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snailsandpuppy-dogtails · 2 years

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Conventional Weirdness

My first? one bed! Link to ao3 Heads up, it's smut. Penelope/Luke WC: 2,729

They were all doubling up, the hotel booked full. Vegas was like that during convention season, they were lucky to get the rooms they had on such short notice (and on the bureau’s dime). If Reid and Tara weren’t away at a conference in California, they might have been struggling, but as it was, six agents and three rooms wasn’t a terribly bad ratio.

Rossi and Matt were pared up since both snored and JJ and Emily were sharing a suite, which left Luke and Penelope to the last available room. It was a large suite with one King sized bed and a couch in a sitting room. Sleeping arrangements had been left up to each duo to work out on their own. Ever the gentleman, Luke insisted Penelope take the bed and he would take the couch. However, upon entering the room they ran into one small problem.

The couch had been removed that morning for ~cleaning~.

One phone call to the front desk assured them them a replacement would be back the next morning, but for now, they were left with one bed between the two of them.

It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed, Alvez.” she said and if a voice could roll it’s eyes, hers certainly was.

It wasn’t his fault, it’s not like he caused the couch to need removal AND he was offering an alternative.

“No, it’s fine, really, I can take the floor.” he said in a way he hoped conveyed that it really was fine. He wasn’t trying to make her uncomfortable and he wasn’t upset about it, he’d slept in worse places. But like a switch, those words flipped something inside her.

"OH NO. No you don’t! That is way too close to the exact thing Derek said the last time I was in this situation. AND THEN I had to watch someone die in front of me. Literally in my hands. No. I am NOT repeating that. No. You sleep in this bed too, or neither of us sleeps at all.”

It came pouring out so fast she’d surprised herself. Where did that come from?

His mouth twitched at the flare. “The last time? How many times have you worked it so that you were sleeping with an agent, Garcia?” He was going for levity, when what he really wanted was to ask if she was ok, but he knew the answer. She was an office mouse, she wasn’t a field agent. She signed up for fighting the good fight virtually, from a distance, far away from the real and the visceral. Seeing something on a screen was one thing, feeling it, touching it, causing it was another. The things she’d experienced constantly surprised him. It pained him to know what she’d had to deal with, even if he didn’t know the specifics, things like that affected you, scared you. Maybe that’s why he felt so protective of her when she did have to join them out in the field, combat the scars.

“I didn’t do this! God, you’re so conceited. What do you think I’m going to do, make a move on you? Please. Grow up.” she said making a face. Then, thinking better, “OH!” she gasped “Ohmygosh. Is this about Lisa? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about that. Really, Luke I…” And she let it die out, because she didn’t want to sleep alone in that room, in that bed, out on a case. She was feeling sudden panic over her Alaskan experience.

“What? No, Garcia, I was messing with you.” and then more cautiously, “It’s understandable that this could be a triggering situation for you. It’s fine. We can share the bed.” He’d told the team about he and Lisa’s break up a few weeks ago, he didn’t see how it was relevant to this situation.

Though, Lisa would have other thoughts. She thought he lived at work, hid there. Preferred it there. She said she thought some part of him would rather be there than with her and he fought against that accusation because some part of him knew she was right. He did prefer to be at work. He hated that she was right because of what that said about him. That he liked the violence, that he enjoyed chasing these people. To be around that, over in bed with her?

But that’s not what it was. It was the team, the people he was with, they had become his family, there was no one he enjoyed being around more besides Roxie. No one who understood him better. Maybe that was his fault, but his work wasn’t something he would want to subject anyone to. Just like he felt it wasn’t something Garcia should be subjected to. Which, not that he wanted to think about it right now, but that was another point of contention in their relationship. His with Garcia. “Now that that’s settled, I’m going to make use of that VERY spacious bathroom, get changed and get ready for bed. If you plan on changing out here, let me know so we don’t have any more awkward surprises.” Luke rolled his eyes grinning “I think I’ll just wait, Garcia.” He watched her gather some things from her suitcase and disappear behind the door, her absence naturally bringing her to the forefront of his mind. That other reason in a list of reasons why he and Lisa simply weren’t working out. She’d asked him once to give her a reason to stay. If he hadn’t been so distressed, so torn up and lost at sea, he’s not sure anymore if he would have. She probably would have brought up The Penelope Thing. Because she brought it up every time. Why was Phil no match for Penelope? Why was he refusing to set up his best friend with his co-worker when he was perfectly happy to set up another one (Tara) with someone he talked to less frequently and didn’t know as well?

Lisa saw through it. Even after asking her to move in he was still standing with one foot out the door, a half commitment. Prentiss had been right, but not for the reasons she thought. He was unable to be whole because part of him had been taken by someone else, by Penelope, the person he’d been drawn to since his first day. Somehow over time his game of falling into her good graces had turned serious. Notice me, need me, want me. Like I want you. Something he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge overtly, something that was only acceptable as a vague fuzzy notion just past the horizon. He’d worked to become her friend, his coworker. He’d worked to build this very specific relationship, one that was fragile in it’s nature because of the nature of it’s roots. And though he sometimes got the sense that this could be deeper, more for her too, he wouldn’t inspect it, wouldn’t expect it. “You ok there? You look like someone ran off with Roxie.” she re-emerged, as if manifested by his thoughts, watching him through the doorway. True to her nature, Penelope was just as cutely done up for bed as she was for work, save for hair and makeup. “Huh?” he’d been staring off into the swirls of the carpet, deep in thought. “Yeah. No, uh. Just thinking about the case.”

She walked from the bathroom to the armchair she’d placed her suitcase on. Rolling up her used dress and tucking it into the side of the case she continued, looking at him over her shoulder. “Look, I don’t want this to be weird, ok? I believe we’re perfectly capable of sharing this incredible looking bed and not making it weird.” He got up off the bed and gathered his things, “Chica, I’m not concerned.” pressing a kiss to her cheek as he passed by, leaving her with a flutter in her stomach and a tickle where his lips had brushed her skin, slipping behind the door. Exiting the bathroom Luke found Penelope wasted no time, snuggled comfortably in bed reading from a tablet, “her” side having been claimed. “I hope you don’t mind being closer to the door, because I got here first and I’m partial to the window side. Well any side that’s farthest from the door, actually.” She said grinning up at him. “Whatever you want works for me, I’m beat.”

Luke was re-packing clothing and toiletries, not wanting to leave anything out and about. Penelope watched him as he did, carefully folding and stacking, everything in a particular place. She wasn’t a profiler, but she did enjoy observing peopler’s habits and really, when was she ever going to get this opportunity again? Watching him walk towards her, no, the bed. Not her. From over her glasses she went on. “Anything I should know about you before we tuck in, Newbie?”

“Like what?” he asked, pulling back the covers, and sliding into “his” side.

“Like, do you sleep with your eyes open? Are you a thrasher or sleep talker? Oooh are you going to tell me all your deep dark secrets?” she said, eyes lighting up.

“There’s not a chance in hell I’d ever tell you a secret, Garcia. Even while sleeping.”

“Ah! Rude.” she huffed turning back to her book, but a small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

It was weird. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t weird, but it was weird. She was weird. That meant-nothing-kiss, his movements. The second he was in the bed with her, all earth and herb and spice, and that heather gray t-shirt he was wearing that just looked so soft. Heather gray always looked soft, touchingly soft. The second he climbed into bed next to her she went stiff, unsure how to breathe and not wanting to move a muscle, hyperaware of any sound or sweep she may make. Don’t cross the invisible line. She wanted to adjust, to curl up on her side and read, but if she faced him he might think she was trying to cuddle with him or something and if she turned away from him he might think she was mad. Why did she care what he thought? Because he’s her teammate and they need to have a good working relationship. Duh.

She laid there for a bit, concentration broken. Trying hard to refocus on her book, drawn away from it by the beautiful face and delicious smell next to her. She could feel the softness of her skin above her and the pressure and taught-ness of muscle beneath, unable to disregard the other person in the bed. And then a rustle of sheets that could break sound barriers filled her ears, the bed dipping a little more towards the center as Luke rolled over. Towards her. Well if he could do it so could she. Penelope turned defiantly towards him, wiggling a little as she re-adjusted, raising an eyebrow and glancing over to see if he was watching. All she caught was a smirk, his eyes carefully trained on the paperback rolled up in his hands. He dog-eared the page and closed it, reaching behind himself to set it on the night stand.

“Mind if I turn out the light?” his voice was warm and light and soft and creamy, like this was no problem, like he’d talked to her a thousand times in spaces more intimate. What gave him the right to be so at ease while she was feeling like a cat on summer asphalt?

She was nervous to look at him, afraid of her body betraying her if she met those eyes with that voice in this place. Deciding not to look up,“Miracles of technology, tablet’s backlit.” she attempted brushing him off, but it just came out quiet and brittle.

Luke gave her a funny look before switching off the light, tucking a hand under his pillow, and closing his eyes. Didn’t want it to be weird, huh? He was just glad there was enough room for things to not be noticed should they be weird in the morning.

At some point in the night her legs reached out tangling with his and Luke’s arm found it’s way to her back, holding her. Neither would have been aware except for the moan that woke them both, the moan that came from Penelope’s grinding contact with his thigh. She stilled, eyes ripping open in the pitch room, any pleasure gained while unconscious now dead from shame. His arm locked in place, not bringing her closer but making it hard to back off. Neither could see the other’s face.

Penelope’s mind flooded, damning her subconscious and her imagination that were bad enough while she was awake, and simply awful when she was asleep, hoping against hope he hadn’t woken up, focusing intently for any sign that he might not have heard her, that that dream sound hadn’t escaped the confines of slumber into the waking world.

But it had, and he was. Luke’s thoughts raced, mentally flipping through every possible reason, every possible scenario, every way this could go, every way he could handle it, every way he should, and every way he wanted to. He knew she wasn’t sleeping, he could feel it, could hear it, in the thump of her heart on his outstretched palm. Did he slacken his hold and let it go? Did he say something? Did he say something? “Penelope” that warm, soft sound breaking through the air-conditioned silence, that velvet cream heating her skin under already hot covers. Low and quiet and fucking dripping. She slammed her eyes tight at it, stalling her breath. Damn it. Damn this. Damn him. Damn me.

His hand slid, pressure releasing to land feather light from her back to the small dip in her side, drumming. “Penelope, I know you’re awake.” weighing his words carefully, “In the name of ‘not being weird’, we could ignore this…but a pretty smart lady told me once to be in the moment and, I’m finding the longer we lay here, the more I’d like to be in this moment.” Was he seriously using her own words to persuade her right now? As if this was the same as a name? But he'd said he wants this, and after that dream there was no use lying to herself any more.

She tentatively slid her hands to his chest in response. “I think she’s probably more than just pretty and smart…”

Starting off at a languid pace, she built herself back up, hips beginning a dip and swivel, his grip instinctively tightening at the crash and slip of her, fingertips digging into fabric.

When she fell into a rhythm he added his own beat, slowly threading his leg in and out and up against her, tensing his runner-toned quads to give her something beautiful and firm to play against. Hand slipping under cotton top, dragging over fleshy side, her sighs increasing with speed. Nimble palms slipping across plump breast, dexterous fingers pushing rings around hot skin, pinching and rolling, her head falling away losing herself to sensation, gripping the oh, so soft heather gray, gasping as she rocked harder “Lu- ohmyg- L-” until he was seizing her hips leading her, fabric and wet friction and labored breaths driving her over.

“That’s it, come on,” whispering encouragements through gulps. Her leg curling around his, everything low constricting. Harder, shallower, faster he moved her, until her words were nothing but high pitches of air painting the wide ceiling. She curled, crying out his name, thigh squeezing thigh, he shuddered grunting, and a flood of warm dampened them both.

Luke reached out pulling her in,Penelope still pitching against him full lips suddenly touching hers, shift unyielding but gentle, sedate. A calm and full, devoted kind of kiss relaxed against her, taking her by surprise at it’s tenderness. He stopped, breaking away, “Shit. Sorry. I should have- if that- was that ok?” broke between the oxygen he was desperately trying to inhale, obviously suffering from a lack of it.

Her hand had been resting on his chest, she could feel his heart thundering under it. “We just did a whole zero-penitration-impulsive-mutual-masturbation-thing and you’re asking if it was ok to kiss me?” The hand on his chest slid up his neck, palming his cheek, fingertips brushing ear, “Oh, Newbie, how embarrassing for you.” she teased angling back in. Both shook into their next kiss with silent laughter, Luke’s arms tight around her, Penelope delicately exploring the face she’d been avoiding for so long.

#Garvez #criminal minds #criminal minds fan fiction #luke alvez #penelope garcia #ao3 #word prompt #it's only one night we'll just share the bed #smut for sure #smut

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keouil · 3 years

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how you forget to be human

“so is she like,” scott hesitates. “cap’s first lady or something?” rated t. 2k+. steve/nat. also on ao3 / twitter / cc

Scott hasn’t been with the team for a long time, but he thinks he at least has enough working knowledge of how everyone operates.

The Winter Soldier—Bucky to Steve, James to anyone who dared—quite frankly still scares the living shit out of him, and that’s Magneto on a good day. It didn’t take much to deduce he seemed wholly uncomfortable in his own skin, his jaw coiled perpetually tight and the rigid set of his shoulders always in alert. It was uneasy just being around him, his discomfort bleeding over others and charging the air around his space with its own brand of disquieting; but always, without fail, Steve cushioned whatever apprehension anyone aimed toward his bestfriend.

Most of it came from Sam, and almost always in good nature as if to ease the brainwashed supersoldier into some semblance of normality; and Scott would fear for Sam’s life every time he opened his mouth, were it not for the also very obvious fact the Falcon held his own and didn’t appreciate handouts and the three of them seemed to be getting along uniquely (if not a little oddly) well enough.

The witch was a small problem, however. Simply for the fact she was a witch and Scott is wary because history taught him they burned all of them down in Salem.

He sees her wiggling those voodoo fingers around sometimes, almost unconsciously, and feels the hairs on his arms rise with every flick of her wrist. The energy around her isn’t suffocating the same way Bucky’s is. It was more a subtle nervous tingling; like she herself was afraid of the gravity of her own powers she had yet to have complete reigns on. Scott is oddly humbled by the fact and even empathises with her a little.

Steve keeps an eye on her and doesn’t bother hiding it, but it’s the archer who gets past her when it really counts. Clint Barton, who, surprisingly is the one he’s on the most similar wavelength with out of all of them: family man and all.

Clint Barton whose also friends with Natasha Romanoff.

Hawkeye who has simultaneously the most complex and impossibly simple relationship with Black Widow.

“I swear to god if you ring me up next time you’re out of goddamn Fruit Loops,” Natasha warns, digging through one of the five grocery bags on the kitchen island. She fishes for a few more seconds, before popping a colourful cartoon box out from under the bag and tossing it to Barton. “I’m bringing you in for real.”

Clint scoffs, placing the carton on the top shelf. “How many times have I heard that before?”

“Apparently not enough,” Natasha glares at him from her peripheral, scooping out Nutella and a pack of store-bought pryanik to lay on the table. Russian biscuits. For Wanda. “If I’m still stopping by an abandoned boarding house in the slums of Siberia every other week. Y’all grown men can’t do grocery shopping by yourselves?”

Scott blinks from his spot by one of the stools.

Of all the things he expected to wake up to in hiding from 117 countries from possible charges of aiding and abetting a war criminal, Black Widow casually arranging and organising their weekly rationale was nowhere near the top of the list. She did this all the while supposedly fighting for the other team.

This one needs no introduction.

Scott knows who Black Widow is. Scott knows Captain America, after all.

You don’t grow up in the land of the free without knowing his legacy even in minute passing. The man has been plastered on nearly every surface of the continent since the dawn of America. Scott has seen the news footages, read the official accounts, willingly devoured every single documentary or biopic helmed in honour of their nation’s greatest hero: he knows, down to the bone, the star-spangled man with a plan.

A forgotten and revered and rebirthed war hero.

How he came to know of her, however, is an entirely different story: because come the news footages, zoom in close enough you’ll see the infamous shield covering a much smaller and daintier figure; go over the accounts with a fine-toothed comb, they speak of a levelled dynamic between a commanding officer and a shadow leader; and, lest history not forget, the documentaries: Peggy, because behind every great man is a woman, Natasha.

“Now why would we do that if we got you?” Sam. He comes up from behind the hallway to playfully grin at Natasha before enveloping her in a small hug. She returns it easily.

Scott braces himself for what’s to come, because they came in a pair, and so: “Nat,” Steven Grant Rogers, in the flesh himself, pokes his head in not a moment later with a barely indisputable frown on his face. “You came here again?”

Natasha clicks her tongue at him. “Someone had to make sure you boys were fed.”

“That’s not— We can—” Steve stutters as he strides in, and Scott has to very carefully school his features into nonchalance because Captain America does not stammer. He sighs deeply before settling next to her, nudging her with his hip. “Tony atleast know you're here?”

Natasha gives him a pointed look. “Who do you think paid for all this?”

Scott watches their silhouettes grow smaller and smaller by the distance.

Even from afar, he can make out Steve’s absolute hulk of a frame: back impossibly straight in a way that bespoke authenticity, years of rigid military training drilled into his bones; only he seemed to mellow, somehow and very slightly, the fine lines of his shoulders angled in the direction of her voice. And Natasha: brave and lithe, nearly a head shorter and so much more smaller, facing forward in full confidence and a leisurely stride in her steps.

Siberia has a biting night air that seeps deep into the bone. But it’s also comforting somehow; all of them knowing, in one way or another, what it was like to be iced out from society.

They were all huddled by the makeshift campfire Barton fashioned out of some wooden logs and a matchstick. Sam, in charge of roasting marshmallows, was gently coaxing Bucky into eating one and promising him it’s not poisoned. Wanda was handing out steaming cups of hot chocolate brewed from the pack Natasha brought in a few hours ago, a staple in her weekly grocery runs because apparently the kid witch liked sweets.

Scott gingerly takes a sip from his mug, some of the warmth seeping into liquid courage he was building up for weeks now. He takes a deep breath before plunging himself into the waves.

“I can’t be the only one worried that the enemy has infiltrated our territory, right?”

To their credit, neither of them kill him on sight.

Wanda pauses in levitating one of the wooden logs above the hearth, a single bark of kindling hovering uncertainly over the air. Bucky has an unreadable expression on his face when he regards him. A look passes between Sam and Clint, betraying nothing of their inner thoughts at his outburst.

The fire is nice and toasty, but the air is stifling now and Scott has never felt more the outsider than at that very moment.

Until Sam breaks into a hearty laugh. “Widow?” he shakes his head amusedly. “No, man, Steve and Nat are tight. They’re past stuff like that.”

Scott furrows his eyebrows in concern. “But isn’t she—”

“On Tony’s side?” Clint quips, poking at one of the planks. Wanda finally drops the floating bark, and Scott doesn’t miss the flash of something in her eyes when she glances at him from the other side of the fire. He thinks he saw a spark of red for a second. “Sure, I guess. Technically she’s Team Iron Man or whatever that means. But Natasha is also fiercely loyal, especially when it comes to Steve.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks in genuine confusion.

Sam opens his mouth to elaborate, words already forming on his mouth; before he seems to come to a belated realisation, blinks, and manages a nonchalant shrug. "Damn if I know,” he admits, turning over a puffy mallow and watching the crackles of fire burn its edges. “But she’s good for him. That’s all I care about.”

“And he’s good for her,” Clint returns easily, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. “Maybe sometimes it’s just that easy.”

They hear the crunching of footsteps on snow creeping up behind them, and Scott takes this as his cue to stash the conversation for another time.

He watches them stroll in together carefully.

Steve holds the gate open for her and places a small hand on her back as they advance in the small patch of woods by the backyard. Natasha settles next to Wanda, hands going up and down her arms to warm the younger girl despite being the one having only just gone out for a walk in the middle of Russian winter: because, and at this Scott is now confident, the jacket resting on her shoulders three times her size was keeping her warm enough.

The quinjet doesn’t start up right away.

Scott is slowly panicking, because the realisation that he was truly out of his depth at fighting in the next greatest civil war of the century notches above his pay grade only viscerally begins to take hold.

He has a family back home, pets to feed, a little life saving every now and then; but never this colossal of a scale, never with the stakes stacked up so high against them, that it really could only ever be toppled down by the likes of fucking Iron Man and Captain America.

But Steve is still confident.

It’s so bloody obvious he was always going to keep at it, gunned down the concrete walls of the airport and clawed his way out of it brick by brick if need be. He was really and truly the good man underneath it all, and at the back of his mind, Scott still finds himself awed at the fact.

But he doesn’t know how on earth the man came out of that airport not visibly rattled, not at all unlike how Scott was currently feeling; and, as he processes the rest of their wayward expressions, he knew he wasn’t alone in thinking so.

“Cap,” Sam wheezes by the floor, fighting to labor his breathing with a hand clutched on his dislocated shoulder. “I still got the jeep parked outside. It’s not too late. We can hike the rest of the way.”

“No,” Steve replies, an edge of conviction in his voice. There is not a single tremor in his stubborn hands gripping the wheel. “That’s gonna hold us back days. We just need to be up in the air for now. We need—”

“A woman to come to your rescue again?”

This time, it’s Scott who sighs in deep relief at her voice. This time, Scott doesn’t fight the churn in his stomach at the prospect of having someone who nearly nicked him lifeless not even hours ago this close a range with them again. This time, she is not Black Widow, but simply Natasha Romanoff; Steve Rogers’ friend.

This time, Scott thinks, he will let them be easy just like that.

There was no more a sign of tremble in his voice or hands the entire battle, but at the lilt of her voice, he just crumbles.

“Nat,” Steve breathes out when he turns to her, hands fisting at his sides in an attempt to regain control. Just like that, he unravels; so easily and without preamble in the face of her steeled strength. “I can’t get it to turn on— And I— We have to get Bucky—”

“Work through it, Steve,” she cooes in probably the most placating voice he’s heard of her, but she doesn’t move to touch him when she comes close. Her hands are going a mile a minute over the control panel, pushing buttons and lifting levers. Steve is hovering by her side like it's the only thing holding him together. “You know how to fly this thing, right?”

Steve is visibly taken aback and angles his body to face her. “You’re not coming with us?”

The question hangs in the air.

It charges the silence around them and quells any of their growing uncertainty, because, clear as it was of Steve’s well-founded and undeniable leadership skills: they also knew, intimately, she anchored him through it all.

Sam was putting pressure around Bucky’s human arm as he looked back and forth at them tensely. He could feel Wanda hitch her breath behind him.

Natasha’s fingers keep flying away at the keyboard, until they feel the telling signs of an engine rumbling underneath and the overhead lights spurting back to light. The whole jet roars to life in the next second, heating fans whizzing and technical sounds beeping. She shifts some gears around and locks in a destination with the GPS navigation.

When she turns to look at Steve, it is then Scott forces himself to pry his eyes away and not bear witness to this part of his already over documented life. In that single moment of uncertainty, the what does that mean is meant like this: an intimate baring of a soul, heart, trust: in a way no words could ever begin describing or should even attempt to put to paper.

It is friendship at the most intimate level, it is soulmates on the most soul-crushing departure, and it is the everything else that comes after.

“Not this time, Rogers,” he hears her say, and Scott doesn’t have to imagine the slight fracturing of his iron-clad footing in the world swaying ever so slightly, when he replies with: “Then I guess I’ll see you around, Romanoff.” .

“So is she like,” Scott hesitates. “Cap’s first lady or something?”

They’re some seventy feet off the air above the Pacific Ocean, the moisture from the ocean drifting up to the open barracks and making the air glisten around them. Bucky is fast asleep somewhere down the lower levels with Wanda keeping watch over him, upon the fervent insistence of Steve arguing he needed rest. It came as no surprise that he also self-assigned himself the first watch of the night.

Sam is sharpening his knives, the grating sound of sandpaper slicing over iron piercing through the silent hum and drum of the night.

“Please,” he scoffs, looking over at him. “If anything, Steve is her first lady.”

#romanogers #stevenat #fic #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #romanogers fi #stevenat fic #marvel fic

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 3 years

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Worthy (pt5)

A/N: I thought I would try to get on top of things and cue a chapter. @rampant-salamander @bolontiku

Markus, as it turned out, was the goofiest guy I was likely to ever meet. His passion for clean energy was matched only by his passion for collecting vintage pop cans. He was the only person on the team who had an office, and it was cluttered with partially finished projects, and mountains of proposals. And his bookshelf had not a single book on it, but instead was lined with pop cans, right back to the dawn of canned carbonated beverages. It was impressive. He pulled his chair around to sit beside me instead of across the table. And in a move that proved the clutter to be a highly efficient filing system, he pulled my proposals from the middle of one of the stacks of papers.

“Your three proposals have all been greenlit by Pepper and Tony, but I won the coin toss, so I get you first. I suspect that your green washer was your back-up proposal, but I love it. I think it’s important to make clean energy available to every household. Your washing machine is economical to build, and that will make it accessible to all income levels. But it also takes into consideration some pretty fantastic advancements in water reclamation. I was impressed by the various disciplines you worked with to put the proposal together, some clearly not your areas.” His speech was relaxed. He flipped through my proposal, certain areas highlighted.

“I’ve lived in university residences for the last nine years. I assure you, access to space and energy efficient washing machines at an affordable price was something I got quite passionate about as more and more of my clothing was destroyed by or stolen from the communal machines,” I laughed.

“I was particularly impressed with the water reclamation technology you managed to build into the machine. That’s usually a very cumbersome apparatus.” He flipped to the schematics I’d included in the proposal.

“I took inspiration from Mr. Stark’s arc reactor miniaturization, and consulted with one of the senior engineering professors to ensure my calculations wouldn’t decrease the output capacity,” I explained.

“You were the only applicant who not only admitted to consulting, but credited the colleagues you consulted with. My department is a well-oiled machine, and every person has a role to play. Your dedication to teamwork is why I pushed for you to work on this project first. Well, and that it’s really cool.” His compliments were making me feel overwhelmed again. I shook my head and looked away. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about the fall-out when you all discover I’m not as amazing as you think I am.” My laugh was stilted. He clapped me on the back.

“By the time that happens, we’ll have the washer on the market and you’ll have secured your place at Stark,” he laughed. His comment made me smile, but it was seriously terrifying to have so many really amazing people telling me that I was awesome. I was untested, fresh from school and so inexperienced. The only reason I hadn’t hidden in academia longer and gone on to my PhD was because I wasn’t exactly sure what I would do with a PhD in engineering that I couldn’t do with a Master’s.

“What are the other interns like? I didn’t get a chance to meet them last night,” I asked. Markus’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

“Well, one of them no-showed. So we’re down to just two of you. And the other seems okay. Arrogant. Maybe a little too arrogant. I looked over his proposal and passed on it. It seemed way too easy to weaponize,” he explained.

“Which one is he?” I had a hard time believing someone would give up the opportunity of this internship, but I understood the feelings of inadequacy that came with the pressure of accepting on a visceral level. I probably feel somewhere between the guy who showed and the guy who didn’t on the confidence scale. So I was desperately curious about the one who showed up. Know the competition, and all.

“The kid who proposed the mag-lev technology for automobiles. His proposal discusses crumbling infrastructure, and suggests that a mag-lev device in the shocks of vehicles would help protect the structural integrity of vehicles. He completely neglected to mention that it would also be helpful to the military in hostile situations where IEDs and mines can compromise troop safety. I wouldn’t have been suspicious about the proposal at all if he’d included that application and some research on it, but it was really conspicuous in its absence. I think the first thing Tony has asked him to do is flesh out the proposal with the appropriate defense department research. Like we’ve all said, you’re a stand out.” It was in that moment that I finally clued into why I was feeling so out of sorts. I wasn’t used to being recognized and lauded for my work. I was used to producing and working hard. I was used to long hours of research, long hours of application, long hours of revision. But I wasn’t used to even five minutes of praise like I’d been receiving since I showed up at Stark Industries. And as a result, I felt uncomfortable.

“Can I get you to do me a favour?” I asked, suddenly changing the subject.

“Is it legal?” Markus countered.

“Can you dial back the compliments? I appreciate that you are impressed with me and excited about my work. But I’m not used to anyone being thrilled with me like everyone here seems to be. I feel like an imposter. It’s a lot of pressure.” It felt good to say the words aloud. Markus leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms, and just looked at me. Assessed me. Then he nodded.

“Sure, kid. No more endorsements, praise or approval until you prove yourself,” he agreed. “I give that about a week.” I think he thought he’d mumbled the last part quietly enough that I didn’t hear him. I let out a huff of resignation and shook my head.

“I appreciate it, Markus.” I pushed myself out of my chair. As frustrating as I found the golden child treatment to be, I could step back and appreciate it more knowing Markus was going to let me find my feet. I shook his hand again and headed back out, astonished to see how much time had passed while I was meeting him. Angela was back at my desk, and was holding a paper bag.

“I intercepted the distribution delivery to your room. Check out the towels you ordered.” She handed me the bag. I pulled a towel out and snapped it open. It was even smaller than the towels I already had.

“This said it was a bath sheet in the order book,” I protested. Angela laughed.

“Well, now you have hand towels for eternity. Let’s go get you some decent sized towels. Can’t have Thor seeing you in the altogether again, can we?” She linked arms with me, and started to lead me away from my desk. I barely had a chance to grab my purse and the bag of towels before she dragged me off. “I just need to drop this file off for Pepper, so we’re on our way up before we go down.”

We were intercepted in the elevator by a woman who was obviously fed up with the guy who was with her. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her mouth was set in a thin line. Every time she breathed it was like she was counting in her head. Slowly in, slowly out. I guessed it was my fellow intern, and I wasn’t wrong.

“Ladies.” He winked at Angela and smirked at me. I bit my lip and tried to hold back a snort of amusement. What a dork. Angela smiled at the woman with him.

“Marie! How is day two going? Are you settling Matt in?”

“You could say that. We’re just headed up for a little chat with Ms. Potts about policy and procedure,” she nodded. I looked at Angela in alarm. We hadn’t done that. Angela met my panicked look with a serene one, and just barely shook her head.

“Ella, this is Marie. She works in the same capacity as I do, and has been assigned to orient the other intern to Stark Industries. Matthew Emerson is from MIT. Ella came from CalTech,” Angela offered. Matthew offered his hand and gave me a once over that was overtly unprofessional. I rolled my eyes.

“A pleasure, Ella. I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of one another over the summer.” The way he said it made me want to bathe in bleach. I forced a smile and withdrew my hand from his sweaty grip. I turned back to the front of the elevator without saying anything in return.

The elevator stopped on the 77th floor and the doors opened. Thor stepped on, munching on what appeared to be a pop-tart, and nodded at us. He pushed the button for the top floor. Apparently we were all headed up to see Tony and Pepper. He was holding the hammer loosely in his grip, and the way the light caught on the surface, I could see the writing on it again. My mind flashed back to the moment I’d lifted it, and the shock that had coursed through my body.

“So, Ella. You don’t look like a CalTech girl,” Matt started. I gave him a questioning look. “I would expect you to be beach ready, with a perfect California tan. Tan lines optional.” He winked. I turned and faced him.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, come on. We all know you only got the internship because you’re the closest thing to attractive out of the women applicants. Pepper needed a sort of pretty chick for the face of her Women in STEM campaign. I just figured you’d be more summer girl than science girl.” His laugh was a derisive snort. Before I could respond, he slapped my ass. I saw red. The rage bubbled up so quickly, I wasn’t even sure where it came from. But I’d been dealing with asshats like him since I’d started university and I was not going to let his type win this round. I set my jaw and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back and pushing him into the wall. He made another disgusting comment. I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but when I came back to myself, I was standing over him, panting, and holding Mjolnir in my left hand.

“Ella!” Angela reached for me. Thor put a hand up and prevented her from getting close. The elevator doors opened and Pepper and Tony were greeted with what was probably the strangest tableau they’d ever seen. The god of thunder looking on hopelessly as a raging intern held his hammer over the other intern. I could feel the lightning from the handle coursing through me again, but this time it wasn’t as painful or startling. It snapped me back to the present. I looked down at my hand in surprise and back up to Thor, meeting his gaze. I held out my hand without breaking eye contact. He took the hammer from me, and held out his other hand to stop the elevator door from closing on us.

“I don’t recall seeing anger management issues in your background,” Tony had come over to investigate.

“It was a warranted response, Tony. The boy spoke vulgarly.” Thor was in my corner, even if he was irritated that I kept stealing his hammer. Tony looked at Angela, who nodded.

“We were just on our way up to drop off this file,” Angela held the folder out to Pepper, who accepted it. She stepped back onto the elevator, and pulled me to the back with her. I think she was hoping we’d get away with leaving.

“And you?” Tony looked at Marie. Marie stepped off the elevator and gestured for Matt to follow her. He scuttled past me and pulled himself to his feet.

“Matt needs a policy and procedure orientation,” she replied. “From Pepper.” Tony raised an eyebrow, and in that moment, I realized that was code for something else completely. He stepped aside and let Marie and Matt pass him. Angela leaned over to punch the button to return us to the ground floor.

“Not so fast,” Tony intercepted the attempted escape. “Ella is going to have to explain exactly how it was she came to be holding the hammer. Again. You don’t need to stick around though, Angela.” I sighed and stepped off the elevator, anticipating the worst. Tony led me over to the far side of the room, to the bar. Thor had followed, wordlessly. He dropped a couple of ice cubes into a pair of glasses and poured two drinks. He handed one to Thor and the other to me.

“Vodka, rocks, right?” He confirmed. I nodded. He nodded at a chair and I sat, smoothing my skirt over my knees. “Elizabeth Carmichael. Who exactly are you?”

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unicyclehippo · 4 years

Note

one word prompt for beaujes: knowing?

Jester folds a small clay statuette into a portion of the yards and yards of green cloth she had bought and seeks her out early in the morning.

‘In the morning?’ Veth asks, when they go over the plan one last time. She’s accompanying Jester until they find her and not a step further, at Jester’s insistence. ‘Are you sure? You know how she gets in the mornings... Yasha is only worse because sometimes - you know - the wings?’

‘I wonder if she still does that. Obann is gone, maybe she got better.’

‘From bone wings?’ Veth screws her nose up pinched and tight. It’s strange, getting used to her new face, but the fact that Veth wears it so well, looks so happy in it, means that Jester doesn’t mind at all. ‘Maybe the spa helped. Rejuvenating oils and all that.’

‘Maybe!’

‘We should ask.’

‘Definitely! Unless - you don’t think that’s too personal, do you?’

‘Asking whether her bone and creepy shadow wings that instilled a visceral wave of terror into anyone who saw them and that were a sign of her connection to an awful demonic entity have changed now that we killed him in a battle that nearly killed all of us? No, I don’t think so.’

‘Good, I wouldn’t want to make her uncomfortable.’

‘Of course not, she’s our friend,’ Veth agrees.

‘But when she dreamed of them being feathered again...’ Jester clutches the little packet to her chest and sighs dreamily, eyelashes fluttering. ‘They sounded so beautiful. Do you think they looked like that when she was married?’

Veth looks thoughtful a moment before she shrugs. ‘You know, I don’t know.’

‘We should ask,’ Jester says more firmly. ‘We should know more about her.’

‘Make her a nice dinner,’

‘Wine and dine her,’ Jester nods.

‘Ooh! Great idea! Get her drunk and she’ll spill all her secrets!’

‘No, Veth. We’re wooing the information from her!’

‘Hmm. We may have to get Beau involved in this.’

‘What? Why?’

‘To woo her.’

‘Oh, well, no I don’t mean woo her like that—‘ Jester says with a quick little laugh, eyes fixed on the distant point of the bow of the ship as they come to the top of the steps. ‘Just in a friend way. Beau doesn’t have to - we don’t need Beau for that, to do that,’

‘Heard that before,’ Beau says from her place, cross-legged atop the cabin. She’s sitting in her mediation pose but one eye is open and peering down at the two of them. One hand comes up to shield her eyes from the morning sun. ‘What do you want?’

See? Veth mouths, waves up toward Beau.

Jester flaps a hand toward her and after a glare, Veth scuttles away, back down the stairs.

‘Hi Beau!’

Instantly, Beau’s expression shifts. More welcoming and far more amused. ‘Morning, Jes. Are you comin’ up?’

Jester nods, searches around for something she can use as a step. As she does, she asks, ‘Is this why Veth thinks you’re not a morning person? You sound so grumpy when you talk to her.’

‘I’m not a morning person.’

Jester fixes her with a disbelieving look. ‘You’re always so nice to me in the mornings though!’

‘That’s different.’

‘How come?’

Beau comes to the edge of the cabin, dangles her legs off the side and waves for her to move back. Jumping down, she lands with barely a noise and close enough that Jester’s eyes have to shift to take in the entirety of Beau’s face, her expression. She’s smiling. It feels like a long time since Jester has seen her smile.

‘I like you,’ Beau says simply. ‘Veth? She can choke.’

‘Beau!’

Ignoring the scolding tone, Beau takes a half step back, leaning against the wall of the cabin. ‘So, what don’t you need me for?’

‘Huh? Oh,’ Jester waves a hand. ‘Talking to Yasha. Veth suggested you could - anyway, that’s not why I was looking for you. I came to give you this!’

A small frown has settled over Beau’s curious eyes, growing as Jester changes topics, and growing extremely wary indeed as Jester holds the wrapped item out toward her.

‘I wrapped it!’

‘I can see that.’

‘With a ribbon too!’

‘I can see that,’ Beau says again. ‘With a bow and everything.’

‘Yeah!’ Jester waggles the small package enticingly and her smile grows when Beau takes it as she might one of Veth’s explosive bolts—with extreme trepidation. ‘Open it!’

‘I’m gonna be honest with you, Jes, I’m—is this—‘ She examines the package closely, hefts it carefully in her hands. ‘Is this gonna—ah fuck it.’ Beau passes it into one hand and, with the other, pulls at the bow holding it closed. She tucks the ribbon into her pocket and, ever so slowly, ever so carefully, glancing up at Jester now and again to see if she has shifted out of a certain radius, unfolds the green cloth from the item within.

It isn’t perfect by any means. Jester had only discovered clay recently as a means of artistic creation. But she had had a lot of models to examine over the last few days and she is pretty proud of the small, palm-sized rat Beau holds in her hand.

‘Do you like it!’

Beau stares.

‘It took me a while to see what their little legs looked like becaus I didn’t want to scare the rats but they moved so fast and also, okay, I know we’re like super cool heroes and stuff now and I know you said they’re smart and cute but I cannot with rats, I mean maybe if you had it since it was a baby but the rats on this ship, Beau! They are not nice! Like at all! And I asked Caduceus to bribe one into sitting still for me but it took the cheese and then it bit him and he said it was okay but I think it got infected because he didn’t come near me all day and I really think he didn’t want me to see it get all swollen and stuff but then he healed it in the morning I’m pretty sure and—‘

‘You made this? For me?’ Beau interrupts quietly.

‘Mhm!’

‘Why?’

‘Because I had clay? And because I was thinking about how Professor Thaddeus flew away last time we were in Nicodranas and how you said you always wanted a rat and—‘

‘You remember that?’ Beau asks, with the strangest breathless tone that Jester stops her rambling and really looks at the other girl.

She’s standing still, both hands cupping the statue like it’s the most precious thing she has ever handled. And staring at Jester like she’s something else, something... Jester hesitates to think it but something beloved, something divine. She looks at her with a warmer, softer version of how she had seemed the morning they had met Artagan. Like Jester is the origin of all things incredible. It feels like too much for so small of a gift, but Jester knows - had known when she thought of doing it, when she made it - that Beau has had far too few gifts sent her way. Fewer still that had no cause behind them but to make Beau happy.

‘Well, yeah,’ she says, and smiles with all the force she can muster. ‘Of course, Beau.’

#cr tag #tagging my stories #prompt fill #beaujester

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mister-fleck · 5 years

Text

knock ‘em dead: joker x reader

Prompt: “Nsfw joker/reader, with him wearing that red suit.”

Swiping the last bit of red paint over his bottom lip, Arthur hummed in satisfaction and set down the delicate brush. He picked up his already lit cigarette from the ashtray The Murray Franklin Show provided and took a long, satisfying pull. The white filter was stained rouge like he was some sort of common whore.

“Look at you,” Arthur breathed, smoke escaping his lips like a ghost. Genuine satisfaction pulled his mouth up into a sly grin, his index fingers no longer needed. “What a handsome devil.”

He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t love pre-show jitters. The promise of an audience, the chance to express himself under hot, bright lights. Arthur was an entertainer, always had been, and this feeling — the white-hot anticipation of being called on stage —

It never failed to turn him on.

Arthur used to hate his body’s visceral reaction to excitement. It was universally known to be inappropriate to do a comedy act with a massive hard-on, and the inevitable throb in his pants used to force him to run to the nearest restroom, stroke himself to completion — which, in turn, aroused him even more.

The idea of getting caught. Of having a time limit. Of having to keep quiet.

But Arthur was off of his medication now. He could think clearer. Hold himself higher. Shame didn’t exist anymore.

Which is why he didn’t hesitate to palm leisurely at the front of his suit pants, blissfully alone in his dressing room.

What a high it was. Arthur retrieved his pistol from the inside of his suit and dragged the barrel of it down along the column of his throat. His cock twitched hard. It made him giggle.

Licking his lips and tasting chemicals, Arthur put out his cigarette against the brick wall and leaned back in his chair. He could hear the audience laughing on command, probably in response to some stupid, sexist quip Murray had thrown at them. If only they knew true comedy, Arthur mused, lip jutting out. What a shame.

A small monitor had been placed in the corner of the ceiling, broadcasting a live stream of the show. Bright green eyes flicked up to watch as he gripped at the base of his erection through the fabric of his slacks.

We have a very special guest in the third act of our show, Murray had stated towards the end of his opening monologue. One that I’m sure all of you, including the viewers at home, will absolutely love.

Arthur rolled his shoulders back with a moan, his leg bouncing as he tried to contain the nervous energy that buzzed about his slender frame. He swiveled back to face his reflection once more, smirked at the prominent bulge between his legs, and popped open the first button of his pants with a nimble flick of his thumb.

—

You really hated Murray Franklin.

It had been almost three years to the day that you had been hired on as a stage assistant for the beloved talk show and the excitement that once consumed you had dulled into something bleak, something vaguely annoyed.

Upon hearing Murray cut to commercial with that disgusting smile of his, you removed your pair of headphones and set them aside. Thankfully there wasn’t any grand musical act tonight, which required hasty set-up between breaks and almost always guaranteed getting griped at. You had a moment to breathe, walk around a little. Shake off the foul mood.

Excusing yourself from the rest of your colleagues, you rubbed at one of your shoulders and made your way towards the restrooms down the hall. Maybe if you splashed some water on your face, a third coffee wouldn’t be needed.

The women’s bathroom was located across the hall from the main dressing rooms, the backstage design surprisingly crowded for such a large studio, and your eyes flicked up to the name scrawled across the chalkboard placard that was attached to one of the doors.

Arthur Fleck.

The name had become a familiar one over the last two weeks. It was all the team could talk about, just how terrible this comedian was. You had only watched the man’s clip once — you didn’t find it necessary to replay his obvious discomfort over and over again for your own enjoyment. It was pretty sick, the way her fellow coworkers would snicker and hit rewind, nearly obsessed with the pain on Arthur’s face as he tried to spit out his first joke.

A muffled groan broke you out of your thoughts. You narrowed your eyes at the door, lips pursed. It had been left open a few inches and through this opening you could see newly-polished dress shoes tapping idly at the carpeted floor. You frowned, your heart going out to the guy. He must be so excited. Or nervous, probably assuming that this was his big break — when she knew fairly well that Murray had discussed beforehand the various ways in which he’d embarrass him.

You had half a mind to warn Arthur. To put an end to what may become a devastating evening for the poor man. Biting at the inside of your cheek, you hesitated before taking a step closer to the door.

Another groan. Longer this time. Low and rumbling, like a wild animal. Like a lion.

Your brows furrowed with concern. Was Arthur okay? Maybe he was feeling ill — he certainly wouldn’t be the first guest to vomit before coming on stage — and was trying to suppress the urge to get sick.

Figuring that he didn’t have anybody else in this moment, you quietly made your way closer and gently pressed your hand against the door with the intentions of opening it.

But now that you were closer, now that you were fully in the doorway, you were able to see what was really going on.

Lounging there in his pressed red suit sat Mr. Arthur Fleck, one hand lighting a new cigarette, the other wrapped confidently around his cock.

You forgot how to breathe. Immediately, your body erupted with heat, your cheeks and ears flaming, your neck flushed pink. Your modest skirt and blouse suddenly felt three sizes too tight, constricting and uncomfortable as you stood motionless by the door.

It would have been best if you turned around and let him be. If you had pretended not to see anything, if you minded your own business. But you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from how carefully Arthur was pleasuring himself. The look on his face was dangerous, dark with want.

You felt your panties grow damp.

Instantly horrified at your own behavior, you squeezed your thighs together and felt your heart jump into your throat, your hand lifting to delicately cover your mouth. There was something about the swagger in Arthur’s posture, the way his long lashes fluttered, the way his chest heaved once more with a deep moan. It had you wildly aroused and rooted to the spot.

Then, his gaze lifted. To the mirror. To see you.

Your first instinct was to run, but Arthur spoke before you could react: “Can I help you?”

His voice was calm, almost sweet. Patient. He made no effort to hide what he was doing but paused mid-stroke as he tried to grab your attention.

Eventually, you found your voice. “No! No, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — “

“You’ve been watching me.” Arthur squeezed at the base of his cock and your eyes dropped once more before hastily shooting back up. “Why?”

Sweating and trembling, you squirmed and gaped at him. He had caught you. “I shouldn’t have, I’ll go, I’m so sorry, Mr. Fleck.”

Arthur was quick to stop you there. “No. Come here.” A pause, where he took another drag off of his cigarette. “Close the door.”

You really shouldn’t. You shouldn’t yield to this man, you shouldn’t blindly succumb to a stranger in face paint.

But you did.

Swallowing hard, you quickly glanced around to make sure nobody was looking before slipping inside.

“Lock it, too.” Arthur added, almost as an afterthought. “Pretty please.”

With a short nod, you turned the deadbolt and shivered at the finality of the click that came with it. Your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides as your chest began to rise and fall.

“You look positively ill,” he commented, lips pushed forward in a pout. “You know, it’s me going out there tonight.” He thrust slowly up into his fist. “Not you.”

“I don’t — I don’t know what to say,” you stammered, having a hard time keeping your eyes up and off of his cock. He was beautiful sitting there, on full display. Nobody could convince you otherwise.

Like a patient professor coaxing the right answer out of his student, Arthur sat up, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. “Tell me what you want,” he prompted, batting his lashes, putting on a show. “Use your words.”

Abruptly bashful, you looked at your feet, knowing that there wasn’t any way that you’d be able to give him a coherent response. You weren’t exactly sure of what you wanted in the first place.

You felt yourself throb hard. Okay, maybe that was a lie.

Arthur sighed, tucked his erection back into his pants, and got to his feet. You heard him stalk towards you, each footstep deliberate, like he was daring you to bolt. He soon stood directly in front of you, his silence eerie but sensual as he basked in the way you quivered under his stare.

Soon after, you felt your chin being lifted with the tip of his index finger. His hands were so cold. “Look at me.”

The power radiating off of him made you weak. You knew instantly that it would be unwise to disobey.

You locked eyes with him and he rolled back his shoulders, no doubt taking in the lust in your eyes, how blown your pupils were. He slowly shook his head, openly admiring you.

“Such a good girl you are,” he murmured, so hushed and sweet. “Aren’t you?”

Dizzy from his praise, you whimpered. He was so tall, and his eyes — they were so intense. You nearly forgot your own name.

Arthur splayed his hand out over your neck, teasing the sensitive skin there with his fingertips before pressing you against the back of the door. His hand wrapped around your throat, flirting with the idea of applying pressure.

When he spoke next, it was so low, for your ears only. “Would you like to be my good little girl?”

“Yes,” you answered him instantly in a breath, swooning under the height of him. There was no reason to deny it anymore, not with how his free hand had lifted to sweep hair behind your ear.

A short chuckle escaped Arthur. He was clearly enjoying himself. “And what’s the magic word?”

His grip began to tighten around your neck, enough to make you pleasantly short of breath. “Please.”

Arthur preened, taking great pleasure in your submission and remained silent before casually commanding, “Kneel.”

More than willing, you began to bend your knees but he teased you, not quite releasing the hold he had on your neck until he saw how badly you wanted to follow his instruction.

Your knees hit the carpet and he took the opportunity to loosen the collar of his dress shirt. “Look how pretty,” he cooed, stroking your cheek. He hummed once, happy with how you had smiled up at him. “Tongue out.”

Needing to steady yourself, your hands came up to clutch carefully at Arthur’s hips before you did as you were told. His erection was straining hard against the fabric of his slacks and Arthur sighed in relief as he pulled his cock free.

You couldn’t help it — with your body so wound up, with your panties soaked, you couldn’t stop yourself from surging forward to lick a stripe up along the length of him. You had wanted your mouth on Arthur the minute you saw him from the doorway.

Arthur groaned and cradled the back of your head with one hand, the other flattened against the door as he leant against it. “That’s right,” he encouraged, his nostrils flaring. “Just like that.”

Thrilled to be pleasing him, you clenched your thighs together once more and swiped your tongue over the tip of his cock, a little kitten lick. Arthur grunted, hips jerking, and you took this as a sign to continue, taking his length ever so slowly into your mouth — just in case he wanted you to stop.

But Arthur didn’t protest at your bold decision, instead tightening his grip in your hair and coaxing you further down. “There we go. That’s my girl. Mmf.”

Hooking your fingers into his belt for leverage, you hollowed your cheeks and swirled your tongue, feeling frighteningly at home and safe with him. Like you belonged there, kneeling before him. Being his girl.

As you began to languidly bob your head, he seethed in a breath and kept his eyes on you. Arthur was so handsome, an entirely different man than the one you had seen on that wretched video tape.

He was in his element, completely in control of himself now. You sucked harder.

Arthur began to tremble, struggling to keep his composure as you let the tip of his cock brush against the back of your throat.

The monitor overhead went up in volume, startling the both of you.

“Don’t touch that dial! We’ll be right back with Dr. Sally after these messages.”

Looking flustered, Arthur pushed back some loose strands of green hair that had fallen out of place in the midst of his indulgence. “Running out of time, aren’t we?”

He pulled himself out of your mouth, leaving you panting. Your efforts had left you deliciously out of breath and the way Arthur looked at you — like he really saw you. It made you want to kiss him.

“Up,” he instructed, taking most of the initiative himself when he saw how unstable you were on your feet. Your balance didn’t matter, though — because you were airborne almost instantaneously, Arthur’s hands curling behind your thighs to guide your legs around his waist. You squeaked and wrapped your arms around his neck to stop yourself from falling.

“If it weren’t for the paint, I’d kiss you,” Arthur husked, and he reached down to yank your panties aside, nearly ripping them in the process. You gasped loudly and he placed a finger to your lips, shushing you.

“Don’t worry, princess. Daddy’s got you.”

All it took was a swift roll of his hips for Arthur to slip inside of you. You were so wet, your thighs slick, and you couldn’t discipline yourself well enough to hold back a sharp, feminine cry.

Arthur didn’t hesitate to shut you up, covering your mouth with his hand, and didn’t give you any time to adjust to the size of him. Once he had found his footing, he began to fuck you so viciously, so hard that your tailbone started to ache.

Overwhelmed by it all, you felt tears roll down your cheeks, your pleasured cries muffled as you gripped onto the lapels of his suit. You were already so close to cumming — you had never been so worked up in your life.

“Gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you?” Arthur taunted, his neck glistening with sweat as he rammed into you.

Nodding furiously, you sobbed into his hand and fluttered around him, making his hips stutter in response. He gritted his teeth and thrusted with deep, unforgiving strokes, punching each word: “What a good — little — slut.”

This sent you toppling over the edge, positively screaming against his palm as you came, your back arching. You accidentally bit down on one of his fingers and he gave you a rough laugh before pulling out of you and cumming all over your inner thigh.

Down the hall and to the right, the live jazz band on stage chose this moment to come to life, the sweeping trumpets signaling the end of the commercial break.

The two of you remained panting for a minute, breath mingling, sated and sticky with shaky limbs. Eventually, Arthur regained his focus and lowered his hand, letting out an abrupt laugh upon seeing damaged flesh.

“You bit me, you rascal.”

Winded and lightheaded, you gave him a breathless giggle and winced apologetically, “I’m sorry.”

Tickled by this, Arthur continued to laugh and lost himself briefly in the music playing outside, spinning you in a slow circle before carefully setting you down on the vanity counter. Your head spun — how could this man go from lust-crazed to light and charming so quickly?

When you looked up, Arthur had already tucked himself back into his slacks and was approaching you with a handful of tissues, taking it upon himself to gently clean the mess off of your thigh.

“Hey. Want to hear a joke?”

Still coming down from such a high, you hummed in affirmation, giving his spontaneity a sleepy smile.

Arthur took a step back to fix his attire in the mirror, lips quirking.

“Little Jonny tells his friend: My grandpa died yesterday. Friend asks: Oh, how did that happen?”

You were already giggling, entertained by the childish, high-pitched voices Arthur was putting on.

“Johnny says: He hit his thumb with a hammer. Friend exclaims: But you can’t die of that!”

Arthur smoothed back his hair, fixed the collar of his shirt. If you weren’t so enamored with him, you would have noticed the handgun being tucked away in his coat pocket.

“Johnny then tells his friend: I know, but he wouldn’t stop screaming and cursing, so we had to shoot him!”

Surprised by the dark material but enjoying it nonetheless, you concealed your sudden laughter behind your hand. He appeared to be glowing in the midst of your positive reaction, watching you with those wild, wild green eyes.

Three knocks fell upon the door. “Mr. Fleck? We’re ready for you.”

Arthur beamed, smoothed out the front of his suit. He posed for you, hands on his hips, angling his shoulders like a model would during a photoshoot. “How do I look?”

You found yourself grinning despite yourself at his silliness. “Very handsome. Knock ‘em dead, Arthur.”

He stepped forward, pressed a big, comedic smooch to the top of your head, and winked at you. “Great minds think alike.”

---

reader tag: @taintednihilist @galaxycat-1459 @hxneyboy @sebastianshoe @insomniabird @jesstaggartt @lenawiinchester @emissarydecksetter @ghoulsguilty @vampirozi @spaceinvader @aclownthing @zy-nnic @alirabbitt

(if you’d like to be added to the reader tag, shoot me a message!)

#joker #joker x reader #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #joker movie #drabble

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violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Philtatos [3/?]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47654632

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: # fate #gods in disguise #reincarnation #secrets #titans #wings

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

As a general rule, Tim avoids going to Batburger when in uniform; it feels as if he’s endorsing a company that capitalizes on cape and rogue identities, and which he knows for a fact treats their employees like chattel.

But apparently mythological gods of love have insane metabolic needs.

He makes a mental note to ask Bart to send some of those special high-calorie protein bars he eats. There’s no way Tim intends to spend valuable time playing delivery boy if Jason’s in trouble.

He frowns at the thought, causing the girl at the takeout counter to step back nervously.

Jason was his usual charming self tonight. But it was a bit off.

The older vigilante, never the paragon of patience and gratitude, was on a hair-trigger tonight. Under normal circumstances, there’s more verbal sparring between them before Jason things get physical. Even then, their altercations are usually because some villain is trying to pit them against each other.

Or he really was just pissed off I was following him.

But Tim can’t help thinking that’s not it. The whole thing has been nagging him since the night before, drowning out what would normally be frustration and hurt after his encounter with the Red Hood. There’s no time to be hurt when there’s a problem to solve.

Tim accepts his order, and after ensuring it’s triple-bagged, tips the girl at the counter for her time before taking off. Swinging across the rooftops of Gotham carrying ten times more than he ever buys for himself is too awkward, so he ends up jumping on the roof of a passing bus and riding it toward the old theater district.

His eyes automatically flick to the passing buildings, wondering if his progression away from Jason’s part of town is being watched from up top.

Or if he should be ducking an impending sniper shot.

Jason’s words echo on repeat in his mind, needling deeper each time. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but they were just getting to a good place in terms of trust.

“If I need help, I’ll ask. And chances are, I won’t be asking you.”

“So much for that,” Tim mutters to himself as he prepares to disembark from his ride.

Upon arriving back at the Nest, he skips changing out of his gear and heads straight for the subbasement. The containment unit there was build with Poison Ivy and Scarecrow related emergencies in mind, but it’s come in handy since he acquired an Olympian roommate of sorts.

Normal protocol after a twenty-four-hour observation period would be to send Eros off to a prison for metahumans, but Tim is wary about giving up custody of him any time soon. The potential danger to Jason aside, he’ll need to get his hands on a good deal of null technology and fortified transportation just to move the guy without setting off his powers.

That memory induces a shudder; it’s been a day, and he’s still tasting pomegranate.

Tim doesn’t wish that on anyone. And if that lack of control seizes Jason, forcing him to throw himself at Tim like a ravenous dog?

A visceral swirl of nausea settles in Tim’s gut. Jason’s always had strong ideas on consent, even before his death. It’s one of the few things that didn’t change following his resurrection. If Jason becomes the very thing he’s been fighting his whole life, Tim worries he’ll break for real this time, and in a manner very different than when he first broke The Rule.

Tim isn’t going to let that happen, even if that means working with an entitled godling that’s already become more trouble than he’s worth.

It was hard enough just getting him here, the guy’s way heavier than he looks…

He wonders if it’s the wings, if their mass is still discernible even when they are out of the visual spectrum, and how strong they’d have to be to carry something person-sized. They probably aren’t like a birds’ appendages, and Eros is clearly not hollow-boned, so either they’re extremely well-muscled or of some metaphysical material construct that—

“Hey! Are you going to feed me at some point, darlin’? Or is part of your brand of hospitality enforced starvation?”

Tim jolts back to present from his drifting thoughts and glances across the open space of the Nest toward the containment unit. It’s a hundred square feet of bulletproof glass and filtered air designed by S.T.A.R Labs specifically to counteract the abilities of metas and other enhanced humans.

Eros lounges on his cot, wings out and examining the feathers with his lips pressed together. He’s been annoyed with Tim since waking up in the in custody, though Tim thinks he’s more upset about the whole being knocked-out thing. There’s some kind of telenovela playing in the background.

He wasn’t sure how long he was going to have his guest, so while Eros was still unconscious, Tim hooked up a television screen inside, and brought several books and a mp3 player. He also brought every piece of art from his apartment upstairs and crammed it inside the unit. Eros’ abilities may not have affected Tim when he put him in there (this time), covered as he was, but as those powers grow beyond his control, he’s going to want to siphon it off however he can.

Eros finally looks up at Tim, narrowing his eyes. “For your sake, I hope you got the fries Jokerized. And your channel selection sucks. What kid your age doesn’t have at least one Adult channel?”

“The kind that finds them gross and exploitative.” Tim makes a face as he pushes back his cowl, though he keeps his domino on.

And who has two full-time jobs that make sitting down to watch anything like that pretty much impossible.

He can’t remember the last time he went on a date or did anything nearing the realms of sexual. Normally he just sees to his needs in the shower and that’s that, since there’s no time for much else. He’s even gotten in the habit of not taking more than five minutes so he can do other things. What’s the point of taking longer if there’s no one there with him?

Eros is watching him with a cruel twist to his lips, and Tim’s ears warm. He has a flash of worry that the Olympian can read minds but then decides if Eros had that ability, he’d be using it mock Tim by now. The guy's sort of a dick.

Tim scowls at the notion and opens the hatch in the side of the unit and shoves the takeout bag inside, punching in the code to decontaminate the area.

Eros gets up from the cot, stretching in a languid movement that’s distracting for reasons other than his shirtless state, and stalks over to the hatch on the other side. As he moves, he brushes his fingers across a bronze Grecian krater from the Classical period. Something like golden wisps of smoke swirl around it and then settles into the piece, which gleams a bit brighter.

He wasn’t kidding about that, I guess.

Eros clutches at the takeout bag and begins unloading it on the table by the door hatch, stuffing fries in his mouth and making borderline pornographic noises that have Tim swallowing uncomfortably.

“So where’s Tall, Dark and Angry?” the Olympian asks. “I figured you’d be wrangling him back here—force him into a sweet set-up like this one.”

He kicks at the glass.

“There’s no wrangling when it comes to J—Red Hood.”

“And you’re not worried at all?”

Tim considers the last meeting and carefully says, “He seemed fine when I ran into him tonight.”

But he can’t quite hide his unease. Eros picks up on it.

“You get that that’s only temporary, right?” he asks, stuffing a handful of fries in his mouth.

“I also know that going at Hood head-on isn’t the way to convince him of anything. He’s got to reach out for help himself. The most I can do is monitor him from a distance until he’s ready.”

He wanders over to his main computer and brings up the tracking program for the bug he planted on Jason when he grabbed him tonight. The other man was more distracted than he let on if he didn’t notice Tim slip it on him.

And he hasn’t gotten rid of it, judging from this.

It’s not making a quick exit via sewer or a passing truck, which is par for the course when ditching a tracker. He’s chased enough of those to know what that pattern looks like. And when Tim pulls up camera footage from the surrounding area, he catches several shots of Jason making his way to the safehouse in Coventry no one’s supposed to know about.

“Really?” Eros drawls. “Are you sure it’s not because you’re perfectly happy with this state of affairs? Maybe you’re hoping you’ll finally get some recognition from the guy you’ve been pining for?”

Tim tenses and turns, forcing a blank look and neutral tone. “I’m not pining for him.”

“Don’t lie to me—God of Love, remember? I could smell it on you the minute you were both in the same room.”

Tim clenches his fists, a pit forming in his stomach at the idea that someone knows, followed by disgust as he registers what Eros just said.

“No, I’m not happy about it,” he growls. “Why would I be happy about him being forced to do something against his will? Especially if it’s giving a crap about me?”

“Hey, no offense meant,” Eros says, holding his hands up in surrender; the effect is ruined by the burgers clutched in each fist. “My mother and I have made a career off guys wanting the object of their affection to pay attention to them, at whatever the cost. And there was no such thing as dick pics back then. It’s kind of a question I’ve got to ask in my line of work.”

“Your line of work? You mean you still fly around the world making people fall in love?”

“Uh, no, human beings fall in love fine on their own. I just…make it happen faster and last longer. To my mother, love is a whimsy, gossamer thing, all moonlit strolls, and flowery words and basking in the newness of it all. For me, it’s fierce. Intense. Something that when denied guts you like a knife and hollows you out with desperation.”

A hungry expression passes over his face that has nothing to do with food, and Tim shivers, disliking how a lot of that sentence is hitting too close to home. Rather than betray his discomfort, he takes a chiding tone. “If that’s what you do, no wonder people kill themselves after bad break-ups. Some people aren’t able to deal with that sort of pain—do you even care?”

“Not particularly. Besides, it’s only the interesting ones we get involved with. They tend to be stronger at heart.”

“Because that makes it so much better!”

“Do I tell you how to do your job? No. So how about I get a little less judgment and a little more ‘start finding my diviners’ from you?”

“Oh, we’re going to find them,” Tim says, fighting to control his anger. Whether I’m letting you have them back is another story entirely. If I can figure out some way to keep you and your bow locked up, it’d save a lot of people grief. “But just so you understand, Red Hood is my priority here, not you or your toys.”

“Really?” Eros purrs, sneering skepticism on his face. “Even though I could ensure he starts to return those pesky feelings of yours? In a less life-threatening way, of course.”

“He might not even be affected.”

“Naivety’s not a good look on you, darlin’. But seriously—all I have to do is use an arrow, and you two could retire from the cape gig and go antiquing in New England once this is all over.”

Tim snorts at the ridiculous image and shakes his head. “No.”

“Really? You’re still willing to fight for him, even if he goes back to treating you like an afterthought if you help him?”

“When I help him. And it’s not like it would be something new.”

And, yeah, that still hurts.

Eros huffs, his expression suggesting he’s not sure what to think of that, and then shakes his head.

“Self-sacrificing as ever,” he pronounces and pops the top on a can of Zesti.

Tim puzzles at that remark for all of five seconds, when the screen of his computer lights up with an incoming transmission from Titans Tower. Tim accepts it and the screen fills with a familiar face.

For the first time that night, his mouth smooths into a genuine smile. “Hey, Cassie.”

“Red Robin,” she replies, eyes flicking over him as if to assess him for injury or danger.

She keeps to his rules about secret identities in his base. Sometimes he wishes his identity was public like hers—and then he remembers that he gets enough unwanted attention as Tim Drake-Wayne, it would be worse if people knew for sure he was Red Robin.

Vicki Vale would be the first in line to turn my life into some kind of reality TV show…

“You tried to get a hold of me earlier?” his friend asks, and Tim nods. He’s never been the type to leave anything to chance, and last night while Eros was still conked out, he shot an email to Cassie asking her to get back to him as soon as she could.

“How are things in California?”

“A hell of a lot warmer than where you are, but I don’t think you want to talk about the weather.”

“Nope. How much have you heard about Eros?”

“Eros?” she asks. “Like Cupid?”

“Really?” the winged Olympian groans. “You too? You’re supposed to know better.”

Cassie’s eyes narrow as she takes note of the figure in the containment unit behind him. “Who is that?”

“He says his name’s Eros, and from what I’ve seen, I’m inclined to believe him.”

Eros gives Cassie a smarmy smile. “Hello, Auntie. Nice to meet you finally.”

She wrinkles her nose, and Tim can’t help mirroring the expression. “And I thought my family was messed up.”

“Your family is messed up,” she retorts. “Mine’s just been doing it longer.”

“Touché.”

“So, why’s he in a cage?”

“The real question is why isn’t he gagged,” Tim replies, earning a smirk from Cassie and an offended ‘hey!’ from his detainee. “Basically, he’s losing control of his powers and when that happens apparently there will be a nuclear explosion of desire.”

And that’s possible the weirdest sentence he’s ever said.

“Super orgy,” Eros agrees. “Which though fun in theory, is a lot messier than any of us want.”

Cassie and Tim shudder.

“Not that Gotham couldn’t use a collective chill pill,” Cassie says, “but that sounds like an easy fix. You’ve got him locked up, send him on to Iron Heights or one of the other places that have meta containment.”

“Hey! What’d I ever do to you?!”

“I would, but there’s a complication,” Tim sighs. “He was wounded in an altercation involving a bunch of mobsters, and some of his blood infected a human—no, not me.” He is quick to add that at her widening eyes. “But the individual in question isn’t exactly known for being in control of their emotions. They have a history of trauma as well that could turn this into an issue, so I need to find a cure as soon as possible. Preferably before the symptoms Eros insists are coming manifest.”

He purposefully downplays Jason’s involvement, since the Titans aren’t his biggest fans. Even the ones who weren’t around at the time have heard the story of unconscious bodies, a message written in blood and Tim nearly dying. Heroes are supposed to be above grudges, but they are still teenagers.

“Not sure what I can do for you on that front…”

“Eros says his arrows will reverse it, but they’re missing, along with his bow. I’m looking for that. But I have to find out how bad this could potentially get, and how long it will take.”

“I could tell you that,” Eros grumbles.

“I need independent corroboration because I don’t believe he’s being completely honest with me,” Tim finishes, ignoring him.

“I know nothing beyond what I’ve heard in the stories, and those you have to take with a grain of salt,” Cassie muses.

“Told you,” Eros informs Tim.

“But I’ll contact a few people in my family. They might know something concrete.”

“Thanks,” Tim says, relieved. “Other than that, everything’s good with the Titans?”

“Just the usual stuff. Nothing end-of-the-world bad this week, but it’s only Tuesday.”

“Don’t jinx it!”

“We live in a jinx,” Cassie replies with a roll of her eyes. There’s a crash somewhere in the distance, and the trumpeting of an elephant and she winces.

“Beast Boy?”

“I’ll see you later, Red, I’ve got an idiot to kill,” Cassie sighs.

“Isn’t it fun being the leader?”

“Shut up.”

The screen goes blank, and Tim can’t help his grin.

“So, you know my aunt.”

The grin vanishes as he turns to face Eros. “First, stop calling her that, it’s weird. Second, she’s with the Titans. Of course I know her.”

“Titans,” the Olympian scoffs. “You call yourselves that, but you’ve never met an actual Titan. They were formidable warriors. So fearsome they had to be thrown into the deepest pit of Hades to ensure they never rose up again to threaten the gods.”

“Clearly they weren’t all that if they got locked up,” Tim retorts, offended on behalf of his team.

Miraculously, Eros has nothing to say to that.

⁂

Jason wakes to the sensation of lips between his shoulder blades and someone’s fingers sliding down the curl of his spine. He grumbles in dozy annoyance, shoving his face deeper into his pillow. It took him way too long to fall asleep last night, his overactive imagination plying him with thoughts he does not want to be having. Whoever’s bothering him is about to—

He jerks upward then, fingers clenching around the pistol beside his bed and whirls around to aim at whatever intruder has slipped into his room.

Because he went to sleep alone last night, and no one should know about this safehouse or how to bypass his security.

(Well, obviously there are the members of the Family, but Jason’s fairly confident none of them would be waking him like that.)

He faces the emptiness of the room, breathing hard as he tries to gather his wits. The space is too sparsely furnished for someone to find a place to hide, the shadows already eaten away by the sunlight. There’s no question he’s utterly alone, gun pointed at nothing and his body heaving like he just went three rounds with Bane.

What the hell…

He lowers the gun, scowling, and rubs the back of his head with his free hand. He’s used to having realistic dreams, but that’s new…

Jason scrubs a hand down his face, gives one last bleary glance at his surroundings, and heaves himself out of bed. There’s no way he’s falling back to sleep after this.

He’s distracted the rest of the morning, paranoia higher than usual as he takes second and third glances around the room before getting in the shower. He really shouldn’t have skipped it last night, because his skin is sticky with dried blood.

The wound in his shoulder is completely gone now.

If he’s learned anything in his life it’s not to ignore when things magically appear or disappear.

And yet…

If he acknowledges it, it means acknowledging the fact that he’s starting to fixate—hell, already is fixating—on Tim, and that’s something he can’t give in to.

Repressing shit is a time-honored Bat tradition, and he decides for once he’s going to partake for as long as possible. He’s still able to function, which means there might still time for him to figure all of this out on his own.

He returns to the location of Eros’ warehouse, hoping to find some trace evidence left from the night before. If he can get an analysis of the blood that infected him—

Except, the person he’d usually ask for that is the one he should be avoiding at all costs. The other options are ten times as unpalatable.

Damn it.

It turns out there’s nothing to be found anyhow, although Jason isn’t sure it’s because someone cleaned it up (the GCPD crime scene cleaners or the ever-diligent Red Robin) or because maybe Olympian blood doesn’t stick around. His wound is healed like it was never there, it’s possible it’s the same with the blood.

The day gets steadily more discouraging.

The first time Jason hears the voices, he’s in the middle of busting up a shipment of drugs he stumbled onto while leaving the warehouse district. The Triad flunkies seeing to said shipment aren’t exactly happy to see him, which is why things quickly devolve into fisticuffs.

As one of the knife-wielding henchmen take a run at him, Jason crouches, ready to engage, when without warning, someone whispers in his ear.

“Ready to lose?”

“Do your worst, infant.”

Somehow, he can feel warm breath along his jaw, even though he’s wearing his helmet.

Jason jerks to one side, prepared to pull whoever is behind him over his shoulder, only to find the air behind him empty. His pause allows his opponent to shove his knife at his ribs.

Body armor and his own deflection abilities keep the blow from being fatal, but the rest of the fight, Jason is thrown. There’s no one else but him and the Triads, but the sensation of someone hovering behind him doesn’t disappear.

Tim?

He’s looking for him before he even registers it, stepping over the groaning bodies of his opponents and examining the shadows for any sign of Red Robin. It would be just like him to sit and watch from the shadows, the little stalker. Dick told him stories about what little Timmy was like as a kid, and it wouldn’t surprise him if he still liked to sneak around with a camera.

That idea makes the blood rush to his cheeks for some reason.

Disappointment rises when he confirms he’s completely alone—followed by the queasy realization of what he was just doing.

He doesn’t even bother calling the GCPD to do a clean-up as he flees the scene.

As he stitches himself up later in his safe house, Jason eyes his reflection in the mirror, glaring at himself in reprimand. He should be stronger than this, damn it! If not because of his All-Caste training, then even thanks to Bruce’s insane regimens for dealing with poisons.

His gaze flicks over his scarred body, assessing the damage. He’s used to the litany of scars that cut across his skin, this latest is just part of a growing collection. The other one, though—

He studies the healed part of his shoulder and swallows.

If he hadn’t known there was something wrong with it before, healing as quickly as it did, he knows now. The raised skin of the new scar looks as if it’s been glossed over with gold; fine threads of it follow the surrounding capillaries like loose threads.

If this is some kind of King Midas deal, I’m going to kill that winged douche. Though, turning into a golden statue is potentially a better outcome than what could happen if what Eros said was true. At least this time Bruce will have something better to stick in the case than an empty suit.

The grim humor usually makes him feel marginally better; today it doesn’t.

After that, the voices are everywhere he goes, needling at him in a way that is somehow more present than the insanity of the Pit, more maddening. At least when he was driven by an insane rage, the voices egging him on made sense. There was a purpose, a logic behind their prompting.

“Always planning, aren’t you?”

“Well, someone has to.”

The whispers that dog him are more like snatches of a picture or a dream, without context, and yet each word murmured to him falls on him like a searing iron on his heart.

“Should e’er I go, will you go with me?”

In the next few days, things get steadily worse.

Jason’s all but given up on sleep, since every time he closes his eyes, Tim’s face seems engraved on the backs of his eyelids. Only not Tim—sometimes he looks different, but the image is so fleeting Jason couldn’t even explain how. And when it’s not Tim’s face or his voice, then his slumber gets interrupted by vibrant flashes of color and sound. There is warmth and laughter that abruptly turns to crushing, wrenching pain.

“You think of me as a shield?”

“I think of you as my shield.”

“You’ll have to catch me!”

It’s not an echo of the physical, the way nightmares about his death tend to be; the bone-shattering imprint of the metal bar against his bones. No, this pain is something else, a gaping hole, someone shouting into a dark void that no one will ever hear.

“I would that you would leave them all to perish.”

“Bury us together.”

During the day, he experiences a bitter longing, like he’s missing a limb or a lung. By night, his patrols are more vicious, bloodier as he tries to exercise his frustration the best way he knows how. As if hitting harder, and faster, will bleed out whatever is slowly poisoning him.

By the middle of the week, Jason is smoking a pack a day and filled with the manic energy of the perpetually exhausted. He’s started seeing things out of the corner of his eye—full lips tilted upward in amusement, flashes of blue eyes, dark hair disappearing into a crowd—that makes his stomach flip.

“Come back to me.”

He picks his phone up and puts it down several times one morning, each time getting closer to calling Tim until he throws it at the wall. He leaves his apartment before he can do the same to his tablet.

There’s no point carrying out his usual errands, and he ends up wandering aimlessly around the city for a few hours. Somehow he ends up on a building across the street from Wayne Enterprises, staring at the floor where he knows Tim’s office is. Where he knows Tim is.

Even on a case, pretty boy has to be the model employee or no allowance from B.

It would be simple for Jason to get into the building if he wanted to. There’s Bat access points all over the place, and secret corridors and doors. He wouldn’t even need a disguise to keep anyone from recognizing Bruce Wayne’s dead kid.

Yeah, and then what, moron? What exactly is the game plan once you get in?

He can’t even answer himself and lets out a wordless yell of rage that gets lost in the whipping wind.

“Screw this,” Jason growls and turns his back on the WE building. It galls him that it’s difficult to do even that.

Time to get some answers.

Since there haven’t been any reports of arrests of winged metas, he knows exactly where to look. Tim’s as paranoid and as much of a control freak as Bruce, and he’s not about to let a potential resource go before he’s used it to its full potential.

And there’s no way babybird doesn’t have a secret hideout under his place.

It’s a short journey back to the old theater district, or at least it feels that way; Jason’s more distracted than he’d like and barely registers the trip. Once there, he circles the block where Tim’s apartment is located a few times, making sure that there’s no sign of its owner (even though he knowsTim’s at work, there’s a part of him that keeps hoping) and then breaks in.

It’s a bit of effort to disable the security system (the little shit is too paranoid and smart for his own good) and then even longer to start looking for a way into Tim’s base of operations.

He may or may not get side-tracked snooping through the kitchen (no wonder he’s so scrawny, he’s got barely any food in here) and rummaging in the bathroom medical cabinet (at least he’s well-stocked, it’ll keep him from bleeding out the next time he gets injured) and picking through various DVDs (of course Tim has the extended versions of Lord of the Rings, why doesn’t that surprise him?). It’s only when he peeks into Tim’s bedroom, sees the king-sized bed and has a sudden image of the younger man sprawled out on it that Jason remembers the actual reason he’s here and almost runs back downstairs.

It takes longer than he’d like to find the trick to opening the secret door, though when he finds it, he snorts.

Because fish? Really?

When would Tim even have the time or patience to remember to feed them, unless he was coming over to the aquarium every day? It’s the only thing in the apartment that doesn’t feel like Tim.

Jason scowls, wondering when he started being so familiar with Tim’s esthetic. They’ve barely hung out together since his grand and bloody return to Gotham, and they’re both always traveling the world or wide void of space, there hasn’t been the opportunity to get to know the kid. Yes, he once studied his replacement obsessively, but that was to find his weaknesses, to learn how to take him apart, to destroy him and in turn destroy Bruce.

None of that should translate to knowing minutiae like how Tim takes his coffee.

When did I even pick that up? Could it have been that time with the waffles?

His ruminations trail off as he takes in the vast, three-level cavern he’s descended into.

And…okay, this place is way cooler than Jason’s pseudo-Batcave, but he guesses that’s par for the course when a tech nerd whose Daddy bankrolls everything.

Though he doubts Tim would have used Bruce’s money to finance this. He likes his independence; Jason learned that for himself about the time he found the kid holed up in Lex Towers. It’s one of the things he likes about him.

He finds Eros in a containment unit.

Bingo.

The guy has a decent set-up too, from the look of it; he might as well be in a swanky hotel room.

“Back so soon?” Eros calls, not looking up from his show right away. “I thought you had work or whatever it is you humans force yourselves to endu—” He glances up and sees that it’s not Tim, and his sentence trails off, expression becoming almost gleeful as if he’s been waiting for him a while.

“Kairόs dé, poimḗn laôn,” he purrs.

Jason blinks, not understanding the words even as they tug at something in him. It’s like being spoken to in a dream or from beneath running water.

He shakes his head. “Sorry, that’s not one of the languages I had drilled into me.”

Eros’s face morphs instantly.

“Well, you’re no fun,” he says, and though the words are accompanied by a childish pout, Jason thinks he senses actual disappointment there. Normally he might investigate that, but he’s here for a reason, and that involves figuring out what the hell is going on with him.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Indeed,” Eros says. “Starting to get that unscratchable itch, aren’t you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I warned you and you didn’t believe me. Not sure what you expect me to do about it now.” The Olympian examines his nails.

“Oh, I don’t know--fix it, maybe?!”

“I already told you how to fix it. You could have been helping the pretty boy the past few days and possibly gotten closer to sorting things, but then you had to be all brooding and tortured and stomp off like a teenager.” Eros considers him. “Unrelated, but have you ever actually seen a bird brood? I’m curious, if you took that bucket off, would there be actual similarities?”

Jason tells himself the reason he clenches his fists is because of the Olympian’s flippant manner, and not because he called Tim ‘pretty’.

Which, no, not relevant.

“You said I’d be going out of my mind over T—Red Robin,” Jason growls. “That including hearing voices? Or seeing things that aren’t there?”

“It might? To be honest, I have no idea,” Eros says with a yawn. “I’ve never had anyone with your particular…history exposed to my blood. There’s any number of things it could be.”

“My history,” Jason repeats.

“Well, to start with the most glaringly obvious, you’ve returned from the dead. There’s an odor Revenants like you give off…hm, sort of like dirt and petrichor. If they’re brought back properly, I mean, otherwise it’s all rotting flesh and bodily fluids.” He shudders. “And there’s the unmistakable seal of the All-Caste on you. Ducra’s work, I’m guessing.”

Jason’s mouth twists. “And you can just…tell all that.”

“It’s written in the story of your soul,” Eros intones, and then looks smug, “among other things.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen too much in my time to go for that poetic New Age crap.”

“Oh, it’s far from New Age, boy, it’s from an olden time when men were men—”

“And sheep ran scared?” Jason interrupts. “Spare me the walk down memory lane and just answer my questions.

“You haven’t really asked me anything yet.”

“How long do I have before I completely lose it?”

“Again, no idea. Though no one’s ever made it more than two weeks, and by that point, there’s not really much left to save, if you know what I mean.”

Kind of figured that.

“And before it gets to that point? Is there a way of putting off the…urges?” he almost gags on the word.

“Depends.”

“On?”

Eros smirks. “On how far the object of your obsession is willing to go to save you.”

Rage frissons through Jason’s body. “Fuck you. That’s not happening.”

“Then you’d better get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes, et cetera…”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Oh, do try,” Eros sniggers. “Birdboy took great pains to tell me there’s no way into this shiny prison cell unless you unlock the door from the outside. And if you walk in here now…well, you might end up seeing those troubling hallucinations and hearing those whispers a little more clearly following a second exposure.”

Jason snarls with rage and punches the glass in front of Eros’s face; it doesn’t even make a dent, and his knuckles immediately burn with pain.

“Feel better now?” Eros simpers, and then his face goes cold. “I don’t care if it’s with or without your little crush, it’s in everyone’s best interest to get my toys out of the world and back in my hands as soon as possible. You two have already withstood enough tragedy, don’t you think?”

“That written on my soul, too?” Jason spits but doesn’t wait for an answer. He whirls around and stalks away from the containment unit. This was a waste of time, and he needs to get out of here before Tim returns.

He’s not sure what he’d do if he actually ran into the other vigilante just now.

But one thing’s for sure: he’s going to have to start taking this seriously.

Knowing Tim’s already investigating the bow and arrow angle, Jason decides on a different take. There’s something not entirely above board about Eros, and Jason has no illusions the guy wouldn’t screw them over in a second. He’s calculating, like Tim, except in the Olympian’s case, the only one to benefit from that calculation is himself.

And there are some things he says that don’t jive. Jason’s not sure what exactly he’s been picking up on—going over all of their interactions, there’s nothing that stands out—but his gut is telling him there’s more going on here than the Olympian is telling.

The problem is, who the hell is going to help him out with this?

He can’t work with Tim, for obvious reasons, and contacting Bruce or Dick to use their Themysciran connections is right out. He doesn’t have any of his own, not really—Donna doesn’t really talk to him anymore. Even if he did have an in somewhere, he’d want to have at least enough background on the issue to understand whatever mindfuck logic usually comes along when dealing with Olympians or magic or anything like that.

He needs information, and he knows who he needs to reach out to to get it since Tim isn’t an option. He’s not looking forward to it.

It’s always a toss-up if she’ll help or not.

Or make him beg or demand a favor in exchange.

Though at this point, the sooner he unravels the shitstorm that his life is devolving into, the better. Then he can hightail it out of Gotham and not come back until he and Tim have forgotten all about this little bit of awkwardness. Perhaps get back to the Ally-Possibly-Friend-Kinda-Brother-Sort Of? thing.

And so, before he can talk himself out of it, he taps into the private comm line to Oracle, the one he purposefully keeps muted whenever he’s back in town.

“Red Hood,” the familiar digital voice acknowledges a few seconds later.

“I need a favor.”

“Will wonders never cease.”

“I’ve been asking myself that for years.”

“You’ve been pretty adamant about not wanting help from me,” she remarks, and even with the lack of intonation he can hear the rebuke and rolls his eyes.

“Look, can we skip the guilt-trip? I’ll owe you.”

“I know you will.”

“It’s more your research skills than hacking.”

“Oh?”

“I need to know as much as you can find about the Greek god Eros.”

Oracle is quiet for a long moment, and he wonders if she hasn’t logged off, but then she says, “Does this have anything to do with Red Robin asking me to watch for reports of individuals carrying a bow and arrows over the past few weeks?”

“It might,” Jason allows, a smile in his voice at the mention of Tim. He forces that back down, mentally castigating himself.

None of that!

“Are you two working a case?”

“Sort of. Not together—” Definitely not together! “—but same case. We’re approaching it from different angles.”

“But you’re reaching out to me, which you don’t do unless things have the potential to take a turn for the worse.”

“I’m reaching out to you so that they won’t have to later on, and that’s all I’m going to say. Can you help me or not?”

Another pause.

“It will take some time.”

“We’ve got less than two weeks. Think you can manage that?”

“What did you boys get yourselves into this time?” Oracle sighs. Her cooperation is implied, and Jason relaxes a hair.

Things are going to be fine.

“Thanks,” he says, and then pauses. “So, when you spoke to him—Red Robin, I mean. How did he sound?”

Or not.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

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winetae · 6 years

Text

⇾ third degree burn | jjk (m).

➯ prompt; dragon!jk + “i’ll make it fit”

↳ 10.2k sequel to through the flames (and into the lava)

:: smut, fluff, crack

:: use of sex toys, oral sex, established relationship, dirty talk, penetrative sex w/ a Big Dick, creampie, cum marking

It’s taken you a good month or so to muster up the courage to ask him and now that the words are out in the open, you know that there’s no going back. You fiddle with the straw poking out of your juice box, gnawing your bottom lip as you brace yourself for the inevitable rejection.

You expect him to either gently dissuade you, his expression apologetic as he gives you a long explanation about how his anatomy isn’t built for fucking human vaginas, or for him to flat out deny you like a parent telling their kid to lay off the second helping of dessert.

He does neither.

You’ve barely finished your sentence when Jungkook chokes on a mouthful of cheap cup ramen. A noodle flies from his mouth and onto your plate as he nearly coughs up his lunch. He thumps his chest with a curled fist, eyes bulging, and tries to digest your proposal along with his meal.

His visceral reaction makes you regret not broaching the subject with more tact. In retrospect, you realize that it might have been wiser to phrase your request differently. No wonder he has a close brush with death as he tries to scarf down his lunch...

‘I want you to put your dick inside me’ isn’t the best opening line. At least it caught his attention? You surmise, trying to see the positive side.

Jungkook’s gaze flits around the cafeteria making sure no one’s overheard your exchange. You suppose his concern is valid. Admittedly, discussing this sensitive topic out in the open during a quick lunch break isn’t the greatest plan you’ve ever had, but now that you’ve finally gotten the confession off your chest, you’re not willing to take it back.

Honesty is the best policy... It’s about time you follow this piece of advice. Jungkook is first and foremost your best friend and confident. Having to keep your feelings to yourself is stifling—you’re tired of walking on eggshells around him, tired of not being capable of communicating like a Real Adult. Your inability to start a discussion weighs heavily on your mind and makes you think that there’s something wrong with you and your relationship. Why can’t you just say it? What are you so afraid of? When had you stopped expressing yourself freely around him?

Your train of thought is cut off once you notice Jungkook’s eyes start to water. Even though you don’t regret finally admitting your innermost desires, perhaps you should have given him a warning or two before voicing your thoughts. His face is colored a worrying shade of purple and his coughing hasn’t stopped. You feel a twinge of concern and hurry to hand him a glass of water which he swallows down in one go.

“You—” He gulps audibly. “Babe...I don’t think you realize what you’re saying.”

You’re quick to notice that he hasn’t flat out rejected the proposal.

It’s not a no. You can work with that.

“I’m serious about this. I’ve been th— I want to try.” And although you’ve been decided for a while now, the tremble in your voice betrays your nervousness.

While it’s true that the both of you are good at communicating, the topic of sex is one the two of you constantly tiptoe around. And, thinking back on it now, you’re not sure as to why you’ve been avoiding this conversation in the first place. It feels like a bad case of déjà vu, like you’ve been brought back to all those months ago when you were too self-conscious and worried of bringing up the subject of sex altogether.

Although it’s been well over four months since you both decided to take your relationship a step further, penetrative intercourse has always been off the table—an unspoken line neither of you dares cross for fear of making the other person uncomfortable. And truthfully, penetrative sex isn’t something either of you have been eager to partake in, either. Even now, Jungkook’s too scared of hurting you to attempt it and...well, you can’t exactly blame him—the first time you had laid your gaze on his dick remains a vivid memory that you still can’t completely shake off.

But as the months pass and the seasons change, your initial fear melts away along with the outside snow. It’s not that what you have going on right now with Jungkook isn’t satisfying. You don’t need his dick to enter you for him to coax orgasm after orgasm from you. You’re very well aware of this fact and yet...

Maybe you’re too inquisitive for your own good. Your mind is easily steered to dangerous places and your damned curiosity starts to get the best of you before you can rein it in. It starts off as a passing thought, a fleeting daydream, but over time a warmth kindles inside of you whenever you picture him slipping inside of you. The thought of being connected together so intimately makes your skin grow hot. You wonder how it’ll feel like to have him fill you up completely.

“I don’t understand where—” He makes a sudden sound in the back of his throat, a look of understanding dawning on his face. “Ah, is this about what Jimin said the other day? Don’t listen to him. It doesn’t matter whether we have sex or not. You don’t have to say these things to please me, you know that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, his black fringe falling over his eyes as he tries to reason with you. “What I have with you right now is more than good. Jimin’s just being a headass.”

Although the sincerity that colors his voice is sweet, you don’t let it sway you. Soaking your dry lips with a swipe of your tongue, you hesitate for a moment, wondering how to phrase your thoughts.

Finally you settle for, “It doesn’t have anything to do with Jimin. I don’t care about what people think, let alone him. I don’t! You know I wouldn’t take Jimin’s comments seriously.” Jungkook raises an eyebrow. Sensing his disbelief, you continue with a pout. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, even before he said anything...”

It’s hard to keep eye contact for some reason so you fiddle with the pink colored straw instead, your gaze fixed on the small lettering printed on the side of your juice box. “And I... I really want to give it a try. I mean! Only if—only if that’s something you’d be okay with, too.”

You chance a glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction. His brows are furrowed, eyes trained on you with an intensity that you’re not ready for. Your knee-jerk reaction is to avert your gaze, but the need for him to know that you’re serious about this keeps you from shying away from the scrutiny. You squirm in your seat,

“It’s not—” He leans back to rub the nape of his neck with his hand. “It isn’t that I don’t want to...y’know... But I just don’t see how it’s possible? I really don’t want you to end up in the hospital because I somehow ripped your insides and rearranged your guts for real.”

His expression twists into a grimace as he imagines the worst case scenario.

“If it doesn’t go in, then it doesn’t go in,” you agree with a nod. “But you’re okay with trying, right?”

Jungkook says your name with uncertainty, nibbling his bottom lip as he mulls over the question. “Are you sure you really want this?”

You cover one of his hands with your own, the difference in size noticeable. You’re not sure if it’s because your hands are just tiny, or if his dragon ancestry makes him big in comparison. In any case, his size difference has never scared you. You like the feeling of security he brings. Even though he’s a lot bigger than you, he’s gentle in nature—always making sure he doesn’t overpower you or inadvertently hurt you.

“Yeah, I am...but are you? If you don’t want to then don’t worry, I’ll understand.” You know all too well how self-conscious he is about his endowed dick. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable and force him into something he’s not ready for. “But if you’re worried I’m being peer pressured into this or that I’m saying this to satisfy you, then don’t. I don’t...want you to feel obligated to try this just because I want it.”

A laugh tumbles from his open mouth and you pull your hand back in surprise, not expecting this reaction. “Why? What did I say?”

The laugh lines near his eyes are still visible when he responds, “We’re both being obtuse again.” He cracks a smile at you, his brown eyes lit with warmth. “I do want to try if it’s with you. I never brought it up before because, well, I didn’t want you to feel like you had to say yes, y’know? I think we both remember how horrified you were when...”

He lets the words linger in the air and you have the decency to duck your head in embarrassment.

“If you’re sure this is what you want—”

“It is!” you’re quick to interject, voice unwavering and determined to prove him right.

“Then we can give it a try... Just don’t. Don’t be too disappointed if things don’t work out the way you expect, okay?”

You nod eagerly, your stomach doing victory flips. Jungkook smiles your way before leaning across the table to seal the deal with a kiss.

After The Talk, everything regrettably settles back to the way it was. In a way, you expect this outcome.

It becomes evident that no one is brave enough to take the lead. All throughout the week, nothing escalates further than heated kisses and wandering hands. The furthest you get is when Jungkook fingers you in the shower before he has to leave for his gym workout Saturday morning.

It’s Good but it’s not what you want. And you have a sinking feeling that you’ll never get there unless you do something about it.

You’re certain that Jungkook is still worried he’ll somehow stab a hole through your uterus with his dragon dick. Maybe a month or two ago, you would have shared his apprehension. From the moment you had seen his erection in all its glory, you had immediately ruled out the possibility of it ever entering you. There’s no way it’ll ever fit, had been your first thought and justifiably so. Jungkook is sizable in girth and length, easily putting acclaimed pornstars’ shlongs to shame. Every time the two of you get naked, or whenever you feel its hardness press up against you in the morning, you can’t help but feel the teeniest bit intimidated.

But Jungkook is more than understanding. In fact, you think that he does enough worrying for the both of you.

You distinctly remember how it took 10 years and then some just for him to accept a sloppy, mediocre blowjob. (”Kook, I’m not going to swallow you down on my first try, stop worrying so much! My will to live is pretty strong.”) Only after weeks of intimacy is he comfortable letting you use your mouth on him, but you can tell by the way he holds himself back—his hands curled by his side, thigh muscles tense beneath your fingers—that the worry never ceases to exist.

A part of you accepts the relationship for what it is—comfortable and secure. But your overactive imagination keeps you from being 100% content. Infinite possibilities constantly run through your mind, each one starting with the words ‘what if...’

It’s during one of your aimless browsing sessions on the net that the idea of penetrative sex starts to become a real possibility. Knowing that others share your concern gives you the final push of confidence to take things into your own hands. After all, if they can take their boyfriend’s big dicks, what’s stopping you from giving it a go? You blame it on your curiosity. Even though you’re well aware that the final result might not live up to your expectations, you want to at least attempt the deed before ruling it out for good.

In all honesty, you don’t expect it to be the most pleasant experience of your life. Looking at it realistically, there’s no way that sex with Jungkook can be anything but uncomfortable. Maybe you have a masochistic streak, but the prospect of pain doesn’t entirely put you off. You trust Jungkook to end things if they ever get too out of hand. And besides, it’s less about the pleasure than about the feeling of being intimately connected. You want to know how it feels like to take him raw, his hard girth filling you up completely. Even if it’s just once.

You spend more time than you’re willing to admit on various websites, searching for ways to sate your bubbling curiosity. They all say about the same thing—stressing the importance of relaxing and using lube before and during the deed. The more you read, the more you let yourself be tempted by the purchase of sex toys, ones that will get you used to being so stretched out.

Your first purchase is nothing extraordinary or adventurous by any means. But you reckon it’s safer to start out small than to experiment with the monster dildos you’ve seen being sold online. Unlike the demon dicks and tentacle dildos you’ve seen advertised as bestsellers, the discreet pink silicone toy meant for novices eases you into the subject. It’s almost...cute. The three distinctive vibrating speeds get the job done and soon you work your way up the size scale, your pussy slowly adjusting to the gradual stretch that you feel with every new addition to your sex toy collection.

Frankly, you’re astounded by the way your vagina is able to stretch with enough patience, determination and lube. (Speaking of lube—you’ve got enough to last you a lifetime).

Months ago, Jungkook’s fingers were too much to handle, but now you’re able to squeeze in a seven inch sex toy without breaking too much of a sweat. You know you’ve still got a long way to go before you’ll be able to accommodate Jungkook’s dick but you don’t lose hope just yet.

You fall into a routine of sorts. As soon as your boyfriend slips out for his daily workout at the gym, you hurry to take out the large shoe box from its hiding place. After picking out your toy of choice for the day and grabbing packets of lube, you fall back against a mountain of pillows, ready to get to work.

Unsurprisingly, the stockpile you’ve hidden away in the back of your closet keeps growing. Only some kind of miracle has kept Jungkook from stumbling across it.

At first you hadn’t intended on it being a secret, but now you’re set on keeping it a surprise by whatever means possible. You take every precaution necessary to prevent any accidental happenings. The sex toy box gets moved under the bed, out of reach and out of sight. You figure the probability of Jungkook discovering your dildo collection is slim to none now. Unless he has the sudden urge to vacuum under the bed, you don’t see why he’d stick his head down there.

There’s no specific reason as to why you want to keep it under wraps. You suppose you like the idea of surprising him—of his face going slack in awe and wonder when you show him what you learned to do. There’s something satisfying about catching him off-guard; like whenever you learn a new blowjob trick and put it to use without warning him beforehand.

For a while, all is well and goes according to plan. The last thing you expect is for all of your hard work to go down the drain because of your own carelessness.

“Babe?” calls out Jungkook. “Do you know where I left my p—oh.”

You can’t think of a worse moment to barge in unannounced.

A voice in the back of your head curses your lack of awareness. You could have sworn that you had heard him start up the car, but your haste must have made you forget to double check.

There’s an awkward pause where you both stare at each other without exchanging words. The huge, bright purple dildo is still buzzing on the floor where you had dropped it at the sound the door swinging open, reminding you of its presence. Your face burns with mortification.

He finally breaks the silence, averting his eyes as a flush blooms high on his cheeks. “Uh... I’ll j— um, just leave you to it, I gue—”

“Jungkook,” you squeak out, embarrassed. He freezes up at the mention of his name, not knowing whether to give you some privacy or leave like his instincts tell him to. “Don’t go.”

It’ll be worse if he leaves now, you figure. Might as well get it out of the way now, no matter how much the situation makes you want to bury yourself under the covers and never show your face again.

You turn off the dildo and chuck it away, desperate to get it out of sight. You’ll worry about hygiene later. Once the toy is stashed away, you heave a sigh, unsure of where to start.

Jungkook lingers in the doorway, unsure of if he’s truly welcome or not. It’s still awkward and you don’t know how to fix it.

“Is it... Is it me?” asks your boyfriend in a small voice, his gaze trained on an imaginary spot on the floor. He swallows. “I know we haven’t been... together... in a while. I didn’t mean to neglect you.”

“No! No, that’s not it...” You scratch behind your ear as you gather your thoughts. “I’ve just...”

Why is it so awkward? You want to curl in on yourself on the spot.

“Remember what we talked about before? About maybe...trying to have penetrative sex.” The words sound unsexy when you say them but Jungkook ignores your visible cringing and nods slowly, eyes finally drifting up to meet yours.

“I’ve been... practicing.” You finish lamely, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it might seem. Reading sex tips on the internet might have seemed like a good idea at first, but now you’re not so sure. What if Brenda from Arkansas was lying? You should’ve known better than to trust strangers on the internet.

Several beats of silence pass, and you risk a glance in Jungkook’s direction.

For once, you’re not sure how to interpret his expression. His eyebrows are pulled together—but he doesn’t look angry or displeased. Rather, it looks like he’s in deep contemplation. You don’t know what he’s thinking, but the longer the silence goes on, the antsier you feel inside.

You open your mouth to babble, anything to fill the silence, but Jungkook’s expression stops you from making a fool out of yourself.

He breaks out into a smirk. A shiver runs down your back; the smug look is one you’re extremely familiar with. He stalks over to you in slow, confident steps, the curl of his lips still present.

“So you wanted my cock that badly, huh?” Jungkook stops at the foot of the bed.

Ugh. Sometimes you really hate how easily he’s able to shift into this cocky headspace. One second he won’t stop fretting, worried that you’ll choke and die on his dick, and the next he’s convinced that you want nothing more than to swing off his erection like a fucking vine.

“Maybe I bought it for the vibrating function.”

“That’s not what you were saying a second ago...” Jungkook shakes his head, nudging the discarded dildo on the floor with his foot. “Did you cum earlier?”

“...No,” you grudgingly admit. Jungkook’s smirk deepens, his eyebrow arching. “You were gone for like two minutes! ”

“I’ve made you cum in less,” he points out. “Guess a toy won’t ever be enough to replace me, huh. Vibrating functions and all.”

“Wow.” You deadpan. “Maybe you should try sucking your own dick since you love it so much.”

“I can think of someone else who would rather suck it for me,” he quips.

And fuck it. He’s right.

Your eyes are unwittingly drawn to his crotch area, your mouth salivating at the thought of sucking the arrogance straight out of him. It feels like it’s been forever since you had the opportunity to put your mouth on him. Although you want him in your pussy (badly), you’re not too fussy which hole he puts it in first.

That’s how you end up on your knees, mouth open, shame nonexistent. Maybe it’s because of the lack of recent sexual intimacy, but you’re craving any form of contact you can get. You’re quick to roll the pair of grey sweats down his muscular legs, your hands already reaching for his dick before you can think twice about it.

From then on, it’s all a blur, your body working purely on instinct and the desire you’ve been repressing for weeks. The only thought crossing your mind is the need to be filled up any way that you can.

Jungkook stares down at you through his lashes, his bottom lip tucked tightly between his row of teeth. His eyes are dark, hungry, ready to eat you up. They roam your face, taking in the way your lips are stretched out obscenely around his cock and how your eyes tear up every time he hits the back of your throat.

In the past, he’s always said he’d willingly trade his sizable girth for a smaller one in a heartbeat, but there’s no denying how hot you look right now, kneeling between his legs as you try your best to stuff your face full of cock.

Keyword being try.

Jungkook smirks, endeared. It’s cute how you keep attempting to swallow him down, even though you both know it’ll never completely fit. You can barely take him halfway before your throat closes up on him and you gag.

“Did you practice sucking those toys, too? They don’t match up to my dick, do they, hm?” He teases, his voice a little breathy from the way your warm tongue slides against the throbbing vein near the head of his cock.

Your eyes glint with determination once his words register. It’s a look he’s all too familiar with. He knows that once you’ve set your mind on something, there’s no stopping you. Seeing the same fiery spirit applied in this particular situation gets his blood running hot.

His gulp is drowned out by the obscene noises that echo throughout the otherwise silent room. Fuck. Maybe it’s a figment of his imagination, but it feels like your mouth has tightened around him. It takes all of his focus to keep his hips still as you work yourself over him relentlessly, coating his length in saliva until it’s slippery and glides past your swollen lips with ease.

Jungkook’s eyes droop closed as he tries to collect himself. He uses every trick in the book to prevent him from finishing prematurely—reciting the alphabet backwards, thinking of his dog, Pluto, barging in mid-suck. It's not an easy task. With every bob of your head he can feel his control slipping. By some miracle, he holds himself back, even though all he truly wants to do is thrust his hips forward and bury himself deep down your throat until he cums.

He wants to give himself a pat on the back for exhibiting such self-restraint. However his smugness is wiped away the moment he opens his eyes and risks a glance down at you.

The visual and auditory stimuli are almost enough make him explode on the spot. There’s no other explanation for it...you’re basically fucking yourself onto his cock. The noises that resound in the room every time you gag and choke around his girth are lewd, bordering on pornographic.

Jungkook briefly wonders if you’re able to breathe properly through all of this. Worry flashes across his mind, knowing that your throat will surely hurt afterwards, but he can’t find it in him to pull you off. Not now that he’s about a minute away from blowing his load.

Your hands stroke everywhere your mouth can’t reach, spreading your spit and his precum around until his member is thoroughly drenched in your shared fluids.

“Fuck yeah,” Jungkook grunts, his large hand reaching out to pat your head encouragingly. “You’re doing so good for me. Such a good little cocksucker.”

Saliva trickles out from the sides of your mouth, dampening your chin and neck. Your skin, flushed with desire, glistens under the overhead light. When you look up to meet his gaze, he swears he can feel his cock twitch. He’s never seen you look so filthy, so debauched.

He’s no stranger to blowjobs by now, but you’ve always been timid and unsure in your movements before. It’s the first time that you’ve ever sucked him so enthusiastically before and he can’t deny how affected he is by it. There’s something about the way you struggle to maintain eye contact, your stare glassy and fogged up with arousal, that makes him fight down a groan.

His cock hits the back of your throat again, causing the muscles to spasm around his sensitive head. It’s too much. Jungkook lets out a shaky breath as his fingers grip your hair, torn between wanting to hold you down and pull you off.

You end up making the decision for him by pulling off his length with a choked gasp, a string of saliva connecting his cock to your mouth. The obscene image makes his cock jump and he has to clench his hand around the base of his length to calm himself down before he hurtles to his end prematurely.

It takes a moment for you to catch your breath. Once you've evened out your breathing, you lean your weight forward to suckle the tip of his cock. Your tongue darts out from between your swollen lips to eagerly lap up the clear precum dribbling from the head. All the while, your hands reach out to pump the rest of his length. The grip isn’t tight enough to push him over the edge, the pace of the strokes too slow to be anything but teasing, but it makes his spine tingle with desire.

A coy smirk colors your lips as you lick the head of his cock over and over again. Usually he likes taking his time with you, drawing out the foreplay until you both can’t take it anymore. Today is not one of those days.

He shifts his hips back, distancing himself enough from you so that his cock is out of reach. Frankly speaking, he’s too on edge to indulge in too much teasing. His balls feel heavy and ready to burst. And as much as he loves to paint your face and chest white (anywhere on your body really), there’s nothing that satisfies him more than making sure your pussy is full and dripping with his hot seed. Knowing that he might be able to fill you up directly and not have to scoop up his fluid with his fingers just to stuff it into you afterwards is a prospect he’s not about to pass up.

“You liked that?” Your voice is hoarse but there’s a proud lilt to it. Your eyes sweep his figure, lingering on his face and throbbing dick, before your face settles into a satisfied expression. It’s hot—the way you sound equally smug and fucked out.

“You’re amazing,” he confirms, pulling you by the waist to press his lips against yours. “How’s your throat? Want me to get you some water?”

“M’okay.” You shake your head once before leaning back down.

It’s supposed to be a simple peck, but he quickly gets lost in the electrifying sensation he feels every time he kisses you. Even after all of these months, he never grows tired of kissing you. The moment his lips touch yours it feels like puzzle pieces falling into place. Every thing is right with the world, he thinks, his chest warm and fuzzy. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud.

It doesn’t take long for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, his lips pressing against your mouth with more insistence. He swallows down each of your gasps and sighs, hungry for more. There’s a salty aftertaste that he quickly dismisses, his mind too focused on what’s to come. His veins thrum with anticipation, his blood hot.

One of his hands bunches up the fabric of your shirt. He lets out a hiss of annoyance.

“Why do you still have clothes on?” He grunts, glaring at the offending item.

“There.” You say, pulling off your shirt in one go. “It’s off.”

He hums, taking a moment to appreciate the view. Although it’s definitely not the first time he’s seen you so exposed, there’s a feeling of novelty each time he lays eyes on you—as corny as it sounds. His friends never fail to poke fun at him, but honestly? He doesn’t mind what they say, having long since resigned himself to accept that none of his friends would ever understand him.

“Why don’t you play the field? This is our prime. How d’you know she’s ‘The One’ if you’ve never been with anyone else, huh?” Thinking back on their words now, he can only laugh at their fake concern. The thought of being with anyone else seems unfathomable, the idea not having crossed his mind even once.

“Don’t tell me you wanted my clothes off just so you could stare at me,” your whine pulls him out of his thoughts. “Are you really gonna sit there and not do anything?”

Your words snap him into action. “So impatient.” He rolls his eyes. “Up on the mattress, then.”

You scurry to the bed, plopping yourself down onto the rumpled sheets. Now that the awaited moment is finally here, your nerves are getting the best of you. It’s not the bad kind of nervous—what you want hasn’t changed—but there’s a fluttering in your stomach that’s impossible to calm down.

What if, after all your hard work, it won’t fit? There’s a real possibility that it might never go in all the way. You know this. You’ve envisioned the different outcomes in your head, failure being one of them. But just because it might happen doesn’t mean you want it to. Despite all logic and reasoning, you think you might be disappointed if it doesn’t go to plan.

It’s hard to find the ideal position. You squirm around for a while before settling against the heap of pillows near the headboard. But instead of actually feeling relaxed, your thoughts are preoccupied with the need to feel relaxed. It’s like your body is hyper-sensitive to everything. You’re suddenly aware of an itch on the bridge of your nose. There’s a slight strain in your neck as you crane your head up to stare at Jungkook. The bed sheets are folded at a weird angle that dig into your spine.

“You’re thinking way too much,” interrupts Jungkook, his head tilted to the side as he observes you carefully. He rubs a thumb over your ankle—a gesture meant to calm you down. “You okay?”

You nod in assent, still distracted. It feels like your mind is running ten miles per minute, a thousand different questions and scenarios popping up one after the other in quick succession.

“Hey.” Jungkook tries again, his voice soft. It coaxes you out of your inner musings. “Let me take care of you.”

There’s a slight dip in the mattress where Jungkook kneels between you. His hold around your ankle tightens as he splays your legs open for better access.

Your reply comes out as a hum and he smirks down at you before readjusting his position. Now flat on his belly, he draws his face closer to your sex. A dark look crosses his face, his eyes black with lust as he zeroes in on the sight before him.

His gaze is solely focused on the view between your legs when he says, “Gonna open you nice and good for my cock.”

And with that he dives in, licking a broad stripe up your sex, his tongue rough and hot against your wet folds. You shudder at the initial contact but Jungkook hooks his arms around your legs to keep you still as he works his mouth on you.

It never takes much to get you going in these situations but Jungkook always insists on starting off slow. He’s a patient man to a fault. Soon, the slow, measured strokes of his tongue become unbearable. The arousal pumping through your veins makes you dizzy with lust. It feels like your orgasm isn’t too far away but you know that you’ll never reach it this way.

Uselessly, you try to grind your hips onto his face but with the way his arms pin you him place, you’re forced to withstand the torturous pace.

“Kook,” you whimper. It’s your nth attempt trying to grind your sex onto his face and you think you’re this close to going insane with want. Unfortunately for you, he’s having none of it. You can feel him grin against your lower lips, huffing out a chuckle as he makes fun of your plight. “It’s not funny, Jungkook. I feel like I’m ‘bout to die.”

He pulls back from his meal, his mouth shining with your juices. There’s a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Good. That’s where I want you to be, desperate and dripping for it. You feelin’ empty yet?”

Now that he mentions it, you do feel empty. You’re so used to having his fingers or a dildo fill you up that the blatant emptiness only frustrates you further. You miss the stretch, the slight burn as your body adjusts to the girth breaching you.

You swallow, the taste of him is still present on your tongue. The recent memory of him in your throat flashes through your mind and reignites your thirst for his fat dick. You need it, but not in your mouth this time—in your aching pussy.

“Hm?” His eyes narrow as he awaits a verbal response.

“So what if I am.” It’s embarrassing to say out loud and he knows it.

“That’s not asking for what you want nicely.” He lifts his brows in your direction. You know that you’re pushing your luck, but you can’t stop the frustration from bubbling over.

“If you don’t hurry up and get on with it, I’m gonna go through the box under the bed and deal with the problem myself.”

Jungkook tongues the inside of his cheek. You both stay at a standstill, refusing to budge.

“If that’s what you want.” He shrugs, like he’s not scheming something behind his cool facade. “Go get out one of those plastic things and open yourself up nice and good for me. I want you wet enough to soak the sheets.”

For a moment, no one moves. It takes a few seconds for his words to register and you can’t keep the surprise off your face. Honestly, you’re surprised Jungkook had called your bluff. Because as nice as the dildos feel buried inside of you, you prefer it when his long fingers work you to an orgasm, the crook of his digits hitting all the right spots without trying.

“Go on,” he motions with a jut of his chin.

You’re much too proud to go back on your word now. Swallowing, you inch towards the edge of the bed to retrieve the cardboard box you had previously pulled out from underneath its hiding place. There are several toys that catch your attention, but your hand immediately reaches out for one of your favorites—a pale pink vibrating dildo.

At first glance, this particular toy isn’t overwhelming. The shape imitates one of a human cock, but it’s average in length with simple and easy to use functions. The girth, however, is challenging to fit in. Whenever it gets time to pull the dildo out, its vacancy never fails to make you lust for a real cock.

Jungkook wants you to open yourself up? Then this should definitely do the trick.

You flounder for a minute, suddenly very self-conscious. After all, it’s the first time that you’re the one doing all the work and the novelty throws you off. Usually Jungkook is the one that uses the vibrator to stimulate your clit, his fingers or tongue filling you up to the brim. Now that you’re left to your own devices, you don’t know where to begin.

Should you just shove it in or—?

“Just pretend like I’m not here,” Jungkook encourages with a nod. “Play with yourself like you usually do when I’m not home.”

You gulp, eyelids falling shut as you try to follow his words of advice. You can still feel your heartbeat drumming in your chest, but the anxiety is lessened after taking several deep breaths. Once you’ve got your heart rate under control, you hold the tip of the toy against your sex and run it over your folds, the touch light and teasing.

In your imagination, it’s not a sex toy, but Jungkook himself working you up to a frenzy. He runs his thick digit over your mound, purposely avoiding your clit. The pace is maddeningly slow, but you keep at it, knowing that he’d be a little shit about it in real life. It helps keep up the illusion.

Picturing Jungkook always gets you excited. You can’t help the furl of arousal in your stomach at the thought of him touching you so intimately. Whether it’s his agile fingers or wicked tongue, he never fails to draw out your inner slut.

Your flick on the vibrations, your hips lifting from the mattress as you feel the first buzz go straight to your clit.

Rapidly, you’re consumed by lust. It’s electrifying—each one of your nerves set on fire. It doesn’t take long for you to turn the vibrations up a notch, eager for more.

“Ah fuck,” you mewl, nose scrunching up. It’s almost too much. You lose all semblance of control; all of your focus zeroes in on the mind-numbing ecstasy each vibration provokes. You can’t seem to keep your hips from bucking up in search for the addictive pleasure, already hooked on the feeling.

When you tease yourself with the sex toy, it slips around because of how drenched you’ve become. Although your eyes are closed, you can hear the wet, lewd squelches every time you work the tip in and out. You hold it at your dripping entrance for a few seconds, your hole clenching around it, desperate for something to cling onto. After a few back and forth rocking motions, your hips cant up, the toy slipping in a few extra inches.

The initial stretch makes you tense all over, your body adjusting to the intrusion. Even though your arousal eases the slide, the girth is thick enough to make you hold your breath as you work it in inch by inch.

“You’re doing such a good job,” Jungkook croons, his voice breaking your concentration. The sudden reminder of his presence heightens your arousal. “Your pussy looks so pretty all stretched from that toy.”

You don’t mean to do so, but the filth spilling from his lips makes your walls clench around the toy. You can feel the silicone object being sucked in a few more inches, filling you up even further. With every breath, you’re distinctly aware of the big toy stretching your walls. Beads of sweat drip down your neck, your chest rising and falling as the whirring vibrations shake you to the core.

“Oh fuck,” you choke around a gasp, your thigh muscles stiffening as the pleasure inside you spirals to a peak.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Jungkook hovers over you, his dark eyes greedily drinking in your flushed out form laid out beneath him. “Are you imagining that it’s my cock right now? Hmm? Want me to fuck your needy cunt open until you’re aching?”

His dirty talk fuels your arousal. Licks of pleasure wrap around your spine, your blood molten. You feel your pussy throb painfully around the plastic toy, desperate for its imminent release. You know that it’ll only take a push to topple over the edge.

Your eyes shoot open, alarmed, your legs snapping shut to block Jungkook’s hand from pulling the toy out of you. “Wha—”

It would be downright cruel to stop now—not when your orgasm is so close that you can taste it.

But before you can voice your protest, he thrusts the dildo back in, the action robbing you of breath. He slowly inches it out, only the tip remaining inside of you, and slams it back in until you’re moaning his name in broken cries.

You glance down between your inner thighs, not knowing where to focus your gaze. The toy glistens, soaked with the proof of your arousal, but it’s not what retains your attention. Jungkook’s arms are much more fascinating—the veins running up his arm prominent, the toned muscles on display for your eyes to feast on. You’re not really one to brag, but your boyfriend looks like A Snack.

That’s your last coherent thought you have before he fucks you with the dildo in earnest. He never once lets go of the base of the toy, not even to readjust his grip despite how slippery it becomes.

Maybe it’s to make up for the lack of action for the past few weeks... Or maybe it’s because he thinks an orgasm will help the penetrative sex be less painful later on... But Jungkook’s attention is solely focused on the task at hand—he works that dildo like he’s trying to give you the best orgasm of your life.

“I’m going to fuck you so good, you’ll want my cock to keep you plugged and full all the time,” he snarls, his eyes hooded. His words rain down on you, each sentence fucking you up, making your head spin until you can’t tell right from left. “When we’re done, you’re gonna feel so empty, you’ll beg me to fill you back up until you’re bursting. I’ll give you want whatever you want, baby, so be a good girl for me and fucking cum.”

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment you cum hard, his name painting your lips. You don’t blank out, but everything other than your sexual gratification ceases to exist. Pleasure bursts behind your closed eyelids, your back arching as jolts of electricity travel down your spine all the way to the tips of your toes. You don’t seem to know any word other than his name—it falls from your parted mouth like an everlasting mantra. Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook. His name runs through your veins, until it’s the only truth you know.

When the world finally stops spinning out of focus, Junkook is there, circling your wrists with his thumbs. “Feelin’ better?”

You nod, not trusting your voice right now. Everything feels foggy, your thoughts muddled.

“Told you I was gonna take care of you,” he says proudly, his eyes sparkling.

It takes a few moments, but eventually you manage to prop yourself up on your elbows and sit up properly. “Want your cock,” you whine out, voice hoarse, the pout evident. “’M ready. Really want it.”

He places a hand around your middle to keep you steady as you paw at his dick in yearning. Apparently, all your orgasm has done is make you more desperate to get dicked down. You half-expect Jungkook to make a passing comment on how cock-hungry you’re acting right now, but all he does it hum, amusement dancing across his features.

You give his shoulders a small push, scrambling to your knees. “Wait. Let me try being on top.”

“You sure?” His eyebrows knit together in concern.

“I read that it’ll be less painful this way because I’ll have more control on how deep it goes. I’ll be able to go at my own pace,” you explain, moving around so that you’re straddling him. His thighs are strong and sturdy under your palms and you feel them flex as you readjust yourself.

“Okay, if you’re sure. Just tell me if it hurts too much, alright? Don’t force yourself.”

“If I feel like my vagina is about to rip apart, I’ll let you know, don’t worry.” Your joke doesn’t seem to appease him very much. A frown etches itself on his face, the lines so deep you’re worried the marks will never fade.

“I’m serious. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He levels you with a stern gaze, his eyes never once leaving yours.

“I won’t push myself past my limits.” You say firmly, agreeing easily.

“I just... I don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t work out like you want.” He nibbles his lower lip. “I’m not trying to back out. Really, it’s not that I don’t want to, but I’m worried you’ll end up hurt and that you’ll be scared of me afterwards.”

You feel your heart squeeze in your chest. “This is exactly why I trust you. You think I’d want to take any ol’ big dick inside me just for the fun of it?” Although the tone of your voice is teasing, the words carry meaning.

Honestly, sometimes you’ll contemplate life and wonder how you got so lucky. Jungkook’s extensive list of qualities outweighs his flaws by far. He’s always been the trustworthy kind of person. He’s the type to remember to water your plants when you’re gone and not leave the stove on after use... He’s the annoying kid in class that gets all the answers right, but you don’t have it in you to hate him because he never brags about his accomplishments. Honestly, he’s so perfect that it’s unfair.

You’re a bit self-conscious of how you look like in lingerie or in a bikini, but you have no issue stripping off and baring your entire body to Jungkook. He’s kind and genuine—you know that when he compliments you, he believes what he says.

So no, there’s no one else you feel this comfortable around. Sure, both of you will occasionally argue about which superhero is superior, and you always have to order two different pizzas because your taste buds don’t match, but there’s no one else that you’d rather spend the rest of your life with. You wouldn’t trade Jungkook’s anime loving ass for anyone else in the world even if they tried to bribe you with a lifetime supply of fried chicken. And that’s saying something.

“Wh—are you crying? What’s wrong?!” Jungkook interrupts your inner monologue, gently cupping your face between his warm hands as his voice raises in panic. Seeing how sincere he is only riles you up further. God, it’s not even soft hours but yet here you are, your heart a minute or two away from bursting because of how full it feels.

“I just.” You sniffle pathetically. “I love you so much.”

“Um... Thanks?” He says, evidently confused by your sudden confession.

You swat his arm, the last of your tears drying up. Way to ruin the mood, you think inwardly with a roll of your eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he insists, brows furrowed. “We don’t have to do this now, you know that, right? We can do this tomorrow, or next month. Or in five years, if that’s how long you want to wait.”

“I know. I know, I’m just—I,” you gulp, chin tucked in. “It’s silly but I want this to be perfect.”

“It will be,” he assures, running a hand down your back soothingly. He repeats the motion a few times until your breathing even outs, heartbeat no longer erratic. Once your thoughts have settled down, Jungkook gives you a small smile, pulling you closer to press a kiss over your mouth. You stay interlocked, your lips molding against his, enjoying the warmth of his tongue and the way he steals your breath away with every passing second. His kisses make your bones melt—the same feeling you get after drinking a heady, mature wine.

Jungkook breaks the kiss with a content sigh. He leans back against the headboard to give you more room, slightly out of breath, his lips swollen and bitten-red. The sight makes your blood surge with arousal, the rush reminding you of how much you want him.

Your movements aren’t very coordinated or smooth. Enthusiasm makes you clumsy; you struggle to find your balance. You lift your hips up, shifting your weight forward so as to position yourself over his erect member. There is no hesitation on your part when you coat the entirety of his length in lube and line his shaft up at your entrance.

“Wait.” Jungkook digs his fingertips into your sides, stilling you before you can lower down your hips. “You’re still on the pill, right?”

“Why? Afraid you’re gonna pop a few eggs into me?”

“For the last time—that’s not how it works,” he rolls his eyes, holding back a groan. “I’m not gonna fuck eggs into you.”

“That’s how your granddaddies did it!”

“No, that’s how they did centuries ago when they were actual dragons. With wings and fire and scales. We’ve evolved since then, in case you couldn’t tell.” Jungkook huffs and you can hear the exasperation in his voice.

“But you said—”

“Do you want me to get soft or what?”

“Fine.” Your lips purse into a pout. “Should I count down before I put it in?”

“Uh. I dunno about that.” He knocks his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Just do it whenever.”

“You know when I imagined this in my head, I thought it would be a bit more romantic...”

“You want me to put a bow around my cock and wrap it up for you?” He snarks. Your grip tightens around his cock, your eyes narrowing into slits, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Wait,” Jungkook calls out right before you slip it in.

“What is it now?” you grumble, hips hovering over his dick as you wait for him to speak.

“Give me a safeword if we’re about to do this. I need to know when to stop if it gets too much, yeah?” He wets his lips nervously.

“Um. Okay... What about... Scrambled eggs?”

“Scrambled eggs.” He deadpans, unimpressed.

“M’yeah.” You nod, happy with your choice of safeword. Jungkook groans but accepts it nonetheless. Clearly he’s given up arguing with you for the night.

“Okay, I’m gonna do it,” is your last final warning before you put the tip in.

You expect it to hurt, but for the first few seconds it doesn’t. You blink several times, the feeling not really registering. It’s not an immediate pain, nothing life-shattering, nothing that makes you double-over in agony. Instead, the burn is gradual, similar to the feeling you get when stretching out your hamstrings before a tennis match. It’s a good type of burn, one you’re certain that you wouldn’t have been able to handle had you not acquired a dildo collection.

Slowly, you sink down on his length. Jungkook breathes in sharply through his nose, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t try to control the pace, but your can feel his fingers bruise the skin as he struggles to keep his composure in check.

The fit is tight, even to you, so you can’t imagine how good it feels for him. Your pussy must feel like a fucking vice, all tight and hot.

In all honesty, i’s hard to believe that he’s finally inside of you. Raw. Without any barriers to obstruct the feeling of his skin rubbing up inside of you. The feeling is... indescribable. It’s a million times better than the cold, unfeeling, rigid toys you’ve been practicing with.

You swear that you can feel every ridge of his dick, down to the veins running along his length. His erection twitches inside of you, and the sudden movement makes you squirm.

“Fuck, don’t clench.” He grunts between gritted teeth, a muscle in his lower jaw twitching as he swallows thickly. “You’re so fucking tight, what the fuck. Fuuuck, fuck, oh shit, I said don’t clench!”

Although you find his reactions amusing, you can’t help but take pity on him a little. Out of the goodness of your heart, you decide to give him a break. You still your hips, being careful to keep your walls as relaxed as possible. The stretch of his girth doesn’t burn as much as before, but what worries you is the length. You’re not even properly halfway down and it already feels like you’re filled to the brim.

You lift your hips back up, your walls dragging along his member, leaving behind a slight sheen. It’s still a bit on the uncomfortable side, not yet fully pleasurable, but you’re convinced that once you’ve adjusted, it’ll be as satisfying as you hear sex could be.

Every time you lower yourself onto his dick, you sink a little further down each time—but still nowhere near taking him in his entirety. When you reach the halfway point, you stop to take a breather, your pussy throbbing. The feel of Jungkook’s dragon dick is extremely arousing. You don’t think you even need to take his entire dick, not when this much feels so good already.

Jungkook seems to agree with you. The top of his chest is flushed pink, the same color blooming on his neck and cheeks. He looks like he’s reached nirvana, the black of his pupils eclipsing the usual honey-brown color of his irises.

“Oh shit,” you yelp, eyes widening as steam escapes his nostrils.

It’s been a while since that’s happened so it catches you off-guard. Jungkook’s usually pretty good at controlling his reactions. The steam only blows out of his nose when he really can’t keep it together, the reins of control slipping through his grasp.

As much as you want to satisfy your own desires, you also want this to be a memorable experience for him. It’s twice as rewarding to know that he’s also enjoying it. So knowing that you’ve got him so affected fills you with sense of pride. You did that. Single-handed. With your pussy alone.

The thought urges you to rock your hips forward. You experiment—rolling your hips, circling them, clenching your inner walls. You make note of every shift of Jungkook’s expressions, trying to remember what the most pleasurable combination is for him.

Soon, it starts to get pleasurable for you, too. His member is so fat and thick inside you, filling you up and hitting all the spots you never knew you had. Whenever you roll your hips a certain way, your clit rubs against his skin, the spark of friction renewing your desire for an orgasm.

Maybe Jungkook senses it, or perhaps he notices the gradual loss of power behind your movements, but he decides to help out. Tightening his grips around your waist, he lifts you up and down on his hardness. You’re not sure if it’s the display of strength or if it’s the feeling of him using your body to reach his high—but whatever it is helps you get off. It’s fucking hot seeing his abs and biceps tense every time he lifts you off his cock. Your hands dig into his shoulders to keep you upright as he continues to fuck you onto his shaft like you’re made for it.

“Feel so fucking good,” he rasps before leaning forward to nip your neck. The bite makes you mewl incoherently because of course he would go and aim straight for your sweet spot. Talk about sensory overload. “Always. Look at you, holy shit. Taking my cock like a fuckin’ champ. You’re so fucking hot.”

He pauses to change positions. One moment you’re staring down at him, the next you’re blinking at the ceiling fan, your back pressed against the blue cotton sheets. Jungkook doesn’t take too long before sliding his dick back inside you. It still doesn’t fit in all the way—there’s still a good amount that you haven’t been able to squeeze in—but Jungkook understands your limits and never tries to push past them when he knows you’re not ready to handle that.

From this angle, he can control the pace more easily, the strain on his arms not as intense. He holds himself up over you as his hips work into yours, his eyes drinking in your fucked out expression. He’s never seen you look so gone—and that’s saying something. You’re so out of it that you’re not even capable of words—only drawn out moans leave your parted lips, some echoes sounding like distorted versions of his name.

You’re beautiful. You always are—there’s no doubt about that. But this version of you—breasts bouncing with every thrust, skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration, hair wild and untamed, lids hooded and eyes glassy—awakens a baser, primal instinct inside of him.

He always feels it deep inside him whenever he’s about to cum—the need to make sure your walls are coated in his seed. Up until now, he’s been manually inserting it inside of you with his fingers. But now? The possibility of filling you to the brim with his hot white fluid without wasting a single drop makes his heart pound dangerously against his rib cage. He wants it so badly, that it physically hurts.

As he feels himself nearing the end, a string of filth falls freely from his lips. He doesn’t even really know what he’s saying, the only thought on his mind right now the one of fucking you full of his cum.

“Wanted me so bad you were ready to do anything for it, isn’t that right? Prepped yourself up just to take my fat cock, just like a good slut would.” He growls, low and throaty. “Bet you felt so empty all the time, just waiting for a nice cock to fill you up. But no one will ever compare to me, hm. No one will ever get you as full as I can.”

He punctuates his words with a few well placed rolls of his hips. One of his hands reach down to where your two bodies are joined. He easily hones in on your clit, his fingers pinching and pulling the engorged nub until your cries reach a fever-pitch.

The moment he feels your velvet walls clamp down around him, he curses under his breath, his hips stuttering as he feels his orgasm creep up on him. The feeling of him spurting inside of you is enough to make his elbows go weak. Somehow he manages not to collapse and crush your smaller figure. Still mindful of you despite the intense feeling wracking his entire frame, he rolls you both around so that you’re laying on top of him instead.

He’s still cumming. In the back of his head, he does find it alarming. But he’s too high on endorphins to really care about how much cum is being pumped into you, not when it seems to satisfy a kind of biological need. He doesn’t know the details; he just knows how right it feels to have you full of his sperm.

After what seems like an eternity, he can finally breathe properly. He doesn’t dare pull out, not wanting his cum to leak out just yet. The feeling of his sticky cum should be uncomfortable, but he likes knowing that he’s keeping you plugged full.

“Shit, how much did you fucking come?” you croak out. You raise your head to stare at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. It’s not a very intimidating look. “You’re sure you didn’t lay eggs or some shit, right?”

“I didn’t!” He protests at once, his features twisting into a scowl.

“Just asking. I don’t want to be surprised later on.” You plop your head back onto his chest, not caring about how sweaty your bodies are

After a few beats of silence, Jungkook squirms around, restless. “Sorry I came so much... I honestly didn’t think it’d last that long.”

“Is it another dragon thing?”

“I mean... I always cum a lot. Maybe I had a lot of cum saved up this time or something...” He says, trying to convince himself. Somehow, he doubts the validity of his words. He’s not too sure what happened, but he has an inkling that he’s not sure he wants to confirm or not. “You said you were still on the pill, right?”

“Yeah, why?” Your voice comes out muffled, your lips pressed against his firm chest.

“Just being safe.” He gnaws his bottom lip, waiting for a wave of relief to wash over him. It never comes. He wracks his brain to try to find the cause, sifting through memories of conversations he’s had with his father and recollections of his readings about his ancestry, but nothing immediately comes to mind.

He forces his muscles to relax, ignoring the annoying voice in the back of his mind that tells him that he’s somehow fucked up. He’s probably just being paranoid and worrying too much again, so he dismisses the nagging feeling and puts aside those anxious thoughts for now.

a/n: ty to all my dragon hoes ;;; (surprisingly i have a lot of them) and ty to my friends for listening to me talk about dragons and eggs for longer than they ever wanted <3 lov u

#anyways ! here is That drabble i've been thinking about for a while #/drabble/#^^ <3 #bts smut #jungkook smut

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keeroo92 · 5 years

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Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch10 (V x Reader)

Chapter 10 - The Taste of Despair Part 1

_________________________________________

May 31st, 2:12 pm

V looks up at the root that is the target of your group, its visage dark and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

I hope the demon it’s bound to isn’t too difficult to destroy. We cannot afford to fail.

Nero is standing nearby, his mechanical arm crossed against his remaining flesh and blood arm. The look on the young warriors face is thoughtful as he gazes at V for a long moment.

“What is it?” V finally asks as Nero stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment.

Nero uncrosses his arms and lets out a sigh.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Y/N, and I don’t wanna know. But if you hurt her, I will make you pay. Got it?” Nero states emphatically, a stern glare in his expressive eyes.

V’s eyes widen in surprise at the man’s protective tone. He knew you and Nero were close after he trained you, but this was unexpected. The thought of causing you pain made his stomach twist uncomfortably - causing you pain was the last thing he wanted to do.

“It is not my aim to cause her any pain. You may do with me what you will if I do,” V replies honestly, then continues after a pause, “Love seeketh not Itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”

Nero stares blankly at him, trying to figure out what he means. He struggles for a moment before V sees his face return to its previous expression of protective concern.

“Look, just… she’s like a sister to me, man. What are your intentions?”

V almost laughs. First Nico, now Y/N… The man collects sisters.

“I don’t yet know,” he replies earnestly.

“Well, just remember what I said,” Nero says and turns away, wandering off to ready himself for the battle ahead. For a few moments, V is left in peace and he takes the chance to consider Nero’s words.

What are my intentions? All I know is this is more than Vergil ever felt for someone. And it’s inevitable that I hurt her, when I die. That is, assuming she cares for me.

His heart clenches painfully in his chest at the thought. He desperately wants you to care about him, to give him the chance to feel loved. But if it hurts you in the end… He doesn’t want that. The internal conflict rages within him and he almost doesn’t hear it when Griffon’s talons click against metal as he lands on top of the van, having returned from his scouting mission.

V shakes himself, refocusing on the present. “What did you see?”

“Uhhhh… well…it’s a Glutton,” the demonic bird states hesitantly.

V groans internally as he reflects on what he knows of the beasts. They are huge, often the size of a city bus. Known for their insatiable hunger, a Glutton can open its jaws like a snake and devour its foes whole. Their size makes them slow, but a single blow from one of its massive arms would easily kill most men. Due to their absurd mass and density, they could withstand a ridiculous amount of damage before being brought down.

“Ah. Well, that should be interesting,” V articulates calmly, and Nero cracks his knuckles nearby, already itching to fight. Before the excitable warrior can say anything, his stomach rumbles noisily.

“We should eat first, Nero. We will need all our strength,” V tells him and steps to the van to see if lunch is almost ready or if you need help with it. A wonderful smell greets him as he opens the door and climbs the two steps into the vehicle, making his mouth flood. He spots Nico hard at work on some… contraption behind her counter, you standing at the stove and stirring a pot of the aromatic meal.

“Almost ready, V. Maybe another two or three minutes,” you tell him as he walks up behind you. He waits until Nico turns toward the wall, now unable to see the pair of you. He steps closer to wrap his arms around you to plant a soft kiss on the crown of your head, eliciting a soft squeak of surprise from your beautiful mouth. He steps back with his signature smirk as Nico turns back toward you two, his hand lingering on your stomach until the last possible moment. He spots a tint on your cheeks as you determinedly keep your eyes on the pot of chili and his heart warms.

“I’ll get some bowls for you,” he says simply and goes to do just that.

Within a few minutes, the four of you are all sitting down to eat, Nico and Nero at the small red table and you with V on the couch. As the group chows down, grunts of enjoyment periodically filling the air, V explains what you’ll be facing at the nearby root.

“This will not be a quick battle. The longer it takes, the greater the risk of injury. Because of that I think Y/N should stay nearby, close enough to help us if something should go wrong,” he concludes.

“Sounds like a good idea to me, but what do you think, Y/N? You up for it?” Nero asks you, leaving the final decision to you alone.

V watches your face, expression shifting from wide-eyed fear to grim resolve as you make the choice he knew you would.

“I’ll be there,” you state simply, voice firm.

_________________________________________

May 31st, 4:07 pm

You walk beside Nero and V, one hand gripping your metal bat with a white-knuckled grip, the other holding a strap of your backpack as if to reaffirm its presence. Periodically, V reaches out and touches your arm or shoulder, his touch a warm comfort in your state of cold fear.

The three of you walk two blocks, passing a Mexican restaurant and a few shops on your approach. The closer you get to the root and the Glutton, the worse it smells. The aroma of rotten eggs and hot garbage mixed with feces creates a perfume of filth and you try not to gag, breathing through your mouth when the awful scent gets too strong.

What on Earth could that be from? I’ve never smelled anything so foul!

It gets stronger and stronger as you enter a courtyard, so strong you can taste it, and your eyes shoot open as you spot the source; a monstrously huge humanoid form, its flesh distended and sickeningly bulging around thin straps of cloth wrapped around its limbs. There’s a splash of blood under its chin, evidence of its most recent meal. Its right arm ends in a cruel blade, massive screws holding it in place on its forearm. Another blade sticks out from its hunched back, going through its disgusting flesh and reemerging near where you imagined a tailbone would lie somewhere under the layers of muscle and fat.

But the worst aspect of its horrifying visage was the fact that it looked so human, if you ignored its size. Its skin a normal shade of peach, facial structure resembling one of the cashiers at the grocery store you used to frequent before the city fell into insanity. You find yourself unsure if it even is a demon; then it opens its mouth, letting out an unearthly howl and you see its jaws open impossibly wide as it uses its one hand to lift what looks like the corpse of an old man to its lips, somehow able to fit the whole thing in its maw. Its cheeks bulge as it swallows viscerally, and you shudder.

Definitely a demon.

“Right, Y/N find somewhere to hide where you can see us in case we need your help. V, let’s go kick some ass,” Nero orders as he steps forward, cracking his neck and stretching his arms in preparation. You turn and see a coffee shop on the corner, ducking inside right as Nero speaks. You crouch behind the counter and peek your eyes over to watch the battle unfold, hoping you won’t be needed.

“Hey, ugly! You know, you could really use a bath,” Nero says, waving one hand under his nose mockingly. The beast growls as it turns to face him and V, its face distorting into an expression of rage and hunger as it spots the two men.

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, but I think you may have missed the turn,” V chimes in with a twirl of his cane, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even as he faces away from you.

The Glutton snarls and charges, its massive weight making the ground shake with every step as it dashes at Nero. The white-haired warrior performs a flawless hands-free cartwheel to the side, and the creature skids to a stop where he was just standing. Nero draws his sword and brings it down for a harsh slash, opening the beast’s flesh from its hip to its upper back. It howls again, turning to face the threat.

V flicks his cane out to the side and Shadow springs forth, Griffon following a fraction of a second behind in a burst of black shards. Shadow shifts instantly into her spinning blade form, dashing forward to land a slice on the creature’s chest. Griffon hovers in midair and his form flashes purple for an instant before he releases a spherical cloud of electric energy, scorching the Glutton.

The creature bellows, swatting Griffon and Shadow away and they both shift into small spheres as they hit the harsh pavement, pulsing with light as they float a few feet off the ground. Your heart lurches at the sight of your two summoned friends being hit so hard and you see V’s face go even paler than its normal shade as bile rises in your throat.

Nero unleashes a flurry of strikes, keeping the Glutton’s attention as V limps to the glowing spheres. You hold your breath, unsure if Griffon and Shadow are dead as V holds a hand over the first sphere. You gasp in relief as a moment later, Shadow bursts back out of the small orb and roars. V rushes to the other sphere, panting already, and repeats the process to revive Griffon as Shadow darts forward, a blur of black fury as her body shoots out numerous appendages to strike the Glutton as it focuses on Nero.

Nero somersaults away as the beast brings both its blade and its fist to strike the spot he had been standing, cracking the asphalt instead of Nero’s skull. He taunts it as it turns to face him again.

“Ha, you’ll have to do better than that!”

The Glutton prepares another charge, bellowing its fury as it runs at Nero again. He hops onto its head as it reaches him, carefully avoiding the blade embedded in the creatures back. He simultaneously presses the small button on his mechanical arm to deploy Bladestorm, slashing through the beast’s meaty shoulder as he drops down to the ground behind it. Griffon dives, cawing curse words as he leaves a deep scratch on the demon’s leg. Shadow follows up, swiping the same spot with her brutal claws, and the creature staggers as its leg almost collapses beneath it. Your eyes flick to watch V, as always staying on the edge of the battle and reading his book of poetry. He snaps the book closed as you watch, his other arm rising high above his head and snapping as he speaks, voice harsh in battle.

“Enjoy the taste of despair…”

V's hair sheds its layer of black, the shards dissipating into thin air to reveal his snow-white locks as Nightmare bursts through the wall behind him. The Glutton takes notice of this new threat, bellowing again and charging right at V and Nightmare. To your horror, V doesn’t move out of the way; instead, he leans over and claps his hands tauntingly. You feel like you’re watching a deadly game of chicken as the beast gets ever closer to V and he still doesn’t get out of the way. You can’t take it and close your eyes, holding your breath and listening for the moment the beast strikes the poet.

You hear an impact, but it’s not what you expected. It sounds almost like gravel shifting and you open your eyes again to see V on Nightmare’s back, its massive fists locked in a stalemate of strength against the Glutton’s arms. You can see V panting and gritting his teeth from the effort to hold the damn thing in place as Nero surges forward with a yell, slashing the legs of the Glutton repeatedly. You think he may just get the massive demon onto its knees when it suddenly kicks back blindly at Nero, its foot hitting him in the chest and sending him flying across the courtyard to hit a lamppost. Even from your distance, you can hear bones crunching as Nero’s spine breaks and he falls to the ground without making a sound.

Your breath leaves you, your stomach and heart clenching painfully tight as you see your friend lying on the ground, body broken beyond your skill to repair. Tears fall freely from your eyes and you curl into yourself, already mourning both Nero and…

V... God, no… He’s going to die and there’s nothing I can do. I’m useless, always so fucking useless. It should have been me that died, not them. It’s never enough, I’m never enough, I’m never enough, never enough, never enough, neverenoughneverenoughneverenough…

You start pounding your head against the counter, sobbing and hating yourself for your utter failure.

(Link to art used as inspiration for the Glutton - https://www.austenmengler.com/store/gluttonator-print NOT MY ART!!!)

#dmc5 v #dmc5 #dmc #devil may cry #fanfic #v x reader #v x you #reader insert #op #boss fight #SBHS #dmc nero #vitale

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gboxventspace · 5 years

Text

I feel volatile. Not sure how else to describe it. These last couple days I’ve barely gotten out of bed, my heart pounding for no reason, anxiety at the edges of my thoughts just as strong as the exhaustion. I want to sleep more, but I don’t. I want to be alone but not in a bad way? I feel like I’ve found a sort of liminal space here, curled up in bed on my phone, the fan going so I don’t hear anything else in the house. Time keeps creeping forward but it doesn’t matter.

I should be applying for jobs. I should be calling about bills. I should be sorting my stuff, still packed in boxes. I should be up and dressed and at least talking to my family. But I’m not, and I can’t make myself do it. I don’t want to leave this floaty unreality, even if I spend it all on the precipice of falling into an anxiety attack. I’m on the edge of a hot pot, I crawled my way up the side and now I’m sitting on the ridge, feet dangling over the fire. I feel the heat coming up, it’s uncomfortable, but better than if I made a move forward. Backwards would be back into the hot pot too, not as bad as the fire but still burning and dark and trapping. I’m on an edge, the idea of safety, as far from the fire as I can be without committing and seeing how long I can dangle here before I face reality one way or another.

Why is it like this? Why am I like this? I do t want to be like this. I take my meds, I go to therapy. I try. Why does it feel like I’ve been wrung out like an old sponge? I’ve never been the energetic sort, but even the little bits of excitement are gone. I either feel empty or anxiety. Things that make me excited usually still make my heart race, but it feels closer to panic than anything good. I’m stuck in a place of transition, between jobs, between choices, between phases of life that I’m reluctant to leave. Time marches on but I don’t wNt to, I don’t want change, yet I do? I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I need. Why does my brain feel so foggy?

Does getting high at night make it worse? It seems to. The days after I have a high night are often like this, floaty and exhausted. I don’t know if I even like being high that much. Why do I keep doing it? I hate how I stuff my face anyway, why do I take drugs that make me donit even more? I don’t want to eat but I do. It takes away the guilt for a while. If I stop buying snacks I’ll stop binging on them, but then instead I’m laying there hungry, desperate, unable to think of anything but my hunger and my weight and if I want food or not and if I should just lay there and waste away. Hunger pangs send me into a spiral of self loathing and pride, but then so does being so full I’m in pain. Pain. Control? Part of me is glad I still bite my nails because it means that when I start scratching I can’t do much damage. I wish I could do more but I know I shouldn’t. My poor scalp. I don’t want to damage my hair but it’s a relief. If I want my arms, my keys are right there, right in reach.

Tactile. When I was high last night, I couldn’t get the word out of my head. I’ve been needing so much tactile stimulation lately. Eating is a form of it, the texture and taste of the food, chewing, swallowing. I’m constantly rolling around in my bed, touching and rubbing and stractching at whatever parts of me I can reach, needing that sensation. Why? What else could I do to appease this? I don’t want someone else to touch me, not really. I don’t need touch from someone else. I just need more. My room is blank and white, I haven’t gotten around to putting up my decorations yet, maybe that’s part of it? White sheets, white pillow, white walls. My painting is hanging up, a splash of color, and I can have other colors, but I don’t know if it’s enough. I need to fling paint around I think. Cover my walls, my skin, all of it in bright paints. I need markings, signs, something visible and tactile. But my room’s also the guest room, so I can’t decorate it without my mom’s permission. I get it. But I loathe it.

I don’t need to break boxes, not like last time. Weeks ago when I went into the garage and threw a fit, tearing and throwing and cutting and smashing boxes until I couldn’t feel my hands, my shoulder thrown out and my back strained, old nails ripped from the walls and cardboard all over the floor. This isn’t as violent as that. But it’s physical, it’s visceral, and I don’t know how to vent it out. Cheap paints, acrylics maybe, or tempura, slathered over everything, flung. Make beauty out of pain.

It’s why I have that henna, maybe I should do that. Too much patience though, waiting to chip it off. Sharpies? Nail polish? Mark my skin. I used to go to town on my skin in the shower, relishing in how pliable it was in the hot water, how bright red nail marks look against my stomach and chest in the bathroom light. Visible, tactile, real. For a while I kept a pair of safety scissors in the shower too. Was always too chicken to go deeper than surface level.

It’s funny. Once my dad found razor blades in my bathroom, open and sitting out. I genuinely have no idea how they got there or why, but he pulled me aside to ask about them, but wasn’t overly concerned. When I asked why, he said I “didn’t have the right marks for them”, so he knew I wasn’t cutting. Hah. Scratches are too temporary to make anyone think twice. Is that a blessing or a curse? I want them to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be pitied, but then I don’t want the follow up of being hounded. Or do I? Why am I feeling so starved for validation when I’m practically drowning it it anyway?

Why am I like this? Why am I like this? Why won’t it ever go away? Why can’t I have control over myself, my actions, my thoughts, my body? Where’d my control go? Did I ever have any? Do I even want it? Control sounds exhausting. More exhausting than this? Than wishing? Struggling? I want to drift, to drown. My arms ache from climbing out of my own mental pits of despair again and again and again, knowing it’ll never truly get better, I’ll never fully be done or heal. These pits will never go away, no matter how much I progress, how hard I fight and try. What’s the point? Claw my way out just to slip again? Why make a bed you’re just gonna sleep in again. Why shower when you’ll sweat again. Why eat when you’ll just gain weight and get hungry again. I’m wasting away, wasting time, wasting life I should feel blessed and priveledgef to have. Can’t I give it to someone else? Can I give allnof this to the people who need it more, deserve it more? Would cherish it, use the opportunities for good instead of wasting them like me? I have no right, no reason, nothing. I shouldn’t feel like this. I take a handful of pills every day, have for years, why don’t they work?

The scary thing is, they do. This is better than I am without them. Why is my baseline so abysmal? Is it not the right balance of chemicals yet, or does it not even matter? Will it always be like this? I get better just to fall again, always, and it’ll never stop, never go away. Life’s a fucking hydra and my sword’s dulling like chewed nails dragging on skin. I can’t even cry. Sitting here, typing this, all I feel is my heart pounding incessantly in my chest, my breaths coming short, never enough oxygen, never deep enough. Maybe I’d breathe better if I wasn’t fat. No, I know I would, doctors say I would. That one guy compared me to a truck, my sleep apnea being like a car engine trying to pull a truck, and it’d work fine if it was instead pulling the smaller body it was meant for. Am I meant to be smaller? I try and look at the bright side of my size, my strength and softness, but it falls short. I’m not that strong in the grand scheme of things, and my softness is negated by my sweat, being a space heater that can never turn off. What’s the point in being soft for hugs and shit if you’re also wet and disgusting? I shower, but within minutes of getting out I’m sweating again, no matter the temperature or what I do. Why would anyone want to hold me? Why would anyone want me? I want to be wanted. I want to be wantable. Why though? Why does it even matter? Do I want the attention itself, or just the knowledge that I could have it if I chose? Why can’t I be different? Why am I stuck being the weird one, the pitied one, the slow one, the “she’d be pretty if she lost weight”, the “you can’t have an eating disorder if you’re fat”, the “i dare you to ask the gross one out”. Am I gross? Inherently? No matter what I do, I repel people. I’m nice, I think. People like talking to me. But not getting close to me, because I cling, I become an unwanted burden every time. Should I try harder? Less? At all? Why? Why can’t I be satisfied, happy, accepting what I have without always craving more? Selfish. Gluttonous. Slothful.

What do I deserve? Is there such a thing? The universe doesn’t care. It’s beyond empathy, beyond emotions like ours. All we can do is tap into it, talk to it, ask for favors or little treats. Like pets. We’re pets to the universe, thinking we have free will and agency. Nothing matters. Nothing’s real. Is that a comfort or a cold slap in the face? I’m not special. I’m as unique as everyone else. The people in my immediate vicinity know me, some love me. Plenty would miss me. Does it matter? Why? When?

Why am I like this..?

9/5/19 4:42 pm

#personal #essay

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whatdoyoumeanitsnotawesome · 5 years

Note

Ship meme: Wayne and Katy 5, 9, 10

ship headcanon meme from THIS POST (check it out if you haven’t already)

5. Who says ‘I love you’ first?

That depends on how you’re counting. Katy says the words, easy as breathing, has done since she could talk, no problem. It’s never a formality or a reflex, it’s 100% genuine every time she says it. Wayne only says it a handful of times, but he shows it every day, cooking and doing dishes together, planting her favourite flowers in the vegetable patch, carrying the basket of wet laundry for her so she can peg it out, bringing her coffee in bed for their traditional Sunday morning lie-in.

Once Katy told him she was thinking about keeping bees, to save them some money instead of hiring them every Spring for pollination. So he looks up plans and builds her some boxes the very next day. He calls around town to find a hive that someone wants shot of, and buys a secondhand but still-in-good-nick spinner and a beesuit and veil. It’s worth it, the splinters and stings and running around, all of it, when she pops the first bite of honeycomb into his mouth and smiles at him.

9. What is the most embarrassing thing they have done in front of each other?

This one’s tough, because they’re never really uncomfortable enough with each other that they get embarrassed.

The first time they get drunk, like, properly drunk, they’re in their study room, chilling on the secondhand loveseat they got from Uncle Eddie and Aunt Marian. They’re sixteen tomorrow, and consider themselves very grown up, capable of handling pretty much anything, including liquor. Their parents are the lax sort, so they’ve had a wee dram here and there, usually in tea, or warm milk with honey if they’re ill.

Tonight though, it’s the day before their birthday, they’re supervision-free, it’s the height of summer, and their parents are away on a date, so the twins decide to start their revels early. They nick the whiskey from the kitchen and make sure to load up on snacks to bring upstairs with them so they don’t have to chance sneaking back down to the kitchen after their parents get home. Very responsible, very forward-thinking; they’re totally nailing adulting. They’re not even going anywhere, so they can’t possibly get into too much trouble, right?

Wrong.

They’re getting quietly tanked, chirping an old episode of MST3K, and booze is as booze does, so Katy has to wee. She stands up to go, or rather, she tries to stand up. All the alcohol goes to her head all at once, and she immediately over-balances. The only thing that saves her from taking a header into the coffee table is Wayne throwing his arms around her and pulling her back into his lap. Concussion successfully avoided, yay, but the pressure around her middle only exacerbates her original problem.

‘Wayne, you gotta let me up, I gotta go.’ She pats his arm, tapping out.

‘You gonna be alright?’ Wayne seems sceptical, but releases her nonetheless. It’s not fair he sounds so much more sober than she feels.

‘I’ll be fine, I just wasn’t expecting it.’ To be honest, Katy’d expected being drunk to feel kinda similar to smoking pot, which she’s pretty used to by now. She stands up much more slowly this time, moving very deliberately, and makes her way to the washroom between the study and their bedroom. Her fingers refuse to cooperate with the pocket door and the button of her shorts, but she does eventually get things sorted before she gets too desperate.

While she’s sitting there, she decides to make things easier on her future self and change into pyjama shorts. She’s a genius, she’s handling this so well. The pocket door to the bedroom gives her just as much trouble as the one leading to the study. Rather than tempting Fate by attempting to stand on one leg, Katy sits on the bed to get changed. She’s just pulling her shorts up when Wayne chooses that moment to bang on the door.

‘Are you okay in there?’ he calls through the door.

‘I’m just putting on some pyjamas.’

Wayne sounds disgruntled. ‘It’s been twenty minutes. I thought maybe you’d fallen again.’

Awwwwwww. He was always looking out for her. Katy slides the door open and leans against the frame, smiling. ‘Were you worried about me?’

Wayne’s habitual squint is a bit uneven, so maybe he’s not as unaffected as she thought. Good to know. ‘I don’t wanna hafta explain to our parents that I’m suddenly an only child, no.’

Witty as ever. ‘C’mon, let’s go back to the sofa.’ Katy slides an arm around Wayne and they lean against each other as they walk a little unsteadily back to the loveseat. Once they’re settled back down, they keep absently nibbling their snacks and passing the whiskey back and forth. It gets late enough that they hear the truck coming up the laneway, and they share a moment of visceral, heart-stopping paranoia, like somehow their parents are gonna just know, via telepathy or some other Spooky Parent Power.

Normality reasserts itself when after a couple of minutes, there’s a complete lack of doors opening and shutting. Wayne barely leans out the window before he registers the slight sway of the truck, and for the sake of his sanity he launches himself backwards before he can see anything unfortunate, but he hadn’t counted on Katy being right behind him and he bowls them both over in his haste.

‘Oof,’ is all she says, staring up at the ceiling. A moment of silence passes between them before Wayne speaks.

“They’re gonna be in the truck a while.’

Another moment of silence while this works its way through Katy’s brain. ‘Oh my God,’ she moans, voice full of despair, ‘we have to ride in that truck!’ She rolls over next to him and buries her face in his shoulder. ‘I really, really wish you hadn’t’a said that.’

Wayne sighs, puts his arm around her shoulders, and pats her sympathetically. ‘Sorry, kiddo, but if I have to suffer, so do you.’

‘That is not covered under for better or for worse,’ she says, muffled.

‘Twins for life, honey. No getting divorced.’

Katy raises her head to look at him and digs her pointy little chin into his ribs extra hard, just ‘cos she can. ‘You’re a terrible person. I’m gonna trade you in.’

Wayne adopts the snootiest Customer Service voice he can muster. ‘I’m afraid the sixty-day return policy has lapsed.’ He grins. ‘You’re stuck with me.’

She hums, ‘Well, if that’s the case. I suppose you do have your uses.’ Katy snuggles closer and lays her head back down. ‘You’re pretty comfy, for a start.’

‘Oh, well. As long as I’m useful.’

‘Like a good piece of furniture. Decorative and sturdy.’

They giggle quietly until they hear the back door open and shut. There’s the sound of feet on the stairs, and then a quick tapping at the study door as their parents wish them goodnight in passing, and they warmly return the sentiment from their spot on the floor.

When they hear their parents’ door close, Katy whispers, ‘There’s one way to try and erase that image.’

Wayne nods. ‘That’s a Texas-sized 10-4.’

They relocate back to the sofa again, piling pillows on one end and stretching out across it as they resume passing the bottle back and forth. Eventually, the television switches over to a new programme, and by that time, their parents’ snores are echoing through the house. They’re both so relaxed it almost feels like a Sin, breaking the peace, but Katy’s had the most excellent idea and it would be rude and selfish if she didn’t share it.

‘Hey, Wayne,’ she queries.

His hand pauses petting her hair. ‘Katy Kat?’

‘Wanna go have a smoke on the roof?’

Oh, that’s class. ‘I’d have a dart.’

The biggest benefit to their room being on the complete opposite side of the house from their parents’ is that it’s practically soundproof. They don’t hear any night noises they don’t wanna hear, and they get easy access to the roof via the porch gable and the big window in the study. Wayne gets the gear from the sock drawer and they climb out on top of the porch, only a little wobbly. From there, Wayne hoists himself up onto the roof proper, then pulls Katy up after, and they settle in for a dart and a joint respectively. They’re flushed and warm from the drink, and the smokes go straight to their heads, leaving them dizzy and giggly; but the night air is bracing and helps cool them off.

They lay back together and point out all the constellations they can remember, then start making up new ones and giving them the most ridiculous backstories they can come up with. After about half an hour, the whiskey jacket wears off and Katy gets cold enough she wants to go inside. Getting down is a lot more of a challenge than getting up had been. Any other time they’d just jump for it, or else they’re sneaking out and shinning it down the tree, but those are both too noisy to be real options. They eventually work out that they have to sit down and then lower themselves in a weird sort of reverse pull-up type manoeuver. Or, well, Wayne has to lower himself and then lift Katy down. There’s a close call as she shifts her weight forward when he’s not expecting it, but they recover and no one falls or breaks anything, so they carefully climb back in the window.

Safely ensconced back on the couch, they’re in that space between drunk and sober where judgement has left the building, but you’re absolutely certain you’re making an unbiased, totally objective decision to have another drink. Killing the last third of the bottle seems like a brilliant idea. Things take a sharp nose-dive from that point. Where before they’d been slowly sipping at the whiskey, now they take gulps; after all, they’d handled it so far, right? The television plays softly in the background, but they’ve long since lost the plot. Whatever’s going on, it involves a robot, a Cat-man, an idiot, and some prick with an H on his forehead. Drunchies are no joke, and before they know it all the snacks have mysteriously disappeared and they’ve no memory of finishing them.

That was the tipping point, it seems, because the nausea comes on, creeping up like a thief in an alley, the heartburn and the churning bile and the spins, and oh fuck, the spins. Katy’s head feels tight like a migraine, but also weirdly floaty, like she’s too high. Wayne’s not doing much better himself, breathing slow and heavy and focussed on one spot on the ceiling to try and quell the urge to spit. If they’re very, very still, they might be able to power through this.

Luck is not on their side. Katy needs the bin, now. She turns to ask Wayne to grab it and-

A strangled ‘Wayne,’ is all the warning he gets before Katy hurls right in his lap. For a moment, he’s too stunned to do anything, but then she retches and does it again, and that’s what triggers his gag reflex, the sound and the smell and the warm liquid splash, and Wayne tosses his cookies even as he’s reaching for the rubbish bin. That sets Katy off again, and they’re caught in a vicious cycle of calling Huey until there’s nothing left in either of them to bring up.

They have to use every towel in the bathroom to clean up the mess, dry heaving the whole time, until it’s as good as they’re going to get it in the middle of the night. They rinse their mouths out and brush their teeth very gingerly, trying not to set off another round of gastrointestinal rebellion. Katy still feels hot and woozy and not a little gross, and she refuses to get in bed like this and mess up the nice, clean sheets. Wayne doesn’t exactly smell like a bed of roses either, so they sluice off and get into fresh, non-puky pyjamas. Katy’s head is clear enough by then that she has the foresight to make them both drink some goddamn water and take some aspirin before they get in bed.

The next morning is a special level of Hell, ‘cos it turns out their parents are totally on to them. Busted. As if being wretchedly hungover weren’t punishment enough, their parents make sure to be extra loud and unsympathetic to their misery. Birthday pancakes bring no joy, the smell of frying bacon is revolting, and the very idea of anything as acidic as orange juice has them both on the razor’s edge of being ill again.

Wayne and Katy Suffer through breakfast and cleaning up the kitchen after, until some buckets, brushes, and heavy-duty surface cleaner are shoved into their hands. They trudge upstairs and start scrubbing the puke out of the floorboards. Every part of the sofa needs to be cleaned as well; the cushions, the upholstery, the cover. Even the remote for the television. All of this on top of their regular chores leaves them shaky and exhausted by lunchtime.

The bollocking they get is definitely well-deserved, but neither of the twins has the strength to tolerate it. Wayne just crawls under the table and lays face-down and still, waiting for death, and Katy pillows her abominably sore head on her arms and tunes out until it’s over. They’re grounded for the foreseeable future, and just to make sure they don’t have any time to get into any more mischief, they’ll be doing chores over at Uncle Eddie’s as well as at home. The only pity they’re shown is a sleeve of dry crackers and some ginger beer to settle their bellies. The rest of the day is spent hauling bales and mucking stalls.

After dinner they go straight to bed, no shuckin’ and jivin’. They pinkie swear that next time, they’re gonna take about fifty percent off the whiskey and double down on the water. They grow up to be champion lushes, the pair of ‘em.

10. What two songs, two books and two luxury items do they take to a desert island?

Katy:

Music: House of Tom Bombadil by Nickel Creek, ‘cos Katy’s secretly a huge Nerd, and A Thousand Years by Christina Perri even though it’s so Basic White Girl, because no matter how cheesy, she genuinely loves it.

Books: The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson Burnett (her favourite since childhood,) and How to Invent Everything by Ryan North, a surprisingly useful survival guide.

Luxury Items: A tarpaulin, because Katy’s nothing if not Practical, and sunscreen for Wayne, ‘cos he’ll never think of it and he burns like paper.

Wayne:

Music: Wayne actually has the most rubbish taste in music. If he likes anything good, it’s purely by accident. He brings a cover of Can’t Hold Us by Macklemore as Gaeilge and Animals by Nickleback.

Books: Le Petit Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery. It’s his favourite, and it’s set in a desert, so. And since he knows every word off by heart in English and in French, to keep him engaged he’ll also bring Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence. Sure, it’s on-theme and all.

Luxury Items: A flint and a hammer hatchet. With these he can make simple tools, and with simple tools he can make complex tools, and with complex tools he can make anything.

(Edit: I only just now realised that perhaps this meant two total, as in one of each item for each of them, rather than they both bring two of each item. Oh, well. What’s done is done.)

#letterkenny #wayne #uaithne #katy kat #caitríona #Anonymous #original post #my writing #fanfiction #ask meme #ship headcanon meme #fanfic #fic

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annarosewriting · 5 years

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“Huh, I Should Talk to Someone About That”-Me When Writing

I’ve been writing ever since I was young. I find scraps of my writing scattered throughout my room that act as a map for what I cared about at a certain time. As a way to remember what moved me enough to immortalize it in words forever.

Sometimes these writings come from journals I started then abandoned three entries in. Sometimes it’s particularly good papers from old classes. Other times it’s abandoned word documents on my computer containing half-finished stories.

I don’t recall the first piece I wrote that made me realize I wanted to be a capital W Writer. I don’t have a heart warming memory of a teacher holding me back after class to tell me I had Real Potential. None of that After School Special shit. I just always knew I was good at it.

(Not to get too braggadocios but I was in advanced English classes throughout my first twelve years of school AND I was a pleasure to have in class so get you a woman who can do both.)

There are several pieces of writing I remember fairly well however. The first being a paragraph I wrote in second or third grade where I detailed why I liked fall that ended with these two haunting sentences:

“In the fall, some plants die. I like fall!”

My family quotes that to me on the first day of fall EVERY YEAR without fail.

I also remember, I want to get the number right, approximately 5,957 papers written in elementary school about horses.

And no, I didn’t save any of them which is best for everyone.

I remember winning a prize for my original poems written from the perspective of various individuals involved in the Civil War (which, Y I K E S Worthington, a little heavy for a CHILD). I remember short stories, collections of personal essays and academic papers. I remember some of them being great and others being “not great, Bob.”

Looking back at the good pieces of writing though, I realized the defining thread in them was how vulnerable I allowed myself to be.

My best work was when I pushed myself to explore topics that forced me to lay myself raw and explore my humanity in a way that would help me make sense of the world and for the world to make sense to me.

That feeling of writing down a thought, an emotion, a life event that I had never talked to anyone else about, by easing it out of the darkness and into the light, is simultaneously frightening and freeing.

I think it’s also why I love reading books that remind me of emotions I long thought I had tucked away.

My favorite books are the ones that are intensely personal, that provoke an emotional reaction from the reader. That make me remember, in visceral detail, events, or feelings, in my life that I had wanted to forget.

But the author manages to string together the right words to create a situation or a character that makes me feel vulnerable all over again.

Like in Tiger Lily by Jodi Lynn Anderson when Tiger Lily loves Peter Pan so much but she cannot bring herself to expose her heart in such a raw way, even though all Peter does is love her.

Like in Dumplin’ when Willowdean has a boy touching her and can’t be in the moment because she’s too busy focusing on contorting her body so he won’t have to touch her fat.

The collection of essays that reveal personal moments in someones life that are hard to read but so very important. Important in that the author had the courage to put those events onto paper to help others feel less alone in this world.

With just 26 letters, an author can inject hope, sadness, healing, love, any emotion they want into another human for a brief period of time. That’s incredible.

That’s a superpower.

And that’s my ultimate goal with my writing, especially with this blog. I want to create something that tugs at heartstrings, that helps others view the world in a different light and will, hopefully, help cultivate empathy for others.

When I go back and read through my older posts I realize I reveal A LOT of personal information.

So much so that, it got to a point where I thought, “Should I...should I be seeing a therapist instead of just posting this shit on the Internet for people I know to read about?”

To which I say, Therapy??? In THIS economy??? I’ll take my oversharing tendencies and my morbid jokes about wanting to die and take them where they are APPRECIATED, Karen.

But some of my favorite pieces are when I allow myself to reveal personal information and explore that space.

I wanted to take some time before I wrote about any more personal events what my true motives were for doing so.

It took a lot of uncomfortable exploration and questioning of myself and my motives for writing about these experiences. I had to ask myself if I was writing about them because I wanted to offer a more complete picture of the human experience or if I just wanted attention.

And I came to the realization that, I don’t particularly enjoy sharing these experiences but I think they’re too important NOT to share. I think they offer a doorway to open a dialogue about other topics that are bigger than just me and my experiences.

I had to remind myself that this blog was not started by 16-year old Anna, who would probably start something like this so some boy she was infatuated with at the time would read about how Sad and Misunderstood she was so maybe he’d write her a song and take her angst away.

This blog was started by 23-year-old Anna, who started this because one) it felt necessary and two) if she hadn’t found some sort of creative outlet she would have lost her damn mind.

I was also tired of staying silent. In this time when it seems like the nation is at a tipping point, I think it’s important that different stories and experiences are shared. I think it’s vital to try to understand how life works for individuals who don’t get their stories told.

I don’t post about my personal experiences because I want attention. I write about these things because it’s what feels right.

I write because it’s my way of making sure my legacy isn’t forgotten or erased.

I write to help others understand the world from a different point of view.

I write to bring more understanding and allies to the body positivity movement. To help others understand that people who are fat are not inherently bad or any of the other horrible stereotypes society foists on us.

I write to help others understand that health goes beyond size.

I write to share how angry I am with men, with our government, with how much society hates women and how, in turn, it causes me to hate society.

I write to help others understand that diet culture is a scam. To help women realize that we are so much more than how we can punish our bodies.

I write to make sense of all of the noise in my head. To put it out into the void and hope that maybe one other person will read it and won’t feel alone because of the words that I was able to string together using 26 letters.

I write about the hard things because those are the things worth writing about.

To me, it’s worth trying to make these experiences sound poetic, to find the humor in them. It’s worth sharing these experiences if it can help one person feel seen, for them to feel more comfortable in their own skin and their own life.

Will there come a day when I look back on these pieces and think “what in the goddamn hell are you talking about?”

Absolutely.

Bur at the end of the day, these are the experiences I want to write about. These are the events that make me want to write.

Writing is my way of, hopefully, leaving my mark on this world and changing how the world thinks about (fat) women and their experiences. I hope to make the world a more empathetic place to exist in. And if not the entire world, at least my small corner of it.

And besides, this is MUCH cheaper than therapy.

#anna writes #anna rose writing #writing #legacy #writing about writing #HBYS

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chiisana-sukima · 7 years

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I made a new post to continue this one, about Gadreel, because the old one is getting so unwieldy, and when I tried to edit it down to size, x-kit failed me somehow and wouldn’t let me post.

And I’m also only dealing with one tiny portion of all the awesome stuff on the chain, so I apologize, and also might have to go back and follow up on other things in a separate post. But I wanted to say right off the bat that this is the best chain of meta I’ve seen on Gadreel ever. Really A+ effort from everybody involved. @zpublicizes, I cut your whole meta chain out, but I agree with so much of what you wrote in it, and I feel all warm and fuzzy about the super-high-quality discussion. (´∀｀)♡

@idontneedasymbol wrote:

and also Gadreel stuff yeah okay i cannot shut up about this

Heh, welcome to the hell pit, we’re having tea and cookies at noon. More company is *always* welcome.

I think the concern about Dean’s culpability is about more than assigning blame. It’s largely (at least in my case) about understanding the character.

Yeah, I agree that’s completely valid. And the extensive discussion about blame is even totally valid and important too. I think this is kind of an area where sociological forces are so powerful that there’s a limited amount of free will in how any individual person or group of people even approaches the topic. This is what we have to talk about, because this is what is here.

Even for Carver et al, to a certain extent, they had to structure the narrative the way they did because that’s just how narrative is written [by middle-to-upper class modernist/post-modernist white dudes, and hence by all of us, in the West]. I guess that’s why fic is (imo) such a radical act- it’s the one place we can talk and think about and absorb into ourselves what isn’t there in the same depth we do with what is.

I do think the argument could be made that we don’t get much focusing on the recovery is that Sam, as the injured party, didn’t require that much – that the Gadreel experience wasn’t anything new for Sam, and wasn’t worse than a lot of what else he’s gone through.

I won’t argue this at all as a matter of canon. I think indeed that’s the intended reading- that it was a bad experience, but not (comparatively, for Sam) all that bad. Sam got angry, vented, and then they moved on. There was an awful unintended consequence (the MoC), but it didn’t have anything to do with Sam’s original injury, which was small enough that it resolved on its own with Dean’s semi-apology and a little push from ghost!Kevin.

I think a big piece of how hard it is for some of us to let it go is that we have a really uncomfortable visceral counter-textual reaction to the implications of some of the information presented, that the writers probably didn't think through, or possibly did but decided to ignore and pretend it never happened. Which is that Gadreel appeared from the storyline to have accomplished something even Lucifer didn’t with Sam: make him unable to know what’s real and what isn’t about his life, implicitly (but never acknowledged textually) forever.

In Sam’s post-Hell storyline, Sam has what amounts to partial amnesia about a discrete time period (during the Wall part of the story), and then hallucinations and time-limited flashbacks (during the Hallucifer part), neither of which are a walk in the park. But the longest he goes without being able to distinguish external reality from internal mental states is fairly short. His hallucinations follow him around for (iirc) about 1-2 months and bother him and look and act entirely real, but he knows they’re not (with two exceptions, each for a fairly brief period, and each of which he copes with in a definitive way). Maybe in the Cage, Lucifer played those kinds of tricks in a more global and lasting fashion, but if so, it’s entirely extra-textual.

But Gadreel takes away Sam’s memories and inserts new ones, and at least once, puts Sam in an entirely manufactured situation that is apparently convincing enough for Sam to believe, and Sam never gets out of any of it on his own. Yeah, he ejects Gadreel, but only because another force is inside his head disputing Gadreel’s version. Gadreel has near-complete control of Sam’s grasp of reality for an extended period (~ 6 weeks), and unlike the “stone one” thing in S7, we’re never given any method by which we know that going forward, Sam can determine for himself what’s real and what isn’t. How does Sam know Gadreel is gone? Gadreel could have manufactured that memory. How does Sam know anything? What, logically, he would know from the experience is that he can’t be sure.

And I think that on balance, even though an extended period of horrible pain and cruelty (Hell) would probably irl be worse than losing one’s ability to understand the narrative of one’s own life (Gadreel), the truth is I’m not sure. I think it’s a close call. Narrative integrity is the thing that allows people to come through pain relatively intact. Torture (Hell) after all is, sure, partially about cruelty for it’s own sake, but mostly what it’s actually for is the destruction of narrative integrity. In a way, Gadreel is a better torturer than Lucifer. He causes less unnecessary discomfort and gets more thorough results.

I think for me, the thing that is most troubling about how the denouement of the Gadreel arc is written, is that in the SPN long haul, the audience is reassured that what Sam went through with Lucifer was not only evil, it was like, the ultimate evil. But with Gadreel, we the audience are just supposed to not look too closely at it and go on as if it never happened.... which, it turns out, is exactly what Gadreel wanted from Sam too. And that- having the audience go through an encapsulated version of what the character did- is a really powerful narrative technique, that I assume the writers’ don’t realize they’ve employed.

I do want to emphasize that I think the “correct” reading of the Gadreel storyline is yours. Not only is it (imo) the intended reading, but it’s also the reading that lets one continue to enjoy the story in a positive way and like... get on to other parts? I guess, in medical terms, it’s a more functional reading? At least for me, and I think largely for some other fans too, if you can’t get past the problem of Gadreel having long(ish)-term control of Sam’s understanding of his own narrative, it kind of destroys the integrity of SPN entirely. If you can’t help letting that situation bother you, then it’s such a fundamental fracture that the failure to address it infects everything that comes afterwards.

But there’s a serious negative to reading the narrative “correctly” too, which is that I think it’s- ugh, “corrupting” is not the right word, but it’s as close as I can think of. It’s a demand by the text for a partially willful ignoring of a non-value-neutral disjuncture. Its 1984ish in a way that makes me really uncomfortable. (I absolutely dont mean this part as a judgement about the act of reading the text as intended- that’s like, the natural way to take text, and reading things counter-textually is a giant drain on mental health that people just cant manage all the time, so we have to pick our battles. I mean it as a judgement on the text for demanding that people do it in order to continue to engage with it without substantial anger.)

I think I have kinda lost my train of thought here, which is probably just as well considering the length, lol, so I’ll just stop without any real conclusion or anything. ¯\(°_o)/¯

(@ameliacareful, I am tagging you, because I know you’ve thought a lot about this issue too. And shoutouts to @ameliacareful‘s The Paper Asks Nothing which also deals with this issue [but it might be a hard/unfulfilling read for you, @idontneedasymbol, because even though much of it is Dean’s POV, it’s pretty critical of Dean too, so take that under advisement]

@ameliacareful, I’m also curious to know have you read Wake? If so, what did you think? What about you, @zpublicizes, have you read Wake?

@idontneedasymbol, when I recced Wake before, you weren’t reading wincest, so allow me to rec it again, because it has some light wincest in it, but it’s my favorite story about fixing the Gadreel mess. It’s Dean’s POV, and I think is fair to the bleakness of the situation as I see it while still also allowing the relationship to be a healthy one that ends okay).

#gadreel #critical textual readings #long post is long #for filtering purposes- wank #fic recs at the end

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madfatty · 7 years

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the space between - an mmfd fic #22

We find ourselves once again, standing on the front step of 18 Elm Park Road, Stamford, with a six pack of Breezers under our arm and swiping lip gloss from our teeth one last time. This one goes off-script which is not my usual way of doing things at all, but we do end up at the same place eventually, I’ve just chosen an alternate, and some might say arduous, road to get there. I couldn’t sustain the fluff levels of the last one but hopefully you’ll find one or two things to smile at. It’s me though, so you might have to work for them. ;)

I should warn you that my Fizzy love got the better of me and while this is indeed, as they all are and will ever be, about Rae and Finn, this is pretty much a blatant, bold-faced love letter to our Miss Izzy. Chloe however, does not fare as well. I hope you’re okay with that.

I’ve quoted big Willy Shakespeare in this one, again, not my usual way of doing things but, you know, go with it if you can.

The title comes from the Dave Matthews Band song of the same name from the Everyday album. I think I may have used it before for something I wrote in a different fandom, proving that my laziness goes to the bone.

Once again and always, big massive ugly love to @how-ardently because she deserves it, and after my behaviour on this one, wads of stress money, quite frankly. Writing this has revealed to me something about myself that Erin must have known for ages now; I’m a huge drama queen. I have apologised profusely. How on earth do people write whole books?

Anyway, onwards and inwards (that one’s from the skinny one who plays Marnie in Girls.) Thanks for playing.

the space between

The pervading ooze of over-excited teenagers, spliff, nicotine and booze hangs in a dense low cloud just below the ceiling of all the downstairs rooms, lingers at the bottom of the stairs. It’s so thick she can taste it. She doesn’t know if it’s made its way upstairs but she can wait to find out. She can’t go back up there. Too afraid of who and what she’ll find. Embarrassed and confused, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to her room with all the others in there, scared they’d take the piss; her and Finn, what a joke. So she’d spent the rest of the night wandering aimlessly from room to room, a ghost at the feast. Everywhere there are groups of people she’s never met before, laughing and talking and totally unaware of her existence. It may be her house, but she feels like the intruder.

Even with her friends, she feels separate and strange. Something’s got hold of her tonight, something worrying and familiar and she can’t get past it. Danny’s in the dining room, chatting up Anna and making friends. Archie’s in the front room with Barney and Lizard. Archie’s been a bit besotted since Barney kissed him and they’ve been circling one another, using Lizard as a buffer. Still, Archie looks hopeful. Chop’s been pretty quiet since Izzy kissed him, he hasn’t really spoken to anyone for a while, and now he’s lying in front of the sideboard wrapped in Christmas lights, staring soulfully into space.

She’s not seen Izzy. Or Chloe. Or Finn. Maybe they’re upstairs. Maybe they’ve gone home. She hopes so.

Her act of teenage rebellion has worn her out. It’s late and there are too many people left in her tiny house. She has an overwhelming urge to stand at the front door and call “Time please,” and have them all shuffle out in a quiet and orderly line. Instead she resentfully gathers up all the glasses she can find and heads to the kitchen.

She needs tea and for everyone else to go home. She just wants her house back. She moves about the kitchen mechanically, filling the kettle and then the sink, dumping the dirty glasses into the steaming hot water. She rummages around in the back of the cupboard, pulling her favourite mug from its hiding place and settling in to wait for the kettle to boil.

She catches herself rearranging the fixings - tea, sugar, milk, spoon – in order of size, of application, of expiration date over and over on the worktop. She makes herself look out the window – are they… are those people fucking in her driveway? That’s all she needs, Mrs Dewhurst running over with a bucket of cold water and a policeman by the scruff of the neck with a full written report back to her mother about debauched goings-on in her absence.

She breathes deeply and lowers her hands into the scalding hot water, hissing in satisfaction and relief.

+++++

She hadn’t meant to, but with too many Breezers in her system and all the crying she’d done with Finn and the eternal frustration that was Chop, Izzy had passed out. Spin the bottle had been a complete waste of time, it hadn’t landed on her once and she didn’t want to think about what it meant that Chop was doing the spinning. Even at the end, when he’d finally kissed her and she showed him up, like he’d done to her at Rutlands, she hadn’t felt vindicated. She just felt lonely and confused. The sourness of the whole evening sits like acid in her belly.

She comes awake slowly, to some kind of noise. Her eyes are gummed shut and her tongue is thick with the sugar from the alcopops but there is definitely a noise. Her first thought is that Finn is crying again. He’d moved to the floor from the bed and fallen asleep on the beanbag. Izzy croaks his name. The noise gets louder; it’s wet and breathy, there’s a groan and it’s making her uncomfortable. Izzy finally prises her eyes open and she squints into the gloom.

The curtains are open and the combination of moonlight and streetlight lend themselves to Izzy being able to make him out lying not far from the edge of the bed. Finn’s shadow looks bigger than it should be. She calls again and she notices the shadow’s moving. There’s a girl, snaked around him, pinning him down. She’s got a handful of his hair, holding him still, her jaw working at his throat. His fingers are flexing at her hip, hitching her dress up high enough to reveal a skimpy pair of knickers. Izzy recognises the dress, if not the knickers.

She watches, horrified, as Chloe trails her other hand over the bare skin of his ribs down to boldly squeeze his cock over his jeans. Finn groans again.

“Oi! I’m in the bloody room, if you don’t mind!” Izzy yells and reaches to switch on the bedside lamp. Her voice sounds excessively loud in the dark and all three of them wince against the volume and the sudden brightness of the light. She’s even less happy now she can see them.

Finn’s discarded t shirt is pooled in a ball on the floor. His lips are swollen and Chloe’s mascara has smudged, the zipper of her dress is open all the way down to her navel. Finn tries to pull the edges of the dress closed before doing up his own fly. There’s no hiding the fact he’s hard.

“Sorry, Iz.” Finn mumbles into his lap. Embarrassed, he sits up quickly, having to push Chloe off of him to do so. Chloe rolls away, pissed off.

“I should bloody think so.”

He looks guiltily at Chloe and regretfully at Izzy. “Yeah. I’m gonna go…”

“Good idea,” Izzy grumps and watches him as he hastily heads for the door, hands over his crotch, his shirt forgotten. She turns her steely gaze on Chloe when he’s gone.

Chloe lounges back on her elbows, looking defiant and unrepentant. “Ta very much for that, Izzy. What do you think you were you playing at?”

“What was I playing at?”

“Finn’s a big boy Iz; he can do what he wants.”

“What he wants Chlo, or what you want?”

Chloe doesn’t answer. With a shimmy of her hips, she pulls her dress down to its proper length, such as it is, and pulls the zipper back up almost to where it started out the night. With a roll of her eyes she picks up Finn’s discarded t shirt and follows him out the door.

++++

She’s focused on the hypnotic slow-building bubble and hiss of the kettle working its way to the boil, so Rae doesn’t hear him coming.

“Hey,” he says to her back and his voice makes her jump, brings her back into the room where the radio’s on low and the sink is only half full. She recovers quickly though, and without looking up from her reddened hands she offers him a quiet “hey.”

She wants to look up. She wants to smile widely at him and ask about his night but she can’t. She regrets listening to Danny at all, because, surely there comes a point where the person you’re pushing away gets fed up and moves on?

And it is so hard to maintain. What is so bad about smiling when he smiles? It’s not an admission of anything deeper if she’s nice to him, she doesn’t lose anything by being kind. So she resolves to be both those things, promises herself to be friendlier - until she sees him or hears his voice, there’s a visceral, kneejerk response, overriding her heart and her head and all her good intentions. All her resolutions dissolve and she’s back to spiteful and ungracious. She doesn’t know if it’s still Danny’s voice she can hear or her own fear that’s driving it. No matter how much she wants to let all the bullshit go, she can’t bring herself to just let it be and let it happen. As in all things, she is her own worst enemy.

She keeps her eyes lowered as she feels him walking up behind her. She hears him pick up one of the glasses she must have washed from the draining board. He crowds her, his bare arm cutting across her vision as he reaches for the tap and her reaction is to shy away from him. She closes her eyes and counts under her breath to the sound of the sudden rush of running water filling the glass.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice becoming an echo as he takes a mouthful. It’s a harmless, silly question that shouldn’t bother her but it’s exactly the sort of thing that feeds her anger.

“Retiling the bathroom, obviously,” she spits, violently rolling her eyes.

“You don’t need to do that now. We’re going to clean up in the morning.”

“Oh, I hadn’t realised you were in charge.”

“We all decided last night that we’re staying, we wouldn’t leave you to clear up on your own. You’d have known that if you’d stuck around a little longer.” He mumbles into the rim of the glass as he takes another sip. He doesn’t bother to hide the bitter edge to his voice. So, he’s still pissed at her. She can’t really blame him, she supposes, but fuck if it doesn’t get her back up.

“No-one asked for your help, Finn. I can manage on my own.” She huffs, unable to stop herself.

“Jesus, Rae. I apologised for being a dick. I’m trying really hard, but every little thing still gets turned into an argument. Why is it still like this? Tell me how to fix it.” There’s something sitting along-side the usual annoyed tone he uses when he speaks to her. It’s that same slightly bewildered, slightly hurt voice he’d used in the cupboard earlier. The one that had her doubting the wisdom of heeding Danny’s dating advice, the one that made her momentarily brave enough to hazard a tentative statement of her own.

It’s the one that makes her soften now. What real harm can it do to be gentler with him?

Rae finally turns to face him, trying to fasten a smile to her lips, something warmer than she’s ever shown him before. He’s not his usual immaculately turned-out self. In fact, he’s decidedly rumpled. His overly fussed-over hair is sticking out at the back. He’s red eyed and red nosed and quiet. There’s an angry bruise beginning to purple the tender skin of his throat and a flaking smear of lip gloss rings his mouth and his normally pale skin is flushed; his face, his neck his chest, his… oh.

He’s not wearing a shirt.

He’s been fucking someone.

In her house.

Someone that isn’t her.

Fuck Danny Two Hats and his stupid advice and fuck her for ever listening to him. And double fuck Finn Nelson for fucking someone who isn’t her in her own house and flaunting it under her nose. She’s a little heartbroken and more than a little pissed off. She pushes down the heartbreak and focuses on the anger.

“Vampires, was it? Lose your shirt in the scuffle?” In her house. Which vampire? She can’t let herself think about it now. She can torture herself with those thoughts later. She needs for him to leave.

“What?”

She waves her hand in the general vicinity of his throat. He pokes experimentally at his neck and winces when he grazes over the bruise. He has the good grace to look embarrassed.

“Put a shirt on, would you? You’ll have someone’s eye out.” She barks and he immediately folds his arms self-consciously. It only serves to piss her off more. He’s obviously not shy if he’s going to fuck someone who isn’t her in her house. What on earth has he got to be bashful about?

“You can talk.” he mumbles. Even before he’s finished speaking, his eyes and mouth go wide, gaping, his face is incandescent.

They’re talking about bodies. Rae doesn’t talk about bodies, especially her own. She feels that if she doesn’t draw attention to it, then maybe no one will notice she has one. Rae’s own blush seeps into her hairline. She tries to turn it back around on him.

“I’m not the one who’s half naked.”

“Like that would matter.” He thinks he must be having an aneurysm. Where is this shit coming from? He’s spent most of his life like Silent Sam, couldn’t offer most people a complete sentence if they threatened him at gunpoint and now it seems he’s got lots to say about Rae’s tits. It’s like he can’t help himself. “I… I…” he stammers.

“Seriously, put your nipples away. And wipe your face.” She throws the tea towel that’s draped over her shoulder at him. He snatches it up quickly and ties it round his neck so it hangs like a bib down the front of him, swiping at his face with the bottom of it. He looks ridiculous. He looks like a confused little kid, trying to play at superheroes but not quite sure how the costume’s meant to go. It doesn’t help that there’s a cartoon giraffe eating cake with a monkey on it either.

“Thanks,” He smiles up at her. It’s small and grateful and she marvels at how easily he lets go of the anger. How eager he is for everything to be okay.

“Can I have one of those?” he asks, pointing at the forgotten tea things on the worktop. Just a second ago, she wasn’t anywhere near finished being angry with him, but she’s hit by a sudden wave of fatigue and just like that, she decides to let it go. She does, however, make a very big show of being put upon as she flicks the kettle back on and gets out another mug.

They are a collection of nervous tics in the silence that follows; a therapist’s wet dream. Both of them a compilation of biting cuticles, tapping fingers and tuneless humming. There are furtive looks at each other and much fidgeting with clothing. She’s anchored herself to the sink with a death grip. He’s hovering at a radius of four feet. It makes her feel claustrophobic.

“No point standing around.” She says finally. A little too loud. “You may as well sit.” She gestures to the breakfast bar at the other end of the kitchen.

“Are you going to…?”

“I have to be hostess…” she waves her hand at the kettle.

“Then it’s okay. I’m good here.” He says and leans back against the counter, randomly picks up the teaspoon from the bench. “Good party?” He asks, fiddling with the spoon.

“The house is still standing and no one called the cops so… I guess not.” It’s more a smirk than a smile, but it’s better than nothing.

“Did I hear right, that those three twats turned up?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“From Friday.”

Friday. She’d wanted to forget all about last Friday. Her tantrum and the dragging ache in her belly and the tidal wave of blood in her knickers and those fuckers catching her outside the chippy, but if she erased all that, she’d have to forget about how Finn had stepped in and stopped it and that was something she would never forget. She’d never seen anyone so angry. She watched the internal battle, the deliberate way he calmed himself. Watched the anger drain from his face, his body still tense, his fists still clenched but his voice almost normal when he asked if she was alright.

“Oh. Yeah.” she mutters. “Those guys.”

“Why didn’t you come get me?” he murmurs, and the hurt on his face stops her short. It feels like an accusation. The truth was he hadn’t even been one of her first ten thoughts. She was frozen in the moment and couldn’t think past getting them away from the house.

“There was no need. Danny had it sorted.” She finally stumbles out.

“Danny?”

“Yeah, Danny.”

“Oh. Right.” There’s an awkward moment of silence that follows, where he looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to start. There have been a lot of moments like that lately and he’s never once said anything, so she’s not really expecting it when he does. “Rae, about last Friday…”

There’s a hollowness shading his big dark eyes and the set of his full wide mouth.

“What about it?” – please don’t ask me what they were saying please don’t ask me why I didn’t stand up for myself please please please.

She knew he’d heard them, he must have.

She’d been so careful to keep it all separate, the constant exhausting battle to hide her real life from her new friends, but now he’d seen it first-hand. She was able to pretend that it didn’t exist in front of the gang. If she was loud enough, if she was funny enough, she could distract them from the truth. She could hide the way she looked if she could hide the way other people treated her, but now he’d heard the ugly words used to describe her and now the ugly thoughts would fill his head; the blinders had come off and he would see her the way the rest of the world did and it would only be a matter of time until he let the others know. How could he not see her through their eyes now that the spell had been broken?

But then he’d done something so totally unexpected; he came to her rescue.

“I’m sorry you saw me like that. I don’t want you to think that I’m like that all the time. It’s just, I couldn’t let them… it weren’t right. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

It had been a long time since he’d hit anyone. He’d come to learn, thanks to his dad and old George down at the gym that fighting was not the way to solve his problems. But when he’d seen her cornered by those bastards, he couldn’t help it. The look on her face had unsettled him. She’d been full of fire in the chippy, fierce and afraid of no one. She’d been something to behold, and then…

He hadn’t understood fully at the time what it meant, he only knew that whatever it was that had done that to her, he wanted to hurt it.

“You didn’t frighten me. Like I said, no one’s ever stood up for me before. I was surprised is all, that it was you.” Rae whispers.

He relaxes a little at that. Some of the tension visibly drops from his shoulders.

“Look,” he starts. His voice is low, and he has her full attention. “What you said in the cupboard, I don’t know what I’ve done… but we are friends, Rae. Well, I’m your friend. I’m always gonna stick up for you.”

It startles her when he pushes off from the counter, straight for her, and she steps aside hurriedly. He drops his empty glass into the cooling washing up water. “Now that you’ve got your head out of your arse. Mostly.” He murmurs over his shoulder as he returns to his spot leaning back against worktop.

Rae blinks rapidly, working her way through what he’s just said, then chokes back a laugh.

“Excuse me?” She reaches forward and flicks at his makeshift backwards cape. “You and your novelty tea towel can fuck off any time you like.” The fact that she’s smiling is a huge relief to him.

“Can’t. I’ve got tea coming.” He says, grinning madly. “Okay, so maybe I had my head up my arse a little bit too. Can we call a truce? Please?”

“Do I have to be nice to you?”

“Well,” he draws the word out. “Some of the time, at least. Birthdays and Christmas. ”

She screws her face up in pained deliberation and he takes great delight in mirroring her expression. “I guess so.” She says dryly.

He looks way too pleased with himself.

“Rae…” Finn starts, his smile beginning to wane.The kettle whistles for a second time.

Before he can finish the thought, Chloe emerges from the hallway. Rae feels every inch of the night hang heavy on her, stale and lank and grimy and Chloe steps into the light like she should be giving lessons in how to be a girl.

The second skin of her yellow dress hugs her gently around her hips, skims the flatness of her belly, and the smooth arc of her arse, its hem hitting her mid-thigh, highlighting the long expanse of well-toned, leg. Her zipper has artfully slipped to reveal the lace edge of her bra and curve of her breasts sitting high and firm above it. Her hair shimmers in the harsh light as does the perfectly applied lip gloss that matches the shade that still clings to the corners of Finn’s mouth.

Oh.

Rae feels all the air leave her body. Chloe arranges herself at Finn’s side, her hip jutting into his. He tenses and slides along the counter away from her, towards Rae who takes a step back herself. She pours all her attention into pouring tea.

“So this is where you got to. You forgot your shirt.” The shirt hangs from Chloe’s fingers between them like a challenge. “Though this is cute,” she smirks, her fingers tapping on his chest, “you should probably put it on,” she stage-whispers, her eyes raking over him appreciatively. “Rae’s not used to half-naked men, are you babe?”

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking the shirt and hastily slipping it over his head. He pulls the tea towel out from under it and twists it between nervous hands.

“We’re talking. Rae and me. Rae’s making tea.” He murmurs, deliberately moving away from the spot Chloe seems keen to pin him to. He remembers the spoon he’s been fidgeting with and offers it to Rae with a broad smile, an act of solidarity between them.

“Tea and a chat. Not exactly E’s and Whizz now, is it? I think it’s safe to say, our Rae’s no party girl.” Chloe turns to offer Rae a half smile. “God, you look done in, babe. Do you feel alright?”

With just a handful of words, Chloe reminds Rae of her place. All tonight’s anxieties are amplified. Deflated, Rae leaves the tea half done and moves towards the door.

“Actually Chlo, I’m not feeling the best. I’m going to turn in. You’re right to finish this, yeah Finn? Night.”

“Night babe,” Chloe purrs.

“Rae.” Finn calls after her.

“Night.” She calls back as she trudges through the toxic teenage haze on her way upstairs.

+++

She thought she wanted to be alone but when she’s sees Izzy lying on the bed, flicking through one of her romance novels, she’s glad for the company. Izzy looks up and smiles that warm Izzy smile and waves the book in front of her.

“This is well hot. Can I borrow it?” and she carefully dog-ears the page she was reading and sits up, putting the book aside. “So how are you gorgeous? How’s your night been?”

Difficult. Anxious. Disappointing. The boy I like likes someone else and I’m tired and sad. She doesn’t say any of it. What purpose would it serve? Instead, she takes a deep breath and slips on the mask for one more performance.

“It’s definitely been a night.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “You should see the mess downstairs. I’m not looking forward to that.”

“There’s plenty of time tomorrow. We’ll give you a hand, it’s already arranged…” Izzy chirps, waving her hand dismissively.

“So Finn said. That’s really nice of you all.”

“Pfft, nice. Of course we’re going to help. It’s what mates do.” Izzy shifts along the bed to make room for Rae.

“And what about you, Madam? How’d you fare?”

“I could use a cuddle,” Izzy whines, throwing her arms wide. “Know where I can get one?”

“I just might know someone.” Rae grins as she sits down next to Izzy and pulls her into a hug. “This isn’t ‘cause that book’s got you all revved up, is it?” she deadpans, pulling away to look Izzy in the face.

“You wish.”

“Pity,” Rae sighs, and they collapse against each other in a fit of giggles.

“You know what I really need? I need to play with someone’s hair. Lie down here for me Rae.” Izzy orders, patting her outstretched legs.

“Nah, thanks Izzy, I’m good.” It’s not an easy thing for Rae, to be touched. For such a long time it was a cruel thing, so she learned to avoid it. And now to be touched with such care, and so often, by these people who have taken her in is overwhelming. She can only handle it in small doses.

“Don’t ‘nah, Izzy’ me, Rae Earl. I’m a guest, you can’t say no to me.”

“Are you sure that book didn’t give you any ideas?”

“Oh, shut up and lie down.” Izzy bosses, as she takes Rae by the shoulders and guides her down to settle in her lap.

“You know if this gets pervy, Chop’ll want to watch.” Her joke earns her a light smack on the arm and a small huff of laughter that doesn’t go all the way to Izzy’s eyes. Rae can’t help think of Chop in his deep meditative state downstairs.

All Rae’s worries about crushing the tiny redhead vanish when Izzy’s slight fingers card slowly through her hair. Her muscles loosen and the anxiety falls away under Izzy’s soothing touch. It feels good. Rae remembers a better time, when she was little and her mum would hold her in her lap and stroke her hair. There’s a sudden pang in her chest and however pissed off she is with her for lying about her dad, she misses her mum.

“You have such pretty hair, Rae.” Izzy murmurs, wistfully. She seems to be enjoying the process almost as much as Rae, but there’s a far off look in her eyes, a soft melancholy that flattens her usual shine.

You sure you’re okay, Iz?” Rae rolls forward and props herself up on her elbows so she can look Izzy in the eye.

“Hmmm? Yeah. Just thinking about stuff.” She curls her palm around Rae’s shoulder. “Did Finn tell you? His Nan died.”

“What? No. He never said a word.”

“She’d been sick for a while. Finn and Mr Nelson were convinced she’d get better, she had before, so they just thought… but she took a turn for the worse tonight and like that, she was gone.” Izzy’s voice is thick with unshed tears. “It was very fast in the end but he feels bad he wasn’t there.” She swallows hard and sniffles.

“It was awful. I wanted to take him home but his dad was stuck at the hospital and Finn didn’t want to be by himself. I told him I’d stay with him but he didn’t want to go. I hope you don’t mind, we grabbed some beers and came up here to hide out. He was so sad. We cried for a bit and then we both got a little drunk and we cried some more, then I put him to bed and we fell asleep.”

“Poor Finn.” Rae says, her own eyes wet. He’s been going through all that, probably for as long as she’s known him and she’d been too caught up in her own stupid feelings to notice.

“When I woke up, Chloe was all over him.” Izzy says it quietly, but the sadness in her tone is replaced with steel.

“Izzy!”

“It’s true, Rae.”

“That doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be telling me this. It’s none of my business.” If she were a better person, her reasons for not wanting to know what happened would be because it was none of her business but that’s not the reason and it’s one more thing she can torture herself with later.

“But it does. He’s her friend and she… it’s not right.”

“If it’s what they want…” It’s not how she really feels though. She feels sick. Yet again she loses out to Chloe and it just isn’t fair. Is there nothing that Rae wants that Chloe can’t have?

“That’s the thing, Rae. It’s not. Everyone knows that Finn…” Izzy stops abruptly, as if she’s said too much.

“Everyone knows that Finn what? I know fuck-all about Finn, other than he’d rather I wasn’t around.”

Rae knows that’s bullshit even before she’s finished saying it. It might have been true at one point in the very beginning, but not now. He keeps talking about them being friends and he must mean it if he keeps saying it. But, it was hard enough when she’d decided she’d like more than that, and now she knows that he’s been with Chloe, that he wants Chloe, she can’t stop the negative thoughts. If he and Chloe are going to be together then it might be easier if they weren’t friends. Rae doesn’t think she has that much pretend left in her.

“Don’t be thick, Rae. It really doesn’t suit you.” There’s a tick of annoyance in Izzy’s tone that she quickly reins in. She takes a breath. “Look, he’s sad and his heart hurts and he’s drunk and she took advantage. I’m just looking after him, like he would me.” She pulls Rae back down into her lap and continues to brush her fingers through her hair.

“He’s such a good person Rae. He’s kind and he’s sweet and he cares. I know you two got off on the wrong foot but he’s lovely Rae, if you’ll just give him the chance.”

“The two of you are close, I get that Iz, but it’s not the same thing for him and me. I don’t think it could be.” Rae protests gently.

“I admit he’s said some daft boy things and I’ve wanted to clip him ‘round the earhole a couple of times myself, but I think it’s just because you rattle him. He always talks about you. How funny you are, how clever. He’s always repeating stuff you say, and I’m like “Yeah Finn, I know, I was there.” Izzy laughs softly.

She’s still smiling when she shares this next bit of information, “Archie and I have got this bet going. Every time Finn starts a sentence with “Rae says,” or “Rae thinks,” Archie owes me 10p. I haven’t paid for a drink in the Swan for weeks now!”

Dear, sweet, misguided, got-the-wrong-end-of-the-stick Izzy, looking at life through her rose-tinted granny glasses and seeing nothing but sunshine and rainbows and feelings where there are none. Rae’s about to tell Izzy that she’s lovely but obviously delusional when there’s a tapping at the door. Finn’s head pokes sheepishly around the edge of it.

“Hiya,” he mumbles.

“Look Rae. Look who it is. It’s the lovely Finn. Hello lovely Finn, come sit with us.” Izzy beams, her fingers stilling in Rae’s hair. Rae sits up, reluctant to lose contact with Izzy’s comforting touch.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Never,” Izzy pats the bed next to her. “The more, the merrier,” He hesitates at the door, warily eyeing Rae. “Come on, come here. We’ve saved you a spot.”

“Are you sure? Are you feeling better, Rae?” Rae gives him a shy, short nod and a weak smile. It’s all the encouragement he needs and he crosses the room, to ease into Izzy’s side. They bob like boats on the shoreline, trying to get comfortable. Finn fusses with the neckline of his t shirt, tugging at it self-consciously in an attempt to hide the bruise on his neck. Izzy gently pulls his hand away, squeezes his fingers reassuringly.

“I’m sorry about before Iz, I didn’t…” he whispers, the puff of his breath a tickle in her ear.

She turns her face towards him with a finger to her lips, her eyes soft and forgiving. “Shh, quiet now. We’re having a moment.”

The three of them sit against the wall, a tryptic of teenage angst; interlocking pieces of the same beast. Finn’s head on Izzy’s shoulder, hers resting on top of his. Izzy’s arm slung possessively around Rae, Rae coiled tight into Izzy’s side.

“This is so lovely. Cuddling with two of my favourite people in the whole world.”

“Ha! Everyone’s your favourite.” Finn scoffs quietly.

“I don’t have that many! But the ranking changes with my mood, so watch it you or you’ll drop right out of the top five.”

“Who are you kidding? I’ll always be your number one.” Finn tickles her and Izzy giggles and there’s a sort of contained rolling about, save for the flailing arms, and Rae wriggles out of harm’s way. It continues until Izzy squeals a fervent ‘stop’ and he does. Its clear Izzy has him wrapped around her little finger and he’s more than happy to be there. They collapse into each other, breathless. It’s nice to watch him be light and playful with Izzy. Rae’s never seen that side of him before. The sweetness. She doesn’t hesitate to re-join them when Izzy pulls her back into their little pile without a word.

“So much for my moment,” Izzy groans. “Okay you two, let me up,” unravelling herself from their tangle of limbs, she scoots to the edge of the bed. “I better go check that awful boy hasn’t set fire to anything downstairs.”

“I should probably come with you…” Rae sighs.

“No. Stay. I can handle Chop. Besides, I need to talk to Chloe.” She stands, but before she can get too far, Finn moves forward, catching her hand and pulling her back.

“Fairy…” the word gets stuck in his throat and he hugs her tightly.

”Hey, it’s what we do, yeah?” Izzy’s arms fall easily around his shoulders. They nestle together for a moment, everyone else forgotten. Izzy has to peel him off her before she can leave the room. “Now, play nice.” She commands as she shuts the door behind her and just like that, they’re alone.

“Little Miss Fix-it.” Rae grins, nodding at the closed bedroom door.

“Bossy little thing, you mean.” Finn counters. “I do love her a lot, though.”

“And why wouldn’t you? She’s fucking amazing.”

“She really is.” He affirms softly. “She takes care of me.”

“She said the same about you.”

“Well, we’re friends. It’s what you do.” He looks up from his hands and shrugs, giving her a rueful smile. It seems to Rae that what Finn and Izzy share goes beyond any friendship Rae’s experienced. The twist of longing is sharp and quick.

“She said that too.”

“That’s because she steals all my best lines.” This smile is looser, more relaxed.

“Can I ask you something? Does she ever ask to play with your hair?”

“Why? What did she tell you?” He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes narrowed.

“Nothing. It’s just… she was pretty insistent. I wouldn’t want to cross her.” She looks at him conspiratorially. Smiling at him is getting easier.

“I’ve found life is much simpler if I pick my battles. Though she be but little, she is fierce.” Rae’s jaw drops and he can’t help but chuckle. “A little less shock please, if you don’t mind, Mae. You’re not the only one who’s ever cracked a book, you know.”

“Wow. Such hidden depths. I’m well impressed.” And there it is, a proper Rae-smile. He’d seen them before, but he’s never had one directed at him until now. Sometimes, when she’d let go and forgotten she didn’t like him that much, she’d let that wide lipped grin fall on him too, just for a moment, before she remembered who he was and shut it off. Now he’s got one all of his own.

“Relax brainbox, your crown is safe. I got miles to go before I catch up to you.” They laugh quietly together and the next silence is a little easier too.

She turns to look at him, a thought suddenly forming. “Is that why you call her fairy?”

“It started out as Titania, ’cause of the red hair and because she’s so tiny, but I had to stop when Chop kept shortening it to ‘Tits’.” Rae sputters and her eyes go wide. “I used to get a slap every time he said it. ME, not him. ‘That’s your fault, Finn Nelson.’” He mimics Izzy’s cranky voice. “Wasn’t fair.” The more Rae laughs the more animated Finn gets. “Fucking Chop. He’s got no clue about women.”

“He really hasn’t, has he? Poor Izzy.” They share a nod and a knowing look. Finn’s hand goes to his mouth unconsciously, and worries at his thumb. In the quiet that follows, his thoughts turn back to the night. All he’d really wanted was to forget about what was happening with his Nan and to make things up with Rae, but she’d been her normal prickly self and he’d had to get away. He regrets what happened with Chloe; too eager to feel something other than hurt, he’d reached out for something he didn’t want. There’s a sudden wave of guilt at his selfishness, he’s convinced because of it, he’s lost his grandmother. “Finn, Izzy told me about your Nan. I’m so sorry.” Rae’s voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“Thanks.” he says softly.

“Why didn’t you say something downstairs?”

“I was going to. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. I’m so, so sorry Finn.” Instinctively, she reaches across the gap between them, stopping short of touching him. She doesn’t know if he’d want that. She’d given him such a hard time; when she thinks about her behaviour she’s mortified by how self-absorbed she really is. Why would anyone want her as a friend?

“Izzy was here.” He shrugs.

“She said you didn’t want to go home.” Rae shifts around to face him and their knees bump momentarily while she adjusts herself on the bed. Finn’s hand drops to rest on his knee, the skin around his thumbnail, red and bleeding.

“Dad was at the hospital with my Uncle Tony. Paperwork, arrangements… something. I should be with him I know, but I just can’t.” He looks up at her then, pale and lost, searching her face for a sign that he’s safe. The next words pour out of him fast and low “I… I don’t want to, I’m not ready, but I don’t want to be on my own. That’s horrible, isn’t it? I’m a horrible, selfish fuck.”

“Oh Finn, no. You’re not horrible and it’s not selfish.” She can’t help but cover his hand with her own now as she tries to reassure him. “You need to look after yourself so you can look after your dad. He wouldn’t want you to be alone. You’re welcome to stay here if you want.”

“I’d like that, Rae. Thanks.”

++++

She’s not asleep; her head is too all over the place. Her mum has been pretending to be her dad for years, she’s got a house full of strangers at a completely non-sanctioned sexy-party and Danny’d shown up, AWOL from the hospital, with tall tales of unbridled sexual abandon and pissing out her bathroom window. Now she’s lying in bed with the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen. As weird nights go, this will take some beating, and she’s been sectioned for almost killing herself. Accidentally.

He hadn’t wanted Rae to leave when she’d insisted that he get some sleep. Made her promise to stay right where she was, while he went and collected his sleeping bag from downstairs and hers from the airing cupboard and set them up on Rae’s bed. She said she’d sleep on the beanbag but he was adamant she didn’t.

She’d worried that they wouldn’t fit and he’d said nonsense, as he pressed himself further against the wall and waved his hand over the empty space beside him, look, plenty of room and he smiled up at her, and she couldn’t help it, she smiled back. Turned out there was plenty of room.

He’d talked all about his Nan and his dad, but balked at giving away too much information about his mum. Just that she’d left when he was small and he didn’t see her anymore. Rae didn’t push.

She told him about her mum and her illegal immigrant boyfriend being on the run in Tunisia and the crazy topless neighbour lady across the road, but mostly she just let him talk. Then she let him cry and when he’d finished crying, she let him hold her hand. Now he’s finally asleep, curled up on his side, snuffling gently into her hair, his lips just an inch from her skin. She could, if she wanted to, just lean over, just a smidge, and he’d be kissing her, but she doesn’t. If he’s ever going to kiss her, she wants it to be because he wants to.

She’s not asleep, but she pretends to be when Chloe sticks her head around the door and watches them for a long time.

#mmfd fic #madfatty spouts off #the space between #22 #i made this #writing

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