a puddle, so this was MWAH perfect request anon!! request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: flirting, teasing, definite condescension and playing into a suggested degradation kink, some praise

Front desk work at the Hall of Justice was an odd job, but one with an extensive list of privileges. Least of all, the ability to be the welcoming face that the Justice Gang would see when they returned from yet another world-saving mission, walking up the stairs and into the security of their sanctuary, leaving the crowds of adoring fans behind the soundproofed doors. Only your smile and welcoming voice to bring them back down to Earth.

"Congratulations! Well done! Amazing job as usual."

You congratulated them as they walked by, stuttering on your words as Mister Terrific walked past you, trailing slightly behind the rest of the group. His face was stern, serious, but you could see his eyes lighten as you singled him out quietly.

"Especially you, Mr Holt- Uh… Michael." You remembered his previous insistence that you refer to him by his first name, as you were his colleague after all. "I… I was watching it live on the news. You really are amazing."

Michael forced the smallest of smiles across his blackened lips, as though he felt he needed to offer you something in return for your compliment. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he understood Guy's bravado, his egotistical consumption of every accolade he could find. It did feel nice to be appreciated.

"Everyone plays their part. We work together to make it happen."

You blushed at the smile, feeling the sincerity in the weight of his words.

"No, not like you do."

Deciding to take a leaf out of his colleague's book, not that he would ever let him know that, Michael decided to play into the praise.

"Well, of course not quite like I do. I'm Mister Terrific."

Your cheeks blushed redder and you let out a soft giggle that felt more like a choked moan. He found himself intrigued by your response, the sweetness of the moment, the ability he seemed to have over you. So he decided to see how far he could go with it, offering some gratitude back to you.

"You do a good job too. You might just be sitting behind that desk looking good for most of the day, but that really does help."

Michael swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat. He worried that he had pushed it too far with the condescension, that his tone was painfully patronising. But luckily, your response was obvious and immediate, and he realised that this might be somewhat symbiotic. Your cheeks were bright red now, your teeth gently chewing on your bottom lip, and the way you had shifted in your chair suggested to Michael that you were pressing your thighs together under your desk. Michael leaned on it, talking to you in a low, soft voice.

"Actually, I would argue you do a lot more than that. For me at least."

"R-really? For you?"

"Sure. It really gets to me how everyone is far less intelligent than me. It's annoying- no. It's infuriating. But you? You at least seem to be aware of how much smarter than you I am. And how amazing I am. I mean, you do think I'm amazing, right?"

His raised eyebrow and far more explicit grin, playful and mischievous, seemed to make you even stupider, as you struggled to find the words to reply.

"I… I… uh… I-I… Uh… Y-yes! Of course I do! In fact, I think you're pretty terrific."

You let out an audible groan, cringing painfully at your own shitty attempt at a flirtatious joke, but Michael's smile never faded.

"See. You are pretty clever. Maybe more pretty than clever, though."

And with that, he walked away, leaving you sweating and tensed and trying to make it through the rest of the day without worrying about having to change your underwear.

[s3xsymb01]

What You Need. Onyankopon.

mdni. black fem!reader, college!ony, lowkey toxic!ony, smut, fwb, dacryphilia, rough, dirty talk, size kink, unprotected sex, creampie, spitting, choking, oral sex [r. receiving], pet names, possessiveness, squirting.

authors note: hi guys! i hope you guys enjoy this, it's my first fic! i think i covered everything but if i missed a warning or an edit, please lmk. xx.

you were astonished with yourself. i mean, truly.

“he can’t give you what you need baby,” his voice was low before he pressed his lips to your neck.

your relationship with ony was complicated to say the least. you two were friends. met in class, did homework together, watched tv shows, and fucked every once in a while.

sure the situation was a little fucked, but you both got what you wanted. or at least that's what you had thought before today.

you shifted in your seat, breathing in deeply as his soft lips trailed down to your collarbone. “and you know what i need, ony?”

you could barely recognize your own voice as his hand ghosted over the soft skin of your thigh.

“of course,” you giggled breathlessly at the response.

“and what is that?” you asked, pulling away from the handsome man.

“it’s me ma,” you rolled your pretty eyes and pushed his shoulder softly.

you let your eyes trail over him before you bit your lip. he sat there like he expected you to cave in. pink tongue darting out of his mouth to run over his full lips.

“you are so ridiculous,” you said with a shake of your head.

“i’m just being honest,” he said smiling, the tip of his fingers brushed your inner thigh.

you two weren't even supposed to get here. your "hang out" had just been ony complaining to you about your recent hiatus. you hadn't meant to disappear on him, but you really liked this guy and wanted it to work. and that meant ridding yourself of all distractions.

but, as always, ony was different. he wanted you and was so adamant and shameless about it. and he was always there. whenever you needed him, wherever you were, whatever the case, he was there. he hung around your friends, he took you places, he bought you things. but, he was perfectly fine with being friends. he started off your situation making sure you knew that he was "not a relationship typa nigga." to his surprise, you had been so cool about it.

yet, all that cool shit was over with today. earlier he found himself with a sour attitude, speeding to pick you up once you finally responded to a text he sent you two weeks ago.

you had been let him know you wouldn't be around him as much cause you were working on building something serious with this guy from your econ class. the text was you doubling down on your decision, letting him know you wouldn't need him to do anything for you for a minute. all that went out the window when he said he was on his was over.

“how do you even know what i need, hm mr. honest?” you asked and he shook his head.

“because baby, i've talked to you and ya lil friends. i know what you had. i know what you need. i’m that. it’s that simple,” you turned your head towards the window as you took in his words.

your face felt hot and heat started to stir in your stomach. you flipped your freshly pressed hair over your shoulder, trying to find anything to distract you from the growing tension.

“that simple huh?” you murmured, mocking him as you picked at the charms on your nails.

the hand on your thigh felt hot now, thick fingers pressing into the skin of your leg. “why you not looking at me ma?”

“I don’t know, my nails are pretty cute,” you mumbled and his hand grabbed your jaw.

you pouted slightly as you were pulled back to his face. his chocolate brown orbs traced over you slowly as he studied your face.

“i don’t like when you don’t look at me,” he said and your eyes dropped to his mouth.

“i can’t always look at you,” you sassed and his grip tightened.

“well isn’t that obvious, sassy? i mean when i’m talking to you,” he said, tilting your head up to look into your eyes.

“well make that clear then,” the ghost of a smile sat on your lips as you spoke. it threatened to reappear as you watched him clench his jaw.

“watch ya mouth,” he said and you smiled, the fat of your cheeks bunching in his hand.

“or what?” you asked quietly, eyes unwavering from his gaze.

“or i’m gon’ fuck it,” he responded lowly and your smile faltered.

“that shut you up huh?” he asked and you shook your head.

“i been through it before, it’s nothing threatening baby,” you teased as he brought you closer to him.

“alright bet,” his lips were on yours as soon as his words ended.

his tongue knocked into yours, wet and moving feverishly to explore your pretty mouth. you moaned against his lips, nibbling on his bottom lip as you pulled it into your mouth. you giggled into this kiss as his hand ran down your side. you pulled away from him, chest rising and falling quickly as you tried to catch your breath.

the reasonable part of you felt terrible. you were awful. throwing away all that time spent with poor jay, or jean, or what was his name again?

“ony i shouldn’t-" you started and he laughed.

"you just did," you glared at his statement as he rubbed his face.

"cut the bullshit mama, you know you mine," he said and it was you who laughed this time.

"last time i checked, we was just friends that fucked a little," you said and he nodded.

"you right,"

"so now that i want something real with someone else, i'm yours? you're funny nigga," you rolled your eyes, scoffing at his audacity.

"don't forget what the fuck we got just cause that nigga been gassin' your head up. you been mine since the first time i fucked you."

the statement hung in the air. you both knew it was the truth. no matter how much you tried to lie to yourself, you knew ony would be the one person who clouded your mind.

"fuck you," the words came out softer than you had intended them to.

he pulled you into his lap as you pouted. his lip jutted out mockingly, one hand reaching to cup your jaw.

"you wanna fuck me mama?" he asked and you huffed.

"ony-" your words were cut short as he pulled you into another kiss.

you moaned as his hand settled on your throat, pulling you closer to him. your lips parted, his tongue finding yours again as the two of you fell against his bed. he rolled the two of you over, hips pushing into yours as he laid you against the bed.

he stood up and pulled his shirt from his body before leaning down to press a kiss to your lips again. his hands grabbed onto your thighs, hiking your legs on his hips.

"you mine baby, you gone let me have you?" he asked, voice soft despite his heavy touch.

you were getting dizzy. he was too much.

"let me have you baby," he kissed at your jaw softly.

"please," the word sounded foreign coming from his mouth.

"i'm yours baby,"

it was like your words activated something in him. he pulled the shorts off of your body, dropping to his knees in front of you. you took a deep breath, watching as he toyed with the scrap of fabric covering you.

"coming over to chill my ass," he murmured, hands pushing the back of your thighs.

"i was asshole," you shot back at him.

his fingers slapped against your clothed cunt making you jump. "watch that mouth."

“oou fuck,” your back arched as his tongue went flat against your panties.

your hands found his head, nails scratching at his waves as he pulled the soaked cotton from your center. he let out a grunt as he eyed your pussy.

"pretty ass pussy," his voice cut through the thick air.

he pulled your lips apart and his tongue rolled around your clit like that was his job. his lips closing around the button in a harsh suck. you grabbed at the sheets, moaning as he shook his head and tongue against you. he lapped at you like he didn't wanna miss a drop, moaning at the taste of you.

“please, fuck. want more, please?” you asked breathlessly as his tongue ran up and down your lips.

“you want more?” he asked, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed.

you giggled at the quick movement, nodding as he opened your thighs again.

“yes please,” he pulled one leg over his shoulder, thick tongue diving into you once more.

“shit,” you dragged out the word as his tongue flicked back and forth inside of you.

“you so sweet baby,” he smacked against your pussy, two fingers slipping into your hole.

the noise you let out was guttural and shameless as he curled his fingers inside of you. loud and wet sounds filled the air as he french kissed your cunt. his nose nudged your clit as his tongue slipped around your entrance. your legs went to close, stopping around his broad shoulders.

“this motherfucker dangerous,” his fingers came down against your pussy in a nasty splat.

he swirled them around your clit, standing over you.

“you pretty as shit,” he rasped out before claiming your lips in a bruising kiss.

“mm, thank you,” your words were soft between the pecks he gave you.

“uh huh, prettiest girl i’ve ever fucking seen,” he said as he stepped back from between your legs.

he pulled his sweats down, your back arching as you watched his dick hit his stomach.

“you want it?” he spit in his hand, palm slipping over his angry, thick tip as he gripped himself.

“i wanna give it to you mama,” you nodded softly as you let your legs fall open.

“i want it papa,” you murmured, your hand trailing down your stomach and between your legs.

“aht,” you stopped yourself before you got in any more trouble.

you watched as he stroked himself twice, leaned forward, and spit on your pussy. he smirked before rubbing it in.

“you're gross,” you whined, hiding your face in your hands while he laughed.

“what that make you?” he asked as he brushed your entrance.

“please put it in ony,” you pouted slightly, pretty lips on display as you spread yourself.

“come here baby.”

both of you gasped as he eased himself into you. your body shook slightly, toes curling at the way he slipped up against your warm walls.

"fuck," you breathed out, throwing your head back against the bed.

he growled pulling his hips back, both of you watching as he pulled out to leave just the tip in. he pushed back in, thick and heavy inside of you.

"ony,"

"i know baby," his hands found yours as he pressed against you.

you couldn't believe you let so much time go by without him. your legs fell limp as he began to find a familiar rhythm between you two. your eyes danced across his face, bliss in his eyes and a smirk on his face as he watched you. his fingers unraveled from yours, eyebrows furrowing as his hand braced itself on your neck.

"ony-"

your voice came out like a warning. you watched as he straightened up, wrapping a strong arm around your legs and holding them against his chest.

“uh uh, ain’t no running now,” the smile on his face felt like nothing but pure evil as he fed you deep, harsh strokes.

each stroke pushing his pretty tip against your special spot. and he knew what he was doing. of course he did, he was ony. your ony. the man that came to understand your body more than anyone else did.

he was fucking you differently. like he had something to prove to you, to him, to everyone. he was feral, gripping on to you like you were an anchor. he bucked into you like this was his last time fucking you ever.

“‘s too much,” you whined, tears falling against your cheeks.

“you asked for it right?”

“right?” the question was accompanied by a harsh thrust.

“yes,” you gasped and he chuckled.

“so stop allat fucking running and take it ma,” he said, smiling as his hips kicked up their pace.

"m'sorry papa," your head fell back, arms wrapping around his neck to ground you as he fucked you deeper.

“sensitive,” you whined and he licked his teeth.

“yeah? it’s too much?” he mocked your words from earlier, hips slowing down.

“too-too fast right now,” you said softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw as you shuttered.

“just a little slower please?” you asked, watching as his face softened.

“yeah baby, i’ve got you,” he said as his hips moved in a slow wave.

you couldn’t help but let out a broken moan, eyes closing in bliss at the sweet newfound pace. you cried out as he pressed against your spot repeatedly. your hips moved up against his in a pathetic attempt at fucking him back. he smirked at your movements, hands grabbing your hips and helping you.

“fuck i’m cumming, i’m cumming, i’m cumming,” you squealed before a gasp silenced you.

your mouth dropped in pleasure, eyes rolling back as his pace never wavered. heat filled your body and your toes curled. your nails dug into your palm as you came. your eyes fluttered open as you peered down your body.

he looked so good fucking you. his chest and muscles sheen with sweat, the shine making the ink that covered him pop off of his skin. his pretty brow furrowed as he focused on getting you to come again. you were his. you bit your lip at the thought as your stomach pulled tight again.

“wait, wait,” your voice was frantic as your hands slid to his chest.

“ain’t no fucking wait girl,” you whimpered at the depth of his voice.

you pushed against his pecs as you felt a shiver run through you.

“i’m, you, i’m gonna-” you stuttered as you felt pleasure wash over you again.

you watched as a small stream of release hit the lower bit of his abdomen. you giggled, drunk off the pleasure, and too happy to currently care about the slight embarrassment of your release.

“shit mama hollon, I'm-” a moan swallowed ony’s words as he pulled out of you.

“cumming,” the moaned startled you both as ony’s release painted your inner thighs.

you let out a soft oh, fingers falling to where it sat. you swiped your fingers through it, lifting them to your lips and moaning as he filled your tastebuds.

your body was jello. complete and utter putty under his hands. you hadn’t even registered him flipping you onto your side, much less him throwing your leg over the other.

you looked up at him, eyes wide as he spread you open once more. he ran his tip up against your lips, smiling at the way you shuddered when it caught your clit. he pressed forward, a tired gasp falling from your lips as he slid back in. your hands reached for the bedsheets, cheeks wet with tears as your nails dug into the soft cotton.

his hips were lazy, swinging gently into a soft grind against you. his hand dragged up your leg and against your ass. you let out a whimper as his palm spread against one of your ass cheeks. you bit your lip as he gripped the supple flesh, pulling it apart from the other. he mirrored your expression as he looked to where the two of you were connected. your flesh was wet from your previous orgasms, skin glistening as it shook gently with every thrust he gave.

“you’re fucking me so good,” you breathed out, moans loud as his fingers moved against your clit.

he leaned down on his forearm, hard chest brushing against your pert nipples as his fingers quickened.

“i know, baby. you’re taking it so good,” he said against your lips.

“i can feel it in my stomach,” you whined against his plush lips and he licked into your mouth.

you sucked on his tongue and moaned at the taste, pulling back slightly to kiss him properly again. a deep sound rumbled in his chest as you kissed him hungrily. your tongue flicked against his, sliding over it before you pulled away. you pecked his lips and licked your own.

“i’m in your stomach huh?” he asked, his voice laced with need.

“mhm,” you hummed as he adjusted himself on the bed.

you pouted as he removed his fingers. the complaint on the tip of your tongue died as he rose onto his knees. his hand lifted from beside your head and went to your hip, the other did the same. he held your hips up as he fed you slow strokes. your mouth fell open, silent moans escaping as you felt him plunge into you and press against that spongey spot.

his hand rose to your face, fingers gripping your jaw. your eyes met his, a grin covering his face as he stared at you. the two of you held eye contact as he leaned over you. his eyes flicker to your mouth, glued to the blush of your bruised lips.

“stick ya tongue out,” you followed the command immediately, a chuckle falling from his lips as he realized just how dumb you had gotten.

spit hit the center of your tongue, warm and wet as you eagerly swallowed it up. you moaned lewdly before sticking your tongue out to show him. he smirked at you, patting your face before his hand slipped down your chest.

your eyes closed as he cupped your breast and thumbed your nipple. his hand went further down your torso, stopping at your lower abdomen.

“I’m right here huh baby?” he asked, palm pressing into his tip through your stomach.

a moan flew from your lips, a scream brewing in your chest as he pressed harder. your eyes shot open, legs stiffening as you felt yourself cum again.

you gasped for air. everything was muffled and blurry now. your body was so light and yet so, so heavy. your limbs ached. you were so overstimulated you thought you would lose your mind.

“no more,” you cried, weakly slapping at his chest.

“one more,” he corrected, kissing your cheek as his hips moved in a shallow thrust.

“no more,” you whined, pouting as he grabbed your hands.

he pressed kisses to them, staring into your eyes and his hips never lost their soft pace.

“wanna see your pretty ass do it again,” his voice was as soft as snow and you smiled sleepily.

you squeezed around him, pussy leaking as he stroked you just right.

“want you to do it first, o,” you whispered, arms limp in his grip as he kissed around your hands.

“fuck,” he grunted as his hips faltered.

“where baby?” the question had hints of desperation.

you watched as his arms trembled slightly and smiled. “inside.”

“nasty ass girl. you want my cum inside you huh?” he asked, voice hoarse as his hips sped up.

“please ony, please cum inside me baby,” you begged and he moaned.

his hips slammed against yours twice and he gave a slow grind, making you lose your breath. you never caught it as you felt spurts of him inside you, pressing against your walls and spilling out. you scratched his chest as your own release streamed out of you, covering his torso and thighs.

the two of you sat there catching your breath for a while. a giggle burst from your lips as he fell onto your chest. he rolled off of you, brushing your hair from your face before staring at you.

"so you want a proper proposal or you know you my girl for real now?" he asked and you gasped.

you reached for a pillow, throwing it at his face. "onyankopon!"

"chill, chill, i'm ordering the flowers now ma damn,"

© s3xsymb01, all rights reserved. do not take, edit, or plagiarize my writing please! thank you, xx.

[kingofanemptyworld]

@mooniewestwood decided to share this here, at least for now (am seriously considering an ao3 collection though if more people write for this). thank you again for Lin Ling’s POV — it broke my heart so much I had to write Nice’s.

_______

Nice has never given much thought to his soulmate.

His parents’ shaky (and often volatile) marriage didn’t inspire a lot of faith in the concept of wedded bliss, soulmate or no soulmate.

(They were soulmates, for the record. It didn’t save the marriage, and it didn’t soften the resentment that grew between them like weeds, feeding on the toxins that had been breeding for years in the once-fertile soil of their relationship.)

He spent most of his life ambivalent towards the idea of meeting his soulmate, if they existed at all. He was comfortable living in colorless shades of gray. He’d learned early what colors mattered to him — blue, for his eyes; gold, for his ambitions — and he made a system for himself so that he could coordinate outfits and furnish his apartment without anything clashing horribly. He didn’t have an interest in art, either, so in his eyes, he wasn’t missing out on anything all that vital.

There was a brief flicker of intrigue when he met Wreck in his idol trainee program. A moment where he thought, It wouldn’t be so bad, if it was him. But he met Wreck’s eyes — gray, like so many other people’s in Nice’s view — and nothing clicked. The world didn’t suddenly explode with color. Wreck wasn’t his soulmate.

Judging from the way Wreck stumbled and stuttered over his response to Nice’s greeting, though, that didn’t mean he wasn’t Wreck’s.

He felt guilty, at first. Especially when Wreck followed him everywhere like a lost puppy, so obviously happy and eager to please that it made something unpleasant turn over in Nice’s stomach. Nice didn’t exactly try to play along; he was friendly, because he liked Wreck, genuinely, but not touchy or flirty. Not at first.

He’d heard of situations like this, where one person saw color and the other didn’t. There wasn’t any concrete explanation for it. The universe getting its wires crossed, maybe. Or maybe something in past life that kept you from connecting with your soulmate in the present day. Whatever the reason, you only had the one soulmate, and if they didn’t react to you… well. Life went on, as miserable as that was to admit.

Despite his best efforts to let things remain casual between them, things came to a head just days before their program was set to end and the trainees who’d been chosen to continue on would be selected.

Wreck invited him out to have a drink, and because they were broke that meant grabbing a cheap six-pack from the nearest convenience store and sitting in park. They shouldn’t have been drinking at all, given the strict dieting the program called for, but they were stressed and young and stupid, so they let themselves cut loose for a night.

They traded embarrassing childhood stories, bumped shoulders whenever they reached for another beer. Wreck grew red-cheeked and tipsy quicker than Nice, and he was such a happy drunk, using any flimsy excuse he could find to brush hands with Nice. Nice drank up the attention as easily as he did the alcohol, a pleasant buzz settling beneath his skin as he sipped from his can and watched Wreck grow increasingly comfortable draping himself over Nice.

When Nice turned to pluck a stray leaf out of Wreck’s hair, Wreck, emboldened, caught him by the wrist, his doe eyes wide and glistening as he stared at Nice.

Oh, Nice thought, his smile widening even as his gut tightened with dread, here it comes.

“I’ve been wanting to… to say this forever,” Wreck said, slurring the words a little. Four cans of swill like this shouldn’t have gotten to him like this, but from what he’d learned tonight, Wreck didn’t drink much. Never had. His tolerance didn’t hold a candle to Nice’s, which had been trained on the high-quality liquor he pilfered from the cabinet in the dining room. His parents never seemed to realize the lock had been tampered with, and Nice never fessed up to his underage drinking.

“Uh-huh,” Nice said, using his free hand to pat at Wreck’s arm. He was so hot — blood-hot, flushed all over from drinking, and touching him felt so much better than it should have. “Maybe you should lay off the beers for now, hm? Before you—”

“Your eyes are… like, they’re, wow. Wow. Y’know? So blue. The most… most gorgeous blue…”

Say something you’ll regret, Nice finished silently, breathing a shallow sigh.

“And yours,” Nice said, gently but firmly prying Wreck’s hand from his wrist, “are a lovely shade of gray.”

It took a few seconds for the words to penetrate the fog of Wreck’s drunkenness. And when they did, Wreck’s face absolutely crumpled. Tears gathered on his lashes instantly, his lips quivering, his chin trembling. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t get anything out at first.

Nice waited him out. He felt this was only fair. This was awkward and unpleasant for him, but it was… soul-crushing, for Wreck. His one and only soulmate, and it wasn’t requited.

Wreck must’ve thought it was only the stigma of same-sex soulmates that kept Nice from openly acknowledging him. And out here, away from prying eyes, in the middle of the night, Nice would have no reason to reject him.

On his third attempt, Wreck got out, “My eyes are purple.”

He didn’t sound quite as drunk, now.

Tilting his smile into something softer, something forgiving, Nice squeezed Wreck’s hand before laying it down in the other man’s lap. “They’re gray to me. They have been since we met.”

Wreck shook his head. He couldn’t close off his expression, couldn’t erase the despair from the set of his brows or the heartbreak from the lines around his mouth. “So, all this time, you were just…”

“You never said anything,” Nice pointed out, pragmatic. Blunt. “And I do like you. You’re cute. Loyal.”

Like a dog went unsaid, and in Wreck’s compromised state he didn’t seem to pick up on the implication.

“I’d have already fucked you if I didn��t think things would get messy.”

He didn’t get a response right away. Wreck stared at the hand in his lap, fixated on the curl of his fingers. Nice watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He watched the tears slither down Wreck’s cheeks, dripping onto his unmoving hand.

And then—

“What if… what if I want messy?”

The question was soft, barely audible, and Nice instinctively leaned in to catch it. Wreck looked up at him suddenly, hastily wiping the tears from his eyes. He seized Nice’s hands with a renewed intensity, his gaze steely, resolved.

Nice quirked a brow in question, unwilling to say anything just yet.

“I want you,” Wreck said, stronger now. “And I’ll take you however I can. So if you think I’m cute, if you want to fuck me… then do it.”

“Wreck…” Nice sighed.

“I know you don’t like mess,” Wreck pressed, threading his fingers with Nice’s, holding him close. “I’ll do whatever you want. Come when you call, leave when you tell me to. I won’t cling. I want you in my life, Nice. You’re my—”

It clearly hurt to even think it. That Nice was his soulmate, but Wreck could never claim to be Nice’s. That they were a mismatched set, a cruel joke on the part of fate.

“I want you,” Wreck repeated with another emphatic squeeze of his hands.

A good person — a better man — would’ve gently extricated their hands from Wreck’s grip, put distance between them, and politely but firmly declined the offer. Because it was never going to end well for them. Nice could come to love Wreck, eventually, maybe. But it would never be the same as what drew Wreck to him.

Nice didn’t think soulmates were the end all, be all of love. It seemed incredibly naive to pin all your desires and dreams on a nebulous person that you may or may not encounter at some point in your life. Simply being soulmates didn’t make your relationship perfect, either, as evidenced by Nice’s parents.

He couldn’t deny the inherent appeal, though.

A person supposedly destined to understand you? To love you through thick and thin? To accept all of you, every last inch, even the parts of you hidden beneath layers of affectations and polished charm?

What Wreck saw in him was a partner — someone who would complete him. What Nice saw in Wreck was the possibility of a good time. Nothing more, nothing less.

A better man would have cut things short here.

A better man would have allowed Wreck to go on with his life, grieving and wounded, but alive. A better man would’ve given Wreck the chance to find someone new to love, in whatever way he could manage.

Nice smiled. Bright, magnetic. A perfect smile that inspired and soothed in equal measure. He’d spent a long time getting it just right, and now it was the thing that made him stand out from the crowd of trainees. It also, incidentally, made Wreck more than a little weak in the knees, judging by the way he bit his lip in response.

“Then you can have me,” Nice said, pulling Wreck in by their joined hands and prying his lip free from his teeth to taste it for himself.

Wreck kept his promise. He did everything Nice asked, didn’t try to take more than Nice was willing to give. Didn’t cling, didn’t fight, didn’t complain about the crumbs of affection Nice offered him. And Nice liked that — liked him. He didn’t know if that made it love, or if any love on his part would only make things worse. More complicated.

He didn’t dwell on it.

Their time as idols was short-lived. While they did make it to the next round of training, a random fan event set them on a different track entirely.

Nice's reputation as the perfect idol had been gaining traction. He could sing, he could dance, he treated every fan to his signature smile and a kind word. His visuals were, well… appealing, to say the least.

The fan event would’ve been like any other if not for the small-time villain looking to take revenge on the company that spurned their dreams of becoming an idol.

Nice wasn’t trying to be a hero. He saw some sort of sound-based power directed at Wreck — at who he thought was Wreck, dark hair, light clothing, broad shoulders — and moved to drag him out of the way. He moved on autopilot, quick, precise, executing the maneuver with all the elegance of a ballet routine.

It wasn’t Wreck, as it turned out. It was a fan, whose story went viral when he uploaded it to FOMO the next day.

The villain was a footnote in the news cycle, but the idol who risked his life for a fan, and did so perfectly? That made waves. So much so that he had Treeman knocking on his door within a week.

And, well, he and Wreck had talked about it, in those quiet moments between cardio and interview prep. What they’d wanted to be when they were kids, the heroes they’d looked up to. They’d joked that if the idol thing didn’t work out, being heroes together didn’t too bad.

The Treeman rep clearly thought it was cute that Nice wanted to bring his friend along. She agreed to it without much pestering on their part, though. Nice signed on the condition that Wreck would be working alongside him.

What was that story about the monkey’s paw? It granted wishes, but never in the way the person wanted.

Nice has to laugh about it now.

Wreck, the villain of Nice’s story — nothing more than a stage play antagonist, playing dress up and make believe. And Nice? Nice was a doll, fitted with the finest clothes and manipulated into whatever positions suited Director Shang’s interests best.

The irony’s not lost on him. He’d agreed to be with Wreck so long as Wreck played the part of a fuck buddy, not a boyfriend. And now, Nice is a hero so long as he’s willing to act according to Shand’s commands.

Two years in, while he was clawing his way into the top thirty heroes, Director Shang made the call that Nice needed a more… stable image. Something befitting of the perfect hero. He couldn’t be seen as promiscuous — he couldn’t be seen as sexual at all. So when they came across Xiao Yueqing, an up and coming travel blogger-turned-hero, known for her upbeat attitude and generous spirit, they offered her a deal.

Establish herself fully as a hero, enjoying all the benefits that came from being signed with one of the four major hero agencies, and in exchange, she’d take on the part of Nice’s girlfriend.

Xiao Yueqing jumped at the chance, and in hindsight Nice couldn’t blame her. Wasn’t it exactly what he’d done himself?

When they met for the first time in person during the staged villain fight, Nice was just grateful his world remained colorless. Being tied down to his soulmate, contractually obligated to keep up appearances, sounded like a special sort of hell.

Life went on. Nice soared to new heights as the fifteenth ranked hero. He and Xiao Yueqing paraded themselves in front of the public as the ultimate hero couple. Wreck dutifully carried out each and every run-in with Nice as his nemesis.

And now it’s come to this.

It’s all so funny when he thinks about it. He’s lived his entire life as the universe’s favorite punchline, it seems. A mismatched soulmate, a puppet hero dancing along to music he knows may cut out at any moment without warning. He’s worn a mask for so long he doesn’t think he even knows who he is without.

He’s out of time. Director Shang told him in no uncertain terms that failure to reach the top ten would result in the termination of his contract, and with everything he’s done, everything he’s sacrificed to get here… losing Nice would be a death sentence.

It is a death sentence.

The only thing left for him is to choose how and when it’s carried out.

It’s a simple thing, in the end. Rather than fly straight back to his floor in the Hero Tower after a photoshoot, he banks right. Flies until his surroundings are only vaguely familiar, until he sees it — the perfect place to take his final bow.

He’s not expecting anyone to be on the roof when he descends, and it’s certainly a surprise to hear the vitriolic rant being carried out against him. But he’s beyond any guilt he might’ve felt at burdening a civilian with this.

He barely looks at the man as he walks past him. The man says something, words drowned out by the blood roaring in Nice’s ears, and in his periphery he notices a shift in the man’s body language. Where he was tense, wary a moment ago, now he’s open, curious. And then that gives way to something altogether more frantic as Nice finally turns to offer a smile and his signature send-off.

He meets the man’s eyes for a heartbeat, a fraction of a second — and the world explodes with color.

Oh, he thinks as he takes one step out into open air. I wonder what might’ve changed if I’d met you sooner.

[the-raindeer-king]

based off this

Dragons. Fearsome rulers of the sky, once believed to be nothing more than fairytales. But now they’re the military’s best kept secrets. Only those with specific clearance have the liberty of knowing about their existence, and even less have the chance to actually be in the presence of one. 

And yet, somehow you’ve been granted that clearance. 

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what’s gotten you into this entire situation. You’re exceptional on the field, and work as well as a combat medic can, under the pressure that you face. But you’re also aware that your stubbornness has gotten you well into trouble a few times, and your mouth moves faster than your brain sometimes. 

Regardless, you’re here, following General Hughes through base. He’s talking, probably explaining protocol and how this major secret is expected to be handled, but you stopped listening a while back, focused on the bald spot on the back of his head. Does he know it’s there? Should you say something? 

He shouts your last name, and you stiffen up on command, dragging yourself back to the present. 

“Are you listening?” he snaps, and you decide that you won’t be saying anything about the bald spot. Probably for the best, anyway, no need to dig yourself a bigger hole than you already have. 

You keep your head down and do your best to listen to whatever it is he’s droning on about, but it’s all lost to you the moment you step into the hangar. Or, well, you’d always assumed it was a hangar. But standing inside, you can see the converted training grounds, the ledges by the ceiling, the hallway that leads further into the building where there must be barracks and maybe a kitchen. Everything they could possibly need, all here in one building. 

Anything Hughes could possibly be saying to you falls on deaf ears. The only thing you can hear is your own heart pounding in your chest, nerves settling in your stomach as your eyes fall upon the largest man you’ve ever seen. 

He’s tall and wide, broad shoulders framed by folded up wings with green scales that shine under the light like emeralds. Horns curl out from his forehead, breaking off with a jagged edge that must’ve hurt when it was originally broken. Despite the intensity of his gaze, he smiles at you, arms crossed across his chest. 

“This them?” he asks, but the question isn’t directed towards you. 

“Yes, Captain. Price, this is your medic,” Hughes answers, glancing towards you to make sure you’re actually listening. He nods towards Price, before telling you, “This is your new commanding officer. Behave.”

Price snorts in response, as offense flickers across your face, visibly for just a moment before you’re able to control your facial expression. But he’s gracious enough to wait until Hughes is gone before commenting on it. 

“Bratty?” 

Something about his tone makes embarrassment coil in your stomach, like you’re about to get scolded like a child. And while your first instinct is to get defensive, raise your hackles and get mouthy, you’d like to start this with a good impression. 

“Only when need be,” you reply, and the sound of his laughter echoes in the room. 

It also draws the attention of the other three dragons. They’ve all got their own dragon features: the one with the mohawk has red and gold wings, and horns that spiral like a rams; the one with the ball cap has dark blue and silver wings, and horns that grow up and spiral; and the one in the mask, as if he isn’t already scary as is, has black wings, and thin horns that grow straight upwards. They’re all introduced one by one, rank and name and callsign and - it makes your head spin just a little, trying to file away any information that might be important. 

“Think we’re overwhelming ‘em, Cap,” Gaz points out with a soft laugh, voice warm and thick like honey. 

“Ye’ve got time to remember it all. Dinnae fret,” Soap adds, trying to be reassuring. But it doesn’t mean much when Price reminds all you, “Not enough time. We ship out in two weeks.”

“T-two weeks?!” You sputter out in response. You barely got their files yesterday, and most of it was redacted anyway, and now you’ve got two weeks to fill in the blanks before you’re all deployed to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what. If this wasn’t literally your job, if you hadn’t excelled under pressure with less information, then you’d probably be more upset. 

But still. There’s a small part of you that feels you should have been better prepared than this. Two weeks is a drop in the water when you’re working with brand new people - er, well, dragon shifters. You’re completely in the dark about the ins and outs of their medical history, of how to properly treat them, and you’ve got a lot to catch up on to feel even remotely prepared. 

It can’t be that difficult, right? Right? 

***

It only takes three days to realize just how wrong you were about that assumption. Soap and Gaz seem to enjoy causing trouble. For Price, For Ghost, and unfortunately, now for you as well. Despite the warnings they get, it never seems to stick. And, for the most part, they’re really only pulling harmless pranks. Obnoxious, inconvenient, but harmless. 

It helps you settle into the group though, and by the middle of the second week, you’re feeling a little better about the entire situation. You’re still learning all their quirks and personalities, but you’ve got a pretty good grasp on it as is, and none of them seem outright against your intrusion in their well-established group.

The only thing you’re confused about is the lack of a horde. Now, maybe they all have their own hordes in their rooms, the only area in the hangar that you haven’t been inside. That would certainly explain Ghost’s collection of knives - you have yet to see him repeat a knife. But still, part of you had been hoping to see some grand pile of gold and jewels, big enough to you could swim in it if you wanted. 

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. There’s still plenty to learn about dragon etiquette, and you’ve had pretty good luck thus far about not doing anything accidentally insulting. A lucky streak you’d like to keep, going into this upcoming mission.

[ukebeater]

weird creep in a van watching you walk home from school, you dont think much of it. you even tell your friends, like 'haha theres some van following me around'. it even follows you to your karate lessons on the weekends. you figure its not the same person, that youre just fixated on vans atm. you assure yourself as you're packing your bags to leave the dojo that nothing bad can happen to you, you know how to defend yourself. after all, you're a blue belt in karate. before you head out, your sensei asks you to take the garbage to the dumpster. Something about responsibility, blah blah blah, youve learned to tune him out. it's 8 pm by the time you're actually outside, heading towards the dingy alleyway where the dumpster sits. The bag is heavy and your muscles are sore. You have trouble raising the bag over your arms and into the bin. You drop the bag for a second to collect yourself when you see a hand reach down and take the bag, throwing it into the dumpster effortlessly. you had no idea anyone was even there! you turn around and stammer some half assed apology and thanks. Who even came to dumpsters at night? he doesn't say anything, just stares at you. His face is something you'd definitely see in one of those scary documentaries you used to watch with your mom as a cautionary tale. The streetlight flickers above you both, casting shadows across his face. making it hard to tell if hes smiling or sneering. you swallow hard, steading your voice. "uh, thanks.. i guess" was all you could manage to say, clutching the straps of your bag tightly. you feel like you should run? every instinct is screaming to, but your feet are glued to the concrete. He steps closer, he smells like stale cigarettes and metal. "you shouldn't be out here alone this late." he says simply. his voice sounds like gravel, its deep like he smokes too much. you blink, nodding slowly, "i know, i was just taking out the trash". he chuckles, for whatever reason, eyeing you up and down. "you look strong," he says, almost approvingly, "blue belt, huh? thats cute." you smile out of embarrassment, nodding again. how does he even know that? you dont think too much about it. You can hear the traffic in the distance, but for some reason, it feels like this alleyway is the only place in the world. "so, you think you're safe," he says slowly, "because you know how to fight. that karate stuff." he taps his knuckles against the dumpster lid. you shift your weight, "i can handle myself.." you try to sound at ease, realizing you've been holding your breath. His grin twists then, "maybe. maybe not." your skin prickles, "what do you want?" you ask quietly.

he straightens, and reaches into his jacket pocket. its a crumpled photograph. he holds it out to you. its a photo of the dojo, your dojo, taken from across the street. And there you are, smiling in your karate gi, blue belt around your waist. "you've been on my mind for a while" the gruff voice returns. you dont get a chance to answer before his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist with an iron grip, yanking you hard against the cold metal of the dumpster. your chest slams into the dented lid. His grip twists your arm behind your back, forcing you to lean forward with your face pressed against the grimy surface. he slides his hands up the sides of your torso, peeling your shirt just enough to bare the skin underneath. A shiver shoots down your spine when the cold air hits you, exposed and vulnerable. your skin prickles where his fingers hold you in place, but before you can react, something sharp presses lightly against your ribs. The blade's edge barely scratches you, tracing slow, deliberate lines that make your breath stagger. Like a touch thats cruel and weirdly intimate. his grip tightens, thumbs digging into your sides just enough to remind you there's no slipping away. the alley feels impossibly close. his voice cuts through the quiet. "curious, arent you?" you don't answer. Your heart is beating loud enough to override the sounds of traffic ahead. He presses the blade a fraction harder, tracing the curve along your ribs, teasing the fine hairs on your skin. it's enough to make your breath hitch, a contrast to the dull ache of your muscles and the weight of fear pooling in your gut. A thin line of warmth blooms where the blade's edge bites past your skin. you bite your lip, stifling a sound thats part pain and part shock. he leans in close, against your neck. "you're tougher than you look" he murmurs, its like a warning and a compliment tangled in a knot.

OK IM SORRY THAT IT ENDS HERE. nobodys reading this long asssss shit 😂!!! goodnight

[vsa-pieldepapel]

a couple questions

What points you towards ralsusie and kriselle. For me I like kriselle out of the regular personal bias as well as just liking what I think Kris and Noelle’s relationship is like. Being Kris snarky and pranky but genuinely supportive of Noelle while Noelle acting as usual with a bit more sass while managing to get Kris to open up. I like ralsusie purely for its narrative uses. Making Noelle jealous, subverting the, to me, intentionally one sided and coincidental suelle scenes, kind of separating Noelle/Kris and Susie/ralsei. That stuff.

what do you see the kriselle and ralsusie dynamics as. I realized I have a lot more to say so is it k if I make more asks for other questions/ my rambles

sorry for spelling and grammar me eepy. -s

answering this while eating leftovers from yesterday and before working on comms. thats the life!

for one. from shallower to deeper reasons

Kriselle

I love the childhood friends to lovers trope and they hit it quite nicely

In my head they make for excellent messy, angsty yuri (not doomed though- I do see them working through things)

Kris can offer Noelle all of what she sees in Susie, but without all the idolisation and general awkwardness. And its clear noelle cares about them and keeps them in mind, crush on susie or not.

The narrative makes their past too significant to ignore... It's obvious they still care about one another but whatever traumatic event probably involving dess has tampered with their relationship and the tragedy of them becoming distant is very emotionally resonant. Plus the theme of escapism and learning to appreciate "real life" as both of them are coping with unresolved feelings thru avoidance.

Just the sheer chemistry they have when alone, on full display in ch.2. Noelle has problems with assertiveness, and Kris being quiet and letting her speak (which seems to be true even sans the player being present) allows her personality to shine. Per her own admission Kris and her know each other better than most other people, and the way she says only Kris knows how weird she is shows that they were intimate enough for her to be open about her interests and quirks. I found noelle super annoying in every other scene except when she was alone with Kris. She becomes so much more three dimensional!

Ralsusie

I like unconventional m/f and m/f where the guy would be willing to commit a terrorist attack and/or kill himself for a crumb of pussy and they fit that bill quite nicely

I also like a gnc straight couple happening, because of the generalisation that gnc=gay. I understand where it comes from but the subversion is nice/interesting

They are mirror images of each other in a way that serendipitously makes both of them better people, and this is evident basically since they meet when Ralsei sets a boundary that Susie be kind to him and is completely not intimidated by her, and she actually does as requested. In chapter 4 they both admit they are influencing each other, and as they open up because of that influence, they become more well-rounded people.

They are both "old souls" in that they are loaded with responsibility in a way we don't see other characters be (Kris and Noelle have heavy baggage, but they're their own thing and they still have loving parents; susie and ral have nothing.) so they can speak to each other on a different level

Its fascinating how despite a very different outside, the core of their character is in fact similar: They're both people devoted to who they care for and prioritise others over themselves, and desperately hide vulnerabilities. Susie lashes out, Ralsei puts on a fake smile. Despite that, we eventually see them be vulnerable with each other.

Narrative resonance, especially after the new chapters. They're so weirdly intense about the other in a very poignant way (see: bloodied hand) in real relationships this is obviously kinda cringe and dysfunctional but within the context of the story it just reads as... so romantic? Being willing to defy fate itself for someone because in such a brief time you have acquired these Big Feelings that you don't even know what to do with, both because they're so sudden and because you're young and stupid.

Again, just, chemistry. Ralsei loosening up and teasing Susie and Susie actually egging him on and giving him tools to tease her is really funny and cute. We also get a lot of both on screen and off screen implied bonding time and just the secondhand information we get is super charming.

For both especially v. s/selle it's the whole, saying I love you without saying I love you thing. It's Kris being Noelle's wallpaper. It's both noelle and susie saying they wish Kris was there. It's the way after a weird route in ch2 Kris goes to Noelle's house themself and apologises and takes the thorn off her finger and even warns her not to say anything, and she cries because she can recognise their voice. It's susie showing ralsei videogames and him having so much fun that for a moment he can just... forget, and be a normal guy. It's the way Ralsei keeps Susie's bed made and her fridge stocked, and asks Kris to give her ice cream in his name. It's the way Susie was willing to talk to him, rather than accuse him of abandoning and betraying her; the way she encourages him to say what he thinks, to be open and trust, the way she says she's real to her, and that even if none of it was real she wishes he understood she doesn't care because she just... likes being with him.

Sure, they're not being blushy or whatever, but it feels poignant in a way that goes beyond such platitudes.

The ease with which s/selle goes into such platitudes is, in fact, demonstrative of its potentially prophetic, and even artificial, nature. And if it's not meant to be that then that was extremely poorly conveyed. I joked with my friends that s/selle shippers want Ralsusie, because everything they write about potentially happening is something that has already happened with Ralsei.

I don't know where to start with the dynamics, but it's all kinda downstream from this? Ralsei and Susie would be so you and me against the world... Susie already is this way with Kris so she already has that attitude, and I think after you killed god for a guy/gal you can basically navigate everything else. Ralsusie is like an explosion and Kriselle is like getting home after the rain and soaking into a hot bath... There was the cold, but now there is the warm and the familiar. Coming home a little tired, wet and cold but being home. Is that something.

no worries about being sleepy. hope you rested well LOL

[100yearsofclexa]

Clarke's drunk letters

{trigger warning for alcohol abuse, mentions of anxiety crisis}

Arkadia, 1971.

Comrade Lexa,

Commander Lexa,

My commander Lexa,

[◼️◼️◼️◼️]

My love,

I miss you.

I want so badly to

[unreadable scribbles]

There's a famous poem from E. E. Cummings called "I Carry Your Heart with Me (I carry it in". I rewrote it in a piece of paper and kept fixed on my fridge with that magnet you gave me from your trip to Spain. I wonder where you are now. [____]

I don't think if this letter will ever reach you and [unreadable scribbles]

Clarke gulps heavenly some cheap wine from an ordinary glass - she doesn't have time to be fancy and pour it on a proper wine glass. She did not want to appreciate the liquid, instead, she wanted to be drunk enough to feel something, anything. There are at least three bottles of wine and other qualities of liquors over the table, along with books, pencils, brushes, oil paints, other discarded letters, old splotches from previous drinking nights.

Whenever I have to get something from the fridge, I read it all over again - or just few verses, whatever. I can feel it everywhere in my body and my soul. You absence make my bones ache and I hate it because I wish I could block this feeling and

And I've never felt this emptiness, not since you vanished. I thought I would carry your memories with me to keep my shit together - in some kind of attempt of having at least a glimpse of your beautiful heart that once was mine, but, in fact, you are carrying mine. Pounding soundly in your hands. Thick and warm blood sliding between your long fingers.

Once I thought I've felt this emptiness in reason of not having my heart in place. I was wrong.

This emptiness dues to the fact that I have a hole in my chest that does not fit my heart any longer - it will forever and ever remains being yours; this... Fuck it Lexa it's impossible to me to talk with people properly about how much I miss you [unreadable scribbles] I'm so tired of writing those stupid letters, since doesn't matter what I do, I can't get you out of my system for once and all and

I miss your arrogance, comrade Lexa.

I miss kissing you in the dark.

I miss the way your eyes shine with excitement when you talk about your recent readings on Das Kapital.

I want to paint a canvas of you again.

[unreadable scribbles]

[splotches of ink]

[◼️◼️◼️◼️]

This disruption inside of me... Saint Augustine once said somewhere we all had a god shaped-hole inside ourselves, but, as an atheist that I am, I cannot agree with that first assumption - however, I must re-appropriate that to my reality.

I have a hole in me, in my chest, shaped with your features and curves.

And I even carved it deeper using my bare hands - torturing myself while thinking of you - with the shape of your own heart.

Which is not here anymore.

Clarke drops the pen and covers her face with her palms trembling. She is nervous and in the verge of an anxiety crisis. She sighs heavenly and blinks once, twice. The whole room is spinning now. After a few minutes breathing deeply, she manages to gather some consciousness about her surroundings. Everything seems to be in the right place. Except that she's not. Clarke grabs the pen again, at the far side of the table, and returns to her writing process.

I wish we'd met in a different way, a different time.

Where we would owe nothing to our people - I wish I'd met you during a class or during an exhibition at an art gallery... Maybe in a filthy bar. We could be just two women hanging around, without the fear of them catching us.

I would give up on you if that meant that you would be back, I swear.

I wish we did not loved each other so much.

[Unreadable scribbles]

I hope they did not catch you.

I hope your lack of response is just that asshole you call husband trying to forbid you of reaching me.

I'm still waiting for your orders, comrade. You better have an awesome-political-strategy to escape this shit hole you put us into.

I'm still waiting for you to come back to me.

I love you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

[Unreadable scribbles]

[splotches of ink mixed with wine and tears]

C.

Clarke crumples the letter in one abrupt movement, holding it inside her hands with a vice grip that makes her knuckles white. She brings her clenched fists to rest at her forehead and breathes again. In and out. In and out. In and out. She releases the hold of one hand, and reaches out the lighter that she kept inside her pocket. She puts the letter, now shaped into a paper ball, on the table. In a mechanic, cold movement, she uses the lighter to set the thing on fire. It doesn't take long for the paper burn completely into ashes, meanwhile another flames starts to form as the fire spreads through the other inflammable objects around it. The letter, the pencil, even the corner of a book. It all burns and slowly turns into a bunch of ashes in front of Clarke's blue, teary eyes. The basement where she is hidden for all these weeks remains cold and silent as ever.